Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  She sat down by the fire again, and opened the note; the note whose superscription was in the handwriting of her sister Clarice. But ere she had well glanced at its contents she was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Lady Jane.

  “Lucy is asleep,” said Jane, “and I think I shall go to bed. You do not want me this evening, Laura?”

  “I don’t want you,” returned Laura impatiently, wishing Jane had not disturbed her before her curiosity was satisfied. “What do you want to go to bed at ten o’clock for? It’s not even that yet.”

  “I feel so very tired. My head aches, too. Now that I am at ease as to Lucy, I begin to feel the fatigue and anxiety of the past week or two. Good night, Laura.”

  “Good night,” carelessly returned Laura, feverishly impatient to get to her letter. “I shall be going to bed myself soon.”

  But Jane had scarcely gone out when Mr. Carlton came in, and Laura had to crush the stolen letter into her pocket again.

  He sat down wearily, opposite Laura. He had been very busy all day, and had now come from a hasty visit to Tupper’s cottage.

  “How do you feel to-night, Laura?”

  “Oh, pretty well,” was Laura’s answer; and the consciousness of the fraud she committed on him made her rather more civil than she had been of late. “You seem tired, Lewis.”

  “Tired to weariness,” responded Mr. Carlton. “People are all getting better; but I’m sure it hardly looks like it, for they have been more exacting to-day than when they were in danger.”

  “You were not home to dinner, were you?”

  “No; I am going to take some now. Ought you not to be in bed, Laura?”

  “I don’t know; I think I am tired of bed,” she answered fretfully. “I shall go soon.”

  He laughed pleasantly. “You are tired with having too little to do, I with having too much. Laura, I think we both want a change. It shall not be long now before we leave South Wennock.”

  He sat a few minutes longer, and then went down. Laura once more brought forth her letter, and took the precaution to bolt the door. “Perhaps I shall be at peace now!” she cried in resentful tones. In peace to read it, so far; but certainly not in peace afterwards; for the contents puzzled her to torment. She turned it about, she read it twice, she studied the superscription, she compared it with the lines themselves: at first to no purpose.

  And finally she came to the conclusion that the letter had not been written to Mr. Carlton, although addressed to him, but to Mr. Tom West. And that Mr. Tom West had married Clarice.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  A LITTLE LIGHT.

  LADY JANE CHESNEY sat before her dressing-glass, having her hair brushed by Judith, preparatory to retiring to rest, when they were interrupted by the entrance of Lady Laura.

  “Jane, I want a little talk with you,” she said, sitting down by the bright fire. “Bring your chair round to the warmth.”

  “I thought you said you were going to bed,” observed Jane.

  “I don’t feel tired. Excitement is as good to me as rest, and I have had an exciting evening, taking one thing with another. Jane, you were right about Clarice.”

  “Right in what way?” returned Jane eagerly. “Have you questioned Mr. Carlton?”

  “Shall I leave the room, my lady, and come back presently?” inquired Judith of her mistress, pausing with the hair-brush in her hand.

  “No,” interposed Lady Laura. “There’s something to puzzle out, and I think you may perhaps help us, Judith. I have not questioned Mr. Carlton, Jane, but in — in—” Laura coughed slightly, as though her throat troubled her—” in rummaging over some of his waste places to-night, I came upon a note. A note written by Clarice.”

  Involuntarily Jane thought of the scrap of paper, the part of a note written by Clarice, which Laura had “come upon” once before.

  “It is written to her husband,” continued Laura. “That Tom West, I suppose. And it proves that she came to South Wennock, and that Mr. Carlton must have attended her. Only think, Jane, to South Wennock! She must have been visiting at Mrs. Jenkinson’s, I fancy, where Judith’s sister lives, for the note is dated from Palace Street. I will read it to you, Jane.”

  “13, Palace Street, South Wennock,

  “Friday Evening, March 10, 1848.

  “MY DEAREST HUSBAND, — You will be surprised to hear of my journey, and that I am safe at South Wennock. I know you will be angry, but I cannot help it, and we will talk over things when we meet. I have asked the people here about a medical man, and they strongly recommend one of the Messrs. Grey, but I tell them I would prefer Mr. Carlton. What do you say? I must ask him to come and see me this evening, for the railway omnibus shook me dreadfully, and I feel anything but well. I know he will come, and without delay.

  “It was unreasonable of you, my darling husband, to wish me to be ill so far away. I felt that I could not do so; I should have died; and that’s why I have disobeyed you. I can go back again when all’s well over, if things still turn out unfortunately for the avowal of our marriage. No harm can come of it, for I have not given our name, and you must ask for me by the one you and Mr. West were so fond of calling me in sport.

  “Lose no time; be here in half-an-hour if you can, for I feel really ill; and believe me,

  “Ever your loving wife,

  “CLARICE.”

  “I have heard part of that note before!” was on the tip of Judith’s tongue. But some feeling prompted her to arrest the words ere they were spoken. Lady Jane took the note and read it to herself in silence, pondering over each word.

  “It is incomprehensible to me,” she at length said, drawing the envelope from Laura, and looking at it. “Why, this is addressed to Mr. Carlton!” she burst forth.

  “It must have come into his possession in some way. Perhaps he and Tom West had their envelopes and letters mixed together,” returned Laura with composure. “I suppose there’s no doubt now that it was Tom West she married. Judith says he used to visit his aunt in Palace Street — old Mrs. Jenkinson, — and the letter’s dated from thence. — If — Judith, what on earth’s the matter with you?”

  “Thank you, my lady,” replied Judith, who looked white and faint. “I feel a little ill. It will pass off directly.”

  “It is evident that Clarice must have come to South Wennock without her husband’s consent,” resumed Laura, tossing a bottle of smelling-salts to Judith. “I suppose he was stopping at Mrs. Jenkinson’s. Her number is thirteen, is it not, Judith?”

  “No, my lady, Mrs. Jenkinson’s number is fourteen,” replied Judith in a low tone.

  “Oh, well, a mistake’s readily made in a number. Clarice must have—”

  “Laura, I am all at sea,” interrupted Lady Jane. “Why should Clarice have come to South Wennock at all, unless she came with him? This note would seem to imply that he lived at South Wennock, but — he never lived here, did he, Judith?”

  “Who, my lady? Mr. West? No, he never lived here,” was Judith’s reply; but the girl looked remarkably uneasy. Did she fear being asked questions which she could not answer?

  “It could not have been Tom West that Clarice married,” said Jane. “This note is dated March, and he sailed for India in February.”

  “My ladies,” spoke up Judith, “I have inquired of my sister Margaret whether young Mr. West’s name was Thomas. She says it was not Thomas, but Robert. And she also says he was married several years ago to a Miss Pope, and they live somewhere in Gloucestershire.”

  “Then that disposes of the affair, so far as he is concerned,” cried Laura, with wondering eyes. “How much difficulty it appears to be encompassed with!”

  “Not quite,” said Jane. “Robert West may have been a brother. Do you know, Judith? And do you know whether Robert was a surgeon?”

  “Robert West was not in any profession, my lady. He was an independent gentleman. I don’t think he had a brother. Margaret says he had not.”

  “Laura, I cannot rest,” said Jane, starting from
a pause given to thought. “I shall go now and speak to Mr. Carlton. I ought to have applied to him before.”

  Causing her hair to be smoothed under one of her plain white net morning caps, Jane proceeded to the dining-room. Mr. Carlton was in an easy-chair before the fire, solacing himself with a cigar, which, as a visiting medical man, he only ventured upon at night — and that not very often. He threw it into the fire, with a word of apology, when he saw Lady Jane.

  “Pardon me for disturbing you at this hour,” she said, taking the chair he handed to her; “but I am in great want of some information which I think you can afford me — very anxious about it, in short. Some years ago you were, I believe, intimate with a family living in Gloucester Terrace, Hyde Park, of the name of West. Can you tell me whether Tom West married my sister?”

  No pen could adequately describe Mr. Carlton’s countenance. It was one of blank consternation; first — as it appeared — at being charged with having known the Wests, next at being questioned about Lady Jane’s sister.

  “I can’t tell anything about it,” he said at length, with the air of a man bewildered.

  “I hope you can, Mr. Carlton. Perhaps I have not been sufficiently explicit. You were a friend of Tom West’s, were you not?”

  “I certainly knew him,” he replied, after a pause. “Not much; that is, it was only a passing acquaintance. He went out to India, and I believe died there.”

  “Not much!” repeated Jane; “Mrs. West told me you were there frequently. You used to see her cousins there, and my sister. We have a suspicion that my sister married Thomas West. Were you cognizant of it?”

  The same blank look reigned in Mr. Carlton’s face.

  “I really do not understand you, Lady Jane. I never saw a sister of yours at Mrs. West’s. What sister?”

  “You saw Miss Beauchamp?”

  He suddenly rose, and seizing the poker, began knocking the fire about.

  “Well?” said he.

  “I speak of Miss Beauchamp. She was my sister.”

  He turned sharply, poker in hand.

  “Miss Beauchamp! What farce is it that you wish to play upon me, Lady Jane?”

  “No farce at all,” replied Jane sadly. “She dropped our name when she went out as governess — not to disgrace it, she said — retaining only that of Beauchamp. She was our sister, Clarice Beauchamp Chesney.”

  A strange expression was on Mr. Carlton’s face, but he kept it turned from Lady Jane.

  “We know that Clarice married,” proceeded Jane, “and we can only think she must have married Tom West. Had he a brother Robert, do you know?”

  “Had who a brother Robert?” asked Mr. Carlton.

  “Tom West.”

  “Tom West had no brother Robert, that I am aware of. I never knew any one of the name of Robert West.”

  “What name did my sister go by when she was here, at South Wennock?” continued Jane. “You can tell me that.”

  “She never was at South Wennock.”

  “Mr. Carlton! She was, and you must know it. She sent for you, did she not, to attend her the night she arrived: sent for you to Palace Street?”

  Down clattered the poker. Was it an accident, or were Mr. Carlton’s hands shaking? As he stooped to pick it up, Jane caught a glimpse of his face: either it was unusually pale or the firelight deceived her. Another moment, and he had put the poker in its place, and was turning to Lady Jane and speaking quietly.

  “I know nothing of your sister; nothing whatever. Why should you think I do! — Why do you apply to me?”

  The precise why and wherefore Jane could not answer, for she had given a hasty promise to Laura not to speak of the note the latter had produced.

  “When my sister came to South Wennock to stay with old Mrs. Jenkinson, we have reason to believe that you attended her, Mr. Carlton. I want to know by what name she then went.”

  Again astonishment appeared to be Mr. Carlton’s prevailing emotion. It seemed that he could not understand.

  “I protest, Lady Jane, you are asking me things that I know nothing of. I never was inside Mrs. Jenkinson’s house in my life. John Grey attends there.”

  “Clarice would not have the Greys; Clarice preferred you: and Clarice was there. Was she not confined in Palace Street?”

  Mr. Carlton raised his hand to his brow. “What mistake you are labouring under, I cannot tell,” he presently said. “I know nothing of what you are asking me. I know nothing of your sister, or her health, or her movements, and I know as little of Mrs. Jenkinson.”

  “You knew Miss Beauchamp at Mrs. West’s?” rejoined Jane.

  “I used to see a lady there of that name, I remember, — the Wests’ governess,” he replied. “Surely, Lady Jane, you must make some strange mistake in calling her your sister?”

  “She was indeed our sister, Mr. Carlton. Laura, it seems, has never liked to mention the subject of Clarice to you, but we have been searching for her all these years.”

  “Why has she not liked to mention it?” interrupted Mr. Carlton.

  “From a feeling of pride, in the first instance, I believe: since then, her original reticence has kept her silent. But — can you not tell me something, Mr. Carlton? Did Clarice marry Tom West?”

  “Lady Jane, I cannot tell you anything,” he repeated, some annoyance in his tone. “Miss Beauchamp was the Wests’ governess, she was not mine. All I can say is, that if she married Tom West, I never knew it. So far as I believe, Tom West went out to India a single man. When I came down here to settle, I lost sight of them all.”

  “But — surely you can tell me something?” Jane persisted, collecting her senses, which seemed bewildered. “Did you not attend my sister here, at Mrs. Jenkinson’s? You were certainly summoned to do so.”

  “What grounds have you for thinking so? By whom was I summoned?”

  Jane’s tongue was again tied. She could not tell of the note she had just read.

  “The best answer I can give you, Lady Jane, is but a repetition of what I have already said,” he resumed, finding she did not speak. “I never attended any one at Mrs. Jenkinson’s in my life: I never was summoned to do so.”

  “And you can tell me nothing?”

  “I cannot indeed.”

  Jane rose from her chair, dissatisfied. “Will you pardon me for saying, Mr. Carlton, that I think you could say more if you would I must find my sister, living or dead. A curious suspicion has been latterly upon me that that little boy at Tupper’s cottage is he child,” she continued in agitation. “I wish you could help me.”

  He shook his head, intimating that he could not, opened the door for Lady Jane, and bowed her out. Laura, waiting in Jane’s room still, questioned her when she returned.

  “Well?” said she.

  “Mr. Carlton either does not know anything, or will not disclose it,” said Jane. “I think it is the latter.”

  “Did he ever know Clarice?”

  “As Miss Beauchamp; not as Clarice Chesney. I believe he spoke truth there. He seems to have a difficulty in believing still that she was our sister. He says he was never inside Mrs. Jenkinson’s house in his life. Laura, I should have shown him the note: I could have questioned him to so much more purpose.”

  “Ah, but that would not do at any price,” laughed Laura. “I found it out in one of his hiding-places.”

  “How can you laugh at this moment?” rebuked Jane. “I feel as if some terrible secret were on the point of discovery. You need not go away, Judith.”

  Laura opened her eyes. “What secret?”

  “How can I tell? I wish I could tell. If it were all straight and fair, why should Mr. Carlton betray agitation, and refuse to answer? There is no doubt my questions did agitate him. A horrible doubt is growing upon me, Laura: whether those young Wests can have deceived Clarice into a marriage which would not, or did not, hold good — and Mr. Carlton was the confidant of their plans!”

  “Do you suppose Mr. Carlton would sully himself by anything so cruel and disgra
ceful?” flashed Laura. “He has his faults; but he would not lend himself to anything of that sort.”

  “Men think a poor friendless governess legitimate game sometimes,” spoke Jane in low tones. “And she was only known as Clarice Beauchamp. Rely upon it, Tom West worked ill to Clarice in some shape or other. I fear Mr. Carlton knew of it, and is trying to screen him. It was so shadowed forth in that dreadful dream: Mr. Carlton was mixed up with it throughout.”

  “What was that dream, Jane? — Tell me now,” whispered Laura eagerly. For, however it might have pleased Laura in general to ridicule not only dreams themselves, but those who dreamt them, the night hour, the vague dread overshadowing Jane’s spirit, were all too plainly exercising their influence over her now. Jane began at once; it was a significant fact that she showed no thought of objecting. Judith, not caring to be solitary at a dream-telling, drew near and stood behind the chair of Lady Jane.

  “It was on Monday night, the thirteenth of March,” began Lady Jane, with a shiver, “and quite the beginning of Lent, for Easter was late that year—”

  “What has Easter to do with it?” interrupted Laura, “Nothing. I had gone to bed that evening as soon as tea was over, not feeling well, and by half-past nine I was asleep. I thought that Clarice came to my bedside, dressed in her shroud, and stood looking at me. Understand me, Laura — I remembered in my dream that I had gone to bed ill; I seemed to know that I was lying in bed, and that I was sleeping. I dreamt that Clarice came, I say, and I dreamt that I awoke. Her attire did not appear to frighten me, but she did not speak. ‘Why are you here?’ I asked. ‘To tell you that I am gone,’ she answered, and she pointed to her face, which was that of the dead, and to the shroud. But I did not appear to associate her words with death (at least, I could not remember to have done so when I awoke), but that she had gone on a journey. ‘Why did you go without telling us?’ I asked her. ‘He stopped it,’ she answered, ‘he was too quick for me.’