by Ellen Wood
“I know who I think she is. The Pells’ English governess, Miss Phebus.”
“Nonsense!”
“I do. She has got herself up in character and dyed her skin and hair.”
“Then, by George, if it is, she must have gathered an inkling of that matter in London.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Nor I. Johnny, some of these days I shall be bursting out with it to the Pater, and so get the weight off my mind.”
“I shouldn’t wonder. She says you have no caution.”
“It’s not pleasant, I can tell you, youngster, to live in dread that somebody else will bring it out to him. I’ll go in for this next dance, I think. Where’s Anna?”
Anna did not say no. She would never say no to anything he asked her, if I possessed the gift of divination. They joined the dancers; Bill and Helen went to the archery.
“And how are you enjoying it, pray, Johnny Ludlow?”
The voice nearly shot me off the arm of the bench. For it was Mr. Brandon’s. I don’t think there was any living man I should have been so surprised at seeing at the fête as he.
“Why! is it you, sir?”
“Yes, it is, Johnny. You need not stare as if you thought me an intruder. I was invited.”
“Yes, of course, sir. But I — I fancied you never came to such parties.”
“Never was at one like this — unless I went to it in my sleep,” he said, standing with me before the bench, and casting his eyes around. “I came to-day to look after you.”
“After me, sir!”
“Yes, after you. And perhaps a little bit after your friend, Todhetley. Mr. Pell informed us the entertainments would include fortune-telling: I didn’t know but there might be a roulette-table as well. Or cards, or dice, or billiards.”
“Oh no, sir; there’s nothing of that sort.”
“It’s not the fault of the young Pells, I expect, then. That choice companion of yours, called Gusty, and the other one in scarlet.”
“Neither of them is here, Mr. Brandon. Gusty has gone to the Highlands for grouse-shooting; and Fabian sent word he couldn’t get leave to come down. I have not seen the eldest son yet, but I suppose he is somewhere about.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Brandon — and whenever he spoke of the Pells his voice was thinner than ever, and most decidedly took a mocking sound— “gone grouse-shooting, is Gusty! And the other can’t get leave. A lieutenant, is he not?”
“Yes, a lieutenant. His sister Constance has just told us she does not believe it is true that he could not get leave. She thinks he never asked for it, because he wanted to stay in London.”
“Ah. It’s fine to be the Pells, Johnny. One son off to shoot grouse; another living his fast London life; the rest holding grand doings down here that could hardly be matched by the first nobleman amongst us. Very fine. Wonder what they spend a year — taking it in the aggregate?”
“Have you been here long, sir?”
“Half-an-hour, or so — I’ve been looking about me, Johnny, and listening to the champagne corks popping off. Squire here?”
“No. He and Mrs. Todhetley did not come.”
“Sensible people. Where’s young Joe?”
“He is with the Whitneys. Dancing with Anna, I think.”
“And he had better keep to that,” said Mr. Brandon, with a little nod. “He’ll get no harm there.”
We sat down, side by side. Taking a side-glance at him, I saw his eyes fixed on Mrs. and the Miss Clement-Pells, who were now mixing with the company. He did not know much about ladies’ dress, but theirs seemed to strike him.
“Showy, Johnny, is it not?”
“It looks very bright in the sun, sir.”
“No doubt. So do spangles.”
“It’s real, sir, that lace. Helen Whitney says so.”
“A great deal too real. So is the rest of it. Hark at the music and the corks and the laughter! Look at the people, and the folly!”
“Don’t you like the fête, sir?”
“Johnny, I hate it with my whole heart.”
I was silent. Mr. Brandon was always more queer than other people.
“Is it in keeping with the Pells, this upstart grandeur and profusion? Come, Johnny Ludlow, you’ve some sense in your head: answer me. They have both risen from nothing, Johnny. When he began life, Pell’s ambition was to rise to a competency; an el dorado of three or four hundred a year: and that only when he had worked for it. I have seen her take in the milk for their tea from the milkman at the door; when they kept one servant to do everything. Pell rose by degrees and grew rich; so much the more credit due to his perseverance and his business talents — —”
“And would you not have them spend their riches, Mr. Brandon?”
“Spend their riches! — of course I would, in a proper way. Don’t you interrupt your elders, Johnny Ludlow. Where would be the use of a man’s getting money unless he spent some of it. But not in this way; not in the lavish and absurd and sinful profusion that they have indulged in of late years. Is it seemly, or right, or decent, the way they live in? The sons apeing the manners and company of their betters, of young fellows who are born to the peerage and their thousands a year? The mother holding her head in the air as if she wore an iron collar: the daughters with their carriages and their harps and their German governesses, and their costly furbelows that are a scandal on common sense? The world has run mad after these Pells of late years: but I know this much — I have been ashamed only to look on at the Pells’ unseemly folly.”
At that moment Martha Jane Pell — in the toilette that Bill Whitney said must have cost “millions” — went looming by, flirting with Captain Connaught. Mr. Brandon looked after them with his little eyes.
“They are too fine for their station, Johnny. They were not born to this kind of thing; were not reared to it; have only plunged into it of recent years, and it does not sit well upon them. One can only think of upstarts all the time. The Pells might have lived as gentlepeople; ay, and married their children to gentlemen and gentlewomen had they pleased: but, to launch out in this unseemly way, has been a just humiliation to themselves, and has rendered them a poor, pitiful laughing-stock in the eyes of all right-minded people. It’s nothing less than a burlesque on all the proprieties of life. And it may be that we have not seen the end of it, Johnny.”
“Well, sir, they can hardly be grander than — —”
“Say more assuming, lad.”
“I suppose I meant that, Mr. Brandon. Perhaps you think they’ll be for taking the Marquis’s place, Ragley, next, if it should come into the market. Or Eastnor Castle: or — —”
“I did not mean exactly in that way, Johnny,” he interrupted again, a queer look on his thin lips as he got up.
“Are you going into the eating tent, sir?”
“I am going away. Now that I have seen that you and Joe Todhetley are tolerably safe from gaming tables and the like, there’s nothing further to keep me here. I feel a sort of responsibility in regard to you two, seeing that that unpleasant secret lies with me, and not with Joe’s father.”
“It is early to go, sir. The fun has hardly begun.”
“None too early for me. I am a magistrate; looked up to, in a manner, in the neighbourhood, insignificant though I am. It is not I who will countenance this upstart foolery by my presence longer than I can help, Johnny Ludlow.”
Mr. Brandon disappeared. The hours went on to twilight and then to dark. Once during the evening I caught sight of Mr. Clement-Pell: and what occurred as I did so was like a bit of romance. People crowded the side paths under the light of the Chinese lanterns. For lanterns were hanging on the trees and shrubs, and the whole scene was one of enchantment out of the Arabian Nights. One of the remote walks was not lighted; perhaps it had been forgotten. I had missed Bill Whitney and was at the end of the grounds hunting for him, when I saw, through the trees, a solitary figure pacing this dark walk with his arms folded. It was not very likely to be Bill: but there
was no harm in going to see.
It turned out to be Mr. Clement-Pell. But before I got out of the trees into the walk — for it was the nearest way back to the lights and the company — some one pushed through the trees on the opposite side of the path, and stood in front of him. The moon shone as much as an August moon ever does shine; and I saw Clement-Pell start as if he had been told his house was on fire.
“I thought this might be a likely place to find you,” said the stranger in a savage whisper. “You have kept out of my way for two days at the Bank — too busy to see me, eh? — so, hearing what was going on here, I took the train and came over.”
“I’m sure I am — happy to see you, Mr. Johnson,” cried Clement-Pell in a voice that seemed to tremble a little; and unless the moonlight was in fault, he had turned as pale as a ghost. “Would have sent you an invitation had I known you were down.”
“I dare say you would! I did not come to attend festivals, Pell, but to settle business-matters.”
“You must be aware I cannot attend to business to-night,” interrupted Clement-Pell. “Neither do I ever enter upon it at my own residence. I will see you to-morrow morning at eleven at the Bank.”
“Honour bright? Or is it a false plea, put forth to shuffle out of me now?”
“I will see you to-morrow morning at the Bank at eleven o’clock,” repeated Clement-Pell, emphatically. “We are very busy just now, and I must be there the first thing. And now, Mr. Johnson, if you will go into the refreshment tent, and make yourself at home — —”
“No refreshments for me, thank you: I must hasten away to catch the train. But first of all, I will ask you a question: and answer it you must, whether it is your habit of entering on business at home, or whether it is not. Is it true that — —”
I did not want to hear more secrets, and went crashing through the trees. I should have gone before, but for not liking they should know any one was there. They turned round.
“Oh, is it you, Mr. Ludlow?” cried Pell, putting out his hand as I passed them.
“Yes, sir. I am looking for young Whitney. Have you seen him?”
“I think I saw him at the door of one of the tents, just now. You’ll find him amongst the company, I dare say. The Squire and Mrs. Todhetley have not come, I hear.”
“No sir.”
“Ah well — give my very kind regards to them, and say I am sorry. I hope you are taking care of yourself — in the way of refreshments.”
The stranger and I had stood facing each other. He was a very peculiar-looking man with a wide stare; black hair, white whiskers, and very short legs. I thought it anything but good manners of him to come over, as he had confessed to have done, to disturb Clement-Pell at such a time.
At nine o’clock Giles arrived with the pony-carriage for the young ladies and two of us: the other and Giles were to walk. But we didn’t see the fun of leaving so early. Giles said he could not wait long: he must be back to get old Jacobson’s gig ready, who was spending the evening at the Manor. The Jacobsons, being farmers, though they were wealthy, and lived in good old style, had been passed over when Mrs. Clement-Pell’s invitations went out. So Tod sent Giles and the carriage back again, with a message that we all preferred walking, and should follow shortly.
Follow, we did; but not shortly. It was past eleven when we got away. The dancing had been good, and no one was at hand to say we must leave. Helen and Anna Whitney came out with their cloaks on. What with the dancing and the sultriness of the weather, the night was about as hot as an oven. We were almost the last to leave: but did not mean to say so at home. It was a splendid night, though; very clear, the moon larger than usual. We went on in no particular order; the five of us turning out of the Parrifer gates together.
“Oh,” screamed Helen, when we were some yards down the road, “where’s the bag? Anna, have you brought the bag?”
“No,” replied Anna. “You told me you would bring it.”
“Well — I meant to do so. William, you must run back for it.”
“Oh, bother the bag,” said Bill. “You girls can’t want the bag to-night. I’ll come over for it in the morning.”
“Not want it! — Why, our combs and brushes and thin shoes are in it,” retorted Helen. “It is on a chair in that little room off the hall. Come, William, go for it.”
“I’ll go, Helen,” I said. “Walk quietly on, and I shall catch you up.”
The grounds looked quite deserted: the Chinese lanterns had burned themselves out, and the doors appeared closed. One of the side windows was open and gay with light; I thought it would be less trouble to enter that way, and leaped up the balcony steps to the empty room. Empty, as I took it to be.
Well, it was a sort of shock. The table had a desk and a heap of papers on it, and on it all lay a man’s head. The face was hidden in his hands, but he lifted it as I went in.
It was Clement-Pell. But I declare that at the first moment I did not know him. If ever you saw a face more haggard than other faces, it was his. He sat bolt upright in his chair then, and stared at me as one in awful fear.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I did not know any one was here.”
“Oh, it is you,” he said, and broke out into a smile — which somehow made the face look even more worn and weary than before. “I thought you had all left.”
“So we have, sir. But Miss Whitney forgot her bag, and I have run back for it. She left it in the small room in the hall.”
“Oh ay, all right,” he said. “You can go and get it, and run out this way again if you like. I dare say the hall-door is closed.”
“Good night, sir,” I said, coming back with the bag. “We have had a most delightful day, Mr. Clement-Pell, and I’m sure we ought to thank you for it.”
“I am glad it has been pleasant. Good night.”
The trees were pretty thick on this side the house. In passing a grove a few paces from the window, I saw something that was neither trunks nor leaves; but Mr. Johnson’s face with its black hair and white whiskers. He was hiding in the trees, his face peeping out to look at the room and at Clement-Pell.
It made me feel queer. It made me think of treachery. Though what treachery, or where, I hardly knew. Not a trace was to be seen of the face now: he drew it in; no doubt to let me pass. Ought I to warn Mr. Pell that he was being watched? I had distinctly heard the man say he was going away directly: why had he stayed? Yes, it would be right and kind. Walking a bit further, I quietly turned back.
Clement-Pell had a pen in his hand this time, and was poring over what seemed to be a big account-book, or ledger. He looked surprised again, but spoke quietly.
“Still left something behind you, Mr. Ludlow?”
“No, sir, not this time,” I said, speaking below my breath. “I thought I would come back and tell you, Mr. Pell, that some one outside is watching this room. If — —”
I broke off in sheer astonishment. He started up from his chair and came creeping to where I stood, to hide himself as it seemed from the watcher, his haggard cheeks white as death. But he put a good face on it to me.
“I could not hear you,” he whispered. “What did you say? Some one watching?”
“It is the same man I saw you talking to in the dark walk to-night, with the black hair and white whiskers. Perhaps he means no harm, sir; he is hiding in the trees, and just peeping out to look in here.”
“You are sure it is that same man?” he asked with a relieved air.
“Quite sure.”
“Then it is all right. Mr. Johnson is an eccentric friend of mine. Rather — in fact, rather given to take at times more than is good for him. I suppose he has been going in for champagne. I — I thought it might be some bad character.”
It might be “all right,” as Mr. Pell said: I fancied, by the relieved tone, that it was so: but I felt quite sure that he had cause to fear, if not Mr. Johnson, some one else. At that moment there arose a slight rustle of leaves outside, and he stood, holding his breath to listen, his finge
r raised. The smell of the shrubs was borne freely on the night air.
“It is only the wind: there must be a little breeze getting up,” said Mr. Clement-Pell. “Thank you; and good night. Oh, by the way, don’t talk of this, Mr. Ludlow. If Johnson has been exceeding, he would not like to hear of it again.”
“No fear, sir. Once more, good night.”
Before I had well leaped the steps of the balcony, the window, a very heavy one, was closed with a bang, and the shutters being put to. Glancing back, I saw the white face of Clement-Pell through the closing shutters, and then heard the bolts shot. What could he be afraid of? Perhaps Johnson turned mad when he drank. Some men do.
“Have you been making that bag, Johnny?” they called out when I caught them up.
“No.”
“I’m sure it was on the chair,” said Helen.
“Oh, I found it at once. I stayed talking with Mr. Pell. I say, has the night grown damp? — or is it my fancy?”
“What does it matter?” returned Bill Whitney. “I wish I was in a bath, for my part, if it was only cold water.”
The Squire stood at the end of the garden when we reached home, with old Jacobson, whose gig was waiting. After reproaching us with our sins, first for sending the carriage back empty, then for being so late, the Squire came round and asked all about the party. Old Jacobson drew in his lips as he listened.
“It’s fine to be the Clement-Pells!” cried he. “Why, a Duke-Royal could not give a grander party than that. Real lace for gowns, had they! No wonder Madame Pell turns her nose up at farmers!”
“Did Clement-Pell send me any particular message?” asked the Pater.
“He sent his kind regards,” I said. “And he was sorry you and Mrs. Todhetley did not go.”
“It was a charming party,” cried Helen Whitney. “Papa and mamma put it to us, when the invitation came — would we go, or would we not go. They don’t much care for the Clement-Pells. I am glad we did go: I would not have missed it for the world. But there’s something about the Clement-Pells that tells you they are not gentlepeople.”