Before the World.
Foxwood court was alive with gaiety. At least, what stood for gaiety
in that inwardly sad and sober house. Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve had come
for a fortnight's stay. Visits were being exchanged with the
neighbours; dinner parties reigned. It was not possible for Sir Karl
and Lady Andinnian to accept hospitality and not return it: and--at
any rate during the sojourn of the Colonel and his wife--Sir Karl
dared not shut themselves up as hermits lest comment should be
excited. So the Court held its receptions, and went out to other
people's: and Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian dressed, and talked, and
comported themselves just as though there was no shadow between them.
Lady Andinnian was growing graver day by day: her very heart seemed to
be withering. That Sir Karl paid his secret visits to the Maze at
night two or three times a week, she knew only too well. One of the
most innocent and naturally unsuspicious persons in the world was she:
but, now that her eyes had been opened, she saw all clearly. Without
watching and tracking the movements of her husband as Miss Blake had
tracked them; in her guileless honour she could never have done that;
Lady Andinnian was only too fully awake now to the nightly strolls
abroad of her husband, and instinct told her for what purpose they
were taken.
Life for her at this present time seemed very hard to bear. The task
she had imposed on herself--to endure in patience and silence--seemed
well nigh an impracticable one. The daily cross that she had
apportioned herself to take up felt too heavy for mortal frame to
carry. Humiliation, jealousy, love, waged war with each other within
her, and rendered her very wretched. It needed all the good and gentle
and patient principles instilled into her from early childhood, it
needed all the strength she was ever praying for, to hold on
perseveringly in her bitter path, and make no sign. At times she
thought that the silence to which she was condemned must eat away her
heart; but a chance occurrence or two showed her that silence was not
the worst phase she might have to bear.
On the day after Mrs. Cleeve's arrival, she was upstairs in her
daughter's chamber. Miss Blake was also there. Lucy had come in, hot
and tired, from at afternoon walk to Margaret Sumnor's, and Aglaé had
been summoned to help her to change her silk dress for an unpretending
muslin.
"I did not know it was so hot before I went out, or I would not have
put on the silk," observed Lucy, "Sitting so quietly with you all the
morning, mamma, in that cool drawing-room, talking of old times, I
forgot the heat."
Mrs. Cleeve made no particular reply. She was looking about her;
taking silent notice. The doors of communication to the further
chamber stood open, as was usual during the day: Lucy took care of
that, to keep down suspicion in the house of there being any
estrangement between herself and her husband.
"And you have made this your sleeping room, Lucy, my dear?" observed
Mrs. Cleeve.
"Yes, mamma."
"And that further one is Sir Karl's! Well, I'm sure you are getting
quite a fashionable couple--to have separate rooms. I and your papa
never had such a thing in our lives, Lucy."
Lucy Andinnian grew crimson; as if a flush of the summer heat were
settling in her face. She murmured, in reference to the remarks, some
words about the nights being so very hot, and that she had felt a sort
of fever upon her. The very consciousness of having the truth to
conceal caused her to be more urgent in rendering some plea of excuse.
Aglaé, whose national prejudice had been particularly gratified at the
alteration, and who had lived too long in Mrs. Cleeve's service to
keep in whatever opinion might rise to her tongue's end, hastened to
speak.
"But, and is it not the most sensible arrangement, madame, that my
lady and Sir Karl could have made, when the summer is like an Afric
summer for the hotness? Mademoiselle here knows that."
"Don't appeal to me, Aglaé," cried Miss Blake, in a frozen tone.
"Yes, yes, Aglaé; I say the fashion is coming up in England; and
perhaps it induces to comfort," said Mrs. Cleeve.
"But certainly. And, as madame sees"--pointing through the little
sitting-room to the further chamber--"it is but like the same chamber.
When Sir Karl is in that and my lady in this, they can look straight
at one another."
"Aglaé, see to these shoulder-knots," sharply interposed Lady
Andinnian. "You have not put them on evenly."
"And talk to each other too, if they please," persisted Aglaé,
ignoring the ribbons to uphold her opinion. "Madame ought to see that
the arrangement is good."
"At any rate, Lucy, I think you should have kept to the large room
yourself, and Sir Karl have come to the smaller one," said Mrs.
Cleeve.
"It's the very remark I made to my lady," cried Aglaé, turning at
length to regard the ribbons with a critical eye. "But my lady chose
herself this. It is commodious; I say nothing to the contrary; but it
is not as large as the other."
Oh how Lucy wished they would be silent. Her poor flushed face knew
not where to hide itself; her head and heart were aching with all
kinds of perplexity. Taking up the eau-de-cologne flask, she saturated
her handkerchief and passed it over her brow.
"Has my lady got ache to her head!"
"Yes. A little. Alter these ribbons, Aglaé, and let me go."
"It is because of this marvellous heat," commented Aglaé. "Paris this
summer would not be bearable."
Aglaé was right in the main; for it was an unusually hot summer. The
intense heat began with Easter, and lasted late into autumn. In one
sense it was favourable to Lucy, for it upheld her given excuse in
regard to the sleeping arrangements.
Miss Blake had stood all the while with in-drawn lips. It was a habit
of hers to show it in her lips when displeased. Seeing always the
doors open in the day-time, no suspicion of the truth crossed her. She
believed that what she had disclosed to Lucy was no more to her than
the idle wind, once Sir Karl had made good his own false cause.
A question was running through Miss Blake's mind now--had been in it
more or less since Mrs. Cleeve came: should she, or should she not,
tell that lady what she knew' She had deliberated upon it; she had set
herself to argue the point, for and against; and yet, down deep in her
heart from the first had laid the innate conviction that she should
tell. In the interests of religion and morality, she told herself that
she ought not to keep silence; for the suppression of iniquity and
deceit, she was bound to speak. Had Lucy but taken up the matter
rightly, there would have been no necessity for her to have again
interfered: neither should she have done it. But Lucy had set her
communication at naught: and therefore, in Miss Blake's judgment, the
obligation was laid upon her. Why--how could she, who was only second
to the Rev. Guy Cattacomb in the management and worship at St.
Jerome's, and might have been called his lay curate; who prostrated
herself there in prayer ever so many times a day, to the edification
and example of Foxwood--how could she dare to hold cognizance of a
mine of evil, and not strive to put an end to it, and bring it home to
its enactors? Every time she went to that holy shrine, St. Jerome's,
every time she came back from it, its sacred dust, as may be said,
hallowing her shoes, she had to pass those iniquitous gates, and was
forced into the undesirable thoughts connected with them!
If Miss Blake had wavered before, she fully made her mind up now; now,
as she stood there in the chamber, the conversation dying away on her
ears. Aglaé was attending to the shoulder-knots; Lucy was passive
under the maid's hands; and Mrs. Cleeve had wandered into the little
intermediate sitting-room. No longer a dressing-room; Lucy had given
it up as such when she changed her chamber. She had some books and
work and her desk there now, and sat there whenever she could. Miss
Blake stood on, gazing from the window and perfecting her resolution.
She thought she was but acting in the strict line of wholesome duty,
just as disinterestedly as the Archbishop of Canterbury might have
done: and she would have been very much shocked had anybody told her
she was only actuated by a desire of taking vengeance on Karl
Andinnian. She wanted to bring home a little confusion to him; she
hoped to see the young lady at the Maze turned out of the village
amidst an escorting flourish of ironical drums and shrieking fifes,
leaving Foxwood Court to its peace. But Miss Blake was in no hurry to
speak: she must watch her opportunity.
They were engaged to dine the following day at a distance, four or
five miles off; a ball was to follow it. When the time came, Lady
Andinnian, radiant in her white silk bridal dress, entered the
reception-room leaning on the arm of her good-looking husband. Who
could have dreamt that they were living on ill terms, seeing them now?
In public they were both cautiously courteous to each other, observing
every little obligation of society: and in truth Karl at all times, at
home and out, was in manner affectionate to his wife.
Two carriages had conveyed them: and, in going, Lucy had occupied one
with her father; Karl, Mrs. Cleeve, and Miss Blake the other. Lucy had
intended to return in the same order, but found she could not. Colonel
Cleeve, unconscious of doing wrong, entered the carriage with his wife
and Miss Blake: Lucy and her husband had to sit together. The summer's
night was giving place to dawn.
"I fear you are tired, Lucy," he kindly said, as they drove off.
"Yes, very. I wish I was at home."
She drew her elegant white cloak about her with its silken tassels,
gathered herself into the corner of the carriage, and shut her eyes,
seemingly intending to go to sleep. Sleep! her heart was beating too
wildly for that. But she kept them resolutely closed, making no sign;
and never another word was spoken all the way. Sir Karl helped her
out: the others had already arrived.
"Good night," she whispered to him, preparing to run up the stairs.
"Good night, Lucy."
But, in spite of Lady Andinnian's efforts to make the best of things
and show no sign, a mother's eye could not be deceived; and before
Mrs. Cleeve had been many days in the house, she was struck with the
underlying aspect of sadness that seemed to pervade Lucy. Her
cheerfulness appeared to be often forced; this hidden sadness was
real. Unsuspecting Mrs. Cleeve could come to but one conclusion--her
daughter's health must be deranged.
"Since when have you not felt well, Lucy?" she asked her
confidentially one day, when they were alone in Lucy's little
sitting-room.
Lucy, buried in a reverie, woke up with a start at the question. "I am
very well, mamma. Why should you think I am not?"
"Your spirits are unequal, Lucy, and you certainly do not look well;
neither do you eat as you ought. My dear, I think--I hope--there must
be a cause for it."
"What cause?" returned Lucy, not taking her meaning.
"We should be so pleased to welcome a little heir, my dear. Is it so?"
Lucy--she had just dressed for dinner, and dismissed Aglaé--coloured
painfully. Mrs. Cleeve smiled.
"No, mamma, I think there is no cause of that kind," she answered, in
a low, nervous tone. And only herself knew the bitter pang that
pierced her as she remembered how certain it was that there could be
no such cause for the future.
But Mrs. Cleeve held to her own private opinion. "The child is shy in
these early days, even with me," she thought. "I'll say no more."
One morning during this time, Karl was sitting alone in his room, when
Hewitt came to him to say Smith the agent was asking to see him. Karl
did not like Smith the agent: he doubted, dreaded, and did not
comprehend him.
"Will you see him, sir?" asked Hewitt, in a low tone, perceiving the
lines on his master's brow.
"I suppose I must see him, Hewitt," was the reply--and the
confidential, faithful servant well understood the force of the must.
"Show him in."
"Beg pardon for disturbing you so early, Sir Karl," said the agent, as
Hewitt brought him in and placed a chair. "There's one of your small
tenants dropping into a mess, I fancy. He has got the brokers in for
taxes, or something of that kind. I thought I'd better let you know at
once."
Hewitt shut the door, and Karl pushed away the old letters he had been
sorting. Sir Joseph's papers and effects had never been examined yet;
but Karl was settling to the work now. That Mr. Smith had spoken in an
unusually loud and careless tone, he noticed: and therefore judged
that this was but the ostensible plea for his calling, given lest any
ears should be about.
"Which of my tenants is it, Mr. Smith!" he quietly asked.
Mr. Smith looked round to be sure that the door was closed, and then
asked Sir Karl if he'd mind having the window shut; he felt a bit of a
draught. And he shut the glass doors himself with his one hand, before
Karl could assent to the proposal, or rise to do it himself.
"It is Seaford the miller," he answered. "And"--dropping his voice to
the lowest and most cautious tone--"it is a fact that he has the
brokers in for some arrears of Queen's rates. But the man has
satisfied me that it is but a temporary embarrassment; and I think,
Sir Karl, your rent is in no danger. Still it was right that you
should know of it; and it has served, just in the nick of time, to
account for my object in coming."
"What is the real object?" inquired Karl, in a voice as cautious as
the other voice.
Mr. Smith took a newspaper out of the pocket of his light summer coat;
borrowed his disabled hand from the sling to help unfold it, and then,
pointed to a small paragraph. It ran as follows:--
"Curious rumours are afloat connected with a recorded attempt at
escape from Portland Island, in which the unfortunate malefactor met
his death. A mysterious whisper has arisen, we know not how or whence,
that the death was but a fiction, and that the man is at large."
"What paper is it?" cried Karl, trying to force some colour into his
white lips.
"Only one in which all kinds of stories are got up," rejoined
Mr. Smith, showing the title of a sensational weekly paper. "The
paragraph may have resulted from nothing but the imagination of some
penny-a-liner, Sir Karl, at fault for real matter."
"I don't like it," observed Karl, after a pause. "Assume that it may
be as you suggest, and nothing more, this very announcement will be
the means of drawing people's thoughts towards it."
"Not it," spoke Mr. Smith. "And if it does?--nobody will think it
points to Sir Adam Andinnian. Another prisoner has been killed since
then, trying to escape."
"How do you know that?"
"I _do_ know it," replied Mr. Smith, emphatically. But he advanced no
further proof. "It was a curious thing, my getting this paper," he
continued. "Yesterday I was over at Basham, mistook the time of the
returning train, and found when I reached the station that I had to
wait three-quarters of an hour. The only newspapers on the stand were
these weekly ones; I bought this to while away the time, and saw the
paragraph."
"These events, looked upon as chances and errors, are in reality
ordained," spoke Karl dreamily. "What can be done, Mr. Smith?"
"Nothing; nothing, Sir Karl. There's nothing to do. He is safe enough
where he is--even if the rumour did come to be looked into by the
law's authorities. Rely upon it, the Maze will never be suspected."
"I wish to heaven he had never come to the Maze!" was Karl Andinnian's
pained rejoinder.
"It might be better on the whole that he had not," acknowledged Mr.
Smith. "The plan originated with himself and with the late Mrs.
Andinnian--and they carried it out."
"I wish," said Karl, speaking upon sudden impulse, "that you would
allow me to know how you became connected with this affair of my
unfortunate brother--and what you still have to do with it."
"How I became connected with it does not signify," was the short and
ready answer. "As to what I have to do with it still, you know as well
as I. I just watch over him--or rather the place that contains him--
and if danger should arise I shall be at hand to, I hope, give him
warning and to protect him from it."
"He ought to be got away from the Maze," persisted Karl.
"He'd never get away in safety. Especially if there's anything in
this"--striking his hand on the newspaper paragraph. "With my consent,
he will never try to."
Karl did not answer; but he thought the more. That this man was the
true impediment to his brother's escape; that he was in fact keeping
him where he was, he believed with his whole heart. Once Sir Adam
could be safe away from the kingdom, Mr. Smith no doubt foresaw that
he might no longer enjoy Clematis Cottage to live in, or the handsome
sum which he received quarterly. A sum that Mrs. Andinnian had
commenced to pay, and Karl did not dare to discontinue. The words were
but a confirmation of his opinion. Mr. Smith was Adam's enemy, not
friend; he was keeping him there for his own self-interest: and Karl
feared that if Adam attempted to get away in spite of him, he might in
revenge deliver him up to justice. In dangers of this secret kind,
fear has no limit.
"He could not be as safe anywhere in England as here," concluded Mr.
Smith, as if he divined Karl's thoughts. "The police would suspect
every hole and corner of the country, every town, little and big,
before they would suspect his own home. As to the sailing away for
another land, the danger of his recognition would be too great both on
the voyage and on embarking for it, for him to dare it. He'd be
discovered as sure as apple-trees grow apples."
"Will it be better to tell him of this!" cried Karl, alluding to the
newspaper.
"I think not. Just as you please, though, Sir Karl. Rely upon it, it
is only what I suggest--an emanation from some penny-a-liner's
inventive brain."
"The paper had better be burnt," suggested Karl.
"The very instant I get home," said Mr. Smith, putting the paper in
his pocket and taking his hat from the table. "I wish I could burn the
whole impression--already gone forth to the world. I'll go out this
way, Sir Karl, if you will allow me."
Opening the glass doors again, he stepped across the terrace to the
lawn, talking still, as though continuing the conversation. Other
windows stood open, and the agent was cautious.
"I'll be sure to see Seaford in the course of the day. You may trust
to me not to let any of them get behind-hand with their rents. Good
morning, Sir Karl."
The agent, however, did not turn into his house. Deep in thought, he
strolled on, up the road, his free hand in his light coat pocket, his
head bent in meditation. He wished he could obtain some little light
as to this mysterious announcement; he fancied he might be able to. On
he strolled, unthinkingly, until he came to St. Jerome's, the entrance
door of which edifice was ajar.
"Holding one of their services," thought the agent. "I'll have a look
in, and see Cattacomb surrounded by his flock of lambs."
Mr. Smith was disappointed: for the reverend gentleman was not there.
It appeared to be the hour for cleaning the room, instead of one for
holding service. Four or five young ladies, their gowns turned up
round their waists and some old gloves on, were dusting, sweeping, and
brushing with all their might and main; Miss Blake presiding as high
priestess of the ceremonies.
"They'd not do such a thing in their own homes to save their lives,"
laughed the agent, coming softly out again unseen. "Cattacomb must be
in clover among 'em!"
He went home then, looked attentively once more at the alarming
paragraph, and burnt the newspaper. After that, he paced his little
garden, as if in a fit of restlessness, and then leaned over the gate,
lost in reflection. The trees of the Maze were perfectly still in the
hot summer air; the road was dusty and not a single passenger to be
seen on it.
A few minutes, and footsteps broke upon his ear. They were Miss
Blake's, bringing her home from St. Jerome's. She stopped to shake
hands.
"Well," said he, with a laugh, "all the scrubbing done?"
"How do you know anything about the scrubbing?" returned Miss Blake.
"I looked in just now, and saw you all at it, dusting and brushing,
and thought what an enviable young priest that Cattacomb must be. Now,
my lad! don't ride over us if you can help it."
The very same butcher-boy, in the same blue frock, had come galloping
up to the Maze gate, rung the bell, and was now prancing backwards
across the road on his horse, which was very restive. Something
appeared to have startled the animal; and it was to the boy the last
remark had been addressed. Miss Blake stepped inside the garden gate,
held open for her--for the horse seemed to think the path his own
ground as well as the highway.
"He have been shoed this morning, and he's always in this dratted
temper after it," spoke the boy gratuitously.
The woman-servant came out with her dish, received some meat, and
disappeared again, taking care to lock the gate after her. She had
never left it unlocked since the unlucky day when Miss Blake got in.
Glancing over the road, she saw the lady and the agent watching her,
and no doubt recognized the former.
"Looks like a faithful servant, that," remarked Mr. Smith.
"Faithful," echoed Miss Blake--"well yes, she does. But to what a
mistress! Fidelity to such a person does her no credit."
Mr. Smith turned as grave as a judge. "Hush!" said he, impressively.
"Unless one has sure and good ground to go upon, it is better not to
assume evil."
"No ground was ever surer than this."
"My dear young lady, you may be utterly mistaken."
She liked the style of address from him--my dear _young_ lady: it
flattered her vanity. But she would not give way.
"I have seen what I have seen, Mr. Smith. Sir Karl Andinnian would not
be stealing in there at night, if it were proper for him to be going
in the open day."
"Never speak of it," cried Mr. Smith, his tone one of sharp, strong
command. "What could you prove? I ask, Miss Blake, what you could
prove--if put to it?"
She did not answer.
"Why, nothing, madam. Absolutely _nothing_. How could you?"
Miss Blake considered. "I think there's a good deal of negative
proof," she said, at length.
"Moonshine," cried Mr. Smith. "Negative proof in a case of this kind
always is moonshine. Listen, my dear Miss Blake, for I am advising you
now as a good friend. Never breathe a word of this matter to living
soul. You don't know what the consequences to yourself might be."
"Consequences to myself!"
"To yourself, of course: there's no one else in question--at least in
my mind. You might be sued for libel, and get sentenced to pay heavy
damages and to a term of imprisonment besides. For goodness sake, be
cautious! Remember Jane Shore! She had to stand in the pillory in a
white sheet in the face and eyes of a gaping multitude, a lighted
taper in her hand."
"Jane Shore!" cried Miss Blake, who at the above suggestion had begun
to go as pale as she could well go. "Jane Shore! But that was not for
libel. It was for--for--"
Miss Blake broke down.
"Shoreditch is named after her, you know," put in Mr. Smith. "Poor
thing! she was very lovely: raven hair and eyes of a violet blue, say
the old chronicles. Keep your own counsel, young lady, implicitly--and
be silent for your own sake."
Miss Blake said good morning, and walked away. The prospect suggested
to her, as to the fine and imprisonment, looked anything but a
pleasant one. She resolved henceforth to _be_ silent; to Mrs. Cleeve
and to all else: and, under the influence of this new and disagreeable
suggestion, she wished to her heart she had never opened her lips to
Lady Andinnian.
"Meddlesome tabby cat," aspirated the gallant Mr. Smith. "She might
play up Old Beans with her tongue. Women are the very deuce for being
ill-natured to one another."