by Ellen Wood
“He did not leave me the whole. You had a share of it.”
“Not of the income. I had a sum of five hundred pounds left me, for a specific purpose — to complete my medical education. Mother, I have never grumbled at this; never. It was my father’s will and pleasure that the whole should be yours, and that it should go to your children after you; and I am content to think that he did for the best; the house was obliged to come to me; it had been so settled at my mother’s marriage; but you have continued to live in it, and I have not said you nay.”
“It is like you to remind me of all this!”
“I could remind you of more,” he rejoined, chafing at her unjust words, her resentful manner. “That for years I impoverished myself to help you to augment this income. Three parts of what I earned, before my partnership with Mr. Tamlyn, I gave to you.”
“Well, I needed it. Do, for goodness’ sake, let the past alone, if you can: where’s the use of recalling it? Would you have us starve? Would you see me taken off to prison? And that’s what it will come to, unless I can get some money to pay up with. That table-drawer that you’ve got your elbow on, is full of bills. I’ve not paid one for these six months.”
“I cannot think what it is you do with your money!”
“Do with my money! Why, it goes in a hundred ways. How very ignorant you are, Arnold. Look at what dress costs, for myself and four girls! Look at what the soirées cost! We have to give all sorts of dishes now; lobster salads and raspberry creams, and all kinds of expensive things. Madame St. Vincent introduced that.”
“You must put down the soirées and the dress — if you cannot keep them within the bounds of your income.”
“Thank you. Just as I had to put down the pony-carriage and James. How cruel you are, Arnold!”
“I hope I am not. I do not wish to be so.”
“It will take two hundred pounds to set me straight; and I must have it from you, or from somebody else,” avowed Mrs. Knox.
“You certainly cannot have it, or any portion of it, from me. My expenses are heavy now, and I have my own children coming on.”
His tone was unmistakably decisive, and Mrs. Knox saw that it was so. For many years she had been in the habit of regarding Arnold as something like a bucket in a well, which brings up water every time it is let down. Just so had he brought up money for her from his pocket every time she worried for it. But that was over now: and he had to bear these reproaches periodically.
“You know that you can let me have it, Arnold. You can lend it me from Mina’s money.”
His face flushed slightly, he pushed his fair hair back with a gesture of annoyance.
“The last time you spoke of that I begged you never to mention it again,” he said in a low tone. “Why, what do you take me for, mother?”
“Take you for?”
“You must know that I could not touch Mina’s money without becoming a false trustee. Men have been brought to the criminal bar to answer for a less crime than that would be.”
“If Mina married, you would have to hand over the whole of it.”
“Of course I should. First of all taking care that it was settled upon her.”
“I don’t see the necessity of that. Mina could let me have what she pleased of it.”
“Talking of Mina,” resumed Dr. Knox, passing by her remark, “I think you must look a little closely after her. She is more intimate, I fancy, with Captain Collinson than is desirable, and — —”
“Suppose Captain Collinson wants to marry her?” interrupted Mrs. Knox.
“Has he told you that he wants to do so?”
“No; not in so many words. But he evidently likes her. What a good match it would be!”
“Mina is too young to be married yet. And Captain Collinson cannot, I should suppose, have any intention of the sort. If he had, he would speak out: when it would be time enough to consider and discuss his proposal. Unless he does speak, I must beg of you not to allow Mina to be alone with him.”
“She never is alone with him.”
“I think she is, at odd moments. Only last night I saw her with him at the gate. Before that, while your soirée was going on, Dicky — I believe he could tell you so, if you asked him — saw them walking together in the garden, the captain’s arm round her waist.”
“Girls are so fond of flirting! And young men think no harm of a little passing familiarity.”
“Just so. But for remembering this, I should speak to Captain Collinson. The thought that there may be nothing serious in it prevents me. At any rate, I beg of you to take care of Mina.”
“And the money I want?” she asked, as he took up his hat to go.
But Dr. Knox, shortly repeating that he had no money to give her, made his escape. He had been ruffled enough already. One thing was certain: that if some beneficent sprite from fairyland increased Mrs. Knox’s annual income cent. per cent. she would still, and ever, be in embarrassment. Arnold knew this.
Mrs. Knox sat on, revolving difficulties. How many similar interviews she had held with her step-son, and how often he had been brought round to pay her bills, she could but remember. Would he do it now? A most unpleasant doubt, that he would not, lay upon her.
Presently the entrance was darkened by some tall form interposing itself between herself and the sunlight. She glanced up and saw Captain Collinson. He stood there smiling, his tasselled cane jauntily swayed in his left hand.
“My dear madam, you looked troubled. Is anything wrong?”
“Troubled! the world’s full of trouble, I think,” spoke Mrs. Knox, in a pettish kind of way. “Dr. Knox has been here to vex me.”
Captain Collinson stepped airily in, and sat down near Mrs. Knox, his eyes expressing proper concern: indignation blended with sympathy.
“Very inconsiderate of Dr. Knox: very wrong! Can I help you in any way, my dear lady?”
“Arnold is always inconsiderate. First, he begins upon me about Dicky, threatening to put him altogether away at school, poor ill-used child! Next, he — —”
“Sweet little angel?” interlarded the captain.
“Next, he refuses to lend me a trifling sum of money — and he knows how badly I want it!”
“Paltry!” ejaculated the captain. “When he must be making so much of it!”
“Rolling in it, so to say,” confirmed Mrs. Knox. “Look at the practice he has! But if he did not give me any of his, he might advance me a trifle of Mina’s.”
“Of course he might,” warmly acquiesced Captain Collinson.
What with the warmth and the sympathy, Mrs. Knox rather lost her head. Many of us are betrayed on occasion into doing the same. That is, she said more than she should have said.
“You see, if Mina married, as I pointed out to Arnold, the money would no longer be under his control at all. It would be hers to do as she pleased with. She is a dear, good, generous girl, and would not scruple to let me have one or two hundred pounds. What would such a trifle be out of the whole seven thousand?”
“Very true; nothing at all,” cried the captain, toying with his handsome beard.
“But no; Arnold will not hear of it: he answered me in a way that I should not like to repeat. He also said he should take care, if Mina did marry before she was of age, that her money was settled upon her; said it on purpose to thwart me.”
“Cruel!” aspirated the captain.
“Some girls might be tempted to marry off-hand, and say nothing to him, if only to get her fortune out of his control. I don’t say Mina would.”
“Miser! My dear madam, rely upon it that whenever Miss Mina does marry, her husband will join with her in letting you have as much money as you wish. I am sure it would be his pride and pleasure to do so.”
Was it an implied promise? meant to be so understood? Mrs. Knox took it for one. She came out of her dumps, and felt exalted to the seventh heaven.
Meanwhile, Arnold Knox was with Lady Jenkins, to whom he had gone on quitting his step-mother. The old lady
, up and dressed, sat in her dining-room. There appeared to be no change in her condition: drowsy, lethargic, gentle, yielding; imbecile, or not many shades removed from it. And yet, neither Dr. Knox nor his fellow-practitioner could see any cause to account for this. Of bodily illness she had none: except that she seemed feeble.
“I wish you would tell me what it is you are taking,” said Dr. Knox, bending over her and speaking in low, persuasive tones. “I fear that you are taking something that does you harm.”
Lady Jenkins looked up at him, apparently trying to consider. “I’ve not had anything since I took the physic,” she said.
“What physic?”
“The bottles that Mr. Tamlyn sent me.”
“But that was when you were ill. Are you sure you have not taken anything else? — that you are not taking anything? Any” — he dropped his voice to a still lower key— “opiates? Laudanum, for instance?”
Lady Jenkins shook her head. “I never took any sort of opiate in my life.”
“Then it is being given to her without her knowledge,” mentally decided the doctor. “I hear you were at the next door last night, as gay as the best of them,” he resumed aloud, changing his tone to a light one.
“Ay. I put on my new bronze satin gown: Patty said I was to. Janet sang her pretty songs.”
“Did she? When are you coming to spend an evening with us? She will sing them again for you.”
“I should like to come — if I may.”
“If you may! There’s nothing to prevent it. You are quite well enough.”
“There’s Patty. We shall have to ask her whether I may.”
Anything Arnold Knox might have rejoined to this was stopped by the entrance of Patty herself, a light blue shawl on her shoulders. A momentary surprise crossed her face at sight of the doctor.
“Oh, Dr. Knox! I did not know you were here,” she said, as she threw off the shawl. “I was running about the garden for a few minutes. What a lovely day it is! — the sun so warm.”
“It is that. Lady Jenkins ought to be out in it. Should you not like to take a run in the garden?” he laughingly added to her.
“Should I, Patty?”
The utter abnegation of will, both of tone and look, as she cast an appealing glance at her companion, struck Dr. Knox forcibly. He looked at both of them from under his rather overhanging eyebrows. Did Madame St. Vincent extort this obedience? — or was it simply the old lady’s imbecility? Surely it must be the latter.
“I think,” said madame, “a walk in the garden will be very pleasant for you, dear Lady Jenkins. Lettice shall bring down your things. The may-tree is budding beautifully.”
“Already!” said the doctor: “I should like to see it. Will you go with me, madame? I have two minutes to spare.”
Madame St. Vincent, showing no surprise, though she may have felt it, put the blue shawl on her shoulders again and followed Dr. Knox. The may-tree was nearly at the end of the garden, down by the shrubbery.
“Mr. Tamlyn mentioned to you, I believe, that we suspected something improper, in the shape of opiates, was being given to Lady Jenkins,” began Dr. Knox, never as much as lifting his eyes to the budding may-tree.
“Yes; I remember that he did,” replied Madame St. Vincent. “I hardly gave it a second thought.”
“Tamlyn said you had a difficulty in believing it. Nevertheless, I feel assured that it is so.”
“Impossible, Dr. Knox.”
“It seems impossible to you, I dare say. But that it is being done, I would stake my head upon. Lady Jenkins is being stupefied in some way: and I have brought you out here to tell you so, and to ask your co-operation in tracing the culprit.”
“But — I beg your pardon, Dr. Knox — who would give her anything of the kind? You don’t suspect me, I hope?”
“If I suspected you, my dear lady, I should not be talking to you as I am. The person we must suspect is Lettice Lane.”
“Lettice Lane!”
“I have reason to think it. Lettice Lane’s antecedents are not, I fear, quite so clear as they might be: though it is only recently I have known this. At any rate, she is the personal attendant of Lady Jenkins; the only one of them who has the opportunity of being alone with her. I must beg of you to watch Lettice Lane.”
Madame St. Vincent looked a little bewildered; perhaps felt so. Stretching up her hand, she plucked one of the budding may-blossoms.
“Mr. Tamlyn hinted at Lettice also. I have always felt confidence in Lettice. As to drugs — Dr. Knox, I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Lady Jenkins is being drugged,” emphatically pronounced Dr. Knox. “And you must watch Lettice Lane. If Lettice is innocent, we must look elsewhere.”
“Shall I tax Lettice with it?”
“Certainly not. You would make a good detective,” he added, with a laugh; “showing your hand to the enemy. Surely, Madame St. Vincent, you must yourself see that Lady Jenkins is being tampered with. Look at her state this morning: though she is not quite as bad as she is sometimes.”
“I have known some old people sleep almost constantly.”
“So have I. But theirs is simply natural sleep, induced by exhausted nature: hers is not natural. She is stupefied.”
“Stupefied with the natural decay of her powers,” dissented madame. “But — to drug her! No, I cannot believe it. And where would be the motive?”
“That I know not. But I am sure I am not mistaken,” he added decisively. “You will watch Lettice Lane?”
“I will,” she answered, after a pause. “Of course it may be as you say; I now see it. I will watch her to the very utmost of my ability from this hour.”
III.
“Dear Johnny,
“I expect your stay at Lefford is drawing towards a close; mine is, here. It might be pleasant if we travelled home together. I could take Lefford on my way — starting by an early train — and pick you up. You need some one to take care of you, you know. Let me hear when you intend to be ready. I will arrange my departure accordingly.
“Hope you have enjoyed yourself, old fellow.”
“Ever yours,
“J. T.”
The above letter from Tod, who was still in Leicestershire, reached me one morning at breakfast-time. Dr. Knox and Janet, old Tamlyn — all the lot of them — called out that they could not spare me yet. Even Cattledon graciously intimated that she should miss me. Janet wrote to Tod, telling him he was to take Lefford on his way, as he proposed, and to stay a week when he did come.
It was, I think, that same day that some news reached us touching Captain Collinson — that he was going to be married. At least that he had made an offer, and was accepted. Not to Mina Knox; but to an old girl (the epithet was Sam’s) named Belmont. Miss Belmont lived with her father at a nice place on the London Road, half-a-mile beyond Jenkins House; he had a great deal of money, and she was his only child. She was very plain, very dowdy, and quite forty years of age; but very good, going about amongst the poor with tracts and soup. If the tidings were true, and Captain Collinson had made Miss Belmont an offer, it appeared pretty evident that his object was her money: he could not well have fallen in love with her, or court a wife so much older than himself.
When taxed with the fact — and it was old Tamlyn who did it, meeting him opposite the market-house — Collinson simpered, and stroked his dark beard, and said Lefford was fond of marvels. But he did not deny it. Half-an-hour later he and Miss Belmont were seen together in the High Street. She had her old cloth mantle on and her brown bonnet, as close as a Quaker’s, and carried her flat district basket in her hand. The captain presented a contrast, with his superb dandy-cut clothes and flourishing his ebony cane.
“I think it must be quite true,” Janet observed, as we watched them pass the house. “And I shall be glad if it is: Arnold has been tormenting himself with the fancy that the gallant captain was thinking of little Mina.”
A day or two after this, it chanced that Dr. Knox had to visit Sir H
enry Westmorland, who had managed to give a twist to his ankle. Sir Henry was one of those sociable, good-hearted men that no one can help liking; a rather elderly bachelor. He and Tamlyn were old friends, and we had all dined at Foxgrove about a week before.
“Would you like to go over with me, Johnny?” asked Dr. Knox, when he was starting.
I said I should like it very much, and got into the “conveyance,” the doctor letting me drive. Thomas was not with us. We soon reached Foxgrove: a low, straggling, red-brick mansion, standing in a small park, about two miles and a half from Lefford.
Dr. Knox went in; leaving me and the conveyance on the smooth wide gravel-drive before the house. Presently a groom came up to take charge of it, saying Sir Henry was asking for me. He had seen me from the window.
Sir Henry was lying on a sofa near the window, and Knox was already beginning upon the ankle. A gentlemanly little man, nearly bald, sat on the ottoman in the middle of the room. I found it was one Major Leckie.
Some trifle — are these trifles chance? — turned the conversation upon India. I think Knox spoke of some snake-bite in a man’s ankle that had laid him by for a month or two: it was no other than the late whilom mayor, Sir Daniel Jenkins. Upon which, Major Leckie began relating his experience of some reptile bites in India. The major had been home nearly two years upon sick leave, he said, and was now going back again.
“The 30th Bengal Cavalry!” repeated Dr. Knox, as Major Leckie happened to mention that regiment — which was his, and the doctor remembered that it was Captain Collinson’s. “One of the officers of that regiment is staying here now.”
“Is he!” cried the major, briskly. “Which of them?”
“Captain Collinson.”
“Collinson!” echoed the major, his whole face alight with pleasure. “Where is he? How long has he been here? I did not know he had left India.”
“He came home last autumn, I fancy; was not well, and got twelve months’ leave. He has been staying at Lefford for some time.”