|IT is the morning that immediately precedes Sir Richard's fete-day, and
all at the Abbey are as busy as a hive of bees. Mrs Welsh is engaged in
incessant warfare with a “professed cook” of the male sex, who has been
imported from town with an army of myrmidons clad in white aprons and
head-pieces; and Mr Roberts carries the key of the cellar about
his person as religiously as though it were an amulet, exceedingly
regretting that the person who has undertaken to purvey the cold
collation to the tenantry does not also furnish the wine. For three
shillings or three shillings and sixpence the bottle, he argues, as
good a sherry as they have any right to taste might be set before Farmer
Beeves and that sort and yet we are about to give them the old “West
India,” as stood old Sir Robert sixty shillings a dozen a quarter of a
century ago; nay, even four dozen of cobweb-bed port, the age of which
is absolutely unknown, have been set aside for the after-dinner tickling
of those rough palates, which would as lief or liever (thinks Mr
Roberts) have gin and whisky-punch. The gentle folks, to be sure, dine
with them, but you never catch _them_ (Mr E. has observed) doing much in
the way of drink at a three o'clock dinner in a marquee. There is to be
dancing in the said tent, which has been boarded for that purpose, later
in the evening; and a ball will take place at the Abbey likewise, to
which all the “county” has been invited, and perhaps a little more.
It was a difficult matter even for Sir Richard, who had a specialty for
such solemn follies, to decide exactly what were “county families” and
what were not, and where the imaginary line that divided the ball-room
from the marquee was to be laid down. The social difference between the
person of the least importance that had the _entrée_ of the former, and
the person of the greatest importance who was consigned to the latter
was, of course, infinitesimally small, and the decision involved all the
difficulties with which the theologians afflict themselves concerning
the future position of the indifferently Good and the tolerably Bad.
What had Mr Jones, M.E.C.S. of Dalwynch, done that he should be admitted
into Paradise, while the crystal bar was obstinately interposed against
the entrance of Mr Jones, M.B.C.S., from the capital of Wheatshire?
Nothing of himself, was the baronet's stern decree; but it could be
proved beyond cavil that the former was remotely related to the Davey
Joneses of Locker Hall, a family of immense antiquity, and distinguished
in our naval annals; whereas the latter had no higher connection to
boast of than Thomas Jones, J.P. of Allworthy Court (himself only
admitted to the higher sphere by reason of a fortunate marriage), and
was therefore, as it were, predestined to sit below the salt.
There were, however, some exceptions even to this Draconian system.
Dr Haldane, for instance, was importuned with an earnestness that Sir
Richard would never have used to any peer of the realm, to honour this
occasion with his presence, and break through his stubborn resolve not
to set foot within Mirk Abbey; but the old man, although greatly moved,
declined the invitation. Madame de Castellan, too, notwithstanding she
was such a new-comer to the county, was called upon at Belcomb by
Sir Richard in person, and though she was not well enough to see him,
expressed herself by letter as hugely gratified by the object of his
visit; albeit at the same time she gave him to understand that all
festivities were just now distasteful to her, and indeed that she had
not the strength for them. “As for his Coming of Age,” added the old
Frenchwoman, “she was not at all sure that such an event was a subject
of congratulation, though, if it had been his marriage-day, then indeed
she might have come, if it were only to make his young bride jealous.”
Besides these two refusals, there were scarcely any. The popularity
of the Lisgard family, and the gorgeous scale of the promised
entertainment--the engagement of the Coldstream band was ascertained
beyond a doubt, and there was a whisper afloat concerning fireworks,
and even that the ornamental water was to be illuminated--combined to
attract not only everybody who was anybody, but a still vaster throng of
nobodies at all. Every inhabitant of Mirk, from the grandparents to the
babes in arms, for instance, were invited to take their fill of beef and
beer, if their digestion permitted of it, and if not, there was plenty
of rich plum-pudding; for besides the marquee, half the Park had been
put under canvas, in order to make the festivities as much as possible
independent of the weather, and presented the appearance of a miniature
camp, which would be still more the case upon the morrow, when the scene
was enlivened by the uniforms of the “Lisgard's Own,” as some of the
“yellows” had wickedly christened the Mirk Volunteer Corps.
Altogether, there was every reason for Sir Richard's being in the best
of spirits. Master Walter, too, secretly conscious of having been a much
worse boy than he was known to be, and feeling that he had met better
luck, if not than he deserved, certainly than he could reasonably have
expected, was in high feather; he was deeply grateful to his mother that
she had abstained from reproaching him with the contents of the letter
written by Mr Abrahams, the settlement of whose claim she had taken upon
herself; and he well knew that the most welcome way in which he could
shew his gratitude would be taking part with a good grace in his
brother's triumphal entrance upon his twenty-first birthday. Rose, who
had obtained her ends, as well as full substantial forgiveness
(which was all she cared for) for the means employed, and foresaw the
prostration of half the young men of the county at her pretty feet upon
the morrow, was in excellent humour with herself, and therefore with the
world. As for Letty, it is unnecessary to say more than that she felt a
measureless content in the society of Mr Arthur Haldane, who passed all
his days just now up at the Abbey, having placed his valuable services
entirely at the disposal of Lady Lisgard, and generally found his duties
led him into the vicinity of her Ladyship's daughter. His taste for
table decoration and floral devices, though newly developed, was
really, Letty affirmed, of a very high order, and as she was perpetually
appealing to it, there can be no doubt that she believed what she
said. All at Mirk Abbey, in short, were, or seemed to be, in a state
of pleasurable excitement and joyous expectation, save its unhappy
mistress. In vain, Sir Richard tried to persuade himself that she was
only suffering from a feeling of responsibility--apprehensive lest
anything should go wrong in the arrangements of the all-important
morrow; in vain, Master Walter endeavoured to pacify his own mind with
the thought, that although a part of his mother's anxieties might have
been caused by his own misdoings, all trace of them would disappear so
soon as she should discover that his intention of divorcing himself from
the turf, as well as all other kinds of gambling, was as sincere as
it really was. Letty did not attempt to gloss over the fact, that her
mother looked both ill and wretched, but rather reproached herself that
though this was the case she could not help feeling happy in the company
of her lover. Perhaps it was the contrast to the festive air worn by
all around her that made my Lady's face look so pinched and woeful; but
certainly, as the fête-day approached, her cheeks grew more and more
pallid, and her eyes sank in deepening hollows.
On the morning in question, the postbag, through some delay on the
railway, did not arrive until the family were at breakfast; my Lady,
with her scarcely touched dry-toast before her, watched Sir Richard open
it, and distribute the contents with an anxiety she could not conceal.
“There is nothing for you, dearest mother,” said he, in answer to her
inquiring looks.
“Who, then, is that for?” returned she, pointing to an unappropriated
letter he had placed at his left hand.
“Only a note for Forest, which I daresay will keep till we have left
the table,” said he smiling; “although, if you had your way, I know she
would be attended to before everybody. It has the Coveton post-mark, and
doubtless comes from old Jacob.”
“Who is ill,” said my Lady rising. “I do not see why Mary's
correspondence should be delayed more than that of any one else. I have
finished my breakfast, and will take it to her at once.”
When she had left the room, Sir Richard remarked with asperity, that his
mother's kindness really rendered her a slave to “that woman Forest.”
“That is so,” assented Master Walter; “and I have of late observed that
her spirits are always at the lowest when she has been having a confab
with Mary. Is it possible, I wonder, that being balked of that fellow
Derrick, Mistress Forest can have taken up with any new-fangled
religious notions--I have heard of old maids doing such things--which
are making her miserable, and my mother too?”
“For shame, Walter!” cried Letty. “Do you suppose mamma is capable of
any such folly?”
“I don't believe for a moment that she is a victim to any delusion
herself,” explained Walter; “but she sympathises with everybody she has
a liking for, and the society of any such morbid person would be very
bad for her. Between ourselves, I don't think that Madame de Castellan
coming here has done her any good. That's a precious queer old woman,
you may depend upon it. Not only did she decline to permit old Rachel
and her husband to continue to sleep at Belcomb, which, considering
its loneliness, one would have thought she would have been glad to do,
instead of their occupying the lodge a quarter of a mile away; but it
is said that she absolutely dismissed her French maid the day after her
arrival, and therefore lives entirely alone!”
“No wonder, then, she was so uncommonly anxious to get Mary,” observed
the baronet; “and I am sure I wish she may, for my mother's sake. I
have no doubt they are now both closeted together over that old dotard's
letter from Coveton. As if there was not enough for my poor dear
mother to do and think of just now, without bothering herself with her
waiting-maid's father's rheumatism.”
Sir Richard was right: my Lady and her confidential servant were at
that very moment in the boudoir perusing with locked doors old Jacob's
letter. From it Lady Lisgard gathered what had happened at Coveton as
certainly as though the writer had been aware of it all, and written
expressly to inform his daughter.
“He has found it out,” said she with a ghastly look. “He had that fit,
as your father calls it, at the moment when he learned for the first
time that the girl who came ashore alive and myself are one and the
same. Poor Ralph, poor Ralph!”
“Dearest Mistress, I think it is Poor You who are most to be pitied.
Great Heaven, he will be here to-night, or to-morrow at latest!
To-morrow--in the midst of all the merry-making about Sir Richard.”
“Yes, Sir Richard!” exclaimed my Lady bitterly. “The poor bastard that
thinks he is a baronet! But let him come, let him come, I say.” My Lady
rose from her seat with clenched fingers and flashing eyes. “I will
defend my children with my life--nay, more, with my honour. If I perjure
myself to save them from shame and ruin, will not God pardon me? Who
is there to witness against them save this man alone? And is not my
word--my oath--as good as his?” She stepped to the little bookcase
that ran round the room; and from the corner of it, half-hidden by
the framework, took down a dusty volume--one of a long series, but the
remainder of which were in the library. It was the _Annual Register_
for the year 1832. Under the head of “Shipping Intelligence,” where the
tersest but most pregnant of all summaries is always to be found--the
deaths of hundreds of poor souls, the misery of thousands of survivors,
and the sudden extinction of a myriad human hopes, all recorded in a
single sentence--was written: “In the storm of the 14th September, the
emigrant vessel, _North Star_, foundered off the South Headland with all
hands on board--supposed to have sprung a leak.” Then a few weeks later,
the following paragraph: “From the _North Star_, emigrant ship, supposed
to have been lost on the night of the 14th of last month, with all hands
on board, there came on shore at Coveton, lashed to a spar, a solitary
survivor, a young woman. Although much exhausted and bruised, she had
received no vital injury, and her recovery is said to be assured. Her
case excites much interest in the locality in question.”
The “solitary survivor!” continued my Lady thoughtfully. “Who is there
to gainsay it, save this man?”
“Your own heart, dearest mistress,” answered the waiting-maid solemnly.
“That would not permit you to deny him, even if your conscience would.
Could you meet him to-morrow face to face”----
“No, no,” exclaimed my Lady shuddering; “I never could. I was mad
to think of such a thing--so mad, that I trust the wickedness of the
thought may be forgiven.--I am to drive into Dalwynch this afternoon
about--what was it, Mary?”
“About your watch, which ought to have come home last evening, my Lady.”
“Yes, my watch. There is not any time to lose.”
“Indeed not, dear mistress: not an hour, I should say, if I were in your
place. I tremble to look out of window, lest I should see him coming
yonder over the Windmill Hill.”
“Yes, fixed as fate, and furious with her who has deceived him. Poor
fellow, who can blame him? I can see him now.”
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the waiting-maid, fleeing to the window.
“Haste, haste away, or there will be murder done!”
“He is not there,” returned my Lady in a low, calm voice, “but I see him
all the same. Pallid with scorn, yet bent on avenging himself. Resolved
to claim his wife at any hazard, even in spite of herself. It will be
terrible that he should be here in any case; but if he found me here,
as you say, there might be murder done. Not that I fear for myself, God
knows: I am too wretched for that.”
“Oh, my Lady, had you not better start at once?”
“No, Mary; I must go first to Dr Haldane's, since the time has come. But
if, in the meantime, this--this unhappy man should arrive, be sure you
send the carriage for me at once to the doctor's house. I can escape him
that way for certain. Perhaps, then, I may never cross this threshold
any more--never clasp my dear ones in my arms and call them mine
again--never say: 'My own Walter--Richard--Letty.' How can I bear to
think upon it! Don't cry, Mary, for you see _I_ do not. You know what
to do in case he comes; the carriage to Dr Haldane's instantly: and
afterwards--we have settled that long ago.”
“I shall forget nothing, dearest mistress. If I live, all will be done
that you have resolved upon.”
“Dear Mary, trusty friend, may Heaven reward you.”
My Lady had her bonnet on by this time, but lifted up her veil to kiss
her faithful servant. “If by God's gracious will, somehow or other this
misery should after all have no evil end, Mary, how happy we shall be!
How we shall talk of this with our arms round one another's necks! There
is a friend, says the Scripture, which sticketh closer than a brother;
but I have found a servant better even than such a friend. Good-bye,
dear; if it should chance to be 'Good-bye.' Don't weep, don't speak. See
that my path is clear, that I meet no one----Great Heaven, what is that
knocking? Can he be come already?”
“No, dearest, no,” sobbed the poor waiting-maid. “They are putting up
the triumphal archway, that is all.”
She left the room to see that there was nobody in the passage, or on the
back-stairs, by which her mistress was about to leave the house.
“The triumphal archway,” muttered my Lady with tearless aching eyes. “I
would to Heaven they were putting the nails into my coffin instead.”