by Ellen Wood
And now she obtained a clear view of her sister’s dress. She wore the violet silk gown of the previous afternoon, and a white bonnet and shawl. Mary, on the whole, regarded the attire with disparagement.
“Why, if she’s not got on her puce gown! Whatever’s that for? Where’s the new fawn silk she talked of, I wonder? I’d not go to my eldest son’s wedding in a turned gown; I’d have a new one, be it silk or stuff. That’s just like Hester; she never can bear to put on a new thing; she’d rather — If I don’t believe the shawl’s one o’ them beautiful Chaney crapes.”
It looked a very nice shawl, and was glistening in the rays of the sun. That it was a China crape was nearly certain; no other sort of shawl would have had so deep a fringe. China crape shawls in those days cost their price; and Mary Barber condemned it at once, as connected with her sister.
“I say, Hester,” she called out, as soon as she got near enough for her voice to reach the stile, “what on earth made you come here to meet me?”
Mrs. Pickering made no reply, gave no token of recognition whatever, and Mary supposed she had not caught the words. Her face looked unusually pale, its expression mournfully sad and serious, its eyes turned on Mary with a fixed stare.
“Sure,” thought Mary, “nothing can have fell out to stop the wedding! Richard’s girl wouldn’t run away as that faithless chap of mine did. Something’s wrong, though, I can see, by her staring at me in that stony way, and never opening her mouth to speak. I say, Hester, is anything — Deuce take them strings again !”
The concluding apostrophe was addressed to her shoe-strings. To be smart, Mary Barber had put new galloon ribbon in her shoes, and one or other of them had been coming untied all the way, to her great wrath. Laying down her umbrella on the edge of the grass, and her folded handkerchief, which she had carried in her hand, atop of it, she stooped down and tied the shoe, giving the knot a good tug as additional security.
“Now, then, come undone again, and I’ll — Bless me! where’s she gone?”
In raising her head Mary Barber missed her sister; the stile was vacant. Hastening to it, she climbed over into the next field, and there stood in what might be called a paroxysm of astonishment, for no trace whatever was to be seen of Mrs. Pickering. It was a large field, a hedge dividing it from the one she had just traversed, the path running across it before her. She looked here; she looked there; she looked everywhere: in vain. Mary Barber had once treated herself to witness the performance of a conjuror in the large room of the Bell, at Worcester; she began to think he must have been at work here.
“Hester!” she called out, raising her voice to its utmost pitch, “Hester, where be you got to!”
The air took away the sound, and a bird aloft seemed to echo it, but there was no other answer. The woman stood like one moonstruck. Was it conjuring? — or what else was it? The hedge, a trim, well-kept, cropped hedge, afforded no spot for concealment; there was no ditch or any other hiding-place — nothing but the broad open field, and no human being, save herself, stirring in it.
“Well, this beats bull-baiting,” ejaculated Mary Barber, in the broad country phraseology in vogue in those days. “I’d better pinch myself to see whether I be awake or dreaming.”
She turned herself about from side to side, she went back over the stile to the field she had traversed, and stared about there; but no trace could she see of Mrs. Pickering. Finally she passed over the stile again, and stood a moment to revolve matters.
“She must have gone off somewhere on the run while I’d got my eyes down on that dratted shoe,” was the conclusion the woman came to. “And more idiot she, when she knows running always brings on that queer pain at her heart.”
It might have been a reasonable solution had there been anywhere to run to: that is, had the field not been too broad and wide to admit a possibility of her running out of sight. In good truth there was no such possibility. Mary Barber continued her way across the field, and then, instead of pursuing her road to Worcester, she turned aside to the house of the Pickerings. That her sister could not have got back to it she knew, for the only way was the one she took. Trying the back door, she found it fastened, and, on passing round to the front, that was fastened also. There was no carriage waiting at the gate; on the contrary, everything seemed silent and shut up. Mary Barber gave a sharp knock.
“One would think you were all dead,” she cried, as a maid-servant opened the door. “They are gone, I suppose.”
“Yes, they are gone,” was the girl’s reply. “My missis left about ten minutes since.”
“More than that, I know,” was the answering remark. “What made her come to meet me, Betsey?”
“She didn’t come,” said Betsey.
“She did come,” said Mary Barber.
“She did not, ma’am,” persisted the servant.
“Why, my goodness gracious me, girl! do you want to persuade me out of my senses?” retorted Mary Barber in anger. “She came on as far as the Hollow Field, and sat herself down on the stile there, waiting for me to come up. I’ve got the use of my eyes, I hope.”
“Well, I don’t know, ma’am,” returned the girl dubiously. “I was with her at the moment she was starting, and I’m sure she’d no thought of going then. She was just going out at this door, eating her bit of bread and butter, when she turned back into the parlour: and put down her green parasol, telling me to bring her small silk umbrella instead: it might rain, she said, fair as it looked. ‘And make haste, Betsey,’ she says to me, ‘for it don’t want two minutes of the half hour, and I shan’t get to All Saints’ in time.’”
“What half hour?” asked Mary Barber, in a hard, disputing sort of tone.
“The half hour after ten. Sure enough, in a minute or two our clock struck it.”
“Your clock must be uncommon wrong in its reckoning then,” was the woman’s rejoinder. “At half-past ten she was stuck on the stile looking out for me. It’s about ten minutes ago.”
It was about ten minutes since her mistress went out; but Betsey did not venture to contend further. Mary Barber always put down those who differed from her.
“After all, she has not took her umbrella,” resumed the girl. “I couldn’t find it in the stand, off by the kitchen; all the rest of the umbrellas was there, but not missis’s silk one, and when I ran back to tell her I thought it must be upstairs, she had gone. Gone at a fine pace too, Mary Barber, which you know is not good for her, for she was already out of sight, so I just shut the door, and drew the bolt. It’s a pity she drove it off so late.”
“What made her drive it off?”
“Well, there was one or two reasons. Her new fawn gown, such a beauty it is, never was sent home till this morning — I’d let that fashionable new Miss Reynolds make me another, I would! — and when missis had got it on, it wouldn’t come to in the waist by the breadth of your two fingers, and she’d got her pain very bad, and couldn’t be squeeged. So she had to fold it up again, and put on her turned puce—”
“I saw,” interrupted Mary Barber, cutting the revelation short. “I say, Betsey, what’s her shawl? It looked to me like one o’ them Chaney crapes.”
“It’s the most lovely Chaney crape you ever saw,” replied the girl enthusiastically. “Mr. Richard made it a present to her. She didn’t want to wear it, she said it was too grand, but he laughed at her. The fringe was that depth.”
“And now, you obstinate thing,” sharply put in Mary Barber, as the girl was extending her hands to show the depth of the fringe, “how could I have seen her in her puce gown, and how could I have seen her in the shawl unless she had come to meet me? I should as soon have expected to see myself in a satin train, as her in a Chaney crape shawl: and Richard must have more money than wit to have bought it.”
“And where is she now, then?” asked Betsey, to whom the argument certainly appeared conclusive. “Gone on by herself to the church?”
“Never you mind!” returned Mary Barber, not choosing to betray her ign
orance upon the unsatisfactory point. “Don’t you contradict your betters again, Betsey Marsh.” Betsey humbly took the reproof.
“Why could she not have had a carriage, and went properly?” resumed Mary Barber. “It might have cost money; but a son’s marriage comes but once in a lifetime.”
“The carriage came, and took off Mr. Richard, and she wouldn’t go in it,” said the girl. And then she proceeded, dropping her voice to a whisper, to tell of the unpleasantness of the previous evening, and of the subsequent events of the morning. Mr. William was up first, and went out without breakfast, leaving word he was gone to the office as usual, and should not attend the wedding. This she had to tell her mistress and Mr. Richard when they came downstairs; her mistress seemed dreadfully grieved, she looked as white as a sheet, and as soon as breakfast was over she wrote a letter, and sent Hill with it into Worcester to Mr. William. “It was to tell him to come back and dress himself, and go with her to the wedding, I know,” concluded the girl, “and that’s why, waiting for him, she would not go with Mr. Richard when the carriage came, and why she stayed, herself, till the last minute. But Mr. William never came: and Hill’s not come back either.”
“Then why on earth did she come to meet me, instead of making the best of her way to the church?” once more demanded Mary Barber.
“It’s what I should ha’ said she didn’t do,” retorted the girl; “she never had no thoughts of going to meet you.”
“If you say that again, I’ll — Why, who’s this?”
The closing of the little iron gate at the foot of the garden had caused her to turn, and she saw William Pickering. He was flushed with the rapid walk from the town — conveyances were not to be hired at hasty will in Worcester then as they are now — and came up with a smile on his good-humoured face.
“I hope my mother’s gone,” he called out.
“Yes, sir,” answered Betsey.
“So, you and Richard have. been quarrelling again, I hear, and you must go off in a temper this morning,” was Mary Barber’s reproving salutation. “I’m glad you’ve had the grace to think better of it, Master William!”
The young man laughed. “The truth is, my mother’s note was so peremptory — in a sort — that I had no choice but to obey it,” he answered, “I was not in the office when Hill left it, but I came as soon as I could. Some hot water, Betsey. Look sharp.”
“You’ll not get to All Saints’ in time,” said Mary Barber.
“I’ll have a try for it; they may be late themselves. What time is it now?” he continued, as he bounded up the stairs.
As if to answer him, the large kitchen clock at that moment rang out the quarter to eleven. It was a clock that struck the quarters: as many kitchen clocks did in those old-fashioned days.
“Is that clock right?” asked Mary Barber, remembering her conclusion that it could not be, and why; and feeling in a maze upon the past yet. “Just look at your watch, William, and tell me.”
“It’s never wrong,” put in Betsey, as she came hurrying out of the kitchen with the jug of hot water, probably deeming it a convenient juncture tacitly to maintain her own opinion. “It don’t vary a minute in a year.” She said true. Nevertheless William Pickering, in courtesy to the request, halted on the stairs midway, and took his watch from his pocket. “It is quite right,” he said. “Besides, I know that must be just about the time. You wait for me in the parlour, Mary, and we’ll go on together.”
She turned into the parlour generally used, and waited for him. The boys had always called her “Mary,” short, following the habit of their father and mother. On the table lay Mrs. Pickering’s green parasol, just as she had put it down.
In five minutes he was downstairs again, dressed; as handsome a young man as might he — upright, frank, merry. Mary Barber told him how his mother had come to meet her, and how she had suddenly disappeared. He laughed, and said Mary must have fallen into a doze while tying her shoe. They were passing through Henwick when the clocks struck eleven.
“There!” exclaimed Mary Barber, “the wedding’ll have begun?”
“Never mind,” said he, gaily, “we shall get in for the tail.”
They took the lower road, as being the nearest, cutting off the corner by the suburb of St. John’s, as well as the new road, crossed the bridge over the sparkling Severn, and turned off to All Saints’ Church just as the tardy bridal party drove up.
“I hope they have not been waiting for me!” exclaimed William Pickering. “Which carriage is my mother in, I wonder? I shall take her in.”
“She won’t be in the carriage; she was going straight into the church; Betsey said so!” snapped Mary Barber, excessively aggravated to find herself in the very midst of the alighting company. Richard Pickering drew up to his brother.
“Where’s the mother?” he asked. “We have been waiting for her all this while.”
“In the church, I think, if she’s not with you. I am but come up myself now.”
However, range their eyes as they would round the church when they got inside it, there was no sign of Mrs. Pickering. William, burying animosity for the occasion, stood by his brother at the altar, his groom’s man, and the ceremony proceeded. Mary Barber ensconced herself behind a remote pillar, peeping surreptitiously round it to watch the party out of church, Richard leading his very pretty bride.
“I’ll let the ruck of ’em get into old Law’s before me,” quoth she to the female pew-opener.
And accordingly the “ruck” did get in, and then Mary Barber followed. She supposed Mrs. Pickering would be there, as did all. The conclusion drawn was, that she had not arrived in time for the ceremony, and so had gone straight to the surgeon’s. His residence was not far from the church, and as Mary Barber slowly approached it, she saw quite a crowd of persons coming from the opposite way, in one of whom she recognized an officer of justice. Halting at the door to stare at these — and they seemed to be reciprocating the compliment by staring at her in a curious manner — William Pickering came out.
“What can have become of my mother, Mary?” he exclaimed. “I’m going home to see after her. She’s not at Mrs. Law’s.”
“Why, where’s she got to?” responded Mary Barber. “I’ll tell you what, William Pickering,” quickly added the woman, an idea flashing across her, “she’s gone demented with the quarrelling of you two boys, and has wandered away in the fields! I told you how strangely she stared at me from the stile.”
“Nonsense!” said the young man.
“Is it nonsense? It — Whatever do you people want!” broke off Mary Barber. For the persons she had noticed were surrounding them in a strange manner, hemming them in ominously. The officer laid his arm upon William Pickering.
“I’m sorry to say that I must take you prisoner, sir.”
“What for?” coolly asked William.
“For murder!” was the answer. And as the terrible words fell on Mary Barber’s ear, a wild thought crossed her bewildered brain — Could he have murdered his mother? Of course it was only her own previous train of ideas, connected with the non-appearance of her sister, that induced it.
Not so, however. Amidst the dire confusion that seemed at once to reign; amid the indignant questionings of the bridal party, who came flocking out in their gay attire, the particulars were made known. Mr. Stone, the old clerk, had been found dead on the office floor, an ugly wound in the back of his head. Richard Pickering, in his terror, cast a yearning, beseeching glance on his brother, as much as to say, Surely it has not come to this!
The events of the morning, as connected with this matter, appeared to have been as follows: — Mr. Stone had gone to the office at nine o’clock, as usual, and there, to his surprise, found William Pickering, opening the letters. The latter said he was not going to his brother’s wedding, and the old clerk reproved him for it. William did not like this; one word led to another, and several harsh things were spoken. So far the office servant testified, a man named Dance, whose work lay chiefly i
n the warehouse amongst the hop-pockets, and who had come in for orders. They were still “jangling,” Dance said, when he left them. Subsequent to this, William Pickering went out to the warehouse, and to one or two more places. On his return, he found that his mother’s outdoor man-of-all-work, Hill, had left a note for him; a large brewer in the town, named Corney, was also waiting to see him on business. When Mr. Corney left, he opened the note, the contents of which may as well be given: —
“William! you have never directly disobeyed me yet. I charge you, come back at once, and go with me to the church. Do you know that I have passed three parts of the night on my knees, praying that things may be cleared up between you and your brother!
“YOUR LOVING MOTHER.”
After that nothing clearly was known. William Pickering said that when he quitted the office to go home, in obedience to his mother’s mandate, he left Mr. Stone at his desk writing; but a short while afterwards the old clerk was found lying on the floor, with a terrible wound in the back of his head. It was quite evident he had been struck down while bending over the desk. The man Dance, who was sought for in the warehouse, and found, spoke of the quarrelling he had heard; and hence the arrest of William Pickering.
Mary Barber’s first thought, amidst the confusion and the shock, was of her sister. If not broken to her softly, the news might kill her; and the woman, abandoning cake, and wine, and company, before she had seen them, started off there and then in search of Mrs. Pickering, not knowing in the least where to look for her, but taking naturally the way to her home.
“Surely she’ll be coming in to join ‘em, and I shall, perchance, meet her,” was the passing thought.
Not Mrs. Pickering did Mary Barber meet, but Hill, the man. He was coming down the road in a state of excitement, and Mary Barber stared in blank disbelief at his news: his mistress had been found on her bed — dead.
In an incredibly short time the woman seemed to get there, and met a surgeon coming out of the house. It was quite true. Mrs. Pickering was dead. With her face looking as if it were turned to stone, Mary Barber went up to the chamber. Betsey, the servant, her tears dropping fast, told the tale.