One Day in her Life.
Life was to the last degree dreary for Lucy Andinnian. But for the
excitement imparted to her mind from that mysterious building, the
Maze, and the trouble connected with it, she could scarcely have
continued to go on, and bear. It was not a healthy excitement: no
emotion can be that, which has either jealousy or anger for its
origin. Let us take one day of her existence, and see what it was: the
day following the one last told of.
A mellow, bright morning. The pleasant sun, so prolific of his
bounties that year, was making the earth glad with his renewed light,
and many a heart with it. Not so Lucy's: it seemed to her that never a
gleam of gladness could illumine hers again. She sat in her room,
partly dressed, after a night of much sleeplessness. What sleep she
had was disturbed, as usual, by dreams tinged with the unpleasantness
of her waking thoughts. A white wrapper enfolded her, and Aglaé was
doing her hair. The woman saw how weary and spiritless her mistress
was becoming; but not a suspicion of the true cause suggested itself,
for Lucy and her husband took care to keep up appearances, and guarded
their secret well. Aglaé attempted to say a word now and again, but
received no encouragement: Lucy was buried in a reverie.
"We are growing more estranged day by day," ran her thoughts. "He went
to London yesterday, and never said why; never gave me the least
explanation. After he came home at night, and had taken something to
eat, he went out again. To the Maze, of course."
"Will my lady please to have her hair in rolls or in plats this
morning?"
"As you please, Aglaé." And, the weary answer given, her thoughts ran
on again.
"I fancy Theresa had seen him go there. I can't help fancying it. She
had all her severe manner on when she came in last night, but was so
pityingly kind to me. And I could bear all so much better if she would
not be pitiful. It was past ten. That poor Mrs. Bell is likely to die,
and Theresa had been to read to her. I kept hoping she would go to
bed, and she did not. Is it wrong of _me_ to sit up, I wonder, to see
what time he comes in--would Margaret say it was? She got her silks
and her work about, and I had mine. He has hardly ever been so late as
last night. It was half-past eleven. What right has she to keep him,
or he to stay? He said, in a light, indifferent kind of tone, by way
of excuse, that he had been talking with Smith, and the time slipped
by unheeded. Theresa drew in her lips till she seemed to have none at
all, and gave him just one scornful glance. Yes: she had certainly
seen him go in elsewhere, and she knew that the excuse was not true. I
took my candle, and came up here--and have had one of my most wretched
nights again--and neither I nor Aglaé could find that book that
comforts me. It was very cruel of Karl to marry me: and yet--and
yet--would I be unmarried if I could? Would I break even from this
distressing life, if it involved a separation for ever? I fear not.
The not seeing him day by day would be a worse fate even than this
is."
"Did my lady think to ask Sir Karl whether he had put away that book
that is missing?" interposed Aglaé, quite unconscious that her lady
had not seen Sir Karl since the book was missed, any more than she
herself had: and moreover that he was not likely to see it.
"I have not asked him yet. Perhaps I took it downstairs yesterday."
"Which robe, my lady?"
"The Swiss muslin."
Aglaé left her when she was ready, and Lucy took her Bible for a few
minutes, and said her prayers. Never did prayers ascend from a more
wrung or troubled heart. The book she had mislaid was one of those
little gems of consolation that can only be estimated in _need_. It
had been given to Lucy by Miss Sumnor.
She stood a few minutes at the open window, gazing at the sunny
morning. The variegated leaves of the changing trees--getting, alas!
bare as Lucy's heart felt--the smooth lawn, which Maclean was rolling,
the still bright flowers, the sunlight glittering on the lodge. All
these fair things were hers; and yet, she could enjoy them not.
She went down: putting away all the sadness from her face that she
could put, and looking in her pretty dress as fair as the sunshine.
Hewitt came in with the coffee, and Lucy took her place at table. They
never waited for Miss Blake. St. Jerome's was exacting, and Mr.
Cattacomb somewhat uncertain as to the precise time at which he let
out his flock. Hewitt went across the lawn to tell his master, who was
talking to Maclean, that the breakfast was ready.
Karl came in through the open doors of the window. She glanced up and
hid her eyes again: the more attractive he looked--and he always did
look attractive--the greater her sense of pain. The fresh air was
sweet and pleasant, and a good fire burnt in the grate.
"Good morning, Lucy."
She put down the sugar-tongs to give him her hand, and wished him good
morning in a tone that no eavesdropper could have found fault with.
They were quite civil to each other; nay, courteous; their intercourse
much like that of true friends, or a brother and sister. After playing
so long at this for the sake of keeping up appearances to their
household and the world, it had become quite easy--a thing of habit.
"What shall I give you?" he asked.
"An egg, please."
"Maclean thinks that fir-tree is dying."
"Which fir-tree?"
"The large one by the ferns. He wants to root it up and make a bed
there. What do you think?"
"I don't mind how it it. Is your coffee sweet enough?"
"Yes."
Hewitt appeared with the letters. Two for Miss Blake, one for Lady
Andinnian, none for Sir Karl. Lucy read hers; glad of the help it
afforded to occupation: for she did but toy with her breakfast, having
little appetite now.
"It is from mamma," said Lucy. "She is going to stay with my aunt in
London. I suppose you did not call on Lady Southal yesterday?"
"I? No."
"You have promised to do so for some time past."
"But I have not been able. When the mind is harassed with worry and
business, social calls get put aside. Is Mrs. Cleeve well?"
"Yes, and papa better. He is going to stay at home himself. They
desire to be remembered to you."
Karl bent his head in acknowledgment. And thus, talking indifferently
of this and that, the meal came to an end. Karl asked his wife if she
would go out to look at the fir-tree, and hear what Maclean said--he
was always scrupulous in consulting her wishes as the Court's
mistress. She brought her parasol at once.
Karl held out his arm, and she took it. As they went down the steps,
Miss Blake appeared. They waited to greet her, and to shake hands.
"You must want your breakfast, Theresa. There are two letters for you
on the table. Oh, and I have heard from mamma. She is going to stay
with Aunt Southal in London."
Lucy took Karl's arm again, and they went off with the gardener. Miss
Blake probably did want her breakfast; but she spared a minute or two
to look after them.
"I wonder if anyone was ever so great a hypocrite?" ran her comment.
"And to think that I once believed him to be the most noble and best
of men. He dared to speak disparagingly of that pure saint, Mr.
Cattacomb, the other day. Good patience! what contrasts there are in
the world! And the same Heaven made them both, and permits both! One
cannot understand it here. As to Lucy--but I wash my hands of _her_."
Lucy was soon back again. Miss Blake had but read her letters, and
begun her breakfast. Karl had passed into his own room.
The morning wore on. Theresa went out again; Karl was shut up and then
he went out; Lucy was left in the house alone. It was usually so. She
had given her orders, and no earthly thing else remained to do--save
let her heart prey upon itself. When she had gone pretty nearly out of
her mind, she put her bonnet on, and betook herself to Mrs. Whittle,
the widow of the man who had died suddenly at the station in the
summer. Passing out at the extreme gate of the Court, Lucy had but to
skirt the wood, and in three minutes was at the cottage: one of a row.
She had taken to come here when she was very particularly
miserable--as she felt this day. For the lesson it read to her was
most salutary, acting as a kind of tonic. That this poor woman was
slowly dying, there could not be much doubt of. She had been in ill
health before her husband's death, and the blow struck too severely on
the weakened frame. But for Karl and his wife the family must have
taken refuge in the workhouse. Lucy went in and sat down on a low
wooden stool. Mrs. Whittle, about to-day, was in the easy-chair, sent
to her from the Court, her three little girls around her, the eldest
eight years of age. Two younger children, boys, played on the floor.
"I am teaching them to sew, ma'am," she said to Lucy. "Bessy has got
her hand pretty well into it; but the other two haven't. When I lie
awake at nights, my lady, and think how little it is they know of any
sort of labour yet, and how soon I may be taken from them, and be able
to teach no more, my heart fails me. I can only set on to cry, and to
pray God to forgive me all my short-comings."
The tears had come into her eyes, and were falling down her hectic
cheeks. She had been very pretty once, but the face was wasted now.
Lucy's eyelashes were wet.
"But I think you look better, Mrs. Whittle. And as to
short-comings--we all might own to those."
"It seems to me that I could have brought them on better if I'd known
what was coming, ma'am. Until that night when my husband was carried
home on a shutter, I had not had a thought of death, as being likely
to concern any of us at home here. And now the time seems to be coming
to an end, and I'm leaving them, and they know nothing."
"I hope you will get better yet," said Lucy.
"I don't think so, ma'am. I should like to if I could. The very
distress that is upon me about my children seems as if it kept me
back. Nobody can know what it is to leave a family of young children
to the world, till they come to it themselves. There's a dreadful
yearning upon me always, my lady, an aching like, at the thought of
it. Mr. Sumnor, he is very good and kind, and he comes here, and tells
me about heaven, and how free from care I shall be, once I get to it.
But oh, ma'am, when I must leave these little ones here, with nobody
to say a word to keep them from the world's bad ways, how do I know
that _they_ will ever get to heaven?"
The woman had never spoken out as she was speaking to-day. Generally
she had seemed calm and resigned--to get well, or to die. Lucy was
intensely sorry for her. She would take-herself to task for being so
miserable with this real distress close at hand, and for at least the
rest of the day allow it to read her a salutary lesson.
Passing in at the small gate again, she made her way to the acacia
tree and sat down under it, letting her parasol fall to the ground.
Karl, who was at home again, could see her from his window, but he did
not attempt to go to her. And so she idled away the morning in
weariness.
Theresa appeared at luncheon; but Sir Karl did not. Lucy remembered
that a parcel she was expecting from London ought to be at the station
(only an autumn mantle) and thought she would go in the pony-chaise
for it. Anything for a change for a break in her monotonous life. So
the chaise was ordered, and the groom to drive it. It came round, and
she was getting in when Karl approached.
"Are you going to drive yourself, Lucy?"
"Oh no. Robert is coming."
"I will go, then. We shall not want you, Robert."
"But I was only going to the station," she said.
"To the station?"
"I think my new mantle may be there."
He drove off, turning towards the station. The mantle was not there:
and Karl continued his drive as far as Basham. They said very little
to one another. Just a remark on the scenery, or on any object
passing: nothing more. Karl pulled up at the saddler's shop, to give
some direction about a set of harness they were making for him. Just
as he got into the chaise again, somebody passed and took off his hat,
with a "Good afternoon, Sir Karl."
It was Mr. Tatton. Karl wondered what he was doing in Basham. Of
course, the detective might be there for fifty things, totally
unconnected with his profession: but nevertheless the sight of him
awoke uneasiness in Karl's mind. When a heavy dread lies upon us, the
most trifling event will serve to stir up suspicion and augment fear.
Karl drove home again, and Lucy went up to her little sitting-room.
She was owing a letter to Mrs. Cleeve, but held back from writing it.
Great though her affection was for her mother, she hated now to write.
It was so impossible to fill up a letter--as it seemed to Lucy--and
yet guard her secret. She could not say "Karl and I are doing this;"
or "Karl and I are doing the other:" and yet if she did not say
something of this kind of their home life, or mention his name, her
fancy suggested that it would look strange, and might arouse doubt.
Conscience makes us cowards. She might have sent a letter that day,
saying, "I have just got home from a drive with Karl;" and "Karl and I
decided this morning to have that old fir-tree by the rocks dug up;"
and it would be quite true: but Lucy in her strict integrity so
disliked the deceit the words would imply, that she shrank from
writing them.
Footsteps on the gravel below: _his_ footsteps: and she went to the
window to glance out. Yes, he was going straight down the gravel walk,
and through the large gates. Going where? Her heart beat a little
quicker as the question crept in. To the Maze? The query was always
suggesting itself now.
He turned that way--and that was all she could tell, for the trees hid
the road from her view. He might be going to his agent's; he might be
going to some part or other of his estate; but to Lucy's jealous mind
the probability seemed perfectly clear that his destination was that
shut-in house, which she had already begun to hate so much. And
yet--she believed that he did not go in by day-time. Lucy wondered
whether Fair Rosamund, who had disturbed the peace of her queen, was
half as fair as this Rosamund, now turning her own poor heart to
sickness.
More footsteps on the gravel: merry tongues, light laughter. Lucy
looked out again. Some of the young ladies from the village had called
for Theresa, and they were now going on to St. Jerome's. For laughter
such as that, for the real lightness of heart that must be its
inevitable accompaniment, Lucy thought she would have bartered a
portion of her remaining life.
Aglaé came in, her hands and arms full of clouds of tulle and blue
ribbon.
"Look here, my lady--these English modistes have no taste at all. They
can't judge. They send this heavy satin ribbon, saying it is the
fashion, and they put it in every part of the beautiful light robe, so
that you cannot tell which is robe, the tulle, or the ribbon. My lady
is not going to wear that, say I; an English modiste might wear it,
but my young lady never. So I take the ribbons off."
Lucy looked round listlessly. What did all these adornments matter to
her? Karl never seemed to see now what she was dressed in: and if he
had seen, he would not have cared.
"But what is it you are asking me, Aglaé?"
"I would ask my lady to let me put just a quarter of as much ribbon
on: and silk ribbon, not satin. I have some silk in the house, and
this satin will come in for a heavier robe."
"Do whatever you like, Aglaé."
"That's well," said Aglaé. "But I wish my lady would not show herself
quite so indifferent," added the woman to herself as she withdrew.
"She could not care less if she were the old grandmother."
The afternoon passed to its close, Lucy reading a bit and working a
bit to beguile the time. Whether the book or the work lay before her,
her mind was alike far away, brooding over the trouble that could
never leave it. Then she went down to dinner in her evening dress of
silk. No stranger was present: only herself, Karl, and Theresa. It was
generally thus: neither she nor he had spirits to bring guests about
them often. Theresa told them of a slight accident that had happened
at the station that afternoon, and it served for a topic of
conversation. Dinner was barely over when Miss Diana Moore called in.
She was not given to time her visits ceremoniously; but she was always
welcome, for Karl and Lucy both liked her. Miss Diana generally gave
them the news of the place, and she began now. In some inexplicable
manner the conversation turned on the Maze. At least, something was
said that caused the place to be incidentally mentioned, and it served
to draw Miss Diana's thoughts to what they might otherwise not have
reverted to.
"The senseless geese that people are!" she cried. "Did you hear of
that ghost story that arose about the Maze?"
Karl bit his lip. Lucy looked at Miss Diana: she had heard nothing.
"Mother Jinks told me to my face the other day that there could not be
a doubt it was Mr. Throcton's son haunting it. My brother--Mr.
Moore--had seen it, she said, as well as Nurse Chaffen: a gentleman in
evening dress, who appeared to them and vanished away again. She
believed it, too."
"I fancy it has been rather more materially accounted for," put in
Miss Blake, not at all sorry of the opportunity to give a side fling
at Sir Karl.
"Well, what I hear people have found out now is, that the ghost was
only Sir Karl Andinnian, who had called in there after or before his
dinner," said Miss Diana, laughing. "What do you say to it, Sir Karl?"
Sir Karl did not know what to say. On the one hand it was most
essential to do away, if possible, With the impression that any
strange gentleman had been at the Maze; on the other, he did not care
to admit that he paid evening visits there. Of the two evils, however,
the last was the least.
"It may have been myself, Miss Diana. I cannot say, I'm sure. I
remember I went over one evening, and stayed a few minutes."
"But it was while Mrs. Grey was ill with fever."
"Just so. I went to enquire after her."
"Well, I suppose it was you, then: I asked William about it, but he is
as close as wax when he likes, and professed not to know what I was
talking of. One thing is clear, that he could not have recognised you,
Sir Karl. It was nearly dark, I believe. That little baby at the Maze
is very delicate."
"By the way, Miss Diana, talking of such people, what does Mr. Moore
think of poor Whittle's widow?" asked Sir Karl. "My wife says she is
very ill."
The conversation was turned--Sir Karl's object in speaking. Miss Diana
talked of Mrs. Whittle, and then went on to other subjects.
But it will be readily seen how cruelly these and similar incidents
tried Lucy Andinnian. Had an angel come down from heaven to assure her
the gentleman in evening attire was _not_ Sir Karl, she would have
refused to believe it. Nay, he had, so to say, confessed it--in her
presence.
Miss Diana departed. Karl went out with her, and did not come in
again. Lucy knew he had gone to the Maze. She went up to her room, and
stood there in the dark watching for his return. It was nearly ten
when he appeared: he had been spending all that time with her rival!
Even so. Sir Karl had spent it at the Maze. As the autumn evenings
grew darker, he could go over earlier and come away earlier. Lucy
wondered whether this state of things was to last for ever, and how
much longer she could continue to bear and make no sign.
To her weary bed again went she. To the anguish of her outraged heart;
to her miserable, sleepless hours, and her still more miserable
dreams. Jealousy as utterly mistaken and foundationless has too often
inflicted torment lively as this.
It is a "green-eyed monster, which doth make the food it feeds on."