by Ellen Wood
And yet Laura need not have disliked the cap. A more lovely face than hers, as it looked now, with her rich hair braided, and the white crape lappets thrown back, it is impossible to conceive. The present trouble was this: Laura would not go up to Lucy’s wedding, now about to take place, unless she could leave the odious caps behind her. Jane assured her it would not be proper to appear without them.
“Then I will not go at all,” Laura was saying with pouting lips. “If I can only appear before people as a guy, I’ll stay where I am. How would you like to be made into an old woman, Jane, if you were as young as I am? Why don’t you take to the caps yourself, if you are so fond of them?”
“I am not a widow,” said Jane.
“I wish you were! you would know what the caps are, then. They never could have been invented for any one under fifty. And they are enough to give one brain-fever.”
“Only three months longer, Laura,” said Jane, soothingly, “and the twelvemonth will have expired. I am sure you would not yourself like to leave them off sooner.”
“Of what use are they?” sharply asked Laura. “They don’t make me regret my — my husband either more or less than I do. I can mourn him if I please without the cap as much as I can with it: and they ruin the hair! Every one says it is most unhealthy to keep the head covered.”
“But you don’t cover yours,” Jane ventured to remark, as she glanced at the gossamer article perched on Laura’s hair.
“No, but you would like me to. Why should you stand out for the wretched things, Jane? My belief is, you are jealous of me. It’s not my fault if you are not particularly handsome.”
Jane took it all meekly. When Laura fell into this temper, it was best to let her say what she would. And Jane thought she talked chiefly for the sake of opposition, for she believed that Laura herself was sufficiently sensitive to appearances not to give up the caps before the year had gone by.
But the result was, that Lady Laura did not go up to London to the wedding. Perhaps she had never intended to go. Judith thought so, and privately said so to her mistress. The following year Laura was to spend with Lady Oakburn — the heavy widow’s silks and the offending caps left behind her at South Wennock; and Judith felt almost sure that Lady Laura had not meant to show herself in town until divested of these unbecoming appendages.
So Jane went up alone, arriving only the day before the wedding. Judith as usual was with her; and this was another grievance for Laura — to be left without a maid. In a fit of caprice — it must be called so — Lady Laura had discharged her own maid. Stiffing, at the time of Mr. Carlton’s death, protesting that old faces about her only put her in mind of the past; and Judith had since waited upon her.
The rest of Mr. Carlton’s establishment had been broken up with the home. But Lady Jane would not go to town without Judith, and my Lady Laura had to do the best she could under the circumstances. It may as well here be mentioned that the money left to Clarice by the Earl of Oakburn, and which had since been accumulating, Jane had made over in equal portions to Laura and Lucy, herself taking none of it.
It was a cloudless day, that of the wedding — cloudless in all senses of the word. The September sky was blue and bright, the guests bidden to the ceremony were old and true friends. Portland Place was gay with spectators; carriages dashed about; and Lady Jane seemed to be in a maze of whirl and confusion until she was quietly seated at the breakfast-table.
Man and wife for ever! They had stood at the altar side by side, and sworn it faithfully, earnestly, with a full and steadfast purpose in their hearts and on their lips. Not until they were alone together in the chariot, returning home again, could Frederick Grey realize the fact that she was his, as she sat beside him in her young beauty, her true affection — every pulse of her heart beating for him.
There was nothing in the least grand about the wedding, unless it was Jane’s new pearl silk of amazing rustle and richness, and a gentleman in a flaxen wig and a very screwed-in-waist, who sat at Lady Oakburn’s right hand at the table. He was Lord Something — a tenth cousin or so of the late earl’s; and he had condescended to come out of his retirement and his gout, to which disorder he was a martyr — it ran in the Oakburn family — to give Lucy away. John Grey and his wife were in town for it, and the Reverend Mr. Lycett, now the incumbent of St. Mark’s Church at South Wennock, had come up to read the marriage ceremony — they were all visiting Sir Stephen and Lady Grey.
It was the first time Jane had seen Sir Stephen since the previous December. She thought he looked worn and ill, as if his health were failing. She feared, as she looked at him, that the young M.D. opposite to her by Lucy’s side might become Sir Frederick sooner than he ought to do in the natural course of events. But Sir Stephen made light of his ailments, and told Jane that he was only knocked up with too much work. He was merry as ever; and said now that Frederick had become a respectable member of society he should turn over the chief worry of the patients to him, and nurse himself into a young man again. “Do you know,” he cried in a whisper, in Jane’s ear, his merry tones changing, “I am glad Lady Laura did not come. The sight of her face here to-day would have put me too much in mind of poor Carlton.”
Of course the chief personage at the table was the young Earl of Oakburn. The young earl had planted himself in the seat next to Lucy, and wholly declined to quit it for any other. There, with Pompey behind his chair (who was a greater slave to the young gentleman than ever he had been to Captain Chesney), and his hand in Lucy’s, he made himself at home.
“I am so glad to see how Frank improves!” Jane remarked to Sir Stephen. “He looks very much stronger.”
“Stronger!” returned Sir Stephen: “he’s as strong as a little lion; and would have been so long ago but for his mother and Lucy’s having coddled him.”
“I am not coddled now,” cried Frank. “And mamma says I shall soon go to Eton.”
“The very best place for you,” cried Sir Stephen. “I hope it’s true.”
“Oh, it’s true,” said Lady Oakburn. “He is strong enough for it already, Sir Stephen: in spite of the coddling,” she added, with a smile.
“Thanks to me, my lady, for keeping you within bounds. Judith! that’s never you in that white topknot!”
Judith laughed, turned, and curtsied. Judith was waiting at the chocolate table, her hands encased, perhaps for the first time in Judith’s life, in delicate white kid gloves.
“Why can’t Lucy come back to-night?” suddenly demanded the young earl, appealing to the table generally.
“Because Lucy’s mine now, and I can’t spare her.” whispered Frederick Grey, leaning behind Lucy to speak.
An indignant pause. “She’s not yours.”
“Indeed she is.”
“You have not bought her!”
“Yes, I have. I bought her with the gold ring that is now upon her finger.”
Lord Oakburn had seen the ring put on, and sundry disagreeable convictions arose within him. “Is she quite bought?” he asked.
“Quite. She can never be sold back again.”
“But why need she go away? Can’t you let her stop here?”
“I’m afraid I can’t, Frank. She shall come and see you soon.” About ten days after this, Frederick Grey and his wife were at South Wennock. It had been arranged that they should pay Jane a short visit before returning to town to take possession of their new home.
There had not been many changes at South Wennock. The greatest perhaps was at the late house of Mr and Lady Laura Carlton. It had been converted into a “Ladies’ College,” and the old surgery side-door had now a large brass plate upon it, announcing “Pupils’ Entrance.” The Widow Gould flourished still, and had not yet ceased talking about the events of the previous December; and Mrs. Pepperfly was decidedly more robust than ever, and had been in very great request this year from her near connection with the events which had brought the tragedy to light. Mrs. Smith had gone back to Scotland. She had a tie there, she said — her
husband’s grave.
Just as they had been sitting nearly a fortnight before, so they were sitting now, the Ladies Jane and Laura. Laura, in spite of her cap and her widowhood, had contrived to make herself look very charming; almost as much so as the fair young bride, who ran in to them from the carriage, radiant with happiness.
But Lucy’s gaiety, and her husband’s also, faded to a sort of timid reserve at the sight of Laura. It was the first time they had met since the cruel trouble, and it was impossible but that their minds should go back to it. Laura noted their change of manner, and resented it according to her hasty fashion, taking some idea into her head that they considered she ought to be treated with sobriety in her character of widow; whilst she did not think so at all.
They had arrived in time for a late dinner, and in the evening Frederick said he would just run down as far as his uncle’s. Somehow it had been a dull and silent dinner. Try as Frederick and Lucy would, they could not divest themselves of the impression left by the past, in this first interview with Mr. Carlton’s wife. Laura, in a pet, retired early.
“Jane, how well Laura is looking!” were Lucy’s first words. “I had not expected to see her half so well, and all her old light manner has returned. Has she forgotten Mr. Carlton?”
“Quite sufficiently so to marry again,” replied Jane, somewhat heedlessly. The words shocked Lucy.
“Oh, Jane! Marry again — yet!”
Jane looked up and smiled at the mistake. “I did not mean that, Lucy; of course not. But I should think it an event not unlikely to happen in time. She said one day that she would give a great deal to be able to discard the tarnished name of Carlton. She is young enough still, very good-looking, of good birth, and upon her, personally, there rests no slur; altogether, it has struck me as being probable. Next year, which she is to pass with Lady Oakburn, she will be in her element — the world.”
“Jane,” said Lucy, awaking from a reverie, “I wonder you never married.”
A sudden flush came into Jane Chesney’s cheeks, and her drooping eyelids were not raised.
“I think it must have been your own fault.”
“You are right Lucy,” said Jane, rallying. “I was so nearly being married once that the wedding-day was fixed. I afterwards broke it off.”
“What ever for?” exclaimed Lucy, impulsively, as the thought occurred to her how very grievous a catastrophe it would have been had her wedding been broken off.
“We were attached to each other too,” resumed Jane, in tones which proved that her mind had gone back to the past and was absorbed in it. “He was of good family, as good as ours, but he was not rich, and he was hoping for a Government appointment. We were to have married, however, on what he had, and the wedding-day was settled. Then came mamma’s illness and death, which, of course, caused the marriage to be postponed. Afterwards he received his appointment; it was in India; and then, Lucy, came the bitter trial of choosing between him and my father. My mother had said to me on her death-bed, ‘ Stay always with your father, Jane; he will be lost without you when I am gone,’ and I promised to do so. She did not know that William would be going abroad.”
“And you gave him up to remain at home?”
“Yes; I thought it my duty; and I loved papa almost as well, in another way, as I loved him. There was a little creature in my care also, besides: you, Lucy.”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” exclaimed Lucy, clasping her hands. “You should not have minded me.”
Jane smiled. “I got over it in time. And, Lucy, do you know, I think it likely that I am best as I am.”
“Where is he now, Jane? Perhaps he may come home yet and marry you!” And Jane laughed, Lucy’s tone was so eager.
“He has had a wife a great many years, and I don’t know how many children. Lucy, dear, my romance wore itself out long ago.”
“But it must be so dreadful a thing to have your marriage broken off,” said Lucy, in a half whisper. “I think it would have killed me, Jane.”
“Very dreadful indeed it must seem to you, no doubt, in these early days,” said Jane. “But, my dear, people don’t die so easily as that.”
Lucy crimsoned: was Jane laughing at her? She began to speak of something else.
“Jane,” she said, “was it not a singular thing that you and papa — and myself a little — took that strange dislike to Mr. Carlton?”
“It must have been instinct, as I believe.”
“While Laura and — I suppose — Clarice were so greatly attracted by him. It strikes me as being very strange. Oh, what an unhappy thing it was that Clarice ever went away from home.”
“All the regret in the world will not mend it now; I strive not to think of it. I never — as a matter of course, Laura being here — talk of the past. Lucy,” she added, drawing her young sister to her, “I can see that you are happy.”
A bright smile and a brighter blush answered the words.
“My child, take a caution from me,” proceeded Jane: “have no concealments from your husband, and never disobey him.”
“There is no need to tell me that, Jane,” said Lucy, with some surprise. “How could I do either?”
“No, I believe there is none; but we cannot forget, my dear, that concealment or disobedience, following on their rebellious marriages, brought the ill upon Laura and Clarice. Had not Clarice come to South Wennock, in all probability her tragical end would never have occurred, and she came in direct disobedience to the will and command of her husband. Had Laura not dishonourably forced her husband’s private locks, the awful disclosure might never have burst upon her. Be very cautious, Lucy; love, reverence, and obey your husband.”
A conscious smile played around Lucy’s lips, and at that moment Judith came in. Lady Laura wanted her sister Jane.
“It does not seem like the old room, Judith,” Lucy said, as her sister left it. “I should scarcely have known it again.”
For it was a very smart drawing-room now, and somewhat inconveniently crowded with ornaments and furniture. Laura’s handsome grand piano took up a good portion of it.
“True, my lady,” was Judith’s answer. “When the sale took place at Mr. Carlton’s after his death, Lady Laura reserved a great many of the things, and they had to be brought here.”
“Where’s Stiffing?” asked Lucy.
“She soon found a place after Lady Laura discharged her, but she did not remain in it, and she has left South Wennock. She got mobbed one evening,” added Judith, lowering her voice.
“Got mobbed!” echoed Lucy, staring at Judith.
“It was in this way, my lady: the news got abroad somehow that it was Stiffing who fetched the skeleton key for Lady Laura, that — that past night, and a number of rude boys set upon Stiffing one spring evening; they hooted her and pelted her and chased her, called her a skeleton, and altogether behaved very badly to her.”
“But if she did fetch the key, Lady Laura sent her for it.”
“Oh yes, but boys and men, when they set upon a body like that, my lady, only think of the victim before them. Stiffing wouldn’t stop in South Wennock after that, but gave up her place.”
“How shamefully unjust!” exclaimed Lucy.
Her indignation had scarcely spent itself when Frederick Grey entered, and Judith retired.
“Did you think I was lost, Lucy?”
“No; but I began to think you were long; I suppose you could not get away?”
“That’s how it was. John’s children hid my hat; and Charles Lycett and his wife were spending the evening there. I don’t know what good wishes, they don’t send to Lady Lucy Grey,” he added, drawing her to him, and keeping his hands on her waist.
Lucy laughed.
“What brings you alone?” he asked. “Where are they?”
“Laura went up to her room, and she just now sent for Jane. Frederick, Jane has been giving me a lecture.”
“What about?”
“She bade me love and reverence you always,” she whispered, lift
ing her eyes momentarily to his. “I told her the injunction was not needed: do you think it is?”
He drew her closer to him, and covered her face with his warm kisses.
“Once, in this room — I have never told you, Frederick — I passed some miserable hours. It was the night following the examination of Mr. Carlton. Of course it was altogether miserable enough then, but I had a fear on my own score, from which the others were free: I thought the disgrace would cause you — not to have me.”
“You foolish child! you little goose! Lucy, my darling,” he continued, in altered tones, “you could not really have feared it. Had disgrace attached itself to every relative you possessed in the world, there would only have been the greater happiness to me in shielding you from it. My wife, you know it.”
She looked at him with the prettiest smile and blush ever seen, and he released her suddenly, for Jane came in.
OSWALD CRAY
This novel was first published in 1864, having been serialised in Good Words. The narrative concerns the love affairs of two half-brothers, Oswald and Mark Cray. Mark Cray works for Doctor Richard Devenal, whose niece he marries. Oswald, meanwhile, is in love with Devenal’s daughter Sara. Complications ensue, however, when a misunderstanding leads Oswald to suspect the doctor of murder…
Charles Wood, Ellen Wood’s son, noted in his biography of the author that Henry Wood (Ellen’s husband) passed away during serialisation of this novel – there is some confusion on this point, however, as Charles also states elsewhere that his father passed away in 1866 (the date accepted by most later critics).
Title page of the first edition