Miss Blake on the Watch.
"Lucy, you will come with me to the opening service?"
Lady Andinnian shook her head. "I think not, Theresa."
"Why, it would be quite a distraction for you," urged Miss Blake,
using the word in the French sense.
Sir Karl had been in London some three or four days now; and Lucy, all
aweary without him, was longing and looking for his return every hour
of the live-long summer's day. But she was proof against this offered
temptation.
"I don't think Karl would like me to go to St. Jerome's, Theresa.
Thank you all the same."
"Do you mean to make Sir Karl your guide and model through life,
Lucy?"--and Lady Andinnian, sincere and simple herself, detected not
the covert sarcasm.
"I hope I shall never do, or wish to do anything that he would object
to," was her answer, a sweet blush dyeing her cheeks.
"Well, if you won't appear at church, will you attend the kettledrum
afterwards, Lucy?"
"The kettledrum?" echoed Lucy. "What kettledrum?"
"We are going to hold one at Mrs. Jinks's--that is, in Mr. Cattacomb's
rooms--for the purpose of introducing him to some of his friends, and
to organize the parish work."
Lady Andinnian looked up in surprise. "The parish work? What can you
be talking of, Theresa?"
"Oh, there will be district visiting, and that. It must all be
arranged and organized."
"Will it not be interfering with Mr. Sumnor?" Lucy ventured to ask,
after a pause of silence.
"Not at all," was the answer, given loftily. "Shall I come round this
way and call for you as we return from the service?"
"Thank you, no, Theresa; I would rather not. I do not think I should
myself much care for the kettledrum."
"Very well," coolly replied Miss Blake. "As you please, of course,
Lady Andinnian."
The service at St. Jerome's was at length about to be inaugurated: for
the Reverend Guy Cattacomb had duly appeared after a few days' delay,
for which he satisfactorily accounted. It was to be held in the
afternoon, this afternoon, he having arrived in the morning; and Miss
Blake, while talking to Lady Andinnian, was already dressed for it.
She started forth alone: just as other eager young women, mostly
young, some middle-aged, were starting for it, and flocking into St.
Jerome's.
Much inward speculation had existed as to what the new parson would be
like; and the ladies looked at him eagerly when he entered from the
vestry to commence the service. They saw a tall young man in a narrow
surplice, with a sheep-skin tippet worn hind before, and a cross at
the back in the opening: spectacles; no hair on his face, and not over
much on his head, a few tufts of it only standing up like young
carrots; eyes very much turned up. Certainly, in regard to personal
beauty, the new pastor could not boast great things; but he made up
for it in zeal, and--if such a thing may be said of a clergyman--in
vanity; for that he was upon remarkably good terms with himself and
his looks, every tone and gesture betrayed. It was rather a novel
service, but a very attractive one. Mr. Cattacomb had a good sonorous
voice--though it was marred by an affected accent and a drawling kind
of delivery that savoured of insincerity and was most objectionably
out of place. Miss Jane St. Henry played the harmonium; the ladies
sang: and their singing, so far as it went, was good, but men's voices
were much wanted. There was a short sermon, very rapidly delivered,
and not to be understood--quite after a new fashion of the day. During
its progress, little Miss Etheridge happened to look round, and saw
Mr. Moore, the surgeon, at the back of the room.
"If you'll believe me, old Moore's here!" she whispered to Mary St.
Henry.
Yes, the surgeon was there. He had laughed a little over this curious
new place that was being called a church, and said at home that day
that he should look in and see what its services were to be like. He
was more surprised than pleased. Just as Mr. Smith, the agent, asked,
Is it Roman Catholic or Protestant? so did Mr. Moore mentally ask the
question now. The place was pretty full. Some few people had come over
from Basham to be present. Mr. Moore's eyes went ranging amid the
chairs, scanning the congregation. His daughters were not there. They
are too sensible, thought the doctor: though he did not give them
credit for overmuch sense in general. The fact was, the Misses Moore
had been afraid to come. Hearing their father say he should look in,
they deemed it wise to keep away--and did so, to their own deep
mortification and disappointment. Mr. Moore was an easy-tempered man,
and an indulgent father; but if once in a way he did by chance issue
an edict, they knew it might not be disobeyed--and had he seen them
there with his own eyes, he might have prohibited their going for the
future. So they allowed policy to prevail, and stayed at home.
What with the opening service, and what with the coming party at Mrs.
Jinks's, Foxwood was that day stirred to its centre. The preparations
for the kettledrum were on an exhaustive scale, the different ladies
having vied with each other in sending in supplies. Butter, cream,
delicate bread and cakes, jam, marmalade, choice fruit, biscuits, and
other things too numerous to mention. Miss Blake had taken a huge
packet of tea, and some beautiful flowers, the latter offering cajoled
out of old Maclean, the head gardener at the Court.
The walk to St. Jerome's and back, together with the excitement of the
new service, had made them thirsty, and it was universally agreed to
take tea first, though only four o'clock, and proceed to business
afterwards. The table groaned under the weight of good things on it,
and Miss Blake was president-in-chief. The room was too small for the
company, who sat or stood as they could, elbowing each other, and
making much of Mr. Cattacomb. Tongues were going fast, Mr. Cattacomb's
amidst them, and Miss Blake was getting hot with the work of
incessantly filling cups from the tea-pots, when a loud knock,
announcing further visitors, shook the street door and Paradise Row.
"Who can it be? I'm sure we have no room for more!"
Mrs. Jinks went to see. Throwing open the front door, there stood the
Misses Moore. Though debarred of the opening service, they would not
be done out of the kettledrum.
"Are they here yet, Mrs. Jinks?" cried the young ladies eagerly.
"Yes, they are here," replied the Widow Jinks, her cap (clean for the
occasion, and no bonnet) trembling with suppressed wrath.
"Oh dear! Has tea begun?"
"Begun, Miss Jemima! it's to be hoped it's three-parts over. I'll tell
you what it is, young ladies: when I agreed to let my parlours to the
Reverend Cattakin, I didn't bargain to keep the whole parish in
kettledrumming. Leastways, not to wait on 'em; and bile kettles for
'em, and toast muffins for 'em by the hour at a stretch. I thought
what a nice quiet lodger I should have--a single man, and him a
minister! Instead of which I might just as well keep an inn."
The young ladies walked on, wisely giving no answer, and entered the
parlour. There they were presented to Mr. Cattacomb, and joined the
tea-table.
Kettledrums, as we are all aware, cannot last for ever, and before
six o'clock Miss Blake was on her way back to Foxwood Court. The
discussion as to district visiting and other matters was postponed to
another day, Mr. Cattacomb pleading fatigue (and no wonder); and Miss
Blake--who was in point of fact the prime mover and prop and stay of
it all--inwardly thinking that a less crowded meeting would be more
conducive to business. As she was nearing the gate at Foxwood Court,
she met Mr. Smith sauntering along, apparently out for an airing.
"Good afternoon, madam!"
He would have passed with the words, but she stopped to talk with him.
The truth was, Miss Blake had taken, she knew not why or wherefore, a
liking for Mr. Smith. From the first moment she saw him he had
possessed a kind of attraction for her. It must be said that she
believed him to be a gentleman.
"You were not at the opening service at St. Jerome's this afternoon,
Mr. Smith?" she said, half-reproachfully.
"Well, to tell you the truth, I thought I should be out of place
there, as the congregation was comprised only of ladies," was his
reply. "Happening to be walking that way, I saw lots of them go in."
"Foxwood cannot boast of gentlemen in the middle of the day; the few
who reside here are off to Basham for their different occupations. But
you are an idle man, Mr. Smith."
"I am not always idle, I assure you, Miss Blake. I have Sir Karl
Andinnian's interests to look after."
"Oh, indeed! As a friend, I presume?"
"Just so."
"Well, you would not have been quite solitary if you had come into the
church. Mr. Moore was there."
"Ay. He looked in for five minutes, and came out laughing. I don't
know what amused him, unless it was to see the Misses Sumnor there."
"I think you must have been watching us all--all who went in, and all
who came out," said Miss Blake. The agent smiled as he disclaimed the
imputation: and with that they parted.
"Those flowers were so much admired and appreciated, Maclean," said
Miss Blake to the gardener as she passed the lodge--where he sat at
tea with his wife--the door open. "There are no such hothouse flowers
anywhere as yours."
Maclean rose and thanked her for the compliment. She passed rapidly
on, and entered the house by the window of the North room.
"I wonder where Lucy is?--Dressing, perhaps; or seated at the window
looking out for her husband. Foolish child! Does he deserve that
love?"
Treading softly on the carpeted staircase, her knock at Lady
Andinnian's door and her entrance were simultaneous. Lucy, in her
white morning dress with its blue ribbons, was standing up beside her
husband. His arm was round her waist, her face lay upon his breast,
his own bent down upon it.
It was an awkward moment for Miss Blake; she bit her lips as she
stammered an apology. Lucy, blushing and laughing, drew away. Karl
stood his ground, laughing too.
"I did not know you had returned, Sir Karl."
"I have just come; three minutes ago," he said, holding out his hand.
"Lucy was telling me you had gone to a kettledrum, and I saucily
assured her she must have dreamt it. Fancy kettledrums at Foxwood!"
They separated for the purpose of dressing, Miss Blake biting her lips
still as she went to her room. The little matter had turned her hot
and cold. Do as she would, she could not get rid entirely of her love
for Karl Andinnian, in spite of the chronic resentment she indulged
towards him.
"If this is jealousy," she murmured, sitting down to think, and
undoing her veil with fingers that thrilled to their extreme ends, "I
must indeed school myself. I thought I had learned to bear calmly."
At dinner Sir Karl seemed in better spirits than usual. He told them
he had been to the Opera to hear the new singer, Ilma di Murska, in
"Robert le Diable."
"Oh, Karl!--and not to have had me with you!" cried Lucy.
"I will take you up on purpose, Lucy. You must hear her. In the song
'Robert, toi que j'aime' she electrified us all. I never heard
anything like it in my life. And she is most elegant on the stage. Her
dresses are splendid."
"Was anyone there that you knew?"
"I hardly looked at the house at all. I was in the stalls. The Prince
and Princess of Wales were in the royal box."
"I am sure, Karl, it is a wonder to hear that you went!"
"True, Lucy; but my evenings hung heavily on my hands. What with
Plunkett and Plunkett and other business matters, the days were busy
enough: I used to wish the evenings were. I felt very dull."
"Just as I have been feeling here, Karl, without you."
His answer to his wife was but a look; but Miss Blake wished she had
not caught it. What had she done, that his love should have missed her
to be lavished on this girl-child?
"Sir Karl," she cried somewhat abruptly, "who is Mr. Smith?"
"I don't know," carelessly replied Sir Karl, whose thoughts were
preoccupied.
"Not know! but is he not your agent?--and a friend also?"
Sir Karl was fully aroused now. "Know who Mr. Smith is?" he
repeated--and he wished to heaven in his secret heart that he did
know. "How do you mean, Miss Blake? He is Mr. Smith, and--yes--a kind
of agent to me on the estate."
The latter part of the answer was given lightly, half merrily, as if
he would pass it off with a laugh. Miss Blake resumed.
"Is he not an old friend of the Andinnian family?"
"Of some of them, I believe. I did not know him myself."
"Who gave him his appointment?"
"My mother. She considered it well to have some responsible person
here to look after my interests, as I was living abroad."
"Do you not intend, Sir Karl, to make an acquaintance of him?--a
friend?"
For a moment Sir Karl's brows were heavily knitted. "I do not suppose
I shall," he quietly said.
"He seems a well-informed, agreeable man; and is, I conclude, a
gentleman," returned Miss Blake, quite in a tone of remonstrance.
"I am glad to hear it," replied Sir Karl, his manner somewhat
freezing. "And so, Lucy, you have had some of the neighbours calling
here?" he continued, addressing his wife and turning the conversation.
"Oh, Karl, yes! And you were not here to help me; and I did not know
them, and confused their names hopelessly with one another."
"I should not have known them either," laughed Sir Karl.
Miss Blake had some letters to write, and got to them after dinner:
she had been too much engaged with other things during the day. Tea
was taken in early to the drawing-room, and afterwards she went
back early to her own room, the North room, to finish her writing by
what little light remained. She saw Sir Karl and Lucy in the garden
arm-in-arm, conversing together in low, confidential tones. Evidently
they were all-sufficient for each other and did not miss her.
Say what we will, it could but seem to Miss Blake a neglect and
something worse, looking upon past matters in her own light; and it
told upon her cruelly.
The evening dusk drew on. She heard Lucy at the piano in the
drawing-room, seemingly alone, trying a bit of one song and a bit of,
another. There was no doubt that Lucy thought Theresa was still busy
and would not interrupt her. Miss Blake put up her desk and sat at the
open window. By and by, when it was nearly dark, she threw a shawl on
her shoulders, stepped out, crossed the lawn, and lost herself amidst
the opposite trees. Miss Blake was that night in no mood for
companionship: she preferred her own company to that of Lucy or her
husband. As we say by the cross little children, the black dog was on
her back; she did not listen even to the sweet melody of the
nightingales.
"But for St. Jerome's I would not stay another day here," ran her
thoughts. "I almost wish now I had not stirred in the church matter,
but let the benighted place alone. As it is--and Mr. Cattacomb's
come--why, I must make the best of it, and do my duty. Stay! stay,
Theresa Blake!" she broke off in self-soliloquising sternness. "Is
this fulfilling your good resolution--to give up all and bear all? Let
me put away these most evil thoughts and work bravely on, and stay
here cheerfully for Lucy's sake. It may be that she will want a
friend, and I--Oh, there he is!"
The last sentence related to Karl. She had gradually got round the
house to the other side, which brought her in face of Sir Karl's room.
The doors of the window stood wide open; a lamp was on the table, by
the light of which he seemed to be reading a note and talking to
Hewitt, who stood near. Crossing over on the soft grass she drew
within ear-shot, not really with any intention of listening, but in
her mind's abstraction--what was there likely to pass between Sir Karl
and his servant that concerned her to hear? With the bright lamp
inside and the darkness out, they could not see her.
"You must be very cautious, Hewitt," Sir Karl was saying. "Implicitly
silent."
"I have been, sir, and shall be," was the answer. "There's no fear of
_me_. I have not had the interests of the family at heart all these
years, Sir Karl, to compromise them now."
"I know, I know, Hewitt. Well, that's all, I think, for to-night."
Miss Blake passed back again out of hearing, very slowly and
thoughtfully. She had heard the words, and was dissecting them: it
almost sounded as though Sir Karl and his man had some secret
together. Stepping on to the terrace, she was about to go in, when she
heard Sir Karl enter the drawing-room and speak to his wife.
"I think I shall take a bit of a stroll, Lucy."
"To smoke your cigar? Do so, Karl."
"I--wonder--whether it is an excuse to go where he went the other
night?" thought Miss Blake, the idea striking her like a flash of
lightning. "I'll watch him. I will. I said I would, and I will. His
family may have interests of their own, but Lucy and her family have
theirs, and for her sake I'll watch."
Drawing the shawl over her head, she passed out at one of the small
gates, crossed the road, and glided along under cover of the opposite
hedge as far as the Maze. There she stood, back amidst the trees, and
sheltered from observation. The dress she wore happened to be black,
for it was one of St. Jerome's fast-days, the shawl was black, and she
could not be seen in the shade.
It was a still night. The dew was rising, and there seemed to be some
damp exhaled from the trees. The time passed, ever so many minutes,
and she began to think she had come on a fruitless errand. Or was it
that Sir Karl was only lingering with his wife?
"Good gracious! What was that?"
A shrill shriek right over Miss Blake's head had caused the words and
the start. It must have been only a night bird; but her nerves--what
few she had--were on the tension, and she began to tremble slightly.
It was not a pleasant position, and she wished herself away.
"I'll go," she mentally cried. "I wish I had not come. I--hope--Mr.
Smith's--not looking out, or he will see me!" she added, slowly and
dubiously.
The doubt caused her to stay where she was and strain her eyes at the
opposite cottage. Was it fancy? One of the windows stood open, and she
thought she saw a head and eyes peeping from it. Peeping, not openly
looking.
"He must have seen me come!" decided Miss Blake. "But surely he'd not
know me, wrapped up like this! Hark!"
A very slight sound had dawned upon her ear. Was it Sir Karl
advancing? Surely the sound was that of footsteps! At the same moment,
there arose another and separate sound; and that was close to her,
inside the gates by which she stood.
"Some one must be coming out!" breathed Miss Blake. "It's getting
complicated. I wish I was safe away. Two pairs of eyes may see what
one would not."
Sir Karl Andinnian--for the footsteps were his--advanced. Very quietly
and cautiously. Miss Blake could see that he had changed his dress
coat for another, which he had buttoned round him, though the night
was close. Halting at the gate he drew the key from his pocket as
before, unlocked it, and passed in. Some one met him.
"Karl! I am so glad you have come! I thought you would! I knew you had
returned."
It was a soft, sweet voice: the same voice, Miss Blake could have laid
a wager on it, that had sung "When lovely woman stoops to folly."
Their hands met: she was sure of that. Perhaps their lips also: but
she could not see.
"Why, how did you know I was back?" he asked. "Oh, Ann came to the
gate to answer a ring, and saw you pass by from the station."
"Why are you out here!" he resumed. "Is it prudent!"
"I was restless, expecting you. I have so much to say; and, do you
know, Karl----"
The voice sank into too low a tone to be audible to the thirsty ears
outside. Both had spoken but in whispers. Miss Blake cautiously
stretched forth her head, so as to get a glimpse through the
closely-barred gate. Yes: it was the lovely girl she had seen during
that stealthy visit of hers: and she had taken Sir Karl's arm while
she talked to him. Another minute, and they both disappeared within
the trees of the maze.
Whether Miss Blake was glued to the trunk of the tree she stood at, or
whether it was glued to her, remains a problem to be solved. It was
one of the two. There she stood; and leave it she could not. That the
flood-gates of a full tide of iniquity had suddenly been opened upon
her was as clear to her mind as the light of day. Much that had been
incomprehensible in the Maze and its inmates admitted of no doubt now.
An instinct of this had been playing in her fancy previously: but she
had driven it away as fancy, and would not allow herself to dwell on
it. And now--it seemed as though she stood at the edge of a yawning
precipice looking down on a gulf of almost unnatural evil, from the
midst of which Sir Karl Andinnian shone prominently out, the
incarnation of all that was wicked and false and treacherous. But for
the necessity of stillness and silence, Miss Blake could have groaned
aloud.
A few minutes, and she stole away. There was nothing to wait or watch
for: she knew all. Forgetting about Clematis Cottage and the eyes that
might be peeping from it, she got back into the grounds of Foxwood and
sat down on the bare terrace in the night to commune with herself.
What should her course be? Surely she ought to impart the secret to
that poor girl, Lucy, whom the man had dared to make his wife.
Let us render justice to Miss Blake. Hard though she was by nature,
she strove to do her duty in all conscientiousness at all times and in
all places. Sin she detested, no matter of what nature; detested it
both as sin and for its offence against God. That Sir Karl Andinnian
was living in secret, if not open sin, and was cruelly deceiving his
innocent and unsuspicious wife, was clearly indisputable. It must not
be allowed to go on--at least so far as Lucy was concerned. To allow
her to remain the loving and unsuspicious partner of this man would be
almost like making her a third in the wickedness, was what Miss Blake
thought in her anger. And she decided on her course.
"And I--if I did not enlighten her, knowing what I know--should be
countenancing and administering to the sin," she said aloud. "Good
heavens! what a pit seems to be around us! may I be helped to do
right!"
Rising, and shaking the night dew from her hair, she passed upstairs
to her own chamber. Lady Andinnian was moving about her dressing-room.
Impulse induced Miss Blake to knock at the door. Not that she intended
to speak then.
"Are you undressing, Lucy?" she asked, an unconscious pity in her
voice for the poor young wife.
"Not yet, Theresa. Aglaé's coming up, though, I think. It was dull
downstairs by myself, and I thought I might as well come on. I could
not find you anywhere. I thought you must have gone to bed."
"I was out of doors."
"Were you? I called to you outside on the terrace, but no one
answered."
"Sir Karl is out, then?"
"He is strolling about somewhere," replied Lucy. "He does not sleep
well, and likes to take half an hour's stroll the last thing. It
strikes me sometimes that Karl's not strong, Theresa: but I try to
throw the fear off."
Miss Blake drew in her lips, biting them to an enforced silence. She
was burning to say what she could say, but knew it would be premature.
"I will wish you goodnight, Lucy, my dear. I am tired, and--and out
of sorts."
"Good night, Theresa: dormez bien," was the gay answer.
"To waste her love and solicitude upon _him!_" thought Miss Blake, as
she stepped along the corridor with erect head and haughty brow. "I
told Colonel Cleeve before the marriage that he was wild--little
Dennet had said so--but I was put down. No wonder Sir Karl cannot
spend his income on his home! he has other ways and means for it. Oh,
how true are the words of holy writ! 'The heart of man is deceitful
above all things, and desperately wicked.'"