It was one of those dark, soft, autumn evenings when the country seems
dream-like and delicious. Summer is past, but winter is yet far away;
and the year having gone through the light fickleness of spring and the
heats of summer, with its changes of cold and passions of storm, has
settled down into the mellow maturity, the softened glow, the ripeness
of life which indicate its prime.
Doctor Scales was not happy in his mind, he was--and he owned it--in
love with the imperious beauty Lady Martlett, but he was at odds with
himself for loving her.
"The absurd part of it is," he said to himself as he lit a cigar and
went out into the garden, "that there seems to be no medicine by which a
fellow could put himself right.--There," he said after a pause, "I will
not think about her, but about Scarlett."
He strolled slowly along, finding it intensely dark; but he knew the
position of every flower-bed now too well to let his feet stray off the
velvet grass, and as he went on, he came round by the open window of the
drawing-room, and, looking through the conservatory, stood thinking what
a pleasant picture the prettily lighted room formed, with severe Aunt
Sophia spectacled and reading, while Naomi was busy over some sketch
that she had made during the day.
Lady Scarlett was not there; but it did not excite any surprise; and the
doctor stood for some minutes thinking, from his post of observation,
that Naomi was a very sweet girl, as nice and simple as she was pretty,
and that she would make a man who loved her, one of those gentle equable
wives who never change.
"Very different from Lady Scarlett," he said to himself, as he stood
there invisible, but for the glowing end of his cigar. "Ha! I don't
like the way in which things are going, a bit."
He walked on over the soft mossy grass, with his feet sinking in at
every step, and his hands in his pockets, round past the dining-room to
where a soft glow shone out from the study window; and on pausing where
he could obtain a good view, he stood for some time watching his
friend's countenance, as James Scarlett sat back in his chair with the
light from the shaded lamp full upon his face.
"I'm about beaten," the doctor said to himself. "I've tried all I know;
and I'm beginning to think that they are all right, and that if Nature
does not step in, or fate, or whatever it may be, does not give him some
powerful shock, he will remain the wreck he is, perhaps to the end of
his days.--Yes, I'm about beaten," he thought again, as he seized this
opportunity of studying his friend's face unobserved; "but I'm as far
off giving up, as I was on the day I started. I won't give it over as a
bad job; but how to go on next, I cannot say.--Just the same," he
muttered after a time, as he noted one or two uneasy movements, and saw
a curious wrinkled expression come into the thin troubled face. "Poor
old boy! I'd give something to work a cure.--By the way, where's
Prayle? I thought he was here."
The doctor thrust his hands more deeply into his pockets and strolled
away, threading his course in and out amongst the flower-beds, and then,
thinking deeply, going on and on down first one green path and then
another, his footsteps perfectly inaudible. As he walked on, his mind
grew so intent upon the question of his patient's state, that the cigar
went out, and he contented himself with rolling it to and fro between
his lips, till he paused involuntarily beside a seat under the tall
green hedge that separated the garden from one of the meadows.
"Damp?" said the doctor to himself, as he passed one hand over the seat.
"No; dry as a bone;" and he seated himself, throwing up his legs, and
leaning back in the corner, listening to the soft crop, crop, crop of
one of the cows, still busy in the darkness preparing grass for
rumination during the night. "I wonder whether cows ever have any
troubles on their minds?" thought Scales. "Yes; of course they do.
Calves are taken away, and they fret, and--Hallo! Who's this?"
He tried to pierce the darkness as he heard heavy breathing, and the
dull sound of footsteps coming along the walk, the heavy sound of one
who was clumsy of tread, and who was coming cautiously towards him.
"Some scoundrel after the pears. I'll startle him."
He had every opportunity for carrying out his plan, for the steps came
closer, stopped, and he who had made them drew a long breath, and though
the movements were not visible, Scales knew, as well as if he had seen
each motion, that the man before him had taken off his hat and was
wiping the perspiration from his face.
"Hallo!"
The man started and made a step back; and the doctor told a fib.
"Oh, you needn't run," he said. "I see you. I know who you are."
"I--I wasn't going to run, sir," said John Monnick softly.
"What are you doing here?"
"Well, sir, you see, sir--I--I have got a trap or two down the garden
here, and--and--I've been seeing whether there's anything in. You see,
sir," continued the old gardener in an eager whisper, "the rarebuds do
such a mort o' mischief among my young plahnts, that I'm druv-like--
reg'lar druv-like--to snare 'em."
It was rather high moral ground for a man to take who had just told a
deliberate untruth; but Doctor Scales took it, and said sharply: "John
Monnick, you are telling me a lie!"
"A lie, sir!" whispered the old man. "Hush, sir! pray."
"Are you afraid the rabbits will hear me?--Shame, man! An old servant
like you.--John Monnick, you know me."
"Ay, sir, I do."
"Now, don't you feel ashamed of yourself, an old servant, like you, with
always a Scripture text on your tongue, telling me a lie like that about
the traps?"
The gardener was silent, and the doctor heard him draw a long breath.
"Well, sir," he said at last--"and I hope I may be forgiven, as I meant
well--it weer not the truth."
"Then you were after the fruit?"
"I? After the fruit, sir? Bless your heart, no; I was only watching."
"What! for thieves?"
The gardener hesitated, and remained silent.
"There, that's better; don't tell a lie, man. I think the better of
you. But shame upon you! with your poor master broken, helpless, and
obliged to depend upon his people. To go and rob him now, of all times.
John Monnick, you are a contemptible, canting old humbug."
"No, I aren't, doctor," said the old fellow angrily; "and you'll beg my
pardon for this."
"Beg your pardon?"
"Ay, that you will, sir. It was all on account of master, and him not
being able to look after things, as brought me here."
"I don't believe you, Monnick."
"You can do as you like, sir," said the old man sturdily; "but it's all
as true as gorspel. I couldn't bear to see such goings-on; and I says
to myself, it's time as they was stopped; and I thought they was, till I
come in late to lock up the peach-house, and see her go down the
garden."
The doctor rose from his seat, startled.
"And then I says to myself, he won't be long before he comes, for its a
pyntment."
"Yes. Well?" said the doctor, who, generally cool to excess, now felt
his heart heating strangely.
"Oh, you needn't believe it without you like, sir. I dessay I am a
canting old humbug, sir; but far as in me lies, I means well by him, as
I've eat his bread and his father's afore him this many a year."
"I'm afraid I've wronged you, Monnick," said the doctor hastily.
"You aren't the first by a good many, sir; but you may as well speak
low, or they'll maybe hear, for I walked up torst the house, and I see
him pass the window, and then I watched him. P'r'aps I oughtn't, but I
knowed it weren't right, and Sir James ought to know."
"You--you knew of this, then?"
"Yes, sir. Was it likely I shouldn't, when it was all in my garden!
Why, a slug don't get at a leaf, or a battletwig, or wops at a plum,
without me knowing of it; so, was it likely as a gent was going to carry
on like that wi'out me finding of it out?"
"And--and is he down the garden now?" said the doctor, involuntarily
pressing his hand to his side, to check the action of his heart.
"Ay, that he be, sir; and him a gent as seemed so religious and good,
and allus saying proper sort o' things. It's set me agen saying ought
script'ral evermore."
There was a dead silence for a few moments; and then the doctor hissed
out: "The scoundrel!"
"Ay, that's it, sir; and of course it's all his doing, for she was so
good and sweet; and it's touched me quite like to the heart, sir, for
master thought so much o' she."
"Good heavens!--then my suspicions were right!"
"You suspected too, sir? Well, I don't wonder."
"No, no; it is impossible, Monnick, impossible. Man, it must be a
mistake."
"Well, sir," said the old fellow sturdily, "maybe it be. All of us
makes mistakes sometimes, and suspects wrongfully. Even you, sir. But
I'm pretty sure as I'm right; and for her sake, I'm going to go and tell
master, and have it stopped."
"No, no, man; are you mad?" cried the doctor, catching him by the arm.
"No more nor most folks be, sir; but I'm not going to see a woman go
wrong, and a good true young man's heart broke, to save a smooth-tongued
gent from getting into trouble. It'll do him good too."
"Then you mean Mr Prayle?"
"Course I do, sir. There aren't no one else here, I hope, as would
behave that how."
"Where are you going?" said the doctor, holding the old man tightly by
the arm.
"Straight up to Sir James, sir."
"No, no, man. Let me go."
"To master, sir?"
"No, no. To Prayle--to them. Where are they?" The doctor's voice
sounded very hoarse, and the blood flushed to his face in his bitter
anger as he clenched his hand.
"They're down in the lower summer-house, sir," said the old man; "and
it's my dooty to take Sir James strite down to confront him and ask him
what he means; see what a bad un he be and then send him about his
business, never to come meddling here no more."
Scales stood perfectly silent, but gripping the old man's arm tightly.
It was confirmation of suspicions that had troubled him again and again.
He had crushed them constantly, telling himself that there was no truth
in them; that they disgraced him; and here was the end. What should he
do? The shock to his friend would be terrible; but would it not be
better that he should know--better than going on in such a state as
this? The knowledge must come sooner or later, and why not now?
The shock? What of the effects of that shock with his mind in such a
state? Would it work ill or good?
"Poor fellow!" he muttered, "as if he had not suffered enough. I never
thoroughly believed in her, and yet I have tried. No, no; he must not
know."
"Now, sir, if you'll let go o' me, I'm going up to master."
"No, my man; he must not be told."
"It's my dooty to tell him, sir; and I'm a-going to do it."
"But I don't know what effect it may have upon him, man."
"It can't have a bad one, sir; and it may rouse Sir James up into being
the man he was afore the accident. I must make haste, please, sir, or I
may be too late."
"No, Monnick; you must not go."
"Not go, sir? Well, sir, I don't want to be disrespeckful to my
master's friends; but I've thought this over, and my conscience says
it's my dooty, and I shall go." The old man shook himself free, and
went off at a trot, leaving the doctor hesitating as to the course to
pursue.
Should he run after and stop him? Should he go down the garden,
interrupt the meeting, and enable them to escape? "No; a hundred times
no!" he muttered, stamping his foot. "I must stop him at any cost." He
ran up the garden; but he was too late, for before he reached the house
he heard low voices, and found that Scarlett had been tempted out by the
beauty of the night--or by fate, as the doctor put it--and was half-way
down the path when Monnick had met him.
"Who is this?" he said in a low, agitated voice, as the doctor met them.
"It is I, old fellow," said the doctor, hastily.--"Now come, be calm.
You must govern yourself. Has he told you something?"
"I wanted no telling, Jack," groaned Scarlett. "The moment he opened
his lips, I knew it. I have suspected it for long enough; but I could
not stir--I would not stir. He, my own cousin, too; the man I have made
my friend. O, heaven, is there no gratitude or manly feeling on the
earth!"
"My dear boy, you must--you shall be cool," whispered the doctor. "You
are in a low nervous state, and--"
"It is false! I am strong. I never felt stronger than to-night. This
has brought me to myself. I would not see it, Jack. I blinded myself.
I told myself I was mad and a traitor, to imagine such things; but I
have felt it all along."
"And has this been preying on your mind?"
"Preying? Gnawing my heart out.--Don't stop me. Let us go. Quick! He
shall know me for what I am. Not the weak miserable fool he thinks.--
Come quickly!--No! stop!" He stood panting, with Scales holding tightly
by his arm, trembling for the result.
"Monnick, go back to the house," said Scarlett, at last in a low
whisper; and the old man went without a word.
"Now you stop here," said Scarlett, in the same low painful whisper. "I
will not degrade her more by bringing a witness."
"But Scarlett--my dear old fellow. There must be no violence.
Recollect that you are a gentleman."
"Yes! I recollect. I am not going to act like a ruffian. You see how
calm I am."
"But it may be some mistake. I have seen nothing. It is all dependent
on your gardener's words. What did he tell you?"
"Hardly a word," groaned Scarlett, "hardly a word. `Prayle--the
summer-house.' It was enough. I tell you, I have suspected it so long.
It has been killing me. How could I get well with this upon my mind!"
"But, now?"
"Stay here, man--stay here."
"Promise me you will use no violence, and I will loose your arm."
"I promise--I will act like--a gentleman."
The doctor loosed his arm; and drawing a long hissing breath, James
Scarlett walked swiftly down the garden-path to where, in the moist dark
shades below the trained hazels, the summer-house had been formed as a
nook for sunny scorching days. It was close to the river, and from it
there was a glorious view of one of the most beautiful reaches of the
Thames.
James Scarlett recalled many a happy hour passed within its shade, and
the rage that burned within his breast gave place to a misery so
profound that, as he reached the turn that led to the retreat, he
stopped short, pressing his hands to his throat and panting for his
breath, which hardly came to his labouring breast. And as he stood
there, he heard his cousin's voice, in the silence of the evening,
saying softly: "Then you promise? I will be at the station to meet you,
and no one will know where you have gone."
James Scarlett's brain swam as he heard the answer. It was: "Yes!" A
faithful promise for the next evening; and as he listened and heard each
word clearly, he staggered back and nearly fell. Recovering himself
somewhat, though, he walked slowly back, groping in the dark as it were,
with his hands spread out before him, to keep from striking against one
or other of the trees. The next minute, the doctor had him by the hand,
and was hurrying him away, when Scarlett gave a sudden lurch, and would
have fallen, had not his friend thrown one arm about him, and then,
lifting him by main force, carried him to the house. The French window
of the study was open; and he bore him in and laid him upon a couch,
where, after a liberal application of cold water to his temples, he
began to revive, opening his eyes and gazing wonderingly around. Then,
as recollection came back, he uttered a low sigh, and caught at the
doctor's hand.
"Kate!" he said softly. "Go and fetch poor Kate."
Volume 2, Chapter XII.