by Ellen Wood
“Why! — it must be some one from that woman at Lefford!” exclaimed Miss Deveen, in an undertone to me. “Oh no; I remember now, Johnny; Dr. Knox was the step-son; he was away, and had nothing to do with it. Show Dr. Knox in, George.”
A tall man in black, whom one might have taken anywhere for a doctor, with a grave, nice face, came in. He said his visit was to Miss Carey, as he took the chair George placed near his mistress. Just a few words, and then we knew the whole, and saw a small sealed-up box in his hand, which contained the remains of the bank-note.
“I am more glad than if you brought Janet a purse of gold!” cried Miss Deveen, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “Not that I think any one could have doubted her, Dr. Knox — not even your step-mother, in her heart, — but it is satisfactory to have it cleared up. It has made Miss Carey very ill; but this will set her at rest.”
“Your servant told me Miss Carey was ill,” he said. “It was for her I asked.”
With a face of concern, he listened to what Miss Deveen had to say of the illness. When she spoke of Janet’s fright at seeing the policeman at the Colosseum, his brow went red and he bit his lips. Next came the sleep-walking: she told it all.
“Her brain and nerves must have been overstrained to an alarming degree,” he observed, after a short silence. “Mr. Shuttleworth, who attended her at the time, spoke to me of the shock to the system. But I hoped she had recovered.”
“She would never have recovered, Dr. Knox, as long as the dread lay upon her that she was to be criminally prosecuted: at least, that is my opinion,” said Miss Deveen. “I believe the chief thing that ails her is fright. Not a knock at the door, not the marching past the house of a policeman, not the sudden entrance of a servant into the room, but has brought to her a shock of agonizing fear. It is a mercy that she has escaped brain-fever. After all, she must possess a good constitution. The sight of that Lefford man at the Colosseum did great mischief.”
“It was unfortunate that he should happen to be there,” said Dr. Knox: “and that the man should have dared to accost her with his insolence! But I shall inquire into it.”
“What you have in that box will be the best medicine for her,” said Miss Deveen. “It will speedily effect a cure — or call me an untrue prophet. Dear me! how strangely things come out!”
“May I be allowed to see Miss Carey?” asked Dr. Knox. “And to — to tell her the story of her clearance in my own way?”
Miss Deveen made no reply. She looked at Dr. Knox, and seemed to hesitate.
“I think it may be better for Miss Carey that I should, madam. For more reasons than one.”
“And really I don’t see why you should not,” said Miss Deveen, heartily. “I hesitated because Mr. Black forbade the admission of strangers. But — perhaps you are not a stranger to her?”
“Oh dear, no: I and Miss Carey are old friends,” he answered, a curious smile lighting up his face. “And I should also wish to see her in my medical capacity.”
But the one to put in her word against this, was Cattledon. She came down looking green, and protesting in Miss Deveen’s ear that no male subject in her Majesty’s dominions, save and except Mr. Black, ought to be admitted to the blue-room. Janet had no full dress on; nothing but skirts and a shawl.
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Miss Deveen. “Why, Dr. Knox might have seen her had she been in bed: he is a physician.” And she took him up herself to the blue-room.
“Of all old maids that Cattledon’s the worst!” nodded Helen Whitney.
Miss Deveen went in alone, leaving him outside the door. Janet sat in an armchair by the fire, muffled in an old brown shawl of Cattledon’s.
“And how do you feel now, my dear?” said Miss Deveen, quietly. “Better, I see. And oh, I have such pleasant news for you: an old friend of yours has called to see you; and I think — I think — he will be able to cure you sooner than Mr. Black. It is Dr. Knox, my dear: not of Lefford now, you know: of London.”
She called the doctor in, and Janet’s pale cheeks took a tint of crimson. Janet’s face had never been big: but as he stood looking at her, her hand in his, he was shocked to see how small it had become. Miss Deveen shut the door upon them. She hoped with all her heart he was not going to spare that woman at Lefford.
“Janet, my dear,” he said in a fatherly kind of way as he drew a chair near her and kept her hand, “when that trouble happened at home, how was it you did not write to me?”
“Write to you! Oh, sir, I could not do such a thing,” answered Janet, beginning to tremble.
“But you might have known I should be your friend. You might also have known that I should have been able to clear you.”
“I did once think of writing to you, Dr. Knox: just to tell you that I had not indeed touched the bank-note,” faltered Janet. “As the money came from you, I should have liked to write so much. But I did not dare.”
“And you preferred to suffer all these weeks of pain, and the fright brought upon you by Mrs. Knox — for which,” said he deliberately, “I shall never forgive her — rather than drop me a few lines! You must never be so foolish again, Janet. I should have gone to Lefford at once and searched out the mystery of the note — and found it.”
Janet moved her lips and shook her head, as much as to say that he could never have done that.
“But I have done it,” said he. “I have been down to Lefford and found it all out, and have brought the bank-note up with me — what remains of it. Sally was the culprit.”
“Sally!” gasped Janet, going from red to white.
“Sally — but not intentionally. She lighted the fire that afternoon with the note and some more scraps. The note fell out, only partly burnt; and I am going to take it to the bank that they may exchange it for a whole one.”
“And — will — they?” panted Janet.
“Of course they will; it is in the regular course of business that they should,” affirmed Dr. Knox, deeming it best to be positive for her sake. “Now, Janet, if you are to tremble like this, I shall go away and send up Miss Cattledon — and she does not look as if she had a very amiable temper. Why, my dear child, you ought to be glad.”
“Oh, so I am, so I am!” she said, breaking into sobs. “And — and does every one in Lefford know that I was innocent?”
“No one in Lefford believed you guilty. Of course, it is all known, and in the newspapers too — how Sally lighted the fire with a fifty-pound bank-note, and the remains were fished out of the ashes.”
“Mrs. Knox — Mrs. Knox — —” She could not go on for agitation.
“As to Mrs. Knox, I am not sure but we might prosecute her. Rely upon one thing, Janet: that she will not be very well welcomed at her beloved soirées for some long time to come.”
Janet looked at the fire and thought. Dr. Knox kept silence, that she might recover herself after the news.
“I shall get well now,” she said in a half-whisper. “I shall soon” — turning to him— “be able to take another situation. Do you think Mrs. Knox will give me a recommendation?”
“Yes, that she will — when it’s wanted,” said he, with a queer smile.
She sat in silence again, a tinge of colour in her face, and seeing fortunes in the fire. “Oh, the relief, the relief!” she murmured, slightly lifting her hands. “To feel that I may be at peace and fear nothing! I am very thankful to you, Dr. Knox, for all things.”
“Do you know what I think would do you good?” said Dr. Knox suddenly. “A drive. The day is so fine, the air so balmy: I am sure it would strengthen you. Will you go?”
“If you please, sir. I do feel stronger, since you told me this.”
He went down and spoke to Miss Deveen. She heartily agreed: anything that would benefit the poor girl, she said; and the carriage was coming round to the door, for she had been thinking of going out herself. Cattledon could not oppose them, for she had stepped over to the curate’s.
“Would you very much mind — would you pardon me if I asked t
o be allowed to accompany her alone?” said Dr. Knox, hurriedly to Miss Deveen, as Janet was coming downstairs on Lettice’s arm, dressed for the drive.
Miss Deveen was taken by surprise. He spoke as though he were flurried, and she saw the red look on his face.
“I can take care of her as perhaps no one else could,” he added with a smile. “And I — I want to ask her a question, Miss Deveen.”
“I — think — I — understand you,” she said, smiling back at him. “Well, you shall go. Miss Cattledon will talk of propriety, though, when she comes home, and be ready to snap us all up.”
And Cattledon was so. When she found Janet had been let go for a slow and easy drive, with no escort but Dr. Knox inside and the fat coachman on the box, she conjectured that Miss Deveen must have taken leave of her senses. Cattledon took up her station at the window to wait for their return, firing out words of temper every other second.
The air must have done Janet good. She came in from the carriage on Dr. Knox’s arm, her cheeks bright, her pretty eyes cast down, and looking quite another girl.
“Have you put your question, Dr. Knox?” asked Miss Deveen, meeting him in the hall, while Janet came on.
“Yes, and had it answered,” he said brightly. “Thank you, dear Miss Deveen; I see we have your sympathies.”
She just took his hand in hers and squeezed it. It was the first day she had seen him, but she liked his face.
Cattledon began upon Janet at once. If she felt well enough to start off on promiscuous drives, she must be well enough to see about a situation.
“I have been speaking to her of one, Miss Cattledon,” said Dr. Knox, catching the words as he came in. “I think she will accept it.”
“Where is it?” asked Cattledon.
“At Lefford.”
“She shall never go back to Rose Villa with my consent, sir. And I think you ought to know better than to propose it to her.”
“To Rose Villa! Certainly not: at least at present. Rose Villa will be hers, though; the only little settlement that can be made upon her.”
The words struck Cattledon silent. But she could see through a brick wall.
“Perhaps you want her, young man?”
“Yes, I do. I should have wanted her before this, but that I had no home to offer her. I have one now; and good prospects too. Janet has had it all explained to her. Perhaps you will allow me to explain it to you, Miss Cattledon.”
“I’m sure it’s more than Janet Carey could have expected,” said Cattledon, growing pacified as she listened. “She’s a poor thing. I hope she will make a good wife.”
“I will risk it, Miss Cattledon.”
“And she shall be married from my house,” struck in Miss Deveen. “Johnny, if you young Oxford blades can get here for it, I will have you all to the wedding.”
And we did get there for it: I, and Tod, and William Whitney, and saw the end, so far, of Janet Carey.
HELEN WHITNEY’S WEDDING.
I.
“What a hot day it is going to be!” cried the Squire, flinging back his thin light coat, and catching the corner of the breakfast-cloth with it, so that he upset the salt-cellar. “Yesterday was about the hottest day I ever felt, but to-day will be worse.”
“And all the jam-making about!” added Mrs. Todhetley.
“You need not go near the jam-making.”
“I must to-day. Last year Molly made a mistake in the quantity of sugar: and never could be brought to acknowledge it.”
“Molly —— There’s the letter-man,” broke off the Squire. “Run, lad.”
I went through the open glass-doors with all speed. Letters were not everyday events with us. In these fast and busy days a hundred letters are written where one used to be in those. It was one only that the man handed me now.
“That’s all this morning, Mr. Johnny.”
I put it beside the Squire’s plate, telling him it was from Sir John Whitney. There was no mistaking Sir John’s handwriting: the popular belief was that he used a skewer.
“From Whitney, is it,” cried he. “Where are my spectacles? What’s the postmark! Malvern? Oh, then, they are there still.”
“Belle Vue Hotel, Malvern.
“Dear Todhetley,
“Do take compassion upon a weary man, and come over for a day or two. A whole blessed week this day have I been here with never a friend to speak to, or to make up a rubber in the evening. Featherston’s a bad player, as you know, but I wish I had him here. I and my wife might take double dummy, for all the players we can get. Helen is engaged to be married to Captain Foliott, Lord Riverside’s nephew; and nobody has any time to think of me and my whist-table. Bring the boys with you: Bill is as moped as I am. We are at the Belle Vue, you see. The girls wanted to stand out for the Foley Arms: it’s bigger and grander: but I like a place that I have been used to.
“From your old friend,
“John Whitney.”
The little Whitneys had caught scarlatina, all the fry of them. Recovered now, they had been sent to a cottage on the estate for change; and Sir John, his wife, William, Helen, and Anna went for a week to Malvern while the Hall was cleaned. This news, though, of Helen’s engagement, took us by surprise.
“How very sudden!” cried the mater.
Tod was leaning back in his chair, laughing. “I told her I knew there was something up between her and that Captain Foliott!”
“Has she known him before?” asked the mater.
“Known him, yes,” cried Tod. “She saw a good deal of him at Cheltenham. As if she would engage herself to any one after only a week’s acquaintanceship!”
“As if Sir John would let her!” put in the Squire. “I can’t answer for what Miss Helen would do.” And Tod laughed again.
When the children were taken ill, Helen and Anna, though they had had the malady, were packed off to Sir John’s sister, Miss Whitney, who lived at Cheltenham, and they stayed there for some weeks. After that, they came to us at Dyke Manor for three days, and then went with their father and mother to Malvern. Helen was then full of Captain Foliott, and talked of him to us in private from morning till night. She had met him at Cheltenham, and he had paid her no end of attention. Now, as it appeared, he had followed her to Malvern, and asked for her of Sir John.
“It seems to be a good match — a nephew of Lord Riverside’s,” observed the Squire. “Is he rich, I wonder? — and is the girl over head and ears in love with him?”
“Rich he may be: but in love with him she certainly is not,” cried Tod. “She was too ready to talk of him for that.”
The remark was amusing, coming from Tod. How had he learnt to be so worldly-wise?
“Shall you go to Malvern, father?”
“Shall I go!” repeated the Squire, astonished at the superfluous question. “Yes. And start as soon as ever I have finished my breakfast and changed my coat. You two may go also, as you are invited.”
We reached Malvern in the afternoon. Sir John and Lady Whitney were alone, in one of the pleasant sitting-rooms of the Belle Vue Hotel, and welcomed us with outstretched hands.
“The girls and William?” cried Sir John, in answer to inquiries. “Oh, they are out somewhere — with Foliott, I conclude; for I’m sure he sticks to Helen like her shadow. Congratulate me, you say? Well, I don’t know, Todhetley. It’s the fashion, of course, to do it; but I’m not sure but we should rather be condoled with. No sooner do our girls grow up and become companionable, and learn not to revoke at whist when they can be tempted into taking a hand, than they want to leave us! Henceforth they must belong to others, not to us; and we, perhaps, see them no oftener than we see any other stranger. It’s one of the crosses of life.”
Sir John blew his old red nose, so like the Squire’s, and my lady rubbed her eyes. Both felt keenly the prospect of parting with Helen.
“But you like him, don’t you?” asked the Squire.
“As to liking him,” cried Sir John, and I thought there was some hesitation i
n his tone; “I am not in love with him: I leave that to Helen. We don’t all see with our children’s eyes. He is well enough, I suppose, as Helen thinks so. But the fellow does not care for whist.”
“I think we play too slow a game for him,” put in Lady Whitney. “He chanced to say one evening that Lord Riverside is one of the first hands at whist; and I expect Captain Foliott has been in the habit of playing with him.”
“Anyway, you are satisfied with the match, as a match, I take it?” observed the Squire.
“I don’t say but that I am,” said Sir John. “It might be better, of course; and at present their means will not be large. Foliott offers to settle an estate of his, worth about ten thousand pounds, upon Helen; and his allowance from his uncle Foliott is twelve hundred a-year. They will have to get along on that at present.”
“And the captain proposes,” added Lady Whitney, “that the three thousand pounds, which will come to Helen when she marries, shall be invested in a house: and we think it would be wise to do it. But he feels quite certain that Mr. Foliott will increase his allowance when he marries; probably double it.”
“It’s not Lord Riverside, then, who allows him the income?”
“Bless you, Todhetley, no!” spoke Sir John in a hurry. “He says Riverside’s as poor as a church mouse, and vegetates from year’s end to year’s end at his place in Scotland. It is Foliott the mine-owner down in the North. Stay: which is it, Betsy? — mine-owner, or mill-owner?”
“Mill-owner, I think,” said Lady Whitney. “He is wonderfully rich, whichever it is; and Captain Foliott will come into at least a hundred thousand pounds at his death.”
Listening to all this as I stood on the balcony, looking at the beautiful panorama stretched out below and beyond, for they were talking at the open window, I dreamily thought what a good thing Helen was going to make of it. Later on, all this was confirmed, and we learnt a few additional particulars.
Mr. Foliott, mill-owner and millionaire, was a very great man in the North; employing thousands of hands. He was a good man, full of benevolence, always doing something or other to benefit his townspeople and his dependents. But his health had been failing of late, and he had now gone to the Cape, a sea-voyage having been advised by his doctors. He had never married, and Captain Foliott was his favourite nephew.