MALACHITE AND GOLD.
Of all days in the week, Saturday was the one most longed for by Ella
Winter. The reason was that it always--or nearly always, for now and
then there was a breakdown or a delay somewhere--brought her a letter
from Edward Conroy. These letters were her greatest comfort in her
perplexities and troubles. She read them and re-read them till she
knew all their sweetest passages by heart. How she longed for his
return that she might tell him everything!--for in truth she sometimes
felt that the burden laid upon her was almost more than she could bear
without help. Were he but here to share it with her! Absence had
enabled her to read her heart in all its entirety, had endeared his
image to her more day by day. Mr. Conroy was not expected in England
until spring; but towards the end of November there came a letter, the
contents of which filled his mistress with unexpected delight.
Conroy's mission in Spain was nearly at an end, and he might be
expected home in three or four weeks--in time, it might be, to eat his
Christmas dinner. He did not tell her that latterly her letters had
filled him with so much uneasiness that he had requested his employers
to relieve him of his duties abroad, or that he had wisely made up his
mind to ascertain for himself, and as quickly as possible, the exact
state of affairs at Heron Dyke.
Little by little the popular excitement in connection with the murder
and robbery at Heron Dyke began to subside, especially as all the
efforts of the police resulted in no fresh discoveries. People had
talked and wondered till there was nothing left to talk and wonder
about. Fresh topics and other interests began to claim their
attention. The newspapers had ceased to comment on the case, and there
seemed every probability of its adding one more to the long list of
undiscovered crimes.
One day Mrs. Toynbee, who had been shopping in the town, brought home
a piece of news. Some one had told her that Dr. Jago was about to
leave Nullington, the reason for his departure being that he had
bought a more lucrative practice elsewhere. This set Ella thinking.
Would it not be well, she asked herself, to see this man before he
went away, and try whether she could not elicit from him something of
that which she wanted to know? He had attended her uncle to the last;
he must be acquainted with all that took place inside Heron Dyke
during the time she was away; if any fraud had been at work it could
hardly have been kept a secret from him. She disliked Dr. Jago, but it
seemed to her that she ought not to let him go away without seeking an
interview with him.
Next morning she finally made up her mind; so the pony-chaise was
ordered round, and she was driven into Nullington. Calling at the
Vicarage on her way, she took Miss Kettle into her confidence.
"Am I doing right, Maria, think you?"
"Yes, I think you are."
"Then you must accompany me. You have no objection?"
"Not the least in the world."
Dr. Jago was at home; and the young ladies, leaving the carriage with
the groom, were shown into his consulting-room. Turning round from a
case he was packing, the doctor changed colour, as if from annoyance,
when he saw his visitors. The transitory expression passed, however;
he greeted them civilly, apologising for the disorder of the place,
and invited them to sit.
"I hear that you are about to quit Nullington, Dr. Jago," began Miss
Winter, as she took the chair he placed.
"True, madam," he replied. "I have purchased a more lucrative practice
in London. What can I have the honour of doing for you?"
"I have called to ask you a few questions, Dr. Jago. I hope you will
be able to answer them."
The Doctor bowed.
"I was abroad, as you are aware, at the time my uncle died," she
began; "but you saw him, I believe, in your medical capacity, up to
the day of his death?"
"Yes," he replied. "I saw Mr. Denison daily; and I was with him when
he died."
"The end, when it did come, was very sudden."
"Both sudden and unexpected," returned the Doctor. "I was utterly
taken by surprise. I knew, of course, that Mr. Denison's disorder
could have but one termination, but I had no thought that the end was
so near. The heart suddenly failed in its action, and--and all was
over. Only a few hours before, when I was with him, I had detected no
cause for fear."
"You are aware that previously to last Christmas--in October I think
it was--Dr. Spreckley, who had attended my uncle for twenty years, and
who ought to have known his constitution if it were possible for
anyone to know it, gave it as his decided opinion that Mr. Denison
could not live far into the new year--if so long as that."
"Mr. Denison himself informed me of that opinion."
"And yet your skill prolonged his life until nearly the end of May?"
Dr. Jago bowed again, but said nothing.
"Then you, although a much younger practitioner than Dr. Spreckley,
must have pursued a very much more efficient mode of treatment with
your patient than that adopted by him?"
Dr. Jago shrugged his shoulders, leaned forward in his chair, and
smiled faintly. "I have not the slightest wish in the world to
disparage Dr. Spreckley," he said, "but it may be that he is a little
old-fashioned in his ideas; it may be that he has hardly grown with
the times. Medicine has made great strides during the last twenty
years, and a middle-aged country practitioner, unless he be a great
reader and a man of inquiring mind, would find many things taught, and
many theories demonstrated in the schools of London and Paris, which
were hardly as much as mooted when he was a young man."
All this seemed only fair and reasonable. In any case, Miss Winter was
not prepared to refute it. She paused for a moment or two before she
spoke again.
"It may or it may not have come to your notice, Dr. Jago," she said,
eyeing him steadily as she spoke, "that there are certain reports
flying about the neighbourhood--reports unpleasant to all concerned,
but which you could no doubt put an end to if you chose to do so."
"Reports! About what, Miss Winter?" he asked quickly.
Ella paused: it seemed somewhat difficult to frame words for what she
wanted to say.
"I hardly know how to put it," she said with a frank smile. "People
have in some way picked up a notion that there was some deceit or
fraud at work in connection with my uncle's death."
"Oh, have they?" was all the answer the Doctor made, speaking
carelessly.
"It is said that for some months before Mr. Denison died he was
immured away from everyone except three or four people; that he was
kept under lock and key; that all his old friends were denied access
to him. Also, that at the very time my letters from home informed me
he was growing stronger day by day and week by week, a strange woman,
some London nurse, was in the house, in regular attendance on him.
People naturally ask why there should have been all this mystery
unless there was something to hide. They even go so far as to hint
that the master of Heron Dyke did not live to see his seventieth
birthday."
Dr. Jago, despite his evident efforts, could not avoid changing
countenance as Miss Winter spoke. His face turned sallow; his eyes
fell. Suddenly he rose and opened the door.
"Is that you, James?" he called out. But no one answered.
"I beg your pardon," he said, resuming his seat, and quite calm now,
"I thought I heard my servant knock. About this business, Miss Winter.
If one were to take heed of all the idle tales set afloat by ignorant
and foolish people, one would have little else to do. The late Mr.
Denison was an eccentric man in many ways, as you yourself must be
well aware. He was a man of strong individuality and of crotchety
temper; a man who did very few things in quite the same way as
ordinary people do them. There were, besides, certain peculiar
features in connection with the disposition of his property, which
were well known in the neighbourhood, and which acted as a magnet to
the curiosity of the world. These points being granted, we have at
once a foundation for the most ridiculous fancies and the most
exaggerated gossip; but if we quietly set ourselves to sift these
rumours, what do we find?"
Ella did not speak.
"If you will allow me, Miss Winter, I will take the case as stated in
your own words. You say that for some months before Mr. Denison died
he was immured away from everyone except three or four people, and
kept, as it were, under lock and key. Granted; but it was done
entirely at his own request. You perhaps remember something of that
queer crotchet he had in his head that the precincts of the Hall, and
even the Hall itself, were haunted by spies set on to watch him by
certain people--his relatives, I believe, but of that I know little.
This notion seemed to take fuller hold of him as his birthday drew
nearer. He insisted on having his rooms shut in from the rest of the
house; he decreed that only a very few individuals, those whom he
could implicitly trust, should have access to him. None of the
ordinary servants were to go near him; for aught he knew, he would
declare, they might be spies. It was an hallucination I combated as
far as I was able; but contradiction, especially on this point, only
irritated him. More than once it brought on one of his fits of
passion, and so undid, or partially undid, the good I was striving to
do him in other ways."
This was quite feasible, probably true, and Miss Winter bowed her head
in acquiescence. The Doctor resumed.
"As regards Mr. Denison's old friends being denied access to him, I
must take on myself a certain measure of blame for what may seem a
somewhat arbitrary proceeding. From the first I gave Mr. Denison to
understand that if he adopted my mode of treatment, perfect quiet and
seclusion were essential to its success, and he agreed with me without
the slightest demur. But I did not at first deny him the sight of
friends: it was only after the visits of some of them, when I saw how
much it excited him, that I was obliged to do so. I begged him to
allow his rooms to be closed to all visitors: had he admitted one he
must have admitted others: I showed him how essential it was that he
should be kept strictly, perfectly quiet; and he agreed. He would
agree to anything, he said, if I could only succeed in keeping him
alive over his seventieth birthday; and I certainly did succeed in
doing that."
"Did he require the services of a nurse?"
"Undoubtedly."
"And was it necessary that she should be a stranger?"
"In my opinion he ought to have been supplied with a properly trained
nurse long before I sent for one. An old woman, had in haphazard from
the neighbourhood, would have been useless. No one, except we medical
men and those invalids who have tried them, know how invaluable is a
really qualified nurse in a sick-room."
"I believe that," said Ella, hastily. "But--why was it that the fact
of this nurse having been at Heron Dyke was never mentioned to me?
Neither in the letters I received from home, nor when I returned to
it, close upon the departure of the nurse, was she as much as named to
me."
Dr. Jago shook his head.
"I cannot enlighten you there," he answered. "_I_ did not keep the
fact from you. I neither wrote you letters nor saw you on your return.
There could be no reason whatever, so far as I know, why you should
not have been privy to it. What reason could there be? Possibly it may
have been one of old Aaron's crotchets--for he had as many as his
master--that you should not be told."
Possibly it had been: but Miss Winter still felt in a fog, plausible
though all this was.
"Can you assure me, Dr. Jago, that the seeing one or two of his oldest
friends would have been absolutely detrimental to my uncle? Say--for
instance--the Vicar."
"Papa thought it very strange: he thinks it so still, that he was
always denied admittance," interposed Maria, speaking for the first
time. And the Doctor turned sharply to her with a slight frown, as
though he had forgotten her presence.
"I cannot say it would have been fatally detrimental, but it might
have been," he observed, in answer to Miss Winter. "He himself knew
the danger of excitement, and he was as anxious as I was to guard
against the possibility of it. With regard to the other report you
have mentioned, Miss Winter--that Mr. Denison did not live over his
seventieth birthday--it is, upon my word, too ridiculous a one
to refute. Mr. Denison was seen by many people later and talked
with--talked with face to face. Webb the lawyer saw him, and spoke
with him about his will. Those other lawyers, men from London, had an
interview with him. He was seen by no end of people, musicians and
others, on his birthday night. In the face of these facts, how is it
possible--pardon me the remark, Miss Winter--for you to give ear for a
moment to so absurd a rumour?"
She sat in thought, not answering.
"Where was the deception--where the fraud?" he resumed. "Indeed, where
was the necessity for employing any? The great object of Mr. Denison's
life was attained. He had outlived his seventieth birthday, and the
property was his own to will away. Fraud! It is an assertion that
brings with it its own contradiction."
There was nothing more to be said, nothing more, evidently, to be
learned from Dr. Jago: and with civil adieux on both sides, the ladies
took their departure, the Doctor attending them to the pony-carriage
and handing them into it. At that moment Dr. Spreckley passed on
horseback; he stared profoundly, as much as to say, "What on earth do
you do at that man's house?"--and he almost forgot to salute them.
Miss Winter sat in deep thought as they drove away. That Dr. Jago had
displayed nervousness, not to say agitation, when spoken to, she had
not failed to observe; it had served to deepen her conviction that
something was hidden which it was intended that she, of all people in
the world, should never know. And although his assertions afterwards
had seemed perfectly reasonable and convincing, she could not get rid
of an uneasy suspicion that the Doctor, metaphorically speaking, had
been throwing dust in her eyes. Any way, she was as far off as ever,
if not farther, from arriving at the truth.
"What do you think of Dr. Jago?" she abruptly asked Maria.
"I don't like him at all, Ella. His words are plausible enough, indeed
too plausible, but he seems thoroughly insincere. He is a man whom I
should always mistrust. Have you questioned your servants?"
"Only old Aaron. And I can get nothing from him. His reasoning is in
substance the same as Dr. Jago's. Maria, I feel _sure_ that some
trickery was at work."
"I should ask the maids, Phemie and Eliza, whether they noticed
anything strange. They must have been about the house much during all
the time."
"I think I will. It has crossed my mind to do so, but I feared they
would only make my questions into a source of gossip."
Miss Kettle paused.
"Tell me exactly what it is that you suspect."
"I do not know what to suspect, except that I have a strong idea of
some unfair play having been enacted. There lies my difficulty. But
that it seems so impossible, and so dreadful an idea besides, I might
say that my uncle did _not_ live to see his birthday."
Maria shivered slightly.
"Oh, Ella!"
"It is the bent my fears are taking," whispered Miss Winter. "And in
that case, you know, I am not the owner of Heron Dyke."
"No, no, Ella, I cannot believe that," said Maria. "Your fears are
making you fanciful."
That same evening, Miss Winter had the two maids, Phemie and Eliza,
before her, and questioned them of matters respecting the Squire's
last illness. What they had to tell was little more than she had heard
from Priscilla Peyton. For several weeks or months previously to the
24th April, no one in the house, except the four people who were
admitted behind the green baize doors, ever saw or heard anything of
the Squire.
"Had you reason to think he was _very_ ill?" asked Miss Winter.
"Ma'am, we could tell nothing," replied Phemie. "He might have been
dead and buried for weeks and weeks, for all we saw or heard of him.
Eliza and I used to say how strange it was: often we listened, often
and often, but never got to hear him; never so much as heard him
cough. Before that Mrs. Dexter came in November, I sometimes took his
sago or his beef-tea to him, but never afterwards."
"How was it that you never mentioned to me that Mrs. Dexter had been
here? Was it accident?
"No, ma'am, it was Aaron;" and Miss Winter could not help smiling at
the turn of the sentence. "The day before you were expected home, he
ordered all in the house not to talk of Mrs. Dexter: he thought it
might trouble you to hear that the Squire was so ill as to need a
nurse from London."
"I suppose you never penetrated beyond the green baize doors, after
they were put up?"
Phemie glanced at her fellow-servant.
"Eliza did, ma'am, once. You had better tell of it, Eliza."
"Tell me all, Eliza; do not be afraid," said Miss Winter kindly, for
the girl looked confused.
"If you please, ma'am, I was in the passage one day, and saw both the
doors on the jar," began Eliza. "I thought it no harm to go in a few
steps; but I went cautiously, thinking Mr. Stone must be there.
However, I saw nobody; and then I thought Mrs. Dexter must have left
them open by mistake, before she went out. She had gone into
Nullington in a hurry, saying she must see Dr. Jago."
"Well? Go on, Eliza."
"I ventured in a little farther, and a little farther," continued
Eliza, speaking freely now. "Everything was silent. I said to myself
that perhaps the Squire was asleep, and then I thought that I should
like to see him once again. The first room I came to was Mrs.
Dexter's; it had been made into a chamber for her. I turned the handle
softly, pushed open the door, and peeped in. There was her bed in
one corner, and by the fire-place was her little round table and an
easy-chair. From this room I went to the next, which was Mr. Denison's
sitting-room. The door opened without making any noise. I peeped in.
There was no one there. The Squire's chair stood by the hearth, but it
was empty, and there was no fire in the grate; it had the look of a
room, ma'am, that had not been occupied for ever so long, and somehow
I turned away with a chill at my heart. The next room was the Squire's
bedroom. I don't think I should have ventured to open the door of
this, but I found it open already. It was standing ajar. I listened
for the sound of Mr. Denison's breathing, supposing that he was
asleep, but I could hear nothing. Then I pushed the door a little
further open and looked in. If you'll believe me, ma'am, he was not
there. No one was there."
"He must have been somewhere in the room, Eliza."
"He was not, indeed, ma'am. The room was empty. I could hardly believe
my eyes. I walked across it to the window and back again. The room was
all tidy, like one that is not in use; not as much as a book was
about, or a chair out of place. The bed was made and the curtains
folded upon it."
This news sounded wonderful. Ella could not speak.
"I felt quite frightened, ma'am. I said to myself what has become of
the master? and I can't fathom the mystery of where he could be, to
this day."
"There was a room beyond my uncle's--a dark, unused room," spoke Miss
Winter. "Did you enter that?"
"No, ma'am. I tried the door of it, but it was locked, and the key
gone. But the Squire, ma'am, would not be in there--in a locked-up
lumber-room. I said to Phemie afterwards----"
Eliza stopped suddenly and coloured. Her mistress bade her continue.
"Well, ma'am, when I was telling Phemie of this strange thing, I said
to her that the thought had come over me when I saw the empty bed and
no trace of him in the room, that it looked just as if the master had
been spirited away like Katherine Keen."
To this Miss Winter said nothing.
"Was it discovered that you had been in?" she asked.
"No, ma'am, never; and this is the first time I have talked of it,
except to Phemie. I pulled the baize doors to after me when I came
out, and they shut with a snap. By-and-by, back came Mrs. Dexter; she
asked at once in the kitchen for the Squire's beef-tea, and took it
away with her. But, ma'am, what I cannot imagine is, where the Squire
was all the time."
Miss Winter could not imagine, either, and lost herself in
unfathomable conjecture. After a few more questions, she dismissed the
maids, charging them not to speak of this.
The girl, Betsy Tucker, grew worse rather than better; and,
notwithstanding all that skill and good nursing could do for her, Dr.
Spreckley began to despair of her recovery. Miss Winter was startled
one afternoon when Adèle came to her and said Mrs. Keen was asking to
be admitted.
"Show her in, Adèle," said Miss Winter, in a low tone. She was afraid
the girl was dead.
"No, ma'am, and I don't think she is any worse," replied the landlady,
in answer to the dread question. "If anything, she's perhaps a little
better. She don't wander quite so much, and that I take to be a good
sign. What I have made bold to interrupt you about, Miss Ella, is
another thing."
"Sit down while you tell it me," said Ella.
"Thank you, ma'am. This morning, Betsy, who was quite herself, though
very weak, asked me to put the small trunk, which came with her from
the Hall, upon the bed, so that she might find something," began Mrs.
Keen, taking the chair indicated. "It was a pocket she wanted; and we
were some time finding it, what with her hands being feeble and me not
knowing what it was like--white or coloured. Out of the pocket, when
we had found it, she drew this tiny packet, ma'am, and asked me would
I take it myself up to the Hall and give it safely to Miss Winter?"
The little packet was neatly folded in tissue-paper, tied round with
narrow pink ribbon. Ella, rather wonderingly, opened it. Amidst some
folds of cotton wool lay a gentleman's sleeve-link. It was of
malachite and gold, of curious and very uncommon workmanship. Miss
Winter had never, to her knowledge, seen it before. "What is it?" she
asked. "Why do you bring it to me, Mrs. Keen?"
The landlady explained. "Betsy's mind is in trouble about it, Miss
Ella," she began; "in great trouble. It seems that the morning poor
Hubert Stone was found, Betsy, after all was quiet, and the police and
other people had gone, was outside there. She saw something shining on
the gravel, and picked it up. It was this trinket; she thought it very
lovely, she tells me; and on the impulse of the moment she picked it
up and put it in her pocket, thinking it would be a pretty present for
her sweetheart, who is no other than David Beal, the joiner's son. And
I suspect, ma'am, though she has not said as much, that it was just to
be near him she took a situation over here."
"Very possibly," assented Miss Winter. "But she ought not to have
concealed or kept this."
"It is that which is tormenting her now, ma'am. She couldn't rest till
I had brought it to you and told you all. The girl says, and I can but
believe her, that in the night, when she was in bed, she saw the wrong
she had done, and repented of it, but was afraid then of confessing.
All kinds of foolish fancies visit us in the night, as you know, Miss
Ella, and she says an idea came into her mind that if she confessed
what she had done and produced the trinket, she might, perhaps, be
accused of having been mixed up with the robbery. So she wrapped and
tied it up, and has kept it hidden in her pocket till now. All her cry
since she came into her right mind is, 'If Miss Winter will but
forgive me!'"
"Yes, yes; tell her I forgive her, Mrs. Keen. It seems to me that when
we do wrong, our own conscience brings to us our worst punishment. And
I am truly glad that the girl is getting better: I will call and see
her to-morrow. Have you disclosed this to anyone, or shown the link?"
"Indeed no, ma'am; not even to Susan. It was not my place to do so."
"Keep it quite secret still," said Ella. "For aught we can tell this
link may afford some clue to elucidate what is, as yet, so dark."
The landlady took her leave, and Ella locked the trinket safely up for
the present. On the following morning Mrs. Toynbee received a letter
calling her away from Heron Dyke. Her sister in London had met with an
accident, and begged her to come up for a few days, if she could be
spared.
"Go by all means," said Ella, in answer to Mrs. Toynbee's tearful
looks, as she put the letter into her hand. "Take the mid-day train.
Lonely? Well, perhaps I should feel a little lonely under recent
circumstances if left to myself; but I will get Maria Kettle to stay
with me. It will do her good: she is anything but well."
Maria was suffering from the effects of a severe cold, caught one
bitter night when returning home from visiting a sick pensioner. Ella
drove to the Vicarage and brought her away. Maria would have said no,
but her father said yes.
The next day she seemed not at all better, but very poorly and
feverish. Whilst Ella was dressing for dinner Maria came to her room,
asking to be excused from dining: she felt hardly well enough to go
down, especially as they should not be alone.
Only Mr. Daventry would be there. Ella had met him that morning and
invited him to come: she was uneasy about many things, and wanted to
talk to him. "You shall lie down here, Maria," said she, pushing her
dressing-room sofa close to the fire, "and have some tea sent up.
Adèle shall get it for you."
Maria lay down on the sofa, wrapping a shawl about her head, and drank
the tea. After that, she fell asleep. Ella was glad to hear it, as it
left her evening free for Mr. Daventry.
The old lawyer took his departure at nine o'clock. For a few minutes
Ella sat over the fire, musing on the advice he had given her--to be
still for the present; not to take action on any point. From this
reverie she was aroused by the sharp and sudden opening of the door.
Maria Kettle stood there, staggering in, rather than walking, her face
white, her eyes full of terror.
"Oh, Ella!" she gasped.
Ella sprang to her feet, her pulses quivering. "You are worse, Maria!"
she cried, "sit down here."
"No, it is not that--not that," moaned Maria, sinking back in the
large arm-chair, but recently vacated by Mr. Daventry. "I have seen
Katherine Keen."
"Katherine Keen!" breathed Ella, her lips suddenly becoming dry.
"Impossible!"
"I should have said the same myself ten minutes ago," returned the
sick girl, as she strove for composure. "But when I tell you, Ella,
that I have seen her, and that I am in possession of my senses, I
think you must believe me."
Ella Winter shivered, as though a cold wind were passing over her.
Kneeling down, she put her arm round Maria's waist. "Tell me about
it," she whispered.
"I got warm after I had the tea, and soon fell fast asleep," said
Maria, in a voice hushed and trembling. "I knew nothing more until I
awoke, suddenly and completely, with the strange feeling, which most
people have experienced at one time or another, that some one was
bending over me. My eyes opened widely, as though of their own accord;
and there, bending down and gazing earnestly into my face, was the
face of Katherine Keen."
"Maria!"
"I recognised it in a moment. The room was bright with firelight, and
I could not be mistaken. There was the fair hair, with the soft
appealing eyes and the sad and serious look in them that I remember so
well."
"Did you speak?"
"For a moment or two we gazed at each other; then I think my lips
formed her name, but whether any sound came from them I cannot tell.
The next thing I knew was that she was no longer there. I started up
and saw a black-robed figure vanish through the open doorway and the
door close noiselessly behind it. For an instant I thought I should
have died."
"Black-robed," repeated Ella mechanically, remembering that this
apparition had been always so described.
"She was in black from head to foot. Something black covered her head,
which she held with the fingers of one hand under the chin. With her
disappearance I sprang to the door, opened it, and rushed into the
corridor."
"After her! You had courage, Maria."
"I had no courage. I was too terrified to remain alone, and was
hastening to you. She was not to be seen; she had disappeared. A lamp
was burning at the farther end of the passage, but the passage was
quite empty, quite still; not a sound in it, save the beating of my
own heart. Oh Ella! I have heard the mysteries of Heron Dyke spoken
of, but I never thought to witness anything myself."
"Yes, Heron Dyke has no doubt its unhappy mysteries; has had them for
some time now," sighed Ella, catching up her breath with a sob. "And I
know not how to solve them."