by Ellen Wood
“I hope it will be a long while before I have to wear it,” sighed Karl, perceiving how hopeless it was to change his brother’s humour.
“I’d bet Foxwood with you that it will be before Christmas.”
“Adam, is it right to speak in this way?”
“Is it particularly wrong?”
“Why do you do it?”
“Need of change, I suppose. I have had a solemn night of it, old fellow: and I hardly know yet whether I was asleep or awake. It was somewhat of both, I expect: but I thought I was amidst the angels. I can see them now as they looked; a whole crowd of them gathered about my bed. And, Karlo, when a man begins to dream of angels, and not to be able to decide afterwards whether it be a dream or a shadowed reality, it is a pretty sure sign, I take it, that no great time will elapse before he is with them.”
Before Karl left, Adam had talked himself into a doze. With his worn and haggard face turned to the wall, he slept as peacefully as a child. Karl stole away, and went into the greenhouse. Rose was there amid the plants; the sunlight shining on her beautiful hair turned it into threads of gold. She lifted her white face, with its sad expression.
“I knew you were with him, Karl, so I did not come in. Don’t you think he looks very, very ill this morning.”
“Yes, he certainly does. He is asleep now.”
“Asleep! In the daytime!”
“He had a bad night, I fancy.”
“Do you think there’s hope, Karl?” she piteously asked — almost as if all hope had left herself.
“I don’t know, Rose. Mr. Moore has not told me there is none.”
“Perhaps it is that he will not say,” she rejoined, resting her elbow on the green steps amid the plants, and her cheek on her hand. “I seem to see it, Karl; to see what is coming. Indeed, you might tell me the truth. I shall not feel it quite so much as I should had our circumstances been happier.”
“I have told you as far as I know, Rose.”
“There’s my little baby gone: there’s my husband going: all my treasures will be in the better world. I shall have nothing to do but live on for, and look forward to, the time when I may go to them. Six months ago, Karl, had I known Adam must die, I think the grief would have killed me. But the apprehension we have undergone the last few weeks — Adam’s dread, and my awful fear for him — has gone a great way to reconcile me. I see — and I think he sees — that Death would not be the worst calamity. Better for him to be at rest than live on in that frightful peril night and day; each moment as it passes one of living agony, lest the next should bring the warders of Portland Island to retake him. No wonder it is wearing him out.”
Karl went away echoing the last sentence; every word she had spoken leaving its echo of pain on his heart. No: it was no wonder that fatal illness had seized on Adam Andinnian before its time.
Well, on this day Karl was not to escape unnoticed so easily. Ann Hopley unlocked the gate, and then both of them stood listening according to custom. Not a sound broke the stillness, save the furious chirping somewhere of two quarrelsome sparrows: not a step could be heard awaking the echoes of the ground. Ann Hopley drew back the half of the gate, and Karl went forth.
Went forth to find himself, so to say, in the very arms of Mrs. Cleeve and Miss Blake. They were standing quite still (which fact accounted for their footsteps not being heard) gazing at these same two fighting birds in the hedge. What with Karl’s naturally nervous organization, and what with the dread secret he had just left, every drop of blood went out of his face. But he did not lose his presence of mind.
“Looking on at a fight, Mrs. Cleeve!” he exclaimed in a light tone. “Birds have their hasty passions as well as men, you see. You wicked combatants! Let one another’s heads alone. They’ll not look any the better without feathers.”
One of the noisy birds, as if in obedience, flew away to a distant tree; the other followed it. Karl stayed talking for a minute with the ladies; heard that they had come out for a little walk; and then he went on to his home. Mrs. Cleeve, as she continued her way, glanced inquisitively at the iron gate in passing.
“Do the same people live there still, Theresa? Let me see — a Mrs. Grey, was it not?”
“Oh yes, she lives there,” slightingly returned Miss Blake. “She had a baby at the close of summer, but it died.”
“A baby! Why, she was a young widow? Stay — no — what was it? — Oh, her husband was abroad. Yes, I remember now. Has he come home yet?”
“As much as he ever will come, I expect,” observed Miss Blake. “The girl has just as much a husband as I have, Mrs. Cleeve.”
“Why, what is it that you would imply?” cried Mrs. Cleeve, struck with the words and the tone.
“I once, quite accidentally, heard her sing, ‘When lovely woman stoops to folly?’ You know the song? It was, in one sense of the word, sung in character.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Mrs. Cleeve! “But — but what does Sir Karl do there?”
“Sir Karl? Oh — he is her landlord.”
The taunting kind of way in which Miss Blake said it, turned Mrs. Cleeve’s delicate cheeks to a rosy red. All kinds of unpleasant thoughts began crowding into her mind.
“Theresa, what do you mean?” she asked, her voice dropping with its own dread. “Have you any meaning?”
And the chances were — taking into consideration the love of gossip and of scandal so inherent in woman — that Theresa Blake would there and then have disclosed that she had a meaning, and what the meaning was: but in that self-same moment she happened to turn her eyes on Mr. Smith, the agent. He was leaning over his garden gate, playing with a bunch of late roses; and he gravely lifted his hat to Miss Blake as she looked at him.
There was something in the grave look, or in the sight of the man himself, or in the roses, telling of summer, that recalled most vividly to Miss Blake’s mind the private conversation she had once held with Mr. Smith, and the caution he had given her. At any rate, Jane Shore and the lighted taper, and the white sheet, and all the other accessories, rose up before her mental vision as plainly as one can see into a mirror. The penance looked no more palatable to Miss Blake now than it had then. As well keep clear of such risks, great and small. She changed her tone.
“I really don’t know anything about the young woman, Mrs. Cleeve. Pray do not take up a mistaken notion. She is Sir Karl’s tenant; that is all.”
“But if she is not — quite — quite circumspect in her conduct, it must be rather unpleasant to have her close to the Court,” said Mrs. Cleeve.
“Oh, she lives a perfectly retired life.”
“She is very pretty, I think?”
“Beautiful as an angel.”
Nothing more passed. The two sparrows came flying to a proximate tree, and began fighting again. But an uneasy impression was left on Mrs. Cleeve’s mind; for she could not forget the strangely-significant tone in which Miss Blake had spoken, and its too sudden change to cautious indifference.
Karl was pacing one of the broad paths that evening, in his grounds, when he found himself joined by Mrs. Cleeve. She had thrown a warm shawl over her grey silk evening dress. He gave her his arm. The shadows were deepening: the evening star was already twinkling in the clear sky.
“I want to tell you of a little plan I have formed, Sir Karl, and get your assent to it. It cannot have escaped your notice that Lucy is looking very ill.”
“I have seen it for some time,” he answered.
“And I should have spoken to you of it before,” resumed Mrs. Cleeve, “only that Lucy herself seems so much annoyed when I allude to it, telling me that nothing is the matter with her, and begging me not to take up fancies. Are you aware of anything being wrong with her general health?”
“No, I am not: there is nothing wrong with it that I know of,” returned Karl, unpleasantly conscious that he was not likely to know more about his wife’s general health than any other of the Court’s inmates.
“Well, what I wish to do is this: t
o take Lucy to town with me when I leave, and let some physician see her.”
“But you are not leaving us yet?”
“Not just yet, perhaps; but when I do go. In fact, I really must take her. I could not be easy to go back home and leave Lucy looking as she is, without having some good medical opinion. Have you any objection to this?”
“Not the slightest. I do not fancy any physician could do much good to Lucy — she has certainly, as I believe, no specific disease — but I think change of air and scene may be of much benefit to her. I am glad that she should go.”
“Well, now that I have your permission, Sir Karl, I shall know how to act. Lucy has been telling me that she does not need a physician, and will not see one; and that she does not care to go to London. But that we have never had consumption in our family, I should fear it for Lucy.”
Karl was silent That Lucy had taken the unfortunate secret to heart in a strange manner, and that it was telling upon her most unaccountably, he knew.
“It is rather ungrateful of her to say she does not care to go to London, considering that she has never stayed with her aunt since that time of illness at Winchester,” resumed Mrs. Cleeve. “Though, indeed, Lucy seems to have no energy left, and her cheerfulness appears to me more sham than reality. Lady Southal is anxious for her to go up with me.”
“Are you intending to stay again with Lady Southal yourself?”
“I shall now; as long as Lucy does. And, armed with your authority, I shall insist on Lucy’s going up with me. I wish you would come too, Sir Karl: my sister would be so glad to see you.”
With his unfortunate brother dying at the Maze, it was not possible for Karl to quit Foxwood. But he was exceedingly glad that Lucy should be absent for a time. It would leave him more at liberty. At least, in spirit. With Lucy’s intense contempt and hatred for the Maze and its troubles, Karl never went there but he was conscious of feeling something like a school-boy, who is in mischief away from home.
“I cannot leave home just now,” said Karl. “But you must tell Lady Southal that I shall be most happy to take a future opportunity of paying her a visit.”
“Are you busy, that you cannot leave?”
“My Uncle Joseph’s papers are not arranged yet; I am anxious to get on with them,” he said, by way of excuse. And in truth that, so far, was so. In his mind’s terrible distress the sorting of the papers had been much neglected.
“At least, you will come to town to fetch Lucy home.”
“Of course I will.”
The affair decided, they strolled the whole length of the walk in silence. Karl’s thoughts were no doubt busy: Mrs. Cleeve was wishing to say something else, and did not quite know how to begin.
“What a nice evening it is!” cried Karl. “How fair the weather continues to be!”
“Yes. But the hedges are showing signs of winter. I noticed it particularly when I was out with Theresa this morning. That was the Maze, I think, that we saw you coming out of.”
Karl assented. There was no help for it.
“Does the young lady live there alone still?”
“She has her servants with her.”
“But not her husband.”
“Mr. Grey, it is understood, spends a good deal of his time in travelling.”
“Sir Karl, I think I must ask you plainly. I have been wanting to ask you,” she said, taking courage. “Is there any reason for supposing that this lady is not — is not quite what she ought to be?”
“Why, what do you mean?” returned Karl, standing still in his surprise. “Are you speaking of Mrs. Grey?”
“It is almost impossible to avoid attaching some doubt to a young and lovely woman, when she lives so unaccountably secluded a life,” returned Mrs. Cleeve, calling up the most plausible excuse she could for her suspicions.
“The very fact of her keeping herself so secluded ought to absolve Mrs. Grey from it,” said Karl warmly. “She is a good and honourable lady.”
“You feel sure of that?”
“I am sure of it. I know it. Believe me, dear Mrs. Cleeve, that Lucy herself is not more pure and innocent than that pure lady is,” he added, taking Mrs. Cleeve’s hands in his earnestness, in his anxiety to convince her. “She has had great trouble to try her; she may be said to live in trouble: but heaven knows how good she is, and how persistently she strives to be resigned, and endure.”
Mrs. Cleeve kept the sensitive hands in hers; she saw how worthy of trust he was in his earnestness; and every doubt went out of her.
“I am very glad to hear it. I hope she and you will pardon my foolish thoughts. You go to see her sometimes, I believe?”
“When I think I can be of any use, I go. Her husband was once my dear friend: I go there for his sake.”
“Why does he not live here with her?”
“He cannot always do just as he would. Just now he is in bad health.”
“And she lost her baby, I hear.”
“Yes. It was a great grief to both of them.”
The sounding of the dinner-gong stopped the questioning. We may be assured Karl lost no time in conducting Mrs. Cleeve to the house.
CHAPTER XX.
At the Red Dawn.
FOXWOOD was going on quietly with the approach of winter. Mrs. Cleeve had gone to London with her daughter; leaving Miss Blake to keep house at the Court Some ladies, fearing the world’s chatter, might have objected to remain with so young and attractive a man as Sir Karl Andinnian; Miss Blake was a vast deal too strong-minded for any thought of the kind. She was busy as ever with St. Jerome’s and its offices; but she nevertheless kept a tolerably keen look-out on the Maze and on Sir Karl’s movements as connected with it. He went there more than he used to do: by day now as well as by night: and she wondered how long the simple neighbourhood would keep its eyes closed to facts and figures, that, to her, were so offensively plain.
There had been a sharpish frost in the night, but the glorious morning sun had chased its signs away. At midday it was shining hotly; and Karl was almost glad of the thin screen of leaves left in the labyrinth as he made his way through it. Some days had passed now since Adam had had any sharp amount of illness: he was wasting away rapidly, and that was the worst outward sign. But his will in these intervals of ease was indomitable, and it imparted to him a fictitious strength.
As Karl came in view of the lawn, he saw Rose standing by one of the distant beds, talking to Hopley. The old man was digging; and had bent himself nearly double over his work. Karl crossed over, a reprimand on his lips.
“Adam, you should not. You promised me you would not again take a spade or other gardening implement in your hand. Your strength is not equal to it, and it must do you harm.”
“Just hark at him, Rose. It would not be Karlo if he did not find fault with me. What shall you do for somebody to croak at, brother mine, when I am gone?”
Was it Hopley who spoke? — or was it Sir Adam? The falling-in mouth and the speech, the crooked back, the tottering and swelling knees, the smock-frock and the red comforter and the broad straw hat, all were Hopley’s. But the manner of speech and the eyes too, now you came to see them as he looked up at Karl, were Sir Adam’s.
Yes. They were one and the same. Poor old Hopley the gardener was but Sir Adam in disguise. With the padded knees and the false hump he had managed to deceive the world, including Mr. Detective Tatton. He might not perhaps have so surely deceived Mr. Tatton had the latter been looking after Sir Adam Andinnian and been acquainted with his person. But the decrepid gardener bore no resemblance to Philip Salter: and, that fact ascertained, it was all that concerned Mr. Tatton.
It may be remembered that when Mrs. Andinnian was staying at Weymouth, she and her servant, Ann Hopley, were in secret communication with one of the warders of Portland Prison: in point of fact, they were negotiating with him the possibilities of Sir Adam’s escape. This man was James Hopley; a warder — as Karl had taken him to be, and also Ann’s husband. In the scuffle that took place
the night of the escape, the man really killed was the other prisoner, Cole: and it was he who was taken to Foxwood and lay buried in its churchyard. Hopley was drowned.
At that period, and for some little time before it, Philip Smith was at Portland Prison. Not as a prisoner: the man had never in his life done aught to merit incarceration: but seeking employment there, through the interest of one of the chief warders who was a friend of his — a man named O’Brian. From the date of the frauds of Philip Salter, Philip Smith had been — as he considered it — a ruined man: at any rate he was unable to obtain employment. A ruined man must not be fastidious, and Smith was willing and was anxious to become a warder if they would make him one. It was while he was waiting and hoping for the post, and employed sometimes as an assistant, and thoroughly trusted, that the attempted escape of the prisoners occurred. Smith was one of those who put off in the boat after the fugitives: the other two being Hopley and O’Brian. In the scuffle on the Weymouth shore, Sir Adam was wounded and left for dead. O’Brian saw him lying there apparently dead, and supposed him to be so. O’Brian, however, afterwards received a blow that stunned him — for the night was dark, and friends and foes fought indiscriminately — and Smith contrived to get Adam away into a place of concealment It is very probable that Smith foresaw in that moment how valuable a prize to him the living and escaped Sir Adam might become. O’Brian really believed him to be dead, and so reported him to the authorities. A dead man is worthless: and Sir Adam was allowed to be retained by his friends for interment: the beaten and disfigured Cole, shot in the face, being looked upon as Sir Adam.
After that, the path was easy. Sir Adam, very badly injured, lay for many weeks hidden away. Smith continued at Portland Prison keeping his own counsel, and unsuspected, visiting Sir Adam cautiously at intervals. As soon as it was practicable for him to be moved, the step was ventured on. He was got away in safety to London, and lay in retirement there, in a house that had been taken by Smith: his wife (formerly Rose Turner) coming up to join him; and Ann Hopley, faithful to Sir Adam’s fortunes through all, waiting on them. She had no one else left to be faithful to now, poor woman. Smith managed everything. He had withdrawn himself from Portland Island, under the plea that he could no longer, in consequence of his disabled arm, aspire to a wardership — for his arm had been damaged that fatal night, and it was thought he would never have the full use of it again. The plea was unsuspiciously recognised by the prison authorities; Smith retained his friendship with O’Brian, and occasionally corresponded with him, getting from him scraps of useful information now and then. From that time his services were devoted to Sir Adam. It was he who communicated between Sir Adam and his mother; for, letters they did not dare to transmit It was he who first disclosed to Mrs. Andinnian the fact that Miss Rose Turner was her son’s wife; it was he who made the arrangements for Sir Adam’s taking up his abode at the Maze, and provided the disguise to arrive at Foxwood in, as the decrepid old husband of the servant, Ann Hopley. To do Mr. Smith justice, he had fought against the scheme of coming to the Maze; but Mrs. Andinnian and Adam were both bent upon it; and he yielded. Adam and his wife had stayed in London under the name of Mrs. Grey, and she retained it.