by Ellen Wood
The first part of the answer was begun in a fierce, resentful tone: but at the break the woman seemed to recollect herself, and calmed down. Miss Blake was silently observant, pondering all in her inquisitive mind.
“Mr. Grey is travelling abroad just now,” continued the woman, “Here we are.”
Yes, there they were escaped from the maze, the iron gate before them. The woman took a key from her pocket and unlocked it — just as Sir Karl had taken a key from his pocket the previous night. Miss Blake saw now what a small key it was, to undo so large a gate.
“Good morning,” she said. “Thank you very much. It was exceedingly thoughtless of me to stroll in.”
“Good day to you, ma’am.”
Very busy was Miss Blake’s brain as she went home. The Maze puzzled her. That this young and pretty woman should be living alone in that perfect seclusion with only two servants to take care of her, one of them at least old and decrepid, was the very oddest thing she had ever met with. Miss Blake knew the world tolerably well; and, so far as her experience went, a man whose wife was so young and so lovely as this wife, would wish to take her travelling with him. Altogether, it seemed very singular: and more singular still seemed the stealthy and familiar entrance, that she had witnessed, of Sir Karl Andinnian.
Meanwhile, during this bold escapade of Miss Blake’s, Lady Andinnian had gone out on a very different expedition. It could not be sand that Lucy had no acquaintance whatever at Foxwood before she came to it She knew the vicar’s eldest daughter, Margaret, who had occasionally stayed with Mr and Mrs. Blake at Winchester: the two clergymen were acquainted, having been at college together. On this morning Lucy had started to see Miss Sumnor; walking alone, for Karl was busy. The church, a very pretty, one, with a tapering spire, stood in its churchyard, just through the village. The vicarage joined it: a nice house, with a verandah running along the front; a good garden and some glebe land.
On a couch in a shaded room, lay a lady of some thirty, or more, years of age; her face thin, with upright lines between the eyebrows, telling of long-standing trouble or pain, perhaps of both; her hands busy with some needle-work. Lady Andinnian, who had not given her name, but simply asked to see Miss Sumnor, was shown in. She did not recognize her at the first moment.
“Margaret! It cannot be you.”
Margaret Sumnor smiled her sweet, patient smile, and held Lady Andinnian’s hand in hers. “Yes it is, Lucy — if I may presume still to call you so. You find me changed. Worn and aged.”
“It is true,” candidly avowed Lucy, in the shock to her feelings. “You look altogether different. And yet, it is not three years since we parted. Mrs. Blake used to tell me you were ill, and had to lie down a great deal.”
“I lie here always, Lucy. Getting off only at night to go to my bed in the next room. Now and then, if I am particularly well, they draw me across the garden to church in a hand-chair: but that is very seldom. Sit down. Here, close to me.”
“And what is the matter with you?”
“It has to do with the spine, my dear. A bright young girl like you need not be troubled with the complication of particulars. The worst of it is, Lucy, that I shall be as I am for life.”
“Oh Margaret!”
Miss Sumnor raised her work again and set a few stitches, as if determined not to give way to any kind of emotion. Lady Andinnian’s face wore quite a frightened look.
“Surely not for always, Margaret!”
“I believe so. The doctors say so. Papa went to the expense of having a very clever man down from London; but he only confirmed what Mr. Moore had feared.”
“Then, Margaret, I think it was a cruel thing to let you know it. Hope and good spirits go so far to help recovery, no matter what the illness may be. Did the doctors tell you?”
“They told my father, not me. I learnt it through — through a sort of accident, Lucy,” added Miss Sumnor: who would not explain that it was through the carelessness — to call it by a light name — of her stepmother. “After all, it is best that I should know it. I see it is now, if I did not at the time.”
“How it must have tried you!”
“Oh it did; it did. What I felt for months, Lucy, I cannot describe. I had grown to be so useful to my dear father: he had begun to need me so very much; to depend upon me for so many things: and to find that I was suddenly cut off from being of any help to him, to be instead only a burden! — even now I cannot bear to recall it. It was that that changed me, Lucy: in a short while I had gone in looks from a young woman into an aged one.”
“No, no, not that. And you have to bear it always!”
“The bearing is light now,” said Miss Sumnor, looking up with a happy smile. “One day, Lucy, when I was in a sad mood of distress and inward repining, papa came in. He saw a little of what I felt; he saw my tears, for he had come upon me quickly. Down he sat in that very chair that you are sitting in now. ‘Margaret, are you realizing that this calamity has come upon you from God — that it is His will?’ he asked: and he talked to me as he had never talked before. That night, as I lay awake thinking, the new light seemed to dawn upon me. ‘It is, it is God’s will,’ I said; why should I repine in misery?’ Bit by bit, Lucy, after that, the light grew greater. I gained — oh such comfort! — in a few weeks more I seemed to lie right under God’s protection; to be, as it were, always in His sheltering Arms: and my life is happier now than I can tell you of, in spite of very many and constant trials.”
“And you manage to amuse yourself, I see,” resumed Lucy, breaking the pause that had ensued.
“Amuse myself! I can assure you my days are quite busy and useful ones. I sew — as you perceive, resting my elbows on the board; see, this is a pillowcase that I am darning. I read, and can even write a note; I manage the housekeeping; and I have my class of poor children here, and teach them as before. They are ten times more obedient and considerate, seeing me as I am, than when I was in health.”
Lucy could readily believe it. “And now tell me, Margaret, what brought this illness on!”
“Nothing in particular. It must have been coming on for years, only we did not suspect it. Do you remember that when at the rectory I never used to run or walk much, but always wanted to sit still, and dear Mrs. Blake would call me idle? It was coming on then. But now, Lucy, let me hear about yourself. I need not ask if you are happy.”
Lucy blushed rosy red: she was only too happy: and gave an account of her marriage and sojourn abroad, promising to bring her husband some day soon to see Miss Sumnor. Next, they spoke of the new place — St. Jerome’s, and the invalid’s brow wore a look of pain.
“It has so grieved papa, Lucy. Indeed, there’s no want of another church in the place; even if it were a proper church, there’s no one to attend it: our own is too large for the population. Papa is grieved at the movement, and at the way it is being done; it is anything but orthodox. And to think that it should be Theresa Blake who has put it forward!”
“The excuse she makes to us is that she wanted a daily service.”
“A year ago papa took to hold daily service, and he had to discontinue it, for no one attended. Very often there would be only himself and the clerk.”
“I do not suppose this affair of Theresa’s will last,” said Lucy, kindly, as she took her leave, and went home.
Karl was out at luncheon, but they all three met at dinner: he, Lucy, and Miss Blake. Lucy told him of her visit to Margaret Sumnor, and asked him to go there with her on his return from London, whither he was proceeding on the morrow. Miss Blake had not heard of the intention before, and inquired of Sir Karl whether he was going for long.
“For a couple of days; perhaps three,” he answered. “I have several matters of business to attend to.”
“I think I might as well have gone with you, Karl,”
“said his wife.
“Not this time, Lucy. You have only just come home from travelling, you know, and need repose.” Miss Blake, having previously taken her determi
nation to do it, mentioned, in a casual, airy kind of way, her adventure of the morning: not however giving to the intrusion quite its true aspect, and not saying that she had seen the young lady. She had “strolled accidentally” into the place called the Maze, she said, seeing the gate open, and lost herself. A woman servant came to her assistance and let her out again; but not before she had caught a glimpse of the interior: the pretty house and lawn and flowers, and the infirm old gardener.
To Miss Blake’s surprise — or, rather, perhaps not to her surprise — Sir Karl’s pale face turned to a burning red. He made her no answer, but whisked his head round to the butler, who stood behind him.
“Hewitt,” he cried sharply, “this is not the same hock that we had yesterday.”
“Yes, Sir Karl, it is. At least I — I believe it is.” Hewitt took up the bottle on the sideboard and examined it. Miss Blake thought he looked as confused as his master. “He plays tricks with the wine,” was the mental conclusion she drew.
Hewitt came round, grave as ever, and filled up the glasses again. Karl began talking to him about the wine in the cellar: but Miss Blake was not going to let her subject drop.
“Do you know this place that they call the Maze, Sir Karl?”
“Scarcely.”
“Or its mistress, Mrs. Grey?”
“I have seen her,” shortly replied Karl.
“Oh, have you! When?”
“She wrote me a note relative to some repairs that were required, and I went over.”
“Since you were back this time, do you mean?”
“Oh no. It was just after my mother’s death.”
“Don’t you think it very singular that so young a woman should be living there alone?”
“I suppose she likes it The husband is said to be abroad.”
“You have no acquaintance with the people?” persisted Miss Blake.
“Oh dear no.”
“And going in with a key from his own pocket!” thought Miss Blake, as she drew in her lips.
“Foxwood and its inhabitants, as I told Lucy, are tolerably strange to me,” added Sir Karl. “Lucy, you were talking of Margaret Sumnor. What age is she?” —
He was resolute in turning the conversation from the Maze: as Miss Blake saw. What was his motive? All kinds of comical ideas were in her mind, not all of them good ones.
“I’ll watch,” she mentally said. “In the interests of religion, to say nothing of respectability, I’ll watch.”
CHAPTER XIV.
Miss Blake on the Watch.
“LUCY, you will come with me to the opening service?”
Lady Andinnian shook her head. “I think not, Theresa.” —
“Why, it would be quite a distraction for you,” urged Miss Blake, using the word in the French sense.
Sir Karl had been in London some three or four days now; and Lucy, all aweary without him, was longing and looking for his return every hour of the live-long summer’s day. But she was proof against this offered temptation.
“I don’t think Karl would like me to go to St. Jerome’s, Theresa. Thank you all the same.”
“Do you mean to make Sir Karl your guide and model through life, Lucy?” —— — and Lady Andinnian, sincere and simple herself, detected not the covert sarcasm.
“I hope I shall never do, or wish to do anything that he would object to,” was her answer, a sweet blush dyeing her cheeks.
“Well, if you won’t appear at church, will you attend the kettle-drum afterwards, Lucy?”
“The kettle-drum!” echoed Lucy. “What kettledrum?”
“We are going to hold one at Mrs. Jinks’s — that is, in Mr. Cattacomb’s rooms — for the purpose of introducing him to some of his friends, and to organize the parish work.”
Lady Andinnian looked up in surprise. “The parish work? What can you be talking of, Theresa?”
“Oh, there will be district visiting, and that. It must all be arranged and organized.”
“Will it not be interfering with Mr. Sumnor?” Lucy ventured to ask, after a pause of silence.
“Not at all,” was the answer, given loftily. “Shall I come round this way and call for you as we return from the service?”
“Thank you, no, Theresa; I would rather not. I do not think I should myself much care for the kettledrum.”
“Very well,” coolly replied Miss Blake. “As you please, of course, Lady Andinnian.”
The service at St. Jerome’s was at length about to be inaugurated: for the Reverend Guy Cattacomb had duly appeared after a few days’ delay, for which he satisfactorily accounted. It was to be held in the afternoon, this afternoon, he having arrived in the morning; and Miss Blake, while talking to Lady Andinnian, was already dressed for it She started forth alone: just as other eager young women, mostly young, some middle-aged, were starting for it, and flocking into St. Jerome’s.
Much inward speculation had existed as to what the new parson would be like; and the ladies looked at him eagerly when he entered from the vestry to commence the service. They saw a tall young man in a narrow surplice, with a sheep-skin tippet worn hind before, and a cross at the back in the opening: spectacles; no hair on his face, and not over much on his head, a few tufts of it only standing up like young carrots; eyes very much turned up. Certainly, in regard to personal beauty, the new pastor could not boast great things; but he made up for it in zeal, and — if such a thing may be said of a clergyman — in vanity; for that he was upon remarkably good terms with himself and his looks, every tone and gesture betrayed. It was rather a novel service, but a very attractive one. Mr. Cattacomb had a good sonorous voice — though it was marred by an affected accent and a drawling kind of delivery that savoured of insincerity and was most objectionably out of place. Miss Jane St. Henry played the harmonium; the ladies sang: and their singing, so far as it went, was good, but men’s voices were much wanted. There was a short sermon, very rapidly delivered, and not to be understood — quite after a new fashion of the day. During its progress, little Miss Etheridge happened to look round, and saw Mr. Moore, the surgeon, at the back of the room.
“If you’ll believe me, old Moore’s here!” she whispered to Mary St. Henry.
Yes, the surgeon was there. He had laughed a little over this curious new place that was being called a church, and said at home that day that he should look in and see what its services were to be like. He was more surprised than pleased. Just as Mr. Smith, the agent, asked, Is it Roman Catholic or Protestant? so did Mr. Moore mentally ask the question now. The place was pretty full. Some few people had come over from Basham to be present. Mr. Moore’s eyes went ranging amid the chairs, scanning the congregation. His daughters were not there. They are too sensible, thought the doctor: though he did not give them credit for overmuch sense in general. The fact was, the Misses Moore had been afraid to come. Hearing their father say he should look in, they deemed it wise to keep away — and did so, to their own deep mortification and disappointment. Mr. Moore was an easy-tempered man, and an indulgent father; but if once in a way he did by chance issue an edict, they knew it might not be disobeyed — and had he seen them there with his own eyes, he might have prohibited their going for the future. So they allowed policy to prevail, and stayed at home.
What with the opening service, and what with the coming party at Mrs. Jinks’s, Foxwood was that day stirred to its centre. The preparations for the kettledrum were on an exhaustive scale, the different ladies having vied with each other in sending in supplies. Butter, cream, delicate bread and cakes, jam, marmalade, choice fruit, biscuits, and other things too numerous to mention. Miss Blake had taken a huge packet of tea, and some beautiful flowers, the latter offering cajoled out of old Maclean, the head gardener at the Court.
The walk to St Jerome’s and back, together with the excitement of the new service, had made them thirsty, and it was universally agreed to take tea first, though only four o’clock, and proceed to business afterwards. The table groaned under the weight of good things
on it, and Miss Blake was president-inchief. The room was too small for the company, who sat or stood as they could, elbowing each other, and making much of Mr. Cattacomb. Tongues were going fast, Mr. Cattacomb’s amidst them, and Miss Blake was getting hot with the work of incessantly filling cups from the tea-pots, when a loud knock, announcing further visitors, shook the street door and Paradise Row.
“Who can it be? I’m sure we have no room for more!”
Mrs. Jinks went to see. Throwing open the front door, there stood the Misses Moore. Though debarred of the opening service, they would not be done out of the kettle-drum.
“Are they here yet, Mrs. Jinks?” cried the young ladies eagerly.
“Yes, they are here,” replied the Widow Jinks, her. cap (clean for the occasion, and no bonnet) trembling with suppressed wrath.
“Oh dear! Has tea begun?”
“Begun, Miss Jemima! it’s to be hoped it’s three-parts over. I’ll tell you what it is, young ladies: when I agreed to let my parlours to the Reverend Cattakin, I didn’t bargain to keep the whole parish in kettledrumming. Leastways, not to wait on ‘em; and bile kettles for ‘em, and toast muffins for ’em by the hour at a stretch. I thought what a nice quiet lodger I should have — a single man, and him a minister! Instead of which I might just as well keep an inn.”
The young ladies walked on, wisely giving no answer, and entered the parlour. There they were presented to Mr. Cattacomb, and joined the tea-table.
Kettle-drums, as we are all aware, cannot last for ever, and before six o’clock Miss Blake was on her way back to Foxwood Court. The discussion as to district visiting and other matters was postponed to another day, Mr. Cattacomb pleading fatigue (and no wonder); and Miss Blake — who was in point of fact the prime mover and prop and stay of it all — inwardly thinking that a less crowded meeting would be more conducive to business. As she was nearing the gate at Foxwood Court, she met Mr. Smith sauntering along, apparently out for an airing.
“Good afternoon, madam!”
He would have passed with the words, but she stopped to talk with him. The truth was, Miss Blake had taken, she knew not why or wherefore, a liking for Mr. Smith. From the first moment she saw him he had possessed a kind of attraction for her. It must be said that she believed him to be a gentleman.