by Ellen Wood
“No, I have not,” she said. “I walked up into their porch as bold as you please, Johnny Ludlow, and I knocked and I rang, letting ’em think it was the Queen come, if they would. And when the woman with the sour face opened the door an inch, she just took the receipt from me; but as to seeing her mistress, I might as well have asked to see the moon. And I heard a scuffle, as if people were listening. Oh, it’s those Indians: trust me for that.”
Away she went, without further ceremony, and I went back to the ups and downs of earthly life.
It was not so very long ago that Thomas Rymer had lain on his death-bed, brought to it by the troubles of the world, and by the anxiety for his children, for whom no career seemed to present itself, saving that of hard, mean, hopeless drudgery: if not something worse for Benjamin. But how things had changed! Benjamin, pulling himself up from his ill-doings, was — what he was. A man respected; clever, distinguished, with probably a great career of usefulness before him, and about to be married to a charming girl of large fortune. While Margaret, whom her father had so loved, so pitied, was the wife of a man high in the Church, and happy as a queen. For, as you have gathered, the Reverend Isaac Sale, who had given up Herbert Tanerton’s humble curacy to go out as chaplain to the Bahama Islands, had been made an archdeacon. Ups and downs, ups and downs! they make the sum and substance of existence. Glancing at the blue sky, over which fleecy white clouds were softly drifting, I lost myself in wondering whether Thomas Rymer could look down and still see his children here.
The chemist’s shop at Timberdale had been sold by Benjamin Rymer to the smart young man who had carried it on during his absences, one James Boom, said to be Scotch. Benjamin had his rooms there at present; good-sized closets, he has just called them; and took his meals with Mr. Boom. Mrs. Rymer, the mother (having appropriated all the purchase-money), had set up her home in Birmingham amidst her old friends and relatives, and Benjamin had covenanted to allow her money yearly from his practice.
Public commotion increased. It spread to Oxlip Grange. One night, Ozias was sitting back amidst the laurels at the side of the house to smoke his pipe, when Maria came out to ask him what he had done with the best tea-tray, which they couldn’t find. As she stood a moment while he reflected, there came two figures softly creeping round from the front — women. One wore a close bonnet and full dark cloak, the other was altogether enveloped in some shapeless garment that might be yellow by daylight, out of which a jet-black face and jet-black hands shone conspicuously in the rays of the stars. Maria, very much frightened, grasped hold of the old man’s shoulder.
The pipe trembled in his hand: he had a mortal dread of assassins and housebreakers. “No speaky, no speaky,” whispered he. “We watch, you and me. They come hurt Missee.”
The figures made for the lighted window of the large drawing-room, which was at the end of this side of the house. Coralie was sitting alone within it, expecting visitors to tea. The blind was not drawn quite down, and they stooped to peer in, and remained there as if glued to the window. Maria could stand it no longer, but in creeping away, she rustled the laurels frightfully: we are sure to make the most noise, you know, when we want to be silent. The women looked round, and there came from them a rattling hiss, like that of a snake. With a scream, Maria made for the refuge of the kitchen-door; Ozias flew after her, dropping his pipe.
It must have disturbed the women. For just about then, when the Squire, holding my arm, arrived at Miss Fontaine’s gate, they were coming out: two disguised figures, who went swiftly down the road.
“Mercy be good to us!” cried the Squire, aghast. He had drawn back in politeness to let them pass through the gate, and had found the black face come nearly into contact with his own. “Johnny, lad, that must be Mrs. Cramp’s tenant and her servant!”
They brushed past Mrs. Todhetley coming along with Tod. Maria and Ozias were in the drawing-room when we got in, talking like wild things. The other guests soon arrived, Dr. Rymer, Mrs. Cramp, and Tom Chandler and his wife from Islip. Ozias gave an opinion that Missee (meaning Coralie) was about to be assassinated in her bed.
At this Coralie laughed. She had no fear, but she did not like it. “I cannot see what they could possibly want, looking in at me!” she cried. “It was very rude.”
“They want Missee’s diamonds,” spoke Ozias. “Missee got great lot beauty diamonds, lot other beauty jewels; black woman come in this night — next night — after night — who know which — and smother Missee and take dem all.”
Poor Mrs. Cramp, sitting in the biggest arm-chair, her sandalled shoes stretched on a footstool, was quite taken out of herself with dismay. The Squire rubbed his face incessantly, asking what was to be done. Dr. Rymer said nothing in regard to what was to be done; but he gave his head an emphatic nod, as if he knew.
The next morning he presented himself at North Villa, and asked to see its tenant. The woman-servant denied him — over the chain. Ben insisted upon his card and his request being taken in. After a battle of words, she took them in, shutting the door in his face the while; and the doctor cooled his heels in the porch for five minutes. As she drew the door open again, he caught sight of a black face twisted round the sitting-room door-post to peep at him, a black hand, with rings on it, grasping it. She saw him looking at her, and disappeared like a shot. The message brought out by the servant was that her mistress was an invalid, unable to see visitors: if Dr. Rymer had any business with her, he must be good enough to convey it by letter.
“Very well,” said the doctor, in his decisive way: “I warn you and your mistress not again to intrude on Miss Fontaine’s premises, as you did last night. If you do, you must take the consequences.”
At this, the woman stared as if it were so much Greek to her. She answered that she had not been on Miss Fontaine’s premises, then or ever; had not been out-of-doors at all the previous night. And Ben thought by her tone she was speaking truth.
“It was one of those Indian brothers disguised in a cloak and bonnet,” said we all when we heard this. And Coralie’s servants took to watching through the livelong night at the upper windows, turn and turn about, growing thin from dread of the assassins.
Altogether, what with one small item and another, Mrs. Cramp’s tenant kept us alive. A belief had prevailed that the woman-servant was the same who had attended the Indians; but this was dispelled. A housemaid of ours, Nancy, a flighty sort of girl, often in hot water with her elders thereby, whose last service had been with old Lawyer Cockermouth, at Worcester, was out on an errand when she met this woman and recognized her for an old acquaintance. During Nancy’s service with the lawyer she had been there as the cook-housekeeper.
“It is Sarah Stone, ma’am, and nobody else!” cried Nancy, running in to tell the news to Mrs. Todhetley. “She left for her temper, soon after I left; I heard say that old Miss Cockermouth wouldn’t put up with it any longer.”
“Are you sure it is the same, Nancy?” asked Mrs Todhetley.
“Why, ma’am, I know Sarah Stone as well as I know my own mother. ‘What, is it you that’s living here with that there black lady?’ I says to her. ‘What is it to you whether I’m living with a black lady or a white ‘un,’ she answers me, crustily: ‘just mind your own affairs, Nancy Dell.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘there’s a pretty talk about her; it’s not me that would like to serve a wild Indian’ — and that set Sarah Stone off at a strapping pace, ma’am.”
Thus things went on. North Villa seeming to grow more isolated day by day, and its inmates more mysterious. When the rent for the next month was nearly due, Mrs. Cramp found it left at her house as before: and poor Mrs. Cramp felt fit to have a fever.
One evening, early in November, Mr. Cole, the surgeon of Crabb, was seen to go into North Villa. He was seen to go again the following morning, and again in the afternoon, and again in the evening. It transpired that the black lady was alarmingly ill.
Naturally, it put the parish up in arms. We made a rush for Cole, wanting to ask him fiv
e hundred things. Cole, skimming along the ground like a lamplighter, avoided us all; and the first to succeed in pouncing upon him was Miss Timmens, the schoolmistress. Very downright and honest, she was in the habit of calling a spade a spade, and poured out her questions one upon another. They had met by the yellow barn.
“Well, no,” answers Cole, when he could get a word in, “I don’t think that any murderer is at North Villa; do not see one about, but there’s a baby.” “A baby!” shrieks Miss Timmens, as she pushed back the bunches of black curls from her thin cheeks with their chronic redness, “a baby!” “Yes, a baby,” says Cole, “a new baby.” “Good mercy!” cries she, “a baby! a black baby! Is it a boy or a girl, Mr. Cole?” “It’s a boy,” says Cole. “Good mercy! a black boy! — what an extraordinary sight it must be!” Cole says nothing to this; only looks at her as meek as a lamb. “And now, between ourselves, doctor,” goes on Miss Timmens, confidentially, “did you see the Indians there? — those men?” “Did not see any man at all,” answers Cole, “saw no sign of a man being there.” “Ah, of course they’d take their precautions to keep out of sight,” nodded Miss Timmens, thinking old Cole uncommonly stupid to-day. “And how do you relish attending on a black patient, doctor? And what’s she like?” “Why,” answers Cole, “black patients are much the same as white ones; have the same number of arms and legs and fingers.” “Oh, indeed,” says Miss Timmens, quite sharply; and she wishes Cole good-day. And that was the best that could be got out of Cole.
The doctor’s visits were watched with the most intense interest; three times a-day at first, then twice a-day, then once; and then they ceased altogether.
“Black lady on her legs again?” says Ben Rymer, meeting Cole about this time. “Quite so,” answers Cole. “Mind that you get paid, sir,” says Ben, with a laugh. “No need to mind that,” returns Cole, “five sovereigns were put into my hand when the child was born.” “By the black lady?” asks Ben, opening his eyes: for two guineas was the crack fee in our parts. “Yes, it was the black lady who gave it me,” says Cole with emphasis: “and that, she took care to say, was not to include subsequent attendance. Wish you the same luck in your next case, Rymer.”
Rymer thanked him and went off laughing. He was getting on in his practice like a house on fire, his fame rising daily.
“How do you like it — his setting up here?” confidentially questioned the Squire of Darbyshire, the doctor at Timberdale.
“Plenty of room for both of us,” replied Darbyshire, “and I am not as young as I was. It rather strikes me, though, Squire, it is not exactly at Timberdale that Rymer will pitch his tent.”
The next exciting event had nothing to do with North Villa. It was the arrival of Archdeacon Sale with his wife and children. They did not go to Coralie’s. Herbert Tanerton opened his heart, and carried them off to the Rectory from the railway-station. That was so like Herbert! Had Sale remained a poor curate he might have gone to the workhouse and taken Margaret with him; being an archdeacon Herbert chose to make much of him. Margaret was not altered, she was loving and gentle as ever; with the same nice face, and poor Thomas Rymer’s sad, sweet eyes shining from it.
Of course the first thing confided to the Bahama travellers was the mystery at North Villa. The Archdeacon took a sensible view of it. “As long as the black lady does not molest you,” he said, “why trouble yourselves about her?”
After that we had a bit of a lull. Nothing exciting occurred. Saving a report that two of the Indians were seen taking the air in the garden of North Villa, each with a formidable stick in his hand. But it turned out that they were two tramps who had gone in to beg.
III.
I thought it would have come to a quarrel. The Squire maintained his view and Coralie maintained hers. They talked at each other daily, neither giving way.
Christmas-Day was approaching, and it had pleased Miss Fontaine to project a sumptuous dinner for it, to be given at Oxlip Grange to all her special friends. The Squire protested he never heard of anything so unreasonable. He did not dine out of his own house on Christmas-Day, and she must come to Crabb Cot.
The third week in December had set in, when one evening, as we rose from table, the Squire impulsively declared he would go and finally have it out with her.
Meaning Coralie. Settling himself into his great-coat, he called to me to go after him. In the Islip Road we overtook Cole, walking fast also. He had been sent for to the baby at North Villa, he said; and we left him at the gate.
Coralie was in her favourite little parlour, reading by lamplight. The Squire sat down by the fire in a flutter, and began remonstrating about the Christmas dinner. Coralie only laughed.
“It is unreasonable, dear Mr. Todhetley, even to propose our going to you. Think of the number! I wish to have everybody. The Archdeacon and his wife, and Dr. Rymer, and Mrs. Cramp, and the Letsoms, and Tom Chandler and Emma, and of course, her father, old Mr. Paul, as he is some relation of mine, and —— Why, that’s a carriage driving up! I wonder who has come to-night?”
Another minute, and old Ozias rushed in with a beaming face, hardly able to get his words out for excitement.
“Oh, Missee, Missee, it Massa George; come all over wide seas from home,” — and there entered a fine man with a frank and handsome face — George Bazalgette.
“Where’s Verena?” he exclaimed, after kissing Coralie and shaking hands genially with the Squire, though they had never met before.
Coralie looked surprised. “Verena?” she repeated. “Is she not with you?”
“She is not with me; I wish she was. Where is she, Coralie?”
“But how should I know where she is?” retorted Coralie, looking up at Mr. Bazalgette.
“Is she not staying with you? Did she not come over to you?”
“Certainly not,” said Coralie. “I have not seen Verena since she went out, sixteen months ago. Neither have I heard from her lately. What is it that you mean, George?”
George Bazalgette stood back against the book-case, and told us what he meant. Some weeks ago — nay, months — upon returning to Magnolia Range after a week’s absence at his other estate across the country, he found Verena flown. She left a note for him, saying she did not get on well with Magnolia, and was going to stay a little while with Mrs. Dickson. He felt hurt that Verena had not spoken openly to him about Magnolia, but glad that she should have the change, as she had not been well of late. Mrs. Dickson was his aunt and lived in a particularly healthy part of one of the adjoining islands. Time passed on; he wrote to Verena, but received no answer to his letters, and he concluded she was so put out with Magnolia that she would not write. By-and-by he thought it was time to see after her, and journeyed to Mrs. Dickson’s. Mrs. Dickson was absent, gone to stay with some friends at St. Thomas, and the servants did not know when she would return. He supposed, as a matter of course, that she had taken Verena with her, and went back home. Still the time passed; no news of Verena, no letters, and he proceeded again to Mrs. Dickson’s. Then, to his unbounded astonishment, he found that Verena had only stayed with her one week, and had taken the mail-packet for Southampton on her way to stay with her sister at Oxlip Grange. Giving a blessing to Mrs. Dickson for not having written to inform him of all this, and for having kept his letters to Verena by that young lady’s arbitrary command, he came off at once to England.
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Coralie. “She did not come here.”
The fine colour on George Bazalgette’s face, which retained its freshness though he did live in a hot climate, lost its brightness.
“She would be the least likely to come here, of all places,” pursued Coralie. “In the last answer I ever sent her, after a letter of complaints to me, hinting that she thought of coming here for a time, I scolded her sharply and assured her I should despatch her back to you the next day.”
“What am I to do?” he exclaimed. “Where look for her?”
Not caring to intrude longer, we took our departure, the Squire shaking
his head dubiously over Mrs. George Bazalgette’s vagaries. “It was the same thing,” he said, “when she was Verena Fontaine, as you remember, Johnny, and what a good fellow her husband seems to be. — Halloa! Why, that’s Cole again!”
He was coming out of North Villa. “You are back soon!” he cried. And we told him of the arrival of George Bazalgette.
Cole seemed to stare with all his eyes as he listened. I could see them in the starlight. “What will he do if he can’t find her here?” he asked of me. “Do you know, Johnny Ludlow?”
“Go back by the first and fleetest ship to turn Mrs. Dickson inside-out. He thinks she and Verena have played him a trick in letting him come over. How did you find the black baby?”
“Found nothing the matter with it,” growled Cole. “These young mothers are so fanciful!”
We left him standing against the gate, supposing that he had to go higher up. And what happened then, I can only tell you by hearsay.
Cole, propping his back against the spikes, turned his face up to the stars, as if he were taking counsel of them. Counsel he needed from somebody or something, for he was in a dilemma.
“Well, I’ll chance it,” he thought, when he had got pretty cold. “It seems the right thing to do.”
Walking briskly to Oxlip Grange, he asked to see Mr. Bazalgette; and after whispering a few words into that gentleman’s ear, brought him out to North Villa. “You stand behind me, so as not to be seen,” he directed, ringing the bell.
“I’m coming in again,” said he to Sarah Stone, when she pulled the door back about an inch. So she undid the chain; the doctor was privileged, and he slipped in, Mr. Bazalgette behind him. Sarah, the faithful, was for showing fight.
“It is all right,” said Cole. “Not yet, sir” — putting out his arm to bar Mr. Bazalgette’s passage. “You go in first, to your mistress, Sarah, and say that a gentleman is waiting to see her: just landed from the West Indies.”