"Having nothing to do while waiting for my umbrella to be brought, I was
watching the crowd flock out of the station," continued Scott. "Amidst
it I saw a head of red-gold hair, just like Lizzie's. I could not see
more of her than that; some other young woman's head was close to hers."
"But do you think it was Lizzie?"
"No, I do not. So little did I think it that it went clean out of my
mind until you spoke. It must have been some accidental resemblance;
nothing more; red-gold hair is not so very uncommon. There's nothing to
bring her down to Brighton."
"Unless she knows that he is here."
"That's impossible."
"What a wretched business it is altogether!"
"You might well say that if you knew all," returned Scott. "She drinks
like a fish. Like a fish, I assure you. Twice over she has had a
shaking-fit of three days' duration--I suppose you take me, Ludlow--had
to be watched in her bed; the last time was not more than a week ago.
She'll do for herself, if she goes on. It's an awful clog on Bevere. The
marriage in itself was a piece of miserable folly, but if she had been a
different sort of woman and kept herself steady and cared for him----"
"The problem to me is, how Bevere could have been led away by such a
woman."
"Ah, but you must not judge of that by what she is now. She was a very
attractive girl, and kept her manners within bounds. Just the kind of
girl that many a silly young ape would lose his head for; and Bevere,
I take it, lost his heart as well as his head."
"Did you know of the marriage at the time?"
"Not until after it had taken place."
"They could never have pulled well together as man and wife; two people
so opposite as they are."
"No, I fancy not," answered Richard Scott, looking straight out before
him, but as though he saw nothing. "She has not tried at it. Once
his wife, safe and sure, she thought she had it all her own way--as
of course in one sense she had, and could give the reins to her
inclination. Nothing that Bevere wanted her to do, would she do. He
wished her to give up all acquaintance with the two girls at the
Bell-and-Clapper; but not she. He----"
"Is Miss Panken flourishing?"
"Quite," laughed Scott, "The other one came to grief--Mabel Falkner."
"Did she! I thought she seemed rather nice."
"She was a very nice little girl indeed, as modest as Polly Panken is
impudent. The one could take care of herself; the other couldn't--or
didn't. Well, Mabel fell into trouble, and of course lost her post.
Madam Lizzie immediately gave her house-room, setting Bevere, who
forbade it, at defiance. What with grief and other disasters, the girl
fell sick there; had an illness, and had to be kept I don't know how
long. It put Bevere out uncommonly."
"Is this lately?"
"Oh no; last year. Lizzie---- By the way," broke off Scott, stopping
again and searching his pocket, "I've got a note from her for Bevere.
You can give it him."
The words nearly seared away my senses. A note from Lizzie to Bevere!
"Why, then, she must know he is here!" I cried.
"You don't understand," quietly said Scott, giving me a note from his
pocket-book. "A day or two ago, I met Lizzie near the Bell-and-Clapper.
She----"
"She is well enough to be out, then!"
"Yes. At times she is as well as you are. Well, I met her, and she began
to give me a message for her husband, which I could not then wait to
hear. So she sent this note to me later, to be delivered to him when we
next met. I had not time to go to him yesterday, and here the note is
still."
It was addressed "Mr. Bevary." I pointed out the name to Scott.
"Does she not know better, think you?"
"Very likely not," he answered. "A wrong letter, more or less, in a
name, signifies but little to one of Lizzie's standard of education. It
is not often, I expect, she sees the name on paper, or has to write it.
Fare you well, Ludlow. Remember me to Bevere."
Scott had hardly disappeared when they met me. I said nothing of having
seen him. After treating Tottams to some tarts and a box of bonbons, we
set off home again; the winter afternoon was closing, and it was nearly
dark when we arrived. Getting Roger into his room, I handed him the
note, and told him how I came by it. He showed me the contents.
"DEAR ROGER,
"When you where last at home, you said you should not be able to
spend Christmas with me, so I am thinking of trying a little jaunt
for myself. I am well now and mean to keep so, and a few days in
the country air may help me and set me up prime. I inscribe this to
let you know, and also to tell you that I shall pay my journey with
the quarter's rent you left, so you must send or bring the sum
again. Aunt Dyke has got the rumaticks fine, she can't come
bothering me with her lectures quite as persistent as usual.
Wishing you the compliments of the season, I remain,
"Your affectionate wife,
"LIZZIE."
"Gone into Essex, I suppose; she has talked sometimes of her cousin
there," was all the remark made by Bevere. And he set the note alight,
and sent it blazing up the chimney. Of course I did not mention Scott's
fancy about the red-gold hair.
* * * * *
Sunday. We crossed the waste land in the morning to the little church I
have spoken of. A few cottages stood about it, and a public-house with
a big sign, on which was painted a yellow bunch of wheat, and the words
The Sheaf o' Corn. It was bitterly cold weather, the wind keen and
cutting, the ground a sort of grey-white from a sprinkling of snow that
had fallen in the night. I suppose they don't, as a rule, warm these
rural churches, from want of means or energy, but I think I never felt
a church so cold before. Mr. Brandon said it had given him a chill.
In the evening, after tea, we went to church by moonlight. Not all of
us this time. Mr. Brandon stayed away to nurse his chill, and Roger on
the plea of headache. The snow was beginning to come down smartly. The
little church was lighted with candles stuck in tin sconces nailed to
the wall, and was dim enough. Lady Bevere whispered to me that the
clergyman had a service elsewhere in the afternoon, so could only hold
his own in the evening.
It was snowing with a vengeance when we came out--large flakes half as
big as a shilling, and in places already a foot deep. We made the best
of our way home, and were white objects when we got there.
"Ah!" remarked Mr. Brandon, "I thought we should have it. Hope the wind
will go down a little now."
The girls and their mother went upstairs to take off their cloaks. I
asked Mr. Brandon where Roger was. He turned round from his warm seat by
the fire to answer me.
"Roger is outside, enjoying the benefit of the snow-storm. That young
man has some extraordinary care upon his conscience, Johnny, unless I
am mistaken," he added, his thin voice emphatic, his eyes throwing an
inquiry into mine.
"Do you fancy he has, sir?" I stammered. At which Mr. Brandon threw a
searching look at me, as if he had a mind to tax me with knowing what it
was.
"Well, you had better tell him to come in, Johnny."
Roger's great-coat, hanging in the hall, seemed to afford an index that
he had not strayed beyond the garden. The snow, coming down so thick and
fast but a minute or two ago, had temporarily ceased, following its own
capricious fashion, and the moon was bright again. Calling aloud to
Roger as I stood on the door-step, and getting no answer, I went out to
look for him.
On the side of the garden facing the church, was a little entrance-gate,
amid the clusters of laurels and other shrubs. Hearing footsteps
approach this, and knowing all were in from church, for the servants got
back before we did, I went down the narrow cross-path leading to it, and
looked out. It was not Roger, but a woman. A lady, rather, by what the
moonbeams displayed of her dress, which looked very smart. As she seemed
to be making for the gate, I stepped aside into the shrubs, and peered
out over the moor for Roger. The lady gave a sharp ring at the bell,
and old Jacob came from the side-door of the house to answer it.
"Is this Prior's Glebe?" she asked--and her voice gave an odd thrill to
my pulses, for I thought I recognized it.
"Yes, ma'am," said Jacob.
"Lady Beveer's, I think."
"That's near enough," returned Jacob, familiar with the eccentricities
of pronunciation accorded to the name. "What did you please to want?"
"I want Miss Field."
"Miss Field!" echoed the old man.
"Harriet Field. She lives here, don't she? I'd like to see her."
"Oh--Harriet! I'll send her out," said he, turning away.
The more I heard of the voice, the greater grew my dismay. Surely it
was that of Roger's wife! Was it really she that Scott had seen at the
station? Had she come after Roger? Did she know he was here? I stood
back amid the sheltering laurels, hardly daring to breathe. Waiting
there, she began a little dance, or shuffle of the feet, perhaps to warm
herself, and broke into a verse of a gay song. "As I live, she's not
sober!" was the fear that flashed across me. Harriet, her things still
on, just as she came in from church, came swiftly to the gate.
"Well, Harriet, how are you?"
"Why, Lizzie!--it's never you!" exclaimed Harriet, after an amazed stare
at the visitor.
"Yes, it's me. I thought I'd come over and see you. That old man was
polite though, to leave me standing here."
"But where have you come from? And why are you so late?"
"Oh, I'm staying at Brighton; came down on the spree yesterday. I'm
late because I lost my way on this precious moor--or whatever it calls
itself--and got a mile, or so, too far. When the snow came on--and ain't
it getting deep!--I turned into a house to shelter a bit, and here I am.
A man that was coming out of church yonder directed me to the place
here."
She must have been at The Sheaf o' Corn. What if she had chanced to ask
the route of _me_!
"You got my letter, then, telling you I had left my old place at
Worthing, and taken service here," said Harriet.
"I got it safe enough; it was directed to the Bell-and-Clapper room,"
returned Lizzie. "What a stick of a hand you do write! I couldn't
decipher whether your new mistress was Lady Beveen or Lady Beveer. I had
thought you never meant to write to me again."
"Well, you know, Lizzie, that quarrel between us years back, after
father and mother died, was a bitter one; but I'm sure I don't want to
be anything but friendly for the future. You haven't written, either. I
never had but that one letter from you, telling me you had got married,
and that he was a gentleman."
"And you wrote back asking whether it was true, or whether I had jumped
over the broomstick," retorted Lizzie, with a laugh. "You always liked
to be polite to me, Harriet."
"Do you ever see Uncle Dyke up in London, Lizzie?"
"And Aunt Dyke too--she's his second, you know. They are both
flourishing just now with rheumatism. He has got it in his chest, and
she in her knees--tra, la, la, la! I say, are you not going to invite me
in?"
Lizzie's conversation had been interspersed with laughs and antics. I
saw Harriet look at her keenly. "Was it a public-house you took shelter
in, Lizzie?" she asked.
"As if it could have been a private one! That's good."
"Is your husband with you at Brighton? I suppose you _are_ married,
Lizzie?"
"As safe as that you are an old maid--or going on for one. My husband's
a doctor and can't leave his patients. I came down with a friend of
mine, Miss Panken; she has to go back to-night, but I mean to stay over
Christmas-Day. I'll tell you all about my husband if you'll be civil
enough to take me indoors."
"I can't take you in to-night, Lizzie. It's too late, for one thing, and
we must not have visitors on a Sunday. But you can come over to tea
to-morrow evening; I'm sure my lady won't object. Come early in the
afternoon. And look here," added Harriet, dropping her voice, "don't
_drink_ anything beforehand; come quiet and decent."
"Who has been telling you that I do drink?" demanded Lizzie, in a sharp
tone.
"Well, nobody has told me. But I can see it. I hope it's not a practice
with you; that's all."
"A practice! There you go! It wouldn't be you, Harriet, if you didn't
say something unpleasant. One must take a sup of hot liquor when
benighted in such freezing snow as this. And I did not put on my warm
cloak; it was fine and bright when I started."
"Shall I lend you one? I'll get it in a minute. Or a waterproof?"
"Thanks all the same, no; I shall walk fast, I don't feel cold--and I
should only have the trouble of bringing it back to-morrow afternoon.
I'll be here by three o'clock. Good-night, Harriet."
"Good-night, Lizzie. Go round to that path that branches off from our
front-gate; keep straight on, and you can't miss the way."
I had heard it all; every syllable; unable to help it. The least rustle
of the laurels might have betrayed me. Betrayed me to Lizzie.
What a calamity! She did not appear to have come down after Roger, did
not appear to know that he was connected with Lady Bevere--or that the
names were the same. But at the tea-table the following evening she
would inevitably learn all. Servants talk of their masters and their
doings. And to hear Roger's name would be ruin.
I found Roger in his chamber. "Uncle Brandon was putting inconvenient
questions to me," he said, "so I got away under pretence of looking at
the weather. How cold you look, Johnny!"
"I am cold. I went into the garden, looking for you, and I had a fright
there."
"Seen a ghost?" returned he, lightly.
"Something worse than a ghost. Roger, I have some disagreeable news for
you."
"Eh?--what?" he cried, his fears leaping up: indeed they were very
seldom _down_. "They don't suspect anything, do they? What is it? Why do
you beat about the bush?"
"I should like to prepare you. If----"
"Prepare me!" sharply interrupted Roger, his nerves all awry. "Do you
think I am a girl? Don't I live always in too much mental excruciation
to need preparation for any mortal ill?"
"Well, Lizzie's down here."
In spite of his boast, he turned as white as the counterpane on his bed.
I sat down and told him all. His hair grew damp as he listened, his face
took the hue of despair.
"Heaven help me!" he gasped.
"I suppose you did not know Harriet was her sister?"
"How was I to know it? Be you very sure Lizzie would not voluntarily
proclaim to me that she had a sister in service. What wretched luck! Oh,
Johnny, what is to be done?"
"Nothing--that I see. It will be sure to come out over their tea
to-morrow. Harriet will say 'Mr. Roger's down here on a visit, and has
brought Mr. Johnny Ludlow with him'--just as a little item of gossip.
And then--why, then, Lizzie will make but one step of it into the family
circle, and say 'Roger is my husband.' It is of no use to mince the
matter, Bevere," I added, in answer to a groan of pain; "better look the
worst in the face."
The worst was a very hopeless worst. Even if we could find out where
she was staying in Brighton, and he or I went to her to try to stop her
coming, it would not avail; she would come all the more.
"You don't know her depth," groaned Roger. "She'd put two and two
together, and jump to the right conclusion--that it is my home. No,
there's nothing that can be done, nothing; events must take their
course. Johnny," he passionately added, "I'd rather die than face the
shame."
Lady Bevere's voice on the stairs interrupted him. "Roger! Johnny! Why
don't you come down? Supper's waiting."
"I can't go down," he whispered.
"You must, Roger. If not, they'll ask the reason why."
* * * * *
A fine state of mental turbulence we were in all day on Monday. Roger
dared not stir abroad lest he should meet her and have to bring her home
clinging to his coat-tails. Not that much going abroad was practicable,
save in the beaten paths. Snow had fallen heavily all night long. But
the sky to-day was blue and bright.
With the afternoon began the watching and listening. I wonder whether
the reader can picture our mental state? Roger had made a resolve that
as soon as Lizzie's foot crossed the threshold, he would disclose all to
his mother, forestalling her tale. Indeed, he could do nothing less.
Says Lord Byron, "Whatever sky's above me, here's a heart for every
fate." I fear we could not then have said the same.
Three o'clock struck. Roger grew pale to the lips as he heard it. I am
not sure but I did. Four o'clock struck; and yet she did not come. The
suspense, the agony of those few afternoon hours brought enough pain for
a lifetime.
At dusk, when she could not have known me at a distance, I went out to
reconnoitre, glad to go somewhere or do something, and prowled about
under shelter of the dark shrubs, watching the road. She was not in
sight anywhere; coming from any part; though I stayed there till I was
blue with cold.
"Not in a state to come, I expect," gasped Roger, when I got in, and
reported that I could see nothing of her, and found him still sitting
over the dining-room fire.
He gave a start as the door was flung open. It was only Harriet, with
the tea-tray and candles. We had dined early. George, the clergyman,
was expected in the evening, and Lady Bevere thought it would be more
sociable if we all took supper with him. Tottams followed the tea-tray,
skipping and singing.
"I wish it was Christmas-Eve every day!" cried the child. "Cook's making
such a lot of mince pies and cakes in the kitchen."
"Why, dear me, somebody has been drawing the curtains without having
shut the shutters first!" exclaimed Harriet, hastening to remedy the
mistake.
I could have told her it was Roger. As the daylight faded and the fire
brightened, he had shut out the window, lest dreaded eyes should peer
through it and see him.
"Your sister's not come yet, Harriet!" said Tottams. For the advent of
Harriet's expected visitor was known in the household.
"No, Miss Tottams, she is not," replied Harriet, "I can't think why,
unless she was afraid of the snow underfoot."
"There's no snow to hurt along the paths," contended Tottams.
"Perhaps she'd not know that," said Harriet. "But she may come yet; it
is only five o'clock--and it's a beautiful moon."
Roger got up to leave the room and met Lady Bevere face to face. She
caught sight of the despair on his, for he was off his guard. But off
it, or on it, no one could fail to see that he was ill at ease. Some
young men might have kept a smooth countenance through it all, for
their friends and the world; Roger was sensitive to a degree, refined,
thoughtful, and could not hide the signs of conflict.
"What is it that is amiss with him, Johnny?" Lady Bevere said, coming
to me as I stood on the hearthrug before the fire, Tottams having
disappeared with Harriet. "He looks wretchedly ill; _ill with care_,
as it seems to me; and he cannot eat."
What could I answer? How was it possible, with those kind, candid blue
eyes, so like Roger's, looking confidingly into mine, to tell her that
nothing was amiss?
"Dear Lady Bevere, do not be troubled," I said at length. "A little
matter has been lately annoying Roger in London, and--and--I suppose he
cannot forget it down here."
"Is it money trouble?" she asked.
"Not exactly. No; it's not money. Perhaps Roger will tell you himself.
But please do not say anything to him unless he does."
"Why cannot you tell me, Johnny?"
Had Madam Lizzie been in the house, rendering discovery inevitable, I
would have told her then, and so far spared Roger the pain. But she was
not; she might not come; in which case perhaps the disclosure need not
be made--or, at any rate, might be staved off to a future time. Lady
Bevere held my hands in hers.
"You know what this trouble is, Johnny; all about it?"
"Yes, that's true. But I cannot tell it you. I have no right to."
"I suppose you are right," she sighed. "But oh, my dear, you young
people cannot know what such griefs are to a mother's heart; the dread
they inflict, the cruel suspense they involve."
And the evening passed on to its close, and Lizzie had not come.
A little circumstance occurred that night, not much to relate, but not
pleasant in itself. George, a good-looking young clergyman, got in
very late and half-frozen--close upon eleven o'clock. He would not
have supper brought back, but said he should be glad of some hot
brandy-and-water. The water was brought in and put with the brandy on
a side-table. George mixed a glass for himself, and Roger went and
mixed one. By-and-bye, when Roger had disposed of that, he went back
to mix a second. Mr. Brandon glided up behind him.
"No, Roger, not in your mother's house," he whispered, interposing a
hand of authority between Roger and the brandy. "Though you may drink
to an unseemly extent in town, you shall not here."
"Roger got some brandy-and-water from mamma this afternoon," volunteered
Miss Tottams, dancing up to them. She had been allowed to sit up to help
dress the rooms; and, of all little pitchers, she had the sharpest ears.
"He said he felt sick, Uncle John."
They came back to the fire and sat down again, Roger looking in truth
sick; sick almost unto death.
Mr. Brandon went up to bed; Lady Bevere soon followed, and we began
the rooms, Harriet and Jacob coming in to help. Roger exclaimed at the
splendid heaps of holly. Of late years he had seen only the poor scraps
they get in London.
* * * * *
"A merry Christmas to you, Roger!"
"Don't, Johnny! Better that you should wish me dead."
The bright sun was shining into his room as I entered it on this
Christmas morning: Roger stood brushing his hair at the glass. He looked
very ill.
"How can I look otherwise?" retorted poor Roger. "Two nights and not
a wink of sleep!--nothing but fever and apprehension and intolerable
restlessness. And you come wishing me a merry Christmas!"
Well, of course it did sound like a mockery. "I will wish you a happier
one for next year, then, Roger. Things may be brighter then."
"How can they be?--with that dreadful weight that I must carry about
with me for life? Do you see this?"--sweeping his hand round towards the
window.