BETSY LONG.
Mrs. Belassis had been discomfited by her sister and her niece—by the
two beings she had been accustomed to snub and trample upon at will—and
her defeat at their hands was as bitter a pill as she had ever been
called upon to swallow.
Moreover, she was conscious of having brought her defeat upon herself
by acting with less than her ordinary caution. What had occurred at
Ladywell only a few days back, ought to have been enough to deter her
from a second attempt at search. She had known this all along, but
her intense eagerness to gain possession of the document, of whose
existence they now felt certain, and the discovery of which, if made by
other hands, would cause such a terrible _bouleversement_ of all their
cherished plans, had overcome her prudence.
With such a consummation staring her in the face, it was no wonder that
Mrs. Belassis was willing to run some risk; but now she wished she had
been more circumspect. She felt she had put herself at a disadvantage
by this second visit—had laid herself open to suspicion and contempt;
and a fear arose in her mind that, by showing her hand too openly, she
might have given a clue to others as to the object of her search.
A little consideration, however, blunted the edge of this fear. If that
letter of old Maynard’s had not (as she felt certain) been opened out
by other hands than hers, no one would ever dream of hunting for Philip
Debenham’s last will and testament amongst the wilderness of books in
the library at Ladywell, which house had never been his home. If anyone
believed that a second will had been made, they must also believe that
it had been destroyed before now. It was not likely to come to light
eighteen years after the death of the testator.
Whatever Maud and Mrs. Lorraine believed that she (Celia Belassis)
came to search for, they at least would never guess that it was for her
brother-in-law’s will. Of that fear she might safely rid her mind.
But she could not rid her mind of others. She knew that Roma Meredith
came often now to read in the great library, and any day her
unconscious choice might light upon the volume in which the precious
paper lay hidden. Philip was himself something of a reader and a lover
of books, and she had already heard some talk about rearranging the
library and classifying the works.
Such thoughts as these made her blood run cold, and very earnestly
and intently did she ponder over the matter, trying to see some way
to rid herself of the haunting dread that oppressed her. She knew
Maud’s trust-money was all speculated away, and if anything occurred
which should oblige her husband to deliver up the lump sum, it would
be impossible to avoid a _fiasco_ that must bring the name of Belassis
into open contempt.
What Mrs. Belassis would like best to do, would be to carry war into
the enemy’s quarters, if only she saw her way to doing it. She had
not at all given up her idea that this nephew of hers was playing a
double part, and acting unfairly towards the friend to whom he owed so
much. Her own eyes had convinced her that he was using the money of his
friend as freely as his own; and if he could do that, of what was he
not capable?
She meant to keep her eyes and ears open, and glean all the information
possible upon this subject. But it was not easy for her to make
discoveries now, because she had declared open war, as it were, with
those at Ladywell, and was herself looked upon as little better than a
spy.
A spy!
Mrs. Belassis repeated the word once or twice to herself, and an
unpleasant smile stole gradually into her eyes.
Yes, there was certainly something attractive in the idea. Would it
be possible to introduce a spy into that house, who would keep watch
upon what was going on, listen and report upon all the talk of the
servants’-hall, and when it was possible, contrive to hear what was
said upstairs as well as down? Mrs. Belassis had a shrewd notion that
servants generally contrived to find out the truth as to what went on
in a house, much more quickly than they were supposed to do; and she
believed that if her nephew was likely to get himself into trouble, he
would probably tell something of his difficulties to his sister or his
aunt, and then the secret would ooze out below-stairs, and might be
easily made known to her. She thought she could perhaps set some rumour
afloat herself, which might startle him from his high and mighty ease,
and induce him to make some admissions to his two adoring relatives.
And again, if Mrs. Belassis could but introduce into that house some
creature of her own, great things might be accomplished. The library
books might be gradually and systematically examined; and if the
underling failed in the quest, surely she could admit her employer
at some unlikely hour, and with time and patience Mrs. Belassis felt
perfectly certain that she should be able to find Philip Debenham’s
carefully hidden will.
But who was to be the instrument of this promising plot? A little more
consideration, and that point, too, was settled.
When Mrs. Belassis reached her own house, she said to the footman who
answered her summons:
‘Send Betsy Long up to my room.’
Her face and voice were so severe, that the man informed the
under-housemaid that ‘she was going to catch it now, and serve her
right too,’ by which it might be argued that the young woman was not a
special favourite of his.
Betsy Long was a good-looking, clever girl, and Mrs. Belassis had
already made use of her as a sort of spy upon the other servants.
It was her pride and boast, that she always knew exactly what went
on in her kitchen and servants’-hall, and naturally this knowledge
could only be obtained through one of the servants themselves. The
honourable position of informer-general had been held for nearly two
years by Betsy Long, who stood high in her mistress’s favour, and
proportionately low in that of her fellow-servants. Betsy Long could
lie with an assumption of simple veracity that was touching to witness,
and she knew when to speak and when to hold her peace; and she had
always been faithful, so far, to her mistress, whom she feared whilst
she fawned upon her. So Betsy Long was selected by Mrs. Belassis as her
chosen instrument.
Betsy came up in fear and trembling, not knowing what might be in store
for her. She was, however, somewhat reassured by the look and manner of
her mistress; and the two entered into a long and earnest conference,
the result of which will be seen later. The immediate result was, that
the girl went sobbing down to the lower regions, with the news that
Mrs. Belassis had turned her off with a week’s notice, and she didn’t
know what would become of her.
The other servants could hardly be said to be sympathetic, and told her
plainly that it served her right.
Betsy cried loudly in public, but never in private; and in spite of her
mistress’s supposed displeasure, she and Mrs. Belassis held, in strict
privacy, more than one long conference together.
Mrs. Belassis felt easier in her mind now, as to matters connected
with Ladywell; but she was not easy about the secret she believed her
husband was hiding from her. She had so little faith in his acuteness,
that she was convinced he might get into some very unpleasant mess, if
he did not take her into his confidence. She was angry with him for
his folly and recklessness in plunging himself into difficulties from
which he seemed unable to extricate himself, and felt aggrieved to
have another burden added to the load she was already forced to carry;
but at the same time she was not going to stand by and let that stupid
husband of hers keep an important secret from her.
‘Alfred,’ she said sharply, upon the first favourable opportunity,
‘I asked you once before what you knew of Whitbury and Miss Marjory
Descartes. You were pleased then to make a very ungentlemanly reply;
perhaps now you will answer me properly.’
Belassis looked thoroughly frightened and taken aback.
‘Wh—what do you kn—know about Wh—Whitbury?’ he stammered, his face
growing pale.
‘I don’t know anything yet; but I mean to know all pretty soon,’
answered Mrs. Belassis coolly and firmly. ‘You are not such a fool as
to try and deceive me? You ought to know by this time that you couldn’t
do it.’
‘Why should I know anything of Whitbury?’ asked Belassis, trying all he
knew to speak naturally.
‘Why should you turn perfectly livid at the bare mention of the name,
if you didn’t?’
‘I wasn’t very well that evening—Philip had startled me by coming in so
suddenly upon us.’
‘Look here, Alfred!’ said Mrs. Belassis significantly. ‘You know,
and what’s more, I believe Philip Debenham knows, that you have some
mysterious connection with Whitbury. If you won’t tell me, I shall ask
him; and if he doesn’t satisfy me, I shall apply direct to Miss Marjory
Descartes. I have not any reason to suppose that she will screen you,
if she knows of anything to your discredit.’
Belassis thus brought to bay, collapsed suddenly and hopelessly. In
encounters with his wife he invariably got the worst of it.
‘I—I—Indeed, my dear, I should have told you all long ago, only it
seemed useless to rake up old stories of dead-and-gone follies. Young
men will be young men, you know; and boys will be boys. I was little
more than a boy when I went to Whitbury to fish, and I did get into
some little trouble there—money trouble, I mean—and I dare say if
people hadn’t been good-natured, and not been too hard upon me, it
would have gone rather hardly with me.’
Belassis, with an air of great good faith, gave the particulars of
the little fraud he had unsuccessfully perpetrated (to which Miss
Marjory had alluded in talking to Tor), and the names given, and the
circumstantial correctness of the story, convinced Mrs. Belassis that
it was a true one.
‘And why did Miss Marjory Descartes stand your friend and beg you off?’
she asked.
‘Because—because——Well, my dear, the truth is, I believe, a favourite
maid of hers begged her to do so, and interceded successfully with her.
You see, I—I——’
‘You had made love to the girl, I suppose?’ put in Mrs. Belassis
scornfully. ‘Just like one of your low ways.’
‘I had not seen you, you know, my dear; and the girl was good-looking,
and would keep walking by the river in an evening, just where I
was fishing. Of course I paid her a few compliments on her pretty
face, and talked a little nonsense, as other young men do in similar
circumstances. You needn’t mind that, Celia, my love! I never looked at
another woman after I knew you!’
Mrs. Belassis sneered.
‘Do you suppose I am jealous of attentions you paid to a lady’s-maid
thirty or forty years ago? Was it fear of my displeasure that so
alarmed you? or have you worse to tell?’
‘Worse? Oh no!—no—no! That is all; the matter began and ended there.
You know all I know now. You see, my dear, one does not care to have
one’s youthful sins and follies brought to light after all these years.
I dare say it seems foolish to you; but I am fond of you, and I didn’t
care that a story like that—exaggerated and made worse, no doubt, by
gossiping tongues—should come to your ears. I shall not mind, now that
I have told you all; but, I confess, I was taken aback when Philip
first spoke of Whitbury, and people I had known there. I did not know
what ill-natured report he might not set afloat. Put yourself in my
position a moment, my dear, and I think you will understand.’
‘Well, well,’ answered Mrs. Belassis impatiently, ‘it is a pity, as
you are such a poor cowardly creature, that you ever had courage to
put yourself in such awkward positions as you have been doing of late.
You can do a most daring and unscrupulous thing in the calmest way, so
long as detection seems impossible; but as soon as ever the inevitable
crisis threatens, you are as helpless and blundering as a child.’
Belassis assented to this criticism meekly enough, and took a good
scolding from his wife with unusual docility. He was so unutterably
relieved at the credence his story had obtained, that nothing
else disturbed him much. Mrs. Belassis had certainly accepted his
explanation with all readiness. His nature was so craven in her eyes
that his fear was easily accounted for; and even she was far from
suspecting him of the terrible and irretrievable folly of which he had
really been guilty. That he would marry a second wife without knowing
that the first was dead, was a thought that never crossed her mind for
a moment. She never even suspected that he had ever been married, until
his union with herself.
Days glided quietly by, and the traveller returned from his brief visit
to Germany. He did not bring his friend back with him, as had been
half expected in some quarters; but he announced that Mr. Torwood had
started on a four months’ sea-voyage, and was confidently expected to
return from it with much recruited health.
Mrs. Belassis smiled a peculiar smile on hearing this announcement, and
remarked that she had quite expected some such step as this—anything
to keep his friend away. Her own theory on the subject was distinctly
strengthened.
On the second day after his return, as Tor was sauntering leisurely
homewards through the shady lanes, he came across a respectable-looking
girl, sitting by the roadside and crying bitterly and uncontrollably.
He was too kind-hearted to pass by altogether unheeding, so he stopped,
and asked the girl what was the matter.
With a great many sobs, and tears, and repetitions, the story came out.
She was, or had been, a housemaid at Thornton House for nearly two
years, and her name was Betsy Long, and she was afraid she had a quick
temper and a saucy tongue. The mistress had spoken about it more than
once, and she had tried; but some things would make a saint fly out—and
to try and take away a poor girl’s character!
Recalled to the point, she went on to say that Mrs. Belassis had missed
some money off her dressing-table, and had accused Betsy of having
taken it. The girl had denied it strenuously, and had lost her temper,
and had become violent. Mrs. Belassis had discharged her at a week’s
notice, and had declined to give her a character; and then Betsy, with
a burst of sobs, explained that she had a mother and sick sister more
than half dependent upon her, and that it would break their hearts to
hear that she had lost her place without the chance of getting another;
for her character was gone, and she didn’t know what would become of
her.
There was sufficient sincerity in the girl’s manner to impress Tor
with the belief that she was speaking the truth, and was innocent
of the misdeed of which she had been accused. He was sorry for her,
and thought that Mrs. Belassis had been hard, as might, perhaps, be
expected from so hard a woman.
‘I will speak to Mrs. Belassis for you,’ he said, after a little
reflection. ‘You had better not give way like that. Come up to the
Manor House this afternoon at five. We will see if something cannot be
done for you.’
‘Thank you, sir—thank you kindly,’ said Betsy, with a curtsey, drying
her eyes.
Tor was not far from Thornton House, so he turned his steps in that
direction, and, at a corner, encountered Mrs. Belassis, bound for her
own abode.
He lifted his hat and joined her, with a few words of greeting.
‘I have just met your housemaid in great trouble at being summarily
dismissed from your service. Has she really been robbing you?’
‘No; I found out that my husband had taken the money, unknown to me,
and I shall let Betsy know; but at the same time she is such a saucy,
impudent girl, I am quite glad to be rid of her.’
‘You will not take her back, then?’
‘Certainly not, after such language as she used.’
‘Had she not some excuse? It was a serious charge against her. A little
heat was only natural.’
‘Then she must abide by the consequences. I will have nothing more to
do with her. I can’t bear the girl. I never could.’
‘Will you give her a character?’
‘I shall see about it. I’ll give her one for impudence if she applies.’
‘Don’t you think you’re hard upon her? She says she has relatives
partly dependent upon her.’
‘A mother and a sick sister, I believe she has; but I don’t see that
that’s any business of mine.’
‘Have you found her a good servant in other ways? Is she truthful? Does
she work well?’
‘I think those brazen-faced girls do speak the truth—they have no shame
about anything. People say that bad-tempered servants do most work,
and I cannot complain of Betsy upon that score; but I can’t imagine
what earthly reason you can have for taking up her cause.’
‘I am not aware that I am taking up anyone’s cause. I merely want to
know a few facts. Betsy Long is a good servant, with a bad temper; is
not that about the state of the case?’
‘I don’t know your idea of a good servant; mine is that she should know
how to keep her place. If you’re trying to trap me into saying I’ll
have Betsy back again, you’d better save your breath, for nothing would
induce me to do it. Are you satisfied now?’
‘Perfectly so, thank you; and I will now wish you good-morning.’
Mrs. Belassis smiled as she walked up the drive to her own door.
‘I think he has taken the bait,’ she said to herself. ‘Men are so soft.’
Tor could hardly be said to be soft. He did not give any special
heed to this incident of the forlorn Betsy; but he felt sufficient
indignation at Mrs. Belassis’ hardness, and compassion for the girl’s
distress, to be wishful to do something to place her in a better
position.
He told Maud and Aunt Olive what had occurred, and they at once
suggested that a place might be made for her in the Ladywell household.
They could do with another maid very well, especially as Maud often
wanted some assistance with her elaborate toilettes; and she fancied
that Betsy was a handy sort of girl with her fingers, though she had
not given her much work of that kind at Thornton House.
Anyone upon whom Mrs. Belassis had trampled, would be sure to be gladly
received by Maud; and under these favourable auspices Betsy Long
entered into service at Ladywell Manor.