Volume Three—Chapter Eighteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Eighteen.An Overtaxed Brain.“It was dooced unfortunate, bai Jove!” Max Bray said to himself, as he sat over his dinner at the snug little hotel at the end of the third day. He could not think what the foolish girl wanted to excite herself for to such an extent. It was absurd, “bai Jove, it was!” But his plan had answered all the same, and he’d wait till she got well, if it were a month first—he would, “bai Jove!” She’d come round then, with a little quiet talking to; and, after all, they were snug and out of sight in the little town, and nobody knew them, nor was likely to know them, that was the beauty of it. Certainly he could not get his letters; but that did not matter: they were sure to be all dunning affairs, and he’d not the slightest wish to have them. The only thing he regretted was not hearing from Laura.One thing, he said, was very evident—Ella must have been ill when they started, or this attack would never have come on so suddenly.And all this while, burning with fever, Ella Bedford lay delirious, and with a nurse at her bedside night and day. The doctor was unremitting in his attention, and was undoubtedly skilful; but he soon found that all he could do was to palliate, for the disease would run its course. The place they were in was fortunately kept by a quiet old couple, whose sympathies were aroused by the sufferings of the gentle girl; and though, as a rule, sick visitors are not welcomed very warmly at hotels, here Ella met with almost motherly treatment.Doctor, nurse, landlady—all had their suspicions; but the ravings of a fever-stricken girl were not sufficient warranty for them to do more than patiently watch the progress of events, and at times they anticipated that the end would be one that they could not but deplore.For Ella indeed seemed sick unto death, and lay tossing her fevered head on the pillow, or struggled to get away to give the help that she said was needed of her.“Hasten on, hasten on!” Those words were always ringing in her ears, and troubling her; and then she would start up in bed, press her long glorious hair back from her burning temples, and listen as if called.Then would come a change, and she would be talking to an imaginary flower, as she plucked its petals out one by one, calling each petal a hope or aspiration; whispering too, at times, in a voice so low that it was never heard by those who bent over her, what seemed to be a name, while a smile of ineffable joy swept over her lips as she spoke.Once more, though, those words, “Hasten on, hasten on!” repeated incessantly as she struggled to free herself from the hands that held her to her bed.“Let me go to him,” she whispered softly once to her nurse. “He is dying, and he calls me. Let me see him once, only for a few minutes, that I may tell him how I loved him, before he goes. Please let me go!” she said pitifully, clasping her hands together; “just to see him once, and then I will go away—far away—and try to be at peace.”“My poor child, yes,” sobbed the landlady. “I fear you will, and very soon too. But does she want him from downstairs? I’ll go and fetch him up.”The landlady descended, to find Max, as usual, smoking, and told him of what had passed.“Bai Jove, no! I won’t come up, thanks. I’m nervous, and have a great dread of infection, and that sort of thing.”“But ’tisn’t an infectious disorder, sir,” said the landlady; “and I’m afraid, sir, that if you don’t come now—”“Eh, what? I say, bai Jove, you don’t mean that it’s serious!” exclaimed Max excitedly. “There’s no danger ofthat, is there?”The landlady smoothed down her apron with a solemn look in her face; then left the room, with genuine tears of sorrow stealing down her cheeks.“Poor young creature!” she sighed. “Such a mere girl too!”And then she hurried back to the sick-chamber, to find Ella lying back in a state of exhaustion.Another day, another, and another, with life seeming to hang as by a thread; while Max, strictly avoiding the sick-chamber, waited anxiously for the result; for this was an accident upon which, with all his foresight, he had not calculated. But he could obtain no comfort from doctor or nurse. Their looks grew more and more ominous, and at last he began to calculate upon what would be his position, should the worst come to the worst. Certainly, he had by deception—a stratagem, he termed it—induced Ella Bedford to place herself under his protection, and if she died it would be in the doctor’s hands. There would be no coroner’s inquest, and the law could not touch him. And besides, she had no relatives to call him to account, while surely—he smiled gravely as he thought it—his brother-in-lawwould say nothing!But all the same, in his heart of hearts Max Bray knew that, if Ella died, he would be morally guilty of her murder.That last was an ugly word, but it insisted upon being spoken, to afterwards ring again and again in his ears as he restlessly moved in his seat.But now a change had taken place in Ella’s state. From the soft appealing prayer for leave to go and answer the calls she fancied that she heard, she now became fiercely excited, moved by a dread of pursuit, and shrinking from every one who approached her. She would even wildly inveigh against the doctor, whom she accused of being in the pay of Max to drag her away.No more soft appeals now, but frantic shrieks and fierce struggles for freedom.Again and again those who watched found that she had taken advantage of a few minutes’ absence to dress hurriedly, when it was only by a gentle application of force that she could be overcome.Then came the time when she seemed to have fallen into a weak and helpless state, lying day after day apparently devoid of sense and feeling.Max was asked again and again whether he would see her; but he invariably refused with a coward’s shiver of dread, to the great disgust of all who had taken interest in the poor girl’s state.“I declare, it’s scandalous!” said the landlady in confidence to her husband. “He seems to neither know nor care how she is. No relatives are sent to, he has no letters; and it’s my belief there’s more than we know hanging to this.”“’Tisn’t our business to interfere,” said the landlord. “He pays like a gentleman, if he isn’t one; and if we get our living by visitors, it isn’t for us to be playing the spy upon them.”The landlady did not say anything, but she evidently thought a great deal. The doctor, too, had his opinion upon the subject, but he was silent, and tended his patient to the best of his ability, shaking his head when questioned as to her recovery.

“It was dooced unfortunate, bai Jove!” Max Bray said to himself, as he sat over his dinner at the snug little hotel at the end of the third day. He could not think what the foolish girl wanted to excite herself for to such an extent. It was absurd, “bai Jove, it was!” But his plan had answered all the same, and he’d wait till she got well, if it were a month first—he would, “bai Jove!” She’d come round then, with a little quiet talking to; and, after all, they were snug and out of sight in the little town, and nobody knew them, nor was likely to know them, that was the beauty of it. Certainly he could not get his letters; but that did not matter: they were sure to be all dunning affairs, and he’d not the slightest wish to have them. The only thing he regretted was not hearing from Laura.

One thing, he said, was very evident—Ella must have been ill when they started, or this attack would never have come on so suddenly.

And all this while, burning with fever, Ella Bedford lay delirious, and with a nurse at her bedside night and day. The doctor was unremitting in his attention, and was undoubtedly skilful; but he soon found that all he could do was to palliate, for the disease would run its course. The place they were in was fortunately kept by a quiet old couple, whose sympathies were aroused by the sufferings of the gentle girl; and though, as a rule, sick visitors are not welcomed very warmly at hotels, here Ella met with almost motherly treatment.

Doctor, nurse, landlady—all had their suspicions; but the ravings of a fever-stricken girl were not sufficient warranty for them to do more than patiently watch the progress of events, and at times they anticipated that the end would be one that they could not but deplore.

For Ella indeed seemed sick unto death, and lay tossing her fevered head on the pillow, or struggled to get away to give the help that she said was needed of her.

“Hasten on, hasten on!” Those words were always ringing in her ears, and troubling her; and then she would start up in bed, press her long glorious hair back from her burning temples, and listen as if called.

Then would come a change, and she would be talking to an imaginary flower, as she plucked its petals out one by one, calling each petal a hope or aspiration; whispering too, at times, in a voice so low that it was never heard by those who bent over her, what seemed to be a name, while a smile of ineffable joy swept over her lips as she spoke.

Once more, though, those words, “Hasten on, hasten on!” repeated incessantly as she struggled to free herself from the hands that held her to her bed.

“Let me go to him,” she whispered softly once to her nurse. “He is dying, and he calls me. Let me see him once, only for a few minutes, that I may tell him how I loved him, before he goes. Please let me go!” she said pitifully, clasping her hands together; “just to see him once, and then I will go away—far away—and try to be at peace.”

“My poor child, yes,” sobbed the landlady. “I fear you will, and very soon too. But does she want him from downstairs? I’ll go and fetch him up.”

The landlady descended, to find Max, as usual, smoking, and told him of what had passed.

“Bai Jove, no! I won’t come up, thanks. I’m nervous, and have a great dread of infection, and that sort of thing.”

“But ’tisn’t an infectious disorder, sir,” said the landlady; “and I’m afraid, sir, that if you don’t come now—”

“Eh, what? I say, bai Jove, you don’t mean that it’s serious!” exclaimed Max excitedly. “There’s no danger ofthat, is there?”

The landlady smoothed down her apron with a solemn look in her face; then left the room, with genuine tears of sorrow stealing down her cheeks.

“Poor young creature!” she sighed. “Such a mere girl too!”

And then she hurried back to the sick-chamber, to find Ella lying back in a state of exhaustion.

Another day, another, and another, with life seeming to hang as by a thread; while Max, strictly avoiding the sick-chamber, waited anxiously for the result; for this was an accident upon which, with all his foresight, he had not calculated. But he could obtain no comfort from doctor or nurse. Their looks grew more and more ominous, and at last he began to calculate upon what would be his position, should the worst come to the worst. Certainly, he had by deception—a stratagem, he termed it—induced Ella Bedford to place herself under his protection, and if she died it would be in the doctor’s hands. There would be no coroner’s inquest, and the law could not touch him. And besides, she had no relatives to call him to account, while surely—he smiled gravely as he thought it—his brother-in-lawwould say nothing!

But all the same, in his heart of hearts Max Bray knew that, if Ella died, he would be morally guilty of her murder.

That last was an ugly word, but it insisted upon being spoken, to afterwards ring again and again in his ears as he restlessly moved in his seat.

But now a change had taken place in Ella’s state. From the soft appealing prayer for leave to go and answer the calls she fancied that she heard, she now became fiercely excited, moved by a dread of pursuit, and shrinking from every one who approached her. She would even wildly inveigh against the doctor, whom she accused of being in the pay of Max to drag her away.

No more soft appeals now, but frantic shrieks and fierce struggles for freedom.

Again and again those who watched found that she had taken advantage of a few minutes’ absence to dress hurriedly, when it was only by a gentle application of force that she could be overcome.

Then came the time when she seemed to have fallen into a weak and helpless state, lying day after day apparently devoid of sense and feeling.

Max was asked again and again whether he would see her; but he invariably refused with a coward’s shiver of dread, to the great disgust of all who had taken interest in the poor girl’s state.

“I declare, it’s scandalous!” said the landlady in confidence to her husband. “He seems to neither know nor care how she is. No relatives are sent to, he has no letters; and it’s my belief there’s more than we know hanging to this.”

“’Tisn’t our business to interfere,” said the landlord. “He pays like a gentleman, if he isn’t one; and if we get our living by visitors, it isn’t for us to be playing the spy upon them.”

The landlady did not say anything, but she evidently thought a great deal. The doctor, too, had his opinion upon the subject, but he was silent, and tended his patient to the best of his ability, shaking his head when questioned as to her recovery.

Volume Three—Chapter Nineteen.The Net Breaks.There is a boundary even to human patience; and now, after many days, Max Bray began to find his position very irksome. There was every probability of Ella’s being a long and tedious illness, succeeded by a very slow return to convalescence; and he sat, at length, one day thinking matters over, for he was thoroughly tired out. There were no amusements in the place, and not wishing to attract curiosity, he had kept himself closely within doors. It was tiresome to a degree, and, besides, his stock of money would not last for ever. Come what might, he felt that he could put up with his position no longer. To a great extent his stratagem had been successful; but this unforeseen illness had made it now a failure, and he might as well give up and go to London. It had been expensive certainly; but though he was a loser, some one else would gain enormously; and he grinned again and again as he softly rubbed his white hands together, and thought of what a banker that some one would in the future prove. She would never be able to refuse him money, however extravagant he might be, and fortunately the Vinings were enormously wealthy. “But, bai Jove!” said Max Bray half aloud, “what a sweet thing is love between brother and sister!”Then Mr Maximilian Bray began to make his plans for the future. He told himself that time enough had elapsed; that he need not certainly give up Ella, but arrange with the landlord that he should be informed directly she was getting better, and then he could come down again—that could be easily managed—and he really was tired out of this. He also made a few other plans; building, too, a few more castles in the air, ending with the determination of going up to town by the first train in the morning, and getting to know how Laura’s affair was progressing.“At all events, her way’s clear,” said Max, “and, bai Jove, she shall pay me for it by and by.”“L’homme propose, mais Dieu dispose.” Max Bray arranged all future matters to his entire satisfaction, but again there were contingencies that he could not foresee. Sitting there, rolling his cigar in his mouth and reckoning how long it would be to lunch, he had made up his mind to dine the next day at his club; but he did not; neither did other matters turn out quite so satisfactorily as he wished.The sojourn was at a quiet little hotel in a Gloucestershire town that it is unnecessary to name; suffice it if we say that, save on the weekly market-day, the streets, with two exceptions, were silent and deserted; the two exceptions being the time when the children were set free from the National Schools. Hence, then, any little noise or excitement was unusual, and it was no wonder that Max Bray was startled by a scream above stairs, a cry for help, and the trampling of feet; sounds which his coward heart soon interpreted for him to mean an awful termination to his “stratagem,” when, rising hurriedly to his feet, he stood there resting one hand upon the table, and the cold perspiration standing in great drops upon his pallid face.There were people coming towards his room—they were coming to tell him. “What of it, then?” he cried savagely. “Could he help it? Had no doctor been obtained? It was her own mad excitement led to this termination.”“O, sir! O, sir!” exclaimed the landlady, bursting tearful-eyed into the room, “your poor, dear, sweet lady!”“Dead?” asked Max in a harsh whisper, his knees shaking beneath him as he spoke.“No, sir, not dead. I only left her for a few minutes, and when I came back—”“Well, what? Speak, woman!” cried Max fiercely.“She was gone, sir.”Max Bray stood for a minute as if stunned, and then leaping at the woman he shook her savagely, before he started off to make inquiries.“Had anyone seen her?”“No, not a soul.” But her clothes that she had worn the day she was borne insensible to the hotel were gone, as was also her little leather reticule-bag.“Where could she have gone?”Only one place could strike Max Bray, as he thought of what she would do if sense had returned, and she had mastered her weakness sufficiently to enable her to steal from the house unobserved. There was only one place that she could seek with the intention of fleeing from him, and that was the railway station.“Was their life to be bound up somehow with railways?” he asked himself as he started off in the direction of the station. “Bai Jove!” he seemed to have been always either meeting or inquiring about her at booking-offices; but why had she not been better watched?Why indeed, unless it was that a chance might be given her for seeking freedom. But the landlady’s few minutes had been a full hour, and, as if in her sleep, Ella had slowly risen, dressed for a journey, taken her reticule in her hand, her shawl over her arm, and then, drawing down her veil, walked—unseen, unchallenged—from the house, and, as if guided by instinct, gone straight to the station.A train was nearly due—a fast train—and still in the same quiet way she applied for a through ticket to London, took her change and walked out on to the platform, to stand there perfectly motionless and fixed of eye.No one heeded her of the few who were waiting, no one spoke; and at last came the faint and distant sound of the panting train, nearer, nearer, nearer.Would she escape, or would she be stayed before she could take her place?It might have been thought that she would feel, if not betray, some excitement; but no; she stood motionless, not even seeming to hear the coming train: it was as though she were moved by some power independent of her own will.There was the ringing of the bell, the altering of a distance signal, and the train gliding up to the platform, as a farming-looking man drew the attention of another to a gentleman running swiftly a quarter of a mile down the road.“He’ll be too late, safe.”“Ah!” said the other. “And they won’t wait for him; for they’re very particular here since the row was made about the accident being through the bad time-keeping of the trains.”“Look at him, how he’s waving his hat!” said the first speaker. “He’s running too, and no mistake. Why, it’s that dandy swell fellow that’s staying at Linton’s, where his wife’s ill.”“Serve him right too,” said the other. “Why wasn’t he in better time? Those swells are always behindhand.”“Now then, all going on!” cried a voice; and the two men stepped into a second-class carriage, against the door of which, and looking towards the booking-office, Ella was already seated, cold, fixed, and apparently perfectly insensible to what was going on.“Cold day, miss,” said the man who took his seat opposite to her; but there was no reply, and the next moment the man’s attention was caught by what took place at the booking-office door.Max Bray dashed panting up as the guard sounded his whistle, but only to find the glass door fastened, when, evidently half wild with excitement, he beat at the panels, gesticulating furiously as he saw the train begin slowly to move, and Ella seated at one window.She could have seen him too, for her face was turned towards him; she must have heard his cries for the door to be opened; but she did not start, she did not shrink back; and now, mad almost with rage and disappointment, Max Bray forgot all about telegraphs surpassing trains, everything, in the sight of his prize escaping from within his fingers; and for what? To expose his cruel duplicity.It would be ruin, he felt, and he must reach her at all hazards.Turning, then, from the door, he ran along by the station to where a wooden palisade bounded the platform, and as the train was slowly gliding by him, he climbed over to reach the ground before the carriage containing Ella had passed.“Stop him!” shouted the station-master; and the guard, who had run and leaped into his van, stood pointing out the breaker of rules as he paused for a few moments upon his step.“Here, hi! You’re too late, sir!” roared a couple of porters running in pursuit; and as Max Bray leaped on to the door-step, and clung to the handle of the compartment with his face within a few inches of Ella’s, a porter’s hand was upon his arm; there was a shout, a curse, the words “Bai Jove!” half uttered, and then the speaker felt his hands snatched from their hold; the next moment it was as though a fearful blow was struck him, and he and the porter were rolling upon the platform. But again there was a jerk, a wild shriek that froze the bystanders’ blood, and the form of one of the wrestlers was seen to be drawn down between the last carriage and the platform; the guard’s break passed on, and Max Bray lay motionless upon the line.

There is a boundary even to human patience; and now, after many days, Max Bray began to find his position very irksome. There was every probability of Ella’s being a long and tedious illness, succeeded by a very slow return to convalescence; and he sat, at length, one day thinking matters over, for he was thoroughly tired out. There were no amusements in the place, and not wishing to attract curiosity, he had kept himself closely within doors. It was tiresome to a degree, and, besides, his stock of money would not last for ever. Come what might, he felt that he could put up with his position no longer. To a great extent his stratagem had been successful; but this unforeseen illness had made it now a failure, and he might as well give up and go to London. It had been expensive certainly; but though he was a loser, some one else would gain enormously; and he grinned again and again as he softly rubbed his white hands together, and thought of what a banker that some one would in the future prove. She would never be able to refuse him money, however extravagant he might be, and fortunately the Vinings were enormously wealthy. “But, bai Jove!” said Max Bray half aloud, “what a sweet thing is love between brother and sister!”

Then Mr Maximilian Bray began to make his plans for the future. He told himself that time enough had elapsed; that he need not certainly give up Ella, but arrange with the landlord that he should be informed directly she was getting better, and then he could come down again—that could be easily managed—and he really was tired out of this. He also made a few other plans; building, too, a few more castles in the air, ending with the determination of going up to town by the first train in the morning, and getting to know how Laura’s affair was progressing.

“At all events, her way’s clear,” said Max, “and, bai Jove, she shall pay me for it by and by.”

“L’homme propose, mais Dieu dispose.” Max Bray arranged all future matters to his entire satisfaction, but again there were contingencies that he could not foresee. Sitting there, rolling his cigar in his mouth and reckoning how long it would be to lunch, he had made up his mind to dine the next day at his club; but he did not; neither did other matters turn out quite so satisfactorily as he wished.

The sojourn was at a quiet little hotel in a Gloucestershire town that it is unnecessary to name; suffice it if we say that, save on the weekly market-day, the streets, with two exceptions, were silent and deserted; the two exceptions being the time when the children were set free from the National Schools. Hence, then, any little noise or excitement was unusual, and it was no wonder that Max Bray was startled by a scream above stairs, a cry for help, and the trampling of feet; sounds which his coward heart soon interpreted for him to mean an awful termination to his “stratagem,” when, rising hurriedly to his feet, he stood there resting one hand upon the table, and the cold perspiration standing in great drops upon his pallid face.

There were people coming towards his room—they were coming to tell him. “What of it, then?” he cried savagely. “Could he help it? Had no doctor been obtained? It was her own mad excitement led to this termination.”

“O, sir! O, sir!” exclaimed the landlady, bursting tearful-eyed into the room, “your poor, dear, sweet lady!”

“Dead?” asked Max in a harsh whisper, his knees shaking beneath him as he spoke.

“No, sir, not dead. I only left her for a few minutes, and when I came back—”

“Well, what? Speak, woman!” cried Max fiercely.

“She was gone, sir.”

Max Bray stood for a minute as if stunned, and then leaping at the woman he shook her savagely, before he started off to make inquiries.

“Had anyone seen her?”

“No, not a soul.” But her clothes that she had worn the day she was borne insensible to the hotel were gone, as was also her little leather reticule-bag.

“Where could she have gone?”

Only one place could strike Max Bray, as he thought of what she would do if sense had returned, and she had mastered her weakness sufficiently to enable her to steal from the house unobserved. There was only one place that she could seek with the intention of fleeing from him, and that was the railway station.

“Was their life to be bound up somehow with railways?” he asked himself as he started off in the direction of the station. “Bai Jove!” he seemed to have been always either meeting or inquiring about her at booking-offices; but why had she not been better watched?

Why indeed, unless it was that a chance might be given her for seeking freedom. But the landlady’s few minutes had been a full hour, and, as if in her sleep, Ella had slowly risen, dressed for a journey, taken her reticule in her hand, her shawl over her arm, and then, drawing down her veil, walked—unseen, unchallenged—from the house, and, as if guided by instinct, gone straight to the station.

A train was nearly due—a fast train—and still in the same quiet way she applied for a through ticket to London, took her change and walked out on to the platform, to stand there perfectly motionless and fixed of eye.

No one heeded her of the few who were waiting, no one spoke; and at last came the faint and distant sound of the panting train, nearer, nearer, nearer.

Would she escape, or would she be stayed before she could take her place?

It might have been thought that she would feel, if not betray, some excitement; but no; she stood motionless, not even seeming to hear the coming train: it was as though she were moved by some power independent of her own will.

There was the ringing of the bell, the altering of a distance signal, and the train gliding up to the platform, as a farming-looking man drew the attention of another to a gentleman running swiftly a quarter of a mile down the road.

“He’ll be too late, safe.”

“Ah!” said the other. “And they won’t wait for him; for they’re very particular here since the row was made about the accident being through the bad time-keeping of the trains.”

“Look at him, how he’s waving his hat!” said the first speaker. “He’s running too, and no mistake. Why, it’s that dandy swell fellow that’s staying at Linton’s, where his wife’s ill.”

“Serve him right too,” said the other. “Why wasn’t he in better time? Those swells are always behindhand.”

“Now then, all going on!” cried a voice; and the two men stepped into a second-class carriage, against the door of which, and looking towards the booking-office, Ella was already seated, cold, fixed, and apparently perfectly insensible to what was going on.

“Cold day, miss,” said the man who took his seat opposite to her; but there was no reply, and the next moment the man’s attention was caught by what took place at the booking-office door.

Max Bray dashed panting up as the guard sounded his whistle, but only to find the glass door fastened, when, evidently half wild with excitement, he beat at the panels, gesticulating furiously as he saw the train begin slowly to move, and Ella seated at one window.

She could have seen him too, for her face was turned towards him; she must have heard his cries for the door to be opened; but she did not start, she did not shrink back; and now, mad almost with rage and disappointment, Max Bray forgot all about telegraphs surpassing trains, everything, in the sight of his prize escaping from within his fingers; and for what? To expose his cruel duplicity.

It would be ruin, he felt, and he must reach her at all hazards.

Turning, then, from the door, he ran along by the station to where a wooden palisade bounded the platform, and as the train was slowly gliding by him, he climbed over to reach the ground before the carriage containing Ella had passed.

“Stop him!” shouted the station-master; and the guard, who had run and leaped into his van, stood pointing out the breaker of rules as he paused for a few moments upon his step.

“Here, hi! You’re too late, sir!” roared a couple of porters running in pursuit; and as Max Bray leaped on to the door-step, and clung to the handle of the compartment with his face within a few inches of Ella’s, a porter’s hand was upon his arm; there was a shout, a curse, the words “Bai Jove!” half uttered, and then the speaker felt his hands snatched from their hold; the next moment it was as though a fearful blow was struck him, and he and the porter were rolling upon the platform. But again there was a jerk, a wild shriek that froze the bystanders’ blood, and the form of one of the wrestlers was seen to be drawn down between the last carriage and the platform; the guard’s break passed on, and Max Bray lay motionless upon the line.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty.The Bird Flies.“Here, let-down the window! Open the door! Good heavens, there’ll be some one killed! Let him be; we’ll get him in. Those porters are so officious, and they cause accidents, instead of preventing ’em. Let him be, I tell you, and report him afterwards. There, I thought so! They’ll be killed! Heaven help him—he’s down under one of the carriages!”So cried one of Ella’s fellow-travellers as he witnessed the struggle from within, heedless, in his excitement, that not a word he uttered was heard by the actors in the thrilling scene. But as Max was caught by the carriage and dragged under the train, the man threw open the window and leaned out as far as he could, to draw his head back after a few moments, and impart his intelligence to the pale figure close beside him.“I’m afraid he’s killed, miss!”Still no answer. Ella neither heard nor saw, for this part of her life—from the time when Max caught her wrists in his, and till long after—was a void that her memory could never again people.“Deaf as a post, and a good thing too, poor lass!” muttered the man as he again leaned out.And now there was shouting, signalling, and the stopping of the train for a few minutes, long enough for the passengers to see a motionless form lifted from the line and borne into one of the waiting-rooms, the passenger who had watched the proceedings having leaped out, but now coming panting back to reach his place as the signal for starting was once more given.“Is he much hurt?” was eagerly asked by the other occupants of the carnage.“I’m afraid so,” said the passenger.“Not killed?”“No, I don’t think he’s killed. You see, he went down at the end of the platform just where it begins to slope. If it had been off the level, he must have been crushed to death in an instant. But I didn’t have above a quarter of a minute to see him.”“It’s very, very dangerous,” observed one, “this trying to get into a train when it’s started.”“Very,” said another; “but they will do it. That gentleman, too, was so determined, climbing over the fence; and I suppose that made the railway folks determined too.”“He must have been anxious to get off, or he would not have acted as he did.”“Some particular appointment or another, I should think.”“Well, poor fellow, I hope he is not badly injured,” was the charitable wish now uttered, when a dissertation upon the right or wrong action of porters in trying to stop people ensued, it being generally accorded that the by-laws upon which they acted ought to be rescinded, and that the guard ought to report all breaches of the regulations at the next station.And all these comments were made within Ella’s hearing, but without once diverting her steadfast stony gaze, as now, leaning back in her corner, she looked straight out at the flying landscape as mile after mile was passed.Once or twice a remark was made to her, but she merely bent her head; and at last she was allowed to remain unquestioned, unnoticed, as the train sped on swiftly towards the great metropolis.She changed carriages mechanically when requested, and again and again produced her ticket, but always in the same dreamy strange way. Passengers came, and passengers went, some speaking, others paying no heed to their closely veiled and silent companion; but not once did Ella speak or evince any knowledge of what was passing around.How that journey was performed, she never knew, nor by what strange influence she was guided in her acts; but press on she did, and to the end.

“Here, let-down the window! Open the door! Good heavens, there’ll be some one killed! Let him be; we’ll get him in. Those porters are so officious, and they cause accidents, instead of preventing ’em. Let him be, I tell you, and report him afterwards. There, I thought so! They’ll be killed! Heaven help him—he’s down under one of the carriages!”

So cried one of Ella’s fellow-travellers as he witnessed the struggle from within, heedless, in his excitement, that not a word he uttered was heard by the actors in the thrilling scene. But as Max was caught by the carriage and dragged under the train, the man threw open the window and leaned out as far as he could, to draw his head back after a few moments, and impart his intelligence to the pale figure close beside him.

“I’m afraid he’s killed, miss!”

Still no answer. Ella neither heard nor saw, for this part of her life—from the time when Max caught her wrists in his, and till long after—was a void that her memory could never again people.

“Deaf as a post, and a good thing too, poor lass!” muttered the man as he again leaned out.

And now there was shouting, signalling, and the stopping of the train for a few minutes, long enough for the passengers to see a motionless form lifted from the line and borne into one of the waiting-rooms, the passenger who had watched the proceedings having leaped out, but now coming panting back to reach his place as the signal for starting was once more given.

“Is he much hurt?” was eagerly asked by the other occupants of the carnage.

“I’m afraid so,” said the passenger.

“Not killed?”

“No, I don’t think he’s killed. You see, he went down at the end of the platform just where it begins to slope. If it had been off the level, he must have been crushed to death in an instant. But I didn’t have above a quarter of a minute to see him.”

“It’s very, very dangerous,” observed one, “this trying to get into a train when it’s started.”

“Very,” said another; “but they will do it. That gentleman, too, was so determined, climbing over the fence; and I suppose that made the railway folks determined too.”

“He must have been anxious to get off, or he would not have acted as he did.”

“Some particular appointment or another, I should think.”

“Well, poor fellow, I hope he is not badly injured,” was the charitable wish now uttered, when a dissertation upon the right or wrong action of porters in trying to stop people ensued, it being generally accorded that the by-laws upon which they acted ought to be rescinded, and that the guard ought to report all breaches of the regulations at the next station.

And all these comments were made within Ella’s hearing, but without once diverting her steadfast stony gaze, as now, leaning back in her corner, she looked straight out at the flying landscape as mile after mile was passed.

Once or twice a remark was made to her, but she merely bent her head; and at last she was allowed to remain unquestioned, unnoticed, as the train sped on swiftly towards the great metropolis.

She changed carriages mechanically when requested, and again and again produced her ticket, but always in the same dreamy strange way. Passengers came, and passengers went, some speaking, others paying no heed to their closely veiled and silent companion; but not once did Ella speak or evince any knowledge of what was passing around.

How that journey was performed, she never knew, nor by what strange influence she was guided in her acts; but press on she did, and to the end.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty One.The Copse-Hall Ghost.“I wonder what’s become of Miss Bedford!” said the cook at Mrs Brandon’s, as she sat with her fellow-servants enjoying the genial warmth of the fire before retiring to rest.It was about half-past ten, and, probably to soften Edward the hard, the stewpan was in use, and steaming mugs of hot spiced liquid were being from time to time applied to lips.“Married long before this, I should think,” said the housemaid, tossing her head. “You don’t suppose she’s like some people I know, going on shilly-shallying year after year, as if they never meant to get married at all.”“Never you mind about that,” said Edward gruffly; “perhaps we shall get married when it suits us, and perhaps we sha’n’t. I don’t see no fun in going away from a good home and a good missus, to hard lines and spending all your savings, like some people as ain’t old enough to know better.”“Does missus ever talk about her, Mr Eddard?” said Cook persuasively.“Not often,” said Edward; “but I know one thing,—she ain’t had a letter from her for ever so long, now.”“How do you know?” said the housemaid.“How do I know?” exclaimed Mr Eddard contemptuously. “Why, don’t I see all the envelopes, and can’t I tell that way? But there’s something wrong about her, I believe; for there came a letter about three weeks or a month ago, and it seemed to cut missus up a good deal, and I heard her say something out aloud.”“What did she say?” said Cook and Mary in a breath, for the recounter had stopped.“Well, I didn’t catch it all,” said Edward, speaking in his mug; “but it was something like: ‘Gone with Mr Bray? Impossible!’”“But what made her say that?” exclaimed Cook.“Why, from what she read in a letter from London, to be sure, stupid. Why else should she say it?”“There, didn’t I tell you so!” exclaimed Cook triumphantly.“What are you up to now?” said Edward in a tone of gruff contempt. “What do you mean?”“Why, I always thought she’d have Mr Bray, as was so wonderful attentive. Why, Mrs Pottles, down at the Seven Bells, has told me lots of times about how he used to come and put his horse up there, and then follow her about.”“Humph!” ejaculated Edward. “When did you see Mother Pottles last?”“Yesterday,” said Cook. “And she said she thought that Pottles would take the twenty pounds off the good-will, and—”“Why didn’t you tell me so before?” said Edward gruffly.“Because she said Mr Pottles would come over and see you, and you do snub me so for interfering.”“Humph!” ejaculated Edward again.“What, you are going to have the Seven Bells, then?” said the housemaid. “O, I am glad; it will be nice! And you’re going to be married, after all.”“Don’t you be in a hurry,” growled Edward. “We ain’t gone yet, and perhaps we shan’t go at all; so now then. There goes the bell; now, then, clear off. Missus is going to bed.”“Did you fasten the side-door, Mr Ed-dard?” said the housemaid.“Slipped the top bolt, that’s all,” said the footman, as he went to answer the bell.“Let’s lay them bits of lace out on the lawn, Cook, and leave ’em all night; the frost ’ll bleach ’em beautiful,” said the housemaid.“Ah, so we might,” said Cook; and taking some wet twisted-up scraps of lace from a basin, cook and housemaid tied their handkerchiefs round their necks, placed their aprons over their heads, and ran down a passage, unbolted the side-door, and went over the gravel drive to lay the lace upon the front lawn.“I’ll pop out and take them in when I light the breakfast-room fire,” said the housemaid. “My, what a lovely night! it must be full moon.”“Scr-r-r-r-r-r-r-eech—screech—screech!” went the cook.“Scre-e-e-e-e-ch-h-h-h!” went the housemaid, giving vent to a shrill cry that would have made an emulative locomotive burst in despair; and, still screaming, the two women clung together, and backed slowly to the house, ran down the passage to the kitchen, shrieking still, where the cook sank into a chair, which gave way beneath her, and she fell heavily on the floor.“Are you mad, Mary—Cook? What is the matter?” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, running into the kitchen, chamber-candlestick in hand, closely followed by Edward.“Theyaremad—both on ’em!” growled the footman.“A ghost, a ghost!” panted Mary, shuddering, and pointing towards the passage.“A ghost!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon contemptuously. “You foolish wicked woman! How dare you alarm the children with such ridiculous, such absurd old grandmothers’ notions? You’ve been out, I suppose?”“Yes, yes!” sobbed Mary, covering her blanched face with her hands.“And you saw something white, I suppose, in the moonlight?”“N-n-n-o, ’m! It was a black one, all but the horrid face with the moon on it.”“Edward,” said Mrs Brandon, “some one has been trying to frighten them, and they have left the passage door open. You are not afraid?”“How should I know till I see what it’s like!” growled Edward. “Anyhow, I’ll go and try.”“I’ll go with you,” said Mrs Brandon.Edward led the way to where the moonlight was streaming in through the open door, when he started back against his mistress, forcing her into the kitchen.“Thereissomething, mum!” he said hoarsely, “and I think I am a little afraid. No, no, ’m, you sha’n’t go. I’ll go first: I can’t stand that, if I am frighted.”He again made a step in advance, for Mrs Brandon was about to take thepas; but the next moment mistress and man drew involuntarily back, as, slowly, as if feeling its way through some thick darkness, hands stretched out, palms downward, to their fullest extent, head thrown back, wild eyes staring straight before it, and face unnaturally pale, came towards them a figure draped in black.On and on, in a strange unearthly way, rigid as if of marble, came the figure across the great kitchen, and in spite of herself Mrs Brandon felt a strange thrill pass through her as she slowly gave way; but followed still by the figure through the open door into the hall, where, reason reasserting itself, she set down the candlestick upon the marble slab, and stood firm till the strange visitor came close up to her, and she took two cold stony hands in hers.“Ella, my child!” she gasped.It was as though those three words had dissolved a spell; for the staring eyes slowly closed, a faint dawning as of a smile relaxed the rigid features, and, as the white lips parted, there came forth a low sigh as of relief, and then the form sank slowly down till it was supported only by the grasp Mrs Brandon maintained upon the hands.“Here! Quick! Help, Edward!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, blushing for her excusable dread. “Good Heavens, what infamy has been practised, that this poor child should seek refuge here in such a plight? Edward!”“I’m here, ma’am,” cried the hard footman, smiting himself heavily upon the cheek. “That I should have been such a fool! But ’twas enough to startle—”“Man—man, don’t talk!” cried his mistress. “Run to Mr Tiddson, he is the nearest; and don’t tell him to come, but bring him. Do you hear?—bring him!”“That I just will,” cried the man, giving one glance at the figure at his mistress’s feet, and the next moment he was in the kitchen. “Here, rouse up!” he cried, “’tain’t nothing sooper—”Edward said “natural” as he ran out, hatless, into the frosty night to fetch the doctor, tying his handkerchief round his head as he sped on.Meanwhile, Mrs Brandon lifted the wasted form in her arms, and bore it to a couch, where she strove ineffectually to restore animation. Everything she tried seemed useless; and at last, weeping bitterly, she sank upon her knees, and clasped the fragile figure to her heart, moaning as she did so:“My poor stricken bird! my poor little dove! what does it mean—what does it mean?”But the form she clasped might have been that from which the vital spark had just fled, save that the icy coldness began gradually to yield to the temperature of the room.

“I wonder what’s become of Miss Bedford!” said the cook at Mrs Brandon’s, as she sat with her fellow-servants enjoying the genial warmth of the fire before retiring to rest.

It was about half-past ten, and, probably to soften Edward the hard, the stewpan was in use, and steaming mugs of hot spiced liquid were being from time to time applied to lips.

“Married long before this, I should think,” said the housemaid, tossing her head. “You don’t suppose she’s like some people I know, going on shilly-shallying year after year, as if they never meant to get married at all.”

“Never you mind about that,” said Edward gruffly; “perhaps we shall get married when it suits us, and perhaps we sha’n’t. I don’t see no fun in going away from a good home and a good missus, to hard lines and spending all your savings, like some people as ain’t old enough to know better.”

“Does missus ever talk about her, Mr Eddard?” said Cook persuasively.

“Not often,” said Edward; “but I know one thing,—she ain’t had a letter from her for ever so long, now.”

“How do you know?” said the housemaid.

“How do I know?” exclaimed Mr Eddard contemptuously. “Why, don’t I see all the envelopes, and can’t I tell that way? But there’s something wrong about her, I believe; for there came a letter about three weeks or a month ago, and it seemed to cut missus up a good deal, and I heard her say something out aloud.”

“What did she say?” said Cook and Mary in a breath, for the recounter had stopped.

“Well, I didn’t catch it all,” said Edward, speaking in his mug; “but it was something like: ‘Gone with Mr Bray? Impossible!’”

“But what made her say that?” exclaimed Cook.

“Why, from what she read in a letter from London, to be sure, stupid. Why else should she say it?”

“There, didn’t I tell you so!” exclaimed Cook triumphantly.

“What are you up to now?” said Edward in a tone of gruff contempt. “What do you mean?”

“Why, I always thought she’d have Mr Bray, as was so wonderful attentive. Why, Mrs Pottles, down at the Seven Bells, has told me lots of times about how he used to come and put his horse up there, and then follow her about.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Edward. “When did you see Mother Pottles last?”

“Yesterday,” said Cook. “And she said she thought that Pottles would take the twenty pounds off the good-will, and—”

“Why didn’t you tell me so before?” said Edward gruffly.

“Because she said Mr Pottles would come over and see you, and you do snub me so for interfering.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Edward again.

“What, you are going to have the Seven Bells, then?” said the housemaid. “O, I am glad; it will be nice! And you’re going to be married, after all.”

“Don’t you be in a hurry,” growled Edward. “We ain’t gone yet, and perhaps we shan’t go at all; so now then. There goes the bell; now, then, clear off. Missus is going to bed.”

“Did you fasten the side-door, Mr Ed-dard?” said the housemaid.

“Slipped the top bolt, that’s all,” said the footman, as he went to answer the bell.

“Let’s lay them bits of lace out on the lawn, Cook, and leave ’em all night; the frost ’ll bleach ’em beautiful,” said the housemaid.

“Ah, so we might,” said Cook; and taking some wet twisted-up scraps of lace from a basin, cook and housemaid tied their handkerchiefs round their necks, placed their aprons over their heads, and ran down a passage, unbolted the side-door, and went over the gravel drive to lay the lace upon the front lawn.

“I’ll pop out and take them in when I light the breakfast-room fire,” said the housemaid. “My, what a lovely night! it must be full moon.”

“Scr-r-r-r-r-r-r-eech—screech—screech!” went the cook.

“Scre-e-e-e-e-ch-h-h-h!” went the housemaid, giving vent to a shrill cry that would have made an emulative locomotive burst in despair; and, still screaming, the two women clung together, and backed slowly to the house, ran down the passage to the kitchen, shrieking still, where the cook sank into a chair, which gave way beneath her, and she fell heavily on the floor.

“Are you mad, Mary—Cook? What is the matter?” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, running into the kitchen, chamber-candlestick in hand, closely followed by Edward.

“Theyaremad—both on ’em!” growled the footman.

“A ghost, a ghost!” panted Mary, shuddering, and pointing towards the passage.

“A ghost!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon contemptuously. “You foolish wicked woman! How dare you alarm the children with such ridiculous, such absurd old grandmothers’ notions? You’ve been out, I suppose?”

“Yes, yes!” sobbed Mary, covering her blanched face with her hands.

“And you saw something white, I suppose, in the moonlight?”

“N-n-n-o, ’m! It was a black one, all but the horrid face with the moon on it.”

“Edward,” said Mrs Brandon, “some one has been trying to frighten them, and they have left the passage door open. You are not afraid?”

“How should I know till I see what it’s like!” growled Edward. “Anyhow, I’ll go and try.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Mrs Brandon.

Edward led the way to where the moonlight was streaming in through the open door, when he started back against his mistress, forcing her into the kitchen.

“Thereissomething, mum!” he said hoarsely, “and I think I am a little afraid. No, no, ’m, you sha’n’t go. I’ll go first: I can’t stand that, if I am frighted.”

He again made a step in advance, for Mrs Brandon was about to take thepas; but the next moment mistress and man drew involuntarily back, as, slowly, as if feeling its way through some thick darkness, hands stretched out, palms downward, to their fullest extent, head thrown back, wild eyes staring straight before it, and face unnaturally pale, came towards them a figure draped in black.

On and on, in a strange unearthly way, rigid as if of marble, came the figure across the great kitchen, and in spite of herself Mrs Brandon felt a strange thrill pass through her as she slowly gave way; but followed still by the figure through the open door into the hall, where, reason reasserting itself, she set down the candlestick upon the marble slab, and stood firm till the strange visitor came close up to her, and she took two cold stony hands in hers.

“Ella, my child!” she gasped.

It was as though those three words had dissolved a spell; for the staring eyes slowly closed, a faint dawning as of a smile relaxed the rigid features, and, as the white lips parted, there came forth a low sigh as of relief, and then the form sank slowly down till it was supported only by the grasp Mrs Brandon maintained upon the hands.

“Here! Quick! Help, Edward!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, blushing for her excusable dread. “Good Heavens, what infamy has been practised, that this poor child should seek refuge here in such a plight? Edward!”

“I’m here, ma’am,” cried the hard footman, smiting himself heavily upon the cheek. “That I should have been such a fool! But ’twas enough to startle—”

“Man—man, don’t talk!” cried his mistress. “Run to Mr Tiddson, he is the nearest; and don’t tell him to come, but bring him. Do you hear?—bring him!”

“That I just will,” cried the man, giving one glance at the figure at his mistress’s feet, and the next moment he was in the kitchen. “Here, rouse up!” he cried, “’tain’t nothing sooper—”

Edward said “natural” as he ran out, hatless, into the frosty night to fetch the doctor, tying his handkerchief round his head as he sped on.

Meanwhile, Mrs Brandon lifted the wasted form in her arms, and bore it to a couch, where she strove ineffectually to restore animation. Everything she tried seemed useless; and at last, weeping bitterly, she sank upon her knees, and clasped the fragile figure to her heart, moaning as she did so:

“My poor stricken bird! my poor little dove! what does it mean—what does it mean?”

But the form she clasped might have been that from which the vital spark had just fled, save that the icy coldness began gradually to yield to the temperature of the room.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Two.Light!—and Darkness?Dr Tiddson at last, panting and out of breath; for he had run the greater part of two miles, and upon hearing the few words Mrs Brandon had to utter, he cast aside all the pedantry of his profession to which he clung, and knelt down by the inanimate form.“Every symptom of having passed through a state of fever,” he said softly. “Slightly convulsed, even now,” he muttered, as from the pulse his finger went to her face. “The candle a little nearer,” he said, as he raised an eyelid. “Yes, I thought so! Lungs seem right. I’d stake my life she has but lately risen from a sick bed. Heaven bless the poor child, she’s worn to a skeleton! Here, quick, Edward!”“I’m here, sir,” growled the hard footman.“Take that to my house,” he said, hurriedly writing some directions. “Run, my good man, please.”“I will, sir,” said Edward huskily, as a great tear ran trickling down his nose; “but please tell me, sir—we all liked her very much—you—you don’t think she’ll die?”“We’ll hope not, Edward—we’ll hope not,” said the doctor solemnly. “Now go.”Edward gave a great coarse sigh as he ran out of the room; but it was genuine sympathy, and worth a host of fine words.“There’s something more than ordinary disease here, Mrs Brandon,” said the doctor. “We’ll watch by her to-night; and if there is no change by morning, I should like to share the responsibility, and have the counsel of some able practitioner.”They passed that night and many more by the wasted girl’s bedside, during which time not once did she give sign of consciousness. Occasionally a faint fluttering of the pulse seemed to tell of returning power; but it was but a false hope held out.An almost supernatural strength had enabled her to seek the refuge, where she had somehow, in the darkened state of her intellect, recalled that she would be welcome. Led almost by a subtle instinct, she had made her way by the different lines, and then exhausted her last powers in slowly walking over from Laneton, to sink inanimate at her protectress’s feet.It was long before her senses had thoroughly returned, so that she could recognise those around, and speak in the faintest whisper; but Mrs Brandon trembled, for she judged by what she saw in the doctor’s looks that it was but the precursor of a deeper sleep.Several times over there was a faint whisper breathed into Mrs Brandon’s ear that the sufferer had much to say; but invariably Mrs Brandon closed those pale lips with a kiss.“Wrong or right, my poor child,” she said sadly, “rest in peace, for this is your home.”But there was an air of trouble and appeal in Ella’s face that would not be gainsayed; and one night Mrs Brandon was seated by her side, when her lips parted to faintly whisper:“If I am to go, let me know that you all believe in me.”As she spoke, her trembling little hand drew a large envelope from beneath her pillow—a crumpled and bruised envelope.“Do you wish me to read this?” said Mrs Brandon tenderly.Ella’s lips formed the word “Yes.”

Dr Tiddson at last, panting and out of breath; for he had run the greater part of two miles, and upon hearing the few words Mrs Brandon had to utter, he cast aside all the pedantry of his profession to which he clung, and knelt down by the inanimate form.

“Every symptom of having passed through a state of fever,” he said softly. “Slightly convulsed, even now,” he muttered, as from the pulse his finger went to her face. “The candle a little nearer,” he said, as he raised an eyelid. “Yes, I thought so! Lungs seem right. I’d stake my life she has but lately risen from a sick bed. Heaven bless the poor child, she’s worn to a skeleton! Here, quick, Edward!”

“I’m here, sir,” growled the hard footman.

“Take that to my house,” he said, hurriedly writing some directions. “Run, my good man, please.”

“I will, sir,” said Edward huskily, as a great tear ran trickling down his nose; “but please tell me, sir—we all liked her very much—you—you don’t think she’ll die?”

“We’ll hope not, Edward—we’ll hope not,” said the doctor solemnly. “Now go.”

Edward gave a great coarse sigh as he ran out of the room; but it was genuine sympathy, and worth a host of fine words.

“There’s something more than ordinary disease here, Mrs Brandon,” said the doctor. “We’ll watch by her to-night; and if there is no change by morning, I should like to share the responsibility, and have the counsel of some able practitioner.”

They passed that night and many more by the wasted girl’s bedside, during which time not once did she give sign of consciousness. Occasionally a faint fluttering of the pulse seemed to tell of returning power; but it was but a false hope held out.

An almost supernatural strength had enabled her to seek the refuge, where she had somehow, in the darkened state of her intellect, recalled that she would be welcome. Led almost by a subtle instinct, she had made her way by the different lines, and then exhausted her last powers in slowly walking over from Laneton, to sink inanimate at her protectress’s feet.

It was long before her senses had thoroughly returned, so that she could recognise those around, and speak in the faintest whisper; but Mrs Brandon trembled, for she judged by what she saw in the doctor’s looks that it was but the precursor of a deeper sleep.

Several times over there was a faint whisper breathed into Mrs Brandon’s ear that the sufferer had much to say; but invariably Mrs Brandon closed those pale lips with a kiss.

“Wrong or right, my poor child,” she said sadly, “rest in peace, for this is your home.”

But there was an air of trouble and appeal in Ella’s face that would not be gainsayed; and one night Mrs Brandon was seated by her side, when her lips parted to faintly whisper:

“If I am to go, let me know that you all believe in me.”

As she spoke, her trembling little hand drew a large envelope from beneath her pillow—a crumpled and bruised envelope.

“Do you wish me to read this?” said Mrs Brandon tenderly.

Ella’s lips formed the word “Yes.”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Three.It Never Rains but it Pours.The first paper Mrs Brandon drew from the envelope was one in a bold lady’s-hand, evidently written hastily, and contained but the following words:“Dear Max,—I will take him into the waiting-room, where there is a good view of the platform. I can keep him there,I think. But you must be quick. Recollect, a momentary glance will do. Run by, if you can, at the very last minute. But pray, pray be careful.It is victory or ruin; for he would never forgive either. Laura.“P.S.Burn this, and every note I send.”Mrs Brandon’s face wore a troubled puzzled expression as she glanced at Ella, whose lips moved.“I found that in my reticule since I have lain here,” she whispered. “Read on, and you will understand.”Mrs Brandon took out from the envelope another paper, and read, in a round legal hand:“Cliff-terrace, Penzance,—18—“Sir,—I am requested by my patient, Mr Charles Vining, to enclose the note here contained, one which, at his wish, I have addressed as you see. He tells me that he is doubtful of its reaching the lady if sent by post, and desires me to implore you to be its bearer, delivering it yourself, and adding your persuasions if she should decline compliance. He would have written more, but the note enclosed was penned in my brief absence, and I sternly forbade farther exertion. By way of explanation, I may tell you that my patient came in here, with two more gentlemen, in a yacht, driven to the bay by stress of weather. The next night there was a fearful wreck close in shore, and Mr Vining and one of his friends volunteered, and were out in the lifeboat. I regret to say that their gallant attempt only added to the long list of those gone to their account. Two of the lifeboat’s crew were drowned, while your friend was cast upon the rocks fearfully injured.“Let me assure you that he has had the best advice the town affords.—I am, sir, your obedient servant,“Henry Penellyn, M.R.C.S.“To Maximilian Bray, Esq.“P.S. Mr Vining bids me tell you that the above is his last request.“I do not read to him the following: Not a moment is to be lost, for internal haemorrhage has set in.”Mrs Brandon’s breath came thick and fast, as dashing down this letter, she took up the next.“My only love,—Praycome to me. I am half-killed.—Ever yours,“Charles Vining.”“But that is—stop a minute,” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, who was terribly agitated, and she rang the bell. “Bring my desk quickly,” she said to the maid who answered. “Yes,” she exclaimed, as she unlocked the desk and drew out a letter, and compared it carefully. “It is the same hand. It is his writing!”“Yes,” whispered Ella sadly.“What does it all mean, then?” exclaimed Mrs Brandon confusedly.“I cannot tell—I cannot understand,” whispered Ella. “I was deceived and led away, and he must have seen me; but he would not have betrayed me thus.”“But how to explain it all!” cried Mrs Brandon excitedly. “He is to be married to Laura Bray—”“Ah, me! What have I done, what have I said?” cried Mrs Brandon. “My poor child, I must have been mad to have let my foolish lips utter those words!” And she gently raised the fainting girl in her arms; for at those bitter words, Ella had uttered that faint sigh, her face had been contracted as by a violent spasm, and her eyes had closed.“It is nothing,” sighed Ella, reviving. “If he is only happy!”“Happy!” cried Mrs Brandon, her breast heaving with passion. “It is some cruel conspiracy. But tell me—if you can bear to speak—tell me all.”It was a long recital; for it was told in a faint whisper, and spread over some time, Ella’s strength seeming often to fail her. Twice over Mrs Brandon would have arrested her, but she begged to be allowed to proceed.“It will make me happier,” she whispered. And Mrs Brandon could only bend her head.Three o’clock had struck by the pendule, whose slow beat seemed to be numbering off Ella’s last minutes, when Mrs Brandon left her in the charge of the nurse she had summoned, sleeping now calmly, and as if relieved by confiding her sad little last month’s history to another breast.It was late; but Mrs Brandon had another duty to perform, one which she did, with her mind now confused, now seeming to see plainly the whole of the plot. But there was that letter—those lines in Charley Vining’s hand. But for them, all would have been plain.At times she was moved by a burning indignation; at others she weakly wept; but before returning to Ella’s bedside, she took a large sheet of paper, secured to it the three missives she had brought from the bedside, and then wrote under them:“Charles Vining,—The victim of a cruel plot—Ella Bedford—was enticed from the home I had found for her by Maximilian Bray, from whom she escaped, to crawl,dying, to my house, where she now lies, to breathe her last in peace. As an English gentleman, I ask you, Have you had any hand in this? If not, explain how a letter should be sent to her in your handwriting. I can see part; but the rest remains for you to clear. Emily Brandon.”This letter Mrs Brandon carefully sealed, with its contents, and then returned to watch by Ella’s bedside.Soon after eight that morning she dispatched the note by a trusty messenger, to be delivered into no other hands than Charley Vining’s—little wotting the events to take place that day—and into Charley Vining’s hands that letter was placed, as we have seen.Sir Philip Vining’s coachman was the first to recover himself and to go to his master’s assistance, just as, half stunned and confused, Sir Philip was struggling to his feet.“Not much hurt, I think!” said Sir Philip. “But where is Mr Bray?”“There he lies, Sir Philip,” said the coachman.And together they went to raise the unfortunate companion of their ride, insensible now, and bleeding from a cut on the temple.“Beg pardon, Sir Philip,” said the coachman appealingly. “I’ve been with you fifteen years now; I hope you won’t turn me off for this job. I was driving as carefully as I could.”“My good fellow, no; of course not. I was to blame. Thank Heaven there are some men coming!—Bray, my dear friend, how is it with you?”Mr Bray looked up on being addressed, and, with a little assistance, rose to his feet; but he was weak and helpless, seating himself directly after.In spite of the serious aspect of affairs, a little examination proved that, though cut about, and some of the harness injured, the horses were very little the worse; while, with the exception of the loss of some paint and a smashed panel, the carriage, on being placed in its normal position, was found to be quite capable of continuing its journey. Plenty of help had arrived, and the labourers had worked with a will; but upon Mr Bray being assisted to his seat, he seemed so ill and shaken, that Sir Philip gave orders for the carriage to make the best of its way home.“But you will come too?” said Mr Bray feebly.“No,” said Sir Philip, frowning angrily; “I shall go forward.”And then, without another word, he strode off in the direction of Laneton.Mr Bray was for following him; but the coachman shook his head.“Master’s as good and true-hearted a gentleman as ever breathed, sir. Here’s fifty—ah, with the way them horses are marked, a hundred and fifty-pounds’ worth of damage done in a moment. And does he do what ninety masters out of a hundred would have done—tell me to leave to-morrow? Not he, sir. He just claps me on the shoulder, and says it was his own fault—which it really was, sir, though lots wouldn’t have owned to it. But no, sir; Sir Philip’s orders was to take you home, and disobeying his orders means throwing away a good place.”So, as Sir Philip disappeared down the lane, the carriage was once more put in motion, and dragged heavily through the muddy rutty by-way back towards Lexville.It was a long and dreary ride, performed in a slow and spiritless way, Mr Bray shrinking back in his seat as they reached and drove through the town; for, in addition to bodily pain, there was the mental suffering—the blow at his pride; for it seemed, though he could not penetrate the mystery, that there was something radically wrong, and that all prospect of the wedding taking place was at an end.In spite of his shrinking back, he could not avoid seeing the curiosity-moved faces at door and window; and, in his heart, he fancied he could make out what was said respecting pride and its fall, for his family was not very popular at Lexville; while the state of horses, carriage, and coachman all tended to make people hurry out to gaze upon this sequel to the broken-off wedding, the theme now of every gossip in the place.“It never rains but it pours,” says the old saw; and so it seemed to be here; for upon Mr Bray alighting at the Elms, stiff and bruised and giddy, it was to find Laura—now that she was hidden from the public gaze, where she had held up so bravely, even to taking her place calmly in the waiting carriage—falling from one violent hysterical fit into another, shrieking and raving against Max, and crying out that what had befallen her was a judgment.Mother, sister, friends, all listened in weeping amazement as they tried to soothe and minister to her, but in vain; and it was not until the coming of the family medical man, and a soothing draught had been administered, that Laura sank back, silent and overcome.The doctor was still busy, when Sir Philip Vining’s carriage drove up with a fresh patient, one who sadly needed his services; while, as Mr Bray was lying bandaged, and at length somewhat more at ease, a servant brought up a telegram.“News, then, at last, from Charley Vining!” exclaimed Mrs Bray excitedly, breaking the official envelope.But Mrs Bray was wrong. The telegram contained news, startling news—such as made the father forget his own sufferings, and rise again to prepare for a journey; and upon its being inadvertently conveyed to Laura some time after, she threw up her hands, shrieked aloud, and then seemed to shrink, trembling within herself, as if expecting momentarily that some great blow would fall crushingly upon her.

The first paper Mrs Brandon drew from the envelope was one in a bold lady’s-hand, evidently written hastily, and contained but the following words:

“Dear Max,—I will take him into the waiting-room, where there is a good view of the platform. I can keep him there,I think. But you must be quick. Recollect, a momentary glance will do. Run by, if you can, at the very last minute. But pray, pray be careful.It is victory or ruin; for he would never forgive either. Laura.“P.S.Burn this, and every note I send.”

“Dear Max,—I will take him into the waiting-room, where there is a good view of the platform. I can keep him there,I think. But you must be quick. Recollect, a momentary glance will do. Run by, if you can, at the very last minute. But pray, pray be careful.It is victory or ruin; for he would never forgive either. Laura.

“P.S.Burn this, and every note I send.”

Mrs Brandon’s face wore a troubled puzzled expression as she glanced at Ella, whose lips moved.

“I found that in my reticule since I have lain here,” she whispered. “Read on, and you will understand.”

Mrs Brandon took out from the envelope another paper, and read, in a round legal hand:

“Cliff-terrace, Penzance,—18—“Sir,—I am requested by my patient, Mr Charles Vining, to enclose the note here contained, one which, at his wish, I have addressed as you see. He tells me that he is doubtful of its reaching the lady if sent by post, and desires me to implore you to be its bearer, delivering it yourself, and adding your persuasions if she should decline compliance. He would have written more, but the note enclosed was penned in my brief absence, and I sternly forbade farther exertion. By way of explanation, I may tell you that my patient came in here, with two more gentlemen, in a yacht, driven to the bay by stress of weather. The next night there was a fearful wreck close in shore, and Mr Vining and one of his friends volunteered, and were out in the lifeboat. I regret to say that their gallant attempt only added to the long list of those gone to their account. Two of the lifeboat’s crew were drowned, while your friend was cast upon the rocks fearfully injured.“Let me assure you that he has had the best advice the town affords.—I am, sir, your obedient servant,“Henry Penellyn, M.R.C.S.“To Maximilian Bray, Esq.“P.S. Mr Vining bids me tell you that the above is his last request.“I do not read to him the following: Not a moment is to be lost, for internal haemorrhage has set in.”

“Cliff-terrace, Penzance,—18—

“Sir,—I am requested by my patient, Mr Charles Vining, to enclose the note here contained, one which, at his wish, I have addressed as you see. He tells me that he is doubtful of its reaching the lady if sent by post, and desires me to implore you to be its bearer, delivering it yourself, and adding your persuasions if she should decline compliance. He would have written more, but the note enclosed was penned in my brief absence, and I sternly forbade farther exertion. By way of explanation, I may tell you that my patient came in here, with two more gentlemen, in a yacht, driven to the bay by stress of weather. The next night there was a fearful wreck close in shore, and Mr Vining and one of his friends volunteered, and were out in the lifeboat. I regret to say that their gallant attempt only added to the long list of those gone to their account. Two of the lifeboat’s crew were drowned, while your friend was cast upon the rocks fearfully injured.

“Let me assure you that he has had the best advice the town affords.—I am, sir, your obedient servant,

“Henry Penellyn, M.R.C.S.

“To Maximilian Bray, Esq.

“P.S. Mr Vining bids me tell you that the above is his last request.

“I do not read to him the following: Not a moment is to be lost, for internal haemorrhage has set in.”

Mrs Brandon’s breath came thick and fast, as dashing down this letter, she took up the next.

“My only love,—Praycome to me. I am half-killed.—Ever yours,“Charles Vining.”

“My only love,—Praycome to me. I am half-killed.—Ever yours,

“Charles Vining.”

“But that is—stop a minute,” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, who was terribly agitated, and she rang the bell. “Bring my desk quickly,” she said to the maid who answered. “Yes,” she exclaimed, as she unlocked the desk and drew out a letter, and compared it carefully. “It is the same hand. It is his writing!”

“Yes,” whispered Ella sadly.

“What does it all mean, then?” exclaimed Mrs Brandon confusedly.

“I cannot tell—I cannot understand,” whispered Ella. “I was deceived and led away, and he must have seen me; but he would not have betrayed me thus.”

“But how to explain it all!” cried Mrs Brandon excitedly. “He is to be married to Laura Bray—”

“Ah, me! What have I done, what have I said?” cried Mrs Brandon. “My poor child, I must have been mad to have let my foolish lips utter those words!” And she gently raised the fainting girl in her arms; for at those bitter words, Ella had uttered that faint sigh, her face had been contracted as by a violent spasm, and her eyes had closed.

“It is nothing,” sighed Ella, reviving. “If he is only happy!”

“Happy!” cried Mrs Brandon, her breast heaving with passion. “It is some cruel conspiracy. But tell me—if you can bear to speak—tell me all.”

It was a long recital; for it was told in a faint whisper, and spread over some time, Ella’s strength seeming often to fail her. Twice over Mrs Brandon would have arrested her, but she begged to be allowed to proceed.

“It will make me happier,” she whispered. And Mrs Brandon could only bend her head.

Three o’clock had struck by the pendule, whose slow beat seemed to be numbering off Ella’s last minutes, when Mrs Brandon left her in the charge of the nurse she had summoned, sleeping now calmly, and as if relieved by confiding her sad little last month’s history to another breast.

It was late; but Mrs Brandon had another duty to perform, one which she did, with her mind now confused, now seeming to see plainly the whole of the plot. But there was that letter—those lines in Charley Vining’s hand. But for them, all would have been plain.

At times she was moved by a burning indignation; at others she weakly wept; but before returning to Ella’s bedside, she took a large sheet of paper, secured to it the three missives she had brought from the bedside, and then wrote under them:

“Charles Vining,—The victim of a cruel plot—Ella Bedford—was enticed from the home I had found for her by Maximilian Bray, from whom she escaped, to crawl,dying, to my house, where she now lies, to breathe her last in peace. As an English gentleman, I ask you, Have you had any hand in this? If not, explain how a letter should be sent to her in your handwriting. I can see part; but the rest remains for you to clear. Emily Brandon.”

“Charles Vining,—The victim of a cruel plot—Ella Bedford—was enticed from the home I had found for her by Maximilian Bray, from whom she escaped, to crawl,dying, to my house, where she now lies, to breathe her last in peace. As an English gentleman, I ask you, Have you had any hand in this? If not, explain how a letter should be sent to her in your handwriting. I can see part; but the rest remains for you to clear. Emily Brandon.”

This letter Mrs Brandon carefully sealed, with its contents, and then returned to watch by Ella’s bedside.

Soon after eight that morning she dispatched the note by a trusty messenger, to be delivered into no other hands than Charley Vining’s—little wotting the events to take place that day—and into Charley Vining’s hands that letter was placed, as we have seen.

Sir Philip Vining’s coachman was the first to recover himself and to go to his master’s assistance, just as, half stunned and confused, Sir Philip was struggling to his feet.

“Not much hurt, I think!” said Sir Philip. “But where is Mr Bray?”

“There he lies, Sir Philip,” said the coachman.

And together they went to raise the unfortunate companion of their ride, insensible now, and bleeding from a cut on the temple.

“Beg pardon, Sir Philip,” said the coachman appealingly. “I’ve been with you fifteen years now; I hope you won’t turn me off for this job. I was driving as carefully as I could.”

“My good fellow, no; of course not. I was to blame. Thank Heaven there are some men coming!—Bray, my dear friend, how is it with you?”

Mr Bray looked up on being addressed, and, with a little assistance, rose to his feet; but he was weak and helpless, seating himself directly after.

In spite of the serious aspect of affairs, a little examination proved that, though cut about, and some of the harness injured, the horses were very little the worse; while, with the exception of the loss of some paint and a smashed panel, the carriage, on being placed in its normal position, was found to be quite capable of continuing its journey. Plenty of help had arrived, and the labourers had worked with a will; but upon Mr Bray being assisted to his seat, he seemed so ill and shaken, that Sir Philip gave orders for the carriage to make the best of its way home.

“But you will come too?” said Mr Bray feebly.

“No,” said Sir Philip, frowning angrily; “I shall go forward.”

And then, without another word, he strode off in the direction of Laneton.

Mr Bray was for following him; but the coachman shook his head.

“Master’s as good and true-hearted a gentleman as ever breathed, sir. Here’s fifty—ah, with the way them horses are marked, a hundred and fifty-pounds’ worth of damage done in a moment. And does he do what ninety masters out of a hundred would have done—tell me to leave to-morrow? Not he, sir. He just claps me on the shoulder, and says it was his own fault—which it really was, sir, though lots wouldn’t have owned to it. But no, sir; Sir Philip’s orders was to take you home, and disobeying his orders means throwing away a good place.”

So, as Sir Philip disappeared down the lane, the carriage was once more put in motion, and dragged heavily through the muddy rutty by-way back towards Lexville.

It was a long and dreary ride, performed in a slow and spiritless way, Mr Bray shrinking back in his seat as they reached and drove through the town; for, in addition to bodily pain, there was the mental suffering—the blow at his pride; for it seemed, though he could not penetrate the mystery, that there was something radically wrong, and that all prospect of the wedding taking place was at an end.

In spite of his shrinking back, he could not avoid seeing the curiosity-moved faces at door and window; and, in his heart, he fancied he could make out what was said respecting pride and its fall, for his family was not very popular at Lexville; while the state of horses, carriage, and coachman all tended to make people hurry out to gaze upon this sequel to the broken-off wedding, the theme now of every gossip in the place.

“It never rains but it pours,” says the old saw; and so it seemed to be here; for upon Mr Bray alighting at the Elms, stiff and bruised and giddy, it was to find Laura—now that she was hidden from the public gaze, where she had held up so bravely, even to taking her place calmly in the waiting carriage—falling from one violent hysterical fit into another, shrieking and raving against Max, and crying out that what had befallen her was a judgment.

Mother, sister, friends, all listened in weeping amazement as they tried to soothe and minister to her, but in vain; and it was not until the coming of the family medical man, and a soothing draught had been administered, that Laura sank back, silent and overcome.

The doctor was still busy, when Sir Philip Vining’s carriage drove up with a fresh patient, one who sadly needed his services; while, as Mr Bray was lying bandaged, and at length somewhat more at ease, a servant brought up a telegram.

“News, then, at last, from Charley Vining!” exclaimed Mrs Bray excitedly, breaking the official envelope.

But Mrs Bray was wrong. The telegram contained news, startling news—such as made the father forget his own sufferings, and rise again to prepare for a journey; and upon its being inadvertently conveyed to Laura some time after, she threw up her hands, shrieked aloud, and then seemed to shrink, trembling within herself, as if expecting momentarily that some great blow would fall crushingly upon her.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Four.Sleep or Death?The telegram to the Bray family was from the little Gloucestershire town, telling what the hotel-keepers were at length able to impart, through a letter they had found in his portmanteau, after missing it in previous searches, that Max Bray was lying in a precarious state, the result of an accident upon the railway.For Max had so far escaped with lifer but he had not yet awoke to consciousness, and to know that he was occupying the couch of her whom he had long marked down as his victim. As the railway passenger had remarked, Max had fallen where the platform sloped; but he was suffering from concussion of the brain; and one maimed limb had been removed by the surgeon’s knife.But we must leave him to his slow recovery, while the landlady declared in confidence to her husband every night, that she had always known that Williams was an assumed name, because there was a “B” on the gentleman’s socks.Sir Philip Vining reached Laneton at last, to see his chariot standing in the inn-yard; but he knew, without questioning the grooms, where Charley would be; and fierce now with the anger that burned within him, he made his way to Copse Hall, to be told that his son was by Miss Bedford’s couch, where he had been since he arrived.For, after a furious gallop, the chariot had dashed up to Copse Hall covered with mud, the horses in a foam and ready to drop, while, springing up more like, a madman than one in possession of his full senses, Charley had leaped out, and almost forced his way to Ella’s side, to fall sobbing on his knees as he clasped her thin transparent hand, a faint smile welcoming his coming, as, with her soul seeming to leap from her longing eyes, she vainly strove to turn towards him.Mrs Brandon stayed to ask no explanation then; for she was alarmed at the fierce rage that flashed from Charley’s eyes at her first words, as he stood there in his wedding garments.She left the explanation for some other time, and, trembling and excited, she left them alone, to find from the servants, upon descending, that this was to have been Charley Vining’s wedding-morn.But Ella must have heard some explanation; for when, nearly two hours after, Mrs Brandon went to the room to whisper to the son of the father’s coming, that softly-shaded head was lying upon Charley’s arm, and there was a sweet satisfied smile upon those pale lips. But as Ella’s eyes opened, and she saw Mrs Brandon approach, they wore that old piteous appealing look, and she whispered, “For I love him!”The words were meant for Mrs Brandon; but they went no farther than Charley’s ear, to bring a wild convulsive sob from his breast, as in his despair he felt that it was too late.“Let him come here!” cried Charley sternly, as Mrs Brandon whispered of his father’s coming. “Let him come here!” And then, as, black and frowning, Sir Philip strode into the room, he turned towards him.“Well!” exclaimed Charley, staying the flood of reproaches Sir Philip was about to heap upon his head; and, as he gazed upon the pale face, the father’s aspect changed, his stride became a gentle step, and he gazed from one to the other. “Well,” cried Charley, “have you come to look upon their work? Have you come to commune once more with the sweet gentle spirit before it passes away? I tell you they have murdered her—murdered my own darling who would have died for me; whilst I, poor, weak, pitiful idiot that I was, believed all I saw—walked blindly into their traps like a foolish child. Curse them—curse them!” he raged, as he ground his teeth together, and spoke in a low hoarse voice, that was awful in its deep suppressed hatred. “You want to know why I dashed off this morning. I tell you, it was to save myself from being a murderer. I tell you, father, that after what I learned on leaving you, if I had faced that cursed Jezebel, it would have been to strangle her. There—there, read those letters!” he cried, tearing the papers from his breast, and dashing them at Sir Philip. “Read how brother and sister could plot to delude this poor child—plot with a diabolical cunning that was nearly crowned with success; for they had a simple unworldly man to deal with; read how we were to be torn asunder by their cursed malice—how I was to be poisoned at heart by seeing her appear to flee with that scoundrel Max Bray; while I, like a simple sheep, was led by that false wretch to see it all. She played her cards well—to become Lady Vining, forsooth! And then read on how this poor angel was beguiled by lying forgeries to hurry away with Max to Cornwall, to see me—me—dying from injuries; while, to give force to his lies, the villain added to, and then sent, the note, that must have been lying in his desk above a year—the note I sent to him, telling him to come to me, for I was half-killed, when I had my hunting fall. God!” he hissed forth in a fierce way, that made his hearers tremble, “God! that my right hand had withered away before it penned a line! But no, no!” he exclaimed, and his teeth grated, “I shall want this right hand yet; for the day of reckoning shall surely come!”There was something fearful in the young man’s aspect, as down there upon one knee by the bedside, his left arm beneath that fair golden-clustered head, he clenched his right hand, and, gazing before him at vacancy, he shook that clenched hand fiercely, and his mad rage was such that could he have grasped Max Bray then, he would have dashed him down, and crushed his heel upon his false cruel face, for he knew not of the retribution that had already fallen to the deceiver’s lot.But the next moment Charley Vining turned to look down upon the pale horror-stricken face at his side, when the rugged brow was smoothed, the clenched hand dropped, and a deep groan burst from the young man’s breast.“O, heaven forgive me! What am I saying? Father, father,” he cried, in pitiful tones, “they’ve broken my heart!”And then, the strong man humbled, he bowed down over the bedside till his agony-distorted face rested upon that fluttering breast; and weak now as the weakest, he wept like a child, his broad shoulders heaving from the convulsive sobs that burst forth with the wild hysterical violence of a woman’s grief.“Charley, my son,” gasped Sir Philip at last, as he knelt by the young man’s side, and laid his hand upon his head, “you do not think—you cannot think—that I knew of all this?”“No—no—no!” groaned Charley. “I never thought it.”

The telegram to the Bray family was from the little Gloucestershire town, telling what the hotel-keepers were at length able to impart, through a letter they had found in his portmanteau, after missing it in previous searches, that Max Bray was lying in a precarious state, the result of an accident upon the railway.

For Max had so far escaped with lifer but he had not yet awoke to consciousness, and to know that he was occupying the couch of her whom he had long marked down as his victim. As the railway passenger had remarked, Max had fallen where the platform sloped; but he was suffering from concussion of the brain; and one maimed limb had been removed by the surgeon’s knife.

But we must leave him to his slow recovery, while the landlady declared in confidence to her husband every night, that she had always known that Williams was an assumed name, because there was a “B” on the gentleman’s socks.

Sir Philip Vining reached Laneton at last, to see his chariot standing in the inn-yard; but he knew, without questioning the grooms, where Charley would be; and fierce now with the anger that burned within him, he made his way to Copse Hall, to be told that his son was by Miss Bedford’s couch, where he had been since he arrived.

For, after a furious gallop, the chariot had dashed up to Copse Hall covered with mud, the horses in a foam and ready to drop, while, springing up more like, a madman than one in possession of his full senses, Charley had leaped out, and almost forced his way to Ella’s side, to fall sobbing on his knees as he clasped her thin transparent hand, a faint smile welcoming his coming, as, with her soul seeming to leap from her longing eyes, she vainly strove to turn towards him.

Mrs Brandon stayed to ask no explanation then; for she was alarmed at the fierce rage that flashed from Charley’s eyes at her first words, as he stood there in his wedding garments.

She left the explanation for some other time, and, trembling and excited, she left them alone, to find from the servants, upon descending, that this was to have been Charley Vining’s wedding-morn.

But Ella must have heard some explanation; for when, nearly two hours after, Mrs Brandon went to the room to whisper to the son of the father’s coming, that softly-shaded head was lying upon Charley’s arm, and there was a sweet satisfied smile upon those pale lips. But as Ella’s eyes opened, and she saw Mrs Brandon approach, they wore that old piteous appealing look, and she whispered, “For I love him!”

The words were meant for Mrs Brandon; but they went no farther than Charley’s ear, to bring a wild convulsive sob from his breast, as in his despair he felt that it was too late.

“Let him come here!” cried Charley sternly, as Mrs Brandon whispered of his father’s coming. “Let him come here!” And then, as, black and frowning, Sir Philip strode into the room, he turned towards him.

“Well!” exclaimed Charley, staying the flood of reproaches Sir Philip was about to heap upon his head; and, as he gazed upon the pale face, the father’s aspect changed, his stride became a gentle step, and he gazed from one to the other. “Well,” cried Charley, “have you come to look upon their work? Have you come to commune once more with the sweet gentle spirit before it passes away? I tell you they have murdered her—murdered my own darling who would have died for me; whilst I, poor, weak, pitiful idiot that I was, believed all I saw—walked blindly into their traps like a foolish child. Curse them—curse them!” he raged, as he ground his teeth together, and spoke in a low hoarse voice, that was awful in its deep suppressed hatred. “You want to know why I dashed off this morning. I tell you, it was to save myself from being a murderer. I tell you, father, that after what I learned on leaving you, if I had faced that cursed Jezebel, it would have been to strangle her. There—there, read those letters!” he cried, tearing the papers from his breast, and dashing them at Sir Philip. “Read how brother and sister could plot to delude this poor child—plot with a diabolical cunning that was nearly crowned with success; for they had a simple unworldly man to deal with; read how we were to be torn asunder by their cursed malice—how I was to be poisoned at heart by seeing her appear to flee with that scoundrel Max Bray; while I, like a simple sheep, was led by that false wretch to see it all. She played her cards well—to become Lady Vining, forsooth! And then read on how this poor angel was beguiled by lying forgeries to hurry away with Max to Cornwall, to see me—me—dying from injuries; while, to give force to his lies, the villain added to, and then sent, the note, that must have been lying in his desk above a year—the note I sent to him, telling him to come to me, for I was half-killed, when I had my hunting fall. God!” he hissed forth in a fierce way, that made his hearers tremble, “God! that my right hand had withered away before it penned a line! But no, no!” he exclaimed, and his teeth grated, “I shall want this right hand yet; for the day of reckoning shall surely come!”

There was something fearful in the young man’s aspect, as down there upon one knee by the bedside, his left arm beneath that fair golden-clustered head, he clenched his right hand, and, gazing before him at vacancy, he shook that clenched hand fiercely, and his mad rage was such that could he have grasped Max Bray then, he would have dashed him down, and crushed his heel upon his false cruel face, for he knew not of the retribution that had already fallen to the deceiver’s lot.

But the next moment Charley Vining turned to look down upon the pale horror-stricken face at his side, when the rugged brow was smoothed, the clenched hand dropped, and a deep groan burst from the young man’s breast.

“O, heaven forgive me! What am I saying? Father, father,” he cried, in pitiful tones, “they’ve broken my heart!”

And then, the strong man humbled, he bowed down over the bedside till his agony-distorted face rested upon that fluttering breast; and weak now as the weakest, he wept like a child, his broad shoulders heaving from the convulsive sobs that burst forth with the wild hysterical violence of a woman’s grief.

“Charley, my son,” gasped Sir Philip at last, as he knelt by the young man’s side, and laid his hand upon his head, “you do not think—you cannot think—that I knew of all this?”

“No—no—no!” groaned Charley. “I never thought it.”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Five.Hope Rises.“It is cruel, monstrous!” exclaimed Sir Philip, after a long pause. “But, O my boy, what have I done? I thought to make you honoured and loved of all. My sole desire was to make you happy and content. But, my boy, you will forgive me. I humble myself to you. I was wrong.”“Hush, hush, father!” cried Charley sternly, as he raised one arm, and laid it upon his father’s shoulder. “What have I to forgive in you?”He turned again, gazing with a despairing, stunned expression upon Ella’s face.“But,” cried Sir Philip hastily, “what has been done?—Mrs Brandon, what medical advice have you had?”“The best that money can procure,” said Mrs Brandon, in a choking voice. “We have done all that is possible.”There was a dead silence now reigning in that chamber, broken at last by Sir Philip, as, forgetful of all else but the fearful wrong that had been done the suffering girl before him, he bent over Ella to kiss her tenderly.“O my child, my child!” he moaned, “my poor child! I came here angry and bitter to upbraid; but has it come to this? that you, so young, so pure, must leave us to go where all is love, to bear witness to my selfish pride and ambition? Heaven forgive me!” he sobbed, as his tears fell fast upon the little hand he held, “heaven forgive me! for, in my blindness, I have broken two loving hearts—sacrificed them to my insensate pride! Blind—blind—blind that I was, not to remember that the love of a pure true-hearted woman was a gem beyond price. Has it indeed come to this, that there is nothing to be done but for a poor, weak, blind old man to ask forgiveness for your wrongs?—Charley,” he sobbed, turning to his son, “my boy—my pride, the hope of my old age, forgive me, for I can never forgive myself!”“Father, for heaven’s sake, hush!” cried Charley in his blank despair. “This is too much. I cannot bear it. I have nothing to forgive. It was our fate; but, O!” he said huskily, as he drew Ella nearer to his breast, “it is hard—hard—hard to bear!”Here Mrs Brandon interposed; it was too much for the sufferer to encounter; and gently drawing the young man away, she bent over to whisper to Ella, but, in obedience to a whispered wish, she drew back, as Charley, weak now and trembling, gazed in his father’s quivering face for a few moments, and then, as did the patriarch of old, he fell upon the loving old man’s neck and kissed him, and wept sore.The silence then in that sad chamber was painful; but at last, trembling in every limb, Sir Philip crept to the bedside, to take the place lately occupied by his son—to pass one arm beneath Ella’s neck, and then, with all a father’s gentle love, to raise her more and more, till her head, with all that glory of bright fair hair, rested upon his breast, and his old and wrinkled cheek touched the vein-mapped, transparent forehead.“If I could die for you, my child,” he murmured; “if my few poor useless days could be given, that you might live, I should be content. Heaven hear my prayer!” he cried piteously. “Poor sufferer! Has she not borne enough? Have we not all tried our best to make her way thorny and harsh? O my child, I loved you from the first, though my pride would not let me acknowledge it, and I left you that day moved almost beyond human power to bear; while, on my return, even the eyes of my wife’s poor semblance seemed, from the canvas, almost to look—to look down upon me with reproach. But you must not leave us—surely our prayers must be heard—you, so young, so gentle! My poor blighted flower! But you will live to bless us both—to be my stay and comfort—to help a weak old man tenderly along his path to the grave—to be the hope and stay of my boy—to be my pride! I ask you—I ask you this—I, his father, ask you to live for us, to bless us both with your pure and gentle love! Charley my boy, here—quick—quick—My God, she is dying!”A faint shudder had passed through Ella’s frame as Sir Philip uttered that exclamation, and her pinched pale face looked more strange and unearthly than ever; but she had heard every word uttered by the old man; words which, feeble as she was, had made her heart leap with a strange joy, sending life and energy once more through every vein and nerve, but only with the effect of a few drops of oil upon an expiring flame: the light sprang up for a few moments, and then seemed to sink lower and lower, till, with a shiver of dread, Mrs Brandon softly approached.She paused though, for at that moment Ella’s eyes softly unclosed, to gaze trustingly at Sir Philip Vining. Then they were turned to Charley; and as they rested there, her pale lips parted, but no word came. A faint sad smile of content, though, flitted for an instant over her face, and those lips spoke in silence their wishes—wishes read by heartbroken Charley, who, resting one hand upon his father’s shoulder, pressed upon that pale rosebud of a mouth a long, long kiss of love, one, though, to which there was no response. He did not even feel the soft fluttering breath, playing and hesitating, as it were, round her lips as her eyes slowly closed.Was it in sleep or in death? The question was mentally asked again and again; but no one spoke, as all stood there watching—hardly daring to breathe.Night had come, and still no movement, no trace by which hope could be for a moment illumined, and still they watched on; Lexville, the Brays, everything, being forgotten in this great sorrow. But with the night came again the doctor, with an old friend and physician; then followed a long consultation in the sick-chamber, and another in the drawing-room, while friend and lover waited tremblingly for the sentence to be pronounced.“My friend thinks with me that there is a change,” said Mr Tiddson; “and really, Mrs Brandon, in the whole course of my practice, nothing ever gave me greater pleasure.”The next day, and the lamp of life still burning, but the brain-symptoms had passed away, in spite of the great excitement. There was extreme weakness, but soon that was all; and until, joyful and exultant, Sir Philip avowed to himself that the danger was past, he did not return to Blandfield Court.“Saved, my boy, saved! our prayers were heard!” he exclaimed then fervently; and from that day Sir Philip seemed to know no rest when he was away from the invalid chamber.Scandal and wonders seldom last above their reputed nine days; and so it seemed here at Lexville. People talked tremendously, and commented upon the absence of the Vinings, and their treatment of their old friends, the Brays. But from the Bray family themselves came not one word of rebuke or complaint. They started for London the day but one after that appointed for the wedding, to take up, as it proved, their permanent residence in Harley-street; and at the end of a month it was announced that The Elms was for sale; and, at a great price, the local auctioneer disposed of the whole of “Mr Onesimus Bray’s well-known and carefully-selected live and dead farming stock,” in spite of the old-fashioned farmers’ head-shaking and nods and winks.But, as time wore on, though the past was never again reverted to, pudgy quiet Mr Bray more than once had a snugtête-à-têteclub dinner with his old friend Sir Philip Vining, and they parted in the best of fellowship.And now we must ask our readers to follow us hastily through a few scenes, whose intent is to fill up voids in our narrative, and to bring it more quickly to a close.Any one who knows the neighbourhood of Blandfield and Laneton will acknowledge that no more pleasant piece of rural undulating country can be found within a radius of fifty miles round London; and through those pleasant dales and glades, day after day of the bright spring-time, might one or other of Sir Philip Vining’s carriages be seen with the old gentleman himself in constant attendance upon his chosen daughter. His love had long been withheld, but now it was showered down abundantly.The slightest increase of pallor, a warm flush, anything, was sufficient to arouse the worthy old man’s alarms. And they were not quite needless; for the struggle back to health was on Ella Bedford’s part long and protracted.Charley Vining used to declare that he was quite excluded, and that he did not get anything like a fair share of Ella’s heart; but the warm glow of pleasure which suffused his face, as he saw the pride and affection Sir Philip had in his son’s choice, was, as Mrs Brandon used to say, “a sight to make any one happy.”Often and often Mrs Brandon used to declare that the Vinings might just as well come and take up their residence altogether at Copse Hall, for she should never think of parting with Ella; while, as the summer came in, and with it strength and brightness of eye to the invalid, Sir Philip Vining’s great pleasure was, just before leaving of an evening, just as it was growing dusk, to lead Ella to the piano, where, unasked, she would plaintively sing him the old ballad that had once drawn a tear from Charley Vining’s eye, when he had told the singer that he was glad Sir Philip was not present.And on those occasions, seated with his back to the light, and his forehead down upon his hand, the old man would be carried far back into the days of the past, when the wife he loved was with him; and as the sweet low notes rose and fell, now loud and clear, now soft and tremulous with pathos, Sir Philip’s lip would tremble, and more than once, when he bade her good-night, Ella felt that his cheek was wet.

“It is cruel, monstrous!” exclaimed Sir Philip, after a long pause. “But, O my boy, what have I done? I thought to make you honoured and loved of all. My sole desire was to make you happy and content. But, my boy, you will forgive me. I humble myself to you. I was wrong.”

“Hush, hush, father!” cried Charley sternly, as he raised one arm, and laid it upon his father’s shoulder. “What have I to forgive in you?”

He turned again, gazing with a despairing, stunned expression upon Ella’s face.

“But,” cried Sir Philip hastily, “what has been done?—Mrs Brandon, what medical advice have you had?”

“The best that money can procure,” said Mrs Brandon, in a choking voice. “We have done all that is possible.”

There was a dead silence now reigning in that chamber, broken at last by Sir Philip, as, forgetful of all else but the fearful wrong that had been done the suffering girl before him, he bent over Ella to kiss her tenderly.

“O my child, my child!” he moaned, “my poor child! I came here angry and bitter to upbraid; but has it come to this? that you, so young, so pure, must leave us to go where all is love, to bear witness to my selfish pride and ambition? Heaven forgive me!” he sobbed, as his tears fell fast upon the little hand he held, “heaven forgive me! for, in my blindness, I have broken two loving hearts—sacrificed them to my insensate pride! Blind—blind—blind that I was, not to remember that the love of a pure true-hearted woman was a gem beyond price. Has it indeed come to this, that there is nothing to be done but for a poor, weak, blind old man to ask forgiveness for your wrongs?—Charley,” he sobbed, turning to his son, “my boy—my pride, the hope of my old age, forgive me, for I can never forgive myself!”

“Father, for heaven’s sake, hush!” cried Charley in his blank despair. “This is too much. I cannot bear it. I have nothing to forgive. It was our fate; but, O!” he said huskily, as he drew Ella nearer to his breast, “it is hard—hard—hard to bear!”

Here Mrs Brandon interposed; it was too much for the sufferer to encounter; and gently drawing the young man away, she bent over to whisper to Ella, but, in obedience to a whispered wish, she drew back, as Charley, weak now and trembling, gazed in his father’s quivering face for a few moments, and then, as did the patriarch of old, he fell upon the loving old man’s neck and kissed him, and wept sore.

The silence then in that sad chamber was painful; but at last, trembling in every limb, Sir Philip crept to the bedside, to take the place lately occupied by his son—to pass one arm beneath Ella’s neck, and then, with all a father’s gentle love, to raise her more and more, till her head, with all that glory of bright fair hair, rested upon his breast, and his old and wrinkled cheek touched the vein-mapped, transparent forehead.

“If I could die for you, my child,” he murmured; “if my few poor useless days could be given, that you might live, I should be content. Heaven hear my prayer!” he cried piteously. “Poor sufferer! Has she not borne enough? Have we not all tried our best to make her way thorny and harsh? O my child, I loved you from the first, though my pride would not let me acknowledge it, and I left you that day moved almost beyond human power to bear; while, on my return, even the eyes of my wife’s poor semblance seemed, from the canvas, almost to look—to look down upon me with reproach. But you must not leave us—surely our prayers must be heard—you, so young, so gentle! My poor blighted flower! But you will live to bless us both—to be my stay and comfort—to help a weak old man tenderly along his path to the grave—to be the hope and stay of my boy—to be my pride! I ask you—I ask you this—I, his father, ask you to live for us, to bless us both with your pure and gentle love! Charley my boy, here—quick—quick—My God, she is dying!”

A faint shudder had passed through Ella’s frame as Sir Philip uttered that exclamation, and her pinched pale face looked more strange and unearthly than ever; but she had heard every word uttered by the old man; words which, feeble as she was, had made her heart leap with a strange joy, sending life and energy once more through every vein and nerve, but only with the effect of a few drops of oil upon an expiring flame: the light sprang up for a few moments, and then seemed to sink lower and lower, till, with a shiver of dread, Mrs Brandon softly approached.

She paused though, for at that moment Ella’s eyes softly unclosed, to gaze trustingly at Sir Philip Vining. Then they were turned to Charley; and as they rested there, her pale lips parted, but no word came. A faint sad smile of content, though, flitted for an instant over her face, and those lips spoke in silence their wishes—wishes read by heartbroken Charley, who, resting one hand upon his father’s shoulder, pressed upon that pale rosebud of a mouth a long, long kiss of love, one, though, to which there was no response. He did not even feel the soft fluttering breath, playing and hesitating, as it were, round her lips as her eyes slowly closed.

Was it in sleep or in death? The question was mentally asked again and again; but no one spoke, as all stood there watching—hardly daring to breathe.

Night had come, and still no movement, no trace by which hope could be for a moment illumined, and still they watched on; Lexville, the Brays, everything, being forgotten in this great sorrow. But with the night came again the doctor, with an old friend and physician; then followed a long consultation in the sick-chamber, and another in the drawing-room, while friend and lover waited tremblingly for the sentence to be pronounced.

“My friend thinks with me that there is a change,” said Mr Tiddson; “and really, Mrs Brandon, in the whole course of my practice, nothing ever gave me greater pleasure.”

The next day, and the lamp of life still burning, but the brain-symptoms had passed away, in spite of the great excitement. There was extreme weakness, but soon that was all; and until, joyful and exultant, Sir Philip avowed to himself that the danger was past, he did not return to Blandfield Court.

“Saved, my boy, saved! our prayers were heard!” he exclaimed then fervently; and from that day Sir Philip seemed to know no rest when he was away from the invalid chamber.

Scandal and wonders seldom last above their reputed nine days; and so it seemed here at Lexville. People talked tremendously, and commented upon the absence of the Vinings, and their treatment of their old friends, the Brays. But from the Bray family themselves came not one word of rebuke or complaint. They started for London the day but one after that appointed for the wedding, to take up, as it proved, their permanent residence in Harley-street; and at the end of a month it was announced that The Elms was for sale; and, at a great price, the local auctioneer disposed of the whole of “Mr Onesimus Bray’s well-known and carefully-selected live and dead farming stock,” in spite of the old-fashioned farmers’ head-shaking and nods and winks.

But, as time wore on, though the past was never again reverted to, pudgy quiet Mr Bray more than once had a snugtête-à-têteclub dinner with his old friend Sir Philip Vining, and they parted in the best of fellowship.

And now we must ask our readers to follow us hastily through a few scenes, whose intent is to fill up voids in our narrative, and to bring it more quickly to a close.

Any one who knows the neighbourhood of Blandfield and Laneton will acknowledge that no more pleasant piece of rural undulating country can be found within a radius of fifty miles round London; and through those pleasant dales and glades, day after day of the bright spring-time, might one or other of Sir Philip Vining’s carriages be seen with the old gentleman himself in constant attendance upon his chosen daughter. His love had long been withheld, but now it was showered down abundantly.

The slightest increase of pallor, a warm flush, anything, was sufficient to arouse the worthy old man’s alarms. And they were not quite needless; for the struggle back to health was on Ella Bedford’s part long and protracted.

Charley Vining used to declare that he was quite excluded, and that he did not get anything like a fair share of Ella’s heart; but the warm glow of pleasure which suffused his face, as he saw the pride and affection Sir Philip had in his son’s choice, was, as Mrs Brandon used to say, “a sight to make any one happy.”

Often and often Mrs Brandon used to declare that the Vinings might just as well come and take up their residence altogether at Copse Hall, for she should never think of parting with Ella; while, as the summer came in, and with it strength and brightness of eye to the invalid, Sir Philip Vining’s great pleasure was, just before leaving of an evening, just as it was growing dusk, to lead Ella to the piano, where, unasked, she would plaintively sing him the old ballad that had once drawn a tear from Charley Vining’s eye, when he had told the singer that he was glad Sir Philip was not present.

And on those occasions, seated with his back to the light, and his forehead down upon his hand, the old man would be carried far back into the days of the past, when the wife he loved was with him; and as the sweet low notes rose and fell, now loud and clear, now soft and tremulous with pathos, Sir Philip’s lip would tremble, and more than once, when he bade her good-night, Ella felt that his cheek was wet.

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