WHAT DOROTHY SAW IN THE SHRUBBERY.
Ella Winter felt dull after her aunt's departure; the Hall seemed more
lonely than ever. Although that estimable lady, Mrs. Toynbee, might do
very well to fill the position of chaperon and housekeeper-in-chief,
she could never be anything more to Miss Winter. Now it was that she
missed the presence of Maria Kettle: who was still at Leamington with
Mrs. Page. She heard from Maria often, but that was not like seeing
her. One thing Ella could do, and did; she took an active interest in
the welfare of Maria's school, and of the poor old people at whose
cottages Maria was so frequent a visitor when at home. Ella did more
than that, she instructed Philip Cleeve to draw up plans of a new wing
for the school which she determined to build at her own expense, and
as a welcome surprise for Maria when she should return.
Ella's thoughts often dwelt upon that promised visit to London which
she was to pay Mrs. Carlyon. Previously to Conroy's visit to the Hall
she had not looked forward to the visit with any particular pleasure.
_Now_ she counted the number of days that intervened before she should
start, and so see Conroy again. Though the time was not quite fixed,
each morning when she awoke she said to herself, with a little shiver
of happiness, "Another day nearer." Conroy had never spoken one word
of love to her, yet in her heart lay a dim, blissful consciousness
that she was dearer to him than all the world beside.
One day there came an invitation for herself and Mrs. Toynbee to dine
at Homedale. Lady Cleeve did not choose that Philip should be dining
here, there, and everywhere, and make no return for it. So she invited
a few friends, taking the opportunity of Freddy Bootle's being at
Nullington, that he might make one. Captain Lennox and his sister were
included. Lady Cleeve knew little or nothing of them, but she knew how
hospitable they were to Philip: and the Vicar of course was one of the
party. Old Dr. Downes was laid up with the gout, and Mr. Tiplady was
away: but Dr. Spreckley was there. It was a pleasant, informal
gathering, and all felt at ease.
It was only necessary to bring Freddy Bootle into the presence of Ella
for his old flame of love to leap suddenly into life again. This
evening he could do little beyond sigh and look miserable, and polish
his eyeglass perpetually. His usual flow of harmless small talk was as
dried up as a mountain stream at midsummer.
"She's too completely lovely," he whispered to Philip more than once;
while to Lennox he turned and said, "I've such a longing to-night to be
able to write verses. Never had the feeling before. Only they would be
awful rubbish, you know"--which very probably they would have been.
Lady Cleeve took quite a liking for Mrs. Ducie: who indeed charmed all
without conscious effort. She was a great favourite with the Vicar,
and after dinner he sat by her side for an hour. Philip's eyes were
turned towards her very frequently, but his attentions to her were not
more marked than those he paid to any other of his mother's guests.
"A pity poor old Downes could not be here!" remarked Captain Lennox to
Miss Winter, in the course of the evening. "That gout is sure to
attack one at an unseasonable time."
Ella smiled at the last sentence, as she made room for the Captain on
the sofa. "I hope Dr. Downes is not breaking," she said, "but he has
not looked well lately."
"Oh, he is all right: it was only this fit of gout coming on. The last
time I saw him he broke into a lamentation over the loss of his gold
snuffbox: it's not often he speaks of it. That was a curious thing,
by the way."
"Very," assented Ella. "I was away at the time, but I heard about it
on my return. It put me in mind of the loss of my aunt's jewels."
"Why, that's what it put me in mind of; very forcibly, too," returned
Captain Lennox. "I said so to Philip Cleeve."
Both of them turned their eyes on Philip as the Captain spoke. To Ella
it seemed that Philip was strangely restless and excited to-night. His
eyes sparkled and his face looked flushed. "Foolish boy! he has been
drinking too much wine," was her thought; and Mr. Bootle was evidently
of the same opinion.
But they were mistaken. Philip had been in the same restless and
excited mood yesterday, and would be again to-morrow. Captain Lennox
was probably the only person present who could have guessed at the
real cause of it.
"I wonder," resumed Ella, "whether the Doctor will ever find his
snuffbox again?"
"Ah, that's doubtful," said the Captain, gravely shaking his head.
"Not if it was taken by an ordinary thief."
"What do you mean, Captain Lennox?"
"If a common thief stole the box, it would probably be melted down as
soon afterwards as might be. If--if anybody else took it, he would no
doubt sell it for what he could get for it; and the box, in that case,
may some day or other turn up again."
"But why should one not an ordinary thief take it?"
A smile crossed the Captain's lips at the question, as he looked down
at Miss Winter.
"To make money of it, of course," he said, dropping his voice. "A
gentleman hard-up has done as much before, and may do as much again."
Ella looked at the speaker: his tone was peculiar, and she thought he
meant it to be. But he moved away, and said no more.
The party broke up early, remembering Lady Cleeve's delicate health.
Miss Winter offered a seat in her carriage to the Vicar, for whom a
fly was waiting. He preferred the carriage, and dismissed the fly.
After his return home, he nodded a little while in his study over his
cosey bit of fire; but he felt dead sleepy, and soon went up to bed.
The Reverend Francis Kettle had a methodical habit of emptying his
pockets before he began to undress, and laying out their contents on a
low chest of drawers that stood by his bedside. This he proceeded to
do as usual. His card-case, his pencil-case, his gold toothpick,
and his bunch of keys were all put down in due order, but when he came
to feel for the most important item of all, his purse, or small
money-case, made of Russian leather, it was nowhere to be found.
In something of a quandary the Vicar took his candle and went
downstairs. Could he have left it on his study-table in a fit of
absent-mindedness, or had it fallen out of his pocket while he dropped
into that half-doze in his easy-chair?
Very little time sufficed to convince him that the case was nowhere in
the study, and he went back upstairs more nonplussed than ever. The
loss of its contents would not ruin him: it had contained a few
sovereigns and some silver: all the same, he was much put about by its
unaccountable disappearance. He had given the flyman a shilling for
himself on getting out at Lady Cleeve's, and that was the last time he
had had occasion to open the case. However, it was certainly gone now;
and he had as certainly not lost it through any carelessness.
"What in the world is coming to us all?" cried he, testily. "This is a
second edition of Downes's snuffbox. Have we in truth got a black
sheep among us? If so, who is he?"
And it is to be hoped that these repeated losses will not weary the
reader. Events can but be related as they occurred.
The Vicar's roomy, easy-fitting clothes and capacious pockets would
present few difficulties to any clever member of the light-fingered
craft. But, then, he had not been where any light-fingered gentry
could possibly be supposed to be. He had been in the society of his
friends and neighbours: there had not been a single individual at
Homedale that evening whom he did not know. It was a most
unaccountable affair, and the Vicar's sleep that night was by no means
so sound as usual.
We must go for a short space of time to Heron Dyke, preceding Miss
Winter and her companion's return to it that evening. The reader does
not forget that one of the maids had been attacked with sore throat.
Dr. Spreckley soon cured her; but since then a few other cases had
appeared in the neighbourhood of the Hall from time to time. Not
sufficient to constitute an epidemic; though some of the cases were
rather grave, and one individual had died.
On this evening, quite late, Hannah Tilney, the gardener's wife at the
lodge, came up to the Hall. It was past nine o'clock. Her errand was
to ask Mrs. Stone for a small pot of blackcurrant jelly. And Dorothy
Stone was very much put about when she heard that this jelly was
intended for her grandson, Hubert.
"He has got one of them sore throats come on," said Hannah. "It began
yesterday, I know, though he said naught about it, but it's rare and
bad to-day; and not a morsel has he ate."
"He said naught about it here to-day," crustily interposed old Aaron,
echoing some of her words. "He was up here at his books as usual. It
can't be very bad: you women be so easily frightened."
"Well, sir, I know it is bad," persisted Hannah. "He won't take
anything for it, but I thought if I put a bit o' jelly by his bedside
he might suck a spoonful or two in the night. It eases the throat
wonderful, do blackcurrant jelly. And if he should be took worse, I've
not a soul in the house that could run to Nullington for Dr. Jago,
John being at Norwich!"
"Don't hurry away for a minute," cried Dorothy, as Mrs. Tilney was
going off with the jelly. "Aaron," she added in a timid sort of way,
"I should like to go down to the lodge and see him. He may be real
bad: and he's one that would never complain if he was dying."
"You'd think him real bad if he cut his finger, you would," growled
Aaron.
"You must please let me go," pleaded Dorothy, beginning to twitter.
"And who's to sit up for you?" demanded Aaron. "I shan't. It's a'most
ten o'clock now."
"Nobody need sit up," returned Dorothy, trying to be brave, her
fears all alert for her beloved grandson. "I'll take the key of the
side-door, and let myself in. Please mind you don't bolt and bar it."
She put on her bonnet and shawl, took the key, and departed with Mrs.
Tilney. When they reached the lodge, Hubert was not there. He must
have gone out during Hannah Tilney's absence. The children were long
ago abed and asleep.
"He goes out a deal at night," Hannah remarked, "and walks about the
park. My husband sees him pacing away there as swift as a windmill. We
think he does it by way of exercise, sitting so much over his accounts
in the day."
"But he oughtn't to go out when he has got a sore throat," said
Dorothy, untying her bonnet as she sat down in the kitchen to wait.
"He was always venturesome."
Meanwhile Miss Winter and Mrs. Toynbee returned home, and were
admitted by Aaron. He said nothing about his wife's being out.
"You can all go to bed," Miss Winter said to him. "We shall want
nothing more to-night."
And accordingly the household did go, Aaron included. Miss Winter's
maid had retired early in the evening. She had a very bad cold, and
was ordered by her mistress not to sit up.
Taking off their fleecy wraps, the two ladies drew up to the fire in
the sitting-room, and prepared for a cosey half-hour's chat. Neither
felt sleepy, or in the least inclined for bed. Falling into an
animated discussion of present matters and future plans, the time
passed swiftly and unheedingly.
More swiftly than it did for Dorothy at the lodge. Hubert did not come
in: the hands of the clock, ticking over the kitchen mantelpiece, drew
gradually very near to midnight.
"Where can the lad be--and what has become of him?" bewailed Mrs.
Stone.
"He's never as late as this--unless he is at Dr. Jago's, and has to
walk home from Nullington. And I'll tell you what, ma'am," added
Hannah, briskly, the idea occurring to her, "I'd not wonder but that's
where he is gone to-night: and the Doctor, seeing his throat's bad,
won't let him come away again till the morning."
"Maybe it is so," considered Dorothy. "Anyway, I dare not stay any
longer. If my husband's sitting up, though he said he shouldn't, he'll
be fine and cross."
Tying her bonnet and drawing her shawl round her, Dorothy Stone set
off on her lonely walk. She would rather have walked twenty miles in
broad daylight than that short course at midnight. All sorts of fears
and ghostly fancies were in her mind. It was not a dark night, the
stars being well out. Hurrying along with her face down, she had
nearly gained the shrubbery, when the great stable clock struck out
the hour--twelve.
That increased her superstitious fears: and why or wherefore she knew
not, but the night seemed to turn icy cold. She looked back, as by
some subtle instinct, wondering whether anything was following her.
All around seemed as silent as the grave.
Suddenly, as she looked, she thought she saw something stirring at a
distance behind. Something black, which had not been there a moment
ago, and seemed as if it must have risen out of the ground.
Fascinated, she peered out at it, unable to withdraw her gaze, her
face turning white and cold, her heart standing still.
She saw what appeared to be a black hearse, drawn by four headless
horses and driven by a headless coachman. It was coming towards her
pretty swiftly. But that she drew aside amidst the grass, it would
have driven over her. More dead than alive, Dorothy gazed out at it as
it passed noiselessly, without sound of any kind, and she watched it
till it vanished in the distance. It seemed to drive straight against
the wall at the end, where the road took a turn, to go right into the
wall and so disappear.
"The Lord be good to me!" she aspirated. "It wanted but this. I've
never seen the sight myself, though I have heard tell of it by those
who have."
It must be here explained that a belief in the apparition of a black
coach, or hearse, with four headless horses and a headless driver, is
common to many parts of Norfolk, and is not confined to any one
locality. It is supposed to foreshadow the death of some near friend
or relative of the individual who is so unlucky as to see it.
The striking of the midnight hour disturbed Miss Winter and Mrs.
Toynbee. Neither had any idea it was so late. Starting up, Mrs.
Toynbee lighted the bed-candles.
"You go on," said Ella, as she wished Mrs. Toynbee goodnight. "I want
to gather up my work first: I forgot to take it upstairs this
afternoon."
It took her a minute or two to do this. As she was crossing the hall,
candle and other things in hand, she was startled by hearing a noise
in the household regions. It sounded like the back-door being
unlocked. Yes! and now it was burst open with a bang, and a voice that
was certainly old Dorothy's gave vent to a fearful cry. Believing that
everybody was in bed, Miss Winter felt considerable surprise. Dropping
the odds and ends of work, she ran with her candle and found Dorothy
gasping in a chair before the embers of the kitchen fire.
With many moans and sobs, Dorothy related what she had seen.
"But that I sprang aside from its path, Miss Ella, it would have gone
right over me," she reiterated, her teeth chattering; "it made as if
it wanted to. Straight, straight on it came, turning neither to the
right nor the left. Oh, it was an awful sight!"
In spite of herself, Ella could not repress a shudder. The story of
the apparition of the black coach and its headless horses was not
unknown to her.
"And now, Miss Ella, there'll be a death in the house before long,"
shivered the woman. "It is a safe and sure warning of it--and oh,
which of us is it to be?"
To attempt to combat this, would have been a hopeless task: Dorothy
had believed in it as long as she had believed in anything. Miss
Winter contented herself with soothing her in the best way she could,
and, when the old woman had in some measure recovered from her fright,
in obtaining a promise from her not to speak to anyone of what she had
seen that night.
But that was probably too much to expect of Dorothy.