Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Mr. Greatorex told me that the Reverend Ollivera stood to his opinion as strongly as he ever did,” was the answering remark of the officer; and it might be that there was a shade of compassion in his tone — compassion for the mistaken folly of the man before him.

  “It has occurred to me at times, that if I were a member of the detective police, endowed with all the acuteness for the discovery of crime that their occupation and (we may suppose) natural aptitude for it must give, I should have brought the matter to light long ago. Do not think I reflect on your individual skill or care, sir; I speak generally.”

  “Ah!” said Mr. Butterby with complacent jocularity, “we all are apt to picture to ourselves how much we’d do in other folks’s skins.”

  “It is strange that you have never been able to find traces of the man whose name was afterwards mixed up in the affair. Godfrey Pitman.”

  “There you are right, sir,” readily avowed the officer. “I should uncommonly like to come across that Godfrey Pitman on my own score: setting aside anything he might have had to do with the late Mr. Ollivera.”

  The clergyman quickly took up the words. “Do you think he had anything to do with his death?”

  “I don’t go as far as that. It might have been. Any way, as circumstances stand at present, he seems the most likely to have had, of all those who were known to have been in the house that evening.”

  Happening to raise his eyes, Mr. Brown caught those of Mr. Bede Greatorex. They were fixed on the speaker with a kind of eager, earnest light. To many a man it might have told the tale — that he, Bede Greatorex, had also doubts of Pitman. But then, Bede Greatorex had expressed his belief in the suicide: expressed it still. One thing was certain, had Bede chosen to confess it — that Godfrey Pitman was in his mind far oftener than the world knew.

  “How is it that you have never found him?” continued Mr. Ollivera, to Butterby.

  “I don’t know. We are not usually at fault for a tithe of the time. But the man, you see, was under false colours; his face and his name were alike changed.”

  “You think so?”

  “Think so!” repeated Mr. Butterby with a second dose of compassion for the parson’s intellect. “That mass of hair on his face was hardly likely to be real. As to the name, Pitman, it was about as much his as it was mine. However, we have not found him, and there’s no more to be made of it than that. Mr. Bede Greatorex asked me about the man the other day, whether I didn’t think he might have gone at once out of the country. It happens to be what I’ve thought all along.”

  “I do not see what he could have had against my brother, that he should injure him,” spoke the clergyman, gazing on vacancy, the dreamy look, so often seen in them, taking possession of his eyes. “So far as can be known, they were strangers.”

  “Now, sir, don’t you run your head again a stone wall. Nobody says he did injure him; only that it’s within the range of possibility he could have done it. As to being strangers, he might have turned out to be one of Counsellor Ollivera’s dearest friends, once his disguises were took off.”

  Under the reproof, Mr. Ollivera drew in, and there was a short pause of silence. He broke it almost immediately, to ask about the letter so often mentioned.

  “Have you taken care of the paper?”

  “I have,” said Mr. Butterby rather emphatically. “And I mean to do it, being permitted. This house wrote for it to be sent up, but I gave Mr. Greatorex my reasons for wishing to keep it, and he charged me not to let it go. If ever the time comes that that document may be of use, Reverend Sir, it will be forthcoming.”

  As the officer went out, for there was nothing more to remain for, Mr. Ollivera began speaking to Bede in a low tone. This conversation lasted but a minute or two, and was over, Bede retiring to the other room.

  “Arthur Channing is coming to London, Mr. Ollivera.”

  That the interruption came from nobody but Roland need not be affirmed. He was the only one in the office who presumed to interlard its business with personal matters. The clergyman, who was going out, turned his head.

  “You will have the opportunity of making his better acquaintance, Mr. Ollivera. He is the noblest and grandest man the world ever saw. I don’t mean in looks — though he might compete for a prize on that score — but for goodness and greatness. Hamish is at the top of the tree, but Arthur caps him.”

  Arthur Channing and his qualities did not bear interest for Mr. Ollivera just then; he had no time to attend to them. Saying a pleasant word in answer, he departed. Almost close upon that, Sir Richard Yorke came in, and went into the private room.

  “Perhaps something has turned up about the cheque, and he’s come to tell it,” cried idle Roland. “I say, Mr. Brown, did you ever hear how they all keep up the ball about that Godfrey Pitman? Mrs. J. was describing him to me the other night. She and Miss Alletha came to an issue about his personal charms: the one saying his eyes were blue, the other brown. Remembering the fable of the chameleon, I decided they must have been green. I’d not like to joke about him, though” — dropping his light tone— “if he really had a hand in John Ollivera’s death. What do you think?”

  “What I think is this, Mr. Yorke. As the person in question has nothing to do with my work or yours, I am content to let him alone. I should be exceedingly obliged to you to get that copy done for me.”

  “I’ll get it done,” said ready Roland. “There are such interruptions in this office, you see.”

  He was working away at a steaming pace, when Sir Richard Yorke came forth again, talking with Bede Greatorex. Roland slipped off his stool, and brought his tall self in his uncle’s path.

  “How are you, Sir Richard?”

  Sir Richard’s little eyes went blinking out, and he condescended to recognize Roland.

  “Oh, ah, to be sure. You are one of the clerks here! Hope you keep out of debt, young man.”

  “I try to,” said Roland. “I get a pound a week, and live upon it. It is not much for all things. One has to enjoy champagne and iced turtle through the shop-windows.”

  “Ah,” said Sir Richard slowly, rubbing his hands together as if he were washing them of undesirable connections, “this comes of being a rover. You should do as Gerald does: work to keep up a position. I read an able article in the Snarler last night, that was pointed out to me as Gerald Yorke’s. He works to some purpose, he does.”

  “If Gerald works, he spends,” was on the tip of Roland’s tongue. But he kept it in: it was rare indeed that his good-nature failed him. “How is Vincent?” he asked.

  Vincent was very well, Sir Richard vouchsafed to reply, and went out, rubbing his hands still.

  So, with one interlude or another, Roland’s morning was got through. When released, he went flying in search of Annabel Charming, to impart to her the great news contained in her brother’s letter.

  She was not in the school-room. She was not in the dining-room. She was not anywhere that Roland could see. He turned to descend the stairs again more slowly than he had gone up, when Jane Greatorex came running from the landing above.

  “Jane! Jane! I told you you were not to go down.”

  The voice, calling after the child, would have been like Annabel’s but for a choking sound in it. He looked up and saw her: saw her face inflamed with tears, heard the sobs of grief. It took Roland more completely aback than any sight he had witnessed at Port Natal. The face disappeared swiftly, and Miss Jane jumped into his arms in triumph.

  “Jenny, what is it?” he asked in a kind of dumb whisper, as if motion were suddenly struck out of him. “What is amiss with Miss Channing?”

  “It’s through Aunt Bede. She puts herself into passions. I thought she’d have hit her this morning. She told her she was not worth her salt.”

  Roland’s face grew white with indignation.

  “Your Aunt Bede did!”

  “Oh, it’s nothing new,” said the child carelessly. “Aunt Bede goes on at her nearly as much every day.”

&nbs
p; CHAPTER XVIII.

  Mr. Brown at Home.

  THAT the managing clerk of Mr. Bede Greatorex was anything but a steady man, his worst enemy could not have said. Mr. Brown’s conduct was irreproachable, his industry indefatigable. At the office to the very minute of opening, quitting it always last at night, occupying all his spare time at home in writing, except that necessary to be consumed in sleep; and of habits so moderate, that even Roland Yorke, with all his experiences of Port Natal deprivations, would have marvelled at them, it might have been surmised that Mr. Brown had set in to acquire a modest fortune. The writing he did at home was paid for. It was so thoroughly to be depended on for correctness and swift completion, that Greatorex and Greatorex were glad to give it him, and kept it a tacit secret from the other clerks. For Mr. Brown did not care that it should be known in the office, lest he should lose his standing. To carry copying home for remuneration, might have been deemed infra dig for the manager.

  For his breakfast he took a hard-boiled egg, or a sausage, or a herring, as might be; tea, and bread. At dinner-time, the middle of the day, his food did not differ from the above, a glass of beer being substituted for the tea. He invariably called it his luncheon, saying he dined out later; and hurried over it to get to his writing. In the evening he had tea again, butter, bread, and one or other of the aforementioned luxuries, with radishes or some light garden production of that kind that might happen to be in season. Shrewd Mrs. Jones, after a few days’ experience of her lodger’s habits, came to the private conclusion, that the daily dinner out had place only in fable. On Sundays he dined at home, openly, upon potatoes and meat — generally a piece of steak. The maid found out that he blacked his boots overnight, keeping his brushes and blacking-bottle locked up; put on but one clean shirt a week, with false wristbands and fronts the rest of the time. Given to arrive at rapid decisions, Mrs. Jones set all this down, not to parsimony, but to needful economy, for which she concluded there must be some good cause; and honoured his self-denial.

  Police-officer Butterby, having scraped acquaintance (of course by chance) with the landlord where Mr. Brown had previously lived, gathered sundry details over a pipe, into his capacious ears. The house, situated in an obscure quarter, was let out in rooms — chambers it might be said, of a poor and humble grade, with a wide, dark, common staircase of stone. One lodger did not interfere with another; and all the landlord and his wife had to do was to take the weekly money. Mr. Brown had been with them between three and four years, the landlord said; was most steady and respectable. Gentleman Brown they always called him. They did his room, though most of the others did their own. Never went to theatres, or smoking-places; never, in short, spent a sixpence in waste; saved up what he could for his mother and sick sister in the country, who were dependent on him. Had not the least idea why he left; might have knocked him (the landlord) down with a feather when Gentleman Brown tapped at his door one evening late, saying business was calling him away on the morrow or next day, and put down a full week’s rent in lieu of notice; was the best and most regular man that ever lodged in a decent house; should be right down glad to have him back again.

  A good character, certainly; as Mr. Butterby could but mentally acknowledge; steady, self-denying, working always to support a mother and sick sister! He had no cause to dispute it; having come on a fishing expedition rather than a suspicious one.

  Mr. Brown sat working to-night in his room at Mrs. Jones’s, the evening of the day mentioned in the last chapter: a shaded lamp was at his elbow; his spectacles, which he always took off in writing, lay on the table beside him. The room was of fair size for its situation; a folding screen standing cornerwise concealed the small bed. A high bureau stood opposite the fire-place, near it a dwarf-cupboard of mahogany with a flat top, which served for a side-table. Mr. Brown had drawn the larger table to the window, that he might catch the last light of the summer’s evening. He sat sideways; the right hand cuff of his worn coat turned up. Out of doors he appeared as a gentleman; indoors he was economically careful in dress, as in other things.

  A light tap at the door; followed by the entrance of Miss Rye. He rose at once, and turned down the coat-cuff. She came to bring a letter that the postman had just left. Never, unless when forced to it by the very rare absence of the maid, did Miss Rye make her appearance in his room. The servant was out this evening; and Mrs. Jones had handed her the letter with a decisive command that might not be disregarded, “Take it in, Alletha,”

  She put the letter on the table, and was turning out without a word. Mr. Brown went to the door, and held it close while he spoke, that the sound of voices might not be heard outside.

  “What is the reason that you shun me, Miss Rye? Is it well? Is it kind?”

  She suddenly lifted her hand to her bosom, as if a spasm took her, and the little colour that was in her face faded out of it.

  “It is well. As to kind — you know all that is over.”

  “I do not know it. I neither admit it, nor its necessity. Civility at least might remain. What has been my motive, do you suppose, in coming here, but to live under the same roof that shelters you? Not to renew the past, as it once existed between us; I do not ask or wish it; but to see you now and then, to exchange an unemotional, calm word with you once in a way.”

  “I cannot stay. Please to let me pass, sir!”

  “The old place, where I lodged so long, suited me, for it was private; and I need privacy, as you know,” he continued, paying no attention to her request. “It was also reasonable enough to satisfy even me. Here I pay nearly double; here I am more liable to be seen by those who might do me harm. But I have braved it all for you. Perhaps the former friendship — I do not wish to offend even by a name, you see, Miss Rye — was a terrible mistake for you, but I at least have been true to it.”

  “The best and kindest thing you can do for me, sir, is to go back to your late lodgings.”

  “I shall stay in these. You told me, in the only interview I have held with you since I came here, that I was a man of crime. I admit it. But criminals have affections as well as other people. You are cruel to me, Alletha Rye.”

  “It is you who are cruel,” she returned, losing in emotion the matter-of-fact reserve, as between waitress and lodger, she had been studying to maintain. “You must know the pain your presence brings me. Mrs. Jones has invited you to dine with her on Sunday next, I hear; let me implore of you not to come in.”

  “Off a piece of boiled beef,” he rejoined in a plain, curt tone, as if her manner and words were hardening him. “The offer is too good a one to be refused.”

  “Then I shall absent myself from table.”

  “Don’t drive me quite wild, Alletha Rye. You have me in your power: the only one in London who has — so far as I hope and believe. I’d almost as soon you went and gave me in charge.”

  “Who is cruel now?” she breathed. “You know that you can trust me; you know that I would rather forfeit my own life than put yours in jeopardy: but I take shame to myself in saying it. It is just this,” she added, struggling with her agitation, “you are safe with me, but you are not welcome.”

  “I told you somewhat of my secrets in our last interview: I would have told you more, but you would not listen — why I am living as I do, trying to atone for the miserable sins of the past—”

  “Atone!”

  ‘“Yes, it is well to catch me up. One of them, at least, never can be atoned for. It lies heavier on my mind than it does on yours. If—”

  The sharp voice of Mrs. Jones, from above stairs, demanding what was the matter with Alletha’s ears, that they did not hear the door-bell, put a stop to the interview. A hectic spot shone on her cheeks as she hastened to answer it.

  The red glow had given place to a ghastly whiteness when she came in again. Mr. Brown had already settled to his writing and turned back his cuff. She closed the door of her own accord, and went up to him; he stood gazing in surprise at her face. Its every lineament expressed terror. Th
e lips were drawn and cold; the eyes wild. However bad might have been the contamination of his touch, he could not help taking her trembling hands. She suffered it, entwining her lingering fingers within his.

  “What has happened?” he asked in a whisper.

  “That man has come; Butterby, the detective officer from Helstonleigh. He says he must see Mr. Brown — you. Heaven have mercy on us! Has the blow fallen at last?”

  “There’s nothing to fear. I expected a call from him. He only knows me as Mr. Brown, manager to Greatorex and Greatorex. Let him come in.”

  “I have shut him up in Mrs. Jones’s parlour.”

  “You must go and send him to me. I am but your lodger to him, you know. Get a little colour into your face first.”

  A minute or two and Mr. Butterby was introduced, amicably telling Miss Rye, that, to judge by appearances, London did not appear to agree with her. Mr.

  Brown, composedly writing, put down his pen in the middle of a word, and rose to receive him.

  It was a chatty interview. The great man was on his agreeable manners, and talked of many things. He made some fatherly enquiries after the welfare of Mr. Hurst; observing that some of them country blades liked their fling when in London, but he fancied young Hurst was tolerably steady. Mr. Brown quietly said that he had no reason to suppose him otherwise.

  “You have been from thirteen to fourteen years with the Greatorexes, I think,” remarked the detective.

  “Mr. Brown laughed. “From three to four.”

  “Oh, I made a mistake. And before you came to them?”

  “With a solicitor, now deceased. Mr. Greatorex can tell you anything of him you wish to know. He had me direct from him.”

  “Me wish to know? Not a bit. Who on earth is it walking about over-head? His boots have been on the go ever since I came in.”

  “It must be Mr. Ollivera. He does walk in his rooms sometimes.”

  “I should say his mind was restless. Thinking always of his brother, they say. It was a curious case, that, take it for all in all. Ever heard the particulars, Mr. Brown?”