STORM.
A few days later, mamma and I were talking in the drawing-room, when the
door opened, and papa came in, his umbrella in his hand, and his hat on
his head, looking as white as death. He stood for a time without
speaking. We were both staring in his face, as dumb as he.
"Droqville's a villain!" he said, suddenly. "They have got that
miserable old fool's money--every guinea. I told you how it would be,
and now it has all happened!"
"What has happened?" asked mamma, still gazing at him, with a look of
terror. I was myself freezing with horror. I never saw despair so near
the verge of madness in a human face before as in papa's.
"What? We're ruined! If there's fifty pounds in the bank it's all, and
only that between us and nothing."
"My God!" exclaimed mamma, whiter than ever, and almost in a whisper.
"Your God! What are you talking about? It is you that have done it
all--filling the house with priests and Jesuits. I knew how it would be,
you fool!"
Papa was speaking with the sternness of actual fury.
"I'm not to blame--it is not my doing. Frank, for Heaven's sake, don't
speak so--you'll drive me mad! I don't know what they have done--I don't
understand it!" cried mamma, and burst into a helpless flood of tears.
"You may as well stop that crying--you can do it in the streets
by-and-by. Understand it? By Heaven, you'll understand it well enough
before long. I hope you may, as you deserve it!"
With those dreadful looks, and a voice hoarse with passion, poor papa
strode out of the room, and we heard him shut the hall-door after him
with a crash.
We were left with the vaguest ideas of the nature of our misfortune; his
agitation was so great as to assure me that an alarming calamity had
really befallen us. Mamma cried on. She was frightened by his evident
alarm, and outraged by his violence, so shocking in one usually so gay,
gentle, and serene. She went up to her room to cry there, and to declare
herself the most miserable of women. Her maid gave her sal-volatile, and
I, seeing no good or comfort in my presence, ran down to the
drawing-room. I had hardly got into the room, when whom should I see
arriving at the door in a cab, with some papers in his hand, but Mr.
Forrester, papa's principal attorney. I knew papa was out, and I was so
afraid of his attorney's going away without giving us any light on the
subject of our alarms that I ran downstairs, and told the servant to
show him into the dining-room, and on no account to let him go away. I
went into the room myself, and there awaited him. In came Mr. Forrester,
and looked surprised at finding me only.
"Oh! Mr. Forrester," I said, going quickly to him, and looking up in his
eyes, "what is this about Lady Lorrimer, and--are we quite ruined?"
"Ruined?" he repeated. "Oh, dear, not at all," and he threw a cautionary
glance towards the door, and lowered his voice a little. "Why should you
be ruined? It's only a disappointment. It has been very artfully done,
and I was only this moment at the Temple talking the will over with one
of the best men at the Bar, to whom I'm to send a brief, though I can't
see, myself, any good that is likely to come of it. Everything has been
done, you see, under the best possible advice, and all the statutes
steered clear of. Her estates were all turned into money--that is, the
reversions sold--two years ago. The whole thing is very nearly a quarter
of a million, all in money, and the will declares no trust--a simple
bequest. I haven't the slightest hope of any case on the ground of undue
influence. I daresay she was, in the meaning of the law, a perfectly
free agent; and if she was not, depend upon it we shall never find it
out."
"But does it do us any particular injury?" I inquired, not understanding
one sentence in three that he spoke.
"Why, no injury, except a disappointment. In the natural course of
things, all this, or the bulk of it, might very likely have come to you
here. But only that. It now goes elsewhere; and I fear there is not the
least chance of disturbing it."
"Then we are not ruined?" I repeated.
He looked at me, as if he were not quite sure of my meaning, and with a
smile, answered:
"You are not a bit worse off than you were a year ago. She might have
left you money, but she could take nothing from you. You have property
at Cardyllion, I think, a place called Malory, and more at Golden
Friars, and other things besides. But your country solicitors would know
all about those things."
And thus having in some measure reassured me, he took his leave, saying
he would go to papa's clubs to look for him.
I ran up to mamma, more cheerful than when I had left her. She, also,
was cheered by my report, and being comforted on the immediate subject
of her alarm, she began to think that his excitement was due to some
fresh disappointment in his electioneering projects, and her resentment
at his ill-temper increased.
This was the evening of papa's political dinner-party. A gentleman's
party strictly it was to be, and he did not choose to allow poor Aunt
Lorrimer's death to prevent it. Perhaps he was sorry now that he had not
postponed it; but it was too late to think of that. We were very near
the close of the session. The evenings were perceptibly shortening. I
remember every particular connected with that evening and night, with a
sharp precision.
Papa came in at dusk. He ran upstairs, and before dressing he came into
mamma's bedroom, where I was sitting at her bedside. He looked tired and
ill, but was comparatively tranquil now.
"Never mind, May," he said; "it will all come right, I daresay. I wish
this dinner was not to be till to-morrow. They are talking of putting me
up for Dawling. One way or other, we must not despair yet. I'll come up
and see you when they go away. We are a small party--only nine, you
know--and I don't think there are two among them who won't be of very
real use to me. If I get in, I don't despair. I have been very low
before, two or three times, and we've got up again. I don't see why we
shouldn't now, as we did before."
Judging by his looks, you would have said that papa had just got out of
a sick-bed, pale, ill, haggard. He looked at his watch; it was later
than he thought, and he went away. We heard him ring for his man, and
presently the double knocks began at the hall-door, and his party were
arriving. Mamma was not very well, and whenever she was, or fancied
herself ill, papa slept in another bed-room, adjoining hers, with a
dressing-room off it. Ours was a large house, handsomer than would
naturally have fallen to our lot; it had belonged to my grandfather,
Lord Chellwood, and when he built the new house in Blank Street settled
this upon his younger son.
Mamma and I had some dinner in her room, and some tea there also. She
had got over her first alarm. Papa's second visit had been re-assuring,
and she took it very nearly for granted that, after some harassing
delays, and possibly a good deal of worry, the danger, whatever it was,
would subside, as similar dangers had subsided before, and things would
run again in their accustomed channel.
It was a very animated party; we could hear the muffled sound of their
talking and laughing from the drawing-room, where they were now taking
their tea and coffee, and talking, as it seemed, nearly all together. At
length, however, the feast was ended, the guests departed, and papa,
according to promise, came upstairs, and, with hardly a knock at the
door, came in. Had he been drinking more than usual? I don't know. He
was in high spirits. He was excited, and looked flushed, and talked
incessantly, and laughed ever so much at what seemed to me very
indifferent jokes.
I tried to edge in a question or two about the election matters, but he
did not seem to mind, or even to hear what I said, but rattled and
laughed on in the same breathless spirits.
"I'm going to bed now," he said, suddenly. "I've ever so much to do
to-morrow, and I'm tired. I shall be glad when this thing is all ended."
Mamma called after him, "But you did not bid us good-night." The candle,
however, vanished through the second bed-room into the dressing-room,
and we heard him shut the door.
"He did not hear," said mamma; "his head is so full of his election. He
seems very well. I suppose everything will be right, after all."
So mamma and I talked on for a little; but it was high time that she
should settle to rest. I kissed her, and away I went to my own room.
There my maid, as she brushed my hair, told me all the rumours of the
servants' hall and the housekeeper's room about papa's electioneering
prospects. All promised great things, and, absurd as these visions were,
there was something cheering in listening to them. It was past twelve by
the time my maid left me.
Very shortly after I heard a step come to my door, and papa asked, "Can
I come in, dear, to say a word?"
"Oh! yes; certainly, papa," I answered, a little curious.
"I won't sit down," he said, looking round the room vaguely. He laid his
candle on my table; he had a small box in his hand, in which mamma had
told me he kept little lozenges of opium, his use of which had lately
given her a great deal of secret uneasiness. "I have found it all out.
It was that villain Droqville who did it all. He has brought us very
low--broken my heart, my poor child!" He heaved a great sigh. "If that
woman had never lived, if we had never heard of her, I should not have
been so improvident. But that's all over. You must read your Bible,
Ethel; it is a good book; there's something in it--something in it. That
governess, Miss Grey, was a good woman. I say you are young; you are not
spoiled yet. You must read a little bit every night, or I'll come and
scold you. Do you mind? You look very well, Ethel. You must not let your
spirits down--your courage. I wish it was morning. All in good time. Get
to sleep, darling. Good night--good-bye." He kissed me on the cheek and
departed.
I was soon fast asleep. I think the occurrences of the earlier part of
the day had made me nervous. I awoke with a start, and a vague
consciousness of having been in the midst of an unpleasant dream. I
thought I heard mamma call me. I jumped out of bed, threw my
dressing-gown about me, and, with bare feet, walked along the lobby, now
quite dark, towards mamma's door. When I got almost to it I suddenly
recollected that I could not have heard mamma's voice in my room from
hers. In total darkness, solitude, and silence, I experienced the sort
of chill which accompanies the discovery of such an illusion. I was just
turning about, to make a hasty retreat to my own room, when I did hear
mamma's voice. I heard her call papa's name, and then there was a
silence. I changed my mind. I went on, and tapped at her door. Rather
nervously she asked, "Who's there?" and on hearing me answer, told me to
come in. There was only the night-light she usually had burning in her
room. She was sitting up in her bed, and told me she had been startled
by seeing papa looking in at the door (she nodded toward the one that
opened to his bedroom). The night-light was placed on a little table
close beside it.
"And oh! my dear Ethel, he looked so horribly ill I was frightened; I
hardly knew him, and I called to him, but he only said, 'That's enough,'
and drew back, and shut the door. He looked so ill, that I should have
followed him in, but I found the door locked, and I heard him shut the
door of his dressing-room. Do you think he is ill?"
"Oh! no, mamma; if he had been ill he'd have told you so; I'm sure it
was the miserable light in this room--everything looks so strange in
it." And so with a few words more we bid good-night once again; and,
having seen her reclining with her head on her pillow, I made my way
back again to my own room.
I felt very uncomfortable; the few words mamma had said presented an
image that somehow was mysterious and ill-omened. I held my door open,
and listened with my head stretched into the dark. Papa's dressing-room
door was nearly opposite. I was re-assured by hearing his step on the
floor; then I heard something move; I closed my door once more, and got
into bed.
The laws of acoustics are, I believe, well ascertained; and, of course,
they never vary. But their action, I confess, has often puzzled me.
In the house where I now write, there are two rooms separated only by a
narrow passage, in one of which, under a surgical operation, three
dreadful shrieks were uttered, not one of which was, even faintly, heard
in the other room, where two near and loving relations awaited the
result in the silence and agony of suspense. In the same way, but not so
strikingly, because the interposing space is considerably greater, no
sound was ever heard in mamma's room, from papa's dressing-room, when
the doors were shut. But from my door, when the rest of the house was
silent, you could very distinctly hear a heavy step, or any other noise,
in that room.
My visit to mamma's room had, as nurses say, "put my sleep astray," and
I lay awake until I began to despair of going to sleep again till
morning. From my meditations in the dead silence, I was suddenly
startled by a sound like the clapping of the dressing-room door with one
violent clang. I jumped up again; I thought I should hear papa's step
running down the stairs, and all my wild misgivings returned. I put my
head out of the door, and listened. I heard no step--nothing stirring.
Once more in my dressing-gown I stole out; his candle was still burning,
for I saw a ray of light slanting towards the lobby floor from the
keyhole of his room, with the motes quivering in it. It pointed like a
wand to something white that lay upon the ground. I remembered that this
was the open leaf of the old Bible--too much neglected book, alas! in
our house--that had fallen from its little shelf on the lobby, and which
I had been specially moved to replace as I passed it an hour or two
before, seeing, in my superstitious mood, omens in all things. Hurried
on, however, by mamma's voice calling me, I had not carried out my
intention.
"Dislodged from your place, you may be," I now thought, as I stooped to
take the book in my hand; "but never to be trampled on!"
I was interrupted by a voice, a groan, I thought from inside the
dressing-room.
I was not quite certain; staring breathlessly at the door, I listened;
no sound followed. I stepped to the door and knocked. No answer came.
With my lips close to the door, and my hand upon the handle, I called,
"Papa, papa, papa!" I was frightened; I pushed open the door, and
hesitated. I called again, "Papa--answer, answer! Are you there, papa?"
I was calling upon silence. With a little effort I stepped in.
The candle was burning on the table; there was a film of blue smoke
hovering in the air--a faint smell of burning. I saw papa lying on the
floor; he appeared to have dropped from the arm-chair, and to have
fallen over on his back; a pistol lay by his half-open hand; the side of
his face looked black and torn, as if a thunderbolt had scorched him,
and a stream of blood seemed throbbing from his ear.
The smell of powder, the smoke, the pistol on the ground, told what had
happened. Freezing with terror, I screamed the words, "Papa, papa! O
God! speak! He's killed!" I was on my knees beside him; he was not quite
dead. His eyes were fixed in the earnest stare of the last look, and
there was a faint movement of the mouth, as if he were trying to speak.
It was only for a few seconds. Then all motion ceased--his jaw fell--he
was dead.
I staggered back against the wall, uttering a frightful scream.
Under excitement so tremendous as mine, people, I think, are more than
half spiritualized. We seem to find ourselves translated from place to
place by thought rather than effort.
It seemed to me only a second after I had left that frightful room, that
I stood beside Miss Pounden's bed upstairs. She slept with not only her
shutters, but the window open. It was so perfectly silent, the street as
well as the house, that through the wall from the nursery next door I
could faintly hear a little baby crying. The moonlight shone dazzlingly
on the white curtains of Miss Pounden's bed. I shook her by the
shoulder, and called her. She started up, and I remember the odd effect
of her wide open eyes, lighted by the white reflection, and staring
from the shadow at me with a horror that she caught from my looks.
"Merciful Heaven! Miss Ware--my dear child--why are you here?--what is
it?"
"Come with me; we must get help. Papa is dreadfully hurt in the
dressing-room. Mamma knows nothing of it; don't say a word as you pass
her door."
Together we went down, steadily drawing towards the awful room, from
which we saw, at the end of the dark passage, the faint flush of the
candle fall on the carpet.
When I told Miss Pounden what had happened, nothing would induce her to
come with me beyond the lobby. I had to go into the room alone; I had to
look in to be sure that he was actually dead. Oh! it was appalling,
incredible. I, Ethel Ware, looking at my handsome, gay, good-natured
father, killed by his own hands, the smoke of the fatal shot not yet
quite cleared away! Why was there no pitying angel near to call me but a
minute earlier? My tap at the door would have arrested his hand, and the
moment of temptation would have passed harmlessly by. All too late--for
time and eternity all is irretrievable now. One glance was sufficient. I
could not breathe; I could not, for some dreadful moments, withdraw my
eyes. With a faint cry, I stepped backward. I was trembling violently as
I asked Miss Pounden to send any one of the servants for Sir Jacob Lake,
and to tell whoever was going not to leave his house without him.
I waited in the drawing-room while she went down, and I heard her call
to the servants over the stairs. The message was soon arranged, and the
messenger gone. I had not cried all this time; I continued walking
quickly about the drawing-room, with my hands clenched together, talking
wildly to myself and to God. When Miss Pounden returned, I implored of
her not to leave me.
"Come up to my room; we'll wait there till Sir Jacob Lake comes. Mamma
must not know it, except as he advises. If she learned it too suddenly,
she would lose her mind."