Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  The return of Watts interrupted us. He had brought back with him Mr. Brightman’s butler, Perry — a respectable, trustworthy man, who had been long in the family. I shall never forget his emotion as he stood over his dead master, to whom he was much attached. Mrs. and Miss Brightman had gone to Hastings for two or three days, he said, and I determined to go there in the morning and break the sad tidings to them.

  Sad tidings, indeed; a grievous calamity for us all. That night I could not sleep, and in the morning I rose unrefreshed. The doubt about Leah and the money also troubled me. Though in one sense convinced that she could not have done it, the possibility that she might be guilty kept presenting itself before me.

  She came into the room while I was at breakfast — earlier than I need have been, so far as the train was concerned — and I detained her for a moment.

  Very spruce and neat she looked this morning.

  “Leah,” I began, “there is an unpleasant mystery attending this affair.”

  “As to what Mr. Brightman has died of, sir?”

  “I do not allude to that. But there is some money missing.”

  “Money!” echoed Leah, in what looked like genuine surprise.

  “Last night, after Mr. Brightman came in from dinner, he put a small canvas bag, containing thirty pounds in gold, in the deep drawer of his desk in my room, locked it and put the keys in his pocket. I had occasion to look for that gold immediately after he was found dead, and it was gone.”

  “Bag and all?” said Leah, after a pause.

  “Bag and all.”

  “Not stolen, surely?”

  “I don’t see how else it can have disappeared. It could not go without hands; and the question is, did anyone get into the house and take it?”

  She looked at me, and I at her: she was apparently thinking. “But how could anyone get in, sir?” she asked in tones of remonstrance.

  “I do not see how, unless it was when you went out, Leah. You were out some time, you know. You ran out of the house and down the steps leading to the river, and you were in great agitation. What did it mean?”

  Leah threw up her hands in distress. “Oh, Mr. Charles!” she gasped. “Please don’t question me, sir. I cannot tell you anything about that.”

  “I must know it, Leah.”

  She shook her head. Her tears had begun to fall.

  “Indeed you must explain it to me,” I continued, speaking gently. “There is no help for it. Don’t you see that this will have to be investigated, and — —”

  “You never suspect me of taking the money, sir?” she exclaimed breathlessly.

  “No, I do not,” I replied firmly. “It is one thing to be sure of honesty, and quite another thing to wish mysterious circumstances cleared up, where the necessity for doing so exists. What was your mystery last night, Leah?”

  “Must I tell you, sir?”

  “Indeed you must. I dare say to tell it will not hurt you, or to hear it hurt me.”

  “I would die rather than Watts should know of it,” she exclaimed, in low, impassioned tones, glancing towards the door.

  “Watts is in the kitchen, Leah, and cannot hear you. Speak out.”

  “I never committed but one grave fault in my life,” she began, “and that was telling a deliberate lie. The consequences have clung to me ever since, and if things go on as they are going on now, they’ll just drive me into the churchyard. When I lived with your people I was a young widow, as you may remember, sir; but perhaps you did not know that I had a little child. Your mamma knew it, but I don’t think the servants did, for I was never one to talk of my own affairs. Just your age, Master Charles, was my little Nancy, and when her father died his sister took to her; old Miss Williams — for she was a deal older than him. She had a bit of a farm in Dorsetshire, and I’m afraid Nancy had to work hard at it. But it failed after a time, and Miss Williams died; and Nancy, then about seventeen, had come, I heard, to London. I was at Dover then, not long returned from abroad, and was just married to James Watts; and I found — I found,” Leah dropped her voice, “that Nancy had gone wrong. Someone had turned her brain with his vows and his promises, and she had come up to London with him.”

  “Why don’t you sit down whilst you talk, Leah?”

  “I had told Watts I had no children,” she continued, disregarding my injunction. “And that was the lie, Mr. Charles. More than once he had said in my hearing that he would never marry a ready-made family. For very shame I could not tell him, when I found how things were with Nancy. After we came to London, I searched her out and went to her in secret, begging her to leave the man, but she would not.”

  A burst of emotion stopped Leah. She soon resumed:

  “She would not leave him. In spite of all I could say or do, though I went down on my knees to her, and sobbed and prayed my heart out, she remained with him. And she is with him still.”

  “All this time?”

  “All this time, sir; seven years. He was once superior to her in position, but he has fallen from it now, is unsteady, and drinks half his time away. Sometimes he is in work; oftener without it; and the misery and privation she goes through no tongue can tell. He beats her, abuses her — —”

  “Why does she not leave him?”

  “Ah, sir, why don’t we do many things that we ought? Partly because she’s afraid he would keep the children. There are three of them. Many a time she would have died of hunger but for me. I help her all I can; she’s my own child. Sir, you asked me, only yesterday, why I went shabby; but, instead of buying clothes for myself, I scrape and save to keep her poor body and soul together. I go without food to take it to her; many a day I put my dinner away, telling Watts I don’t feel inclined for it then and will eat it by-and-by. He thinks I do so. She does not beg of me; she has never entered this house; she has never told that tyrant of hers that I am her mother. ‘Mother,’ she has said to me, ‘never fear. I would rather die than bring trouble on you.’”

  “But about last night?” I interrupted.

  “I was at work in the kitchen when a little gravel was thrown against the window. I guessed who it was, and went up to the door. If Watts had been at home, I should have taken no notice, but just have said, ‘Drat those street boys again!’ or something of that sort. There she was, leaning against the opposite railings, and she crossed over when she saw me. She said she was beside herself with misery and trouble, and I believe she was. He had been beating her, and she had not tasted food since the previous day; not a crumb. She kept looking towards the steps leading to the Thames, and I thought she might have got it in her head, what with her weak condition of body and her misery of mind, to put an end to herself. I tried, sir, to soothe and reason with her; what else could I do? I said I would fetch her some food, and give her sevenpence to buy a loaf to take home to her children.”

  “Where does she live?” I interposed.

  “In this parish, St. Clement Danes; and there are some parts of this parish, you know, sir, as bad as any in London. When I offered to fetch her food, she said, No, she would not take it; her life was too wretched to bear, and she should end it; she had come out to do so. It was just what I feared. I scolded her. I told her to stay there at the door, and I shut it and ran down for the food. But when I got back to the door, I couldn’t see her anywhere. Then I heard a voice from the steps call out ‘Good-bye!’ and I knew she was going to the water. At that moment Mr. Lennard came up, and I asked him to remain in the house whilst I went out for a minute. I was almost frightened out of my senses.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “I found her, sir, looking down at the river. I reasoned her into a little better mood, and she ate a little of the food, and I brought her back up the steps, gave her the sevenpence, and led her up the street and across the Strand, on her way home. And that’s the whole truth, Mr. Charles, of what took me out last night; and I declare I know no more of the missing money than a babe unborn. I had just come back with the empty plate and cloth when you saw
me sitting on the stairs.”

  The whole truth I felt sure it was. Every word, every look of Leah’s proclaimed it.

  “And that’s my sad secret,” she added; “one I have to bear about with me at all times, in my work and out of my work. Watts is a good husband to me, but he prides himself on his respectability, and I wouldn’t have him know that I have deceived him for the universe. I wouldn’t have him know that she, being what she is, was my daughter. He said he’d treat me to Ashley’s Circus last winter, and gave me two shillings, and I pretended to go. But I gave it to her, poor thing, and walked about in the cold, looking at the late shops, till it was time to come home. Watts asked me what I had seen, and I told him such marvels that he said he’d go the next night himself, for he had never heard the like, and he supposed it must be a benefit night. You will not tell him my secret, sir?”

  “No, Leah, I will not tell him. It is safe with me.”

  With a long drawn sigh she turned to leave the room. But I stopped her.

  “A moment yet, Leah. Can you remember at what time you took up the water to Mr. Brightman?”

  “It was some time before the stone came to the window. About ten minutes, maybe, sir, after you went out. I heard you come downstairs whistling, and go out.”

  “No one came to the house during my absence?”

  “No one at all, sir.”

  “Did you notice whether Mr. Brightman had either of the drawers of his desk open when you took up the water?”

  Leah shook her head. “I can’t say, sir,” she answered. “I did not notice one way or the other.”

  CHAPTER V.

  LADY CLAVERING.

  The people were coming out of the various churches when I reached Hastings. Going straight to the Queen’s Hotel, I asked for Mrs. Brightman. Perry had said she was staying there. It was, I believe, the only good hotel in the place in those days. Hatch, Mrs. Brightman’s maid, came to me at once. Her mistress was not yet up, she said, having a bad headache.

  Hatch and I had become quite confidential friends during these past years. She was not a whit altered since I first saw her, and to me did not look a day older. The flaming ringlets adorned her face as usual, and sky-blue cap-strings flowed behind them this morning. Hatch was glaringly plain; Hatch had a wonderful tongue, and was ever ready to exercise it, and Hatch’s diction and grammar were unique; nevertheless, you could not help liking Hatch.

  But to hear that Mrs. Brightman was ill in bed rather checkmated me. I really did not know what to do.

  “My business with your mistress is of very great importance, Hatch,” I observed. “I ought to see her. I have come down on purpose to see her.”

  “You might see her this afternoon, Mr. Charles; not before,” spoke Hatch decisively. “These headaches is uncommon bad while they last. Perhaps Miss Annabel would do? She is not here, though; but is staying with her aunt Lucy.”

  “I have brought down bad news, Hatch. I should not like Miss Annabel to be the first to hear it.”

  “Bad news!” repeated Hatch quickly, as she stared at me with her great green eyes. “Our house ain’t burnt down, surely! Is that the news, sir?”

  “Worse than that, Hatch. It concerns Mr. Brightman.”

  Hatch’s manner changed in a moment. Her voice became timid. “For goodness’ sake, Mr. Charles! he is not ill, is he?”

  “Worse, Hatch. He is dead,” I whispered.

  Hatch backed to a chair and dropped into it: we were in Mrs. Brightman’s sitting-room. “The Lord be good to us!” she exclaimed, in all reverence. Her red cheeks turned white, her eloquence for once deserted her.

  I sat down and gave her the details in a few brief words: she was a confidential, trusted servant, and had lived with her mistress many years. It affected her even more than I had expected. She wrung her hands, her tears coursed freely.

  “My poor master — my poor mistress!” she exclaimed. “What on earth — Mr. Charles, is it sure he is dead? quite dead?” she broke off to ask.

  “Nay, Hatch, I have told you.”

  Presently she got up, and seemed to rally her courage. “Anyway, Mr. Charles, we shall have to meet this, and deal with it as we best may. I mean the family, sir, what’s left of ‘em. And missis must be told — and, pardon me, sir, but I think I’d best be the one to tell her. She is so used to me, you see,” added Hatch, looking at me keenly. “She might take it better from me than from you; that is, it might seem less hard.”

  “Indeed, I should be only too glad to be spared the task,” was my answer.

  “But you must tell Miss Brightman, sir, and Miss Annabel. Perhaps if you were to go now, Mr. Charles, while I do the best I can with my missis, we might be ready for the afternoon train. That, you say, will be best to travel by — —”

  “I said the train would be the best of the trains to-day, Hatch. It is for Mrs. Brightman to consider whether she will go up to-day or to-morrow.”

  “Well, yes, Mr. Charles, that’s what I mean. My head’s almost moithered. But I think she is sure to go up to-day.”

  Miss Brightman, who was Mr. Brightman’s only sister, lived in a handsome house facing the sea. Annabel visited her a good deal, staying with her sometimes for weeks together. Mr. Brightman had sanctioned it, Mrs. Brightman did not object to it.

  Upon reaching the house, the footman said Miss Brightman was not yet in from church, and ushered me into the drawing-room. Annabel was there. And really, like Hatch, she was not much altered, except in height and years, since the day I first saw her, when she had chattered to me so freely and lent me her favourite book, “The Old English Baron.” She was fourteen then: a graceful, pretty child, with charming manners; her dark brown eyes, sweet and tender and bright like her father’s, her features delicately carved like her mother’s, a rose-blush on her dimpled cheeks. She was twenty now, and a graceful, pretty woman. No, not one whit altered.

  She was standing by the fire in her silk attire, just as she had come in from church, only her bonnet-strings untied. Bonnets were really bonnets then, and rendered a lovely face all the more attractive. Annabel’s bonnet that day was pink, and its border intermingled, as it seemed, with the waves of her soft brown hair. She quite started with surprise.

  “Is it you, Charley!” she exclaimed, coming forward, the sweet rose-blush deepening and the sweet eyes brightening. “Have you come to Hastings? Is papa with you?”

  “No, Annabel, he is not with me,” I answered gravely, as I clasped her hand. “I wanted to see Miss Brightman.”

  “She will be here directly. She called in to see old Mrs. Day, who is ill: a great friend of Aunt Lucy’s. Did papa — —”

  But we were interrupted by the return of Miss Brightman, a small, fragile woman, with delicate lungs. Annabel left us together.

  How I accomplished my unhappy task I hardly knew. How Miss Brightman subsequently imparted it to Annabel I did not know at all. It must be enough to say that we went to London by an afternoon train, bearing our weight of care. All, except Miss Brightman. Hatch travelled in the carriage with us.

  In appearance, at any rate, the news had most affected Mrs. Brightman. Her frame trembled, her pale face and restless hands twitched with nervousness. Of course, her headache went for something.

  “I have them so very badly,” she moaned to me once during the journey. “They unfit me for everything.”

  And, indeed, these headaches of Mrs. Brightman’s were nothing new to me. She had always suffered from them. But of late, that is to say during the past few months, when by chance I went to Clapham, I more often than not found her ill and invisible from this distressing pain. My intimacy with Mrs. Brightman had not made much progress. The same proud, haughty woman she was when I first saw her, she had remained. Coldly civil to me, as to others; and that was all that could be said.

  When about half-way up, whilst waiting for an express to pass, or something of that sort, and we were for some minutes at a standstill, I told Mrs. Brightman about the missing money belonging t
o George Coney.

  “It is of little consequence if it be lost,” was her indifferent and no doubt thoughtless comment. “What is thirty pounds?”

  Little, I knew, to a firm like ours, but the uncertainty it left us in was a great deal. “Setting aside the mystery attaching to the loss,” I remarked, “there remains a suspicion that we may have a thief about us; and that is not a pleasant feeling. Other things may go next.”

  Upon reaching London we drove to Essex Street. What a painful visit it was! Even now I cannot bear to think of it. Poor Mrs. Brightman grew nervously excited. As she looked down upon him, in his death-stillness, I thought she would have wept her heart away. Annabel strove to be calm for her mother’s sake.

  After some tea, which Leah and Hatch brought up to us, I saw them safely to Clapham, and then returned home.

  * * * * *

  Monday morning rose, and its work with it: the immediate work connected with our painful loss, and the future work that was to fall upon me. The chief weight and responsibility of the business had hitherto been his share; now it must be all mine. In the course of the day I sent a cheque to George Coney.

  An inquest had to be held, and took place early on Tuesday morning. Mr. Brightman’s death was proved, beyond doubt, to have occurred from natural causes, though not from disease of the heart. He had died by the visitation of God. But for the disappearance of the money, my thoughts would never have dwelt on any other issue.