by Ellen Wood
The next to take up the singing was Valentine Chandler: and in listening to him you forgot all his short-comings. Never man had sweeter voice than he; and in his singing there was a singular charm impossible to be described. In his voice also — I mean when he spoke — there was always melody, and in his speech, when he chose to put it forth, a persuasive eloquence. This might have been instrumental in winning Jane Preen’s heart; we are told that a man’s heart is lost through his eye, a woman’s through her ear. Poor Valentine! he might have been so nice a fellow — and he was going to the bad as fast as he could go.
The song he chose was a ridiculous old ditty all about love; it went to the tune of “Di tanti palpiti.” Val chose it for Miss Jane and sung it to her; to her alone, mind you; the rest of us went for nothing.
“Here we meet, too soon to part, Here to part will raise a smart, Here I’d press thee to my heart, Where none are set above thee.
Here I’d vow to love thee well; Could but words unseal the spell, Had but language power to tell, I’d tell thee how I’ve loved thee.
Here’s the rose that decks the door, Here’s the thorn that spreads the moor, Here’s the willow of the bower, And the birds that rest above thee.
Had they power of life to see, Sense of souls, like thee — and me, Then would each a witness be How dotingly I love thee.
Here we meet, too soon to part, Here to part will raise a smart, Here I’d press thee to my heart, None e’er were there but thee.”
Now, as you perceive, it is a most ridiculous song, foolish as love-songs in general are. But had you been sitting there with us in all the subtle romance imparted by the witching hour of twilight, the soft air floating around, the clear sky above, one large silver star trembling in its blue depths, you would have felt entranced. The wonderful melody of the singer’s voice, his distinct enunciation, the tender passion breathing through his soft utterance, and the slight yet unmistakable emphasis given to the avowal of his love, thrilled us all. It was as decided a declaration of what he felt for Jane Preen as he could well make in this world. Once he glanced at her, and only once throughout; it was where I have placed the pause, as he placed it himself, “like thee — and me.” As if his glance drew hers by some irresistible fascination, Jane, who had been sitting beneath the rock just opposite to him, her eyes cast down — as he made that pause and glanced at her, I say, she lifted them for a moment, and caught the glance. I may live to be an old man, but I shall never forget Val’s song that night, or the charm it held for us. What, then, must it have held for Jane? And it is because that song and its charm lie still fresh on my memory, though many a year has since worn itself out, that I inscribe it here.
As the singing came to an end, dying softly away, no one for a moment or two broke the hushed silence that ensued. Valentine was the first to do it. He got up from his seat; went round to a ledge of rock and stood upon it, looking out in the distance. Had the sea been near, one might have thought he saw a ship, homeward bound.
II
Had the clerk of the weather been bribed with a purse of gold, he could not have sent a finer day than Thursday turned out to be. The sun shone, the air sparkled, and the bells of Islip church rang out from the old steeple. Islip was much behind other churches in many respects; so primitive, indeed, in some of its ways, that had an edifice of advanced views come sailing through the air to pay it a visit, it would have turned tail again and sailed away; but Islip could boast of one thing few churches can boast of — a delightful peal of bells.
The wedding took place at eleven o’clock, and was a quiet one. Its attendants were chiefly confined to the parties themselves and their immediate relatives, but that did not prevent other people from flocking in to see it.
I and Dick MacEveril went in together, and got a good place close up; which was lucky, for the old church is full of pillars and angles that obstruct the view. Emma was in white silk; her bridesmaid, Mary MacEveril, the same; it was the custom in those days. Tom looked uncommonly well; but he and she were both nervous. Old Paul gave her away; and a thin aunt, with a twisted nose, who had come on a visit to superintend the wedding, in place of Emma’s dead mother, did nothing but weep. She wore an odd gown, pink one way, blue another; you might have thought she had borrowed its colours from their copper teakettle. Mrs. Chandler, Tom’s mother, in grey silk, was smarter than she had ever been in her life; and his aunt, Mrs. Cramp, was resplendent in a dress bordering upon orange.
The ceremony came to an end very quickly, I thought — you do think so at most simple weddings; and Tom and his wife went away together in the first carriage. Next came the breakfast at Mr. Paul’s; the aunt presiding in a gentle stream of tears. Early in the afternoon the bride and bridegroom left for London, on their way to the Continent.
Everyone does not care to dash to a church to see a marriage: some would as soon think of running to look on at a funeral. Mr. Preen was one of these insensible people, and he, of course, did not care to go near it. He made game of Jane for doing so; but Jane wanted to see the dresses and the ceremony. Oliver had not the opportunity of going; and would not have gone though he had had it. Just about eleven o’clock, when the gay doings were in full swing, Mr. Preen took Oliver off to Worcester in the gig.
About a fortnight before, Mr. Preen had appointed a saddler in Worcester to be his agent for the new patent agricultural implements, for which he was himself agent-in-chief. Until this under agency should be well in hand, Mr. Preen considered it necessary to see the saddler often: for which purpose he drove into Worcester at least three times a week. Once, instead of going himself, he had sent Oliver, but this day was the first time the two had gone together. It might have been — one cannot tell — but it might have been that Mr. Preen discerned what this wedding of Emma Paul’s must be to his son, and so took him out to divert his mind a bit.
Now, upon entering Worcester, to get to the saddler’s it was necessary to drive through High Street and turn into Broad Street. At least, that was the straightforward route. But Oliver had not taken it the day he drove in alone; he had preferred the more roundabout way of the back streets. After driving through Sidbury, he — instead of going forward up College Street and so into High Street — went careering along Friar Street, along the whole length of New Street, turned up St. Swithin Street, or Goose Lane, or one of those dingy thoroughfares, made a dash across the top of High Street, and so into his destination, Broad Street. In returning he took the same way. What his objection to the better streets could be, he alone knew. To-day, however, Mr. Preen held the reins.
Mr. Preen was driving quietly up College Street, when Oliver spoke.
“I wish you’d put me down here, father.”
“Put you down here!” repeated Mr. Preen, turning to look at him. “What for?”
“I want to get a little book for Jane,” answered Oliver, glancing towards Mr. Eaton’s house. “I shall be up in Broad Street nearly as soon as you are, if you want me there.”
“I don’t particularly want you,” said Mr. Preen, crustily, “but you needn’t be long before you come.” And, drawing up to the side, he let Oliver get out.
Driving on to the saddler’s, Mr. Preen transacted his business with him. When it was over, he went to the door, where his gig waited, and looked up and down the street, but saw nothing of Oliver.
“Hasn’t given himself the trouble to come up! Would rather put his lazy legs astride one of those posts opposite the college, and watch for my passing back again!”
Which was of course rather a far-fetched idea of Mr. Preen’s; but he spoke in a temper. Though, indeed, of late Oliver had appeared singularly inert; as if all spirit to move had gone out of him.
Mr. Preen got into his gig at the saddler’s door and set off again. Turning into High Street, he drove gently down it, looking out on all sides, if truth must be told, for Oliver. This caused him to see Stephenson standing at the silversmith’s door, the silversmith himself, back now for good at his business, being behind
the counter. Now and then, since the bank-note was traced, Mr. Preen had made inquiries of Stephenson as to whether any news had been heard of its changer, but he had not done so lately. Not being in a hurry, he pulled up against the curb-stone. Stephenson crossed the flags to speak.
“Nothing turned up yet, I suppose?” said Mr. Preen.
“Well, I can hardly say it has,” replied Stephenson; “but I’ve seen the gentleman who paid it in to us.”
“And who is it? and where was he?” cried Preen, eagerly.
Stephenson had stepped back a pace, and appeared to be looking critically at the horse and gig.
“It was last Saturday,” he said, coming close again. “I had to take a parcel into Friar Street for one of our country customers, a farmer’s wife who was spending the day with some people living down there, and I saw a gig bowling along. The young fellow in it was the one who changed the note.”
“Are you sure of it?” returned Mr. Preen.
“Quite sure, sir. I had no opportunity of speaking to him or stopping him. He was driving at a good pace, and the moment he caught sight of me, for I saw him do that, he touched the horse and went on like a whirlwind.”
Mr. Preen’s little dark face took a darker frown. “I should have stopped him,” he said, sternly. “You ought to have rushed after him, Stephenson, and called upon the street to help in the pursuit. You might, at least, have traced where he went to. A gig, you say he was in?”
“Yes,” said Stephenson. “And, unless I am greatly mistaken, it was this very gig you are in now.”
“What do you mean by that?” retorted Preen, haughtily.
“I took particular notice of the horse and gig, so as to recognise them again if ever I got the chance; and I say that it was this gig and this horse, sir. There’s no mistake about it.”
They stared into one another’s eyes, one face looking up, and the other looking down. All in a moment, Stephenson saw the other face turn ghastly white. It had come into Mr. Preen’s recollection amidst his bewilderment, that Oliver had gone into Worcester last Saturday afternoon, driving the horse and gig.
“I can’t understand this! Who should be in my gig?” he cried, calling some presence of mind to his aid. “Last Saturday, you say? In the afternoon?”
“Last Saturday afternoon, close upon four o’clock. As I turned down Lich Street, I saw the lay-clerks coming out of College. Afternoon service is generally over a little before four,” added Stephenson. “He was driving straight into Friar Street from Sidbury.”
Another recollection flashed across Mr. Preen: Oliver’s asking just now to be put down in College Street. Was it to prevent his passing through High Street? Was he afraid to pass through it?
“He is a nice-looking young fellow,” said Stephenson; “has a fair, mild face; but he was the one who changed the note.”
“That may be; but as to his being in my gig, it is not —— Why, I was not in town at all on Saturday,” broke off Mr. Preen, with a show of indignant remonstrance.
“No, Mr. Preen; the young man was in it alone,” said Stephenson, who probably had his own thoughts upon the problem.
“Well, I can’t stay longer now; I’m late already,” said Mr. Preen. “Good morning, Stephenson.” And away he drove with a dash.
Oliver was waiting in College Street, standing near the Hare and Hounds Inn. Mr. Preen pulled up.
“So you did not chose to come on!” he said.
“Well, I — I thought there’d be hardly time, and I might miss you; I went to get my hair cut,” replied Oliver, as he settled himself in his place beside his father.
Mr. Preen drove on in silence until they were opposite the Commandery gates in the lower part of Sidbury. Then he spoke again.
“What made you drive through Friar Street on Saturday last, instead of going the direct way?”
“Through — Friar Street?” stammered Oliver.
“Through Friar Street, instead of High Street,” repeated Mr. Preen, in a sharp, passionate accent.
“Oh, I remember. High Street is so crowded on a market day; the back streets are quiet,” said Oliver, as if he had a lump in his throat, and could not make his voice heard.
“And in taking the back streets you avoid the silversmith’s, and the risk you run of being recognised; is that it?” savagely retorted Mr. Preen.
Not another word did he speak, only drove on home at a furious pace. Oliver knew all then: the disgrace for which he had been so long waiting had come upon him.
But when they got indoors, Mr. Preen let loose the vials of his wrath upon Oliver. Before his mother, before Jane, he published his iniquity. It was he, Oliver, who had stolen the ten-pound note; it was he who had so craftily got it changed at Worcester. Oliver spoke not a word of denial, made no attempt at excuse or defence; he stood with bent head and pale, meek face, his blue eyes filled with utter misery. The same look of misery lay in Mrs. Preen’s eyes as she faintly reproached him amid tears and sobs. Jane was simply stunned.
“You must go away now and hide yourself; I can’t keep you here to be found and pounced upon,” roared Mr. Preen. “By the end of the week you must be gone somewhere. Perhaps you can pick up a living in London.”
“Yes, I will go,” said Oliver, meekly. And at the first lull in the storm he crept up to his room.
He did not come down to dinner; did not come to tea. Jane carried up a cup of tea upon a waiter and some bread-and-butter, and put it down outside the chamber door, which he had bolted.
Later, in passing his room, she saw the door open and went in. Cup and plate were both empty, so he had taken the refreshment. He was not in the house, was not in the garden. Putting on her sun-bonnet and a light shawl, she ran to the Inlets.
Oliver was there. He sat, gazing moodily at the brook and the melancholy osier-twigs that grew beside it. Jane sat down and bent his poor distressed face upon her shoulder.
“Dear Oliver! Don’t take it so to heart. I know you must have been sorely tempted.”
Bending there upon her, her arms clasping him, yielding to the loving sympathy, so grateful after those harsh reproaches, he told her all, under cover of the gathering shades of evening. Yes, he had been tempted — and had yielded to the temptation.
He wanted money badly for necessary things, and things that he had learned to deem necessaries, and he had it not. A pair of new gloves now and again, a necktie to replace his shabby ones, a trifle of loose silver in his pocket. He owed a small sum to MacEveril, and wanted to repay him. Once or twice he had asked a little money of his father, and was refused. His mother would give him a few shillings, when pressed, but grumbled over it. So Oliver wrote to a friend at Tours, whom he had known well, asking if he would lend him some. That was the first week in June. His friend wrote back in answer that he could lend him some after quarter day, the 24th, but not before; he would send him over ten pounds then, if that would do.
Never a thought had presented itself to Oliver of touching the ten pounds in his father’s letter to Mr. Paul, which he had sealed and saw posted. But on the following afternoon, Wednesday, he saw the letter lying on Mr. Hanborough’s desk; the temptation assailed him, and he took it.
It may be remembered that Mr. Preen had gone out that hot day, leaving Oliver a lot of work to do. He got through it soon after four o’clock, and went dashing over the cross route to Islip and into Mr. Paul’s office, for he wanted to see Dick MacEveril. The office was empty; not a soul was in it; and as Oliver stood, rather wondering at that unusual fact, he saw a small pile of letters, evidently just left by the postman, lying on the desk close to him. The uppermost of the letters he recognised at once; it was the one sent by his father. “If I might borrow the ten pounds inside that now, I should be at ease; I would replace it with the ten pounds coming to me from Tours, and it might never get known,” whispered Satan in his ear, with plausible cunning.
Never a moment did he allow himself for thought, never an instant’s hesitation served to stop him. Catching up the l
etter, he thrust it into his breast pocket, and set off across country again at a tearing pace, not waiting to see MacEveril.
He seemed to have flown over hedges and ditches and to be home in no time. Little wonder that when he was seen sitting under the walnut tree in the garden and was called in to tea, his mother and sister exclaimed at his heated face. They never suspected he had been out.
All that night Oliver lay awake: partly wondering how he should dispose of his prize to make it available; partly telling himself, in shame-faced reproach, that he would not use it, but send it back to old Paul. It came into his mind that if he did use it he might change it at the silversmith’s as if for the Todhetleys, the Squire’s name on the back suggesting the idea to him. It would not do, he thought, to go into a shop, any shop, purchase some trifling article and tender a ten-pound note in payment. That might give rise to suspicion. Some months before, when at Crabb Cot, he had heard Mrs. Todhetley relate the history of her brooch, where she bought it, what she paid for it, and all about it, to Colonel Letsom’s wife and other people, for it happened that several callers had come in together. The brooch had been passed round the company and admired. Oliver remembered this, and resolved to make use of it to disarm suspicion at the silversmith’s. He knew the principal shops in Worcester very well indeed, and Worcester itself. He had stayed for some time, when sixteen, with an uncle who was living there; but he had not visited the city since coming to Duck Brook.
Thursday, the day following that on which he took the money, was the day of the picnic. Oliver started with Jane for it in the morning, as may be remembered, the ten-pound note hidden safely about him. Much to Oliver’s surprise his mother put seven shillings into his hand. “You’ll not want to use it, and must give it me back to-morrow,” she said, “but it does not look well to go to a thing of this sort with quite empty pockets.” Oliver thanked her, kissed her, and they drove off. Before reaching Mrs. Jacob Chandler’s, after passing Islip Grange — the property of Lady Fontaine, as may be remembered, who was first cousin to John Paul — they overtook Sam, walking on to take back the gig. “We may as well get out here,” said Oliver, and he pulled up. Getting out, and helping out Jane, he sent Sam and the gig back at once. He bade his sister walk on alone to Mrs. Chandler’s, saying he wanted to do a little errand first. But he charged her not to mention that; only to say, if questioned, that he would join them by-and-by. He ran all the way to the station, regardless of the heat, and caught a train for Worcester.