_A STORM._
There's somewhat in this world amiss,
Shall be unriddled by and by.
The sultry afternoon was closed by a stormy evening. As Arthur and
Adèle sat together in the library--for Mrs. Churchill, who was herself
at a large dinner-party, had been graciously pleased to leave them
alone together in this coziest corner of the comfortable house--the
clouds began to gather and a moaning, sighing wind to sweep up the
street.
"There is going to be a storm," said Adèle with a little shiver; "close
the curtains, like a good old fellow, and come to tea."
"Don't you like storms, Adèle? I thought you were so brave."
"Sometimes, but not to-night."
She rose from her seat at the table and stood by his side, leaning her
hand on his shoulder and her little rounded chin on her hand.
"How the clouds are driven about, and how wild they look! Oh come away,
Arthur. I am so glad I am not alone!"
"Why, my little cousin? Is lightning more dangerous in solitude?"
"Everything _seems_ more dangerous when one is alone; but you don't
understand me, Arthur. I never feel as if a storm were dangerous. It's
not fear, but a kind of feeling rather difficult to explain, as though
bad things were about and near us."
"Witches on broomsticks and malignant fairies," suggested Arthur.
Adèle laughed: "Not exactly. I lost my faith in them a few years ago;
indeed, by the bye, I never believed in them. My fairies were always
pretty and good. This storm makes me think of wicked people more than
wicked spirits. There! look! That yellow, sinister-looking flash
brought before me as distinctly as if I had seen him at the moment the
face of Margaret Grey's tormentor, the tall dark man who smiled in at
the window so insolently. Oh, I do hope and trust I shall never meet
him anywhere!"
"How funny!" said Arthur lightly: "the storm made me also think of some
one connected with Mrs. Grey. That horrid old landlady's face came in
a most contorted manner before my mind. I fear that woman is no better
than she ought to be; however," he drew out his watch, "if Martha has
followed out my directions she ought to be at the cottage now. Let me
see: the train is due in York at half-past four, by six she should be
at Middlethorpe Station, then a two hours' drive. I hope it is all
right, but I can't help wishing I had got the old woman to start last
night."
"What are you afraid of, dear?" said Adèle nervously.
Arthur laughed, but there was something forced in his mirth: "We'll
draw the curtains, Adèle. You have infected me with your fancies. I
really feel as if something uncanny were abroad to-night." They sat
down together to the tea-table luxuriously spread with rich plate and
china. There were no hot fumes of gas to poison the atmosphere, but a
silver reading-lamp cast its warm light upon the table, leaving the
heavy crimson curtains in their long folds, the tall stately bookcases
and the oaken cabinet in shadow. It was a pleasant room, restful to the
senses. Adèle looked round her. "How comfortable we are here to-night,
Arthur! and," as a sullen crash of thunder and the splash of falling
rain came from outside, "how desolate it must be out there! Oh, Arthur,
why can't every one be as happy and comfortable as we are?"
For the sound of the tempest had brought the eternal shadow that lurks
in the background of every human joy to the young girl's soul, and she
was ready to reproach herself for her own exuberant gladness.
"It's much better not to think of it at all," said Arthur lightly--"at
least not to disturb one's self;" and then he added more gravely, "I
think if we each do our best to lessen the amount of human suffering,
we may safely enjoy our own happiness."
"And you are doing yours," said Adèle, looking admiringly at the young
face ennobled by its transient gravity; "if you succeed in bringing
back happiness to that _one_ life, it will be something to have lived
for."
"If I succeed!" Arthur sighed; some of the rebellious thoughts of the
preceding evening were troubling him once more. He rose and paced the
room. "I feel so restless, Adèle," he said in explanation. "When this
storm has cleared off a little I shall go out for a stroll."
Was there a reason for his restlessness? Had some electric current,
flashing through the troubled air, notified him of the terrible scene
that was being enacted under the storm-sounds in the distant little
village, where the woman to whom the first love of his boyhood had
been given was, as he fondly believed, resting calmly in her dwelling,
cheered by the hope and confidence he had brought her?
Who can tell? for life has many chords, and Nature has agents infinite
and varied to work her strange will, and humanity is a complex thing
that no philosopher has yet been able to resolve into all its component
parts. Matter he may hold, but mind defies him, and these strange
coincidences, these half-revelations, are all of the impalpable spirit,
humanity's crown and power.
It will be remembered that in the course of the last conversation
between Margaret Grey and her young protector he had expressed in very
strong terms his distrust of her landlady, and had even hinted some
suspicion of her false dealing in the information she had given about
the lost child.
That conversation had been overheard by Jane Rodgers. Something of this
she had suspected, and with ear applied to the keyhole she had been
listening to every syllable of the conversation. Much of it had been
inexplicable. It required the disclosures of the morning, which had
been given on the sea-shore utterly out of reach of her ears, to give
any meaning to much that passed between Mrs. Grey and her visitor; but
this one thing clung to Jane's mind with a sullen persistency. The
young man had seen through her--her lodger distrusted her.
Jane was conscious of this: that she had been guilty of double-dealing,
that she had received a bribe for carrying out a certain purpose,
that she had given the cunning of a clever brain to helping forward
the commission of what she knew to be a crime. And this she had done,
not for the money's sake, though Jane was fond of gold, but for
the gratification of a hatred which was daily strengthening in her
narrow mind. Jane had not many passions or affections; she had, as
she thought, outlived the gentler ones, she had grown hard in a hard
school; and this hatred had taken all the deeper root. It grew, in
fact, till it absorbed her, and drowned in its turbid depths every
other emotion.
She had long disliked her mistress--at first she could scarcely have
told why. Perhaps it was Mrs. Grey's peculiar beauty and grace and
the quiet dignity of her manner that made her so utterly antipathetic
to her landlady. Little natures are apt to be jealous in a wild,
unreasonable kind of way. Jane in the course of her life as a servant
had come often into close contact with beauty, wealth, happiness, but
none of these had affected her so strongly as the constant presence
of this patient lady, who, she had taught herself to believe, was
"no good," and yet whose quiet dignity and calm superiority made her
universally respected and admired.
Another element went to the forming of this deadly hatred. Her mistress
was kind and gentle, but she never descended to Jane's level. The
landlady might think as she would of her lodger's antecedents; there
remained in spite of all as immeasurable a distance between them as had
ever separated Jane Rodgers the servant from her haughtiest mistress.
It was a something that daily fretted the woman's spirit--in a great
measure, it may be, because it was incomprehensible.
Jane was no communist or republican; the barriers of rank and fashion
she could thoroughly understand. She had never bruised herself by
attempting to beat against those iron bars. "Providence," she would
piously remark to such of her equals as complained in her presence of
inequality of lots--"Providence had ordained as there should be rich
and poor, high and low, which, as far as she could see, was judicious,
for what would a servant do as a fine lady, and how could a fine lady
do for herself?"
But in the refinement that independently of circumstances and
surroundings raises one above another, Jane could not see the hand of
Providence so directly.
Mrs. Grey seemed to have no particular position in the world, few
people knew her, her clothes were often shabbier than Jane's. The
landlady believed, and probably with reason, that she could have bought
up her mistress's possessions with very little trouble. Where, then,
was the difference between them? Why was it that Jane had instinctively
stood in the presence of her lodger, and treated her (until the last
access of rage and hatred) with the same respect as she had treated
mistresses who were high in the scale of the world's honor? She could
not understand it, and it galled her proud spirit till dark, brooding
evil took full possession of her.
This it was that had prompted her strange behavior in Mrs. Grey's
absence. This it was that had caused her last and basest treachery.
Jane had not, indeed, objected to the bribe, which had been tolerably
large, but for the money's sake she would not have compromised
herself. It was against Jane's principles. That she had gone through
life tolerably clean-handed was chiefly owing to this. She had a mind
capable of looking beyond the paltry bribe to the consequences involved
in its reception. Anxiety of mind, care, terror of discovery,--she
was given to comparing the relative value of these with that of the
gold which would buy her concurrence in some underhand scheme, and
generally the decision was against the gold. But this time the danger
of discovery was not great and the service rendered was small, scarcely
amounting, so Jane reasoned with herself, to complicity in the deed.
The money was acceptable and the revenge was sweet.
It was very bewildering to Jane's mind and rather destructive to her
peace that as soon as ever the affair had occurred Mrs. Grey's friends
came flocking to the place. First the lawyer; but Jane was shrewd
enough to see that _he_ was not dangerous to her--rather, perhaps, to
her mistress. After him, however, came the young Arthur, a man of very
different type, and even before the overheard conversation Jane had
caught the young man watching her very closely. She knew then that
Margaret had told her troubles to a sympathizing listener, who was
ready to devote himself to her service. She had a shrewd suspicion,
too, that he would succeed in unearthing the mystery. And then her
share in the abduction of the child might very possibly come to light.
Her suspicions were confirmed by the few decided words in which Arthur
alluded to his fears for Margaret and his earnest desire that she
should choose another residence. If they had seen the white look of
fear and hatred which overspread the face of the listener, Margaret
would probably have come to a very different decision. Jane's hatred
had been great before. The penetration of the young man and the quiet
acquiescence of her lodger increased it tenfold; while joined to these
was a sudden fear lest the salutary advice should be followed, lest
Mrs. Grey should leave the house and the schemes of her young protector
be carried on wholly out of her reach.
Her fears were set at rest, but Margaret's calm answer inflamed
her once more. She read in it a quiet contempt at the bare idea of
Jane being able to inflict any kind of annoyance upon her, with the
exception of a stupid insolence.
The woman crept from the door with the spirit of evil in her heart. She
spent the next day brooding.