Captain Robert Millet's lunch was carried up to him upon a very stiff,
narrow tray, which took dishes and plates one after the other in a long
row. It was evidently something or several somethings very savoury and
nice from the odours exhaled, but everything was carefully covered over.
It was no easy task, the carriage of that long, narrow tray from the
basement to the back drawing-room on the first floor, especially as
there were gravies and other liquids on the tray; but Valentine Vidler
and his wife had taken up breakfasts, lunches, and dinners too many
thousand times to be in any difficulty now.
So, starting from the dark kitchen, where coppers, pewters, and tins
shone like so many moons amidst the gloom, the odd couple each took an
end of the tray, which was quite six feet long, and Vidler's own
invention. Salome went first, backwards, and Vidler followed over the
level, when, as the little woman reached the mat at the foot of the
kitchen stairs, there was a pause, while she held the tray with one hand
and gave her long garments a hitch, so as to hold one end in her teeth
and not tread upon them as she went up backwards. Then, stooping and
holding the tray as low as she could, she began to ascend, Vidler
following and gradually raising his end to preserve the level of the
tray till he held it right above his head.
This raising and lowering in ascent and upon level was all carried out
in the most exact and regular way--in fact, so practised had the old
couple grown in the course of years, that they could have carried a
brimming glass of water up the gloomy stairs without spilling a drop.
Hence, then, they reached the drawing-room with the tray preserving its
equilibrium from bottom to top.
As soon as they were inside Salome placed her end upon the little
bracket while Vidler retained his; then she went out of the room, took
up a big, soft drumstick, and gave three gentle taps on a gong that hung
in its frame--three taps at long intervals, which sounded like the
boomings of a bell at the funeral of a fish and a fowl--and then
returned to the drawing-room and stood on the right-hand side of the
panel close to the wall with one hand raised.
As she took her place the panel was softly slid back towards her. Then
she took off the first cover, Vidler acting in conjunction, made the
long tray glide slowly forwards into the opening, its end evidently
resting on something within. Then two hands appeared, a knife and fork
were used, with a glass at intervals, and the fish was discussed.
As soon as the knife and fork were laid down Salome whipped off two more
covers, and the tray glided in a couple of feet further, both the lady
and her lord keeping their eyes fixed upon the floor.
The calmness and ease with which all this was carried on indicated long
practice, and for precision no amount of drilling could have secured
greater regularity. As the knife and fork fell upon the plate again
there was a pause, for a pint decanter and glass were pushed opposite
the thin white hands that now approached, and, removing the stopper,
filled the glass. Then a cover was raised, and the tray glided onward
once more, with some steaming asparagus on toast; and after a short
pause the cold, colourless voice was heard to repeat a short grace, the
tray was slowly withdrawn, the panel glided to, and Vidler and his
little wife bore the remains of the luncheon to the lower regions.
Hardly had the tray been set down before there was a double knock, and
on going upstairs Vidler found John Huish at the front door.
"Would Captain Millet give me an interview, Vidler?" he asked.
The little man looked at him sidewise, then tried the other eye, and
ended by standing out of the way and letting the visitor enter, shutting
out the light again as carefully as before.
"I'll try, sir," he said; "I don't think he will. I was just going to
take up that," he continued, pointing to a basket of coloured scraps of
print. "He's about to begin a new counterpane to-day."
"A new what?" said Huish.
"A new counterpane for the Home Charity. That'll be six he has made
this year. I'll show you the last."
He led Huish into the darkened dining-room, and showed him a wonderfully
neat piece of needlework, a regular set pattern, composed of hundreds
upon hundreds of tiny scraps of cotton print.
"Makes 'em better than many women could, and almost in the dark," said
the little man; "but I'll go up and see. Miss Millet and her sister
have not been gone long."
"What!" cried Huish, "from here?"
"Gone nearly or quite an hour ago, sir. Been a good deal lately."
"My usual fortune," muttered Huish excitedly. "But go up," he said
aloud; "I particularly want to have a few words with him."
"I don't think it's of any use, sir; but I'll see," repeated the little
man; and he went upstairs, to return at the end of about five minutes to
beckon the visitor up, and left him facing the panel.
It was evident that the young man had been there before, as he took a
seat, and waited patiently for the panel to unclose, which it did at
last, but not until quite a quarter of an hour had passed.
"Well, John Huish," said the voice, "what do you want?"
It was rather a chilling reception for one who had come upon such a
mission; but he was prepared for it, and dashed at once into the object
of his visit, in spite of the peculiarity of having to address himself
to a square opening in the wall.
"I have come for advice and counsel," said Huish firmly.
"You, a man of the world, living in the world, come to such an anchorite
as I!" said the voice--"as I, who have for pretty well thirty years been
dead to society and its ways?"
"Yes," said Huish. "I come to you because you can help."
"How much do you want, John Huish?" said the voice. "Give me the pen
and ink."
The thin white hand appeared impatiently at the opening, with the
fingers clutching as if to take the pen.
"No, no, no!" said the young man hastily. "It is not that. Let me tell
you," he exclaimed, as the fingers ceased to clutch impatiently at the
air and the white hand rested calmly upon the edge of the opening--"let
me speak plainly, for I am not ashamed of it--I am in love."
There was a faint sigh here, hardly audible to the young man, who went
on:
"I come to you for help and advice."
"What can I do to help? As for advice," said the voice coldly, "I will
do what I can. Is she worthy of your love?"
"Worthy?" cried Huish, flushing. "She is an angel."
"Yes," said the voice, with a sigh. "They all are. But, tell me, does
she refuse you."
"No, sir."
"Then what more do you want? Who and what is she?"
These last words were said with more approach to interest, and the
fingers began to tap the edge of the opening.
"It is presumption on my part," said Huish, growing excited, and rising
to stride up and down the room, "for I am poor and unworthy of her."
"No true honourable man is unworthy of the woman he loves," said the
voice calmly, "though he may, perhaps, be unsuited. Go on. Who is the
lady?"
"Who is she, sir? I believed that you must know. It is your niece--
Gertrude."
"My God!"
It was almost a whisper, but John Huish heard it, and saw that the thin
white hand seemed to be jerked upwards, falling slowly back, though, to
remain upon the edge of the opening trembling.
"I shock you, sir, by my announcement," said Huish bitterly.
"No--yes--no; net shock--surprise me greatly." There was a pause, and
the fingers trembled as they were now and again raised, then grew steady
as they were laid down. "But tell me," it continued, trembling and
becoming less cold, "does Gertrude return your love?"
"Oh yes, Heaven bless her, yes!" cried the young man fervently; and
there was another silence, such as might have ensued had the owner of
the voice been trying to master some emotion.
"What more, then, do you want?" said the voice, now greatly changed.
"You, an honourable young man, in love with a girl who is all sweetness
and purity. It is strange; but it is the will of God. Marry her, and
may He bless the union!"
"Captain Millet, you make me very, very happy," cried the young man; and
before the hand could be removed it was seized and pressed in his strong
grasp.
It was withdrawn directly, and a fresh silence ensued, when the voice
said softly:
"And my brother, does he approve?"
"Oh yes; I think so," replied Huish; "but--"
"The mother objects--of course. She has made her choice. Who is it?"
"Lord Henry Moorpark."
"A man nearly three times her age. It would be a crime. You will not
permit such an outrage against her youth. Moorpark must be mad."
"What can I do, sir?" cried Huish. "That is why I ask your help and
counsel."
"Bah!" said the voice contemptuously. "You are young and strong; you
have your wits; Gertrude loves you, and you ask me for help and counsel!
John Huish, at your age, under such circumstances, it would have been a
bold man who would have robbed me of my prize. There, go--go, young
man, and think and act. Poor Gertrude! she has a mother who makes
Mammon her God--a woman who has broken one of her children's hearts; do
not let her break that of the other. Go now, I am weary: this has been
a tiring day. You can come to me again."
"Do not let her break that of the other," said John Huish to himself as
the panel slowly closed; and from that moment the dim twilight of the
shuttered house became to him glorious with light, and he went away
feeling joyous and elastic as he had not felt for days. As he neared
his chambers a thin, grey, hard-faced-looking woman, who had stood
watching for quite an hour, stepped out of a doorway and touched him on
the arm.
He turned sharply, and she said in a low voice:
"I must see you. Come to-morrow night at the old time."
Before he could speak she had hurried away, turned down the next street,
and was gone.
"To-morrow night--the old time?" said Huish, gazing after her, and then
raising his hat to place his hand upon his forehead. "Quite cool. Is
it fancy? Why should that woman speak to me?"
Then, turning upon his heel, he entered the door of his chambers, and
set himself to work to think over his interview, and to devise some plan
for defeating Lady Millet in her projected enterprise.
"It would shock her," he said at last; "but when she knows of her
uncle's views she might be influenced. She must, she shall be. The
poor old man's words have given me strength, and I shall win, after all.
But what slaves we are to custom and prejudice! I ought not to be the
man to study them in such a case as this."
Then the words just spoken to him at the door came back to puzzle and
set him thinking of several other encounters--or fancied encounters with
people whom he felt that he had never seen before.
"I don't know what to say to it," he thought; "Stonor ought to know; but
somehow I feel as if he had not grasped my case. There, I will not
trouble about that now."
He kept the thoughts which troubled him from his brain for a time, but
they soon forced themselves back with others.
"I wonder," he mused, "what took place in the past? There must have
been something. My father and mother must have known Captain Millet
very intimately. He received his injury from some fall, and Dr Stonor
saved his limb, I believe. But there's a reticence about all that time
which is aggravating. I suppose I must wait, and when I learn
everything which puzzles me now, it will be only shadowy and vague.
Only my mother always asks about the Captain with so tender a tone of
respect. Ah, well! I must wait."
At about the same time that John Huish was pondering over his state in
connection with his love affairs, Renee Morrison called in her carriage
for her sister, bore her off to where she thought they could be alone,
and sent the carriage back. The place chosen was the Park, which,
though pretty well thronged with people, seemed to them solitary, as
they strolled across toward the Row.
Gertrude was very silent, for she felt that Renee had something
important to say; but the minutes sped on, and their scattered remarks
had been of the most commonplace character, and at last, as she glanced
sideways, Gertrude saw that if her sister were to confide her troubles
and be the recipient of those effervescing in her own breast she herself
must speak.
"You do not confide in me, Renee dear," she said tenderly, as they took
a couple of chairs beneath one of the spreading trees. "Why do you not
always make me more your confidant? One feels as if one could talk out
here in the park, where there are no walls to listen. Come, dear, why
do you not tell me all?"
"Because I feel that my husband's secrets are in my keeping, and that I
should be doing wrong to speak of what he does."
"Not wrong in confiding in me, Renee. You are not happy. Oh, Ren, Ren,
why did you consent? Trouble, and so soon!"
"Don't talk to me like that, now, Gerty," cried Renee in a low,
passionate voice, "because it was mamma's will that we should marry well
and have establishments, and satisfy her pride. Sometimes I think it
would have been better if I had never been born."
"Oh, Ren, Ren," her sister whispered, pressing her hand. "But Frank--he
is kind to you?"
"Yes," said Renee sadly; "he is never angry with me."
"But I mean kind and loving and attentive, as your husband should be?"
said Gertrude softly.
Renee looked at her with a sad, heavy look, and now that the first
confidence had been made, her heart was open to her sister.
"Gertrude," she whispered to her, "he never loved me!"
"Oh, Ren dear, think what you are saying!"
"I do think, dear, and I say it once more. He never loved me."
"But, Renee, you have been kind and loving to him."
"Yes, as tender as a woman could be to the man she had sworn to love;
but he does not care for me, and I am haunted."
"Haunted, Renee?"
"Yes; hush! Here is Major Malpas."
Gertrude glanced in the direction taken by her sister's eyes, and her
heart seemed to be compressed as by a cold hand, as she turned
indignantly to her sister.
"Renee!" she said, in a horrified whisper, "oh, do not say you care for
him still!"
"Gertrude!" cried Renee, catching her hand, "how dare you say that! I
hate--I detest him! I thought him a gentleman once, and I did love him;
but that was over when I married Frank, and since then he has haunted
me; he follows me everywhere, and Frank makes him his constant
companion, and he leads him away."
"Oh, this is dreadful!"
"Dreadful!" cried Renee, "I feel at times that I cannot bear it. Come
away: he has seen us, and is coming here."
"Is--is that Mr Huish?" whispered Gertrude, gazing in another
direction.
"Yes. Who is the dark lady on his arm?"
"I do not know," said Gertrude quietly. "Some friend, perhaps; but,
look, is not that Frank?"
She drew her sister's attention towards a phaeton in which Frank
Morrison was driving a handsome-looking woman dressed in the height of
fashion; and directly Renee saw him plainly the Major came up.
"What a delightful meeting, Miss Millet!" he said. "Mrs Morrison, I
hope I shall not be _de trop_?"
"My husband's friends have too great a claim on me," said Renee quietly,
as she left her seat and moved in the direction of her own home; but she
kept glancing in the direction taken by the phaeton.
It was cleverly-managed, and as if Malpas knew exactly when the carriage
would next come by, timing his place so well that the sisters were close
to the railings as the dashing pair scattered some of the earth over the
young wife's dress.
"Who is that with Frank Morrison, Major Malpas?" said Gertrude quickly.
"I beg your pardon?" he said.
"That fashionably-dressed lady in my brother-in-law's phaeton. There
they go."
"Indeed!" said the Major. "I was not looking. Are you sure it was he?"
"Certain," replied Gertrude.
"My dear Mrs Morrison, is anything the matter?" cried the Major, with a
voice full of sympathy.
"No, nothing," said the young wife, who was now deadly pale. "May I ask
you--to leave us?"
"Yes," he said earnestly; "but I shall not go. Pray take my arm. Miss
Millet, your sister is ill. I fear you have been imprudent and have
taxed her strength. I must see her safely home, or I could not face
Morrison again."
"He haunts me!" thought Gertrude to herself, as she recalled her
sister's words, and found that the Major persisted in walking by her
side till they reached Chesham Place, where, murmuring his satisfaction
that Renee seemed better, he left the sisters in the hall.
"All things come to the man who waits," he muttered to himself, as he
went off smiling.
"Renee," said Gertrude, as soon as they were alone, "have you ever
encouraged him in any way since your marriage? How is it he seems to
have such a hold upon you?"
"I do not know--I cannot tell," said Renee wearily, as, with brow
contracted, she sat thinking of the scene in the Park. "But do not
mention him--do not think of him, Gertrude dear; he is as nothing in
face of this new misery."
"New misery?" said Gertrude innocently.
"Yes," cried Renee passionately; "do you not see? Oh, Frank, Frank!"
she moaned, "why do you treat me so?"
Gertrude, upon whom all this came like a revelation, strove to comfort
her, and to point out that her fears might be mere exaggerations, but
her sister turned sharply.
"You do not understand these things, Gertrude," she said. "He does not
love me as he should, and, knowing this, Major Malpas has never ceased
to try and tempt him away from me--to the clubs--to gambling parties,
from which he comes home hot and feverish; and now it seems that worse
is to follow. Oh, mother, mother! you have secured me an establishment
which I would gladly change for the humblest cottage, if it contained my
husband's faithful love."
Gertrude's heart beat fast at these words, and a faltering purpose
became strengthened.
"But, Ren darling," she whispered; "have you spoken to him and tried to
win him from such associations? Frank is so good at heart."
"Yes," sighed Renee; "but so weak and easily led away. Spoken to him,
Gertrude? No, dear. As his wife, I have felt that I must ignore such
things. I would not know that he visited such places--that he gambled--
that he returned home excited. I have put all such thoughts aside, and
met him always with the same smile of welcome, when my heart has been
well-nigh broken."
"My poor sister!" whispered Gertrude, drawing her head to her breast and
thinking of the husband and establishment that her mother had arranged
for her to possess.
"But this I feel that I cannot bear," cried Renee impetuously. "It is
too great an outrage!"
"Oh, Ren, Ren!" whispered Gertrude, "do not judge him too rashly; wait
and see--it may be all a mistake."
"Mistake!" said Renee bitterly; "did you not see him driving that woman
out? Did you not see her occupying the place that should be mine?"
"Yes--yes," faltered Gertrude; "but still there may be some
explanation."
"Yes," said Renee at last, as she dried her tears and sat up, looking
very cold and stern; "there may be, and we will wait and see. At all
events, I will not say one single harsh word."
Gertrude left her at last quite calm and composed, the brougham being
ordered for her use, and she sat back thinking of John Huish with the
dark lady; but only to smile, for no jealous fancy troubled her breast.
End of Volume One.
Volume 2, Chapter I. The Story--Years Ago--(Continued).