request, put sugar and cream into his cup, handed it to him, and then
took her own. He was looking very thoughtful; she seemed to fancy he had
no good news for her, as he did not speak of it; and her heart went
down, down. In a very timid tone, she told him of the depreciating
opinion held of her talents at home, and begged him to say what _he_
thought, for she should not like to be guilty of undertaking any duty
she was not fully competent to fulfil.
"Will you take some more tea?" was all Sir Robert said in answer.
"No, thank you, sir."
"Another biscuit? No? We will send the tray away then."
Ringing the bell, a servant came in and removed the things. Sir Robert,
standing at the window, and looking down at Anne as she sat, began to
speak.
"I think there might be more difficulty in getting you a situation as
governess than we thought for; one that would be quite suited to you,
at least. Perhaps another kind of situation would do better for you."
Her whole face, turned up to him with its gaze of expectancy, changed to
sadness; the light in her eyes died away. It seemed so like the knell of
all her hopes. Sir Robert only smiled.
"If you could bring yourself to take it--and to like it," he continued.
"But what situation is it, sir?"
"That of my wife. That of Lady of Bellwood."
Just for a moment or two she simply stared at him. When his meaning
reached her comprehension, her face turned red and white with emotion.
Sir Robert took her hand and spoke more fully. He had learnt to like her
very very much, to esteem her, and wished her to be his wife.
"I am aware that there is a good deal of difference in our ages, my
dear; more than twenty years," he went on, while she sat in silence.
"But I think you might find happiness with me; I will do my very best to
insure it. Better be my wife than a nursery governess. What do you say?"
"Oh, sir, I do not know what to say," she answered, trembling a little.
"It is so unexpected--and a great honour--and--and I am overwhelmed."
"Could you like me?" he gently asked.
"I do like you, sir; very much. But this--this would be different.
Perhaps you would let me take until to-morrow to think about it?"
"Of course I will. Bring me your answer then. Bring it yourself,
whatever it may be."
"I will, sir. And I thank you very greatly."
All night long Anne Lewis lay awake. Should she take this good man for
her husband, or should she not? She did like him very much: and what a
position it would be for her; and how sheltered she would be henceforth
from the frowns of the world! Anne might never have hesitated, but for
the remains of her love for Mr. Angerstyne. That was passing away from
her heart day by day, as she knew; it would soon have passed entirely.
She could never feel that same love again; it was over and done with for
ever; but there was surely no reason why she should sacrifice all her
future to its remembrance. _Yes_: she would accept Sir Robert Tenby: and
would, by the help of Heaven, make him a true, faithful, good wife.
It was nearly dusk the next afternoon before she could leave the house.
Mrs. Lewis had kept her in sight so long that she feared she might not
find the opportunity that day. She ran all the way to Bellwood, anxious
to keep her promise: she could not bear to seem to trifle, even for a
moment, with this good and considerate man. Sir Robert was waiting for
her in a glow of firelight. He came forward, took both her hands in his,
and looked into her face inquiringly.
"Well?"
"Yes, sir, if you still wish to take me. I will try to be to you a
loving wife; obedient and faithful."
With a sigh of relief, he sat down on a sofa that was drawn to the fire
and placed her beside him, holding her hand still.
"My dear, I thank you: you have made me very happy. You shall _never_
have cause to repent it."
"It is so strange," she whispered, "that you should wait all these
years, with the world to choose from, and then think of _me_ at last! I
can scarcely believe it."
"Ay, I suppose it is strange. But I must tell you something, Anne. When
quite a youth, only one-and-twenty, there was a young lady whom I dearly
loved. She was poor, and not of much family, and my father forbade the
union. She married some one else, and died. It is for the love of her I
have kept single all these years. But I shall not make you the less good
husband."
"And I--I wish to tell you that _I_ once cared for some one," whispered
Anne, in her straightforward honesty. "It is all over and done with; but
I did like him very much."
"Then, my dear, we shall be even," he said, with a merry smile. "The one
cannot reproach the other. And now--this is the beginning of April;
before the month shall have closed you had better come to me. We have
nothing to wait for; and I do not like, now that you belong to me, to
leave you one moment longer than is needful with that lady whom you are
forced to call stepmother."
How Anne reached home that late afternoon she hardly knew: she knew
still less how to bring the news out. In the course of the following
morning she tried to do so, and made a bungle of it.
"Sir Robert not going to get you a situation as governess!" interrupted
Julia, before Anne had half finished. "Of course he is not. He knows you
are not capable of taking one. _I_ thought how much he was intending to
help you. You must have had plenty of _cheek_, Anne, to trouble him."
"I am going to be his wife instead," said poor Anne, meekly. "He has
asked me to be. And--and it is to be very soon; and he is coming to see
Mrs. Lewis this morning."
Mrs. Lewis, sitting back in an easy-chair, her feet on the fender,
dropped the book she was reading to stare at Anne. Julia burst into a
laugh of incredulity. Her mother echoed it, and spoke----
"You poor infatuated girl! This comes of being brought up on French
soup. But Sir Robert Tenby has no right to play jokes upon you. I shall
write and tell him so."
"I--think--he is there," stammered Anne.
There he was. A handsome carriage was drawing up to the gate, the
baronet's badge upon its panels. Sir Robert sat inside. A footman came
up the path and thundered at the door.
* * * * *
Not very long afterwards--it was in the month of June--Anne and her
husband were guests at a London crush in Berkeley Square. It was too
crowded to be pleasant. Anne began to look tired, and Sir Robert
whispered to her that if she had had enough of it, they would go home.
"Very gladly," she answered, and turned to say good-night to her
hostess.
"Anne! How are you?"
The unexpected interruption, in a voice she knew quite well, and which
sent a thrill through her, even yet, arrested Anne in her course. There
stood Henry Angerstyne, his hand held out in greeting, a confident
smile, as if assuming she could only receive him joyfully, on his
handsome face.
"I am so much surprised to see you here; so delighted to meet you once
again, Miss Lewis."
"You mistake, sir," replied Anne, in a cold, proud tone, drawing her
head a little up. "I am Lady Tenby."
Walking forward, she put her arm within her husband's, who waited for
her. Mr. Angerstyne understood it at once; it needed not the almost
bridal robes of white silk and lace to enlighten him. She was not
altered. She looked just the same single-minded, honest-hearted girl as
ever, with a pleasant word for all--except just in the moment when she
had spoken to him.
"I am glad of it: she deserves her good fortune," he thought heartily.
With all his faults, few men could be more generously just than Henry
Angerstyne.
XV.
THE KEY OF THE CHURCH.
"Johnny, you will have to take the organ on Sunday."
The words gave me a surprise. I turned short round on the music-stool,
wondering whether Mrs. Todhetley spoke in jest or earnest. But her
face was quite serious, as she sat, her hands on her lap, and her lame
finger--the fore-finger of the left hand--stretched out.
"I take the organ, good mother! What's that for?"
"Because I was to have taken it, Johnny, and this accident to my finger
will prevent it."
We had just got home to Dyke Manor from school for the Michaelmas
holidays. Not a week of them: for this was Wednesday afternoon, and we
should go back the following Monday. Mrs. Todhetley had cut her finger
very seriously in carving some cold beef on the previous day. Old
Duffham had put it into splints.
"Where's Mr. Richards?" I asked, alluding to the church organist.
"Well, it is rather a long tale, Johnny. A good deal of dissatisfaction
has existed, as you know, between him and the congregation."
"Through his loud playing."
"Just so. And now he has resigned in a huff. Mr. Holland called
yesterday morning to ask if I would help them at the pinch by taking
the organ for a Sunday or two, until matters were smoothed with
Richards, or some fresh organist was found; and I promised him I
would. In the evening, this accident happened to my finger. So you
must take it in my place, Johnny."
"And if I break down?"
"Not you. Why should you?"
"I am out of practice."
"There's plenty of time to get up your practice between now and Sunday.
Don't make objections, my dear. We should all do what little we can to
help others in a time of need."
I said no more. As she observed, there was plenty of time between now
and Sunday. And, not to lose time, I went off there and then.
The church stood in a lonely spot, as I think you know, and I took the
way across the fields to it. Whistling softly, I went along, fixing in
my mind upon the chants and hymns. Ours was rather a primitive service.
The organ repertoire included only about a dozen chants and double that
number of hymns. It had this advantage--that they were all familiar to
the congregation, who could join in the singing at will, and the singers
had no need to practise. Mr. Richards had lately introduced a different
style of music, and it was not liked.
"Let me see: I'll make it just the opposite of Richards's. For the
morning we will have the thirty-seventh psalm, 'Depend on God:' there's
real music in that; and 'Jerusalem the Golden.' And for the afternoon,
'Abide with me,' and the Evening Hymn. Mornington's Chant; and the Grand
Chant; and the---- Halloa, Fred! Is it you?"
A lithe, straight-limbed young fellow was turning out of the little
valley: on his way (as I guessed) from the Parsonage. It was Fred
Westerbrook: old Westerbrook's nephew at the Narrow Dyke Farm--or, as
we abbreviated it, the N. D. Farm.
"How are you, Johnny?"
His face and voice were alike subdued as he shook hands. I asked after
Mr. and Mrs. Westerbrook.
"They are both well, for anything I know," he answered. "The N. D. Farm
is no longer my home, Johnny."
Had he told me the Manor was no longer mine, I could not have been more
surprised.
"Why, how is that, Fred?"
"They have turned me out of it."
"What--this morning?"
"This morning--no. Two months ago."
"And why? I never thought it would come to that."
"Because they wanted to get rid of me, that's why. Gisby has been the
prime mover in it--the chief snake in the grass. He is worse than she
is."
"And what are you doing?"
"Nothing: except knocking about. I'd be off to America to-morrow and try
my luck there if I had a fifty-pound note in my pocket. I went up to the
farm last week, and made an appeal to my uncle to help me to it, and be
rid of me----"
"And would he?" I interrupted, too eager to let him finish.
"_Would he!_" repeated Fred, savagely. "He bade me go to a place
unmentionable. He threatened to drive me off the premises if ever I put
foot on them again."
"I am very sorry. What shall you do?" I asked.
"Heaven knows! Perhaps turn poacher."
"Nonsense, Fred!"
"_Is_ it nonsense!" he retorted, taking off his low-crowned hat and
passing his hand passionately over his wavy, auburn hair--about the
nicest hair I ever saw. People said Fred was proud of it. He was a
good-looking young fellow altogether; with a clear, fresh face, and
steady grey eyes.
"You don't know what it is to be _goaded_, Johnny," he said. "I can tell
you I am ripe for any mischief. And a man must live. But for one thing,
I swear I wouldn't keep straight."
I knew what thing he meant quite well. "What does she say about it?" I
asked.
"What can she say? My uncle has insulted her to her face, and made me
out at the Parsonage to be a downright scamp. Oh, I go in for all that's
bad, according to him, I assure you, Johnny Ludlow."
"Do you never see her?"
"It is chiefly by chance if I do. I have just been up there now, sitting
for half-an-hour with her in the old study. There was no opportunity for
a private word, though; the young ones were dodging around, playing at
'Salt Fish'--if you know the delectable game. Good-bye, Johnny lad."
He strode off with an angry fire in his eye. I felt very sorry for him.
We all liked Fred Westerbrook. He had his faults, I suppose, but he was
one of the most open-natured fellows in the world.
Dashing in at Clerk Bumford's for the key of the church, I sat down to
the organ: an antiquated instrument, whose bellows were worked by the
player's feet, as are some of the modern harmoniums; but, as far as tone
went, it was not bad--rather rich and sweet. All through the practice my
mind was running on Fred Westerbrook and his uncle. The parish had said
long ago they would come to a blow-up some time.
The N. D. Farm stood about three-quarters of a mile on the other side
the church, beyond Mr. Page's. It had a good house upon it, and
consisted of two or three hundred acres of land. But its owner, Mr.
Westerbrook, rented a great deal more land that lay contiguous to it,
which rendered it altogether one of the most considerable farms round
about. Up to fifty years of age, Mr. Westerbrook had not married. Fred,
his dead brother's son, had been adopted by him, and was regarded as his
heir. The farm had been owned by the Westerbrooks for untold-of years,
and it was not likely a stranger in blood and name would be allowed to
inherit it. So Fred had lived there as the son and heir, and been made
much of.
But, to the surprise of every one, Mr. Westerbrook took it into his
head to marry, although he was fifty years old. It was thought to be
a foolish act, and the parish talked freely. She was a widow without
children, of a grasping nature, and not at all nice in temper. A
high-spirited boy of fourteen, as Fred was, would be hardly likely to
get on with her. She interfered with him in the holidays, and thwarted
him, and told sneaking tales of him to his uncle. It went on pretty
smoothly enough, however, until Fred left school, which he did at
eighteen, to take up his abode at home for good and busy himself about
the farm. Upon the death of the bailiff some three years later, she sent
for one Gisby, from a distance, and got Mr. Westerbrook to instal him in
the bailiff's vacant place. This Gisby was a dark little man of middle
age, and was said to be distantly related to her. He proved to be an
excellent farmer and manager, and did his duty well; but from the first
he and Fred were just at daggers-drawn. Presuming upon his relationship
to the mistress, Gisby treated Fred in an off-hand manner, telling him
sometimes to do this and not to do the other, as he did the men. Of
course, Fred did not stand that, and offered to pitch him into next
week unless he kept his place better.
But, as the years went on, the antagonism against Fred penetrated to Mr.
Westerbrook. She was always at work with her covert whispers, as was
Gisby with his outspoken accusations of him, and with all sorts of tales
of his wrong-doing. They had the ear of the master, and Fred could not
fight against it. Perhaps he did not try to do so. Whispering, and
meanness, and underhand doing of any kind, were foreign to his nature;
he was rather too outspoken, and he turned on his enemies freely and
gave them plenty of abuse. It was Gisby who first told Mr. Westerbrook
of the intimacy, or friendship, or whatever you may please to call it,
though I suppose the right word would be _love_, between Fred and Edna
Blake. Edna was one of a large family, and had come, a year or two ago,
to live at the Parsonage, being niece to Mrs. Holland, the parson's
wife. Mrs. Holland was generally ill (and frightfully incapable), and
Edna had it all on her hands: the housekeeping, and the six unruly
children, and the teaching and the mending, and often the cooking. They
paid her twenty pounds a-year for it. But she was a charming girl, with
one of the sweetest faces ever seen, and the gentlest spirit. Fred
Westerbrook had found that out, and the two were deeply in love with one
another. Old Mr. Westerbrook went into one of his passions when he heard
of it, and swore at Fred. Edna was not his equal, he told him; Fred must
look higher: she had no money, and her friends, as was reported, were
only tradespeople. Fred retorted that Edna was a mine of wealth and
goodness in herself, and he had never troubled himself to ask what her
friends might be. However, to make short of the story, matters had grown
more unpleasant for Fred day by day, and this appeared to be the end of
it, turning him out of house and home. He was just twenty-four now. I
don't wish to imply that Fred was without faults, or that he did nothing
to provoke his uncle. He had been wild the last year or two, and tumbled
into a few scrapes; but the probability is that he would have kept
straight enough under more favourable circumstances. The discomfort at
home drove him out, and he got associating with anything but choice
company.
Making short work of my playing, I took the key back to Bumford's, and
ran home. Tod was in the dining-room with the mother, and I told them of
the meeting with Fred Westerbrook. Mrs. Todhetley seemed to know all
about it, and said Fred had been living at the Silver Bear.
"What an awful shame of old Westerbrook!" broke out Tod. "To turn a
fellow away from his home!"
"I am afraid there are faults on both sides," sighed Mrs. Todhetley, in
her gentle way. "Fred has not borne a good character of late."
"And who could expect him to bear a good one?" fired Tod. "If I were
turned out like a dog, should I care what I did? No! Old Westerbrook and
that precious wife of his ought to be kicked. As to Gisby, the sneak,
hanging would be too good for him."
"Don't, Joseph."
"_Don't!_" retorted Tod. "But I do. They deserve all the abuse that can
be given them. I can see her game. She wants Westerbrook to leave the
property to her: that's the beginning and the end of it; and to cut off
poor Fred with a shilling."
"Of course we are all sorry for Fred, Joseph," resumed the mother. "Very
sorry. I know I am. But he need not do reckless things, and lose his
good name."
"Bother his good name!" cried Tod. "Look at their interference about
Edna Blake. That news came out when we were at home at Midsummer. Edna
is as good as they are."
"It is a hopeless case, I fear, Joseph. Discarded by his uncle, all his
prospects are at an end. He has been all on the wrong track lately, and
done many a sad thing."
"I don't care what he has done. He has been driven to it. And I'll stand
up for him through thick and thin."
Tod flung out of the room with the last words. It was just like him,
putting himself into a way for nothing. It was like somebody else
too--his father. I began telling Mrs. Todhetley of the chants and hymns
I had thought of, asking her if they would do.
"None could be better, Johnny. And I only wish you might play for us
always."
A fine commotion arose next morning. We were at breakfast, when Thomas
came in to say old Jones, the constable, wanted to see the Squire
immediately. Old Jones was bade to enter; he appeared all on the shake,
and his face as white as a sheet. There had been murder done in the
night, he said. Master Fred Westerbrook had shot Gisby: and he had come
to get a warrant signed for Fred's apprehension.
"Goodness bless me!" cried the Squire, dropping his knife and fork, and
turning to face old Jones. "How on earth did it happen?"
"Well, your worship, 'twere a poaching affray," returned Jones. "Gisby
the bailiff have had his suspicions o' the game, and he went out last
night with a man or two, and met the fellows in the open field on this
side the copse. There they was, in the bright moonlight, as bold as
brass, with a bag o' game, Master Fred Westerbrook the foremost on 'em.
A fight ensued--Gisby don't want for pluck, he don't, though he be
undersized, and he attacked 'em. Master Fred up with his gun and shot
him."
"Is Gisby dead?"
"No, sir; but he's a-dying."
"What a fool that Fred Westerbrook must be!" stormed the Squire. "And
I declare I liked the young fellow amazingly! It was only last night,
Jones, that we were talking of him here, taking his part against his
uncle."
"He haven't been after much good, Squire, since he went to live at that
there Silver Bear. Not but what the inn's as respectable----"
"Respectable!--I should like to know where you would find a more
respectable inn, or one better conducted?" put in Tod, with scant
ceremony. "What do you mean, old Jones? A gentleman can take up his
abode at the Silver Bear, and not be ashamed of it."
"I have nothing to say again' it, sir; nor against Rimmer neither. It
warn't the inn I was reflecting on, but on Master Fred himself."
"Anyway, I don't believe this tale, Jones."
"Not believe it!" returned Jones, aghast at the bold assertion. "Why,
young Mr. Todhetley, the whole parish is a-ringing with it. There's
Gisby a-dying at Shepherd's--which was the place he were carried to,
being the nearest; and Shepherd himself saw young Mr. Fred fire off the
gun."
"What became of the rascally poachers?" asked the Squire. "Who were
they?"
"They got clean off, sir, every one on 'em. And they couldn't be
recognized; they had blackened their faces. Master Fred was the only one
who had not disguised hisself, which was just like his boldness. They
left the game behind 'em, your worship: a nice lot o' pheasants and
partridges. Pheasants too, the miscreants!--and October not in."
There was not much more breakfast for us. Tod rushed off, and I after
him. As Jones had said, the whole parish was ringing with the news,
and we found people standing about in groups to talk. The particulars
appeared to be as old Jones had related. Gisby, taking Shepherd--who was
herdsman on the N. D. Farm--with him, and another man named Ford, had
gone out to watch for poachers; had met half-a-dozen of them, including
Fred Westerbrook, and Fred had shot Gisby.
The Silver Bear stood in the middle of Church Dykely, next door to
Perkins the butcher's. It was kept by Henry Rimmer. We made for it,
wondering whether Rimmer could tell us anything. He was in the tap-room,
polishing the taps.
"Oh, it's true enough, young gentlemen!" he said, as we burst in upon
him with questions. "And a dreadful thing it is. One can't help pitying
young Mr. Westerbrook."
"Look here, Rimmer: do you believe he did it?"
"Why, in course he did, Master Johnny. There was no difficulty in
knowing him: he was the only one of 'em not disguised. Shepherd says the
night was as light as day. Gisby and him and Ford all saw young Mr.
Westerbrook, and knew him as soon as the lot came in sight."
"Was he at home here last evening?" asked Tod.
"He was at home here, sir, till after supper. He had been out in the
afternoon, and came in to his tea between five and six. Then he stayed
in till supper-time, and went out afterwards."
"Did he come in later?"
"No, never," replied Rimmer, lowering his voice, as a man sometimes does
when speaking very seriously. "He never came in again."
"They say Gisby can't recover. Is that true, or not?"
"It is thought he'll not live through the day, sir."
"And where can Westerbrook be hiding himself?"
"He's safe inside the hut of one or other of the poachers, I should
say," nodded the landlord. "Not that that would be safe for him, or for
them, if it could be found out who the villains were. I think I could
give a guess at two or three of them."
"So could I," said Tod. "Dick Standish was one, I know. And Jelf
another. Of course, their haunts will be searched. Don't you think,
Rimmer, Mr. Fred Westerbrook would rather make off, than run the risk of
concealing himself in any one of them?"
Rimmer shook his head. "I don't know about that, sir. He might not be
able to make off. It's thought he was wounded."
"Wounded!"
"Gisby fired his own gun in the act of falling, and Shepherd thinks the
charge hit young Mr. Westerbrook. The poachers were running off then,
and Shepherd saw them halt in a kind of heap like, and he is positive
that the one on the ground was Mr. Westerbrook. For that reason, sir, I
should say the chances are he is somewhere in the neighbourhood."