THE NEXT THING.
As I sat in my study, in the twilight of that same day, the door was
hurriedly opened, and Judy entered. She looked about the room with a
quick glance to see that we were alone, then caught my hand in both of
hers, and burst out crying.
“Why, Judy!” I said, “what IS the matter?” But the sobs would not allow
her to answer. I was too frightened to put any more questions, and so
stood silent—my chest feeling like an empty tomb that waited for death
to fill it. At length with a strong effort she checked the succession
of her sobs, and spoke.
“They are killing auntie. She looks like a ghost already,” said the
child, again bursting into tears.
“Tell me, Judy, what CAN I do for her?”
“You must find out, Mr Walton. If you loved her as much as I do, you
would find out what to do.”
“But she will not let me do anything for her.”
“Yes, she will. She says you promised to help her some day.”
“Did she send you, then?”
“No. She did not send me.”
“Then how—what—what can I do!”
“Oh, you exact people! You must have everything square and in print
before you move. If it had been me now, wouldn’t I have been off like a
shot! Do get your hat, Mr Walton.”
“Come, then, Judy. I will go at once.—Shall I see her?”
And every vein throbbed at the thought of rescuing her from her
persecutors, though I had not yet the smallest idea how it was to be
effected.
“We will talk about that as we go,” said Judy, authoritatively.
In a moment more we were in the open air. It was a still night, with an
odour of damp earth, and a hint of green buds in it. A pale half-moon
hung in the sky, now and then hidden by the clouds that swept across
it, for there was wind in the heavens, though upon earth all was still.
I offered Judy my arm, but she took my hand, and we walked on without a
word till we had got through the village and out upon the road.
“Now, Judy,” I said at last, “tell me what they are doing to your
aunt?”
“I don’t know what they are doing. But I am sure she will die.”
“Is she ill?”
“She is as white as a sheet, and will not leave her room. Grannie must
have frightened her dreadfully. Everybody is frightened at her but me,
and I begin to be frightened too. And what will become of auntie then?”
“But what can her mother do to her?”
“I don’t know. I think it is her determination to have her own way that
makes auntie afraid she will get it somehow; and she says now she will
rather die than marry Captain Everard. Then there is no one allowed to
wait on her but Sarah, and I know the very sight of her is enough to
turn auntie sick almost. What has become of Jane I don’t know. I
haven’t seen her all day, and the servants are whispering together more
than usual. Auntie can’t eat what Sarah brings her, I am sure; else I
should almost fancy she was starving herself to death to keep clear of
that Captain Everard.”
“Is he still at the Hall?”
“Yes. But I don’t think it is altogether his fault. Grannie won’t let
him go. I don’t believe he knows how determined auntie is not to marry
him. Only, to be sure, though grannie never lets her have more than
five shillings in her pocket at a time, she will be worth something
when she is married.”
“Nothing can make her worth more than she is, Judy,” I said, perhaps
with some discontent in my tone.
“That’s as you and I think, Mr Walton; not as grannie and the captain
think at all. I daresay he would not care much more than grannie
whether she was willing or not, so long as she married him.”
“But, Judy, we must have some plan laid before we reach the Hall; else
my coming will be of no use.”
“Of course. I know how much I can do, and you must arrange the rest
with her. I will take you to the little room up-stairs—we call it the
octagon. That you know is just under auntie’s room. They will be at
dinner—the captain and grannie. I will leave you there, and tell auntie
that you want to see her.”
“But, Judy,—-”
“Don’t you want to see her, Mr Walton?”
“Yes, I do; more than you can think.”
“Then I will tell her so.”
“But will she come to me?”
“I don’t know. We have to find that out.”
“Very well. I leave myself in your hands.”
I was now perfectly collected. All my dubitation and distress were
gone, for I had something to do, although what I could not yet tell.
That she did not love Captain Everard was plain, and that she had as
yet resisted her mother was also plain, though it was not equally
certain that she would, if left at her mercy, go on to resist her. This
was what I hoped to strengthen her to do. I saw nothing more within my
reach as yet. But from what I knew of Miss Oldcastle, I saw plainly
enough that no greater good could be done for her than this enabling to
resistance. Self-assertion was so foreign to her nature, that it needed
a sense of duty to rouse her even to self-defence. As I have said
before, she was clad in the mail of endurance, but was utterly without
weapons. And there was a danger of her conduct and then of her mind
giving way at last, from the gradual inroads of weakness upon the thews
which she left unexercised. In respect of this, I prayed heartily that
I might help her.
Judy and I scarcely spoke to each other from the moment we entered the
gate till I found myself at a side door which I had never observed till
now. It was fastened, and Judy told me to wait till she went in and
opened it. The moon was now quite obscured, and I was under no
apprehension of discovery. While I stood there I could not help
thinking of Dr Duncan’s story, and reflecting that the daughter was now
returning the kindness shown to the mother.
I had not to wait long before the door opened behind me noiselessly,
and I stepped into the dark house. Judy took me by the hand, and led me
along a passage, and then up a stair into the little drawing-room.
There was no light. She led me to a seat at the farther end, and
opening a door close beside me, left me in the dark.
There I sat so long that I fell into a fit of musing, broken ever by
startled expectation. Castle after castle I built up; castle after
castle fell to pieces in my hands. Still she did not come. At length I
got so restless and excited that only the darkness kept me from
starting up and pacing the room. Still she did not come, and partly
from weakness, partly from hope deferred, I found myself beginning to
tremble all over. Nor could I control myself. As the trembling
increased, I grew alarmed lest I should become unable to carry out all
that might be necessary.
Suddenly from out of the dark a hand settled on my arm. I looked up and
could just see the whiteness of a face. Before I could speak, a voice
said brokenly, in a half-whisper:—
“WILL you save me, Mr Walton? But you’re trembling; you are ill; you
ought not to have come to me. I will get you something.”
And she moved to go, but I held her. All my trembling was gone in a
moment. Her words, so careful of me even in her deep misery, went to my
heart and gave me strength. The suppressed feelings of many months
rushed to my lips. What I said I do not know, but I know that I told
her I loved her. And I know that she did not draw her hand from mine
when I said so.
But ere I ceased came a revulsion of feeling.
“Forgive me,” I said, “I am selfishness itself to speak to you thus
now, to take advantage of your misery to make you listen to mine. But,
at least, it will make you sure that if all I am, all I have will save
you—”
“But I am saved already,” she interposed, “if you love me—for I love
you.”
And for some moments there were no words to speak. I stood holding her
hand, conscious only of God and her. At last I said:
“There is no time now but for action. Nor do I see anything but to go
with me at once. Will you come home to my sister? Or I will take you
wherever you please.”
“I will go with you anywhere you think best. Only take me away.”
“Put on your bonnet, then, and a warm cloak, and we will settle all
about it as we go.”
She had scarcely left the room when Mrs Oldcastle came to the door.
“No lights here!” she said. “Sarah, bring candles, and tell Captain
Everard, when he will join us, to come to the octagon room. Where can
that little Judy be? The child gets more and more troublesome, I do
think. I must take her in hand.”
I had been in great perplexity how to let her know that I was there;
for to announce yourself to a lady by a voice out of the darkness of
her boudoir, or to wait for candles to discover you where she thought
she was quite alone—neither is a pleasant way of presenting yourself to
her consciousness. But I was helped out of the beginning into the
middle of my difficulties, once more by that blessed little Judy. I did
not know she was in the room till I heard her voice. Nor do I yet know
how much she had heard of the conversation between her aunt and myself;
for although I sometimes see her look roguish even now that she is a
middle-aged woman with many children, when anything is said which might
be supposed to have a possible reference to that night, I have never
cared to ask her.
“Here I am, grannie,” said her voice. “But I won’t be taken in hand by
you or any one else. I tell you that. So mind. And Mr Walton is here,
too, and Aunt Ethelwyn is going out with him for a long walk.”
“What do you mean, you silly child?”
“I mean what I say,” and “Miss Judy speaks the truth,” fell together
from her lips and mine.
“Mr Walton,” began Mrs Oldcastle, indignantly, “it is scarcely like a
gentleman to come where you are not wanted—-”
Here Judy interrupted her.
“I beg your pardon, grannie, Mr Walton WAS wanted—very much wanted. I
went and fetched him.”
But Mrs Oldcastle went on unheeding.
“—-and to be sitting in my room in the dark too!”
“That couldn’t be helped, grannie. Here comes Sarah with candles.”
“Sarah,” said Mrs Oldcastle, “ask Captain Everard to be kind enough to
step this way.”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Sarah, with an untranslatable look at me as she
set down the candles.
We could now see each other. Knowing words to be but idle breath, I
would not complicate matters by speech, but stood silent, regarding Mrs
Oldcastle. She on her part did not flinch, but returned my look with
one both haughty and contemptuous. In a few moments, Captain Everard
entered, bowed slightly, and looked to Mrs Oldcastle as if for an
explanation. Whereupon she spoke, but to me.
“Mr Walton,” she said, “will you explain to Captain Everard to what we
owe the UNEXPECTED pleasure of a visit from you?”
“Captain Everard has no claim to any explanation from me. To you, Mrs
Oldcastle, I would have answered, had you asked me, that I was waiting
for Miss Oldcastle.”
“Pray inform Miss Oldcastle, Judy, that Mr Walton insists upon seeing
her at once.”
“That is quite unnecessary. Miss Oldcastle will be here presently,” I
said.
Mrs Oldcastle turned slightly livid with wrath. She was always white,
as I have said: the change I can describe only by the word I have used,
indicating a bluish darkening of the whiteness. She walked towards the
door beside me. I stepped between her and it.
“Pardon me, Mrs Oldcastle. That is the way to Miss Oldcastle’s room. I
am here to protect her.”
Without saying a word she turned and looked at Captain Everard. He
advanced with a long stride of determination. But ere he reached me,
the door behind me opened, and Miss Oldcastle appeared in her bonnet
and shawl, carrying a small bag in her hand. Seeing how things were,
the moment she entered, she put her hand on my arm, and stood fronting
the enemy with me. Judy was on my right, her eyes flashing, and her
cheek as red as a peony, evidently prepared to do battle a toute
outrance for her friends.
“Miss Oldcastle, go to your room instantly, I COMMAND you,” said her
mother; and she approached as if to remove her hand from my arm. I put
my other arm between her and her daughter.
“No, Mrs Oldcastle,” I said. “You have lost all a mother’s rights by
ceasing to behave like a mother, Miss Oldcastle will never more do
anything in obedience to your commands, whatever she may do in
compliance with your wishes.”
“Allow me to remark,” said Captain Everard, with attempted nonchalance,
“that that is strange doctrine for your cloth.”
“So much the worse for my cloth, then,” I answered, “and the better for
yours if it leads you to act more honourably.”
Still keeping himself entrenched in the affectation of a supercilious
indifference, he smiled haughtily, and gave a look of dramatic appeal
to Mrs Oldcastle.
“At least,” said that lady, “do not disgrace yourself, Ethelwyn, by
leaving the house in this unaccountable manner at night and on foot. If
you WILL leave the protection of your mother’s roof, wait at least till
tomorrow.”
“I would rather spend the night in the open air than pass another under
your roof, mother. You have been a strange mother to me—and Dorothy
too!”
“At least do not put your character in question by going in this
unmaidenly fashion. People will talk to your prejudice—and Mr Walton’s
too.”
Ethelwyn smiled.—She was now as collected as I was, seeming to have
cast off all her weakness. My heart was uplifted more than I can
say.—She knew her mother too well to be caught by the change in her
tone.
I had not hitherto interrupted her once when she took the answer upon
herself, for she was not one to be checked when she chose to speak. But
now she answered nothing, only looked at me, and I understood her, of
course.
“They will hardly have time to do so, I trust, before it will be out of
their power. It rests with Miss Oldcastle herself to say when that
shall be.”
As if she had never suspected that such was the result of her scheming,
Mrs Oldcastle’s demeanour changed utterly. The form of her visage was
altered. She made a spring at her daughter, and seized her by the arm.
“Then I forbid it,” she screamed; “and I WILL be obeyed. I stand on my
rights. Go to your room, you minx.”
“There is no law human or divine to prevent her from marrying whom she
will. How old are you, Ethelwyn?”
I thought it better to seem even cooler than I was.
“Twenty-seven,” answered Miss Oldcastle.
“Is it possible you can be so foolish, Mrs Oldcastle, as to think you
have the slightest hold on your daughter’s freedom? Let her arm go.”
But she kept her grasp.
“You hurt me, mother,” said Miss Oldcastle.
“Hurt you? you smooth-faced hypocrite! I will hurt you then!”
But I took Mrs Oldcastle’s arm in my hand, and she let go her hold.
“How dare you touch a woman?” she said.
“Because she has so far ceased to be a woman as to torture her own
daughter.”
Here Captain Everard stepped forward, saying,—
“The riot-act ought to be read, I think. It is time for the military to
interfere.”
“Well put, Captain Everard,” I said. “Our side will disperse if you
will only leave room for us to go.”
“Possibly _I_ may have something to say in the matter.”
“Say on.”
“This lady has jilted me.”
“Have you, Ethelwyn?”
“I have not.”
“Then, Captain Everard, you lie.”
“You dare to tell me so?”
And he strode a pace nearer.
“It needs no daring. I know you too well; and so does another who
trusted you and found you false as hell.”
“You presume on your cloth, but—” he said, lifting his hand.
“You may strike me, presuming on my cloth,” I answered; “and I will not
return your blow. Insult me as you will, and I will bear it. Call me
coward, and I will say nothing. But lay one hand on me to prevent me
from doing my duty, and I knock you down—or find you more of a man than
I take you for.”
It was either conscience or something not so good that made a coward of
him. He turned on his heel.
“I really am not sufficiently interested in the affair to oppose you.
You may take the girl for me. Both your cloth and the presence of
ladies protect your insolence. I do not like brawling where one cannot
fight. You shall hear from me before long, Mr Walton.”
“No, Captain Everard, I shall not hear from you. You know you dare not
write to me. I know that of you which, even on the code of the
duellist, would justify any gentleman in refusing to meet you. Stand
out of my way!”
I advanced with Miss Oldcastle on my arm. He drew back; and we left the
room.
As we reached the door, Judy bounded after us, threw her arms round her
aunt’s neck, then round mine, kissing us both, and returned to her
place on the sofa. Mrs Oldcastle gave a scream, and sunk fainting on a
chair. It was a last effort to detain her daughter and gain time. Miss
Oldcastle would have returned, but I would not permit her.
“No,” I said; “she will be better without you. Judy, ring the bell for
Sarah.”
“How dare you give orders in my house?” exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle,
sitting bolt upright in the chair, and shaking her fist at us. Then
assuming the heroic, she added, “From this moment she is no daughter of
mine. Nor can you touch one farthing of her money, sir. You have
married a beggar after all, and that you’ll both know before long.”
“Thy money perish with thee!” I said, and repented the moment I had
said it. It sounded like an imprecation, and I know I had no
correspondent feeling; for, after all, she was the mother of my
Ethelwyn. But the allusion to money made me so indignant, that the
words burst from me ere I could consider their import.
The cool wind greeted us like the breath of God, as we left the house
and closed the door behind us. The moon was shining from the edge of a
vaporous mountain, which gradually drew away from her, leaving her
alone in the midst of a lake of blue. But we had not gone many paces
from the house when Miss Oldcastle began to tremble violently, and
could scarcely get along with all the help I could give her. Nor, for
the space of six weeks did one word pass between us about the painful
occurrences of that evening. For all that time she was quite unable to
bear it.
When we managed at last to reach the vicarage, I gave her in charge to
my sister, with instructions to help her to bed at once, while I went
for Dr Duncan.