write you my sentiments about her to Ombersley," he said aloud. "Those
London girls are something to look at." And I knew by Tod's tone that he
was prepared _not_ to like Miss Sophie Chalk.
We saw them out to the carriage; the Squire putting in my lady, Tod,
Helen and Anna. One of the housemaids, Lettice Lane, was wildly running
in and out, bringing things to the carriage. She had lived with us once;
but Hannah's temper and Letty's propensity for gossip did not get on
together. Mrs. Todhetley, when they had driven away, asked her how she
liked her place--which she had entered at Michaelmas. Oh, pretty well,
Lettice answered: but for her old mother, she should emigrate to
Australia. She used to be always saying so at Dyke Manor, and it was
one of the things that Hannah would not put up with, telling her decent
girls could find work at home.
Tod went off next, on horseback: and, before three o'clock, we drove to
the station to meet the London train. The Squire stayed in the carriage,
sending me and Mrs. Todhetley on the platform.
Two passengers got out at the small station; a little lady in feathers,
and a butcher in a blue frock, who had charge of a calf in the open van.
Mrs. Todhetley stepped up to the lady and inquired whether she was Miss
Chalk.
"I am Miss Chalk. Have I the honour of speaking to Lady Whitney?"
While matters were being explained, I stood observing her. A very small,
slight person, with pretty features white as ivory; and wide-open light
blue eyes, that were too close together, and had a touch of boldness in
them. It would take a great deal to daunt their owner, if I could read
countenances: and that I was always doing so was no fault of mine, for
the instinct, strong and irrepressible, lay within me--as old Duffham
once said. I did not like her voice; it had no true ring in it; I did
not much like her face. But the world in general no doubt found her
charming, and the Squire thought her so.
She sat in front with him, a carpet-bag between them: and I, behind, had
a great black box crowding my legs. She could not do without that much
of her luggage: the rest might come by rail.
"Johnny," whispered Mrs. Todhetley to me, "I am afraid she is very grand
and fashionable. I don't know how we shall manage to amuse her. Do you
like her?"
"Well--she has got a stunning lot of hair."
"Beautiful hair, Johnny!"
With the hair close before us, I could only say so. It was brown; rather
darker than Anna Whitney's, but with a red tinge in it, and about double
the quantity. Nature or art was giving it a wonderful gloss in the light
of the setting sun, as she turned her head about, laughing and talking
with the Squire. Her dress was some bright purple stuff trimmed with
white fur; her hands, lying in repose on her lap, had yellow gauntlets
on.
"I'm glad I ordered a duck for dinner, in addition to the boiled veal
and bacon, Johnny," whispered Mrs. Todhetley again. "The fish won't be
much: it is only the cold cod done up in parsley sauce."
Tod, at home long before, was at the door ready for us when we arrived.
I saw her staring at him in the dusk.
"Who was the gentleman that handed me out?" she asked me as we went in.
"Mr. Todhetley's son."
"I--think--I have heard Helen Whitney talk of him," she said in
reflection. "He will be very rich, will he not?"
"Pretty well. He will have what his father has before him, Miss Chalk."
Mrs. Todhetley suggested tea, but she said she would prefer a glass
of wine; and went up to her chamber after taking it. Hannah and the
housemaid were hastily putting one in order for her. Sleepy with the
frosty air, I was nodding over the fire in the drawing-room when the
rustle of silk awoke me.
It was Miss Chalk. She came in gleaming like a fairy, her dress shining
in the fire-light; for they had not been in to light the candles. It had
a green-and-gold tinge, and was cut very low. Did she think we had a
party?--or that dressing for dinner was the fashion in our plain country
house--as it might have been at a duke's? Her shoulders and arms were
white as snow; she wore a silver necklace, the like of which I had never
seen, silver bracelets, and a thick cord of silver twisting in and out
of her complicated hair.
"I'm sure it is very kind of your people to take me in," she said,
standing still on the hearthrug in her beauty. "They have lighted a fire
in my room; it is so comfortable. I do like a country house. At Lady
Augustus Difford's----"
Her head went round at the opening of the door. It was Tod. She stepped
timidly towards him, like a schoolgirl: dressed as now, she looked no
older than one. Tod might have made up his mind not to like her; but he
had to surrender. Holding out her hand to him, he could only yield to
the vision, and his heart shone in his eyes as he bent them upon her.
"I beg your pardon for having passed you without notice; I did not even
thank you for lifting me down; but I was frozen with the drive," she
said, in low tones. "Will you forgive me, Mr. Todhetley?"
Forgive her! As Tod stood there with her hand in his, he looked inclined
to eat her. Forgiveness was not enough. He led her to the fire, speaking
soft words of gallantry.
"Helen Whitney has often talked to me about you, Mr. Todhetley. I little
thought I should ever make your acquaintance; still less, be staying in
your father's house."
"And I as little dreamt of the good fortune that was in store for me,"
answered Tod.
He was a tall, fine young fellow then, rising twenty, looking older than
his age; she (as she looked to-night) a delicate, beautiful fairy, of
any teens fancy might please to picture. As Tod stood over her, his
manner took a gentle air, his eyes a shy light--quite unusual with him.
She did not look up, except by a modest glance now and again, dropping
her eyes when they met his own. He had the chance to take his fill of
gazing, and used it.
* * * * *
Tod was caught. From the very first night that his eyes fell on Sophie
Chalk, his heart went out to her. Anna Whitney! What child's play had
the joking about her been to this! Anna might have been his sister, for
all the regard he had for her of a certain sort; and he knew it now.
A looker-on sees more than a player, and I did not like one thing--she
drew him on to love her. If ever a girl spread a net to entangle a man's
feet, that girl was Sophie Chalk. She went about it artistically, too;
in the sweetest, most natural way imaginable; and Tod did not see or
suspect an atom of it. No fellow in a similar case ever does. If their
heart's not engaged, their vanity is; and it utterly blinds them. I
said a word or two to him, and was nearly knocked over for my pains.
At the end of the fortnight--and she was with us nearly that length of
time--Tod's heart had made its choice for weal or for woe.
She took care that it should be so; she did, though he cut my head off
now for saying it. You shall judge. She began on that first night when
she came down in her glistening silk, with the silver on her neck and
hair. In the drawing-room, after dinner, she sat by him on the sofa,
talking in a low voice, her face turned to him, lifting her eyes and
dropping them again. My belief is, she must have been to a school where
they taught eye-play. Tod thought it was sweet, natural, shy modesty. I
thought it was all artistic. Mrs. Todhetley was called from the room on
domestic matters; the Squire, gone to sleep in his dinner-chair, had not
come in. After tea, when all were present, she went to the piano, which
no one ever opened but me, and played and sang, keeping Tod by her side
to turn the music, and to talk to her at available moments. In point of
execution, her singing was perfect, but the voice was rather harsh--not
a note of real melody in it.
After breakfast the next morning, when we were away together, she came
to us in her jaunty hat, all feathers, and her purple dress with its
white fur. She lured him off to show her the dyke and goodness knows
what else, leaving Lena, who had come out with her, to be taken home by
me. In the afternoon Tod drove her out in the pony-chaise; they had
settled the drive between them down by the dyke, and I know she had
plotted for it, just as surely as though I had been behind the hedge
listening. I don't say Tod was loth; it was quite the other way from the
first. They took a two-hours' drive, returning home at dusk; and then
she laughed and talked with him and me round the fire until it was time
to get ready for dinner. That second evening she came down in a gauzy
sort of dress, with a thin white body. Mrs. Todhetley thought she would
be cold, but she said she was used to it.
And so it went on; never were they apart for an hour--no, nor scarcely
for a minute in the day.
At first Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley saw nothing. Rather were they glad Tod
should be so attentive to a stranger; for special politeness had not
previously been one of Tod's virtues; but they could only notice as the
thing went on. Mrs. Todhetley grew to have an uneasy look in her eyes,
and one day the Squire spoke out. Sophie Chalk had tied a pink woollen
scarf over her head to go out with Tod to see the rabbits fed: he ran
back for something, and the Squire caught his arm.
"Don't carry that on too far, Joe. You don't know who the girl is."
"What nonsense, sir!" returned Tod, with a ready laugh; but he turned
the colour of a peony.
We did not know much about her, except that she seemed to be on the
high ropes, talking a good deal of great people, and of Lord and Lady
Augustus Difford, with whom she had been staying for two months before
Christmas. Her home in London, she said, was at her sister's, who had
married a wealthy merchant, and lived fashionably in Torriana Square.
Mrs. Todhetley did not like to appear inquisitive, and would not ask
questions. Miss Chalk was with us as the Whitneys' friend, and that was
sufficient.
Bill Whitney's hurt turned out to be something complicated about the
ribs. There was no danger after the first week, and they returned home
during the second, bringing Bill with them. Helen Whitney wrote the same
day for Sophie Chalk, and she said that her mamma would be happy also to
see Tod and me for a short time.
We went over in the large phaeton, Tod driving, Miss Chalk beside him; I
and Dwarf Giles behind. She had thanked Mrs. Todhetley in the prettiest
manner; she told the Squire, as he handed her into the carriage, that
she should never forget his kindness, and hoped some time to find an
opportunity of repaying it.
Such kissing between Helen and Sophie Chalk! I thought they'd never
leave off. Anna stood by Tod, while he looked on: a hungry light in his
eyes, as if envying Helen the kisses she took. He had no eyes now for
Anna. Lady Whitney asked if we would go upstairs to William: he was
impatient to see us both.
"Halloa, old Johnny!"
He was lying on his back on a broad flat sofa, looking just as well
as ever in the face. They had given him up the best bedroom and
dressing-room because he was ill: nice rooms, both--with the door
opening between.
"How did it happen, Bill?"
"Goodness knows! Some fellow rode his horse pretty near over mine--don't
believe he had ever been astride anything but a donkey before. Where's
Tod?"
"Somewhere.--I thought he was close behind me."
"I'm so glad you two have come. It's awfully dull, lying here all day."
"Are you obliged to lie?"
"Carden says so."
"Do you have Carden?"
"As if our folk would be satisfied without him in a surgical case, and
one of danger! He was telegraphed for on the spot, and came over in less
than an hour. It happened near the Ombersley station. He comes here
every other day, and Featherston between whiles as his locum tenens."
Tod burst in with a laugh. He had been talking to the girls in the
gallery outside. Leaving him and Bill Whitney to have out their own
chaffer, I went through the door to the other room--the fire there was
the largest. "How do you do, sir?"
Some one in a neat brown gown and close white cap, sewing at a table
behind the door, had got up to say this with a curtsey. Where had I seen
her?--a woman of three or four and thirty, with a meek, delicate face,
and a subdued expression. She saw the puzzle.
"I am Harry Lease's widow, sir. He was pointsman at South Crabb?"
Why, yes, to be sure! And she was not much altered either. But it was a
good while now since he died, and she and the children had moved away at
the time. I shook hands: the sight of her brought poor Harry Lease to my
mind--and many other things.
"Are you living here?"
"I have been nursing young Mr. Whitney, sir. Mr. Carden sent me over
from Worcester to the place where he was lying; and my lady thought I
might as well come on here with them for a bit, though he don't want
more done for him now than a servant could do. What a deal you have
grown, sir!"
"Have I? You should see Joseph Todhetley. You knew me, though, Mrs.
Lease?"
"I remembered your voice, sir. Besides, I heard Miss Anna say that you
were coming here."
Asking after Polly, she gave me the family history since Lease's death.
First of all, after moving to her mother's at Worcester, she tried to
get a living at making gloves. Her two youngest children caught some
disorder, and died; and then she took to go out nursing. In that she
succeeded so well--for it seemed to be her vocation, she said--as to be
brought under the notice of some of the medical gentlemen of the town.
They gave her plenty to do, and she earned an excellent living, Polly
and the other two being cared for by the grandmother.
"After the scuffle, and toil, and sorrow of the old days, nursing seems
like a holiday to me, Master Ludlow," she concluded; "and I am at home
with the children for a day or two as often as I can be."
"Johnny!"
The call was Bill Whitney's, and I went into the other room. Helen was
there, but not Tod. She and Bill were disputing.
"I tell you, William, I shall bring her in. She has asked to come. You
can't think how nice she is."
"And I tell you, Helen, that I won't have her brought in. What do I want
with your Sophie Chalks?"
"It will be your loss."
"So be it! I can't do with strange girls here."
"You will see that."
"Now look here, Helen--_I won't have it_. To-morrow is Mr. Carden's day
for coming, and I'll tell him that I can't be left in peace. He will
soon give you a word of a sort."
"Oh, well, if you are so serious about it as that, let it drop,"
returned Helen, good-humouredly. "I only thought to give you
pleasure--and Sophie Chalk did ask to come in."
"Who _is_ this Sophie Chalk? That's about the nineteenth time I have
asked it."
"The sweetest girl in the world."
"Let that pass. Who is she?"
"I went to school with her at Miss Lakon's. She used to do my French for
me, and touch up my drawings. She vowed a lasting friendship, and I am
not going to forget it. Every one loves her. Lord and Lady Augustus
Difford have just had her staying with them for two months."
"Good souls!" cried Bill, satirically.
"She is the loveliest fairy in the world, and dresses like an angel.
Will you see her now, William?"
"No."
Helen went off with a flounce. Bill was half laughing, half peevish over
it. Confinement made him fretful.
"As if I'd let them bring a parcel of girls in to bother me! _You_'ve
had her for these past three weeks, I hear, Johnny."
"Pretty near it."
"Do you like her?"
"Tod does."
"What sort of a creature is the syren?"
"She'd fascinate the eyes out of your head, Bill, give her the chance."
"Then I'll be shot if she shall have the chance as far as I am
concerned! Lease!"--raising his voice--"keep all strange ladies out of
here. If they attempt to enter, tell them we've got rats about."
"Very well, sir."
Other visitors were staying in the house. A Miss Deveen, and her
companion Miss Cattledon. We saw them first at dinner. Miss Deveen sat
by Sir John--an ancient lady, active and upright, with a keen, pleasant
face and white hair. She had on a worked-muslin shirt-front, with three
emerald studs in it that glittered as bright as diamonds. They were
beautiful. After dinner, when the four old ones began whist, and we were
at the other end of the drawing-room in a group, some one spoke of the
studs.
"They are nothing compared with some of her jewellery," said Helen
Whitney. "She has a whole set of most beautiful diamonds. I hardly know
what they are worth."
"But those emeralds she has on to-night must be of great value," cried
Sophie Chalk. "See how they sparkle!"
It made us all turn. As Miss Deveen moved in throwing down her cards,
the rays from the wax-lights fell on the emeralds, bringing out the
purest green ever imagined by a painter.
"I should like to steal them," said Sophie Chalk; "they would look well
on me."
It made us laugh. Tod had his eyes fixed on her, a strange love in their
depths. Anna Whitney, kneeling on the ground behind me, could see it.
"I would rather steal a set of pink topaz studs that she has," spoke
Helen; "and the opals, too. Miss Deveen is great in studs."
"Why in studs?"
"Because she always wears this sort of white body; it is her habitual
evening dress, with satin skirts. I know she has a different set of
studs for every day in the month."
"Who is she?" asked Sophie Chalk.
"A cousin of mamma's. She has a great deal of money, and no one in
particular to leave it to. Harry says he hopes she'll remember, in
making her will, that he is only a poor younger son."
"Just you shut up, Helen," interrupted Harry, in a whisper. "I believe
that companion has ears at the back of her head."
Miss Cattledon glanced round from the whist-table, as though the ears
were there and wide open. She was a wiry lady of middle age, quite
forty, with a screwed-in waist and creaking stays, a piece of crimson
velvet round her long thin neck, her scanty hair light as ginger.
"It is she that has charge of the jewel-box," spoke Helen, when we
thought it safe to begin again. "Miss Deveen is a wonderful old lady for
sixty; she has come here without a maid this time, and dresses herself.
I don't see what use Miss Cattledon is to her, unless it is to act as
general refrigerator, but she gets a hundred a year salary and some of
the old satins. Sophie, I'm sure she heard what we said--that we should
like to steal the trinkets."
"Hope she relished it!" quoth Harry. "She'll put them under double lock
and key, for fear we should break in."
It was all jesting. Amid the subdued laughing, Tod bent his face over
Sophie Chalk, his hand touching the lace on her sleeve. She had on blue
to-night with a pearl necklace.
"Will you sing that song for me, Miss Chalk?"
She rose and took his arm. Helen jumped up and arrested them ere they
reached the piano.
"We must not have any music just now. Papa never likes it when they are
at whist."
"How very unreasonable of him!" cried Tod, looking fiercely at Sir
John's old red nose and steel spectacles.
"Of course it is," agreed Helen. "If he played for guinea stakes instead
of sixpenny, he could not be more particular about having no noise. Let
us go into the study: we can do as we like there."
We all trooped off. It was a small square room with a shabby carpet and
worn horse-hair chairs. Helen stirred up the fire; and Sophie sat down
on a low stool and said she'd tell us a fairy tale.
* * * * *
We had been there just a week when it came out. The week was a good one.
Long walks in the frosty air; a huge swing between the cedar trees;
riding by turns on the rough Welsh pony for fun; bagatelle indoors,
work, music, chatter; one dinner-party, and a small dance. Half my time
was spent in Bill's room. Tod seemed to find little leisure for coming
up; or for anything else, except Sophie Chalk. It was a gone case with
Tod: looking on, I could see that; but I don't think any one else saw
it, except Anna. He liked Sophie too well to make it conspicuous. Harry
made open love to her; Sir John said she was the prettiest little lady
he had seen for many a day. I dare say Tod told her the same in private.
And she? Well, I don't know what to say. That she kept Tod at her side,
quietly fascinating him always, was certain; but her liking for him did
not appear real. To me it seemed that she was _acting_ it. "I can't
make that Sophie Chalk out, Tod," I said to him one day by the beeches:
"she seems childishly genuine, but I believe she's just as sharp as a
needle." Tod laughed idly, and told me I was the simplest muff that ever
walked in shoe-leather. She was no rider, and some one had to walk by
her side when she sat on the Welsh pony, holding her on at all the
turnings. It was generally Tod: she made believe to be frightfully timid
with _him_.
It was at the end of the week that the loss was discovered: Miss
Deveen's emerald studs were gone. You never heard such a commotion. She,
the owner, took it quietly, but Miss Cattledon made noise enough for
ten. The girls were talking round the study fire the morning after the
dance, and I was writing a note at the table, when Lettice Lane came in,
her face white as death.
"I beg your pardon, young ladies, for asking, but have any of you seen
Miss Deveen's emerald studs, please?"
They turned round in surprise.
"Miss Deveen's studs!" exclaimed Helen. "We are not likely to have seen
them, Lettice. Why do you ask?"
"Because, Miss Helen, they are gone--that is, Miss Cattledon says they
are. But, with so much jewellery as there is in that case, it is very
easy to overlook two or three little things."
Why Lettice Lane should have shaken all over in telling this, was a
marvel. Her very teeth chattered. Anna inquired; but all the answer
given by the girl was, that it had "put her into a twitter." Sophie
Chalk's countenance was full of compassion, and I liked her for it.
"Don't let it trouble you, Lettice," she said kindly. "If the studs are
missing, I dare say they will be found. Just before I came down here
my sister lost a brooch from her dressing-table. The whole house was
searched for it, the servants were uncomfortable----"
"And was it found, miss?" interrupted Lettice, too eager to let her
finish.
"Of course it was found. Jewels don't get hopelessly lost in gentlemen's
houses. It had fallen down, and, caught in the lace of the toilette
drapery, was lying hid within its folds."
"Oh, thank you, miss; yes, perhaps the studs have fallen too," said
Lettice Lane as she went out. Helen looked after her in some curiosity.
"Why should the loss trouble _her_? Lettice has nothing to do with Miss
Deveen's jewels."
"Look here, Helen, I wish we had never said we should like to steal the
things," spoke Sophie Chalk. "It was all in jest, of course, but this
would not be a nice sequel to it."
"Why--yes--you did say it, some of you," cried Anna, who, until then,
had seemed buried in thought; and her face flushed.
"What if we did?" retorted Helen, looking at her in some slight
surprise.
Soon after this, in going up to Bill's room, I met Lettice Lane. She was
running down with a plate, and looked whiter than ever.
"Are the studs found, Lettice?"
"No, sir."
The answer was short, the manner scared. Helen had wondered why the loss
should affect her; and so did I.
"Where's the use of your being put out over it, Lettice? You did not
take them."
"No, Master Johnny, I did not; but--but----" looking round and dropping
her voice, "I am afraid I know who did; and it was through me. I'm
a'most mad."
This was rather mysterious. She gave no opportunity for more, but ran
down as though the stairs were on fire.
I went on to Bill's chamber, and found Tod and Harry with him: they
were laughing over a letter from some fellow at Oxford. Standing at the
window close by the inner door, which was ajar, I heard Lettice Lane go
into the dressing-room and speak to Mrs. Lease in a half whisper.
"I can't bear this any longer," she said. "If you have taken
those studs, for Heaven's sake put them back. I'll make some
excuse--say I found them under the carpet, or slipped under the
drawers--anything--only put them back!"
"I don't know what you mean," replied Mrs. Lease, who always spoke as
though she had only half a voice.
"Yes, you do. You have got the studs."
By the pause that ensued, Nurse Lease seemed to have lost the power of
speech. Lettice took the opportunity to put it more strongly.
"If you've got them about you, give them into my hand now, and I'll
manage the rest. Not a living soul shall ever know of this if you will.
Oh, do give them to me!"
Mrs. Lease spoke then. "If you say this again, Lettice Lane, I'll tell
my lady all. And indeed, I have been wanting to tell her ever since I
heard that something had gone. It was for your sake I did not."
"For my sake!" shrieked Lettice.