by Ellen Wood
“You were not at the opening service at St. Jerome’s this afternoon, Mr. Smith?” she said, half-reproachfully.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I thought I should be out of place there, as the congregation was comprised only of ladies,” was his reply. “Happening to be walking that way, I saw lots of them go in.”
“Foxwood cannot boast of gentlemen in the middle of the day; the few who reside here are off to Basham for their different occupations. But you are an idle man, Mr. Smith.”
“I am not always idle, I assure you, Miss Blake. I have Sir Karl Andinnian’s interests to look after.”
“Oh, indeed! As a friend, I presume?”
“Just so.”
“Well, you would not have been quite solitary if you had come into the church. Mr. Moore was there.”
“Ay. He looked in for five minutes, and came out laughing. I don’t know what amused him, unless it was to see the Misses Sumnor there.”
“I think you must have been watching us all — all who went in, and all who came out,” said Miss Blake. The agent smiled as he disclaimed the imputation: and with that they parted.
“Those flowers were so much admired and appreciated, Maclean,” said Miss Blake to the gardener as she passed the lodge — where he sat at tea with his wife — the door open. “There are no such hot-house flowers anywhere as yours.”
Maclean rose and thanked her for the compliment. She passed rapidly on, and entered the house by the window of the North room.
“I wonder where Lucy is? — Dressing, perhaps; or seated at the window looking out for her husband. Foolish child! Does he deserve that love?”
Treading softly on the carpeted staircase, her knock at Lady Andinnian’s door and her entrance were simultaneous. Lucy, in her white morning dress with its blue ribbons, was standing up beside her husband. His arm was round her waist, her face lay upon his breast, his own bent down upon it.
It was an awkward moment for Miss Blake; she bit her lips as she stammered an apology. Lucy, blushing and laughing, drew away. Karl stood his ground, laughing too.
“I did not know you had returned, Sir Karl.”
“I have just come; three minutes ago,” he said, holding out his hand. “Lucy was telling me you had gone to a kettle-drum, and I saucily assured her she must have dreamt it. Fancy kettle-drums at Foxwood!” They separated for the purpose of dressing, Miss Blake biting her lips still as she went to her room. The little matter had turned her hot and cold. Do as she would, she could not get rid entirely of her love for Karl Andinnian, in spite of the chronic resentment she indulged towards him.
“If this is jealousy,” she murmured, sitting down to think, and undoing her veil with fingers that thrilled to their extreme ends, “I must indeed school myself. I thought I had learned to bear calmly.”
At dinner Sir Karl seemed in better spirits than usual. He told them he had been to the Opera to hear the new singer, Ilma di Murska, in “Robert le Diable.”
“Oh, Karl! — and not to have had me with you!” cried Lucy.
“I will “take you up on purpose, Lucy. You must hear her. In the song ‘Robert, toi que j’aime’ she electrified us all. I never heard anything like it in my life. And she is most elegant on the stage. Her dresses are splendid.”
“Was anyone there that you knew?”
“I hardly looked at the house at all. I was in the stalls. The Prince and Princess of Wales were in the royal box.”
“I am sure, Karl, it is a wonder to hear that you went!”
“True, Lucy; but my evenings hung heavily on my hands. What with Plunkett and Plunkett and other business matters, the days were busy enough: I used to wish the evenings were. I felt very dull.”
“Just as I have been feeling here, Karl, without you.”
His answer to his wife was but a look; but Miss Blake wished she had not caught it. What had she done, that his love should have missed her to be lavished on this girl-child?
“Sir Karl,” she cried somewhat abruptly, “who is Mr. Smith?” —
“I don’t know,” carelessly replied Sir Karl, whose thoughts were preoccupied.
“Not know! but is he not your agent? — and a friend also?”
Sir Karl was fully aroused now. “Know who Mr. Smith is?” he repeated — and he wished to heaven in his secret heart that he did know. “How do you mean, Miss Blake? He is Mr. Smith, and — yes — a kind of agent to me on the estate.”
The latter part of the answer was given lightly, half merrily, as if he would pass it off with a laugh. Miss Blake resumed.
“Is he not an old friend of the Andinnian family?”
“Of some of them, I believe. I did not know him myself.”
“Who gave him his appointment?”
“My mother. She considered it well to have some responsible person here to look after my interests, as I was living abroad.”
“Do you not intend, Sir Karl, to make an acquaintance of him? — a friend?”
For a moment Sir Karl’s brows were heavily knitted. “I do not suppose I shall,” he quietly said.
“He seems a well-informed, agreeable man; and is, I conclude, a gentleman,” returned Miss Blake, quite in a tone of remonstrance.
“I am glad to hear it,” replied Sir Karl, his manner somewhat freezing. “And so, Lucy, you have had some of the neighbours calling here?” he continued, addressing his wife and turning the conversation.
“Oh, Karl, yes! And you were not here to help me; and I did not know them, and confused their names hopelessly with one another.”
“I should not have known them either,” laughed Sir Karl.
Miss Blake had some letters to write, and got to them after dinner: she had been too much engaged with other things during the day. Tea was taken in early to the drawing-room, and afterwards she went back early to her own room, the North room, to finish her writing by what little light remained. She saw Sir Karl and Lucy in the garden arm-in-arm, conversing together in low, confidential tones. Evidently they were all-sufficient for each other and did not miss her.
Say what we will, it could but seem to Miss Blake a neglect and something worse, looking upon past matters in her own light; and it told upon her cruelly.
The evening dusk drew on. She heard Lucy at the piano in the drawing-room, seemingly alone, trying a bit of one song and a bit of another. There was no doubt that Lucy thought Theresa was still busy and would not interrupt her. Miss Blake put up her desk and sat at the open window. By and by, when it was nearly dark, she threw a shawl on her shoulders, stepped out, crossed the lawn, and lost’ herself amidst the opposite trees. Miss Blake was that night in no mood for companionship: she preferred her own company to that of Lucy or her husband. As we say by the cross little children, the black dog was on her back; she did not listen even to the sweet melody of the nightingales.
“But for St. Jerome’s I would not stay another day here,” ran her thoughts. “I almost wish now I had not stirred in the church matter, but let the benighted place alone. As it is — and Mr. Cattacomb’s come — why, I must make the best of it, and do my duty. Stay! stay, Theresa Blake!” she broke off in self-soliloquising sternness. “Is this fulfilling your good resolution — to give up all and bear all? Let me put away these most evil thoughts and work bravely on, and stay here cheerfully for Lucy’s sake. It may be that she will want a friend, and I — Oh, there he is!”
The last sentence related to Karl. She had gradually got round the house to the other side, which brought her in face of Sir Karl’s room. The doors of the window stood wide open; a lamp was on the table, by the light of which he seemed to be reading a note and talking to Hewitt, who stood near. Crossing over on the soft grass she drew within ear-shot, not really with any intention of listening, but in her mind’s abstraction — what was there likely to pass between Sir Karl and his servant that concerned her to hear? With the bright lamp inside and the darkness out, they could not see her.
“You must be very cautious, Hewitt,” Sir Ka
rl was saying. “Implicitly silent.”
“I have been, sir, and shall be,” was the answer. “There’s no fear of me. I have not had the interests of the family at heart all these years, Sir Karl, to compromise them now.”
“I know, I know, Hewitt. Well, that’s all, I think, for to-night.”
Miss Blake passed back again out of hearing, very slowly and thoughtfully. She had heard the words, and was dissecting them: it almost sounded as though Sir Karl and his man had some secret together. Stepping on to the terrace, she was about to go in, when she heard Sir Karl enter the drawing-room and speak to his wife.
“I think I shall take a bit of a stroll, Lucy.”
“To smoke your cigar? Do so, Karl.”
“I — wonder — whether it is an excuse to go where he went the other night?” thought Miss Blake, the idea striking her like a flash of lightning. “I’ll watch him. I will. I said I would, and I will. His family may have interests of their own, but Lucy and her family have theirs, and for her sake I’ll watch.”
Drawing the shawl over her head, she passed out at one of the small gates, crossed the road, and glided along under cover of the opposite hedge as far as the Maze. There she stood, back amidst the trees, and sheltered from observation. The dress she wore happened to be black, for it was one of St. Jerome’s fast-days, the shawl was black, and she could not be seen in the shade.
It was a still night. The dew was rising, and there seemed to be some damp exhaled from the trees. The time passed, ever so many minutes, and she began to think she had come on a fruitless errand. Or was it that Sir Karl was only lingering with his wife?
“Good gracious! What was that?”
A shrill shriek right over Miss Blake’s head had caused the words and the start. It must have been only a night bird; but her nerves — what few she had — were on the tension, and she began to tremble slightly. It was not a pleasant position, and she wished herself away.
“I’ll go,” she mentally cried. “I wish I had not come. I — hope — Mr. Smith’s — not looking out, or he will see me!” she added, slowly and dubiously.
The doubt caused her to stay where she was and strain her eyes at the opposite cottage. Was it fancy? One of the windows stood open, and she thought she saw a head and eyes peeping from it. Peeping, not openly looking.
“He must have seen me come!” decided Miss Blake. “But surely he’d not know me, wrapped up like this! Hark!”
A very slight sound had dawned upon her ear. Was it Sir Karl advancing? Surely the sound was that of footsteps! At the same moment, there arose another and separate sound; and that was close to her, inside the gates by which she stood.
“Some one must be coming out!” breathed Miss Blake. “It’s getting complicated. I wish I was safe away. Two pairs of eyes may see what one would not.”
Sir Karl Andinnian — for the footsteps were his advanced. Very quietly and cautiously. Miss Blake could see that he had changed his dress coat for another, which he had buttoned round him, though the night was close. Halting at the gate he drew the key from his pocket as before, unlocked it, and passed in. Some one met him.
“Karl! I am so glad you have come! I thought you would! I knew you had returned.”
It was a soft, sweet voice: the same voice, Miss Blake could have laid a wager on it, that had sung “When lovely woman stoops to folly.” Their hands met: she was sure of that. Perhaps their lips also: but she could not see.
“Why, how did you know I was back?” he asked.
“Oh, Ann came to the gate to answer a ring, and saw you pass by from the station.”
“Why are you out here?” he resumed. “Is it prudent?”
“Twas restless, expecting you. I have so much to say; and, do you know, Karl—”
The voice sank into too low a tone to be audible to the thirsty ears outside. Both had spoken but in whispers. Miss Blake cautiously stretched forth her head, so as to get a glimpse through the closely-barred gate. Yes: it was the lovely girl she had seen during that stealthy visit of hers: and she had taken Sir Karl’s arm while she talked to him. Another minute, and they both disappeared within the trees of the maze.
Whether Miss Blake was glued to the trunk of the tree she stood at, or whether it was glued to her, remains a problem to be solved. It was one of the two. There she stood; and leave it she could not. That the flood-gates of a full tide of iniquity had suddenly been opened upon her was as clear to her mind as the light of day. Much that had been incomprehensible in the Maze and its inmates admitted of no doubt now. An instinct of this had been playing in her fancy previously: but she had driven it away as fancy, and would not allow herself to dwell on it. And now — it seemed as though she stood at the edge of a yawning precipice looking down on a gulf of almost unnatural evil, from the midst of which Sir Karl Andinnian shone prominently out, the incarnation of all that was wicked and false and treacherous. But for the necessity of stillness and silence, Miss Blake could have groaned aloud.
A few minutes, and she stole away. There was nothing to wait or watch for: she knew all. Forgetting about Clematis Cottage and the eyes that might be peeping from it, she got back into the grounds of Foxwood and sat down on the bare terrace in the night to commune with herself. What should her course be? Surely she ought to impart the secret to that poor girl, Lucy, whom the man had dared to make his wife.
Let us render justice to Miss Blake. Hard though she was by nature, she strove to do her duty in all conscientiousness at all times and in all places. Sin she detested, no matter of what nature; detested it both as sin and for its offence against God. That Sir Karl Andinnian was living in secret, if not open sin, and was cruelly deceiving his innocent and unsuspicious wife, was clearly indisputable. It must not be allowed to go on — at least so far as Lucy was concerned. To allow her to remain the loving and unsuspicious partner of this man would be almost like making her a third in the wickedness, was what Miss Blake thought in her anger. And she decided on her course.
“And I — if I did not enlighten her, knowing what I know — should be countenancing and administering to the sin,” she said aloud. “Good heavens! what a pit seems to be around us! may I be helped to do right!”
Rising, and shaking the night dew from her hair, she passed upstairs to her own chamber. Lady Andinnian was moving about her dressing-room. Impulse induced Miss Blake to knock at the door. Not that she intended to speak then. —
“Are you undressing, Lucy?” she asked, an unconscious pity in her voice for the poor young wife.
“Not yet, Theresa. Aglaé’s coming up, though, I think. It was dull downstairs by myself, and I thought I might as well come on. I could not find you anywhere. I thought you must have gone to bed.”
“I was out of doors.”
“Were you? I called to you outside on the terrace, but no one answered.”
“Sir Karl is out, then?”
“He is strolling about somewhere,” replied Lucy. “He does not sleep well, and likes to take half an hour’s stroll the last thing. It strikes me sometimes that Karl’s not strong, Theresa: but I try to throw the fear off.”
Miss Blake drew in her lips, biting them to an enforced silence. She was burning to say what she could say, but knew it would be premature.
“I will wish you good-night, Lucy, my dear. I am tired, and — and out of sorts.”
“Good night, Theresa: dormez bien,” was the gay answer.
“To waste her love and solicitude upon him!” thought Miss Blake, as she stepped along the corridor with erect head and haughty brow. “I told Colonel Cleeve before the marriage that he was wild — little Dennet had said so — but I was put down. No wonder Sir Karl cannot spend his income on his home! he has other ways and means for it. Oh, how true are the words of holy writ! ‘The heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.’”
CHAPTER XV.
Revealed to Lady Andinnian. —
THE morning sun had chased away the dew on the grass, but the hedge
-rows were giving out their fragrance, and the lark and blackbird sang in the trees. Miss Blake was returning from early service at St. Jerome’s, or, as St. Jerome people called it, Matins, In spite of the nearly sleepless night she had passed, Miss Blake looked well. Her superabundance of hair, freshly washed up with its cunning cosmetics and adorned to perfection, gleamed as if so many golden particles of dust were shining on it: her morning robe was of light muslin, and becoming as fashion could make it. It was very unusual for Miss Blake to get little sleep: she was of too equable a temperament to lie awake: but the previous night’s revelation of iniquity had disturbed her in no common degree, and her head had ached when she rose. The headache was passing now, and she felt quite ready for breakfast. A task lay before her that day: the disclosure to Lady Andinnian. It was all cut and dried: how she should make it and when she should make it: even the very words of it were already framed.
She would not so much as turn her eyes on the gate of the Maze: had she been on that side of the road she would have caught up her flounces as she passed it. Never, willingly, would she soil her shoes with that side of the way again by choice — the place had a brand on it. It was quite refreshing to turn her eyes on Clematis Cottage, sheltering the respectable single bachelor who lived there.
Turning her eyes on the cottage, she turned them on the bachelor as well. Mr. Smith in a light morning coat, and his arm as usual in a black sling, was out of doors amidst the rose trees on the little lawn, gazing at one of them through his green spectacles. Miss Blake stopped as he saluted her, and good mornings were exchanged.
“I am no judge of flowers,” he said, “have not lived among them enough for that; but it appears to me that this rose, just come out, is a very rare and beautiful specimen.”
Obeying the evident wish — given in manner alone, not in words — that she should go in and look at the rose, Miss Blake entered. It was a tea-rose of exquisite tint and sweetness. Miss Blake was warm in her admiration; she had not noticed any exactly like it at the Court. Before she could stop the sacrilege Mr. Smith had opened his penknife, cut off the rose, and was presenting it to her.