by Ellen Wood
“Has Edwards left?” she asked carelessly.
“No,” replied Captain Bird, who was stretched out before the fire in his slippers, smoking a long pipe, and drinking spirits. “He is out on the loose, though, somewhere, to-day.”
It was late at night when Edwards entered. He was in a rage. Trains did not run frequently on Sundays, and he had been kept all that time at South Crabb Junction, waiting for one. Lucy went upstairs to bed, leaving Edwards and her husband drinking brandy-and-water. Both of them had had quite enough already.
The matter of the earrings and the doubt whether Mr. Edwards had been playing at amateur detectiveship would have ended there, but for the accident of Lucy’s having to come downstairs again for the small travelling-bag in which she had carried her combs and brushes. She had put it just inside the little back parlour, where a bed on chairs had been extemporized for Edwards, their lodgings not being very extensive. Lucy was picking up the bag in the dark, when some words in the sitting-room caught her ear; the door between the two rooms being partly open. Before a minute elapsed she had heard too much. Edwards, in a loud, gleeful, boasting tone, was telling how he had been acting the detective, and done the old Squire and his wife out of the other earring. Lucy, looking in through the opening, saw him holding it up; she saw the colours of the long pink topaz, and the diamonds flash in the candle-light.
“I thought I could relieve them of it,” he said. “When I read that advertisement in the paper, it struck me there might be a field open to do a little stroke of business; and I’ve done it.”
“You are a fool for your pains,” growled Captain Bird. “There’s sure to be a row.”
“The row won’t touch me. I’m off to London to-morrow morning, and the earring with me. I wonder what the thing will turn us in? Twenty pounds. There, put it in the box, Bird, and get out the dice.”
The dice on a Sunday night!
Lucy felt quite sick as she went back upstairs. What would be the end of all this? Not of this one transaction in particular, but of all the other disgraceful transactions with which her husband was connected? It might come to some public exposure, some criminal trial at the Bar of Justice; and of that she had a horrible dread ever haunting her like a nightmare.
She undressed, and went to bed. One hour passed, two hours passed, three hours passed. Lucy turned and turned on her uneasy pillow, feeling ready to die. Besides her own anguish arising from their share in it, she was dwelling on the shameful wrong it did their kind friends at Crabb Cot.
The fourth hour was passing. Captain Bird had not come up, and Lucy grew uneasy on that score. Once, when he had taken too much (but as a general rule the ex-captain’s delinquencies did not lie in that direction), he had set his shirt-sleeve on fire, and burnt his hands badly in putting it out. Slipping out of bed, Lucy put on her slippers and the large old shawl, and crept down to see after him.
Opening the sitting-room door very softly, she looked in. The candles were alight still, but had burnt nearly down to the socket; the dice and some cards were scattered on the table.
Edwards lay at full length on the old red stuff sofa; Captain Bird had thrown himself outside the bed in the other room, the door of which was now wide open, neither of them having undressed. That both were wholly or partially intoxicated, Lucy felt not a doubt of.
Well, she could only leave them as they were. They would come to no harm asleep. Neither would the candles: which must soon burn themselves out. Lucy was about to shut the door again, when her eye fell on the little pasteboard box that contained the earring.
Without a moment’s reflection, acting on the spur of impulse, she softly stepped to the table, lifted the lid, and took the earring out.
“I will remedy the wrong they have done Mrs. Todhetley,” she said to herself. “They will never suspect me.”
Up in her room again, she lighted her candle and looked about for some place to conceal the earring; and, just as the idea to secure it had come unbidden to her, so did that of a safe place of concealment. With feverish hands she undid a bit of the quilting of her petticoat, one that she had but just made for herself out of an old merino gown, slipped the earring into the wadding, and sewed it up again. It could neither be seen nor suspected there; no, nor even felt, let the skirt be examined as it might. That done, poor Lucy went to bed again and at length fell asleep.
She was awakened by a commotion. It was broad daylight, and her husband (not yet as sober as he might be) was shaking her by the arm. Edwards was standing outside the door, calling out to know whether Mrs. Bird had “got it.”
“What is the matter, George?” she cried, starting up in a fright, and for the moment completely forgetting where she was, for she had been aroused from a vivid dream of Timberdale.
“Have you been bringing anything up here from the sitting-room, Lucy?” asked Captain Bird.
“No, nothing,” she replied promptly, and he saw that she spoke with truth. For Lucy’s recollection had not come to her; she remembered nothing yet about the earring.
“There’s something missing,” said Captain Bird, speaking thickly.
“It has disappeared mysteriously off the sitting-room table. You are sure you have not been down and collared it, Lucy?”
The earring and the theft — her own theft — flashed into her memory together. Oh, if she could only avert suspicion from herself! And she strove to call up no end of surprise in her voice.
“Why, how could I have been down, George? Did you not see that I was fast asleep? What have you missed? Some money?”
“Money, no. It was — something of Edwards’s. Had it close by him on the table when he went to sleep, he says — he lay on the sofa last night, and I had his bed — and this morning it was gone. I thought the house was on fire by the way he came and shook me.”
“I’ll look for it when I come down, if you tell me what it is,” said poor Lucy. “How late I have slept! It must have been the cold journey.”
“She has not got it,” said Captain Bird, retreating to his friend outside, and closing the door on Lucy. “Knows nothing about it. Was asleep till I awoke her.”
“Search the room, you fool,” cried the excited Edwards. “I’d never trust the word of a woman. No offence to your wife, Bird, but it is not to be trusted.”
“Rubbish!” said Captain Bird.
“Either she or you must have got it. It could not disappear without hands. The people down below have not been to our rooms, as you must know.”
“She or I — what do you mean by that?” retorted Captain Bird; and a short sharp quarrel ensued. That the captain had not touched the earring, Edwards knew full well. It was Edwards who had helped him to reach the bed the previous night: and since then Bird had been in the deep sleep of stupor. But Edwards did think the captain’s wife had. The result was that Captain Bird re-entered; and, ordering Lucy to lie still, he made as exact a search of the room as his semi-sobered faculties allowed. Lucy watched it from her bed. Amidst the general hunting and turning-over of drawers and places, she saw him pick up her gown and petticoats one by one and shake them thoroughly, but he found no signs of the earring.
From that time to this the affair had remained a mystery. There had been no one in the house that night, except the proprietor and his wife, two quiet old people who never concerned themselves with their lodgers. They protested that the street-door had been fast, and that no midnight marauder could have broken in and slipped upstairs to steal a pearl brooch (as Edwards put it) or any other article. So, failing other sources of suspicion, Edwards continued to suspect Lucy. There were moments when Bird did also: though he trusted her, in regard to it, on the whole. At any rate, Lucy was obliged to be most cautious. The quilted skirt had never been off her since, except at night: through the warm genial days of spring and the sultry heat of summer she had worn the clumsy wadded thing constantly: and the earring had never been disturbed until this afternoon.
“You see how it is, Johnny,” she said to me, with on
e of her long-drawn sighs.
But at that moment the grocer’s young man in the white apron came back down the walk, swinging his empty basket by the handle; and he took another good stare at us in passing.
“I mean as to the peril I should be in if you suffer the restoration of the earring to transpire,” she continued in a whisper, when he was at a safe distance. “Oh, Johnny Ludlow! do you and Mrs. Todhetley take care, for my poor sake.”
“Lucy, you need not doubt either of us,” I said earnestly. “We will be, as you phrased it to-day, true as steel — and as cautious. Are you going back? Let me walk up to the top with you.”
“No, no; we part here. Seeing us together might arouse some suspicion, and there is no absolute certainty that they may not come out, though I don’t think they will. Edwards is for ever thinking of that earring: he does not feel safe about it, you perceive. Go you that way: I go this. Farewell, Johnny Ludlow; farewell.”
“Good-night, Lucy. I am off to the circus now.”
She went with a brisk step up the walk. I ran out by St. Oswald’s, and so on to the Saracen’s Head. The place was crammed. I could not get near Tod and Harry Parker; but they whistled at me across the sawdust and the fancy steeds performing on it.
We sat together in Mrs. Todhetley’s bedroom at Dyke Manor, the door bolted against intruders: she, in her astonishment at the tale I told, hardly daring to touch the earring. It was Saturday morning; we had come home from Worcester the previous evening; and should now be off to school in an hour. Tod had gone strolling out with the Squire; which gave me my opportunity.
“You see, good mother, how it all is, and the risk we run. Do you know, I had half a mind to keep the earring myself for some months and say never a word to you; only I was not sure of pitching on a safe hiding-place. It would be so dreadful a thing for Lucy Bird if it were to get known.”
“Poor Lucy, poor Lucy!” she said, the tears on her light eyelashes. “Oh, Johnny, if she could only be induced to leave that man!”
“But she can’t, you know. Robert Ashton has tried over and over again to get her back to the Court — and tried in vain. See how it glitters!”
I was holding the earring so that the rays of the sun fell upon it, flashing and sparkling. It seemed more beautiful than it used to be.
“I am very, very glad to have it back, Johnny; the other was useless without it. You have not,” with a tone of apprehension in her voice, “told Joseph?”
I shook my head. The truth was, I had never longed to tell anything so much in my life; for what did I ever conceal from him? It was hard work, I can assure you. The earring burning a hole in my pocket, and I not able to show Tod that it was there!
“And now, mother, where will you put it?”
She rose to unlock a drawer, took from it a small blue box in the shape of a trunk, and unlocked that.
“It is in this that I keep all my little valuables, Johnny. It will be quite safe here. By-and-by we must invent some mode of ‘recovering the earring,’ as poor Lucy said.”
Lifting the lid of a little pasteboard box, she showed me the fellow-earring, lying in a nest of cotton. I took it out.
“Put them both into your ears for a minute, good mother! Do!”
She smiled, hesitated; then took out the plain rings that were in her ears, and put in those of the beautiful pink topaz and diamonds. Going to the glass to look at herself, she saw the Squire and Tod advancing in the distance. It sent us into a panic. Scuffling the earrings out of her ears, she laid them together on the wool in the cardboard box, put the lid on, and folded it round with white paper.
“Light one of the candles on my dressing-table, Johnny. We will seal it up for greater security: there’s a bit of red sealing-wax in the tray.” And I did so at her direction: stamping it with the seal that had been my father’s, and which with his watch they had only recently allowed me to take into wearing.
“There,” she said, “should any one by chance see that packet, though it is not likely, and be curious to know what it contains, I shall say that I cannot satisfy them, as it concerns Johnny Ludlow.”
“Are you upstairs, Johnny? What in the world are you doing there?”
I went leaping down at Tod’s call. All was safe now.
That’s how the other earring came back. And “Eccles” had to be let off scot free. But I was glad he had the ducking.
XIV.
ANNE.
Part the First.
“Why, what’s the matter with you?” cried the Squire.
“Matter enough,” responded old Coney, who had come hobbling into our house, and sat down with a groan. “If you had the gout in your great toe, Squire, as I have it in mine, you’d soon feel what the matter was.”
“You have been grunting over that gout for days past, Coney!”
“So I have. It won’t go in and it won’t come out; it stops there on purpose to torment me with perpetual twinges. I have been over to Timberdale Parsonage this morning, and the walk has pretty nigh done for me.”
The Squire laughed. We often did laugh at Coney’s gout: which never seemed to be very bad, or to get beyond incipient “twinges.”
“Better have stayed at home and nursed your gout than have pranced off to Timberdale.”
“But I had to go,” said the farmer. “Jacob Lewis sent for me.”
Mr. Coney spoke of Parson Lewis, Rector of Timberdale. At this time the parson was on his last legs, going fast to his rest. His mother and old Coney’s mother had been first cousins, which accounted for the intimacy between the parsonage and the farm. It was Eastertide, and we were spending it at Crabb Cot.
“Do you remember Thomas Lewis, the doctor?” asked old Coney.
“Remember him! ay, that I do,” was the Squire’s answer. “What of him?”
“He has been writing to the parson to take a house for him; he and his daughter are coming to live in old England again. Poor Lewis can’t look out for one himself, so he has put it upon me. And much I can get about, with this lame foot!”
“A house at Timberdale?”
“Either in the neighbourhood of Timberdale or Crabb, Dr. Lewis writes: or he wouldn’t mind Islip. I saw his letter. Jacob says there’s nothing vacant at Timberdale at all likely to suit. We have been thinking of that little place over here, that the people have just gone out of.”
“What little place?”
“Maythorn Bank. ’Twould be quite large enough.”
“And it’s very pretty,” added the Squire. “Thomas Lewis coming back! Wonders will never cease. How he could reconcile himself to staying away all his life, I can’t tell. Johnny lad, he will like to see you. He and your father were as thick as inkle weavers.”
“Ay! Ludlow was a good friend to him while he was doing nothing,” nodded old Coney. “As to his staying away, I expect he could not afford to live in England. He has had a legacy left him now, he tells the parson. What are you asking, Johnny?”
“Did I ever know Dr Lewis?”
“Not you, lad. Thomas Lewis went abroad ages before you were born, or thought of. Five-and-twenty years he must have been away.”
“More than that,” said the Squire.
This Thomas Lewis was half-brother to the Rector of Timberdale, but was not related to the Coneys. He served his time, when a boy, to a surgeon at Worcester. In those days young men were apprenticed to doctors just as they were to other trades. Young Lewis was steady and clever; but so weak in health that when he was qualified and ought to have set up on his own account, he could not. People were wondering what would become of him, for he had no money, when by one of those good chances that rarely fail in time of need, he obtained a post as travelling companion to a nobleman, rich and sickly, who was going to reside in the warmth of the south of France. They went. It brought up Thomas Lewis’s health well; made quite another man of him; and when, a little later, his patron died, he found that he had taken care of his future. He had left the young surgeon a competency of two hundred a-yea
r. Mr. Lewis stayed on where he was, married a lady who had some small means, took a foreign medical degree to become Dr. Lewis, and obtained a little practice amidst the English that went to the place in winter. They had been obliged to live frugally, though an income of from two to three hundred a-year goes a great deal farther over the water than it does in England: and perhaps the lack of means to travel had kept Dr. Lewis from visiting his native land. Very little had been known of him at home; the letters interchanged by him and the parson were few and far between. Now, it appeared, the doctor had again dropped into a legacy of a few hundred pounds, and was coming back with his daughter — an only child. The wife was dead.
Maythorn Bank, the pretty little place spoken of by Mr. Coney, was taken. It belonged to Sir Robert Tenby. A small, red-brick house, standing in a flower-garden, with a delightful view from its windows of the charming Worcestershire scenery and the Malvern Hills in the distance. Excepting old Coney’s great rambling farm-homestead close by, it was the nearest house to our own. But the inside, when it came to be looked at, was found to be in a state of dilapidation, not at all fit for a gentleman’s habitation. Sir Robert Tenby was applied to, and he gave directions that it should be put in order.
Before this was completed, the Rector of Timberdale died. He had been suffering from ailments and sorrow for a long while; and in the sweet spring season, the season that he had loved above all other seasons, when the May birds were singing and the May flowers were blooming, he crossed the river that divides us from the eternal shores.