Jelly lived, so to say, on a volcano. She felt that, figuratively speaking, there was not an hour of the day or night but she might be blown into fragments. The rumours as to the death of Mrs. Rane were becoming more terrible. They stole up and down Dallory like a scorching tongue of fire, and Jelly had the satisfaction of knowing that it was she who had first set light to the flame. It was all very well to say that she had made herself safe by securing the evidence of Thomas Hepburn: in her secret conscience she knew that she was not safe; and that, even in spite of that evidence, Dr. Rane might chance to be innocent. If so, why, a pretty dilemma she would find herself in. There was no help for it; she could do nothing. The creeping, scorching tongue went twisting itself in and out, and she could not quench it.
One night Jelly was lying awake, according to custom now, buried deep in some horrible visions that had lately begun to haunt her: now of working in chains; now of stepping incessantly up a treadmill; now of picking oakum and living upon gruel. Turning in the bed, to escape, if possible, these imaginary pictures, she suddenly heard a knock at her door. A loud hasty knock; and now a louder. Jelly turned hot then cold as ice. Had the officers of the law come to arrest her?
"Who's there?--what is it?" she asked faintly, not daring to sit up in bed.
"Art thee awake, Jelly?" came the gentle response, as her door was opened a few inches. "I am very sorry to have to ask thee to get up, but my mother is worse. Make haste, please."
Had Miss Beverage's voice been that of an angel, it could not have sounded sweeter to Jelly just then. The relief was great.
"I'll get up instantly, ma'am," was the ready answer--and Miss Beverage wondered it should have in it a tone as of gratitude. "I'll be with you at once."
Mrs. Beverage was subject to violent but rare attacks of spasms. She had felt ill before going to bed, but hoped it would pass off. Jelly and her own two servants were soon at her bedside. She was very ill indeed. Some of them ran to get hot water ready; Jelly thought it would be well to call in Dr. Rane.
"I should like the doctor to see her; at the same time, I grieve to arouse him from sleep," said Miss Beverage.
"Law, ma'am, that's nothing to doctors; they are used to it," cried Jelly.
"Mother, would thee like Oliver Rane sent for?" asked Miss Beverage, bending over the suffering lady. "Yes--yes," was the feeble answer. "I am very ill, Sarah."
"Thee go, then, Jelly."
Away went Jelly. Unbarring their own front-door, she passed out of it, and approached Dr. Rane's. The doctor's professional lamp burnt clearly, and, to her great surprise, Jelly saw that the door was not closed.
"He cannot have gone to bed to-night," she thought, as she walked in without ringing. It was past three o'clock.
But the house seemed to be still and dark. Jelly left the front-door open, and the light shone a little way into the passage. She tried the surgery-door; it was locked; she tried the dining-room; the key of that was also turned; the kitchen-door stood open, but it was all in darkness.
"He has gone to bed and forgotten to shut up," was the conclusion Jelly now arrived at. "I'll go up and call him."
Groping her way upstairs, she had almost reached the top, when a pale white light suddenly illumined the landing--just the same faint sort of light that Jelly had seen once before, and remembered all too well. Raising her head hastily, there stood--what?
Not quite at the moment did Jelly know what. Not in the first access of terror did she clearly recognize the features of Bessy Rane. It was she, all too surely; that is, the image of what she had been. She seemed to stand almost face to face with Jelly: Jelly nearly at the top of the staircase, she facing it before her. The light was even more faint before the figure than behind: but there was no mistaking it. What it was dressed in or whence it came, Jelly never knew: there it was--the form and face of Bessy Rane. With a cry of agony, that echoed to the ends of the empty house in the night's silence, Jelly turned and flew down again.
She never looked behind. Out at the front-door went she, slamming it, in her terror, to keep in what might be following her; and she almost gave forth another scream when she found herself touched by some one coming in at the gate, and saw that it was Dr. Rane.
"I am called out to a country patient," he quietly said. "Whilst I was putting the horse to the gig, an impression came over me that I had left my house-door open, so I thought I had better come back and see. What are you doing here at this hour, Jelly? Any one ill?"
Jelly was in terrible distress and confusion of mind. Clutching his arm as if for protection, she sobbed for an instant or two hysterically. Dr. Rane stared at her, not knowing what to make of it. He began to think she must require his services herself.
"Sir--do you know--do you know who is in the house?"
"Nobody's there: unless they've come in these last few minutes--for I suppose I did leave the door open," was Dr. Rane's rejoinder, and his composure contrasted strongly with Jelly's emotion. "When I leave my house at night, I carry my household with me, Jelly."
"Your wife's there," she whispered, with a burst of agony. "Sir, it's as true as that I am living to tell it."
"What do you say?"
Jelly's answer was to relate what she had seen. When Dr. Rane had gathered in her full meaning, he grew very angry.
"Why, you must be mad, woman," he cried in a low concentrated voice. "This is the second time. How dare you invent such folly?"
"I swear that her ghost walks, and that it is in there now," exclaimed Jelly, almost beside herself. "It is on the landing, exactly where I saw it before. Why should she come again?--why should she haunt that one particular spot? Sir, don't look at me like that. You know I would not invent such a thing."
"Your fancy invents it, and then you speak of it as if were fact. How dare you do so?"
"But he could not appease Jelly: he could not persuade her out of her belief. And the doctor saw that it was useless to attempt it.
"Why, why should her poor ghost walk?" wailed Jelly, wringing her hands in distress.
"I'm sure I don't know why it should walk," returned the doctor, as if he would humour Jelly and at the same time ridicule her words. "It never walks when I am in the house." But the ridicule was lost on Jelly.
"She can't lie quiet in her grave. What reason is there for it?--oh, what dreadful mystery is in it?"
Dr. Rane looked as though he would have liked to annihilate Jelly. "I begin to think that you are either a fool or a knave," he cried. "What brought you in my house at three o'clock in the morning?"
The question, together with his unconcealed anger, recalled Jelly's scattered senses. She told him about the illness of Mrs. Beverage, and asked if he would come in.
"No, I cannot come," said Dr. Rane quite savagely, for it seemed that he could not get the better of his anger. "I am called out to a case of emergency, and have no time to waste over Mrs. Beverage. If she wants a doctor, send for Seeley."
He opened his door with his latch-key, and shut it loudly after him. However, it seemed that he reconsidered the matter, for when Jelly was slowly walking across the road towards Mr. Seeley's, Dr. Rane came out again, called her back, and said he would spare a minute or two.
With a stern caution to Jelly not to make the same foolish exhibition of herself to others that she had to him, he went up to Mrs. Beverage--who was then easier, and had dozed off to sleep. Giving a few general directions in case the paroxysm should return, Dr. Rane departed. About ten minutes afterwards, Jelly was in her room, which looked towards the lane, when she heard his gig come driving down and stop at his garden-door. After waiting there a short time--he had probably come in for some case of instruments--it went away quickly across country.
The horse and gig used by the doctor belonged to the neighbouring public-house. Dr. Rane had a key to the stables, so that if he wanted to go out during the night, he could harness the horse to the gig without disturbing any one.
"If he had not said beforehand that he was putting the horse to, I should have thought he'd gone out because he daredn't stay in the house," muttered Jelly, as she glued her face to the window pane, to look after the doctor and the gig. She could see neither; the night was very dark.
Jelly's mind was in a chaos. What she had witnessed caused her still to shiver and tremble as though she had an ague; and she fully believed that she was really in danger of becoming what the doctor had told her she was already--mad.
Suddenly, a cry arose in the house. Mrs. Beverage was worse again. The paroxysm had returned so violently that it seemed to the frightened beholders as though she would die. Dr. Rane was not attainable, and Miss Beverage sent one of the under-servants for Mr. Seeley. He came promptly.
In about an hour the danger had passed; the house was quiet again, and Mr. Seeley was at liberty to return to his rest. He had crossed the road to his own door when he heard a step following him. Turning he saw Jelly.
"Surely she is not ill again!" he hastily exclaimed.
"No, sir, she is all right I think now. Mr. Seeley," added Jelly in agitation so marked that he could not help noticing it, "I want to speak to you: I want to tell you something. I must tell somebody, or I shall never live till morning."
"Areyouill?" questioned Mr. Seeley.
"When I was holding the flannels just now, and otherwise helping you, sir, you might have seen that I hadn't all my wits about me. Miss Beverage looked at me once or twice, as much as to ask what had become of them. Mr. Seeley, I have the weight of a most awful secret upon me, and I can't any longer bear with it."
"A secret!" repeated Mr. Seeley.
Jelly drew near to him. She pointed to the house of Dr. Rane, and lowered her voice to a whisper.
"Mrs. Rane's there."
He looked across at the house--so apparently still and peaceful behind its white blinds; he turned and looked at Jelly. Not a syllable did he understand of her assertion.
"Mrs. Rane comes again, sir. She haunts the house. I have seen her twice with my own eyes. Once, the night of her death, just after she had been put into her coffin; and again this very night."
"Why, what on earth do you mean?" questioned Mr. Seeley in amazement. "Mrs. Rane haunts the house?--I don't understand you."
"Her ghost does, sir. It is there now."
The surgeon leaned against his door-post, and stared at Jelly as if he thought her mind was wandering. A minute or two passed in utter silence.
"My good woman, you need a composing draught as badly as Friend Beverage did just now. What is the matter with you, Jelly?"
In reply, Jelly told her story--as to the appearance of Mrs. Rane--from the beginning. But she cautiously avoided all mention of suspicion as to unfair play: in fact she did not mention Dr. Rane's name at all. Mr. Seeley listened quietly, as though he were hearing a fairy tale.
"Have you spoken of this to Dr. Rane?" was his first question.
"Yes, sir: both times. To-night I met him as I was rushing out of the house in my terror."
"What does he say to it?"
"He ridicules it. He says it's my fancy, and is in a towering rage with me. Mrs. Gass asked whether I had been taking too much beer. People are hard of belief as to such things."
"You told Mrs. Gass, then?"
"I told her the first time. I was in great distress and perplexity, and I mentioned it to her as we sat together in the churchyard looking at Mrs. Rane's funeral."
"What did Mrs. Gass say?"
"She cautioned me never to speak of it again to living soul. Neither of that, nor of--of anything. But this very night, sir, I have seen it again: and if it is to go on like this, I shall soon be in a lunatic asylum."
Mr. Seeley had no faith in ghosts. At the same time he saw how implicit was Jelly's belief in what she fancied she had seen, and the distressed state of mind it had induced. What to answer for the best, he did not know. If he threw ridicule on the story, it would make no impression upon her: if he pretended to receive it as truth, it could bring her no relief.
"Jelly," said he, "I should not believe in a ghost if I saw one."
"I didn't believe in them once," answered Jelly. "But seeing brings belief."
"I'm sure I don't know what to say to you," was his candid avowal. "You are evidently so imbued with your own view of the matter, that any argument to the contrary would be useless."
"What troubles me is this," resumed Jelly, as if she had not heard him. "Whyis she unable to rest, poor thing? What's the reason for it?"
"I should say there was no reason," observed Mr. Seeley.
"Should you, sir?"
Jelly spoke significantly, and he looked at her keenly. There was a professional lamp over the door, as there was over Dr. Rane's; and their faces were visible to each other. The significant tone had slipped out in the heat of argument, and Jelly grew cautious again.
"What am I to do, sir?"
"Indeed I cannot tell you, Jelly. There is only one thing to be done, I should say--get rid of the fancy again as quickly as you can."
"You think I did not see it!"
"I think all ghost-stories proceed purely from an excited imagination," said the surgeon.
"You have not lived here very long, sir, but you have been here quite long enough to know that I've not much imagination. I don't remember that, before this happened, I ever felt excited in my whole life. My nature's not that way. The first time I saw her, I had come in, as I say, from Ketler's; and all I was thinking of was Dinah's negligence in not putting out the matches for me. I declare that when I saw her, poor thing, that night, I was as cool as a cucumber. She stood there some time, looking at me with a fixed stare, as it seemed, and I stood in the dark, looking at her. I thought it was herself, Mr. Seeley, and felt glad that she was able to be out of bed. In the morning, when I heard she was dead and shut up in her coffin, I thought she must have been shut in alive. You were the first I asked whether it was true that she was dead," added Jelly, warming with the sudden recollection, "I saw you standing here at the door after Dinah had told me, and I stepped over to you."
The surgeon nodded. He remembered it
"To-night when I went for Dr. Rane, there was not a thought or particle of superstition in my mind. I was troubled about Mrs. Beverage, and wondering what carelessness brought the doctor's front-door open. And there she stood!--facing me as I went up the stairs--just in the same identical spot that she had stood in the time before. Ugh!" broke off Jelly, with a shudder. "But don't say again, sir, please, that it was my excited imagination."
"I could tell you stories of the imagination that would surprise you, Jelly."
"If it was not Mrs. Rane--that is, her apparition--that appeared to me to-night, sir, and that appeared to me the other night, I wish these eyes may never behold anything again," spoke Jelly solemnly. And Mr. Seeley saw how worse than useless would be any further contention.
"Jelly, why have you told me this? I do not see how I can help you."
"I've told you because the weight of keeping it to myself was greater than I could bear," she replied. "It's an awful thing, and a cruel thing, that it should be justmethat's singled out for it. I think I know why: and I am nearly torn to pieces with the responsibility. As to helping me, sir, I don't think that you or anybody else can do that. Did you see Mrs. Rane after she died?"
The question was put abruptly, but in a tone that Jelly meant to be indifferent. Mr. Seeley replied in a very matter-of-fact manner.
"No."
"Well, I'll wish you goodnight, sir. Keeping you talking here will do no good."
"Good-morning, I should say," returned the surgeon.
Jelly had reached her own gate, when she paused for a moment and then turned back across the road. The surgeon had not moved. He was still leaning against his door-post, apparently gazing at Dr. Rane's house. Jelly said what she had returned to say.
"You will please not speak of this again to any one, Mr. Seeley. There are reasons why."
"Not I, Jelly," was the hearty rejoinder. "I don't want to be laughed at in Dallory as a retailer of a ghost-story."
"Thank you, sir."
With that, the surgeon passed into his dwelling, and Jelly went over to hers. And the winter's night wore on to its close.
In the favourable reaction that had fallen on Mrs. Beverage, Jelly might have gone to rest again had she so chosen. But she did not do so. There could be neither rest nor sleep for her. She sat by the kitchen-fire, and drank sundry cups of tea: and rather thought, what with one perplexity and another, that it was not sinful to wish herself dead.
In the morning about seven o'clock, when she was upstairs in her chamber, she heard the sound of a gig in the lane, and looked out. It was Dr. Rane, returning from his visit to his patient. His face was white and troubled. An ordinary passer-by would have said the doctor was cold: Jelly drew a different conclusion.
"It's his conscience," she mentally whispered. "It's the thought of having to live in his house now that he knows what's in it. He might have set it down to my fancy the first time: he can't this. Who knows, either, but what she appears tohim?--who knows? but it strikes me his nerves are made of iron. He must have been driving like mad, too, by the way the gig's splashed!" added Jelly, catching a glimpse of the state of the vehicle as it whirled round the corner towards the stables. "Good Heavens! what is to be done?--what is to be done about this dreadful secret? Why should it have fallen on ME of all people in the world?"
When rumours of this grave character arise, they do not come suddenly to a climax. Time must be given them to grow and settle down. It came at length, however, here. Doubts ripened into convictions: suppressed breathings widened into broad assertions: Oliver Rane had certainly murdered his wife for the sake of the tontine money. People affirmed it one to another as they met in the street--or rather, to avoid compromising themselves, said that others affirmed it. Old Phillis heard it one day, and almost fell down in a fit. She did not altogether believe it: nevertheless from that time she could not speak to her master without visibly trembling. The doctor thought she must be suffering from nervous derangement. At length it penetrated to Dallory Hall and the ears of madam; and upon madam it produced an extraordinary effect.
It has been stated throughout that Mrs. North had conceived a violent dislike to Dr. Rane; or at least, that she persistently acted in a manner that produced the impression that she had done so. As if she had only waited for this rumour to accuse him of something tangible, madam made the cause her own. She never appeared to doubt the truth of the report, or to inquire as to its grounds; she drove about, here, there, and everywhere, unequivocally asserting that Bessy Rane had been poisoned, and that her husband, Oliver Rane, had done the deed.
In truth Mrs. North had been in a state of mental ferment ever since she had become cognizant of the expected return of Mr. Adair to England. Why she should dread this, and why it should excite her in no measured degree she alone knew. No one around her had the least idea that the home-coming of Mr. Adair would be more to her than the arrival of any stranger might be. Restless, nervous, anxious, with an evil and crafty look in her eyes, with ears that were ever open, with hands that could never be still, waited madam. The household saw nothing--only that her tyranny became more unbearable day by day.
It almost seemed as though she took up the whispered accusation against Dr. Rane as a vent for some of her other and terrible uneasiness. He must be brought to the bar of justice to answer for his crime, avowed madam. She drove to the houses of the different county magistrates, urging this view upon them; she besieged the county coroner in his office, and bade him get the necessary authority and issue his orders for the exhumation of the body.
The coroner was Mr. Dale. There had recently been a sharp contest for the coronership, which had become vacant, between a doctor and a lawyer: the latter was Dale, of Whitborough, and he had gained the day. To say that madam, swooping down upon him with this command, startled him, would be saying little, as describing his state of astonishment. Occupied very much just now with the proceedings attaching to his new honour, Lawyer Dale had found less time for gossiping about his neighbours' affairs than usual; and not a syllable of the flying rumour had reached him. So little did he at first believe it, and so badly did he think of madam for the part she was playing, that, had she been a man, he would have given her the lie direct. But she was persistent, repeating the charge over and over to him in the most obnoxious and least delicate manner possible: Oliver Rane had poisoned his wife during her attack of fever, and he had done it to get possession of the tontine money. She went over the grounds of suspicion, dwelling on them one by one; and perhaps the lawyer's belief in Dr. Rane's innocence was just a trifle shaken--which, however, he did not acknowledge. After some sparring between them--Mr. Dale holding back from interference, she pressing it on--the coroner was obliged to admit that if a demand for an inquest were formally made to him he should have no resource but to call one. Finally he undertook to institute some private inquiries into the matter, and see whether there were sufficient grounds to justify so extreme a course. Madam sharply replied that if he showed the smallest disposition to stifle the inquiry, she should at once cause the Home Secretary to be communicated with. And with that she swept down to her carriage.
Perhaps, of all classes of men, lawyers are most brought into contact with the crimes and follies committed by the human race. Mr. Dale had not been at all scrupulous as to what he undertook; and many curious matters had come under his experience. Leaning back in his chair after madam's visit, revolving the various points of the story, his opinion changed, and he came to the conclusion that, on the face of things, it did look very much as though Dr. Rane had been guilty. Lawyer Dale had no reason to wish the doctor harm; especially the fearful harm a public investigation might entail upon him: had the choice lain with him, he would have remained quiescent, and left the doctor to his conscience. But he saw clearly that Mrs. North would not suffer this, and that it was more than probable he would have to act.
The first move he made, in his undertaking to institute some private inquiry, was to seek an interview with Mr. Seeley. He went himself; the matter was of too delicate a nature to be confided to a clerk. In his questions he was reticent, after the custom of a man of law, giving no clue, and intending to give none, as to why he put them; but Mr. Seeley had heard of the rumoured accusation, and spoke out freely.
"I confess that I could not quite understand the death," he avowed: "but I do not suspect that Dr. Rane, or any one else had any hand in it. She died naturally, as I believe. Mr. Dale, this is a horrible thing for you to bring against him."
"Ibring it!" cried Mr. Dale. "I don't bring it; I'd rather let the doubt die out. It is forced upon me."
"Who by? These confounded scandalmongers?"
"By Mrs. North."
"Mrs. North!" echoed the surgeon, in surprise. "You don't mean to say the North family are taking it up."
"I don't know about the family. Madam is, with a vengeance. She won't let it rest. There is an evident animus in her mind against Dr. Rane, and she means to pursue the charge to its extremity."
Mr. Seeley felt vexed to hear it. When these rare and grave charges are brought against one of the medical body, the rest, as a rule, would rather resent than entertain it. And, besides, the surgeon liked Dr. Rane.
"Come; you may as well tell me the truth," cried the lawyer, breaking the silence. "You'll have to do it publicly, I fancy."
"Mr. Dale," was the answer, "I have told you the truth according to my belief. Never a suspicion of foul play crossed my mind in regard to Mrs. Rane's death. I saw nothing to give rise to it."
"You did not see her after she died: nor for some hours before it?"
"No."
"You think she went off naturally."
"Most certainly I think so."
"But, see here--we lawyers have to probe opinions, you know, so excuse me. If it were to be proved that she went off in--in a different way, you would not be surprised; eh, Seeley?"
"I should be very much surprised."
"From your recollection of the facts, you would not be able to bring forth any proof to the contrary?"
"Well, no; I should not be able."
"There's the difficulty, you see," resumed the lawyer; "there's where it will lie. You believe Rane was innocent, I may believe him innocent; but no one can furnish sufficient proof to stop the inquiry. It will have to go on as sure as fate."
"Cannotyoustop it, Mr. Dale?"
"I promise you this: that I will throw as many difficulties in the way of it as I possibly can. But when once I am publicly called upon to act, I shall have to obey."
That was the end of the interview. It had a little strengthened the lawyer's doubts, if anything. Mr. Seeley had not seen her after death. What he was going to do next Mr. Dale did not say.
By the day following this, perhaps the only two people accustomed to walk up and down the streets of Dallory who still remained in blissful ignorance of the trouble afloat, were Dr. Rane himself, and Richard North. No one had dared to mention it to either of them. Richard, however, was soon to be enlightened.
Business took him to his bankers' in Whitborough. It was of a private nature, requiring to be transacted between himself and one of the old brothers at the head of the firm. After it was over they began talking about things in general, and Richard asked incidentally whether much further delay would take place in paying the tontine money to Dr. Rane.
"I am not sure that we shall be able to pay it at all," replied Sir Thomas Ticknell.
"Why not?" asked Richard, in surprise.
For answer, the old gentleman looked significantly at Richard for a moment, and then demanded whether he was still in ignorance of what had become the chief topic of the place.
Bit by bit, it all came out. The Brothers Ticknell, it appeared, had heard the report quite at the first: friends are always to be found when there is an opportunity of doing a fellow-man an injury; and some one had hastened to the bankers with the news. Richard North sat aghast as he listened. His sister was supposed to have come by her death unfairly! For once in his life he changed to the hue of the grave, and his strong frame trembled.
"We hear the new coroner, Dale, has the matter in hand now," remarked Sir Thomas. "I fear it will be a terrible scandal."
Recovering the shock in some degree, Richard North took his departure, and went over to Dale's, whose offices were nearly opposite the bank. The lawyer was there, and made no scruple of disclosing what he knew to Richard.
"It's a pity that I have to take the matter up," said Dale. "Considering the uncertainty at present attending it--considering that also it cannot bring the dead to life, and that it will be a most painful thing for old Mr. North--and for you too, Mr. Richard--I think it would be as well to let it alone."
"But who is stirring in it?" asked Richard.
"Madam."
"Madam! Do you mean Mrs. North?"
"To be sure I do. I don't say that public commotion and officious people would not soon have brought it to the same issue; but, any way, Mrs. North has forestalled them." And he told Richard of madam's visit to him.
"You say you have been making some private inquiries," observed Richard.
Mr. Dale nodded.
"And what is your candid opinion? Tell me, Dale."
But the lawyer hesitated to say he feared Dr. Rane might have been guilty. Not only because it was an unpleasant assertion to make to Dr. Rane's brother-in-law, but also because he really had doubts as to whether it was so or not.
"I hold no decided opinion as yet," he said. "I may not be able to form one until the post-mortem examination has taken place----"
"You do not mean to say that they will--that they will disturb my sister!" interrupted Richard North, his eyes full of horror.
"Why, that's the first thing they will do--if the investigation goes on at all," cried the lawyer. "That's always the preliminary step in these cases. You are forgetting."
"I suppose I am," groaned Richard. "This has been a great shock to me. Dale, you cannot believe him guilty!"
"Well, I can't tell; and that's the fact," candidly avowed the lawyer. "There are certainly some suspicious circumstances attending the case: but at the same time, they are only what Dr. Rane may be able to explain satisfactorily away."
"How have the doubts arisen?" questioned Richard. "There were none--I suppose--at the time."
"As far as I can at present ascertain, they have sprung from some words incautiously dropped by Jelly, the late Mrs. Cumberland's maid. Whether Jelly saw anything at the time of Mrs. Rane's illness to give rise to suspicion I don't know. I have not yet seen her. It is necessary to go about this business cautiously; and Jelly, I expect, will not prove a willing witness."
"Did madam tell you this arose from Jelly?"
"Oh dear, no. Madam does not concern herself as to the source of the suspicions; she said to me: 'There they are, and you must deal with them.' I had the information from my clerk, Timothy Wilks. In striving to trace the rumours to their source, I traced them to him. Carpeting him before me in this room, I insisted upon his telling me where he obtained them from. He answered readily enough, 'From Jelly.' It seems Jelly was spending an evening at his aunt's, or cousin's, or grandmother's--whatever it is. I mean the wife of your timekeeper, Mr. Richard North. Wilks was present: only those three; the conversation turned upon Mrs. Rane's death, and Jelly said a few words that startled them. I quite believe that was the beginning of the scandal."
"What can Jelly know?" exclaimed Richard, dreamily.
"I can't tell. The report is, that Mrs. Rane had something wrong given to her by her husband the last day of her life: and that his object was to get the tontine money, which he could not touch whilst she lived. A curious thing that the husband and wife should be the two last left in that tontine!" added the lawyer. "I've often said so."
"But even"--Richard paused--"if this had been so, how could Jelly have learnt it?"
"Well, things come out in strange ways sometimes; especially if they are things that ought to be kept secret. I've noticed it. Jelly's mistress was away, and she may have gone in to help nurse Mrs. Rane in her illness: we don't yet know how it was."
Richard North rose to depart. "At any rate, I do not see that it was madam's place to take it up," he remarked. "She should have left that to the discretion of my father and myself."
"She was in a perfect fever over it," cried Mr. Dale. "She talked of sending an application to the Home Secretary. I shouldn't wonder but what it has already gone up."
From the lawyer's house, Richard went direct to that of the late Mrs. Cumberland. The darkness of evening was then drawing on. As he reached the door, Miss Beverage, in her dove-coloured Quaker's bonnet, approached it from an opposite direction. Raising his hat, he asked whether he could be allowed a five minutes' interview with Jelly. Miss Beverage, who knew Richard by sight, was very chatty and pleasant: she took him into the drawing-room and sent Jelly to him. And Jelly felt half inclined to faint as she shut the door, for she well knew what must be coming.
But, after some fencing with Richard's questions, Jelly gave in. He was resolute in hearing all she could tell, and at length she made a clean breast of it. She related what she knew, and what she suspected, from beginning to end; and before she had finished, a strange relief, that Richard should know it, grew upon her.
"For I shall consider that the responsibility is now taken off my shoulders, sir," she said. "And perhaps it has been nothing but this that the ill-fated lady has wanted me to do, in coming again."
In the whole narrative, the part that most struck Richard North was Jelly's positive assertion that she had since twice seen Mrs. Rane. He was simply astounded. And, to tell the truth, he did not attempt to cast ridicule or disbelief on it. Richard North was an educated and practical man, possessed of an abundance of good common sense, with no more tendency to believe in supernatural appearances than men have in general; but his mind had been so unhinged since the interview with Sir Thomas Ticknell, that he almost felt inclined to admit the possibility of his sister's not resting in her grave.
He sat with his head leaning on his hand. Collecting in some degree his scattered senses, he strove to go over the grounds of suspicion. But he could make nothing more of them than Dale had said. Grounds there certainly were, but none that Dr. Rane might not be able to explain away. Jelly drew her own deductions, and called them proofs: but Richard saw that of proofs as yet there were none.
"Ever since that first night, I've lived in mortal horror of seeing it again," said Jelly, interrupting his reverie. "Nobody can imagine, sir, what a dreadful time it has been. And when I was least thinking of it, it came the second time."
"To whom have you repeated this story of having seen her?" asked Richard.
"The first time I told Dr. Rane and Mrs. Gass. This last time I told the doctor and Mr. Seeley."
"Jelly," said Richard quietly, "there is no proof that anything was wrong, except in your fancy."
"And the hasty manner that she was hid out of the way, sir--no woman called in to do anything for her; no soul allowed to see her!" urged Jelly. "If it wanted proof positive before, it can't want it since what Thomas Hepburn related to me."
"All that may have been done out of regard to the welfare of the living," said Richard.
Jelly shook her head. To her mind it was clearer than daylight.
But at this juncture, a servant came in to know if she should bring lights. Richard took the opportunity to depart. Of what use to prolong his stay? As he went out he saw Mr. Seeley standing at his door. Richard crossed over and asked to speak with him: he knew of Dale's interview with the surgeon.
"Can Rane have been guilty of this thing, or not?" questioned Richard, when they were closeted together.
But not even here could Richard get at any decided opinion. It might have been so, or it might not, Seeley replied. For himself, he was inclined to think it wasnotso: that Mrs. Rane's death was natural.
Leaving again, Richard paced up and down the dark road. His mind was in a tumult. He, with Seeley, could not think Dr. Rane guilty. And, even though he were so, he began to question whether it would not be better for his father's sake, for all their sakes, to let the matter lie. Richard put the two aspects together, and compared them. On the one side there would be the merited punishment of Oliver Rane and vengeance on Bessy's wrongs; the other would bring a terrible amount of pain, exposure, almost disgrace. And Richard feared for the effect it might have on Mr. North. Before his walk was over, he decided that it would be infinitely best to hush up the scandal, should that still be possible.
But, for his own satisfaction, he wished to get at the truth. It seemed to him that he could hardly live in the uncertainty. Taking a rapid resolution, he approached Dr. Rane's; knocked at the door, and asked old Phillis if he could see her master.
She at once showed him into the dining-room. Dr. Rane, weary, perhaps, with the cares of the day, had fallen asleep in his chair. He sprang up at the interruption; a startled, almost frightened expression appeared in his face. Richard North could but notice it, and his heart failed him, for it seemed to speak of guilt. Phillis shut them in together.
How Richard opened the interview, he scarcely knew, and could never afterwards recall. He soon found that Dr. Rane remained as yet in ignorance of the stir that was abroad; and this rendered his task all the more difficult. Richard entered on the communication in the most delicate manner that the subject admitted of. Dr. Rane did not receive it kindly. He first swore a great oath, and then--his anger checked suddenly as if by some latent thought or fear--he sank back in his chair and bent his head on his hands, as a man struck dumb with tribulation.
"I thinkyouneed not have given credit to this report against me, Richard North," he presently spoke in reproachful accents. "But I believe you lost confidence in me a year and a half ago."
He so evidently alluded to the anonymous letter that Richard did not affect to misunderstand him. It might be better to speak openly.
"I believe you wrote that, Rane."
"True. I did. But not to injure your brother. I thought Alexander must be a bad man--that he must be leading Edmund North into difficulties to serve himself. I had no cause to spare him, but the contrary, for he had injured me, was injuring me daily; and I wrote what I did to Mr. North, hoping it might expose Alexander and damage him. There: you have it. I would rather have had my hand cut off than have hurt your brother. I wished afterwards that it had been cut off first. But it was too late then."
And because of that anonymous letter Dr. Rane knew, and Richard felt, that the accusation, now made, gathered weight. When a man has been guilty of one thing, we think it a reason why he may be guilty of another.
A silence ensued. They sat, the table between them. The room was rather dark. The lamp was shaded, the fire had burned low; before the large window wore stretched the sombre curtains. Richard North would have given some years of his life for this most distressing business never to have come into it.
He went on with what he had to say. Dr. Rane, motionless now, kept his hand over his face whilst he listened. Richard told of the public commotion; of the unparalleled shock it had been to himself, of the worse shock he feared it might be to his father. Again there was an interruption: but Dr. Rane in speaking did not raise his face.
"Is my liberty in danger?"
"Not yet--in one sense of the word. I believe you are under the surveillance of the police."
"Watched by them?"
"Yes. But only to see that you do not get away."
"That is--they track me out and home, I am to understand? I am watched in and out of my patients' houses. If I have occasion to pay country visits, these stealthy bloodhounds are at my heels, night or day?"
"I conclude it is so," answered Richard.
"Since when has this been?"
"Since--I think since the day before yesterday. There is a probability, as I hear, that the Home Secretary will be applied to. If----"
"For what purpose?"
"For authority to disturb the grave," said Richard, in low tones.
Dr. Rane started up, a frenzy of terror apparent in his face.
"They--they--surely they are not talking of doingthat?" he cried, turning white as death.
"Yes they are. To have her disturbed will be to us the most painful of all."
"Stop it, for Heaven's sake!" came the imploring cry. "Stop it, Richard North! Stop it!"
But at that moment there broke upon their ears a frightful commotion outside the door. Richard opened it. Dr. Rane, who had sunk on to his seat again, never stirred. Old Phillis, coming in from the scullery after a cleaning excursion, had accidentally dropped a small cartload of pots and pans.
Wintry weather set in again. The past few days had been intensely cold and bleak. Ellen Adair sat in one of her favourite outdoor seats. Sheltered from the wind by artificial rocks and clustering evergreens, and well wrapped-up besides, she did not seem to feel the frost.
Her later days had been one long trial. Compelled constantly to meet Arthur Bohun, yet shunned by him as far as it was possible without attracting the observation of others, there were times when she felt as though her position at the Hall were killing her. Something, in fact,waskilling her. Her state of mind was a mixture of despair, shame, and self-reproach. Captain Bohun's conduct brought her the bitterest humiliation. Looking back on the past, she thought he despised her for her ready acquiescence in his wish for a private marriage: and the repentance, the humiliation it entailed on her was of all things the hardest to bear. She almost felt that she could die of the memory--just as other poor creatures, whose sin has been different, have died of their shame. The thought embittered her peace by night and by day: it was doing her more harm than all the rest. To one so sensitively organized as Ellen Adair, reared in all the graces of refined feeling, this enforced sojourn at Dallory Hall could indeed be nothing less than a fiery ordeal, from which there might be no escape to former health and strength.
Very still she sat to-day, nursing her pain. Her face was wan, her breathing laboured: that past cold she had caught seemed to hang about her strangely. No further news had been received from Mr. Adair, and Ellen supposed he was on his way home. After to-day her position would not be quite so trying, for Arthur Bohun was quitting Dallory. Sir Nash had decided that he was strong enough now to travel, and they were to depart together at two o'clock. It was past twelve now. And so--the sunshine of Ellen Adair's life had gone out. Never, as she believed, would a gleam come into it again.
In spite of the commotion beyond the walls of the Hall now increasing daily and hourly to a climax, in spite of madam's unceasing exertions to urge it on, and to crush Oliver Rane, no word of the dreadful accusation had as yet transpired within to its chief inmates. Mr. North, his daughter Matilda, Ellen Adair, Sir Nash Bohun, and Arthur; all were alike in ignorance. The servants of course knew of it, going out to Dallory, as they often did: but madam had issued her sharp orders that they should keep silence; and Richard had begged them not to speak of it for their master's sake. As to Sir Nash and Arthur Bohun, Richard was only too glad that they should depart without hearing the scandal.
He himself was doing all he could to stop proceedings and allay excitement. Since the night of his interviews with Jelly, Mr. Seeley, and Dr. Rane, Richard had devoted his best energies to the work of suppression. He did not venture to see any official person, the coroner excepted, or impress his views on the magistrates; but he went about amongst the populace, and poured oil on the troubled waters. "For my father's sake, do not press this on," he said to them; "let my sister's grave rest in peace."
He said the same in effect to the coroner; begging of him, if possible, to hush it up; and he implied to all, though not absolutely asserting it, that Dr. Rane could not be guilty. So that Ellen Adair, sitting there, had not the knowledge of this to give her additional trouble.
A little blue flower suddenly caught her eye, peeping from a mossy nook at the foot of the rocks. She rose, and stooped. It was a winter violet. Plucking it, she sat down again, and fell into thought.
For it had brought vividly before her memory that long-past day when she had played with her violets in the garden at Mrs. Cumberland's. "Est-ce qu'il m'aime? Oui. Non. Un peu. Beaucoup. Pas du tout. Passionnément.Il m'aime passionnément." False augurs, those flowers had been! Deceitful blossoms which had combined to mock and sting her. The contrast between that time and this brought to Ellen Adair a whole flood-tide of misery. And those foolish violets were hidden away still! Should she take this indoors and add it to them?
By-and-by she began to walk towards the house. Turning a corner presently she came suddenly upon three excited people: Captain Bohun, Miss Dallory, and Matilda North. The two former had met accidentally in the walk. Miss Dallory's morning errand at the Hall was to say goodbye to Sir Nash; and before she and Captain Bohun had well exchanged greetings, Matilda bore down upon them in a state of agitation, calling wildly to Arthur to stay and hear the tidingsshehad just heard.
The tidings were those that had been so marvellously kept from her and from others at the Hall--the accusation against Dr. Rane. Matilda North had just learnt them accidentally, and in her horror and surprise she hurried to her half-brother, Arthur, to repeat the story. Ellen Adair found her talking in wild excitement. Arthur turned pale as he listened; to Mary Dallory the rumour was not new.
But Arthur Bohun and Matilda North were strong enough to bear the shock. Ellen Adair was not so. As she drank in the meaning of the dreadful words--that Bessy had been murdered--a deadly sickness seized upon her heart; and she had only time to sit down on a garden-bench before she fainted away.
"You should not have told it so abruptly, Matilda," cried Arthur, almost passionately. "It has made even me feel ill. Get some water: you'll go quicker than I should."
Alarmed at Ellen's state, and eager to be of service, both Matilda and Miss Dallory ran in search of the water. Arthur Bohun sat down on the bench to support her.
Her head lay on his breast, as he placed it. She was without consciousness. His arm encircled her waist; he took one of her lifeless hands between his. Thus he sat, gazing down at the pale, thin face so near to his; the face which he had helped to rob of its bloom.
Yet he loved her still! loved her better than he did all the rest of the world put together! Holding her to his beating heart, he knew it. He knew that he only loved her the more truly for their estrangement. His pulses were thrilling with the rapture this momentary contact brought him. If he might but embrace her, as of old! An irrepressible yearning to press her lips to his, came into his heart. He slightly lifted the pale sweet face, and bent down his own.
"Oh, my darling! My lost darling!"
Lips, cheeks, brow were kissed again and again, with impassioned tenderness. It was so long since he had touched them! A sigh escaped him; and he knew not whether it contained most of bliss or of agony.
This treatment was more effective than the water could have been. Ellen drew a deep breath, and stirred uneasily. As soon as she began really to revive, he managed to get his coat off and fold it across the head and arm of the bench. When Ellen awoke to consciousness, she had her head leaning on it; and Captain Bohun stood at a very respectful distance from her. Never a suspicion crossed her mind of what he had been doing.
"You are better," he said. "I am glad!"
The words, the voice, aroused her fully. She lifted her head and opened her eyes and gazed around her in bewilderment. Then what Matilda had said came back with a rush.
"Is it true?" she exclaimed, looking piteously at him. "It never can be true!"
"I don't know," he answered. "If false, it is almost as dreadful to us who hear it. Poor Bessy! I loved her as a sister."
Ellen, exhausted by the fainting-fit, her nerves unstrung by the news, burst into tears. Matilda and Miss Dallory came hastening up with water, wine, and smelling-salts. But she soon recovered her equanimity, so far as outward calmness went, without the aid of remedies, which she declined. Rising from the bench, she turned towards the house, her steps a little uncertain.
"Pray give your arm to Miss Adair, Captain Bohun," spoke Mary Dallory in sharp, quick tones, surprised perhaps that he did not do so. And upon that, Captain Bohun went to Ellen's side, and held it out.
"Thank you," she answered, and refused it with a slight movement of the head.
They walked on at first all together, as it were. But Matilda and Miss Dallory were soon far ahead, the former talking excitedly about Bessy Rane and the terrible accusation regarding her. Ellen's steps were slower; she could not help it; and Captain Bohun kept by her side.
"May I wish you goodbye here, Ellen?" he suddenly asked, stopping towards the end of the shrubbery, through which they had been passing.
"Goodbye," she faintly answered.
He took her hand. That is, he held out his own, and Ellen almost mechanically put hers into it. To have made a scene by refusing, would have wounded her pride more than all. He kept it within his own, clasping his other hand upon it. For a moment his eyes met hers.
"It may be, that we shall never again cross each other's path in life, Ellen. God bless you, my love, and keep you always! I wish to Heaven, for both our sakes, that we had never met!"
"Goodbye," she coldly repeated as he dropped her hand. And they walked on in silence and gained the lawn, where the two in advance had turned to wait for them.
But this was destined to be an eventful day: to others, at least, if not to them. At the appointed time, Sir Nash Bohun and Arthur took their departure; Richard North, who had paid the baronet the attention of coming home to luncheon--for there was no longer any concealment now as to the true host of Dallory Hall--seeing them into their carriage.
"You have promised to come and stay with me, Richard," said the baronet, at the farewell hand-shake.
"Conditionally. When my work allows me leisure," answered Richard, laughing.
"Can't you go with us to the station, Dick?" put in Arthur.
"Not to-day, I fear. I must hold an immediate interview with madam; it is important. If you waited for me you might lose the train."
Arthur bent his face--one of pain now--to Dick's, and whispered.
"Is it money-trouble again, Richard?"
"No; not this time."
"If she brings anything of that sort on you in future, refer her to me. Yes, Richard: I must deal with it now."
Farewells were exchanged, and the carriage drove away. Richard, stepping backwards, came into contact with Miss Dallory.
"I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed. "Have I hurt you? I did not know you were there."
"Of course you have not hurt me: and I had no business to be there. I stood to wave to them. Good-afternoon, Mr. Richard."
"Are you going?" he asked.
"I have promised to spend the afternoon and take tea with Mrs. Gass. Luncheon was my dinner. I saw you looking at me as if you thought my appetite remarkable."
"Miss Dallory!"
She laughed slightly.
"To confess the truth, I don't think I noticed whether you took anything or nothing," said Richard. "I have a great deal to trouble me just now. Good-afternoon."
He would be returning to Dallory himself in perhaps a few minutes, but he never said to her, "Stay, and I will walk with you." Miss Dallory thought of it as she went away. It had indeed crossed Richard's mind to say so: but he arrested the words as they were about to leave his lips. If she was to be Arthur Bohun's wife, the less Richard saw of her the better.
Inquiring for madam when he went indoors, he found she was ensconced in her boudoir. Richard went up, knocked at the door, and opened it. Madam appeared not to approve of the procedure; she bore down on him with a swoop, and would have bade him retire.
"What do you want here, Richard North? I am not at liberty. I cannot admit you."
"Pardon me, madam, I must speak with you for five minutes," he answered, passing quietly in.
By something he had heard that morning from Dale, Richard had reason to suppose that Mrs. North was still actively pursuing the charge against Dr. Rane; was urging in high quarters the necessity for an investigation. Richard had come to ask her whether this was the case, and to beg her, once for all, to be still. He sat down uninvited whilst he put the question.
But madam would acknowledge nothing. In fact, she led him to believe that it was altogether untrue; that she had not stirred in it at all since the caution Richard had given her, not to do so, some days ago. It was simply impossible to know whether what she said might be depended on--for she was habitually more false than true. Richard could only hope she was true on this occasion.
"It would be a terrible exposure," he urged. "Madam, I beg you; I beg you for all our sakes, to bestill. You know not what you would do."
She nodded an ungracious acquiescence: and Richard departed for his works, casually mentioning to Mr. North, as he passed him in the garden, that he should not return home until night. Like Miss Dallory, he had intended the midday meal to be his dinner.
"Dick," cried Mr. North, arresting him, "what's the matter with Matilda? She seems to be in a great commotion over something or other."
Richard know not what to answer. If his father had to be told, why, better that he himself should break it to him. There was still a chance that it might be kept from him.
"Something or other gone wrong, I suppose, sir. Never mind. How well those new borders look!"
"Don't they, Dick! I'm glad I decided upon them."
And Richard went on to his works.