SUDDEN TIDINGS.
Mrs. Carlyon and Miss Winter reached Paris, on their way home, on the
18th of May. There was no especial need for them to hurry. They had
received a letter from Mr. Denison--written, as usual, by Hubert
Stone, but signed with the Squire's inimitable autograph--a few days
previously, in which the 1st of June was named as the date when Ella
would be looked for at Heron Dyke; and it was further intimated that
the Squire would like to see Mrs. Carlyon at the same time. Under
these circumstances, Mrs. Carlyon decided that a week could not be
more pleasantly spent than in Paris, after which they could still
afford two or three days in London before going down to Norfolk.
On the morning of the 20th the ladies went out shopping, and when they
got back to their hotel, Ella found a telegram awaiting her. It was
from Hubert Stone:
"I deeply regret to inform you that Mr. Denison died very suddenly
last evening, about midnight. Please telegraph back any arrangements
you may wish to have carried out; also say when you may be expected at
the Hall."
To Ella the shock was sudden and terrible. Having lost both father and
mother when she was very young, all the affection of her heart, which
would have been theirs, had they lived, was lavished on her uncle. It
was as though she had been orphaned at one blow. Her anguish was made
more bitter by the fact of her not having been with her uncle at the
last. Why had he sent her away when he was so ill? Why had he so
persistently refused to allow her to return earlier? And now she
should never see him more!
Mrs. Carlyon took all needful travelling and business arrangements on
herself, and left Ella to nurse her grief undisturbed. They found
themselves in London within twenty-four hours of the receipt of the
telegram. Here they were compelled to stay all night, and after
ordering their mourning, they started next day for Norfolk--leaving
Higson behind, who had latterly been far from well. "A little rest
will do her good," said Mrs. Carlyon. The close carriage, attended by
Hubert Stone, met them at the station on their arrival, and they were
at once driven to the Hall.
A short while given to her natural grief and emotion, and Ella
summoned Aaron Stone to her presence in one of the smaller
sitting-rooms. The blinds were down; the room looked dark and dreary.
Aaron came in, creeping and trembling, his head down. He was a crusty
man, but faithful, and his master had been very dear to him. Ella felt
for his grief. She advanced a few steps impulsively, and took one of
his rugged hands into her soft palms.
"Oh, Aaron, old friend--you were his friend, and you are my friend--if
you could have sent me word!" she sobbed. "If I could but have seen
him once more before he was lost to me for ever!"
"There was no time to do anything--there wasn't really, Miss Ella,"
whispered the old man, his gnarled features working convulsively.
"Nobody knew, nobody thought, what was going to happen, all suddenly,
in the night."
"Sit down, Aaron," drawing a chair near her, "and tell me all that
there is to be told. Oh for one look from his kind eyes!--for one word
from those lips that will never speak to me again!"
It was an easy-chair she had given to Aaron; he sat in it, gazing at
the fire, his chin resting on his hand. The weather was very chilly
still, though June was near; and the large old Hall never seemed hot
even in the sultry days of summer.
"It seems to me very strange, Aaron," began Ella, for the old man did
not attempt to speak, "that there should be no signs observable, no
apparent intimations that Uncle Gilbert was so near his end. What has
the Doctor--Jago--to say about it?"
"I never saw a man more dumbfounded than Dr. Jago was," replied Aaron.
"Says he, looking down at the poor Squire, 'I made sure that he would
last for months yet'--maybe, you see, Miss Ella, he thought his
treatment had put a new lease of life into him."
"What _was_ the treatment?"
The old man glanced suspiciously up for a moment, and then dropped his
eyes again, "As if I could tell what it was in particular, Miss Ella!
I'm no doctor. Jago can tell--if he will. It seemed to do the master
good; to put a deal of strength into him."
"Did Dr. Jago come daily?"
"That he did. No medical man could be more attentive than he has been.
He never once missed a day, week-days or Sundays."
"Then he saw him the day he died."
"Ay. He was here that day at mid-day, ma'am; and the Squire died at
midnight in the evening."
"And he saw no change in my uncle that day; no symptoms of danger?"
"None at all; none. I met him as he came out of the room that very
morning. 'And how do we find ourselves to-day, Doctor?' says I.
'Pretty much as usual,' says he. 'If anything, a bit brighter and more
lively. He's doing very nicely, indeed, only you must not encourage
him to talk too much; mind that. He is just as fond of a bit of gossip
as ever he was.' With that, Dr. Jago bids me good-morning, and goes
off, whistling softly to himself. No, no," muttered the old man, "he
saw no signs of danger."
"And what does Dr. Jago say was the immediate cause of death?" sighed
Ella.
"It's a long queer word he made use of," said Aaron.
"Par---- something."
"Paralysis?" suggested Ella.
"It means that, I take it. Paralysis of the heart, Miss Ella. Hubert
said syncope--but he is not a doctor. There was no suffering; none. He
went off as quietly as one sinks to sleep."
"I can't help wishing that my uncle had never sent for Dr. Jago,"
mused Ella. "I had far more confidence in Dr. Spreckley, who had
studied his constitution for years."
"The Squire used to say," cried Aaron, "that he should never have been
alive so long, if it hadn't been for Dr. Jago."
"It may be so. Who now can tell? But I was deeply grieved when Dr.
Spreckley ceased to attend him. I thought--some instinct seemed to
warn me--that it might not be for the best."
Aaron made no reply, and they sat a little while in silence. Then Ella
spoke--in a softer tone.
"Did Uncle Gilbert often talk about me, Aaron? Did I seem to be much
in his thoughts?"
"I don't think a day ever passed but what he mentioned you, Miss
Ella," warmly replied the old man. "When he used to sit in his
easy-chair, staring hard into the fire, I've said to myself many a
time, 'He's thinking of one that is far away.'"
"Oh! that he had but sent for me!--How was it, Aaron, that he did not
let me come home in time for his birthday? Could not _you_ have
suggested to him that I ought to be here?"
The old man coughed uneasily. "I did speak to him about it, Miss Ella.
I told him that you would be fretting your heart out at being so long
away. But there! you know the kind of man he was--taking his own will
and listening to nobody."
"It has seemed to me at times as though--as though you were all in a
conspiracy to keep me away," returned Ella, dreamily. "I have said so
to Mrs. Carlyon."
"All who?" asked Aaron.
"You--and Dr. Jago--and your nephew," replied Ella, fearlessly. "I was
sent away by my uncle for the winter--for the dark days. They have
long been over, yet still I was not allowed to return. Aaron, I cannot
understand it."
"Maybe he wanted to grow still better before you saw him," cried the
old man, shuffling in his chair. "He was always headstrong; you know
that, Miss Ella; he wouldn't be driven by living creature. If one
tried to make him turn one way, he'd turn the other. No chance, Miss
Ella, if he didn't want you to come home, that we could make him send
for you."
"Was he conscious when he died?--who talked with him last?"
"I did," answered the old man promptly. "He had been as cheerful as
could be all day; less mopy than usual. At six o'clock he said he'd go
to bed, feeling tired; and did go. At nine o'clock I took in his
beef-tea, and stood by while he drank it; after that, I made up the
fire. Then he talked with me for ten minutes or so about one thing and
another. He hoped we were going to have a fine hot summer: hot weather
always suited him best. Then he said that his lassie--meaning you,
Miss Ella--would be on her way home by this time, and how glad he
should be to see your bonnie face again. Next, he said that he had
been thinking of having the garden done up, and should get some pretty
furniture from London put in your rooms, and that he would have more
company at the Hall, and try to make the old place a bit more cheerful
for you."
"As if I was not always the happiest when he and I were by ourselves!"
said Ella, hardly able to speak for her tears.
"Then I gave him a glass of port wine," resumed Aaron--"you won't have
forgotten that he liked a glass the last thing at bedtime--and he took
it up to the last. After that, I lighted the one wax candle that he
always kept burning all night. He would have the candle put so that as
he laid in bed he could see the likeness of that beautiful young lady,
which has hung over his bedroom chimney-piece as long as I can
remember: who she was, he never told me. Then he held out his hand to
me, as he always did at night of late--except maybe at any odd time
when he was a bit put out. 'Goodnight, old friend,' he said; 'I shan't
want anything more till morning.' They were the last words anyone
heard him speak."
Ella turned and buried her face in the padded arm-chair.
"I had just got out of the room, and was shutting the door behind me,"
continued Aaron, "when I thought I heard a queer sort of noise. I
couldn't make out whether it was a groan or a cry, or what it was.
However, I went back into the room. The Squire seemed lying just as I
had left him, but he didn't speak. Not feeling satisfied, I took up
the candle and looked at his face. There I saw something that made my
heart quake as it had never quaked before. I called Hubert; and five
minutes later his horse was in the dog-cart, and he was off to fetch
the Doctor. It wasn't long before Dr. Jago was here, but the moment he
clapped eyes on the Squire he saw there was no hope. My poor dear
master couldn't speak, but we seemed to see in his eyes that he knew
us. By-and-by he appeared to go to sleep. We could only watch by his
bedside: and he died just as the clocks were striking twelve."
"Oh! my dear one--my dear one!" wailed the weeping girl.
"There was one queer thing, Miss Ella, that happened that same night,"
resumed the old man, in a lowered voice. "We got to bed between two
and three o'clock. I was the last to leave the room, locking the door
behind me. I was the first person to enter the room in the morning;
and--what do you think I found there?"
Ella looked at him in silence.
"I found the picture of that beautiful young lady lying face downwards
upon the hearth. The nail that had held it for so many years had given
way in the night, and there it lay. I have not hung it up again. You,
Miss Ella, can do as you like about that. What I say to myself at odd
times is this--Why should it fall down the very night the master
died?"
Ella Winter felt that she could hear no more just now, and rose from
her seat. "I want to see him, Aaron; I will go now. You go on first
and bring me word whether anyone is in the room."
"You want to see him!" repeated Aaron, faintly and timidly, as a
strangely troubled look took possession of his eyes.
"Yes, of course I do. I will go in now. If my sad eyes could not look
upon his face living, they----"
"Oh! my dear Miss Ella," interrupted the old man, "no one's eyes will
ever rest on his face again."
Ella stared at him. "What do you mean?" she asked, in a voice that was
hardly more than a whisper.
"Oh! cannot you guess? They brought his last coffin yesterday,
and--and--I needn't tell you the rest."
"No--no--it cannot be!" cried Ella. "He died on Monday night, and this
is only Thursday. By whose orders was this cruel thing done?"
"By Dr. Jago's orders."
"What right had Dr. Jago----?"
"He said it was better so: he said it must be so. Indeed, it was
obliged to be."
Ella sank back on a sofa, and hid her face behind her hands. It seemed
to her that she was baffled at all points. And Aaron took the
opportunity to steal noiselessly from the room, as if he had been
doing something wrong in it, muttering as he went:
"Now Heaven forgive me for a deceitful villain!"
The funeral was fixed for the following Monday, Hubert Stone making
all the arrangements, under the directions of Mrs. Carlyon, who wished
to spare Ella as much as possible. Mrs. Carlyon was greatly taken with
Hubert, of whom she had not seen much on her previous visits to Heron
Dyke. "What an extremely handsome young man he is," she remarked to
herself more than once. "So gentlemanly, too, in manners and
appearance. Who would ever take him to be the grandson of a servant?"
Hubert's manner towards Mrs. Carlyon was full of deference, which was
far from being disagreeable to that lady. But what in Hubert was put
down to respectful sympathy might, in the case of a more commonplace
and less good-looking man, have been looked upon as an impertinence
from one in his position. Clever woman of the world though Mrs.
Carlyon was, she had not the slightest suspicion of the flame that was
scorching the heart of Hubert Stone, and making his days and nights at
once a delight and a torment to him.
One of Ella's first inquiries on reaching the Hall was, by whose wish
and for what purpose the green-baize doors had been put up which shut
in her uncle's rooms from the rest of the house. It was to Hubert the
question was put. All he could tell her was that the doors had been
put up by the Squire's own express desire; merely to satisfy some whim
he had taken on the score of being kept quiet. Ella, who knew how odd
and whimsical her uncle had been in many ways, accepted the
explanation.
Was it due to an oversight, or because the circumstance was not deemed
worth mentioning, that Miss Winter and her aunt were not made aware of
the presence of any nurse in the house during the last few months of
Mr. Denison's illness? The name of Nurse Dexter was certainly never
mentioned to them, nor was Ella yet aware of the existence of any such
person. Within a dozen hours of the Squire's demise, Mrs. Dexter had
packed up her trunks and was gone. She could be of no further use at
the Hall, she remarked to one of the maids, as she tied on her neat
black bonnet, and, as her services were urgently wanted elsewhere, she
thought that the sooner she got away the better.
Monday morning came. At nine o'clock Ella went to her uncle's room,
and stayed there for an hour, alone with all that was left on earth of
one whom she had so dearly loved. After that she went to her own room,
and was seen no more by anyone but her aunt till after the last sad
rites were over. Maria Kettle was still from home. She was the one
friend whom Ella missed in her affliction.
Mr. Daventry, the family lawyer, arrived early at the Hall. With him
he brought the Squire's last will and testament. Sir Peter Dockwray
and Colonel Townson, the executors, together with a few other old
personal friends of Mr. Denison whom it is needless to specify by
name, arrived later on. The procession was joined in the park by some
thirty or forty carriages belonging to the gentry of the
neighbourhood, a few, but only a few, of which were empty. Dr. Jago,
as a matter of course, was there, in a brougham hired for the
occasion. A special invitation had been sent to Dr. Spreckley, whom
Ella could not help regarding in the light of a wronged man. He was
touched by a proof of regard so unexpected, but his pride would not
let him accept it. He watched the procession from behind the lace
curtains of a friend's window with feelings that were half regretful
and half bitter.
The service was read by the Vicar, the Rev. Francis Kettle. In the
church, and afterwards round the grave, in addition to those who had
followed the body, was assembled a crowd of quite two hundred people.
"He's gone at last, poor old man," was the general comment of these
outsiders, "but he lived long enough to get the better of those who
would have robbed him of his property."
Everyone there knew the stake for which he had played, and everyone
was glad that he had won it.
And so to their last resting-place, with all due honour and respect,
were committed the mortal remains of Gilbert Denison, late master of
Heron Dyke.
Ella would fain have foregone the, to her, painful ordeal of having to
listen to the reading of her uncle's will after the return from the
funeral, but Mrs. Carlyon and Mr. Daventry both told her that she
ought to be present. And so the company assembled in the great
drawing-room, with a few of the upper servants.
"We are short of one person," remarked Mr. Daventry, as he glanced
round the room.
"Whom may that be?" asked Sir Peter Dockwray.
"Dr. Spreckley. We will give him five minutes' grace. If he is not
here then, we must proceed without him."
No one could have been more surprised than Dr. Spreckley was when,
upon returning home, after watching the funeral, a note was put into
his hands, requesting his presence at Heron Dyke to attend the reading
of Mr. Denison's will. What could his presence be wanted for? he asked
himself again and again. He had refused to attend the funeral, yet now
he was asked to attend the reading of the will! He could not make it
out at all: but he went.
"Here comes the straggler," said Mr. Daventry, as Dr. Spreckley was
ushered into the room.
Ella rose and shook hands with him warmly, and Hubert placed a chair
for him. Then Mr. Daventry settled his spectacles on his nose, and
spread open the will.
The will itself was dated some three years previously, but had been
added to and altered by various codicils from time to time.
The last codicil was dated November 10th of the previous year, and was
witnessed by Mr. Daventry's clerk, and by Phemie Hargrave, at that
time housemaid at the Hall. A brief summary of the various items
comprised in the will and its codicils is all that need be given here.
To his kinswoman, Gertrude Carlyon, as a token of affection and
esteem, and in recognition of her kindness to his niece, Ella Winter,
the testator bequeathed the sum of two thousand guineas.
To his old friend and medical attendant, Dr. Spreckley, as a token of
sincere liking and esteem, was bequeathed the sum of five hundred
guineas. This legacy was included in a codicil which bore date after
Dr. Spreckley had ceased to be the Squire's medical attendant.
To his old, tried, and faithful servant, Aaron Stone, the testator
bequeathed an immediate legacy of two hundred guineas, together with
an annuity of two hundred pounds per annum for life, the annuity to be
continued to his wife for her life, should Aaron die first.
To Hubert Stone, for services faithfully rendered, was bequeathed the
sum of seven hundred guineas. In this case the sum originally named in
the will was three hundred guineas, but had been increased to seven
hundred in the last codicil.
To John Tilney, the gardener, the sum of one hundred guineas.
To Edward Conroy, "a young fellow whom I like, I can't tell why," the
sum of one hundred guineas. A smaller legacy to the coachman, and to
one or two others of the dependents, completed this part of the will.
Ella started at the name of Conroy; in spite of herself her cheeks
flushed rosy red. She turned her face away to hide its colour.
"I don't know this young fellow," observed Mr. Daventry, alluding to
Conroy. "Neither himself nor his address."
The reading was soon over. Everything, save what was taken up by these
legacies, was bequeathed to Ella Winter--houses, lands, money, all
unconditionally--in a few brief loving terms which set the girl's
tears flowing afresh. In the last lines of the will was expressed a
wish of the testator--it was not made an absolute condition--that in
case of his niece, Ella Winter, ever getting married, her husband
should change his name to Denison--in order, as it was expressed, that
"the old name might not be forgotten in the land."
Mr. Daventry folded up the will, and took off his spectacles. The
visitors began to disperse, some partaking of refreshment, which was
laid out in another room, some declining it; and at length the old
house and its inmates were left to themselves, Mr. Daventry alone
remaining. General matters of business had to be spoken of; the
afternoon waned, and Ella asked him to dine with them.
The old lawyer accepted the offer, but left as soon as the meal was
over. It had been served in a cosy panelled room, not far from the
entrance-hall. It was a more cheerful room than many of the larger
ones, and Ella and Mrs. Carlyon had sat mostly in it these few days
since their return.
They sat together now, in the pleasant May twilight, talking in
undertones of many things past and to come. By-and-by one of the
housemaids brought in candles, and Mrs. Carlyon, who was a great
reader, went in search of a certain book which she knew to be
somewhere in her bedroom, without being exactly sure where. Some last
faint traces of twilight still lingered in the sky, and she went up
without a light.
Crossing the entrance-hall, Mrs. Carlyon ascended the great staircase,
and traversed the gallery until she reached the corridor into which
the door of her room opened. In searching for the book she threw down
a tray from her dressing-table, containing sundry small articles; and
she wished she had brought a light as she stooped to feel for them and
pick them up. It was accomplished at last, and the book was found; but
all this had taken some little time, and the dusk had deepened in the
corridors, and the gallery as Mrs. Carlyon went out. In fact, coming
from the light afforded by the windows of her room, they looked quite
dark.
"Let me see--this is the way, I think," said Mrs. Carlyon to herself,
hesitating as to the turning she ought to take in the gallery; and
finally she took the wrong one.
Three or four minutes later she rushed into the sitting-room with a
white face and startled eyes, and sank into a chair, thoroughly
overcome.
Ella rose up in alarm. "Good gracious, aunt," she cried, "what is the
matter? Has anything happened?"
"Oh, child, I--I think I must be very foolish--but I have just had a
terrible fright."
And the fright was upon her still, to judge by the trembling voice and
hands.
"But what has frightened you?" asked Ella.
"That's the strangest part of it; that I don't know what--or who,"
spoke Mrs. Carlyon, after a pause and an effort to collect herself. "I
went up for my book, you know, Ella, and I was rather long finding it;
and when I got into the corridors and gallery again it was dark, and I
missed my way, I suppose. At all events, instead of coming to the
staircase as I expected, I presently found myself in a part of the
house quite strange to me--at least, it seemed so in the dusk----"
"Was it the north wing?" involuntarily interrupted Ella.
"I don't know; it may have been. Seeing a window, through which a
little dim light came in, I halted at it to consider what was to be
done, and how I should best find my way down. While thus standing a
something black--I cannot tell you what it was--brushed swiftly and
silently past me, and disappeared in the deeper darkness beyond."
"Something black!" repeated Ella, feeling an awe she could scarcely
account for.
"Ay. The figure--it was human, I conclude, but whether male or female
I can scarcely tell, though I think the latter, because the skirts of
the garment it wore touched my gown in passing--the figure, I say,
just showed itself to me, and was gone."
"Did you hear no footsteps, Aunt Gertrude?"
"None whatever. I was so startled that, for a few moments, I could not
stir or think. Then I rushed along the corridors, haphazard, and came
straight upon a staircase. Instinct comes to our aid in these moments
of perplexity more often than we think," broke off Mrs. Carlyon.
"Aunt, it must have been one of the servant-girls," spoke Ella,
finding relief in the idea.
"No, no, no," emphatically pronounced Mrs. Carlyon. "Not so, child. I
ran down the staircase, not knowing or caring whither it might lead
me," she continued, "and along the passage at its foot, and found
myself close to the large kitchen. Aaron sat smoking his pipe over the
fire; within the open door of another room I saw the two maids seated
at work by candlelight, old Dorothy inspecting its progress through
her spectacles. How I managed not to run into them with my fear, I can
hardly tell; but I controlled it, and came on to you. Now you know
all, Ella."
Miss Winter felt both puzzled and annoyed. She knew not what to think.
Had it been a servant who told the story, she would have said at once
that the girl had been the victim of her own foolish fancies; but in
the case of a woman like Mrs. Carlyon no such belief was possible. Who
and what could it have been? Had it anything to do with the strange
disappearance of Katherine Keen--and with the superstitious reports
that arose afterwards?
"This had better not be spoken of, aunt," said Ella.
"No, indeed," quickly assented Mrs. Carlyon. "But you won't find me
going upstairs alone, at dusk again. All the wealth of the Indies
would not tempt me to live through a winter in this dreadful old
house."