People say you can never sleep well in a strange bed. I know I did not
sleep well, but very badly, that first night at Lady Bevere's. It was
not the fault of the bed, or of its strangeness; it was Roger's trouble
haunting me.
He did not seem to have slept well either, to judge by his looks when I
went into his room in the morning. His fair, pleasant face was pale; his
lips trembled, the blue eyes had torment in their depths.
"I have had a bad dream," he said, in answer to a remark I made. "An
awful dream. It came to me in my last sleep this morning; and morning
dreams, they say, come true. I'm afraid I have you to thank for it,
Johnny."
"Me!"
"You suggested last night, startling me well-nigh out of my senses by
it, that Lizzie might follow me down here. Well, I dreamt she did so.
I saw her in the dining-room, haranguing my mother, her red-gold hair
streaming over her shoulders and her arms stretched wildly out. Uncle
John stood in a corner of the room, looking on."
I felt sorry, and told him so: of course my speaking had prompted the
dream. He need not fear. If Lizzie did not know he had come down here,
or that his family lived here, or anything about them, she could not
follow him.
"You see shadows where no shadows are, Roger."
"When a man spoils his life on its threshold, it is all shadow; past,
present, and future."
"Things may mend, you know."
"Mend!" he returned: "how can they mend? They may grow worse; never
mend. My existence is one long torment. Day by day I live in dread of
what may come: of her bringing down upon herself some public disgrace
and my name with it. No living being, man or woman, can imagine what
it is to me; the remorse for my folly, the mortification, the shame. I
believe honestly that but for a few things instilled into me at my
mother's knee in childhood, I should have put an end to myself."
"It is a long lane that has no turning."
"Lanes have different outlets: bad as well as good."
"I think breakfast must be ready, Roger."
"And I started with prospects so fair!" he went on. "Never a thought or
wish in my heart but to fulfil honestly the duties that lay in my way to
the best of my power, to God and to man. And I should have done it, but
for---- Johnny Ludlow," he broke off, with a deep breath of emotion,
"when I see other young fellows travelling along the same wrong road,
once earnest, well-meaning lads as I was, not turning aside of their own
wilful, deliberate folly, but ensnared to it by the evil works and ways
they encounter in that teeming city, my soul is wrung with pity for
them. I sometimes wonder whether God will punish them for what they can
hardly avoid; or whether He will not rather let His anger fall on those
who throw temptations in their way."
Poor Roger, poor Roger! Mr. Brandon used to talk of the skeleton in
_his_ closet: he little suspected how terrible was the skeleton in
Roger's.
Lady Bevere kept four servants: for she was no better off, except for a
little income that belonged to herself, than is many another admiral's
widow. An upper maid, Harriet, who helped to wait, and did sewing: a
housemaid and a cook; and an elderly man, Jacob, who had lived with them
in the time of Sir Edmund.
During the afternoon of this day, Saturday, Roger and I set off to walk
to Brighton with the two girls. Not by the high-road, but by a near way
(supposed to cut off half the distance) across a huge, dreary, flat
marsh, of which you could see neither the beginning nor the end. In
starting, we had reached the gate at the foot of the garden, when
Harriet came running down the path. She was a tall, thin, civil young
woman, with something in her voice or in her manner of speaking that
seemed to my ear familiar, though I knew not how or why.
"Miss Mary," she said, "my lady asks have you taken umbrellas, if you
please. She thinks it will snow when the sun goes down."
"Yes, yes; tell mamma we have them," replied Mary: and Harriet ran back.
"How was it the mother came to so lonely a spot as this?" questioned
Roger, as we went along, the little one, Tottams, jumping around me.
"You girls must find it lively?"
Mary laughed as she answered. "We _do_ find it lively, Roger, and we
often ask her why she came. But when mamma and George looked at the
place, it was a bright, hot summer's day. They liked it then: it has
plenty of rooms in it, you see, though they are old-fashioned; and the
rent was so very reasonable. Be quiet, Tottams."
"So reasonable that I should have concluded the place had a ghost in
it," said Roger.
"George's curacy was at Brighton in those days, you know, Roger: that is
why we came to the neighbourhood."
"And George had left for a better curacy before you had well settled
down here! Miss Tottams, if you pull at Johnny Ludlow like that, I shall
send you back by yourself."
"True. But we like the place very well now we are used to it, and we
know a few nice people. One family--the Archers--we like very much. Six
daughters, Roger; one of them, Bessy, would make you a charming wife.
You will have to marry, you know, when you set up in practice. They are
coming to us next Wednesday evening."
My eye caught Roger's. I did not intend it. Caught the bitter expression
in it as he turned away.
Brighton reached, we went on the pier. Then, while they did some
commissions for Lady Bevere at various shops, I went to the post-office,
to register two letters for Mr. Brandon. Tottams wanted to keep with me,
but they took her, saying she'd be too troublesome. The letters
registered, I came out of the office, and was turning away, when some
one touched me on the arm.
"Mr. Ludlow, I think! How are you?"
To my surprise it was Richard Scott. He seemed equally surprised to see
me. I told him I had come down with Roger Bevere to spend Christmas week
at Prior's Glebe.
"Lucky fellow!" exclaimed Scott, "I have to go back to London and
drudgery this evening: came down with my governor last night for an
operation to-day. Glad to say it's all well over."
But a thought had flashed into my mind: I ought not to have said so
much. Drawing Scott out of the passing crowd, I spoke.
"Look here, Scott: you must be cautious not to say that Bevere's down
here. You must not speak of it."
"Speak where?" asked Scott, turning his head towards me. He had put his
arm within mine as we walked along. "Where?"
"Oh--well--up with you, you know--in Bevere's old quarters. Or--or in
the railway-room at the Bell-and-Clapper."
Scott laughed. "_I_ understand. Madam Lizzie might be coming after him
to his mother's. But--why, what an odd thing!"
Some thought seemed to have struck him suddenly. He paused in his walk
as well as in his speech.
"I dare say it was nothing," he added, going on again. "Be at ease as
to Bevere, Ludlow. I should as soon think of applying to him a lighted
firebrand."
"But what is it you call odd?" I asked, feeling sure that, whatever it
might be, it was connected with Bevere.
"Why, this," said Scott. "Last night, when we got here, I left my
umbrella in the carriage, having a lot of other things to see to of my
own and the governor's. I went back as soon as I found it out, but could
hear nothing of it. Just now I went up again and got it"--slightly
showing the green silk one he held in his hand. "A train from London
came in while I stood there, bringing a heap of passengers. One of them
looked like Lizzie."