UNDER THE CEDAR-TREE.
There was commotion that day in Dallory. An offer such as this of
Richard North's, coming as it did in the very midst of distress and
prolonged privation, could not be rejected off-hand without dissenting
voices. The few men who had not joined the Union, who only wished to
get back to work, pleaded for acceptance as if they were pleading for
life. Strangers also--that is, gentlemen who had no direct interest in
the question--went about amongst the men, striving to impress upon
them where their obligations lay, and what their course ought to be.
One of these was Dr. Rane. There had been a good deal of sickness
lately--when is there not where privation reigns?--and the doctor's
services were in great requisition. Every house he visited that day,
every workman with whom he came into contact, he spoke to forcibly and
kindly: urging them all most strongly not to reject this opportunity
of putting themselves right with the world. It was one, he said, that
might never occur again, if neglected now. Dr. Rane, whilst blaming
the men, was sorry for them; keenly sorry for their wives and
children.
He had had a very fatiguing day. When the dusk of evening came on, he
went and sat in the garden, tired and weary. Bessy had gone to spend
the evening at Ham Court with Miss Dallory; and the doctor had
promised to fetch her home. His ruminations still ran, as ever, on
getting away from Dallory; but at present there seemed to be little
chance of his doing it. Unless he could dispose of his practice here,
he would not have the wherewithal to establish himself elsewhere. Had
Oliver Rane been a less healthy man than he really was, he would long
ago have thought and worried himself into a nervous fever.
It grew darker. Dr. Rane struck his repeater--for it was too dark to
see the hands--wondering whether it was time to go for his wife. No;
not quite, he found; he could delay another quarter-of-an-hour yet.
And he lapsed into his musings.
The seat he had chosen was under the great cedar-tree at the extreme
corner of the garden, close to the wire fence that divided his ground
from Mrs. Cumberland's, and also close to that lady's back-door. Some
foliage of clematis and woodbine would have hidden him from any one on
the other side even in daylight, and Dr. Rane felt as solitary as he
would have felt in an African desert. From his own troubles his
thoughts went roaming off to other matters: to his mother's long
sojourn at Eastsea; to wondering when she meant to return home; to
speculating on what the workmen's answer to Richard North's call would
be.
"Will they show the white feather still? it is nothing less, this
cowardly grovelling to the dictates of the Union," soliloquized Dr.
Rane; "or will they respond to Dick like men of sense, and go back to
him? If it were not for those agitators----"
"I can tell you what it is, Mr. Tim Wilks--if you don't choose to keep
to your time and your promises, you need not trouble yourself to come
worrying after me later. A good two mortal hours by the clock have I
been at Green's waiting for _you_."
The above, succeeding to the sound of footsteps in the lane, and
uttered in Jelly's sharpest tones, cut short Dr. Rane's musings. A
short squabble ensued: Jelly scolding; Tim Wilks breathlessly
explaining. From what the doctor, sitting in silence, and unsuspected,
could gather, it appeared that Jelly must have had some appointment
with Tim--no doubt of her own imperious making--which he had failed to
keep, and had come running after her, only to catch her up at the
garden-door.
Jelly put the key in the lock, and stepped inside the garden: the
servants sometimes chose that way of entrance in preference to the
front. During the absence of Mrs. Cumberland Jelly acted as mistress,
entertained her friends, and went in and out at will. Mr. Wilks meekly
remained where he was, not daring to cross the threshold without
permission.
"Is it too late to come in, Miss Jelly?" asked he.
"Yes, it is too late," retorted Jelly; the pair not having the
slightest notion that any eavesdropper was near them. But the word
could not justly be applied to Dr. Rane: he did not want to hear what
was said; felt rather annoyed at the noise and interruption.
"I couldn't get home before," resumed Timothy, "though I ran all the
way from Whitborough. When a young man has his day's work to finish,
and that in a lawyer's office, he is obliged to stay beyond hours if
necessary."
"Don't tell me," said Jelly, who stood with the half-closed door in
her hand in the most inhospitable manner. "You could have come home if
you'd chosen."
"But I couldn't, Miss Jelly."
"You are always stopping beyond hours now. That is, _saying_ that you
do."
"Because we have been so busy lately," answered Tim. "Our head clerk,
Repton, is away through illness, and it puts more work on the others.
Dale's as cranky as he can be, and works us like horses. If you'll
believe me, Miss Jelly, I hadn't time to go out and get any tea. I've
not had bit or drop inside me since one o'clock to-day."
This pitiful view of affairs a little pacified Jelly; and she dropped
her sharp tone. Dr. Rane was wishing they would take their departure.
He would have done so himself, but that he did not altogether care to
betray his presence.
"Why does that old Dale not get another clerk?" demanded Jelly. "I
should tell him plainly if I were you, Tim, that going without my
regular meals did not suit me."
"We should not dare to say that. Much he'd listen if we did! As to
getting another clerk, I believe he is doing it. Repton's doctor says
he'll never be well again, so Dale thinks it's of no use waiting for
him."
"_You_ were to take Repton's place, if ever he left," said Jelly,
quickly.
"I know I was"--and Timothy Wilks's voice became so rueful that it
might have made Dr. Rane laugh under more open circumstances. "But
when Dale made that promise, Miss Jelly, you see the affair of the
anonymous letter had not taken place."
"What anonymous letter?"
"The one that killed Edmund North."
"Why, you don't mean to insinuate that Dale lays the blame of that on
_you?_"
"I don't suppose he thinks I sent it. Indeed I'm sure he does not. But
he was anything but pleasant over it to me at the time, and he has
never been quite the same to me since."
"He is an unjust owl," said Jelly.
"One does not look for much else than injustice from lawyers."
"Does Dale say that letter is the reason of his not promoting you to
Repton's place?"
"He doesn't say it: but I know that it is so, as if he did just as
well."
Jelly struck the key two or three times against the door. She was
thinking.
"That's through your foolish tongue, Timothy Wilks. You know you did
talk of the matter out of the office."
"They say so," confessed Timothy. "But if I did, I'm sure I've been
punished enough for it. It's hard that it should stick to me always.
Why don't they find the writer of the letter, and punish _him?_ He was
the villain; not me."
"So he was," said Jelly. "Tim, what would you say if I told you I knew
who it was?"
"I? Excuse me, Miss Jelly, but I should not quite believe it."
Jelly laughed. Not a loud laugh, but one rather derisive, and full of
_power_. Its peculiar significance penetrated to him who was seated
under the cedar-tree, betraying all too surely that Jelly knew his
dangerous secret. Even the less sensitive Tim Wilks was impressed by
the sound.
"Surely, Miss Jelly, you do not mean that you know who wrote the
letter?"
"I could put my finger out from where I now stand, Tim, and lay it on
the right person," she answered in low, impressive tones, little
suspecting how literally true were her words.
Tim seemed overwhelmed. He drew a deep breath.
"Then, why don't you, Miss Jelly?"
"Because----" Jelly stopped short. "Well, because there are certain
considerations that make it difficult to speak."
"But you ought to speak. Indeed you ought, Miss Jelly. If Lawyer Dale
got to hear of this, he'd tell you he could compel you to speak."
Again there broke forth a laugh from Jelly. But quite a different
laugh this time--one of mirth. Tim decided that she had only been
making fun of him. He resented it, as much as he was capable of
resenting anything.
"You shouldn't make game, of a young man in this way, Miss Jelly! I'm
sure I thought you were in earnest. You'd make a fine play-actor."
"Shouldn't I?" assented Jelly, "and take in the audience nicely, as I
take in you. Well," changing her tone, "you must be soft, Tim Wilks!
The idea of believing that _I_ could know who wrote the letter?"
The hint about Lawyer Dale had frightened Jelly, bringing back the
prudence which her impulsive sympathy with Tim's wrongs had
momentarily put to flight. All she could do, then, was to strive to
efface the impression she had made. There existed certain
considerations, that made it, as she had aptly said, difficult to
speak. But she felt vexed with herself, and resented it on Tim.
"See here," cried she, "I can't stand at this gate all night,
jabbering with you; so you can just betake yourself off again. And the
next time you make a promise to be home by a certain hour to take a
late cup of tea with friends at Mrs. Green's, I'll trouble you to keep
it. Mind that, Mr. Wilks."
Mr. Wilks had his nose round the post, and was beginning some
deprecatory rejoinder, but Jelly slammed the door, and nearly snapped
the nose off. Locking it with a click, she put the key in her pocket,
and marched on to the house.
Leaving Dr. Rane alone to the night dews under the heavy cedar-tree.
_Were_ the dews falling?--or was it that his own face gave out the
damp moisture that lay on it? He sat still as death.
So, then, Jelly did know of it! As he had before half-suspected; and
he had been living, _was_ living, with a sword suspended over him. It
mattered not to speculate as to how she acquired the terrible secret:
she knew it, and that was sufficient. Dr. Rane had not felt very safe
before; but now it seemed to him as though he were treading on the
extreme edge of a precipice, and that his footing was crumbling from
under him. There could be no certainty at any moment that Jelly would
not declare what she knew: tomorrow--the next day--the day after: how
could he tell what day or hour it might be? Oliver Rane passed his
handkerchief over his face, his hand anything but a steady one.
The "certain considerations" to which Jelly had confessed, meant that
she was in service with Mrs. Cumberland, and that he was Mrs.
Cumberland's son. Whilst Jolly, retained her place, she would not
perhaps be deliberately guilty of the bad faith of betraying, as it
were, her mistress. Yet there were so many chances that might lead to
it. Lawyer Dale's questioning might bring it about--and who could
answer for it that this might not at once set in at a word from
Wilks?--or she might be quitting Mrs. Cumberland's service--or taking
upon herself to right Tim with the world--or speaking, as she had
evidently spoken that night, upon impulse. Yes; there were a
hundred-and-one chances now of his betrayal!
He must get away from Dallory without delay. "Out of sight, out of
mind," runs the old proverb--and it certainly seemed to Dr. Rane that
if he were out of sight the chances of betrayal would be wonderfully
lessened. He could battle with it better, too, at a distance, if
discovery came; perhaps keep it wholly from his wife. Never a cloud
had come between him and Bessy: rather than let _this_ disclosure come
to her--he would have run away with her to the wilds of Africa. Or,
perhaps from her.
Run away! The thought brought a circumstance to his mind. That
self-same morning another letter had arrived from his friend in
America, Dr. Jones. Dr. Jones had again urged on Oliver Rane his
acceptance of the offer to join him in his practice there, saying it
was an opportunity he might never have again throughout his lifetime.
Dr. Rane fully believed it: it was, beyond doubt, a very excellent
offer; but, alas! he had not the money to embrace it. Five hundred
pounds--besides the expenses of the voyage and the removal: Dr. Rane
had not five hundred shillings to spare. The tontine money came
flashing through his brain. Oh, if he could only get it!
The air grew really damp; but he still sat in the dark under the shade
of the cedar-tree, reviewing plans and projects, ways and means. To
him it was growing as a very matter of life or death.
How long he sat, he knew not: but by-and-by the faint sound of Dallory
Church clock was wafted to him through the clear air. He counted the
strokes--ten. _Ten?_ Dr. Rane started up: he ought to have gone for
his wife long and long ago.
Six o'clock in the morning; and the great bell of the works of North
and Gass was ringing out upon the morning air! It was a bell Dallory
had not heard of late, and sleepy people turned in their beds. Many
had been listening for it, knowing it was going to be rung; some got
up and looked from their windows to see whether the street became
lively with workmen, or whether it remained silent.
Richard North was within the works. He had come out thus early, hoping
to welcome his men. Three or four entered with him. The bell rang its
accustomed time, and then ceased; its sound dying away, and leaving a
faint echo on the air. There was no other answer: the men had not
responded to the call. Nothing more, than that faint vibration of
sound remained to tell of the appeal made by Richard North.
Richard North threw up the proposed contract; and proceeded on a
journey without loss of time. Some said he went to Scotland, some to
Belgium; but the utmost known about it was that his departure had
reference to business. But that he was a temperate man, and given to
pity as much as to blame, he could have cursed the men's blind folly.
What was to become of them? The work was there, and they drove it away
from their doors, driving all chance with it of regaining prosperity.
They were forcing him to supersede them: they were bringing despair,
famine, death upon a place where content and comfort had once reigned.
Yes, death: as you will find. Surely never did greater blindness than
this fall on man!
Days went on, and grew into weeks: and Richard North was still absent.
Prospects seemed to be looking gloomy on all sides. To make matters
worse, some cases of fever began to manifest themselves at Dallory.
Dr. Rane and his brother practitioner, Mr. Seeley, only wondered that
something of the sort had not broken out before.
Amidst other places that wore an air of gloom was the interior of
Dallory Hall. Madam's insatiable demands for money had been very
partially responded to of late: not at all since the absence of
Richard. Even she, with all her imperious scorn of whence supplies
came, provided they did come, began to realize the fact that gold can
no more be drawn from exhausted coffers than blood from a stone. It
did not tend to improve her temper.
She sat one morning in what she was pleased to call her boudoir--a
charming apartment opening from her dressing-room. Several letters lay
before her, brought up by her maid: she had carelessly tossed them
aside for some hours, but was getting to them now when it was nearing
midday. Not very pleasant letters, any of them, to judge by madam's
dark face. One was from Sidney at Homburg, piteously imploring for
assistance--which had not recently been sent him; two or three were
rather urgent demands for the payment of private accounts of madam's
rather long delayed; one was a polite excuse from Frank Dallory and
his sister for not accepting a dinner invitation. There was not a
single pleasant letter amongst them all.
"I wonder what Dick North means by staying away like this!--and
leaving orders at Ticknells' that no cheques are to be cashed!"
growled madam in soliloquy. "He ought to be here. He ought to force
those miserable men of his back to work, whether they will or not.
He's away; Arthur's away; Sidney's away: and with this uncertain state
of things out of doors and trouble within, the house is worse than a
dungeon. People seem to be neglecting it: even Mary Dallory stays
without the gates. That girl's an artful flirt: as Matilda said
yesterday. If Arthur and Dick were back she'd come fast enough: I
should like to know which of the two she most cares for. It is absurd,
though, to speak of her in conjunction with Dick North! I think I'll
go off somewhere for a time. Should this suspicion of fever prove
correct, the place will not be safe. I shall want a hundred pounds or
two. And Sidney must have money. He says he'll do something desperate
if I don't send it--but he has said that before. Confound it all! Why
does not gold grow upon trees?"
Madam's dress this morning was a striped lilac silk of amazing rustle
and richness. Letting it all out behind her, she went down the stairs
and through the hall, sweeping the dust along in a little cloud. Mr.
North was not in his parlour; madam went about looking for him.
To her surprise she found him in the drawing-room; it was not often he
ventured into that exclusive place. He had a shabby long coat on, and
a straw hat. Madam's scornful head went up when she saw him there.
"What do you want?" she asked in a tone that plainly said he had about
as much right in the room as an unwelcome stranger.
"I have come to beg some cotton of Matilda to tie up these flowers,"
was Mr. North's answer. "Thomas Hepburn's little boy is here, and I
thought I'd give the child a posy."
"A posy!" repeated madam, scorning the homely term.
"I have no cotton," said Matilda, who lay back in a chair, reading.
"What should bring cotton in a drawing-room?"
"Oh well--I can bind it with a piece of variegated grass," said Mr.
North with resignation. "I'm sorry to have troubled you, Matilda."
"And when you have disposed of your 'posy,' I am coming to your
parlour," said madam.
Mr. North groaned as he went out. He knew that his peace was about to
be destroyed for the day. There were moments when he thought heart and
brain must give way under home worries and madam's.
"When did this come?" enquired madam, pointing to a letter that was
placed upright on the mantelpiece: one addressed to Richard North, in
her son Arthur's writing.
"This morning," shortly answered Matilda, not looking up from her
book.
"Yes, Arthur can write often enough to Dick. This is the second letter
that has come for him within a week. What did you do with the other?"
madam broke off to ask.
"Put it into Dick's room until he comes home."
"But Arthur does not trouble himself to write to us, or to let us know
anything of his movements," resumed madam. "We have not had a syllable
from him since he sent word that old Bohun was dead. Is he still in
London?--or at his aunt's?--or where?"
"I'm sure I don't know where," retorted Matilda, irritated at being
interrupted.
Neither did she care. Madam turned the letter over in idle curiosity:
but the postmark was not to be deciphered. Leaving it on the
mantelpiece, she went to look after Mr. North. He stood on the lawn,
doing something to a dwarf-tree of small and beautiful roses. There
was some wind to-day, and his long coat waved a little in the breeze.
"Did you hear what I said--that I was coming to your parlour?"
demanded madam, swooping down upon him majestically. "_Money must be
had_. I want it; Sidney wants it; the house wants it. I----"
Mr. North had straightened himself. Desperation gave him a little
courage.
"I would give it you if I had it. I have always given it you. But what
is to be done when I have it not? You must see that it is not my
fault, madam."
"I see that when money is needed it is your place to find it," coolly
returned madam. "Sidney cannot live upon air. He has----"
"It seems to me that he lives upon gold," Mr. North interrupted in
querulous tones. "There's no end to it."
"Sidney must have money," equably went on madam. "I must have it, for
I purpose going away for a time. You will therefore----"
"Goodness me! here's the telegraph man."
This second interruption was also from Mr. North. Telegraphic messages
were somewhat rare at Dallory Hall; and its master went into a
flutter. His fears flew to his well-beloved son, Dick. The messenger
was coming up the broad walk, a despatch in his hand. Mr. North
advanced to meet him; madam sailing behind.
"It is for Captain Bohun, sir," spoke up the man, perceiving something
of Mr. North's agitation.
"For Captain Bohun!" interposed madam. "Where's it from?"
"London, madam."
Motioning the messenger to go to the house for his receipt, she tore
it open without the smallest ceremony, and read its contents:
"Dr. Williams to Arthur Bohun, Esq.:
"James Bohun is dying. Sir Nash wishes you to come up without delay."
Looking to right and left, stood madam, her thoughts busy. Where could
Arthur be? Why had he left London?
"Do _you_ know?" she roughly asked of Mr. North.
"Know what, madam?"
"Where Arthur Bohun is."
Mr. North stared a little. "Why, how should I know?" he asked. "It's
ever so long since Arthur wrote to me. He sends me messages when he
writes to Dick."
Madam swept into the drawing-room. She took the letter from the
mantelpiece, and coolly broke its black seal. Even Matilda's scruples
were aroused at this.
"Oh, mamma, don't!" she exclaimed, starting up and putting her hand
over the letter. "Don't open that. It would not be right."
Madam dexterously twitched the letter away, carried it to the window
and read it from end to end. Matilda saw her face turn ghastly through
its paint, as if with fright.
"Serves her right," thought the young lady. "Mamma, what is amiss?"
Madam crumpled the letter into a ball in her agitated hand: but no
answer came from her white lips. Turning abruptly up the stairs, she
locked herself into her chamber.
"She is in an agony of fright--whatever the cause may be," quoth Miss
Matilda, in soliloquy.
Ere the day had closed, the household was called upon to witness
madam's sudden departure by train. She went alone: and gave not the
slightest clue as to where she might be going, or when she would
return.
Matilda North had aptly worded the paroxysm: "an agony of fright." She
might have added: a tempest of fury; for madam was in both. For that
letter had given her the news of Arthur Bohun's present locality--and
that he was by the side of Ellen Adair. What had become of Dick? the
letter asked. He must hasten and come, or he would be too late. Madam
did not understand at all. There followed a mysterious intimation to
Dick; to Dick, whom Arthur so trusted and who was true as steel; it
was more obscure even than the rest; but it seemed to hint at--yes, to
hint at--marriage. Marriage? Madam felt her flesh creeping.
"A son of mine marry _her!_" she breathed. "Heaven help me to avert
the danger."
About the last woman, one would think, who ought to call for help from
Heaven.