MY LORD AND MY LADY.
The breakfast-table was laid in Gloucester Place, waiting for Lord and
Lady Level. It was the day following the one recorded in the last
chapter. A clear, bright morning, the sun shining hotly.
Blanche came in, wearing a dainty white dress. Her face, though thin,
was fair and lovely as ever; her eyes were as blue and brilliant.
Ringing for the coffee to be brought in, she began turning over the
letters on the table: one for herself, which she saw was from Mrs.
Guy; three for her husband. Of these, one bore the Paris postmark.
"Here is a letter from Paris, Archibald," she said to him as he
entered. "I think from Madame Sauvage; it is like her writing. I hope
it is to say that she has sent off the box."
"That you may regain possession of your finery," rejoined Lord Level,
with a light, pleasant laugh. "Eh, Blanche?"
"Well, my new lace mantle is in it. So stupid of Timms to have made
the mistake!"
"So it was. I dare say the box is on its road by this time."
Blanche began to pour out the coffee. Lord Level had gone to the
window, and was looking up and down the street. As he took his seat to
begin breakfast, he pushed the letters away idly without opening them,
and remarked upon the fineness of the morning.
They were fairly good friends, these two; always courteous, save when
Blanche was seized with a fit of jealousy, persuading herself,
rightly or wrongly, that she had cause for it. Then she would be
cross, bitter, snappish. Once in a way Lord Level retorted in kind;
though on the whole he was patient and gentle with her. In the midst
of it all she loved him passionately at heart, and sometimes let him
know it.
"As it is so fine a day, Archibald, you might take me to Kensington,
to call on Mrs. Page Reid, this afternoon. She sent us her address,
you know."
"I would rather not, Blanche, unless you particularly wish it. I don't
care to keep up Mrs. Page Reid's acquaintance. She's good for nothing
but to talk scandal."
"I do not much care for her either," acknowledged Blanche. "We are not
in the least obliged to renew her acquaintance."
"I will take you somewhere else instead," said he, pleased at her
acquiescence. "We will go out after luncheon and make an afternoon of
it--like Darby and Joan."
Presently, when breakfast was nearly over, Blanche opened her letter
from Mrs. Guy; reading out scraps of it to her husband. It told of
Major Carlen's arrival--so that he had really gone to Jersey. Then she
took up the _Times_. An unusual thing for her to do. She did not care
for newspapers, and Lord Level did not have them sent to him when in
Paris: he saw the English journals at the club. No doubt he had his
reasons for so doing.
Meanwhile he was opening his own letters. The one from Paris came
last. Had his wife been looking at him, she might have seen a sudden
change pass over his face as he read it, as though startled by some
doubt or perplexity.
"Archibald, what can this mean?" exclaimed Blanche in breathless
tones. "Listen: 'The names of the five convicts said to have escaped
from the ship _Vengeance_ after her wreck on the island, supposed to
be that of Tristan d'Acunha, are the following: George Ford, Walter
Green, John Andison, Nathaniel Markham, and Thomas Heriot.' That is
Tom's name."
Cramming all his letters into his breastpocket with a hurried
movement, Lord Level quietly took the paper from his wife's hands.
This was the very contretemps he had so long striven to guard against.
"My dear Blanche, do you suppose there is only one Thomas Heriot in
the world?" cried he carelessly. "'Ship _Vengeance_?' 'Escape of
convicts?' Oh, it is something that has happened over at Botany Bay."
"Well, the name startled me, at the moment. I'm sure Tom might as well
be a convict as anything else for all the news he sends us of
himself."
"He was always careless, you know, and detested letter-writing."
Carrying away the paper, Lord Level left the room and went to the one
behind it, of which he made a sort of study. There he sat down, spread
the letter from Paris before him on the table, and reperused it.
"Confound the woman!" remarked his lordship. "I shall have to go down
there now!"
Breakfast removed, Blanche began at once to write to Mrs. Guy, whose
letter required an answer. That over, she put on her bonnet to call on
Mrs. Arnold Ravensworth in Langham Place. She had called on the
previous day, but found Mr. and Mrs. Ravensworth out of town: they
were expected home that evening. So now Blanche went again.
Yes, they had arrived; and had brought with them Blanche's old friend,
Cecilia Ravensworth, from White Littleham Rectory.
How happy they were together, these two! It seemed an age since they
had parted, and yet it was not in reality so very long ago. Lady Level
remained the best part of the morning, talking of the old days of her
happy, yet uneventful, girlhood.
Strolling leisurely through Cavendish Square on her way home, Blanche
fell to thinking of the afternoon: speculating where it might be that
her husband meant to take her. Perhaps to Hampton Court: she had
never seen it, and would like to do so: she would ask him to take her
there. Quickening her pace, she soon reached her own door, and saw an
empty cab drawn up before it.
"Is any visitor here?" she asked of Sanders, when admitted.
"No, my lady. I have just called the cab for his lordship."
Lord Level came out of the study at the sound of her voice, and turned
with her into the front room. She thought he looked vexed--hurried.
"Blanche," he began, "I find I have to run down to Marshdale. But I
shall not be away more than a night if I can help it. I shall be back
to-morrow if possible; if not, you may expect me the next day for
certain."
"To Marshdale!" she repeated, in surprise and vexation. "Then you will
not be able to take me out this afternoon! I was hoping it might be to
Hampton Court."
"You shall go to Hampton Court when I return."
"Take me with you to Marshdale."
"I cannot," he replied decisively. "I am going down on business."
"Why did you not tell me of it this morning? Why have proposed to----"
"I did not know of it then," he interrupted. "How dismayed you look,
Blanche!" he added, half laughing.
"I shall be very lonely, Archibald--all by myself here!"
He said no more, but stooped to kiss her, and left the room, looking
at his watch.
"I did not think it was quite so late!" he exclaimed. Turning sharply,
for he had been about to enter the study, he approached the front
door, hesitated, then turned again, and went into the study.
"No, I can't stop," he said, coming to a final decision, as he once
more came forth, shut the study door after him, and locked it, but did
not take out the key. "Blanche, don't let anyone come in here; I have
left all my papers at sixes and sevens. If I wait to put them up I
shall not catch Jenning."
"Are you going to the train now, Archibald?"
"No, no; I want to see Jenning. I shall come back before going to the
train."
Getting into the cab, Lord Level was whirled away. Sanders closed the
house-door. And Blanche, ascending the stairs to her chamber, in the
slow manner we are apt to assume after experiencing some unexpected
check, and untying her bonnet as she went up, came upon her maid,
Timms. Timms appeared to be in trouble: her face was gloomy and wet
with tears.
"What is the matter?" exclaimed her mistress.
"My lady, I can't understand it. My belief is she has _stole_ it, and
nothing less. But for that dreadful sea-passage, there and back, I'd
go over myself to-day, if your ladyship would spare me."
"Now, Timms, what are you talking about?"
"Why, of the box, my lady. I was that vexed at its being left behind
that I scribbled a few lines to Victorine from Dover, telling her to
get Sauvage not to delay in sending it on. And I've got her answer
this morning, denying that any box has been left. Leastways, saying
that she can't see it."
While Timms was speaking, she had pulled a note out of her pocket, and
offered it to her mistress. It was from their late chambermaid, and
written in curious English for Timms' benefit, who was no French
scholar, and it certainly denied that the box inquired for, or any
other box, had been left behind, so far as she, Victorine, could
ascertain.
When departing from Paris three days before, Timms, counting over the
luggage with Sanders, discovered at the station that one of the boxes
was missing, left behind in their apartments by her own carelessness.
The train was on the point of starting, and there was no time to
return; but Lord Level despatched a message by a commissionaire to
the concierge, Sauvage, to send it on to London by grande vitesse. The
box contained wearing apparel belonging to Lady Level, and amidst it a
certain dark silk dress which Timms had long coveted. Altogether she
was in a state of melancholy self-reproach and had written to
Victorine from Dover, urging speed. Victorine's answer, delivered this
morning, had completely upset Timms.
Lady Level laughed gaily. "Cheer up, Timms," she said; "the box is on
its road. His lordship has had a letter from Madame Sauvage this
morning." The concierge himself was no scribe, and his wife always did
the writing for him.
Timms dashed her tears away. "Oh, my lady, how thankful I am! What
could Victorine mean, I wonder? When was the box sent off? Does your
ladyship know?"
"No--o. I--don't know what the letter does say," added Lady Level,
calling to mind that she was as yet ignorant of its contents. "I
forgot all about it after Lord Level opened it."
Timms did not quite comprehend. "But--I beg your pardon, my lady--I
suppose Madame Sauvage does say they have sent it off?"
"I dare say she does. What else should she write for?"
The maid's countenance fell considerably.
"But, my lady," she remonstrated, wise in her superior age and
experience, "if--if your ladyship has not read the letter, it may be
just the opposite. To pretend, like Victorine, that they have not
found the box. Victorine may have spirited it away without their
knowledge. She would uncommonly like to get some of those dresses for
herself."
This view scarcely appeared feasible to Lady Level. "How silly you
are, Timms!" she cried. "You can only look at the dark side of the
case. As if Lord Level would not have told me had it been _that_ news!
I wonder where he put the letter? I will look for it."
"If you would be so kind, my lady! so as to set the doubt at rest."
That she should find the letter on her husband's table, Blanche no
more doubted than that it was written by Madame Sauvage to announce
the despatch of the box. She ran down to the study, unlocked the door,
and entered.
The table was covered with quite a confused mass of papers, heaped one
upon another. It seemed as though Lord Level must have been looking
for some deed or other. A despatch-box, usually crammed full of
papers, stood on the table, open and empty. At the opposite corner was
his desk; but that was locked.
For a moment Blanche thought she would abandon her search. The
confusion looked too formidable to be meddled with. Well for her own
peace of mind that she had not done so!
Bending forward, for papers lay on the carpet as well as the table,
she let her eyes range over the litter, slightly lifting with her
thumb and forefinger a paper here and there, hoping to discern the
required letter. Quite by a stroke of good fortune she came upon it.
Good fortune or ill--which?
It lay, together with the two letters which had come with it, under an
open parchment, close before Lord Level's chair. One of these letters
was from Mr. Jenning, his confidential solicitor, requesting his
lordship to be with him at twelve o'clock that morning on a special
matter; but that had nothing to do with Blanche, or with us either.
She opened the envelope of the one she wished to see, and took out its
letter.
But it was not a letter; not, at least, as letters run in general. It
was only a piece of thin paper folded once, which bore a few lines in
a fine, pointed Italian hand, and in faint-coloured ink, somewhat
difficult to decipher.
Now it must be premised that Lady Level had no more thought of prying
into what concerned her husband, and did not concern herself, than a
child could have had. She would not have been guilty of such a thing
for the world. Any one of those parchments or papers, lying open
before her eyes, she would have deemed it the height of dishonour to
read a word of. This letter from the wife of their late concierge,
containing news of her own lost box, was a different matter.
But though the address to Lord Level was undoubtedly in the
handwriting of Madame Sauvage, the inside was not. Blanche strained
her eyes over it.
"I arrive to-day at Paris, and find you departed for England
with your wife and servants. I come straight on from Pisa,
without halting, to inform you of a discovery we have made;
there was no time to write. As I am so near, it is well to use
the opportunity to pay a short visit to Marshdale to see the
child, and I start this evening for it; you can join me there.
Pardon the trouble I give you.--NINA."
With her face flaming, with trembling hands, and shortened breath,
Lady Level gathered in the words and their meaning. Nina! It was the
Italian girl, the base woman who had troubled before her peace of
mind, and who must have got Madame Sauvage to address the letter.
Evidently she did not mean, the shameless siren, to let Lord Level be
at rest. And--and--and what was the meaning of that allusion about
"the child"?
Leaving the letter precisely as she had found it, under the sheet of
parchment, Lady Level quitted the room and turned the key in the door
again. Not for very shame, now that this shameful secret had been
revealed to her, would she let her husband know that she had entered.
Had she found only what she sought, she would have said openly to him
on his return: "Archibald, I went in for Madame Sauvage's note, and I
found it. I hope you don't mind--we were anxious about the box." But
somehow her eyes were now opened to the fact that she had been guilty
of a dishonourable action, one that could not be excused or
justified. Had he not locked his door against intruders--herself as
well as others?
Passing into the front room, where the table was now being laid for
luncheon, which they took at one o'clock, she drew a chair near the
fire, mechanically watching Sanders as he placed the dishes on the
table, in reality seeing nothing; her mind was in a tumult, very
painful and rebellious.
Timms came stealing in. How any lady could be so indifferent as her
lady when a box of beautiful clothes was at stake, Timms could not
understand: sitting quietly there over the fire, and never coming back
to set a body's mind at rest with yes or no.
"I beg pardon for intruding," began Timms, with deprecation, "but did
your ladyship find Madame Sauvage's letter?"
"No," curtly replied Lady Level. "I dare say the box is lost. Not much
matter if it is."
Timms withdrew, lifting her hands in condemning displeasure when she
got outside. "Not much matter! if ever I heard the like of that! A
whole trunk _full_! and some of 'em _lovely_!"
"Will you sit down, now, my lady, or wait for his lordship?" inquired
Sanders.
Lady Level answered the question by taking her place at table. She
felt as though she should never care to wait for his lordship again,
for luncheon or anything else. In a few minutes a cab dashed up to the
door, bringing him.
"That's right, Blanche; I am glad you did not wait for me," he began.
"Sanders, is my hand-bag ready?"
"Quite, my lord."
"Put it into the cab, then."
He hastened into the study as he spoke, and began putting things
straight there with a deft and rapid hand. In an incredibly short
time, the papers were all in order, locked up in their various
receptacles, and the table was cleared.
"Good-bye, my love," said he, returning to the front room.
"Do you not take anything to eat?" asked Blanche, in short and sullen
tones, which he was in too great a hurry to notice.
"No: or I should lose the train."
He caught her to him. Blanche turned her face away.
"You silly child! you are cross with me for leaving you. My dear,
believe me, _I could not help it_. Charley is coming up to dine with
you this evening."
Leaving his kisses on her lips, but getting none in return, Lord Level
went out to the cab. As it drove away, there came up to the door a
railway luggage van. The lost box had arrived from Paris. Timms knelt
down with extra fervour that night to offer up her thanksgivings.
* * * * *
Lord Level had snatched a moment to look in upon me, and ask me to
dine with Blanche that evening.
"She is not pleased at being left alone," he said; "but I am obliged
to run down to Marshdale. And, Charley, she saw something about Tom in
the paper this morning: I had to turn it off in the best way I could:
so be cautious if she mentions it to you."
I had meant to look again after Tom Heriot that evening, but could not
refuse this. Blanche was unusually silent throughout dinner.
"Is anything the matter, Blanche?" I asked her, when we were in the
drawing-room.
"A great deal is the matter," she replied resentfully. "I am not going
to put up with it."
"Put up with what?"
"Oh--with Lord Level. With his--his deceit. But I can't tell you now,
Charles: I shall speak to himself first."
I laughed. "More jealousy cropping up! What has he done now, Blanche?"
"What has he gone to Marshdale for?" retorted Blanche, her cheeks
flaming. "And what did he go to Pisa for when we were last in Paris?"
continued she, without any pause. "He _did_ go. It was in December;
and he was away ten days."
"Well,' I suppose some matter or other called him there," I said. "As
to Marshdale--it is his place; his home. Why should this annoy you,
Blanche? A man cannot carry his wife with him everywhere."
"_I_ know," she said, catching up her fan, and beginning to use it
sharply. "I know more than you do, Charles. More than he thinks for--a
great deal more."
"It strikes me, my dear, that you are doing your best to estrange your
husband from you--if you speak to him as you are speaking now. That
will not enhance your own happiness, Blanche."
"The fault is his," she cried, turning her hot face defiantly upon me.
"It may be. I don't think so."
"He does not care for me _at all_. He cares for--for--somebody else."
"You may be mistaken. I should be sorry to believe it. But, even
should it be so--listen, Blanche--even should it be so, you will do
well to change your tactics. _Try and win him back to you._ I tell it
you for the sake of your own happiness."
Blanche tossed back her golden curls, and rose. "How old-fashioned you
are, Charles! it is of no use talking to you. Will you sing our old
duet with me--'I've wandered in dreams'?"
"Ay. But I am out of practice."
She had taken her place on the music-stool, and was playing the first
bars of the song, when a thought struck her, and she turned round.
"Charley, such a curious thing happened this morning. I saw in the
_Times_ a list of some escaped convicts, who had been on their way to
Van Diemen's Land, and amongst them was the name of Thomas Heriot. For
a moment it startled and frightened me."
Her eyes were upon my face, so was the light. Having a piece of music
in my hand, I let it fall, and stooped to pick it up.
"Was it not strange, Charles?"
"Not particularly so. There may be a hundred Tom Heriots in the
world."
"That's what Archibald said--or something to the same effect. But, do
you know, I cannot get it out of my head. And Tom's not writing to us
from India has seemed to me all day more strangely odd than it did
before."
"India is a regular lazy place. The heat makes people indolent and
indifferent."
"Yes, I know. Besides, as papa said to me in the few minutes we were
talking together before he went away, Tom may have written, and the
letters not have reached us. The mail from India is by no means a safe
one, he says; letters often get lost by it."
"By no means safe: no end of letters are lost continually," I
murmured, seconding old Carlen's invention, knowing not what else to
say. "Let us go on, Blanche. It is I who begin, I think--'I've
wandered in dreams.'"
Wandered in dreams! If this misery connected with Tom Heriot were only
a dream, and not a reality!
END OF VOL. II.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
_S. & H._
Transcriber's Notes:
Inconsistent spelling such as Chantry and Chantrey retained.