"You must step out sharp, Sir Karl. The train is on the move."
Sir Karl Andinnian had gone hastening into the railway-station, late, on Monday morning, to catch the eleven o'clock train, and was taking a ticket for London. It was the station-master who had addressed him, as he handed him his ticket. One of the porters held open the door of a first-class compartment, and Sir Karl jumped in.
A lady was gathered into the corner beyond him, her veil down: there was no one else in the carriage. Karl did not look round at her until the train had left the station. And when he saw who it was, he thought his eyes must be playing him false.
"Why, Rose!" he exclaimed. "Can it be you?"
She smiled and threw her veil back, leaning towards him at the same moment to explain why she was there. The whistle set up a shriek at the time, and though Sir Karl, his ear bent close to her, no doubt heard the explanation, the air of the carriage did not. "Slight accident--last night--quite useless--would have me come--Rennet--" were all the disconnected wordsthatcaught.
"I quite shrunk from the journey at first," she said, when the whistle had subsided. "I feel always shy and timid now: but I am not sorry to go, for it will give me the opportunity of making some needful purchases. I would rather do it in London than Basham; in fact, I should not dare to go to Basham myself: and I did not care to trust Ann Hopley to buy these fine little things."
"Is Adam better?"
"Yes, I think so: he seemed pretty well yesterday. You did not come to the Maze last night, Karl. He was wishing for you."
Karl turned off the subject. The fright he had had, coming out on Saturday night, would serve to keep him away for some days to come. In his heart of hearts he believed that, in the interests of prudence, the less he went to the Maze the better: instinct was always telling him so.
"I suppose you will return to-night, Rose?"
"If I can," she answered. "It depends on Rennet. Should I be obliged to wait until to-morrow, I shall have to sleep at an hotel: Adam has directed me to one." And so the conversation innocently progressed, and the train went on.
But now, as capricious fortune had it, who should be in that self-same train but Miss Blake! Miss Blake was going up to London en cachette. That is to say, she had not intended Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian to know of the journey. Some grand piece of work, involving choice silks and much embroidery, was being projected by Miss Blake for Mr. Cattacomb's use at St. Jerome's: she had determined to get the silks at first hand, which she could only do in London; and took the train this morning for the purpose. "If I am not in to luncheon, don'tthink anything of it: I can get a biscuit out," she said to Lucy: and Miss Blake's general out-of-door engagements appeared to be so numerous--what with the church services, and the hunting-up little ragamuffins from their mothers' cottages for instruction--that Lucy would have thought nothing of it had she been away all day long. Miss Blake, however, intended to get back in the afternoon.
Seated in her compartment, waiting for the train to start, she had seen Sir Karl Andinnian come running on to the platform; and she drew her face back out of sight. She saw him put into a carriage just behind her own: and she felts a little cross that he should be going to London at all.
"What is taking him, I wonder?" she thought. "He never said a word about it at breakfast. I don't believe Lucy knows it."
Arrived at the terminus, Miss Blake, knowing that gentlemen mostly leap out of a train before it has well stopped, held back herself. Cautiously peeping to see him pass and get fairly off, she saw what she had not expected to see--Sir Karl helping out a lady. They passed on quickly: Sir Karl carrying a large clasped reticule bag, and the lady clinging to his arm. She was closely veiled: but Miss Blake's keen eyes knew her through the veil for Mrs. Grey.
Miss Blake could have groaned the roof off the carriage. She was the only passenger left in it. "The deceitful villain!" she exclaimed: and then she burst on to the platform, and sheltered herself behind a projecting board to look after the criminals.
Sir Karl was putting Mrs. Grey into a four-wheeled cab. He handed in her reticule bag after her, shook hands, gave a direction to the driver, and the cab went off. Then he looked round for a hansom, and was driven away in his turn. Miss Blake, making good her own departure, believed she had not yet suspected half the tricks and turns there must be in this wicked world.
"Poor Lucy! poor wife!" she murmured, pityingly. "May Heaven look down and shield her!"
Karl's errand in London was to find out what he could about Philip Salter. On the Saturday night, patiently searching the file of newspapers--the "Times"--he at length came upon the case. One Philip Salter had been manager to a financial firm in London, and for some years managed it honestly and very successfully. But he got speculating on his own account, lost and lost, and continued to lose, all the while using the funds, that were not his, to prop him up, and prevent exposure. To do this, unsuspected, he was forced to resort to forgery: to fabricate false bonds; to become, in short, one of the worst of felons. The day of discovery came; but Mr. Salter had not waited for it. He was off, and left no trace, as he thought, behind him. Some clue, however, fancied or real, was obtained by a clever ordinary police officer. He went down to Liverpool, seized Philip Salter on board an American vessel just about to steam out of port, and started with him for London at once by the night train, disguised as he was. Midway on the road, Salter did what only a desperate man, fighting for very life, would have dared to do--he jumped from the carriage and made his escape.
So much Karl read: but, though he searched onwards, he could see nothing else. Some of the newspapers were missing; had not been filed; and, it might be, that they were the very papers that spoke further. He then resolved to seek information elsewhere.
All day on the Sunday it had been floating through his mind. His wife's ankle was better. He walked to church with her as usual, sitting by her side in their conspicuous pew--placed sideways to the pulpit and exposed to the eyes of all the congregation. Throughout the service, throughout the sermon, Karl's mind was dwelling on the suspicion connecting Philip Smith with Philip Salter. Lucy thought him very still: as still and sad as herself. The only other conspicuous pew was opposite; it belonged to the vicarage. Margaret Sumnor was in it alone, in the half-reclining seat that had been made for her. Mrs. Sumnor rarely went to church in the morning: the younger daughters were of course at St. Jerome's.
"I will go to London to-morrow," decided Karl in his own mind that night. "Could Smith be got away from his post of espionage it might be Adam's salvation." And that's what brought him taking the eleven o'clock train on Monday morning.
His hansom cab conveyed him to Plunkett and Plunkett's. That he must conduct this inquiry in the most cautiously delicate manner, he knew well; or he might only make bad worse, and bring the hornet's nest, that he was always dreading, about his brother's head. Once letSmith--if he were really Salter--suspect that inquiries were being made about himself, and he might in revenge denounce Sir Adam.
Mr. Plunkett, with whom Karl as well as the rest of the family had always transacted business, was not in town. Mr. George Plunkett saw him, but he was to Karl comparatively a stranger. Even this seemed to fetter him and make him feel more uneasily, but without reason, the necessity of caution. In a decidedly hesitating way, he said that he had a reason for wishing to learn some particulars about a man who had cheated the community a year or two ago and had made his escape, one Philip Salter: he wanted to know whether he had been re-caught; or, if not, where he was now supposed to be. Mr. George Plunkett immediately asked--not supposing there was any reason why he should not betold--for what purpose Sir Karl wished for the information. Was it that any of his friends had been sufferers and were hoping to get back what they had lost? And Karl contrived, without any distinct assertion, to leave this impression on the lawyer's mind. Mr. Plunkett, however, could give him no information about Salter, beyond the fact--or rather, opinion, for he was not sure--that he had never been retaken. The matter was not one they had any interest in, he observed; and he recommended Sir Karl to go to Scotland Yard.
"I will write a note of introduction for you to one of the head officers there, Sir Karl," he said. "It will insure you attention."
But Karl declined this. "If I went to Scotland Yard at all," he said, "it would be as an unknown, private individual, not as Sir Karl Andinnian. I don't much care to go to Scotland Yard."
"But why?" exclaimed Mr. George Plunkett. And then, all in a moment an idea flashed across him. He fancied that Sir Karl was shy of presenting himself there as the brother of the unfortunate man who had stood his trial for murder.
"I have reasons for not wishing it to be known that I am stirring in this," admitted Karl. "Grave reasons. At Scotland Yard they might recognize me, and perhaps put questions that at present I would rather not answer."
"Look here, then," said the lawyer. "I will give you a letter to one of the private men connected with the force--a detective, in fact. You can see him at his own house. He is one of the cleverest men they have, and will be sure to be able to tell you everything you want to know. There's not the least necessity for me to mention your name to him, and he'll not seek to learn it. I shall say you are a client and friend of ours, and that will be sufficient."
"Thank you, that will be best," replied Karl.
Mr. George Plunkett wrote the note there and then, and gave it to Karl. It was addressed to Mr. Burtenshaw, Euston Road. He took a cab and found the house--a middling-sized house with buff-coloured blinds to the windows. A maid servant came to the door, and her cap flew off as she opened it.
"Can I see Mr. Burtenshaw?" asked Sir Karl
"Mr. Burtenshaw's out, sir," she replied, stooping to pick up the "cap,"--a piece of bordered net the size of a five-shilling piece. "He left word that he should be back at five o'clock."
"If I were a detective officer, my servants should wear caps on their heads," thought Karl, as he turned away, and went to get some dinner.
The church clocks were striking five when he was at the door again. Mr. Burtenshaw was at home; and Karl, declining to give his name, was shown to an upstairs room. A little man of middle age, with a sallow face and rather nice grey eyes, was standing by a table covered with papers. Karl bowed, and handed him Mr. George Plunkett's note.
"Take a seat, sir, pray, while I read it," said Mr. Burtenshaw, instinctively recognising Karl for a gentleman and a noble one. And Karl sat down near the window.
"Very good; I am at your service, sir," said the detective, drawing a chair opposite Karl's. "What can I do for you?"
With less hesitation than he had shown to Mr. George Plunkett, for he was gathering courage now the ice was broken, Karl frankly stated why he had come, and what he wanted--some information about the criminal, Philip Salter.
"Do you know much about the case?" continued Karl--for Mr. Burtenshaw had made no immediate reply, but sat in silence.
"I believe I know all about it, sir. I was wondering whether you had unearthed him and were come to claim the reward."
"The reward! Is there an offered reward out against him?"
"Five hundred pounds. It was offered after he had made his desperate escape, and it stands still."
"He has not been retaken then?"
"No, never. We have failed in his case, I am ashamed to say. What particulars are they, sir, that you wish to hear of him? Those connected with his frauds and forgeries?"
"Not those: I have read of them in some of the old papers. I want to know where he is supposed to be; and what he is like in person."
"Our belief is that he is still in Great Britain; strange though it may sound to you to hear me say it. England or Scotland. After that escapade, all the ports were so thoroughly guarded and watched, that I don't think he could have escaped. We have a more especial reason, which I do not speak of, for suspecting that he is here still: at least that he was three months ago."
"There are a hundred places in England where he may be hiding," spoke Karl impulsively. "Where he may be living as an ordinary individual, just like the individuals about him."
"Exactly so."
"Living openly as may be said, but cautiously. Perhaps wearing a disguise."
"No doubt of the disguise. False hair and whiskers, spectacles, and all that."
Karl remembered Mr. Smith's green spectacles. His hair might not be his own: he wished he had taken better note of it.
"And in person? What is he like?"
"That I cannot tell you," said Mr. Burtenshaw. "I never saw him. Some of us know him well. Grimley especially does."
"Who is Grimley?"
"The man who let him escape. He has been under a cloud since with us. My wonder is that he was not dismissed."
"Then you don't know at all what Salter is like?"
"Are there no photographs?"
"I think not. I have seen none. Is it very essential your ascertaining this?"
"The most essential point of all. Is this Grimley to be got at? If I could see him to-day and get Salter's description from him, I should be more than glad."
Mr. Burtenshaw took some ivory tablets from his pocket and consulted them. "I will send for Grimley here, sir. Will eight o'clock be too late for you?"
"Not at all," replied Karl, thinking he could get away by thehalf-past nine train.
Mr. Burtenshaw escorted him to the head of the stairs, and watched him down, making his mental comments.
"I wonder who he is? He looks too full of care for his years. But he knows Salter's retreat as sure as a gun--or thinks he knows it. Won't denounce him till he's sure."
When Karl got back at eight o'clock, some disappointment was in store for him. Grimley was not there. The detective showed the scrap of message returned to him, scribbled in pencil on a loose bit of paper. Karl read as follows,
"Can't get to you before eleven: might be a little later. Suppose it's particular? Got a matter on hand, and have to leave for the country at five in the morning."
"Will you see him at that late hour, sir?"
Karl considered. It would involve his staying in town for the night, which he had not prepared for. But he was restlessly anxious to set the question at rest, and resolved upon waiting.
He walked away through the busy London streets, seemingly more crowded than usual that Monday evening, and sent a telegraphic message to his wife, saying he could not be home until the morrow. Then he went into the Charing Cross Hotel and engaged a bed. Before eleven he was back again at Mr. Burtenshaw's. Grimley came in about a quarter past: a powerful, tallish man with a rather jolly face, not dressed inhis official clothes as a policeman, but in an ordinary suit of pepper-and-salt.
"You remember Philip Salter, Grimley?" began the superior man at once, without any circumlocution or introduction.
"I ought to remember him, Mr. Burtenshaw."
"Just describe his person to this gentleman as accurately as you can."
"He's not dropped upon at last, is he?" returned the man, his whole face lighting up.
"No. Don't jump to conclusions, Grimley, but do as you are bid." Upon which rebuke Grimley turned to Sir Karl.
"He was about as tall as I am, sir, and not unlike me in shape: that is, strongly made, and very active. His real hair was dark brown, and almost, black--but goodness only knows what it's changed into now."
"And his face?" questioned Karl. As yet the description tallied.
"Well, his face was a fresh-coloured face, pleasant in look, and he was a free, pleasant man to talk to you. His eyes--I can't be sure, but I think they were dark brown: his eyebrows were thick and rather more arched than common. At that time his face was clean-shaved, whiskers and all: daresay it's covered with hair now."
"Was he gentlemanly in his look and manners?"
"Yes, sir, I should say so. A rather bustling, business-kind of gentleman: I used to see him often before he turned rogue. Leastways before it was known. You'd never have thought it of him: you'd have trusted him through thick and thin."
Smith at Foxwood was not bustling in his manners: rather quiet. But, as Sir Karl's thoughts ran, there was nothing there for him to be bustling over: and, besides, the trouble might have tamed him. In other particulars the description might have well served for Smith himself, and Karl's hopes rose. Grimley watched him keenly.
"Have you a photograph of him?" asked Karl.
"No, sir. 'Twas a great pity one was never took. I might have had it done at Liverpool that day; but I thought I'd got himself safe, and it didn't occur to me. Ah! live and learn. I never wasdonebefore, and I've not been since."
"You let him escape you in the train?"
"I let him: yes, sir, that's the right word; as things turned out. 'Don't put the handcuffs on me, Grimley,' says he, when we were about to start for the up-night train. 'It's not pleasant to be seen in that condition by the passengers who sit opposite you. I'll not give you any trouble: you've got me, and I yield to it.' 'On your honour, sir?' says I. 'On my word and honour,' says he. 'To tell you the truth, Grimley,' he goes on, 'I've led such a life of fear and suspense lately that I'm not sorry it's ended.' Well, sir, I put faith in him: you've heard me say it, Mr. Burtenshaw: and we took our seats in the carriage, me on one side, my mate, Knowles, on the other, and Salter, unfettered, between us. He had got a great thick fluffy grey wrapper on, half coat, 'half cloak, with them wide hanging sleeves: we touched the sleeves on both sides, me and Knowles, with our arms and shoulders. There was one passenger besides; he sat opposite Knowles, and slept a good deal. Salter slept too--or seemed to sleep. Well, sir, we had got well on in our journey, when from some cause the lamp goes out. Soon after, the train shoots into a tunnel, and we were in utter darkness. Salter, apparently, was sleeping fast. A glimmer of light arose when we were half way through it, from some opening I suppose, and I saw the opposite passenger, as I thought, leaning out at the far window, the one next Knowles. The next minute there was a sound and a rush of air. Good heavens he has fell out, I says to Knowles: and Knowles--I say he had been asleep too--rouses up and says 'Why the door's open.' Sir, when we got out of the tunnel, the rays of the bright lamp at its opening shone in; the opposite passenger was safe enough, his head nodding on his breast, but my prisoner was gone."
Karl caught up his breath; the tale excited him. "How could it have been done?" he exclaimed.
"The dickens knows. There was his thick rough coat again our arms, but his arms was out of it. How he had managed to slip 'em out and make no stir, and get off his seat to the door, I shall never guess. One thing is certain--he must have had a railway key hid about him somewhere and opened the door with it: he must have been opening it when I thought it was the passenger leaning out."
"What did you do?"
"We could do nothing, sir. Except shout to arouse the guard; we did enough of that, but the guard never heard us. When the next station was reached, a deal of good time had been lost. We told what had occurred, and got the tunnel searched. That Salter would be found dead, everybody thought. Instead of that he was not found at all; not a trace of him."
"He must have received injuries," exclaimed Karl.
"I should say so," returned Grimley. "Injuries that perhaps he carries from that day to this." And Karl half started as he remembered the arm always in a sling.
Just for a single moment the temptation to denounce this man came over him, in spite of his wish and will. Only for the moment: he remembered the danger to his brother. Besides, he would not have betrayed Smith for the world.
"What age is Salter?" he resumed.
"He must be about five-and-thirty now, sir. He was said to bethree-and-thirty when it happened."
That was the first check. Smith must be quite forty. "Did Salter look older than his years?" he asked.
"No, I think not. Ah, he was a cunning fox," continued Mr. Grimley, grating his teeth at the remembrance. "I've known since then what it is to trust to the word and honour of a thief. Can you tell me where to find him, sir?" he suddenly cried, after a pause. "To retake that man would be the most satisfactory piece of work I've got left to me in life."
"No, I cannot," replied Karl, gravely: which Mr. Grimley did not appear to like at all. So the interview came to an end without much result; and Karl departed for his hotel. Both Grimley and Mr. Burtenshaw, bowing him out, remained, firmly persuaded in their own minds that this unknown gentleman, who did not give his name, possessed some clue or other to the criminal, Salter.
We must return for a few minutes to Foxwood Court. Miss Blake got back by an early afternoon train as she had intended, and found some visitors with Lady Andinnian. It was old General Lloyd from Basham with two of his daughters. They were asking Lady Andinnian to take luncheon with them on the morrow, and accompany them afterwards to the flower-show that was to be held at the Guildhall. Sir Karl and Miss Blake were included in the invitation. Lucy promised: she seemed worn and weary with her solitude, and she loved flowers greatly. For Sir Karl she said she could not answer: he was in London for the day: but she thought it likely he would be able to accompany her. Miss Blake left it an open question: St. Jerome's was paramount just now, and to-morrow was one of its festival-days.
They dined alone, those two, Sir Karl not having returned for it: and, in spite of troubles, it seemed very dull to Lucy without her husband.
"Did you know Sir Karl was going to London?" asked Miss Blake.
"Yes," said Lucy; "he told me this morning. He had business with Plunkett and Plunkett."
Miss Blake suddenly pushed her hair from her forehead as if it troubled her, and bit her lips to enforce them to silence.
After dinner Miss Blake went out. Tom Pepp, who was appointedbell-ringer to St. Jerome's, in his intervals of work, had played truant at Matins in the morning and wanted looking up; so she went to do it. This bell was a new feature at St. Jerome's, and caused much talk. It was hung over the entrance-door, communicating with a stout string inside: which string Tom Pepp had to pull--to his intense delight.
When Miss Blake got back, Lucy was still alone. The evening passed on, and Sir Karl did not come. Soon after nine o'clock a telegraphic dispatch arrived from him, addressed to Lady Andinnian. Her heart beat a little faster as she opened and read it.
"I cannot get my business done to-night, and must sleep in town. Shall be home to-morrow."
"I wonder what business it is that is detaining him?" spoke Lucy, mechanically, after handing the dispatch to Theresa, her thoughts bent upon her absent husband.
Theresa Blake was trembling to her fingers' ends. She flung down the dispatch after reading it, and flung after it a contemptuous word. The action and the word quite startled Lady Andinnian.
"I'll tell you, Lucy; I'll tell you because you ought to know it," she cried, scattering prudence to the winds in her righteous indignation; scattering even all consideration touching Jane Shore, the pillory, the white sheet, and the lighted taper. "The plea of business is good to assume: very convenient! Sir Karl did not go to London alone this morning. That girl was with him."
"What girl?" faltered Lucy.
"She at the Maze. She with the angel face." Lucy slightly shivered. For a moment she made no comment. Her face turned ghastly.
"Oh, Lucy, my dear, forgive me!" cried Miss Blake. "Perhaps I have been wrong to tell you; but I cannot bear that you should be so deceived. I went up to London myself this morning after some embroidery silks that I could not get at Basham. Sir Karl and she were in the same train. I saw them get out together at the terminus."
It was cruel to hear and to have to bear; but Lucy said never a word. Her tell-tale face had betrayed her emotion, but she would not let anything else betray it.
"Perhaps both happened to have business in London," she quietly said, when she could trust her voice to be steady. "I am sure Karl went up to go to Plunkett and Plunkett's."
And not another allusion did she make to it. Ringing for Hewitt, she calmly told him his master would not be home: and after that talked cheerfully to Theresa until the evening was over. Miss Blake wondered at her.
Calm beforeherand the world. But when she got upstairs and was alone in her chamber, all the pent-up anguish broke forth. Her heart seemed breaking; her sense of wrong well nigh overmastered her.
"And it was only on Saturday he vowed to me the sin was all of the past!" she cried. And she lay in torment through the live-long summer's night.
The railway station at Basham seemed to be never free from bustle. Besides pertaining to Basham proper, it was the junction for other places. Various lines crossed each other; empty carriages and trolleys of coal stood near; porters and others were always running about.
Four o'clock on the Tuesday afternoon, and the train momentarily expected in from London. A few people had collected on the platform: waiting for friends who were coming by it, or else intending to go on by it themselves. Amidst them was a young and lovely lady, who attracted some attention. Strangers wondered who she was: one or two knew her for the lady of Foxwood Court, wife of Sir Karl Andinnian.
There had been a flower-show at Basham that day: and Lady Andinnian, as may be remembered, had promised to attend it with the family of General Lloyd, taking luncheon with them first. But when the morning came, she heartily wished she had not made the engagement. Sir Karl had not returned to accompany her. Miss Blake declared that she could not spare the time for it: for it happened to be a Saint's Day, and services prevailed at St. Jerome's. Another check arose: news was brought in from the coachman that one of the horses had been slightly hurt in shoeing, and the carriage could not be used that day.
Upon that, Lady Andinnian said she must go by train: for it would never have occurred to her to break her promise.
"I think, Theresa, you might manage to go with me," she said.
Miss Blake, calculating her hours, found she had two or three to spare in the middle of the day, and agreed to do so: provided she might be allowed to leave Mrs. Lloyd's when luncheon was over and not be expected to go to the town-hall. "You will only be alone in returning, for just the few minutes that you are in the train, Lucy," she said. "The Lloyds will see you into it, and your servants can have a fly waiting for you at Foxwood Station." This programme had been carried out: and here was Lucy waiting for the four o'clock train at Basham, surrounded by General Lloyd and part of his family.
It came steaming slowly in. Adieux were interchanged, and Lucy was put into what is called the ladies' carriage. Only one lady was in it besides herself; some one travelling from London. They looked at each other with some curiosity, sitting face to face. It was but natural; both were young, both were beautiful.
"What lovely hair! and what charming blue eyes! and what a bright delicate complexion!" thought Lucy. "I wonder who she is."
"I have never in all my life seen so sweet a face!" thought the other traveller. "Her eyes are beautiful: and there's, such a loving sadness in them! And what a handsome dress!--what style altogether!"
Lucy's dress was a rich silk, pearl grey in colour; her bonnet white; her small parasol was grey, covered with lace, its handle of carved ivory. She looked not unlike a bride. The other lady wore black silk, a straw bonnet, and black lace veil thickly studded with spots; which veil she had put back as if for air, just after quitting Basham; and she had with her several small parcels. Why or wherefore neither of them knew, but each felt instinctively attracted by the appearance of the other.
They were nearing Foxwood Station--it was but about eight minutes' distance from Basham--when Lucy, in changing her position, happened to throw down a reticule bag which had lain beside her. Both of them stooped to pick it up.
"Oh, I beg your pardon! I ought to have moved it when you got in," said the stranger, placing it on her own side amidst her parcels. And Lucy, on her part, apologised for having thrown it down.
It served to break the ice of reserve: and for the next remaining minute or two they talked together. By the stranger beginning to gather together her parcels, Lucy saw she was preparing to get out at Foxwood.
"Are you about to make a stay in this neighbourhood?" she asked.
"For the present."
"It is a very charming spot. We hear the nightingales every evening."
"You are staying in it too, then?"
"Yes. It is my home."
The train came to a stand-still, and they got out. Foxwood station, after the manner of some other small rural stations, had its few buildings on one side only: the other was open to the high road, and to the fields beyond. In this road, drawn up close to the station, was a waiting fly, its door already open. The stranger, carrying some of her parcels, went straight up to it, supposing it was there for hire, and was about to get in.
"Beg pardon, ma'am," said the driver, "this here fly's engaged."
She, seemed vexed, disappointed: and looked up at him. "Are you sure?" she asked. Lucy was standing close by and heard.
"It's brought here, ma'am, for the Lady Andinnian."
"For whom?" she cried, her voice turning to sharpness with its haste; her face, through her veil, changing to a ghastly white.
The driver stared at her: he thought it was all temper. Lucy looked, too, unable to understand, and slightly coloured.
"For whom did you say the fly was brought?" the lady repeated.
"For Lady Andinnian of Foxwood Court," explained the man in full. "I shouldn't go to tell a untruth about it."
"Oh I--I misunderstood," she said, her voice dropping, her look becoming suddenly timid as a hare's: and in turning away with a sudden movement, she found herself face to face with Lucy. At that same moment, a tall footman with a powdered head--who had strayed away in search of amusement, and strayed a little too far--came bustling up to his mistress.
"This is your fly, my lady."
By which the stranger knew that the elegant girl she had travelled with and whose sweet face was then close to her own, was the young Lady Andinnian. Her own white face flushed again.
"I--I beg your pardon," she said. "I did not know you were Sir Karl Andinnian's wife. The fly, I thought, was only there for hire."
Before Lucy could make any answer, she had disappeared from the spot, and was giving some of her parcels to a porter. Lucy followed.
"Can I offer to set you down anywhere? The fly is certainly waiting for me, but--there is plenty of room."
"Oh thank you, no. You are very kind: but--no!I can walk quite well. I am obliged to you all the same."
The refusal was spoken very emphatically; especially the last No. Without turning again, she rapidly walked from the station, the porter carrying her parcels.
"I wonder who she is?" murmured Lucy aloud, looking back as she was about to enter the fly, her powdered servant standing to bow her in. For she saw that there was no luggage, save those small parcels, and was feeling somewhat puzzled.
"It is Mrs. Grey, my lady; she who lives at the Maze."
Had the footman, Giles, said it was an inhabitant of the world of spirits, Lucy would not have felt more painfully and disagreeably startled.She!And she, Lucy, had sat with her in the same carriage and talked to her on pleasant terms of equality! She, Mrs. Grey! Well, Theresa was right: the face would do for an angel's.
"Why, my dear Lady Andinnian, how pale you look! It's the heat, I suppose."
Lucy, half bewildered, her senses seeming to have gone she knew not whither, found herself shaking hands with the speaker, Miss Patchett: an elderly and eccentric lady who lived midway between the station and the village of Foxwood. Lucy mechanically asked her if she had come in the train.
"Yes," answered Miss Patchett. "I've been to London to engage a housemaid. And I am tired to death, my dear, and the London streets were like fire. I wish I was at home without having to walk there."
"Let the fly take you."
"It's hardly worth while, my dear: it's not far. And it would be taking you out of the way."
"Not many yards out of it. Step in, Miss Patchett."
The old lady stepped in, Lucy following her; Giles taking his place by the driver. Miss Patchett was set down at her house, and then the horse's head was turned round in the direction of Foxwood Court. The old lady had talked incessantly; Lucy had comprehended nothing. St. Jerome's absurd little bell was being swayed and tinkled by Tom Pepp, but Lucy had not given it a second glance, although it was the first time she had had the gratification of seeing and hearing it.
"I could almost have died, rather than it should have happened," she thought, her face burning now at the recollection of the encounter with Mrs. Grey, so mortifying to every good feeling within her. "How white she turned--how sharply she spoke--when they told her the fly was there for Lady Andinnian! And to think that I should have offered to set her down! To think it! Perhaps those parcels contained things that Karl bought for her in London!"
The fly, bowling on, was nearing the Maze gate. Lucy's fascinated gaze was, in spite of herself, drawn to it. A middle-aged woman servant had opened it and was receiving the parcels from the porter. Mrs. Grey had her purse out, paying him. As she put the coin into his hand, she paused to look at Lady Andinnian. It was not a rude look, but one that seemed full of eager interest. Lucy turned her eyes the other way, and caught a full view of Mr. Smith, the agent. He was stretched out at one of his sitting-room windows, surveying the scene with undisguised curiosity. Lucy sank into the darkest corner of the fly, and flung her hands over her burning face.
"Was any position in the world ever so painful as mine?" she cried with a rising sob. "How shall I live on, and bear it?"
The fly clattered in by the lodge gate and drew up at the house. Hewitt appeared at the door, and Giles stood for his mistress to alight.
"Has Sir Karl returned, Hewitt?" questioned Lucy.
"Not yet, my lady."
She stood for a moment in thought, then gave orders for the fly to wait, and went indoors. An idea had arisen that if she could get no comfort whispered to her, she should almost go out of her mind. Her aching heart was yearning for it.
"Hewitt, I shall go and see poor Miss Sumnor. I should like to take her a little basket of strawberries and a few of Maclean's best flowers. Will you see to it for me, and put them in the fly?"
She tan up stairs. She put off her robes alone, and came down in one of her cool muslins and a straw bonnet as plain as Mrs. Grey's. Hewitt had placed the basket of strawberries--some of the large pine-apple beauties that the Court was famous for--in the fly, a sheet of tissue paper upon them, and some lovely hothouse flowers on the paper. Lucy got in; told the footman she should not require his attendance; and was driven away to the vicarage.
"Am I to wait for you, my lady?" asked the driver, as he set her down with her basket of fruit and flowers.
"No, thank you; I shall walk home."
Margaret was lying alone as usual, her face this afternoon a sad one. Lucy presented her little offering; and when the poor lonely invalid saw the tempting, luscious fruit, smelt the sweet perfume of the gorgeous flowers, the tears came into her eyes.
"You have brought all this to brighten me, Lucy. How good you are! I have had something to try me to-day, and was in one of my saddest moods."
The tears and the admission tried Lucy sorely. Just a moment she struggled with herself for composure, and then gave way. Bursting into a flood of grief, the knelt down and hid her face on Margaret's bosom.
"Oh Margaret, Margaret, you cannot have as much to try you as I have!" she cried out in her pain. "My life is one long path of sorrow; my heart is breaking. Can't you say a word to comfort me?"
Margaret Sumnor, forgetting as by magic all sense of her own trouble, tried to comfort her. She touched her with her gently caressing hand; she whispered soothing words, as one whispers to a child in sorrow: and Lucy's sobs exhausted themselves.
"My dear Lucy, before I attempt to say anything, I must ask you a question. Can you tell me the nature of your sorrow?"
But Lucy made no reply.
"I see. It is what you cannot speak of."
"It is what I can never speak of to you or to any one, Margaret. But oh, it is hard to bear."
"It seems so to you, I am sure, whatever it may be. But in the very darkest trial and sorrow there is comfort to be found."
"Not for me," impetuously answered Lucy. "I think God has forgotten me."
"Lucy, hush! You know better. The darkest cloud ever o'ershadowing the earth, covers a bright sky.Wesee only the cloud, but the brightness is behind it; in time it will surely show itself and the cloud will have rolled away. God is above all. Only put your trust in Him."
Lucy was silent. There are times when the heart is so depressed that it admits not of comfort; when even sympathy cannot touch it. She bent her face in her hands andthought. Look out where she would, there seemed no refuge for her in the wide world. Her duty and the ills of life laid upon her seemed to be clashing with each other. Margaret had preached to her of patiently bearing, of resignation to Heaven's will, of striving to live on, silently hoping, and returning good for evil. But there were moments when the opposite course looked very sweet, and this moment was one. But one thought always held her back when this retaliation, this revenge appeared most tempting--should she not repent of it in the future?
"Lucy, my dear," broke in the invalid's voice, always so plaintive, "I do not pretend to fathom this trouble of yours. It is beyond me.I can only think it must be some difference between you and your husband----"
"And if it were?" interrupted Lucy, recklessly.
"If it were! Why then, I should say to you, above all things,bear. You do not know, you cannot possess 'any idea of the bitter life Of a woman at real issue with her husband. I know a lady--but she does not live in these parts, and you have never heard of her--who separated from her husband. She and my own mother were at school together, and she married young and, it was thought, happily. After a time she grew jealous of her husband;she had cause for it: he was altogether a gay, careless man, fond of show and pleasure. For some years she bore a great deal in silence, the world knowing nothing of things being wrong between them. Papa could tell you more about this time than I: I was but a little child. How he and my mother, the only friends who were in her confidence, urged her to go on bearing with what patience she might, and trusting to God to set wrong things right. For a long while she listened to them; but there came a time when she allowed exasperation to get the better of her; and the world was astonished by hearing that she and her husband had agreed to separate. Ah Lucy! it was then that her life of real anguish set in. Just at first, for a few weeks or so, perhaps months, she was borne up by the excitement of the thing, by the noise it made in the world, by the gratification of taking revenge on her husband--by I know not what. But as the long months and the years went on, and all excitement, I may almost say all interest in life, had faded, she then saw what she had done. She was a solitary woman condemned to an unloved and solitary existence, and she repented her act with the whole force of her bitter and lonely heart. Better, Lucy, that she had exercised patience, and trusted in God; better for her own happiness."
"And what of her now?" cried Lucy, eagerly.
"Nothing. Nothing but what I tell you. She lives away her solitary years, not a day of them passing but she wishes to heaven that that one fatal act of hers could be recalled--the severing herself from her husband."
"And he, Margaret?"
"He? For aught I know to the contrary, he has been as happy since as he was before; perhaps, in his complete freedom, more so. She thought, poor woman, to work out her revenge upon him; instead of that, it was on herself she worked it out. Men and women are different. A separated man--say a divorced man if you like--can go abroad; here, there, and everywhere; and enjoy life without hindrance, and take his pleasure at will: but a woman, if she be a right-minded woman, must stay in her home-shell, and eat her heart away."
Lucy Andinnian sighed. It was no doubt all too true.
"I have related this for your benefit, Lucy. My dear little friend, at all costs,stay with your husband."
"I should never think of leaving him for good as that other poor woman did," sobbed Lucy. "I should be dead of grief in a year."
"True. Whatever your cross may be, my dear--and I cannot doubt that it is a very sharp and heavy one--take it up as bravely as you can, and bear it. No cross, no crown."
Some of the school children came in for a lesson in finework--stitching and gathering--and Lady Andinnian took her departure. She had not gained much comfort; she was just as miserable as it was possible to be.
The church bell was going for the five o'clock evening service. Since the advent of St. Jerome's, Mr. Sumnor had opened his church again for daily service, morning and evening. This, however, was a Saint's day. A feeling came over poor Lucy that she should like to sob out her heart in prayer to God; and she slipped in. Not going down the aisle to their own conspicuous pew, but into an old-fashioned, square, obscure thing near the door, that was filled on Sundays with the poor, and hidden behind a pillar. There, unseen, unsuspected, she knelt on the floor, she lifted up her heart on high, sobbing silent sobs of agony, bitter tears raining from her eyes; asking God to hear and help her; to help her to bear.
She sat out the service and grew composed enough to join in it. The pillar hid her from the clergyman's view; nobody noticed that she was there. So far as she could see, there were not above half-a-dozen people in the church. In going out, Mr. Sumnor and Mr. Moore's sister, Aunt Diana, came up to join her.
"I did not know you were in church, Lady Andinnian," said the clergyman.
"The bell was going when I left your house: I had been to see Margaret: so I stepped in," she replied. "But what a very small congregation!"
"People don't care to attend on week-days, and that's the truth," put in Miss Moore--a middle-aged, stout lady, with her brown hair cut short and a huge flapping hat on. "And the young folks are all off to that blessed St. Jerome's. My nieces are there; I know it; and so are your two daughters, Mr. Sumnor. More shame for them!"
"Ay," sighed Mr. Sumnor, whose hair and face were alike grey, and his look as sad as his tone. "Their running to St. Jerome's, as they do, is nothing less, in my eyes, than a scandal. I don't know what is to be the end of it all."
"End of it all," echoed Aunt Diana, in her strong-minded voice. "Why, the end will be nothing but a continuation of the folly; or perhaps worse--Rome, or a convent, or something of that kind. I truly believe, Mr. Sumnor, that heaven above was never so mocked before, since the world began, as it is now by this semblance of zeal in boys and girls for religious services and worship. The true worship of a Christian, awakened to his state of sin and to the need he has of God's forgiveness and care, of Christ's love, is to be revered--but that is totally different from this business at Jerome's.Thisis hollow at the core; born of young men's and young girls' vanity. Does all the flocking thither come of religion, think you? Not it."
"Indeed no," said Mr. Sumnor.
"And therefore I say it is a mockery of true religion, and must be a sin in the sight of heaven. They run after Mr. Cattacomb himself: nothing else. I went to St. Jerome's myself this morning; not to say my prayers; just to watch my nieces and see what was going on. They had all sorts of ceremonies and foolish folly: three of the girls had been there beforehand, confessing to the Reverend Guy: and there was he, performing the service and turning up the tails of his eyes."
"O Miss Diana," involuntarily exclaimed Lucy, hardly knowing whether to laugh or reprove.
"It is true, Lady Andinnian. Mr. Sumnor here knows it is. Why does Cattacomb go through his service with all that affectation? Of course the girls like it: but they are little fools, all of them; they'd think anything right that was done by him. I fancy the young man has some good in him; I acknowledge it; but he is eaten up with vanity, and lives in the incense offered by these girls. Ah well, it's to be hoped they will all, priest and children, come to their senses sometime."
She turned into her home as she spoke, after wishing them good-bye. Lucy stayed to shake hands with the clergyman.
"Miss Diana is given to expressing herself strongly, but she is right in the main," said Mr. Sumnor. "St. Jerome's is giving me a great deal of trouble and sorrow just now, in more ways than one. But we have all something to bear," he added, after a pause. "All. Sometimes I think that the more painful it is, the more God is caring for us. Fare you well, my dear young lady. Give my kind regards to Sir Karl."
Lucy walked homewards, a feeling of peace insensibly diffusing itself over her afflicted soul. The clergyman's words had touched her.
Verses of Holy Writ and thoughts connected with them kept rising in her mind like messages of consolation. In her misery, she felt how very weak and weary she was; that there was nothing for her but to resign herself to Heaven's protecting hand, as a helpless child. The cry for it broke out involuntarily from her lips.
"Lord, I am oppressed. Undertake for me!"