DOWN AT MARSHDALE.
It was Thursday morning, the day on which Blanche Level was to travel
to Marshdale. She sat in her dining-room at Gloucester Place, her
fingers busy over some delicate fancy-work, her thoughts divided
between the sad interview she had held with Tom Heriot the previous
night, and the forthcoming interview with her husband; whilst her
attention was partially given to old Mrs. Guy, who sat in an
easy-chair by the fire, a thick plaid shawl on her shoulders and her
feet on the fender, recounting the history of an extraordinary pain
which had attacked her in the night. But as Mrs. Guy rarely passed a
night without experiencing some extraordinary pain or other, Blanche
listened absently.
"It is the heart, my dear; I am becoming sure of that," said the old
lady. "Last year, if you remember, the physician put it down to
spleen; but when I go to him tomorrow and tell him of this dreadful
oppression, he will change his opinion."
"Don't you think you keep yourself too warm?" said Blanche, who looked
so cool and fresh in her pretty morning dress. "That shawl is heavy,
and the fire is warm; yet it is still quite summer weather."
"Ah, child, you young people call it summer weather all the year round
if the sun only shines. When you get to be my age, Blanche, you will
know what cold means. I dare say you'll go flying off to Marshdale
this afternoon in that gossamer dress you have on, or one as thin and
flowing."
"No, I shan't," laughed Blanche; "it would be tumbled and spoilt by
the time I got there. I shall go in that pretty new gray cashmere,
trimmed with silk brocade."
"That's a lovely dress, child; too good to travel in. And you tell me
you will be back to-morrow. I don't think that very likely, my
dear----"
"But I intend to be," interrupted Blanche.
"You will see," nodded the old lady. "When your husband gets you
there, he will keep you there. Give my love to him, Blanche, and say I
hope he will be in town before I go back to Jersey. I should like to
see him."
Blanche was not paying particular attention to this message. Her
attention was attracted by a telegraph boy, who seemed to be
approaching the door. The next moment there was a loud knock, which
made Mrs. Guy start. Blanche explained that it was a telegram.
"Oh, dear," cried the old lady. "I don't like telegrams; they always
give me a turn. Perhaps it's come from Jersey to say my house is
burned down."
The telegram, however, had come from Marshdale. It was addressed to
Lady Level, and proved to be from her husband.
"_Do not come to Marshdale to-day. Put it off until next week.
I am writing to you. Wait for letter. Let Charles know._"
Now my Lady Level, staring at the message, and being in chronic
resentment against her husband, all sorts of unorthodox suspicions
rife within her, put the worst possible construction upon this
mandate.
"I _knew_ how much he would have me at Marshdale!" she exclaimed in
anger, as she tossed the telegram on the table. "'Don't come down till
next week! Wait for letter!' Yes, and next week there'll come another
message, telling me I am not to go at all, or that he will be back
here. It _is_ a shame!"
"But what is it?" cried old Mrs. Guy, who did not understand, and knew
nothing of any misunderstanding between Blanche and her husband. "Not
to go, you say? Is his lordship ill?"
"Oh, of course; very ill, indeed," returned Blanche, suppressing the
scorn she felt.
Putting the telegram into an envelope, she addressed it to me, called
Sanders, and bade him take it at once to my office. He did so. But I
had also received one to the same effect from Lord Level, who, I
suppose, concluded it best to send to me direct. Telling Sanders I
would call on Lady Level that evening, I thought no more about the
matter, and was glad, rather than otherwise, that the journey to
Marshdale was delayed. This chapter, however, has to do with Blanche,
and not with me.
Now, whether the step that Lady Level took had its rise in an innocent
remark made by Mrs. Guy, or whether it was the result of her own
indignant feeling, cannot be told. "My dear," said the old lady, "if
my husband were ill, I should go to him all the more." And that was
just what Blanche Level resolved to do.
The previous arrangement had been that she should drive to my office,
to save me time, pick me up, and so onwards to Victoria Station, to
take the four o'clock train, which would land us at Marshdale in an
hour.
"My dear, I thought I understood that you were not going to Marshdale;
that the telegram stopped you," said Mrs. Guy, hearing Blanche give
orders for the carriage to be at the door at a quarter past three to
convey her to Victoria, and perceiving also that she was making
preparations for a journey.
"But I intend to go all the same," replied Blanche. "And look here,
dear Mrs. Guy, Charles has sent me word that he will call here this
evening. When he comes, please give him this little note. You won't
forget?"
"Not I, child. Major Carlen is always telling me I am silly; but I'm
not silly enough to forget messages."
The barouche waited at the door at the appointed time, and Lady Level
was driven to Victoria, where she took train for Marshdale. Five
o'clock was striking out from Lower Marshdale Church when she arrived
at Marshdale Station.
"Get out here, miss?" asked the porter, who saw Lady Level trying to
open the door.
"Yes."
"Any luggage?"
"Only this bag," replied Lady Level.
The man took charge of it, and she alighted. Traversing the little
roadside station, she looked to where the fly generally stood; but no
fly was there. The station-master waited for her ticket.
"Is the fly not here?" she inquired.
"Seems not," answered the master indifferently. But as he spoke he
recognised Lady Level.
"I beg your pardon, my lady. The fly went off with some passengers who
alighted from the last up-train; it's not back yet."
"Will it be long, do you know?"
"Well--I---- James," he called to the porter, "where did the fly go
to?"
"Over to Dimsdale," replied the man.
"Then it won't be back for half an hour yet, my lady," said the
station-master to Lady Level.
"Oh, I can't wait all that time," she returned, rather impatiently. "I
will walk. Will you be good enough to send my bag after me?"
"I'll send it directly, my lady."
She was stepping from the little platform when a thought struck her,
and she turned to ask a question of the station-master. "Is it safe to
cross the fields now? I remember it was said not to be so when I was
here last."
"On account of Farmer Piggot's bull," replied he. "The fields are
quite safe now, my lady; the bull has been taken away."
Lady Level passed in at the little gate, which stood a few yards down
the road, and was the entrance to the field-way which led to
Marshdale House. It was a warm evening, calm and sunny; not a leaf
stirred; all nature seemed at rest.
"What will Archibald say to me?" she wondered, her thoughts busy. "He
will fly into a passion, perhaps. I can't help it if he does. I am
determined now to find out why I am kept away from Marshdale and why
he is for ever coming to it. This underhand work has been going on too
long."
At this moment, a whistle behind her, loud and shrill, caused her to
turn. She was then crossing the first field. In the distance she
espied a boy striding towards her: and soon recognised him for the
surly boy, Sam Doughty. He carried her bag, and vouchsafed her a short
nod as he came up.
"How are you, Sam?" she asked pleasantly.
"Didn't think about its being you," was Sam's imperturbable answer, as
he walked on beside her. "When they disturbs me at my tea and says I
must go right off that there same moment with a passenger's bag for
Marshdale House, I took it to be my lord's at least."
"Did they not let you finish your tea?" said Lady Level with a smile.
"Catch 'em," retorted Sam, in a tone of resentment. "Catch 'em a
letting me stop for a bite or a sup when there's work to do; no, not
if I was starving for 't. The master, he's a regular stinger for being
down upon a fellow's work, and t'other's a----I say," broke off Mr.
Sam, "did you ever know a rat?--one what keeps ferreting his nose into
everything as don't concern him? Then you've knowed James Runn."
"James Runn is the porter, I suppose?" said Lady Level, much amused.
"Well, he is, and the biggest sneak as ever growed. What did he go and
do last week? We had a lot o' passengers to get off by the down train
to Dover, the people from the Grange it were, and a sight o' trunks.
I'd been helping to stow the things in the luggage-van, and the
footman, as he was getting into his second-class carriage, holds out a
shilling, open handed. I'd got my fingers upon it, I had, when that
there James Runn, that rascally porter, clutches hold of it and says
it were meant for him, not for me. I wish he was gone, I do!"
"The bull is gone, I hear," remarked Lady Level.
"Oh, he have been gone this long time from here," replied the boy,
shifting the bag from one shoulder to the other. "He took to run at
folks reg'lar, he did; such fun it were to hear 'em squawk! One old
woman in a red shawl he took and tossed. Mr. Drewitt up at the House
interfered then, and told Farmer Piggot the bull must be moved; so the
farmer put him over yonder on t'other side his farm into the two-acre
meadow, which haven't got no right o' way through it. I wish he had
tossed that there James Runn first and done for him!" deliberately
avowed Sam, again shifting his burden.
"You appear to find that bag heavy," remarked Lady Level.
"It's not that heavy, so to say," acknowledged the surly boy; "it's
that I be famishing for my tea. Oh, that there Runn's vicious, he
is!--a sending me off when I'd hardly took a mouthful!"
"Well, I could not carry it myself," she said laughingly.
"_He_ might ha' brought it; he had swallowed down his own tea, he had.
It's not so much he does--just rushes up to the doors o' the trains
when they comes in, on the look out for what may be give to him,
making believe he's letting folks in and out o' the carriages. I see
my lord give him a shilling t'other day; that I did."
"When my lord arrived here, do you mean?"
"No, 'twarn't that day, 'twere another. My lord comes on to the
station asking about a parcel he were expecting of. Mr. Noakes, he
were gone to his dinner, and that there Runn answered my lord that he
had just took the parcel to Marshdale House and left it with Mr. Snow.
Upon which my lord puts his hand in his pocket and gives him a
shilling. I see it."
Lady Level laughed. It was impossible to help it. Sam's tone was so
intensely wrathful.
"Do you see much of Lord Level?" she asked.
"I've not see'd him about for some days. It's said he's ill."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Don't know," said Sam. "It were Dr. Hill's young man, Mitcham, I
heard say it. Mother sent me last night to Dr. Hill's for her physic,
and Mr. Mitcham he said he had not been told naught about her physic,
but he'd ask the doctor when he came back from attending upon my Lord
Level."
"Is your mother ill?" inquired Sam's listener.
"She be that bad, she be, as to be more fit to be a-bed nor up,"
replied the boy: and his voice really took a softer tone as he spoke
of his mother. "It were twins this last time, you see, and there's
such a lot to do for 'em all, mother can't spare a minute in the day
to lie by: and father's wages don't go so fur as they did when there
was less mouths at home."
"How many brothers and sisters have you?"
"Five," said Sam, "not counting the twins, which makes seven. I be the
eldest, and I makes eight. And, if ever I does get a shilling or a
sixpence gived me, I takes it right home to mother. I wish them there
two twins had kept away," continued Sam spitefully; "mother had her
hands full without them. Squalling things they both be."
Thus, listening to the boy's confidences, Lady Level came to the
little green gate which opened to the side of the garden at Marshdale
House. Sam carried the bag to the front door. No one was to be seen.
All things, indoors and out, seemed intensely quiet.
"You can put it down here, Sam," said Lady Level, producing
half-a-crown. "Will you give this to your mother if I give it to you?"
"I always gives her everything as is gived to me," returned Sam
resentfully. "I telled ye so."
Slipping it into his pocket, the boy set off again across the fields.
Lady Level rang the bell gently. Somehow she was not feeling so well
satisfied with herself for having come as she felt when she started.
Deborah opened the door.
"Oh, my lady!" she exclaimed in surprise, but speaking in a whisper.
"My bag is outside," said Lady Level, walking forward to the first
sitting-room, the door of which stood open. Mrs. Edwards met her.
"Dear, dear!" exclaimed the old lady, lifting her hands. "Then Snow
never sent those messages off properly after all! My lady, I am sorry
you should have come."
"I thought I was expected, Mrs. Edwards, and Mr. Strange with me,"
returned Blanche coldly.
"True, my lady, so you were; but a telegram was sent off this morning
to stop you. Two telegrams went, one to your ladyship and one to Mr.
Strange. It was I gave the order from my lord to Snow, and I thought I
might as well send one also to Mr. Strange, though his lordship said
nothing about it."
"But why was I stopped?" questioned Blanche.
"On account of my lord's increased illness," replied Mrs. Edwards. "He
grew much worse in the night; and when Mr. Hill saw how it was with
him this morning, he said your ladyship's visit must be put off. Mr.
Hill is with him now."
"Of what nature is his illness?"
"My lady, he has not been very well since he came down. When he got
here we remarked that he seemed low-spirited. In a few days he began
to be feverish, and asked me to get him some lemonade made. Quarts of
it he drank: cook protested there'd be a failure of lemons in the
village. 'It is last year's fever back again,' said his lordship to
me, speaking in jest. But, strange to say, he might as well have
spoken in earnest, for it turns out to be the same sort of fever
precisely."
"Is he very ill?"
"He is very ill indeed to-day," answered Mrs. Edwards. "Until this
morning it was thought to be a light attack, no danger attending it,
nor any symptom of delirium. But that has all changed, and this
afternoon he is slightly delirious."
"Is there--danger?" cried Blanche.
"Mr. Hill says not, my lady. Not yet, at all events. But--here he is,"
broke off Mrs. Edwards, as the doctor's step was heard. "He will be
able to explain more of the illness to your ladyship than I can."
She left the room as Mr. Hill entered it. The same cheerful, hearty
man that Blanche had known last year, with a fine brow and benevolent
countenance. Blanche shook hands with him, and he sat down near her.
"So you did not get the telegram," he began, after greeting her.
"I did get it," answered Blanche, feeling rather ashamed to be obliged
to confess it. "But I--I was ready, and I thought I would come all the
same."
"It is a pity," said Mr. Hill. "You must not let your husband see you.
Indeed, the best thing you can do will be to go back again."
"But why?" asked Blanche, turning obstinate. "What have I done to him
that he may not see me?"
"You don't understand, child," said the surgeon, speaking in his
fatherly way. "His lordship is in a critical state, the disease having
manifested itself with alarming rapidity. If he can be kept perfectly
calm and still, its progress may be arrested and danger averted. If
not, it will assuredly turn to brain-fever and must run its course.
Anything likely to rouse him in the smallest degree, no matter
whether it be pleasure or pain, must be absolutely kept from him. Only
the sight of you might bring on an excitement that might be--well, I
was going to say fatal. That is why I suggested to his lordship to
send off the telegram."
"You knew I was coming down, then?" said Blanche.
"My dear, I did know; and---- But, bless me, I ought to apologize to
your ladyship for my familiarity of speech," broke off the kindly
doctor, with a smile.
Blanche answered by smiling too, and putting her hand into his.
"I lost a daughter when she was about your age, my dear; you put me in
mind of her; I said so to Mrs. Edwards when you were here last autumn.
She was my only child, and my wife was already gone. Well, well! But
that's beside the present question," he added briskly. "Will you go
back to town, Lady Level?"
"I would rather remain, now I am here," she answered. "At least, for a
day or two. I will take care not to show myself to Lord Level."
"Very well," said the doctor, rising. "Do not let him either hear you
or see you. I shall be in again at nine to-night."
"Who is nursing him?" asked Blanche.
"Mrs. Edwards. She is the best nurse in the world. Snow, the head
gardener, helps occasionally; he will watch by him to-night; and
Deborah fetches and carries."
Lady Level took contrition to herself as she sat alone. She had been
mentally accusing her husband of all sorts of things, whilst he was
really lying in peril of his life. Matters and mysteries pertaining to
Marshdale were not cleared up; but--Blanche could not discern any
particular mystery to wage war with just now.
Tea was served to her, and Blanche would not allow them to think of
dinner. Mrs. Edwards had a room prepared for her in a different
corridor from Lord Level's, so that he would not be in danger of
hearing her voice or footsteps.
Very lonely felt Blanche when twilight fell, as she sat at the window.
She thought she had never seen trees look so melancholy before, and
she recalled what Charles Strange had always said--that the sight of
trees in the gloaming caused him to be curiously depressed. Presently,
wrapping a blue cloud about her head and shoulders, she strolled out
of doors.
It was nearly dark now, and the overhanging trees made it darker.
Blanche strolled to the front gate and looked up and down the road.
Not a soul was about; not a sound broke the stillness. The house
behind her was gloomy enough; no light to be seen save the faint one
that burnt in Lord Level's chamber, whose windows faced this way; or a
flash that now and then appeared in the passages from a lamp carried
by someone moving about.
Blanche walked up and down, now in this path, now in that, now sitting
on a bench to think, under the dark trees. By-and-by, she heard the
front door open and someone come down the path, cross to the side
path, unlock the small door that led into the garden of the East Wing
and enter it. By the very faint light remaining, she thought she
recognised John Snow, the gardener.
She distinctly heard his footsteps pass up the other garden; she
distinctly heard the front door of the East Wing open to admit him,
and close again. Prompted by idle curiosity, Blanche also approached
the little door in the wall, found it shut, but not locked, opened it,
went in, advanced to where she had full view of the wing, and stood
gazing up at it. Like the other part of the house, it loomed out dark
and gloomy: the upper windows appeared to have outer bars before them;
at least, Blanche thought so. Only in one room was there any light.
It was in a lower room, a sitting-room, no doubt. The lamp, standing
on the centre table, was bright; the window was thrown up. Beside it
sat someone at work; crochet-work, or knitting, or tatting; something
or other done with the fingers. Mrs. Snow amusing herself, thought
Blanche at first; but in a moment she saw that it was not Mrs. Snow.
The face was dark and handsome, and the black hair was adorned with
black lace. With a sensation as of some mortal agony rushing and
whirling through her veins, Lady Level recognised her. It was Nina,
the Italian.
Nina, who had been the object of her suspicious jealousy; Nina, who
was, beyond doubt, the attraction that drew her husband to Marshdale;
and who, as she fully believed, had been the one to stab him a year
ago!
Blanche crept back to her own garden. Finding instinctively the
darkest seat it contained, she sat down upon it with a faint cry of
despair.