size of an Angora cat exhibited for sale, imprisoned in a large
parrot’s cage. The captive effectually pleading for pity by licking
her hand, was purchased and taken home. After some years, the cat
was removed with his mistress to Brighton, though under protest as
to future reformation. Tom was then probably one of the largest of
his species, and universally admired. He had adopted an apparently
incurable habit of sharpening his claws on a highly polished
dining-room table; and also committed sad havoc amongst the flowers
in the garden of his new abode, spending a great portion of leisure
time luxuriously lying in the sunshine, amidst mignonette, &c. A decree
of banishment was at length unwillingly issued, and poor innocently
erring Tom forthwith departed to a country rectory, where he was much
valued. Every kindness that could conduce to his comfort was shown,
all his special tastes as to diet consulted; but the exile remained
inconsolable. He never attempted to return, not seeming to have
sufficient energy left to attempt aught in self-defence; he simply gave
himself up to despair. It was vainly hoped that time would reconcile
the mourner to his changed lot, but matters only grew worse, the cat
pining and fretting till he became the shadow of his former self.
He could not twine ‘fantastick garlands,’ or utter an altogether
‘melodious lay,’ like ‘the fair Ophelia,’ but wandered aimlessly
about the garden, eating little except green fruit and such strange
fare; dying, after a brief period, literally of a broken heart. The
chief object of this devoted love was the cook he had left behind
him. The attachment, unlike that of Shakspeare’s ill-starred heroine,
may not have been a romantic one; still, it was purely disinterested,
unwavering amidst all mere worldly temptations.
Nature is fine in love: and where ’tis fine,
It sends some precious incense of itself
After the thing it loves.
Poor faithful Tom gave the sole offering he had to give—his life. If it
be true that ‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,’ it was in the
above case proved to be a cat’s ‘whole existence.’
As an illustration of maternal devotion, the ensuing fact was
contributed by a relative. A little girl had set her heart on capturing
a wild kitten, which resolutely refused to enter human habitations,
neither would it allow any one to go near it, having thus from its
birth led a truly Bohemian life. An old gardener told the child, in
forcible language, that she might as well try to catch Lucifer himself.
Children are not easily daunted in such kindred pursuits, acting
confidently on the understanding that everything comes to those who
wait. By very slow degrees the waif was first cautiously approached,
next timidly caressed, then borne triumphantly home, and finally
installed there as a favoured guest. From having been literally in
a savage state, it soon became remarkably gentle and domesticated,
by the same principle that no rabbit grows so thoroughly tame as the
wild species. She was also, during after-years, extremely fond of her
young, several of which were reared without disaster; but upon one
occasion the cat came to her mistress in a sadly distressed state of
mind, eagerly trying to induce her to follow it. Compliance being for
the moment put off, the suppliant left in dire grief; presently coming
back carrying a dead kitten, which was laid before her friend with
bitter lamentations. This being taken away, she brought, one by one,
every member of a luckless family, none of which had seen the light.
They were then buried, the mother remaining a picture of sorrow. It
was hoped the curtain had fallen over the final scene of a domestic
tragedy; but the interment could not have been properly carried out,
for she dug them up, and again brought each successively into the
house, after which they were more effectually disposed of. A long time
elapsed before the poor creature could be consoled for their loss.
WANTED, A CLUE.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.
Another week passed by, Edith growing more and more prostrate each
day, and I was very anxious to hear from Dr Archer. At last arrived
a letter, in a hand disguised as a lady’s, on girlish light-blue
note-paper, with ‘Helen’ stamped on it. These precautions would have
made me smile, had I not known how necessary they were. All the letters
which entered the house had first to undergo Mrs Morrell’s scrutiny.
‘I am utterly baffled,’ he wrote, in a very shaky hand. ‘The experiment
from which I hoped so much has turned out an utter failure. All the
substances submitted to me have been subjected to the most minute and
delicate tests known to science, without discovering in any one of them
the slightest trace of arsenic, or any other poison. I am in despair. I
know that somehow my darling’s life is being undermined by poison, and
yet I cannot trace it. I am powerless to interfere. I have nothing but
suspicion to go upon, and dare not apply for a magistrate’s warrant. My
only hope is in you, Miss Armitage!’
I knew I was but a slender reed to trust to; and I went up-stairs to
the sickroom, feeling miserable to the last degree. Mrs Morrell was
seated by the bedside. Edith looked paler and thinner than ever. She
moaned out, when she saw me, that she was ‘so thirsty;’ and had hardly
been supplied with a cooling draught, when the racking cramps from
which she had lately suffered so terribly, came on, and she writhed
in every limb. I wiped the cold dews from her forehead, afraid at
the moment that she was dying, the attack was so terribly severe,
and seemed to exhaust her so much. By-and-by, she fell into a doze,
and Mrs Morrell went out of the room. Feeling perfectly desperate,
I commenced a thorough search through the apartment for anything
suspicious, without finding the smallest thing which could serve as a
clue. Probably I aroused the invalid, for, in returning to the bedside,
I found her staring at me with the fixed gaze of a sick person.
‘Edith, dear, tell me, have you ever seen Mrs Morrell—or anybody—put
any powder or liquid into your medicine or your food? Have you ever
noticed that it had a disagreeable taste, or a sediment at the bottom?’
‘No, never,’ she answered, with evident surprise. Her brain was clear
enough between the paroxysms. ‘Never, Alice.’
Just then, a tap sounded at the door, and purblind old Dr Stevens came
tottering in, nearly upsetting a small table, and seeming scarcely able
to hold his patient’s wrist firm in his shaky old fingers. I watched
him with the maddening feeling, that if ever two unscrupulous poisoners
had the very medical man most desirable in their case, it was these
two. Mrs Morrell came into the room, as usual during his visits, and
followed him down-stairs.
I waylaid her later on in the day and asked her what Dr Stevens had
said. She replied, that unfortunately their darling was very ill, but
while there was life there was hope. Then summoning all my nerve, I
boldly asked that I might be allowed to sit up with Edith that night.
She looked rather astonished, then, thanking me warmly for my ‘kind
offer,’ declined on the plea of not robbing me of my rest. I replied
that it was not fair that she should have all the night-nursing; but
all I got was a very decided ‘No.’
I went away convinced that the danger, whatever it was, was reserved
for the night. When the invalid was left alone with her traitorous
nurse, in some form the poison was administered.
‘Does Mrs Morrell sit beside you all night?’ I asked Edith, next time
we were alone.
‘O no. She would, if I wanted her; but I don’t like it. It fidgets me
to see her. Besides, I generally sleep pretty well the first part of
the night. She puts on her dressing-gown and lies on the bed in the
next room, ready to come if I call her.’
The mystery only seemed to grow the more inscrutable, the further I
pursued it. I went thoughtfully to my room, in search of a book I was
reading aloud to Edith, promising to return immediately. As I stooped
to lift the volume from a low shelf, the one ring I wore, which had
always been a great deal too large for me, slipped from my finger and
rolled away across the floor, to disappear underneath the hangings of
my large, old-fashioned bedstead. Much annoyed, and anxious to recover
it, for it was priceless to me as my dear mother’s engagement ring,
I went down on my hands and knees and tried to find it; but in vain.
The darkness under the massive draperies was complete, and I could see
nothing in the shadow.
I looked round for a light. But there was no gas at the Hall, and my
candlestick was carried down-stairs every morning by the housemaid, to
reappear no more until late in the evening, on the slab in the hall. I
scarcely liked to ring for it, for my position disposed me to trouble
the servants as little as possible. All at once, I recollected that the
candlesticks were never taken out of Edith’s room, and that I could
borrow one of hers. I did so, and lighted it, and setting it on the
floor, I soon found my ring.
‘How badly that candle burns, to be sure!’ I remarked to myself as I
rose to my feet. ‘The wax cannot be good.’ The light was anything but
pure, being of a peculiar reddish colour; and the flame sputtered so
much, that more than once I thought it was going out. At the same time
it gave off a fine white smoke.
I stood watching the sputtering flame for some minutes, much puzzled,
until I remembered that the invalid was alone all this time. So I
carried the candle, still burning, back to her room. To explain my
delay, I pointed out what I had noticed, saying that I thought the
servants must have substituted some inferior articles of their own for
good wax candles, either from carelessness or dishonesty.
‘The servants never meddle with my candlesticks,’ said Edith languidly.
‘They are not sent down to the kitchen; but when they want refilling,
Mrs Morrell puts fresh ones in here. She keeps them in that cupboard;
look, and you’ll see.’
I opened the cupboard for the first time—for I had never had occasion
to go to it before—and there, sure enough, were three or four wooden
boxes, which proved to be full of wax candles; thirty pounds-weight at
least. Before I closed the door again, Mrs Morrell entered the room.
I fancied that her face changed and she turned pale as she saw me
standing by the cupboard; but if so, she quickly recovered, and when I
made some remark about there being a large stock of candles, composedly
answered: ‘Yes; she found it best to keep plenty ready at hand, so as
not to have to disturb dear Edith by leaving the room to search for
lights in the middle of the night.’
I made no further remark, as something warned me it was better to say
no more; so I opened my book and began to read.
The next morning, as I was on my way to the invalid’s room about eleven
o’clock, I became aware of high voices in the hall, and came upon Mrs
Morrell and the housemaid Jane engaged in altercation. Jane, who was
generally a civil and obliging girl, was flushed with anger, whilst her
mistress was paler than usual.
‘Very well, then, ma’am, I’ll go somewhere else, where I shan’t be
called to account for every paltry little bit of candle,’ said the
housemaid as I approached.
‘You know perfectly well that it is not the candle I care about, but
the disobedience to my express orders, Jane. A month to-day you leave
my service.’
‘I’ll go to-day, ma’am; I don’t care if I do lose a month’s wages,’
returned the girl independently.
‘Very well. You need never refer to me for a character,’ said Mrs
Morrell, biting her lips, as she followed me to Edith’s room. She said
nothing to me in explanation, beyond merely stating that Jane had been
very impertinent.
I found Edith in a terribly prostrate condition, and I could see that
Dr Stevens, when he came, had very little hope. I watched Mrs Morrell
as she hung over the invalid, and wondered whether I ought not to
believe that she was the most tender, loving, and devoted of nurses;
for I really almost thought that Dr Archer might be mistaken after
all, and that her guardians were as anxious for her recovery as I was.
She herself evidently realised her danger, for she asked to have the
Bible read to her, and would insist upon pressing a valuable diamond
ring upon me as a keepsake. My gentle little friend had so won my heart
by her unvarying sweetness, that I could not restrain my tears, and
retreated to my own room, where I could give free vent to my feelings.
By-and-by, a knock came at my door, and opening it, I confronted Jane
in hat and jacket, ready for departure. ‘You’ve always treated me well,
miss, and I thought before I go I’d like to tell you why I’m turned out
like a thief, without a character, after being here three years!’ began
the girl in honest indignation. ‘Mrs Morrell’s sure to take care you
hear her story; so, if you please, you shall have mine first!’
‘But I would rather not. You know I am not my own mistress here. Mrs
Morrell might not like’——
‘Oh, but, please, miss, do listen. It’s all on account of the
candlesticks in Miss Edith’s room. You know, miss, Mrs Morrell never
lets us servants touch them—they never go down to the kitchen. But this
morning, when I went in at eight to see to the fire, I noticed that
one candle had been guttering awfully, and the wax had run down over
the sides, and made such a mess as you never saw! Mrs Morrell wasn’t
there, and Miss Edith was asleep; so I took the candlestick down with
me to clean it, meaning no harm. But I had the breakfast to get ready;
and to tell you the truth, Miss Armitage, I forgot about it. By-and-by
Mrs Morrell came down-stairs, looking reg’lar pale, and wanting to know
who took one of the candlesticks away out of Miss Edith’s room. I said
I had. Then Mrs Morrell went on at me awful, and wanted to know how I
dared do such a thing; and I was to bring it back at once. Sarah had
washed it; but when we came to look for the piece of candle that was in
it, nowhere could we find it. I suspect Sarah threw it into the fire. I
told Mrs Morrell it was only a little piece, not so long as my finger.
But if you’ll believe me, Miss Armitage, she made as much fuss over
losing that paltry bit of candle-end as some folks would over a diamond
necklace. I really didn’t think missis was so mean. I suppose my temper
got up, and when she said I was impertinent and should leave, I told
her I’d go to-day.’
‘I fear you have been foolish and hasty, Jane,’ I said reprovingly.
But she went on: ‘The queerest thing of all, Miss Armitage, is, that
when Mrs Morrell first came into the kitchen she was as white as a
sheet. I should have said she was frightened—only it seems ridiculous
that any lady could ever be afraid of losing a candle-end! I can’t
make it out at all, miss. She always is so mortally stingy with those
candles of Miss Edith’s. Do you know, is there anything about them,
miss, that makes them more valuable than other candles?’
‘Not that I am aware of.’
‘Well, really, do you know, miss, I’ve sometimes thought there must be
something odd about them,’ said Jane, turning to go. ‘I know, for one
thing, they’re not bought with the rest from the grocer at Beecham, but
come all the way from London; so perhaps that’s why Mrs Morrell sets
such store by them.—And now, miss, I’ll say good-bye.’
I gave the honest girl a little silk handkerchief as a parting gift,
and sat down to ruminate on what I had just heard. A drowning man
clutches at a straw; and in my terrible distress of mind, I was ready
to clutch at any theory, however absurd, for solving the mystery of
Edith’s illness. Jane’s casual remark about there being something
queer about the candles so lavishly burned in the sickroom, had set me
thinking whether after all there might not be something deleterious in
them, intended to act injuriously upon the invalid. It was certain they
burned very badly, as if there were some foreign substance incorporated
in them. On the other hand, I had never, in my wildest dreams, imagined
that there could be such things as poisonous candles. I had never heard
of them before. The theory seemed to me at best a very wild one; but
Edith’s life was at stake, and I was bound to do my very uttermost
to aid her. Mrs Morrell’s conduct about the candles seemed odd and
suspicious all through. The jealous watch she kept over them; her dread
of losing them; her unwillingness to let me be in Edith’s room by
candle-light—surely all these extraordinary precautions meant something.
Feeling perfectly desperate, I went back to the sickroom. Edith was
lying back on her pillows in utter exhaustion, and Mrs Morrell was
softly reading a chapter of St John’s Gospel. Seeing no other way
out of the difficulty, I said boldly: ‘Mrs Morrell, if you will go
down-stairs into the dining-room, I think Mr Foster wants to speak to
you.’
It was an untruth; but I could not afford to be too scrupulous. Mrs
Morrell disappeared. I sprang to the cupboard, and took two candles out
of a box, and at once went to hide them in my room. When the widow came
back, saying she could not find her brother anywhere—I had seen him
leave the house some time before—I apologised, and professed to have
misunderstood the message. She resumed her reading, whilst I slipped
out of the room and hastily put on my outdoor garments. I knew that in
going out without leave at such a moment, I risked losing my situation;
but I did not care; I was in no mood to stand upon etiquette.
I made my way to the village, to the cottage of a trustworthy man
who was sometimes employed to do odd jobs about the Hall. He readily
promised to take my small parcel to Dr Archer at once. Had the distance
not been three miles, I should have taken it myself.
I heard nothing from Dr Archer during the whole of the next day; and
in a perfect torment of doubt and apprehension, I waited and waited,
too agitated to eat or sleep, seeing Edith grow worse every hour,
and fearing that after all she would die before the mystery of her
illness could be solved. She was in a state of prostration fearful to
witness. Restless and miserable, I sat in the sickroom or wandered
about the house, and had the further trial of seeing that my behaviour
had at last aroused suspicion in my employers’ minds, and that a
quiet surveillance was kept upon my movements. Although I had made no
appointment, and scarcely expected to meet Dr Archer, I endeavoured to
be in the afternoon in the fir plantation which had already been the
scene of several interviews; but Mr Foster so decidedly intimated his
intention of accompanying me if I took a walk, that I abandoned the
attempt. I detected under the mask of grief so cleverly assumed by both
brother and sister, a subdued eagerness and restlessness, attributable
no doubt to anxiety as to the success of their scheme.
I felt that all was as good as lost, when, on entering the sickroom
on the second morning, I found Edith pallid and almost lifeless, and
learned that Mrs Morrell, in real or pretended alarm, had already sent
off a messenger for Dr Stevens.
Sick at heart, I sat down by the bedside, and watched the invalid,
who was too far gone to recognise me, as she usually did. There came
a tap at the door, and ‘Please, ma’am, you’re wanted,’ in the voice
of one of the maids; and the widow rose and noiselessly glided out of
the room. My ears were quickened by anxiety, and my curiosity was
intense at hearing a short sharp scream, a scuffle, and the sound of an
authoritative man’s voice on the landing outside. Edith was too languid
to notice anything; and even when the door opened again and Dr Archer
and an elderly gentleman entered the room, she never opened her eyes.
‘My darling! Have the wretches brought you to this?’ was the young
doctor’s quick exclamation; and hurrying to the window, which Mrs
Morrell had always religiously kept closed, he opened it, and a stream
of chilly but life-giving air came rushing in. The other doctor, who
was, I afterwards found, an eminent physician from London, bent over
the patient, examining her pulse and administering restoratives. I
glanced interrogatively at Dr Archer and murmured one word.
‘Those candles? Poisoned. Thoroughly impregnated with arsenic. A very
few nights more of breathing the poisoned air, and nothing could have
saved her.—I don’t know how you came to hit upon the clue so cleverly,
Miss Armitage; but I shall bless your sagacity all my life long.’
‘And Mrs Morrell and her brother?’
‘Are safely in charge of two policemen, and on their way to the
county jail. I analysed those candles at once, and then applied for
a magistrate’s warrant, telegraphing to Dr Weston to meet me here.
Two policemen in plain clothes were detailed for the arrest, and the
affair was managed very quietly, so that even the servants do not know
precisely what has happened. Mr Foster was arrested in his study,
and made no resistance, although he assumed a high tone of injured
innocence.—Do you know, Miss Armitage, where the rest of the poisoned
candles are kept?’
In reply I opened the door of the cupboard and pointed to the rows of
boxes. He and Dr Weston then carefully locked and sealed up the door,
until the state of the invalid should permit a fuller investigation
of the apartment. Dr Archer then informed me that a nurse had been
telegraphed for from the Nurses’ Home at the county town, and that I
need feel no apprehension lest Edith should suffer from the want of
skilled attendance.
Nurse Mary soon after arrived, and proved invaluable. All her care and
skill, however, were needed to counteract the effects of the poison
upon Edith’s delicate frame. For days she hung between life and death.
Her convalescence was long and tedious; but at length she recovered
sufficiently to leave Gorton Hall for the Isle of Wight, where the pure
sea-breezes soon brought back the colour to her cheeks.
Investigation proved that the candles similar to those which had
been burned nightly in the sickroom for over two months, were highly
deleterious. The wax was pure, but the wicks were impregnated by a
strong solution of arsenic. The remainder were analysed, and from
them much of the poisonous drug was extracted. The closest research,
however, failed to discover from whom they had been originally
procured. Beyond the fact that the boxes came from London, their
origin remains a mystery to this day. The plans of the conspirators
had been so cleverly laid that it was almost impossible to bring their
wrongdoing home to them.
I wish I could say that both Edith’s treacherous guardians received an
exemplary punishment; but unfortunately, punishment in this world does
not always overtake the criminal. Mr Foster maintained the assertion of
his innocence to the last; nor was there one tittle of evidence, direct
or indirect, against him. Ably defended by a most skilful advocate, he
escaped absolutely scot-free. Mrs Morrell maintained the same line of
conduct, and was merely sentenced to imprisonment for two years. Dr
Archer and I were aghast and bitterly disappointed at such an obvious
failure of justice. But we had one small consolation—that Edith’s
fortune was secured to her, and that the scheming adventurers who
had risked all to grasp her gold were not benefited, after all their
trouble, by one farthing.
The Thorndyke family interfered, and her affairs were placed in
trustworthy hands until her coming of age. Her twenty-first birthday
was also the day of her marriage to Dr Archer; and they are indeed
a united pair. I will not write down here all the expressions of
gratitude I received from Edith, her lover, and her relatives, for
my ‘courage’ and ‘sagacity’ in defeating her step-father’s murderous
designs. I declined Edith’s offer of a home with her, for I believed
that married people are happiest by themselves; but, though still
working for my living, I spend all my holidays with her, and little
voices already call me ‘Auntie.’
Their home is perfect in all its appointments; but one fact, which is
never explained to casual visitors, sometimes strikes new-comers as
strange: nothing will induce Dr Archer to have a wax candle in his
house. They set it down as a fad and singular fancy; only Edith, he,
and I know the truth.
THE LAW OF INNKEEPER AND GUEST.