Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  Grumbling at the untowardness of things, tired to death with worry, flinging a palette here, a painting there, striding the room with slow and uneven steps, Mr. St. John contrived somehow to live through the morning. Suddenly, when he was stretching himself, and rather wishing for wings that he might fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, it occurred to him that he would speak to Honour. The girl had once dropped some inadvertent words in his hearing, and she might be able to tell him more. It seemed that he would give half his own undoubted inheritance to set the question at rest.

  He rang the bell, and told the servant who answered it to send Honour to him. He had not seen the girl, as far as he remembered, since his present sojourn at home. The fact was, Honour’s duties had been changed, and lay downstairs now, instead of above. She had given up the place of housemaid, which she found did not suit her, to become assistant to the housekeeper, and was learning cooking and confectionery. Not once in six months now would her duties take her up the grand staircase, or bring her in contact with the guests.

  “Where have you been hiding yourself?” asked Mr. St. John, when she appeared in obedience to his orders. “I never see you by any chance.”

  Honour explained now. She looked just the same as ever, and she still wore mourning for her beloved Benja.

  “Honour, I want to ask you a question. And you must answer it, for it is essential that you should do so. But you may rely upon my discretion, and no trouble shall accrue to you from it. You once spoke a word or two which led me to infer that your late mistress, Mrs. Carleton St. John, was not altogether of sound mind. Did you mean what you said?”

  Honour paused. Not from fear of speaking, but in doubt what to say. Mr. St. John, attributing it to the former motive, again assured her that she might trust him.

  “It is not that, sir; it is that I don’t well know how to answer you. I remember what I said — you were asking me about that dreadful night, saying that from the manner in which he had been burnt to death it looked as though somebody had done it for the purpose; and I answered, in the moment’s haste, that nobody could have done that, unless it was Mrs. St. John in her madness.”

  “But did you mean anything, Honour? That is the point to be considered now.”

  “I did, and I didn’t, sir. I had seen my mistress two or three times in a most awful passion; a passion, sir, that you would hardly believe possible in a lady, and I meant that if she had done it, it must have been in one of those mad fits of passion. But I did not really mean that she had done it,” resumed Honour, “and I could have bitten my tongue out afterwards for answering so carelessly; it was the very thing Mrs. Darling warned me against. There was no reason for supposing the calamity to have been anything but pure accident.”

  “What had Mrs. Darling warned you against?”

  “It occurred in this way, sir. After it was all over and the poor lamb buried, I had brain fever; and they tell me I made all sorts of wild accusations in it, amidst others that my mistress had set fire to Benja and bolted the door upon him. After I got well, Mrs. Darling told me of this. Nothing could be kinder than what she said, but she warned me never to breathe such words again. I should not have had such a thought, even in my delirium, but for the bolted doors; I couldn’t get over that at the time; but I came to the same conclusion at last as other people — that poor Benja must have fastened the one to keep me out, and that the other was not bolted at all. It’s likely enough, for I never was in such a flurry before, smelling the burning so strong.”

  “And in your delirium you accused your mistress of having caused the mischief?”

  “So they tell me, sir. How I came to fancy such wicked thoughts is the wonder. It’s true that she was always jealous of Benja after her own child was born, always hated him; and I suppose I remembered that, even in my unconsciousness. Not an hour before the accident she had beaten him cruelly.”

  “Beaten him!” interrupted Mr. St. John.

  “She did, sir. It’s over now, and I said nothing about it: where was the use? Well, all these things must have got jumbled together in my poor fevered brain, and caused me to say what I did. I was very sorry for it, sir, when I got well; I should never have thought of such a thing in my senses.”

  “Then — although you used the word ‘madness,’ you never had cause to think her really insane?”

  “Oh no, never. In those frightful passions she was as one mad, sir, but they were over directly. “I hope you’ll pardon me, sir, for having been so foolish as to say it.”

  “Nay, Honour, it is nothing to me. We all make slips occasionally in talking. That’s all I wanted to ask you.”

  She turned to leave the room. Mr. St. John took a rapid summary in his mind of what he had heard. It seemed only to increase his difficulties. There was not the slightest corroborative testimony as to her possible insanity; but there were other hints which tended to render her a most unfit wife for Isaac. If —— ——

  His reflections were brought to a sudden conclusion by a scream outside. This studio of his was situated in an angle of the staircase, where it was rather dark. Honour had not yet closed the door: but the scream did not appear to have come from her. He hastened out.

  It had come from Mrs. Carleton. Standing in the opposite angle, gathered closely against the wall, as if hiding from a ghost, her eyes were fixed with a glare of terror upon Honour, her face was white as death. She had just come in from the drive with Sir Isaac, and was on her way to her room to take off her bonnet for luncheon. Honour saw the effect her appearance caused, and stood irresolute, curtseying, not liking to go down, because she would have to brush past Mrs. Carleton. Before Mr. St. John had recovered from his astonishment, Prance came gliding up and took her mistress by the arm.

  “It’s only Honour Tritton, ma’am; do you not know her? You fool, why did you put yourself in her sight!” added the woman to Honour in whispered exasperation. “I told you to keep out of it — that she didn’t know you were here. The sight of you cannot be pleasant to her remembrance.”

  Almost by force, as it seemed, she led her mistress away to her bedroom and closed the door. A good way down the corridor Mrs. Carleton’s white face was turned back on Honour, with its look of wild, desperate fear.

  Mr. St. John seemed equally stunned with Honour. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” was the girl’s answer, as she burst into tears.

  “Prance said she had warned you to keep out of Mrs. Carleton’s sight. Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s true. She said her mistress did not know I was at Castle Wafer, and I had better take care and not show myself to her.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know, sir. All she said was that Mrs. Carleton St. John was fearfully angry with me still, knowing that, but for my carelessness in leaving the child he would be alive now. I had kept out of her sight until to-day. But it seemed to me now that she looked more terrified than angry.”

  As it had to Mr. St. John. Honour went out about her business, and he felt bewildered with the complication of events that seemed to be arising. There came down an apology to the luncheon-room from Mrs. Carleton, delivered by Prance. Her lady had a headache, brought on by being so long in the hot sun without a parasol, and was now lying down.

  “How sorry I am!” exclaimed Sir Isaac. “She complained of the sun when we were out.”

  Late in the afternoon, she came into the drawing-room, dressed for dinner. Frederick happened to be there alone. As a matter of politeness, he condoled with her on her indisposition, hoping it was gone.

  “Not quite. To tell you the truth, Mr. St. John,” she continued in quiet, confidential tones, “the sight of that woman, Honour Tritton, had as much to do with my headache as the heat. You know who she was, I presume — nurse to my poor little step-son; the woman to whose unpardonable carelessness his death was attributable. I have never been able to think of the woman since without horror, and the unexpected sight o
f her — for I had no idea she was at Castle Wafer — was almost too much for me.”

  “She is one of the servants here,” observed Frederick, not very well knowing what else to answer.

  “As I hear. I wonder Sir Isaac should have engaged her. However, of course, that is no business of mine. I hope she will not come into my way again, for I have a perfect horror of her. But for her wickedness, we might all still have been happy at Alnwick.” —

  She rose as she spoke, and went on the lawn. Mrs. St. John was there. Sir Isaac was then in his own sitting-room, and Frederick went in to him. The table was strewed with papers, and he was writing rapidly.

  “Look at this,” he said to Frederick, holding out a letter, and in his voice might be traced a sound of annoyance. “It is incomprehensible how people can be so stupid.”

  “Are you writing to stop it?” asked Frederick, when he had read the note.

  “I am writing; but whether it will be in time to stop it, is another matter. The letter only came by this afternoon’s post.”

  “I should telegraph,” said Frederick.

  Sir Isaac laid down his pen. “It might be the better plan. But you can say so little in a message.”

  “Do both,” advised the younger brother. “I will go off at once and send the message, and you can post your letter afterwards. You will then have the satisfaction of knowing that all has been done that can be done.”

  “Yes, that will be better. If you don’t mind the trouble. But you will hardly be back by dinner-time.”

  “Yes I shall. And as to trouble, Isaac, I think it’s doing me a kindness. I have been in a cross-grained mood all day, for want perhaps of something to do.”

  Sir Isaac wrote the message, and Frederick started with it, leaping down the slopes buoyant as a schoolboy. It was a sensible relief, perhaps, to what he had called his cross-grained mood., He had only a short walk; for the railway had now been extended from Lexington, and its small station was not far from the lodge gates of Castle Wafer.

  Mr. St. John entered the little telegraph office. He gave in his message, and was exchanging a few words with the clerk, when the rustle of petticoats was heard, and a female voice addressed the clerk in hurried accents. Mr. St. John at the moment was behind the partition, and unseen by the newcomer.

  “Young man, can I send a telegraph off at once? It’s in a hurry.”

  “You can send a telegram,” responded the clerk. “Where’s it to?”

  “Paris.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “I’ve wrote it down here, so that there may be no mistake. It’s quite private, if you please, and must be kept so: a little matter that don’t concern anybody. And be particular, for it’s from Castle Wafer. Will it be in Paris to-night?”

  “Yes,” said the clerk, confidently, as he counted the words.

  “What’s to pay?”

  “Twelve-and-sixpence.”

  “Twelve-and-sixpence!” repeated the voice. “What a swindle.”

  “You needn’t pay it if you don’t like.”

  “But then the telegram would not go?”

  “Of course it wouldn’t.”

  The clink of silver was heard, dashed down upon the counter. “I can’t stop to argue about the charge, so I must pay it,” grumbled the voice. “But it’s a great shame, young man.”

  “The charges ain’t of my fixing,” responded the young man. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  She bustled out again as hurriedly as she had come in, not having seen Mr. St. John, or suspected that the wooden partition had any one behind it. He went to the door, looked after her, and recognized Prance: he thought he had not been mistaken in the voice. She was walking very fast indeed in the direction of Castle Wafer.

  “I must see that message, Jones,” said Mr. St. John, turning back into the little room.

  Mr. Jones hesitated; but there was an air of quiet command in the words — and the speaker was the heir of Castle Wafer. He laid the written message on the desk.

  “Mary Prance to Mrs. Darling.

  “Please come back as quick as you can. I don’t like her symptoms. I am afraid of something that I had better not write down here.”

  “Is it to go, sir?” asked the clerk.

  “Oh yes, it is to go. Thank you. It’s all right. I had a reason for wishing to see it.”

  He walked back to the house; not quickly, as Prance was doing, but slowly and reflectively. Sufficient food for reflection he had, in truth. They had not gone in to dinner; and Georgina Beauclerc, her beautiful grey eyes sparkling with excitement, crossed the lawn to meet him, wearing a blue silk evening dress, and pearls in her hair.

  “Oh, Frederick, guess the news! It has come to me only now. I won’t tell it you unless you guess it.”

  He took both her hands in his, and gazed steadfastly into her excited face. The blushes began to rise.

  “News — and I am to guess it? Perhaps it is that you are going to be a sober girl.”

  She laughed, and would have drawn her hands away. But he held them still.

  “I can’t wait: I must tell you. Papa and mamma are on their way home. They will be at the Rectory to-morrow night.”

  “How have you heard it?”

  “They have had news at the Rectory and sent up to tell me. I am so glad! It seems ages and ages since I saw papa. Only think how I might have been spared the trouble of wanting that long letter to mamma to-day, had I known?”

  “I am glad too,” he said, his tone changing to seriousness. “We shall get rid of you now.”

  One hasty glance at his face. What she saw there puzzled her. He really did look as though he meant it.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s the truth. I shall be glad when you are away from here, safe in the dean’s charge again.”

  There was an earnestness in his tone which caused her large eyes to open.

  “You have not been rude to me once this time until now,” she pouted. “Sir Isaac would not say that.”

  “Rude?”

  “It is rude to tell me you want to get rid of me. I never said a ruder thing to you than that, in my wildest days.”

  “I do want it,” he answered, laughing. But he laid his hand upon her head as he spoke, and looked fondly at her. Her eyelids fell.

  “You know I don’t care for you, Georgina.”

  But the words were spoken as though he did care for her. Georgina ran away from him into the drawing-room. He followed, and found them going in to dinner, Charlotte Carleton leaning on the arm of Sir Isaac.

  “What are you going to do with Alnwick, Sir Isaac?”

  The question came from Mrs. Carleton, and it may be that it took Sir Isaac somewhat by surprise, after her previous avoidance of the subject. They were at dessert, not on this same day, but on the next, for four-and-twenty hours have gone on.

  “In what way do you mean?” Sir Isaac asked, consideration very distinguishable in his tone. But it was called up by the subject alone.

  “Shall you ever live at it?”

  “I am not sure. I have a place in the North, you know, hitherto held in reserve should I leave Castle Wafer.”

  “But you would never leave Castle Wafer!”

  “As its master, yes, should Frederick marry. It has always been my intention to resign it to him. But I dare say they would have me as their guest for six months of the year.”

  Her handsome face was bent downwards; her raven hair, with the perfumed white rose in it, was very close to her host.

  “Is he likely to marry?”

  “Not that I am aware of. I wish he was!”

  “Let him take Alnwick as a residence, and remain yourself at Castle Wafer. The idea of your having to quit this beautiful place when you have made it what it is !”

  Sir Isaac smiled. “Frederick says as you do, Mrs. Carleton. He protests he will never reign at Castle Wafer so long as I live. It may end in our living here together, two old bachelors; or, rather, an old ba
chelor and a young one.”

  “But shall you never marry?” she softly asked. “Why should you not form ties of your own? Oh, Sir Isaac, it is what every one would wish you to do.”

  Sir Isaac slightly shook his head. Frederick St. John’s ears were strained to catch the conversation, although he was giving his attention to Miss Beauclerc.

  “Do you know what I should like to do with Alnwick?” — and Sir Isaac’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I should like to see you in it.”

  A streak of crimson crossed her cheek at the words. “I never, never could live again at Alnwick. Oh, Sir Isaac” — and the handsome face was raised pathetically to his—” think of the trouble it brought me! You could not expect me to go back to it.”

  He answered the look with eyes as pitying as her own.

  “Give Alnwick to your brother, Sir Isaac. Remain yourself at Castle Wafer: never think of leaving it.”

  “You like Castle Wafer?”

  “I never was in any place that I liked so much.”

  “Then you must not run away from it,” said Sir Isaac, smiling.

  “I don’t want to run away from it,” she answered, her eyes lifted pleadingly to his. “I have nowhere to run to. It is so hard — so very hard to make a fresh home! And I have so little to make one with. I lost all when I lost Alnwick.”

  A movement. Mrs. St. John was rising, and Frederick gave his mother a mental blessing as he opened the door. Sir Isaac passed the claret to him as he sat down, and he poured out a glass mechanically, but did not touch it. In the last twenty-four hours his doubts, as to Mrs. Carleton’s designs on Sir Isaac, had become certainties, and his spirit was troubled.

  “You have been inviting Mrs. Carleton to prolong her stay here, Isaac?”

  “I invited her, when she first came, to stay as long as she liked,” was Sir Isaac’s reply. “I hope she will do so.”

  “Do you like her?”