Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “He must be about five-and-thirty now, sir. He was said to be three-and-thirty when it happened.”

  That was the first check. Smith must be quite forty. “Did Salter look older than his years?” he asked.

  “No, I think not. Ah, he was a cunning fox,” continued Mr. Grimley, grating his teeth at the remembrance. “I’ve known since then what it is to trust to the word and honour of a thief. Can you tell me where to find him, sir?” he suddenly cried, after a pause. “To retake that man would be the most satisfactory piece of work I’ve got left to me in life.”

  “No, I cannot,” replied Karl, gravely: which Mr. Grimley did not appear to like at all. So the interview came to an end without much result; and Karl departed for his hotel. Both Grimley and Mr. Burtenshaw, bowing him out, remained, firmly persuaded in their own minds that this unknown gentleman, who did not give his name, possessed some clue or other to the-criminal, Salter.

  We must return for a few minutes to Foxwood Court Miss Blake got back by an early afternoon train as she had intended, and found some visitors with Lady Andinnian. It was old General Lloyd from Basham with two of his daughters. They were asking Lady Andinnian to take luncheon with them on the morrow, and accompany them afterwards to the flower-show that was to be held at the Guildhall. Sir Karl and Miss Blake were included in the invitation. Lucy promised: she seemed worn and weary with her solitude, and she loved flowers greatly. For Sir Karl she said she could not answer: he was in London for the day: but she thought it likely he would be able to accompany her. Miss Blake left it an open question: St Jerome’s was paramount just now, and tomorrow was one of its festival-days.

  They dined alone, those two, Sir Karl not having returned for it: and, in spite of troubles, it seemed very dull to Lucy without her husband.

  “Did you know Sir Karl was going to London!” asked Miss Blake.

  “Yes,” said Lucy; “he told me this morning. He had business with Plunkett and Plunkett.”

  Miss Blake suddenly pushed her hair from her forehead as if it troubled her, and bit her lips to enforce them to silence.

  After dinner Miss Blake went out. Tom Pepp, who was appointed bell-ringer to St. Jerome’s, in his intervals of work, had played truant at Matins in the morning and wanted looking up; so she went to do it This bell was a new feature at St. Jerome’s, and caused much talk. It was hung over the entrance-door, communicating with a stout string inside: which string Tom Pepp had to pull — to his intense delight.

  When Miss Blake got back, Lucy was still alone. The evening passed on, and Sir Karl did not come. Soon after nine o’clock a telegraphic dispatch arrived from him, addressed to Lady Andinnian. Her heart beat a little faster as she opened and read it.

  “I cannot get my business done to-night, and must sleep in town. Shall be home to-morrow.”

  “I wonder what business it is that is detaining him!” spoke Lucy, mechanically, after handing the dispatch to Theresa, her thoughts bent upon her absent husband.

  — Theresa Blake was trembling to her fingers’ ends. She flung down the dispatch after reading it, and flung after it a contemptuous word. The action and the word quite startled Lady Andinnian.

  “I’ll tell you, Lucy; I’ll tell you because you ought to know it,” she cried, scattering prudence to the winds in her righteous indignation; scattering even all consideration touching Jane Shore, the pillory, the white sheet, and the lighted taper. “The plea of business is good to assume: very convenient! Sir Karl did not go to London alone this morning. That girl was with him.”

  “What girl?” faltered Lucy.

  “She at the Maze. She with the angel face.”

  Lucy slightly shivered. For a moment she made no comment. Her face turned ghastly.

  “Oh, Lucy, my dear, forgive me!” cried Miss Blake. “Perhaps I have been wrong to tell you; but I cannot bear that you should be so deceived. I went up to London myself this morning after some embroidery silks that I could not get at Basham. Sir Karl and she were in the same train. I saw them get out together at the terminus.”

  It was cruel to hear and to have to bear; but Lucy said never a word. Her tell-tale face had betrayed her emotion, but she would not let anything else betray it.

  “Perhaps both happened to have business in London,” she quietly said, when she could trust her voice to be steady. “I am sure Karl went up to go to Plunkett and Plunkett’s.”

  And not another allusion did she make to it Ringing for Hewitt, she calmly told him his master would not be home: and after that talked cheerfully to Theresa until the evening was over. Miss Blake wondered at her.

  Calm before her and the world. But when she got upstairs and was alone in her chamber, all the pent-up anguish broke forth. Her heart seemed breaking; her sense of wrong well nigh overmastered her.

  “And it was only on Saturday he vowed to me the sin was all of the past!” she cried. And she lay in torment through the live-long summer’s night.

  CHAPTER XX.

  Only one Ely at the Station.

  THE railway station at Basham seemed to be never free from bustle. Besides pertaining to Basham proper, it was the junction for other places. Various lines crossed each other; empty carriages and trolleys of coal stood near; porters and others were always running about.

  Four o’clock on the Tuesday afternoon, and the train momentarily expected in from London. A few people had collected on the platform: waiting for friends who were coming by it, or else intending to go on by it themselves. Amidst them was a young and lovely lady, who attracted some attention. Strangers wondered who she was: one or two knew her for the lady of Foxwood Court, wife of Sir Karl Andinnian.

  There had been a flower-show at Basham that day: and Lady Andinnian, as may be remembered, had promised to attend it with the family of General Lloyd, taking luncheon with them first. But when the morning came, she heartily wished she had not made the engagement. Sir Karl had not returned to accompany her. Miss Blake declared that she could not spare the time for it: for it happened to be a Saint’s Day, and services prevailed at St. Jerome’s. Another check arose: news was brought in from the coachman that one of the horses had been slightly hurt in shoeing, and the carriage could not be used that day.

  Upon that, Lady Andinnian said she must go by train: for it would never have occurred to her to break her promise.

  “I think, Theresa, you might manage to go with me,” she said.

  Miss Blake, calculating her hours, found she had two or three to spare in the middle of the day, and agreed to do so: provided she might be allowed to leave Mrs. Lloyd’s when luncheon was over and not be expected to go to the town-hall. “You will only be alone in returning, for just the few minutes that you are in the train, Lucy,” she said. “The Lloyds will see you into it, and your servants can have a fly waiting for you at Foxwood Station.” This programme had been carried out: and here was Lucy waiting for the four o’clock train at Basham, surrounded by General Lloyd and part of his family.

  It came steaming slowly in. Adieux were interchanged, and Lucy was put into what is called the ladies’ carriage. Only one lady was in it besides herself; some one travelling from London. They looked at each Other with some curiosity, sitting face to face. It was but natural; both were young, both were beautiful.

  “What lovely hair! and what charming blue eyes! and what a bright delicate complexion!” thought Lucy. “I wonder who she is.”

  “I have never in all my life seen so sweet a face!” thought the other traveller. “Her eyes are beautiful: and there’s such a loving sadness in them! And what a handsome dress! — what style altogether!”

  Lucy’s dress was a rich silk, pearl grey in colour; her bonnet white; her small parasol was grey, covered with lace, its handle of carved ivory. She looked not unlike a bride. The other lady wore black silk, a straw bonnet, and black lace veil thickly studded with spots; which veil she had put back as if for air, just after quitting Basham; and she had with her several small parcels. Why or wherefore neither of th
em knew, but each felt instinctively attracted by the appearance of the other. —

  They were nearing Foxwood Station — it was but about eight minutes’ distance from Basham — when Lucy, in changing her position, happened to throw down a reticule bag which had lain beside her. Both of them stooped to pick it up.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon! I ought to have moved it when you got in,” said the stranger, placing it on her own side amidst her parcels. And Lucy, on her part, apologised for having thrown it down.

  It served to break the ice of reserve: and for the next remaining minute or two they talked together. By the stranger beginning to gather together her parcels, Lucy saw she was preparing to get out at Foxwood.

  “Are you about to make a stay in this neighbourhood?” she asked.

  “For the present.”

  “It is a very charming spot. We hear the nightingales every evening.”

  “You are staying in it too, then?”

  “Yes. It is my home.”

  The train came to a stand-still, and they got out. Foxwood station, after the manner of some other small rural stations, had its few buildings on one side only: the other was open to the high road, and to the fields beyond. In this road, drawn up close to the station, was a waiting fly, its door already open. The stranger, carrying some of her parcels, went straight up to it, supposing it was there for hire, and was about to get in.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am,” said the driver, “this here fly’s engaged.” —

  She seemed vexed, disappointed: and looked up at him. “Are you sure?” she asked. Lucy was standing close by and heard.

  “It’s brought here, ma’am, for the Lady Andinnian.”

  “For whom?” she cried, her voice turning to sharpness with its haste; her face, through her veil, changing to a ghastly white.

  The driver stared at her: he thought it was all temper. Lucy looked, too, unable to understand, and slightly coloured.

  “For whom did you say the fly was brought?” the lady repeated.

  “For Lady Andinnian of Foxwood Court,” explained the man in full. “I shouldn’t go to tell a untruth about it.”

  “Oh! — I misunderstood,” she said, her voice dropping, her look becoming suddenly timid as a hare’s: and in turning away with a sudden movement, she found herself face to face with Lucy. At that same moment, a tall footman with a powdered head — who had strayed away in search of amusement, and strayed a little too far — came bustling up to his mistress.

  “This is your fly, my lady.” —

  By which the stranger knew that the elegant girl she had travelled with and whose sweet face was then close to her own, was the young Lady Andinnian. Her own white face flushed again.

  “I — I beg your pardon,” she said. “I did not know you were Sir Karl Andinnian’s wife. The fly, I thought, was only there for hire.”

  Before Lucy could make any answer, she had disappeared from the spot, and was giving some of her parcels to a porter. Lucy followed.

  “Can I offer to set you down anywhere! The fly is certainly waiting for me, but — there is plenty of room.”

  “Oh thank you, no. You are very kind: but — no! I can walk quite well. I am obliged to you all the same.”

  The refusal was spoken very emphatically; especially the last No. Without turning again, she rapidly walked from the station, the porter carrying her parcels.

  “I wonder who she is?” murmured Lucy aloud, looking back as she was about to enter the fly, her powdered servant standing to bow her in. For she saw that there was no luggage, save those small parcels, and was feeling somewhat puzzled.

  “It is Mrs. Grey, my lady; she who lives at the Maze.”

  Had the footman, Giles, said it was an inhabitant of the world of spirits, Lucy would not have felt more painfully and disagreeably startled. She! And she, Lucy, had sat with her in the same carriage and talked to her on pleasant terms of equality! She, Mrs. Grey! Well, Theresa was right: the face would do for an angel’s.

  “Why, my dear Lady Andinnian, how pale you look! It’s the heat, I suppose.”

  Lucy, half bewildered, her senses seeming to have gone she knew not whither, found herself shaking hands with the speaker, Miss Patchett: an elderly and eccentric lady who lived midway between the station and the village of Foxwood. Lucy mechanically asked her if she had come in the train.

  “Yes,” answered Miss Patchett. “I’ve been to London to engage a housemaid. And I am tired to death, my dear, and the London streets were like fire. I wish I was at home without having to walk there.”

  “Let the fly take you.” —

  “It’s hardly worth while, my dear: it’s not far. And it would be taking you out of the way.”

  “Not many yards out of it. Step in, Miss Patchett.” The old lady stepped in, Lucy following her; Giles taking his place by the driver. Miss Patchett was set down at her house, and then the horse’s head was turned round in the direction of Foxwood Court. The old lady had talked incessantly; Lucy had comprehended nothing. St. Jerome’s absurd little bell was being swayed and tinkled by Tom Pepp, but Lucy had not given it a second glance, although it was the first time she had had the gratification of seeing and hearing it.

  “I could almost have died, rather than it should have happened,” she thought, her face burning now at the recollection of the encounter with Mrs. Grey, so mortifying to every good feeling within her. “How white she turned — how sharply she spoke — when they told her the fly was there for Lady Andinnian! And to think that I should have offered to set her down! To think it! Perhaps those parcels contained things that Karl bought for her in London!”

  The fly, bowling on, was nearing the Maze gate. Lucy’s fascinated gaze was, in spite of herself, drawn to it. A middle-aged woman servant had opened it and was receiving the parcels from the porter. Mrs. Grey had her purse out, paying him. As she put the coin into his hand, she paused to look at Lady Andinnian. It was not a rude look, but one that seemed full of eager interest. Lucy turned her eyes the other way, and caught a full view of Mr. Smith, the agent. He was stretched out at one of his sitting-room windows, surveying the scene with undisguised curiosity. Lucy sank into the darkest corner of the fly, and flung her hands over her burning face.

  “Was any position in the world ever so painful as mine?” she cried with a rising sob. “How shall I live on, and bear it?”

  The fly clattered in by the lodge gate and drew up at the house. Hewitt appeared at the door, and Giles stood for his mistress to alight.

  “Has Sir Karl returned, Hewitt?” questioned Lucy.

  “Not yet, my lady.”

  She stood for a moment in thought, then gave orders for the fly to wait, and went indoors. An idea had arisen that if she could get no comfort whispered to her, she should almost go out of her mind. Her aching heart was yearning for it.

  “Hewitt, I shall go and see poor Miss Sumnor. I should like to take her a little basket of strawberries and a few of Maclean’s best flowers. Will you see to it for me, and put them in the fly?”

  She ran up stairs. She put off her robes alone, and came down in one of her cool muslins and a straw bonnet as plain as Mrs. Grey’s. Hewitt had placed the basket of strawberries — some of the large pine-apple beauties that the Court was famous for — in the fly, a sheet of tissue paper upon them, and some lovely hot-house flowers on the paper. Lucy got in; told the footman she should not require his attendance; and was driven away to the vicarage.

  “Am I to wait for you, my lady?” asked the driver, as he set her down with her basket of fruit and flowers.

  “No, thank you; I shall walk home.”

  Margaret was lying alone as usual, her face this afternoon a sad one. Lucy presented her little offering; and when the poor lonely invalid saw the tempting, luscious fruit, smelt the sweet perfume of the gorgeous flowers, the tears came into her eyes.

  “You have brought all this to brighten me, Lucy. How good you are! I have had something to try me to-day, and was in one of my saddes
t moods.”

  The tears and the admission tried Lucy sorely. Just a moment she struggled with herself for composure, and then gave way. Bursting into a flood of grief, she knelt down and hid her face on Margaret’s bosom.

  “Oh Margaret, Margaret, you cannot have as much to try you as I have!” she cried out in her pain. “My life is one long path of sorrow; my heart is breaking. Can’t you say a word to comfort me?”

  Margaret Sumnor, forgetting as by magic all sense of her own trouble, tried to comfort her. She touched her with her gently caressing hand; she whispered soothing words, as one whispers to a child in sorrow: and Lucy’s sobs exhausted themselves.

  “My dear Lucy, before I attempt to say anything, I must ask you a question. Can you tell me the nature of your sorrow?”

  But Lucy made no reply.

  “I see. It is what you cannot speak of.”

  “It is what I can never speak of to you or to any one, Margaret. But oh, it is hard to bear.”

  “It seems so to you, I am sure, whatever it may be. But in the very darkest trial and sorrow there is comfort to be found.”

  “Not for me,” impetuously answered Lucy. “I think God has forgotten me.”

  “Lucy, hush! You know better. The darkest cloud ever o’ershadowing the earth, covers a bright sky. We see only the cloud, but the brightness is behind it; in time it will surely show itself and the cloud will have rolled away. God is above all. Only put your trust in Him.”

  Lucy was silent. There are times, when the heart is so depressed that it admits not of comfort; when even sympathy cannot touch it. She bent her face in her hands and thought. Look out where she would, there seemed no refuge for her in the wide world. Her duty and the ills of life laid upon her seemed to be clashing with each other. Margaret had preached to her of patiently bearing, of resignation to Heaven’s will, of striving to live on, silently hoping, and returning good for evil. But there were moments when the opposite course looked very sweet, and this moment was one. But one thought always held her back when this retaliation, this revenge appeared most tempting — should she not repent of it in the future?