IN THE CHURCHYARD.
Nothing of late years had affected Mr. North so much as the death of
Bessy Rane. His son Edmund's death, surrounded by all the doubt and
trouble connected with the anonymous letter, did not touch him as did
this. Perhaps he had never realized until now how very dear Bessy was
to his heart.
"Why should Bessy have died?" he asked over and over again in his deep
distress. "They have called it a famine fever, some of them, but why
should a famine fever attack Bessy? I knew she was exposed to danger,
through her husband; but if she did take it, why should she not have
recovered from it? Others recovered who had not half Bessy's
constitution. And why, why did she die so suddenly?"
No one could answer him. Not even Dr. Rane. Fever was capricious, the
latter said. And death was capricious, he added in lower tones, often
taking those we most cared to save.
Dallory echoed Mr. North's sentiments. The death of Mrs. Rane was the
greatest shock that had fallen on them since the outbreak of the
fever. Mrs. Gass, braving infection--though, like Jelly, she did not
fear it--went down to Dr. Rane's house on the Monday morning to tender
her sympathy, and relieve herself of some of her surprise. She felt
much grieved, she was truly shocked: Bessy had always been a favourite
of hers; it seemed impossible to realize that she was dead. Her mental
arguments ran very much as did Mr. North's--Why should Bessy have
died, when so many of the poor and the half starved recovered? But the
point that pressed most forcibly on Mrs. Gass was the rapidity of the
death. None had died so soon as Bessy, or anything like so soon; it
seemed unaccountable that she should not have battled longer for life.
Phillis received Mrs. Gass in the darkened drawing-room; her master
was out. Dr. Rane could not stay indoors to indulge his grief and play
propriety, as most men can. Danger and death were abroad, and the
physician had to go forth and try to avert both from others, in
accordance with his duty to Heaven and to man. That he felt his loss
keenly, was evident; there was no outward demonstration; neither sighs
nor tears; but he seemed as a man upon whom some heavy weight had
fallen; his manner preoccupied, his bearing almost unnaturally still
and calm. Phillis and Mrs. Gass were talking, and, if truth must be
told, shedding tears together, when the doctor came in. Phillis,
standing near the centre table, had been giving particulars of the
death, as far as she knew them, just as she had given them to Jelly
the morning after the sad event. Mrs. Gass, seated in the green velvet
chair, had untied the strings of her bonnet--she had not come down in
satins and birds-of-paradise to-day, but in subdued attire--and was
wiping away the tears with her broad-hemmed handkerchief while she
listened.
The old servant retired at the entrance of her master. He sat down,
and prepared to go through the interview with equanimity, though he
heartily wished Mrs. Gass anywhere else. His house was desolate;
infected also; he thought that visitors, for their own sake and his,
had better keep away. They had not met since the death, and Mrs. Gass,
though the least exacting woman in the world, took it a little
unkindly that he had not been in, knowing that he passed her house
several times in the day.
In subdued tones, Oliver Rane gave Mrs. Gass a summary of Bessy's
illness and death. He had done all he could to keep her, he said; all
he could. Seeley had come over once or twice, and knew that nothing
more had remained in his power.
"But, doctor, I heard that on the Friday you told people she was
getting better and the danger was over," urged Mrs. Gass, her tears
flowing afresh.
"And I thought it was so," he answered. "What I mistook for sleepiness
from exhaustion, and what Seeley mistook for the same, must have been
the exhaustion of approaching death. We are deceived thus sometimes."
"But, doctor, she never had more than a day's fever. Was that enough
to cause death from exhaustion?"
"She had a day and a night of fever. And consider how intense it was:
I never before saw anything like it. We must not always estimate the
fatality of a fever by its duration, Mrs. Gass. The terrible
suddenness of the blow has been worse to me than it could have been to
any one else."
Yes, Mrs. Gass believed that, and warmly sympathized with him. She
then expressed a wish to see the coffin. "Would it be well for her to
go up?" he asked. "Oh dear, yes," Mrs. Gass answered; "she was not
afraid of anything." And the doctor took her up without further
hesitation. There was little if any danger now, he observed, as he
raised the sheet, which still hung there, to enable her to enter the
grey room.
Everything was completed. Hepburn's men had been to and fro, and all
was ended. The outer coffin was of oak, its lid bearing the
inscription. Mrs. Gass's tears fairly gushed out as site read it.
"BESSY RANE.
AGED 31."
"But you have not put the date of the death, doctor!" cried Mrs. Gass,
surprised at the omission.
"No? True. That's Thomas Hepburn's fault; I left it to him. The man is
half-crazed just now, between grief for his brother and fear for
himself. It will be put on the grave."
From Dr. Rane's Mrs. Gass went to Dallory Hall, knowing that madam was
absent. Otherwise she would not have ventured there. And never was
guest more welcome to its master. Poor Mr. North spoke out to her all
his grief for Bessy without reservation.
But of all who felt this death, none were so affected by it as Jelly.
She could not rest for the wild thoughts that tormented her day and
night. The idea at first taken up kept floating through her head, and
sometimes she could not get rid of it for hours: an idea that Mrs.
Rane had been put into her coffin alive; that what she saw was Mrs.
Rane herself, and not her spirit. Yet Jelly knew that this could not
be, and her imagination would turn to another wild improbability,
though she dared not follow it--that the poor lady had not died a
natural death. One night there came surging into Jelly's brain the
suggestive case put by Timothy Wilks, that some men might be found who
would put their wives out of the way for the sake of the tontine
money. Jelly tossed from side to side in her uneasy bed, and stared at
the candle--for she no longer cared to sleep in the dark--and tried to
get rid of the wicked notion. But she never got rid of it again; and
when she rose in the morning, pale, and trembling, and weary, she
believed that the dread mystery had solved itself to her, and would be
found in _this_.
What ought she to do? Going about that day as one in a dream, the
question continually presented itself to her. Jelly was at her wits'
end with indecision: at night resolving to tell of the apparition, and
of her suspicion of Dr. Rane; in the morning putting the thoughts from
her, and call herself a fool for yielding to them. Dinah could not
make out what ailed her, she was so strange and silent, but privately
supposed it might be the condition of Mr. Timothy Wilks. For that
gentleman was confined to his bed with some attack connected with the
liver.
Wednesday, the day of the funeral, drew on. It had been a little
retarded to allow of the return of Richard North. News had been
received of him the morning after Bessy's death. It may readily be
imagined what Richard's consternation and grief must have been to hear
of his sister's death; whom he so recently left well, happy, and as
likely to live as he himself.
The funeral was fixed for twelve o'clock. Richard only arrived the
same morning at ten. He had been delayed twelve hours by the state of
the sea, the Ostend boat not having been able to put out. Jelly, in
her superstition, thought the elements had been conspiring to keep
Richard North from following one to the grave who had not been sent to
it by Heaven.
Long before twelve o'clock struck, groups had formed about the
churchyard. The men, out on strike, and their wives, were there in
full force: partly because it was a break to their monotonous
idleness, partly out of respect to their master. The whole
neighbourhood sincerely regretted Bessy Rane, who had never made an
enemy in her life.
In the church people of the better class assembled, all in mourning.
Mrs. Gass was in her pew, in an upright bonnet and crape flowers.
Seeing Jelly come in looking very woebegone, she hospitably opened the
pew door to her. And this was close upon the arrival of the funeral.
The first to make his appearance was Thomas Hepburn in his official
capacity; quite as woebegone as Jelly, and far more sickly. The rest
followed. The coffin, which Mrs. Gass had seen the other day, was
placed on its stand; for the few last words of this world to be read
over it. Dr. Rane, as white as a sheet; and Mr. North, leaning on his
son Richard's arm, comprised the followers. No strangers were invited:
Dr. Rane thought, considering what Bessy had died of, that they might
not care to attend. People wondered whether Captain Bohun had been
bidden to it. If so, he certainly had not come.
It seemed only a few minutes before they were moving out of the church
again. The grave had been dug in the corner of the churchyard, near to
Edmund North's: and he, as may be remembered, lay next to his mother.
Mrs. Gass and Jelly took their seats on a remote bench, equally
removed from the ceremony and the crowd. The latter stood at a
respectful distance, not caring, from various considerations, to
approach too near. Not a word had the two women as yet spoken to each
other. The bench they sat on was low, and overshadowed by the trees
that bordered the narrow walks. Not ten people in the churchyard were
aware that any one sat there. Jelly was the first to break the
silence.
"How white he looks!"
It was rather abrupt, as Mrs. Gass thought. They could see the
clergyman in his surplice through the intervening trees, and the
others standing bare-headed around him.
"Do you mean the doctor, Jelly?"
"Yes," said Jelly, "I mean him."
"And enough to make him, poor berefted man, when the one nearest and
dearest to him is suddenly cut off by fever," gravely rejoined Mrs.
Gass. "In the midst of life we are in death."
Now, or never. Sitting there alone with Mrs. Gass, surrounded by these
solemn influences, Jelly thought the hour and the opportunity had
come. Bear with the secret much longer, she could not; it would wear
her to a skeleton, worry her into a fever perhaps; and she had said to
herself several times that Mrs. Gass, with her plain common sense,
would be the best person to confide in. Yes, she mentally repeated,
now or never.
"_Was_ it the fever that cut her off?" began Jelly, significantly.
"Was it the fever that cut her off?" echoed Mrs. Gass. "What d'you
mean, Jelly?"
Jelly turned to the speaker, and plunged into her tale. Beginning,
first of all, with the apparition she had certainly seen, and how it
was--staying late at Ketler's, and Dinah's having left the blind
undrawn--that she had come to see it. There she paused.
"Why, what on earth d'you mean?" sharply demanded Mrs. Gass. "Saw Mrs.
Rane's ghost! Don't be an idiot, Jelly."
"Yes, I saw it," repeated Jelly, with quiet emphasis. "Saw it as sure
as I see them standing there now to bury her. There could be no
mistake. I never saw her plainer in life. It was at one o'clock in the
morning, I say, Mrs. Gass; and she was screwed down at twelve: an hour
before it."
"Had you taken a little too much beer?" asked Mrs. Gass, after a
pause, staring at Jelly to make sure the question would not also apply
to the present time. But the face that met hers was strangely earnest:
too much so even to resent the insinuation.
"It was her ghost, poor thing: and I'm afraid it'll walk till justice
lays it. I never knew but one ghost walk in all my life, Mrs. Gass:
and he had been murdered."
Mrs. Gass made no rejoinder. She was absorbed in looking at Jelly.
Jelly went on--
"It's said there's many that walk: the world's full of such tales; but
I never knew but that one. When people are put to an untimely end, and
buried away out of sight, and their secrets with 'em, it stands to
reason that they can't rest quiet in their graves. _She_ won't."
Mrs. Gass put her hand impressively on Jelly's black shawl, and kept
it there. "Tell me why you are saying this?"
"It's what I want to do. If I don't tell it to some one, I shall soon
be in the grave myself. Fancy me living at the very next door, and
nobody in the house just now but Dinah!"
Jelly spoke out all: that she believed Dr. Rane might have "put his
wife out of the way." Mrs. Gass was horrified. Not at the charge: she
didn't believe a word of it; but at Jelly's presuming to imagine it.
She gave Jelly a serious reprimand.
"It was him that wrote that anonymous letter, you know," whispered
Jelly.
"Hush! Hold your tongue, girl. I've warned you before to let that
alone."
"And I'm willing to do so."
"That is downright wicked of you, Jelly. Dr. Rane loved his wife. What
motive do you suppose he could have had for killing her?"
"To get the tontine money," replied Jelly, in a whisper.
The two women gazed at each other; gaze meeting gaze. And then Mrs.
Gass suddenly grew whiter than Dr. Rane, and began to shiver as though
some strange chill had struck her.