by Ellen Wood
“It is just what he said to me, Mrs. Grape,” put in the brother quietly, “and I am sure it is the truth.”
“Through the Commandery gates,” repeated Mrs. Grape, pressing her aching brow. “And you did not see him come out again?”
“No, ma’am, I made off as hard as I could go. While he was rushing down there — I heard his boots clattering on the flags — I rushed over the bridge homewards.”
The boy had told all he knew. Now that the confession was made, he would be too glad to add more had he been able. It left the mystery just as it was before; no better and no worse. There was no outlet to the Commandery, except these iron gates, and nothing within it that could have swallowed up Tom. It was a cul-de-sac, and he must have come out again by these self-same gates. Whither had he then gone?
It was proved that he did come out. When Mr. Bill Smith’s confession was made public, an assistant to a doctor in the town remembered to have seen Tom Grape, whom he knew by sight, as he was passing the Commandery about that same time to visit a patient in Wyld’s Lane. Tom came flying out of the gates, laughing, and looking up and down the street. “Where are you, Bill?” he called out. The young doctor, whose name was Seton, looked back at Tom, as he went on his way.
But the young man added something more, which nobody else had thought to speak of, and which afforded a small loop-hole of conjecture as to what poor Tom’s fate might have been. Just about that hour a small barge on the canal, after passing under Sidbury bridge, came in contact with another barge. Very little damage was done, but there was a great deal of shouting and confusion. As Mr. Seton walked over the bridge, not a second before he saw Tom, he heard the noise and saw people making for the spot. Had Tom Grape made for it? He could easily have reached it. And if so, had he, amidst the general pushing and confusion on the canal bank, fallen into the canal? It was hardly to be imagined that any accident of this kind could happen to him unseen; though it might be just possible, for the scene for some minutes was one of tumult; but nothing transpired to confirm it. The missing lad did not reappear, either dead or alive.
And so poor Tom Grape had passed out of life mysteriously as his father had done. Many months elapsed before his mother gave up her search for him; she was always thinking he would come home again, always hoping it. The loss affected her more than her husband’s had, for Tom vanished under her very eye, so to say; all the terror of it was palpably enacted before her, all the suspense had to be borne and lived through; whereas the other loss took place at a distance and she only grew to realize it by degrees; which of course softened the blow. And the time went on by years, but nothing was seen of Tom Grape.
That was disappearance the second.
Dolly left her place of business at the end of the three years for which she had been apprenticed, and set up for herself; a brass plate on her mothers door— “Miss Grape, Mantua-maker” — proclaiming the fact to the world. She was only twenty then, with as sweet a face, the Squire says, as Worcester, renowned though it is for its pretty faces, ever saw. She had never in her heart taken kindly to her business, so would not be likely to set the world on fire with her skill; but she had tried to do her best and would continue to do it. A little work began to come in now and then; a gown to be turned or a spencer to be made, though not so many of them as Dolly hoped for: but, as her mother said, Rome was not built in a day.
III.
“Mother, I think I shall go to college this morning.”
So spoke Dolly at the breakfast-table one Sunday in July. The sun was shining in at the open window, the birds were singing.
“It’s my belief, Dolly, you would go off to college every Sunday of your life, if you had your way,” said Mrs. Grape.
Dolly laughed. “And so I would, mother.”
For the beautiful cathedral service had charms for Dolly. Islip Church was a very primitive church, the good old clergyman was toothless, the singing of the two psalms was led off by the clerk in a cracked bass voice; there was no organ. Accustomed to nothing better than this, the first time Dolly found herself at the cathedral, after their removal to Worcester, and the magnificent services burst upon her astonished senses, she thought she must have ascended to some celestial sphere. The fine edifice, the musical chanting of the prayers by the minor canons, the singing of the numerous choir, men and boys in their white surplices, the deep tones of the swelling organ, the array of white-robed prebendaries, the dignified and venerable bishop — Cornwall — in his wig and lawn sleeves, the state, the ceremony of the whole, and the glittering colours of the famed east window in the distance; all this laid hold of Dolly’s senses for ever. She and her mother attended St. Martin’s Church generally, but Dolly would now and then lure her mother to the cathedral. Latterly Mrs. Grape had been ailing and did not go anywhere.
“If you could but go to college to-day, mother!” went on Dolly.
“Why!”
“Mr. Benson preaches. I met Miss Stafford yesterday afternoon, and she told me Mr. Benson had come into residence. The Herald said so too.”
“Then you must go betimes if you would secure a seat,” remarked Mrs. Grape. “And mind you don’t get your new muslin skirt torn.”
So Dolly put on her new muslin, and her bonnet, and started.
When the Reverend Christopher Benson, Master of the Temple, became one of the prebendaries of Worcester, his fame as a preacher flew to all parts of the town. You should hear the Squire’s account of the crush in getting into the cathedral on the Sundays that he was in residence: four Sundays in the year; or five, as the case might be; all told. Members of other churches, Dissenters of different sects, Quakers, Roman Catholics, and people who never went anywhere at other times, scrupled not to run to hear Mr. Benson. For reading like unto his, or preaching like unto his, had rarely been heard in that cathedral or in any other. Though it might be only the Gospel that fell to his share in the communion service, the crowd listened, enraptured, to his sweet, melodious tones. The college doors were besieged before the hour for opening them; it was like going into a theatre.
Dolly, on this day, made one in the crowd at the cloister entrance; she was pushed here and there; and although she hurried well with the rest as soon as the doors were unlocked, every seat was taken when she reached the chancel. She found standing room opposite the pulpit, near King John’s tomb, and felt very hot in the crush.
“Is it always like this, here?”
The whispered words came from a voice at her side. Dolly turned, and saw a tall, fine-looking, well-dressed man about thirty, with a green silk umbrella in his hand.
“No,” she whispered back again. “Only for four or five Sundays, at this time of the year, when Mr. Benson preaches.”
“Indeed,” said the stranger. “His preaching ought to be something extraordinary to attract such a crowd as this.”
“And so it is,” breathed Dolly. “And his reading — oh, you never heard any reading like it.”
“Very eloquent, I suppose?”
“I don’t know whether it may be called eloquence,” debated Dolly, remembering that a chance preacher she once heard, who thumped the cushions with his hands and shook the air with his voice, was said to be eloquent. “Mr. Benson is the quietest preacher and reader I ever listened to.”
The stranger seemed to be a kind sort of man. During the stir made by the clergy, preceded by the six black-robed, bowing bedesmen, going up to the communion-table, he found an inch of room on a bench, and secured it for Dolly. She thanked him gratefully.
Mr. Benson’s sermon came to an end, the bishop gave the blessing from his throne, and the crowd poured out. Dolly, by way of a change, made her exit from the great north entrance. The brightness of the day had changed; a sharp shower was falling.
“Oh dear! My new muslin will be wet through!” thought Dolly. “This parasol’s of no use.”
“Will you allow me to offer you my umbrella — or permit me to hold it over you?” spoke the stranger, who must have followed her
out. And Dolly hesitated and flushed, and did not know whether she ought to say yes or no.
He held the umbrella over Dolly, letting his own coat get wet. The shower ceased presently; but he walked on by her side to her mother’s door, and then departed with a bow fit for an emperor.
“What a polite man!” thought Dolly. “Quite a gentleman.” And she mentioned the occurrence to her mother; who seemed to-day more poorly than usual.
They sat at the open window in the afternoon, and Dolly read aloud the evening psalms. It was the fifth day of the month. As Dolly finished the last verse and closed the book, Mrs. Grape, after a moment’s silence, repeated the words: —
“The Lord shall give strength unto His people: the Lord shall give His people the blessing of peace.”
“What a beautiful promise that is, Dolly!” she said in hushed tones. “Peace! Ah, my dear, no one can know what that word means until they have been sorely tried. Peace everlasting!”
Mrs. Grape leaned back in her chair, gazing upwards. The sky was of a deep blue; a brilliant gold cloud, of peculiar shape, was moving slowly across it just overhead.
“One could almost fancy it to be God’s golden throne in the brighter land,” she murmured. “My child, do you know, the thought comes across me at times that it may not be long before I am there. And I am getting to long for it.”
“Don’t say that, mother,” cried the startled girl.
“Well, well, dear, I don’t want to frighten you. It is all as God pleases.”
“I shall send to ask Mr. Nash to come to see you to-morrow, mother. Do you feel worse?”
Mrs. Grape slightly shook her head. Presently she spoke.
“Is it not almost teatime, Dolly? — whoever is that?”
A gentleman, passing, with a red rose in his button-hole and silk umbrella in his hand, was taking off his hat to Dolly. Dolly’s face turned red as the rose as she returned the bow, and whispered to her mother that it was the polite stranger. He halted to express a hope that the young lady had not taken cold from the morning shower.
He turned out to be a Mr. Mapping, a traveller in the wine trade for some London house. But, when he was stating this to Mrs. Grape during the first visit paid her (for he contrived to make good his entrance to the house), he added in a careless, off-hand manner, that he was thankful to say he had good private means and was not dependent upon his occupation. He lingered on in Worcester, and became intimate with the Grapes.
Events thickened. Before the next month, August, came in, Mrs. Grape died. Dolly was stunned; but she would have felt the blow even more keenly than she did feel it had she not fallen over head and ears in love with Alick Mapping. About three hundred pounds, all her mother’s savings, came to Dolly; excepting that, and the furniture, she was unprovided for.
“You cannot live upon that: what’s a poor three hundred pounds?” spoke Mr. Mapping a day or two after the funeral, his tone full of tender compassion.
“How rich he must be himself!” thought poor Dolly.
“You will have to let me take care of you, child.”
“Oh dear!” murmured Dolly.
“We had better be married without delay. Once you are my wife — —”
“Please don’t go on!” interposed Dolly in a burst of sobs. “My dear mother is hardly buried.”
“But what are you to do?” he gently asked. “You will not like to live here alone — and you have no income to live here upon. Your business is worth nothing as yet; it would not keep you in gloves. If I speak of these things prematurely, Dolly, it is for your sake.”
Dolly sobbed. The future looked rather desolate.
“You have promised to be my wife, Dolly: remember that.”
“Oh, please don’t talk of it yet awhile!” sobbed Dolly.
“Leave you here alone I will not; you are not old enough to take care of yourself; you must have a protector. I will take you with me to London, where you will have a good home and be happy as a cricket: but you must know, Dolly, that I cannot do that until we are married. All sensible people must say that you will be quite justified under the circumstances.”
Mr. Alick Mapping had a wily tongue, and Dolly was persuaded to listen. The marriage was fixed for the first week in September, and the banns were put up at St. Martin’s Church; which, as every one knows, stands in the corn-market. Until then, Mr. Mapping returned to London; to make, as he told Dolly, preparations for his bride. An acquaintance of Mrs. Grape’s, who had been staying with Dolly since the death, would remain with her to the last. As soon as Dolly was gone, the furniture would be sold by Mr. Stretch, the auctioneer, and the proceeds transmitted to Dolly in London. Mrs. Grape had given all she possessed to Dolly, in the fixed and firm belief that her son was really no more.
But all this was not to be put in practice without a warning from their neighbour, the Quaker lady; she sent for Dolly, being confined to her own chamber by illness.
“Thee should not be in this haste, Dorothy,” she began. “It is not altogether seemly, child, and it may not be well for thee hereafter. Thee art too young to marry; thee should wait a year or two — —”
“But I am not able to wait,” pleaded poor Dolly, with tears in her eyes. “How could I continue to live alone in the house — all by myself?”
“Nay, but thee need not have done that. Some one of discreet age would have been glad to come and share expenses with thee. I might have helped thee to a suitable person myself: a cousin of mine, an agreeable and kindly woman, would like to live up this way. But the chief objection that I see to this hasty union, Dorothy,” continued Miss Deavor, “is that thee knows next to nothing about the young man.”
Dolly opened her eyes in surprise. “Why, I know him quite well, dear Miss Rachel. He has told me all about himself.”
“That I grant thee. Elizabeth informs me that thee has had a good account from himself as to his means and respectability. But thee has not verified it.”
“Verified it!” repeated Dolly.
“Thee has not taken steps to ascertain that the account he gives is true. How does thee know it to be so?”
Dolly’s face flushed. “As if he would deceive me! You do not know him, Miss Deavor.”
“Nay, child, I wish not to cast undeserved aspersion on him. But thee should ask for proof that what he tells thee is correct. Before thee ties thyself to him for life, Dorothy, thee will do well to get some friend to make inquiries in London. It is my best advice to thee, child; and it is what Mary Ann Grape, thy mother, would have done before giving thee to him.”
Dolly thanked Miss Deavor and went away. The advice was well meant, of course; she felt that; but quite needless. Suspect Alick Mapping of deceit! Dolly would rather have suspected herself. And she did nothing.
The morning of the wedding-day arrived in due course. Dolly was attiring herself for the ceremony in a pretty new grey gown, her straw bonnet trimmed with white satin lying on the bed (to resume her black on the morrow), when Elizabeth Deavor came in.
“I have something to say to thee, Dolly,” she began, in a grave tone. “I hardly knew whether to speak to thee or not, feeling not altogether sure of the thing myself, so I asked Aunt Rachel, and she thinks thee ought to be told.”
“What is it?” cried Dolly.
“I think I saw thy brother Tom last night.”
The words gave Dolly a curious shock. She fell back in a chair.
“I will relate it to thee,” said Elizabeth. “Last evening I was at Aunt Rachel’s window above-stairs, when I saw a boy in dark clothes standing on the pavement outside, just opposite thy gate. It was a bright night, as thee knows. He had his arms folded and stood quite still, gazing at this house. The moonlight shone on his face and I thought how much it was like poor lost Tom’s. He still stood on; so I went downstairs and stepped to our gate, to ask whether he was in want of any one: and then, Dolly, I felt queerer than I ever felt in my life, for I saw that it was Tom. At least, I thought so.”
“Did he
speak?” gasped Dolly.
“He neither spoke nor answered me: he turned off, and went quickly down the road. I think it was Tom; I do indeed.”
“What am I to do?” cried Dolly. “Oh, if I could but find him!”
“There’s nothing to do, that we can see,” answered the young Quakeress. “I have talked it over with Aunt Rachel. It would appear as though he did not care to show himself: else, if it were truly thy brother, why did he not come in? I will look out for him every night and speak to him if he appears again. I promise thee that, Dolly.”
“Why do you say ‘appears,’ Elizabeth?” cried the girl. “You think it was himself, do you not; not his — his spirit?”
“Truly, I can but conclude it was himself.”
Dolly, in a state of bewilderment, what with one thing and another, was married to Alick Mapping in St. Martin’s Church, by its white-haired Rector, Digby Smith. A yellow post-chaise waited at the church-gates and carried them to Tewkesbury. The following day they went on by coach to Gloucester, where Mr. Mapping intended to stay a few days before proceeding to London.
They took up their quarters at a comfortable country inn on the outskirts of the town. On the second day after their arrival, Dolly, about to take a country walk with her husband, ran downstairs from putting her bonnet on, and could not see him. The barmaid told her he had gone into the town to post a letter, and asked Dolly to step into the bar-parlour to wait.
It was a room chiefly used by commercial travellers. Dolly’s attention was caught by something over the mantelpiece. In a small glass-case, locked, there was the portrait of a man cleverly done in pencil; by its side hung a plain silver watch with a seal and key attached to a short black ribbon: and over all was a visiting-card, inscribed in ink, “Mr. Gardner.” Dolly looked at this and turned sick and faint: it was her father’s likeness, her father’s watch, seal, and ribbon. Of an excitable nature, she burst into tears, and the barmaid ran in. There and then, the mystery so long hanging about Robert Grape’s fate was cleared up, so far as it ever would be in this world.