Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  Annabel’s strange grief, so mysterious to me, was accounted for now. Hatch continued:

  “You see now, sir, why Miss Annabel has been kept so much at Hastings. Master would never have her at home for long together, afeared her mother might betray herself. He wanted to keep the child in ignorance of it, as long as it was possible. Miss Brightman knew it. She found it out the last time she was visiting here; and she begged my missis on her bended knees to be true to herself and leave it off. Missis promised — and such a bout of crying they two had together afore Miss Lucy went away! For a time she did get better; but it all came back again. And then came master’s death — and the shock and grief of that has made her give way more than she ever did. And there it is, sir. The secret’s got too weighty for me; I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.”

  “Perry says Mrs. Brightman is now lying ill with brain-fever.”

  “We call it brain-fever to the servants, me and Mr. Close; it’s near enough for them,” was Hatch’s cool reply. “The curious thing is that Perry don’t seem to suspect; he sees more of his missis than the rest do, and many a time must have noticed her shaking. Last night her fit of shaking was dreadful — and her fever too, for the matter of that. She is as close as she well can be upon that disorder that comes of drink. If it goes on to a climax, nothing can save the disgrace from coming out downstairs.”

  Nothing could or would save it, in my opinion, downstairs or up, indoors or out. What a calamity!

  “But she is a trifle better to-night,” continued Hatch. “The medicines have taken effect at last, and put her into a deep sleep, or else I couldn’t be talking here.”

  “Did you invent the episode of Mr. Brightman’s ghost, Hatch, by way of accounting for Mrs. Brightman’s state to the servants?” I inquired.

  “I invent it!” returned Hatch. “I didn’t invent it. My missis did see it. Not, I take it, that there was any ghost to see, in one sense; but when these poor creatures is in the shakes, they fancy they see all kinds of things — monkeys and demons, and such-like. I can’t believe it was master. I don’t see why he should come back, being a good man; and good men that die in peace be pretty sure to rest in their graves. Still, I’d not be too sure. It may be that he comes back, as my missis fancies, to silently reproach her. It’s odd that she always sees him in the same place, and in his shroud. Several times she has seen him now, and her description of how he looks never varies. Nothing will ever persuade her, sick or well, that it is fancy.”

  “You have seen him also, I hear?”

  “Not I,” said Hatch. “I have upheld what my missis says. For which was best, Mr. Strange, sir — to let the servants think she is shaking and raving from fear of a ghost, or to let ’em get to suspect her the worse for drink?”

  Hatch’s policy had no doubt been wise in this. I told her so.

  “I have seen the shakes before to-day; was used to ’em when a child, as may be said,” resumed Hatch. “I had a step-uncle, sir, mother’s half-brother, who lived next door to us; he was give to drink, and he had ’em now and then. Beer were his chief weakness; wine is missis’s. If that step-uncle of mine had been put to stand head downwards in a beer barrel, Mr. Charles, he’d not have thought he had enough. He’d be always seeing things, he would; blue and red and green imps that crawled up his bed-posts, and horrid little black devils. He used to start out of doors and run away for fear of ‘em. Once he ran out stark naked, all but his shoes; he tore past the cottages all down the village, and flung himself into the pond opposite the stocks. All the women watching him from their doors and windows followed after him. The men thought it were at least a mad dog broke loose, seeing the women in pursuit like that; whereas it were nothing but my step-uncle in one of his bouts — stripped. Mrs. Brightman would never do such a thing as that, being a lady; but they be all pretty much alike for sense when the fit is on ‘em.”

  “And Mr. Brightman knew of this, you say? Knew that she was given to — to like stimulants?”

  “He couldn’t be off knowing of it, sir, habiting, as he did, the same rooms: and it has just bittered his life out. She has never had a downright bad attack, like this one, therefore we could hide it from the servants and from Miss Annabel, but it couldn’t be hided from him. He first spoke to me about it six or seven months ago, when he was having an iron bedstead put up in the little room close to hers; until then he had made believe to me not to see it. Sometimes I know he talked to her, all lovingly and persuasively, and I would see her with red eyes afterwards. I once heard her say, ‘I will try, Henry; indeed I will;’ and I do believe she did. But she got worse, and then master spoke to Mr. Close.”

  “Has it been long growing upon her?” I asked, in a low voice.

  “Sir,” returned Hatch, looking at me with her powerful eyes, “it has been growing for years and years. I think it came on, first, from idleness — —”

  “From idleness!”

  “I mean what I say, sir. She married master for a home, as it were, and she didn’t care for him. She cared for somebody else — but things wouldn’t work convenient, and they had to part. Miss Emma Chantrey was high-born and beautiful, but she had no money, and the gentleman had no money either, so it would not do. It was all over and done with long before she knew Mr. Brightman. Well, sir, she married and come home here. But she never liked the place; commercial, she said, these neighbourhoods was, round London, and the people were beneath her. So she wouldn’t visit, and she wouldn’t sew nor read; she’d just sit all day long with her hands afore her, a-doing of nothing. I saw that as soon as I took service here. ‘Wait,’ said I to myself, ‘till the baby comes.’ Well, it came, sweet little Miss Annabel, but it didn’t make a pin’s difference: missis got a maid for it, and then a governess, and turned her over to them. No more babies followed; pity but what a score of ’em had; they might have roused her from her apathy.”

  “But surely she did not give way, as you call it, then?”

  “No, not then. She was just ate up with weariness; she found no pleasure in life, and she did no work in it; when morning broke she’d wish the day was over; and when night came she’d wish it was morning; and so the years went by. Then she got to say — it come on quite imperceptible— ‘Hatch, get me a glass of wine; I’m so low and exhausted.’ And I used to get her one, thinking nothing. She took it then, just because she wanted something to rouse her, and didn’t know what. That was the beginning of it, Mr. Charles.”

  “A very unfortunate beginning.”

  “But,” continued Hatch, “after a while, she got to like the wine, and in course o’ time she couldn’t do without it; a glass now and a glass then between her meals, besides what she took with them, and it was a great deal; pretty nigh a bottle a-day I fancy, altogether. Master couldn’t make out how it was his wine went, and he spoke sharp to Perry; and when missis found that, she took to have some in on her own account, unbeknowing to him. Then it grew to brandy. Upon the slightest excuse, just a stitch in her side, or her finger aching, she would say, ‘Hatch, I must have half a glass of hot brandy-and-water.’ Folks don’t stop at the first liquor, sir, when it gets to that pitch; my step-uncle would have swallowed vitriol sooner than have kept to beer.”

  “Hatch, this is a painful tale.”

  “And I’ve not finished of it,” was Hatch’s response. “Missis had an illness a year or eighteen months back; I dare say you remember it, sir. Weak enough she was when she began to get about; some people thought she wouldn’t live. ‘She must take stimilinks to strengthen her,’ says Close. ‘She don’t want stimilinks,’ says I; ‘she’ll get better without ‘em;’ for she was a taking of ’em then in secret, though he didn’t know it. ‘Mrs. Brightman must take stimilinks,’ says he to master. ‘Whatever you thinks necessary,’ returns master — though if he hadn’t begun to suspect then, it’s odd to me. And my missis was not backward to take Close’s stimilinks, and she took her own as well; and that I look upon as the true foundation of it all; it might never have gro
wn into a habit but for that; and since then matters have been going from bad to worse. It’s a dangerous plan for doctors to order stimilinks to weak people,” added Hatch reflectively; “evil comes of it sometimes.”

  I had heard that opinion before; more than once. I had heard Mr. Brightman express it to a client, who was recovering from an illness. Was he thinking of his wife?

  “And for the last six months or so my missis has been getting almost beyond control,” resumed Hatch; “one could hardly keep her within bounds. Me and master tried everything. We got Miss Annabel out of the way, not letting her come home but for two or three days at a time, and them days — my patience! if I hadn’t to watch missis like a cat! She didn’t wish to exceed in the daytime when Miss Annabel was here, though she would at night; but you know, sir, these poor creatures can’t keep their resolves; and if she once got a glass early, then all her prudence went to the winds. I did my best; master did his best; and she’d listen, and be reasonable, and say she’d touch nothing. But upon the least temptation she’d give way. My belief is, she couldn’t help it; when it comes to this stage it’s just a disease. A disease, Mr. Charles, like the measles or the yellow jaundice, and they can’t put it from ’em if they would.”

  True.

  “On the Thursday night, it was the Thursday before the master died, there was a quarrel,” Hatch went on. “Mrs. Brightman was not fit to appear at the dinner-table, and her dinner was sent up to her room, and master came upstairs afterwards, and they had words. Master said he should send Miss Annabel to Hastings in the morning and keep her there, for it would be impossible to hide matters from her longer if she stayed at home. Mrs. Brightman, who was not very bad, resented that, and called him harsh names: generally speaking, she was as humble as could be, knowing herself in the wrong and feeling ashamed of it. They parted in anger. Master was as good as his word; he sent Miss Annabel with Sarah down to Hastings on the Friday morning to Miss Brightman. In the evening, when he came home to dinner, missis was again the worse for drink. But on the Saturday morning she was up betimes, afore the household even, and had ordered the carriage, and went whirling off with me to the station to take the first train for Hastings. ‘I shall return on Monday and bring back Annabel,’ she said to master, when she was stepping into the carriage at the door, and he ran out to ask where she was going, for he had not seen nor heard nothing about it. ‘Very well,’ said he in a whisper; ‘only come back as you ought to come.’ Mr. Charles, I think those were the only words that passed between them after the quarrel.”

  “You mean the quarrel on the Thursday night?”

  “Yes, sir; there was no other quarrel. We went to the Queen’s Hotel. And on the Sunday, if you remember, you came down to tell us of the master’s sudden death. Mrs. Brightman was ill that morning, really ill, I mean, with one of her dreadful headaches — which she did have at times, and when she didn’t they was uncommon convenient things for me to fall back upon if I needed an excuse for her. She had meant to go to church, but was not able. She had had too much on the Saturday night, though she was always more prudent out than at home, and was worried in mind besides. But, to be sure, how she did take on about master’s death when alone with me. They had parted bad friends: leastways had not made it up after the quarrel; she knew how aggravating she had been to him in it, and a notion got hold of her that he might have poisoned himself. When she learnt the rights of it, that he had died peaceful and natural, she didn’t get much happier. She was perpetually saying to me, as the days went on, that her conduct had made him miserable. She drank then to drown care; she fancied she saw all sorts of things, and when it came to master’s ghost — —”

  “She could not have been sober when she fancied that.”

  “Nor was she,” returned Hatch. “Half-and-half like; had enough to betray herself to Miss Annabel. ‘Now don’t you go and contradict about the ghost,’ I says to her, poor child; ‘better let the kitchen think it’s a ghost than brandy-and-water.’ Frightful vexed and ashamed missis was, when she grew sober, to find that Miss Annabel knew the truth. She told her she must go to her aunt at Hastings for a time: Mr. Close, he said the same. Miss Annabel would not go; she said it was not right that she should leave her mother, and there was a scene; miss sobbing and crying, mistress angry and commanding; but it ended in her going. ‘I don’t want no spies upon me,’ says missis to me, ‘and she shall stop at Hastings for good.’ Since then she has been giving way unbearable, and the end of it is, she has got the shakes.”

  What a life! What a life it had been for Mr. Brightman! Lennard had thought of late that he appeared as a man who bore about him some hidden grief! Once, when he had seemed low-spirited, I asked whether anything was amiss. “We all have our trials, Charles; some more, some less,” was the answer, in tones that rather shut me up.

  Hatch would fain have talked until now: if wine was her mistress’s weakness, talking was hers; but she was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Close, and had to attend him upstairs. On his return he came into the drawing-room.

  “This is a disagreeable business, Mr. Strange. Hatch tells me she has informed you of the true nature of the case.”

  A disagreeable business! The light words, the matter-of-fact tone seemed as a mockery. The business nearly overwhelmed me.

  “When you met me the other night, at the gate, and spoke of Mrs. Brightman’s illness, I was uncertain how to answer you,” continued Mr. Close. “I thought it probable you might be behind the curtain, connected as you are with the family, but I was not sure.”

  “I never had the faintest suspicion of such a thing, until Hatch’s communication to me to-night. She says her young mistress, even, did not know of it.”

  “No; they have contrived to keep it from Annabel.”

  “Will Mrs. Brightman recover?”

  “From this illness? oh dear yes! She is already in a fair way for it, having dropped into the needed sleep; which is all we want. If you mean will she recover from the habit — why, I cannot answer you. It has obtained a safe hold upon her.”

  “What is to be done?”

  “What can be done?” returned the surgeon. “Mrs. Brightman is her own mistress, subject to no control, and has a good income at command. She may go on drinking to the end.”

  Go on drinking to the end! What a fearful thought! what a fearful life! Could nothing be done to prevent it; to recall her to herself; to her responsibility for this world and the next?

  “I have seen much of these cases,” continued Mr. Close; “few medical men more. Before I came into this practice I was assistant-surgeon to one of the debtors’ prisons up in town: no school equal to that in all Europe for initiating a man into the mysteries of the disorder.”

  “Ay, so I believe. But can Mrs. Brightman’s case be like those cases?”

  “Why should it differ from them? The same habits have induced it. Of course, she is not yet as bad as some of them are, but unless she pulls up she will become so. Her great chance, her one chance, I may say, would be to place herself under some proper control. But this would require firm resolution and self-denial. To begin with, she would have to leave her home.”

  “This cannot be a desirable home for Annabel.”

  “No. Were she my child, she should not return to it.”

  “What is to be done when she recovers from this attack?”

  “In what way?”

  In what way, truly! My brain was at work over the difficulties of the future. Was Mrs. Brightman to live on in this, her home, amidst her household of curious servants, amidst the prying neighbours, all of whom would revel in a tale of scandal?

  “When she is sufficiently well she should have change of air,” proceeded the doctor, “and get her nerves braced up. Otherwise she may be seeing that ghost for six months to come. A strange fancy that, for her to take up — and yet, perhaps, not so very strange, taking all things into consideration. She is full of remorse, thinking she might have done her duty better by her husband, made him les
s unhappy, and all that. Mrs. Brightman is a gentlewoman of proud, elevated instincts: she would be only too thankful to leave off this demoralizing habit; in a way, I believe she strives to do it, but it is stronger than she is.”

  “It has become worse, Hatch says, since Mr. Brightman died.”

  “Undoubtedly,” concluded Mr. Close. “She had taken it to drown care.”

  CHAPTER XII.

  MY LORD AND MY LADY.

  The breakfast-table was laid in Gloucester Place, waiting for Lord and Lady Level. It was the day following the one recorded in the last chapter. A clear, bright morning, the sun shining hotly.

  Blanche came in, wearing a dainty white dress. Her face, though thin, was fair and lovely as ever; her eyes were as blue and brilliant. Ringing for the coffee to be brought in, she began turning over the letters on the table: one for herself, which she saw was from Mrs. Guy; three for her husband. Of these, one bore the Paris postmark.

  “Here is a letter from Paris, Archibald,” she said to him as he entered. “I think from Madame Sauvage; it is like her writing. I hope it is to say that she has sent off the box.”

  “That you may regain possession of your finery,” rejoined Lord Level, with a light, pleasant laugh. “Eh, Blanche?”

  “Well, my new lace mantle is in it. So stupid of Timms to have made the mistake!”

  “So it was. I dare say the box is on its road by this time.”

  Blanche began to pour out the coffee. Lord Level had gone to the window, and was looking up and down the street. As he took his seat to begin breakfast, he pushed the letters away idly without opening them, and remarked upon the fineness of the morning.

  They were fairly good friends, these two; always courteous, save when Blanche was seized with a fit of jealousy, persuading herself, rightly or wrongly, that she had cause for it. Then she would be cross, bitter, snappish. Once in a way Lord Level retorted in kind; though on the whole he was patient and gentle with her. In the midst of it all she loved him passionately at heart, and sometimes let him know it.