CHAPTER VII.BETSY LONG.
M
rs. Belassishad been discomfited by her sister and her niece—by the two beings she had been accustomed to snub and trample upon at will—and her defeat at their hands was as bitter a pill as she had ever been called upon to swallow.
Moreover, she was conscious of having brought her defeat upon herself by acting with less than her ordinary caution. What had occurred at Ladywell only a few days back, ought to have been enough to deter her from a second attempt at search. She had known this all along, but her intense eagerness to gain possession of the document, of whose existence they now felt certain, and the discovery of which, if made by other hands, would cause such a terriblebouleversementofall their cherished plans, had overcome her prudence.
With such a consummation staring her in the face, it was no wonder that Mrs. Belassis was willing to run some risk; but now she wished she had been more circumspect. She felt she had put herself at a disadvantage by this second visit—had laid herself open to suspicion and contempt; and a fear arose in her mind that, by showing her hand too openly, she might have given a clue to others as to the object of her search.
A little consideration, however, blunted the edge of this fear. If that letter of old Maynard’s had not (as she felt certain) been opened out by other hands than hers, no one would ever dream of hunting for Philip Debenham’s last will and testament amongst the wilderness of books in the library at Ladywell, which house had never been his home. If anyone believed that a second will had been made, they must also believe that it had been destroyed before now. It was not likely to come to light eighteen years after the death of the testator.
Whatever Maud and Mrs. Lorraine believedthat she (Celia Belassis) came to search for, they at least would never guess that it was for her brother-in-law’s will. Of that fear she might safely rid her mind.
But she could not rid her mind of others. She knew that Roma Meredith came often now to read in the great library, and any day her unconscious choice might light upon the volume in which the precious paper lay hidden. Philip was himself something of a reader and a lover of books, and she had already heard some talk about rearranging the library and classifying the works.
Such thoughts as these made her blood run cold, and very earnestly and intently did she ponder over the matter, trying to see some way to rid herself of the haunting dread that oppressed her. She knew Maud’s trust-money was all speculated away, and if anything occurred which should oblige her husband to deliver up the lump sum, it would be impossible to avoid afiascothat must bring the name of Belassis into open contempt.
What Mrs. Belassis would like best to do, would be to carry war into the enemy’s quarters, if only she saw her way to doing it.She had not at all given up her idea that this nephew of hers was playing a double part, and acting unfairly towards the friend to whom he owed so much. Her own eyes had convinced her that he was using the money of his friend as freely as his own; and if he could do that, of what was he not capable?
She meant to keep her eyes and ears open, and glean all the information possible upon this subject. But it was not easy for her to make discoveries now, because she had declared open war, as it were, with those at Ladywell, and was herself looked upon as little better than a spy.
A spy!
Mrs. Belassis repeated the word once or twice to herself, and an unpleasant smile stole gradually into her eyes.
Yes, there was certainly something attractive in the idea. Would it be possible to introduce a spy into that house, who would keep watch upon what was going on, listen and report upon all the talk of the servants’-hall, and when it was possible, contrive to hear what was said upstairs as well as down? Mrs. Belassis had a shrewd notion that servantsgenerally contrived to find out the truth as to what went on in a house, much more quickly than they were supposed to do; and she believed that if her nephew was likely to get himself into trouble, he would probably tell something of his difficulties to his sister or his aunt, and then the secret would ooze out below-stairs, and might be easily made known to her. She thought she could perhaps set some rumour afloat herself, which might startle him from his high and mighty ease, and induce him to make some admissions to his two adoring relatives.
And again, if Mrs. Belassis could but introduce into that house some creature of her own, great things might be accomplished. The library books might be gradually and systematically examined; and if the underling failed in the quest, surely she could admit her employer at some unlikely hour, and with time and patience Mrs. Belassis felt perfectly certain that she should be able to find Philip Debenham’s carefully hidden will.
But who was to be the instrument of this promising plot? A little more consideration, and that point, too, was settled.
When Mrs. Belassis reached her own house, she said to the footman who answered her summons:
‘Send Betsy Long up to my room.’
Her face and voice were so severe, that the man informed the under-housemaid that ‘she was going to catch it now, and serve her right too,’ by which it might be argued that the young woman was not a special favourite of his.
Betsy Long was a good-looking, clever girl, and Mrs. Belassis had already made use of her as a sort of spy upon the other servants. It was her pride and boast, that she always knew exactly what went on in her kitchen and servants’-hall, and naturally this knowledge could only be obtained through one of the servants themselves. The honourable position of informer-general had been held for nearly two years by Betsy Long, who stood high in her mistress’s favour, and proportionately low in that of her fellow-servants. Betsy Long could lie with an assumption of simple veracity that was touching to witness, and she knew when to speak and when to hold her peace; and she hadalways been faithful, so far, to her mistress, whom she feared whilst she fawned upon her. So Betsy Long was selected by Mrs. Belassis as her chosen instrument.
Betsy came up in fear and trembling, not knowing what might be in store for her. She was, however, somewhat reassured by the look and manner of her mistress; and the two entered into a long and earnest conference, the result of which will be seen later. The immediate result was, that the girl went sobbing down to the lower regions, with the news that Mrs. Belassis had turned her off with a week’s notice, and she didn’t know what would become of her.
The other servants could hardly be said to be sympathetic, and told her plainly that it served her right.
Betsy cried loudly in public, but never in private; and in spite of her mistress’s supposed displeasure, she and Mrs. Belassis held, in strict privacy, more than one long conference together.
Mrs. Belassis felt easier in her mind now, as to matters connected with Ladywell; but she was not easy about the secret she believedher husband was hiding from her. She had so little faith in his acuteness, that she was convinced he might get into some very unpleasant mess, if he did not take her into his confidence. She was angry with him for his folly and recklessness in plunging himself into difficulties from which he seemed unable to extricate himself, and felt aggrieved to have another burden added to the load she was already forced to carry; but at the same time she was not going to stand by and let that stupid husband of hers keep an important secret from her.
‘Alfred,’ she said sharply, upon the first favourable opportunity, ‘I asked you once before what you knew of Whitbury and Miss Marjory Descartes. You were pleased then to make a very ungentlemanly reply; perhaps now you will answer me properly.’
Belassis looked thoroughly frightened and taken aback.
‘Wh—what do you kn—know about Wh—Whitbury?’ he stammered, his face growing pale.
‘I don’t know anything yet; but I mean to know all pretty soon,’ answered Mrs. Belassis coolly and firmly. ‘You are not such a foolas to try and deceive me? You ought to know by this time that you couldn’t do it.’
‘Why should I know anything of Whitbury?’ asked Belassis, trying all he knew to speak naturally.
‘Why should you turn perfectly livid at the bare mention of the name, if you didn’t?’
‘I wasn’t very well that evening—Philip had startled me by coming in so suddenly upon us.’
‘Look here, Alfred!’ said Mrs. Belassis significantly. ‘You know, and what’s more, I believe Philip Debenham knows, that you have some mysterious connection with Whitbury. If you won’t tell me, I shall ask him; and if he doesn’t satisfy me, I shall apply direct to Miss Marjory Descartes. I have not any reason to suppose that she will screen you, if she knows of anything to your discredit.’
Belassis thus brought to bay, collapsed suddenly and hopelessly. In encounters with his wife he invariably got the worst of it.
‘I—I—Indeed, my dear, I should have told you all long ago, only it seemed useless to rake up old stories of dead-and-gone follies. Young men will be young men, you know;and boys will be boys. I was little more than a boy when I went to Whitbury to fish, and I did get into some little trouble there—money trouble, I mean—and I dare say if people hadn’t been good-natured, and not been too hard upon me, it would have gone rather hardly with me.’
Belassis, with an air of great good faith, gave the particulars of the little fraud he had unsuccessfully perpetrated (to which Miss Marjory had alluded in talking to Tor), and the names given, and the circumstantial correctness of the story, convinced Mrs. Belassis that it was a true one.
‘And why did Miss Marjory Descartes stand your friend and beg you off?’ she asked.
‘Because—because——Well, my dear, the truth is, I believe, a favourite maid of hers begged her to do so, and interceded successfully with her. You see, I—I——’
‘You had made love to the girl, I suppose?’ put in Mrs. Belassis scornfully. ‘Just like one of your low ways.’
‘I had not seen you, you know, my dear; and the girl was good-looking, and wouldkeep walking by the river in an evening, just where I was fishing. Of course I paid her a few compliments on her pretty face, and talked a little nonsense, as other young men do in similar circumstances. You needn’t mind that, Celia, my love! I never looked at another woman after I knew you!’
Mrs. Belassis sneered.
‘Do you suppose I am jealous of attentions you paid to a lady’s-maid thirty or forty years ago? Was it fear of my displeasure that so alarmed you? or have you worse to tell?’
‘Worse? Oh no!—no—no! That is all; the matter began and ended there. You know all I know now. You see, my dear, one does not care to have one’s youthful sins and follies brought to light after all these years. I dare say it seems foolish to you; but I am fond of you, and I didn’t care that a story like that—exaggerated and made worse, no doubt, by gossiping tongues—should come to your ears. I shall not mind, now that I have told you all; but, I confess, I was taken aback when Philip first spoke of Whitbury, and people I had known there. I did not know what ill-natured report he might notset afloat. Put yourself in my position a moment, my dear, and I think you will understand.’
‘Well, well,’ answered Mrs. Belassis impatiently, ‘it is a pity, as you are such a poor cowardly creature, that you ever had courage to put yourself in such awkward positions as you have been doing of late. You can do a most daring and unscrupulous thing in the calmest way, so long as detection seems impossible; but as soon as ever the inevitable crisis threatens, you are as helpless and blundering as a child.’
Belassis assented to this criticism meekly enough, and took a good scolding from his wife with unusual docility. He was so unutterably relieved at the credence his story had obtained, that nothing else disturbed him much. Mrs. Belassis had certainly accepted his explanation with all readiness. His nature was so craven in her eyes that his fear was easily accounted for; and even she was far from suspecting him of the terrible and irretrievable folly of which he had really been guilty. That he would marry a second wife without knowing that the first was dead, wasa thought that never crossed her mind for a moment. She never even suspected that he had ever been married, until his union with herself.
Days glided quietly by, and the traveller returned from his brief visit to Germany. He did not bring his friend back with him, as had been half expected in some quarters; but he announced that Mr. Torwood had started on a four months’ sea-voyage, and was confidently expected to return from it with much recruited health.
Mrs. Belassis smiled a peculiar smile on hearing this announcement, and remarked that she had quite expected some such step as this—anything to keep his friend away. Her own theory on the subject was distinctly strengthened.
On the second day after his return, as Tor was sauntering leisurely homewards through the shady lanes, he came across a respectable-looking girl, sitting by the roadside and crying bitterly and uncontrollably.
He was too kind-hearted to pass by altogether unheeding, so he stopped, and asked the girl what was the matter.
With a great many sobs, and tears, and repetitions, the story came out.
She was, or had been, a housemaid at Thornton House for nearly two years, and her name was Betsy Long, and she was afraid she had a quick temper and a saucy tongue. The mistress had spoken about it more than once, and she had tried; but some things would make a saint fly out—and to try and take away a poor girl’s character!
Recalled to the point, she went on to say that Mrs. Belassis had missed some money off her dressing-table, and had accused Betsy of having taken it. The girl had denied it strenuously, and had lost her temper, and had become violent. Mrs. Belassis had discharged her at a week’s notice, and had declined to give her a character; and then Betsy, with a burst of sobs, explained that she had a mother and sick sister more than half dependent upon her, and that it would break their hearts to hear that she had lost her place without the chance of getting another; for her character was gone, and she didn’t know what would become of her.
There was sufficient sincerity in the girl’smanner to impress Tor with the belief that she was speaking the truth, and was innocent of the misdeed of which she had been accused. He was sorry for her, and thought that Mrs. Belassis had been hard, as might, perhaps, be expected from so hard a woman.
‘I will speak to Mrs. Belassis for you,’ he said, after a little reflection. ‘You had better not give way like that. Come up to the Manor House this afternoon at five. We will see if something cannot be done for you.’
‘Thank you, sir—thank you kindly,’ said Betsy, with a curtsey, drying her eyes.
Tor was not far from Thornton House, so he turned his steps in that direction, and, at a corner, encountered Mrs. Belassis, bound for her own abode.
He lifted his hat and joined her, with a few words of greeting.
‘I have just met your housemaid in great trouble at being summarily dismissed from your service. Has she really been robbing you?’
‘No; I found out that my husband had taken the money, unknown to me, and I shalllet Betsy know; but at the same time she is such a saucy, impudent girl, I am quite glad to be rid of her.’
‘You will not take her back, then?’
‘Certainly not, after such language as she used.’
‘Had she not some excuse? It was a serious charge against her. A little heat was only natural.’
‘Then she must abide by the consequences. I will have nothing more to do with her. I can’t bear the girl. I never could.’
‘Will you give her a character?’
‘I shall see about it. I’ll give her one for impudence if she applies.’
‘Don’t you think you’re hard upon her? She says she has relatives partly dependent upon her.’
‘A mother and a sick sister, I believe she has; but I don’t see that that’s any business of mine.’
‘Have you found her a good servant in other ways? Is she truthful? Does she work well?’
‘I think those brazen-faced girls do speak the truth—they have no shame about anything.People say that bad-tempered servants do most work, and I cannot complain of Betsy upon that score; but I can’t imagine what earthly reason you can have for taking up her cause.’
‘I am not aware that I am taking up anyone’s cause. I merely want to know a few facts. Betsy Long is a good servant, with a bad temper; is not that about the state of the case?’
‘I don’t know your idea of a good servant; mine is that she should know how to keep her place. If you’re trying to trap me into saying I’ll have Betsy back again, you’d better save your breath, for nothing would induce me to do it. Are you satisfied now?’
‘Perfectly so, thank you; and I will now wish you good-morning.’
Mrs. Belassis smiled as she walked up the drive to her own door.
‘I think he has taken the bait,’ she said to herself. ‘Men are so soft.’
Tor could hardly be said to be soft. He did not give any special heed to this incident of the forlorn Betsy; but he felt sufficient indignation at Mrs. Belassis’ hardness, andcompassion for the girl’s distress, to be wishful to do something to place her in a better position.
He told Maud and Aunt Olive what had occurred, and they at once suggested that a place might be made for her in the Ladywell household. They could do with another maid very well, especially as Maud often wanted some assistance with her elaborate toilettes; and she fancied that Betsy was a handy sort of girl with her fingers, though she had not given her much work of that kind at Thornton House.
Anyone upon whom Mrs. Belassis had trampled, would be sure to be gladly received by Maud; and under these favourable auspices Betsy Long entered into service at Ladywell Manor.