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diff --git a/1438-0.txt b/1438-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b9b792 --- /dev/null +++ b/1438-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,28427 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1438 *** + +cover + + + + +No Name + +by Wilkie Collins + + +Contents + + + PREFACE. + + THE FIRST SCENE. + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + BETWEEN THE SCENES. + + THE SECOND SCENE. + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + BETWEEN THE SCENES. + + THE THIRD SCENE. + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + BETWEEN THE SCENES. + + THE FOURTH SCENE. + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + BETWEEN THE SCENES. + + THE FIFTH SCENE. + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + BETWEEN THE SCENES. + + THE SIXTH SCENE. + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + BETWEEN THE SCENES. + + THE SEVENTH SCENE. + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + BETWEEN THE SCENES. + + THE LAST SCENE. + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + +TO + +FRANCIS CARR BEARD; +(FELLOW OF THE ROYAL COLLEGE OF SURGEONS OF ENGLAND) + +IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE TIME +WHEN THE CLOSING SCENES OF THIS STORY WERE WRITTEN. + + +PREFACE. + +The main purpose of this story is to appeal to the reader’s interest in +a subject which has been the theme of some of the greatest writers, +living and dead—but which has never been, and can never be, exhausted, +because it is a subject eternally interesting to all mankind. Here is +one more book that depicts the struggle of a human creature, under +those opposing influences of Good and Evil, which we have all felt, +which we have all known. It has been my aim to make the character of +“Magdalen,” which personifies this struggle, a pathetic character even +in its perversity and its error; and I have tried hard to attain this +result by the least obtrusive and the least artificial of all means—by +a resolute adherence throughout to the truth as it is in Nature. This +design was no easy one to accomplish; and it has been a great +encouragement to me (during the publication of my story in its +periodical form) to know, on the authority of many readers, that the +object which I had proposed to myself, I might, in some degree, +consider as an object achieved. + +Round the central figure in the narrative other characters will be +found grouped, in sharp contrast—contrast, for the most part, in which +I have endeavored to make the element of humor mainly predominant. I +have sought to impart this relief to the more serious passages in the +book, not only because I believe myself to be justified in doing so by +the laws of Art—but because experience has taught me (what the +experience of my readers will doubtless confirm) that there is no such +moral phenomenon as unmixed tragedy to be found in the world around us. +Look where we may, the dark threads and the light cross each other +perpetually in the texture of human life. + +To pass from the Characters to the Story, it will be seen that the +narrative related in these pages has been constructed on a plan which +differs from the plan followed in my last novel, and in some other of +my works published at an earlier date. The only Secret contained in +this book is revealed midway in the first volume. From that point, all +the main events of the story are purposely foreshadowed before they +take place—my present design being to rouse the reader’s interest in +following the train of circumstances by which these foreseen events are +brought about. In trying this new ground, I am not turning my back in +doubt on the ground which I have passed over already. My one object in +following a new course is to enlarge the range of my studies in the art +of writing fiction, and to vary the form in which I make my appeal to +the reader, as attractively as I can. + +There is no need for me to add more to these few prefatory words than +is here written. What I might otherwise have wished to say in this +place, I have endeavored to make the book itself say for me. + +_Harley Street, + November_, 1862 + + + +NO NAME. + + + +THE FIRST SCENE. +COMBE-RAVEN, SOMERSETSHIRE. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +The hands on the hall-clock pointed to half-past six in the morning. +The house was a country residence in West Somersetshire, called +Combe-Raven. The day was the fourth of March, and the year was eighteen +hundred and forty-six. + +No sounds but the steady ticking of the clock, and the lumpish snoring +of a large dog stretched on a mat outside the dining-room door, +disturbed the mysterious morning stillness of hall and staircase. Who +were the sleepers hidden in the upper regions? Let the house reveal its +own secrets; and, one by one, as they descend the stairs from their +beds, let the sleepers disclose themselves. + +As the clock pointed to a quarter to seven, the dog woke and shook +himself. After waiting in vain for the footman, who was accustomed to +let him out, the animal wandered restlessly from one closed door to +another on the ground-floor; and, returning to his mat in great +perplexity, appealed to the sleeping family with a long and melancholy +howl. + +Before the last notes of the dog’s remonstrance had died away, the +oaken stairs in the higher regions of the house creaked under +slowly-descending footsteps. In a minute more the first of the female +servants made her appearance, with a dingy woolen shawl over her +shoulders—for the March morning was bleak; and rheumatism and the cook +were old acquaintances. + +Receiving the dog’s first cordial advances with the worst possible +grace, the cook slowly opened the hall door and let the animal out. It +was a wild morning. Over a spacious lawn, and behind a black plantation +of firs, the rising sun rent its way upward through piles of ragged +gray cloud; heavy drops of rain fell few and far between; the March +wind shuddered round the corners of the house, and the wet trees swayed +wearily. + +Seven o’clock struck; and the signs of domestic life began to show +themselves in more rapid succession. + +The housemaid came down—tall and slim, with the state of the spring +temperature written redly on her nose. The lady’s-maid followed—young, +smart, plump, and sleepy. The kitchen-maid came next—afflicted with the +face-ache, and making no secret of her sufferings. Last of all, the +footman appeared, yawning disconsolately; the living picture of a man +who felt that he had been defrauded of his fair night’s rest. + +The conversation of the servants, when they assembled before the slowly +lighting kitchen fire, referred to a recent family event, and turned at +starting on this question: Had Thomas, the footman, seen anything of +the concert at Clifton, at which his master and the two young ladies +had been present on the previous night? Yes; Thomas had heard the +concert; he had been paid for to go in at the back; it was a loud +concert; it was a hot concert; it was described at the top of the bills +as Grand; whether it was worth traveling sixteen miles to hear by +railway, with the additional hardship of going back nineteen miles by +road, at half-past one in the morning—was a question which he would +leave his master and the young ladies to decide; his own opinion, in +the meantime, being unhesitatingly, No. Further inquiries, on the part +of all the female servants in succession, elicited no additional +information of any sort. Thomas could hum none of the songs, and could +describe none of the ladies’ dresses. His audience, accordingly, gave +him up in despair; and the kitchen small-talk flowed back into its +ordinary channels, until the clock struck eight and startled the +assembled servants into separating for their morning’s work. + +A quarter past eight, and nothing happened. Half-past—and more signs of +life appeared from the bedroom regions. The next member of the family +who came downstairs was Mr. Andrew Vanstone, the master of the house. + +Tall, stout, and upright—with bright blue eyes, and healthy, florid +complexion—his brown plush shooting-jacket carelessly buttoned awry; +his vixenish little Scotch terrier barking unrebuked at his heels; one +hand thrust into his waistcoat pocket, and the other smacking the +banisters cheerfully as he came downstairs humming a tune—Mr. Vanstone +showed his character on the surface of him freely to all men. An easy, +hearty, handsome, good-humored gentleman, who walked on the sunny side +of the way of life, and who asked nothing better than to meet all his +fellow-passengers in this world on the sunny side, too. Estimating him +by years, he had turned fifty. Judging him by lightness of heart, +strength of constitution, and capacity for enjoyment, he was no older +than most men who have only turned thirty. + +“Thomas!” cried Mr. Vanstone, taking up his old felt hat and his thick +walking stick from the hall table. “Breakfast, this morning, at ten. +The young ladies are not likely to be down earlier after the concert +last night.—By-the-by, how did you like the concert yourself, eh? You +thought it was grand? Quite right; so it was. Nothing but crash-bang, +varied now and then by bang-crash; all the women dressed within an inch +of their lives; smothering heat, blazing gas, and no room for +anybody—yes, yes, Thomas; grand’s the word for it, and comfortable +isn’t.” With that expression of opinion, Mr. Vanstone whistled to his +vixenish terrier; flourished his stick at the hall door in cheerful +defiance of the rain; and set off through wind and weather for his +morning walk. + +The hands, stealing their steady way round the dial of the clock, +pointed to ten minutes to nine. Another member of the family appeared +on the stairs—Miss Garth, the governess. + +No observant eyes could have surveyed Miss Garth without seeing at once +that she was a north-countrywoman. Her hard featured face; her +masculine readiness and decision of movement; her obstinate honesty of +look and manner, all proclaimed her border birth and border training. +Though little more than forty years of age, her hair was quite gray; +and she wore over it the plain cap of an old woman. Neither hair nor +head-dress was out of harmony with her face—it looked older than her +years: the hard handwriting of trouble had scored it heavily at some +past time. The self-possession of her progress downstairs, and the air +of habitual authority with which she looked about her, spoke well for +her position in Mr. Vanstone’s family. This was evidently not one of +the forlorn, persecuted, pitiably dependent order of governesses. Here +was a woman who lived on ascertained and honorable terms with her +employers—a woman who looked capable of sending any parents in England +to the right-about, if they failed to rate her at her proper value. + +“Breakfast at ten?” repeated Miss Garth, when the footman had answered +the bell, and had mentioned his master’s orders. “Ha! I thought what +would come of that concert last night. When people who live in the +country patronize public amusements, public amusements return the +compliment by upsetting the family afterward for days together. +_You’re_ upset, Thomas, I can see your eyes are as red as a ferret’s, +and your cravat looks as if you had slept in it. Bring the kettle at a +quarter to ten—and if you don’t get better in the course of the day, +come to me, and I’ll give you a dose of physic. That’s a well-meaning +lad, if you only let him alone,” continued Miss Garth, in soliloquy, +when Thomas had retired; “but he’s not strong enough for concerts +twenty miles off. They wanted _me_ to go with them last night. Yes: +catch me!” + +Nine o’clock struck; and the minute-hand stole on to twenty minutes +past the hour, before any more footsteps were heard on the stairs. At +the end of that time, two ladies appeared, descending to the +breakfast-room together—Mrs. Vanstone and her eldest daughter. + +If the personal attractions of Mrs. Vanstone, at an earlier period of +life, had depended solely on her native English charms of complexion +and freshness, she must have long since lost the last relics of her +fairer self. But her beauty as a young woman had passed beyond the +average national limits; and she still preserved the advantage of her +more exceptional personal gifts. Although she was now in her +forty-fourth year; although she had been tried, in bygone times, by the +premature loss of more than one of her children, and by long attacks of +illness which had followed those bereavements of former years—she still +preserved the fair proportion and subtle delicacy of feature, once +associated with the all-adorning brightness and freshness of beauty, +which had left her never to return. Her eldest child, now descending +the stairs by her side, was the mirror in which she could look back and +see again the reflection of her own youth. There, folded thick on the +daughter’s head, lay the massive dark hair, which, on the mother’s, was +fast turning gray. There, in the daughter’s cheek, glowed the lovely +dusky red which had faded from the mother’s to bloom again no more. +Miss Vanstone had already reached the first maturity of womanhood; she +had completed her six-and-twentieth year. Inheriting the dark majestic +character of her mother’s beauty, she had yet hardly inherited all its +charms. Though the shape of her face was the same, the features were +scarcely so delicate, their proportion was scarcely so true. She was +not so tall. She had the dark-brown eyes of her mother—full and soft, +with the steady luster in them which Mrs. Vanstone’s eyes had lost—and +yet there was less interest, less refinement and depth of feeling in +her expression: it was gentle and feminine, but clouded by a certain +quiet reserve, from which her mother’s face was free. If we dare to +look closely enough, may we not observe that the moral force of +character and the higher intellectual capacities in parents seem often +to wear out mysteriously in the course of transmission to children? In +these days of insidious nervous exhaustion and subtly-spreading nervous +malady, is it not possible that the same rule may apply, less rarely +than we are willing to admit, to the bodily gifts as well? + +The mother and daughter slowly descended the stairs together—the first +dressed in dark brown, with an Indian shawl thrown over her shoulders; +the second more simply attired in black, with a plain collar and cuffs, +and a dark orange-colored ribbon over the bosom of her dress. As they +crossed the hall and entered the breakfast-room, Miss Vanstone was full +of the all-absorbing subject of the last night’s concert. + +“I am so sorry, mamma, you were not with us,” she said. “You have been +so strong and so well ever since last summer—you have felt so many +years younger, as you said yourself—that I am sure the exertion would +not have been too much for you.” + +“Perhaps not, my love—but it was as well to keep on the safe side.” + +“Quite as well,” remarked Miss Garth, appearing at the breakfast-room +door. “Look at Norah (good-morning, my dear)—look, I say, at Norah. A +perfect wreck; a living proof of your wisdom and mine in staying at +home. The vile gas, the foul air, the late hours—what can you expect? +She’s not made of iron, and she suffers accordingly. No, my dear, you +needn’t deny it. I see you’ve got a headache.” + +Norah’s dark, handsome face brightened into a smile—then lightly +clouded again with its accustomed quiet reserve. + +“A very little headache; not half enough to make me regret the +concert,” she said, and walked away by herself to the window. + +On the far side of a garden and paddock the view overlooked a stream, +some farm buildings which lay beyond, and the opening of a wooded, +rocky pass (called, in Somersetshire, a Combe), which here cleft its +way through the hills that closed the prospect. A winding strip of road +was visible, at no great distance, amid the undulations of the open +ground; and along this strip the stalwart figure of Mr. Vanstone was +now easily recognizable, returning to the house from his morning walk. +He flourished his stick gayly, as he observed his eldest daughter at +the window. She nodded and waved her hand in return, very gracefully +and prettily—but with something of old-fashioned formality in her +manner, which looked strangely in so young a woman, and which seemed +out of harmony with a salutation addressed to her father. + +The hall-clock struck the adjourned breakfast-hour. When the minute +hand had recorded the lapse of five minutes more a door banged in the +bedroom regions—a clear young voice was heard singing blithely—light, +rapid footsteps pattered on the upper stairs, descended with a jump to +the landing, and pattered again, faster than ever, down the lower +flight. In another moment the youngest of Mr. Vanstone’s two daughters +(and two only surviving children) dashed into view on the dingy old +oaken stairs, with the suddenness of a flash of light; and clearing the +last three steps into the hall at a jump, presented herself breathless +in the breakfast-room to make the family circle complete. + +By one of those strange caprices of Nature, which science leaves still +unexplained, the youngest of Mr. Vanstone’s children presented no +recognizable resemblance to either of her parents. How had she come by +her hair? how had she come by her eyes? Even her father and mother had +asked themselves those questions, as she grew up to girlhood, and had +been sorely perplexed to answer them. Her hair was of that purely +light-brown hue, unmixed with flaxen, or yellow, or red—which is +oftener seen on the plumage of a bird than on the head of a human +being. It was soft and plentiful, and waved downward from her low +forehead in regular folds—but, to some tastes, it was dull and dead, in +its absolute want of glossiness, in its monotonous purity of plain +light color. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were just a shade darker than +her hair, and seemed made expressly for those violet-blue eyes, which +assert their most irresistible charm when associated with a fair +complexion. But it was here exactly that the promise of her face failed +of performance in the most startling manner. The eyes, which should +have been dark, were incomprehensibly and discordantly light; they were +of that nearly colorless gray which, though little attractive in +itself, possesses the rare compensating merit of interpreting the +finest gradations of thought, the gentlest changes of feeling, the +deepest trouble of passion, with a subtle transparency of expression +which no darker eyes can rival. Thus quaintly self-contradictory in the +upper part of her face, she was hardly less at variance with +established ideas of harmony in the lower. Her lips had the true +feminine delicacy of form, her cheeks the lovely roundness and +smoothness of youth—but the mouth was too large and firm, the chin too +square and massive for her sex and age. Her complexion partook of the +pure monotony of tint which characterized her hair—it was of the same +soft, warm, creamy fairness all over, without a tinge of color in the +cheeks, except on occasions of unusual bodily exertion or sudden mental +disturbance. The whole countenance—so remarkable in its strongly +opposed characteristics—was rendered additionally striking by its +extraordinary mobility. The large, electric, light-gray eyes were +hardly ever in repose; all varieties of expression followed each other +over the plastic, ever-changing face, with a giddy rapidity which left +sober analysis far behind in the race. The girl’s exuberant vitality +asserted itself all over her, from head to foot. Her figure—taller than +her sister’s, taller than the average of woman’s height; instinct with +such a seductive, serpentine suppleness, so lightly and playfully +graceful, that its movements suggested, not unnaturally, the movements +of a young cat—her figure was so perfectly developed already that no +one who saw her could have supposed that she was only eighteen. She +bloomed in the full physical maturity of twenty years or more—bloomed +naturally and irresistibly, in right of her matchless health and +strength. Here, in truth, lay the mainspring of this +strangely-constituted organization. Her headlong course down the house +stairs; the brisk activity of all her movements; the incessant sparkle +of expression in her face; the enticing gayety which took the hearts of +the quietest people by storm—even the reckless delight in bright colors +which showed itself in her brilliantly-striped morning dress, in her +fluttering ribbons, in the large scarlet rosettes on her smart little +shoes—all sprang alike from the same source; from the overflowing +physical health which strengthened every muscle, braced every nerve, +and set the warm young blood tingling through her veins, like the blood +of a growing child. + +On her entry into the breakfast-room, she was saluted with the +customary remonstrance which her flighty disregard of all punctuality +habitually provoked from the long-suffering household authorities. In +Miss Garth’s favorite phrase, “Magdalen was born with all the +senses—except a sense of order.” + +Magdalen! It was a strange name to have given her? Strange, indeed; and +yet, chosen under no extraordinary circumstances. The name had been +borne by one of Mr. Vanstone’s sisters, who had died in early youth; +and, in affectionate remembrance of her, he had called his second +daughter by it—just as he had called his eldest daughter Norah, for his +wife’s sake. Magdalen! Surely, the grand old Bible name—suggestive of a +sad and somber dignity; recalling, in its first association, mournful +ideas of penitence and seclusion—had been here, as events had turned +out, inappropriately bestowed? Surely, this self-contradictory girl had +perversely accomplished one contradiction more, by developing into a +character which was out of all harmony with her own Christian name! + +“Late again!” said Mrs. Vanstone, as Magdalen breathlessly kissed her. + +“Late again!” chimed in Miss Garth, when Magdalen came her way next. +“Well?” she went on, taking the girl’s chin familiarly in her hand, +with a half-satirical, half-fond attention which betrayed that the +youngest daughter, with all her faults, was the governess’s +favorite—“Well? and what has the concert done for _you?_ What form of +suffering has dissipation inflicted on _your_ system this morning?” + +“Suffering!” repeated Magdalen, recovering her breath, and the use of +her tongue with it. “I don’t know the meaning of the word: if there’s +anything the matter with me, I’m too well. Suffering! I’m ready for +another concert to-night, and a ball to-morrow, and a play the day +after. Oh,” cried Magdalen, dropping into a chair and crossing her +hands rapturously on the table, “how I do like pleasure!” + +“Come! that’s explicit at any rate,” said Miss Garth. “I think Pope +must have had you in his mind when he wrote his famous lines: + +“Men some to business, some to pleasure take, +But every woman is at heart a rake.” + + +“The deuce she is!” cried Mr. Vanstone, entering the room while Miss +Garth was making her quotation, with the dogs at his heels. “Well; live +and learn. If you’re all rakes, Miss Garth, the sexes are turned +topsy-turvy with a vengeance; and the men will have nothing left for it +but to stop at home and darn the stockings.—Let’s have some breakfast.” + +“How-d’ye-do, papa?” said Magdalen, taking Mr. Vanstone as boisterously +round the neck as if he belonged to some larger order of Newfoundland +dog, and was made to be romped with at his daughter’s convenience. “I’m +the rake Miss Garth means; and I want to go to another concert—or a +play, if you like—or a ball, if you prefer it—or anything else in the +way of amusement that puts me into a new dress, and plunges me into a +crowd of people, and illuminates me with plenty of light, and sets me +in a tingle of excitement all over, from head to foot. Anything will +do, as long as it doesn’t send us to bed at eleven o’clock.” + +Mr. Vanstone sat down composedly under his daughter’s flow of language, +like a man who was well used to verbal inundation from that quarter. +“If I am to be allowed my choice of amusements next time,” said the +worthy gentleman, “I think a play will suit me better than a concert. +The girls enjoyed themselves amazingly, my dear,” he continued, +addressing his wife. “More than I did, I must say. It was altogether +above my mark. They played one piece of music which lasted forty +minutes. It stopped three times, by-the-way; and we all thought it was +done each time, and clapped our hands, rejoiced to be rid of it. But on +it went again, to our great surprise and mortification, till we gave it +up in despair, and all wished ourselves at Jericho. Norah, my dear! +when we had crash-bang for forty minutes, with three stoppages +by-the-way, what did they call it?” + +“A symphony, papa,” replied Norah. + +“Yes, you darling old Goth, a symphony by the great Beethoven!” added +Magdalen. “How can you say you were not amused? Have you forgotten the +yellow-looking foreign woman, with the unpronounceable name? Don’t you +remember the faces she made when she sang? and the way she courtesied +and courtesied, till she cheated the foolish people into crying encore? +Look here, mamma—look here, Miss Garth!” + +She snatched up an empty plate from the table, to represent a sheet of +music, held it before her in the established concert-room position, and +produced an imitation of the unfortunate singer’s grimaces and +courtesyings, so accurately and quaintly true to the original, that her +father roared with laughter; and even the footman (who came in at that +moment with the post-bag) rushed out of the room again, and committed +the indecorum of echoing his master audibly on the other side of the +door. + +“Letters, papa. I want the key,” said Magdalen, passing from the +imitation at the breakfast-table to the post-bag on the sideboard with +the easy abruptness which characterized all her actions. + +Mr. Vanstone searched his pockets and shook his head. Though his +youngest daughter might resemble him in nothing else, it was easy to +see where Magdalen’s unmethodical habits came from. + +“I dare say I have left it in the library, along with my other keys,” +said Mr. Vanstone. “Go and look for it, my dear.” + +“You really should check Magdalen,” pleaded Mrs. Vanstone, addressing +her husband when her daughter had left the room. “Those habits of +mimicry are growing on her; and she speaks to you with a levity which +it is positively shocking to hear.” + +“Exactly what I have said myself, till I am tired of repeating it,” +remarked Miss Garth. “She treats Mr. Vanstone as if he was a kind of +younger brother of hers.” + +“You are kind to us in everything else, papa; and you make kind +allowances for Magdalen’s high spirits—don’t you?” said the quiet +Norah, taking her father’s part and her sister’s with so little show of +resolution on the surface that few observers would have been sharp +enough to detect the genuine substance beneath it. + +“Thank you, my dear,” said good-natured Mr. Vanstone. “Thank you for a +very pretty speech. As for Magdalen,” he continued, addressing his wife +and Miss Garth, “she’s an unbroken filly. Let her caper and kick in the +paddock to her heart’s content. Time enough to break her to harness +when she gets a little older.” + +The door opened, and Magdalen returned with the key. She unlocked the +post-bag at the sideboard and poured out the letters in a heap. Sorting +them gayly in less than a minute, she approached the breakfast-table +with both hands full, and delivered the letters all round with the +business-like rapidity of a London postman. + +“Two for Norah,” she announced, beginning with her sister. “Three for +Miss Garth. None for mamma. One for me. And the other six all for papa. +You lazy old darling, you hate answering letters, don’t you?” pursued +Magdalen, dropping the postman’s character and assuming the daughter’s. +“How you will grumble and fidget in the study! and how you will wish +there were no such things as letters in the world! and how red your +nice old bald head will get at the top with the worry of writing the +answers; and how many of the answers you will leave until tomorrow +after all! _The Bristol Theater’s open, papa,_” she whispered, slyly +and suddenly, in her father’s ear; “I saw it in the newspaper when I +went to the library to get the key. Let’s go to-morrow night!” + +While his daughter was chattering, Mr. Vanstone was mechanically +sorting his letters. He turned over the first four in succession and +looked carelessly at the addresses. When he came to the fifth his +attention, which had hitherto wandered toward Magdalen, suddenly became +fixed on the post-mark of the letter. + +Stooping over him, with her head on his shoulder, Magdalen could see +the post-mark as plainly as her father saw it—NEW ORLEANS. + +“An American letter, papa!” she said. “Who do you know at New Orleans?” + +Mrs. Vanstone started, and looked eagerly at her husband the moment +Magdalen spoke those words. + +Mr. Vanstone said nothing. He quietly removed his daughter’s arm from +his neck, as if he wished to be free from all interruption. She +returned, accordingly, to her place at the breakfast-table. Her father, +with the letter in his hand, waited a little before he opened it; her +mother looking at him, the while, with an eager, expectant attention +which attracted Miss Garth’s notice, and Norah’s, as well as +Magdalen’s. + +After a minute or more of hesitation Mr. Vanstone opened the letter. + +His face changed color the instant he read the first lines; his cheeks +fading to a dull, yellow-brown hue, which would have been ashy paleness +in a less florid man; and his expression becoming saddened and +overclouded in a moment. Norah and Magdalen, watching anxiously, saw +nothing but the change that passed over their father. Miss Garth alone +observed the effect which that change produced on the attentive +mistress of the house. + +It was not the effect which she, or any one, could have anticipated. +Mrs. Vanstone looked excited rather than alarmed. A faint flush rose on +her cheeks—her eyes brightened—she stirred the tea round and round in +her cup in a restless, impatient manner which was not natural to her. + +Magdalen, in her capacity of spoiled child, was, as usual, the first to +break the silence. + +“What _is_ the matter, papa?” she asked. + +“Nothing,” said Mr. Vanstone, sharply, without looking up at her. + +“I’m sure there must be something,” persisted Magdalen. “I’m sure there +is bad news, papa, in that American letter.” + +“There is nothing in the letter that concerns _you_,” said Mr. +Vanstone. + +It was the first direct rebuff that Magdalen had ever received from her +father. She looked at him with an incredulous surprise, which would +have been irresistibly absurd under less serious circumstances. + +Nothing more was said. For the first time, perhaps, in their lives, the +family sat round the breakfast-table in painful silence. Mr. Vanstone’s +hearty morning appetite, like his hearty morning spirits, was gone. He +absently broke off some morsels of dry toast from the rack near him, +absently finished his first cup of tea—then asked for a second, which +he left before him untouched. + +“Norah,” he said, after an interval, “you needn’t wait for me. +Magdalen, my dear, you can go when you like.” + +His daughters rose immediately; and Miss Garth considerately followed +their example. When an easy-tempered man does assert himself in his +family, the rarity of the demonstration invariably has its effect; and +the will of that easy-tempered man is Law. + +“What can have happened?” whispered Norah, as they closed the +breakfast-room door and crossed the hall. + +“What does papa mean by being cross with Me?” exclaimed Magdalen, +chafing under a sense of her own injuries. + +“May I ask—what right you had to pry into your father’s private +affairs?” retorted Miss Garth. + +“Right?” repeated Magdalen. “I have no secrets from papa—what business +has papa to have secrets from me! I consider myself insulted.” + +“If you considered yourself properly reproved for not minding your own +business,” said the plain-spoken Miss Garth, “you would be a trifle +nearer the truth. Ah! you are like all the rest of the girls in the +present day. Not one in a hundred of you knows which end of her’s +uppermost.” + +The three ladies entered the morning-room; and Magdalen acknowledged +Miss Garth’s reproof by banging the door. + +Half an hour passed, and neither Mr. Vanstone nor his wife left the +breakfast-room. The servant, ignorant of what had happened, went in to +clear the table—found his master and mistress seated close together in +deep consultation—and immediately went out again. Another quarter of an +hour elapsed before the breakfast-room door was opened, and the private +conference of the husband and wife came to an end. + +“I hear mamma in the hall,” said Norah. “Perhaps she is coming to tell +us something.” + +Mrs. Vanstone entered the morning-room as her daughter spoke. The color +was deeper on her cheeks, and the brightness of half-dried tears +glistened in her eyes; her step was more hasty, all her movements were +quicker than usual. + +“I bring news, my dears, which will surprise you,” she said, addressing +her daughters. “Your father and I are going to London to-morrow.” + +Magdalen caught her mother by the arm in speechless astonishment. Miss +Garth dropped her work on her lap; even the sedate Norah started to her +feet, and amazedly repeated the words, “Going to London!” + +“Without us?” added Magdalen. + +“Your father and I are going alone,” said Mrs. Vanstone. “Perhaps, for +as long as three weeks—but not longer. We are going”—she hesitated—“we +are going on important family business. Don’t hold me, Magdalen. This +is a sudden necessity—I have a great deal to do to-day—many things to +set in order before tomorrow. There, there, my love, let me go.” + +She drew her arm away; hastily kissed her youngest daughter on the +forehead; and at once left the room again. Even Magdalen saw that her +mother was not to be coaxed into hearing or answering any more +questions. + +The morning wore on, and nothing was seen of Mr. Vanstone. With the +reckless curiosity of her age and character, Magdalen, in defiance of +Miss Garth’s prohibition and her sister’s remonstrances, determined to +go to the study and look for her father there. When she tried the door, +it was locked on the inside. She said, “It’s only me, papa;” and waited +for the answer. “I’m busy now, my dear,” was the answer. “Don’t disturb +me.” + +Mrs. Vanstone was, in another way, equally inaccessible. She remained +in her own room, with the female servants about her, immersed in +endless preparations for the approaching departure. The servants, +little used in that family to sudden resolutions and unexpected orders, +were awkward and confused in obeying directions. They ran from room to +room unnecessarily, and lost time and patience in jostling each other +on the stairs. If a stranger had entered the house that day, he might +have imagined that an unexpected disaster had happened in it, instead +of an unexpected necessity for a journey to London. Nothing proceeded +in its ordinary routine. Magdalen, who was accustomed to pass the +morning at the piano, wandered restlessly about the staircases and +passages, and in and out of doors when there were glimpses of fine +weather. Norah, whose fondness for reading had passed into a family +proverb, took up book after book from table and shelf, and laid them +down again, in despair of fixing her attention. Even Miss Garth felt +the all-pervading influence of the household disorganization, and sat +alone by the morning-room fire, with her head shaking ominously, and +her work laid aside. + +“Family affairs?” thought Miss Garth, pondering over Mrs. Vanstone’s +vague explanatory words. “I have lived twelve years at Combe-Raven; and +these are the first family affairs which have got between the parents +and the children, in all my experience. What does it mean? Change? I +suppose I’m getting old. I don’t like change.” + + + +CHAPTER II. + +At ten o’clock the next morning Norah and Magdalen stood alone in the +hall at Combe-Raven watching the departure of the carriage which took +their father and mother to the London train. + +Up to the last moment, both the sisters had hoped for some explanation +of that mysterious “family business” to which Mrs. Vanstone had so +briefly alluded on the previous day. No such explanation had been +offered. Even the agitation of the leave-taking, under circumstances +entirely new in the home experience of the parents and children, had +not shaken the resolute discretion of Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone. They had +gone—with the warmest testimonies of affection, with farewell embraces +fervently reiterated again and again—but without dropping one word, +from first to last, of the nature of their errand. + +As the grating sound of the carriage-wheels ceased suddenly at a turn +in the road, the sisters looked one another in the face; each feeling, +and each betraying in her own way, the dreary sense that she was openly +excluded, for the first time, from the confidence of her parents. +Norah’s customary reserve strengthened into sullen silence—she sat down +in one of the hall chairs and looked out frowningly through the open +house door. Magdalen, as usual when her temper was ruffled, expressed +her dissatisfaction in the plainest terms. “I don’t care who knows it—I +think we are both of us shamefully ill-used!” With those words, the +young lady followed her sister’s example by seating herself on a hall +chair and looking aimlessly out through the open house door. + +Almost at the same moment Miss Garth entered the hall from the +morning-room. Her quick observation showed her the necessity for +interfering to some practical purpose; and her ready good sense at once +pointed the way. + +“Look up, both of you, if you please, and listen to me,” said Miss +Garth. “If we are all three to be comfortable and happy together, now +we are alone, we must stick to our usual habits and go on in our +regular way. There is the state of things in plain words. Accept the +situation—as the French say. Here am I to set you the example. I have +just ordered an excellent dinner at the customary hour. I am going to +the medicine-chest next, to physic the kitchen-maid—an unwholesome +girl, whose face-ache is all stomach. In the meantime, Norah, my dear, +you will find your work and your books, as usual, in the library. +Magdalen, suppose you leave off tying your handkerchief into knots and +use your fingers on the keys of the piano instead? We’ll lunch at one, +and take the dogs out afterward. Be as brisk and cheerful both of you +as I am. Come, rouse up directly. If I see those gloomy faces any +longer, as sure as my name’s Garth, I’ll give your mother written +warning and go back to my friends by the mixed train at twelve forty.” + +Concluding her address of expostulation in those terms, Miss Garth led +Norah to the library door, pushed Magdalen into the morning-room, and +went on her own way sternly to the regions of the medicine-chest. + +In this half-jesting, half-earnest manner she was accustomed to +maintain a sort of friendly authority over Mr. Vanstone’s daughters, +after her proper functions as governess had necessarily come to an end. +Norah, it is needless to say, had long since ceased to be her pupil; +and Magdalen had, by this time, completed her education. But Miss Garth +had lived too long and too intimately under Mr. Vanstone’s roof to be +parted with for any purely formal considerations; and the first hint at +going away which she had thought it her duty to drop was dismissed with +such affectionate warmth of protest that she never repeated it again, +except in jest. The entire management of the household was, from that +time forth, left in her hands; and to those duties she was free to add +what companionable assistance she could render to Norah’s reading, and +what friendly superintendence she could still exercise over Magdalen’s +music. Such were the terms on which Miss Garth was now a resident in +Mr. Vanstone’s family. + +Toward the afternoon the weather improved. At half-past one the sun was +shining brightly; and the ladies left the house, accompanied by the +dogs, to set forth on their walk. + +They crossed the stream, and ascended by the little rocky pass to the +hills beyond; then diverged to the left, and returned by a cross-road +which led through the village of Combe-Raven. + +As they came in sight of the first cottages, they passed a man, hanging +about the road, who looked attentively, first at Magdalen, then at +Norah. They merely observed that he was short, that he was dressed in +black, and that he was a total stranger to them—and continued their +homeward walk, without thinking more about the loitering foot-passenger +whom they had met on their way back. + +After they had left the village, and had entered the road which led +straight to the house, Magdalen surprised Miss Garth by announcing that +the stranger in black had turned, after they had passed him, and was +now following them. “He keeps on Norah’s side of the road,” she said, +mischievously. “I’m not the attraction—don’t blame _me_.” + +Whether the man was really following them, or not, made little +difference, for they were now close to the house. As they passed +through the lodge-gates, Miss Garth looked round, and saw that the +stranger was quickening his pace, apparently with the purpose of +entering into conversation. Seeing this, she at once directed the young +ladies to go on to the house with the dogs, while she herself waited +for events at the gate. + +There was just time to complete this discreet arrangement, before the +stranger reached the lodge. He took off his hat to Miss Garth politely, +as she turned round. What did he look like, on the face of him? He +looked like a clergyman in difficulties. + +Taking his portrait, from top to toe, the picture of him began with a +tall hat, broadly encircled by a mourning band of crumpled crape. Below +the hat was a lean, long, sallow face, deeply pitted with the smallpox, +and characterized, very remarkably, by eyes of two different colors—one +bilious green, one bilious brown, both sharply intelligent. His hair +was iron-gray, carefully brushed round at the temples. His cheeks and +chin were in the bluest bloom of smooth shaving; his nose was short +Roman; his lips long, thin, and supple, curled up at the corners with a +mildly-humorous smile. His white cravat was high, stiff, and dingy; the +collar, higher, stiffer, and dingier, projected its rigid points on +either side beyond his chin. Lower down, the lithe little figure of the +man was arrayed throughout in sober-shabby black. His frock-coat was +buttoned tight round the waist, and left to bulge open majestically at +the chest. His hands were covered with black cotton gloves neatly +darned at the fingers; his umbrella, worn down at the ferule to the +last quarter of an inch, was carefully preserved, nevertheless, in an +oilskin case. The front view of him was the view in which he looked +oldest; meeting him face to face, he might have been estimated at fifty +or more. Walking behind him, his back and shoulders were almost young +enough to have passed for five-and-thirty. His manners were +distinguished by a grave serenity. When he opened his lips, he spoke in +a rich bass voice, with an easy flow of language, and a strict +attention to the elocutionary claims of words in more than one +syllable. Persuasion distilled from his mildly-curling lips; and, +shabby as he was, perennial flowers of courtesy bloomed all over him +from head to foot. + +“This is the residence of Mr. Vanstone, I believe?” he began, with a +circular wave of his hand in the direction of the house. “Have I the +honor of addressing a member of Mr. Vanstone’s family?” + +“Yes,” said the plain-spoken Miss Garth. “You are addressing Mr. +Vanstone’s governess.” + +The persuasive man fell back a step—admired Mr. Vanstone’s +governess—advanced a step again—and continued the conversation. + +“And the two young ladies,” he went on, “the two young ladies who were +walking with you are doubtless Mr. Vanstone’s daughters? I recognized +the darker of the two, and the elder as I apprehend, by her likeness to +her handsome mother. The younger lady—” + +“You are acquainted with Mrs. Vanstone, I suppose?” said Miss Garth, +interrupting the stranger’s flow of language, which, all things +considered, was beginning, in her opinion, to flow rather freely. The +stranger acknowledged the interruption by one of his polite bows, and +submerged Miss Garth in his next sentence as if nothing had happened. + +“The younger lady,” he proceeded, “takes after her father, I presume? I +assure you, her face struck me. Looking at it with my friendly interest +in the family, I thought it very remarkable. I said to myself—Charming, +Characteristic, Memorable. Not like her sister, not like her mother. No +doubt, the image of her father?” + +Once more Miss Garth attempted to stem the man’s flow of words. It was +plain that he did not know Mr. Vanstone, even by sight—otherwise he +would never have committed the error of supposing that Magdalen took +after her father. Did he know Mrs. Vanstone any better? He had left +Miss Garth’s question on that point unanswered. In the name of wonder, +who was he? Powers of impudence! what did he want? + +“You may be a friend of the family, though I don’t remember your face,” +said Miss Garth. “What may your commands be, if you please? Did you +come here to pay Mrs. Vanstone a visit?” + +“I had anticipated the pleasure of communicating with Mrs. Vanstone,” +answered this inveterately evasive and inveterately civil man. “How is +she?” + +“Much as usual,” said Miss Garth, feeling her resources of politeness +fast failing her. + +“Is she at home?” + +“No.” + +“Out for long?” + +“Gone to London with Mr. Vanstone.” + +The man’s long face suddenly grew longer. His bilious brown eye looked +disconcerted, and his bilious green eye followed its example. His +manner became palpably anxious; and his choice of words was more +carefully selected than ever. + +“Is Mrs. Vanstone’s absence likely to extend over any very lengthened +period?” he inquired. + +“It will extend over three weeks,” replied Miss Garth. “I think you +have now asked me questions enough,” she went on, beginning to let her +temper get the better of her at last. “Be so good, if you please, as to +mention your business and your name. If you have any message to leave +for Mrs. Vanstone, I shall be writing to her by to-night’s post, and I +can take charge of it.” + +“A thousand thanks! A most valuable suggestion. Permit me to take +advantage of it immediately.” + +He was not in the least affected by the severity of Miss Garth’s looks +and language—he was simply relieved by her proposal, and he showed it +with the most engaging sincerity. This time his bilious green eye took +the initiative, and set his bilious brown eye the example of recovered +serenity. His curling lips took a new twist upward; he tucked his +umbrella briskly under his arm; and produced from the breast of his +coat a large old-fashioned black pocketbook. From this he took a pencil +and a card—hesitated and considered for a moment—wrote rapidly on the +card—and placed it, with the politest alacrity, in Miss Garth’s hand. + +“I shall feel personally obliged if you will honor me by inclosing that +card in your letter,” he said. “There is no necessity for my troubling +you additionally with a message. My name will be quite sufficient to +recall a little family matter to Mrs. Vanstone, which has no doubt +escaped her memory. Accept my best thanks. This has been a day of +agreeable surprises to me. I have found the country hereabouts +remarkably pretty; I have seen Mrs. Vanstone’s two charming daughters; +I have become acquainted with an honored preceptress in Mr. Vanstone’s +family. I congratulate myself—I apologize for occupying your valuable +time—I beg my renewed acknowledgments—I wish you good-morning.” + +He raised his tall hat. His brown eye twinkled, his green eye twinkled, +his curly lips smiled sweetly. In a moment he turned on his heel. His +youthful back appeared to the best advantage; his active little legs +took him away trippingly in the direction of the village. One, two, +three—and he reached the turn in the road. Four, five, six—and he was +gone. + +Miss Garth looked down at the card in her hand, and looked up again in +blank astonishment. The name and address of the clerical-looking +stranger (both written in pencil) ran as follows: + +_Captain Wragge. Post-office, Bristol._ + + + +CHAPTER III. + +When she returned to the house, Miss Garth made no attempt to conceal +her unfavorable opinion of the stranger in black. His object was, no +doubt, to obtain pecuniary assistance from Mrs. Vanstone. What the +nature of his claim on her might be seemed less intelligible—unless it +was the claim of a poor relation. Had Mrs. Vanstone ever mentioned, in +the presence of her daughters, the name of Captain Wragge? Neither of +them recollected to have heard it before. Had Mrs. Vanstone ever +referred to any poor relations who were dependent on her? On the +contrary she had mentioned of late years that she doubted having any +relations at all who were still living. And yet Captain Wragge had +plainly declared that the name on his card would recall “a family +matter” to Mrs. Vanstone’s memory. What did it mean? A false statement, +on the stranger’s part, without any intelligible reason for making it? +Or a second mystery, following close on the heels of the mysterious +journey to London? + +All the probabilities seemed to point to some hidden connection between +the “family affairs” which had taken Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone so suddenly +from home and the “family matter” associated with the name of Captain +Wragge. Miss Garth’s doubts thronged back irresistibly on her mind as +she sealed her letter to Mrs. Vanstone, with the captain’s card added +by way of inclosure. + +By return of post the answer arrived. + +Always the earliest riser among the ladies of the house, Miss Garth was +alone in the breakfast-room when the letter was brought in. Her first +glance at its contents convinced her of the necessity of reading it +carefully through in retirement, before any embarrassing questions +could be put to her. Leaving a message with the servant requesting +Norah to make the tea that morning, she went upstairs at once to the +solitude and security of her own room. + +Mrs. Vanstone’s letter extended to some length. The first part of it +referred to Captain Wragge, and entered unreservedly into all necessary +explanations relating to the man himself and to the motive which had +brought him to Combe-Raven. + +It appeared from Mrs. Vanstone’s statement that her mother had been +twice married. Her mother’s first husband had been a certain Doctor +Wragge—a widower with young children; and one of those children was now +the unmilitary-looking captain, whose address was “Post-office, +Bristol.” Mrs. Wragge had left no family by her first husband; and had +afterward married Mrs. Vanstone’s father. Of that second marriage Mrs. +Vanstone herself was the only issue. She had lost both her parents +while she was still a young woman; and, in course of years, her +mother’s family connections (who were then her nearest surviving +relatives) had been one after another removed by death. She was left, +at the present writing, without a relation in the world—excepting, +perhaps, certain cousins whom she had never seen, and of whose +existence even, at the present moment, she possessed no positive +knowledge. + +Under these circumstances, what family claim had Captain Wragge on Mrs. +Vanstone? + +None whatever. As the son of her mother’s first husband, by that +husband’s first wife, not even the widest stretch of courtesy could +have included him at any time in the list of Mrs. Vanstone’s most +distant relations. Well knowing this (the letter proceeded to say), he +had nevertheless persisted in forcing himself upon her as a species of +family connection: and she had weakly sanctioned the intrusion, solely +from the dread that he would otherwise introduce himself to Mr. +Vanstone’s notice, and take unblushing advantage of Mr. Vanstone’s +generosity. Shrinking, naturally, from allowing her husband to be +annoyed, and probably cheated as well, by any person who claimed, +however preposterously, a family connection with herself, it had been +her practice, for many years past, to assist the captain from her own +purse, on the condition that he should never come near the house, and +that he should not presume to make any application whatever to Mr. +Vanstone. + +Readily admitting the imprudence of this course, Mrs. Vanstone further +explained that she had perhaps been the more inclined to adopt it +through having been always accustomed, in her early days, to see the +captain living now upon one member, and now upon another, of her +mother’s family. Possessed of abilities which might have raised him to +distinction in almost any career that he could have chosen, he had +nevertheless, from his youth upward, been a disgrace to all his +relatives. He had been expelled the militia regiment in which he once +held a commission. He had tried one employment after another, and had +discreditably failed in all. He had lived on his wits, in the lowest +and basest meaning of the phrase. He had married a poor ignorant woman, +who had served as a waitress at some low eating-house, who had +unexpectedly come into a little money, and whose small inheritance he +had mercilessly squandered to the last farthing. In plain terms, he was +an incorrigible scoundrel; and he had now added one more to the list of +his many misdemeanors by impudently breaking the conditions on which +Mrs. Vanstone had hitherto assisted him. She had written at once to the +address indicated on his card, in such terms and to such purpose as +would prevent him, she hoped and believed, from ever venturing near the +house again. Such were the terms in which Mrs. Vanstone concluded that +first part of her letter which referred exclusively to Captain Wragge. + +Although the statement thus presented implied a weakness in Mrs. +Vanstone’s character which Miss Garth, after many years of intimate +experience, had never detected, she accepted the explanation as a +matter of course; receiving it all the more readily inasmuch as it +might, without impropriety, be communicated in substance to appease the +irritated curiosity of the two young ladies. For this reason especially +she perused the first half of the letter with an agreeable sense of +relief. Far different was the impression produced on her when she +advanced to the second half, and when she had read it to the end. + +The second part of the letter was devoted to the subject of the journey +to London. + +Mrs. Vanstone began by referring to the long and intimate friendship +which had existed between Miss Garth and herself. She now felt it due +to that friendship to explain confidentially the motive which had +induced her to leave home with her husband. Miss Garth had delicately +refrained from showing it, but she must naturally have felt, and must +still be feeling, great surprise at the mystery in which their +departure had been involved; and she must doubtless have asked herself +why Mrs. Vanstone should have been associated with family affairs which +(in her independent position as to relatives) must necessarily concern +Mr. Vanstone alone. + +Without touching on those affairs, which it was neither desirable nor +necessary to do, Mrs. Vanstone then proceeded to say that she would at +once set all Miss Garth’s doubts at rest, so far as they related to +herself, by one plain acknowledgment. Her object in accompanying her +husband to London was to see a certain celebrated physician, and to +consult him privately on a very delicate and anxious matter connected +with the state of her health. In plainer terms still, this anxious +matter meant nothing less than the possibility that she might again +become a mother. + +When the doubt had first suggested itself she had treated it as a mere +delusion. The long interval that had elapsed since the birth of her +last child; the serious illness which had afflicted her after the death +of that child in infancy; the time of life at which she had now +arrived—all inclined her to dismiss the idea as soon as it arose in her +mind. It had returned again and again in spite of her. She had felt the +necessity of consulting the highest medical authority; and had shrunk, +at the same time, from alarming her daughters by summoning a London +physician to the house. The medical opinion, sought under the +circumstances already mentioned, had now been obtained. Her doubt was +confirmed as a certainty; and the result, which might be expected to +take place toward the end of the summer, was, at her age and with her +constitutional peculiarities, a subject for serious future anxiety, to +say the least of it. The physician had done his best to encourage her; +but she had understood the drift of his questions more clearly than he +supposed, and she knew that he looked to the future with more than +ordinary doubt. + +Having disclosed these particulars, Mrs. Vanstone requested that they +might be kept a secret between her correspondent and herself. She had +felt unwilling to mention her suspicions to Miss Garth, until those +suspicions had been confirmed—and she now recoiled, with even greater +reluctance, from allowing her daughters to be in any way alarmed about +her. It would be best to dismiss the subject for the present, and to +wait hopefully till the summer came. In the meantime they would all, +she trusted, be happily reunited on the twenty-third of the month, +which Mr. Vanstone had fixed on as the day for their return. With this +intimation, and with the customary messages, the letter, abruptly and +confusedly, came to an end. + +For the first few minutes, a natural sympathy for Mrs. Vanstone was the +only feeling of which Miss Garth was conscious after she had laid the +letter down. Ere long, however, there rose obscurely on her mind a +doubt which perplexed and distressed her. Was the explanation which she +had just read really as satisfactory and as complete as it professed to +be? Testing it plainly by facts, surely not. + +On the morning of her departure, Mrs. Vanstone had unquestionably left +the house in good spirits. At her age, and in her state of health, were +good spirits compatible with such an errand to a physician as the +errand on which she was bent? Then, again, had that letter from New +Orleans, which had necessitated Mr. Vanstone’s departure, no share in +occasioning his wife’s departure as well? Why, otherwise, had she +looked up so eagerly the moment her daughter mentioned the postmark. +Granting the avowed motive for her journey—did not her manner, on the +morning when the letter was opened, and again on the morning of +departure, suggest the existence of some other motive which her letter +kept concealed? + +If it was so, the conclusion that followed was a very distressing one. +Mrs. Vanstone, feeling what was due to her long friendship with Miss +Garth, had apparently placed the fullest confidence in her, on one +subject, by way of unsuspiciously maintaining the strictest reserve +toward her on another. Naturally frank and straightforward in all her +own dealings, Miss Garth shrank from plainly pursuing her doubts to +this result: a want of loyalty toward her tried and valued friend +seemed implied in the mere dawning of it on her mind. + +She locked up the letter in her desk; roused herself resolutely to +attend to the passing interests of the day; and went downstairs again +to the breakfast-room. Amid many uncertainties, this at least was +clear, Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone were coming back on the twenty-third of +the month. Who could say what new revelations might not come back with +them? + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +No new revelations came back with them: no anticipations associated +with their return were realized. On the one forbidden subject of their +errand in London, there was no moving either the master or the mistress +of the house. Whatever their object might have been, they had to all +appearance successfully accomplished it—for they both returned in +perfect possession of their every-day looks and manners. Mrs. +Vanstone’s spirits had subsided to their natural quiet level; Mr. +Vanstone’s imperturbable cheerfulness sat as easily and indolently on +him as usual. This was the one noticeable result of their journey—this, +and no more. Had the household revolution run its course already? Was +the secret thus far hidden impenetrably, hidden forever? + +Nothing in this world is hidden forever. The gold which has lain for +centuries unsuspected in the ground, reveals itself one day on the +surface. Sand turns traitor, and betrays the footstep that has passed +over it; water gives back to the tell-tale surface the body that has +been drowned. Fire itself leaves the confession, in ashes, of the +substance consumed in it. Hate breaks its prison-secrecy in the +thoughts, through the doorway of the eyes; and Love finds the Judas who +betrays it by a kiss. Look where we will, the inevitable law of +revelation is one of the laws of nature: the lasting preservation of a +secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen. + +How was the secret now hidden in the household at Combe-Raven doomed to +disclose itself? Through what coming event in the daily lives of the +father, the mother, and the daughters, was the law of revelation +destined to break the fatal way to discovery? The way opened (unseen by +the parents, and unsuspected by the children) through the first event +that happened after Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone’s return—an event which +presented, on the surface of it, no interest of greater importance than +the trivial social ceremony of a morning call. + +Three days after the master and mistress of Combe-Raven had come back, +the female members of the family happened to be assembled together in +the morning-room. The view from the windows looked over the +flower-garden and shrubbery; this last being protected at its outward +extremity by a fence, and approached from the lane beyond by a +wicket-gate. During an interval in the conversation, the attention of +the ladies was suddenly attracted to this gate, by the sharp sound of +the iron latch falling in its socket. Some one had entered the +shrubbery from the lane; and Magdalen at once placed herself at the +window to catch the first sight of the visitor through the trees. + +After a few minutes, the figure of a gentleman became visible, at the +point where the shrubbery path joined the winding garden-walk which led +to the house. Magdalen looked at him attentively, without appearing, at +first, to know who he was. As he came nearer, however, she started in +astonishment; and, turning quickly to her mother and sister, proclaimed +the gentleman in the garden to be no other than “Mr. Francis Clare.” + +The visitor thus announced was the son of Mr. Vanstone’s oldest +associate and nearest neighbor. + +Mr. Clare the elder inhabited an unpretending little cottage, situated +just outside the shrubbery fence which marked the limit of the +Combe-Raven grounds. Belonging to the younger branch of a family of +great antiquity, the one inheritance of importance that he had derived +from his ancestors was the possession of a magnificent library, which +not only filled all the rooms in his modest little dwelling, but lined +the staircases and passages as well. Mr. Clare’s books represented the +one important interest of Mr. Clare’s life. He had been a widower for +many years past, and made no secret of his philosophical resignation to +the loss of his wife. As a father, he regarded his family of three sons +in the light of a necessary domestic evil, which perpetually threatened +the sanctity of his study and the safety of his books. When the boys +went to school, Mr. Clare said “good-by” to them—and “thank God” to +himself. As for his small income, and his still smaller domestic +establishment, he looked at them both from the same satirically +indifferent point of view. He called himself a pauper with a pedigree. +He abandoned the entire direction of his household to the slatternly +old woman who was his only servant, on the condition that she was never +to venture near his books, with a duster in her hand, from one year’s +end to the other. His favorite poets were Horace and Pope; his chosen +philosophers, Hobbes and Voltaire. He took his exercise and his fresh +air under protest; and always walked the same distance to a yard, on +the ugliest high-road in the neighborhood. He was crooked of back, and +quick of temper. He could digest radishes, and sleep after green tea. +His views of human nature were the views of Diogenes, tempered by +Rochefoucauld; his personal habits were slovenly in the last degree; +and his favorite boast was that he had outlived all human prejudices. + +Such was this singular man, in his more superficial aspects. What +nobler qualities he might possess below the surface, no one had ever +discovered. Mr. Vanstone, it is true, stoutly asserted that “Mr. +Clare’s worst side was his outside”—but in this expression of opinion +he stood alone among his neighbors. The association between these two +widely-dissimilar men had lasted for many years, and was almost close +enough to be called a friendship. They had acquired a habit of meeting +to smoke together on certain evenings in the week, in the +cynic-philosopher’s study, and of there disputing on every imaginable +subject—Mr. Vanstone flourishing the stout cudgels of assertion, and +Mr. Clare meeting him with the keen edged-tools of sophistry. They +generally quarreled at night, and met on the neutral ground of the +shrubbery to be reconciled together the next morning. The bond of +intercourse thus curiously established between them was strengthened on +Mr. Vanstone’s side by a hearty interest in his neighbor’s three +sons—an interest by which those sons benefited all the more +importantly, seeing that one of the prejudices which their father had +outlived was a prejudice in favor of his own children. + +“I look at those boys,” the philosopher was accustomed to say, “with a +perfectly impartial eye; I dismiss the unimportant accident of their +birth from all consideration; and I find them below the average in +every respect. The only excuse which a poor gentleman has for presuming +to exist in the nineteenth century, is the excuse of extraordinary +ability. My boys have been addle-headed from infancy. If I had any +capital to give them, I should make Frank a butcher, Cecil a baker, and +Arthur a grocer—those being the only human vocations I know of which +are certain to be always in request. As it is, I have no money to help +them with; and they have no brains to help themselves. They appear to +me to be three human superfluities in dirty jackets and noisy boots; +and, unless they clear themselves off the community by running away, I +don’t myself profess to see what is to be done with them.” + +Fortunately for the boys, Mr. Vanstone’s views were still fast +imprisoned in the ordinary prejudices. At his intercession, and through +his influence, Frank, Cecil, and Arthur were received on the foundation +of a well-reputed grammar-school. In holiday-time they were mercifully +allowed the run of Mr. Vanstone’s paddock; and were humanized and +refined by association, indoors, with Mrs. Vanstone and her daughters. +On these occasions, Mr. Clare used sometimes to walk across from his +cottage (in his dressing-gown and slippers), and look at the boys +disparagingly, through the window or over the fence, as if they were +three wild animals whom his neighbor was attempting to tame. “You and +your wife are excellent people,” he used to say to Mr. Vanstone. “I +respect your honest prejudices in favor of those boys of mine with all +my heart. But you are _so_ wrong about them—you are indeed! I wish to +give no offense; I speak quite impartially—but mark my words, Vanstone: +they’ll all three turn out ill, in spite of everything you can do to +prevent it.” + +In later years, when Frank had reached the age of seventeen, the same +curious shifting of the relative positions of parent and friend between +the two neighbors was exemplified more absurdly than ever. A civil +engineer in the north of England, who owed certain obligations to Mr. +Vanstone, expressed his willingness to take Frank under +superintendence, on terms of the most favorable kind. When this +proposal was received, Mr. Clare, as usual, first shifted his own +character as Frank’s father on Mr. Vanstone’s shoulders—and then +moderated his neighbor’s parental enthusiasm from the point of view of +an impartial spectator. + +“It’s the finest chance for Frank that could possibly have happened,” +cried Mr. Vanstone, in a glow of fatherly enthusiasm. + +“My good fellow, he won’t take it,” retorted Mr. Clare, with the icy +composure of a disinterested friend. + +“But he _shall_ take it,” persisted Mr. Vanstone. + +“Say he shall have a mathematical head,” rejoined Mr. Clare; “say he +shall possess industry, ambition, and firmness of purpose. Pooh! pooh! +you don’t look at him with my impartial eyes. I say, No mathematics, no +industry, no ambition, no firmness of purpose. Frank is a compound of +negatives—and there they are.” + +“Hang your negatives!” shouted Mr. Vanstone. “I don’t care a rush for +negatives, or affirmatives either. Frank shall have this splendid +chance; and I’ll lay you any wager you like he makes the best of it.” + +“I am not rich enough to lay wagers, usually,” replied Mr. Clare; “but +I think I have got a guinea about the house somewhere; and I’ll lay you +that guinea Frank comes back on our hands like a bad shilling.” + +“Done!” said Mr. Vanstone. “No: stop a minute! I won’t do the lad’s +character the injustice of backing it at even money. I’ll lay you five +to one Frank turns up trumps in this business! You ought to be ashamed +of yourself for talking of him as you do. What sort of hocus-pocus you +bring it about by, I don’t pretend to know; but you always end in +making me take his part, as if I was his father instead of you. Ah yes! +give you time, and you’ll defend yourself. I won’t give you time; I +won’t have any of your special pleading. Black’s white according to +you. I don’t care: it’s black for all that. You may talk nineteen to +the dozen—I shall write to my friend and say Yes, in Frank’s interests, +by to-day’s post.” + +Such were the circumstances under which Mr. Francis Clare departed for +the north of England, at the age of seventeen, to start in life as a +civil engineer. + +From time to time, Mr. Vanstone’s friend communicated with him on the +subject of the new pupil. Frank was praised, as a quiet, +gentleman-like, interesting lad—but he was also reported to be rather +slow at acquiring the rudiments of engineering science. Other letters, +later in date, described him as a little too ready to despond about +himself; as having been sent away, on that account, to some new railway +works, to see if change of scene would rouse him; and as having +benefited in every respect by the experiment—except perhaps in regard +to his professional studies, which still advanced but slowly. +Subsequent communications announced his departure, under care of a +trustworthy foreman, for some public works in Belgium; touched on the +general benefit he appeared to derive from this new change; praised his +excellent manners and address, which were of great assistance in +facilitating business communications with the foreigners—and passed +over in ominous silence the main question of his actual progress in the +acquirement of knowledge. These reports, and many others which +resembled them, were all conscientiously presented by Frank’s friend to +the attention of Frank’s father. On each occasion, Mr. Clare exulted +over Mr. Vanstone, and Mr. Vanstone quarreled with Mr. Clare. “One of +these days you’ll wish you hadn’t laid that wager,” said the cynic +philosopher. “One of these days I shall have the blessed satisfaction +of pocketing your guinea,” cried the sanguine friend. Two years had +then passed since Frank’s departure. In one year more results asserted +themselves, and settled the question. + +Two days after Mr. Vanstone’s return from London, he was called away +from the breakfast-table before he had found time enough to look over +his letters, delivered by the morning’s post. Thrusting them into one +of the pockets of his shooting-jacket, he took the letters out again, +at one grasp, to read them when occasion served, later in the day. The +grasp included the whole correspondence, with one exception—that +exception being a final report from the civil engineer, which notified +the termination of the connection between his pupil and himself, and +the immediate return of Frank to his father’s house. + +While this important announcement lay unsuspected in Mr. Vanstone’s +pocket, the object of it was traveling home, as fast as railways could +take him. At half-past ten at night, while Mr. Clare was sitting in +studious solitude over his books and his green tea, with his favorite +black cat to keep him company, he heard footsteps in the passage—the +door opened—and Frank stood before him. + +Ordinary men would have been astonished. But the philosopher’s +composure was not to be shaken by any such trifle as the unexpected +return of his eldest son. He could not have looked up more calmly from +his learned volume if Frank had been absent for three minutes instead +of three years. + +“Exactly what I predicted,” said Mr. Clare. “Don’t interrupt me by +making explanations; and don’t frighten the cat. If there is anything +to eat in the kitchen, get it and go to bed. You can walk over to +Combe-Raven tomorrow and give this message from me to Mr. Vanstone: +‘Father’s compliments, sir, and I have come back upon your hands like a +bad shilling, as he always said I should. He keeps his own guinea, and +takes your five; and he hopes you’ll mind what he says to you another +time.’ That is the message. Shut the door after you. Good-night.” + +Under these unfavorable auspices, Mr. Francis Clare made his appearance +the next morning in the grounds at Combe-Raven; and, something doubtful +of the reception that might await him, slowly approached the precincts +of the house. + +It was not wonderful that Magdalen should have failed to recognize him +when he first appeared in view. He had gone away a backward lad of +seventeen; he returned a young man of twenty. His slim figure had now +acquired strength and grace, and had increased in stature to the medium +height. The small regular features, which he was supposed to have +inherited from his mother, were rounded and filled out, without having +lost their remarkable delicacy of form. His beard was still in its +infancy; and nascent lines of whisker traced their modest way sparely +down his cheeks. His gentle, wandering brown eyes would have looked to +better advantage in a woman’s face—they wanted spirit and firmness to +fit them for the face of a man. His hands had the same wandering habit +as his eyes; they were constantly changing from one position to +another, constantly twisting and turning any little stray thing they +could pick up. He was undeniably handsome, graceful, well-bred—but no +close observer could look at him without suspecting that the stout old +family stock had begun to wear out in the later generations, and that +Mr. Francis Clare had more in him of the shadow of his ancestors than +of the substance. + +When the astonishment caused by his appearance had partially subsided, +a search was instituted for the missing report. It was found in the +remotest recesses of Mr. Vanstone’s capacious pocket, and was read by +that gentleman on the spot. + +The plain facts, as stated by the engineer, were briefly these: Frank +was not possessed of the necessary abilities to fit him for his new +calling; and it was useless to waste time by keeping him any longer in +an employment for which he had no vocation. This, after three years’ +trial, being the conviction on both sides, the master had thought it +the most straightforward course for the pupil to go home and candidly +place results before his father and his friends. In some other pursuit, +for which he was more fit, and in which he could feel an interest, he +would no doubt display the industry and perseverance which he had been +too much discouraged to practice in the profession that he had now +abandoned. Personally, he was liked by all who knew him; and his future +prosperity was heartily desired by the many friends whom he had made in +the North. Such was the substance of the report, and so it came to an +end. + +Many men would have thought the engineer’s statement rather too +carefully worded; and, suspecting him of trying to make the best of a +bad case, would have entertained serious doubts on the subject of +Frank’s future. Mr. Vanstone was too easy-tempered and sanguine—and too +anxious, as well, not to yield his old antagonist an inch more ground +than he could help—to look at the letter from any such unfavorable +point of view. Was it Frank’s fault if he had not got the stuff in him +that engineers were made of? Did no other young men ever begin life +with a false start? Plenty began in that way, and got over it, and did +wonders afterward. With these commentaries on the letter, the +kind-hearted gentleman patted Frank on the shoulder. “Cheer up, my +lad!” said Mr. Vanstone. “We will be even with your father one of these +days, though he _has_ won the wager this time!” + +The example thus set by the master of the house was followed at once by +the family—with the solitary exception of Norah, whose incurable +formality and reserve expressed themselves, not too graciously, in her +distant manner toward the visitor. The rest, led by Magdalen (who had +been Frank’s favorite playfellow in past times) glided back into their +old easy habits with him without an effort. He was “Frank” with all of +them but Norah, who persisted in addressing him as “Mr. Clare.” Even +the account he was now encouraged to give of the reception accorded to +him by his father, on the previous night, failed to disturb Norah’s +gravity. She sat with her dark, handsome face steadily averted, her +eyes cast down, and the rich color in her cheeks warmer and deeper than +usual. All the rest, Miss Garth included, found old Mr. Clare’s speech +of welcome to his son quite irresistible. The noise and merriment were +at their height when the servant came in, and struck the whole party +dumb by the announcement of visitors in the drawing-room. “Mr. +Marrable, Mrs. Marrable, and Miss Marrable; Evergreen Lodge, Clifton.” + +Norah rose as readily as if the new arrivals had been a relief to her +mind. Mrs. Vanstone was the next to leave her chair. These two went +away first, to receive the visitors. Magdalen, who preferred the +society of her father and Frank, pleaded hard to be left behind; but +Miss Garth, after granting five minutes’ grace, took her into custody +and marched her out of the room. Frank rose to take his leave. + +“No, no,” said Mr. Vanstone, detaining him. “Don’t go. These people +won’t stop long. Mr. Marrable’s a merchant at Bristol. I’ve met him +once or twice, when the girls forced me to take them to parties at +Clifton. Mere acquaintances, nothing more. Come and smoke a cigar in +the greenhouse. Hang all visitors—they worry one’s life out. I’ll +appear at the last moment with an apology; and you shall follow me at a +safe distance, and be a proof that I was really engaged.” + +Proposing this ingenious stratagem in a confidential whisper, Mr. +Vanstone took Frank’s arm and led him round the house by the back way. +The first ten minutes of seclusion in the conservatory passed without +events of any kind. At the end of that time, a flying figure in bright +garments flashed upon the two gentlemen through the glass—the door was +flung open—flower-pots fell in homage to passing petticoats—and Mr. +Vanstone’s youngest daughter ran up to him at headlong speed, with +every external appearance of having suddenly taken leave of her senses. + +“Papa! the dream of my whole life is realized,” she said, as soon as +she could speak. “I shall fly through the roof of the greenhouse if +somebody doesn’t hold me down. The Marrables have come here with an +invitation. Guess, you darling—guess what they’re going to give at +Evergreen Lodge!” + +“A ball!” said Mr. Vanstone, without a moment’s hesitation. + +“Private Theatricals!!!” cried Magdalen, her clear young voice ringing +through the conservatory like a bell; her loose sleeves falling back +and showing her round white arms to the dimpled elbows, as she clapped +her hands ecstatically in the air. “‘The Rivals’ is the play, papa—‘The +Rivals,’ by the famous what’s-his-name—and they want ME to act! The one +thing in the whole universe that I long to do most. It all depends on +you. Mamma shakes her head; and Miss Garth looks daggers; and Norah’s +as sulky as usual—but if you say Yes, they must all three give way and +let me do as I like. Say Yes,” she pleaded, nestling softly up to her +father, and pressing her lips with a fond gentleness to his ear, as she +whispered the next words. “Say Yes, and I’ll be a good girl for the +rest of my life.” + +“A good girl?” repeated Mr. Vanstone—“a mad girl, I think you must +mean. Hang these people and their theatricals! I shall have to go +indoors and see about this matter. You needn’t throw away your cigar, +Frank. You’re well out of the business, and you can stop here.” + +“No, he can’t,” said Magdalen. “He’s in the business, too.” + +Mr. Francis Clare had hitherto remained modestly in the background. He +now came forward with a face expressive of speechless amazement. + +“Yes,” continued Magdalen, answering his blank look of inquiry with +perfect composure. “You are to act. Miss Marrable and I have a turn for +business, and we settled it all in five minutes. There are two parts in +the play left to be filled. One is Lucy, the waiting-maid; which is the +character I have undertaken—with papa’s permission,” she added, slyly +pinching her father’s arm; “and he won’t say No, will he? First, +because he’s a darling; secondly, because I love him, and he loves me; +thirdly, because there is never any difference of opinion between us +(is there?); fourthly, because I give him a kiss, which naturally stops +his mouth and settles the whole question. Dear me, I’m wandering. Where +was I just now? Oh yes! explaining myself to Frank—” + +“I beg your pardon,” began Frank, attempting, at this point, to enter +his protest. + +“The second character in the play,” pursued Magdalen, without taking +the smallest notice of the protest, “is Falkland—a jealous lover, with +a fine flow of language. Miss Marrable and I discussed Falkland +privately on the window-seat while the rest were talking. She is a +delightful girl—so impulsive, so sensible, so entirely unaffected. She +confided in me. She said: ‘One of our miseries is that we can’t find a +gentleman who will grapple with the hideous difficulties of Falkland.’ +Of course I soothed her. Of course I said: ‘I’ve got the gentleman, and +he shall grapple immediately.’—‘Oh heavens! who is he?’—‘Mr. Francis +Clare.’—‘And where is he?’—‘In the house at this moment.’—‘Will you be +so very charming, Miss Vanstone, as to fetch him?’—‘I’ll fetch him, +Miss Marrable, with the greatest pleasure.’ I left the window-seat—I +rushed into the morning-room—I smelled cigars—I followed the smell—and +here I am.” + +“It’s a compliment, I know, to be asked to act,” said Frank, in great +embarrassment. “But I hope you and Miss Marrable will excuse me—” + +“Certainly not. Miss Marrable and I are both remarkable for the +firmness of our characters. When we say Mr. So-and-So is positively to +act the part of Falkland, we positively mean it. Come in and be +introduced.” + +“But I never tried to act. I don’t know how.” + +“Not of the slightest consequence. If you don’t know how, come to me +and I’ll teach you.” + +“You!” exclaimed Mr. Vanstone. “What do you know about it?” + +“Pray, papa, be serious! I have the strongest internal conviction that +I could act every character in the play—Falkland included. Don’t let me +have to speak a second time, Frank. Come and be introduced.” + +She took her father’s arm, and moved on with him to the door of the +greenhouse. At the steps, she turned and looked round to see if Frank +was following her. It was only the action of a moment; but in that +moment her natural firmness of will rallied all its +resources—strengthened itself with the influence of her beauty +—commanded—and conquered. She looked lovely: the flush was tenderly +bright in her cheeks; the radiant pleasure shone and sparkled in her +eyes; the position of her figure, turned suddenly from the waist +upward, disclosed its delicate strength, its supple firmness, its +seductive, serpentine grace. “Come!” she said, with a coquettish +beckoning action of her head. “Come, Frank!” + +Few men of forty would have resisted her at that moment. Frank was +twenty last birthday. In other words, he threw aside his cigar, and +followed her out of the greenhouse. + +As he turned and closed the door—in the instant when he lost sight of +her—his disinclination to be associated with the private theatricals +revived. At the foot of the house-steps he stopped again; plucked a +twig from a plant near him; broke it in his hand; and looked about him +uneasily, on this side and on that. The path to the left led back to +his father’s cottage—the way of escape lay open. Why not take it? + +While he still hesitated, Mr. Vanstone and his daughter reached the top +of the steps. Once more, Magdalen looked round—looked with her +resistless beauty, with her all-conquering smile. She beckoned again; +and again he followed her—up the steps, and over the threshold. The +door closed on them. + +So, with a trifling gesture of invitation on one side, with a trifling +act of compliance on the other: so—with no knowledge in his mind, with +no thought in hers, of the secret still hidden under the journey to +London—they took the way which led to that secret’s discovery, through +many a darker winding that was yet to come. + + + +CHAPTER V. + +Mr. Vanstone’s inquiries into the proposed theatrical entertainment at +Evergreen Lodge were answered by a narrative of dramatic disasters; of +which Miss Marrable impersonated the innocent cause, and in which her +father and mother played the parts of chief victims. + +Miss Marrable was that hardest of all born tyrants—an only child. She +had never granted a constitutional privilege to her oppressed father +and mother since the time when she cut her first tooth. Her seventeenth +birthday was now near at hand; she had decided on celebrating it by +acting a play; had issued her orders accordingly; and had been obeyed +by her docile parents as implicitly as usual. Mrs. Marrable gave up the +drawing-room to be laid waste for a stage and a theater. Mr. Marrable +secured the services of a respectable professional person to drill the +young ladies and gentlemen, and to accept all the other +responsibilities incidental to creating a dramatic world out of a +domestic chaos. Having further accustomed themselves to the breaking of +furniture and the staining of walls—to thumping, tumbling, hammering, +and screaming; to doors always banging, and to footsteps perpetually +running up and down stairs—the nominal master and mistress of the house +fondly believed that their chief troubles were over. Innocent and fatal +delusion! It is one thing in private society to set up the stage and +choose the play—it is another thing altogether to find the actors. +Hitherto, only the small preliminary annoyances proper to the occasion +had shown themselves at Evergreen Lodge. The sound and serious troubles +were all to come. + +“The Rivals” having been chosen as the play, Miss Marrable, as a matter +of course, appropriated to herself the part of “Lydia Languish.” One of +her favored swains next secured “Captain Absolute,” and another laid +violent hands on “Sir Lucius O’Trigger.” These two were followed by an +accommodating spinster relative, who accepted the heavy dramatic +responsibility of “Mrs. Malaprop”—and there the theatrical proceedings +came to a pause. Nine more speaking characters were left to be fitted +with representatives; and with that unavoidable necessity the serious +troubles began. + +All the friends of the family suddenly became unreliable people, for +the first time in their lives. After encouraging the idea of the play, +they declined the personal sacrifice of acting in it—or, they accepted +characters, and then broke down in the effort to study them—or they +volunteered to take the parts which they knew were already engaged, and +declined the parts which were waiting to be acted—or they were +afflicted with weak constitutions, and mischievously fell ill when they +were wanted at rehearsal—or they had Puritan relatives in the +background, and, after slipping into their parts cheerfully at the +week’s beginning, oozed out of them penitently, under serious family +pressure, at the week’s end. Meanwhile, the carpenters hammered and the +scenes rose. Miss Marrable, whose temperament was sensitive, became +hysterical under the strain of perpetual anxiety; the family doctor +declined to answer for the nervous consequences if something was not +done. Renewed efforts were made in every direction. Actors and +actresses were sought with a desperate disregard of all considerations +of personal fitness. Necessity, which knows no law, either in the drama +or out of it, accepted a lad of eighteen as the representative of “Sir +Anthony Absolute”; the stage-manager undertaking to supply the +necessary wrinkles from the illimitable resources of theatrical art. A +lady whose age was unknown, and whose personal appearance was stout—but +whose heart was in the right place—volunteered to act the part of the +sentimental “Julia,” and brought with her the dramatic qualification of +habitually wearing a wig in private life. Thanks to these vigorous +measures, the play was at last supplied with representatives—always +excepting the two unmanageable characters of “Lucy” the waiting-maid, +and “Falkland,” Julia’s jealous lover. Gentlemen came; saw Julia at +rehearsal; observed her stoutness and her wig; omitted to notice that +her heart was in the right place; quailed at the prospect, apologized, +and retired. Ladies read the part of “Lucy”; remarked that she appeared +to great advantage in the first half of the play, and faded out of it +altogether in the latter half; objected to pass from the notice of the +audience in that manner, when all the rest had a chance of +distinguishing themselves to the end; shut up the book, apologized, and +retired. In eight days more the night of performance would arrive; a +phalanx of social martyrs two hundred strong had been convened to +witness it; three full rehearsals were absolutely necessary; and two +characters in the play were not filled yet. With this lamentable story, +and with the humblest apologies for presuming on a slight acquaintance, +the Marrables appeared at Combe-Raven, to appeal to the young ladies +for a “Lucy,” and to the universe for a “Falkland,” with the mendicant +pertinacity of a family in despair. + +This statement of circumstances—addressed to an audience which included +a father of Mr. Vanstone’s disposition, and a daughter of Magdalen’s +temperament—produced the result which might have been anticipated from +the first. + +Either misinterpreting, or disregarding, the ominous silence preserved +by his wife and Miss Garth, Mr. Vanstone not only gave Magdalen +permission to assist the forlorn dramatic company, but accepted an +invitation to witness the performance for Norah and himself. Mrs. +Vanstone declined accompanying them on account of her health; and Miss +Garth only engaged to make one among the audience conditionally on not +being wanted at home. The “parts” of “Lucy” and “Falkland” (which the +distressed family carried about with them everywhere, like incidental +maladies) were handed to their representatives on the spot. Frank’s +faint remonstrances were rejected without a hearing; the days and hours +of rehearsal were carefully noted down on the covers of the parts; and +the Marrables took their leave, with a perfect explosion of +thanks—father, mother, and daughter sowing their expressions of +gratitude broadcast, from the drawing-room door to the garden-gates. + +As soon as the carriage had driven away, Magdalen presented herself to +the general observation under an entirely new aspect. + +“If any more visitors call to-day,” she said, with the profoundest +gravity of look and manner, “I am not at home. This is a far more +serious matter than any of you suppose. Go somewhere by yourself, +Frank, and read over your part, and don’t let your attention wander if +you can possibly help it. I shall not be accessible before the evening. +If you will come here—with papa’s permission—after tea, my views on the +subject of Falkland will be at your disposal. Thomas! whatever else the +gardener does, he is not to make any floricultural noises under my +window. For the rest of the afternoon I shall be immersed in study—and +the quieter the house is, the more obliged I shall feel to everybody.” + +Before Miss Garth’s battery of reproof could open fire, before the +first outburst of Mr. Vanstone’s hearty laughter could escape his lips, +she bowed to them with imperturbable gravity; ascended the house-steps, +for the first time in her life, at a walk instead of a run, and retired +then and there to the bedroom regions. Frank’s helpless astonishment at +her disappearance added a new element of absurdity to the scene. He +stood first on one leg and then on the other; rolling and unrolling his +part, and looking piteously in the faces of the friends about him. “I +know I can’t do it,” he said. “May I come in after tea, and hear +Magdalen’s views? Thank you—I’ll look in about eight. Don’t tell my +father about this acting, please; I should never hear the last of it.” +Those were the only words he had spirit enough to utter. He drifted +away aimlessly in the direction of the shrubbery, with the part hanging +open in his hand—the most incapable of Falklands, and the most helpless +of mankind. + +Frank’s departure left the family by themselves, and was the signal +accordingly for an attack on Mr. Vanstone’s inveterate carelessness in +the exercise of his paternal authority. + +“What could you possibly be thinking of, Andrew, when you gave your +consent?” said Mrs. Vanstone. “Surely my silence was a sufficient +warning to you to say No?” + +“A mistake, Mr. Vanstone,” chimed in Miss Garth. “Made with the best +intentions—but a mistake for all that.” + +“It may be a mistake,” said Norah, taking her father’s part, as usual. +“But I really don’t see how papa, or any one else, could have declined, +under the circumstances.” + +“Quite right, my dear,” observed Mr. Vanstone. “The circumstances, as +you say, were dead against me. Here were these unfortunate people in a +scrape on one side; and Magdalen, on the other, mad to act. I couldn’t +say I had methodistical objections—I’ve nothing methodistical about me. +What other excuse could I make? The Marrables are respectable people, +and keep the best company in Clifton. What harm can she get in their +house? If you come to prudence and that sort of thing—why shouldn’t +Magdalen do what Miss Marrable does? There! there! let the poor things +act, and amuse themselves. We were their age once—and it’s no use +making a fuss—and that’s all I’ve got to say about it.” + +With that characteristic defense of his own conduct, Mr. Vanstone +sauntered back to the greenhouse to smoke another cigar. + +“I didn’t say so to papa,” said Norah, taking her mother’s arm on the +way back to the house, “but the bad result of the acting, in my +opinion, will be the familiarity it is sure to encourage between +Magdalen and Francis Clare.” + +“You are prejudiced against Frank, my love,” said Mrs. Vanstone. + +Norah’s soft, secret, hazel eyes sank to the ground; she said no more. +Her opinions were unchangeable—but she never disputed with anybody. She +had the great failing of a reserved nature—the failing of obstinacy; +and the great merit—the merit of silence. “What is your head running on +now?” thought Miss Garth, casting a sharp look at Norah’s dark, +downcast face. “You’re one of the impenetrable sort. Give me Magdalen, +with all her perversities; I can see daylight through her. You’re as +dark as night.” + +The hours of the afternoon passed away, and still Magdalen remained +shut up in her own room. No restless footsteps pattered on the stairs; +no nimble tongue was heard chattering here, there, and everywhere, from +the garret to the kitchen—the house seemed hardly like itself, with the +one ever-disturbing element in the family serenity suddenly withdrawn +from it. Anxious to witness with her own eyes the reality of a +transformation in which past experience still inclined her to +disbelieve, Miss Garth ascended to Magdalen’s room, knocked twice at +the door, received no answer, opened it and looked in. + +There sat Magdalen, in an arm-chair before the long looking-glass, with +all her hair let down over her shoulders; absorbed in the study of her +part and comfortably arrayed in her morning wrapper, until it was time +to dress for dinner. And there behind her sat the lady’s-maid, slowly +combing out the long heavy locks of her young mistress’s hair, with the +sleepy resignation of a woman who had been engaged in that employment +for some hours past. The sun was shining; and the green shutters +outside the window were closed. The dim light fell tenderly on the two +quiet seated figures; on the little white bed, with the knots of +rose-colored ribbon which looped up its curtains, and the bright dress +for dinner laid ready across it; on the gayly painted bath, with its +pure lining of white enamel; on the toilet-table with its sparkling +trinkets, its crystal bottles, its silver bell with Cupid for a handle, +its litter of little luxuries that adorn the shrine of a woman’s +bed-chamber. The luxurious tranquillity of the scene; the cool +fragrance of flowers and perfumes in the atmosphere; the rapt attitude +of Magdalen, absorbed over her reading; the monotonous regularity of +movement in the maid’s hand and arm, as she drew the comb smoothly +through and through her mistress’s hair—all conveyed the same soothing +impression of drowsy, delicious quiet. On one side of the door were the +broad daylight and the familiar realities of life. On the other was the +dream-land of Elysian serenity—the sanctuary of unruffled repose. + +Miss Garth paused on the threshold, and looked into the room in +silence. + +Magdalen’s curious fancy for having her hair combed at all times and +seasons was among the peculiarities of her character which were +notorious to everybody in the house. It was one of her father’s +favorite jokes that she reminded him, on such occasions, of a cat +having her back stroked, and that he always expected, if the combing +were only continued long enough, to hear her _purr_. Extravagant as it +may seem, the comparison was not altogether inappropriate. The girl’s +fervid temperament intensified the essentially feminine pleasure that +most women feel in the passage of the comb through their hair, to a +luxury of sensation which absorbed her in enjoyment, so serenely +self-demonstrative, so drowsily deep that it did irresistibly suggest a +pet cat’s enjoyment under a caressing hand. Intimately as Miss Garth +was acquainted with this peculiarity in her pupil, she now saw it +asserting itself for the first time, in association with mental +exertion of any kind on Magdalen’s part. Feeling, therefore, some +curiosity to know how long the combing and the studying had gone on +together, she ventured on putting the question, first to the mistress; +and (receiving no answer in that quarter) secondly to the maid. + +“All the afternoon, miss, off and on,” was the weary answer. “Miss +Magdalen says it soothes her feelings and clears her mind.” + +Knowing by experience that interference would be hopeless, under these +circumstances, Miss Garth turned sharply and left the room. She smiled +when she was outside on the landing. The female mind does +occasionally—though not often—project itself into the future. Miss +Garth was prophetically pitying Magdalen’s unfortunate husband. + +Dinner-time presented the fair student to the family eye in the same +mentally absorbed aspect. On all ordinary occasions Magdalen’s appetite +would have terrified those feeble sentimentalists who affect to ignore +the all-important influence which female feeding exerts in the +production of female beauty. On this occasion she refused one dish +after another with a resolution which implied the rarest of all modern +martyrdoms—gastric martyrdom. “I have conceived the part of Lucy,” she +observed, with the demurest gravity. “The next difficulty is to make +Frank conceive the part of Falkland. I see nothing to laugh at—you +would all be serious enough if you had my responsibilities. No, papa—no +wine to-day, thank you. I must keep my intelligence clear. Water, +Thomas—and a little more jelly, I think, before you take it away.” + +When Frank presented himself in the evening, ignorant of the first +elements of his part, she took him in hand, as a middle-aged +schoolmistress might have taken in hand a backward little boy. The few +attempts he made to vary the sternly practical nature of the evening’s +occupation by slipping in compliments sidelong she put away from her +with the contemptuous self-possession of a woman of twice her age. She +literally forced him into his part. Her father fell asleep in his +chair. Mrs. Vanstone and Miss Garth lost their interest in the +proceedings, retired to the further end of the room, and spoke together +in whispers. It grew later and later; and still Magdalen never flinched +from her task—still, with equal perseverance, Norah, who had been on +the watch all through the evening, kept on the watch to the end. The +distrust darkened and darkened on her face as she looked at her sister +and Frank; as she saw how close they sat together, devoted to the same +interest and working to the same end. The clock on the mantel-piece +pointed to half-past eleven before Lucy the resolute permitted Falkland +the helpless to shut up his task-book for the night. “She’s wonderfully +clever, isn’t she?” said Frank, taking leave of Mr. Vanstone at the +hall door. “I’m to come to-morrow, and hear more of her views—if you +have no objection. I shall never do it; don’t tell her I said so. As +fast as she teaches me one speech, the other goes out of my head. +Discouraging, isn’t it? Goodnight.” + +The next day but one was the day of the first full rehearsal. On the +previous evening Mrs. Vanstone’s spirits had been sadly depressed. At a +private interview with Miss Garth she had referred again, of her own +accord, to the subject of her letter from London—had spoken +self-reproachfully of her weakness in admitting Captain Wragge’s +impudent claim to a family connection with her—and had then reverted to +the state of her health and to the doubtful prospect that awaited her +in the coming summer in a tone of despondency which it was very +distressing to hear. Anxious to cheer her spirits, Miss Garth had +changed the conversation as soon as possible—had referred to the +approaching theatrical performance—and had relieved Mrs. Vanstone’s +mind of all anxiety in that direction, by announcing her intention of +accompanying Magdalen to each rehearsal, and of not losing sight of her +until she was safely back again in her father’s house. Accordingly, +when Frank presented himself at Combe-Raven on the eventful morning, +there stood Miss Garth, prepared—in the interpolated character of +Argus—to accompany Lucy and Falkland to the scene of trial. The railway +conveyed the three, in excellent time, to Evergreen Lodge; and at one +o’clock the rehearsal began. + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +“I hope Miss Vanstone knows her part?” whispered Mrs. Marrable, +anxiously addressing herself to Miss Garth, in a corner of the theater. + +“If airs and graces make an actress, ma’am, Magdalen’s performance will +astonish us all.” With that reply, Miss Garth took out her work, and +seated herself, on guard, in the center of the pit. + +The manager perched himself, book in hand, on a stool close in front of +the stage. He was an active little man, of a sweet and cheerful temper; +and he gave the signal to begin with as patient an interest in the +proceedings as if they had caused him no trouble in the past and +promised him no difficulty in the future. The two characters which +opened the comedy of The Rivals, “Fag” and “The Coachman,” appeared on +the scene—looked many sizes too tall for their canvas background, which +represented a “Street in Bath”—exhibited the customary inability to +manage their own arms, legs, and voices—went out severally at the wrong +exits—and expressed their perfect approval of results, so far, by +laughing heartily behind the scenes. “Silence, gentlemen, if you +please,” remonstrated the cheerful manager. “As loud as you like _on_ +the stage, but the audience mustn’t hear you _off_ it. Miss Marrable +ready? Miss Vanstone ready? Easy there with the ‘Street in Bath’; it’s +going up crooked! Face this way, Miss Marrable; full face, if you +please. Miss Vanstone—” he checked himself suddenly. “Curious,” he +said, under his breath—“she fronts the audience of her own accord!” +Lucy opened the scene in these words: “Indeed, ma’am, I traversed half +the town in search of it: I don’t believe there’s a circulating library +in Bath I haven’t been at.” The manager started in his chair. “My heart +alive! she speaks out without telling!” The dialogue went on. Lucy +produced the novels for Miss Lydia Languish’s private reading from +under her cloak. The manager rose excitably to his feet. Marvelous! No +hurry with the books; no dropping them. She looked at the titles before +she announced them to her mistress; she set down “Humphrey Clinker” on +“The Tears of Sensibility” with a smart little smack which pointed the +antithesis. One moment—and she announced Julia’s visit; another—and she +dropped the brisk waiting-maid’s courtesy; a third—and she was off the +stage on the side set down for her in the book. The manager wheeled +round on his stool, and looked hard at Miss Garth. “I beg your pardon, +ma’am,” he said. “Miss Marrable told me, before we began, that this was +the young lady’s first attempt. It can’t be, surely!” + +“It is,” replied Miss Garth, reflecting the manager’s look of amazement +on her own face. Was it possible that Magdalen’s unintelligible +industry in the study of her part really sprang from a serious interest +in her occupation—an interest which implied a natural fitness for it? + +The rehearsal went on. The stout lady with the wig (and the excellent +heart) personated the sentimental Julia from an inveterately tragic +point of view, and used her handkerchief distractedly in the first +scene. The spinster relative felt Mrs. Malaprop’s mistakes in language +so seriously, and took such extraordinary pains with her blunders, that +they sounded more like exercises in elocution than anything else. The +unhappy lad who led the forlorn hope of the company, in the person of +“Sir Anthony Absolute,” expressed the age and irascibility of his +character by tottering incessantly at the knees, and thumping the stage +perpetually with his stick. Slowly and clumsily, with constant +interruptions and interminable mistakes, the first act dragged on, +until Lucy appeared again to end it in soliloquy, with the confession +of her assumed simplicity and the praise of her own cunning. + +Here the stage artifice of the situation presented difficulties which +Magdalen had not encountered in the first scene—and here, her total +want of experience led her into more than one palpable mistake. The +stage-manager, with an eagerness which he had not shown in the case of +any other member of the company, interfered immediately, and set her +right. At one point she was to pause, and take a turn on the stage—she +did it. At another, she was to stop, toss her head, and look pertly at +the audience—she did it. When she took out the paper to read the list +of the presents she had received, could she give it a tap with her +finger (Yes)? And lead off with a little laugh (Yes—after twice +trying)? Could she read the different items with a sly look at the end +of each sentence, straight at the pit (Yes, straight at the pit, and as +sly as you please)? The manager’s cheerful face beamed with approval. +He tucked the play under his arm, and clapped his hands gayly; the +gentlemen, clustered together behind the scenes, followed his example; +the ladies looked at each other with dawning doubts whether they had +not better have left the new recruit in the retirement of private life. +Too deeply absorbed in the business of the stage to heed any of them, +Magdalen asked leave to repeat the soliloquy, and make quite sure of +her own improvement. She went all through it again without a mistake, +this time, from beginning to end; the manager celebrating her attention +to his directions by an outburst of professional approbation, which +escaped him in spite of himself. “She can take a hint!” cried the +little man, with a hearty smack of his hand on the prompt-book. “She’s +a born actress, if ever there was one yet!” + +“I hope not,” said Miss Garth to herself, taking up the work which had +dropped into her lap, and looking down at it in some perplexity. Her +worst apprehension of results in connection with the theatrical +enterprise had foreboded levity of conduct with some of the +gentlemen—she had not bargained for this. Magdalen, in the capacity of +a thoughtless girl, was comparatively easy to deal with. Magdalen, in +the character of a born actress, threatened serious future +difficulties. + +The rehearsal proceeded. Lucy returned to the stage for her scenes in +the second act (the last in which she appears) with Sir Lucius and Fag. +Here, again, Magdalen’s inexperience betrayed itself—and here once more +her resolution in attacking and conquering her own mistakes astonished +everybody. “Bravo!” cried the gentlemen behind the scenes, as she +steadily trampled down one blunder after another. “Ridiculous!” said +the ladies, “with such a small part as hers.” “Heaven forgive me!” +thought Miss. Garth, coming round unwillingly to the general opinion. +“I almost wish we were Papists, and I had a convent to put her in +to-morrow.” One of Mr. Marrable’s servants entered the theater as that +desperate aspiration escaped the governess. She instantly sent the man +behind the scene with a message: “Miss Vanstone has done her part in +the rehearsal; request her to come here and sit by me.” The servant +returned with a polite apology: “Miss Vanstone’s kind love, and she +begs to be excused—she’s prompting Mr. Clare.” She prompted him to such +purpose that he actually got through his part. The performances of the +other gentlemen were obtrusively imbecile. Frank was just one degree +better—he was modestly incapable; and he gained by comparison. “Thanks +to Miss Vanstone,” observed the manager, who had heard the prompting. +“She pulled him through. We shall be flat enough at night, when the +drop falls on the second act, and the audience have seen the last of +her. It’s a thousand pities she hasn’t got a better part!” + +“It’s a thousand mercies she’s no more to do than she has,” muttered +Miss Garth, overhearing him. “As things are, the people can’t well turn +her head with applause. She’s out of the play in the second act—that’s +one comfort!” + +No well-regulated mind ever draws its inferences in a hurry; Miss +Garth’s mind was well regulated; therefore, logically speaking, Miss +Garth ought to have been superior to the weakness of rushing at +conclusions. She had committed that error, nevertheless, under present +circumstances. In plainer terms, the consoling reflection which had +just occurred to her assumed that the play had by this time survived +all its disasters, and entered on its long-deferred career of success. +The play had done nothing of the sort. Misfortune and the Marrable +family had not parted company yet. + +When the rehearsal was over, nobody observed that the stout lady with +the wig privately withdrew herself from the company; and when she was +afterward missed from the table of refreshments, which Mr. Marrable’s +hospitality kept ready spread in a room near the theater, nobody +imagined that there was any serious reason for her absence. It was not +till the ladies and gentlemen assembled for the next rehearsal that the +true state of the case was impressed on the minds of the company. At +the appointed hour no Julia appeared. In her stead, Mrs. Marrable +portentously approached the stage, with an open letter in her hand. She +was naturally a lady of the mildest good breeding: she was mistress of +every bland conventionality in the English language—but disasters and +dramatic influences combined, threw even this harmless matron off her +balance at last. For the first time in her life Mrs. Marrable indulged +in vehement gesture, and used strong language. She handed the letter +sternly, at arms-length, to her daughter. “My dear,” she said, with an +aspect of awful composure, “we are under a Curse.” Before the amazed +dramatic company could petition for an explanation, she turned and left +the room. The manager’s professional eye followed her out +respectfully—he looked as if he approved of the exit, from a theatrical +point of view. + +What new misfortune had befallen the play? The last and worst of all +misfortunes had assailed it. The stout lady had resigned her part. + +Not maliciously. Her heart, which had been in the right place +throughout, remained inflexibly in the right place still. Her +explanation of the circumstances proved this, if nothing else did. The +letter began with a statement: She had overheard, at the last rehearsal +(quite unintentionally), personal remarks of which she was the subject. +They might, or might not, have had reference to her—Hair; and +her—Figure. She would not distress Mrs. Marrable by repeating them. +Neither would she mention names, because it was foreign to her nature +to make bad worse. The only course at all consistent with her own +self-respect was to resign her part. She inclosed it, accordingly, to +Mrs. Marrable, with many apologies for her presumption in undertaking a +youthful character, at—what a gentleman was pleased to term—her Age; +and with what two ladies were rude enough to characterize as her +disadvantages of—Hair, and—Figure. A younger and more attractive +representative of Julia would no doubt be easily found. In the +meantime, all persons concerned had her full forgiveness, to which she +would only beg leave to add her best and kindest wishes for the success +of the play. + +In four nights more the play was to be performed. If ever any human +enterprise stood in need of good wishes to help it, that enterprise was +unquestionably the theatrical entertainment at Evergreen Lodge! + +One arm-chair was allowed on the stage; and into that arm-chair Miss +Marrable sank, preparatory to a fit of hysterics. Magdalen stepped +forward at the first convulsion; snatched the letter from Miss +Marrable’s hand; and stopped the threatened catastrophe. + +“She’s an ugly, bald-headed, malicious, middle-aged wretch!” said +Magdalen, tearing the letter into fragments, and tossing them over the +heads of the company. “But I can tell her one thing—she shan’t spoil +the play. I’ll act Julia.” + +“Bravo!” cried the chorus of gentlemen—the anonymous gentleman who had +helped to do the mischief (otherwise Mr. Francis Clare) loudest of all. + +“If you want the truth, I don’t shrink from owning it,” continued +Magdalen. “I’m one of the ladies she means. I said she had a head like +a mop, and a waist like a bolster. So she has.” + +“I am the other lady,” added the spinster relative. “But I only said +she was too stout for the part.” + +“I am the gentleman,” chimed in Frank, stimulated by the force of +example. “I said nothing—I only agreed with the ladies.” + +Here Miss Garth seized her opportunity, and addressed the stage loudly +from the pit. + +“Stop! Stop!” she said. “You can’t settle the difficulty that way. If +Magdalen plays Julia, who is to play Lucy?” + +Miss Marrable sank back in the arm-chair, and gave way to the second +convulsion. + +“Stuff and nonsense!” cried Magdalen, “the thing’s simple enough, I’ll +act Julia and Lucy both together.” + +The manager was consulted on the spot. Suppressing Lucy’s first +entrance, and turning the short dialogue about the novels into a +soliloquy for Lydia Languish, appeared to be the only changes of +importance necessary to the accomplishment of Magdalen’s project. +Lucy’s two telling scenes, at the end of the first and second acts, +were sufficiently removed from the scenes in which Julia appeared to +give time for the necessary transformations in dress. Even Miss Garth, +though she tried hard to find them, could put no fresh obstacles in the +way. The question was settled in five minutes, and the rehearsal went +on; Magdalen learning Julia’s stage situations with the book in her +hand, and announcing afterward, on the journey home, that she proposed +sitting up all night to study the new part. Frank thereupon expressed +his fears that she would have no time left to help him through his +theatrical difficulties. She tapped him on the shoulder coquettishly +with her part. “You foolish fellow, how am I to do without you? You’re +Julia’s jealous lover; you’re always making Julia cry. Come to-night, +and make me cry at tea-time. You haven’t got a venomous old woman in a +wig to act with now. It’s _my_ heart you’re to break—and of course I +shall teach you how to do it.” + +The four days’ interval passed busily in perpetual rehearsals, public +and private. The night of performance arrived; the guests assembled; +the great dramatic experiment stood on its trial. Magdalen had made the +most of her opportunities; she had learned all that the manager could +teach her in the time. Miss Garth left her when the overture began, +sitting apart in a corner behind the scenes, serious and silent, with +her smelling-bottle in one hand, and her book in the other, resolutely +training herself for the coming ordeal, to the very last. + +The play began, with all the proper accompaniments of a theatrical +performance in private life; with a crowded audience, an African +temperature, a bursting of heated lamp-glasses, and a difficulty in +drawing up the curtain. “Fag” and “the Coachman,” who opened the scene, +took leave of their memories as soon as they stepped on the stage; left +half their dialogue unspoken; came to a dead pause; were audibly +entreated by the invisible manager to “come off”; and went off +accordingly, in every respect sadder and wiser men than when they went +on. The next scene disclosed Miss Marrable as “Lydia Languish,” +gracefully seated, very pretty, beautifully dressed, accurately +mistress of the smallest words in her part; possessed, in short, of +every personal resource—except her voice. The ladies admired, the +gentlemen applauded. Nobody heard anything but the words “Speak up, +miss,” whispered by the same voice which had already entreated “Fag” +and “the Coachman” to “come off.” A responsive titter rose among the +younger spectators; checked immediately by magnanimous applause. The +temperature of the audience was rising to Blood Heat—but the national +sense of fair play was not boiled out of them yet. + +In the midst of the demonstration, Magdalen quietly made her first +entrance, as “Julia.” She was dressed very plainly in dark colors, and +wore her own hair; all stage adjuncts and alterations (excepting the +slightest possible touch of rouge on her cheeks) having been kept in +reserve to disguise her the more effectually in her second part. The +grace and simplicity of her costume, the steady self-possession with +which she looked out over the eager rows of faces before her, raised a +low hum of approval and expectation. She spoke—after suppressing a +momentary tremor—with a quiet distinctness of utterance which reached +all ears, and which at once confirmed the favorable impression that her +appearance had produced. The one member of the audience who looked at +her and listened to her coldly, was her elder sister. Before the +actress of the evening had been five minutes on the stage, Norah +detected, to her own indescribable astonishment, that Magdalen had +audaciously individualized the feeble amiability of “Julia’s” +character, by seizing no less a person than herself as the model to act +it by. She saw all her own little formal peculiarities of manner and +movement unblushingly reproduced—and even the very tone of her voice so +accurately mimicked from time to time, that the accents startled her as +if she was speaking herself, with an echo on the stage. The effect of +this cool appropriation of Norah’s identity to theatrical purposes on +the audience—who only saw results—asserted itself in a storm of +applause on Magdalen’s exit. She had won two incontestable triumphs in +her first scene. By a dexterous piece of mimicry, she had made a living +reality of one of the most insipid characters in the English drama; and +she had roused to enthusiasm an audience of two hundred exiles from the +blessings of ventilation, all simmering together in their own animal +heat. Under the circumstances, where is the actress by profession who +could have done much more? + +But the event of the evening was still to come. Magdalen’s disguised +re-appearance at the end of the act, in the character of “Lucy”—with +false hair and false eyebrows, with a bright-red complexion and patches +on her cheeks, with the gayest colors flaunting in her dress, and the +shrillest vivacity of voice and manner—fairly staggered the audience. +They looked down at their programmes, in which the representative of +Lucy figured under an assumed name; looked up again at the stage; +penetrated the disguise; and vented their astonishment in another round +of applause, louder and heartier even than the last. Norah herself +could not deny this time that the tribute of approbation had been well +deserved. There, forcing its way steadily through all the faults of +inexperience—there, plainly visible to the dullest of the spectators, +was the rare faculty of dramatic impersonation, expressing itself in +every look and action of this girl of eighteen, who now stood on a +stage for the first time in her life. Failing in many minor requisites +of the double task which she had undertaken, she succeeded in the one +important necessity of keeping the main distinctions of the two +characters thoroughly apart. Everybody felt that the difficulty lay +here—everybody saw the difficulty conquered—everybody echoed the +manager’s enthusiasm at rehearsal, which had hailed her as a born +actress. + +When the drop-scene descended for the first time, Magdalen had +concentrated in herself the whole interest and attraction of the play. +The audience politely applauded Miss Marrable, as became the guests +assembled in her father’s house: and good-humoredly encouraged the +remainder of the company, to help them through a task for which they +were all, more or less, palpably unfit. But, as the play proceeded, +nothing roused them to any genuine expression of interest when Magdalen +was absent from the scene. There was no disguising it: Miss Marrable +and her bosom friends had been all hopelessly cast in the shade by the +new recruit whom they had summoned to assist them, in the capacity of +forlorn hope. And this on Miss Marrable’s own birthday! and this in her +father’s house! and this after the unutterable sacrifices of six weeks +past! Of all the domestic disasters which the thankless theatrical +enterprise had inflicted on the Marrable family, the crowning +misfortune was now consummated by Magdalen’s success. + +Leaving Mr. Vanstone and Norah, on the conclusion of the play, among +the guests in the supper-room, Miss Garth went behind the scenes; +ostensibly anxious to see if she could be of any use; really bent on +ascertaining whether Magdalen’s head had been turned by the triumphs of +the evening. It would not have surprised Miss Garth if she had +discovered her pupil in the act of making terms with the manager for +her forthcoming appearance in a public theater. As events really turned +out, she found Magdalen on the stage, receiving, with gracious smiles, +a card which the manager presented to her with a professional bow. +Noticing Miss Garth’s mute look of inquiry, the civil little man +hastened to explain that the card was his own, and that he was merely +asking the favor of Miss Vanstone’s recommendation at any future +opportunity. + +“This is not the last time the young lady will be concerned in private +theatricals, I’ll answer for it,” said the manager. “And if a +superintendent is wanted on the next occasion, she has kindly promised +to say a good word for me. I am always to be heard of, miss, at that +address.” Saying those words, he bowed again, and discreetly +disappeared. + +Vague suspicions beset the mind of Miss Garth, and urged her to insist +on looking at the card. No more harmless morsel of pasteboard was ever +passed from one hand to another. The card contained nothing but the +manager’s name, and, under it, the name and address of a theatrical +agent in London. + +“It is not worth the trouble of keeping,” said Miss Garth. + +Magdalen caught her hand before she could throw the card away—possessed +herself of it the next instant—and put it in her pocket. + +“I promised to recommend him,” she said—“and that’s one reason for +keeping his card. If it does nothing else, it will remind me of the +happiest evening of my life—and that’s another. Come!” she cried, +throwing her arms round Miss Garth with a feverish gayety—“congratulate +me on my success!” + +“I will congratulate you when you have got over it,” said Miss Garth. + +In half an hour more Magdalen had changed her dress; had joined the +guests; and had soared into an atmosphere of congratulation high above +the reach of any controlling influence that Miss Garth could exercise. +Frank, dilatory in all his proceedings, was the last of the dramatic +company who left the precincts of the stage. He made no attempt to join +Magdalen in the supper-room—but he was ready in the hall with her cloak +when the carriages were called and the party broke up. + +“Oh, Frank!” she said, looking round at him as he put the cloak on her +shoulders, “I am so sorry it’s all over! Come to-morrow morning, and +let’s talk about it by ourselves.” + +“In the shrubbery at ten?” asked Frank, in a whisper. + +She drew up the hood of her cloak and nodded to him gayly. Miss Garth, +standing near, noticed the looks that passed between them, though the +disturbance made by the parting guests prevented her from hearing the +words. There was a soft, underlying tenderness in Magdalen’s assumed +gayety of manner—there was a sudden thoughtfulness in her face, a +confidential readiness in her hand, as she took Frank’s arm and went +out to the carriage. What did it mean? Had her passing interest in him +as her stage-pupil treacherously sown the seeds of any deeper interest +in him, as a man? Had the idle theatrical scheme, now that it was all +over, graver results to answer for than a mischievous waste of time? + +The lines on Miss Garth’s face deepened and hardened: she stood lost +among the fluttering crowd around her. Norah’s warning words, addressed +to Mrs. Vanstone in the garden, recurred to her memory—and now, for the +first time, the idea dawned on her that Norah had seen the consequences +in their true light. + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +Early the next morning Miss Garth and Norah met in the garden and spoke +together privately. The only noticeable result of the interview, when +they presented themselves at the breakfast-table, appeared in the +marked silence which they both maintained on the topic of the +theatrical performance. Mrs. Vanstone was entirely indebted to her +husband and to her youngest daughter for all that she heard of the +evening’s entertainment. The governess and the elder daughter had +evidently determined on letting the subject drop. + +After breakfast was over Magdalen proved to be missing, when the ladies +assembled as usual in the morning-room. Her habits were so little +regular that Mrs. Vanstone felt neither surprise nor uneasiness at her +absence. Miss Garth and Norah looked at one another significantly, and +waited in silence. Two hours passed—and there were no signs of +Magdalen. Norah rose, as the clock struck twelve, and quietly left the +room to look for her. + +She was not upstairs dusting her jewelry and disarranging her dresses. +She was not in the conservatory, not in the flower-garden; not in the +kitchen teasing the cook; not in the yard playing with the dogs. Had +she, by any chance, gone out with her father? Mr. Vanstone had +announced his intention, at the breakfast-table, of paying a morning +visit to his old ally, Mr. Clare, and of rousing the philosopher’s +sarcastic indignation by an account of the dramatic performance. None +of the other ladies at Combe-Raven ever ventured themselves inside the +cottage. But Magdalen was reckless enough for anything—and Magdalen +might have gone there. As the idea occurred to her, Norah entered the +shrubbery. + +At the second turning, where the path among the trees wound away out of +sight of the house, she came suddenly face to face with Magdalen and +Frank: they were sauntering toward her, arm in arm, their heads close +together, their conversation apparently proceeding in whispers. They +looked suspiciously handsome and happy. At the sight of Norah both +started, and both stopped. Frank confusedly raised his hat, and turned +back in the direction of his father’s cottage. Magdalen advanced to +meet her sister, carelessly swinging her closed parasol from side to +side, carelessly humming an air from the overture which had preceded +the rising of the curtain on the previous night. + +“Luncheon-time already!” she said, looking at her watch. “Surely not?” + +“Have you and Mr. Francis Clare been alone in the shrubbery since ten +o’clock?” asked Norah. + +“_Mr._ Francis Clare! How ridiculously formal you are. Why don’t you +call him Frank?” + +“I asked you a question, Magdalen.” + +“Dear me, how black you look this morning! I’m in disgrace, I suppose. +Haven’t you forgiven me yet for my acting last night? I couldn’t help +it, love; I should have made nothing of Julia, if I hadn’t taken you +for my model. It’s quite a question of Art. In your place, I should +have felt flattered by the selection.” + +“In _your_ place, Magdalen, I should have thought twice before I +mimicked my sister to an audience of strangers.” + +“That’s exactly why I did it—an audience of strangers. How were they to +know? Come! come! don’t be angry. You are eight years older than I +am—you ought to set me an example of good-humor.” + +“I will set you an example of plain-speaking. I am more sorry than I +can say, Magdalen, to meet you as I met you here just now!” + +“What next, I wonder? You meet me in the shrubbery at home, talking +over the private theatricals with my old playfellow, whom I knew when I +was no taller than this parasol. And that is a glaring impropriety, is +it? ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense.’ You wanted an answer a minute +ago—there it is for you, my dear, in the choicest Norman-French.” + +“I am in earnest about this, Magdalen—” + +“Not a doubt of it. Nobody can accuse you of ever making jokes.” + +“I am seriously sorry—” + +“Oh, dear!” + +“It is quite useless to interrupt me. I have it on my conscience to +tell you—and I _will_ tell you—that I am sorry to see how this intimacy +is growing. I am sorry to see a secret understanding established +already between you and Mr. Francis Clare.” + +“Poor Frank! How you do hate him, to be sure. What on earth has he done +to offend you?” + +Norah’s self-control began to show signs of failing her. Her dark +cheeks glowed, her delicate lips trembled, before she spoke again. +Magdalen paid more attention to her parasol than to her sister. She +tossed it high in the air and caught it. “Once!” she said—and tossed it +up again. “Twice!”—and she tossed it higher. “Thrice—” Before she could +catch it for the third time, Norah seized her passionately by the arm, +and the parasol dropped to the ground between them. + +“You are treating me heartlessly,” she said. “For shame, Magdalen—for +shame!” + +The irrepressible outburst of a reserved nature, forced into open +self-assertion in its own despite, is of all moral forces the hardest +to resist. Magdalen was startled into silence. For a moment, the two +sisters—so strangely dissimilar in person and character—faced one +another, without a word passing between them. For a moment the deep +brown eyes of the elder and the light gray eyes of the younger looked +into each other with steady, unyielding scrutiny on either side. +Norah’s face was the first to change; Norah’s head was the first to +turn away. She dropped her sister’s arm in silence. Magdalen stooped +and picked up her parasol. + +“I try to keep my temper,” she said, “and you call me heartless for +doing it. You always were hard on me, and you always will be.” + +Norah clasped her trembling hands fast in each other. “Hard on you!” +she said, in low, mournful tones—and sighed bitterly. + +Magdalen drew back a little, and mechanically dusted the parasol with +the end of her garden cloak. + +“Yes!” she resumed, doggedly. “Hard on me and hard on Frank.” + +“Frank!” repeated Norah, advancing on her sister and turning pale as +suddenly as she had turned red. “Do you talk of yourself and Frank as +if your interests were One already? Magdalen! if I hurt _you_, do I +hurt _him_? Is he so near and so dear to you as that?” + +Magdalen drew further and further back. A twig from a tree near caught +her cloak; she turned petulantly, broke it off, and threw it on the +ground. “What right have you to question me?” she broke out on a +sudden. “Whether I like Frank, or whether I don’t, what interest is it +of yours?” As she said the words, she abruptly stepped forward to pass +her sister and return to the house. + +Norah, turning paler and paler, barred the way to her. “If I hold you +by main force,” she said, “you shall stop and hear me. I have watched +this Francis Clare; I know him better than you do. He is unworthy of a +moment’s serious feeling on your part; he is unworthy of our dear, +good, kind-hearted father’s interest in him. A man with any principle, +any honor, any gratitude, would not have come back as he has come back, +disgraced—yes! disgraced by his spiritless neglect of his own duty. I +watched his face while the friend who has been better than a father to +him was comforting and forgiving him with a kindness he had not +deserved: I watched his face, and I saw no shame and no distress in +it—I saw nothing but a look of thankless, heartless relief. He is +selfish, he is ungrateful, he is ungenerous—he is only twenty, and he +has the worst failings of a mean old age already. And this is the man I +find you meeting in secret—the man who has taken such a place in your +favor that you are deaf to the truth about him, even from _my_ lips! +Magdalen! this will end ill. For God’s sake, think of what I have said +to you, and control yourself before it is too late!” She stopped, +vehement and breathless, and caught her sister anxiously by the hand. + +Magdalen looked at her in unconcealed astonishment. + +“You are so violent,” she said, “and so unlike yourself, that I hardly +know you. The more patient I am, the more hard words I get for my +pains. You have taken a perverse hatred to Frank; and you are +unreasonably angry with me because I won’t hate him, too. Don’t, Norah! +you hurt my hand.” + +Norah pushed the hand from her contemptuously. “I shall never hurt your +heart,” she said; and suddenly turned her back on Magdalen as she spoke +the words. + +There was a momentary pause. Norah kept her position. Magdalen looked +at her perplexedly—hesitated—then walked away by herself toward the +house. + +At the turn in the shrubbery path she stopped and looked back uneasily. +“Oh, dear, dear!” she thought to herself, “why didn’t Frank go when I +told him?” She hesitated, and went back a few steps. “There’s Norah +standing on her dignity, as obstinate as ever.” She stopped again. +“What had I better do? I hate quarreling: I think I’ll make up.” She +ventured close to her sister and touched her on the shoulder. Norah +never moved. “It’s not often she flies into a passion,” thought +Magdalen, touching her again; “but when she does, what a time it lasts +her!—Come!” she said, “give me a kiss, Norah, and make it up. Won’t you +let me get at any part of you, my dear, but the back of your neck? +Well, it’s a very nice neck—it’s better worth kissing than mine—and +there the kiss is, in spite of you!” + +She caught fast hold of Norah from behind, and suited the action to the +word, with a total disregard of all that had just passed, which her +sister was far from emulating. Hardly a minute since the warm +outpouring of Norah’s heart had burst through all obstacles. Had the +icy reserve frozen her up again already! It was hard to say. She never +spoke; she never changed her position—she only searched hurriedly for +her handkerchief. As she drew it out, there was a sound of approaching +footsteps in the inner recesses of the shrubbery. A Scotch terrier +scampered into view; and a cheerful voice sang the first lines of the +glee in “As You Like It.” “It’s papa!” cried Magdalen. “Come, +Norah—come and meet him.” + +Instead of following her sister, Norah pulled down the veil of her +garden hat, turned in the opposite direction, and hurried back to the +house. She ran up to her own room and locked herself in. She was crying +bitterly. + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +When Magdalen and her father met in the shrubbery Mr. Vanstone’s face +showed plainly that something had happened to please him since he had +left home in the morning. He answered the question which his daughter’s +curiosity at once addressed to him by informing her that he had just +come from Mr. Clare’s cottage; and that he had picked up, in that +unpromising locality, a startling piece of news for the family at +Combe-Raven. + +On entering the philosopher’s study that morning, Mr. Vanstone had +found him still dawdling over his late breakfast, with an open letter +by his side, in place of the book which, on other occasions, lay ready +to his hand at meal-times. He held up the letter the moment his visitor +came into the room, and abruptly opened the conversation by asking Mr. +Vanstone if his nerves were in good order, and if he felt himself +strong enough for the shock of an overwhelming surprise. + +“Nerves!” repeated Mr. Vanstone. “Thank God, I know nothing about my +nerves. If you have got anything to tell me, shock or no shock, out +with it on the spot.” + +Mr. Clare held the letter a little higher, and frowned at his visitor +across the breakfast-table. “What have I always told you?” he asked, +with his sourest solemnity of look and manner. + +“A great deal more than I could ever keep in my head,” answered Mr. +Vanstone. + +“In your presence and out of it,” continued Mr. Clare, “I have always +maintained that the one important phenomenon presented by modern +society is—the enormous prosperity of Fools. Show me an individual +Fool, and I will show you an aggregate Society which gives that +highly-favored personage nine chances out of ten—and grudges the tenth +to the wisest man in existence. Look where you will, in every high +place there sits an Ass, settled beyond the reach of all the greatest +intellects in this world to pull him down. Over our whole social +system, complacent Imbecility rules supreme—snuffs out the searching +light of Intelligence with total impunity—and hoots, owl-like, in +answer to every form of protest, See how well we all do in the dark! +One of these days that audacious assertion will be practically +contradicted, and the whole rotten system of modern society will come +down with a crash.” + +“God forbid!” cried Mr. Vanstone, looking about him as if the crash was +coming already. + +“With a crash!” repeated Mr. Clare. “There is my theory, in few words. +Now for the remarkable application of it which this letter suggests. +Here is my lout of a boy—” + +“You don’t mean that Frank has got another chance?” exclaimed Mr. +Vanstone. + +“Here is this perfectly hopeless booby, Frank,” pursued the +philosopher. “He has never done anything in his life to help himself, +and, as a necessary consequence, Society is in a conspiracy to carry +him to the top of the tree. He has hardly had time to throw away that +chance you gave him before this letter comes, and puts the ball at his +foot for the second time. My rich cousin (who is intellectually fit to +be at the tail of the family, and who is, therefore, as a matter of +course, at the head of it) has been good enough to remember my +existence; and has offered his influence to serve my eldest boy. Read +his letter, and then observe the sequence of events. My rich cousin is +a booby who thrives on landed property; he has done something for +another booby who thrives on Politics, who knows a third booby who +thrives on Commerce, who can do something for a fourth booby, thriving +at present on nothing, whose name is Frank. So the mill goes. So the +cream of all human rewards is sipped in endless succession by the +Fools. I shall pack Frank off to-morrow. In course of time he’ll come +back again on our hands, like a bad shilling; more chances will fall in +his way, as a necessary consequence of his meritorious imbecility. +Years will go on—I may not live to see it, no more may you—it doesn’t +matter; Frank’s future is equally certain either way—put him into the +army, the Church, politics, what you please, and let him drift: he’ll +end in being a general, a bishop, or a minister of State, by dint of +the great modern qualification of doing nothing whatever to deserve his +place.” With this summary of his son’s worldly prospects, Mr. Clare +tossed the letter contemptuously across the table and poured himself +out another cup of tea. + +Mr. Vanstone read the letter with eager interest and pleasure. It was +written in a tone of somewhat elaborate cordiality; but the practical +advantages which it placed at Frank’s disposal were beyond all doubt. +The writer had the means of using a friend’s interest—interest of no +ordinary kind—with a great Mercantile Firm in the City; and he had at +once exerted this influence in favor of Mr. Clare’s eldest boy. Frank +would be received in the office on a very different footing from the +footing of an ordinary clerk; he would be “pushed on” at every +available opportunity; and the first “good thing” the House had to +offer, either at home or abroad, would be placed at his disposal. If he +possessed fair abilities and showed common diligence in exercising +them, his fortune was made; and the sooner he was sent to London to +begin the better for his own interests it would be. + +“Wonderful news!” cried Mr. Vanstone, returning the letter. “I’m +delighted—I must go back and tell them at home. This is fifty times the +chance that mine was. What the deuce do you mean by abusing Society? +Society has behaved uncommonly well, in my opinion. Where’s Frank?” + +“Lurking,” said Mr. Clare. “It is one of the intolerable peculiarities +of louts that they always lurk. I haven’t seen _my_ lout this morning. +It you meet with him anywhere, give him a kick, and say I want him.” + +Mr. Clare’s opinion of his son’s habits might have been expressed more +politely as to form; but, as to substance, it happened, on that +particular morning, to be perfectly correct. After leaving Magdalen, +Frank had waited in the shrubbery, at a safe distance, on the chance +that she might detach herself from her sister’s company, and join him +again. Mr. Vanstone’s appearance immediately on Norah’s departure, +instead of encouraging him to show himself, had determined him on +returning to the cottage. He walked back discontentedly; and so fell +into his father’s clutches, totally unprepared for the pending +announcement, in that formidable quarter, of his departure for London. + +In the meantime, Mr. Vanstone had communicated his news—in the first +place, to Magdalen, and afterward, on getting back to the house, to his +wife and Miss Garth. He was too unobservant a man to notice that +Magdalen looked unaccountably startled, and Miss Garth unaccountably +relieved, by his announcement of Frank’s good fortune. He talked on +about it, quite unsuspiciously, until the luncheon-bell rang—and then, +for the first time, he noticed Norah’s absence. She sent a message +downstairs, after they had assembled at the table, to say that a +headache was keeping her in her own room. When Miss Garth went up +shortly afterward to communicate the news about Frank, Norah appeared, +strangely enough, to feel very little relieved by hearing it. Mr. +Francis Clare had gone away on a former occasion (she remarked), and +had come back. He might come back again, and sooner than they any of +them thought for. She said no more on the subject than this: she made +no reference to what had taken place in the shrubbery. Her +unconquerable reserve seemed to have strengthened its hold on her since +the outburst of the morning. She met Magdalen, later in the day, as if +nothing had happened: no formal reconciliation took place between them. +It was one of Norah’s peculiarities to shrink from all reconciliations +that were openly ratified, and to take her shy refuge in +reconciliations that were silently implied. Magdalen saw plainly, in +her look and manner, that she had made her first and last protest. +Whether the motive was pride, or sullenness, or distrust of herself, or +despair of doing good, the result was not to be mistaken—Norah had +resolved on remaining passive for the future. + +Later in the afternoon, Mr. Vanstone suggested a drive to his eldest +daughter, as the best remedy for her headache. She readily consented to +accompany her father; who thereupon proposed, as usual, that Magdalen +should join them. Magdalen was nowhere to be found. For the second time +that day she had wandered into the grounds by herself. On this +occasion, Miss Garth—who, after adopting Norah’s opinions, had passed +from the one extreme of over-looking Frank altogether, to the other +extreme of believing him capable of planning an elopement at five +minutes’ notice—volunteered to set forth immediately, and do her best +to find the missing young lady. After a prolonged absence, she returned +unsuccessful—with the strongest persuasion in her own mind that +Magdalen and Frank had secretly met one another somewhere, but without +having discovered the smallest fragment of evidence to confirm her +suspicions. By this time the carriage was at the door, and Mr. Vanstone +was unwilling to wait any longer. He and Norah drove away together; and +Mrs. Vanstone and Miss Garth sat at home over their work. + +In half an hour more, Magdalen composedly walked into the room. She was +pale and depressed. She received Miss Garth’s remonstrances with a +weary inattention; explained carelessly that she had been wandering in +the wood; took up some books, and put them down again; sighed +impatiently, and went away upstairs to her own room. + +“I think Magdalen is feeling the reaction, after yesterday,” said Mrs. +Vanstone, quietly. “It is just as we thought. Now the theatrical +amusements are all over, she is fretting for more.” + +Here was an opportunity of letting in the light of truth on Mrs. +Vanstone’s mind, which was too favorable to be missed. Miss Garth +questioned her conscience, saw her chance, and took it on the spot. + +“You forget,” she rejoined, “that a certain neighbor of ours is going +away to-morrow. Shall I tell you the truth? Magdalen is fretting over +the departure of Francis Clare.” + +Mrs. Vanstone looked up from her work with a gentle, smiling surprise. + +“Surely not?” she said. “It is natural enough that Frank should be +attracted by Magdalen; but I can’t think that Magdalen returns the +feeling. Frank is so very unlike her; so quiet and undemonstrative; so +dull and helpless, poor fellow, in some things. He is handsome, I know, +but he is so singularly unlike Magdalen, that I can’t think it +possible—I can’t indeed.” + +“My dear good lady!” cried Miss Garth, in great amazement; “do you +really suppose that people fall in love with each other on account of +similarities in their characters? In the vast majority of cases, they +do just the reverse. Men marry the very last women, and women the very +last men, whom their friends would think it possible they could care +about. Is there any phrase that is oftener on all our lips than ‘What +can have made Mr. So-and-So marry that woman?’—or ‘How could Mrs. +So-and-So throw herself away on that man?’ Has all your experience of +the world never yet shown you that girls take perverse fancies for men +who are totally unworthy of them?” + +“Very true,” said Mrs. Vanstone, composedly. “I forgot that. Still it +seems unaccountable, doesn’t it?” + +“Unaccountable, because it happens every day!” retorted Miss Garth, +good-humoredly. “I know a great many excellent people who reason +against plain experience in the same way—who read the newspapers in the +morning, and deny in the evening that there is any romance for writers +or painters to work upon in modern life. Seriously, Mrs. Vanstone, you +may take my word for it—thanks to those wretched theatricals, Magdalen +is going the way with Frank that a great many young ladies have gone +before her. He is quite unworthy of her; he is, in almost every +respect, her exact opposite—and, without knowing it herself, she has +fallen in love with him on that very account. She is resolute and +impetuous, clever and domineering; she is not one of those model women +who want a man to look up to, and to protect them—her beau-ideal +(though she may not think it herself) is a man she can henpeck. Well! +one comfort is, there are far better men, even of that sort, to be had +than Frank. It’s a mercy he is going away, before we have more trouble +with them, and before any serious mischief is done.” + +“Poor Frank!” said Mrs. Vanstone, smiling compassionately. “We have +known him since he was in jackets, and Magdalen in short frocks. Don’t +let us give him up yet. He may do better this second time.” + +Miss Garth looked up in astonishment. + +“And suppose he does better?” she asked. “What then?” + +Mrs. Vanstone cut off a loose thread in her work, and laughed outright. + +“My good friend,” she said, “there is an old farmyard proverb which +warns us not to count our chickens before they are hatched. Let us wait +a little before we count ours.” + +It was not easy to silence Miss Garth, when she was speaking under the +influence of a strong conviction; but this reply closed her lips. She +resumed her work, and looked, and thought, unutterable things. + +Mrs. Vanstone’s behavior was certainly remarkable under the +circumstances. Here, on one side, was a girl—with great personal +attractions, with rare pecuniary prospects, with a social position +which might have justified the best gentleman in the neighborhood in +making her an offer of marriage—perversely casting herself away on a +penniless idle young fellow, who had failed at his first start in life, +and who even if he succeeded in his second attempt, must be for years +to come in no position to marry a young lady of fortune on equal terms. +And there, on the other side, was that girl’s mother, by no means +dismayed at the prospect of a connection which was, to say the least of +it, far from desirable; by no means certain, judging her by her own +words and looks, that a marriage between Mr. Vanstone’s daughter and +Mr. Clare’s son might not prove to be as satisfactory a result of the +intimacy between the two young people as the parents on both sides +could possibly wish for! It was perplexing in the extreme. It was +almost as unintelligible as that past mystery—that forgotten mystery +now—of the journey to London. + +In the evening, Frank made his appearance, and announced that his +father had mercilessly sentenced him to leave Combe-Raven by the +parliamentary train the next morning. He mentioned this circumstance +with an air of sentimental resignation; and listened to Mr. Vanstone’s +boisterous rejoicings over his new prospects with a mild and mute +surprise. His gentle melancholy of look and manner greatly assisted his +personal advantages. In his own effeminate way he was more handsome +than ever that evening. His soft brown eyes wandered about the room +with a melting tenderness; his hair was beautifully brushed; his +delicate hands hung over the arms of his chair with a languid grace. He +looked like a convalescent Apollo. Never, on any previous occasion, had +he practiced more successfully the social art which he habitually +cultivated—the art of casting himself on society in the character of a +well-bred Incubus, and conferring an obligation on his fellow-creatures +by allowing them to sit under him. It was undeniably a dull evening. +All the talking fell to the share of Mr. Vanstone and Miss Garth. Mrs. +Vanstone was habitually silent; Norah kept herself obstinately in the +background; Magdalen was quiet and undemonstrative beyond all former +precedent. From first to last, she kept rigidly on her guard. The few +meaning looks that she cast on Frank flashed at him like lightning, and +were gone before any one else could see them. Even when she brought him +his tea; and when, in doing so, her self-control gave way under the +temptation which no woman can resist—the temptation of touching the man +she loves—even then, she held the saucer so dexterously that it +screened her hand. Frank’s self-possession was far less steadily +disciplined: it only lasted as long as he remained passive. When he +rose to go; when he felt the warm, clinging pressure of Magdalen’s +fingers round his hand, and the lock of her hair which she slipped into +it at the same moment, he became awkward and confused. He might have +betrayed Magdalen and betrayed himself, but for Mr. Vanstone, who +innocently covered his retreat by following him out, and patting him on +the shoulder all the way. “God bless you, Frank!” cried the friendly +voice that never had a harsh note in it for anybody. “Your fortune’s +waiting for you. Go in, my boy—go in and win.” + +“Yes,” said Frank. “Thank you. It will be rather difficult to go in and +win, at first. Of course, as you have always told me, a man’s business +is to conquer his difficulties, and not to talk about them. At the same +time, I wish I didn’t feel quite so loose as I do in my figures. It’s +discouraging to feel loose in one’s figures.—Oh, yes; I’ll write and +tell you how I get on. I’m very much obliged by your kindness, and very +sorry I couldn’t succeed with the engineering. I think I should have +liked engineering better than trade. It can’t be helped now, can it? +Thank you, again. Good-by.” + +So he drifted away into the misty commercial future—as aimless, as +helpless, as gentleman-like as ever. + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +Three months passed. During that time Frank remained in London; +pursuing his new duties, and writing occasionally to report himself to +Mr. Vanstone, as he had promised. + +His letters were not enthusiastic on the subject of mercantile +occupations. He described himself as being still painfully loose in his +figures. He was also more firmly persuaded than ever—now when it was +unfortunately too late—that he preferred engineering to trade. In spite +of this conviction; in spite of headaches caused by sitting on a high +stool and stooping over ledgers in unwholesome air; in spite of want of +society, and hasty breakfasts, and bad dinners at chop-houses, his +attendance at the office was regular, and his diligence at the desk +unremitting. The head of the department in which he was working might +be referred to if any corroboration of this statement was desired. Such +was the general tenor of the letters; and Frank’s correspondent and +Frank’s father differed over them as widely as usual. Mr. Vanstone +accepted them as proofs of the steady development of industrious +principles in the writer. Mr. Clare took his own characteristically +opposite view. “These London men,” said the philosopher, “are not to be +trifled with by louts. They have got Frank by the scruff of the neck—he +can’t wriggle himself free—and he makes a merit of yielding to sheer +necessity.” + +The three months’ interval of Frank’s probation in London passed less +cheerfully than usual in the household at Combe-Raven. + +As the summer came nearer and nearer, Mrs. Vanstone’s spirits, in spite +of her resolute efforts to control them, became more and more +depressed. + +“I do my best,” she said to Miss Garth; “I set an example of +cheerfulness to my husband and my children—but I dread July.” Norah’s +secret misgivings on her sister’s account rendered her more than +usually serious and uncommunicative, as the year advanced. Even Mr. +Vanstone, when July drew nearer, lost something of his elasticity of +spirit. He kept up appearances in his wife’s presence—but on all other +occasions there was now a perceptible shade of sadness in his look and +manner. Magdalen was so changed since Frank’s departure that she helped +the general depression, instead of relieving it. All her movements had +grown languid; all her usual occupations were pursued with the same +weary indifference; she spent hours alone in her own room; she lost her +interest in being brightly and prettily dressed; her eyes were heavy, +her nerves were irritable, her complexion was altered visibly for the +worse—in one word, she had become an oppression and a weariness to +herself and to all about her. Stoutly as Miss Garth contended with +these growing domestic difficulties, her own spirits suffered in the +effort. Her memory reverted, oftener and oftener, to the March morning +when the master and mistress of the house had departed for London, and +then the first serious change, for many a year past, had stolen over +the family atmosphere. When was that atmosphere to be clear again? When +were the clouds of change to pass off before the returning sunshine of +past and happier times? + +The spring and the early summer wore away. The dreaded month of July +came, with its airless nights, its cloudless mornings, and its sultry +days. + +On the fifteenth of the month, an event happened which took every one +but Norah by surprise. For the second time, without the slightest +apparent reason—for the second time, without a word of warning +beforehand—Frank suddenly re-appeared at his father’s cottage. + +Mr. Clare’s lips opened to hail his son’s return, in the old character +of the “bad shilling”; and closed again without uttering a word. There +was a portentous composure in Frank’s manner which showed that he had +other news to communicate than the news of his dismissal. He answered +his father’s sardonic look of inquiry by at once explaining that a very +important proposal for his future benefit had been made to him, that +morning, at the office. His first idea had been to communicate the +details in writing; but the partners had, on reflection, thought that +the necessary decision might be more readily obtained by a personal +interview with his father and his friends. He had laid aside the pen +accordingly, and had resigned himself to the railway on the spot. + +After this preliminary statement, Frank proceeded to describe the +proposal which his employers had addressed to him, with every external +appearance of viewing it in the light of an intolerable hardship. + +The great firm in the City had obviously made a discovery in relation +to their clerk, exactly similar to the discovery which had formerly +forced itself on the engineer in relation to his pupil. The young man, +as they politely phrased it, stood in need of some special stimulant to +stir him up. His employers (acting under a sense of their obligation to +the gentleman by whom Frank had been recommended) had considered the +question carefully, and had decided that the one promising use to which +they could put Mr. Francis Clare was to send him forthwith into another +quarter of the globe. + +As a consequence of this decision, it was now, therefore, proposed that +he should enter the house of their correspondents in China; that he +should remain there, familiarizing himself thoroughly on the spot with +the tea trade and the silk trade for five years; and that he should +return, at the expiration of this period, to the central establishment +in London. If he made a fair use of his opportunities in China, he +would come back, while still a young man, fit for a position of trust +and emolument, and justified in looking forward, at no distant date, to +a time when the House would assist him to start in business for +himself. Such were the new prospects which—to adopt Mr. Clare’s +theory—now forced themselves on the ever-reluctant, ever-helpless and +ever-ungrateful Frank. There was no time to be lost. The final answer +was to be at the office on “Monday, the twentieth”: the correspondents +in China were to be written to by the mail on that day; and Frank was +to follow the letter by the next opportunity, or to resign his chance +in favor of some more enterprising young man. + +Mr. Clare’s reception of this extraordinary news was startling in the +extreme. The glorious prospect of his son’s banishment to China +appeared to turn his brain. The firm pedestal of his philosophy sank +under him; the prejudices of society recovered their hold on his mind. +He seized Frank by the arm, and actually accompanied him to +Combe-Raven, in the amazing character of visitor to the house! + +“Here I am with my lout,” said Mr. Clare, before a word could be +uttered by the astonished family. “Hear his story, all of you. It has +reconciled me, for the first time in my life, to the anomaly of his +existence.” Frank ruefully narrated the Chinese proposal for the second +time, and attempted to attach to it his own supplementary statement of +objections and difficulties. His father stopped him at the first word, +pointed peremptorily southeastward (from Somersetshire to China); and +said, without an instant’s hesitation: “Go!” Mr. Vanstone, basking in +golden visions of his young friend’s future, echoed that monosyllabic +decision with all his heart. Mrs. Vanstone, Miss Garth, even Norah +herself, spoke to the same purpose. Frank was petrified by an absolute +unanimity of opinion which he had not anticipated; and Magdalen was +caught, for once in her life, at the end of all her resources. + +So far as practical results were concerned, the sitting of the family +council began and ended with the general opinion that Frank must go. +Mr. Vanstone’s faculties were so bewildered by the son’s sudden +arrival, the father’s unexpected visit, and the news they both brought +with them, that he petitioned for an adjournment before the necessary +arrangements connected with his young friend’s departure were +considered in detail. “Suppose we all sleep upon it?” he said. +“Tomorrow our heads will feel a little steadier; and to-morrow will be +time enough to decide all uncertainties.” This suggestion was readily +adopted; and all further proceedings stood adjourned until the next +day. + +That next day was destined to decide more uncertainties than Mr. +Vanstone dreamed of. + +Early in the morning, after making tea by herself as usual, Miss Garth +took her parasol and strolled into the garden. She had slept ill; and +ten minutes in the open air before the family assembled at breakfast +might help to compensate her, as she thought, for the loss of her +night’s rest. + +She wandered to the outermost boundary of the flower-garden, and then +returned by another path, which led back, past the side of an +ornamental summer-house commanding a view over the fields from a corner +of the lawn. A slight noise—like, and yet not like, the chirruping of a +bird—caught her ear as she approached the summer-house. She stepped +round to the entrance; looked in; and discovered Magdalen and Frank +seated close together. To Miss Garth’s horror, Magdalen’s arm was +unmistakably round Frank’s neck; and, worse still, the position of her +face, at the moment of discovery, showed beyond all doubt that she had +just been offering to the victim of Chinese commerce the first and +foremost of all the consolations which a woman can bestow on a man. In +plainer words, she had just given Frank a kiss. + +In the presence of such an emergency as now confronted her, Miss Garth +felt instinctively that all ordinary phrases of reproof would be +phrases thrown away. + +“I presume,” she remarked, addressing Magdalen with the merciless +self-possession of a middle-aged lady, unprovided for the occasion with +any kissing remembrances of her own—“I presume (whatever excuses your +effrontery may suggest) you will not deny that my duty compels me to +mention what I have just seen to your father?” + +“I will save you the trouble,” replied Magdalen, composedly. “I will +mention it to him myself.” + +With those words, she looked round at Frank, standing trebly helpless +in a corner of the summer-house. “You shall hear what happens,” she +said, with her bright smile. “And so shall you,” she added for Miss +Garth’s especial benefit, as she sauntered past the governess on her +way back to the breakfast-table. The eyes of Miss Garth followed her +indignantly; and Frank slipped out on his side at that favorable +opportunity. + +Under these circumstances, there was but one course that any +respectable woman could take—she could only shudder. Miss Garth +registered her protest in that form, and returned to the house. + +When breakfast was over, and when Mr. Vanstone’s hand descended to his +pocket in search of his cigar-case, Magdalen rose; looked significantly +at Miss Garth; and followed her father into the hall. + +“Papa,” she said, “I want to speak to you this morning—in private.” + +“Ay! ay!” returned Mr. Vanstone. “What about, my dear!” + +“About—” Magdalen hesitated, searching for a satisfactory form of +expression, and found it. “About business, papa,” she said. + +Mr. Vanstone took his garden hat from the hall table—opened his eyes in +mute perplexity—attempted to associate in his mind the two +extravagantly dissimilar ideas of Magdalen and “business”—failed—and +led the way resignedly into the garden. + +His daughter took his arm, and walked with him to a shady seat at a +convenient distance from the house. She dusted the seat with her smart +silk apron before her father occupied it. Mr. Vanstone was not +accustomed to such an extraordinary act of attention as this. He sat +down, looking more puzzled than ever. Magdalen immediately placed +herself on his knee, and rested her head comfortably on his shoulder. + +“Am I heavy, papa?” she asked. + +“Yes, my dear, you are,” said Mr. Vanstone—“but not too heavy for _me_. +Stop on your perch, if you like it. Well? And what may this business +happen to be?” + +“It begins with a question.” + +“Ah, indeed? That doesn’t surprise me. Business with your sex, my dear, +always begins with questions. Go on.” + +“Papa! do you ever intend allowing me to be married?” + +Mr. Vanstone’s eyes opened wider and wider. The question, to use his +own phrase, completely staggered him. + +“This is business with a vengeance!” he said. “Why, Magdalen! what have +you got in that harum-scarum head of yours now?” + +“I don’t exactly know, papa. Will you answer my question?” + +“I will if I can, my dear; you rather stagger me. Well, I don’t know. +Yes; I suppose I must let you be married one of these days—if we can +find a good husband for you. How hot your face is! Lift it up, and let +the air blow over it. You won’t? Well—have your own way. If talking of +business means tickling your cheek against my whisker I’ve nothing to +say against it. Go on, my dear. What’s the next question? Come to the +point.” + +She was far too genuine a woman to do anything of the sort. She skirted +round the point and calculated her distance to the nicety of a +hair-breadth. + +“We were all very much surprised yesterday—were we not, papa? Frank is +wonderfully lucky, isn’t he?” + +“He’s the luckiest dog I ever came across,” said Mr. Vanstone “But what +has that got to do with this business of yours? I dare say you see your +way, Magdalen. Hang me if I can see mine!” + +She skirted a little nearer. + +“I suppose he will make his fortune in China?” she said. “It’s a long +way off, isn’t it? Did you observe, papa, that Frank looked sadly out +of spirits yesterday?” + +“I was so surprised by the news,” said Mr. Vanstone, “and so staggered +by the sight of old Clare’s sharp nose in my house, that I didn’t much +notice. Now you remind me of it—yes. I don’t think Frank took kindly to +his own good luck; not kindly at all.” + +“Do you wonder at that, papa?” + +“Yes, my dear; I do, rather.” + +“Don’t you think it’s hard to be sent away for five years, to make your +fortune among hateful savages, and lose sight of your friends at home +for all that long time? Don’t you think Frank will miss _us_ sadly? +Don’t you, papa?—don’t you?” + +“Gently, Magdalen! I’m a little too old for those long arms of yours to +throttle me in fun.—You’re right, my love. Nothing in this world +without a drawback. Frank _will_ miss his friends in England: there’s +no denying that.” + +“You always liked Frank. And Frank always liked you.” + +“Yes, yes—a good fellow; a quiet, good fellow. Frank and I have always +got on smoothly together.” + +“You have got on like father and son, haven’t you?” + +“Certainly, my dear.” + +“Perhaps you will think it harder on him when he has gone than you +think it now?” + +“Likely enough, Magdalen; I don’t say no.” + +“Perhaps you will wish he had stopped in England? Why shouldn’t he stop +in England, and do as well as if he went to China?” + +“My dear! he has no prospects in England. I wish he had, for his own +sake. I wish the lad well, with all my heart.” + +“May I wish him well too, papa—with all _my_ heart?” + +“Certainly, my love—your old playfellow—why not? What’s the matter? God +bless my soul, what is the girl crying about? One would think Frank was +transported for life. You goose! You know, as well as I do, he is going +to China to make his fortune.” + +“He doesn’t want to make his fortune—he might do much better.” + +“The deuce he might! How, I should like to know?” + +“I’m afraid to tell you. I’m afraid you’ll laugh at me. Will you +promise not to laugh at me?” + +“Anything to please you, my dear. Yes: I promise. Now, then, out with +it! How might Frank do better?” + +“He might marry Me.” + +If the summer scene which then spread before Mr. Vanstone’s eyes had +suddenly changed to a dreary winter view—if the trees had lost all +their leaves, and the green fields had turned white with snow in an +instant—his face could hardly have expressed greater amazement than it +displayed when his daughter’s faltering voice spoke those four last +words. He tried to look at her—but she steadily refused him the +opportunity: she kept her face hidden over his shoulder. Was she in +earnest? His cheek, still wet with her tears, answered for her. There +was a long pause of silence; she waited—with unaccustomed patience, she +waited for him to speak. He roused himself, and spoke these words only: +“You surprise me, Magdalen; you surprise me more than I can say.” + +At the altered tone of his voice—altered to a quiet, fatherly +seriousness—Magdalen’s arms clung round him closer than before. + +“Have I disappointed you, papa?” she asked, faintly. “Don’t say I have +disappointed you! Who am I to tell my secret to, if not to you? Don’t +let him go—don’t! don’t! You will break his heart. He is afraid to tell +his father; he is even afraid _you_ might be angry with him. There is +nobody to speak for us, except—except me. Oh, don’t let him go! Don’t +for his sake—” she whispered the next words in a kiss—“Don’t for Mine!” + +Her father’s kind face saddened; he sighed, and patted her fair head +tenderly. “Hush, my love,” he said, almost in a whisper; “hush!” She +little knew what a revelation every word, every action that escaped +her, now opened before him. She had made him her grown-up playfellow, +from her childhood to that day. She had romped with him in her frocks, +she had gone on romping with him in her gowns. He had never been long +enough separated from her to have the external changes in his daughter +forced on his attention. His artless, fatherly experience of her had +taught him that she was a taller child in later years—and had taught +him little more. And now, in one breathless instant, the conviction +that she was a woman rushed over his mind. He felt it in the trouble of +her bosom pressed against his; in the nervous thrill of her arms +clasped around his neck. The Magdalen of his innocent experience, a +woman—with the master-passion of her sex in possession of her heart +already! + +“Have you thought long of this, my dear?” he asked, as soon as he could +speak composedly. “Are you sure—?” + +She answered the question before he could finish it. + +“Sure I love him?” she said. “Oh, what words can say Yes for me, as I +want to say it? I love him—!” Her voice faltered softly; and her answer +ended in a sigh. + +“You are very young. You and Frank, my love, are both very young.” + +She raised her head from his shoulder for the first time. The thought +and its expression flashed from her at the same moment. + +“Are we much younger than you and mamma were?” she asked, smiling +through her tears. + +She tried to lay her head back in its old position; but as she spoke +those words, her father caught her round the waist, forced her, before +she was aware of it, to look him in the face—and kissed her, with a +sudden outburst of tenderness which brought the tears thronging back +thickly into her eyes. “Not much younger, my child,” he said, in low, +broken tones—“not much younger than your mother and I were.” He put her +away from him, and rose from the seat, and turned his head aside +quickly. “Wait here, and compose yourself; I will go indoors and speak +to your mother.” His voice trembled over those parting words; and he +left her without once looking round again. + +She waited—waited a weary time; and he never came back. At last her +growing anxiety urged her to follow him into the house. A new timidity +throbbed in her heart as she doubtingly approached the door. Never had +she seen the depths of her father’s simple nature stirred as they had +been stirred by her confession. She almost dreaded her next meeting +with him. She wandered softly to and fro in the hall, with a shyness +unaccountable to herself; with a terror of being discovered and spoken +to by her sister or Miss Garth, which made her nervously susceptible to +the slightest noises in the house. The door of the morning-room opened +while her back was turned toward it. She started violently, as she +looked round and saw her father in the hall: her heart beat faster and +faster, and she felt herself turning pale. A second look at him, as he +came nearer, re-assured her. He was composed again, though not so +cheerful as usual. She noticed that he advanced and spoke to her with a +forbearing gentleness, which was more like his manner to her mother +than his ordinary manner to herself. + +“Go in, my love,” he said, opening the door for her which he had just +closed. “Tell your mother all you have told me—and more, if you have +more to say. She is better prepared for you than I was. We will take +to-day to think of it, Magdalen; and to-morrow you shall know, and +Frank shall know, what we decide.” + +Her eyes brightened, as they looked into his face and saw the decision +there already, with the double penetration of her womanhood and her +love. Happy, and beautiful in her happiness, she put his hand to her +lips, and went, without hesitation, into the morning-room. There, her +father’s words had smoothed the way for her; there, the first shock of +the surprise was past and over, and only the pleasure of it remained. +Her mother had been her age once; her mother would know how fond she +was of Frank. So the coming interview was anticipated in her thoughts; +and—except that there was an unaccountable appearance of restraint in +Mrs. Vanstone’s first reception of her—was anticipated aright. After a +little, the mother’s questions came more and more unreservedly from the +sweet, unforgotten experience of the mother’s heart. She lived again +through her own young days of hope and love in Magdalen’s replies. + +The next morning the all-important decision was announced in words. Mr. +Vanstone took his daughter upstairs into her mother’s room, and there +placed before her the result of the yesterday’s consultation, and of +the night’s reflection which had followed it. He spoke with perfect +kindness and self-possession of manner—but in fewer and more serious +words than usual; and he held his wife’s hand tenderly in his own all +through the interview. + +He informed Magdalen that neither he nor her mother felt themselves +justified in blaming her attachment to Frank. It had been in part, +perhaps, the natural consequence of her childish familiarity with him; +in part, also, the result of the closer intimacy between them which the +theatrical entertainment had necessarily produced. At the same time, it +was now the duty of her parents to put that attachment, on both sides, +to a proper test—for her sake, because her happy future was their +dearest care; for Frank’s sake, because they were bound to give him the +opportunity of showing himself worthy of the trust confided in him. +They were both conscious of being strongly prejudiced in Frank’s favor. +His father’s eccentric conduct had made the lad the object of their +compassion and their care from his earliest years. He (and his younger +brothers) had almost filled the places to them of those other children +of their own whom they had lost. Although they firmly believed their +good opinion of Frank to be well founded—still, in the interest of +their daughter’s happiness, it was necessary to put that opinion firmly +to the proof, by fixing certain conditions, and by interposing a year +of delay between the contemplated marriage and the present time. + +During that year, Frank was to remain at the office in London; his +employers being informed beforehand that family circumstances prevented +his accepting their offer of employment in China. He was to consider +this concession as a recognition of the attachment between Magdalen and +himself, on certain terms only. If, during the year of probation, he +failed to justify the confidence placed in him—a confidence which had +led Mr. Vanstone to take unreservedly upon himself the whole +responsibility of Frank’s future prospects—the marriage scheme was to +be considered, from that moment, as at an end. If, on the other hand, +the result to which Mr. Vanstone confidently looked forward really +occurred—if Frank’s probationary year proved his claim to the most +precious trust that could be placed in his hands—then Magdalen herself +should reward him with all that a woman can bestow; and the future, +which his present employers had placed before him as the result of a +five years’ residence in China, should be realized in one year’s time, +by the dowry of his young wife. + +As her father drew that picture of the future, the outburst of +Magdalen’s gratitude could no longer be restrained. She was deeply +touched—she spoke from her inmost heart. Mr. Vanstone waited until his +daughter and his wife were composed again; and then added the last +words of explanation which were now left for him to speak. + +“You understand, my love,” he said, “that I am not anticipating Frank’s +living in idleness on his wife’s means? My plan for him is that he +should still profit by the interest which his present employers take in +him. Their knowledge of affairs in the City will soon place a good +partnership at his disposal, and you will give him the money to buy it +out of hand. I shall limit the sum, my dear, to half your fortune; and +the other half I shall have settled upon yourself. We shall all be +alive and hearty, I hope”—he looked tenderly at his wife as he said +those words—“all alive and hearty at the year’s end. But if I am gone, +Magdalen, it will make no difference. My will—made long before I ever +thought of having a son-in-law divides my fortune into two equal parts. +One part goes to your mother; and the other part is fairly divided +between my children. You will have your share on your wedding-day (and +Norah will have hers when she marries) from my own hand, if I live; and +under my will if I die. There! there! no gloomy faces,” he said, with a +momentary return of his every-day good spirits. “Your mother and I mean +to live and see Frank a great merchant. I shall leave you, my dear, to +enlighten the son on our new projects, while I walk over to the +cottage—” + +He stopped; his eyebrows contracted a little; and he looked aside +hesitatingly at Mrs. Vanstone. + +“What must you do at the cottage, papa?” asked Magdalen, after having +vainly waited for him to finish the sentence of his own accord. + +“I must consult Frank’s father,” he replied. “We must not forget that +Mr. Clare’s consent is still wanting to settle this matter. And as time +presses, and we don’t know what difficulties he may not raise, the +sooner I see him the better.” + +He gave that answer in low, altered tones; and rose from his chair in a +half-reluctant, half-resigned manner, which Magdalen observed with +secret alarm. + +She glanced inquiringly at her mother. To all appearance, Mrs. Vanstone +had been alarmed by the change in him also. She looked anxious and +uneasy; she turned her face away on the sofa pillow—turned it suddenly, +as if she was in pain. + +“Are you not well, mamma?” asked Magdalen. + +“Quite well, my love,” said Mrs. Vanstone, shortly and sharply, without +turning round. “Leave me a little—I only want rest.” + +Magdalen went out with her father. + +“Papa!” she whispered anxiously, as they descended the stairs; “you +don’t think Mr. Clare will say No?” + +“I can’t tell beforehand,” answered Mr. Vanstone. “I hope he will say +Yes.” + +“There is no reason why he should say anything else—is there?” + +She put the question faintly, while he was getting his hat and stick; +and he did not appear to hear her. Doubting whether she should repeat +it or not, she accompanied him as far as the garden, on his way to Mr. +Clare’s cottage. He stopped her on the lawn, and sent her back to the +house. + +“You have nothing on your head, my dear,” he said. “If you want to be +in the garden, don’t forget how hot the sun is—don’t come out without +your hat.” + +He walked on toward the cottage. + +She waited a moment, and looked after him. She missed the customary +flourish of his stick; she saw his little Scotch terrier, who had run +out at his heels, barking and capering about him unnoticed. He was out +of spirits: he was strangely out of spirits. What did it mean? + + + +CHAPTER X. + +On returning to the house, Magdalen felt her shoulder suddenly touched +from behind as she crossed the hall. She turned and confronted her +sister. Before she could ask any questions, Norah confusedly addressed +her, in these words: “I beg your pardon; I beg you to forgive me.” + +Magdalen looked at her sister in astonishment. All memory, on her side, +of the sharp words which had passed between them in the shrubbery was +lost in the new interests that now absorbed her; lost as completely as +if the angry interview had never taken place. “Forgive you!” she +repeated, amazedly. “What for?” + +“I have heard of your new prospects,” pursued Norah, speaking with a +mechanical submissiveness of manner which seemed almost ungracious; “I +wished to set things right between us; I wished to say I was sorry for +what happened. Will you forget it? Will you forget and forgive what +happened in the shrubbery?” She tried to proceed; but her inveterate +reserve—or, perhaps, her obstinate reliance on her own +opinions—silenced her at those last words. Her face clouded over on a +sudden. Before her sister could answer her, she turned away abruptly +and ran upstairs. + +The door of the library opened, before Magdalen could follow her; and +Miss Garth advanced to express the sentiments proper to the occasion. + +They were not the mechanically-submissive sentiments which Magdalen had +just heard. Norah had struggled against her rooted distrust of Frank, +in deference to the unanswerable decision of both her parents in his +favor; and had suppressed the open expression of her antipathy, though +the feeling itself remained unconquered. Miss Garth had made no such +concession to the master and mistress of the house. She had hitherto +held the position of a high authority on all domestic questions; and +she flatly declined to get off her pedestal in deference to any change +in the family circumstances, no matter how amazing or how unexpected +that change might be. + +“Pray accept my congratulations,” said Miss Garth, bristling all over +with implied objections to Frank—“my congratulations, _and_ my +apologies. When I caught you kissing Mr. Francis Clare in the +summer-house, I had no idea you were engaged in carrying out the +intentions of your parents. I offer no opinion on the subject. I merely +regret my own accidental appearance in the character of an Obstacle to +the course of true-love—which appears to run smooth in summer-houses, +whatever Shakespeare may say to the contrary. Consider me for the +future, if you please, as an Obstacle removed. May you be happy!” Miss +Garth’s lips closed on that last sentence like a trap, and Miss Garth’s +eyes looked ominously prophetic into the matrimonial future. + +If Magdalen’s anxieties had not been far too serious to allow her the +customary free use of her tongue, she would have been ready on the +instant with an appropriately satirical answer. As it was, Miss Garth +simply irritated her. “Pooh!” she said—and ran upstairs to her sister’s +room. + +She knocked at the door, and there was no answer. She tried the door, +and it resisted her from the inside. The sullen, unmanageable Norah was +locked in. + +Under other circumstances, Magdalen would not have been satisfied with +knocking—she would have called through the door loudly and more loudly, +till the house was disturbed and she had carried her point. But the +doubts and fears of the morning had unnerved her already. She went +downstairs again softly, and took her hat from the stand in the hall. +“He told me to put my hat on,” she said to herself, with a meek filial +docility which was totally out of her character. + +She went into the garden, on the shrubbery side; and waited there to +catch the first sight of her father on his return. Half an hour passed; +forty minutes passed—and then his voice reached her from among the +distant trees. “Come in to heel!” she heard him call out loudly to the +dog. Her face turned pale. “He’s angry with Snap!” she exclaimed to +herself in a whisper. The next minute he appeared in view; walking +rapidly, with his head down and Snap at his heels in disgrace. The +sudden excess of her alarm as she observed those ominous signs of +something wrong rallied her natural energy, and determined her +desperately on knowing the worst. She walked straight forward to meet +her father. + +“Your face tells your news,” she said faintly. “Mr. Clare has been as +heartless as usual—Mr. Clare has said No?” + +Her father turned on her with a sudden severity, so entirely +unparalleled in her experience of him that she started back in +downright terror. + +“Magdalen!” he said; “whenever you speak of my old friend and neighbor +again, bear this in mind: Mr. Clare has just laid me under an +obligation which I shall remember gratefully to the end of my life.” + +He stopped suddenly after saying those remarkable words. Seeing that he +had startled her, his natural kindness prompted him instantly to soften +the reproof, and to end the suspense from which she was plainly +suffering. “Give me a kiss, my love,” he resumed; “and I’ll tell you in +return that Mr. Clare has said—YES.” + +She attempted to thank him; but the sudden luxury of relief was too +much for her. She could only cling round his neck in silence. He felt +her trembling from head to foot, and said a few words to calm her. At +the altered tones of his master’s voice, Snap’s meek tail re-appeared +fiercely from between his legs; and Snap’s lungs modestly tested his +position with a brief, experimental bark. The dog’s quaintly +appropriate assertion of himself on his old footing was the +interruption of all others which was best fitted to restore Magdalen to +herself. She caught the shaggy little terrier up in her arms and kissed +_him_ next. “You darling,” she exclaimed, “you’re almost as glad as I +am!” She turned again to her father, with a look of tender reproach. +“You frightened me, papa,” she said. “You were so unlike yourself.” + +“I shall be right again to-morrow, my dear. I am a little upset +to-day.” + +“Not by me?” + +“No, no.” + +“By something you have heard at Mr. Clare’s?” + +“Yes—nothing you need alarm yourself about; nothing that won’t wear off +by to-morrow. Let me go now, my dear; I have a letter to write; and I +want to speak to your mother.” + +He left her and went on to the house. Magdalen lingered a little on the +lawn, to feel all the happiness of her new sensations—then turned away +toward the shrubbery to enjoy the higher luxury of communicating them. +The dog followed her. She whistled, and clapped her hands. “Find him!” +she said, with beaming eyes. “Find Frank!” Snap scampered into the +shrubbery, with a bloodthirsty snarl at starting. Perhaps he had +mistaken his young mistress and considered himself her emissary in +search of a rat? + +Meanwhile, Mr. Vanstone entered the house. He met his wife slowly +descending the stairs, and advanced to give her his arm. “How has it +ended?” she asked, anxiously, as he led her to the sofa. + +“Happily—as we hoped it would,” answered her husband. “My old friend +has justified my opinion of him.” + +“Thank God!” said Mrs. Vanstone, fervently. “Did you feel it, love?” +she asked, as her husband arranged the sofa pillows—“did you feel it as +painfully as I feared you would?” + +“I had a duty to do, my dear—and I did it.” + +After replying in those terms, he hesitated. Apparently, he had +something more to say—something, perhaps, on the subject of that +passing uneasiness of mind which had been produced by his interview +with Mr. Clare, and which Magdalen’s questions had obliged him to +acknowledge. A look at his wife decided his doubts in the negative. He +only asked if she felt comfortable; and then turned away to leave the +room. + +“Must you go?” she asked. + +“I have a letter to write, my dear.” + +“Anything about Frank?” + +“No: to-morrow will do for that. A letter to Mr. Pendril. I want him +here immediately.” + +“Business, I suppose?” + +“Yes, my dear—business.” + +He went out, and shut himself into the little front room, close to the +hall door, which was called his study. By nature and habit the most +procrastinating of letter-writers, he now inconsistently opened his +desk and took up the pen without a moment’s delay. His letter was long +enough to occupy three pages of note-paper; it was written with a +readiness of expression and a rapidity of hand which seldom +characterized his proceedings when engaged over his ordinary +correspondence. He wrote the address as follows: “Immediate—William +Pendril, Esq., Serle Street, Lincoln’s Inn, London”—then pushed the +letter away from him, and sat at the table, drawing lines on the +blotting-paper with his pen, lost in thought. “No,” he said to himself; +“I can do nothing more till Pendril comes.” He rose; his face +brightened as he put the stamp on the envelope. The writing of the +letter had sensibly relieved him, and his whole bearing showed it as he +left the room. + +On the doorstep he found Norah and Miss Garth, setting forth together +for a walk. + +“Which way are you going?” he asked. “Anywhere near the post-office? I +wish you would post this letter for me, Norah. It is very important—so +important that I hardly like to trust it to Thomas, as usual.” + +Norah at once took charge of the letter. + +“If you look, my dear,” continued her father, “you will see that I am +writing to Mr. Pendril. I expect him here to-morrow afternoon. Will you +give the necessary directions, Miss Garth? Mr. Pendril will sleep here +to-morrow night, and stay over Sunday.—Wait a minute! Today is Friday. +Surely I had an engagement for Saturday afternoon?” He consulted his +pocketbook and read over one of the entries, with a look of annoyance. +“Grailsea Mill, three o’clock, Saturday. Just the time when Pendril +will be here; and I _must_ be at home to see him. How can I manage it? +Monday will be too late for my business at Grailsea. I’ll go to-day, +instead; and take my chance of catching the miller at his dinner-time.” +He looked at his watch. “No time for driving; I must do it by railway. +If I go at once, I shall catch the down train at our station, and get +on to Grailsea. Take care of the letter, Norah. I won’t keep dinner +waiting; if the return train doesn’t suit, I’ll borrow a gig and get +back in that way.” + +As he took up his hat, Magdalen appeared at the door, returning from +her interview with Frank. The hurry of her father’s movements attracted +her attention; and she asked him where he was going. + +“To Grailsea,” replied Mr. Vanstone. “Your business, Miss Magdalen, has +got in the way of mine—and mine must give way to it.” + +He spoke those parting words in his old hearty manner; and left them, +with the old characteristic flourish of his trusty stick. + +“My business!” said Magdalen. “I thought my business was done.” + +Miss Garth pointed significantly to the letter in Norah’s hand. “Your +business, beyond all doubt,” she said. “Mr. Pendril is coming tomorrow; +and Mr. Vanstone seems remarkably anxious about it. Law, and its +attendant troubles already! Governesses who look in at summer-house +doors are not the only obstacles to the course of true-love. Parchment +is sometimes an obstacle. I hope you may find Parchment as pliable as I +am—I wish you well through it. Now, Norah!” + +Miss Garth’s second shaft struck as harmless as the first. Magdalen had +returned to the house, a little vexed; her interview with Frank having +been interrupted by a messenger from Mr. Clare, sent to summon the son +into the father’s presence. Although it had been agreed at the private +interview between Mr. Vanstone and Mr. Clare that the questions +discussed that morning should not be communicated to the children until +the year of probation was at an end—-and although under these +circumstances Mr. Clare had nothing to tell Frank which Magdalen could +not communicate to him much more agreeably—the philosopher was not the +less resolved on personally informing his son of the parental +concession which rescued him from Chinese exile. The result was a +sudden summons to the cottage, which startled Magdalen, but which did +not appear to take Frank by surprise. His filial experience penetrated +the mystery of Mr. Clare’s motives easily enough. “When my father’s in +spirits,” he said, sulkily, “he likes to bully me about my good luck. +This message means that he’s going to bully me now.” + +“Don’t go,” suggested Magdalen. + +“I must,” rejoined Frank. “I shall never hear the last of it if I +don’t. He’s primed and loaded, and he means to go off. He went off, +once, when the engineer took me; he went off, twice, when the office in +the City took me; and he’s going off, thrice, now _you’ve_ taken me. If +it wasn’t for you, I should wish I had never been born. Yes; your +father’s been kind to me, I know—and I should have gone to China, if it +hadn’t been for him. I’m sure I’m very much obliged. Of course, we have +no right to expect anything else—still it’s discouraging to keep us +waiting a year, isn’t it?” + +Magdalen stopped his mouth by a summary process, to which even Frank +submitted gratefully. At the same time, she did not forget to set down +his discontent to the right side. “How fond he is of me!” she thought. +“A year’s waiting is quite a hardship to him.” She returned to the +house, secretly regretting that she had not heard more of Frank’s +complimentary complaints. Miss Garth’s elaborate satire, addressed to +her while she was in this frame of mind, was a purely gratuitous waste +of Miss Garth’s breath. What did Magdalen care for satire? What do +Youth and Love ever care for except themselves? She never even said as +much as “Pooh!” this time. She laid aside her hat in serene silence, +and sauntered languidly into the morning-room to keep her mother +company. She lunched on dire forebodings of a quarrel between Frank and +his father, with accidental interruptions in the shape of cold chicken +and cheese-cakes. She trifled away half an hour at the piano; and +played, in that time, selections from the Songs of Mendelssohn, the +Mazurkas of Chopin, the Operas of Verdi, and the Sonatas of Mozart—all +of whom had combined together on this occasion and produced one +immortal work, entitled “Frank.” She closed the piano and went up to +her room, to dream away the hours luxuriously in visions of her married +future. The green shutters were closed, the easy-chair was pushed in +front of the glass, the maid was summoned as usual; and the comb +assisted the mistress’s reflections, through the medium of the +mistress’s hair, till heat and idleness asserted their narcotic +influences together, and Magdalen fell asleep. + +It was past three o’clock when she woke. On going downstairs again she +found her mother, Norah and Miss Garth all sitting together enjoying +the shade and the coolness under the open portico in front of the +house. + +Norah had the railway time-table in her hand. They had been discussing +the chances of Mr. Vanstone’s catching the return train and getting +back in good time. That topic had led them, next, to his business +errand at Grailsea—an errand of kindness, as usual; undertaken for the +benefit of the miller, who had been his old farm-servant, and who was +now hard pressed by serious pecuniary difficulties. From this they had +glided insensibly into a subject often repeated among them, and never +exhausted by repetition—the praise of Mr. Vanstone himself. Each one of +the three had some experience of her own to relate of his simple, +generous nature. The conversation seemed to be almost painfully +interesting to his wife. She was too near the time of her trial now not +to feel nervously sensitive to the one subject which always held the +foremost place in her heart. Her eyes overflowed as Magdalen joined the +little group under the portico; her frail hand trembled as it signed to +her youngest daughter to take the vacant chair by her side. “We were +talking of your father,” she said, softly. “Oh, my love, if your +married life is only as happy—” Her voice failed her; she put her +handkerchief hurriedly over her face and rested her head on Magdalen’s +shoulder. Norah looked appealingly to Miss Garth, who at once led the +conversation back to the more trivial subject of Mr. Vanstone’s return. +“We have all been wondering,” she said, with a significant look at +Magdalen, “whether your father will leave Grailsea in time to catch the +train—or whether he will miss it and be obliged to drive back. What do +you say?” + +“I say, papa will miss the train,” replied Magdalen, taking Miss +Garth’s hint with her customary quickness. “The last thing he attends +to at Grailsea will be the business that brings him there. Whenever he +has business to do, he always puts it off to the last moment, doesn’t +he, mamma?” + +The question roused her mother exactly as Magdalen had intended it +should. “Not when his errand is an errand of kindness,” said Mrs. +Vanstone. “He has gone to help the miller in a very pressing +difficulty—” + +“And don’t you know what he’ll do?” persisted Magdalen. “He’ll romp +with the miller’s children, and gossip with the mother, and hob-and-nob +with the father. At the last moment when he has got five minutes left +to catch the train, he’ll say: ‘Let’s go into the counting-house and +look at the books.’ He’ll find the books dreadfully complicated; he’ll +suggest sending for an accountant; he’ll settle the business off hand, +by lending the money in the meantime; he’ll jog back comfortably in the +miller’s gig; and he’ll tell us all how pleasant the lanes were in the +cool of the evening.” + +The little character-sketch which these words drew was too faithful a +likeness not to be recognized. Mrs. Vanstone showed her appreciation of +it by a smile. “When your father returns,” she said, “we will put your +account of his proceedings to the test. I think,” she continued, rising +languidly from her chair, “I had better go indoors again now and rest +on the sofa till he comes back.” + +The little group under the portico broke up. Magdalen slipped away into +the garden to hear Frank’s account of the interview with his father. +The other three ladies entered the house together. When Mrs. Vanstone +was comfortably established on the sofa, Norah and Miss Garth left her +to repose, and withdrew to the library to look over the last parcel of +books from London. + +It was a quiet, cloudless summer’s day. The heat was tempered by a +light western breeze; the voices of laborers at work in a field near +reached the house cheerfully; the clock-bell of the village church as +it struck the quarters floated down the wind with a clearer ring, a +louder melody than usual. Sweet odors from field and flower-garden, +stealing in at the open windows, filled the house with their fragrance; +and the birds in Norah’s aviary upstairs sang the song of their +happiness exultingly in the sun. + +As the church clock struck the quarter past four, the morning-room door +opened; and Mrs. Vanstone crossed the hall alone. She had tried vainly +to compose herself. She was too restless to lie still and sleep. For a +moment she directed her steps toward the portico—then turned, and +looked about her, doubtful where to go, or what to do next. While she +was still hesitating, the half-open door of her husband’s study +attracted her attention. The room seemed to be in sad confusion. +Drawers were left open; coats and hats, account-books and papers, pipes +and fishing-rods were all scattered about together. She went in, and +pushed the door to—but so gently that she still left it ajar. “It will +amuse me to put his room to rights,” she thought to herself. “I should +like to do something for him before I am down on my bed, helpless.” She +began to arrange his drawers, and found his banker’s book lying open in +one of them. “My poor dear, how careless he is! The servants might have +seen all his affairs, if I had not happened to have looked in.” She set +the drawers right; and then turned to the multifarious litter on a +side-table. A little old-fashioned music-book appeared among the +scattered papers, with her name written in it, in faded ink. She +blushed like a young girl in the first happiness of the discovery. “How +good he is to me! He remembers my poor old music-book, and keeps it for +my sake.” As she sat down by the table and opened the book, the bygone +time came back to her in all its tenderness. The clock struck the +half-hour, struck the three-quarters—and still she sat there, with the +music-book on her lap, dreaming happily over the old songs; thinking +gratefully of the golden days when his hand had turned the pages for +her, when his voice had whispered the words which no woman’s memory +ever forgets. + +Norah roused herself from the volume she was reading, and glanced at +the clock on the library mantel-piece. + +“If papa comes back by the railway,” she said, “he will be here in ten +minutes.” + +Miss Garth started, and looked up drowsily from the book which was just +dropping out of her hand. + +“I don’t think he will come by train,” she replied. “He will jog +back—as Magdalen flippantly expressed it—in the miller’s gig.” + +As she said the words, there was a knock at the library door. The +footman appeared, and addressed himself to Miss Garth. + +“A person wishes to see you, ma’am.” + +“Who is it?” + +“I don’t know, ma’am. A stranger to me—a respectable-looking man—and he +said he particularly wished to see you.” + +Miss Garth went out into the hall. The footman closed the library door +after her, and withdrew down the kitchen stairs. + +The man stood just inside the door, on the mat. His eyes wandered, his +face was pale—he looked ill; he looked frightened. He trifled nervously +with his cap, and shifted it backward and forward, from one hand to the +other. + +“You wanted to see me?” said Miss Garth. + +“I beg your pardon, ma’am.—You are not Mrs. Vanstone, are you?” + +“Certainly not. I am Miss Garth. Why do you ask the question?” + +“I am employed in the clerk’s office at Grailsea Station—” + +“Yes?” + +“I am sent here—” + +He stopped again. His wandering eyes looked down at the mat, and his +restless hands wrung his cap harder and harder. He moistened his dry +lips, and tried once more. + +“I am sent here on a very serious errand.” + +“Serious to _me_?” + +“Serious to all in this house.” + +Miss Garth took one step nearer to him—took one steady look at his +face. She turned cold in the summer heat. “Stop!” she said, with a +sudden distrust, and glanced aside anxiously at the door of the +morning-room. It was safely closed. “Tell me the worst; and don’t speak +loud. There has been an accident. Where?” + +“On the railway. Close to Grailsea Station.” + +“The up-train to London?” + +“No: the down-train at one-fifty—” + +“God Almighty help us! The train Mr. Vanstone traveled by to Grailsea?” + +“The same. I was sent here by the up-train; the line was just cleared +in time for it. They wouldn’t write—they said I must see ‘Miss Garth,’ +and tell her. There are seven passengers badly hurt; and two—” + +The next word failed on his lips; he raised his hand in the dead +silence. With eyes that opened wide in horror, he raised his hand and +pointed over Miss Garth’s shoulder. + +She turned a little, and looked back. + +Face to face with her, on the threshold of the study door, stood the +mistress of the house. She held her old music-book clutched fast +mechanically in both hands. She stood, the specter of herself. With a +dreadful vacancy in her eyes, with a dreadful stillness in her voice, +she repeated the man’s last words: + +“Seven passengers badly hurt; and two—” + +Her tortured fingers relaxed their hold; the book dropped from them; +she sank forward heavily. Miss Garth caught her before she fell—caught +her, and turned upon the man, with the wife’s swooning body in her +arms, to hear the husband’s fate. + +“The harm is done,” she said; “you may speak out. Is he wounded, or +dead?” + +“Dead.” + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +The sun sank lower; the western breeze floated cool and fresh into the +house. As the evening advanced, the cheerful ring of the village clock +came nearer and nearer. Field and flower-garden felt the influence of +the hour, and shed their sweetest fragrance. The birds in Norah’s +aviary sunned themselves in the evening stillness, and sang their +farewell gratitude to the dying day. + +Staggered in its progress for a time only, the pitiless routine of the +house went horribly on its daily way. The panic-stricken servants took +their blind refuge in the duties proper to the hour. The footman softly +laid the table for dinner. The maid sat waiting in senseless doubt, +with the hot-water jugs for the bedrooms ranged near her in their +customary row. The gardener, who had been ordered to come to his +master, with vouchers for money that he had paid in excess of his +instructions, said his character was dear to him, and left the vouchers +at his appointed time. Custom that never yields, and Death that never +spares, met on the wreck of human happiness—and Death gave way. + +Heavily the thunder-clouds of Affliction had gathered over the +house—heavily, but not at their darkest yet. At five, that evening, the +shock of the calamity had struck its blow. Before another hour had +passed, the disclosure of the husband’s sudden death was followed by +the suspense of the wife’s mortal peril. She lay helpless on her +widowed bed; her own life, and the life of her unborn child, trembling +in the balance. + +But one mind still held possession of its resources—but one guiding +spirit now moved helpfully in the house of mourning. + +If Miss Garth’s early days had been passed as calmly and as happily as +her later life at Combe-Raven, she might have sunk under the cruel +necessities of the time. But the governess’s youth had been tried in +the ordeal of family affliction; and she met her terrible duties with +the steady courage of a woman who had learned to suffer. Alone, she had +faced the trial of telling the daughters that they were fatherless. +Alone, she now struggled to sustain them, when the dreadful certainty +of their bereavement was at last impressed on their minds. + +Her least anxiety was for the elder sister. The agony of Norah’s grief +had forced its way outward to the natural relief of tears. It was not +so with Magdalen. Tearless and speechless, she sat in the room where +the revelation of her father’s death had first reached her; her face, +unnaturally petrified by the sterile sorrow of old age—a white, +changeless blank, fearful to look at. Nothing roused, nothing melted +her. She only said, “Don’t speak to me; don’t touch me. Let me bear it +by myself”—and fell silent again. The first great grief which had +darkened the sisters’ lives had, as it seemed, changed their everyday +characters already. + +The twilight fell, and faded; and the summer night came brightly. As +the first carefully shaded light was kindled in the sick-room, the +physician, who had been summoned from Bristol, arrived to consult with +the medical attendant of the family. He could give no comfort: he could +only say, “We must try, and hope. The shock which struck her, when she +overheard the news of her husband’s death, has prostrated her strength +at the time when she needed it most. No effort to preserve her shall be +neglected. I will stay here for the night.” + +He opened one of the windows to admit more air as he spoke. The view +overlooked the drive in front of the house and the road outside. Little +groups of people were standing before the lodge-gates, looking in. “If +those persons make any noise,” said the doctor, “they must be warned +away.” There was no need to warn them: they were only the laborers who +had worked on the dead man’s property, and here and there some women +and children from the village. They were all thinking of him—some +talking of him—and it quickened their sluggish minds to look at his +house. The gentlefolks thereabouts were mostly kind to them (the men +said), but none like _him_. The women whispered to each other of his +comforting ways when he came into their cottages. “He was a cheerful +man, poor soul; and thoughtful of us, too: he never came in and stared +at meal-times; the rest of ’em help us, and scold us—all _he_ ever said +was, better luck next time.” So they stood and talked of him, and +looked at his house and grounds and moved off clumsily by twos and +threes, with the dim sense that the sight of his pleasant face would +never comfort them again. The dullest head among them knew, that night, +that the hard ways of poverty would be all the harder to walk on, now +he was gone. + +A little later, news was brought to the bed-chamber door that old Mr. +Clare had come alone to the house, and was waiting in the hall below, +to hear what the physician said. Miss Garth was not able to go down to +him herself: she sent a message. He said to the servant, “I’ll come and +ask again, in two hours’ time”—and went out slowly. Unlike other men in +all things else, the sudden death of his old friend had produced no +discernible change in him. The feeling implied in the errand of inquiry +that had brought him to the house was the one betrayal of human +sympathy which escaped the rugged, impenetrable old man. + +He came again, when the two hours had expired; and this time Miss Garth +saw him. + +They shook hands in silence. She waited; she nerved herself to hear him +speak of his lost friend. No: he never mentioned the dreadful accident, +he never alluded to the dreadful death. He said these words, “Is she +better, or worse?” and said no more. Was the tribute of his grief for +the husband sternly suppressed under the expression of his anxiety for +the wife? The nature of the man, unpliably antagonistic to the world +and the world’s customs, might justify some such interpretation of his +conduct as this. He repeated his question, “Is she better, or worse?” + +Miss Garth answered him: + +“No better; if there is any change, it is a change for the worse.” + +They spoke those words at the window of the morning-room which opened +on the garden. Mr. Clare paused, after hearing the reply to his +inquiry, stepped out on to the walk, then turned on a sudden, and spoke +again: + +“Has the doctor given her up?” he asked. + +“He has not concealed from us that she is in danger. We can only pray +for her.” + +The old man laid his hand on Miss Garth’s arm as she answered him, and +looked her attentively in the face. + +“You believe in prayer?” he said. + +Miss Garth drew sorrowfully back from him. + +“You might have spared me that question sir, at such a time as this.” + +He took no notice of her answer; his eyes were still fastened on her +face. + +“Pray!” he said. “Pray as you never prayed before, for the preservation +of Mrs. Vanstone’s life.” + +He left her. His voice and manner implied some unutterable dread of the +future, which his words had not confessed. Miss Garth followed him into +the garden, and called to him. He heard her, but he never turned back: +he quickened his pace, as if he desired to avoid her. She watched him +across the lawn in the warm summer moonlight. She saw his white, +withered hands, saw them suddenly against the black background of the +shrubbery, raised and wrung above his head. They dropped—the trees +shrouded him in darkness—he was gone. + +Miss Garth went back to the suffering woman, with the burden on her +mind of one anxiety more. + +It was then past eleven o’clock. Some little time had elapsed since she +had seen the sisters and spoken to them. The inquiries she addressed to +one of the female servants only elicited the information that they were +both in their rooms. She delayed her return to the mother’s bedside to +say her parting words of comfort to the daughters, before she left them +for the night. Norah’s room was the nearest. She softly opened the door +and looked in. The kneeling figure by the bedside told her that God’s +help had found the fatherless daughter in her affliction. Grateful +tears gathered in her eyes as she looked: she softly closed the door, +and went on to Magdalen’s room. There doubt stayed her feet at the +threshold, and she waited for a moment before going in. + +A sound in the room caught her ear—the monotonous rustling of a woman’s +dress, now distant, now near; passing without cessation from end to end +over the floor—a sound which told her that Magdalen was pacing to and +fro in the secrecy of her own chamber. Miss Garth knocked. The rustling +ceased; the door was opened, and the sad young face confronted her, +locked in its cold despair; the large light eyes looked mechanically +into hers, as vacant and as tearless as ever. + +That look wrung the heart of the faithful woman, who had trained her +and loved her from a child. She took Magdalen tenderly in her arms. + +“Oh, my love,” she said, “no tears yet! Oh, if I could see you as I +have seen Norah! Speak to me, Magdalen—try if you can speak to me.” + +She tried, and spoke: + +“Norah,” she said, “feels no remorse. He was not serving Norah’s +interests when he went to his death: he was serving mine.” + +With that terrible answer, she put her cold lips to Miss Garth’s cheek. + +“Let me bear it by myself,” she said, and gently closed the door. + +Again Miss Garth waited at the threshold, and again the sound of the +rustling dress passed to and fro—now far, now near—to and fro with a +cruel, mechanical regularity, that chilled the warmest sympathy, and +daunted the boldest hope. + +The night passed. It had been agreed, if no change for the better +showed itself by the morning, that the London physician whom Mrs. +Vanstone had consulted some months since should be summoned to the +house on the next day. No change for the better appeared, and the +physician was sent for. + +As the morning advanced, Frank came to make inquiries from the cottage. +Had Mr. Clare intrusted to his son the duty which he had personally +performed on the previous day through reluctance to meet Miss Garth +again after what he had said to her? It might be so. Frank could throw +no light on the subject; he was not in his father’s confidence. He +looked pale and bewildered. His first inquiries after Magdalen showed +how his weak nature had been shaken by the catastrophe. He was not +capable of framing his own questions: the words faltered on his lips, +and the ready tears came into his eyes. Miss Garth’s heart warmed to +him for the first time. Grief has this that is noble in it—it accepts +all sympathy, come whence it may. She encouraged the lad by a few kind +words, and took his hand at parting. + +Before noon Frank returned with a second message. His father desired to +know whether Mr. Pendril was not expected at Combe-Raven on that day. +If the lawyer’s arrival was looked for, Frank was directed to be in +attendance at the station, and to take him to the cottage, where a bed +would be placed at his disposal. This message took Miss Garth by +surprise. It showed that Mr. Clare had been made acquainted with his +dead friend’s purpose of sending for Mr. Pendril. Was the old man’s +thoughtful offer of hospitality another indirect expression of the +natural human distress which he perversely concealed? or was he aware +of some secret necessity for Mr. Pendril’s presence, of which the +bereaved family had been kept in total ignorance? Miss Garth was too +heart-sick and hopeless to dwell on either question. She told Frank +that Mr. Pendril had been expected at three o’clock, and sent him back +with her thanks. + +Shortly after his departure, such anxieties on Magdalen’s account as +her mind was now able to feel were relieved by better news than her +last night’s experience had inclined her to hope for. Norah’s influence +had been exerted to rouse her sister; and Norah’s patient sympathy had +set the prisoned grief free. Magdalen had suffered severely—suffered +inevitably, with such a nature as hers—in the effort that relieved her. +The healing tears had not come gently; they had burst from her with a +torturing, passionate vehemence—but Norah had never left her till the +struggle was over, and the calm had come. These better tidings +encouraged Miss Garth to withdraw to her own room, and to take the rest +which she needed sorely. Worn out in body and mind, she slept from +sheer exhaustion—slept heavily and dreamless for some hours. It was +between three and four in the afternoon when she was roused by one of +the female servants. The woman had a note in her hand—a note left by +Mr. Clare the younger, with a message desiring that it might be +delivered to Miss Garth immediately. The name written in the lower +corner of the envelope was “William Pendril.” The lawyer had arrived. + +Miss Garth opened the note. After a few first sentences of sympathy and +condolence, the writer announced his arrival at Mr. Clare’s; and then +proceeded, apparently in his professional capacity, to make a very +startling request. + +“If,” he wrote, “any change for the better in Mrs. Vanstone should take +place—whether it is only an improvement for the time, or whether it is +the permanent improvement for which we all hope—in either case I +entreat you to let me know of it immediately. It is of the last +importance that I should see her, in the event of her gaining strength +enough to give me her attention for five minutes, and of her being able +at the expiration of that time to sign her name. May I beg that you +will communicate my request, in the strictest confidence, to the +medical men in attendance? They will understand, and you will +understand, the vital importance I attach to this interview when I tell +you that I have arranged to defer to it all other business claims on +me; and that I hold myself in readiness to obey your summons at any +hour of the day or night.” + +In those terms the letter ended. Miss Garth read it twice over. At the +second reading the request which the lawyer now addressed to her, and +the farewell words which had escaped Mr. Clare’s lips the day before, +connected themselves vaguely in her mind. There was some other serious +interest in suspense, known to Mr. Pendril and known to Mr. Clare, +besides the first and foremost interest of Mrs. Vanstone’s recovery. +Whom did it affect? The children? Were they threatened by some new +calamity which their mother’s signature might avert? What did it mean? +Did it mean that Mr. Vanstone had died without leaving a will? + +In her distress and confusion of mind Miss Garth was incapable of +reasoning with herself, as she might have reasoned at a happier time. +She hastened to the antechamber of Mrs. Vanstone’s room; and, after +explaining Mr. Pendril’s position toward the family, placed his letter +in the hands of the medical men. They both answered, without +hesitation, to the same purpose. Mrs. Vanstone’s condition rendered any +such interview as the lawyer desired a total impossibility. If she +rallied from her present prostration, Miss Garth should be at once +informed of the improvement. In the meantime, the answer to Mr. Pendril +might be conveyed in one word—Impossible. + +“You see what importance Mr. Pendril attaches to the interview?” said +Miss Garth. + +Yes: both the doctors saw it. + +“My mind is lost and confused, gentlemen, in this dreadful suspense. +Can you either of you guess why the signature is wanted? or what the +object of the interview may be? I have only seen Mr. Pendril when he +has come here on former visits: I have no claim to justify me in +questioning him. Will you look at the letter again? Do you think it +implies that Mr. Vanstone has never made a will?” + +“I think it can hardly imply that,” said one of the doctors. “But, even +supposing Mr. Vanstone to have died intestate, the law takes due care +of the interests of his widow and his children—” + +“Would it do so,” interposed the other medical man, “if the property +happened to be in land?” + +“I am not sure in that case. Do you happen to know, Miss Garth, whether +Mr. Vanstone’s property was in money or in land?” + +“In money,” replied Miss Garth. “I have heard him say so on more than +one occasion.” + +“Then I can relieve your mind by speaking from my own experience. The +law, if he has died intestate, gives a third of his property to his +widow, and divides the rest equally among his children.” + +“But if Mrs. Vanstone—” + +“If Mrs. Vanstone should die,” pursued the doctor, completing the +question which Miss Garth had not the heart to conclude for herself, “I +believe I am right in telling you that the property would, as a matter +of legal course, go to the children. Whatever necessity there may be +for the interview which Mr. Pendril requests, I can see no reason for +connecting it with the question of Mr. Vanstone’s presumed intestacy. +But, by all means, put the question, for the satisfaction of your own +mind, to Mr. Pendril himself.” + +Miss Garth withdrew to take the course which the doctor advised. After +communicating to Mr. Pendril the medical decision which, thus far, +refused him the interview that he sought, she added a brief statement +of the legal question she had put to the doctors; and hinted delicately +at her natural anxiety to be informed of the motives which had led the +lawyer to make his request. The answer she received was guarded in the +extreme: it did not impress her with a favorable opinion of Mr. +Pendril. He confirmed the doctors’ interpretation of the law in general +terms only; expressed his intention of waiting at the cottage in the +hope that a change for the better might yet enable Mrs. Vanstone to see +him; and closed his letter without the slightest explanation of his +motives, and without a word of reference to the question of the +existence, or the non-existence, of Mr. Vanstone’s will. + +The marked caution of the lawyer’s reply dwelt uneasily on Miss Garth’s +mind, until the long-expected event of the day recalled all her +thoughts to her one absorbing anxiety on Mrs. Vanstone’s account. + +Early in the evening the physician from London arrived. He watched long +by the bedside of the suffering woman; he remained longer still in +consultation with his medical brethren; he went back again to the +sick-room, before Miss Garth could prevail on him to communicate to her +the opinion at which he had arrived. + +When he called out into the antechamber for the second time, he +silently took a chair by her side. She looked in his face; and the last +faint hope died in her before he opened his lips. + +“I must speak the hard truth,” he said, gently. “All that _can_ be done +_has_ been done. The next four-and-twenty hours, at most, will end your +suspense. If Nature makes no effort in that time—I grieve to say it—you +must prepare yourself for the worst.” + +Those words said all: they were prophetic of the end. + +The night passed; and she lived through it. The next day came; and she +lingered on till the clock pointed to five. At that hour the tidings of +her husband’s death had dealt the mortal blow. When the hour came round +again, the mercy of God let her go to him in the better world. Her +daughters were kneeling at the bedside as her spirit passed away. She +left them unconscious of their presence; mercifully and happily +insensible to the pang of the last farewell. + +Her child survived her till the evening was on the wane and the sunset +was dim in the quiet western heaven. As the darkness came, the light of +the frail little life—faint and feeble from the first—flickered and +went out. All that was earthly of mother and child lay, that night, on +the same bed. The Angel of Death had done his awful bidding; and the +two Sisters were left alone in the world. + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +Earlier than usual on the morning of Thursday, the twenty-third of +July, Mr. Clare appeared at the door of his cottage, and stepped out +into the little strip of garden attached to his residence. + +After he had taken a few turns backward and forward, alone, he was +joined by a spare, quiet, gray-haired man, whose personal appearance +was totally devoid of marked character of any kind; whose inexpressive +face and conventionally-quiet manner presented nothing that attracted +approval and nothing that inspired dislike. This was Mr. Pendril—this +was the man on whose lips hung the future of the orphans at +Combe-Raven. + +“The time is getting on,” he said, looking toward the shrubbery, as he +joined Mr. Clare. + +“My appointment with Miss Garth is for eleven o’clock: it only wants +ten minutes of the hour.” + +“Are you to see her alone?” asked Mr. Clare. + +“I left Miss Garth to decide—after warning her, first of all, that the +circumstances I am compelled to disclose are of a very serious nature.” + +“And _has_ she decided?” + +“She writes me word that she mentioned my appointment, and repeated the +warning I had given her to both the daughters. The elder of the two +shrinks—and who can wonder at it?—from any discussion connected with +the future which requires her presence so soon as the day after the +funeral. The younger one appears to have expressed no opinion on the +subject. As I understand it, she suffers herself to be passively guided +by her sister’s example. My interview, therefore, will take place with +Miss Garth alone—and it is a very great relief to me to know it.” + +He spoke the last words with more emphasis and energy than seemed +habitual to him. Mr. Clare stopped, and looked at his guest +attentively. + +“You are almost as old as I am, sir,” he said. “Has all your long +experience as a lawyer not hardened you yet?” + +“I never knew how little it had hardened me,” replied Mr. Pendril, +quietly, “until I returned from London yesterday to attend the funeral. +I was not warned that the daughters had resolved on following their +parents to the grave. I think their presence made the closing scene of +this dreadful calamity doubly painful, and doubly touching. You saw how +the great concourse of people were moved by it—and _they_ were in +ignorance of the truth; _they_ knew nothing of the cruel necessity +which takes me to the house this morning. The sense of that +necessity—and the sight of those poor girls at the time when I felt my +hard duty toward them most painfully—shook me, as a man of my years and +my way of life is not often shaken by any distress in the present or +any suspense in the future. I have not recovered it this morning: I +hardly feel sure of myself yet.” + +“A man’s composure—when he is a man like you—comes with the necessity +for it,” said Mr. Clare. “You must have had duties to perform as trying +in their way as the duty that lies before you this morning.” + +Mr. Pendril shook his head. “Many duties as serious; many stories more +romantic. No duty so trying, no story so hopeless, as this.” + +With those words they parted. Mr. Pendril left the garden for the +shrubbery path which led to Combe-Raven. Mr. Clare returned to the +cottage. + +On reaching the passage, he looked through the open door of his little +parlor and saw Frank sitting there in idle wretchedness, with his head +resting wearily on his hand. + +“I have had an answer from your employers in London,” said Mr. Clare. +“In consideration of what has happened, they will allow the offer they +made you to stand over for another month.” + +Frank changed color, and rose nervously from his chair. + +“Are my prospects altered?” he asked. “Are Mr. Vanstone’s plans for me +not to be carried out? He told Magdalen his will had provided for her. +She repeated his words to me; she said I ought to know all that his +goodness and generosity had done for both of us. How can his death make +a change? Has anything happened?” + +“Wait till Mr. Pendril comes back from Combe-Raven,” said his father. +“Question him—don’t question me.” + +The ready tears rose in Frank’s eyes. + +“You won’t be hard on me?” he pleaded, faintly. “You won’t expect me to +go back to London without seeing Magdalen first?” + +Mr. Clare looked thoughtfully at his son, and considered a little +before he replied. + +“You may dry your eyes,” he said. “You shall see Magdalen before you go +back.” + +He left the room, after making that reply, and withdrew to his study. +The books lay ready to his hand as usual. He opened one of them and set +himself to read in the customary manner. But his attention wandered; +and his eyes strayed away, from time to time, to the empty chair +opposite—the chair in which his old friend and gossip had sat and +wrangled with him good-humoredly for many and many a year past. After a +struggle with himself he closed the book. “D—n the chair!” he said: “it +_will_ talk of him; and I must listen.” He reached down his pipe from +the wall and mechanically filled it with tobacco. His hand shook, his +eyes wandered back to the old place; and a heavy sigh came from him +unwillingly. That empty chair was the only earthly argument for which +he had no answer: his heart owned its defeat and moistened his eyes in +spite of him. “He has got the better of me at last,” said the rugged +old man. “There is one weak place left in me still—and _he_ has found +it.” + +Meanwhile, Mr. Pendril entered the shrubbery, and followed the path +which led to the lonely garden and the desolate house. He was met at +the door by the man-servant, who was apparently waiting in expectation +of his arrival. + +“I have an appointment with Miss Garth. Is she ready to see me?” + +“Quite ready, sir.” + +“Is she alone?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“In the room which was Mr. Vanstone’s study?” + +“In that room, sir.” + +The servant opened the door and Mr. Pendril went in. + +The governess stood alone at the study window. The morning was +oppressively hot, and she threw up the lower sash to admit more air +into the room, as Mr. Pendril entered it. + +They bowed to each other with a formal politeness, which betrayed on +either side an uneasy sense of restraint. Mr. Pendril was one of the +many men who appear superficially to the worst advantage, under the +influence of strong mental agitation which it is necessary for them to +control. Miss Garth, on her side, had not forgotten the ungraciously +guarded terms in which the lawyer had replied to her letter; and the +natural anxiety which she had felt on the subject of the interview was +not relieved by any favorable opinion of the man who sought it. As they +confronted each other in the silence of the summer’s morning—both +dressed in black; Miss Garth’s hard features, gaunt and haggard with +grief; the lawyer’s cold, colorless face, void of all marked +expression, suggestive of a business embarrassment and of nothing +more—it would have been hard to find two persons less attractive +externally to any ordinary sympathies than the two who had now met +together, the one to tell, the other to hear, the secrets of the dead. + +“I am sincerely sorry, Miss Garth, to intrude on you at such a time as +this. But circumstances, as I have already explained, leave me no other +choice.” + +“Will you take a seat, Mr. Pendril? You wished to see me in this room, +I believe?” + +“Only in this room, because Mr. Vanstone’s papers are kept here, and I +may find it necessary to refer to some of them.” + +After that formal interchange of question and answer, they sat down on +either side of a table placed close under the window. One waited to +speak, the other waited to hear. There was a momentary silence. Mr. +Pendril broke it by referring to the young ladies, with the customary +expressions of sympathy. Miss Garth answered him with the same +ceremony, in the same conventional tone. There was a second pause of +silence. The humming of flies among the evergreen shrubs under the +window penetrated drowsily into the room; and the tramp of a +heavy-footed cart-horse, plodding along the high-road beyond the +garden, was as plainly audible in the stillness as if it had been +night. + +The lawyer roused his flagging resolution, and spoke to the purpose +when he spoke next. + +“You have some reason, Miss Garth,” he began, “to feel not quite +satisfied with my past conduct toward you, in one particular. During +Mrs. Vanstone’s fatal illness, you addressed a letter to me, making +certain inquiries; which, while she lived, it was impossible for me to +answer. Her deplorable death releases me from the restraint which I had +imposed on myself, and permits—or, more properly, obliges me to speak. +You shall know what serious reasons I had for waiting day and night in +the hope of obtaining that interview which unhappily never took place; +and in justice to Mr. Vanstone’s memory, your own eyes shall inform you +that he made his will.” + +He rose; unlocked a little iron safe in the corner of the room; and +returned to the table with some folded sheets of paper, which he spread +open under Miss Garth’s eyes. When she had read the first words, “In +the name of God, Amen,” he turned the sheet, and pointed to the end of +the next page. She saw the well-known signature: “Andrew Vanstone.” She +saw the customary attestations of the two witnesses; and the date of +the document, reverting to a period of more than five years since. +Having thus convinced her of the formality of the will, the lawyer +interposed before she could question him, and addressed her in these +words: + +“I must not deceive you,” he said. “I have my own reasons for producing +this document.” + +“What reasons, sir?” + +“You shall hear them. When you are in possession of the truth, these +pages may help to preserve your respect for Mr. Vanstone’s memory—” + +Miss Garth started back in her chair. + +“What do you mean?” she asked, with a stern straightforwardness. + +He took no heed of the question; he went on as if she had not +interrupted him. + +“I have a second reason,” he continued, “for showing you the will. If I +can prevail on you to read certain clauses in it, under my +superintendence, you will make your own discovery of the circumstances +which I am here to disclose—circumstances so painful that I hardly know +how to communicate them to you with my own lips.” + +Miss Garth looked him steadfastly in the face. + +“Circumstances, sir, which affect the dead parents, or the living +children?” + +“Which affect the dead and the living both,” answered the lawyer. +“Circumstances, I grieve to say, which involve the future of Mr. +Vanstone’s unhappy daughters.” + +“Wait,” said Miss Garth, “wait a little.” She pushed her gray hair back +from her temples, and struggled with the sickness of heart, the +dreadful faintness of terror, which would have overpowered a younger or +a less resolute woman. Her eyes, dim with watching, weary with grief, +searched the lawyer’s unfathomable face. “His unhappy daughters?” she +repeated to herself, vacantly. “He talks as if there was some worse +calamity than the calamity which has made them orphans.” She paused +once more; and rallied her sinking courage. “I will not make your hard +duty, sir, more painful to you than I can help,” she resumed. “Show me +the place in the will. Let me read it, and know the worst.” + +Mr. Pendril turned back to the first page, and pointed to a certain +place in the cramped lines of writing. “Begin here,” he said. + +She tried to begin; she tried to follow his finger, as she had followed +it already to the signatures and the dates. But her senses seemed to +share the confusion of her mind—the words mingled together, and the +lines swam before her eyes. + +“I can’t follow you,” she said. “You must tell it, or read it to me.” +She pushed her chair back from the table, and tried to collect herself. +“Stop!” she exclaimed, as the lawyer, with visible hesitation and +reluctance, took the papers in his own hand. “One question, first. Does +his will provide for his children?” + +“His will provided for them, when he made it.” + +“When he made it!” (Something of her natural bluntness broke out in her +manner as she repeated the answer.) “Does it provide for them now?” + +“It does not.” + +She snatched the will from his hand, and threw it into a corner of the +room. “You mean well,” she said; “you wish to spare me—but you are +wasting your time, and my strength. If the will is useless, there let +it lie. Tell me the truth, Mr. Pendril—tell it plainly, tell it +instantly, in your own words!” + +He felt that it would be useless cruelty to resist that appeal. There +was no merciful alternative but to answer it on the spot. + +“I must refer you to the spring of the present year, Miss Garth. Do you +remember the fourth of March?” + +Her attention wandered again; a thought seemed to have struck her at +the moment when he spoke. Instead of answering his inquiry, she put a +question of her own. + +“Let me break the news to myself,” she said—“let me anticipate you, if +I can. His useless will, the terms in which you speak of his daughters, +the doubt you seem to feel of my continued respect for his memory, have +opened a new view to me. Mr. Vanstone has died a ruined man—is that +what you had to tell me?” + +“Far from it. Mr. Vanstone has died, leaving a fortune of more than +eighty thousand pounds—a fortune invested in excellent securities. He +lived up to his income, but never beyond it; and all his debts added +together would not reach two hundred pounds. If he had died a ruined +man, I should have felt deeply for his children: but I should not have +hesitated to tell you the truth, as I am hesitating now. Let me repeat +a question which escaped you, I think, when I first put it. Carry your +mind back to the spring of this year. Do you remember the fourth of +March?” + +Miss Garth shook her head. “My memory for dates is bad at the best of +times,” she said. “I am too confused to exert it at a moment’s notice. +Can you put your question in no other form?” + +He put it in this form: + +“Do you remember any domestic event in the spring of the present year +which appeared to affect Mr. Vanstone more seriously than usual?” + +Miss Garth leaned forward in her chair, and looked eagerly at Mr. +Pendril across the table. “The journey to London!” she exclaimed. “I +distrusted the journey to London from the first! Yes! I remember Mr. +Vanstone receiving a letter—I remember his reading it, and looking so +altered from himself that he startled us all.” + +“Did you notice any apparent understanding between Mr. and Mrs. +Vanstone on the subject of that letter?” + +“Yes: I did. One of the girls—it was Magdalen—mentioned the post-mark; +some place in America. It all comes back to me, Mr. Pendril. Mrs. +Vanstone looked excited and anxious, the moment she heard the place +named. They went to London together the next day; they explained +nothing to their daughters, nothing to me. Mrs. Vanstone said the +journey was for family affairs. I suspected something wrong; I couldn’t +tell what. Mrs. Vanstone wrote to me from London, saying that her +object was to consult a physician on the state of her health, and not +to alarm her daughters by telling them. Something in the letter rather +hurt me at the time. I thought there might be some other motive that +she was keeping from me. Did I do her wrong?” + +“You did her no wrong. There was a motive which she was keeping from +you. In revealing that motive, I reveal the painful secret which brings +me to this house. All that I could do to prepare you, I have done. Let +me now tell the truth in the plainest and fewest words. When Mr. and +Mrs. Vanstone left Combe-Raven, in the March of the present year—” + +Before he could complete the sentence, a sudden movement of Miss +Garth’s interrupted him. She started violently, and looked round toward +the window. “Only the wind among the leaves,” she said, faintly. “My +nerves are so shaken, the least thing startles me. Speak out, for God’s +sake! When Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone left this house, tell me in plain +words, why did they go to London?” + +In plain words, Mr. Pendril told her: + +“They went to London to be married.” + +With that answer he placed a slip of paper on the table. It was the +marriage certificate of the dead parents, and the date it bore was +March the twentieth, eighteen hundred and forty-six. + +Miss Garth neither moved nor spoke. The certificate lay beneath her +unnoticed. She sat with her eyes rooted on the lawyer’s face; her mind +stunned, her senses helpless. He saw that all his efforts to break the +shock of the discovery had been efforts made in vain; he felt the vital +importance of rousing her, and firmly and distinctly repeated the fatal +words. + +“They went to London to be married,” he said. “Try to rouse yourself: +try to realize the plain fact first: the explanation shall come +afterward. Miss Garth, I speak the miserable truth! In the spring of +this year they left home; they lived in London for a fortnight, in the +strictest retirement; they were married by license at the end of that +time. There is a copy of the certificate, which I myself obtained on +Monday last. Read the date of the marriage for yourself. It is Friday, +the twentieth of March—the March of this present year.” + +As he pointed to the certificate, that faint breath of air among the +shrubs beneath the window, which had startled Miss Garth, stirred the +leaves once more. He heard it himself this time, and turned his face, +so as to let the breeze play upon it. No breeze came; no breath of air +that was strong enough for him to feel, floated into the room. + +Miss Garth roused herself mechanically, and read the certificate. It +seemed to produce no distinct impression on her: she laid it on one +side in a lost, bewildered manner. “Twelve years,” she said, in low, +hopeless tones—“twelve quiet, happy years I lived with this family. +Mrs. Vanstone was my friend; my dear, valued friend—my sister, I might +almost say. I can’t believe it. Bear with me a little, sir, I can’t +believe it yet.” + +“I shall help you to believe it when I tell you more,” said Mr. +Pendril—“you will understand me better when I take you back to the time +of Mr. Vanstone’s early life. I won’t ask for your attention just yet. +Let us wait a little, until you recover yourself.” + +They waited a few minutes. The lawyer took some letters from his +pocket, referred to them attentively, and put them back again. “Can you +listen to me, now?” he asked, kindly. She bowed her head in answer. Mr. +Pendril considered with himself for a moment, “I must caution you on +one point,” he said. “If the aspect of Mr. Vanstone’s character which I +am now about to present to you seems in some respects at variance with +your later experience, bear in mind that, when you first knew him +twelve years since, he was a man of forty; and that, when I first knew +him, he was a lad of nineteen.” + +His next words raised the veil, and showed the irrevocable Past. + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +“The fortune which Mr. Vanstone possessed when you knew him” (the +lawyer began) “was part, and part only, of the inheritance which fell +to him on his father’s death. Mr. Vanstone the elder was a manufacturer +in the North of England. He married early in life; and the children of +the marriage were either six or seven in number—I am not certain which. +First, Michael, the eldest son, still living, and now an old man turned +seventy. Secondly, Selina, the eldest daughter, who married in +after-life, and who died ten or eleven years ago. After those two came +other sons and daughters, whose early deaths make it unnecessary to +mention them particularly. The last and by many years the youngest of +the children was Andrew, whom I first knew, as I told you, at the age +of nineteen. My father was then on the point of retiring from the +active pursuit of his profession; and in succeeding to his business, I +also succeeded to his connection with the Vanstones as the family +solicitor. + +“At that time, Andrew had just started in life by entering the army. +After little more than a year of home-service, he was ordered out with +his regiment to Canada. When he quitted England, he left his father and +his elder brother Michael seriously at variance. I need not detain you +by entering into the cause of the quarrel. I need only tell you that +the elder Mr. Vanstone, with many excellent qualities, was a man of +fierce and intractable temper. His eldest son had set him at defiance, +under circumstances which might have justly irritated a father of far +milder character; and he declared, in the most positive terms, that he +would never see Michael’s face again. In defiance of my entreaties, and +of the entreaties of his wife, he tore up, in our presence, the will +which provided for Michael’s share in the paternal inheritance. Such +was the family position, when the younger son left home for Canada. + +“Some months after Andrew’s arrival with his regiment at Quebec, he +became acquainted with a woman of great personal attractions, who came, +or said she came, from one of the Southern States of America. She +obtained an immediate influence over him; and she used it to the basest +purpose. You knew the easy, affectionate, trusting nature of the man in +later life—you can imagine how thoughtlessly he acted on the impulse of +his youth. It is useless to dwell on this lamentable part of the story. +He was just twenty-one: he was blindly devoted to a worthless woman; +and she led him on, with merciless cunning, till it was too late to +draw back. In one word, he committed the fatal error of his life: he +married her. + +“She had been wise enough in her own interests to dread the influence +of his brother-officers, and to persuade him, up to the period of the +marriage ceremony, to keep the proposed union between them a secret. +She could do this; but she could not provide against the results of +accident. Hardly three months had passed, when a chance disclosure +exposed the life she had led before her marriage. But one alternative +was left to her husband—the alternative of instantly separating from +her. + +“The effect of the discovery on the unhappy boy—for a boy in +disposition he still was—may be judged by the event which followed the +exposure. One of Andrew’s superior officers—a certain Major Kirke, if I +remember right—found him in his quarters, writing to his father a +confession of the disgraceful truth, with a loaded pistol by his side. +That officer saved the lad’s life from his own hand, and hushed up the +scandalous affair by a compromise. The marriage being a perfectly legal +one, and the wife’s misconduct prior to the ceremony giving her husband +no claim to his release from her by divorce, it was only possible to +appeal to her sense of her own interests. A handsome annual allowance +was secured to her, on condition that she returned to the place from +which she had come; that she never appeared in England; and that she +ceased to use her husband’s name. Other stipulations were added to +these. She accepted them all; and measures were privately taken to have +her well looked after in the place of her retreat. What life she led +there, and whether she performed all the conditions imposed on her, I +cannot say. I can only tell you that she never, to my knowledge, came +to England; that she never annoyed Mr. Vanstone; and that the annual +allowance was paid her, through a local agent in America, to the day of +her death. All that she wanted in marrying him was money; and money she +got. + +“In the meantime, Andrew had left the regiment. Nothing would induce +him to face his brother-officers after what had happened. He sold out +and returned to England. The first intelligence which reached him on +his return was the intelligence of his father’s death. He came to my +office in London, before going home, and there learned from my lips how +the family quarrel had ended. + +“The will which Mr. Vanstone the elder had destroyed in my presence had +not been, so far as I know, replaced by another. When I was sent for, +in the usual course, on his death, I fully expected that the law would +be left to make the customary division among his widow and his +children. To my surprise, a will appeared among his papers, correctly +drawn and executed, and dated about a week after the period when the +first will had been destroyed. He had maintained his vindictive purpose +against his eldest son, and had applied to a stranger for the +professional assistance which I honestly believe he was ashamed to ask +for at my hands. + +“It is needless to trouble you with the provisions of the will in +detail. There were the widow and three surviving children to be +provided for. The widow received a life-interest only in a portion of +the testator’s property. The remaining portion was divided between +Andrew and Selina—two-thirds to the brother; one-third to the sister. +On the mother’s death, the money from which her income had been derived +was to go to Andrew and Selina, in the same relative proportions as +before—five thousand pounds having been first deducted from the sum and +paid to Michael, as the sole legacy left by the implacable father to +his eldest son. + +“Speaking in round numbers, the division of property, as settled by the +will, stood thus. Before the mother’s death, Andrew had seventy +thousand pounds; Selina had thirty-five thousand pounds; Michael—had +nothing. After the mother’s death, Michael had five thousand pounds, to +set against Andrew’s inheritance augmented to one hundred thousand, and +Selina’s inheritance increased to fifty thousand.—Do not suppose that I +am dwelling unnecessarily on this part of the subject. Every word I now +speak bears on interests still in suspense, which vitally concern Mr. +Vanstone’s daughters. As we get on from past to present, keep in mind +the terrible inequality of Michael’s inheritance and Andrew’s +inheritance. The harm done by that vindictive will is, I greatly fear, +not over yet. + +“Andrew’s first impulse, when he heard the news which I had to tell +him, was worthy of the open, generous nature of the man. He at once +proposed to divide his inheritance with his elder brother. But there +was one serious obstacle in the way. A letter from Michael was waiting +for him at my office when he came there, and that letter charged him +with being the original cause of estrangement between his father and +his elder brother. The efforts which he had made—bluntly and +incautiously, I own, but with the purest and kindest intentions, as I +know—to compose the quarrel before leaving home, were perverted, by the +vilest misconstruction, to support an accusation of treachery and +falsehood which would have stung any man to the quick. Andrew felt, +what I felt, that if these imputations were not withdrawn before his +generous intentions toward his brother took effect, the mere fact of +their execution would amount to a practical acknowledgment of the +justice of Michael’s charge against him. He wrote to his brother in the +most forbearing terms. The answer received was as offensive as words +could make it. Michael had inherited his father’s temper, unredeemed by +his father’s better qualities: his second letter reiterated the charges +contained in the first, and declared that he would only accept the +offered division as an act of atonement and restitution on Andrew’s +part. I next wrote to the mother to use her influence. She was herself +aggrieved at being left with nothing more than a life interest in her +husband’s property; she sided resolutely with Michael; and she +stigmatized Andrew’s proposal as an attempt to bribe her eldest son +into withdrawing a charge against his brother which that brother knew +to be true. After this last repulse, nothing more could be done. +Michael withdrew to the Continent; and his mother followed him there. +She lived long enough, and saved money enough out of her income, to add +considerably, at her death, to her elder son’s five thousand pounds. He +had previously still further improved his pecuniary position by an +advantageous marriage; and he is now passing the close of his days +either in France or Switzerland—a widower, with one son. We shall +return to him shortly. In the meantime, I need only tell you that +Andrew and Michael never again met—never again communicated, even by +writing. To all intents and purposes they were dead to each other, from +those early days to the present time. + +“You can now estimate what Andrew’s position was when he left his +profession and returned to England. Possessed of a fortune, he was +alone in the world; his future destroyed at the fair outset of life; +his mother and brother estranged from him; his sister lately married, +with interests and hopes in which he had no share. Men of firmer mental +caliber might have found refuge from such a situation as this in an +absorbing intellectual pursuit. He was not capable of the effort; all +the strength of his character lay in the affections he had wasted. His +place in the world was that quiet place at home, with wife and children +to make his life happy, which he had lost forever. To look back was +more than he dare. To look forward was more than he could. In sheer +despair, he let his own impetuous youth drive him on; and cast himself +into the lowest dissipations of a London life. + +“A woman’s falsehood had driven him to his ruin. A woman’s love saved +him at the outset of his downward career. Let us not speak of her +harshly—for we laid her with him yesterday in the grave. + +“You, who only knew Mrs. Vanstone in later life, when illness and +sorrow and secret care had altered and saddened her, can form no +adequate idea of her attractions of person and character when she was a +girl of seventeen. I was with Andrew when he first met her. I had tried +to rescue him, for one night at least, from degrading associates and +degrading pleasures, by persuading him to go with me to a ball given by +one of the great City Companies. There they met. She produced a strong +impression on him the moment he saw her. To me, as to him, she was a +total stranger. An introduction to her, obtained in the customary +manner, informed him that she was the daughter of one Mr. Blake. The +rest he discovered from herself. They were partners in the dance +(unobserved in that crowded ball-room) all through the evening. + +“Circumstances were against her from the first. She was unhappy at +home. Her family and friends occupied no recognized station in life: +they were mean, underhand people, in every way unworthy of her. It was +her first ball—it was the first time she had ever met with a man who +had the breeding, the manners and the conversation of a gentleman. Are +these excuses for her, which I have no right to make? If we have any +human feeling for human weakness, surely not! + +“The meeting of that night decided their future. When other meetings +had followed, when the confession of her love had escaped her, he took +the one course of all others (took it innocently and unconsciously), +which was most dangerous to them both. His frankness and his sense of +honor forbade him to deceive her: he opened his heart and told her the +truth. She was a generous, impulsive girl; she had no home ties strong +enough to plead with her; she was passionately fond of him—and he had +made that appeal to her pity which, to the eternal honor of women, is +the hardest of all appeals for them to resist. She saw, and saw truly, +that she alone stood between him and his ruin. The last chance of his +rescue hung on her decision. She decided; and saved him. + +“Let me not be misunderstood; let me not be accused of trifling with +the serious social question on which my narrative forces me to touch. I +will defend her memory by no false reasoning—I will only speak the +truth. It is the truth that she snatched him from mad excesses which +must have ended in his early death. It is the truth that she restored +him to that happy home existence which you remember so tenderly—which +_he_ remembered so gratefully that, on the day when he was free, he +made her his wife. Let strict morality claim its right, and condemn her +early fault. I have read my New Testament to little purpose, indeed, if +Christian mercy may not soften the hard sentence against her—if +Christian charity may not find a plea for her memory in the love and +fidelity, the suffering and the sacrifice, of her whole life. + +“A few words more will bring us to a later time, and to events which +have happened within your own experience. + +“I need not remind you that the position in which Mr. Vanstone was now +placed could lead in the end to but one result—to a disclosure, more or +less inevitable, of the truth. Attempts were made to keep the hopeless +misfortune of his life a secret from Miss Blake’s family; and, as a +matter of course, those attempts failed before the relentless scrutiny +of her father and her friends. What might have happened if her +relatives had been what is termed ‘respectable’ I cannot pretend to +say. As it was, they were people who could (in the common phrase) be +conveniently treated with. The only survivor of the family at the +present time is a scoundrel calling himself Captain Wragge. When I tell +you that he privately extorted the price of his silence from Mrs. +Vanstone to the last; and when I add that his conduct presents no +extraordinary exception to the conduct, in their lifetime, of the other +relatives—you will understand what sort of people I had to deal with in +my client’s interests, and how their assumed indignation was appeased. + +“Having, in the first instance, left England for Ireland, Mr. Vanstone +and Miss Blake remained there afterward for some years. Girl as she +was, she faced her position and its necessities without flinching. +Having once resolved to sacrifice her life to the man she loved; having +quieted her conscience by persuading herself that his marriage was a +legal mockery, and that she was ‘his wife in the sight of Heaven,’ she +set herself from the first to accomplish the one foremost purpose of so +living with him, in the world’s eye, as never to raise the suspicion +that she was not his lawful wife. The women are few, indeed, who cannot +resolve firmly, scheme patiently, and act promptly where the dearest +interests of their lives are concerned. Mrs. Vanstone—she has a right +now, remember, to that name—Mrs. Vanstone had more than the average +share of a woman’s tenacity and a woman’s tact; and she took all the +needful precautions, in those early days, which her husband’s less +ready capacity had not the art to devise—precautions to which they were +largely indebted for the preservation of their secret in later times. + +“Thanks to these safeguards, not a shadow of suspicion followed them +when they returned to England. They first settled in Devonshire, merely +because they were far removed there from that northern county in which +Mr. Vanstone’s family and connections had been known. On the part of +his surviving relatives, they had no curious investigations to dread. +He was totally estranged from his mother and his elder brother. His +married sister had been forbidden by her husband (who was a clergyman) +to hold any communication with him, from the period when he had fallen +into the deplorable way of life which I have described as following his +return from Canada. Other relations he had none. When he and Miss Blake +left Devonshire, their next change of residence was to this house. +Neither courting nor avoiding notice; simply happy in themselves, in +their children, and in their quiet rural life; unsuspected by the few +neighbors who formed their modest circle of acquaintance to be other +than what they seemed—the truth in their case, as in the cases of many +others, remained undiscovered until accident forced it into the light +of day. + +“If, in your close intimacy with them, it seems strange that they +should never have betrayed themselves, let me ask you to consider the +circumstances and you will understand the apparent anomaly. Remember +that they had been living as husband and wife, to all intents and +purposes (except that the marriage-service had not been read over +them), for fifteen years before you came into the house; and bear in +mind, at the same time, that no event occurred to disturb Mr. +Vanstone’s happiness in the present, to remind him of the past, or to +warn him of the future, until the announcement of his wife’s death +reached him, in that letter from America which you saw placed in his +hand. From that day forth—when a past which _he_ abhorred was forced +back to his memory; when a future which _she_ had never dared to +anticipate was placed within her reach—you will soon perceive, if you +have not perceived already, that they both betrayed themselves, time +after time; and that your innocence of all suspicion, and their +children’s innocence of all suspicion, alone prevented you from +discovering the truth. + +“The sad story of the past is now as well known to you as to me. I have +had hard words to speak. God knows I have spoken them with true +sympathy for the living, with true tenderness for the memory of the +dead.” + +He paused, turned his face a little away, and rested his head on his +hand, in the quiet, undemonstrative manner which was natural to him. +Thus far, Miss Garth had only interrupted his narrative by an +occasional word or by a mute token of her attention. She made no effort +to conceal her tears; they fell fast and silently over her wasted +cheeks, as she looked up and spoke to him. “I have done you some +injury, sir, in my thoughts,” she said, with a noble simplicity. “I +know you better now. Let me ask your forgiveness; let me take your +hand.” + +Those words, and the action which accompanied them, touched him deeply. +He took her hand in silence. She was the first to speak, the first to +set the example of self-control. It is one of the noble instincts of +women that nothing more powerfully rouses them to struggle with their +own sorrow than the sight of a man’s distress. She quietly dried her +tears; she quietly drew her chair round the table, so as to sit nearer +to him when she spoke again. + +“I have been sadly broken, Mr. Pendril, by what has happened in this +house,” she said, “or I should have borne what you have told me better +than I have borne it to-day. Will you let me ask one question before +you go on? My heart aches for the children of my love—more than ever my +children now. Is there no hope for their future? Are they left with no +prospect but poverty before them?” + +The lawyer hesitated before he answered the question. + +“They are left dependent,” he said, at last, “on the justice and the +mercy of a stranger.” + +“Through the misfortune of their birth?” + +“Through the misfortunes which have followed the marriage of their +parents.” + +With that startling answer he rose, took up the will from the floor, +and restored it to its former position on the table between them. + +“I can only place the truth before you,” he resumed, “in one plain form +of words. The marriage has destroyed this will, and has left Mr. +Vanstone’s daughters dependent on their uncle.” + +As he spoke, the breeze stirred again among the shrubs under the +window. + +“On their uncle?” repeated Miss Garth. She considered for a moment, and +laid her hand suddenly on Mr. Pendril’s arm. “Not on Michael Vanstone!” + +“Yes: on Michael Vanstone.” + +Miss Garth’s hand still mechanically grasped the lawyer’s arm. Her +whole mind was absorbed in the effort to realize the discovery which +had now burst on her. + +“Dependent on Michael Vanstone!” she said to herself. “Dependent on +their father’s bitterest enemy? How can it be?” + +“Give me your attention for a few minutes more,” said Mr. Pendril, “and +you shall hear. The sooner we can bring this painful interview to a +close, the sooner I can open communications with Mr. Michael Vanstone, +and the sooner you will know what he decides on doing for his brother’s +orphan daughters. I repeat to you that they are absolutely dependent on +him. You will most readily understand how and why, if we take up the +chain of events where we last left it—at the period of Mr. and Mrs. +Vanstone’s marriage.” + +“One moment, sir,” said Miss Garth. “Were you in the secret of that +marriage at the time when it took place?” + +“Unhappily, I was not. I was away from London—away from England at the +time. If Mr. Vanstone had been able to communicate with me when the +letter from America announced the death of his wife, the fortunes of +his daughters would not have been now at stake.” + +He paused, and, before proceeding further, looked once more at the +letters which he had consulted at an earlier period of the interview. +He took one letter from the rest, and put it on the table by his side. + +“At the beginning of the present year,” he resumed, “a very serious +business necessity, in connection with some West Indian property +possessed by an old client and friend of mine, required the presence +either of myself, or of one of my two partners, in Jamaica. One of the +two could not be spared; the other was not in health to undertake the +voyage. There was no choice left but for me to go. I wrote to Mr. +Vanstone, telling him that I should leave England at the end of +February, and that the nature of the business which took me away +afforded little hope of my getting back from the West Indies before +June. My letter was not written with any special motive. I merely +thought it right—seeing that my partners were not admitted to my +knowledge of Mr. Vanstone’s private affairs—to warn him of my absence, +as a measure of formal precaution which it was right to take. At the +end of February I left England, without having heard from him. I was on +the sea when the news of his wife’s death reached him, on the fourth of +March: and I did not return until the middle of last June.” + +“You warned him of your departure,” interposed Miss Garth. “Did you not +warn him of your return?” + +“Not personally. My head-clerk sent him one of the circulars which were +dispatched from my office, in various directions, to announce my +return. It was the first substitute I thought of for the personal +letter which the pressure of innumerable occupations, all crowding on +me together after my long absence, did not allow me leisure to write. +Barely a month later, the first information of his marriage reached me +in a letter from himself, written on the day of the fatal accident. The +circumstances which induced him to write arose out of an event in which +you must have taken some interest—I mean the attachment between Mr. +Clare’s son and Mr. Vanstone’s youngest daughter.” + +“I cannot say that I was favorably disposed toward that attachment at +the time,” replied Miss Garth. “I was ignorant then of the family +secret: I know better now.” + +“Exactly. The motive which you can now appreciate is the motive that +leads us to the point. The young lady herself (as I have heard from the +elder Mr. Clare, to whom I am indebted for my knowledge of the +circumstances in detail) confessed her attachment to her father, and +innocently touched him to the quick by a chance reference to his own +early life. He had a long conversation with Mrs. Vanstone, at which +they both agreed that Mr. Clare must be privately informed of the +truth, before the attachment between the two young people was allowed +to proceed further. It was painful in the last degree, both to husband +and wife, to be reduced to this alternative. But they were resolute, +honorably resolute, in making the sacrifice of their own feelings; and +Mr. Vanstone betook himself on the spot to Mr. Clare’s cottage.—You no +doubt observed a remarkable change in Mr. Vanstone’s manner on that +day; and you can now account for it?” + +Miss Garth bowed her head, and Mr. Pendril went on. + +“You are sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Clare’s contempt for all +social prejudices,” he continued, “to anticipate his reception of the +confession which his neighbor addressed to him. Five minutes after the +interview had begun, the two old friends were as easy and unrestrained +together as usual. In the course of conversation, Mr. Vanstone +mentioned the pecuniary arrangement which he had made for the benefit +of his daughter and of her future husband—and, in doing so, he +naturally referred to his will here, on the table between us. Mr. +Clare, remembering that his friend had been married in the March of +that year, at once asked when the will had been executed: receiving the +reply that it had been made five years since; and, thereupon, astounded +Mr. Vanstone by telling him bluntly that the document was waste paper +in the eye of the law. Up to that moment he, like many other persons, +had been absolutely ignorant that a man’s marriage is, legally as well +as socially, considered to be the most important event in his life; +that it destroys the validity of any will which he may have made as a +single man; and that it renders absolutely necessary the entire +re-assertion of his testamentary intentions in the character of a +husband. The statement of this plain fact appeared to overwhelm Mr. +Vanstone. Declaring that his friend had laid him under an obligation +which he should remember to his dying day, he at once left the cottage, +at once returned home, and wrote me this letter.” + +He handed the letter open to Miss Garth. In tearless, speechless grief, +she read these words: + +“MY DEAR PENDRIL—Since we last wrote to each other an extraordinary +change has taken place in my life. About a week after you went away, I +received news from America which told me that I was free. Need I say +what use I made of that freedom? Need I say that the mother of my +children is now my Wife? + “If you are surprised at not having heard from me the moment you + got back, attribute my silence, in great part—if not altogether—to + my own total ignorance of the legal necessity for making another + will. Not half an hour since, I was enlightened for the first time + (under circumstances which I will mention when me meet) by my old + friend, Mr. Clare. Family anxieties have had something to do with + my silence as well. My wife’s confinement is close at hand; and, + besides this serious anxiety, my second daughter is just engaged to + be married. Until I saw Mr. Clare to-day, these matters so filled + my mind that I never thought of writing to you during the one short + month which is all that has passed since I got news of your return. + Now I know that my will must be made again, I write instantly. For + God’s sake, come on the day when you receive this—come and relieve + me from the dreadful thought that my two darling girls are at this + moment unprovided for. If anything happened to me, and if my desire + to do their mother justice, ended (through my miserable ignorance + of the law) in leaving Norah and Magdalen disinherited, I should + not rest in my grave! Come at any cost, to yours ever, + + +“A. V.” + + +“On the Saturday morning,” Mr. Pendril resumed, “those lines reached +me. I instantly set aside all other business, and drove to the railway. +At the London terminus, I heard the first news of the Friday’s +accident; heard it, with conflicting accounts of the numbers and names +of the passengers killed. At Bristol, they were better informed; and +the dreadful truth about Mr. Vanstone was confirmed. I had time to +recover myself before I reached your station here, and found Mr. +Clare’s son waiting for me. He took me to his father’s cottage; and +there, without losing a moment, I drew out Mrs. Vanstone’s will. My +object was to secure the only provision for her daughters which it was +now possible to make. Mr. Vanstone having died intestate, a third of +his fortune would go to his widow; and the rest would be divided among +his next of kin. As children born out of wedlock, Mr. Vanstone’s +daughters, under the circumstances of their father’s death, had no more +claim to a share in his property than the daughters of one of his +laborers in the village. The one chance left was that their mother +might sufficiently recover to leave her third share to them, by will, +in the event of her decease. Now you know why I wrote to you to ask for +that interview—why I waited day and night, in the hope of receiving a +summons to the house. I was sincerely sorry to send back such an answer +to your note of inquiry as I was compelled to write. But while there +was a chance of the preservation of Mrs. Vanstone’s life, the secret of +the marriage was hers, not mine; and every consideration of delicacy +forbade me to disclose it.” + +“You did right, sir,” said Miss Garth; “I understand your motives, and +respect them.” + +“My last attempt to provide for the daughters,” continued Mr. Pendril, +“was, as you know, rendered unavailing by the dangerous nature of Mrs. +Vanstone’s illness. Her death left the infant who survived her by a few +hours (the infant born, you will remember, in lawful wedlock) +possessed, in due legal course, of the whole of Mr. Vanstone’s fortune. +On the child’s death—if it had only outlived the mother by a few +seconds, instead of a few hours, the result would have been the +same—the next of kin to the legitimate offspring took the money; and +that next of kin is the infant’s paternal uncle, Michael Vanstone. The +whole fortune of eighty thousand pounds has virtually passed into his +possession already.” + +“Are there no other relations?” asked Miss Garth. “Is there no hope +from any one else?” + +“There are no other relations with Michael Vanstone’s claim,” said the +lawyer. “There are no grandfathers or grandmothers of the dead child +(on the side of either of the parents) now alive. It was not likely +there should be, considering the ages of Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone when +they died. But it is a misfortune to be reasonably lamented that no +other uncles or aunts survive. There are cousins alive; a son and two +daughters of that elder sister of Mr. Vanstone’s, who married +Archdeacon Bartram, and who died, as I told you, some years since. But +their interest is superseded by the interest of the nearer blood. No, +Miss Garth, we must look facts as they are resolutely in the face. Mr. +Vanstone’s daughters are Nobody’s Children; and the law leaves them +helpless at their uncle’s mercy.” + +“A cruel law, Mr. Pendril—a cruel law in a Christian country.” + +“Cruel as it is, Miss Garth, it stands excused by a shocking +peculiarity in this case. I am far from defending the law of England as +it affects illegitimate offspring. On the contrary, I think it a +disgrace to the nation. It visits the sins of the parents on the +children; it encourages vice by depriving fathers and mothers of the +strongest of all motives for making the atonement of marriage; and it +claims to produce these two abominable results in the names of morality +and religion. But it has no extraordinary oppression to answer for in +the case of these unhappy girls. The more merciful and Christian law of +other countries, which allows the marriage of the parents to make the +children legitimate, has no mercy on _these_ children. The accident of +their father having been married, when he first met with their mother, +has made them the outcasts of the whole social community; it has placed +them out of the pale of the Civil Law of Europe. I tell you the hard +truth—it is useless to disguise it. There is no hope, if we look back +at the past: there may be hope, if we look on to the future. The best +service which I can now render you is to shorten the period of your +suspense. In less than an hour I shall be on my way back to London. +Immediately on my arrival, I will ascertain the speediest means of +communicating with Mr. Michael Vanstone; and will let you know the +result. Sad as the position of the two sisters now is, we must look at +it on its best side; we must not lose hope.” + +“Hope?” repeated Miss Garth. “Hope from Michael Vanstone!” + +“Yes; hope from the influence on him of time, if not from the influence +of mercy. As I have already told you, he is now an old man; he cannot, +in the course of nature, expect to live much longer. If he looks back +to the period when he and his brother were first at variance, he must +look back through thirty years. Surely, these are softening influences +which must affect any man? Surely, his own knowledge of the shocking +circumstances under which he has become possessed of this money will +plead with him, if nothing else does?” + +“I will try to think as you do, Mr. Pendril—I will try to hope for the +best. Shall we be left long in suspense before the decision reaches +us?” + +“I trust not. The only delay on my side will be caused by the necessity +of discovering the place of Michael Vanstone’s residence on the +Continent. I think I have the means of meeting this difficulty +successfully; and the moment I reach London, those means shall be +tried.” + +He took up his hat; and then returned to the table on which the +father’s last letter, and the father’s useless will, were lying side by +side. After a moment’s consideration, he placed them both in Miss +Garth’s hands. + +“It may help you in breaking the hard truth to the orphan sisters,” he +said, in his quiet, self-repressed way, “if they can see how their +father refers to them in his will—if they can read his letter to me, +the last he ever wrote. Let these tokens tell them that the one idea of +their father’s life was the idea of making atonement to his children. +‘They may think bitterly of their birth,’ he said to me, at the time +when I drew this useless will; ‘but they shall never think bitterly of +me. I will cross them in nothing: they shall never know a sorrow that I +can spare them, or a want which I will not satisfy.’ He made me put +those words in his will, to plead for him when the truth which he had +concealed from his children in his lifetime was revealed to them after +his death. No law can deprive his daughters of the legacy of his +repentance and his love. I leave the will and the letter to help you: I +give them both into your care.” + +He saw how his parting kindness touched her and thoughtfully hastened +the farewell. She took his hand in both her own and murmured a few +broken words of gratitude. “Trust me to do my best,” he said—and, +turning away with a merciful abruptness, left her. In the broad, +cheerful sunshine he had come in to reveal the fatal truth. In the +broad, cheerful sunshine—that truth disclosed—he went out. + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +It was nearly an hour past noon when Mr. Pendril left the house. Miss +Garth sat down again at the table alone, and tried to face the +necessity which the event of the morning now forced on her. + +Her mind was not equal to the effort. She tried to lessen the strain on +it—to lose the sense of her own position—to escape from her thoughts +for a few minutes only. After a little, she opened Mr. Vanstone’s +letter, and mechanically set herself to read it through once more. + +One by one, the last words of the dead man fastened themselves more and +more firmly on her attention. The unrelieved solitude, the unbroken +silence, helped their influence on her mind and opened it to those very +impressions of past and present which she was most anxious to shun. As +she reached the melancholy lines which closed the letter, she found +herself—insensibly, almost unconsciously, at first—tracing the fatal +chain of events, link by link backward, until she reached its beginning +in the contemplated marriage between Magdalen and Francis Clare. + +That marriage had taken Mr. Vanstone to his old friend, with the +confession on his lips which would otherwise never have escaped them. +Thence came the discovery which had sent him home to summon the lawyer +to the house. That summons, again, had produced the inevitable +acceleration of the Saturday’s journey to Friday; the Friday of the +fatal accident, the Friday when he went to his death. From his death +followed the second bereavement which had made the house desolate; the +helpless position of the daughters whose prosperous future had been his +dearest care; the revelation of the secret which had overwhelmed her +that morning; the disclosure, more terrible still, which she now stood +committed to make to the orphan sisters. For the first time she saw the +whole sequence of events—saw it as plainly as the cloudless blue of the +sky and the green glow of the trees in the sunlight outside. + +How—when could she tell them? Who could approach them with the +disclosure of their own illegitimacy before their father and mother had +been dead a week? Who could speak the dreadful words, while the first +tears were wet on their cheeks, while the first pang of separation was +at its keenest in their hearts, while the memory of the funeral was not +a day old yet? Not their last friend left; not the faithful woman whose +heart bled for them. No! silence for the present time, at all +risks—merciful silence, for many days to come! + +She left the room, with the will and the letter in her hand—with the +natural, human pity at her heart which sealed her lips and shut her +eyes resolutely to the future. In the hall she stopped and listened. +Not a sound was audible. She softly ascended the stairs, on her way to +her own room, and passed the door of Norah’s bed-chamber. Voices +inside, the voices of the two sisters, caught her ear. After a moment’s +consideration, she checked herself, turned back, and quickly descended +the stairs again. Both Norah and Magdalen knew of the interview between +Mr. Pendril and herself; she had felt it her duty to show them his +letter making the appointment. Could she excite their suspicion by +locking herself up from them in her room as soon as the lawyer had left +the house? Her hand trembled on the banister; she felt that her face +might betray her. The self-forgetful fortitude, which had never failed +her until that day, had been tried once too often—had been tasked +beyond its powers at last. + +At the hall door she reflected for a moment again, and went into the +garden; directing her steps to a rustic bench and table placed out of +sight of the house among the trees. In past times she had often sat +there, with Mrs. Vanstone on one side, with Norah on the other, with +Magdalen and the dogs romping on the grass. Alone she sat there now—the +will and the letter which she dared not trust out of her own +possession, laid on the table—her head bowed over them; her face hidden +in her hands. Alone she sat there and tried to rouse her sinking +courage. + +Doubts thronged on her of the dark days to come; dread beset her of the +hidden danger which her own silence toward Norah and Magdalen might +store up in the near future. The accident of a moment might suddenly +reveal the truth. Mr. Pendril might write, might personally address +himself to the sisters, in the natural conviction that she had +enlightened them. Complications might gather round them at a moment’s +notice; unforeseen necessities might arise for immediately leaving the +house. She saw all these perils—and still the cruel courage to face the +worst, and speak, was as far from her as ever. Ere long the thickening +conflict of her thoughts forced its way outward for relief, in words +and actions. She raised her head and beat her hand helplessly on the +table. + +“God help me, what am I to do?” she broke out. “How am I to tell them?” + +“There is no need to tell them,” said a voice behind her. “They know it +already.” + +She started to her feet and looked round. It was Magdalen who stood +before her—Magdalen who had spoken those words. + +Yes, there was the graceful figure, in its mourning garments, standing +out tall and black and motionless against the leafy background. There +was Magdalen herself, with a changeless stillness on her white face; +with an icy resignation in her steady gray eyes. + +“We know it already,” she repeated, in clear, measured tones. “Mr. +Vanstone’s daughters are Nobody’s Children; and the law leaves them +helpless at their uncle’s mercy.” + +So, without a tear on her cheeks, without a faltering tone in her +voice, she repeated the lawyer’s own words, exactly as he had spoken +them. Miss Garth staggered back a step and caught at the bench to +support herself. Her head swam; she closed her eyes in a momentary +faintness. When they opened again, Magdalen’s arm was supporting her, +Magdalen’s breath fanned her cheek, Magdalen’s cold lips kissed her. +She drew back from the kiss; the touch of the girl’s lips thrilled her +with terror. + +As soon as she could speak she put the inevitable question. “You heard +us,” she said. “Where?” + +“Under the open window.” + +“All the time?” + +“From beginning to end.” + +She had listened—this girl of eighteen, in the first week of her +orphanage, had listened to the whole terrible revelation, word by word, +as it fell from the lawyer’s lips; and had never once betrayed herself! +From first to last, the only movements which had escaped her had been +movements guarded enough and slight enough to be mistaken for the +passage of the summer breeze through the leaves! + +“Don’t try to speak yet,” she said, in softer and gentler tones. “Don’t +look at me with those doubting eyes. What wrong have I done? When Mr. +Pendril wished to speak to you about Norah and me, his letter gave us +our choice to be present at the interview, or to keep away. If my elder +sister decided to keep away, how could I come? How could I hear my own +story except as I did? My listening has done no harm. It has done +good—it has saved you the distress of speaking to us. You have suffered +enough for us already; it is time we learned to suffer for ourselves. I +have learned. And Norah is learning.” + +“Norah!” + +“Yes. I have done all I could to spare you. I have told Norah.” + +She had told Norah! Was this girl, whose courage had faced the terrible +necessity from which a woman old enough to be her mother had recoiled, +the girl Miss Garth had brought up? the girl whose nature she had +believed to be as well known to her as her own? + +“Magdalen!” she cried out, passionately, “you frighten me!” + +Magdalen only sighed, and turned wearily away. + +“Try not to think worse of me than I deserve,” she said. “I can’t cry. +My heart is numbed.” + +She moved away slowly over the grass. Miss Garth watched the tall black +figure gliding away alone until it was lost among the trees. While it +was in sight she could think of nothing else. The moment it was gone, +she thought of Norah. For the first time in her experience of the +sisters her heart led her instinctively to the elder of the two. + +Norah was still in her own room. She was sitting on the couch by the +window, with her mother’s old music-book—the keepsake which Mrs. +Vanstone had found in her husband’s study on the day of her husband’s +death—spread open on her lap. She looked up from it with such quiet +sorrow, and pointed with such ready kindness to the vacant place at her +side, that Miss Garth doubted for the moment whether Magdalen had +spoken the truth. “See,” said Norah, simply, turning to the first leaf +in the music-book—“my mother’s name written in it, and some verses to +my father on the next page. We may keep this for ourselves, if we keep +nothing else.” She put her arm round Miss Garth’s neck, and a faint +tinge of color stole over her cheeks. “I see anxious thoughts in your +face,” she whispered. “Are you anxious about me? Are you doubting +whether I have heard it? I have heard the whole truth. I might have +felt it bitterly, later; it is too soon to feel it now. You have seen +Magdalen? She went out to find you—where did you leave her?” + +“In the garden. I couldn’t speak to her; I couldn’t look at her. +Magdalen has frightened me.” + +Norah rose hurriedly; rose, startled and distressed by Miss Garth’s +reply. + +“Don’t think ill of Magdalen,” she said. “Magdalen suffers in secret +more than I do. Try not to grieve over what you have heard about us +this morning. Does it matter who we are, or what we keep or lose? What +loss is there for us after the loss of our father and mother? Oh, Miss +Garth, _there_ is the only bitterness! What did we remember of them +when we laid them in the grave yesterday? Nothing but the love they +gave us—the love we must never hope for again. What else can we +remember to-day? What change can the world, and the world’s cruel laws +make in _our_ memory of the kindest father, the kindest mother, that +children ever had!” She stopped: struggled with her rising grief; and +quietly, resolutely, kept it down. “Will you wait here,” she said, +“while I go and bring Magdalen back? Magdalen was always your favorite: +I want her to be your favorite still.” She laid the music-book gently +on Miss Garth’s lap—and left the room. + +“Magdalen was always your favorite.” + +Tenderly as they had been spoken, those words fell reproachfully on +Miss Garth’s ear. For the first time in the long companionship of her +pupils and herself a doubt whether she, and all those about her, had +not been fatally mistaken in their relative estimate of the sisters, +now forced itself on her mind. + +She had studied the natures of her two pupils in the daily intimacy of +twelve years. Those natures, which she believed herself to have sounded +through all their depths, had been suddenly tried in the sharp ordeal +of affliction. How had they come out from the test? As her previous +experience had prepared her to see them? No: in flat contradiction to +it. + +What did such a result as this imply? + +Thoughts came to her, as she asked herself that question, which have +startled and saddened us all. + +Does there exist in every human being, beneath that outward and visible +character which is shaped into form by the social influences +surrounding us, an inward, invisible disposition, which is part of +ourselves, which education may indirectly modify, but can never hope to +change? Is the philosophy which denies this and asserts that we are +born with dispositions like blank sheets of paper a philosophy which +has failed to remark that we are not born with blank faces—a philosophy +which has never compared together two infants of a few days old, and +has never observed that those infants are not born with blank tempers +for mothers and nurses to fill up at will? Are there, infinitely +varying with each individual, inbred forces of Good and Evil in all of +us, deep down below the reach of mortal encouragement and mortal +repression—hidden Good and hidden Evil, both alike at the mercy of the +liberating opportunity and the sufficient temptation? Within these +earthly limits, is earthly Circumstance ever the key; and can no human +vigilance warn us beforehand of the forces imprisoned in ourselves +which that key _may_ unlock? + +For the first time, thoughts such as these rose darkly—as shadowy and +terrible possibilities—in Miss Garth’s mind. For the first time, she +associated those possibilities with the past conduct and characters, +with the future lives and fortunes of the orphan sisters. + +Searching, as in a glass darkly, into the two natures, she felt her +way, doubt by doubt, from one possible truth to another. It might be +that the upper surface of their characters was all that she had, thus +far, plainly seen in Norah and Magdalen. It might be that the +unalluring secrecy and reserve of one sister, the all-attractive +openness and high spirits of the other, were more or less referable, in +each case, to those physical causes which work toward the production of +moral results. It might be, that under the surface so formed—a surface +which there had been nothing, hitherto, in the happy, prosperous, +uneventful lives of the sisters to disturb—forces of inborn and inbred +disposition had remained concealed, which the shock of the first +serious calamity in their lives had now thrown up into view. Was this +so? Was the promise of the future shining with prophetic light through +the surface-shadow of Norah’s reserve, and darkening with prophetic +gloom, under the surface-glitter of Magdalen’s bright spirits? If the +life of the elder sister was destined henceforth to be the ripening +ground of the undeveloped Good that was in her—was the life of the +younger doomed to be the battle-field of mortal conflict with the +roused forces of Evil in herself? + +On the brink of that terrible conclusion, Miss Garth shrank back in +dismay. Her heart was the heart of a true woman. It accepted the +conviction which raised Norah higher in her love: it rejected the doubt +which threatened to place Magdalen lower. She rose and paced the room +impatiently; she recoiled with an angry suddenness from the whole train +of thought in which her mind had been engaged but the moment before. +What if there were dangerous elements in the strength of Magdalen’s +character—was it not her duty to help the girl against herself? How had +she performed that duty? She had let herself be governed by first fears +and first impressions; she had never waited to consider whether +Magdalen’s openly acknowledged action of that morning might not imply a +self-sacrificing fortitude, which promised, in after-life, the noblest +and the most enduring results. She had let Norah go and speak those +words of tender remonstrance, which she should first have spoken +herself. “Oh!” she thought, bitterly, “how long I have lived in the +world, and how little I have known of my own weakness and wickedness +until to-day!” + +The door of the room opened. Norah came in, as she had gone out, alone. + +“Do you remember leaving anything on the little table by the +garden-seat?” she asked, quietly. + +Before Miss Garth could answer the question, she held out her father’s +will and her father’s letter. + +“Magdalen came back after you went away,” she said, “and found these +last relics. She heard Mr. Pendril say they were her legacy and mine. +When I went into the garden she was reading the letter. There was no +need for me to speak to her; our father had spoken to her from his +grave. See how she has listened to him!” + +She pointed to the letter. The traces of heavy tear-drops lay thick +over the last lines of the dead man’s writing. + +“_Her_ tears,” said Norah, softly. + +Miss Garth’s head drooped low over the mute revelation of Magdalen’s +return to her better self. + +“Oh, never doubt her again!” pleaded Norah. “We are alone now—we have +our hard way through the world to walk on as patiently as we can. If +Magdalen ever falters and turns back, help her for the love of old +times; help her against herself.” + +“With all my heart and strength—as God shall judge me, with the +devotion of my whole life!” In those fervent words Miss Garth answered. +She took the hand which Norah held out to her, and put it, in sorrow +and humility, to her lips. “Oh, my love, forgive me! I have been +miserably blind—I have never valued you as I ought!” + +Norah gently checked her before she could say more; gently whispered, +“Come with me into the garden—come, and help Magdalen to look patiently +to the future.” + +The future! Who could see the faintest glimmer of it? Who could see +anything but the ill-omened figure of Michael Vanstone, posted darkly +on the verge of the present time—and closing all the prospect that lay +beyond him? + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +On the next morning but one, news was received from Mr. Pendril. The +place of Michael Vanstone’s residence on the Continent had been +discovered. He was living at Zurich; and a letter had been dispatched +to him, at that place, on the day when the information was obtained. In +the course of the coming week an answer might be expected, and the +purport of it should be communicated forthwith to the ladies at +Combe-Raven. + +Short as it was, the interval of delay passed wearily. Ten days elapsed +before the expected answer was received; and when it came at last, it +proved to be, strictly speaking, no answer at all. Mr. Pendril had been +merely referred to an agent in London who was in possession of Michael +Vanstone’s instructions. Certain difficulties had been discovered in +connection with those instructions, which had produced the necessity of +once more writing to Zurich. And there “the negotiations” rested again +for the present. + +A second paragraph in Mr. Pendril’s letter contained another piece of +intelligence entirely new. Mr. Michael Vanstone’s son (and only child), +Mr. Noel Vanstone, had recently arrived in London, and was then staying +in lodgings occupied by his cousin, Mr. George Bartram. Professional +considerations had induced Mr. Pendril to pay a visit to the lodgings. +He had been very kindly received by Mr. Bartram; but had been informed +by that gentleman that his cousin was not then in a condition to +receive visitors. Mr. Noel Vanstone had been suffering, for some years +past, from a wearing and obstinate malady; he had come to England +expressly to obtain the best medical advice, and he still felt the +fatigue of the journey so severely as to be confined to his bed. Under +these circumstances, Mr. Pendril had no alternative but to take his +leave. An interview with Mr. Noel Vanstone might have cleared up some +of the difficulties in connection with his father’s instructions. As +events had turned out, there was no help for it but to wait for a few +days more. + +The days passed, the empty days of solitude and suspense. At last, a +third letter from the lawyer announced the long delayed conclusion of +the correspondence. The final answer had been received from Zurich, and +Mr. Pendril would personally communicate it at Combe-Raven on the +afternoon of the next day. + +That next day was Wednesday, the twelfth of August. The weather had +changed in the night; and the sun rose watery through mist and cloud. +By noon the sky was overcast at all points; the temperature was +sensibly colder; and the rain poured down, straight and soft and +steady, on the thirsty earth. Toward three o’clock, Miss Garth and +Norah entered the morning-room, to await Mr. Pendril’s arrival. They +were joined shortly afterward by Magdalen. In half an hour more the +familiar fall of the iron latch in the socket reached their ears from +the fence beyond the shrubbery. Mr. Pendril and Mr. Clare advanced into +view along the garden-path, walking arm-in-arm through the rain, +sheltered by the same umbrella. The lawyer bowed as they passed the +windows; Mr. Clare walked straight on, deep in his own +thoughts—noticing nothing. + +After a delay which seemed interminable; after a weary scraping of wet +feet on the hall mat; after a mysterious, muttered interchange of +question and answer outside the door, the two came in—Mr. Clare leading +the way. The old man walked straight up to the table, without any +preliminary greeting, and looked across it at the three women, with a +stern pity for them in his ragged, wrinkled face. + +“Bad news,” he said. “I am an enemy to all unnecessary suspense. +Plainness is kindness in such a case as this. I mean to be kind—and I +tell you plainly—bad news.” + +Mr. Pendril followed him. He shook hands, in silence, with Miss Garth +and the two sisters, and took a seat near them. Mr. Clare placed +himself apart on a chair by the window. The gray rainy light fell soft +and sad on the faces of Norah and Magdalen, who sat together opposite +to him. Miss Garth had placed herself a little behind them, in partial +shadow; and the lawyer’s quiet face was seen in profile, close beside +her. So the four occupants of the room appeared to Mr. Clare, as he sat +apart in his corner; his long claw-like fingers interlaced on his knee; +his dark vigilant eyes fixed searchingly now on one face, now on +another. The dripping rustle of the rain among the leaves, and the +clear, ceaseless tick of the clock on the mantel-piece, made the minute +of silence which followed the settling of the persons present in their +places indescribably oppressive. It was a relief to every one when Mr. +Pendril spoke. + +“Mr. Clare has told you already,” he began, “that I am the bearer of +bad news. I am grieved to say, Miss Garth, that your doubts, when I +last saw you, were better founded than my hopes. What that heartless +elder brother was in his youth, he is still in his old age. In all my +unhappy experience of the worst side of human nature, I have never met +with a man so utterly dead to every consideration of mercy as Michael +Vanstone.” + +“Do you mean that he takes the whole of his brother’s fortune, and +makes no provision whatever for his brother’s children?” asked Miss +Garth. + +“He offers a sum of money for present emergencies,” replied Mr. +Pendril, “so meanly and disgracefully insufficient that I am ashamed to +mention it.” + +“And nothing for the future?” + +“Absolutely nothing.” + +As that answer was given, the same thought passed, at the same moment, +through Miss Garth’s mind and through Norah’s. The decision, which +deprived both the sisters alike of the resources of fortune, did not +end there for the younger of the two. Michael Vanstone’s merciless +resolution had virtually pronounced the sentence which dismissed Frank +to China, and which destroyed all present hope of Magdalen’s marriage. +As the words passed the lawyer’s lips, Miss Garth and Norah looked at +Magdalen anxiously. Her face turned a shade paler—but not a feature of +it moved; not a word escaped her. Norah, who held her sister’s hand in +her own, felt it tremble for a moment, and then turn cold—and that was +all. + +“Let me mention plainly what I have done,” resumed Mr. Pendril; “I am +very desirous you should not think that I have left any effort untried. +When I wrote to Michael Vanstone, in the first instance, I did not +confine myself to the usual formal statement. I put before him, plainly +and earnestly, every one of the circumstances under which he has become +possessed of his brother’s fortune. When I received the answer, +referring me to his written instructions to his lawyer in London—and +when a copy of those instructions was placed in my hands—I positively +declined, on becoming acquainted with them, to receive the writer’s +decision as final. I induced the solicitor, on the other side, to +accord us a further term of delay; I attempted to see Mr. Noel Vanstone +in London for the purpose of obtaining his intercession; and, failing +in that, I myself wrote to his father for the second time. The answer +referred me, in insolently curt terms, to the instructions already +communicated; declared those instructions to be final; and declined any +further correspondence with me. There is the beginning and the end of +the negotiation. If I have overlooked any means of touching this +heartless man—tell me, and those means shall be tried.” + +He looked at Norah. She pressed her sister’s hand encouragingly, and +answered for both of them. + +“I speak for my sister, as well as for myself,” she said, with her +color a little heightened, with her natural gentleness of manner just +touched by a quiet, uncomplaining sadness. “You have done all that +could be done, Mr. Pendril. We have tried to restrain ourselves from +hoping too confidently; and we are deeply grateful for your kindness, +at a time when kindness is sorely needed by both of us.” + +Magdalen’s hand returned the pressure of her sister’s—withdrew +itself—trifled for a moment impatiently with the arrangement of her +dress—then suddenly moved the chair closer to the table. Leaning one +arm on it (with the hand fast clinched), she looked across at Mr. +Pendril. Her face, always remarkable for its want of color, was now +startling to contemplate, in its blank, bloodless pallor. But the light +in her large gray eyes was bright and steady as ever; and her voice, +though low in tone, was clear and resolute in accent as she addressed +the lawyer in these terms: + +“I understood you to say, Mr. Pendril, that my father’s brother had +sent his written orders to London, and that you had a copy. Have you +preserved it?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Have you got it about you?” + +“I have.” + +“May I see it?” + +Mr. Pendril hesitated, and looked uneasily from Magdalen to Miss Garth, +and from Miss Garth back again to Magdalen. + +“Pray oblige me by not pressing your request,” he said. “It is surely +enough that you know the result of the instructions. Why should you +agitate yourself to no purpose by reading them? They are expressed so +cruelly; they show such abominable want of feeling, that I really +cannot prevail upon myself to let you see them.” + +“I am sensible of your kindness, Mr. Pendril, in wishing to spare me +pain. But I can bear pain; I promise to distress nobody. Will you +excuse me if I repeat my request?” + +She held out her hand—the soft, white, virgin hand that had touched +nothing to soil it or harden it yet. + +“Oh, Magdalen, think again!” said Norah. + +“You distress Mr. Pendril,” added Miss Garth; “you distress us all.” + +“There can be no end gained,” pleaded the lawyer—“forgive me for saying +so—there can really be no useful end gained by my showing you the +instructions.” + +(“Fools!” said Mr. Clare to himself. “Have they no eyes to see that she +means to have her own way?”) + +“Something tells me there is an end to be gained,” persisted Magdalen. +“This decision is a very serious one. It is more serious to me—” She +looked round at Mr. Clare, who sat closely watching her, and instantly +looked back again, with the first outward betrayal of emotion which had +escaped her yet. “It is even more serious to me,” she resumed, “for +private reasons—than it is to my sister. I know nothing yet but that +our father’s brother has taken our fortunes from us. He must have some +motives of his own for such conduct as that. It is not fair to him, or +fair to us, to keep those motives concealed. He has deliberately robbed +Norah, and robbed me; and I think we have a right, if we wish it, to +know why?” + +“I don’t wish it,” said Norah. + +“I do,” said Magdalen; and once more she held out her hand. + +At this point Mr. Clare roused himself and interfered for the first +time. + +“You have relieved your conscience,” he said, addressing the lawyer. +“Give her the right she claims. It _is_ her right—if she will have it.” + +Mr. Pendril quietly took the written instructions from his pocket. “I +have warned you,” he said—and handed the papers across the table +without another word. One of the pages of writing—was folded down at +the corner; and at that folded page the manuscript opened, when +Magdalen first turned the leaves. “Is this the place which refers to my +sister and myself?” she inquired. Mr. Pendril bowed; and Magdalen +smoothed out the manuscript before her on the table. + +“Will you decide, Norah?” she asked, turning to her sister. “Shall I +read this aloud, or shall I read it to myself?” + +“To yourself,” said Miss Garth; answering for Norah, who looked at her +in mute perplexity and distress. + +“It shall be as you wish,” said Magdalen. With that reply, she turned +again to the manuscript and read these lines: + +“. . . . You are now in possession of my wishes in relation to the +property in money, and to the sale of the furniture, carriages, horses, +and so forth. The last point left on which it is necessary for me to +instruct you refers to the persons inhabiting the house, and to certain +preposterous claims on their behalf set up by a solicitor named +Pendril; who has, no doubt, interested reasons of his own for making +application to me. + +“I understand that my late brother has left two illegitimate children; +both of them young women, who are of an age to earn their own +livelihood. Various considerations, all equally irregular, have been +urged in respect to these persons by the solicitor representing them. +Be so good as to tell him that neither you nor I have anything to do +with questions of mere sentiment; and then state plainly, for his +better information, what the motives are which regulate my conduct, and +what the provision is which I feel myself justified in making for the +two young women. Your instructions on both these points you will find +detailed in the next paragraph. + +“I wish the persons concerned to know, once for all, how I regard the +circumstances which have placed my late brother’s property at my +disposal. Let them understand that I consider those circumstances to be +a Providential interposition which has restored to me the inheritance +that ought always to have been mine. I receive the money, not only as +my right, but also as a proper compensation for the injustice which I +suffered from my father, and a proper penalty paid by my younger +brother for the vile intrigue by which he succeeded in disinheriting +me. His conduct, when a young man, was uniformly discreditable in all +the relations of life; and what it then was it continued to be (on the +showing of his own legal representative) after the time when I ceased +to hold any communication with him. He appears to have systematically +imposed a woman on Society as his wife who was not his wife, and to +have completed the outrage on morality by afterward marrying her. Such +conduct as this has called down a Judgment on himself and his children. +I will not invite retribution on my own head by assisting those +children to continue the imposition which their parents practiced, and +by helping them to take a place in the world to which they are not +entitled. Let them, as becomes their birth, gain their bread in +situations. If they show themselves disposed to accept their proper +position I will assist them to start virtuously in life by a present of +one hundred pounds each. This sum I authorize you to pay them, on their +personal application, with the necessary acknowledgment of receipt; and +on the express understanding that the transaction, so completed, is to +be the beginning and the end of my connection with them. The +arrangements under which they quit the house I leave to your +discretion; and I have only to add that my decision on this matter, as +on all other matters, is positive and final.” + +Line by line—without once looking up from the pages before her +—Magdalen read those atrocious sentences through, from beginning to +end. The other persons assembled in the room, all eagerly looking at +her together, saw the dress rising and falling faster and faster over +her bosom—saw the hand in which she lightly held the manuscript at the +outset close unconsciously on the paper and crush it, as she advanced +nearer and nearer to the end—but detected no other outward signs of +what was passing within her. As soon as she had done, she silently +pushed the manuscript away, and put her hands on a sudden over her +face. When she withdrew them, all the four persons in the room noticed +a change in her. Something in her expression had altered, subtly and +silently; something which made the familiar features suddenly look +strange, even to her sister and Miss Garth; something, through all +after years, never to be forgotten in connection with that day—and +never to be described. + +The first words she spoke were addressed to Mr. Pendril. + +“May I ask one more favor,” she said, “before you enter on your +business arrangements?” + +Mr. Pendril replied ceremoniously by a gesture of assent. Magdalen’s +resolution to possess herself of the Instructions did not appear to +have produced a favorable impression on the lawyer’s mind. + +“You mentioned what you were so kind as to do, in our interests, when +you first wrote to Mr. Michael Vanstone,” she continued. “You said you +had told him all the circumstances. I want—if you will allow me—to be +made quite sure of what he really knew about us—when he sent these +orders to his lawyer. Did he know that my father had made a will, and +that he had left our fortunes to my sister and myself?” + +“He did know it,” said Mr. Pendril. + +“Did you tell him how it happened that we are left in this helpless +position?” + +“I told him that your father was entirely unaware, when he married, of +the necessity for making another will.” + +“And that another will would have been made, after he saw Mr. Clare, +but for the dreadful misfortune of his death?” + +“He knew that also.” + +“Did he know that my father’s untiring goodness and kindness to both of +us—” + +Her voice faltered for the first time: she sighed, and put her hand to +her head wearily. Norah spoke entreatingly to her; Miss Garth spoke +entreatingly to her; Mr. Clare sat silent, watching her more and more +earnestly. She answered her sister’s remonstrance with a faint smile. +“I will keep my promise,” she said; “I will distress nobody.” With that +reply, she turned again to Mr. Pendril; and steadily reiterated the +question—but in another form of words. + +“Did Mr. Michael Vanstone know that my father’s great anxiety was to +make sure of providing for my sister and myself?” + +“He knew it in your father’s own words. I sent him an extract from your +father’s last letter to me.” + +“The letter which asked you to come for God’s sake, and relieve him +from the dreadful thought that his daughters were unprovided for? The +letter which said he should not rest in his grave if he left us +disinherited?” + +“That letter and those words.” + +She paused, still keeping her eyes steadily fixed on the lawyer’s face. + +“I want to fasten it all in my mind,” she said “before I go on. Mr. +Michael Vanstone knew of the first will; he knew what prevented the +making of the second will; he knew of the letter and he read the words. +What did he know of besides? Did you tell him of my mother’s last +illness? Did you say that her share in the money would have been left +to us, if she could have lifted her dying hand in your presence? Did +you try to make him ashamed of the cruel law which calls girls in our +situation Nobody’s Children, and which allows him to use us as he is +using us now?” + +“I put all those considerations to him. I left none of them doubtful; I +left none of them out.” + +She slowly reached her hand to the copy of the Instructions, and slowly +folded it up again, in the shape in which it had been presented to her. +“I am much obliged to you, Mr. Pendril.” With those words, she bowed, +and gently pushed the manuscript back across the table; then turned to +her sister. + +“Norah,” she said, “if we both of us live to grow old, and if you ever +forget all that we owe to Michael Vanstone—come to me, and I will +remind you.” + +She rose and walked across the room by herself to the window. As she +passed Mr. Clare, the old man stretched out his claw-like fingers and +caught her fast by the arm before she was aware of him. + +“What is this mask of yours hiding?” he asked, forcing her to bend to +him, and looking close into her face. “Which of the extremes of human +temperature does your courage start from—the dead cold or the white +hot?” + +She shrank back from him and turned away her head in silence. She would +have resented that unscrupulous intrusion on her own thoughts from any +man alive but Frank’s father. He dropped her arm as suddenly as he had +taken it, and let her go on to the window. “No,” he said to himself, +“not the cold extreme, whatever else it may be. So much the worse for +her, and for all belonging to her.” + +There was a momentary pause. Once more the dripping rustle of the rain +and the steady ticking of the clock filled up the gap of silence. Mr. +Pendril put the Instructions back in his pocket, considered a little, +and, turning toward Norah and Miss Garth, recalled their attention to +the present and pressing necessities of the time. + +“Our consultation has been needlessly prolonged,” he said, “by painful +references to the past. We shall be better employed in settling our +arrangements for the future. I am obliged to return to town this +evening. Pray let me hear how I can best assist you; pray tell me what +trouble and what responsibility I can take off your hands.” + +For the moment, neither Norah nor Miss Garth seemed to be capable of +answering him. Magdalen’s reception of the news which annihilated the +marriage prospect that her father’s own lips had placed before her not +a month since, had bewildered and dismayed them alike. They had +summoned their courage to meet the shock of her passionate grief, or to +face the harder trial of witnessing her speechless despair. But they +were not prepared for her invincible resolution to read the +Instructions; for the terrible questions which she had put to the +lawyer; for her immovable determination to fix all the circumstances in +her mind, under which Michael Vanstone’s decision had been pronounced. +There she stood at the window, an unfathomable mystery to the sister +who had never been parted from her, to the governess who had trained +her from a child. Miss Garth remembered the dark doubts which had +crossed her mind on the day when she and Magdalen had met in the +garden. Norah looked forward to the coming time, with the first serious +dread of it on her sister’s account which she had felt yet. Both had +hitherto remained passive, in despair of knowing what to do. Both were +now silent, in despair of knowing what to say. + +Mr. Pendril patiently and kindly helped them, by returning to the +subject of their future plans for the second time. + +“I am sorry to press any business matters on your attention,” he said, +“when you are necessarily unfitted to deal with them. But I must take +my instructions back to London with me to-night. With reference, in the +first place, to the disgraceful pecuniary offer, to which I have +already alluded. The younger Miss Vanstone having read the +Instructions, needs no further information from my lips. The elder +will, I hope, excuse me if I tell her (what I should be ashamed to tell +her, but that it is a matter of necessity), that Mr. Michael Vanstone’s +provision for his brother’s children begins and ends with an offer to +each of them of one hundred pounds.” + +Norah’s face crimsoned with indignation. She started to her feet, as if +Michael Vanstone had been present in the room, and had personally +insulted her. + +“I see,” said the lawyer, wishing to spare her; “I may tell Mr. Michael +Vanstone you refuse the money.” + +“Tell him,” she broke out passionately, “if I was starving by the +roadside, I wouldn’t touch a farthing of it!” + +“Shall I notify your refusal also?” asked Mr. Pendril, speaking to +Magdalen next. + +She turned round from the window—but kept her face in shadow, by +standing close against it with her back to the light. + +“Tell him, on my part,” she said, “to think again before he starts me +in life with a hundred pounds. I will give him time to think.” She +spoke those strange words with a marked emphasis; and turning back +quickly to the window, hid her face from the observation of every one +in the room. + +“You both refuse the offer,” said Mr. Pendril, taking out his pencil, +and making his professional note of the decision. As he shut up his +pocketbook, he glanced toward Magdalen doubtfully. She had roused in +him the latent distrust which is a lawyer’s second nature: he had his +suspicions of her looks; he had his suspicions of her language. Her +sister seemed to have mere influence over her than Miss Garth. He +resolved to speak privately to her sister before he went away. + +While the idea was passing through his mind, his attention was claimed +by another question from Magdalen. + +“Is he an old man?” she asked, suddenly, without turning round from the +window. + +“If you mean Mr. Michael Vanstone, he is seventy-five or seventy-six +years of age.” + +“You spoke of his son a little while since. Has he any other sons—or +daughters?” + +“None.” + +“Do you know anything of his wife?” + +“She has been dead for many years.” + +There was a pause. “Why do you ask these questions?” said Norah. + +“I beg your pardon,” replied Magdalen, quietly; “I won’t ask any more.” + +For the third time, Mr. Pendril returned to the business of the +interview. + +“The servants must not be forgotten,” he said. “They must be settled +with and discharged: I will give them the necessary explanation before +I leave. As for the house, no questions connected with it need trouble +you. The carriages and horses, the furniture and plate, and so on, must +simply be left on the premises to await Mr. Michael Vanstone’s further +orders. But any possessions, Miss Vanstone, personally belonging to you +or to your sister—jewelry and dresses, and any little presents which +may have been made to you—are entirely at your disposal. With regard to +the time of your departure, I understand that a month or more will +elapse before Mr. Michael Vanstone can leave Zurich; and I am sure I +only do his solicitor justice in saying—” + +“Excuse me, Mr. Pendril,” interposed Norah; “I think I understand, from +what you have just said, that our house and everything in it belongs +to—?” She stopped, as if the mere utterance of the man’s name was +abhorrent to her. + +“To Michael Vanstone,” said Mr. Pendril. “The house goes to him with +the rest of the property.” + +“Then I, for one, am ready to leave it tomorrow!” + +Magdalen started at the window, as her sister spoke, and looked at Mr. +Clare, with the first open signs of anxiety and alarm which she had +shown yet. + +“Don’t be angry with me,” she whispered, stooping over the old man with +a sudden humility of look, and a sudden nervousness of manner. “I can’t +go without seeing Frank first!” + +“You shall see him,” replied Mr. Clare. “I am here to speak to you +about it, when the business is done.” + +“It is quite unnecessary to hurry your departure, as you propose,” +continued Mr. Pendril, addressing Norah. “I can safely assure you that +a week hence will be time enough.” + +“If this is Mr. Michael Vanstone’s house,” repeated Norah; “I am ready +to leave it tomorrow.” + +She impatiently quitted her chair and seated herself further away on +the sofa. As she laid her hand on the back of it, her face changed. +There, at the head of the sofa, were the cushions which had supported +her mother when she lay down for the last time to repose. There, at the +foot of the sofa, was the clumsy, old-fashioned arm-chair, which had +been her father’s favorite seat on rainy days, when she and her sister +used to amuse him at the piano opposite, by playing his favorite tunes. +A heavy sigh, which she tried vainly to repress, burst from her lips. +“Oh,” she thought, “I had forgotten these old friends! How shall we +part from them when the time comes!” + +“May I inquire, Miss Vanstone, whether you and your sister have formed +any definite plans for the future?” asked Mr. Pendril. “Have you +thought of any place of residence?” + +“I may take it on myself, sir,” said Miss Garth, “to answer your +question for them. When they leave this house, they leave it with me. +My home is their home, and my bread is their bread. Their parents +honored me, trusted me, and loved me. For twelve happy years they never +let me remember that I was their governess; they only let me know +myself as their companion and their friend. My memory of them is the +memory of unvarying gentleness and generosity; and my life shall pay +the debt of my gratitude to their orphan children.” + +Norah rose hastily from the sofa; Magdalen impetuously left the window. +For once, there was no contrast in the conduct of the sisters. For +once, the same impulse moved their hearts, the same earnest feeling +inspired their words. Miss Garth waited until the first outburst of +emotion had passed away; then rose, and, taking Norah and Magdalen each +by the hand, addressed herself to Mr. Pendril and Mr. Clare. She spoke +with perfect self-possession; strong in her artless unconsciousness of +her own good action. + +“Even such a trifle as my own story,” she said, “is of some importance +at such a moment as this. I wish you both, gentlemen, to understand +that I am not promising more to the daughters of your old friend than I +can perform. When I first came to this house, I entered it under such +independent circumstances as are not common in the lives of +governesses. In my younger days, I was associated in teaching with my +elder sister: we established a school in London, which grew to be a +large and prosperous one. I only left it, and became a private +governess, because the heavy responsibility of the school was more than +my strength could bear. I left my share in the profits untouched, and I +possess a pecuniary interest in our establishment to this day. That is +my story, in few words. When we leave this house, I propose that we +shall go back to the school in London, which is still prosperously +directed by my elder sister. We can live there as quietly as we please, +until time has helped us to bear our affliction better than we can bear +it now. If Norah’s and Magdalen’s altered prospects oblige them to earn +their own independence, I can help them to earn it, as a gentleman’s +daughters should. The best families in this land are glad to ask my +sister’s advice where the interests of their children’s home-training +are concerned; and I answer, beforehand, for her hearty desire to serve +Mr. Vanstone’s daughters, as I answer for my own. That is the future +which my gratitude to their father and mother, and my love for +themselves, now offers to them. If you think my proposal, gentlemen, a +fit and fair proposal—and I see in your faces that you do—let us not +make the hard necessities of our position harder still, by any useless +delay in meeting them at once. Let us do what we must do; let us act on +Norah’s decision, and leave this house to-morrow. You mentioned the +servants just now, Mr. Pendril: I am ready to call them together in the +next room, and to assist you in the settlement of their claims, +whenever you please.” + +Without waiting for the lawyer’s answer, without leaving the sisters +time to realize their own terrible situation, she moved at once toward +the door. It was her wise resolution to meet the coming trial by doing +much and saying little. Before she could leave the room, Mr. Clare +followed, and stopped her on the threshold. + +“I never envied a woman’s feelings before,” said the old man. “It may +surprise you to hear it; but I envy yours. Wait! I have something more +to say. There is an obstacle still left—the everlasting obstacle of +Frank. Help me to sweep him off. Take the elder sister along with you +and the lawyer, and leave me here to have it out with the younger. I +want to see what metal she’s really made of.” + +While Mr. Clare was addressing these words to Miss Garth, Mr. Pendril +had taken the opportunity of speaking to Norah. “Before I go back to +town,” he said, “I should like to have a word with you in private. From +what has passed today, Miss Vanstone, I have formed a very high opinion +of your discretion; and, as an old friend of your father’s, I want to +take the freedom of speaking to you about your sister.” + +Before Norah could answer, she was summoned, in compliance with Mr. +Clare’s request, to the conference with the servants. Mr. Pendril +followed Miss Garth, as a matter of course. When the three were out in +the hall, Mr. Clare re-entered the room, closed the door, and signed +peremptorily to Magdalen to take a chair. + +She obeyed him in silence. He took a turn up and down the room, with +his hands in the side-pockets of the long, loose, shapeless coat which +he habitually wore. + +“How old are you?” he said, stopping suddenly, and speaking to her with +the whole breadth of the room between them. + +“I was eighteen last birthday,” she answered, humbly, without looking +up at him. + +“You have shown extraordinary courage for a girl of eighteen. Have you +got any of that courage left?” + +She clasped her hands together, and wrung them hard. A few tears +gathered in her eyes, and rolled slowly over her cheeks. + +“I can’t give Frank up,” she said, faintly. “You don’t care for me, I +know; but you used to care for my father. Will you try to be kind to me +for my father’s sake?” + +The last words died away in a whisper; she could say no more. Never had +she felt the illimitable power which a woman’s love possesses of +absorbing into itself every other event, every other joy or sorrow of +her life, as she felt it then. Never had she so tenderly associated +Frank with the memory of her lost parents, as at that moment. Never had +the impenetrable atmosphere of illusion through which women behold the +man of their choice—the atmosphere which had blinded her to all that +was weak, selfish, and mean in Frank’s nature—surrounded him with a +brighter halo than now, when she was pleading with the father for the +possession of the son. “Oh, don’t ask me to give him up!” she said, +trying to take courage, and shuddering from head to foot. In the next +instant, she flew to the opposite extreme, with the suddenness of a +flash of lightning. “I won’t give him up!” she burst out violently. +“No! not if a thousand fathers ask me!” + +“I am one father,” said Mr. Clare. “And I don’t ask you.” + +In the first astonishment and delight of hearing those unexpected +words, she started to her feet, crossed the room, and tried to throw +her arms round his neck. She might as well have attempted to move the +house from its foundations. He took her by the shoulders and put her +back in her chair. His inexorable eyes looked her into submission; and +his lean forefinger shook at her warningly, as if he was quieting a +fractious child. + +“Hug Frank,” he said; “don’t hug me. I haven’t done with you yet; when +I have, you may shake hands with me, if you like. Wait, and compose +yourself.” + +He left her. His hands went back into his pockets, and his monotonous +march up and down the room began again. + +“Ready?” he asked, stopping short after a while. She tried to answer. +“Take two minutes more,” he said, and resumed his walk with the +regularity of clock-work. “These are the creatures,” he thought to +himself, “into whose keeping men otherwise sensible give the happiness +of their lives. Is there any other object in creation, I wonder, which +answers its end as badly as a woman does?” + +He stopped before her once more. Her breathing was easier; the dark +flush on her face was dying out again. + +“Ready?” he repeated. “Yes; ready at last. Listen to me; and let’s get +it over. I don’t ask you to give Frank up. I ask you to wait.” + +“I will wait,” she said. “Patiently, willingly.” + +“Will you make Frank wait?” + +“Yes.” + +“Will you send him to China?” + +Her head drooped upon her bosom, and she clasped her hands again, in +silence. Mr. Clare saw where the difficulty lay, and marched straight +up to it on the spot. + +“I don’t pretend to enter into your feelings for Frank, or Frank’s for +you,” he said. “The subject doesn’t interest me. But I _do_ pretend to +state two plain truths. It is one plain truth that you can’t be married +till you have money enough to pay for the roof that shelters you, the +clothes that cover you, and the victuals you eat. It is another plain +truth that you can’t find the money; that I can’t find the money; and +that Frank’s only chance of finding it, is going to China. If I tell +him to go, he’ll sit in a corner and cry. If I insist, he’ll say Yes, +and deceive me. If I go a step further, and see him on board ship with +my own eyes, he’ll slip off in the pilot’s boat, and sneak back +secretly to you. That’s his disposition.” + +“No!” said Magdalen. “It’s not his disposition; it’s his love for Me.” + +“Call it what you like,” retorted Mr. Clare. “Sneak or Sweetheart —he’s +too slippery, in either capacity, for my fingers to hold him. My +shutting the door won’t keep him from coming back. Your shutting the +door will. Have you the courage to shut it? Are you fond enough of him +not to stand in his light?” + +“Fond! I would die for him!” + +“Will you send him to China?” + +She sighed bitterly. + +“Have a little pity for me,” she said. “I have lost my father; I have +lost my mother; I have lost my fortune—and now I am to lose Frank. You +don’t like women, I know; but try to help me with a little pity. I +don’t say it’s not for his own interests to send him to China; I only +say it’s hard—very, very hard on _me_.” + +Mr. Clare had been deaf to her violence, insensible to her caresses, +blind to her tears; but under the tough integument of his philosophy he +had a heart—and it answered that hopeless appeal; it felt those +touching words. + +“I don’t deny that your case is a hard one,” he said. “I don’t want to +make it harder. I only ask you to do in Frank’s interests what Frank is +too weak to do for himself. It’s no fault of yours; it’s no fault of +mine—but it’s not the less true that the fortune you were to have +brought him has changed owners.” + +She suddenly looked up, with a furtive light in her eyes, with a +threatening smile on her lips. + +“It may change owners again,” she said. + +Mr. Clare saw the alteration in her expression, and heard the tones of +her voice. But the words were spoken low; spoken as if to herself—they +failed to reach him across the breadth of the room. He stopped +instantly in his walk and asked what she had said. + +“Nothing,” she answered, turning her head away toward the window, and +looking out mechanically at the falling rain. “Only my own thoughts.” + +Mr. Clare resumed his walk, and returned to his subject. + +“It’s your interest,” he went on, “as well as Frank’s interest, that he +should go. He may make money enough to marry you in China; he can’t +make it here. If he stops at home, he’ll be the ruin of both of you. +He’ll shut his eyes to every consideration of prudence, and pester you +to marry him; and when he has carried his point, he will be the first +to turn round afterward and complain that you’re a burden on him. Hear +me out! You’re in love with Frank—I’m not, and I know him. Put you two +together often enough; give him time enough to hug, cry, pester, and +plead; and I’ll tell you what the end will be—you’ll marry him.” + +He had touched the right string at last. It rung back in answer before +he could add another word. + +“You don’t know me,” she said, firmly. “You don’t know what I can +suffer for Frank’s sake. He shall never marry me till I can be what my +father said I should be—the making of his fortune. He shall take no +burden, when he takes me; I promise you that! I’ll be the good angel of +Frank’s life; I’ll not go a penniless girl to him, and drag him down.” +She abruptly left her seat, advanced a few steps toward Mr. Clare, and +stopped in the middle of the room. Her arms fell helpless on either +side of her, and she burst into tears. “He shall go,” she said. “If my +heart breaks in doing it, I’ll tell him to-morrow that we must say +Good-by!” + +Mr. Clare at once advanced to meet her, and held out his hand. + +“I’ll help you,” he said. “Frank shall hear every word that has passed +between us. When he comes to-morrow he shall know, beforehand, that he +comes to say Good-by.” + +She took his hand in both her own—hesitated—looked at him—and pressed +it to her bosom. “May I ask a favor of you, before you go?” she said, +timidly. He tried to take his hand from her; but she knew her +advantage, and held it fast. “Suppose there should be some change for +the better?” she went on. “Suppose I could come to Frank, as my fat her +said I should come to him—?” + +Before she could complete the question, Mr. Clare made a second effort +and withdrew his hand. “As your father said you should come to him?” he +repeated, looking at her attentively. + +“Yes,” she replied. “Strange things happen sometimes. If strange things +happen to me will you let Frank come back before the five years are +out?” + +What did she mean? Was she clinging desperately to the hope of melting +Michael Vanstone’s heart? Mr. Clare could draw no other conclusion from +what she had just said to him. At the beginning of the interview he +would have roughly dispelled her delusion. At the end of the interview +he left her compassionately in possession of it. + +“You are hoping against all hope,” he said; “but if it gives you +courage, hope on. If this impossible good fortune of yours ever +happens, tell me, and Frank shall come back. In the meantime—” + +“In the meantime,” she interposed sadly, “you have my promise.” + +Once more Mr. Clare’s sharp eyes searched her face attentively. + +“I will trust your promise,” he said. “You shall see Frank to-morrow.” + +She went back thoughtfully to her chair, and sat down again in silence. +Mr. Clare made for the door before any formal leave-taking could pass +between them. “Deep!” he thought to himself, as he looked back at her +before he went out; “only eighteen; and too deep for my sounding!” + +In the hall he found Norah, waiting anxiously to hear what had +happened. + +“Is it all over?” she asked. “Does Frank go to China?” + +“Be careful how you manage that sister of yours,” said Mr. Clare, +without noticing the question. “She has one great misfortune to contend +with: she’s not made for the ordinary jog-trot of a woman’s life. I +don’t say I can see straight to the end of the good or evil in her—I +only warn you, her future will be no common one.” + +An hour later, Mr. Pendril left the house; and, by that night’s post, +Miss Garth dispatched a letter to her sister in London. + +THE END OF THE FIRST SCENE. + + + +BETWEEN THE SCENES. +PROGRESS OF THE STORY THROUGH THE POST. + +I. +From Norah Vanstone to Mr. Pendril. + +“Westmoreland House, Kensington, +“August 14th, 1846. + + +“DEAR MR. PENDRIL,— + +“The date of this letter will show you that the last of many hard +partings is over. We have left Combe-Raven; we have said farewell to +home. + +“I have been thinking seriously of what you said to me on Wednesday, +before you went back to town. I entirely agree with you that Miss Garth +is more shaken by all she has gone through for our sakes than she is +herself willing to admit; and that it is my duty, for the future, to +spare her all the anxiety that I can on the subject of my sister and +myself. This is very little to do for our dearest friend, for our +second mother. Such as it is, I will do it with all my heart. + +“But, forgive me for saying that I am as far as ever from agreeing with +you about Magdalen. I am so sensible, in our helpless position, of the +importance of your assistance; so anxious to be worthy of the interest +of my father’s trusted adviser and oldest friend, that I feel really +and truly disappointed with myself for differing with you—and yet I do +differ. Magdalen is very strange, very unaccountable, to those who +don’t know her intimately. I can understand that she has innocently +misled you; and that she has presented herself, perhaps, under her +least favorable aspect. But that the clue to her language and her +conduct on Wednesday last is to be found in such a feeling toward the +man who has ruined us, as the feeling at which you hinted, is what I +cannot and will not believe of my sister. If you knew, as I do, what a +noble nature she has, you would not be surprised at this obstinate +resistance of mine to your opinion. Will you try to alter it? I don’t +mind what Mr. Clare says; he believes in nothing. But I attach a very +serious importance to what _you_ say; and, kind as I know your motives +to be, it distresses me to think you are doing Magdalen an injustice. + +“Having relieved my mind of this confession, I may now come to the +proper object of my letter. I promised, if you could not find leisure +time to visit us to-day, to write and tell you all that happened after +you left us. The day has passed without our seeing you. So I open my +writing-case and perform my promise. + +“I am sorry to say that three of the women-servants—the house-maid, the +kitchen-maid, and even our own maid (to whom I am sure we have always +been kind)—took advantage of your having paid them their wages to pack +up and go as soon as your back was turned. They came to say good-by +with as much ceremony and as little feeling as if they were leaving the +house under ordinary circumstances. The cook, for all her violent +temper, behaved very differently: she sent up a message to say that she +would stop and help us to the last. And Thomas (who has never yet been +in any other place than ours) spoke so gratefully of my dear father’s +unvarying kindness to him, and asked so anxiously to be allowed to go +on serving us while his little savings lasted, that Magdalen and I +forgot all formal considerations and both shook hands with him. The +poor lad went out of the room crying. I wish him well; I hope he will +find a kind master and a good place. + +“The long, quiet, rainy evening out-of-doors—our last evening at +Combe-Raven—was a sad trial to us. I think winter-time would have +weighed less on our spirits; the drawn curtains and the bright lamps, +and the companionable fires would have helped us. We were only five in +the house altogether—after having once been so many! I can’t tell you +how dreary the gray daylight looked, toward seven o’clock, in the +lonely rooms, and on the noiseless staircase. Surely, the prejudice in +favor of long summer evenings is the prejudice of happy people? We did +our best. We kept ourselves employed, and Miss Garth helped us. The +prospect of preparing for our departure, which had seemed so dreadful +earlier in the day, altered into the prospect of a refuge from +ourselves as the evening came on. We each tried at first to pack up in +our own rooms—but the loneliness was more than we could bear. We +carried all our possessions downstairs, and heaped them on the large +dining-table, and so made our preparations together in the same room. I +am sure we have taken nothing away which does not properly belong to +us. + +“Having already mentioned to you my own conviction that Magdalen was +not herself when you saw her on Wednesday, I feel tempted to stop here +and give you an instance in proof of what I say. The little +circumstance happened on Wednesday night, just before we went up to our +rooms. + +“After we had packed our dresses and our birthday presents, our books +and our music, we began to sort our letters, which had got confused +from being placed on the table together. Some of my letters were mixed +with Magdalen’s, and some of hers with mine. Among these last I found a +card, which had been given to my sister early in the year by an actor +who managed an amateur theatrical performance in which she took a part. +The man had given her the card, containing his name and address, in the +belief that she would be invited to many more amusements of the same +kind, and in the hope that she would recommend him as a superintendent +on future occasions. I only relate these trifling particulars to show +you how little worth keeping such a card could be, in such +circumstances as ours. Naturally enough, I threw it away from me across +the table, meaning to throw it on the floor. It fell short, close to +the place in which Magdalen was sitting. She took it up, looked at it, +and immediately declared that she would not have had this perfectly +worthless thing destroyed for the world. She was almost angry with me +for having thrown it away; almost angry with Miss Garth for asking what +she could possibly want with it! Could there be any plainer proof than +this that our misfortunes—falling so much more heavily on her than on +me—have quite unhinged her, and worn her out? Surely her words and +looks are not to be interpreted against her, when she is not +sufficiently mistress of herself to exert her natural judgment—when she +shows the unreasonable petulance of a child on a question which is not +of the slightest importance. + +“A little after eleven we went upstairs to try if we could get some +rest. + +“I drew aside the curtain of my window and looked out. Oh, what a cruel +last night it was: no moon, no stars; such deep darkness that not one +of the dear familiar objects in the garden was visible when I looked +for them; such deep stillness that even my own movements about the room +almost frightened me! I tried to lie down and sleep, but the sense of +loneliness came again and quite overpowered me. You will say I am old +enough, at six-and-twenty, to have exerted more control over myself. I +hardly know how it happened, but I stole into Magdalen’s room, just as +I used to steal into it years and years ago, when we were children. She +was not in bed; she was sitting with her writing materials before her, +thinking. I said I wanted to be with her the last night; and she kissed +me, and told me to lie down, and promised soon to follow me. My mind +was a little quieted and I fell asleep. It was daylight when I woke—and +the first sight I saw was Magdalen, still sitting in the chair, and +still thinking. She had never been to bed; she had not slept all +through the night. + +“‘I shall sleep when we have left Combe-Raven,’ she said. ‘I shall be +better when it is all over, and I have bid Frank good-by.’ She had in +her hand our father’s will, and the letter he wrote to you; and when +she had done speaking, she gave them into my possession. I was the +eldest (she said), and those last precious relics ought to be in my +keeping. I tried to propose to her that we should divide them; but she +shook her head. ‘I have copied for myself,’ was her answer, ‘all that +he says of us in the will, and all that he says in the letter.’ She +told me this, and took from her bosom a tiny white silk bag, which she +had made in the night, and in which she had put the extracts, so as to +keep them always about her. ‘This tells me in his own words what his +last wishes were for both of us,’ she said; ‘and this is all I want for +the future.’ + +“These are trifles to dwell on; and I am almost surprised at myself for +not feeling ashamed to trouble you with them. But, since I have known +what your early connection was with my father and mother, I have +learned to think of you (and, I suppose, to write to you) as an old +friend. And, besides, I have it so much at heart to change your opinion +of Magdalen, that I can’t help telling you the smallest things about +her which may, in my judgment, end in making you think of her as I do. + +“When breakfast-time came (on Thursday morning), we were surprised to +find a strange letter on the table. Perhaps I ought to mention it to +you, in case of any future necessity for your interference. It was +addressed to Miss Garth, on paper with the deepest mourning-border +round it; and the writer was the same man who followed us on our way +home from a walk one day last spring—Captain Wragge. His object appears +to be to assert once more his audacious claim to a family connection +with my poor mother, under cover of a letter of condolence; which it is +an insolence in such a person to have written at all. He expresses as +much sympathy—on his discovery of our affliction in the newspaper—as if +he had been really intimate with us; and he begs to know, in a +postscript (being evidently in total ignorance of all that has really +happened), whether it is thought desirable that he should be present, +among the other relatives, at the reading of the will! The address he +gives, at which letters will reach him for the next fortnight, is, +‘Post-office, Birmingham.’ This is all I have to tell you on the +subject. Both the letter and the writer seem to me to be equally +unworthy of the slightest notice, on our part or on yours. + +“After breakfast Magdalen left us, and went by herself into the +morning-room. The weather being still showery, we had arranged that +Francis Clare should see her in that room, when he presented himself to +take his leave. I was upstairs when he came; and I remained upstairs +for more than half an hour afterward, sadly anxious, as you may well +believe, on Magdalen’s account. + +“At the end of the half-hour or more, I came downstairs. As I reached +the landing I suddenly heard her voice, raised entreatingly, and +calling on him by his name—then loud sobs—then a frightful laughing and +screaming, both together, that rang through the house. I instantly ran +into the room, and found Magdalen on the sofa in violent hysterics, and +Frank standing staring at her, with a lowering, angry face, biting his +nails. + +“I felt so indignant—without knowing plainly why, for I was ignorant, +of course, of what had passed at the interview—that I took Mr. Francis +Clare by the shoulders and pushed him out of the room. I am careful to +tell you how I acted toward him, and what led to it; because I +understand that he is excessively offended with me, and that he is +likely to mention elsewhere what he calls my unladylike violence toward +him. If he should mention it to you, I am anxious to acknowledge, of my +own accord, that I forgot myself—not, I hope you will think, without +some provocation. + +“I pushed him into the hall, leaving Magdalen, for the moment, to Miss +Garth’s care. Instead of going away, he sat down sulkily on one of the +hall chairs. ‘May I ask the reason of this extraordinary violence?’ he +inquired, with an injured look. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You will be good enough +to imagine the reason for yourself, and to leave us immediately, if you +please.’ He sat doggedly in the chair, biting his nails and +considering. ‘What have I done to be treated in this unfeeling manner?’ +he asked, after a while. ‘I can enter into no discussion with you,’ I +answered; ‘I can only request you to leave us. If you persist in +waiting to see my sister again, I will go to the cottage myself and +appeal to your father.’ He got up in a great hurry at those words. ‘I +have been infamously used in this business,’ he said. ‘All the +hardships and the sacrifices have fallen to my share. I’m the only one +among you who has any heart: all the rest are as hard as +stones—Magdalen included. In one breath she says she loves me, and in +another she tells me to go to China. What have I done to be treated +with this heartless inconsistency? I am consistent myself—I only want +to stop at home—and (what’s the consequence?) you’re all against me!’ +In that manner he grumbled his way down the steps, and so I saw the +last of him. This was all that passed between us. If he gives you any +other account of it, what he says will be false. He made no attempt to +return. An hour afterward his father came alone to say good-by. He saw +Miss Garth and me, but not Magdalen; and he told us he would take the +necessary measures, with your assistance, for having his son properly +looked after in London, and seen safely on board the vessel when the +time came. It was a short visit, and a sad leave-taking. Even Mr. Clare +was sorry, though he tried hard to hide it. + +“We had barely two hours, after Mr. Clare had left us, before it would +be time to go. I went back to Magdalen, and found her quieter and +better, though terribly pale and exhausted, and oppressed, as I +fancied, by thoughts which she could not prevail on herself to +communicate. She would tell me nothing then—she has told me nothing +since—of what passed between herself and Francis Clare. When I spoke of +him angrily (feeling as I did that he had distressed and tortured her, +when she ought to have had all the encouragement and comfort from him +that man could give), she refused to hear me: she made the kindest +allowances and the sweetest excuses for him, and laid all the blame of +the dreadful state in which I had found her entirely on herself. Was I +wrong in telling you that she had a noble nature? And won’t you alter +your opinion when you read these lines? + +“We had no friends to come and bid us good-by; and our few +acquaintances were too far from us—perhaps too indifferent about us—to +call. We employed the little leisure left in going over the house +together for the last time. We took leave of our old schoolroom, our +bedrooms, the room where our mother died, the little study where our +father used to settle his accounts and write his letters—feeling toward +them, in our forlorn condition, as other girls might have felt at +parting with old friends. From the house, in a gleam of fine weather, +we went into the garden, and gathered our last nosegay; with the +purpose of drying the flowers when they begin to wither, and keeping +them in remembrance of the happy days that are gone. When we had said +good-by to the garden, there was only half an hour left. We went +together to the grave; we knelt down, side by side, in silence, and +kissed the sacred ground. I thought my heart would have broken. August +was the month of my mother’s birthday; and, this time last year, my +father and Magdalen and I were all consulting in secret what present we +could make to surprise her with on the birthday morning. + +“If you had seen how Magdalen suffered, you would never doubt her +again. I had to take her from the last resting-place of our father and +mother almost by force. Before we were out of the churchyard she broke +from me and ran back. She dropped on her knees at the grave; tore up +from it passionately a handful of grass; and said something to herself, +at the same moment, which, though I followed her instantly, I did not +get near enough to hear. She turned on me in such a frenzied manner, +when I tried to raise her from the ground—she looked at me with such a +fearful wildness in her eyes—that I felt absolutely terrified at the +sight of her. To my relief, the paroxysm left her as suddenly as it had +come. She thrust away the tuft of grass into the bosom of her dress, +and took my arm and hurried with me out of the churchyard. I asked her +why she had gone back—I asked what those words were which she had +spoken at the grave. ‘A promise to our dead father,’ she answered, with +a momentary return of the wild look and the frenzied manner which had +startled me already. I was afraid to agitate her by saying more; I left +all other questions to be asked at a fitter and a quieter time. You +will understand from this how terribly she suffers, how wildly and +strangely she acts under violent agitation; and you will not interpret +against her what she said or did when you saw her on Wednesday last. + +“We only returned to the house in time to hasten away from it to the +train. Perhaps it was better for us so—better that we had only a moment +left to look back before the turn in the road hid the last of +Combe-Raven from our view. There was not a soul we knew at the station; +nobody to stare at us, nobody to wish us good-by. The rain came on +again as we took our seats in the train. What we felt at the sight of +the railway—what horrible remembrances it forced on our minds of the +calamity which has made us fatherless—I cannot, and dare not, tell you. +I have tried anxiously not to write this letter in a gloomy tone; not +to return all your kindness to us by distressing you with our grief. +Perhaps I have dwelt too long already on the little story of our +parting from home? I can only say, in excuse, that my heart is full of +it; and what is not in my heart my pen won’t write. + +“We have been so short a time in our new abode that I have nothing more +to tell you—except that Miss Garth’s sister has received us with the +heartiest kindness. She considerately leaves us to ourselves, until we +are fitter than we are now to think of our future plans, and to arrange +as we best can for earning our own living. The house is so large, and +the position of our rooms has been so thoughtfully chosen, that I +should hardly know—except when I hear the laughing of the younger girls +in the garden—that we were living in a school. + +“With kindest and best wishes from Miss Garth and my sister, believe +me, dear Mr. Pendril, gratefully yours, + +“NORAH VANSTONE.” + + +II. +From Miss Garth to Mr. Pendril. + +“Westmoreland House, Kensington, +“September 23d, 1846. + + +“MY DEAR SIR,— + +“I write these lines in such misery of mind as no words can describe. +Magdalen has deserted us. At an early hour this morning she secretly +left the house, and she has not been heard of since. + +“I would come and speak to you personally; but I dare not leave Norah. +I must try to control myself; I must try to write. + +“Nothing happened yesterday to prepare me or to prepare Norah for this +last—I had almost said, this worst—of all our afflictions. The only +alteration we either of us noticed in the unhappy girl was an +alteration for the better when we parted for the night. She kissed me, +which she has not done latterly; and she burst out crying when she +embraced her sister next. We had so little suspicion of the truth that +we thought these signs of renewed tenderness and affection a promise of +better things for the future. + +“This morning, when her sister went into her room, it was empty, and a +note in her handwriting, addressed to Norah, was lying on the +dressing-table. I cannot prevail on Norah to part with the note; I can +only send you the inclosed copy of it. You will see that it affords no +clue to the direction she has taken. + +“Knowing the value of time, in this dreadful emergency, I examined her +room, and (with my sister’s help) questioned the servants immediately +on the news of her absence reaching me. Her wardrobe was empty; and all +her boxes but one, which she has evidently taken away with her, are +empty, too. We are of opinion that she has privately turned her dresses +and jewelry into money; that she had the one trunk she took with her +removed from the house yesterday; and that she left us this morning on +foot. The answers given by one of the servants are so unsatisfactory +that we believe the woman has been bribed to assist her; and has +managed all those arrangements for her flight which she could not have +safely undertaken by herself. + +“Of the immediate object with which she has left us, I entertain no +doubt. + +“I have reasons (which I can tell you at a fitter time) for feeling +assured that she has gone away with the intention of trying her fortune +on the stage. She has in her possession the card of an actor by +profession, who superintended an amateur theatrical performance at +Clifton, in which she took part; and to him she has gone to help her. I +saw the card at the time, and I know the actor’s name to be Huxtable. +The address I cannot call to mind quite so correctly; but I am almost +sure it was at some theatrical place in Bow Street, Covent Garden. Let +me entreat you not to lose a moment in sending to make the necessary +inquiries; the first trace of her will, I firmly believe, be found at +that address. + +“If we had nothing worse to dread than her attempting to go on the +stage, I should not feel the distress and dismay which now overpower +me. Hundreds of other girls have acted as recklessly as she has acted, +and have not ended ill after all. But my fears for Magdalen do not +begin and end with the risk she is running at present. + +“There has been something weighing on her mind ever since we left +Combe-Raven—weighing far more heavily for the last six weeks than at +first. Until the period when Francis Clare left England, I am persuaded +she was secretly sustained by the hope that he would contrive to see +her again. From the day when she knew that the measures you had taken +for preventing this had succeeded; from the day when she was assured +that the ship had really taken him away, nothing has roused, nothing +has interested her. She has given herself up, more and more hopelessly, +to her own brooding thoughts; thoughts which I believe first entered +her mind on the day when the utter ruin of the prospects on which her +marriage depended was made known to her. She has formed some desperate +project of contesting the possession of her father’s fortune with +Michael Vanstone; and the stage career which she has gone away to try +is nothing more than a means of freeing herself from all home +dependence, and of enabling her to run what mad risks she pleases, in +perfect security from all home control. What it costs me to write of +her in these terms, I must leave you to imagine. The time has gone by +when any consideration of distress to my own feelings can weigh with +me. Whatever I can say which will open your eyes to the real danger, +and strengthen your conviction of the instant necessity of averting it, +I say in despite of myself, without hesitation and without reserve. + +“One word more, and I have done. + +“The last time you were so good as to come to this house, do you +remember how Magdalen embarrassed and distressed us by questioning you +about her right to bear her father’s name? Do you remember her +persisting in her inquiries, until she had forced you to acknowledge +that, legally speaking, she and her sister had No Name? I venture to +remind you of this, because you have the affairs of hundreds of clients +to think of, and you might well have forgotten the circumstance. +Whatever natural reluctance she might otherwise have had to deceiving +us, and degrading herself, by the use of an assumed name, that +conversation with you is certain to have removed. We must discover her +by personal description—we can trace her in no other way. + +“I can think of nothing more to guide your decision in our deplorable +emergency. For God’s sake, let no expense and no efforts be spared. My +letter ought to reach you by ten o’clock this morning, at the latest. +Let me have one line in answer, to say you will act instantly for the +best. My only hope of quieting Norah is to show her a word of +encouragement from your pen. Believe me, dear sir, yours sincerely and +obliged, + +“HARRIET GARTH.” + + +III. +From Magdalen to Norah (inclosed in the preceding Letter). + +“MY DARLING,— + +“Try to forgive me. I have struggled against myself till I am worn out +in the effort. I am the wretchedest of living creatures. Our quiet life +here maddens me; I can bear it no longer; I must go. If you knew what +my thoughts are; if you knew how hard I have fought against them, and +how horribly they have gone on haunting me in the lonely quiet of this +house, you would pity and forgive me. Oh, my love, don’t feel hurt at +my not opening my heart to you as I ought! I dare not open it. I dare +not show myself to you as I really am. + +“Pray don’t send and seek after me; I will write and relieve all your +anxieties. You know, Norah, we must get our living for ourselves; I +have only gone to get mine in the manner which is fittest for me. +Whether I succeed, or whether I fail, I can do myself no harm either +way. I have no position to lose, and no name to degrade. Don’t doubt I +love you—don’t let Miss Garth doubt my gratitude. I go away miserable +at leaving you; but I must go. If I had loved you less dearly, I might +have had the courage to say this in your presence—but how could I trust +myself to resist your persuasions, and to bear the sight of your +distress? Farewell, my darling! Take a thousand kisses from me, my own +best, dearest love, till we meet again. + +“MAGDALEN.” + + +IV. +From Sergeant Bulmer (of the Detective Police) to Mr. Pendril. + +“Scotland Yard, +“September 29th, 1846. + + +“SIR,— + +“Your clerk informs me that the parties interested in our inquiry after +the missing young lady are anxious for news of the same. I went to your +office to speak to you about the matter to-day. Not having found you, +and not being able to return and try again to-morrow, I write these +lines to save delay, and to tell you how we stand thus far. + +“I am sorry to say, no advance has been made since my former report. +The trace of the young lady which we found nearly a week since, still +remains the last trace discovered of her. This case seems a mighty +simple one looked at from a distance. Looked at close, it alters very +considerably for the worse, and becomes, to speak the plain truth—a +Poser. + +“This is how we now stand: + +“We have traced the young lady to the theatrical agent’s in Bow Street. +We know that at an early hour on the morning of the twenty-third the +agent was called downstairs, while he was dressing, to speak to a young +lady in a cab at the door. We know that, on her production of Mr. +Huxtable’s card, he wrote on it Mr. Huxtable’s address in the country, +and heard her order the cabman to drive to the Great Northern terminus. +We believe she left by the nine o’clock train. We followed her by the +twelve o’clock train. We have ascertained that she called at half-past +two at Mr. Huxtable’s lodgings; that she found he was away, and not +expected back till eight in the evening; that she left word she would +call again at eight; and that she never returned. Mr. Huxtable’s +statement is—he and the young lady have never set eyes on each other. +The first consideration which follows, is this: Are we to believe Mr. +Huxtable? I have carefully inquired into his character; I know as much, +or more, about him than he knows about himself; and my opinion is, that +we _are_ to believe him. To the best of my knowledge, he is a perfectly +honest man. + +“Here, then, is the hitch in the case. The young lady sets out with a +certain object before her. Instead of going on to the accomplishment of +that object, she stops short of it. Why has she stopped? and where? +Those are, unfortunately, just the questions which we can’t answer yet. + +“My own opinion of the matter is, briefly, as follows: I don’t think +she has met with any serious accident. Serious accidents, in nine cases +out of ten, discover themselves. My own notion is, that she has fallen +into the hands of some person or persons interested in hiding her away, +and sharp enough to know how to set about it. Whether she is in their +charge, with or without her own consent, is more than I can undertake +to say at present. I don’t wish to raise false hopes or false fears; I +wish to stop short at the opinion I have given already. + +“In regard to the future, I may tell you that I have left one of my men +in daily communication with the authorities. I have also taken care to +have the handbills offering a reward for the discovery of her widely +circulated. Lastly, I have completed the necessary arrangements for +seeing the play-bills of all country theaters, and for having the +dramatic companies well looked after. Some years since, this would have +cost a serious expenditure of time and money. Luckily for our purpose, +the country theaters are in a bad way. Excepting the large cities, +hardly one of them is open, and we can keep our eye on them, with +little expense and less difficulty. + +“These are the steps which I think it needful to take at present. If +you are of another opinion, you have only to give me your directions, +and I will carefully attend to the same. I don’t by any means despair +of our finding the young lady and bringing her back to her friends safe +and well. Please to tell them so; and allow me to subscribe myself, +yours respectfully, + +“ABRAHAM BULMER.” + + +V. +Anonymous Letter addressed to Mr. Pendril. + +“SIR,— + +“A word to the wise. The friends of a certain young lady are wasting +time and money to no purpose. Your confidential clerk and your +detective policeman are looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. This +is the ninth of October, and they have not found her yet: they will as +soon find the Northwest Passage. Call your dogs off; and you may hear +of the young lady’s safety under her own hand. The longer you look for +her, the longer she will remain, what she is now—lost.” + + +[The preceding letter is thus indorsed, in Mr. Pendril’s handwriting: +“No apparent means of tracing the inclosed to its source. Post-mark, +‘Charing Cross.’ Stationer’s stamp cut off the inside of the envelope. +Handwriting, probably a man’s, in disguise. Writer, whoever he is, +correctly informed. No further trace of the younger Miss Vanstone +discovered yet.”] + + + +THE SECOND SCENE. +SKELDERGATE, YORK. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +In that part of the city of York which is situated on the western bank +of the Ouse there is a narrow street, called Skeldergate, running +nearly north and south, parallel with the course of the river. The +postern by which Skeldergate was formerly approached no longer exists; +and the few old houses left in the street are disguised in melancholy +modern costume of whitewash and cement. Shops of the smaller and poorer +order, intermixed here and there with dingy warehouses and joyless +private residences of red brick, compose the present aspect of +Skeldergate. On the river-side the houses are separated at intervals by +lanes running down to the water, and disclosing lonely little plots of +open ground, with the masts of sailing-barges rising beyond. At its +southward extremity the street ceases on a sudden, and the broad flow +of the Ouse, the trees, the meadows, the public-walk on one bank and +the towing-path on the other, open to view. + +Here, where the street ends, and on the side of it furthest from the +river, a narrow little lane leads up to the paved footway surmounting +the ancient Walls of York. The one small row of buildings, which is all +that the lane possesses, is composed of cheap lodging-houses, with an +opposite view, at the distance of a few feet, of a portion of the +massive city wall. This place is called Rosemary Lane. Very little +light enters it; very few people live in it; the floating population of +Skeldergate passes it by; and visitors to the Walk on the Walls, who +use it as the way up or the way down, get out of the dreary little +passage as fast as they can. + +The door of one of the houses in this lost corner of York opened softly +on the evening of the twenty-third of September, eighteen hundred and +forty-six; and a solitary individual of the male sex sauntered into +Skeldergate from the seclusion of Rosemary Lane. + +Turning northward, this person directed his steps toward the bridge +over the Ouse and the busy center of the city. He bore the external +appearance of respectable poverty; he carried a gingham umbrella, +preserved in an oilskin case; he picked his steps, with the neatest +avoidance of all dirty places on the pavement; and he surveyed the +scene around him with eyes of two different colors—a bilious brown eye +on the lookout for employment, and a bilious green eye in a similar +predicament. In plainer terms, the stranger from Rosemary Lane was no +other than—Captain Wragge. + +Outwardly speaking, the captain had not altered for the better since +the memorable spring day when he had presented himself to Miss Garth at +the lodge-gate at Combe-Raven. The railway mania of that famous year +had attacked even the wary Wragge; had withdrawn him from his customary +pursuits; and had left him prostrate in the end, like many a better +man. He had lost his clerical appearance—he had faded with the autumn +leaves. His crape hat-band had put itself in brown mourning for its own +bereavement of black. His dingy white collar and cravat had died the +death of old linen, and had gone to their long home at the +paper-maker’s, to live again one day in quires at a stationer’s shop. A +gray shooting-jacket in the last stage of woolen atrophy replaced the +black frockcoat of former times, and, like a faithful servant, kept the +dark secret of its master’s linen from the eyes of a prying world. From +top to toe every square inch of the captain’s clothing was altered for +the worse; but the man himself remained unchanged—superior to all forms +of moral mildew, impervious to the action of social rust. He was as +courteous, as persuasive, as blandly dignified as ever. He carried his +head as high without a shirt-collar as ever he had carried it with one. +The threadbare black handkerchief round his neck was perfectly tied; +his rotten old shoes were neatly blacked; he might have compared chins, +in the matter of smooth shaving, with the highest church dignitary in +York. Time, change, and poverty had all attacked the captain together, +and had all failed alike to get him down on the ground. He paced the +streets of York, a man superior to clothes and circumstances—his +vagabond varnish as bright on him as ever. + +Arrived at the bridge, Captain Wragge stopped and looked idly over the +parapet at the barges in the river. It was plainly evident that he had +no particular destination to reach and nothing whatever to do. While he +was still loitering, the clock of York Minster chimed the half-hour +past five. Cabs rattled by him over the bridge on their way to meet the +train from London, at twenty minutes to six. After a moment’s +hesitation, the captain sauntered after the cabs. When it is one of a +man’s regular habits to live upon his fellow-creatures, that man is +always more or less fond of haunting large railway stations. Captain +Wragge gleaned the human field, and on that unoccupied afternoon the +York terminus was as likely a corner to look about in as any other. + +He reached the platform a few minutes after the train had arrived. That +entire incapability of devising administrative measures for the +management of large crowds, which is one of the characteristics of +Englishmen in authority, is nowhere more strikingly exemplified than at +York. Three different lines of railway assemble three passenger mobs, +from morning to-night, under one roof; and leave them to raise a +traveler’s riot, with all the assistance which the bewildered servants +of the company can render to increase the confusion. The customary +disturbance was rising to its climax as Captain Wragge approached the +platform. Dozens of different people were trying to attain dozens of +different objects, in dozens of different directions, all starting from +the same common point and all equally deprived of the means of +information. A sudden parting of the crowd, near the second-class +carriages, attracted the captain’s curiosity. He pushed his way in; and +found a decently-dressed man—assisted by a porter and a +policeman—attempting to pick up some printed bills scattered from a +paper parcel, which his frenzied fellow-passengers had knocked out of +his hand. + +Offering his assistance in this emergency, with the polite alacrity +which marked his character, Captain Wragge observed the three startling +words, “Fifty Pounds Reward,” printed in capital letters on the bills +which he assisted in recovering; and instantly secreted one of them, to +be more closely examined at the first convenient opportunity. As he +crumpled up the bill in the palm of his hand, his party-colored eyes +fixed with hungry interest on the proprietor of the unlucky parcel. +When a man happens not to be possessed of fifty pence in his own +pocket, if his heart is in the right place, it bounds; if his mouth is +properly constituted, it waters, at the sight of another man who +carries about with him a printed offer of fifty pounds sterling, +addressed to his fellow-creatures. + +The unfortunate traveler wrapped up his parcel as he best might, and +made his way off the platform, after addressing an inquiry to the first +official victim of the day’s passenger-traffic, who was sufficiently in +possession of his senses to listen to it. Leaving the station for the +river-side, which was close at hand, the stranger entered the ferryboat +at the North Street Postern. The captain, who had carefully dogged his +steps thus far, entered the boat also; and employed the short interval +of transit to the opposite bank in a perusal of the handbill which he +had kept for his own private enlightenment. With his back carefully +turned on the traveler, Captain Wragge now possessed his mind of the +following lines: + +“FIFTY POUNDS REWARD.” + + +“Left her home, in London, early on the morning of September 23d, 1846, +A YOUNG LADY. Age—eighteen. Dress—deep mourning. Personal +appearance—hair of a very light brown; eyebrows and eyelashes darker; +eyes light gray; complexion strikingly pale; lower part of her face +large and full; tall upright figure; walks with remarkable grace and +ease; speaks with openness and resolution; has the manners and habits +of a refined, cultivated lady. Personal marks—two little moles, close +together, on the left side of the neck. Mark on the +under-clothing—‘Magdalen Vanstone.’ Is supposed to have joined, or +attempted to join, under an assumed name, a theatrical company now +performing at York. Had, when she left London, one black box, and no +other luggage. Whoever will give such information as will restore her +to her friends shall receive the above Reward. Apply at the office of +Mr. Harkness, solicitor, Coney Street, York. Or to Messrs. Wyatt, +Pendril, and Gwilt, Serle Street, Lincoln’s Inn, London.” + +Accustomed as Captain Wragge was to keep the completest possession of +himself in all human emergencies, his own profound astonishment, when +the course of his reading brought him to the mark on the linen of the +missing young lady, betrayed him into an exclamation of surprise which +even startled the ferryman. The traveler was less observant; his whole +attention was fixed on the opposite bank of the river, and he left the +boat hastily the moment it touched the landing-place. Captain Wragge +recovered himself, pocketed the handbill, and followed his leader for +the second time. + +The stranger directed his steps to the nearest street which ran down to +the river, compared a note in his pocketbook with the numbers of the +houses on the left-hand side, stopped at one of them, and rang the +bell. The captain went on to the next house; affected to ring the bell, +in his turn, and stood with his back to the traveler—in appearance, +waiting to be let in; in reality, listening with all his might for any +scraps of dialogue which might reach his ears on the opening of the +door behind him. + +The door was answered with all due alacrity, and a sufficiently +instructive interchange of question and answer on the threshold +rewarded the dexterity of Captain Wragge. + +“Does Mr. Huxtable live here?” asked the traveler. + +“Yes, sir,” was the answer, in a woman’s voice. + +“Is he at home?” + +“Not at home now, sir; but he will be in again at eight to-night.” + +“I think a young lady called here early in the day, did she not?” + +“Yes; a young lady came this afternoon.” + +“Exactly; I come on the same business. Did she see Mr. Huxtable?” + +“No, sir; he has been away all day. The young lady told me she would +come back at eight o’clock.” + +“Just so. I will call and see Mr. Huxtable at the same time.” + +“Any name, sir?” + +“No; say a gentleman called on theatrical business—that will be enough. +Wait one minute, if you please. I am a stranger in York; will you +kindly tell me which is the way to Coney Street?” + +The woman gave the required information, the door closed, and the +stranger hastened away in the direction of Coney Street. + +On this occasion Captain Wragge made no attempt to follow him. The +handbill revealed plainly enough that the man’s next object was to +complete the necessary arrangements with the local solicitor on the +subject of the promised reward. + +Having seen and heard enough for his immediate purpose, the captain +retraced his steps down the street, turned to the right, and entered on +the Esplanade, which, in that quarter of the city, borders the +river-side between the swimming-baths and Lendal Tower. “This is a +family matter,” said Captain Wragge to himself, persisting, from sheer +force of habit, in the old assertion of his relationship to Magdalen’s +mother; “I must consider it in all its bearings.” He tucked the +umbrella under his arm, crossed his hands behind him, and lowered +himself gently into the abyss of his own reflections. The order and +propriety observable in the captain’s shabby garments accurately +typified the order and propriety which distinguished the operations of +the captain’s mind. It was his habit always to see his way before him +through a neat succession of alternatives—and so he saw it now. + +Three courses were open to him in connection with the remarkable +discovery which he had just made. The first course was to do nothing in +the matter at all. Inadmissible, on family grounds: equally +inadmissible on pecuniary grounds: rejected accordingly. The second +course was to deserve the gratitude of the young lady’s friends, rated +at fifty pounds. The third course was, by a timely warning to deserve +the gratitude of the young lady herself, rated—at an unknown figure. +Between these two last alternatives the wary Wragge hesitated; not from +doubt of Magdalen’s pecuniary resources—for he was totally ignorant of +the circumstances which had deprived the sisters of their +inheritance—but from doubt whether an obstacle in the shape of an +undiscovered gentleman might not be privately connected with her +disappearance from home. After mature reflection, he determined to +pause, and be guided by circumstances. In the meantime, the first +consideration was to be beforehand with the messenger from London, and +to lay hands securely on the young lady herself. + +“I feel for this misguided girl,” mused the captain, solemnly strutting +backward and forward by the lonely river-side. “I always have looked +upon her—I always shall look upon her—in the light of a niece.” + +Where was the adopted relative at that moment? In other words, how was +a young lady in Magdalen’s critical position likely to while away the +hours until Mr. Huxtable ‘s return? If there was an obstructive +gentleman in the background, it would be mere waste of time to pursue +the question. But if the inference which the handbill suggested was +correct—if she was really alone at that moment in the city of +York—where was she likely to be? + +Not in the crowded thoroughfares, to begin with. Not viewing the +objects of interest in the Minster, for it was now past the hour at +which the cathedral could be seen. Was she in the waiting-room at the +railway? She would hardly run that risk. Was she in one of the hotels? +Doubtful, considering that she was entirely by herself. In a +pastry-cook’s shop? Far more likely. Driving about in a cab? Possible, +certainly; but no more. Loitering away the time in some quiet locality, +out-of-doors? Likely enough, again, on that fine autumn evening. The +captain paused, weighed the relative claims on his attention of the +quiet locality and the pastry-cook’s shop; and decided for the first of +the two. There was time enough to find her at the pastry-cook’s, to +inquire after her at the principal hotels, or, finally, to intercept +her in Mr. Huxtable’s immediate neighborhood from seven to eight. While +the light lasted, the wise course was to use it in looking for her +out-of-doors. Where? The Esplanade was a quiet locality; but she was +not there—not on the lonely road beyond, which ran back by the Abbey +Wall. Where next? The captain stopped, looked across the river, +brightened under the influence of a new idea, and suddenly hastened +back to the ferry. + +“The Walk on the Walls,” thought this judicious man, with a twinkle of +his party-colored eyes. “The quietest place in York; and the place that +every stranger goes to see.” + +In ten minutes more Captain Wragge was exploring the new field of +search. He mounted to the walls (which inclose the whole western +portion of the city) by the North Street Postern, from which the walk +winds round until it ends again at its southernly extremity in the +narrow passage of Rosemary Lane. It was then twenty minutes to seven. +The sun had set more than half an hour since; the red light lay broad +and low in the cloudless western heaven; all visible objects were +softening in the tender twilight, but were not darkening yet. The first +few lamps lit in the street below looked like faint little specks of +yellow light, as the captain started on his walk through one of the +most striking scenes which England can show. + +On his right hand, as he set forth, stretched the open country beyond +the walls—the rich green meadows, the boundary-trees dividing them, the +broad windings of the river in the distance, the scattered buildings +nearer to view; all wrapped in the evening stillness, all made +beautiful by the evening peace. On his left hand, the majestic west +front of York Minster soared over the city and caught the last +brightest light of heaven on the summits of its lofty towers. Had this +noble prospect tempted the lost girl to linger and look at it? No; thus +far, not a sign of her. The captain looked round him attentively, and +walked on. + +He reached the spot where the iron course of the railroad strikes its +way through arches in the old wall. He paused at this place—where the +central activity of a great railway enterprise beats, with all the +pulses of its loud-clanging life, side by side with the dead majesty of +the past, deep under the old historic stones which tell of fortified +York and the sieges of two centuries since—he stood on this spot, and +searched for her again, and searched in vain. Others were looking idly +down at the desolate activity on the wilderness of the iron rails; but +she was not among them. The captain glanced doubtfully at the darkening +sky, and walked on. + +He stopped again where the postern of Micklegate still stands, and +still strengthens the city wall as of old. Here the paved walk descends +a few steps, passes through the dark stone guardroom of the ancient +gate, ascends again, and continues its course southward until the walls +reach the river once more. He paused, and peered anxiously into the dim +inner corners of the old guard-room. Was she waiting there for the +darkness to come, and hide her from prying eyes? No: a solitary workman +loitered through the stone chamber; but no other living creature +stirred in the place. The captain mounted the steps which led out from +the postern and walked on. + +He advanced some fifty or sixty yards along the paved footway; the +outlying suburbs of York on one side of him, a rope-walk and some +patches of kitchen garden occupying a vacant strip of ground on the +other. He advanced with eager eyes and quickened step; for he saw +before him the lonely figure of a woman, standing by the parapet of the +wall, with her face set toward the westward view. He approached +cautiously, to make sure of her before she turned and observed him. +There was no mistaking that tall, dark figure, as it rested against the +parapet with a listless grace. There she stood, in her long black cloak +and gown, the last dim light of evening falling tenderly on her pale, +resolute young face. There she stood—not three months since the spoiled +darling of her parents; the priceless treasure of the household, never +left unprotected, never trusted alone—there she stood in the lovely +dawn of her womanhood, a castaway in a strange city, wrecked on the +world! + +Vagabond as he was, the first sight of her staggered even the dauntless +assurance of Captain Wragge. As she slowly turned her face and looked +at him, he raised his hat, with the nearest approach to respect which a +long life of unblushing audacity had left him capable of making. + +“I think I have the honor of addressing the younger Miss Vanstone?” he +began. “Deeply gratified, I am sure—for more reasons than one.” + +She looked at him with a cold surprise. No recollection of the day when +he had followed her sister and herself on their way home with Miss +Garth rose in her memory, while he now confronted her, with his altered +manner and his altered dress. + +“You are mistaken,” she said, quietly. “You are a perfect stranger to +me.” + +“Pardon me,” replied the captain; “I am a species of relation. I had +the pleasure of seeing you in the spring of the present year. I +presented myself on that memorable occasion to an honored preceptress +in your late father’s family. Permit me, under equally agreeable +circumstances, to present myself to _you_. My name is Wragge.” + +By this time he had recovered complete possession of his own impudence; +his party-colored eyes twinkled cheerfully, and he accompanied his +modest announcement of himself with a dancing-master’s bow. + +Magdalen frowned, and drew back a step. The captain was not a man to be +daunted by a cold reception. He tucked his umbrella under his arm and +jocosely spelled his name for her further enlightenment. “W, R, A, +double G, E—Wragge,” said the captain, ticking off the letters +persuasively on his fingers. + +“I remember your name,” said Magdalen. “Excuse me for leaving you +abruptly. I have an engagement.” + +She tried to pass him and walk on northward toward the railway. He +instantly met the attempt by raising both hands, and displaying a pair +of darned black gloves outspread in polite protest. + +“Not that way,” he said; “not that way, Miss Vanstone, I beg and +entreat!” + +“Why not?” she asked haughtily. + +“Because,” answered the captain, “that is the way which leads to Mr. +Huxtable’s.” + +In the ungovernable astonishment of hearing his reply she suddenly bent +forward, and for the first time looked him close in the face. He +sustained her suspicious scrutiny with every appearance of feeling +highly gratified by it. “H, U, X—Hux,” said the captain, playfully +turning to the old joke: “T, A—ta, Huxta; B, L, E—ble; Huxtable.” + +“What do you know about Mr. Huxtable?” she asked. “What do you mean by +mentioning him to me?” + +The captain’s curly lip took a new twist upward. He immediately +replied, to the best practical purpose, by producing the handbill from +his pocket. + +“There is just light enough left,” he said, “for young (and lovely) +eyes to read by. Before I enter upon the personal statement which your +flattering inquiry claims from me, pray bestow a moment’s attention on +this Document.” + +She took the handbill from him. By the last gleam of twilight she read +the lines which set a price on her recovery—which published the +description of her in pitiless print, like the description of a strayed +dog. No tender consideration had prepared her for the shock, no kind +word softened it to her when it came. The vagabond, whose cunning eyes +watched her eagerly while she read, knew no more that the handbill +which he had stolen had only been prepared in anticipation of the +worst, and was only to be publicly used in the event of all more +considerate means of tracing her being tried in vain—than she knew it. +The bill dropped from her hand; her face flushed deeply. She turned +away from Captain Wragge, as if all idea of his existence had passed +out of her mind. + +“Oh, Norah, Norah!” she said to herself, sorrowfully. “After the letter +I wrote you—after the hard struggle I had to go away! Oh, Norah, +Norah!” + +“How is Norah?” inquired the captain, with the utmost politeness. + +She turned upon him with an angry brightness in her large gray eyes. +“Is this thing shown publicly?” she asked, stamping her foot on it. “Is +the mark on my neck described all over York?” + +“Pray compose yourself,” pleaded the persuasive Wragge. “At present I +have every reason to believe that you have just perused the only copy +in circulation. Allow me to pick it up.” + +Before he could touch the bill she snatched it from the pavement, tore +it into fragments, and threw them over the wall. + +“Bravo!” cried the captain. “You remind me of your poor dear mother. +The family spirit, Miss Vanstone. We all inherit our hot blood from my +maternal grandfather.” + +“How did you come by it?” she asked, suddenly. + +“My dear creature, I have just told you,” remonstrated the captain. “We +all come by it from my maternal grandfather.” + +“How did you come by that handbill?” she repeated, passionately. + +“I beg ten thousand pardons! My head was running on the family +spirit.—How did I come by it? Briefly thus.” Here Captain Wragge +entered on his personal statement; taking his customary vocal exercise +through the longest words of the English language, with the highest +elocutionary relish. Having, on this rare occasion, nothing to gain by +concealment, he departed from his ordinary habits, and, with the utmost +amazement at the novelty of his own situation, permitted himself to +tell the unmitigated truth. + +The effect of the narrative on Magdalen by no means fulfilled Captain +Wragge’s anticipations in relating it. She was not startled; she was +not irritated; she showed no disposition to cast herself on his mercy, +and to seek his advice. She looked him steadily in the face; and all +she said, when he had neatly rounded his last sentence, was—“Go on.” + +“Go on?” repeated the captain. “Shocked to disappoint you, I am sure; +but the fact is, I have done.” + +“No, you have not,” she rejoined; “you have left out the end of your +story. The end of it is, you came here to look for me; and you mean to +earn the fifty pounds reward.” + +Those plain words so completely staggered Captain Wragge that for the +moment he stood speechless. But he had faced awkward truths of all +sorts far too often to be permanently disconcerted by them. Before +Magdalen could pursue her advantage, the vagabond had recovered his +balance: Wragge was himself again. + +“Smart,” said the captain, laughing indulgently, and drumming with his +umbrella on the pavement. “Some men might take it seriously. I’m not +easily offended. Try again.” + +Magdalen looked at him through the gathering darkness in mute +perplexity. All her little experience of society had been experience +among people who possessed a common sense of honor, and a common +responsibility of social position. She had hitherto seen nothing but +the successful human product from the great manufactory of +Civilization. Here was one of the failures, and, with all her +quickness, she was puzzled how to deal with it. + +“Pardon me for returning to the subject,” pursued the captain. “It has +just occurred to my mind that you might actually have spoken in +earnest. My poor child! how can I earn the fifty pounds before the +reward is offered to me? Those handbills may not be publicly posted for +a week to come. Precious as you are to all your relatives (myself +included), take my word for it, the lawyers who are managing this case +will not pay fifty pounds for you if they can possibly help it. Are you +still persuaded that my needy pockets are gaping for the money? Very +good. Button them up in spite of me with your own fair fingers. There +is a train to London at nine forty-five to-night. Submit yourself to +your friend’s wishes and go back by it.” + +“Never!” said Magdalen, firing at the bare suggestion, exactly as the +captain had intended she should. “If my mind had not been made up +before, that vile handbill would have decided me. I forgive Norah,” she +added, turning away and speaking to herself, “but not Mr. Pendril, and +not Miss Garth.” + +“Quite right!” said Captain Wragge. “The family spirit. I should have +done the same myself at your age. It runs in the blood. Hark! there +goes the clock again—half-past seven. Miss Vanstone, pardon this +seasonable abruptness! If you are to carry out your resolution—if you +are to be your own mistress much longer, you must take a course of some +kind before eight o’clock. You are young, you are inexperienced, you +are in imminent danger. Here is a position of emergency on one side—and +here am I, on the other, with an uncle’s interest in you, full of +advice. Tap me.” + +“Suppose I choose to depend on nobody, and to act for myself?” said +Magdalen. “What then?” + +“Then,” replied the captain, “you will walk straight into one of the +four traps which are set to catch you in the ancient and interesting +city of York. Trap the first, at Mr. Huxtable’s house; trap the second, +at all the hotels; trap the third, at the railway station; trap the +fourth, at the theater. That man with the handbills has had an hour at +his disposal. If he has not set those four traps (with the assistance +of the local solicitor) by this time, he is not the competent lawyer’s +clerk I take him for. Come, come, my dear girl! if there is somebody +else in the background, whose advice you prefer to mine—” + +“You see that I am alone,” she interposed, proudly. “If you knew me +better, you would know that I depend on nobody but myself.” + +Those words decided the only doubt which now remained in the captain’s +mind—the doubt whether the course was clear before him. The motive of +her flight from home was evidently what the handbills assumed it to +be—a reckless fancy for going on the stage. “One of two things,” +thought Wragge to himself, in his logical way. “She’s worth more than +fifty pounds to me in her present situation, or she isn’t. If she is, +her friends may whistle for her. If she isn’t, I have only to keep her +till the bills are posted.” Fortified by this simple plan of action, +the captain returned to the charge, and politely placed Magdalen +between the two inevitable alternatives of trusting herself to him, on +the one hand, or of returning to her friends, on the other. + +“I respect independence of character wherever I find it,” he said, with +an air of virtuous severity. “In a young and lovely relative, I more +than respect—I admire it. But (excuse the bold assertion), to walk on a +way of your own, you must first have a way to walk on. Under existing +circumstances, where is _your_ way? Mr. Huxtable is out of the +question, to begin with.” + +“Out of the question for to-night,” said Magdalen; “but what hinders me +from writing to Mr. Huxtable, and making my own private arrangements +with him for to-morrow?” + +“Granted with all my heart—a hit, a palpable hit. Now for my turn. To +get to to-morrow (excuse the bold assertion, once more), you must first +pass through to-night. Where are you to sleep?” + +“Are there no hotels in York?” + +“Excellent hotels for large families; excellent hotels for single +gentlemen. The very worst hotels in the world for handsome young ladies +who present themselves alone at the door without male escort, without a +maid in attendance, and without a single article of luggage. Dark as it +is, I think I could see a lady’s box, if there was anything of the sort +in our immediate neighborhood.” + +“My box is at the cloak-room. What is to prevent my sending the ticket +for it?” + +“Nothing—if you want to communicate your address by means of your +box—nothing whatever. Think; pray think! Do you really suppose that the +people who are looking for you are such fools as not to have an eye on +the cloakroom? Do you think they are such fools—when they find you +don’t come to Mr. Huxtable’s at eight to-night—as not to inquire at all +the hotels? Do you think a young lady of your striking appearance (even +if they consented to receive you) could take up her abode at an inn +without becoming the subject of universal curiosity and remark? Here is +night coming on as fast as it can. Don’t let me bore you; only let me +ask once more—Where are you to sleep?” + +There was no answer to that question: in Magdalen’s position, there was +literally no answer to it on her side. She was silent. + +“Where are you to sleep?” repeated the captain. “The reply is +obvious—under my roof. Mrs. Wragge will be charmed to see you. Look +upon her as your aunt; pray look upon her as your aunt. The landlady is +a widow, the house is close by, there are no other lodgers, and there +is a bedroom to let. Can anything be more satisfactory, under all the +circumstances? Pray observe, I say nothing about to-morrow—I leave +to-morrow to you, and confine myself exclusively to the night. I may, +or may not, command theatrical facilities, which I am in a position to +offer you. Sympathy and admiration may, or may not, be strong within +me, when I contemplate the dash and independence of your character. +Hosts of examples of bright stars of the British drama, who have begun +their apprenticeship to the stage as you are beginning yours, may, or +may not, crowd on my memory. These are topics for the future. For the +present, I confine myself within my strict range of duty. We are within +five minutes’ walk of my present address. Allow me to offer you my arm. +No? You hesitate? You distrust me? Good heavens! is it possible you can +have heard anything to my disadvantage?” + +“Quite possible,” said Magdalen, without a moment’s flinching from the +answer. + +“May I inquire the particulars?” asked the captain, with the politest +composure. “Don’t spare my feelings; oblige me by speaking out. In the +plainest terms, now, what have you heard?” + +She answered him with a woman’s desperate disregard of consequences +when she is driven to bay—she answered him instantly, + +“I have heard you are a Rogue.” + +“Have you, indeed?” said the impenetrable Wragge. “A Rogue? Well, I +waive my privilege of setting you right on that point for a fitter +time. For the sake of argument, let us say I am a Rogue. What is Mr. +Huxtable?” + +“A respectable man, or I should not have seen him in the house where we +first met.” + +“Very good. Now observe! You talked of writing to Mr. Huxtable a minute +ago. What do you think a respectable man is likely to do with a young +lady who openly acknowledges that she has run away from her home and +her friends to go on the stage? My dear girl, on your own showing, it’s +not a respectable man you want in your present predicament. It’s a +Rogue—like me.” + +Magdalen laughed, bitterly. + +“There is some truth in that,” she said. “Thank you for recalling me to +myself and my circumstances. I have my end to gain—and who am I, to +pick and choose the way of getting to it? It is my turn to beg pardon +now. I have been talking as if I was a young lady of family and +position. Absurd! We know better than that, don’t we, Captain Wragge? +You are quite right. Nobody’s child must sleep under Somebody’s +roof—and why not yours?” + +“This way,” said the captain, dexterously profiting by the sudden +change in her humor, and cunningly refraining from exasperating it by +saying more himself. “This way.” + +She followed him a few steps, and suddenly stopped. + +“Suppose I _am_ discovered?” she broke out, abruptly. “Who has any +authority over me? Who can take me back, if I don’t choose to go? If +they all find me to-morrow, what then? Can’t I say No to Mr. Pendril? +Can’t I trust my own courage with Miss Garth?” + +“Can you trust your courage with your sister?” whispered the captain, +who had not forgotten the references to Norah which had twice escaped +her already. + +Her head drooped. She shivered as if the cold night air had struck her, +and leaned back wearily against the parapet of the wall. + +“Not with Norah,” she said, sadly. “I could trust myself with the +others. Not with Norah.” + +“This way,” repeated Captain Wragge. She roused herself; looked up at +the darkening heaven, looked round at the darkening view. “What must +be, must,” she said, and followed him. + +The Minster clock struck the quarter to eight as they left the Walk on +the Wall and descended the steps into Rosemary Lane. Almost at the same +moment the lawyer’s clerk from London gave the last instructions to his +subordinates, and took up his own position, on the opposite side of the +river, within easy view of Mr. Huxtable’s door. + + + +CHAPTER II. + +Captain Wragge stopped nearly midway in the one little row of houses +composing Rosemary Lane, and let himself and his guest in at the door +of his lodgings with his own key. As they entered the passage, a +care-worn woman in a widow’s cap made her appearance with a candle. “My +niece,” said the captain, presenting Magdalen; “my niece on a visit to +York. She has kindly consented to occupy your empty bedroom. Consider +it let, if you please, to my niece—and be very particular in airing the +sheets? Is Mrs. Wragge upstairs? Very good. You may lend me your +candle. My dear girl, Mrs. Wragge’s boudoir is on the first floor; Mrs. +Wragge is visible. Allow me to show you the way up.” + +As he ascended the stairs first, the care-worn widow whispered, +piteously, to Magdalen, “I hope you’ll pay me, miss. Your uncle +doesn’t.” + +The captain threw open the door of the front room on the first floor, +and disclosed a female figure, arrayed in a gown of tarnished +amber-colored satin, seated solitary on a small chair, with dingy old +gloves on its hands, with a tattered old book on its knees, and with +one little bedroom candle by its side. The figure terminated at its +upper extremity in a large, smooth, white round face—like a +moon—encircled by a cap and green ribbons, and dimly irradiated by eyes +of mild and faded blue, which looked straightforward into vacancy, and +took not the smallest notice of Magdalen’s appearance, on the opening +of the door. + +“Mrs. Wragge!” cried the captain, shouting at her as if she was fast +asleep. “Mrs. Wragge!” + +The lady of the faded blue eyes slowly rose to an apparently +interminable height. When she had at last attained an upright position, +she towered to a stature of two or three inches over six feet. Giants +of both sexes are, by a wise dispensation of Providence, created, for +the most part, gentle. If Mrs. Wragge and a lamb had been placed side +by side, comparison, under those circumstances, would have exposed the +lamb as a rank impostor. + +“Tea, captain?” inquired Mrs. Wragge, looking submissively down at her +husband, whose head, when he stood on tiptoe, barely reached her +shoulder. + +“Miss Vanstone, the younger,” said the captain, presenting Magdalen. +“Our fair relative, whom I have met by fortunate accident. Our guest +for the night. Our guest!” reiterated the captain, shouting once more +as if the tall lady was still fast asleep, in spite of the plain +testimony of her own eyes to the contrary. + +A smile expressed itself (in faint outline) on the large vacant space +of Mrs. Wragge’s countenance. “Oh?” she said, interrogatively. “Oh, +indeed? Please, miss, will you sit down? I’m sorry—no, I don’t mean I’m +sorry; I mean I’m glad—” she stopped, and consulted her husband by a +helpless look. + +“Glad, of course!” shouted the captain. + +“Glad, of course,” echoed the giantess of the amber satin, more meekly +than ever. + +“Mrs. Wragge is not deaf,” explained the captain. “She’s only a little +slow. Constitutionally torpid—if I may use the expression. I am merely +loud with her (and I beg you will honor me by being loud, too) as a +necessary stimulant to her ideas. Shout at her—and her mind comes up to +time. Speak to her—and she drifts miles away from you directly. Mrs. +Wragge!” + +Mrs. Wragge instantly acknowledged the stimulant. “Tea, captain?” she +inquired, for the second time. + +“Put your cap straight!” shouted her husband. “I beg ten thousand +pardons,” he resumed, again addressing himself to Magdalen. “The sad +truth is, I am a martyr to my own sense of order. All untidiness, all +want of system and regularity, cause me the acutest irritation. My +attention is distracted, my composure is upset; I can’t rest till +things are set straight again. Externally speaking, Mrs. Wragge is, to +my infinite regret, the crookedest woman I ever met with. More to the +right!” shouted the captain, as Mrs. Wragge, like a well-trained child, +presented herself with her revised head-dress for her husband’s +inspection. + +Mrs. Wragge immediately pulled the cap to the left. Magdalen rose, and +set it right for her. The moon-face of the giantess brightened for the +first time. She looked admiringly at Magdalen’s cloak and bonnet. “Do +you like dress, miss?” she asked, suddenly, in a confidential whisper. +“I do.” + +“Show Miss Vanstone her room,” said the captain, looking as if the +whole house belonged to him. “The spare-room, the landlady’s +spare-room, on the third floor front. Offer Miss Vanstone all articles +connected with the toilet of which she may stand in need. She has no +luggage with her. Supply the deficiency, and then come back and make +tea.” + +Mrs. Wragge acknowledged the receipt of these lofty directions by a +look of placid bewilderment, and led the way out of the room; Magdalen +following her, with a candle presented by the attentive captain. As +soon as they were alone on the landing outside, Mrs. Wragge raised the +tattered old book which she had been reading when Magdalen was first +presented to her, and which she had never let out of her hand since, +and slowly tapped herself on the forehead with it. “Oh, my poor head!” +said the tall lady, in meek soliloquy; “it’s Buzzing again worse than +ever!” + +“Buzzing?” repeated Magdalen, in the utmost astonishment. + +Mrs. Wragge ascended the stairs, without offering any explanation, +stopped at one of the rooms on the second floor, and led the way in. + +“This is not the third floor,” said Magdalen. “This is not my room, +surely?” + +“Wait a bit,” pleaded Mrs. Wragge. “Wait a bit, miss, before we go up +any higher. I’ve got the Buzzing in my head worse than ever. Please +wait for me till I’m a little better again.” + +“Shall I ask for help?” inquired Magdalen. “Shall I call the landlady?” + +“Help?” echoed Mrs. Wragge. “Bless you, I don’t want help! I’m used to +it. I’ve had the Buzzing in my head, off and on—how many years?” She +stopped, reflected, lost herself, and suddenly tried a question in +despair. “Have you ever been at Darch’s Dining-rooms in London?” she +asked, with an appearance of the deepest interest. + +“No,” replied Magdalen, wondering at the strange inquiry. + +“That’s where the Buzzing in my head first began,” said Mrs. Wragge, +following the new clue with the deepest attention and anxiety. “I was +employed to wait on the gentlemen at Darch’s Dining-rooms—I was. The +gentlemen all came together; the gentlemen were all hungry together; +the gentlemen all gave their orders together—” She stopped, and tapped +her head again, despondently, with the tattered old book. + +“And you had to keep all their orders in your memory, separate one from +the other?” suggested Magdalen, helping her out. “And the trying to do +that confused you?” + +“That’s it!” said Mrs. Wragge, becoming violently excited in a moment. +“Boiled pork and greens and pease-pudding, for Number One. Stewed beef +and carrots and gooseberry tart, for Number Two. Cut of mutton, and +quick about it, well done, and plenty of fat, for Number Three. Codfish +and parsnips, two chops to follow, hot-and-hot, or I’ll be the death of +you, for Number Four. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Carrots and +gooseberry tart—pease-pudding and plenty of fat—pork and beef and +mutton, and cut ’em all, and quick about it—stout for one, and ale for +t’other—and stale bread here, and new bread there—and this gentleman +likes cheese, and that gentleman doesn’t—Matilda, Tilda, Tilda, Tilda, +fifty times over, till I didn’t know my own name again—oh lord! oh +lord!! oh lord!!! all together, all at the same time, all out of +temper, all buzzing in my poor head like forty thousand million +bees—don’t tell the captain! don’t tell the captain!” The unfortunate +creature dropped the tattered old book, and beat both her hands on her +head, with a look of blank terror fixed on the door. + +“Hush! hush!” said Magdalen. “The captain hasn’t heard you. I know what +is the matter with your head now. Let me cool it.” + +She dipped a towel in water, and pressed it on the hot and helpless +head which Mrs. Wragge submitted to her with the docility of a sick +child. + +“What a pretty hand you’ve got!” said the poor creature, feeling the +relief of the coolness and taking Magdalen’s hand, admiringly, in her +own. “How soft and white it is! I try to be a lady; I always keep my +gloves on—but I can’t get my hands like yours. I’m nicely dressed, +though, ain’t I? I like dress; it’s a comfort to me. I’m always happy +when I’m looking at my things. I say—you won’t be angry with me?—I +should so like to try your bonnet on.” + +Magdalen humored her, with the ready compassion of the young. She stood +smiling and nodding at herself in the glass, with the bonnet perched on +the top of her head. “I had one as pretty as this, once,” she +said—“only it was white, not black. I wore it when the captain married +me.” + +“Where did you meet with him?” asked Magdalen, putting the question as +a chance means of increasing her scanty stock of information on the +subject of Captain Wragge. + +“At the Dining-rooms,” said Mrs. Wragge. “He was the hungriest and the +loudest to wait upon of the lot of ’em. I made more mistakes with him +than I did with all the rest of them put together. He used to swear—oh, +didn’t he use to swear! When he left off swearing at me he married me. +There was others wanted me besides him. Bless you, I had my pick. Why +not? When you have a trifle of money left you that you didn’t expect, +if that don’t make a lady of you, what does? Isn’t a lady to have her +pick? I had my trifle of money, and I had my pick, and I picked the +captain—I did. He was the smartest and the shortest of them all. He +took care of me and my money. I’m here, the money’s gone. Don’t you put +that towel down on the table—he won’t have that! Don’t move his +razors—don’t, please, or I shall forget which is which. I’ve got to +remember which is which to-morrow morning. Bless you, the captain don’t +shave himself! He had me taught. I shave him. I do his hair, and cut +his nails—he’s awfully particular about his nails. So he is about his +trousers. And his shoes. And his newspaper in the morning. And his +breakfasts, and lunches, and dinners, and teas—” She stopped, struck by +a sudden recollection, looked about her, observed the tattered old book +on the floor, and clasped her hands in despair. “I’ve lost the place!” +she exclaimed helplessly. “Oh, mercy, what will become of me! I’ve lost +the place.” + +“Never mind,” said Magdalen; “I’ll soon find the place for you again.” + +She picked up the book, looked into the pages, and found that the +object of Mrs. Wragge’s anxiety was nothing more important than an +old-fashioned Treatise on the Art of Cookery, reduced under the usual +heads of Fish, Flesh, and Fowl, and containing the customary series of +recipes. Turning over the leaves, Magdalen came to one particular page, +thickly studded with little drops of moisture half dry. “Curious!” she +said. “If this was anything but a cookery-book, I should say somebody +had been crying over it.” + +“Somebody?” echoed Mrs. Wragge, with a stare of amazement. “It isn’t +somebody—it’s Me. Thank you kindly, that’s the place, sure enough. +Bless you, I’m used to crying over it. You’d cry, too, if you had to +get the captain’s dinners out of it. As sure as ever I sit down to this +book the Buzzing in my head begins again. Who’s to make it out? +Sometimes I think I’ve got it, and it all goes away from me. Sometimes +I think I haven’t got it, and it all comes back in a heap. Look here! +Here’s what he’s ordered for his breakfast to-morrow: ‘Omelette with +Herbs. Beat up two eggs with a little water or milk, salt, pepper, +chives, and parsley. Mince small.’—There! mince small! How am I to +mince small when it’s all mixed up and running? ‘Put a piece of butter +the size of your thumb into the frying-pan.’—Look at my thumb, and look +at yours! whose size does she mean? ‘Boil, but not brown.’—If it +mustn’t be brown, what color must it be? She won’t tell me; she expects +me to know, and I don’t. ‘Pour in the omelette.’—There! I can do that. +‘Allow it to set, raise it round the edge; when done, turn it over to +double it.’—Oh, the number of times I turned it over and doubled it in +my head, before you came in to-night! ‘Keep it soft; put the dish on +the frying-pan, and turn it over.’ Which am I to turn over—oh, mercy, +try the cold towel again, and tell me which—the dish or the +frying-pan?” + +“Put the dish on the frying-pan,” said Magdalen; “and then turn the +frying-pan over. That is what it means, I think.” + +“Thank you kindly,” said Mrs. Wragge, “I want to get it into my head; +please say it again.” + +Magdalen said it again. + +“And then turn the frying-pan over,” repeated Mrs. Wragge, with a +sudden burst of energy. “I’ve got it now! Oh, the lots of omelettes all +frying together in my head; and all frying wrong! Much obliged, I’m +sure. You’ve put me all right again: I’m only a little tired with +talking. And then turn the frying-pan, then turn the frying-pan, then +turn the frying-pan over. It sounds like poetry, don’t it?” + +Her voice sank, and she drowsily closed her eyes. At the same moment +the door of the room below opened, and the captain’s mellifluous bass +notes floated upstairs, charged with the customary stimulant to his +wife’s faculties. + +“Mrs. Wragge!” cried the captain. “Mrs. Wragge!” + +She started to her feet at that terrible summons. “Oh, what did he tell +me to do?” she asked, distractedly. “Lots of things, and I’ve forgotten +them all!” + +“Say you have done them when he asks you,” suggested Magdalen. “They +were things for me—things I don’t want. I remember all that is +necessary. My room is the front room on the third floor. Go downstairs +and say I am coming directly.” + +She took up the candle and pushed Mrs. Wragge out on the landing. “Say +I am coming directly,” she whispered again—and went upstairs by herself +to the third story. + +The room was small, close, and very poorly furnished. In former days +Miss Garth would have hesitated to offer such a room to one of the +servants at Combe-Raven. But it was quiet; it gave her a few minutes +alone; and it was endurable, even welcome, on that account. She locked +herself in and walked mechanically, with a woman’s first impulse in a +strange bedroom, to the rickety little table and the dingy little +looking-glass. She waited there for a moment, and then turned away with +weary contempt. “What does it matter how pale I am?” she thought to +herself. “Frank can’t see me—what does it matter now!” + +She laid aside her cloak and bonnet, and sat down to collect herself. +But the events of the day had worn her out. The past, when she tried to +remember it, only made her heart ache. The future, when she tried to +penetrate it, was a black void. She rose again, and stood by the +uncurtained window—stood looking out, as if there was some hidden +sympathy for her own desolation in the desolate night. + +“Norah!” she said to herself, tenderly; “I wonder if Norah is thinking +of me? Oh, if I could be as patient as she is! If I could only forget +the debt we owe to Michael Vanstone!” + +Her face darkened with a vindictive despair, and she paced the little +cage of a room backward and forward, softly. “No: never till the debt +is paid!” Her thoughts veered back again to Frank. “Still at sea, poor +fellow; further and further away from me; sailing through the day, +sailing through the night. Oh, Frank, love me!” + +Her eyes filled with tears. She dashed them away, made for the door, +and laughed with a desperate levity, as she unlocked it again. + +“Any company is better than my own thoughts,” she burst out, +recklessly, as she left the room. “I’m forgetting my ready-made +relations—my half-witted aunt, and my uncle the rogue.” She descended +the stairs to the landing on the first floor, and paused there in +momentary hesitation. “How will it end?” she asked herself. “Where is +my blindfolded journey taking me to now? Who knows, and who cares?” + +She entered the room. + +Captain Wragge was presiding at the tea-tray with the air of a prince +in his own banqueting-hall. At one side of the table sat Mrs. Wragge, +watching her husband’s eye like an animal waiting to be fed. At the +other side was an empty chair, toward which the captain waved his +persuasive hand when Magdalen came in. “How do you like your room?” he +inquired; “I trust Mrs. Wragge has made herself useful? You take milk +and sugar? Try the local bread, honor the York butter, test the +freshness of a new and neighboring egg. I offer my little all. A +pauper’s meal, my dear girl—seasoned with a gentleman’s welcome.” + +“Seasoned with salt, pepper, chives and parsley,” murmured Mrs. Wragge, +catching instantly at a word in connection with cookery, and harnessing +her head to the omelette for the rest of the evening. + +“Sit straight at the table!” shouted the captain. “More to the left, +more still—that will do. During your absence upstairs,” he continued, +addressing himself to Magdalen, “my mind has not been unemployed. I +have been considering your position with a view exclusively to your own +benefit. If you decide on being guided to-morrow by the light of my +experience, that light is unreservedly at your service. You may +naturally say: ‘I know but little of you, captain, and that little is +unfavorable.’ Granted, on one condition—that you permit me to make +myself and my character quite familiar to you when tea is over. False +shame is foreign to my nature. You see my wife, my house, my bread, my +butter, and my eggs, all exactly as they are. See me, too, my dear +girl, while you are about it.” + +When tea was over, Mrs. Wragge, at a signal from her husband, retired +to a corner of the room, with the eternal cookery-book still in her +hand. “Mince small,” she whispered, confidentially, as she passed +Magdalen. “That’s a teaser, isn’t it?” + +“Down at heel again!” shouted the captain, pointing to his wife’s heavy +flat feet as they shuffled across the room. “The right shoe. Pull it up +at heel, Mrs. Wragge—pull it up at heel! Pray allow me,” he continued, +offering his arm to Magdalen, and escorting her to a dirty little +horse-hair sofa. “You want repose—after your long journey, you really +want repose.” He drew his chair to the sofa, and surveyed her with a +bland look of investigation—as if he had been her medical attendant, +with a diagnosis on his mind. + +“Very pleasant! very pleasant!” said the captain, when he had seen his +guest comfortable on the sofa. “I feel quite in the bosom of my family. +Shall we return to our subject—the subject of my rascally self? No! no! +No apologies, no protestations, pray. Don’t mince the matter on your +side—and depend on me not to mince it on mine. Now come to facts; pray +come to facts. Who, and what am I? Carry your mind back to our +conversation on the Walls of this interesting City, and let us start +once more from your point of view. I am a Rogue; and, in that capacity +(as I have already pointed out), the most useful man you possibly could +have met with. Now observe! There are many varieties of Rogue; let me +tell you my variety, to begin with. I am a Swindler.” + +His entire shamelessness was really super-human. Not the vestige of a +blush varied the sallow monotony of his complexion; the smile wreathed +his curly lips as pleasantly as ever his party-colored eyes twinkled at +Magdalen with the self-enjoying frankness of a naturally harmless man. +Had his wife heard him? Magdalen looked over his shoulder to the corner +of the room in which she was sitting behind him. No: the self-taught +student of cookery was absorbed in her subject. She had advanced her +imaginary omelette to the critical stage at which the butter was to be +thrown in—that vaguely-measured morsel of butter, the size of your +thumb. Mrs. Wragge sat lost in contemplation of one of her own thumbs, +and shook her head over it, as if it failed to satisfy her. + +“Don’t be shocked,” proceeded the captain; “don’t be astonished. +Swindler is nothing but a word of two syllables. S, W, I, N, D—swind; +L, E, R—ler; Swindler. Definition: A moral agriculturist; a man who +cultivates the field of human sympathy. I am that moral agriculturist, +that cultivating man. Narrow-minded mediocrity, envious of my success +in my profession, calls me a Swindler. What of that? The same low tone +of mind assails men in other professions in a similar manner—calls +great writers scribblers—great generals, butchers—and so on. It +entirely depends on the point of view. Adopting your point, I announce +myself intelligibly as a Swindler. Now return the obligation, and adopt +mine. Hear what I have to say for myself, in the exercise of my +profession.—Shall I continue to put it frankly?” + +“Yes,” said Magdalen; “and I’ll tell you frankly afterward what I think +of it.” + +The captain cleared his throat; mentally assembled his entire army of +words—horse, foot, artillery, and reserves; put himself at the head; +and dashed into action, to carry the moral intrenchments of Society by +a general charge. + +“Now observe,” he began. “Here am I, a needy object. Very good. Without +complicating the question by asking how I come to be in that condition, +I will merely inquire whether it is, or is not, the duty of a Christian +community to help the needy. If you say No, you simply shock me; and +there is an end of it; if you say Yes, then I beg to ask, Why am I to +blame for making a Christian community do its duty? You may say, Is a +careful man who has saved money bound to spend it again on a careless +stranger who has saved none? Why of course he is! And on what ground, +pray? Good heavens! on the ground that he has _got_ the money, to be +sure. All the world over, the man who has not got the thing, obtains +it, on one pretense or another, of the man who has—and, in nine cases +out of ten, the pretense is a false one. What! your pockets are full, +and my pockets are empty; and you refuse to help me? Sordid wretch! do +you think I will allow you to violate the sacred obligations of charity +in my person? I won’t allow you—I say, distinctly, I won’t allow you. +Those are my principles as a moral agriculturist. Principles which +admit of trickery? Certainly. Am I to blame if the field of human +sympathy can’t be cultivated in any other way? Consult my brother +agriculturists in the mere farming line—do they get their crops for the +asking? No! they must circumvent arid Nature exactly as I circumvent +sordid Man. They must plow, and sow, and top-dress, and bottom-dress, +and deep-drain, and surface-drain, and all the rest of it. Why am I to +be checked in the vast occupation of deep-draining mankind? Why am I to +be persecuted for habitually exciting the noblest feelings of our +common nature? Infamous!—I can characterize it by no other +word—infamous! If I hadn’t confidence in the future, I should despair +of humanity—but I have confidence in the future. Yes! one of these days +(when I am dead and gone), as ideas enlarge and enlightenment +progresses, the abstract merits of the profession now called swindling +will be recognized. When that day comes, don’t drag me out of my grave +and give me a public funeral; don’t take advantage of my having no +voice to raise in my own defense, and insult me by a national statue. +No! do me justice on my tombstone; dash me off, in one masterly +sentence, on my epitaph. Here lies Wragge, embalmed in the tardy +recognition of his species: he plowed, sowed, and reaped his +fellow-creatures; and enlightened posterity congratulates him on the +uniform excellence of his crops.” + +He stopped; not from want of confidence, not from want of words—purely +from want of breath. “I put it frankly, with a dash of humor,” he said, +pleasantly. “I don’t shock you—do I?” Weary and heart-sick as she +was—suspicious of others, doubtful of herself—the extravagant impudence +of Captain Wragge’s defense of swindling touched Magdalen’s natural +sense of humor, and forced a smile to her lips. “Is the Yorkshire crop +a particularly rich one just at present?” she inquired, meeting him, in +her neatly feminine way, with his own weapons. + +“A hit—a palpable hit,” said the captain, jocosely exhibiting the tails +of his threadbare shooting jacket, as a practical commentary on +Magdalen’s remark. “My dear girl, here or elsewhere, the crop never +fails—but one man can’t always gather it in. The assistance of +intelligent co-operation is, I regret to say, denied me. I have nothing +in common with the clumsy rank and file of my profession, who convict +themselves, before recorders and magistrates, of the worst of all +offenses—incurable stupidity in the exercise of their own vocation. +Such as you see me, I stand entirely alone. After years of successful +self-dependence, the penalties of celebrity are beginning to attach to +me. On my way from the North, I pause at this interesting city for the +third time; I consult my Books for the customary references to past +local experience; I find under the heading, ‘Personal position in +York,’ the initials, T. W. K., signifying Too Well Known. I refer to my +Index, and turn to the surrounding neighborhood. The same brief marks +meet my eye. ‘Leeds. T. W. K.—Scarborough. T. W. K.—Harrowgate. T. W. +K.’—and so on. What is the inevitable consequence? I suspend my +proceedings; my resources evaporate; and my fair relative finds me the +pauper gentleman whom she now sees before her.” + +“Your books?” said Magdalen. “What books do you mean?” + +“You shall see,” replied the captain. “Trust me, or not, as you like—I +trust _you_ implicitly. You shall see.” + +With those words he retired into the back room. While he was gone, +Magdalen stole another look at Mrs. Wragge. Was she still self-isolated +from her husband’s deluge of words? Perfectly self-isolated. She had +advanced the imaginary omelette to the last stage of culinary progress; +and she was now rehearsing the final operation of turning it over—with +the palm of her hand to represent the dish, and the cookery-book to +impersonate the frying-pan. “I’ve got it,” said Mrs. Wragge, nodding +across the room at Magdalen. “First put the frying-pan on the dish, and +then tumble both of them over.” + +Captain Wragge returned, carrying a neat black dispatch-box, adorned +with a bright brass lock. He produced from the box five or six plump +little books, bound in commercial calf and vellum, and each fitted +comfortably with its own little lock. + +“Mind!” said the moral agriculturist, “I take no credit to myself for +this: it is my nature to be orderly, and orderly I am. I must have +everything down in black and white, or I should go mad! Here is my +commercial library: Daybook, Ledger, Book of Districts, Book of +Letters, Book of Remarks, and so on. Kindly throw your eye over any one +of them. I flatter myself there is no such thing as a blot, or a +careless entry in it, from the first page to the last. Look at this +room—is there a chair out of place? Not if I know it! Look at _me_. Am +I dusty? am I dirty? am I half shaved? Am I, in brief, a speckless +pauper, or am I not? Mind! I take no credit to myself; the nature of +the man, my dear girl—the nature of the man!” + +He opened one of the books. Magdalen was no judge of the admirable +correctness with which the accounts inside were all kept; but she could +estimate the neatness of the handwriting, the regularity in the rows of +figures, the mathematical exactness of the ruled lines in red and black +ink, the cleanly absence of blots, stains, or erasures. Although +Captain Wragge’s inborn sense of order was in him—as it is in others—a +sense too inveterately mechanical to exercise any elevating moral +influence over his actions, it had produced its legitimate effect on +his habits, and had reduced his rogueries as strictly to method and +system as if they had been the commercial transactions of an honest +man. + +“In appearance, my system looks complicated?” pursued the captain. “In +reality, it is simplicity itself. I merely avoid the errors of inferior +practitioners. That is to say, I never plead for myself; and I never +apply to rich people—both fatal mistakes which the inferior +practitioner perpetually commits. People with small means sometimes +have generous impulses in connection with money—rich people, _never_. +My lord, with forty thousand a year; Sir John, with property in half a +dozen counties—those are the men who never forgive the genteel beggar +for swindling them out of a sovereign; those are the men who send for +the mendicity officers; those are the men who take care of their money. +Who are the people who lose shillings and sixpences by sheer +thoughtlessness? Servants and small clerks, to whom shillings and +sixpences are of consequence. Did you ever hear of Rothschild or Baring +dropping a fourpenny-piece down a gutter-hole? Fourpence in +Rothschild’s pocket is safer than fourpence in the pocket of that woman +who is crying stale shrimps in Skeldergate at this moment. Fortified by +these sound principles, enlightened by the stores of written +information in my commercial library, I have ranged through the +population for years past, and have raised my charitable crops with the +most cheering success. Here, in book Number One, are all my Districts +mapped out, with the prevalent public feeling to appeal to in each: +Military District, Clerical District, Agricultural District; et cetera, +et cetera. Here, in Number Two, are my cases that I plead: Family of an +officer who fell at Waterloo; Wife of a poor curate stricken down by +nervous debility; Widow of a grazier in difficulties gored to death by +a mad bull; et cetera, et cetera. Here, in Number Three, are the people +who have heard of the officer’s family, the curate’s wife, the +grazier’s widow, and the people who haven’t; the people who have said +Yes, and the people who have said No; the people to try again, the +people who want a fresh case to stir them up, the people who are +doubtful, the people to beware of; et cetera, et cetera. Here, in +Number Four, are my Adopted Handwritings of public characters; my +testimonials to my own worth and integrity; my Heartrending Statements +of the officer’s family, the curate’s wife, and the grazier’s widow, +stained with tears, blotted with emotion; et cetera, et cetera. Here, +in Numbers Five and Six, are my own personal subscriptions to local +charities, actually paid in remunerative neighborhoods, on the +principle of throwing a sprat to catch a herring; also, my diary of +each day’s proceedings, my personal reflections and remarks, my +statement of existing difficulties (such as the difficulty of finding +myself T. W. K. in this interesting city); my outgivings and incomings; +wind and weather; politics and public events; fluctuations in my own +health; fluctuations in Mrs. Wragge’s head; fluctuations in our means +and meals, our payments, prospects, and principles; et cetera, et +cetera. So, my dear girl, the Swindler’s Mill goes. So you see me +exactly as I am. You knew, before I met you, that I lived on my wits. +Well! have I, or have I not, shown you that I have wits to live on?” + +“I have no doubt you have done yourself full justice,” said Magdalen, +quietly. + +“I am not at all exhausted,” continued the captain. “I can go on, if +necessary, for the rest of the evening.—However, if I have done myself +full justice, perhaps I may leave the remaining points in my character +to develop themselves at future opportunities. For the present, I +withdraw myself from notice. Exit Wragge. And now to business! Permit +me to inquire what effect I have produced on your own mind? Do you +still believe that the Rogue who has trusted you with all his secrets +is a Rogue who is bent on taking a mean advantage of a fair relative?” + +“I will wait a little,” Magdalen rejoined, “before I answer that +question. When I came down to tea, you told me you had been employing +your mind for my benefit. May I ask how?” + +“By all means,” said Captain Wragge. “You shall have the net result of +the whole mental process. Said process ranges over the present and +future proceedings of your disconsolate friends, and of the lawyers who +are helping them to find you. Their present proceedings are, in all +probability, assuming the following form: the lawyer’s clerk has given +you up at Mr. Huxtable’s, and has also, by this time, given you up, +after careful inquiry, at all the hotels. His last chance is that you +may send for your box to the cloak-room—you don’t send for it—and there +the clerk is to-night (thanks to Captain Wragge and Rosemary Lane) at +the end of his resources. He will forthwith communicate that fact to +his employers in London; and those employers (don’t be alarmed!) will +apply for help to the detective police. Allowing for inevitable delays, +a professional spy, with all his wits about him, and with those +handbills to help him privately in identifying you, will be here +certainly not later than the day after tomorrow—possibly earlier. If +you remain in York, if you attempt to communicate with Mr. Huxtable, +that spy will find you out. If, on the other hand, you leave the city +before he comes (taking your departure by other means than the railway, +of course) you put him in the same predicament as the clerk—you defy +him to find a fresh trace of you. There is my brief abstract of your +present position. What do you think of it?” + +“I think it has one defect,” said Magdalen. “It ends in nothing.” + +“Pardon me,” retorted the captain. “It ends in an arrangement for your +safe departure, and in a plan for the entire gratification of your +wishes in the direction of the stage. Both drawn from the resources of +my own experience, and both waiting a word from you, to be poured forth +immediately in the fullest detail.” + +“I think I know what that word is,” replied Magdalen, looking at him +attentively. + +“Charmed to hear it, I am sure. You have only to say, ‘Captain Wragge, +take charge of me’—and my plans are yours from that moment.” + +“I will take to-night to consider your proposal,” she said, after an +instant’s reflection. “You shall have my answer to-morrow morning.” + +Captain Wragge looked a little disappointed. He had not expected the +reservation on his side to be met so composedly by a reservation on +hers. + +“Why not decide at once?” he remonstrated, in his most persuasive +tones. “You have only to consider—” + +“I have more to consider than you think for,” she answered. “I have +another object in view besides the object you know of.” + +“May I ask—?” + +“Excuse me, Captain Wragge—you may _not_ ask. Allow me to thank you for +your hospitality, and to wish you good-night. I am worn out. I want +rest.” + +Once more the captain wisely adapted himself to her humor with the +ready self-control of an experienced man. + +“Worn out, of course!” he said, sympathetically. “Unpardonable on my +part not to have thought of it before. We will resume our conversation +to-morrow. Permit me to give you a candle. Mrs. Wragge!” + +Prostrated by mental exertion, Mrs. Wragge was pursuing the course of +the omelette in dreams. Her head was twisted one way, and her body the +other. She snored meekly. At intervals one of her hands raised itself +in the air, shook an imaginary frying-pan, and dropped again with a +faint thump on the cookery-book in her lap. At the sound of her +husband’s voice, she started to her feet, and confronted him with her +mind fast asleep, and her eyes wide open. + +“Assist Miss Vanstone,” said the captain. “And the next time you forget +yourself in your chair, fall asleep straight—don’t annoy me by falling +asleep crooked.” + +Mrs. Wragge opened her eyes a little wider, and looked at Magdalen in +helpless amazement. + +“Is the captain breakfasting by candle-light?” she inquired, meekly. +“And haven’t I done the omelette?” + +Before her husband’s corrective voice could apply a fresh stimulant, +Magdalen took her compassionately by the arm and led her out of the +room. + +“Another object besides the object I know of?” repeated Captain Wragge, +when he was left by himself. “_Is_ there a gentleman in the background, +after all? Is there mischief brewing in the dark that I don’t bargain +for?” + + + +CHAPTER III. + +Toward six o’clock the next morning, the light pouring in on her face +awoke Magdalen in the bedroom in Rosemary Lane. + +She started from her deep, dreamless repose of the past night with that +painful sense of bewilderment, on first waking, which is familiar to +all sleepers in strange beds. “Norah!” she called out mechanically, +when she opened her eyes. The next instant her mind roused itself, and +her senses told her the truth. She looked round the miserable room with +a loathing recognition of it. The sordid contrast which the place +presented to all that she had been accustomed to see in her own +bed-chamber—the practical abandonment, implied in its scanty furniture, +of those elegant purities of personal habit to which she had been +accustomed from her childhood—shocked that sense of bodily self-respect +in Magdalen which is a refined woman’s second nature. Contemptible as +the influence seemed, when compared with her situation at that moment, +the bare sight of the jug and basin in a corner of the room decided her +first resolution when she woke. She determined, then and there, to +leave Rosemary Lane. + +How was she to leave it? With Captain Wragge, or without him? + +She dressed herself, with a dainty shrinking from everything in the +room which her hands or her clothes touched in the process, and then +opened the window. The autumn air felt keen and sweet; and the little +patch of sky that she could see was warmly bright already with the new +sunlight. Distant voices of bargemen on the river, and the chirping of +birds among the weeds which topped the old city wall, were the only +sounds that broke the morning silence. She sat down by the window; and +searched her mind for the thoughts which she had lost, when weariness +overcame her on the night before. + +The first subject to which she returned was the vagabond subject of +Captain Wragge. + +The “moral agriculturist” had failed to remove her personal distrust of +him, cunningly as he had tried to plead against it by openly confessing +the impostures that he had practiced on others. He had raised her +opinion of his abilities; he had amused her by his humor; he had +astonished her by his assurance; but he had left her original +conviction that he was a Rogue exactly where it was when he first met +with her. If the one design then in her mind had been the design of +going on the stage, she would, at all hazards, have rejected the more +than doubtful assistance of Captain Wragge on the spot. + +But the perilous journey on which she had now adventured herself had +another end in view—an end, dark and distant—an end, with pitfalls +hidden on the way to it, far other than the shallow pitfalls on the way +to the stage. In the mysterious stillness of the morning, her mind +looked on to its second and its deeper design, and the despicable +figure of the swindler rose before her in a new view. + +She tried to shut him out—to feel above him and beyond him again, as +she had felt up to this time. + +After a little trifling with her dress, she took from her bosom the +white silk bag which her own hands had made on the farewell night at +Combe-Raven. It drew together at the mouth with delicate silken +strings. The first thing she took out, on opening it, was a lock of +Frank’s hair, tied with a morsel of silver thread; the next was a sheet +of paper containing the extracts which she had copied from her father’s +will and her father’s letter; the last was a closely-folded packet of +bank-notes, to the value of nearly two hundred pounds—the produce (as +Miss Garth had rightly conjectured) of the sale of her jewelry and her +dresses, in which the servant at the boarding-school had privately +assisted her. She put back the notes at once, without a second glance +at them, and then sat looking thoughtfully at the lock of hair as it +lay on her lap. “You are better than nothing,” she said, speaking to it +with a girl’s fanciful tenderness. “I can sit and look at you +sometimes, till I almost think I am looking at Frank. Oh, my darling! +my darling!” Her voice faltered softly, and she put the lock of hair, +with a languid gentleness, to her lips. It fell from her fingers into +her bosom. A lovely tinge of color rose on her cheeks, and spread +downward to her neck, as if it followed the falling hair. She closed +her eyes, and let her fair head droop softly. The world passed from +her; and, for one enchanted moment, Love opened the gates of Paradise +to the daughter of Eve. + +The trivial noises in the neighboring street, gathering in number as +the morning advanced, forced her back to the hard realities of the +passing time. She raised her head with a heavy sigh, and opened her +eyes once more on the mean and miserable little room. + +The extracts from the will and the letter—those last memorials of her +father, now so closely associated with the purpose which had possession +of her mind—still lay before her. The transient color faded from her +face, as she spread the little manuscript open on her lap. The extracts +from the will stood highest on the page; they were limited to those few +touching words in which the dead father begged his children’s +forgiveness for the stain on their birth, and implored them to remember +the untiring love and care by which he had striven to atone for it. The +extract from the letter to Mr. Pendril came next. She read the last +melancholy sentences aloud to herself: “For God’s sake come on the day +when you receive this—come and relieve me from the dreadful thought +that my two darling girls are at this moment unprovided for. If +anything happened to me, and if my desire to do their mother justice +ended (through my miserable ignorance of the law) in leaving Norah and +Magdalen disinherited, I should not rest in my grave!” Under these +lines again, and close at the bottom of the page, was written the +terrible commentary on that letter which had fallen from Mr. Pendril’s +lips: “Mr. Vanstone’s daughters are Nobody’s Children, and the law +leaves them helpless at their uncle’s mercy.” + +Helpless when those words were spoken—helpless still, after all that +she had resolved, after all that she had sacrificed. The assertion of +her natural rights and her sister’s, sanctioned by the direct +expression of her father’s last wishes; the recall of Frank from China; +the justification of her desertion of Norah—all hung on her desperate +purpose of recovering the lost inheritance, at any risk, from the man +who had beggared and insulted his brother’s children. And that man was +still a shadow to her! So little did she know of him that she was even +ignorant at that moment of his place of abode. + +She rose and paced the room with the noiseless, negligent grace of a +wild creature of the forest in its cage. “How can I reach him in the +dark?” she said to herself. “How can I find out—?” She stopped +suddenly. Before the question had shaped itself to an end in her +thoughts, Captain Wragge was back in her mind again. + +A man well used to working in the dark; a man with endless resources of +audacity and cunning; a man who would hesitate at no mean employment +that could be offered to him, if it was employment that filled his +pockets—was this the instrument for which, in its present need, her +hand was waiting? Two of the necessities to be met, before she could +take a single step in advance, were plainly present to her—the +necessity of knowing more of her father’s brother than she knew now; +and the necessity of throwing him off his guard by concealing herself +personally during the process of inquiry. Resolutely self-dependent as +she was, the inevitable spy’s work at the outset must be work delegated +to another. In her position, was there any ready human creature within +reach but the vagabond downstairs? Not one. She thought of it +anxiously, she thought of it long. Not one! There the choice was, +steadily confronting her: the choice of taking the Rogue, or of turning +her back on the Purpose. + +She paused in the middle of the room. “What can he do at his worst?” +she said to herself. “Cheat me. Well! if my money governs him for me, +what then? Let him have my money!” She returned mechanically to her +place by the window. A moment more decided her. A moment more, and she +took the first fatal step downward-she determined to face the risk, and +try Captain Wragge. + +At nine o’clock the landlady knocked at Magdalen’s door, and informed +her (with the captain’s kind compliments) that breakfast was ready. + +She found Mrs. Wragge alone, attired in a voluminous brown holland +wrapper, with a limp cape and a trimming of dingy pink ribbon. The +ex-waitress at Darch’s Dining-rooms was absorbed in the contemplation +of a large dish, containing a leathery-looking substance of a mottled +yellow color, profusely sprinkled with little black spots. + +“There it is!” said Mrs. Wragge. “Omelette with herbs. The landlady +helped me. And that’s what we’ve made of it. Don’t you ask the captain +for any when he comes in—don’t, there’s a good soul. It isn’t nice. We +had some accidents with it. It’s been under the grate. It’s been +spilled on the stairs. It’s scalded the landlady’s youngest boy—he went +and sat on it. Bless you, it isn’t half as nice as it looks! Don’t you +ask for any. Perhaps he won’t notice if you say nothing about it. What +do you think of my wrapper? I should so like to have a white one. Have +you got a white one? How is it trimmed? Do tell me!” + +The formidable entrance of the captain suspended the next question on +her lips. Fortunately for Mrs. Wragge, her husband was far too anxious +for the promised expression of Magdalen’s decision to pay his customary +attention to questions of cookery. When breakfast was over, he +dismissed Mrs. Wragge, and merely referred to the omelette by telling +her that she had his full permission to “give it to the dogs.” + +“How does my little proposal look by daylight?” he asked, placing +chairs for Magdalen and himself. “Which is it to be: ‘Captain Wragge, +take charge of me?’ or, ‘Captain Wragge, good-morning?’” + +“You shall hear directly,” replied Magdalen. “I have something to say +first. I told you, last night, that I had another object in view +besides the object of earning my living on the stage—” + +“I beg your pardon,” interposed Captain Wragge. “Did you say, earning +your living?” + +“Certainly. Both my sister and myself must depend on our own exertions +to gain our daily bread.” + +“What!!!” cried the captain, starting to his feet. “The daughters of my +wealthy and lamented relative by marriage reduced to earn their own +living? Impossible—wildly, extravagantly impossible!” He sat down +again, and looked at Magdalen as if she had inflicted a personal injury +on him. + +“You are not acquainted with the full extent of our misfortune,” she +said, quietly. “I will tell you what has happened before I go any +further.” She told him at once, in the plainest terms she could find, +and with as few details as possible. + +Captain Wragge’s profound bewilderment left him conscious of but one +distinct result produced by the narrative on his own mind. The lawyer’s +offer of Fifty Pounds Reward for the missing young lady ascended +instantly to a place in his estimation which it had never occupied +until that moment. + +“Do I understand,” he inquired, “that you are entirely deprived of +present resources?” + +“I have sold my jewelry and my dresses,” said Magdalen, impatient of +his mean harping on the pecuniary string. “If my want of experience +keeps me back in a theater, I can afford to wait till the stage can +afford to pay me.” + +Captain Wragge mentally appraised the rings, bracelets, and necklaces, +the silks, satins, and laces of the daughter of a gentleman of fortune, +at—say, a third of their real value. In a moment more, the Fifty Pounds +Reward suddenly sank again to the lowest depths in the deep estimation +of this judicious man. + +“Just so,” he said, in his most business-like manner. “There is not the +least fear, my dear girl, of your being kept back in a theater, if you +possess present resources, and if you profit by my assistance.” + +“I must accept more assistance than you have already offered—or none,” +said Magdalen. “I have more serious difficulties before me than the +difficulty of leaving York, and the difficulty of finding my way to the +stage.” + +“You don’t say so! I am all attention; pray explain yourself!” + +She considered her next words carefully before they passed her lips. + +“There are certain inquiries,” she said, “which I am interested in +making. If I undertook them myself, I should excite the suspicion of +the person inquired after, and should learn little or nothing of what I +wish to know. If the inquiries could be made by a stranger, without my +being seen in the matter, a service would be rendered me of much +greater importance than the service you offered last night.” + +Captain Wragge’s vagabond face became gravely and deeply attentive. + +“May I ask,” he said, “what the nature of the inquiries is likely to +be?” + +Magdalen hesitated. She had necessarily mentioned Michael Vanstone’s +name in informing the captain of the loss of her inheritance. She must +inevitably mention it to him again if she employed his services. He +would doubtless discover it for himself, by a plain process of +inference, before she said many words more, frame them as carefully as +she might. Under these circumstances, was there any intelligible reason +for shrinking from direct reference to Michael Vanstone? No +intelligible reason—and yet she shrank. + +“For instance,” pursued Captain Wragge, “are they inquiries about a man +or a woman; inquiries about an enemy or a friend—?” + +“An enemy,” she answered, quickly. + +Her reply might still have kept the captain in the dark—but her eyes +enlightened him. “Michael Vanstone!” thought the wary Wragge. “She +looks dangerous; I’ll feel my way a little further.” + +“With regard, now, to the person who is the object of these inquiries,” +he resumed. “Are you thoroughly clear in your own mind about what you +want to know?” + +“Perfectly clear,” replied Magdalen. “I want to know where he lives, to +begin with.” + +“Yes. And after that?” + +“I want to know about his habits; about who the people are whom he +associates with; about what he does with his money—” She considered a +little. “And one thing more,” she said; “I want to know whether there +is any woman about his house—a relation, or a housekeeper—who has an +influence over him.” + +“Harmless enough, so far,” said the captain. “What next?” + +“Nothing. The rest is my secret.” + +The clouds on Captain Wragge’s countenance began to clear away again. +He reverted, with his customary precision, to his customary choice of +alternatives. “These inquiries of hers,” he thought, “mean one of two +things—Mischief, or Money! If it’s Mischief, I’ll slip through her +fingers. If it’s Money, I’ll make myself useful, with a view to the +future.” + +Magdalen’s vigilant eyes watched the progress of his reflections +suspiciously. “Captain Wragge,” she said, “if you want time to +consider, say so plainly.” + +“I don’t want a moment,” replied the captain. “Place your departure +from York, your dramatic career, and your private inquiries under my +care. Here I am, unreservedly at your disposal. Say the word—do you +take me?” + +Her heart beat fast; her lips turned dry—but she said the word. + +“I do.” + +There was a pause. Magdalen sat silent, struggling with the vague dread +of the future which had been roused in her mind by her own reply. +Captain Wragge, on his side, was apparently absorbed in the +consideration of a new set of alternatives. His hands descended into +his empty pockets, and prophetically tested their capacity as +receptacles for gold and silver. The brightness of the precious metals +was in his face, the smoothness of the precious metals was in his +voice, as he provided himself with a new supply of words, and resumed +the conversation. + +“The next question,” he said, “is the question of time. Do these +confidential investigations of ours require immediate attention—or can +they wait?” + +“For the present, they can wait,” replied Magdalen. “I wish to secure +my freedom from all interference on the part of my friends before the +inquiries are made.” + +“Very good. The first step toward accomplishing that object is to beat +our retreat—excuse a professional metaphor from a military man—to beat +our retreat from York to-morrow. I see my way plainly so far; but I am +all abroad, as we used to say in the militia, about my marching orders +afterward. The next direction we take ought to be chosen with an eye to +advancing your dramatic views. I am all ready, when I know what your +views are. How came you to think of the theater at all? I see the +sacred fire burning in you; tell me, who lit it?” + +Magdalen could only answer him in one way. She could only look back at +the days that were gone forever, and tell him the story of her first +step toward the stage at Evergreen Lodge. Captain Wragge listened with +his usual politeness; but he evidently derived no satisfactory +impression from what he heard. Audiences of friends were audiences whom +he privately declined to trust; and the opinion of the stage-manager +was the opinion of a man who spoke with his fee in his pocket and his +eye on a future engagement. + +“Interesting, deeply interesting,” he said, when Magdalen had done. +“But not conclusive to a practical man. A specimen of your abilities is +necessary to enlighten me. I have been on the stage myself; the comedy +of the Rivals is familiar to me from beginning to end. A sample is all +I want, if you have not forgotten the words—a sample of ‘Lucy,’ and a +sample of ‘Julia.’” + +“I have not forgotten the words,” said Magdalen, sorrowfully; “and I +have the little books with me in which my dialogue was written out. I +have never parted with them; they remind me of a time—” Her lip +trembled, and a pang of the heart-ache silenced her. + +“Nervous,” remarked the captain, indulgently. “Not at all a bad sign. +The greatest actresses on the stage are nervous. Follow their example, +and get over it. Where are the parts? Oh, here they are! Very nicely +written, and remarkably clean. I’ll give you the cues—it will all be +over (as the dentists say) in no time. Take the back drawing-room for +the stage, and take me for the audience. Tingle goes the bell; up runs +the curtain; order in the gallery, silence in the pit—enter Lucy!” + +She tried hard to control herself; she forced back the sorrow—the +innocent, natural, human sorrow for the absent and the dead—pleading +hard with her for the tears that she refused. Resolutely, with cold, +clinched hands, she tried to begin. As the first familiar words passed +her lips, Frank came back to her from the sea, and the face of her dead +father looked at her with the smile of happy old times. The voices of +her mother and her sister talked gently in the fragrant country +stillness, and the garden-walks at Combe-Raven opened once more on her +view. With a faint, wailing cry, she dropped into a chair; her head +fell forward on the table, and she burst passionately into tears. + +Captain Wragge was on his feet in a moment. She shuddered as he came +near her, and waved him back vehemently with her hand. “Leave me!” she +said; “leave me a minute by myself!” The compliant Wragge retired to +the front room; looked out of the window; and whistled under his +breath. “The family spirit again!” he said. “Complicated by hysterics.” + +After waiting a minute or two he returned to make inquiries. + +“Is there anything I can offer you?” he asked. “Cold water? burned +feathers? smelling salts? medical assistance? Shall I summon Mrs. +Wragge? Shall we put it off till to-morrow?” + +She started up, wild and flushed, with a desperate self-command in her +face, with an angry resolution in her manner. + +“No!” she said. “I must harden myself—and I will! Sit down again and +see me act.” + +“Bravo!” cried the captain. “Dash at it, my beauty—and it’s done!” + +She dashed at it, with a mad defiance of herself—with a raised voice, +and a glow like fever in her cheeks. All the artless, girlish charm of +the performance in happier and better days was gone. The native +dramatic capacity that was in her came, hard and bold, to the surface, +stripped of every softening allurement which had once adorned it. She +would have saddened and disappointed a man with any delicacy of +feeling. She absolutely electrified Captain Wragge. He forgot his +politeness, he forgot his long words. The essential spirit of the man’s +whole vagabond life burst out of him irresistibly in his first +exclamation. “Who the devil would have thought it? She _can_ act, after +all!” The instant the words escaped his lips he recovered himself, and +glided off into his ordinary colloquial channels. Magdalen stopped him +in the middle of his first compliment. “No,” she said; “I have forced +the truth out of you for once. I want no more.” + +“Pardon me,” replied the incorrigible Wragge. “You want a little +instruction; and I am the man to give it you.” + +With that answer, he placed a chair for her, and proceeded to explain +himself. + +She sat down in silence. A sullen indifference began to show itself in +her manner; her cheeks turned pale again; and her eyes looked wearily +vacant at the wall before her. Captain Wragge noticed these signs of +heart-sickness and discontent with herself, after the effort she had +made, and saw the importance of rousing her by speaking, for once, +plainly and directly to the point. She had set a new value on herself +in his mercenary eyes. She had suggested to him a speculation in her +youth, her beauty, and her marked ability for the stage, which had +never entered his mind until he saw her act. The old militia-man was +quick at his shifts. He and his plans had both turned right about +together when Magdalen sat down to hear what he had to say. + +“Mr. Huxtable’s opinion is my opinion,” he began. “You are a born +actress. But you must be trained before you can do anything on the +stage. I am disengaged—I am competent—I have trained others—I can train +you. Don’t trust my word: trust my eye to my own interests. I’ll make +it my interest to take pains with you, and to be quick about it. You +shall pay me for my instructions from your profits on the stage. Half +your salary for the first year; a third of your salary for the second +year; and half the sum you clear by your first benefit in a London +theater. What do you say to that? Have I made it my interest to push +you, or have I not?” + +So far as appearances went, and so far as the stage went, it was plain +that he had linked his interests and Magdalen’s together. She briefly +told him so, and waited to hear more. + +“A month or six weeks’ study,” continued the captain, “will give me a +reasonable idea of what you can do best. All ability runs in grooves; +and your groove remains to be found. We can’t find it here—for we can’t +keep you a close prisoner for weeks together in Rosemary Lane. A quiet +country place, secure from all interference and interruption, is the +place we want for a month certain. Trust my knowledge of Yorkshire, and +consider the place found. I see no difficulties anywhere, except the +difficulty of beating our retreat to-morrow.” + +“I thought your arrangements were made last night?” said Magdalen. + +“Quite right,” rejoined the captain. “They were made last night; and +here they are. We can’t leave by railway, because the lawyer’s clerk is +sure to be on the lookout for you at the York terminus. Very good; we +take to the road instead, and leave in our own carriage. Where the +deuce do we get it? We get it from the landlady’s brother, who has a +horse and chaise which he lets out for hire. That chaise comes to the +end of Rosemary Lane at an early hour to-morrow morning. I take my wife +and my niece out to show them the beauties of the neighborhood. We have +a picnic hamper with us, which marks our purpose in the public eye. You +disfigure yourself in a shawl, bonnet, and veil of Mrs. Wragge’s; we +turn our backs on York; and away we drive on a pleasure trip for the +day—you and I on the front seat, Mrs. Wragge and the hamper behind. +Good again. Once on the highroad, what do we do? Drive to the first +station beyond York, northward, southward, or eastward, as may be +hereafter determined. No lawyer’s clerk is waiting for you there. You +and Mrs. Wragge get out—first opening the hamper at a convenient +opportunity. Instead of containing chickens and Champagne, it contains +a carpet-bag, with the things you want for the night. You take your +tickets for a place previously determined on, and I take the chaise +back to York. Arrived once more in this house, I collect the luggage +left behind, and send for the woman downstairs. ‘Ladies so charmed with +such and such a place (wrong place of course), that they have +determined to stop there. Pray accept the customary week’s rent, in +place of a week’s warning. Good day.’ Is the clerk looking for me at +the York terminus? Not he. I take my ticket under his very nose; I +follow you with the luggage along your line of railway—and where is the +trace left of your departure? Nowhere. The fairy has vanished; and the +legal authorities are left in the lurch.” + +“Why do you talk of difficulties?” asked Magdalen. “The difficulties +seem to be provided for.” + +“All but ONE,” said Captain Wragge, with an ominous emphasis on the +last word. “The Grand Difficulty of humanity from the cradle to the +grave—Money.” He slowly winked his green eye; sighed with deep feeling; +and buried his insolvent hands in his unproductive pockets. + +“What is the money wanted for?” inquired Magdalen. + +“To pay my bills,” replied the captain, with a touching simplicity. +“Pray understand! I never was—and never shall be—personally desirous of +paying a single farthing to any human creature on the habitable globe. +I am speaking in your interest, not in mine.” + +“My interest?” + +“Certainly. You can’t get safely away from York to-morrow without the +chaise. And I can’t get the chaise without money. The landlady’s +brother will lend it if he sees his sister’s bill receipted, and if he +gets his day’s hire beforehand—not otherwise. Allow me to put the +transaction in a business light. We have agreed that I am to be +remunerated for my course of dramatic instruction out of your future +earnings on the stage. Very good. I merely draw on my future prospects; +and you, on whom those prospects depend, are naturally my banker. For +mere argument’s sake, estimate my share in your first year’s salary at +the totally inadequate value of a hundred pounds. Halve that sum; +quarter that sum—” + +“How much do you want?” said Magdalen, impatiently. + +Captain Wragge was sorely tempted to take the Reward at the top of the +handbills as his basis of calculation. But he felt the vast future +importance of present moderation; and actually wanting some twelve or +thirteen pounds, he merely doubled the amount, and said, +“Five-and-twenty.” + +Magdalen took the little bag from her bosom, and gave him the money, +with a contemptuous wonder at the number of words which he had wasted +on her for the purpose of cheating on so small a scale. In the old days +at Combe-Raven, five-and-twenty pounds flowed from a stroke of her +father’s pen into the hands of any one in the house who chose to ask +for it. + +Captain Wragge’s eyes dwelt on the little bag as the eyes of lovers +dwell on their mistresses. “Happy bag!” he murmured, as she put it back +in her bosom. He rose; dived into a corner of the room; produced his +neat dispatch-box; and solemnly unlocked it on the table between +Magdalen and himself. + +“The nature of the man, my dear girl—the nature of the man,” he said, +opening one of his plump little books bound in calf and vellum. “A +transaction has taken place between us. I must have it down in black +and white.” He opened the book at a blank page, and wrote at the top, +in a fine mercantile hand: “_Miss Vanstone, the Younger: In account +with Horatio Wragge, late of the Royal Militia. D_r.—_C_r. _Sept._ +24_th_, 1846. _D_r_.: To estimated value of H. Wragge’s interest in +Miss V.‘s first year’s salary—say_ £ 200. _C_r. _By paid on account_, £ +25.” Having completed the entry—and having also shown, by doubling his +original estimate on the Debtor side, that Magdalen’s easy compliance +with his demand on her had not been thrown away on him—the captain +pressed his blotting-paper over the wet ink, and put away the book with +the air of a man who had done a virtuous action, and who was above +boasting about it. + +“Excuse me for leaving you abruptly,” he said. “Time is of importance; +I must make sure of the chaise. If Mrs. Wragge comes in, tell her +nothing—she is not sharp enough to be trusted. If she presumes to ask +questions, extinguish her immediately. You have only to be loud. Pray +take my authority into your own hands, and be as loud with Mrs. Wragge +as I am!” He snatched up his tall hat, bowed, smiled, and tripped out +of the room. + +Sensible of little else but of the relief of being alone; feeling no +more distinct impression than the vague sense of some serious change +having taken place in herself and her position, Magdalen let the events +of the morning come and go like shadows on her mind, and waited wearily +for what the day might bring forth. After the lapse of some time, the +door opened softly. The giant figure of Mrs. Wragge stalked into the +room, and stopped opposite Magdalen in solemn astonishment. + +“Where are your Things?” asked Mrs. Wragge, with a burst of +incontrollable anxiety. “I’ve been upstairs looking in your drawers. +Where are your night-gowns and night-caps? and your petticoats and +stockings? and your hair-pins and bear’s grease, and all the rest of +it?” + +“My luggage is left at the railway station,” said Magdalen. + +Mrs. Wragge’s moon-face brightened dimly. The ineradicable female +instinct of Curiosity tried to sparkle in her faded blue eyes—flickered +piteously—and died out. + +“How much luggage?” she asked, confidentially. “The captain’s gone out. +Let’s go and get it!” + +“Mrs. Wragge!” cried a terrible voice at the door. + +For the first time in Magdalen’s experience, Mrs. Wragge was deaf to +the customary stimulant. She actually ventured on a feeble remonstrance +in the presence of her husband. + +“Oh, do let her have her Things!” pleaded Mrs. Wragge. “Oh, poor soul, +do let her have her Things!” + +The captain’s inexorable forefinger pointed to a corner of the +room—dropped slowly as his wife retired before it—and suddenly stopped +at the region of her shoes. + +“Do I hear a clapping on the floor!” exclaimed Captain Wragge, with an +expression of horror. “Yes; I do. Down at heel again! The left shoe +this time. Pull it up, Mrs. Wragge! pull it up!—The chaise will be here +to-morrow morning at nine o’clock,” he continued, addressing Magdalen. +“We can’t possibly venture on claiming your box. There is note-paper. +Write down a list of the necessaries you want. I will take it myself to +the shop, pay the bill for you, and bring back the parcel. We must +sacrifice the box—we must, indeed.” + +While her husband was addressing Magdalen, Mrs. Wragge had stolen out +again from her corner, and had ventured near enough to the captain to +hear the words “shop” and “parcel.” She clapped her great hands +together in ungovernable excitement, and lost all control over herself +immediately. + +“Oh, if it’s shopping, let me do it!” cried Mrs. Wragge. “She’s going +out to buy her Things! Oh, let me go with her—please let me go with +her!” + +“Sit down!” shouted the captain. “Straight! more to the right—more +still. Stop where you are!” + +Mrs. Wragge crossed her helpless hands on her lap, and melted meekly +into tears. + +“I do so like shopping,” pleaded the poor creature; “and I get so +little of it now!” + +Magdalen completed her list; and Captain Wragge at once left the room +with it. “Don’t let my wife bore you,” he said, pleasantly, as he went +out. “Cut her short, poor soul—cut her short!” + +“Don’t cry,” said Magdalen, trying to comfort Mrs. Wragge by patting +her on the shoulder. “When the parcel comes back you shall open it.” + +“Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs. Wragge, meekly, drying her eyes; “thank +you kindly. Don’t notice my handkerchief, please. It’s such a very +little one! I had a nice lot of them once, with lace borders. They’re +all gone now. Never mind! It will comfort me to unpack your Things. +You’re very good to me. I like you. I say—you won’t be angry, will you? +Give us a kiss.” + +Magdalen stooped over her with the frank grace and gentleness of past +days, and touched her faded cheek. “Let me do something harmless!” she +thought, with a pang at her heart—“oh let me do something innocent and +kind for the sake of old times!” + +She felt her eyes moistening, and silently turned away. + +That night no rest came to her. That night the roused forces of Good +and Evil fought their terrible fight for her soul—and left the strife +between them still in suspense when morning came. As the clock of York +Minster struck nine, she followed Mrs. Wragge to the chaise, and took +her seat by the captain’s side. In a quarter of an hour more York was +in the distance, and the highroad lay bright and open before them in +the morning sunlight. + + + +BETWEEN THE SCENES. +CHRONICLE OF EVENTS: PRESERVED IN CAPTAIN WRAGGE’S DESPATCH BOX. + +I. +Chronicle for October, 1846. + +I have retired into the bosom of my family. We are residing in the +secluded village of Ruswarp, on the banks of the Esk, about two miles +inland from Whitby. Our lodgings are comfortable, and we possess the +additional blessing of a tidy landlady. Mrs. Wragge and Miss Vanstone +preceded me here, in accordance with the plan I laid down for effecting +our retreat from York. On the next day I followed them alone, with the +luggage. On leaving the terminus, I had the satisfaction of seeing the +lawyer’s clerk in close confabulation with the detective officer whose +advent I had prophesied. I left him in peaceable possession of the city +of York, and the whole surrounding neighborhood. He has returned the +compliment, and has left us in peaceable possession of the valley of +the Esk, thirty miles away from him. + +Remarkable results have followed my first efforts at the cultivation of +Miss Vanstone’s dramatic abilities. + +I have discovered that she possesses extraordinary talent as a mimic. +She has the flexible face, the manageable voice, and the dramatic knack +which fit a woman for character-parts and disguises on the stage. All +she now wants is teaching and practice, to make her sure of her own +resources. The experience of her, thus gained, has revived an idea in +my mind which originally occurred to me at one of the “At Homes” of the +late inimitable Charles Mathews, comedian. I was in the Wine Trade at +the time, I remember. We imitated the Vintage-processes of Nature in a +back-kitchen at Brompton, and produced a dinner-sherry, pale and +curious, tonic in character, round in the mouth, a favorite with the +Court of Spain, at nineteen-and-sixpence a dozen, bottles +included—_Vide_ Prospectus of the period. The profits of myself and +partners were small; we were in advance of the tastes of the age, and +in debt to the bottle merchant. Being at my wits’ end for want of +money, and seeing what audiences Mathews drew, the idea occurred to me +of starting an imitation of the great Imitator himself, in the shape of +an “At Home,” given by a woman. The one trifling obstacle in the way +was the difficulty of finding the woman. From that time to this, I have +hitherto failed to overcome it. I have conquered it at last; I have +found the woman now. Miss Vanstone possesses youth and beauty as well +as talent. Train her in the art of dramatic disguise; provide her with +appropriate dresses for different characters; develop her +accomplishments in singing and playing; give her plenty of smart talk +addressed to the audience; advertise her as a Young Lady at Home; +astonish the public by a dramatic entertainment which depends from +first to last on that young lady’s own sole exertions; commit the +entire management of the thing to my care—and what follows as a +necessary con sequence? Fame for my fair relative, and a fortune for +myself. + +I put these considerations, as frankly as usual, to Miss Vanstone; +offering to write the Entertainment, to manage all the business, and to +share the profits. I did not forget to strengthen my case by informing +her of the jealousies she would encounter, and the obstacles she would +meet, if she went on the stage. And I wound up by a neat reference to +the private inquiries which she is interested in making, and to the +personal independence which she is desirous of securing before she acts +on her information. “If you go on the stage,” I said, “your services +will be bought by a manager, and he may insist on his claims just at +the time when you want to get free from him. If, on the contrary, you +adopt my views, you will be your own mistress and your own manager, and +you can settle your course just as you like.” This last consideration +appeared to strike her. She took a day to consider it; and, when the +day was over, gave her consent. + +I had the whole transaction down in black and white immediately. Our +arrangement is eminently satisfactory, except in one particular. She +shows a morbid distrust of writing her name at the bottom of any +document which I present to her, and roundly declares she will sign +nothing. As long as it is her interest to provide herself with +pecuniary resources for the future, she verbally engages to go on. When +it ceases to be her interest, she plainly threatens to leave off at a +week’s notice. A difficult girl to deal with; she has found out her own +value to me already. One comfort is, I have the cooking of the +accounts; and my fair relative shall not fill her pockets too suddenly +if I can help it. + +My exertions in training Miss Vanstone for the coming experiment have +been varied by the writing of two anonymous letters in that young +lady’s interests. Finding her too fidgety about arranging matters with +her friends to pay proper attention to my instructions, I wrote +anonymously to the lawyer who is conducting the inquiry after her, +recommending him, in a friendly way, to give it up. The letter was +inclosed to a friend of mine in London, with instructions to post it at +Charing Cross. A week later I sent a second letter, through the same +channel, requesting the lawyer to inform me, in writing, whether he and +his clients had or had not decided on taking my advice. I directed him, +with jocose reference to the collision of interests between us, to +address his letter: “Tit for Tat, Post-office, West Strand.” + +In a few days the answer arrived—privately forwarded, of course, to +Post-office, Whitby, by arrangement with my friend in London. + +The lawyer’s reply was short and surly: “SIR—If my advice had been +followed, you and your anonymous letter would both be treated with the +contempt which they deserve. But the wishes of Miss Magdalen Vanstone’s +eldest sister have claims on my consideration which I cannot dispute; +and at her entreaty I inform you that all further proceedings on my +part are withdrawn—on the express understanding that this concession is +to open facilities for written communication, at least, between the two +sisters. A letter from the elder Miss Vanstone is inclosed in this. If +I don’t hear in a week’s time that it has been received, I shall place +the matter once more in the hands of the police.—WILLIAM PENDRIL.” A +sour man, this William Pendril. I can only say of him what an eminent +nobleman once said of his sulky servant—“I wouldn’t have such a temper +as that fellow has got for any earthly consideration that could be +offered me!” + +As a matter of course, I looked into the letter which the lawyer +inclosed, before delivering it. Miss Vanstone, the elder, described +herself as distracted at not hearing from her sister; as suited with a +governess’s situation in a private family; as going into the situation +in a week’s time; and as longing for a letter to comfort her, before +she faced the trial of undertaking her new duties. After closing the +envelope again, I accompanied the delivery of the letter to Miss +Vanstone, the younger, by a word of caution. “Are you more sure of your +own courage now,” I said, “than you were when I met you?” She was ready +with her answer. “Captain Wragge, when you met me on the Walls of York +I had not gone too far to go back. I have gone too far now.” + +If she really feels this—and I think she does—her corresponding with +her sister can do no harm. She wrote at great length the same day; +cried profusely over her own epistolary composition; and was remarkably +ill-tempered and snappish toward me, when we met in the evening. She +wants experience, poor girl—she sadly wants experience of the world. +How consoling to know that I am just the man to give it her! + +II. +Chronicle for November. + +We are established at Derby. The Entertainment is written; and the +rehearsals are in steady progress. All difficulties are provided for, +but the one eternal difficulty of money. Miss Vanstone’s resources +stretch easily enough to the limits of our personal wants; including +piano-forte hire for practice, and the purchase and making of the +necessary dresses. But the expenses of starting the Entertainment are +beyond the reach of any means we possess. A theatrical friend of mine +here, whom I had hoped to interest in our undertaking, proves, +unhappily, to be at a crisis in his career. The field of human +sympathy, out of which I might have raised the needful pecuniary crop, +is closed to me from want of time to cultivate it. I see no other +resource left—if we are to be ready by Christmas—than to try one of the +local music-sellers in this town, who is said to be a speculating man. +A private rehearsal at these lodgings, and a bargain which will fill +the pockets of a grasping stranger—such are the sacrifices which dire +necessity imposes on me at starting. Well! there is only one +consolation: I’ll cheat the music-seller. + +III. +Chronicle for December. First Fortnight. + +The music-seller extorts my unwilling respect. He is one of the very +few human beings I have met with in the course of my life who is not to +be cheated. He has taken a masterly advantage of our helplessness; and +has imposed terms on us, for performances at Derby and Nottingham, with +such a business-like disregard of all interests but his own that—fond +as I am of putting things down in black and white—I really cannot +prevail upon myself to record the bargain. It is needless to say, I +have yielded with my best grace; sharing with my fair relative the +wretched pecuniary prospects offered to us. Our turn will come. In the +meantime, I cordially regret not having known the local music-seller in +early life. + +Personally speaking, I have no cause to complain of Miss Vanstone. We +have arranged that she shall regularly forward her address (at the +post-office) to her friends, as we move about from place to place. +Besides communicating in this way with her sister, she also reports +herself to a certain Mr. Clare, residing in Somersetshire, who is to +forward all letters exchanged between herself and his son. Careful +inquiry has informed me that this latter individual is now in China. +Having suspected from the first that there was a gentleman in the +background, it is highly satisfactory to know that he recedes into the +remote perspective of Asia. Long may he remain there! + +The trifling responsibility of finding a name for our talented Magdalen +to perform under has been cast on my shoulders. She feels no interest +whatever in this part of the subject. “Give me any name you like,” she +said; “I have as much right to one as to another. Make it yourself.” I +have readily consented to gratify her wishes. The resources of my +commercial library include a list of useful names to assume; and we can +choose one at five minutes’ notice, when the admirable man of business +who now oppresses us is ready to issue his advertisements. On this +point my mind is easy enough: all my anxieties center in the fair +performer. I have not the least doubt she will do wonders if she is +only left to herself on the first night. But if the day’s post is +mischievous enough to upset her by a letter from her sister, I tremble +for the consequences. + +IV. +Chronicle for December. Second Fortnight. + +My gifted relative has made her first appearance in public, and has +laid the foundation of our future fortunes. + +On the first night the attendance was larger than I had ventured to +hope. The novelty of an evening’s entertainment, conducted from +beginning to end by the unaided exertions of a young lady (see +advertisement), roused the public curiosity, and the seats were +moderately well filled. As good luck would have it, no letter addressed +to Miss Vanstone came that day. She was in full possession of herself +until she got the first dress on and heard the bell ring for the music. +At that critical moment she suddenly broke down. I found her alone in +the waiting-room, sobbing, and talking like a child. “Oh, poor papa! +poor papa! Oh, my God, if he saw me now!” My experience in such matters +at once informed me that it was a case of sal-volatile, accompanied by +sound advice. We strung her up in no time to concert pitch; set her +eyes in a blaze; and made her out-blush her own rouge. The curtain rose +when we had got her at a red heat. She dashed at it exactly as she +dashed at it in the back drawing-room at Rosemary Lane. Her personal +appearance settled the question of her reception before she opened her +lips. She rushed full gallop through her changes of character, her +songs, and her dialogue; making mistakes by the dozen, and never +stopping to set them right; carrying the people along with her in a +perfect whirlwind, and never waiting for the applause. The whole thing +was over twenty minutes sooner than the time we had calculated on. She +carried it through to the end, and fainted on the waiting-room sofa a +minute after the curtain was down. The music-seller having taken leave +of his senses from sheer astonishment, and I having no evening costume +to appear in, we sent the doctor to make the necessary apology to the +public, who were calling for her till the place rang again. I prompted +our medical orator with a neat speech from behind the curtain; and I +never heard such applause, from such a comparatively small audience, +before in my life. I felt the tribute—I felt it deeply. Fourteen years +ago I scraped together the wretched means of existence in this very +town by reading the newspaper (with explanatory comments) to the +company at a public-house. And now here I am at the top of the tree. + +It is needless to say that my first proceeding was to bowl out the +music-seller on the spot. He called the next morning, no doubt with a +liberal proposal for extending the engagement beyond Derby and +Nottingham. My niece was described as not well enough to see him; and, +when he asked for me, he was told I was not up. I happened to be at +that moment engaged in putting the case pathetically to our gifted +Magdalen. Her answer was in the highest degree satisfactory. She would +permanently engage herself to nobody—least of all to a man who had +taken sordid advantage of her position and mine. She would be her own +mistress, and share the profits with me, while she wanted money, and +while it suited her to go on. So far so good. But the reason she added +next, for her flattering preference of myself, was less to my taste. +“The music-seller is not the man whom I employ to make my inquiries,” +she said. “You are the man.” I don’t like her steadily remembering +those inquiries, in the first bewilderment of her success. It looks ill +for the future; it looks infernally ill for the future. + +V. +Chronicle for January, 1847. + +She has shown the cloven foot already. I begin to be a little afraid of +her. + +On the conclusion of the Nottingham engagement (the results of which +more than equaled the results at Derby), I proposed taking the +entertainment next—now we had got it into our own hands—to Newark. Miss +Vanstone raised no objection until we came to the question of time, +when she amazed me by stipulating for a week’s delay before we appeared +in public again. + +“For what possible purpose?” I asked. + +“For the purpose of making the inquiries which I mentioned to you at +York,” she answered. + +I instantly enlarged on the danger of delay, putting all the +considerations before her in every imaginable form. She remained +perfectly immovable. I tried to shake her on the question of expenses. +She answered by handing me over her share of the proceeds at Derby and +Nottingham—and there were my expenses paid, at the rate of nearly two +guineas a day. I wonder who first picked out a mule as the type of +obstinacy? How little knowledge that man must have had of women! + +There was no help for it. I took down my instructions in black and +white, as usual. My first exertions were to be directed to the +discovery of Mr. Michael Vanstone’s address: I was also expected to +find out how long he was likely to live there, and whether he had sold +Combe-Raven or not. My next inquiries were to inform me of his ordinary +habits of life; of what he did with his money; of who his intimate +friends were; and of the sort of terms on which his son, Mr. Noel +Vanstone, was now living with him. Lastly, the investigations were to +end in discovering whether there was any female relative, or any woman +exercising domestic authority in the house, who was known to have an +influence over either father or son. + +If my long practice in cultivating the field of human sympathy had not +accustomed me to private investigations into the affairs of other +people, I might have found some of these queries rather difficult to +deal with in the course of a week. As it was, I gave myself all the +benefit of my own experience, and brought the answers back to +Nottingham in a day less than the given time. Here they are, in regular +order, for convenience of future reference: + +(1.) Mr. Michael Vanstone is now residing at German Place, Brighton, +and likely to remain there, as he finds the air suits him. He reached +London from Switzerland in September last; and sold the Combe-Raven +property immediately on his arrival. + +(2.) His ordinary habits of life are secret and retired; he seldom +visits, or receives company. Part of his money is supposed to be in the +Funds, and part laid out in railway investments, which have survived +the panic of eighteen hundred and forty-six, and are rapidly rising in +value. He is said to be a bold speculator. Since his arrival in England +he has invested, with great judgment, in house property. He has some +houses in remote parts of London, and some houses in certain +watering-places on the east coast, which are shown to be advancing in +public repute. In all these cases he is reported to have made +remarkably good bargains. + +(3.) It is not easy to discover who his intimate friends are. Two names +only have been ascertained. The first is Admiral Bartram; supposed to +have been under friendly obligations, in past years, to Mr. Michael +Vanstone. The second is Mr. George Bartram, nephew of the Admiral, and +now staying on a short visit in the house at German Place. Mr. George +Bartram is the son of the late Mr. Andrew Vanstone’s sister, also +deceased. He is therefore a cousin of Mr. Noel Vanstone’s. This +last—viz., Mr. Noel Vanstone—is in delicate health, and is living on +excellent terms with his father in German Place. + +(4.) There is no female relative in Mr. Michael Vanstone’s family +circle. But there is a housekeeper who has lived in his service ever +since his wife’s death, and who has acquired a strong influence over +both father and son. She is a native of Switzerland, elderly, and a +widow. Her name is Mrs. Lecount. + +On placing these particulars in Miss Vanstone’s hands, she made no +remark, except to thank me. I endeavored to invite her confidence. No +results; nothing but a renewal of civility, and a sudden shifting to +the subject of the Entertainment. Very good. If she won’t give me the +information I want, the conclusion is obvious—I must help myself. + +Business considerations claim the remainder of this page. Let me return +to business. + + ——————————————————————————— + Financial Statement. | Third Week in January. + ——————————————————————————— + Place Visited. | Performances. + Newark. | Two. + ——————————————————————————— + Net Receipts. | Net Receipts. + In black and white. | Actually Realized. + £ 25 | £ 32 10s. + ———————————————————————————— + Apparent Division | Actual Division + of Profits. | of Profits. + Miss V.......£ 12 10 | Miss V.......£ 12 10 + Self.........£ 12 10 | Self.........£ 20 00 + ——————————————————————————— + Private Surplus on the Week, + Or say, + Self-presented Testimonial. + £ 7 10s. + ——————————————————————————— + Audited, | Passed correct, + H. WRAGGE. | H. WRAGGE + ——————————————————————————— + +The next stronghold of British sympathy which we take by storm is +Sheffield. We open the first week in February. + +VI. +Chronicle for February. + +Practice has now given my fair relative the confidence which I +predicted would come with time. Her knack of disguising her own +identity in the impersonation of different characters so completely +staggers her audiences that the same people come twice over to find out +how she does it. It is the amiable defect of the English public never +to know when they have had enough of a good thing. They actually try to +encore one of her characters—an old north-country lady; modeled on that +honored preceptress in the late Mr. Vanstone’s family to whom I +presented myself at Combe-Raven. This particular performance fairly +amazes the people. I don’t wonder at it. Such an extraordinary +assumption of age by a girl of nineteen has never been seen in public +before, in the whole course of my theatrical experience. + +I find myself writing in a lower tone than usual; I miss my own dash of +humor. The fact is, I am depressed about the future. In the very height +of our prosperity my perverse pupil sticks to her trumpery family +quarrel. I feel myself at the mercy of the first whim in the Vanstone +direction which may come into her head—I, the architect of her +fortunes. Too bad; upon my soul, too bad. + +She has acted already on the inquiries which she forced me to make for +her. She has written two letters to Mr. Michael Vanstone. + +To the first letter no answer came. To the second a reply was received. +Her infernal cleverness put an obstacle I had not expected in the way +of my intercepting it. Later in the day, after she had herself opened +and read the answer, I laid another trap for her. It just succeeded, +and no more. I had half a minute to look into the envelope in her +absence. It contained nothing but her own letter returned. She is not +the girl to put up quietly with such an insult as this. Mischief will +come of it—Mischief to Michael Vanstone—which is of no earthly +consequence: mischief to Me—which is a truly serious matter. + +VII. +Chronicle for March. + +After performing at Sheffield and Manchester, we have moved to +Liverpool, Preston, and Lancaster. Another change in this weathercock +of a girl. She has written no more letters to Michael Vanstone; and she +has become as anxious to make money as I am myself. We are realizing +large profits, and we are worked to death. I don’t like this change in +her: she has a purpose to answer, or she would not show such +extraordinary eagerness to fill her purse. Nothing I can do—no cooking +of accounts; no self-presented testimonials—can keep that purse empty. +The success of the Entertainment, and her own sharpness in looking +after her interests, literally force me into a course of comparative +honesty. She puts into her pocket more than a third of the profits, in +defiance of my most arduous exertions to prevent her. And this at my +age! this after my long and successful career as a moral agriculturist! +Marks of admiration are very little things; but they express my +feelings, and I put them in freely. + +VIII. +Chronicle for April and May. + +We have visited seven more large towns, and are now at Birmingham. +Consulting my books, I find that Miss Vanstone has realized by the +Entertainment, up to this time, the enormous sum of nearly four hundred +pounds. It is quite possible that my own profits may reach one or two +miserable hundred more. But I was the architect of her fortunes—the +publisher, so to speak, of her book—and, if anything, I am underpaid. + +I made the above discovery on the twenty-ninth of the month—anniversary +of the Restoration of my royal predecessor in the field of human +sympathies, Charles the Second. I had barely finished locking up my +dispatch-box, when the ungrateful girl, whose reputation I have made, +came into the room and told me in so many words that the business +connection between us was for the present at an end. + +I attempt no description of my own sensations: I merely record facts. +She informed me, with an appearance of perfect composure, that she +needed rest, and that she had “new objects in view.” She might possibly +want me to assist those objects; and she might possibly return to the +Entertainment. In either case it would be enough if we exchanged +addresses, at which we could write to each other in case of need. +Having no desire to leave me too abruptly, she would remain the next +day (which was Sunday); and would take her departure on Monday morning. +Such was her explanation, in so many words. + +Remonstrance, as I knew by experience, would be thrown away. Authority +I had none to exert. My one sensible course to take in this emergency +was to find out which way my own interests pointed, and to go that way +without a moment’s unnecessary hesitation. + +A very little reflection has since convinced me that she has a +deep-laid scheme against Michael Vanstone in view. She is young, +handsome, clever, and unscrupulous; she has made money to live on, and +has time at her disposal to find out the weak side of an old man; and +she is going to attack Mr. Michael Vanstone unawares with the +legitimate weapons of her sex. Is she likely to want me for such a +purpose as this? Doubtful. Is she merely anxious to get rid of me on +easy terms? Probable. Am I the sort of man to be treated in this way by +my own pupil? Decidedly not: I am the man to see my way through a neat +succession of alternatives; and here they are: + +First alternative: To announce my compliance with her proposal; to +exchange addresses with her; and then to keep my eye privately on all +her future movements. Second alternative: to express fond anxiety in a +paternal capacity; and to threaten giving the alarm to her sister and +the lawyer, if she persists in her design. Third alternative: to turn +the information I already possess to the best account, by making it a +marketable commodity between Mr. Michael Vanstone and myself. At +present I incline toward the last of these three courses. But my +decision is far too important to be hurried. To-day is only the +twenty-ninth. I will suspend my Chronicle of Events until Monday. + +May 31st.—My alternatives and her plans are both overthrown together. + +The newspaper came in, as usual, after breakfast. I looked it over, and +discovered this memorable entry among the obituary announcements of the +day: + +“On the 29th inst., at Brighton, Michael Vanstone, Esq., formerly of +Zurich, aged 77.” + +Miss Vanstone was present in the room when I read those two startling +lines. Her bonnet was on; her boxes were packed; she was waiting +impatiently until it was time to go to the train. I handed the paper to +her, without a word on my side. Without a word on hers, she looked +where I pointed, and read the news of Michael Vanstone’s death. + +The paper dropped out of her hand, and she suddenly pulled down her +veil. I caught one glance at her face before she hid it from me. The +effect on my mind was startling in the extreme. To put it with my +customary dash of humor—her face informed me that the most sensible +action which Michael Vanstone, Esq., formerly of Zurich, had ever +achieved in his life was the action he performed at Brighton on the +29th instant. + +Finding the dead silence in the room singularly unpleasant under +existing circumstances, I thought I would make a remark. My regard for +my own interests supplied me with a subject. I mentioned the +Entertainment. + +“After what has happened,” I said, “I presume we go on with our +performances as usual?” + +“No,” she answered, behind the veil. “We go on with my inquiries.” + +“Inquiries after a dead man?” + +“Inquiries after the dead man’s son.” + +“Mr. Noel Vanstone?” + +“Yes; Mr. Noel Vanstone.” + +Not having a veil to put down over my own face, I stooped and picked up +the newspaper. Her devilish determination quite upset me for the +moment. I actually had to steady myself before I could speak to her +again. + +“Are the new inquiries as harmless as the old ones?” I asked. + +“Quite as harmless.” + +“What am I expected to find out?” + +“I wish to know whether Mr. Noel Vanstone remains at Brighton after the +funeral.” + +“And if not?” + +“If not, I shall want to know his new address wherever it may be.” + +“Yes. And what next?” + +“I wish you to find out next if all the father’s money goes to the +son.” + +I began to see her drift. The word money relieved me; I felt quite on +my own ground again. + +“Anything more?” I asked. + +“Only one thing more,” she answered. “Make sure, if you please, whether +Mrs. Lecount, the housekeeper, remains or not in Mr. Noel Vanstone’s +service.” + +Her voice altered a little as she mentioned Mrs. Lecount’s name; she is +evidently sharp enough to distrust the housekeeper already. + +“My expenses are to be paid as usual?” I said. + +“As usual.” + +“When am I expected to leave for Brighton?” + +“As soon as you can.” + +She rose, and left the room. After a momentary doubt, I decided on +executing the new commission. The more private inquiries I conduct for +my fair relative the harder she will find it to get rid of hers truly, +Horatio Wragge. + +There is nothing to prevent my starting for Brighton to-morrow. So +to-morrow I go. If Mr. Noel Vanstone succeeds to his father’s property, +he is the only human being possessed of pecuniary blessings who fails +to inspire me with a feeling of unmitigated envy. + +IX. +Chronicle for June. + +9th.—I returned yesterday with my information. Here it is, privately +noted down for convenience of future reference: + +Mr. Noel Vanstone has left Brighton, and has removed, for the purpose +of transacting business in London, to one of his late father’s empty +houses in Vauxhall Walk, Lambeth. This singularly mean selection of a +place of residence on the part of a gentleman of fortune looks as if +Mr. N. V. and his money were not easily parted. + +Mr. Noel Vanstone has stepped into his father’s shoes under the +following circumstances: Mr. Michael Vanstone appears to have died, +curiously enough, as Mr. Andrew Vanstone died—intestate. With this +difference, however, in the two cases, that the younger brother left an +informal will, and the elder brother left no will at all. The hardest +men have their weaknesses; and Mr. Michael Vanstone’s weakness seems to +have been an insurmountable horror of contemplating the event of his +own death. His son, his housekeeper, and his lawyer, had all three +tried over and over again to get him to make a will; and had never +shaken his obstinate resolution to put off performing the only business +duty he was ever known to neglect. Two doctors attended him in his last +illness; warned him that he was too old a man to hope to get over it; +and warned him in vain. He announced his own positive determination not +to die. His last words in this world (as I succeeded in discovering +from the nurse who assisted Mrs. Lecount) were: “I’m getting better +every minute; send for the fly directly and take me out for a drive.” +The same night Death proved to be the more obstinate of the two; and +left his son (and only child) to take the property in due course of +law. Nobody doubts that the result would have been the same if a will +had been made. The father and son had every confidence in each other, +and were known to have always lived together on the most friendly +terms. + +Mrs. Lecount remains with Mr. Noel Vanstone, in the same housekeeping +capacity which she filled with his father, and has accompanied him to +the new residence in Vauxhall Walk. She is acknowledged on all hands to +have been a sufferer by the turn events have taken. If Mr. Michael +Vanstone had made his will, there is no doubt she would have received a +handsome legacy. She is now left dependent on Mr. Noel Vanstone’s sense +of gratitude; and she is not at all likely, I should imagine, to let +that sense fall asleep for want of a little timely jogging. Whether my +fair relative’s future intentions in this quarter point toward Mischief +or Money, is more than I can yet say. In either case, I venture to +predict that she will find an awkward obstacle in Mrs. Lecount. + +So much for my information to the present date. The manner in which it +was received by Miss Vanstone showed the most ungrateful distrust of +me. She confided nothing to my private ear but the expression of her +best thanks. A sharp girl—a devilish sharp girl. But there is such a +thing as bowling a man out once too often; especially when the name of +that man happens to be Wragge. + +Not a word more about the Entertainment; not a word more about moving +from our present quarters. Very good. My right hand lays my left hand a +wager. Ten to one, on her opening communications with the son as she +opened them with the father. Ten to one, on her writing to Noel +Vanstone before the month is out. + +21st.—She has written by to-day’s post. A long letter, apparently—for +she put two stamps on the envelope. (Private memorandum, addressed to +myself. Wait for the answer.) + +22d, 23d, 24th.—(Private memorandum continued. Wait for the answer.) + +25th.—The answer has come. As an ex-military man, I have naturally +employed stratagem to get at it. The success which rewards all genuine +perseverance has rewarded me—and I have got at it accordingly. + +The letter is written, not by Mr. Noel Vanstone, but by Mrs. Lecount. +She takes the highest moral ground, in a tone of spiteful politeness. +Mr. Noel Vanstone’s delicate health and recent bereavement prevent him +from writing himself. Any more letters from Miss Vanstone will be +returned unopened. Any personal application will produce an immediate +appeal to the protection of the law. Mr. Noel Vanstone, having been +expressly cautioned against Miss Magdalen Vanstone by his late lamented +father, has not yet forgotten his father’s advice. Considers it a +reflection cast on the memory of the best of men, to suppose that his +course of action toward the Misses Vanstone can be other than the +course of action which his father pursued. This is what he has himself +instructed Mrs. Lecount to say. She has endeavored to express herself +in the most conciliatory language she could select; she had tried to +avoid giving unnecessary pain, by addressing Miss Vanstone (as a matter +of courtesy) by the family name; and she trusts these concessions, +which speak for themselves, will not be thrown away.—Such is the +substance of the letter, and so it ends. + +I draw two conclusions from this little document. First—that it will +lead to serious results. Secondly—that Mrs. Lecount, with all her +politeness, is a dangerous woman to deal with. I wish I saw my way safe +before me. I don’t see it yet. + +29th.—Miss Vanstone has abandoned my protection; and the whole +lucrative future of the dramatic entertainment has abandoned me with +her. I am swindled—I, the last man under heaven who could possibly have +expected to write in those disgraceful terms of myself—I AM SWINDLED! + +Let me chronicle the events. They exhibit me, for the time being, in a +sadly helpless point of view. But the nature of the man prevails: I +must have the events down in black and white. + +The announcement of her approaching departure was intimated to me +yesterday. After another civil speech about the information I had +procured at Brighton, she hinted that there was a necessity for pushing +our inquiries a little further. I immediately offered to undertake +them, as before. “No,” she said; “they are not in your way this time. +They are inquiries relating to a woman; and I mean to make them +myself!” Feeling privately convinced that this new resolution pointed +straight at Mrs. Lecount, I tried a few innocent questions on the +subject. She quietly declined to answer them. I asked next when she +proposed to leave. She would leave on the twenty-eighth. For what +destination? London. For long? Probably not. By herself? No. With me? +No. With whom then? With Mrs. Wragge, if I had no objection. Good +heavens! for what possible purpose? For the purpose of getting a +respectable lodging, which she could hardly expect to accomplish unless +she was accompanied by an elderly female friend. And was I, in the +capacity of elderly male friend, to be left out of the business +altogether? Impossible to say at present. Was I not even to forward any +letters which might come for her at our present address? No: she would +make the arrangement herself at the post-office; and she would ask me, +at the same time, for an address, at which I could receive a letter +from her, in case of necessity for future communication. Further +inquiries, after this last answer, could lead to nothing but waste of +time. I saved time by putting no more questions. + +It was clear to me that our present position toward each other was what +our position had been previously to the event of Michael Vanstone’s +death. I returned, as before, to my choice of alternatives. Which way +did my private interests point? Toward trusting the chance of her +wanting me again? Toward threatening her with the interference of her +relatives and friends? Or toward making the information which I +possessed a marketable commodity between the wealthy branch of the +family and myself? The last of the three was the alternative I had +chosen in the case of the father. I chose it once more in the case of +the son. + +The train started for London nearly four hours since, and took her away +in it, accompanied by Mrs. Wragge. + +My wife is too great a fool, poor soul, to be actively valuable in the +present emergency; but she will be passively useful in keeping up Miss +Vanstone’s connection with me—and, in consideration of that +circumstance, I consent to brush my own trousers, shave my own chin, +and submit to the other inconveniences of waiting on myself for a +limited period. Any faint glimmerings of sense which Mrs. Wragge may +have formerly possessed appear to have now finally taken their leave of +her. On receiving permission to go to London, she favored us +immediately with two inquiries. Might she do some shopping? and might +she leave the cookery-book behind her? Miss Vanstone said Yes to one +question, and I said Yes to the other—and from that moment, Mrs. Wragge +has existed in a state of perpetual laughter. I am still hoarse with +vainly repeated applications of vocal stimulant; and I left her in the +railway carriage, to my inexpressible disgust, with _both_ shoes down +at heel. + +Under ordinary circumstances these absurd particulars would not have +dwelt on my memory. But, as matters actually stand, my unfortunate +wife’s imbecility may, in her present position, lead to consequences +which we none of us foresee. She is nothing more or less than a +grown-up child; and I can plainly detect that Miss Vanstone trusts her, +as she would not have trusted a sharper woman, on that very account. I +know children, little and big, rather better than my fair relative +does; and I say—beware of all forms of human innocence, when it happens +to be your interest to keep a secret to yourself. + +Let me return to business. Here I am, at two o’clock on a fine summer’s +afternoon, left entirely alone, to consider the safest means of +approaching Mr. Noel Vanstone on my own account. My private suspicions +of his miserly character produce no discouraging effect on me. I have +extracted cheering pecuniary results in my time from people quite as +fond of their money as he can be. The real difficulty to contend with +is the obstacle of Mrs. Lecount. If I am not mistaken, this lady merits +a little serious consideration on my part. I will close my chronicle +for to-day, and give Mrs. Lecount her due. + +Three o’clock.—I open these pages again to record a discovery which has +taken me entirely by surprise. + +After completing the last entry, a circumstance revived in my memory +which I had noticed on escorting the ladies this morning to the +railway. I then remarked that Miss Vanstone had only taken one of her +three boxes with her—and it now occurred to me that a private +investigation of the luggage she had left behind might possibly be +attended with beneficial results. Having, at certain periods of my life +been in the habit of cultivating friendly terms with strange locks, I +found no difficulty in establishing myself on a familiar footing with +Miss Vanstone’s boxes. One of the two presented nothing to interest me. +The other—devoted to the preservation of the costumes, articles of +toilet, and other properties used in the dramatic Entertainment—proved +to be better worth examining: for it led me straight to the discovery +of one of its owner’s secrets. + +I found all the dresses in the box complete—with one remarkable +exception. That exception was the dress of the old north-country lady; +the character which I have already mentioned as the best of all my +pupil’s disguises, and as modeled in voice and manner on her old +governess, Miss Garth. The wig; the eyebrows; the bonnet and veil; the +cloak, padded inside to disfigure her back and shoulders; the paints +and cosmetics used to age her face and alter her complexion—were all +gone. Nothing but the gown remained; a gaudily-flowered silk, useful +enough for dramatic purposes, but too extravagant in color and pattern +to bear inspection by daylight. The other parts of the dress are +sufficiently quiet to pass muster; the bonnet and veil are only +old-fashioned, and the cloak is of a sober gray color. But one plain +inference can be drawn from such a discovery as this. As certainly as I +sit here, she is going to open the campaign against Noel Vanstone and +Mrs. Lecount in a character which neither of those two persons can have +any possible reason for suspecting at the outset—the character of Miss +Garth. + +What course am I to take under these circumstances? Having got her +secret, what am I to do with it? These are awkward considerations; I am +rather puzzled how to deal with them. + +It is something more than the mere fact of her choosing to disguise +herself to forward her own private ends that causes my present +perplexity. Hundreds of girls take fancies for disguising themselves; +and hundreds of instances of it are related year after year in the +public journals. But my ex-pupil is not to be confounded for one moment +with the average adventuress of the newspapers. She is capable of going +a long way beyond the limit of dressing herself like a man, and +imitating a man’s voice and manner. She has a natural gift for assuming +characters which I have never seen equaled by a woman; and she has +performed in public until she has felt her own power, and trained her +talent for disguising herself to the highest pitch. A girl who takes +the sharpest people unawares by using such a capacity as this to help +her own objects in private life, and who sharpens that capacity by a +determination to fight her way to her own purpose, which has beaten +down everything before it, up to this time—is a girl who tries an +experiment in deception, new enough and dangerous enough to lead, one +way or the other, to very serious results. This is my conviction, +founded on a large experience in the art of imposing on my +fellow-creatures. I say of my fair relative’s enterprise what I never +said or thought of it till I introduced myself to the inside of her +box. The chances for and against her winning the fight for her lost +fortune are now so evenly balanced that I cannot for the life of me see +on which side the scale inclines. All I can discern is, that it will, +to a dead certainty, turn one way or the other on the day when she +passes Noel Vanstone’s doors in disguise. + +Which way do my interests point now? Upon my honor, I don’t know. + +Five o’clock.—I have effected a masterly compromise; I have decided on +turning myself into a Jack-on-both-sides. + +By to-day’s post I have dispatched to London an anonymous letter for +Mr. Noel Vanstone. It will be forwarded to its destination by the same +means which I successfully adopted to mystify Mr. Pendril; and it will +reach Vauxhall Walk, Lambeth, by the afternoon of to-morrow at the +latest. + +The letter is short, and to the purpose. It warns Mr. Noel Vanstone, in +the most alarming language, that he is destined to become the victim of +a conspiracy; and that the prime mover of it is a young lady who has +already held written communication with his father and himself. It +offers him the information necessary to secure his own safety, on +condition that he makes it worth the writer’s while to run the serious +personal risk which such a disclosure will entail on him. And it ends +by stipulating that the answer shall be advertised in the _Times_; +shall be addressed to “An Unknown Friend”; and shall state plainly what +remuneration Mr. Noel Vanstone offers for the priceless service which +it is proposed to render him. + +Unless some unexpected complication occurs, this letter places me +exactly in the position which it is my present interest to occupy. If +the advertisement appears, and if the remuneration offered is large +enough to justify me in going over to the camp of the enemy, over I go. +If no advertisement appears, or if Mr. Noel Vanstone rates my +invaluable assistance at too low a figure, here I remain, biding my +time till my fair relative wants me, or till I make her want me, which +comes to the same thing. If the anonymous letter falls by any accident +into her hands, she will find disparaging allusions in it to myself, +purposely introduced to suggest that the writer must be one of the +persons whom I addressed while conducting her inquiries. If Mrs. +Lecount takes the business in hand and lays a trap for me—I decline her +tempting invitation by becoming totally ignorant of the whole affair +the instant any second person appears in it. Let the end come as it +may, here I am ready to profit by it: here I am, facing both ways, with +perfect ease and security—a moral agriculturist, with his eye on two +crops at once, and his swindler’s sickle ready for any emergency. + +For the next week to come, the newspaper will be more interesting to me +than ever. I wonder which side I shall eventually belong to? + + + +THE THIRD SCENE. +VAUXHALL WALK, LAMBETH. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +The old Archiepiscopal Palace of Lambeth, on the southern bank of the +Thames—with its Bishop’s Walk and Garden, and its terrace fronting the +river—is an architectural relic of the London of former times, precious +to all lovers of the picturesque, in the utilitarian London of the +present day. Southward of this venerable structure lies the street +labyrinth of Lambeth; and nearly midway, in that part of the maze of +houses which is placed nearest to the river, runs the dingy double row +of buildings now, as in former days, known by the name of Vauxhall +Walk. + +The network of dismal streets stretching over the surrounding +neighborhood contains a population for the most part of the poorer +order. In the thoroughfares where shops abound, the sordid struggle +with poverty shows itself unreservedly on the filthy pavement; gathers +its forces through the week; and, strengthening to a tumult on Saturday +night, sees the Sunday morning dawn in murky gaslight. Miserable women, +whose faces never smile, haunt the butchers’ shops in such London +localities as these, with relics of the men’s wages saved from the +public-house clutched fast in their hands, with eyes that devour the +meat they dare not buy, with eager fingers that touch it covetously, as +the fingers of their richer sisters touch a precious stone. In this +district, as in other districts remote from the wealthy quarters of the +metropolis, the hideous London vagabond—with the filth of the street +outmatched in his speech, with the mud of the street outdirtied in his +clothes—lounges, lowering and brutal, at the street corner and the +gin-shop door; the public disgrace of his country, the unheeded warning +of social troubles that are yet to come. Here, the loud self-assertion +of Modern Progress—which has reformed so much in manners, and altered +so little in men—meets the flat contradiction that scatters its +pretensions to the winds. Here, while the national prosperity feasts, +like another Belshazzar, on the spectacle of its own magnificence, is +the Writing on the Wall, which warns the monarch, Money, that his glory +is weighed in the balance, and his power found wanting. + +Situated in such a neighborhood as this, Vauxhall Walk gains by +comparison, and establishes claims to respectability which no impartial +observation can fail to recognize. A large proportion of the Walk is +still composed of private houses. In the scattered situations where +shops appear, those shops are not besieged by the crowds of more +populous thoroughfares. Commerce is not turbulent, nor is the public +consumer besieged by loud invitations to “buy.” Bird-fanciers have +sought the congenial tranquillity of the scene; and pigeons coo, and +canaries twitter, in Vauxhall Walk. Second-hand carts and cabs, +bedsteads of a certain age, detached carriage-wheels for those who may +want one to make up a set, are all to be found here in the same +repository. One tributary stream, in the great flood of gas which +illuminates London, tracks its parent source to Works established in +this locality. Here the followers of John Wesley have set up a temple, +built before the period of Methodist conversion to the principles of +architectural religion. And here—most striking object of all—on the +site where thousands of lights once sparkled; where sweet sounds of +music made night tuneful till morning dawned; where the beauty and +fashion of London feasted and danced through the summer seasons of a +century—spreads, at this day, an awful wilderness of mud and rubbish; +the deserted dead body of Vauxhall Gardens mouldering in the open air. + +On the same day when Captain Wragge completed the last entry in his +Chronicle of Events, a woman appeared at the window of one of the +houses in Vauxhall Walk, and removed from the glass a printed paper +which had been wafered to it announcing that Apartments were to be let. +The apartments consisted of two rooms on the first floor. They had just +been taken for a week certain by two ladies who had paid in +advance—those two ladies being Magdalen and Mrs. Wragge. + +As soon as the mistress of the house had left the room, Magdalen walked +to the window, and cautiously looked out from it at the row of +buildings opposite. They were of superior pretensions in size and +appearance to the other houses in the Walk: the date at which they had +been erected was inscribed on one of them, and was stated to be the +year 1759. They stood back from the pavement, separated from it by +little strips of garden-ground. This peculiarity of position, added to +the breadth of the roadway interposing between them and the smaller +houses opposite, made it impossible for Magdalen to see the numbers on +the doors, or to observe more of any one who might come to the windows +than the bare general outline of dress and figure. Nevertheless, there +she stood, anxiously fixing her eyes on one house in the row, nearly +opposite to her—the house she had looked for before entering the +lodgings; the house inhabited at that moment by Noel Vanstone and Mrs. +Lecount. + +After keeping watch at the window in silence for ten minutes or more, +she suddenly looked back into the room, to observe the effect which her +behavior might have produced on her traveling companion. + +Not the slightest cause appeared for any apprehension in that quarter. +Mrs. Wragge was seated at the table absorbed in the arrangement of a +series of smart circulars and tempting price-lists, issued by +advertising trades-people, and flung in at the cab-windows as they left +the London terminus. “I’ve often heard tell of light reading,” said +Mrs. Wragge, restlessly shifting the positions of the circulars as a +child restlessly shifts the position of a new set of toys. “Here’s +light reading, printed in pretty colors. Here’s all the Things I’m +going to buy when I’m out shopping to-morrow. Lend us a pencil, +please—you won’t be angry, will you? I do so want to mark ’em off.” She +looked up at Magdalen, chuckled joyfully over her own altered +circumstances, and beat her great hands on the table in irrepressible +delight. “No cookery-book!” cried Mrs. Wragge. “No Buzzing in my head! +no captain to shave to-morrow! I’m all down at heel; my cap’s on one +side; and nobody bawls at me. My heart alive, here _is_ a holiday and +no mistake!” Her hands began to drum on the table louder than ever, +until Magdalen quieted them by presenting her with a pencil. Mrs. +Wragge instantly recovered her dignity, squared her elbows on the +table, and plunged into imaginary shopping for the rest of the evening. + +Magdalen returned to the window. She took a chair, seated herself +behind the curtain, and steadily fixed her eyes once more on the house +opposite. + +The blinds were down over the windows of the first floor and the +second. The window of the room on the ground-floor was uncovered and +partly open, but no living creature came near it. Doors opened, and +people came and went, in the houses on either side; children by the +dozen poured out on the pavement to play, and invaded the little strips +of garden-ground to recover lost balls and shuttlecocks; streams of +people passed backward and forward perpetually; heavy wagons piled high +with goods lumbered along the road on their way to, or their way from, +the railway station near; all the daily life of the district stirred +with its ceaseless activity in every direction but one. The hours +passed—and there was the house opposite still shut up, still void of +any signs of human existence inside or out. The one object which had +decided Magdalen on personally venturing herself in Vauxhall Walk—the +object of studying the looks, manners and habits of Mrs. Lecount and +her master from a post of observation known only to herself—was thus +far utterly defeated. After three hours’ watching at the window, she +had not even discovered enough to show her that the house was inhabited +at all. + +Shortly after six o’clock, the landlady disturbed Mrs. Wragge’s studies +by spreading the cloth for dinner. Magdalen placed herself at the table +in a position which still enabled her to command the view from the +window. Nothing happened. The dinner came to an end; Mrs. Wragge +(lulled by the narcotic influence of annotating circulars, and eating +and drinking with an appetite sharpened by the captain’s absence) +withdrew to an arm-chair, and fell asleep in an attitude which would +have caused her husband the acutest mental suffering; seven o’clock +struck; the shadows of the summer evening lengthened stealthily on the +gray pavement and the brown house-walls—and still the closed door +opposite remained shut; still the one window open showed nothing but +the black blank of the room inside, lifeless and changeless as if that +room had been a tomb. + +Mrs. Wragge’s meek snoring deepened in tone; the evening wore on +drearily; it was close on eight o’clock—when an event happened at last. +The street door opposite opened for the first time, and a woman +appeared on the threshold. + +Was the woman Mrs. Lecount? No. As she came nearer, her dress showed +her to be a servant. She had a large door-key in her hand, and was +evidently going out to perform an errand. Roused partly by curiosity, +partly by the impulse of the moment, which urged her impetuous nature +into action after the passive endurance of many hours past, Magdalen +snatched up her bonnet, and determined to follow the servant to her +destination, wherever it might be. + +The woman led her to the great thoroughfare of shops close at hand, +called Lambeth Walk. After proceeding some little distance, and looking +about her with the hesitation of a person not well acquainted with the +neighborhood, the servant crossed the road and entered a stationer’s +shop. Magdalen crossed the road after her and followed her in. + +The inevitable delay in entering the shop under these circumstances +made Magdalen too late to hear what the woman asked for. The first +words spoken, however, by the man behind the counter reached her ears, +and informed her that the servant’s object was to buy a railway guide. + +“Do you mean a Guide for this month or a Guide for July?” asked the +shopman, addressing his customer. + +“Master didn’t tell me which,” answered the woman. “All I know is, he’s +going into the country the day after to-morrow.” + +“The day after to-morrow is the first of July,” said the shopman. “The +Guide your master wants is the Guide for the new month. It won’t be +published till to-morrow.” + +Engaging to call again on the next day, the servant left the shop, and +took the way that led back to Vauxhall Walk. + +Magdalen purchased the first trifle she saw on the counter, and hastily +returned in the same direction. The discovery she had just made was of +very serious importance to her; and she felt the necessity of acting on +it with as little delay as possible. + +On entering the front room at the lodgings she found Mrs. Wragge just +awake, lost in drowsy bewilderment, with her cap fallen off on her +shoulders, and with one of her shoes missing altogether. Magdalen +endeavored to persuade her that she was tired after her journey, and +that her wisest proceeding would be to go to bed. Mrs. Wragge was +perfectly willing to profit by this suggestion, provided she could find +her shoe first. In looking for the shoe, she unfortunately discovered +the circulars, put by on a side-table, and forthwith recovered her +recollection of the earlier proceedings of the evening. + +“Give us the pencil,” said Mrs. Wragge, shuffling the circulars in a +violent hurry. “I can’t go to bed yet—I haven’t half done marking down +the things I want. Let’s see; where did I leave off? _Try Finch’s +feeding-bottle for Infants._ No! there’s a cross against that: the +cross means I don’t want it. _Comfort in the Field. Buckler’s +Indestructible Hunting-breeches._ Oh dear, dear! I’ve lost the place. +No, I haven’t. Here it is; here’s my mark against it. _Elegant Cashmere +Robes; strictly Oriental, very grand; reduced to one pound +nineteen-and-sixpence. Be in time. Only three left._ Only three! Oh, do +lend us the money, and let’s go and get one!” + +“Not to-night,” said Magdalen. “Suppose you go to bed now, and finish +the circulars tomorrow? I will put them by the bedside for you, and you +can go on with them as soon as you wake the first thing in the +morning.” + +This suggestion met with Mrs. Wragge’s immediate approval. Magdalen +took her into the next room and put her to bed like a child—with her +toys by her side. The room was so narrow, and the bed was so small; and +Mrs. Wragge, arrayed in the white apparel proper for the occasion, with +her moon-face framed round by a spacious halo of night-cap, looked so +hugely and disproportionately large, that Magdalen, anxious as she was, +could not repress a smile on taking leave of her traveling companion +for the night. + +“Aha!” cried Mrs. Wragge, cheerfully; “we’ll have that Cashmere Robe +to-morrow. Come here! I want to whisper something to you. Just you look +at me—I’m going to sleep crooked, and the captain’s not here to bawl at +me!” + +The front room at the lodgings contained a sofa-bedstead which the +landlady arranged betimes for the night. This done, and the candles +brought in, Magdalen was left alone to shape the future course as her +own thoughts counseled her. + +The questions and answers which had passed in her presence that evening +at the stationer’s shop led plainly to the conclusion that one day more +would bring Noel Vanstone’s present term of residence in Vauxhall Walk +to an end. Her first cautious resolution to pass many days together in +unsuspected observation of the house opposite before she ventured +herself inside was entirely frustrated by the turn events had taken. +She was placed in the dilemma of running all risks headlong on the next +day, or of pausing for a future opportunity which might never occur. +There was no middle course open to her. Until she had seen Noel +Vanstone with her own eyes, and had discovered the worst there was to +fear from Mrs. Lecount—until she had achieved this double object, with +the needful precaution of keeping her own identity carefully in the +dark—not a step could she advance toward the accomplishment of the +purpose which had brought her to London. + +One after another the minutes of the night passed away; one after +another the thronging thoughts followed each other over her mind—and +still she reached no conclusion; still she faltered and doubted, with a +hesitation new to her in her experience of herself. At last she crossed +the room impatiently to seek the trivial relief of unlocking her trunk +and taking from it the few things that she wanted for the night. +Captain Wragge’s suspicions had not misled him. There, hidden between +two dresses, were the articles of costume which he had missed from her +box at Birmingham. She turned them over one by one, to satisfy herself +that nothing she wanted had been forgotten, and returned once more to +her post of observation by the window. + +The house opposite was dark down to the parlor. There the blind, +previously raised, was now drawn over the window: the light burning +behind it showed her for the first time that the room was inhabited. +Her eyes brightened, and her color rose as she looked at it. + +“There he is!” she said to herself, in a low, angry whisper. “There he +lives on our money, in the house that his father’s warning has closed +against me!” She dropped the blind which she had raised to look out, +returned to her trunk, and took from it the gray wig which was part of +her dramatic costume in the character of the North-country lady. The +wig had been crumpled in packing; she put it on and went to the +toilet-table to comb it out. “His father has warned him against +Magdalen Vanstone,” she said, repeating the passage in Mrs. Lecount’s +letter, and laughing bitterly, as she looked at herself in the glass. +“I wonder whether his father has warned him against Miss Garth? +To-morrow is sooner than I bargained for. No matter: to-morrow shall +show.” + + + +CHAPTER II. + +The early morning, when Magdalen rose and looked out, was cloudy and +overcast. But as time advanced to the breakfast hour the threatening of +rain passed away; and she was free to provide, without hinderance from +the weather, for the first necessity of the day—the necessity of +securing the absence of her traveling companion from the house. + +Mrs. Wragge was dressed, armed at all points with her collection of +circulars, and eager to be away by ten o’clock. At an earlier hour +Magdalen had provided for her being properly taken care of by the +landlady’s eldest daughter—a quiet, well-conducted girl, whose interest +in the shopping expedition was readily secured by a little present of +money for the purchase, on her own account, of a parasol and a muslin +dress. Shortly after ten o’clock Magdalen dismissed Mrs. Wragge and her +attendant in a cab. She then joined the landlady—who was occupied in +setting the rooms in order upstairs—with the object of ascertaining, by +a little well-timed gossip, what the daily habits might be of the +inmates of the house. + +She discovered that there were no other lodgers but Mrs. Wragge and +herself. The landlady’s husband was away all day, employed at a railway +station. Her second daughter was charged with the care of the kitchen +in the elder sister’s absence. The younger children were at school, and +would be back at one o’clock to dinner. The landlady herself “got up +fine linen for ladies,” and expected to be occupied over her work all +that morning in a little room built out at the back of the premises. +Thus there was every facility for Magdalen’s leaving the house in +disguise, and leaving it unobserved, provided she went out before the +children came back to dinner at one o’clock. + +By eleven o’clock the apartments were set in order, and the landlady +had retired to pursue her own employments. Magdalen softly locked the +door of her room, drew the blind over the window, and entered at once +on her preparations for the perilous experiment of the day. + +The same quick perception of dangers to be avoided and difficulties to +be overcome which had warned her to leave the extravagant part of her +character costume in the box at Birmingham now kept her mind fully +alive to the vast difference between a disguise worn by gas-light for +the amusement of an audience and a disguise assumed by daylight to +deceive the searching eyes of two strangers. The first article of dress +which she put on was an old gown of her own (made of the material +called “alpaca”), of a dark-brown color, with a neat pattern of little +star-shaped spots in white. A double flounce running round the bottom +of this dress was the only milliner’s ornament which it presented—an +ornament not at all out of character with the costume appropriated to +an elderly lady. The disguise of her head and face was the next object +of her attention. She fitted and arranged the gray wig with the +dexterity which constant practice had given her; fixed the false +eyebrows (made rather large, and of hair darker than the wig) carefully +in their position with the gum she had with her for the purpose, and +stained her face with the customary stage materials, so as to change +the transparent fairness of her complexion to the dull, faintly opaque +color of a woman in ill health. The lines and markings of age followed +next; and here the first obstacles presented themselves. The art which +succeeded by gas-light failed by day: the difficulty of hiding the +plainly artificial nature of the marks was almost insuperable. She +turned to her trunk; took from it two veils; and putting on her +old-fashioned bonnet, tried the effect of them in succession. One of +the veils (of black lace) was too thick to be worn over the face at +that summer season without exciting remark. The other, of plain net, +allowed her features to be seen through it, just indistinctly enough to +permit the safe introduction of certain lines (many fewer than she was +accustomed to use in performing the character) on the forehead and at +the sides of the mouth. But the obstacle thus set aside only opened the +way to a new difficulty—the difficulty of keeping her veil down while +she was speaking to other persons, without any obvious reason for doing +so. An instant’s consideration, and a chance look at her little china +palette of stage colors, suggested to her ready invention the +production of a visible excuse for wearing her veil. She deliberately +disfigured herself by artificially reddening the insides of her eyelids +so as to produce an appearance of inflammation which no human creature +but a doctor—and that doctor at close quarters—could have detected as +false. She sprang to her feet and looked triumphantly at the hideous +transformation of herself reflected in the glass. Who could think it +strange now if she wore her veil down, and if she begged Mrs. Lecount’s +permission to sit with her back to the light? + +Her last proceeding was to put on the quiet gray cloak which she had +brought from Birmingham, and which had been padded inside by Captain +Wragge’s own experienced hands, so as to hide the youthful grace and +beauty of her back and shoulders. Her costume being now complete, she +practiced the walk which had been originally taught her as appropriate +to the character—a walk with a slight limp—and, returning to the glass +after a minute’s trial, exercised herself next in the disguise of her +voice and manner. This was the only part of the character in which it +had been possible, with her physical peculiarities, to produce an +imitation of Miss Garth; and here the resemblance was perfect. The +harsh voice, the blunt manner, the habit of accompanying certain +phrases by an emphatic nod of the head, the Northumbrian _burr_ +expressing itself in every word which contained the letter “r”—all +these personal peculiarities of the old North-country governess were +reproduced to the life. The personal transformation thus completed was +literally what Captain Wragge had described it to be—a triumph in the +art of self-disguise. Excepting the one case of seeing her face close, +with a strong light on it, nobody who now looked at Magdalen could have +suspected for an instant that she was other than an ailing, ill-made, +unattractive woman of fifty years old at least. + +Before unlocking the door, she looked about her carefully, to make sure +that none of her stage materials were exposed to view in case the +landlady entered the room in her absence. The only forgotten object +belonging to her that she discovered was a little packet of Norah’s +letters which she had been reading overnight, and which had been +accidentally pushed under the looking-glass while she was engaged in +dressing herself. As she took up the letters to put them away, the +thought struck her for the first time, “Would Norah know me now if we +met each other in the street?” She looked in the glass, and smiled +sadly. “No,” she said, “not even Norah.” + +She unlocked the door, after first looking at her watch. It was close +on twelve o’clock. There was barely an hour left to try her desperate +experiment, and to return to the lodging before the landlady’s children +came back from school. + +An instant’s listening on the landing assured her that all was quiet in +the passage below. She noiselessly descended the stairs and gained the +street without having met any living creature on her way out of the +house. In another minute she had crossed the road, and had knocked at +Noel Vanstone’s door. + +The door was opened by the same woman-servant whom she had followed on +the previous evening to the stationer’s shop. With a momentary tremor, +which recalled the memorable first night of her appearance in public, +Magdalen inquired (in Miss Garth’s voice, and with Miss Garth’s manner) +for Mrs. Lecount. + +“Mrs. Lecount has gone out, ma’am,” said the servant. + +“Is Mr. Vanstone at home?” asked Magdalen, her resolution asserting +itself at once against the first obstacle that opposed it. + +“My master is not up yet, ma’am.” + +Another check! A weaker nature would have accepted the warning. +Magdalen’s nature rose in revolt against it. + +“What time will Mrs. Lecount be back?” she asked. + +“About one o’clock, ma’am.” + +“Say, if you please, that I will call again as soon after one o’clock +as possible. I particularly wish to see Mrs. Lecount. My name is Miss +Garth.” + +She turned and left the house. Going back to her own room was out of +the question. The servant (as Magdalen knew by not hearing the door +close) was looking after her; and, moreover, she would expose herself, +if she went indoors, to the risk of going out again exactly at the time +when the landlady’s children were sure to be about the house. She +turned mechanically to the right, walked on until she recalled Vauxhall +Bridge, and waited there, looking out over the river. + +The interval of unemployed time now before her was nearly an hour. How +should she occupy it? + +As she asked herself the question, the thought which had struck her +when she put away the packet of Norah’s letters rose in her mind once +more. A sudden impulse to test the miserable completeness of her +disguise mixed with the higher and purer feeling at her heart, and +strengthened her natural longing to see her sister’s face again, though +she dare not discover herself and speak. Norah’s later letters had +described, in the fullest details, her life as a governess—her hours +for teaching, her hours of leisure, her hours for walking out with her +pupils. There was just time, if she could find a vehicle at once, for +Magdalen to drive to the house of Norah’s employer, with the chance of +getting there a few minutes before the hour when her sister would be +going out. “One look at her will tell me more than a hundred letters!” +With that thought in her heart, with the one object of following Norah +on her daily walk, under protection of the disguise, Magdalen hastened +over the bridge, and made for the northern bank of the river. + +So, at the turning-point of her life—so, in the interval before she +took the irrevocable step, and passed the threshold of Noel Vanstone’s +door—the forces of Good triumphing in the strife for her over the +forces of Evil, turned her back on the scene of her meditated +deception, and hurried her mercifully further and further away from the +fatal house. + +She stopped the first empty cab that passed her; told the driver to go +to New Street, Spring Gardens; and promised to double his fare if he +reached his destination by a given time. The man earned the money—more +than earned it, as the event proved. Magdalen had not taken ten steps +in advance along New Street, walking toward St. James’s Park, before +the door of a house beyond her opened, and a lady in mourning came out, +accompanied by two little girls. The lady also took the direction of +the Park, without turning her head toward Magdalen as she descended the +house step. It mattered little; Magdalen’s heart looked through her +eyes, and told her that she saw Norah. + +She followed them into St. James’s Park, and thence (along the Mall) +into the Green Park, venturing closer and closer as they reached the +grass and ascended the rising ground in the direction of Hyde Park +Corner. Her eager eyes devoured every detail in Norah’s dress, and +detected the slightest change that had taken place in her figure and +her bearing. She had become thinner since the autumn—her head drooped a +little; she walked wearily. Her mourning dress, worn with the modest +grace and neatness which no misfortune could take from her, was suited +to her altered station; her black gown was made of stuff; her black +shawl and bonnet were of the plainest and cheapest kind. The two little +girls, walking on either side of her, were dressed in silk. Magdalen +instinctively hated them. + +She made a wide circuit on the grass, so as to turn gradually and meet +her sister without exciting suspicion that the meeting was contrived. +Her heart beat fast; a burning heat glowed in her as she thought of her +false hair, her false color, her false dress, and saw the dear familiar +face coming nearer and nearer. They passed each other close. Norah’s +dark gentle eyes looked up, with a deeper light in them, with a sadder +beauty than of old—rested, all unconscious of the truth, on her +sister’s face—and looked away from it again as from the face of a +stranger. That glance of an instant struck Magdalen to the heart. She +stood rooted to the ground after Norah had passed by. A horror of the +vile disguise that concealed her; a yearning to burst its trammels and +hide her shameful painted face on Norah’s bosom, took possession of +her, body and soul. She turned and looked back. + +Norah and the two children had reached the higher ground, and were +close to one of the gates in the iron railing which fenced the Park +from the street. Drawn by an irresistible fascination, Magdalen +followed them again, gained on them as they reached the gate, and heard +the voices of the two children raised in angry dispute which way they +wanted to walk next. She saw Norah take them through the gate, and then +stoop and speak to them, while waiting for an opportunity to cross the +road. They only grew the louder and the angrier for what she said. The +youngest—a girl of eight or nine years old—flew into a child’s vehement +passion, cried, screamed, and even kicked at the governess. The people +in the street stopped and laughed; some of them jestingly advised a +little wholesome correction; one woman asked Norah if she was the +child’s mother; another pitied her audibly for being the child’s +governess. Before Magdalen could push her way through the crowd—before +her all-mastering anxiety to help her sister had blinded her to every +other consideration, and had brought her, self-betrayed, to Norah’s +side—an open carriage passed the pavement slowly, hindered in its +progress by the press of vehicles before it. An old lady seated inside +heard the child’s cries, recognized Norah, and called to her +immediately. The footman parted the crowd, and the children were put +into the carriage. “It’s lucky I happened to pass this way,” said the +old lady, beckoning contemptuously to Norah to take her place on the +front seat; “you never could manage my daughter’s children, and you +never will.” The footman put up the steps, the carriage drove on with +the children and the governess, the crowd dispersed, and Magdalen was +alone again. + +“So be it!” she thought, bitterly. “I should only have distressed her. +We should only have had the misery of parting to suffer again.” + +She mechanically retraced her steps; she returned, as in a dream, to +the open space of the Park. Arming itself treacherously with the +strength of her love for her sister, with the vehemence of the +indignation that she felt for her sister’s sake, the terrible +temptation of her life fastened its hold on her more firmly than ever. +Through all the paint and disfigurement of the disguise, the fierce +despair of that strong and passionate nature lowered, haggard and +horrible. Norah made an object of public curiosity and amusement; Norah +reprimanded in the open street; Norah, the hired victim of an old +woman’s insolence and a child’s ill-temper, and the same man to thank +for it who had sent Frank to China!—and that man’s son to thank after +him! The thought of her sister, which had turned her from the scene of +her meditated deception, which had made the consciousness of her own +disguise hateful to her, was now the thought which sanctioned that +means, or any means, to compass her end; the thought which set wings to +her feet, and hurried her back nearer and nearer to the fatal house. + +She left the Park again, and found herself in the streets without +knowing where. Once more she hailed the first cab that passed her, and +told the man to drive to Vauxhall Walk. + +The change from walking to riding quieted her. She felt her attention +returning to herself and her dress. The necessity of making sure that +no accident had happened to her disguise in the interval since she had +left her own room impressed itself immediately on her mind. She stopped +the driver at the first pastry-cook’s shop which he passed, and there +obtained the means of consulting a looking-glass before she ventured +back to Vauxhall Walk. + +Her gray head-dress was disordered, and the old-fashioned bonnet was a +little on one side. Nothing else had suffered. She set right the few +defects in her costume, and returned to the cab. It was half-past one +when she approached the house and knocked, for the second time, at Noel +Vanstone’s door. The woman-servant opened it as before. + +“Has Mrs. Lecount come back?” + +“Yes, ma’am. Step this way, if you please.” + +The servant preceded Magdalen along an empty passage, and, leading her +past an uncarpeted staircase, opened the door of a room at the back of +the house. The room was lighted by one window looking out on a yard; +the walls were bare; the boarded floor was uncovered. Two bedroom +chairs stood against the wall, and a kitchen-table was placed under the +window. On the table stood a glass tank filled with water, and +ornamented in the middle by a miniature pyramid of rock-work interlaced +with weeds. Snails clung to the sides of the tank; tadpoles and tiny +fish swam swiftly in the green water, slippery efts and slimy frogs +twined their noiseless way in and out of the weedy rock-work; and on +top of the pyramid there sat solitary, cold as the stone, brown as the +stone, motionless as the stone, a little bright-eyed toad. The art of +keeping fish and reptiles as domestic pets had not at that time been +popularized in England; and Magdalen, on entering the room, started +back, in irrepressible astonishment and disgust, from the first +specimen of an Aquarium that she had ever seen. + +“Don’t be alarmed,” said a woman’s voice behind her. “My pets hurt +nobody.” + +Magdalen turned, and confronted Mrs. Lecount. She had expected—founding +her anticipations on the letter which the housekeeper had written to +her—to see a hard, wily, ill-favored, insolent old woman. She found +herself in the presence of a lady of mild, ingratiating manners, whose +dress was the perfection of neatness, taste, and matronly simplicity, +whose personal appearance was little less than a triumph of physical +resistance to the deteriorating influence of time. If Mrs. Lecount had +struck some fifteen or sixteen years off her real age, and had asserted +herself to be eight-and-thirty, there would not have been one man in a +thousand, or one woman in a hundred, who would have hesitated to +believe her. Her dark hair was just turning to gray, and no more. It +was plainly parted under a spotless lace cap, sparingly ornamented with +mourning ribbons. Not a wrinkle appeared on her smooth white forehead, +or her plump white cheeks. Her double chin was dimpled, and her teeth +were marvels of whiteness and regularity. Her lips might have been +critically considered as too thin, if they had not been accustomed to +make the best of their defects by means of a pleading and persuasive +smile. Her large black eyes might have looked fierce if they had been +set in the face of another woman, they were mild and melting in the +face of Mrs. Lecount; they were tenderly interested in everything she +looked at—in Magdalen, in the toad on the rock-work, in the back-yard +view from the window; in her own plump fair hands,—which she rubbed +softly one over the other while she spoke; in her own pretty cambric +chemisette, which she had a habit of looking at complacently while she +listened to others. The elegant black gown in which she mourned the +memory of Michael Vanstone was not a mere dress—it was a well-made +compliment paid to Death. Her innocent white muslin apron was a little +domestic poem in itself. Her jet earrings were so modest in their +pretensions that a Quaker might have looked at them and committed no +sin. The comely plumpness of her face was matched by the comely +plumpness of her figure; it glided smoothly over the ground; it flowed +in sedate undulations when she walked. There are not many men who could +have observed Mrs. Lecount entirely from the Platonic point of +view—lads in their teens would have found her irresistible—women only +could have hardened their hearts against her, and mercilessly forced +their way inward through that fair and smiling surface. Magdalen’s +first glance at this Venus of the autumn period of female life more +than satisfied her that she had done well to feel her ground in +disguise before she ventured on matching herself against Mrs. Lecount. + +“Have I the pleasure of addressing the lady who called this morning?” +inquired the housekeeper. “Am I speaking to Miss Garth?” + +Something in the expression of her eyes, as she asked that question, +warned Magdalen to turn her face further inward from the window than +she had turned it yet. The bare doubt whether the housekeeper might not +have seen her already under too strong a light shook her +self-possession for the moment. She gave herself time to recover it, +and merely answered by a bow. + +“Accept my excuses, ma’am, for the place in which I am compelled to +receive you,” proceeded Mrs. Lecount in fluent English, spoken with a +foreign accent. “Mr. Vanstone is only here for a temporary purpose. We +leave for the sea-side to-morrow afternoon, and it has not been thought +worth while to set the house in proper order. Will you take a seat, and +oblige me by mentioning the object of your visit?” + +She glided imperceptibly a step or two nearer to Magdalen, and placed a +chair for her exactly opposite the light from the window. “Pray sit +down,” said Mrs. Lecount, looking with the tenderest interest at the +visitor’s inflamed eyes through the visitor’s net veil. + +“I am suffering, as you see, from a complaint in the eyes,” replied +Magdalen, steadily keeping her profile toward the window, and carefully +pitching her voice to the tone of Miss Garth’s. “I must beg your +permission to wear my veil down, and to sit away from the light.” She +said those words, feeling mistress of herself again. With perfect +composure she drew the chair back into the corner of the room beyond +the window and seated herself, keeping the shadow of her bonnet well +over her face. Mrs. Lecount’s persuasive lips murmured a polite +expression of sympathy; Mrs. Lecount’s amiable black eyes looked more +interested in the strange lady than ever. She placed a chair for +herself exactly on a line with Magdalen’s, and sat so close to the wall +as to force her visitor either to turn her head a little further round +toward the window, or to fail in politeness by not looking at the +person whom she addressed. “Yes,” said Mrs. Lecount, with a +confidential little cough. “And to what circumstances am I indebted for +the honor of this visit?” + +“May I inquire, first, if my name happens to be familiar to you?” said +Magdalen, turning toward her as a matter of necessity, but coolly +holding up her handkerchief at the same time between her face and the +light. + +“No,” answered Mrs. Lecount, with another little cough, rather harsher +than the first. “The name of Miss Garth is not familiar to me.” + +“In that case,” pursued Magdalen, “I shall best explain the object that +causes me to intrude on you by mentioning who I am. I lived for many +years as governess in the family of the late Mr. Andrew Vanstone, of +Combe-Raven, and I come here in the interest of his orphan daughters.” + +Mrs. Lecount’s hands, which had been smoothly sliding one over the +other up to this time, suddenly stopped; and Mrs. Lecount’s lips, +self-forgetfully shutting up, owned they were too thin at the very +outset of the interview. + +“I am surprised you can bear the light out-of-doors without a green +shade,” she quietly remarked; leaving the false Miss Garth’s +announcement of herself as completely unnoticed as it she had not +spoken at all. + +“I find a shade over my eyes keeps them too hot at this time of the +year,” rejoined Magdalen, steadily matching the housekeeper’s +composure. “May I ask whether you heard what I said just now on the +subject of my errand in this house?” + +“May I inquire on my side, ma’am, in what way that errand can possibly +concern _me?_” retorted Mrs. Lecount. + +“Certainly,” said Magdalen. “I come to you because Mr. Noel Vanstone’s +intentions toward the two young ladies were made known to them in the +form of a letter from yourself.” + +That plain answer had its effect. It warned Mrs. Lecount that the +strange lady was better informed than she had at first suspected, and +that it might hardly be wise, under the circumstances, to dismiss her +unheard. + +“Pray pardon me,” said the housekeeper, “I scarcely understood before; +I perfectly understand now. You are mistaken, ma’am, in supposing that +I am of any importance, or that I exercise any influence in this +painful matter. I am the mouth-piece of Mr. Noel Vanstone; the pen he +holds, if you will excuse the expression—nothing more. He is an +invalid, and like other invalids, he has his bad days and his good. It +was his bad day when that answer was written to the young person—shall +I call her Miss Vanstone? I will, with pleasure, poor girl; for who am +I to make distinctions, and what is it to me whether her parents were +married or not? As I was saying, it was one of Mr. Noel Vanstone’s bad +days when that answer was sent, and therefore I had to write it; simply +as his secretary, for want of a better. If you wish to speak on the +subject of these young ladies—shall I call them young ladies, as you +did just now? no, poor things, I will call them the Misses Vanstone.—If +you wish to speak on the subject of these Misses Vanstone, I will +mention your name, and your object in favoring me with this call, to +Mr. Noel Vanstone. He is alone in the parlor, and this is one of his +good days. I have the influence of an old servant over him, and I will +use that influence with pleasure in your behalf. Shall I go at once?” +asked Mrs. Lecount, rising, with the friendliest anxiety to make +herself useful. + +“If you please,” replied Magdalen; “and if I am not taking any undue +advantage of your kindness.” + +“On the contrary,” rejoined Mrs. Lecount, “you are laying me under an +obligation—you are permitting me, in my very limited way, to assist the +performance of a benevolent action.” She bowed, smiled, and glided out +of the room. + +Left by herself, Magdalen allowed the anger which she had suppressed in +Mrs. Lecount’s presence to break free from her. For want of a nobler +object to attack, it took the direction of the toad. The sight of the +hideous little reptile sitting placid on his rock throne, with his +bright eyes staring impenetrably into vacancy, irritated every nerve in +her body. She looked at the creature with a shrinking intensity of +hatred; she whispered at it maliciously through her set teeth. “I +wonder whose blood runs coldest,” she said, “yours, you little monster, +or Mrs. Lecount’s? I wonder which is the slimiest, her heart or your +back? You hateful wretch, do you know what your mistress is? Your +mistress is a devil!” + +The speckled skin under the toad’s mouth mysteriously wrinkled itself, +then slowly expanded again, as if he had swallowed the words just +addressed to him. Magdalen started back in disgust from the first +perceptible movement in the creature’s body, trifling as it was, and +returned to her chair. She had not seated herself again a moment too +soon. The door opened noiselessly, and Mrs. Lecount appeared once more. + +“Mr. Vanstone will see you,” she said, “if you will kindly wait a few +minutes. He will ring the parlor bell when his present occupation is at +an end, and he is ready to receive you. Be careful, ma’am, not to +depress his spirits, nor to agitate him in any way. His heart has been +a cause of serious anxiety to those about him, from his earliest years. +There is no positive disease; there is only a chronic feebleness—a +fatty degeneration—a want of vital power in the organ itself. His heart +will go on well enough if you don’t give his heart too much to do—that +is the advice of all the medical men who have seen him. You will not +forget it, and you will keep a guard over your conversation +accordingly. Talking of medical men, have you ever tried the Golden +Ointment for that sad affliction in your eyes? It has been described to +me as an excellent remedy.” + +“It has not succeeded in my case,” replied Magdalen, sharply. “Before I +see Mr. Noel Vanstone,” she continued, “may I inquire—” + +“I beg your pardon,” interposed Mrs. Lecount. “Does your question refer +in any way to those two poor girls?” + +“It refers to the Misses Vanstone.” + +“Then I can’t enter into it. Excuse me, I really can’t discuss these +poor girls (I am so glad to hear you call them the Misses Vanstone!) +except in my master’s presence, and by my master’s express permission. +Let us talk of something else while we are waiting here. Will you +notice my glass Tank? I have every reason to believe that it is a +perfect novelty in England.” + +“I looked at the tank while you were out of the room,” said Magdalen. + +“Did you? You take no interest in the subject, I dare say? Quite +natural. I took no interest either until I was married. My dear +husband—dead many years since—formed my tastes and elevated me to +himself. You have heard of the late Professor Lecomte, the eminent +Swiss naturalist? I am his widow. The English circle at Zurich (where I +lived in my late master’s service) Anglicized my name to Lecount. Your +generous country people will have nothing foreign about them—not even a +name, if they can help it. But I was speaking of my husband—my dear +husband, who permitted me to assist him in his pursuits. I have had +only one interest since his death—an interest in science. Eminent in +many things, the professor was great at reptiles. He left me his +Subjects and his Tank. I had no other legacy. There is the Tank. All +the Subjects died but this quiet little fellow—this nice little toad. +Are you surprised at my liking him? There is nothing to be surprised +at. The professor lived long enough to elevate me above the common +prejudice against the reptile creation. Properly understood, the +reptile creation is beautiful. Properly dissected, the reptile creation +is instructive in the last degree.” She stretched out her little +finger, and gently stroked the toad’s back with the tip of it. “So +refreshing to the touch,” said Mrs. Lecount—“so nice and cool this +summer weather!” + +The bell from the parlor rang. Mrs. Lecount rose, bent fondly over the +Aquarium, and chirruped to the toad at parting as if it had been a +bird. “Mr. Vanstone is ready to receive you. Follow me, if you please, +Miss Garth.” With these words she opened the door, and led the way out +of the room. + + + +CHAPTER III. + +“Miss Garth, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount, opening the parlor door, and +announcing the visitor’s appearance with the tone and manner of a +well-bred servant. + +Magdalen found herself in a long, narrow room, consisting of a back +parlor and a front parlor, which had been thrown into one by opening +the folding-doors between them. Seated not far from the front window, +with his back to the light, she saw a frail, flaxen-haired, +self-satisfied little man, clothed in a fair white dressing-gown many +sizes too large for him, with a nosegay of violets drawn neatly through +the button-hole over his breast. He looked from thirty to +five-and-thirty years old. His complexion was as delicate as a young +girl’s, his eyes were of the lightest blue, his upper lip was adorned +by a weak little white mustache, waxed and twisted at either end into a +thin spiral curl. When any object specially attracted his attention he +half closed his eyelids to look at it. When he smiled, the skin at his +temples crumpled itself up into a nest of wicked little wrinkles. He +had a plate of strawberries on his lap, with a napkin under them to +preserve the purity of his white dressing-gown. At his right hand stood +a large round table, covered with a collection of foreign curiosities, +which seemed to have been brought together from the four quarters of +the globe. Stuffed birds from Africa, porcelain monsters from China, +silver ornaments and utensils from India and Peru, mosaic work from +Italy, and bronzes from France, were all heaped together pell-mell with +the coarse deal boxes and dingy leather cases which served to pack them +for traveling. The little man apologized, with a cheerful and simpering +conceit, for his litter of curiosities, his dressing-gown, and his +delicate health; and, waving his hand toward a chair, placed his +attention, with pragmatical politeness, at the visitor’s disposal. +Magdalen looked at him with a momentary doubt whether Mrs. Lecount had +not deceived her. Was this the man who mercilessly followed the path on +which his merciless father had walked before him? She could hardly +believe it. “Take a seat, Miss Garth,” he repeated, observing her +hesitation, and announcing his own name in a high, thin, +fretfully-consequential voice: “I am Mr. Noel Vanstone. You wished to +see me—here I am!” + +“May I be permitted to retire, sir?” inquired Mrs. Lecount. + +“Certainly not!” replied her master. “Stay here, Lecount, and keep us +company. Mrs. Lecount has my fullest confidence,” he continued, +addressing Magdalen. “Whatever you say to me, ma’am, you say to her. +She is a domestic treasure. There is not another house in England has +such a treasure as Mrs. Lecount.” + +The housekeeper listened to the praise of her domestic virtues with +eyes immovably fixed on her elegant chemisette. But Magdalen’s quick +penetration had previously detected a look that passed between Mrs. +Lecount and her master, which suggested that Noel Vanstone had been +instructed beforehand what to say and do in his visitor’s presence. The +suspicion of this, and the obstacles which the room presented to +arranging her position in it so as to keep her face from the light, +warned Magdalen to be on her guard. + +She had taken her chair at first nearly midway in the room. An +instant’s after-reflection induced her to move her seat toward the left +hand, so as to place herself just inside, and close against, the left +post of the folding-door. In this position she dexterously barred the +only passage by which Mrs. Lecount could have skirted round the large +table and contrived to front Magdalen by taking a chair at her master’s +side. On the right hand of the table the empty space was well occupied +by the fireplace and fender, by some traveling-trunks, and a large +packing-case. There was no alternative left for Mrs. Lecount but to +place herself on a line with Magdalen against the opposite post of the +folding-door, or to push rudely past the visitor with the obvious +intention of getting in front of her. With an expressive little cough, +and with one steady look at her master, the housekeeper conceded the +point, and took her seat against the right-hand door-post. “Wait a +little,” thought Mrs. Lecount; “my turn next!” + +“Mind what you are about, ma’am!” cried Noel Vanstone, as Magdalen +accidentally approached the table in moving her chair. “Mind the sleeve +of your cloak! Excuse me, you nearly knocked down that silver +candlestick. Pray don’t suppose it’s a common candlestick. It’s nothing +of the sort—it’s a Peruvian candlestick. There are only three of that +pattern in the world. One is in the possession of the President of +Peru; one is locked up in the Vatican; and one is on My table. It cost +ten pounds; it’s worth fifty. One of my father’s bargains, ma’am. All +these things are my father’s bargains. There is not another house in +England which has such curiosities as these. Sit down, Lecount; I beg +you will make yourself comfortable. Mrs. Lecount is like the +curiosities, Miss Garth—she is one of my father’s bargains. You are one +of my father’s bargains, are you not, Lecount? My father was a +remarkable man, ma’am. You will be reminded of him here at every turn. +I have got his dressing-gown on at this moment. No such linen as this +is made now—you can’t get it for love or money. Would you like to feel +the texture? Perhaps you’re no judge of texture? Perhaps you would +prefer talking to me about these two pupils of yours? They are two, are +they not? Are they fine girls? Plump, fresh, full-blown English +beauties?” + +“Excuse me, sir,” interposed Mrs. Lecount, sorrowfully. “I must really +beg permission to retire if you speak of the poor things in that way. I +can’t sit by, sir, and hear them turned into ridicule. Consider their +position; consider Miss Garth.” + +“You good creature!” said Noel Vanstone, surveying the housekeeper +through his half-closed eyelids. “You excellent Lecount! I assure you, +ma’am, Mrs. Lecount is a worthy creature. You will observe that she +pities the two girls. I don’t go so far as that myself, but I can make +allowances for them. I am a large-minded man. I can make allowances for +them and for you.” He smiled with the most cordial politeness, and +helped himself to a strawberry from the dish on his lap. + +“You shock Miss Garth; indeed, sir, without meaning it, you shock Miss +Garth,” remonstrated Mrs. Lecount. “She is not accustomed to you as I +am. Consider Miss Garth, sir. As a favor to _me_, consider Miss Garth.” + +Thus far Magdalen had resolutely kept silence. The burning anger, which +would have betrayed her in an instant if she had let it flash its way +to the surface, throbbed fast and fiercely at her heart, and warned +her, while Noel Vanstone was speaking, to close her lips. She would +have allowed him to talk on uninterruptedly for some minutes more if +Mrs. Lecount had not interfered for the second time. The refined +insolence of the housekeeper’s pity was a woman’s insolence; and it +stung her into instantly controlling herself. She had never more +admirably imitated Miss Garth’s voice and manner than when she spoke +her next words. + +“You are very good,” she said to Mrs. Lecount. “I make no claim to be +treated with any extraordinary consideration. I am a governess, and I +don’t expect it. I have only one favor to ask. I beg Mr. Noel Vanstone, +for his own sake, to hear what I have to say to him.” + +“You understand, sir?” observed Mrs. Lecount. “It appears that Miss +Garth has some serious warning to give you. She says you are to hear +her, for your own sake.” + +Mr. Noel Vanstone’s fair complexion suddenly turned white. He put away +the plate of strawberries among his father’s bargains. His hand shook +and his little figure twisted itself uneasily in the chair. Magdalen +observed him attentively. “One discovery already,” she thought; “he is +a coward!” + +“What do you mean, ma’am?” asked Noel Vanstone, with visible +trepidation of look and manner. “What do you mean by telling me I must +listen to you for my own sake? If you come her to intimidate me, you +come to the wrong man. My strength of character was universally noticed +in our circle at Zurich—wasn’t it, Lecount?” + +“Universally, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. “But let us hear Miss Garth. +Perhaps I have misinterpreted her meaning.” + +“On the contrary,” replied Magdalen, “you have exactly expressed my +meaning. My object in coming here is to warn Mr. Noel Vanstone against +the course which he is now taking.” + +“Don’t!” pleaded Mrs. Lecount. “Oh, if you want to help these poor +girls, don’t talk in that way! Soften his resolution, ma’am, by +entreaties; don’t strengthen it by threats!” She a little overstrained +the tone of humility in which she spoke those words—a little overacted +the look of apprehension which accompanied them. If Magdalen had not +seen plainly enough already that it was Mrs. Lecount’s habitual +practice to decide everything for her master in the first instance, and +then to persuade him that he was not acting under his housekeeper’s +resolution but under his own, she would have seen it now. + +“You hear what Lecount has just said?” remarked Noel Vanstone. “You +hear the unsolicited testimony of a person who has known me from +childhood? Take care, Miss Garth—take care!” He complacently arranged +the tails of his white dressing-gown over his knees and took the plate +of strawberries back on his lap. + +“I have no wish to offend you,” said Magdalen. “I am only anxious to +open your eyes to the truth. You are not acquainted with the characters +of the two sisters whose fortunes have fallen into your possession. I +have known them from childhood; and I come to give you the benefit of +my experience in their interests and in yours. You have nothing to +dread from the elder of the two; she patiently accepts the hard lot +which you, and your father before you, have forced on her. The younger +sister’s conduct is the very opposite of this. She has already declined +to submit to your father’s decision, and she now refuses to be silenced +by Mrs. Lecount’s letter. Take my word for it, she is capable of giving +you serious trouble if you persist in making an enemy of her.” + +Noel Vanstone changed color once more, and began to fidget again in his +chair. “Serious trouble,” he repeated, with a blank look. “If you mean +writing letters, ma’am, she has given trouble enough already. She has +written once to me, and twice to my father. One of the letters to my +father was a threatening letter—wasn’t it, Lecount?” + +“She expressed her feelings, poor child,” said Mrs. Lecount. “I thought +it hard to send her back her letter, but your dear father knew best. +What I said at the time was, Why not let her express her feelings? What +are a few threatening words, after all? In her position, poor creature, +they are words, and nothing more.” + +“I advise you not to be too sure of that,” said Magdalen. “I know her +better than you do.” + +She paused at those words—paused in a momentary terror. The sting of +Mrs. Lecount’s pity had nearly irritated her into forgetting her +assumed character, and speaking in her own voice. + +“You have referred to the letters written by my pupil,” she resumed, +addressing Noel Vanstone as soon as she felt sure of herself again. “We +will say nothing about what she has written to your father; we will +only speak of what she has written to you. Is there anything unbecoming +in her letter, anything said in it that is false? Is it not true that +these two sisters have been cruelly deprived of the provision which +their father made for them? His will to this day speaks for him and for +them; and it only speaks to no purpose, because he was not aware that +his marriage obliged him to make it again, and because he died before +he could remedy the error. Can you deny that?” + +Noel Vanstone smiled, and helped himself to a strawberry. “I don’t +attempt to deny it,” he said. “Go on, Miss Garth.” + +“Is it not true,” persisted Magdalen, “that the law which has taken the +money from these sisters, whose father made no second will, has now +given that very money to you, whose father made no will at all? Surely, +explain it how you may, this is hard on those orphan girls?” + +“Very hard,” replied Noel Vanstone. “It strikes you in that light, +too—doesn’t it, Lecount?” + +Mrs. Lecount shook her head, and closed her handsome black eyes. +“Harrowing,” she said; “I can characterize it, Miss Garth, by no other +word—harrowing. How the young person—no! how Miss Vanstone, the +younger—discovered that my late respected master made no will I am at a +loss to understand. Perhaps it was put in the papers? But I am +interrupting you, Miss Garth. Do have something more to say about your +pupil’s letter?” She noiselessly drew her chair forward, as she said +these words, a few inches beyond the line of the visitor’s chair. The +attempt was neatly made, but it proved useless. Magdalen only kept her +head more to the left, and the packing-case on the floor prevented Mrs. +Lecount from advancing any further. + +“I have only one more question to put,” said Magdalen. “My pupil’s +letter addressed a proposal to Mr. Noel Vanstone. I beg him to inform +me why he has refused to consider it.” + +“My good lady!” cried Noel Vanstone, arching his white eyebrows in +satirical astonishment. “Are you really in earnest? Do you know what +the proposal is? Have you seen the letter?” + +“I am quite in earnest,” said Magdalen, “and I have seen the letter. It +entreats you to remember how Mr. Andrew Vanstone’s fortune has come +into your hands; it informs you that one-half of that fortune, divided +between his daughters, was what his will intended them to have; and it +asks of your sense of justice to do for his children what he would have +done for them himself if he had lived. In plainer words still, it asks +you to give one-half of the money to the daughters, and it leaves you +free to keep the other half yourself. That is the proposal. Why have +you refused to consider it?” + +“For the simplest possible reason, Miss Garth,” said Noel Vanstone, in +high good-humor. “Allow me to remind you of a well-known proverb: A +fool and his money are soon parted. Whatever else I may be, ma’am, I’m +not a fool.” + +“Don’t put it in that way, sir!” remonstrated Mrs. Lecount. “Be +serious—pray be serious!” + +“Quite impossible, Lecount,” rejoined her master. “I can’t be serious. +My poor father, Miss Garth, took a high moral point of view in this +matter. Lecount, there, takes a high moral point of view—don’t you, +Lecount? I do nothing of the sort. I have lived too long in the +Continental atmosphere to trouble myself about moral points of view. My +course in this business is as plain as two and two make four. I have +got the money, and I should be a born idiot if I parted with it. There +is my point of view! Simple enough, isn’t it? I don’t stand on my +dignity; I don’t meet you with the law, which is all on my side; I +don’t blame your coming here, as a total stranger, to try and alter my +resolution; I don’t blame the two girls for wanting to dip their +fingers into my purse. All I say is, I am not fool enough to open it. +_Pas si bete_, as we used to say in the English circle at Zurich. You +understand French, Miss Garth? _Pas si bete!_” He set aside his plate +of strawberries once more, and daintily dried his fingers on his fine +white napkin. + +Magdalen kept her temper. If she could have struck him dead by lifting +her hand at that moment, it is probable she would have lifted it. But +she kept her temper. + +“Am I to understand,” she asked, “that the last words you have to say +in this matter are the words said for you in Mrs. Lecount’s letter!” + +“Precisely so,” replied Noel Vanstone. + +“You have inherited your own father’s fortune, as well as the fortune +of Mr. Andrew Vanstone, and yet you feel no obligation to act from +motives of justice or generosity toward these two sisters? All you +think it necessary to say to them is, you have got the money, and you +refuse to part with a single farthing of it?” + +“Most accurately stated! Miss Garth, you are a woman of business. +Lecount, Miss Garth is a woman of business.” + +“Don’t appeal to me, sir,” cried Mrs. Lecount, gracefully wringing her +plump white hands. “I can’t bear it! I must interfere! Let me +suggest—oh, what do you call it in English?—a compromise. Dear Mr. +Noel, you are perversely refusing to do yourself justice; you have +better reasons than the reason you have given to Miss Garth. You follow +your honored father’s example; you feel it due to his memory to act in +this matter as he acted before you. That is his reason, Miss Garth—— I +implore you on my knees to take that as his reason. He will do what his +dear father did; no more, no less. His dear father made a proposal, and +he himself will now make that proposal over again. Yes, Mr. Noel, you +will remember what this poor girl says in her letter to you. Her sister +has been obliged to go out as a governess; and she herself, in losing +her fortune, has lost the hope of her marriage for years and years to +come. You will remember this—and you will give the hundred pounds to +one, and the hundred pounds to the other, which your admirable father +offered in the past time? If he does this, Miss Garth, will he do +enough? If he gives a hundred pounds each to these unfortunate +sisters—?” + +“He will repent the insult to the last hour of his life,” said +Magdalen. + +The instant that answer passed her lips she would have given worlds to +recall it. Mrs. Lecount had planted her sting in the right place at +last. Those rash words of Magdalen’s had burst from her passionately, +in her own voice. + +Nothing but the habit of public performance saved her from making the +serious error that she had committed more palpable still, by attempting +to set it right. Here her past practice in the Entertainment came to +her rescue, and urged her to go on instantly in Miss Garth’s voice as +if nothing had happened. + +“You mean well, Mrs. Lecount,” she continued, “but you are doing harm +instead of good. My pupils will accept no such compromise as you +propose. I am sorry to have spoken violently just now; I beg you will +excuse me.” She looked hard for information in the housekeeper’s face +while she spoke those conciliatory words. Mrs. Lecount baffled the look +by putting her handkerchief to her eyes. Had she, or had she not, +noticed the momentary change in Magdalen’s voice from the tones that +were assumed to the tones that were natural? Impossible to say. + +“What more can I do!” murmured Mrs. Lecount behind her handkerchief. +“Give me time to think—give me time to recover myself. May I retire, +sir, for a moment? My nerves are shaken by this sad scene. I must have +a glass of water, or I think I shall faint. Don’t go yet, Miss Garth. I +beg you will give us time to set this sad matter right, if we can—I beg +you will remain until I come back.” + +There were two doors of entrance to the room. One, the door into the +front parlor, close at Magdalen’s left hand. The other, the door into +the back parlor, situated behind her. Mrs. Lecount politely +retired—through the open folding-doors—by this latter means of exit, so +as not to disturb the visitor by passing in front of her. Magdalen +waited until she heard the door open and close again behind her, and +then resolved to make the most of the opportunity which left her alone +with Noel Vanstone. The utter hopelessness of rousing a generous +impulse in that base nature had now been proved by her own experience. +The last chance left was to treat him like the craven creature he was, +and to influence him through his fears. + +Before she could speak, Noel Vanstone himself broke the silence. +Cunningly as he strove to hide it, he was half angry, half alarmed at +his housekeeper’s desertion of him. He looked doubtingly at his +visitor; he showed a nervous anxiety to conciliate her until Mrs. +Lecount’s return. + +“Pray remember, ma’am, I never denied that this case was a hard one,” +he began. “You said just now you had no wish to offend me—and I’m sure +I don’t want to offend you. May I offer you some strawberries? Would +you like to look at my father’s bargains? I assure you, ma’am, I am +naturally a gallant man; and I feel for both these sisters—especially +the younger one. Touch me on the subject of the tender passion, and you +touch me on a weak place. Nothing would please me more than to hear +that Miss Vanstone’s lover (I’m sure I always call her Miss Vanstone, +and so does Lecount)—I say, ma’am, nothing would please me more than to +hear that Miss Vanstone’s lover had come back and married her. If a +loan of money would be likely to bring him back, and if the security +offered was good, and if my lawyer thought me justified—” + +“Stop, Mr. Vanstone,” said Magdalen. “You are entirely mistaken in your +estimate of the person you have to deal with. You are seriously wrong +in supposing that the marriage of the younger sister—if she could be +married in a week’s time—would make any difference in the convictions +which induced her to write to your father and to you. I don’t deny that +she may act from a mixture of motives. I don’t deny that she clings to +the hope of hastening her marriage, and to the hope of rescuing her +sister from a life of dependence. But if both those objects were +accomplished by other means, nothing would induce her to leave you in +possession of the inheritance which her father meant his children to +have. I know her, Mr. Vanstone! She is a nameless, homeless, friendless +wretch. The law which takes care of you, the law which takes care of +all legitimate children, casts her like carrion to the winds. It is +your law—not hers. She only knows it as the instrument of a vile +oppression, an insufferable wrong. The sense of that wrong haunts her +like a possession of the devil. The resolution to right that wrong +burns in her like fire. If that miserable girl was married and rich, +with millions tomorrow, do you think she would move an inch from her +purpose? I tell you she would resist, to the last breath in her body, +the vile injustice which has struck at the helpless children, through +the calamity of their father’s death! I tell you she would shrink from +no means which a desperate woman can employ to force that closed hand +of yours open, or die in the attempt!” + +She stopped abruptly. Once more her own indomitable earnestness had +betrayed her. Once more the inborn nobility of that perverted nature +had risen superior to the deception which it had stooped to practice. +The scheme of the moment vanished from her mind’s view; and the +resolution of her life burst its way outward in her own words, in her +own tones, pouring hotly and more hotly from her heart. She saw the +abject manikin before her cowering, silent, in his chair. Had his fears +left him sense enough to perceive the change in her voice? No: _his_ +face spoke the truth—his fears had bewildered him. This time the chance +of the moment had befriended her. The door behind her chair had not +opened again yet. “No ears but his have heard me,” she thought, with a +sense of unutterable relief. “I have escaped Mrs. Lecount.” + +She had done nothing of the kind. Mrs. Lecount had never left the room. + +After opening the door and closing it again, without going out, the +housekeeper had noiselessly knelt down behind Magdalen’s chair. +Steadying herself against the post of the folding-door, she took a pair +of scissors from her pocket, waited until Noel Vanstone (from whose +view she was entirely hidden) had attracted Magdalen’s attention by +speaking to her, and then bent forward, with the scissors ready in her +hand. The skirt of the false Miss Garth’s gown—the brown alpaca dress, +with the white spots on it—touched the floor, within the housekeeper’s +reach. Mrs. Lecount lifted the outer of the two flounces which ran +round the bottom of the dress one over the other, softly cut away a +little irregular fragment of stuff from the inner flounce, and neatly +smoothed the outer one over it again, so as to hide the gap. By the +time she had put the scissors back in her pocket, and had risen to her +feet (sheltering herself behind the post of the folding-door), Magdalen +had spoken her last words. Mrs. Lecount quietly repeated the ceremony +of opening and shutting the back parlor door; and returned to her +place. + +“What has happened, sir, in my absence?” she inquired, addressing her +master with a look of alarm. “You are pale; you are agitated! Oh, Miss +Garth, have you forgotten the caution I gave you in the other room?” + +“Miss Garth has forgotten everything,” cried Noel Vanstone, recovering +his lost composure on the re-appearance of Mrs. Lecount. “Miss Garth +has threatened me in the most outrageous manner. I forbid you to pity +either of those two girls any more, Lecount—especially the younger one. +She is the most desperate wretch I ever heard of! If she can’t get my +money by fair means, she threatens to have it by foul. Miss Garth has +told me that to my face. To my face!” he repeated, folding his arms, +and looking mortally insulted. + +“Compose yourself, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. “Pray compose yourself, and +leave me to speak to Miss Garth. I regret to hear, ma’am, that you have +forgotten what I said to you in the next room. You have agitated Mr. +Noel; you have compromised the interests you came here to plead; and +you have only repeated what we knew before. The language you have +allowed yourself to use in my absence is the same language which your +pupil was foolish enough to employ when she wrote for the second time +to my late master. How can a lady of your years and experience +seriously repeat such nonsense? This girl boasts and threatens. She +will do this; she will do that. You have her confidence, ma’am. Tell +me, if you please, in plain words, what can she do?” + +Sharply as the taunt was pointed, it glanced off harmless. Mrs. Lecount +had planted her sting once too often. Magdalen rose in complete +possession of her assumed character and composedly terminated the +interview. Ignorant as she was of what had happened behind her chair, +she saw a change in Mrs. Lecount’s look and manner which warned her to +run no more risks, and to trust herself no longer in the house. + +“I am not in my pupil’s confidence,” she said. “Her own acts will +answer your question when the time comes. I can only tell you, from my +own knowledge of her, that she is no boaster. What she wrote to Mr. +Michael Vanstone was what she was prepared to do—-what, I have reason +to think, she was actually on the point of doing, when her plans were +overthrown by his death. Mr. Michael Vanstone’s son has only to persist +in following his father’s course to find, before long, that I am not +mistaken in my pupil, and that I have not come here to intimidate him +by empty threats. My errand is done. I leave Mr. Noel Vanstone with two +alternatives to choose from. I leave him to share Mr. Andrew Vanstone’s +fortune with Mr. Andrew Vanstone’s daughters—or to persist in his +present refusal and face the consequences.” She bowed, and walked to +the door. + +Noel Vanstone started to his feet, with anger and alarm struggling +which should express itself first in his blank white face. Before he +could open his lips, Mrs. Lecount’s plump hands descended on his +shoulders, put him softly back in his chair, and restored the plate of +strawberries to its former position on his lap. + +“Refresh yourself, Mr. Noel, with a few more strawberries,” she said, +“and leave Miss Garth to me.” + +She followed Magdalen into the passage, and closed the door of the room +after her. + +“Are you residing in London, ma’am?” asked Mrs. Lecount. + +“No,” replied Magdalen. “I reside in the country.” + +“If I want to write to you, where can I address my letter?” + +“To the post-office, Birmingham,” said Magdalen, mentioning the place +which she had last left, and at which all letters were still addressed +to her. + +Mrs. Lecount repeated the direction to fix it in her memory, advanced +two steps in the passage, and quietly laid her right hand on Magdalen’s +arm. + +“A word of advice, ma’am,” she said; “one word at parting. You are a +bold woman and a clever woman. Don’t be too bold; don’t be too clever. +You are risking more than you think for.” She suddenly raised herself +on tiptoe and whispered the next words in Magdalen’s ear. “_I hold you +in the hollow of my hand!_” said Mrs. Lecount, with a fierce hissing +emphasis on every syllable. Her left hand clinched itself stealthily as +she spoke. It was the hand in which she had concealed the fragment of +stuff from Magdalen’s gown—the hand which held it fast at that moment. + +“What do you mean?” asked Magdalen, pushing her back. + +Mrs. Lecount glided away politely to open the house door. + +“I mean nothing now,” she said; “wait a little, and time may show. One +last question, ma’am, before I bid you good-by. When your pupil was a +little innocent child, did she ever amuse herself by building a house +of cards?” + +Magdalen impatiently answered by a gesture in the affirmative. + +“Did you ever see her build up the house higher and higher,” proceeded +Mrs. Lecount, “till it was quite a pagoda of cards? Did you ever see +her open her little child’s eyes wide and look at it, and feel so proud +of what she had done already that she wanted to do more? Did you ever +see her steady her pretty little hand, and hold her innocent breath, +and put one other card on the top, and lay the whole house, the instant +afterward, a heap of ruins on the table? Ah, you have seen that. Give +her, if you please, a friendly message from me. I venture to say she +has built the house high enough already; and I recommend her to be +careful before she puts on that other card.” + +“She shall have your message,” said Magdalen, with Miss Garth’s +bluntness, and Miss Garth’s emphatic nod of the head. “But I doubt her +minding it. Her hand is rather steadier than you suppose, and I think +she will put on the other card.” + +“And bring the house down,” said Mrs. Lecount. + +“And build it up again,” rejoined Magdalen. “I wish you good-morning.” + +“Good-morning,” said Mrs. Lecount, opening the door. “One last word, +Miss Garth. Do think of what I said in the back room! Do try the Golden +Ointment for that sad affliction in your eyes!” + +As Magdalen crossed the threshold of the door she was met by the +postman ascending the house steps with a letter picked out from the +bundle in his hand. “Noel Vanstone, Esquire?” she heard the man say, +interrogatively, as she made her way down the front garden to the +street. + +She passed through the garden gates little thinking from what new +difficulty and new danger her timely departure had saved her. The +letter which the postman had just delivered into the housekeeper’s +hands was no other than the anonymous letter addressed to Noel Vanstone +by Captain Wragge. + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +Mrs. Lecount returned to the parlor, with the fragment of Magdalen’s +dress in one hand, and with Captain Wragge’s letter in the other. + +“Have you got rid of her?” asked Noel Vanstone. “Have you shut the door +at last on Miss Garth?” + +“Don’t call her Miss Garth, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount, smiling +contemptuously. “She is as much Miss Garth as you are. We have been +favored by the performance of a clever masquerade; and if we had taken +the disguise off our visitor, I think we should have found under it +Miss Vanstone herself.—Here is a letter for you, sir, which the postman +has just left.” + +She put the letter on the table within her master’s reach. Noel +Vanstone’s amazement at the discovery just communicated to him kept his +whole attention concentrated on the housekeeper’s face. He never so +much as looked at the letter when she placed it before him. + +“Take my word for it, sir,” proceeded Mrs. Lecount, composedly taking a +chair. “When our visitor gets home she will put her gray hair away in a +box, and will cure that sad affliction in her eyes with warm water and +a sponge. If she had painted the marks on her face, as well as she +painted the inflammation in her eyes, the light would have shown me +nothing, and I should certainly have been deceived. But I saw the +marks; I saw a young woman’s skin under that dirty complexion of hers; +I heard in this room a true voice in a passion, as well as a false +voice talking with an accent, and I don’t believe in one morsel of that +lady’s personal appearance from top to toe. The girl herself, in my +opinion, Mr. Noel—and a bold girl too.” + +“Why didn’t you lock the door and send for the police?” asked Mr. Noel. +“My father would have sent for the police. You know, as well as I do, +Lecount, my father would have sent for the police.” + +“Pardon me, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount, “I think your father would have +waited until he had got something more for the police to do than we +have got for them yet. We shall see this lady again, sir. Perhaps she +will come here next time with her own face and her own voice. I am +curious to see what her own face is like. I am curious to know whether +what I have heard of her voice in a passion is enough to make me +recognize her voice when she is calm. I possess a little memorial of +her visit of which she is not aware, and she will not escape me so +easily as she thinks. If it turns out a useful memorial, you shall know +what it is. If not, I will abstain from troubling you on so trifling a +subject.—Allow me to remind you, sir, of the letter under your hand. +You have not looked at it yet.” + +Noel Vanstone opened the letter. He started as his eye fell on the +first lines—hesitated—and then hurriedly read it through. The paper +dropped from his hand, and he sank back in his chair. Mrs. Lecount +sprang to her feet with the alacrity of a young woman and picked up the +letter. + +“What has happened, sir?” she asked. Her face altered as she put the +question, and her large black eyes hardened fiercely, in genuine +astonishment and alarm. + +“Send for the police,” exclaimed her master. “Lecount, I insist on +being protected. Send for the police!” + +“May I read the letter, sir?” + +He feebly waved his hand. Mrs. Lecount read the letter attentively, and +put it aside on the table, without a word, when she had done. + +“Have you nothing to say to me?” asked Noel Vanstone, staring at his +housekeeper in blank dismay. “Lecount, I’m to be robbed! The scoundrel +who wrote that letter knows all about it, and won’t tell me anything +unless I pay him. I’m to be robbed! Here’s property on this table worth +thousands of pounds—property that can never be replaced—property that +all the crowned heads in Europe could not produce if they tried. Lock +me in, Lecount, and send for the police!” + +Instead of sending for the police, Mrs. Lecount took a large green +paper fan from the chimney-piece, and seated herself opposite her +master. + +“You are agitated, Mr. Noel,” she said, “you are heated. Let me cool +you.” + +With her face as hard as ever—with less tenderness of look and manner +than most women would have shown if they had been rescuing a +half-drowned fly from a milk-jug—she silently and patiently fanned him +for five minutes or more. No practiced eye observing the peculiar +bluish pallor of his complexion, and the marked difficulty with which +he drew his breath, could have failed to perceive that the great organ +of life was in this man, what the housekeeper had stated it to be, too +weak for the function which it was called on to perform. The heart +labored over its work as if it had been the heart of a worn-out old +man. + +“Are you relieved, sir?” asked Mrs. Lecount. “Can you think a little? +Can you exercise your better judgment?” + +She rose and put her hand over his heart with as much mechanical +attention and as little genuine interest as if she had been feeling the +plates at dinner to ascertain if they had been properly warmed. “Yes,” +she went on, seating herself again, and resuming the exercise of the +fan; “you are getting better already, Mr. Noel.—Don’t ask me about this +anonymous letter until you have thought for yourself, and have given +your own opinion first.” She went on with the fanning, and looked him +hard in the face all the time. “Think,” she said; “think, sir, without +troubling yourself to express your thoughts. Trust to my intimate +sympathy with you to read them. Yes, Mr. Noel, this letter is a paltry +attempt to frighten you. What does it say? It says you are the object +of a conspiracy directed by Miss Vanstone. We know that already—the +lady of the inflamed eyes has told us. We snap our fingers at the +conspiracy. What does the letter say next? It says the writer has +valuable information to give you if you will pay for it. What did you +call this person yourself just now, sir?” + +“I called him a scoundrel,” said Noel Vanstone, recovering his +self-importance, and raising himself gradually in his chair. + +“I agree with you in that, sir, as I agree in everything else,” +proceeded Mrs. Lecount. “He is a scoundrel who really has this +information and who means what he says, or he is a mouthpiece of Miss +Vanstone’s, and she has caused this letter to be written for the +purpose of puzzling us by another form of disguise. Whether the letter +is true, or whether the letter is false—am I not reading your own wiser +thoughts now, Mr. Noel?—you know better than to put your enemies on +their guard by employing the police in this matter too soon. I quite +agree with you—no police just yet. You will allow this anonymous man, +or anonymous woman, to suppose you are easily frightened; you will lay +a trap for the information in return for the trap laid for your money; +you will answer the letter, and see what comes of the answer; and you +will only pay the expense of employing the police when you know the +expense is necessary. I agree with you again—no expense, if we can help +it. In every particular, Mr. Noel, my mind and your mind in this matter +are one.” + +“It strikes you in that light, Lecount—does it?” said Noel Vanstone. “I +think so myself; I certainly think so. I won’t pay the police a +farthing if I can possibly help it.” He took up the letter again, and +became fretfully perplexed over a second reading of it. “But the man +wants money!” he broke out, impatiently. “You seem to forget, Lecount, +that the man wants money.” + +“Money which you offer him, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Lecount; “but—as your +thoughts have already anticipated—money which you don’t give him. No! +no! you say to this man: ‘Hold out your hand, sir;’ and when he has +held it, you give him a smack for his pains, and put your own hand back +in your pocket.—I am so glad to see you laughing, Mr. Noel! so glad to +see you getting back your good spirits. We will answer the letter by +advertisement, as the writer directs—advertisement is so cheap! Your +poor hand is trembling a little—shall I hold the pen for you? I am not +fit to do more; but I can always promise to hold the pen.” + +Without waiting for his reply she went into the back parlor, and +returned with pen, ink, and paper. Arranging a blotting-book on her +knees, and looking a model of cheerful submission, she placed herself +once more in front of her master’s chair. + +“Shall I write from your dictation, sir?” she inquired. “Or shall I +make a little sketch, and will you correct it afterward? I will make a +little sketch. Let me see the letter. We are to advertise in the +_Times_, and we are to address ‘An Unknown Friend.’ What shall I say, +Mr. Noel? Stay; I will write it, and then you can see for yourself: ‘An +Unknown Friend is requested to mention (by advertisement) an address at +which a letter can reach him. The receipt of the information which he +offers will be acknowledged by a reward of—’ What sum of money do you +wish me to set down, sir?” + +“Set down nothing,” said Noel Vanstone, with a sudden outbreak of +impatience. “Money matters are my business—I say money matters are my +business, Lecount. Leave it to me.” + +“Certainly, sir,” replied Mrs. Lecount, handing her master the +blotting-book. “You will not forget to be liberal in offering money +when you know beforehand you don’t mean to part with it?” + +“Don’t dictate, Lecount! I won’t submit to dictation!” said Noel +Vanstone, asserting his own independence more and more impatiently. “I +mean to conduct this business for myself. I am master, Lecount!” + +“You are master, sir.” + +“My father was master before me. And I am my father’s son. I tell you, +Lecount, I am my father’s son!” + +Mrs. Lecount bowed submissively. + +“I mean to set down any sum of money I think right,” pursued Noel +Vanstone, nodding his little flaxen head vehemently. “I mean to send +this advertisement myself. The servant shall take it to the stationer’s +to be put into the _Times_. When I ring the bell twice, send the +servant. You understand, Lecount? Send the servant.” + +Mrs. Lecount bowed again and walked slowly to the door. She knew to a +nicety when to lead her master and when to let him go alone. Experience +had taught her to govern him in all essential points by giving way to +him afterward on all points of minor detail. It was a characteristic of +his weak nature—as it is of all weak natures—to assert itself +obstinately on trifles. The filling in of the blank in the +advertisement was the trifle in this case; and Mrs. Lecount quieted her +master’s suspicions that she was leading him by instantly conceding it. +“My mule has kicked,” she thought to herself, in her own language, as +she opened the door. “I can do no more with him to-day.” + +“Lecount!” cried her master, as she stepped into the passage. “Come +back.” + +Mrs. Lecount came back. + +“You’re not offended with me, are you?” asked Noel Vanstone, uneasily. + +“Certainly not, sir,” replied Mrs. Lecount. “As you said just now—you +are master.” + +“Good creature! Give me your hand.” He kissed her hand, and smiled in +high approval of his own affectionate proceeding. “Lecount, you are a +worthy creature!” + +“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. She courtesied and went out. “If +he had any brains in that monkey head of his,” she said to herself in +the passage, “what a rascal he would be!” + +Left by himself, Noel Vanstone became absorbed in anxious reflection +over the blank space in the advertisement. Mrs. Lecount’s apparently +superfluous hint to him to be liberal in offering money when he knew he +had no intention of parting with it, had been founded on an intimate +knowledge of his character. He had inherited his father’s sordid love +of money, without inheriting his father’s hard-headed capacity for +seeing the uses to which money can be put. His one idea in connection +with his wealth was the idea of keeping it. He was such an inborn miser +that the bare prospect of being liberal in theory only daunted him. He +took up the pen; laid it down again; and read the anonymous letter for +the third time, shaking his head over it suspiciously. “If I offer this +man a large sum of money,” he thought, on a sudden, “how do I know he +may not find a means of actually making me pay it? Women are always in +a hurry. Lecount is always in a hurry. I have got the afternoon before +me—I’ll take the afternoon to consider it.” + +He fretfully put away the blotting-book and the sketch of the +advertisement on the chair which Mrs. Lecount had just left. As he +returned to his own seat, he shook his little head solemnly, and +arranged his white dressing-gown over his knees with the air of a man +absorbed in anxious thought. Minute after minute passed away; the +quarters and the half-hours succeeded each other on the dial of Mrs. +Lecount’s watch, and still Noel Vanstone remained lost in doubt; still +no summons for the servants disturbed the tranquillity of the parlor +bell. + + +Meanwhile, after parting with Mrs. Lecount, Magdalen had cautiously +abstained from crossing the road to her lodgings, and had only ventured +to return after making a circuit in the neighborhood. When she found +herself once more in Vauxhall Walk, the first object which attracted +her attention was a cab drawn up before the door of the lodgings. A few +steps more in advance showed her the landlady’s daughter standing at +the cab door engaged in a dispute with the driver on the subject of his +fare. Noticing that the girl’s back was turned toward her, Magdalen +instantly profited by that circumstance and slipped unobserved into the +house. + +She glided along the passage, ascended the stairs, and found herself, +on the first landing, face to face with her traveling companion! There +stood Mrs. Wragge, with a pile of small parcels hugged up in her arms, +anxiously waiting the issue of the dispute with the cabman in the +street. To return was impossible—the sound of the angry voices below +was advancing into the passage. To hesitate was worse than useless. But +one choice was left—the choice of going on—and Magdalen desperately +took it. She pushed by Mrs. Wragge without a word, ran into her own +room, tore off her cloak, bonnet and wig, and threw them down out of +sight in the blank space between the sofa-bedstead and the wall. + +For the first few moments, astonishment bereft Mrs. Wragge of the power +of speech, and rooted her to the spot where she stood. Two out of the +collection of parcels in her arms fell from them on the stairs. The +sight of that catastrophe roused her. “Thieves!” cried Mrs. Wragge, +suddenly struck by an idea. “Thieves!” + +Magdalen heard her through the room door, which she had not had time to +close completely. “Is that you, Mrs. Wragge?” she called out in her own +voice. “What is the matter?” She snatched up a towel while she spoke, +dipped it in water, and passed it rapidly over the lower part of her +face. At the sound of the familiar voice Mrs. Wragge turned +round—dropped a third parcel—and, forgetting it in her astonishment, +ascended the second flight of stairs. Magdalen stepped out on the +first-floor landing, with the towel held over her forehead as if she +was suffering from headache. Her false eyebrows required time for their +removal, and a headache assumed for the occasion suggested the most +convenient pretext she could devise for hiding them as they were hidden +now. + +“What are you disturbing the house for?” she asked. “Pray be quiet; I +am half blind with the headache.” + +“Anything wrong, ma’am?” inquired the landlady from the passage. + +“Nothing whatever,” replied Magdalen. “My friend is timid; and the +dispute with the cabman has frightened her. Pay the man what he wants, +and let him go.” + +“Where is She?” asked Mrs. Wragge, in a tremulous whisper. “Where’s the +woman who scuttled by me into your room?” + +“Pooh!” said Magdalen. “No woman scuttled by you—as you call it. Look +in and see for yourself.” + +She threw open the door. Mrs. Wragge walked into the room—looked all +over it—saw nobody—and indicated her astonishment at the result by +dropping a fourth parcel, and trembling helplessly from head to foot. + +“I saw her go in here,” said Mrs. Wragge, in awestruck accents. “A +woman in a gray cloak and a poke bonnet. A rude woman. She scuttled by +me on the stairs—she did. Here’s the room, and no woman in it. Give us +a Prayer-book!” cried Mrs. Wragge, turning deadly pale, and letting her +whole remaining collection of parcels fall about her in a little +cascade of commodities. “I want to read something Good. I want to think +of my latter end. I’ve seen a Ghost!” + +“Nonsense!” said Magdalen. “You’re dreaming; the shopping has been too +much for you. Go into your own room and take your bonnet off.” + +“I’ve heard tell of ghosts in night-gowns, ghosts in sheets, and ghosts +in chains,” proceeded Mrs. Wragge, standing petrified in her own magic +circle of linen-drapers’ parcels. “Here’s a worse ghost than any of +’em—a ghost in a gray cloak and a poke bonnet. I know what it is,” +continued Mrs. Wragge, melting into penitent tears. “It’s a judgment on +me for being so happy away from the captain. It’s a judgment on me for +having been down at heel in half the shops in London, first with one +shoe and then with the other, all the time I’ve been out. I’m a sinful +creature. Don’t let go of me—whatever you do, my dear, don’t let go of +me!” She caught Magdalen fast by the arm and fell into another +trembling fit at the bare idea of being left by herself. + +The one remaining chance in such an emergency as this was to submit to +circumstances. Magdalen took Mrs. Wragge to a chair; having first +placed it in such a position as might enable her to turn her back on +her traveling-companion, while she removed the false eyebrows by the +help of a little water. “Wait a minute there,” she said, “and try if +you can compose yourself while I bathe my head.” + +“Compose myself?” repeated Mrs. Wragge. “How am I to compose myself +when my head feels off my shoulders? The worst Buzzing I ever had with +the Cookery-book was nothing to the Buzzing I’ve got now with the +Ghost. Here’s a miserable end to a holiday! You may take me back again, +my dear, whenever you like—I’ve had enough of it already!” + +Having at last succeeded in removing the eyebrows, Magdalen was free to +combat the unfortunate impression produced on her companion’s mind by +every weapon of persuasion which her ingenuity could employ. + +The attempt proved useless. Mrs. Wragge persisted—on evidence which, it +may be remarked in parenthesis, would have satisfied many wiser +ghost-seers than herself—in believing that she had been supernaturally +favored by a visitor from the world of spirits. All that Magdalen could +do was to ascertain, by cautious investigation, that Mrs. Wragge had +not been quick enough to identify the supposed ghost with the character +of the old North-country lady in the Entertainment. Having satisfied +herself on this point, she had no resource but to leave the rest to the +natural incapability of retaining impressions—unless those impressions +were perpetually renewed—which was one of the characteristic +infirmities of her companion’s weak mind. After fortifying Mrs. Wragge +by reiterated assurances that one appearance (according to all the laws +and regulations of ghosts) meant nothing unless it was immediately +followed by two more—after patiently leading back her attention to the +parcels dropped on the floor and on the stairs—and after promising to +keep the door of communication ajar between the two rooms if Mrs. +Wragge would engage on her side to retire to her own chamber, and to +say no more on the terrible subject of the ghost—Magdalen at last +secured the privilege of reflecting uninterruptedly on the events of +that memorable day. + +Two serious consequences had followed her first step forward. Mrs. +Lecount had entrapped her into speaking in her own voice, and accident +had confronted her with Mrs. Wragge in disguise. + +What advantage had she gained to set against these disasters? The +advantage of knowing more of Noel Vanstone and of Mrs. Lecount than she +might have discovered in months if she had trusted to inquiries made +for her by others. One uncertainty which had hitherto perplexed her was +set at rest already. The scheme she had privately devised against +Michael Vanstone—which Captain Wragge’s sharp insight had partially +penetrated when she first warned him that their partnership must be +dissolved—was a scheme which she could now plainly see must be +abandoned as hopeless, in the case of Michael Vanstone’s son. The +father’s habits of speculation had been the pivot on which the whole +machinery of her meditated conspiracy had been constructed to turn. No +such vantage-ground was discoverable in the doubly sordid character of +the son. Noel Vanstone was invulnerable on the very point which had +presented itself in his father as open to attack. + +Having reached this conclusion, how was she to shape her future course? +What new means could she discover which would lead her secretly to her +end, in defiance of Mrs. Lecount’s malicious vigilance and Noel +Vanstone’s miserly distrust? + +She was seated before the looking-glass, mechanically combing out her +hair, while that all-important consideration occupied her mind. The +agitation of the moment had raised a feverish color in her cheeks, and +had brightened the light in her large gray eyes. She was conscious of +looking her best; conscious how her beauty gained by contrast, after +the removal of the disguise. Her lovely light brown hair looked thicker +and softer than ever, now that it had escaped from its imprisonment +under the gray wig. She twisted it this way and that, with quick, +dexterous fingers; she laid it in masses on her shoulders; she threw it +back from them in a heap and turned sidewise to see how it fell—to see +her back and shoulders freed from the artificial deformities of the +padded cloak. After a moment she faced the looking-glass once more; +plunged both hands deep in her hair; and, resting her elbows on the +table, looked closer and closer at the reflection of herself, until her +breath began to dim the glass. “I can twist any man alive round my +finger,” she thought, with a smile of superb triumph, “as long as I +keep my looks! If that contemptible wretch saw me now—” She shrank from +following that thought to its end, with a sudden horror of herself: she +drew back from the glass, shuddering, and put her hands over her face. +“Oh, Frank!” she murmured, “but for you, what a wretch I might be!” Her +eager fingers snatched the little white silk bag from its hiding-place +in her bosom; her lips devoured it with silent kisses. “My darling! my +angel! Oh, Frank, how I love you!” The tears gushed into her eyes. She +passionately dried them, restored the bag to its place, and turned her +back on the looking-glass. “No more of myself,” she thought; “no more +of my mad, miserable self for to-day!” + +Shrinking from all further contemplation of her next step in +advance—shrinking from the fast-darkening future, with which Noel +Vanstone was now associated in her inmost thoughts—she looked +impatiently about the room for some homely occupation which might take +her out of herself. The disguise which she had flung down between the +wall and the bed recurred to her memory. It was impossible to leave it +there. Mrs. Wragge (now occupied in sorting her parcels) might weary of +her employment, might come in again at a moment’s notice, might pass +near the bed, and see the gray cloak. What was to be done? + +Her first thought was to put the disguise back in her trunk. But after +what had happened, there was danger in trusting it so near to herself +while she and Mrs. Wragge were together under the same roof. She +resolved to be rid of it that evening, and boldly determined on sending +it back to Birmingham. Her bonnet-box fitted into her trunk. She took +the box out, thrust in the wig and cloak, and remorselessly flattened +down the bonnet at the top. The gown (which she had not yet taken off) +was her own; Mrs. Wragge had been accustomed to see her in it—there was +no need to send the gown back. Before closing the box, she hastily +traced these lines on a sheet of paper: “I took the inclosed things +away by mistake. Please keep them for me, with the rest of my luggage +in your possession, until you hear from me again.” Putting the paper on +the top of the bonnet, she directed the box to Captain Wragge at +Birmingham, took it downstairs immediately, and sent the landlady’s +daughter away with it to the nearest Receiving-house. “That difficulty +is disposed of,” she thought, as she went back to her own room again. + +Mrs. Wragge was still occupied in sorting her parcels on her narrow +little bed. She turned round with a faint scream when Magdalen looked +in at her. “I thought it was the ghost again,” said Mrs. Wragge. “I’m +trying to take warning, my dear, by what’s happened to me. I’ve put all +my parcels straight, just as the captain would like to see ’em. I’m up +at heel with both shoes. If I close my eyes to-night—which I don’t +think I shall—I’ll go to sleep as straight as my legs will let me. And +I’ll never have another holiday as long as I live. I hope I shall be +forgiven,” said Mrs. Wragge, mournfully shaking her head. “I humbly +hope I shall be forgiven.” + +“Forgiven!” repeated Magdalen. “If other women wanted as little +forgiving as you do—Well! well! Suppose you open some of these parcels. +Come! I want to see what you have been buying to-day.” + +Mrs. Wragge hesitated, sighed penitently, considered a little, +stretched out her hand timidly toward one of the parcels, thought of +the supernatural warning, and shrank back from her own purchases with a +desperate exertion of self-control. + +“Open this one.” said Magdalen, to encourage her: “what is it?” + +Mrs. Wragge’s faded blue eyes began to brighten dimly, in spite of her +remorse; but she self-denyingly shook her head. The master-passion of +shopping might claim his own again—but the ghost was not laid yet. + +“Did you get it at a bargain?” asked Magdalen, confidentially. + +“Dirt cheap!” cried poor Mrs. Wragge, falling headlong into the snare, +and darting at the parcel as eagerly as if nothing had happened. + +Magdalen kept her gossiping over her purchases for an hour or more, and +then wisely determined to distract her attention from all ghostly +recollections in another way by taking her out for a walk. + +As they left the lodgings, the door of Noel Vanstone’s house opened, +and the woman-servant appeared, bent on another errand. She was +apparently charged with a letter on this occasion which she carried +carefully in her hand. Conscious of having formed no plan yet either +for attack or defense, Magdalen wondered, with a momentary dread, +whether Mrs. Lecount had decided already on opening fresh +communications, and whether the letter was directed to “Miss Garth.” + +The letter bore no such address. Noel Vanstone had solved his pecuniary +problem at last. The blank space in the advertisement was filled up, +and Mrs. Lecount’s acknowledgment of the captain’s anonymous warning +was now on its way to insertion in the _Times_. + +THE END OF THE THIRD SCENE. + + + +BETWEEN THE SCENES. +PROGRESS OF THE STORY THROUGH THE POST. + +I. +Extract from the Advertising Columns of “The Times.” + +“An unknown friend is requested to mention (by advertisement) an +address at which a letter can reach him. The receipt of the information +which he offers will be acknowledged by a reward of Five Pounds.” + +II. +From Captain Wragge to Magdalen. + +“Birmingham, July 2d, 1847. + + +“MY DEAR GIRL, + +“The box containing the articles of costumes which you took away by +mistake has come safely to hand. Consider it under my special +protection until I hear from you again. + +“I embrace this opportunity to assure you once more of my unalterable +fidelity to your interests. Without attempting to intrude myself into +your confidence, may I inquire whether Mr. Noel Vanstone has consented +to do you justice? I greatly fear he has declined—in which case I can +lay my hand on my heart, and solemnly declare that his meanness revolts +me. Why do I feel a foreboding that you have appealed to him in vain? +Why do I find myself viewing this fellow in the light of a noxious +insect? We are total strangers to each other; I have no sort of +knowledge of him, except the knowledge I picked up in making your +inquiries. Has my intense sympathy with your interests made my +perceptions prophetic? or, to put it fancifully, is there really such a +thing as a former state of existence? and has Mr. Noel Vanstone +mortally insulted me—say, in some other planet? + +“I write, my dear Magdalen, as you see, with my customary dash of +humor. But I am serious in placing my services at your disposal. Don’t +let the question of terms cause you an instant’s hesitation. I accept +beforehand any terms you like to mention. If your present plans point +that way, I am ready to squeeze Mr. Noel Vanstone, in your interests, +till the gold oozes out of him at every pore. Pardon the coarseness of +this metaphor. My anxiety to be of service to you rushes into words; +lays my meaning, in the rough, at your feet; and leaves your taste to +polish it with the choicest ornaments of the English language. + +“How is my unfortunate wife? I am afraid you find it quite impossible +to keep her up at heel, or to mold her personal appearance into harmony +with the eternal laws of symmetry and order. Does she attempt to be too +familiar with you? I have always been accustomed to check her, in this +respect. She has never been permitted to call me anything but Captain; +and on the rare occasions since our union, when circumstances may have +obliged her to address me by letter, her opening form of salutation has +been rigidly restricted to ‘Dear Sir.’ Accept these trifling domestic +particulars as suggesting hints which may be useful to you in managing +Mrs. Wragge; and believe me, in anxious expectation of hearing from you +again, + +“Devotedly yours, +“HORATIO WRAGGE.” + + +III. +From Norah to Magdalen. + +_Forwarded, with the Two Letters that follow it, from the Post Office, +Birmingham._ + + +“Westmoreland House, Kensington, +“July 1st. + + +“MY DEAREST MAGDALEN, + +“When you write next (and pray write soon!) address your letter to me +at Miss Garth’s. I have left my situation; and some little time may +elapse before I find another. + +“Now it is all over I may acknowledge to you, my darling, that I was +not happy. I tried hard to win the affection of the two little girls I +had to teach; but they seemed, I am sure I can’t tell why, to dislike +me from the first. Their mother I have no reason to complain of. But +their grandmother, who was really the ruling power in the house, made +my life very hard to me. My inexperience in teaching was a constant +subject of remark with her; and my difficulties with the children were +always visited on me as if they had been entirely of my own making. I +tell you this, so that you may not suppose I regret having left my +situation. Far from it, my love—I am glad to be out of the house. + +“I have saved a little money, Magdalen; and I should so like to spend +it in staying a few days with you. My heart aches for a sight of my +sister; my ears are weary for the sound of her voice. A word from you +telling me where we can meet, is all I want. Think of it—pray think of +it. + +“Don’t suppose I am discouraged by this first check. There are many +kind people in the world; and some of them may employ me next time. The +way to happiness is often very hard to find; harder, I almost think, +for women than for men. But if we only try patiently, and try long +enough, we reach it at last—in heaven, if not on earth. I think _my_ +way now is the way which leads to seeing you again. Don’t forget that, +my love, the next time you think of + +“NORAH.” + + +IV. +From Miss Garth to Magdalen. + +“Westmoreland House, July 1st. + + +“MY DEAR MAGDALEN, + +“You have no useless remonstrances to apprehend at the sight of my +handwriting. My only object in this letter is to tell you something +which I know your sister will not tell you of her own accord. She is +entirely ignorant that I am writing to you. Keep her in ignorance, if +you wish to spare her unnecessary anxiety, and me unnecessary distress. + +“Norah’s letter, no doubt, tells you that she has left her situation. I +feel it my painful duty to add that she has left it on your account. + +“The matter occurred in this manner. Messrs. Wyatt, Pendril, and Gwilt +are the solicitors of the gentleman in whose family Norah was employed. +The life which you have chosen for yourself was known as long ago as +December last to all the partners. You were discovered performing in +public at Derby by the person who had been employed to trace you at +York; and that discovery was communicated by Mr. Wyatt to Norah’s +employer a few days since, in reply to direct inquiries about you on +that gentleman’s part. His wife and his mother (who lives with him) had +expressly desired that he would make those inquiries; their doubts +having been aroused by Norah’s evasive answers when they questioned her +about her sister. You know Norah too well to blame her for this. +Evasion was the only escape your present life had left her, from +telling a downright falsehood. + +“That same day, the two ladies of the family, the elder and the +younger, sent for your sister, and told her they had discovered that +you were a public performer, roaming from place to place in the country +under an assumed name. They were just enough not to blame Norah for +this; they were just enough to acknowledge that her conduct had been as +irreproachable as I had guaranteed it should be when I got her the +situation. But, at the same time, they made it a positive condition of +her continuing in their employment that she should never permit you to +visit her at their house, or to meet her and walk out with her when she +was in attendance on the children. Your sister—who has patiently borne +all hardships that fell on herself—instantly resented the slur cast on +_you_. She gave her employers warning on the spot. High words followed, +and she left the house that evening. + +“I have no wish to distress you by representing the loss of this +situation in the light of a disaster. Norah was not so happy in it as I +had hoped and believed she would be. It was impossible for me to know +beforehand that the children were sullen and intractable, or that the +husband’s mother was accustomed to make her domineering disposition +felt by every one in the house. I will readily admit that Norah is well +out of this situation. But the harm does not stop here. For all you and +I know to the contrary, the harm may go on. What has happened in this +situation may happen in another. Your way of life, however pure your +conduct may be—and I will do you the justice to believe it pure—is a +suspicious way of life to all respectable people. I have lived long +enough in this world to know that the sense of Propriety, in nine +Englishwomen out of ten, makes no allowances and feels no pity. Norah’s +next employers may discover you; and Norah may throw up a situation +next time which we may never be able to find for her again. + +“I leave you to consider this. My child, don’t think I am hard on you. +I am jealous for your sister’s tranquillity. If you will forget the +past, Magdalen, and come back, trust to your old governess to forget it +too, and to give you the home which your father and mother once gave +her. Your friend, my dear, always, + +“HARRIET GARTH.” + + +V. +From Francis Clare, Jun., to Magdalen. + +“Shanghai, China, +“April 23d, 1847. + + +“MY DEAR MAGDALEN, + +“I have deferred answering your letter, in consequence of the +distracted state of my mind, which made me unfit to write to you. I am +still unfit, but I feel I ought to delay no longer. My sense of honor +fortifies me, and I undergo the pain of writing this letter. + +“My prospects in China are all at an end. The Firm to which I was +brutally consigned, as if I was a bale of merchandise, has worn out my +patience by a series of petty insults; and I have felt compelled, from +motives of self-respect, to withdraw my services, which were +undervalued from the first. My returning to England under these +circumstances is out of the question. I have been too cruelly used in +my own country to wish to go back to it, even if I could. I propose +embarking on board a private trading-vessel in these seas in a +mercantile capacity, to make my way, if I can, for myself. How it will +end, or what will happen to me next, is more than I can say. It matters +little what becomes of me. I am a wanderer and an exile, entirely +through the fault of others. The unfeeling desire at home to get rid of +me has accomplished its object. I am got rid of for good. + +“There is only one more sacrifice left for me to make—the sacrifice of +my heart’s dearest feelings. With no prospects before me, with no +chance of coming home, what hope can I feel of performing my engagement +to yourself? None! A more selfish man than I am might hold you to that +engagement; a less considerate man than I am might keep you waiting for +years—and to no purpose after all. Cruelly as they have been trampled +on, my feelings are too sensitive to allow me to do this. I write it +with the tears in my eyes—you shall not link your fate to an outcast. +Accept these heart-broken lines as releasing you from your promise. Our +engagement is at an end. + +“The one consolation which supports me in bidding you farewell is, that +neither of us is to blame. You may have acted weakly, under my father’s +influence, but I am sure you acted for the best. Nobody knew what the +fatal consequences of driving me out of England would be but myself—and +I was not listened to. I yielded to my father, I yielded to you; and +this is the end of it! + +“I am suffering too acutely to write more. May you never know what my +withdrawal from our engagement has cost me! I beg you will not blame +yourself. It is not your fault that I have had all my energies +misdirected by others—it is not your fault that I have never had a fair +chance of getting on in life. Forget the deserted wretch who breathes +his heartfelt prayers for your happiness, and who will ever remain your +friend and well-wisher. + +“FRANCIS CLARE, Jun.” + + +VI. +From Francis Clare, Sen., to Magdalen. + +_Enclosing the preceding Letter._ + + +“I always told your poor father my son was a Fool, but I never knew he +was a Scoundrel until the mail came in from China. I have every reason +to believe that he has left his employers under the most disgraceful +circumstances. Forget him from this time forth, as I do. When you and I +last set eyes on each other, you behaved well to me in this business. +All I can now say in return, I do say. My girl, I am sorry for you, + +“F. C.” + + +VII. +From Mrs. Wragge to her Husband. + +“Dear sir for mercy’s sake come here and help us She had a dreadful +letter I don’t know what yesterday but she read it in bed and when I +went in with her breakfast I found her dead and if the doctor had not +been two doors off nobody else could have brought her to life again and +she sits and looks dreadful and won’t speak a word her eyes frighten me +so I shake from head to foot oh please do come I keep things as tidy as +I can and I do like her so and she used to be so kind to me and the +landlord says he’s afraid she’ll destroy herself I wish I could write +straight but I do shake so your dutiful wife matilda wragge excuse +faults and beg you on my knees come and help us the Doctor good man +will put some of his own writing into this for fear you can’t make out +mine and remain once more your dutiful wife matilda wragge.” + +_Added by the Doctor._ + + +“SIR,—I beg to inform you that I was yesterday called into a neighbor’s +in Vauxhall Walk to attend a young lady who had been suddenly taken +ill. I recovered her with great difficulty from one of the most +obstinate fainting-fits I ever remember to have met with. Since that +time she has had no relapse, but there is apparently some heavy +distress weighing on her mind which it has hitherto been found +impossible to remove. She sits, as I am informed, perfectly silent, and +perfectly unconscious of what goes on about her, for hours together, +with a letter in her hand which she will allow nobody to take from her. +If this state of depression continues, very distressing mental +consequences may follow; and I only do my duty in suggesting that some +relative or friend should interfere who has influence enough to rouse +her. + +“Your obedient servant, +“RICHARD JARVIS, M.R.C.S.” + + +VIII. +From Norah to Magdalen. + +“July 5th. + + +“For God’s sake, write me one line to say if you are still at +Birmingham, and where I can find you there! I have just heard from old +Mr. Clare. Oh, Magdalen, if you have no pity on yourself, have some +pity on me! The thought of you alone among strangers, the thought of +you heart-broken under this dreadful blow, never leaves me for an +instant. No words can tell how I feel for you! My own love, remember +the better days at home before that cowardly villain stole his way into +your heart; remember the happy time at Combe-Raven when we were always +together. Oh, don’t, don’t treat me like a stranger! We are alone in +the world now—let me come and comfort you, let me be more than a sister +to you, if I can. One line—only one line to tell me where I can find +you!” + +IX. +From Magdalen to Norah. + +“July 7th. + + +“MY DEAREST NORAH, + +“All that your love for me can wish your letter has done. You, and you +alone, have found your way to my heart. I could think again, I could +feel again, after reading what you have written to me. Let this +assurance quiet your anxieties. My mind lives and breathes once more—it +was dead until I got your letter. + +“The shock I have suffered has left a strange quietness in me. I feel +as if I had parted from my former self—as if the hopes once so dear to +me had all gone back to some past time from which I am now far removed. +I can look at the wreck of my life more calmly, Norah, than you could +look at it if we were both together again. I can trust myself already +to write to Frank. + +“My darling, I think no woman ever knows how utterly she has given +herself up to the man she loves—until that man has ill-treated her. Can +you pity my weakness if I confess to having felt a pang at my heart +when I read that part of your letter which calls Frank a coward and a +villain? Nobody can despise me for this as I despise myself. I am like +a dog who crawls back and licks the master’s hand that has beaten him. +But it is so—I would confess it to nobody but you—indeed, indeed it is +so. He has deceived and deserted me; he has written me a cruel farewell +—but don’t call him a villain! If he repented and came back to me, I +would die rather than marry him now—but it grates on me to see that +word coward written against him in your hand! If he is weak of purpose, +who tried his weakness beyond what it could bear? Do you think this +would have happened if Michael Vanstone had not robbed us of our own, +and forced Frank away from me to China? In a week from to-day the year +of waiting would have come to an end, and I should have been Frank’s +wife, if my marriage portion had not been taken from me. + +“You will say, after what has happened, it is well that I have escaped. +My love! there is something perverse in my heart which answers, No! +Better have been Frank’s wretched wife than the free woman I am now. + +“I have not written to him. He sends me no address at which I could +write, even if I would. But I have not the wish. I will wait before I +send him _my_ farewell. If a day ever comes when I have the fortune +which my father once promised I should bring to him, do you know what I +would do with it? I would send it all to Frank, as my revenge on him +for his letter; as the last farewell word on my side to the man who has +deserted me. Let me live for that day! Let me live, Norah, in the hope +of better times for _you_, which is all the hope I have left. When I +think of your hard life, I can almost feel the tears once more in my +weary eyes. I can almost think I have come back again to my former +self. + +“You will not think me hard-hearted and ungrateful if I say that we +must wait a little yet before we meet. I want to be more fit to see you +than I am now. I want to put Frank further away from me, and to bring +you nearer still. Are these good reasons? I don’t know—don’t ask me for +reasons. Take the kiss I have put for you here, where the little circle +is drawn on the paper; and let that bring us together for the present +till I write again. Good-by, my love. My heart is true to you, Norah, +but I dare not see you yet. + +“MAGDALEN.” + + +X. From Magdalen to Miss Garth. + +“MY DEAR MISS GARTH, + +“I have been long in answering your letter; but you know what has +happened, and you will forgive me. + +“All that I have to say may be said in a few words. You may depend on +my never making the general Sense of Propriety my enemy again: I am +getting knowledge enough of the world to make it my accomplice next +time. Norah will never leave another situation on my account—my life as +a public performer is at an end. It was harmless enough, God knows—I +may live, and so may you, to mourn the day when I parted from it—but I +shall never return to it again. It has left me, as Frank has left me, +as all my better thoughts have left me except my thoughts of Norah. + +“Enough of myself! Shall I tell you some news to brighten this dull +letter? Mr. Michael Vanstone is dead, and Mr. Noel Vanstone has +succeeded to the possession of my fortune and Norah’s. He is quite +worthy of his inheritance. In his father’s place, he would have ruined +us as his father did. + +“I have no more to say that you would care to know. Don’t be distressed +about me. I am trying to recover my spirits—I am trying to forget the +poor deluded girl who was foolish enough to be fond of Frank in the old +days at Combe-Raven. Sometimes a pang comes which tells me the girl +won’t be forgotten—but not often. + +“It was very kind of you, when you wrote to such a lost creature as I +am, to sign yourself—_always my friend._ ‘Always’ is a bold word, my +dear old governess! I wonder whether you will ever want to recall it? +It will make no difference if you do, in the gratitude I shall always +feel for the trouble you took with me when I was a little girl. I have +ill repaid that trouble—ill repaid your kindness to me in after life. I +ask your pardon and your pity. The best thing you can do for both of us +is to forget me. Affectionately yours, + +“MAGDALEN.” + + +“P.S.—I open the envelope to add one line. For God’s sake, don’t show +this letter to Norah!” + +XI. +From Magdalen to Captain Wragge. + +“Vauxhall Walk, July 17th. + + +“If I am not mistaken, it was arranged that I should write to you at +Birmingham as soon as I felt myself composed enough to think of the +future. My mind is settled at last, and I am now able to accept the +services which you have so unreservedly offered to me. + +“I beg you will forgive the manner in which I received you on your +arrival in this house, after hearing the news of my sudden illness. I +was quite incapable of controlling myself—I was suffering an agony of +mind which for the time deprived me of my senses. It is only your due +that I should now thank you for treating me with great forbearance at a +time when forbearance was mercy. + +“I will mention what I wish you to do as plainly and briefly as I can. + +“In the first place, I request you to dispose (as privately as +possible) of every article of costume used in the dramatic +Entertainment. I have done with our performances forever; and I wish to +be set free from everything which might accidentally connect me with +them in the future. The key of my box is inclosed in this letter. + +“The other box, which contains my own dresses, you will be kind enough +to forward to this house. I do not ask you to bring it yourself, +because I have a far more important commission to intrust to you. + +“Referring to the note which you left for me at your departure, I +conclude that you have by this time traced Mr. Noel Vanstone from +Vauxhall Walk to the residence which he is now occupying. If you have +made the discovery—and if you are quite sure of not having drawn the +attention either of Mrs. Lecount or her master to yourself—I wish you +to arrange immediately for my residing (with you and Mrs. Wragge) in +the same town or village in which Mr. Noel Vanstone has taken up his +abode. I write this, it is hardly necessary to say, under the +impression that, wherever he may now be living, he is settled in the +place for some little time. + +“If you can find a small furnished house for me on these conditions +which is to be let by the month, take it for a month certain to begin +with. Say that it is for your wife, your niece, and yourself, and use +any assumed name you please, as long as it is a name that can be +trusted to defeat the most suspicious inquiries. I leave this to your +experience in such matters. The secret of who we really are must be +kept as strictly as if it was a secret on which our lives depend. + +“Any expenses to which you may be put in carrying out my wishes I will +immediately repay. If you easily find the sort of house I want, there +is no need for your returning to London to fetch us. We can join you as +soon as we know where to go. The house must be perfectly respectable, +and must be reasonably near to Mr. Noel Vanstone’s present residence, +wherever that is. + +“You must allow me to be silent in this letter as to the object which I +have now in view. I am unwilling to risk an explanation in writing. +When all our preparations are made, you shall hear what I propose to do +from my own lips; and I shall expect you to tell me plainly, in return, +whether you will or will not give me the help I want on the best terms +which I am able to offer you. + +“One word more before I seal up this letter. + +“If any opportunity falls in your way after you have taken the house, +and before we join you, of exchanging a few civil words either with Mr. +Noel Vanstone or Mrs. Lecount, take advantage of it. It is very +important to my present object that we should become acquainted with +each other—as the purely accidental result of our being near neighbors. +I want you to smooth the way toward this end if you can, before Mrs. +Wragge and I come to you. Pray throw away no chance of observing Mrs. +Lecount, in particular, very carefully. Whatever help you can give me +at the outset in blindfolding that woman’s sharp eyes will be the most +precious help I have ever received at your hands. + +“There is no need to answer this letter immediately—unless I have +written it under a mistaken impression of what you have accomplished +since leaving London. I have taken our lodgings on for another week; +and I can wait to hear from you until you are able to send me such news +as I wish to receive. You may be quite sure of my patience for the +future, under all possible circumstances. My caprices are at an end, +and my violent temper has tried your forbearance for the last time. + +“MAGDALEN.” + + +XII. +From Captain Wragge to Magdalen. + +“North Shingles Villa, Aldborough, Suffolk, +“July 22d. + + +“MY DEAR GIRL, + +“Your letter has charmed and touched me. Your excuses have gone +straight to my heart; and your confidence in my humble abilities has +followed in the same direction. The pulse of the old militia-man throbs +with pride as he thinks of the trust you have placed in him, and vows +to deserve it. Don’t be surprised at this genial outburst. All +enthusiastic natures must explode occasionally; and _my_ form of +explosion is—Words. + +“Everything you wanted me to do is done. The house is taken; the name +is found; and I am personally acquainted with Mrs. Lecount. After +reading this general statement, you will naturally be interested in +possessing your mind next of the accompanying details. Here they are, +at your service: + +“The day after leaving you in London, I traced Mr. Noel Vanstone to +this curious little seaside snuggery. One of his father’s innumerable +bargains was a house at Aldborough—a rising watering-place, or Mr. +Michael Vanstone would not have invested a farthing in it. In this +house the despicable little miser, who lived rent free in London, now +lives, rent free again, on the coast of Suffolk. He is settled in his +present abode for the summer and autumn; and you and Mrs. Wragge have +only to join me here, to be established five doors away from him in +this elegant villa. I have got the whole house for three guineas a +week, with the option of remaining through the autumn at the same +price. In a fashionable watering-place, such a residence would have +been cheap at double the money. + +“Our new name has been chosen with a wary eye to your suggestions. My +books—I hope you have not forgotten my Books?—contain, under the +heading of _Skins To Jump Into,_ a list of individuals retired from +this mortal scene, with whose names, families, and circumstances I am +well acquainted. Into some of those Skins I have been compelled to +Jump, in the exercise of my profession, at former periods of my career. +Others are still in the condition of new dresses and remain to be tried +on. The Skin which will exactly fit us originally clothed the bodies of +a family named Bygrave. I am in Mr. Bygrave’s skin at this moment-and +it fits without a wrinkle. If you will oblige me by slipping into Miss +Bygrave (Christian name, Susan); and if you will afterward push Mrs. +Wragge—anyhow; head foremost if you like—into Mrs. Bygrave (Christian +name, Julia), the transformation will be complete. Permit me to inform +you that I am your paternal uncle. My worthy brother was established +twenty years ago in the mahogany and logwood trade at Belize, Honduras. +He died in that place; and is buried on the south-west side of the +local cemetery, with a neat monument of native wood carved by a +self-taught negro artist. Nineteen months afterward his widow died of +apoplexy at a boarding-house in Cheltenham. She was supposed to be the +most corpulent woman in England, and was accommodated on the +ground-floor of the house in consequence of the difficulty of getting +her up and down stairs. You are her only child; you have been under my +care since the sad event at Cheltenham; you are twenty-one years old on +the second of August next; and, corpulence excepted, you are the living +image of your mother. I trouble you with these specimens of my intimate +knowledge of our new family Skin, to quiet your mind on the subject of +future inquiries. Trust to me and my books to satisfy any amount of +inquiry. In the meantime write down our new name and address, and see +how they strike you: ‘Mr. Bygrave, Mrs. Bygrave, Miss Bygrave; North +Shingles Villa, Aldborough.’ Upon my life, it reads remarkably well! + +“The last detail I have to communicate refers to my acquaintance with +Mrs. Lecount. + +“We met yesterday, in the grocer’s shop here. Keeping my ears open, I +found that Mrs. Lecount wanted a particular kind of tea which the man +had not got, and which he believed could not be procured any nearer +than Ipswich. I instantly saw my way to beginning an acquaintance, at +the trifling expense of a journey to that flourishing city. ‘I have +business to-day in Ipswich,’ I said, ‘and I propose returning to +Aldborough (if I can get back in time) this evening. Pray allow me to +take your order for the tea, and to bring it back with my own parcels.’ +Mrs. Lecount politely declined giving me the trouble—I politely +insisted on taking it. We fell into conversation. There is no need to +trouble you with our talk. The result of it on my mind is—that Mrs. +Lecount’s one weak point, if she has such a thing at all, is a taste +for science, implanted by her deceased husband, the professor. I think +I see a chance here of working my way into her good graces, and casting +a little needful dust into those handsome black eyes of hers. Acting on +this idea when I purchased the lady’s tea at Ipswich, I also bought on +my own account that far-famed pocket-manual of knowledge, ‘Joyce’s +Scientific Dialogues.’ Possessing, as I do, a quick memory and +boundless confidence in myself, I propose privately inflating my new +skin with as much ready-made science as it will hold, and presenting +Mr. Bygrave to Mrs. Lecount’s notice in the character of the most +highly informed man she has met with since the professor’s death. The +necessity of blindfolding that woman (to use your own admirable +expression) is as clear to me as to you. If it is to be done in the way +I propose, make your mind easy—Wragge, inflated by Joyce, is the man to +do it. + +“You now have my whole budget of news. Am I, or am I not, worthy of +your confidence in me? I say nothing of my devouring anxiety to know +what your objects really are—that anxiety will be satisfied when we +meet. Never yet, my dear girl, did I long to administer a productive +pecuniary Squeeze to any human creature, as I long to administer it to +Mr. Noel Vanstone. I say no more. _Verbum sap._ Pardon the pedantry of +a Latin quotation, and believe me, + +“Entirely yours, +“HORATIO WRAGGE. + + +“P.S.—I await my instructions, as you requested. You have only to say +whether I shall return to London for the purpose of escorting you to +this place, or whether I shall wait here to receive you. The house is +in perfect order, the weather is charming, and the sea is as smooth as +Mrs. Lecount’s apron. She has just passed the window, and we have +exchanged bows. A sharp woman, my dear Magdalen; but Joyce and I +together may prove a trifle too much for her.” + +XIII. + +_Extract from the East Suffolk Argus._ + + +“ALDBOROUGH.—We notice with pleasure the arrival of visitors to this +healthful and far-famed watering-place earlier in the season than usual +during the present year. _Esto Perpetua_ is all we have to say. + +“VISITORS’ LIST.—Arrivals since our last. North Shingles Villa—Mrs. +Bygrave; Miss Bygrave.” + + + +THE FOURTH SCENE. +ALDBOROUGH, SUFFOLK. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +The most striking spectacle presented to a stranger by the shores of +Suffolk is the extraordinary defenselessness of the land against the +encroachments of the sea. + +At Aldborough, as elsewhere on this coast, local traditions are, for +the most part, traditions which have been literally drowned. The site +of the old town, once a populous and thriving port, has almost entirely +disappeared in the sea. The German Ocean has swallowed up streets, +market-places, jetties, and public walks; and the merciless waters, +consummating their work of devastation, closed, no longer than eighty +years since, over the salt-master’s cottage at Aldborough, now famous +in memory only as the birthplace of the poet CRABBE. + +Thrust back year after year by the advancing waves, the inhabitants +have receded, in the present century, to the last morsel of land which +is firm enough to be built on—a strip of ground hemmed in between a +marsh on one side and the sea on the other. Here, trusting for their +future security to certain sand-hills which the capricious waves have +thrown up to encourage them, the people of Aldborough have boldly +established their quaint little watering-place. The first fragment of +their earthly possessions is a low natural dike of shingle, surmounted +by a public path which runs parallel with the sea. Bordering this path, +in a broken, uneven line, are the villa residences of modern +Aldborough—fanciful little houses, standing mostly in their own +gardens, and possessing here and there, as horticultural ornaments, +staring figure-heads of ships doing duty for statues among the flowers. +Viewed from the low level on which these villas stand, the sea, in +certain conditions of the atmosphere, appears to be higher than the +land: coasting-vessels gliding by assume gigantic proportions, and look +alarmingly near the windows. Intermixed with the houses of the better +sort are buildings of other forms and periods. In one direction the +tiny Gothic town-hall of old Aldborough—once the center of the vanished +port and borough—now stands, fronting the modern villas close on the +margin of the sea. At another point, a wooden tower of observation, +crowned by the figure-head of a wrecked Russian vessel, rises high +above the neighboring houses, and discloses through its scuttle-window +grave men in dark clothing seated on the topmost story, perpetually on +the watch—the pilots of Aldborough looking out from their tower for +ships in want of help. Behind the row of buildings thus curiously +intermingled runs the one straggling street of the town, with its +sturdy pilots’ cottages, its mouldering marine store-houses, and its +composite shops. Toward the northern end this street is bounded by the +one eminence visible over all the marshy flat—a low wooded hill, on +which the church is built. At its opposite extremity the street leads +to a deserted martello tower, and to the forlorn outlying suburb of +Slaughden, between the river Alde and the sea. Such are the main +characteristics of this curious little outpost on the shores of England +as it appears at the present time. + +On a hot and cloudy July afternoon, and on the second day which had +elapsed since he had written to Magdalen, Captain Wragge sauntered +through the gate of North Shingles Villa to meet the arrival of the +coach, which then connected Aldborough with the Eastern Counties +Railway. He reached the principal inn as the coach drove up, and was +ready at the door to receive Magdalen and Mrs. Wragge, on their leaving +the vehicle. + +The captain’s reception of his wife was not characterized by an +instant’s unnecessary waste of time. He looked distrustfully at her +shoes—raised himself on tiptoe—set her bonnet straight for her with a +sharp tug—-said, in a loud whisper, “hold your tongue”—and left her, +for the time being, without further notice. His welcome to Magdalen, +beginning with the usual flow of words, stopped suddenly in the middle +of the first sentence. Captain Wragge’s eye was a sharp one, and it +instantly showed him something in the look and manner of his old pupil +which denoted a serious change. + +There was a settled composure on her face which, except when she spoke, +made it look as still and cold as marble. Her voice was softer and more +equable, her eyes were steadier, her step was slower than of old. When +she smiled, the smile came and went suddenly, and showed a little +nervous contraction on one side of her mouth never visible there +before. She was perfectly patient with Mrs. Wragge; she treated the +captain with a courtesy and consideration entirely new in his +experience of her—but she was interested in nothing. The curious little +shops in the back street; the high impending sea; the old town-hall on +the beach; the pilots, the fishermen, the passing ships—she noticed all +these objects as indifferently as if Aldborough had been familiar to +her from her infancy. Even when the captain drew up at the garden-gate +of North Shingles, and introduced her triumphantly to the new house, +she hardly looked at it. The first question she asked related not to +her own residence, but to Noel Vanstone’s. + +“How near to us does he live?” she inquired, with the only betrayal of +emotion which had escaped her yet. + +Captain Wragge answered by pointing to the fifth villa from North +Shingles, on the Slaughden side of Aldborough. Magdalen suddenly drew +back from the garden-gate as he indicated the situation, and walked +away by herself to obtain a nearer view of the house. Captain Wragge +looked after her, and shook his head, discontentedly. + +“May I speak now?” inquired a meek voice behind him, articulating +respectfully ten inches above the top of his straw hat. + +The captain turned round, and confronted his wife. The more than +ordinary bewilderment visible in her face at once suggested to him that +Magdalen had failed to carry out the directions in his letter; and that +Mrs. Wragge had arrived at Aldborough without being properly aware of +the total transformation to be accomplished in her identity and her +name. The necessity of setting this doubt at rest was too serious to be +trifled with; and Captain Wragge instituted the necessary inquiries +without a moment’s delay. + +“Stand straight, and listen to me,” he began. “I have a question to ask +you. Do you know whose Skin you are in at this moment? Do you know that +you are dead and buried in London; and that you have risen like a +phoenix from the ashes of Mrs. Wragge? No! you evidently don’t know it. +This is perfectly disgraceful. What is your name?” + +“Matilda,” answered Mrs. Wragge, in a state of the densest +bewilderment. + +“Nothing of the sort!” cried the captain, fiercely. “How dare you tell +me your name’s Matilda? Your name is Julia. Who am I?—Hold that basket +of sandwiches straight, or I’ll pitch it into the sea!—Who am I?” + +“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Wragge, meekly taking refuge in the negative +side of the question this time. + +“Sit down!” said her husband, pointing to the low garden wall of North +Shingles Villa. “More to the right! More still! That will do. You don’t +know?” repeated the captain, sternly confronting his wife as soon as he +had contrived, by seating her, to place her face on a level with his +own. “Don’t let me hear you say that a second time. Don’t let me have a +woman who doesn’t know who I am to operate on my beard to-morrow +morning. Look at me! More to the left—more still—that will do. Who am +I? I’m Mr. Bygrave—Christian name, Thomas. Who are you? You’re Mrs. +Bygrave—Christian name, Julia. Who is that young lady who traveled with +you from London? That young lady is Miss Bygrave—Christian name, Susan. +I’m her clever uncle Tom; and you’re her addle-headed aunt Julia. Say +it all over to me instantly, like the Catechism! What is your name?” + +“Spare my poor head!” pleaded Mrs. Wragge. “Oh, please spare my poor +head till I’ve got the stage-coach out of it!” + +“Don’t distress her,” said Magdalen, joining them at that moment. “She +will learn it in time. Come into the house.” + +Captain Wragge shook his wary head once more. “We are beginning badly,” +he said, with less politeness than usual. “My wife’s stupidity stands +in our way already.” + +They went into the house. Magdalen was perfectly satisfied with all the +captain’s arrangements; she accepted the room which he had set apart +for her; approved of the woman servant whom he had engaged; presented +herself at tea-time the moment she was summoned but still showed no +interest whatever in the new scene around her. Soon after the table was +cleared, although the daylight had not yet faded out, Mrs. Wragge’s +customary drowsiness after fatigue of any kind overcame her, and she +received her husband’s orders to leave the room (taking care that she +left it “up at heel”), and to betake herself (strictly in the character +of Mrs. Bygrave) to bed. As soon as they were left alone, the captain +looked hard at Magdalen, and waited to be spoken to. She said nothing. +He ventured next on opening the conversation by a polite inquiry after +the state of her health. “You look fatigued,” he remarked, in his most +insinuating manner. “I am afraid the journey has been too much for +you.” + +“No,” she said, looking out listlessly through the window; “I am not +more tired than usual. I am always weary now; weary at going to bed, +weary at getting up. If you would like to hear what I have to say to +you to-night, I am willing and ready to say it. Can’t we go out? It is +very hot here; and the droning of those men’s voices is beyond all +endurance.” She pointed through the window to a group of boatmen +idling, as only nautical men can idle, against the garden wall. “Is +there no quiet walk in this wretched place?” she asked, impatiently. +“Can’t we breathe a little fresh air, and escape being annoyed by +strangers?” + +“There is perfect solitude within half an hour’s walk of the house,” +replied the ready captain. + +“Very well. Come out, then.” + +With a weary sigh she took up her straw bonnet and her light muslin +scarf from the side-table upon which she had thrown them on coming in, +and carelessly led the way to the door. Captain Wragge followed her to +the garden gate, then stopped, struck by a new idea. + +“Excuse me,” he whispered, confidentially. “In my wife’s existing state +of ignorance as to who she is, we had better not trust her alone in the +house with a new servant. I’ll privately turn the key on her, in case +she wakes before we come back. Safe bind, safe find—you know the +proverb!—I will be with you again in a moment.” + +He hastened back to the house, and Magdalen seated herself on the +garden wall to await his return. + +She had hardly settled herself in that position when two gentlemen +walking together, whose approach along the public path she had not +previously noticed, passed close by her. + +The dress of one of the two strangers showed him to be a clergyman. His +companion’s station in life was less easily discernible to ordinary +observation. Practiced eyes would probably have seen enough in his +look, his manner, and his walk to show that he was a sailor. He was a +man in the prime of life; tall, spare, and muscular; his face +sun-burned to a deep brown; his black hair just turning gray; his eyes +dark, deep and firm—the eyes of a man with an iron resolution and a +habit of command. He was the nearest of the two to Magdalen, as he and +his friend passed the place where she was sitting; and he looked at her +with a sudden surprise at her beauty, with an open, hearty, undisguised +admiration, which was too evidently sincere, too evidently beyond his +own control, to be justly resented as insolent; and yet, in her humor +at that moment, Magdalen did resent it. She felt the man’s resolute +black eyes strike through her with an electric suddenness; and frowning +at him impatiently, she turned away her head and looked back at the +house. + +The next moment she glanced round again to see if he had gone on. He +had advanced a few yards—had then evidently stopped—and was now in the +very act of turning to look at her once more. His companion, the +clergyman, noticing that Magdalen appeared to be annoyed, took him +familiarly by the arm, and, half in jest, half in earnest, forced him +to walk on. The two disappeared round the corner of the next house. As +they turned it, the sun-burned sailor twice stopped his companion +again, and twice looked back. + +“A friend of yours?” inquired Captain Wragge, joining Magdalen at that +moment. + +“Certainly not,” she replied; “a perfect stranger. He stared at me in +the most impertinent manner. Does he belong to this place?” + +“I’ll find out in a moment,” said the compliant captain, joining the +group of boatmen, and putting his questions right and left, with the +easy familiarity which distinguished him. He returned in a few minutes +with a complete budget of information. The clergyman was well known as +the rector of a place situated some few miles inland. The dark man with +him was his wife’s brother, commander of a ship in the +merchant-service. He was supposed to be staying with his relatives, as +their guest for a short time only, preparatory to sailing on another +voyage. The clergyman’s name was Strickland, and the merchant-captain’s +name was Kirke; and that was all the boatmen knew about either of them. + +“It is of no consequence who they are,” said Magdalen, carelessly. “The +man’s rudeness merely annoyed me for the moment. Let us have done with +him. I have something else to think of, and so have you. Where is the +solitary walk you mentioned just now? Which way do we go?” + +The captain pointed southward toward Slaughden, and offered his arm. + +Magdalen hesitated before she took it. Her eyes wandered away +inquiringly to Noel Vanstone’s house. He was out in the garden, pacing +backward and forward over the little lawn, with his head high in the +air, and with Mrs. Lecount demurely in attendance on him, carrying her +master’s green fan. Seeing this, Magdalen at once took Captain Wragge’s +right arm, so as to place herself nearest to the garden when they +passed it on their walk. + +“The eyes of our neighbors are on us; and the least your niece can do +is to take your arm,” she said, with a bitter laugh. “Come! let us go +on.” + +“They are looking this way,” whispered the captain. “Shall I introduce +you to Mrs. Lecount?” + +“Not to-night,” she answered. “Wait, and hear what I have to say to you +first.” + +They passed the garden wall. Captain Wragge took off his hat with a +smart flourish, and received a gracious bow from Mrs. Lecount in +return. Magdalen saw the housekeeper survey her face, her figure, and +her dress, with that reluctant interest, that distrustful curiosity, +which women feel in observing each other. As she walked on beyond the +house, the sharp voice of Noel Vanstone reached her through the evening +stillness. “A fine girl, Lecount,” she heard him say. “You know I am a +judge of that sort of thing—a fine girl!” + +As those words were spoken, Captain Wragge looked round at his +companion in sudden surprise. Her hand was trembling violently on his +arm, and her lips were fast closed with an expression of speechless +pain. + +Slowly and in silence the two walked on until they reached the southern +limit of the houses, and entered on a little wilderness of shingle and +withered grass—the desolate end of Aldborough, the lonely beginning of +Slaughden. + +It was a dull, airless evening. Eastward, was the gray majesty of the +sea, hushed in breathless calm; the horizon line invisibly melting into +the monotonous, misty sky; the idle ships shadowy and still on the idle +water. Southward, the high ridge of the sea dike, and the grim, massive +circle of a martello tower reared high on its mound of grass, closed +the view darkly on all that lay beyond. Westward, a lurid streak of +sunset glowed red in the dreary heaven, blackened the fringing trees on +the far borders of the great inland marsh, and turned its little +gleaming water-pools to pools of blood. Nearer to the eye, the sullen +flow of the tidal river Alde ebbed noiselessly from the muddy banks; +and nearer still, lonely and unprosperous by the bleak water-side, lay +the lost little port of Slaughden, with its forlorn wharfs and +warehouses of decaying wood, and its few scattered coasting-vessels +deserted on the oozy river-shore. No fall of waves was heard on the +beach, no trickling of waters bubbled audibly from the idle stream. Now +and then the cry of a sea-bird rose from the region of the marsh; and +at intervals, from farmhouses far in the inland waste, the faint +winding of horns to call the cattle home traveled mournfully through +the evening calm. + +Magdalen drew her hand from the captain’s arm, and led the way to the +mound of the martello tower. “I am weary of walking,” she said. “Let us +stop and rest here.” + +She seated herself on the slope, and resting on her elbow, mechanically +pulled up and scattered from her into the air the tufts of grass +growing under her hand. After silently occupying herself in this way +for some minutes, she turned suddenly on Captain Wragge. “Do I surprise +you?” she asked, with a startling abruptness. “Do you find me changed?” + +The captain’s ready tact warned him that the time had come to be plain +with her, and to reserve his flowers of speech for a more appropriate +occasion. + +“If you ask the question, I must answer it,” he replied. “Yes, I do +find you changed.” + +She pulled up another tuft of grass. “I suppose you can guess the +reason?” she said. + +The captain was wisely silent. He only answered by a bow. + +“I have lost all care for myself,” she went on, tearing faster and +faster at the tufts of grass. “Saying that is not saying much, perhaps, +but it may help you to understand me. There are things I would have +died sooner than do at one time—things it would have turned me cold to +think of. I don’t care now whether I do them or not. I am nothing to +myself; I am no more interested in myself than I am in these handfuls +of grass. I suppose I have lost something. What is it? Heart? +Conscience? I don’t know. Do you? What nonsense I am talking! Who cares +what I have lost? It has gone; and there’s an end of it. I suppose my +outside is the best side of me—and that’s left, at any rate. I have not +lost my good looks, have I? There! there! never mind answering; don’t +trouble yourself to pay me compliments. I have been admired enough +to-day. First the sailor, and then Mr. Noel Vanstone—enough for any +woman’s vanity, surely! Have I any right to call myself a woman? +Perhaps not: I am only a girl in my teens. Oh, me, I feel as if I was +forty!” She scattered the last fragments of grass to the winds; and +turning her back on the captain, let her head droop till her cheek +touched the turf bank. “It feels soft and friendly,” she said, nestling +to it with a hopeless tenderness horrible to see. “It doesn’t cast me +off. Mother Earth! The only mother I have left!” + +Captain Wragge looked at her in silent surprise. Such experience of +humanity as he possessed was powerless to sound to its depths the +terrible self-abandonment which had burst its way to the surface in her +reckless words—which was now fast hurrying her to actions more reckless +still. “Devilish odd!” he thought to himself, uneasily. “Has the loss +of her lover turned her brain?” He considered for a minute longer and +then spoke to her. “Leave it till to-morrow,” suggested the captain +confidentially. “You are a little tired to-night. No hurry, my dear +girl—no hurry.” + +She raised her head instantly, and looked round at him with the same +angry resolution, with the same desperate defiance of herself, which he +had seen in her face on the memorable day at York when she had acted +before him for the first time. “I came here to tell you what is in my +mind,” she said; “and I _will_ tell it!” She seated herself upright on +the slope; and clasping her hands round her knees, looked out steadily, +straight before her, at the slowly darkening view. In that strange +position, she waited until she had composed herself, and then addressed +the captain, without turning her head to look round at him, in these +words: + +“When you and I first met,” she began, abruptly, “I tried hard to keep +my thoughts to myself. I know enough by this time to know that I +failed. When I first told you at York that Michael Vanstone had ruined +us, I believe you guessed for yourself that I, for one, was determined +not to submit to it. Whether you guessed or not, it is so. I left my +friends with that determination in my mind; and I feel it in me now +stronger, ten times stronger, than ever.” + +“Ten times stronger than ever,” echoed the captain. “Exactly so—the +natural result of firmness of character.” + +“No—the natural result of having nothing else to think of. I had +something else to think of before you found me ill in Vauxhall Walk. I +have nothing else to think of now. Remember that, if you find me for +the future always harping on the same string. One question first. Did +you guess what I meant to do on that morning when you showed me the +newspaper, and when I read the account of Michael Vanstone’s death?” + +“Generally,” replied Captain Wragge—“I guessed, generally, that you +proposed dipping your hand into his purse and taking from it (most +properly) what was your own. I felt deeply hurt at the time by your not +permitting me to assist you. Why is she so reserved with me? (I +remarked to myself)—why is she so unreasonably reserved?” + +“You shall have no reserve to complain of now,” pursued Magdalen. “I +tell you plainly, if events had not happened as they did, you _would_ +have assisted me. If Michael Vanstone had not died, I should have gone +to Brighton, and have found my way safely to his acquaintance under an +assumed name. I had money enough with me to live on respectably for +many months together. I would have employed that time—I would have +waited a whole year, if necessary, to destroy Mrs. Lecount’s influence +over him—and I would have ended by getting that influence, on my own +terms, into my own hands. I had the advantage of years, the advantage +of novelty, the advantage of downright desperation, all on my side, and +I should have succeeded. Before the year was out—before half the year +was out—you should have seen Mrs. Lecount dismissed by her master, and +you should have seen me taken into the house in her place, as Michael +Vanstone’s adopted daughter—as the faithful friend—who had saved him +from an adventuress in his old age. Girls no older than I am have tried +deceptions as hopeless in appearance as mine, and have carried them +through to the end. I had my story ready; I had my plans all +considered; I had the weak point in that old man to attack in my way, +which Mrs. Lecount had found out before me to attack in hers, and I +tell you again I should have succeeded.” + +“I think you would,” said the captain. “And what next?” + +“Mr. Michael Vanstone would have changed his man of business next. You +would have succeeded to the place; and those clever speculations on +which he was so fond of venturing would have cost him the fortunes of +which he had robbed my sister and myself. To the last farthing, Captain +Wragge, as certainly as you sit there, to the last farthing! A bold +conspiracy, a shocking deception—wasn’t it? I don’t care! Any +conspiracy, any deception, is justified to my conscience by the vile +law which has left us helpless. You talked of my reserve just now. Have +I dropped it at last? Have I spoken out at the eleventh hour?” + +The captain laid his hand solemnly on his heart, and launched himself +once more on his broadest flow of language. + +“You fill me with unavailing regret,” he said. “If that old man had +lived, what a crop I might have reaped from him! What enormous +transactions in moral agriculture it might have been my privilege to +carry on! _Ars longa,_” said Captain Wragge, pathetically drifting into +Latin—“_vita brevis!_ Let us drop a tear on the lost opportunities of +the past, and try what the present can do to console us. One conclusion +is clear to my mind—the experiment you proposed to try with Mr. Michael +Vanstone is totally hopeless, my dear girl, in the case of his son. His +son is impervious to all common forms of pecuniary temptation. You may +trust my solemn assurance,” continued the captain, speaking with an +indignant recollection of the answer to his advertisement in the Times, +“when I inform you that Mr. Noel Vanstone is emphatically the meanest +of mankind.” + +“I can trust my own experience as well,” said Magdalen. “I have seen +him, and spoken to him—I know him better than you do. Another +disclosure, Captain Wragge, for your private ear! I sent you back +certain articles of costume when they had served the purpose for which +I took them to London. That purpose was to find my way to Noel Vanstone +in disguise, and to judge for myself of Mrs. Lecount and her master. I +gained my object; and I tell you again, I know the two people in that +house yonder whom we have now to deal with better than you do.” + +Captain Wragge expressed the profound astonishment, and asked the +innocent questions appropriate to the mental condition of a person +taken completely by surprise. + +“Well,” he resumed, when Magdalen had briefly answered him, “and what +is the result on your own mind? There must be a result, or we should +not be here. You see your way? Of course, my dear girl, you see your +way?” + +“Yes,” she said, quickly. “I see my way.” + +The captain drew a little nearer to her, with eager curiosity expressed +in every line of his vagabond face. + +“Go on,” he said, in an anxious whisper; “pray go on.” + +She looked out thoughtfully into the gathering darkness, without +answering, without appearing to have heard him. Her lips closed, and +her clasped hands tightened mechanically round her knees. + +“There is no disguising the fact,” said Captain Wragge, warily rousing +her into speaking to him. “The son is harder to deal with than the +father—” + +“Not in my way,” she interposed, suddenly. + +“Indeed!” said the captain. “Well! they say there is a short cut to +everything, if we only look long enough to find it. You have looked +long enough, I suppose, and the natural result has followed—you have +found it.” + +“I have not troubled myself to look; I have found it without looking.” + +“The deuce you have!” cried Captain Wragge, in great perplexity. “My +dear girl, is my view of your present position leading me altogether +astray? As I understand it, here is Mr. Noel Vanstone in possession of +your fortune and your sister’s, as his father was, and determined to +keep it, as his father was?” + +“Yes.” + +“And here are you—quite helpless to get it by persuasion—quite helpless +to get it by law—just as resolute in his case as you were in his +father’s, to take it by stratagem in spite of him?” + +“Just as resolute. Not for the sake of the fortune—mind that! For the +sake of the right.” + +“Just so. And the means of coming at that right which were hard with +the father—who was not a miser—are easy with the son, who is?” + +“Perfectly easy.” + +“Write me down an Ass for the first time in my life!” cried the +captain, at the end of his patience. “Hang me if I know what you mean!” + +She looked round at him for the first time—looked him straight and +steadily in the face. + +“I will tell you what I mean,” she said. “I mean to marry him.” + +Captain Wragge started up on his knees, and stopped on them, petrified +by astonishment. + +“Remember what I told you,” said Magdalen, looking away from him again. +“I have lost all care for myself. I have only one end in life now, and +the sooner I reach it—and die—the better. If—” She stopped, altered her +position a little, and pointed with one hand to the fast-ebbing stream +beneath her, gleaming dim in the darkening twilight—“if I had been what +I once was, I would have thrown myself into that river sooner than do +what I am going to do now. As it is, I trouble myself no longer; I +weary my mind with no more schemes. The short way and the vile way lies +before me. I take it, Captain Wragge, and marry him.” + +“Keeping him in total ignorance of who you are?” said the captain, +slowly rising to his feet, and slowly moving round, so as to see her +face. “Marrying him as my niece, Miss Bygrave?” + +“As your niece, Miss Bygrave.” + +“And after the marriage—?” His voice faltered, as he began the +question, and he left it unfinished. + +“After the marriage,” she said, “I shall stand in no further need of +your assistance.” + +The captain stooped as she gave him that answer, looked close at her, +and suddenly drew back, without uttering a word. He walked away some +paces, and sat down again doggedly on the grass. If Magdalen could have +seen his face in the dying light, his face would have startled her. For +the first time, probably, since his boyhood, Captain Wragge had changed +color. He was deadly pale. + +“Have you nothing to say to me?” she asked. “Perhaps you are waiting to +hear what terms I have to offer? These are my terms; I pay all our +expenses here; and when we part, on the day of the marriage, you take a +farewell gift away with you of two hundred pounds. Do you promise me +your assistance on those conditions?” + +“What am I expected to do?” he asked, with a furtive glance at her, and +a sudden distrust in his voice. + +“You are expected to preserve my assumed character and your own,” she +answered, “and you are to prevent any inquiries of Mrs. Lecount’s from +discovering who I really am. I ask no more. The rest is my +responsibility—not yours.” + +“I have nothing to do with what happens—at any time, or in any +place—after the marriage?” + +“Nothing whatever.” + +“I may leave you at the church door if I please?” + +“At the church door, with your fee in your pocket.” + +“Paid from the money in your own possession?” + +“Certainly! How else should I pay it?” + +Captain Wragge took off his hat, and passed his handkerchief over his +face with an air of relief. + +“Give me a minute to consider it,” he said. + +“As many minutes as you like,” she rejoined, reclining on the bank in +her former position, and returning to her former occupation of tearing +up the tufts of grass and flinging them out into the air. + +The captain’s reflections were not complicated by any unnecessary +divergences from the contemplation of his own position to the +contemplation of Magdalen’s. Utterly incapable of appreciating the +injury done her by Frank’s infamous treachery to his engagement—an +injury which had severed her, at one cruel blow, from the aspiration +which, delusion though it was, had been the saving aspiration of her +life—Captain Wragge accepted the simple fact of her despair just as he +found it, and then looked straight to the consequences of the proposal +which she had made to him. + +In the prospect _before_ the marriage he saw nothing more serious +involved than the practice of a deception, in no important degree +different—except in the end to be attained by it—from the deceptions +which his vagabond life had long since accustomed him to contemplate +and to carry out. In the prospect _after_ the marriage he dimly +discerned, through the ominous darkness of the future, the lurking +phantoms of Terror and Crime, and the black gulfs behind them of Ruin +and Death. A man of boundless audacity and resource, within his own +mean limits; beyond those limits, the captain was as deferentially +submissive to the majesty of the law as the most harmless man in +existence; as cautious in looking after his own personal safety as the +veriest coward that ever walked the earth. But one serious question now +filled his mind. Could he, on the terms proposed to him, join the +conspiracy against Noel Vanstone up to the point of the marriage, and +then withdraw from it, without risk of involving himself in the +consequences which his experience told him must certainly ensue? + +Strange as it may seem, his decision in this emergency was mainly +influenced by no less a person than Noel Vanstone himself. The captain +might have resisted the money-offer which Magdalen had made to him—for +the profits of the Entertainment had filled his pockets with more than +three times two hundred pounds. But the prospect of dealing a blow in +the dark at the man who had estimated his information and himself at +the value of a five pound note proved too much for his caution and his +self-control. On the small neutral ground of self-importance, the best +men and the worst meet on the same terms. Captain Wragge’s indignation, +when he saw the answer to his advertisement, stooped to no +retrospective estimate of his own conduct; he was as deeply offended, +as sincerely angry as if he had made a perfectly honorable proposal, +and had been rewarded for it by a personal insult. He had been too full +of his own grievance to keep it out of his first letter to Magdalen. He +had more or less forgotten himself on every subsequent occasion when +Noel Vanstone’s name was mentioned. And in now finally deciding the +course he should take, it is not too much to say that the motive of +money receded, for the first time in his life, into the second place, +and the motive of malice carried the day. + +“I accept the terms,” said Captain Wragge, getting briskly on his legs +again. “Subject, of course, to the conditions agreed on between us. We +part on the wedding-day. I don’t ask where you go: you don’t ask where +I go. From that time forth we are strangers to each other.” + +Magdalen rose slowly from the mound. A hopeless depression, a sullen +despair, showed itself in her look and manner. She refused the +captain’s offered hand; and her tones, when she answered him, were so +low that he could hardly hear her. + +“We understand each other,” she said; “and we can now go back. You may +introduce me to Mrs. Lecount to-morrow.” + +“I must ask a few questions first,” said the captain, gravely. “There +are more risks to be run in this matter, and more pitfalls in our way, +than you seem to suppose. I must know the whole history of your morning +call on Mrs. Lecount before I put you and that woman on speaking terms +with each other.” + +“Wait till to-morrow,” she broke out impatiently. “Don’t madden me by +talking about it to-night.” + +The captain said no more. They turned their faces toward Aldborough, +and walked slowly back. + +By the time they reached the houses night had overtaken them. Neither +moon nor stars were visible. A faint noiseless breeze blowing from the +land had come with the darkness. Magdalen paused on the lonely public +walk to breathe the air more freely. After a while she turned her face +from the breeze and looked out toward the sea. The immeasurable silence +of the calm waters, lost in the black void of night, was awful. She +stood looking into the darkness, as if its mystery had no secrets for +her—she advanced toward it slowly, as if it drew her by some hidden +attraction into itself. + +“I am going down to the sea,” she said to her companion. “Wait here, +and I will come back.” + +He lost sight of her in an instant; it was as if the night had +swallowed her up. He listened, and counted her footsteps by the +crashing of them on the shingle in the deep stillness. They retreated +slowly, further and further away into the night. Suddenly the sound of +them ceased. Had she paused on her course or had she reached one of the +strips of sand left bare by the ebbing tide? + +He waited, and listened anxiously. The time passed, and no sound +reached him. He still listened, with a growing distrust of the +darkness. Another moment, and there came a sound from the invisible +shore. Far and faint from the beach below, a long cry moaned through +the silence. Then all was still once more. + +In sudden alarm, he stepped forward to descend to the beach, and to +call to her. Before he could cross the path, footsteps rapidly +advancing caught his ear. He waited an instant, and the figure of a man +passed quickly along the walk between him and the sea. It was too dark +to discern anything of the stranger’s face; it was only possible to see +that he was a tall man—as tall as that officer in the merchant-service +whose name was Kirke. + +The figure passed on northward, and was instantly lost to view. Captain +Wragge crossed the path, and, advancing a few steps down the beach, +stopped and listened again. The crash of footsteps on the shingle +caught his ear once more. Slowly, as the sound had left him, that sound +now came back. He called, to guide her to him. She came on till he +could just see her—a shadow ascending the shingly slope, and growing +out of the blackness of the night. + +“You alarmed me,” he whispered, nervously. “I was afraid something had +happened. I heard you cry out as if you were in pain.” + +“Did you?” she said, carelessly. “I _was_ in pain. It doesn’t +matter—it’s over now.” + +Her hand mechanically swung something to and fro as she answered him. +It was the little white silk bag which she had always kept hidden in +her bosom up to this time. One of the relics which it held—one of the +relics which she had not had the heart to part with before—was gone +from its keeping forever. Alone, on a strange shore, she had torn from +her the fondest of her virgin memories, the dearest of her virgin +hopes. Alone, on a strange shore, she had taken the lock of Frank’s +hair from its once-treasured place, and had cast it away from her to +the sea and the night. + + + +CHAPTER II. + +The tall man who had passed Captain Wragge in the dark proceeded +rapidly along the public walk, struck off across a little waste patch +of ground, and entered the open door of the Aldborough Hotel. The light +in the passage, falling full on his face as he passed it, proved the +truth of Captain Wragge’s surmise, and showed the stranger to be Mr. +Kirke, of the merchant service. + +Meeting the landlord in the passage, Mr. Kirke nodded to him with the +familiarity of an old customer. “Have you got the paper?” he asked; “I +want to look at the visitors’ list.” + +“I have got it in my room, sir,” said the landlord, leading the way +into a parlor at the back of the house. “Are there any friends of yours +staying here, do you think?” + +Without replying, the seaman turned to the list as soon as the +newspaper was placed in his hand, and ran his finger down it, name by +name. The finger suddenly stopped at this line: “Sea-view Cottage; Mr. +Noel Vanstone.” Kirke of the merchant-service repeated the name to +himself, and put down the paper thoughtfully. + +“Have you found anybody you know, captain?” asked the landlord. + +“I have found a name I know—a name my father used often to speak of in +his time. Is this Mr. Vanstone a family man? Do you know if there is a +young lady in the house?” + +“I can’t say, captain. My wife will be here directly; she is sure to +know. It must have been some time ago, if your father knew this Mr. +Vanstone?” + +“It _was_ some time ago. My father knew a subaltern officer of that +name when he was with his regiment in Canada. It would be curious if +the person here turned out to be the same man, and if that young lady +was his daughter.” + +“Excuse me, captain—but the young lady seems to hang a little on your +mind,” said the landlord, with a pleasant smile. + +Mr. Kirke looked as if the form which his host’s good-humor had just +taken was not quite to his mind. He returned abruptly to the subaltern +officer and the regiment in Canada. “That poor fellow’s story was as +miserable a one as ever I heard,” he said, looking back again absently +at the visitors’ list. + +“Would there be any harm in telling it, sir?” asked the landlord. +“Miserable or not, a story’s a story, when you know it to be true.” + +Mr. Kirke hesitated. “I hardly think I should be doing right to tell +it,” he said. “If this man, or any relations of his, are still alive, +it is not a story they might like strangers to know. All I can tell you +is, that my father was the salvation of that young officer under very +dreadful circumstances. They parted in Canada. My father remained with +his regiment; the young officer sold out and returned to England, and +from that moment they lost sight of each other. It would be curious if +this Vanstone here was the same man. It would be curious—” + +He suddenly checked himself just as another reference to “the young +lady” was on the point of passing his lips. At the same moment the +landlord’s wife came in, and Mr. Kirke at once transferred his +inquiries to the higher authority in the house. + +“Do you know anything of this Mr. Vanstone who is down here on the +visitors’ list?” asked the sailor. “Is he an old man?” + +“He’s a miserable little creature to look at,” replied the landlady; +“but he’s not old, captain.” + +“Then he’s not the man I mean. Perhaps he is the man’s son? Has he got +any ladies with him?” + +The landlady tossed her head, and pursed up her lips disparagingly. + +“He has a housekeeper with him,” she said. “A middle-aged person—not +one of my sort. I dare say I’m wrong—but I don’t like a dressy woman in +her station of life.” + +Mr. Kirke began to look puzzled. “I must have made some mistake about +the house,” he said. “Surely there’s a lawn cut octagon-shape at +Sea-view Cottage, and a white flag-staff in the middle of the +gravel-walk?” + +“That’s not Sea-view, sir! It’s North Shingles you’re talking of. Mr. +Bygrave’s. His wife and his niece came here by the coach to-day. His +wife’s tall enough to be put in a show, and the worst-dressed woman I +ever set eyes on. But Miss Bygrave is worth looking at, if I may +venture to say so. She’s the finest girl, to my mind, we’ve had at +Aldborough for many a long day. I wonder who they are! Do you know the +name, captain?” + +“No,” said Mr. Kirke, with a shade of disappointment on his dark, +weather-beaten face; “I never heard the name before.” + +After replying in those words, he rose to take his leave. The landlord +vainly invited him to drink a parting glass; the landlady vainly +pressed him to stay another ten minutes and try a cup of tea. He only +replied that his sister expected him, and that he must return to the +parsonage immediately. + +On leaving the hotel Mr. Kirke set his face westward, and walked inland +along the highroad as fast as the darkness would let him. + +“Bygrave?” he thought to himself. “Now I know her name, how much am I +the wiser for it! If it had been Vanstone, my father’s son might have +had a chance of making acquaintance with her.” He stopped, and looked +back in the direction of Aldborough. “What a fool I am!” he burst out +suddenly, striking his stick on the ground. “I was forty last +birthday.” He turned and went on again faster than ever—his head down; +his resolute black eyes searching the darkness on the land as they had +searched it many a time on the sea from the deck of his ship. + +After more than an hour’s walking he reached a village, with a +primitive little church and parsonage nestled together in a hollow. He +entered the house by the back way, and found his sister, the +clergyman’s wife, sitting alone over her work in the parlor. + +“Where is your husband, Lizzie?” he asked, taking a chair in a corner. + +“William has gone out to see a sick person. He had just time enough +before he went,” she added, with a smile, “to tell me about the young +lady; and he declares he will never trust himself at Aldborough with +you again until you are a steady, married man.” She stopped, and looked +at her brother more attentively than she had looked at him yet. +“Robert!” she said, laying aside her work, and suddenly crossing the +room to him. “You look anxious, you look distressed. William only +laughed about your meeting with the young lady. Is it serious? Tell me; +what is she like?” + +He turned his head away at the question. + +She took a stool at his feet, and persisted in looking up at him. “Is +it serious, Robert?” she repeated, softly. + +Kirke’s weather-beaten face was accustomed to no concealments—it +answered for him before he spoke a word. “Don’t tell your husband till +I am gone,” he said, with a roughness quite new in his sister’s +experience of him. “I know I only deserve to be laughed at; but it +hurts me, for all that.” + +“Hurts you?” she repeated, in astonishment. + +“You can’t think me half such a fool, Lizzie, as I think myself,” +pursued Kirke, bitterly. “A man at my age ought to know better. I +didn’t set eyes on her for as much as a minute altogether; and there I +have been hanging about the place till after nightfall on the chance of +seeing her again—skulking, I should have called it, if I had found one +of my men doing what I have been doing myself. I believe I’m bewitched. +She’s a mere girl, Lizzie—I doubt if she’s out of her teens—I’m old +enough to be her father. It’s all one; she stops in my mind in spite of +me. I’ve had her face looking at me, through the pitch darkness, every +step of the way to this house; and it’s looking at me now—as plain as I +see yours, and plainer.” + +He rose impatiently, and began to walk backward and forward in the +room. His sister looked after him, with surprise as well as sympathy +expressed in her face. From his boyhood upward she had always been +accustomed to see him master of himself. Years since, in the failing +fortunes of the family, he had been their example and their support. +She had heard of him in the desperate emergencies of a life at sea, +when hundreds of his fellow-creatures had looked to his steady +self-possession for rescue from close-threatening death—and had not +looked in vain. Never, in all her life before, had his sister seen the +balance of that calm and equal mind lost as she saw it lost now. + +“How can you talk so unreasonably about your age and yourself?” she +said. “There is not a woman alive, Robert, who is good enough for you. +What is her name?” + +“Bygrave. Do you know it?” + +“No. But I might soon make acquaintance with her. If we only had a +little time before us; if I could only get to Aldborough and see +her—but you are going away to-morrow; your ship sails at the end of the +week.” + +“Thank God for that!” said Kirke, fervently. + +“Are you glad to be going away?” she asked, more and more amazed at +him. + +“Right glad, Lizzie, for my own sake. If I ever get to my senses again, +I shall find my way back to them on the deck of my ship. This girl has +got between me and my thoughts already: she shan’t go a step further, +and get between me and my duty. I’m determined on that. Fool as I am, I +have sense enough left not to trust myself within easy hail of +Aldborough to-morrow morning. I’m good for another twenty miles of +walking, and I’ll begin my journey back tonight.” + +His sister started up, and caught him fast by the arm. “Robert!” she +exclaimed; “you’re not serious? You don’t mean to leave us on foot, +alone in the dark?” + +“It’s only saying good-by, my dear, the last thing at night instead of +the first thing in the morning,” he answered, with a smile. “Try and +make allowances for me, Lizzie. My life has been passed at sea; and I’m +not used to having my mind upset in this way. Men ashore are used to +it; men ashore can take it easy. I can’t. If I stopped here I shouldn’t +rest. If I waited till to-morrow, I should only be going back to have +another look at her. I don’t want to feel more ashamed of myself than I +do already. I want to fight my way back to my duty and myself, without +stopping to think twice about it. Darkness is nothing to me—I’m used to +darkness. I have got the high-road to walk on, and I can’t lose my way. +Let me go, Lizzie! The only sweetheart I have any business with at my +age is my ship. Let me get back to her!” + +His sister still kept her hold of his arm, and still pleaded with him +to stay till the morning. He listened to her with perfect patience and +kindness, but she never shook his determination for an instant. + +“What am I to say to William?” she pleaded. “What will he think when he +comes back and finds you gone?” + +“Tell him I have taken the advice he gave us in his sermon last Sunday. +Say I have turned my back on the world, the flesh, and the devil.” + +“How can you talk so, Robert! And the boys, too—you promised not to go +without bidding the boys good-by.” + +“That’s true. I made my little nephews a promise, and I’ll keep it.” He +kicked off his shoes as he spoke, on the mat outside the door. “Light +me upstairs, Lizzie; I’ll bid the two boys good-by without waking +them.” + +She saw the uselessness of resisting him any longer; and, taking the +candle, went before him upstairs. + +The boys—both young children—were sleeping together in the same bed. +The youngest was his uncle’s favorite, and was called by his uncle’s +name. He lay peacefully asleep, with a rough little toy ship hugged +fast in his arms. Kirke’s eyes softened as he stole on tiptoe to the +child’s side, and kissed him with the gentleness of a woman. “Poor +little man!” said the sailor, tenderly. “He is as fond of his ship as I +was at his age. I’ll cut him out a better one when I come back. Will +you give me my nephew one of these days, Lizzie, and will you let me +make a sailor of him?” + +“Oh, Robert, if you were only married and happy, as I am!” + +“The time has gone by, my dear. I must make the best of it as I am, +with my little nephew there to help me.” + +He left the room. His sister’s tears fell fast as she followed him into +the parlor. “There is something so forlorn and dreadful in your leaving +us like this,” she said. “Shall I go to Aldborough to-morrow, Robert, +and try if I can get acquainted with her for your sake?” + +“No!” he replied. “Let her be. If it’s ordered that I am to see that +girl again, I _shall_ see her. Leave it to the future, and you leave it +right.” He put on his shoes, and took up his hat and stick. “I won’t +overwalk myself,” he said, cheerfully. “If the coach doesn’t overtake +me on the road, I can wait for it where I stop to breakfast. Dry your +eyes, my dear, and give me a kiss.” + +She was like her brother in features and complexion, and she had a +touch of her brother’s spirit; she dashed away the tears, and took her +leave of him bravely. + +“I shall be back in a year’s time,” said Kirke, falling into his old +sailor-like way at the door. “I’ll bring you a China shawl, Lizzie, and +a chest of tea for your store-room. Don’t let the boys forget me, and +don’t think I’m doing wrong to leave you in this way. I know I am doing +right. God bless you and keep you, my dear—and your husband, and your +children! Good-by!” + +He stooped and kissed her. She ran to the door to look after him. A +puff of air extinguished the candle, and the black night shut him out +from her in an instant. + +Three days afterward the first-class merchantman _Deliverance_, Kirke, +commander, sailed from London for the China Sea. + + + +CHAPTER III. + +The threatening of storm and change passed away with the night. When +morning rose over Aldborough, the sun was master in the blue heaven, +and the waves were rippling gayly under the summer breeze. + +At an hour when no other visitors to the watering—place were yet astir, +the indefatigable Wragge appeared at the door of North Shingles Villa, +and directed his steps northward, with a neatly-bound copy of “Joyce’s +Scientific Dialogues” in his hand. Arriving at the waste ground beyond +the houses, he descended to the beach and opened his book. The +interview of the past night had sharpened his perception of the +difficulties to be encountered in the coming enterprise. He was now +doubly determined to try the characteristic experiment at which he had +hinted in his letter to Magdalen, and to concentrate on himself—in the +character of a remarkably well-informed man—the entire interest and +attention of the formidable Mrs. Lecount. + +Having taken his dose of ready-made science (to use his own expression) +the first thing in the morning on an empty stomach, Captain Wragge +joined his small family circle at breakfast-time, inflated with +information for the day. He observed that Magdalen’s face showed plain +signs of a sleepless night. She made no complaint: her manner was +composed, and her temper perfectly under control. Mrs. Wragge—refreshed +by some thirteen consecutive hours of uninterrupted repose—was in +excellent spirits, and up at heel (for a wonder) with both shoes. She +brought with her into the room several large sheets of tissue-paper, +cut crisply into mysterious and many-varying forms, which immediately +provoked from her husband the short and sharp question, “What have you +got there?” + +“Patterns, captain,” said Mrs. Wragge, in timidly conciliating tones. +“I went shopping in London, and bought an Oriental Cashmere Robe. It +cost a deal of money; and I’m going to try and save, by making it +myself. I’ve got my patterns, and my dress-making directions written +out as plain as print. I’ll be very tidy, captain; I’ll keep in my own +corner, if you’ll please to give me one; and whether my head Buzzes, or +whether it don’t, I’ll sit straight at my work all the same.” + +“You will do your work,” said the captain, sternly, “when you know who +you are, who I am, and who that young lady is—not before. Show me your +shoes! Good. Show me you cap! Good. Make the breakfast.” + +When breakfast was over, Mrs. Wragge received her orders to retire into +an adjoining room, and to wait there until her husband came to release +her. As soon as her back was turned, Captain Wragge at once resumed the +conversation which had been suspended, by Magdalen’s own desire, on the +preceding night. The questions he now put to her all related to the +subject of her visit in disguise to Noel Vanstone’s house. They were +the questions of a thoroughly clear-headed man—short, searching, and +straight to the point. In less than half an hour’s time he had made +himself acquainted with every incident that had happened in Vauxhall +Walk. + +The conclusions which the captain drew, after gaining his information, +were clear and easily stated. + +On the adverse side of the question, he expressed his conviction that +Mrs. Lecount had certainly detected her visitor to be disguised; that +she had never really left the room, though she might have opened and +shut the door; and that on both the occasions, therefore, when Magdalen +had been betrayed into speaking in her own voice, Mrs. Lecount had +heard her. On the favorable side of the question, he was perfectly +satisfied that the painted face and eyelids, the wig, and the padded +cloak had so effectually concealed Magdalen’s identity, that she might +in her own person defy the housekeeper’s closest scrutiny, so far as +the matter of appearance was concerned. The difficulty of deceiving +Mrs. Lecount’s ears, as well as her eyes, was, he readily admitted, not +so easily to be disposed of. But looking to the fact that Magdalen, on +both the occasions when she had forgotten herself, had spoken in the +heat of anger, he was of opinion that her voice had every reasonable +chance of escaping detection, if she carefully avoided all outbursts of +temper for the future, and spoke in those more composed and ordinary +tones which Mrs. Lecount had not yet heard. Upon the whole, the captain +was inclined to pronounce the prospect hopeful, if one serious obstacle +were cleared away at the outset—that obstacle being nothing less than +the presence on the scene of action of Mrs. Wragge. + +To Magdalen’s surprise, when the course of her narrative brought her to +the story of the ghost, Captain Wragge listened with the air of a man +who was more annoyed than amused by what he heard. When she had done, +he plainly told her that her unlucky meeting on the stairs of the +lodging-house with Mrs. Wragge was, in his opinion, the most serious of +all the accidents that had happened in Vauxhall Walk. + +“I can deal with the difficulty of my wife’s stupidity,” he said, “as I +have often dealt with it before. I can hammer her new identity _into_ +her head, but I can’t hammer the ghost _out_ of it. We have no security +that the woman in the gray cloak and poke bonnet may not come back to +her recollection at the most critical time, and under the most awkward +circumstances. In plain English, my dear girl, Mrs. Wragge is a pitfall +under our feet at every step we take.” + +“If we are aware of the pitfall,” said Magdalen, “we can take our +measures for avoiding it. What do you propose?” + +“I propose,” replied the captain, “the temporary removal of Mrs. +Wragge. Speaking purely in a pecuniary point of view, I can’t afford a +total separation from her. You have often read of very poor people +being suddenly enriched by legacies reaching them from remote and +unexpected quarters? Mrs. Wragge’s case, when I married her, was one of +these. An elderly female relative shared the favors of fortune on that +occasion with my wife; and if I only keep up domestic appearances, I +happen to know that Mrs. Wragge will prove a second time profitable to +me on that elderly relative’s death. But for this circumstance, I +should probably long since have transferred my wife to the care of +society at large—in the agreeable conviction that if I didn’t support +her, somebody else would. Although I can’t afford to take this course, +I see no objection to having her comfortably boarded and lodged out of +our way for the time being—say, at a retired farm-house, in the +character of a lady in infirm mental health. _You_ would find the +expense trifling; _I_ should find the relief unutterable. What do you +say? Shall I pack her up at once, and take her away by the next coach?” + +“No!” replied Magdalen, firmly. “The poor creature’s life is hard +enough already; I won’t help to make it harder. She was affectionately +and truly kind to me when I was ill, and I won’t allow her to be shut +up among strangers while I can help it. The risk of keeping her here is +only one risk more. I will face it, Captain Wragge, if you won’t.” + +“Think twice,” said the captain, gravely, “before you decide on keeping +Mrs. Wragge.” + +“Once is enough,” rejoined Magdalen. “I won’t have her sent away.” + +“Very good,” said the captain, resignedly. “I never interfere with +questions of sentiment. But I have a word to say on my own behalf. If +my services are to be of any use to you, I can’t have my hands tied at +starting. This is serious. I won’t trust my wife and Mrs. Lecount +together. I’m afraid, if you’re not, and I make it a condition that, if +Mrs. Wragge stops here, she keeps her room. If you think her health +requires it, you can take her for a walk early in the morning, or late +in the evening; but you must never trust her out with the servant, and +never trust her out by herself. I put the matter plainly, it is too +important to be trifled with. What do you say—yes or no?” + +“I say yes,” replied Magdalen, after a moment’s consideration. “On the +understanding that I am to take her out walking, as you propose.” + +Captain Wragge bowed, and recovered his suavity of manner. “What are +our plans?” he inquired. “Shall we start our enterprise this afternoon? +Are you ready for your introduction to Mrs. Lecount and her master?” + +“Quite ready.” + +“Good again. We will meet them on the Parade, at their usual hour for +going out—two o’clock. It is not twelve yet. I have two hours before +me—just time enough to fit my wife into her new Skin. The process is +absolutely necessary, to prevent her compromising us with the servant. +Don’t be afraid about the results; Mrs. Wragge has had a copious +selection of assumed names hammered into her head in the course of her +matrimonial career. It is merely a question of hammering hard +enough—nothing more. I think we have settled everything now. Is there +anything I can do before two o’clock? Have you any employment for the +morning?” + +“No,” said Magdalen. “I shall go back to my own room, and try to rest.” + +“You had a disturbed night, I am afraid?” said the captain, politely +opening the door for her. + +“I fell asleep once or twice,” she answered, carelessly. “I suppose my +nerves are a little shaken. The bold black eyes of that man who stared +so rudely at me yesterday evening seemed to be looking at me again in +my dreams. If we see him to-day, and if he annoys me any more, I must +trouble you to speak to him. We will meet here again at two o’clock. +Don’t be hard with Mrs. Wragge; teach her what she must learn as +tenderly as you can.” + +With those words she left him, and went upstairs. + +She lay down on her bed with a heavy sigh, and tried to sleep. It was +useless. The dull weariness of herself which now possessed her was not +the weariness which finds its remedy in repose. She rose again and sat +by the window, looking out listlessly over the sea. + +A weaker nature than hers would not have felt the shock of Frank’s +desertion as she had felt it—as she was feeling it still. A weaker +nature would have found refuge in indignation and comfort in tears. The +passionate strength of Magdalen’s love clung desperately to the sinking +wreck of its own delusion-clung, until she tore herself from it, by +plain force of will. All that her native pride, her keen sense of wrong +could do, was to shame her from dwelling on the thoughts which still +caught their breath of life from the undying devotion of the past; +which still perversely ascribed Frank’s heartless farewell to any cause +but the inborn baseness of the man who had written it. The woman never +lived yet who could cast a true-love out of her heart because the +object of that love was unworthy of her. All she can do is to struggle +against it in secret—to sink in the contest if she is weak; to win her +way through it if she is strong, by a process of self-laceration which +is, of all moral remedies applied to a woman’s nature, the most +dangerous and the most desperate; of all moral changes, the change that +is surest to mark her for life. Magdalen’s strong nature had sustained +her through the struggle; and the issue of it had left her what she now +was. + +After sitting by the window for nearly an hour, her eyes looking +mechanically at the view, her mind empty of all impressions, and +conscious of no thoughts, she shook off the strange waking stupor that +possessed her, and rose to prepare herself for the serious business of +the day. + +She went to the wardrobe and took down from the pegs two bright, +delicate muslin dresses, which had been made for summer wear at +Combe-Raven a year since, and which had been of too little value to be +worth selling when she parted with her other possessions. After placing +these dresses side by side on the bed, she looked into the wardrobe +once more. It only contained one other summer dress—the plain alpaca +gown which she had worn during her memorable interview with Noel +Vanstone and Mrs. Lecount. This she left in its place, resolving not to +wear it—less from any dread that the housekeeper might recognize a +pattern too quiet to be noticed, and too common to be remembered, than +from the conviction that it was neither gay enough nor becoming enough +for her purpose. After taking a plain white muslin scarf, a pair of +light gray kid gloves, and a garden-hat of Tuscan straw, from the +drawers of the wardrobe, she locked it, and put the key carefully in +her pocket. + +Instead of at once proceeding to dress herself, she sat idly looking at +the two muslin gowns; careless which she wore, and yet inconsistently +hesitating which to choose. “What does it matter!” she said to herself, +with a reckless laugh; “I am equally worthless in my own estimation, +whichever I put on.” She shuddered, as if the sound of her own laughter +had startled her, and abruptly caught up the dress which lay nearest to +her hand. Its colors were blue and white—the shade of blue which best +suited her fair complexion. She hurriedly put on the gown, without +going near her looking-glass. For the first time in her life she shrank +from meeting the reflection of herself—except for a moment, when she +arranged her hair under her garden-hat, leaving the glass again +immediately. She drew her scarf over her shoulders and fitted on her +gloves, with her back to the toilet-table. “Shall I paint?” she asked +herself, feeling instinctively that she was turning pale. “The rouge is +still left in my box. It can’t make my face more false than it is +already.” She looked round toward the glass, and again turned away from +it. “No!” she said. “I have Mrs. Lecount to face as well as her master. +No paint.” After consulting her watch, she left the room and went +downstairs again. It wanted ten minutes only of two o’clock. + +Captain Wragge was waiting for her in the parlor—respectable, in a +frock-coat, a stiff summer cravat, and a high white hat; specklessly +and cheerfully rural, in a buff waistcoat, gray trousers, and gaiters +to match. His collars were higher than ever, and he carried a brand-new +camp-stool in his hand. Any tradesman in England who had seen him at +that moment would have trusted him on the spot. + +“Charming!” said the captain, paternally surveying Magdalen when she +entered the room. “So fresh and cool! A little too pale, my dear, and a +great deal too serious. Otherwise perfect. Try if you can smile.” + +“When the time comes for smiling,” said Magdalen, bitterly, “trust my +dramatic training for any change of face that may be necessary. Where +is Mrs. Wragge?” + +“Mrs. Wragge has learned her lesson,” replied the captain, “and is +rewarded by my permission to sit at work in her own room. I sanction +her new fancy for dressmaking, because it is sure to absorb all her +attention, and to keep her at home. There is no fear of her finishing +the Oriental Robe in a hurry, for there is no mistake in the process of +making it which she is not certain to commit. She will sit incubating +her gown—pardon the expression—like a hen over an addled egg. I assure +you, her new whim relieves me. Nothing could be more convenient, under +existing circumstances.” + +He strutted away to the window, looked out, and beckoned to Magdalen to +join him. “There they are!” he said, and pointed to the Parade. + +Noel Vanstone slowly walked by, as she looked, dressed in a complete +suit of old-fashioned nankeen. It was apparently one of the days when +the state of his health was at the worst. He leaned on Mrs. Lecount’s +arm, and was protected from the sun by a light umbrella which she held +over him. The housekeeper—dressed to perfection, as usual, in a quiet, +lavender-colored summer gown, a black mantilla, an unassuming straw +bonnet, and a crisp blue veil—escorted her invalid master with the +tenderest attention; sometimes directing his notice respectfully to the +various objects of the sea view; sometimes bending her head in graceful +acknowledgment of the courtesy of passing strangers on the Parade, who +stepped aside to let the invalid pass by. She produced a visible effect +among the idlers on the beach. They looked after her with unanimous +interest, and exchanged confidential nods of approval which said, as +plainly as words could have expressed it, “A very domestic person! a +truly superior woman!” + +Captain Wragge’s party-colored eyes followed Mrs. Lecount with a +steady, distrustful attention. “Tough work for us _there_,” he +whispered in Magdalen’s ear; “tougher work than you think, before we +turn that woman out of her place.” + +“Wait,” said Magdalen, quietly. “Wait and see.” + +She walked to the door. The captain followed her without making any +further remark. “I’ll wait till you’re married,” he thought to +himself—“not a moment longer, offer me what you may.” + +At the house door Magdalen addressed him again. + +“We will go that way,” she said, pointing southward, “then turn, and +meet them as they come back.” + +Captain Wragge signified his approval of the arrangement, and followed +Magdalen to the garden gate. As she opened it to pass through, her +attention was attracted by a lady, with a nursery-maid and two little +boys behind her, loitering on the path outside the garden wall. The +lady started, looked eagerly, and smiled to herself as Magdalen came +out. Curiosity had got the better of Kirke’s sister, and she had come +to Aldborough for the express purpose of seeing Miss Bygrave. + +Something in the shape of the lady’s face, something in the expression +of her dark eyes, reminded Magdalen of the merchant-captain whose +uncontrolled admiration had annoyed her on the previous evening. She +instantly returned the stranger’s scrutiny by a frowning, ungracious +look. The lady colored, paid the look back with interest, and slowly +walked on. + +“A hard, bold, bad girl,” thought Kirke’s sister. “What could Robert be +thinking of to admire her? I am almost glad he is gone. I hope and +trust he will never set eyes on Miss Bygrave again.” + +“What boors the people are here!” said Magdalen to Captain Wragge. +“That woman was even ruder than the man last night. She is like him in +the face. I wonder who she is?” + +“I’ll find out directly,” said the captain. “We can’t be too cautious +about strangers.” He at once appealed to his friends, the boatmen. They +were close at hand, and Magdalen heard the questions and answers +plainly. + +“How are you all this morning?” said Captain Wragge, in his easy +jocular way. “And how’s the wind? Nor’-west and by west, is it? Very +good. Who is that lady?” + +“That’s Mrs. Strickland, sir.” + +“Ay! ay! The clergyman’s wife and the captain’s sister. Where’s the +captain to-day?” + +“On his way to London, I should think, sir. His ship sails for China at +the end of the week.” + +China! As that one word passed the man’s lips, a pang of the old sorrow +struck Magdalen to the heart. Stranger as he was, she began to hate the +bare mention of the merchant-captain’s name. He had troubled her dreams +of the past night; and now, when she was most desperately and +recklessly bent on forgetting her old home-existence, he had been +indirectly the cause of recalling her mind to Frank. + +“Come!” she said, angrily, to her companion. “What do we care about the +man or his ship? Come away.” + +“By all means,” said Captain Wragge. “As long as we don’t find friends +of the Bygraves, what do we care about anybody?” + +They walked on southward for ten minutes or more, then turned and +walked back again to meet Noel Vanstone and Mrs. Lecount. + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +Captain Wragge and Magdalen retraced their steps until they were again +within view of North Shingles Villa before any signs appeared of Mrs. +Lecount and her master. At that point the housekeeper’s +lavender-colored dress, the umbrella, and the feeble little figure in +nankeen walking under it, became visible in the distance. The captain +slackened his pace immediately, and issued his directions to Magdalen +for her conduct at the coming interview in these words: + +“Don’t forget your smile,” he said. “In all other respects you will do. +The walk has improved your complexion, and the hat becomes you. Look +Mrs. Lecount steadily in the face; show no embarrassment when you +speak; and if Mr. Noel Vanstone pays you pointed attention, don’t take +too much notice of him while his housekeeper’s eye is on you. Mind one +thing! I have been at Joyce’s Scientific Dialogues all the morning; and +I am quite serious in meaning to give Mrs. Lecount the full benefit of +my studies. If I can’t contrive to divert her attention from you and +her master, I won’t give sixpence for our chance of success. Small-talk +won’t succeed with that woman; compliments won’t succeed; jokes won’t +succeed—ready-made science may recall the deceased professor, and +ready-made science may do. We must establish a code of signals to let +you know what I am about. Observe this camp-stool. When I shift it from +my left hand to my right, I am talking Joyce. When I shift it from my +right hand to my left, I am talking Wragge. In the first case, don’t +interrupt me—I am leading up to my point. In the second case, say +anything you like; my remarks are not of the slightest consequence. +Would you like a rehearsal? Are you sure you understand? Very good—take +my arm, and look happy. Steady! here they are.” + +The meeting took place nearly midway between Sea-view Cottage and North +Shingles. Captain Wragge took off his tall white hat and opened the +interview immediately on the friendliest terms. + +“Good-morning, Mrs. Lecount,” he said, with the frank and cheerful +politeness of a naturally sociable man. “Good-morning, Mr. Vanstone; I +am sorry to see you suffering to-day. Mrs. Lecount, permit me to +introduce my niece—my niece, Miss Bygrave. My dear girl, this is Mr. +Noel Vanstone, our neighbor at Sea-view Cottage. We must positively be +sociable at Aldborough, Mrs. Lecount. There is only one walk in the +place (as my niece remarked to me just now, Mr. Vanstone); and on that +walk we must all meet every time we go out. And why not? Are we formal +people on either side? Nothing of the sort; we are just the reverse. +You possess the Continental facility of manner, Mr. Vanstone—I match +you with the blunt cordiality of an old-fashioned Englishman—the ladies +mingle together in harmonious variety, like flowers on the same bed—and +the result is a mutual interest in making our sojourn at the sea-side +agreeable to each other. Pardon my flow of spirits; pardon my feeling +so cheerful and so young. The Iodine in the sea-air, Mrs. Lecount—the +notorious effect of the Iodine in the sea-air!” + +“You arrived yesterday, Miss Bygrave, did you not?” said the +housekeeper, as soon as the captain’s deluge of language had come to an +end. + +She addressed those words to Magdalen with a gentle motherly interest +in her youth and beauty, chastened by the deferential amiability which +became her situation in Noel Vanstone’s household. Not the faintest +token of suspicion or surprise betrayed itself in her face, her voice, +or her manner, while she and Magdalen now looked at each other. It was +plain at the outset that the true face and figure which she now saw +recalled nothing to her mind of the false face and figure which she had +seen in Vauxhall Walk. The disguise had evidently been complete enough +even to baffle the penetration of Mrs. Lecount. + +“My aunt and I came here yesterday evening,” said Magdalen. “We found +the latter part of the journey very fatiguing. I dare say you found it +so, too?” + +She designedly made her answer longer than was necessary for the +purpose of discovering, at the earliest opportunity, the effect which +the sound of her voice produced on Mrs. Lecount. + +The housekeeper’s thin lips maintained their motherly smile; the +housekeeper’s amiable manner lost none of its modest deference, but the +expression of her eyes suddenly changed from a look of attention to a +look of inquiry. Magdalen quietly said a few words more, and then +waited again for results. The change spread gradually all over Mrs. +Lecount’s face, the motherly smile died away, and the amiable manner +betrayed a slight touch of restraint. Still no signs of positive +recognition appeared; the housekeeper’s expression remained what it had +been from the first—an expression of inquiry, and nothing more. + +“You complained of fatigue, sir, a few minutes since,” she said, +dropping all further conversation with Magdalen and addressing her +master. “Will you go indoors and rest?” + +The proprietor of Sea-view Cottage had hitherto confined himself to +bowing, simpering and admiring Magdalen through his half-closed +eyelids. There was no mistaking the sudden flutter and agitation in his +manner, and the heightened color in his wizen little face. Even the +reptile temperament of Noel Vanstone warmed under the influence of the +sex: he had an undeniably appreciative eye for a handsome woman, and +Magdalen’s grace and beauty were not thrown away on him. + +“Will you go indoors, sir, and rest?” asked the housekeeper, repeating +her quest ion. + +“Not yet, Lecount,” said her master. “I fancy I feel stronger; I fancy +I can go on a little.” He turned simpering to Magdalen, and added, in a +lower tone: “I have found a new interest in my walk, Miss Bygrave. +Don’t desert us, or you will take the interest away with you.” + +He smiled and smirked in the highest approval of the ingenuity of his +own compliment—from which Captain Wragge dexterously diverted the +housekeeper’s attention by ranging himself on her side of the path and +speaking to her at the same moment. They all four walked on slowly. +Mrs. Lecount said nothing more. She kept fast hold of her master’s arm, +and looked across him at Magdalen with the dangerous expression of +inquiry more marked than ever in her handsome black eyes. That look was +not lost on the wary Wragge. He shifted his indicative camp-stool from +the left hand to the right, and opened his scientific batteries on the +spot. + +“A busy scene, Mrs. Lecount,” said the captain, politely waving his +camp-stool over the sea and the passing ships. “The greatness of +England, ma’am—the true greatness of England. Pray observe how heavily +some of those vessels are laden! I am often inclined to wonder whether +the British sailor is at all aware, when he has got his cargo on board, +of the Hydrostatic importance of the operation that he has performed. +If I were suddenly transported to the deck of one of those ships (which +Heaven forbid, for I suffer at sea); and if I said to a member of the +crew: ‘Jack! you have done wonders; you have grasped the Theory of +Floating Vessels’—how the gallant fellow would stare! And yet on that +theory Jack’s life depends. If he loads his vessel one-thirtieth part +more than he ought, what happens? He sails past Aldborough, I grant +you, in safety. He enters the Thames, I grant you again, in safety. He +gets on into the fresh water as far, let us say, as Greenwich; and—down +he goes! Down, ma’am, to the bottom of the river, as a matter of +scientific certainty!” + +Here he paused, and left Mrs. Lecount no polite alternative but to +request an explanation. + +“With infinite pleasure, ma’am,” said the captain, drowning in the +deepest notes of his voice the feeble treble in which Noel Vanstone +paid his compliments to Magdalen. “We will start, if you please, with a +first principle. All bodies whatever that float on the surface of the +water displace as much fluid as is equal in weight to the weight of the +bodies. Good. We have got our first principle. What do we deduce from +it? Manifestly this: That, in order to keep a vessel above water, it is +necessary to take care that the vessel and its cargo shall be of less +weight than the weight of a quantity of water—pray follow me here!—of a +quantity of water equal in bulk to that part of the vessel which it +will be safe to immerse in the water. Now, ma’am, salt-water is +specifically thirty times heavier than fresh or river water, and a +vessel in the German Ocean will not sink so deep as a vessel in the +Thames. Consequently, when we load our ship with a view to the London +market, we have (Hydrostatically speaking) three alternatives. Either +we load with one-thirtieth part less than we can carry at sea; or we +take one-thirtieth part out at the mouth of the river; or we do neither +the one nor the other, and, as I have already had the honor of +remarking—down we go! Such,” said the captain, shifting the camp-stool +back again from his right hand to his left, in token that Joyce was +done with for the time being; “such, my dear madam, is the Theory of +Floating Vessels. Permit me to add, in conclusion, you are heartily +welcome to it.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. “You have unintentionally saddened +me; but the information I have received is not the less precious on +that account. It is long, long ago, Mr. Bygrave, since I have heard +myself addressed in the language of science. My dear husband made me +his companion—my dear husband improved my mind as you have been trying +to improve it. Nobody has taken pains with my intellect since. Many +thanks, sir. Your kind consideration for me is not thrown away.” + +She sighed with a plaintive humility, and privately opened her ears to +the conversation on the other side of her. + +A minute earlier she would have heard her master expressing himself in +the most flattering terms on the subject of Miss Bygrave’s appearance +in her sea-side costume. But Magdalen had seen Captain Wragge’s signal +with the camp-stool, and had at once diverted Noel Vanstone to the +topic of himself and his possessions by a neatly-timed question about +his house at Aldborough. + +“I don’t wish to alarm you, Miss Bygrave,” were the first words of Noel +Vanstone’s which caught Mrs. Lecount’s attention, “but there is only +one safe house in Aldborough, and that house is mine. The sea may +destroy all the other houses—it can’t destroy Mine. My father took care +of that; my father was a remarkable man. He had My house built on +piles. I have reason to believe they are the strongest piles in +England. Nothing can possibly knock them down—I don’t care what the sea +does—nothing can possibly knock them down.” + +“Then, if the sea invades us,” said Magdalen, “we must all run for +refuge to you.” + +Noel Vanstone saw his way to another compliment; and, at the same +moment, the wary captain saw his way to another burst of science. + +“I could almost wish the invasion might happen,” murmured one of the +gentlemen, “to give me the happiness of offering the refuge.” + +“I could almost swear the wind had shifted again!” exclaimed the other. +“Where is a man I can ask? Oh, there he is. Boatman! How’s the wind +now? Nor’west and by west still—hey? And southeast and by south +yesterday evening—ha? Is there anything more remarkable, Mrs. Lecount, +than the variableness of the wind in this climate?” proceeded the +captain, shifting the camp-stool to the scientific side of him. “Is +there any natural phenomenon more bewildering to the scientific +inquirer? You will tell me that the electric fluid which abounds in the +air is the principal cause of this variableness. You will remind me of +the experiment of that illustrious philosopher who measured the +velocity of a great storm by a flight of small feathers. My dear madam, +I grant all your propositions—” + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount; “you kindly attribute to +me a knowledge that I don’t possess. Propositions, I regret to say, are +quite beyond me.” + +“Don’t misunderstand me, ma’am,” continued the captain, politely +unconscious of the interruption. “My remarks apply to the temperate +zone only. Place me on the coasts beyond the tropics—place me where the +wind blows toward the shore in the day-time, and toward the sea by +night—and I instantly advance toward conclusive experiments. For +example, I know that the heat of the sun during the day rarefies the +air over the land, and so causes the wind. You challenge me to prove +it. I escort you down the kitchen stairs (with your kind permission); +take my largest pie-dish out of the cook’s hands; I fill it with cold +water. Good! that dish of cold water represents the ocean. I next +provide myself with one of our most precious domestic conveniences, a +hot-water plate; I fill it with hot water and I put it in the middle of +the pie-dish. Good again! the hot-water plate represents the land +rarefying the air over it. Bear that in mind, and give me a lighted +candle. I hold my lighted candle over the cold water, and blow it out. +The smoke immediately moves from the dish to the plate. Before you have +time to express your satisfaction, I light the candle once more, and +reverse the whole proceeding. I fill the pie-dish with hot-water, and +the plate with cold; I blow the candle out again, and the smoke moves +this time from the plate to the dish. The smell is disagreeable—but the +experiment is conclusive.” + +He shifted the camp-stool back again, and looked at Mrs. Lecount with +his ingratiating smile. “You don’t find me long-winded, ma’am—do you?” +he said, in his easy, cheerful way, just as the housekeeper was +privately opening her ears once more to the conversation on the other +side of her. + +“I am amazed, sir, by the range of your information,” replied Mrs. +Lecount, observing the captain with some perplexity—but thus far with +no distrust. She thought him eccentric, even for an Englishman, and +possibly a little vain of his knowledge. But he had at least paid her +the implied compliment of addressing that knowledge to herself; and she +felt it the more sensibly, from having hitherto found her scientific +sympathies with her deceased husband treated with no great respect by +the people with whom she came in contact. “Have you extended your +inquiries, sir,” she proceeded, after a momentary hesitation, “to my +late husband’s branch of science? I merely ask, Mr. Bygrave, because +(though I am only a woman) I think I might exchange ideas with you on +the subject of the reptile creation.” + +Captain Wragge was far too sharp to risk his ready-made science on the +enemy’s ground. The old militia-man shook his wary head. + +“Too vast a subject, ma’am,” he said, “for a smatterer like me. The +life and labors of such a philosopher as your husband, Mrs. Lecount, +warn men of my intellectual caliber not to measure themselves with a +giant. May I inquire,” proceeded the captain, softly smoothing the way +for future intercourse with Sea-view Cottage, “whether you possess any +scientific memorials of the late Professor?” + +“I possess his Tank, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount, modestly casting her eyes +on the ground, “and one of his Subjects—a little foreign Toad.” + +“His Tank!” exclaimed the captain, in tones of mournful interest; “and +his Toad! Pardon my blunt way of speaking my mind, ma’am. You possess +an object of public interest; and, as one of the public, I acknowledge +my curiosity to see it.” + +Mrs. Lecount’s smooth cheeks colored with pleasure. The one assailable +place in that cold and secret nature was the place occupied by the +memory of the Professor. Her pride in his scientific achievements, and +her mortification at finding them but little known out of his own +country, were genuine feelings. Never had Captain Wragge burned his +adulterated incense on the flimsy altar of human vanity to better +purpose than he was burning it now. + +“You are very good, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. “In honoring my husband’s +memory, you honor me. But though you kindly treat me on a footing of +equality, I must not forget that I fill a domestic situation. I shall +feel it a privilege to show you my relics, if you will allow me to ask +my master’s permission first.” + +She turned to Noel Vanstone; her perfectly sincere intention of making +the proposed request, mingling—in that strange complexity of motives +which is found so much oftener in a woman’s mind than in a man’s—with +her jealous distrust of the impression which Magdalen had produced on +her master. + +“May I make a request, sir?” asked Mrs. Lecount, after waiting a moment +to catch any fragments of tenderly-personal talk that might reach her, +and after being again neatly baffled by Magdalen—thanks to the +camp-stool. “Mr. Bygrave is one of the few persons in England who +appreciate my husband’s scientific labors. He honors me by wishing to +see my little world of reptiles. May I show it to him?” + +“By all means, Lecount,” said Noel Vanstone, graciously. “You are an +excellent creature, and I like to oblige you. Lecount’s Tank, Mr. +Bygrave, is the only Tank in England—Lecount’s Toad is the oldest Toad +in the world. Will you come and drink tea at seven o’clock to-night? +And will you prevail on Miss Bygrave to accompany you? I want her to +see my house. I don’t think she has any idea what a strong house it is. +Come and survey my premises, Miss Bygrave. You shall have a stick and +rap on the walls; you shall go upstairs and stamp on the floors, and +then you shall hear what it all cost.” His eyes wrinkled up cunningly +at the corners, and he slipped another tender speech into Magdalen’s +ear, under cover of the all-predominating voice in which Captain Wragge +thanked him for the invitation. “Come punctually at seven,” he +whispered, “and pray wear that charming hat!” + +Mrs. Lecount’s lips closed ominously. She set down the captain’s niece +as a very serious drawback to the intellectual luxury of the captain’s +society. + +“You are fatiguing yourself, sir,” she said to her master. “This is one +of your bad days. Let me recommend you to be careful; let me beg you to +walk back.” + +Having carried his point by inviting the new acquaintances to tea, Noel +Vanstone proved to be unexpectedly docile. He acknowledged that he was +a little fatigued, and turned back at once in obedience to the +housekeeper’s advice. + +“Take my arm, sir—take my arm on the other side,” said Captain Wragge, +as they turned to retrace their steps. His party-colored eyes looked +significantly at Magdalen while he spoke, and warned her not to stretch +Mrs. Lecount’s endurance too far at starting. She instantly understood +him; and, in spite of Noel Vanstone’s reiterated assertions that he +stood in no need of the captain’s arm, placed herself at once by the +housekeeper’s side. Mrs. Lecount recovered her good-humor, and opened +another conversation with Magdalen by making the one inquiry of all +others which, under existing circumstances, was the hardest to answer. + +“I presume Mrs. Bygrave is too tired, after her journey, to come out +to-day?” said Mrs. Lecount. “Shall we have the pleasure of seeing her +tomorrow?” + +“Probably not,” replied Magdalen. “My aunt is in delicate health.” + +“A complicated case, my dear madam,” added the captain; conscious that +Mrs. Wragge’s personal appearance (if she happened to be seen by +accident) would offer the flattest of all possible contradictions to +what Magdalen had just said of her. “There is some remote nervous +mischief which doesn’t express itself externally. You would think my +wife the picture of health if you looked at her, and yet, so delusive +are appearances, I am obliged to forbid her all excitement. She sees no +society—our medical attendant, I regret to say, absolutely prohibits +it.” + +“Very sad,” said Mrs. Lecount. “The poor lady must often feel lonely, +sir, when you and your niece are away from her?” + +“No,” replied the captain. “Mrs. Bygrave is a naturally domestic woman. +When she is able to employ herself, she finds unlimited resources in +her needle and thread.” Having reached this stage of the explanation, +and having purposely skirted, as it were, round the confines of truth, +in the event of the housekeeper’s curiosity leading her to make any +private inquiries on the subject of Mrs. Wragge, the captain wisely +checked his fluent tongue from carrying him into any further details. +“I have great hope from the air of this place,” he remarked, in +conclusion. “The Iodine, as I have already observed, does wonders.” + +Mrs. Lecount acknowledged the virtues of Iodine, in the briefest +possible form of words, and withdrew into the innermost sanctuary of +her own thoughts. “Some mystery here,” said the housekeeper to herself. +“A lady who looks the picture of health; a lady who suffers from a +complicated nervous malady; and a lady whose hand is steady enough to +use her needle and thread—is a living mass of contradictions I don’t +quite understand. Do you make a long stay at Aldborough, sir?” she +added aloud, her eyes resting for a moment, in steady scrutiny, on the +captain’s face. + +“It all depends, my dear madam, on Mrs. Bygrave. I trust we shall stay +through the autumn. You are settled at Sea-view Cottage, I presume, for +the season?” + +“You must ask my master, sir. It is for him to decide, not for me.” + +The answer was an unfortunate one. Noel Vanstone had been secretly +annoyed by the change in the walking arrangements, which had separated +him from Magdalen. He attributed that change to the meddling influence +of Mrs. Lecount, and he now took the earliest opportunity of resenting +it on the spot. + +“I have nothing to do with our stay at Aldborough,” he broke out, +peevishly. “You know as well as I do, Lecount, it all depends on _you_. +Mrs. Lecount has a brother in Switzerland,” he went on, addressing +himself to the captain—“a brother who is seriously ill. If he gets +worse, she will have to go there to see him. I can’t accompany her, and +I can’t be left in the house by myself. I shall have to break up my +establishment at Aldborough, and stay with some friends. It all depends +on you, Lecount—or on your brother, which comes to the same thing. If +it depended on _me_,” continued Mr. Noel Vanstone, looking pointedly at +Magdalen across the housekeeper, “I should stay at Aldborough all +through the autumn with the greatest pleasure. With the greatest +pleasure,” he reiterated, repeating the words with a tender look for +Magdalen, and a spiteful accent for Mrs. Lecount. + +Thus far Captain Wragge had remained silent; carefully noting in his +mind the promising possibilities of a separation between Mrs. Lecount +and her master which Noel Vanstone’s little fretful outbreak had just +disclosed to him. An ominous trembling in the housekeeper’s thin lips, +as her master openly exposed her family affairs before strangers, and +openly set her jealously at defiance, now warned him to interfere. If +the misunderstanding were permitted to proceed to extremities, there +was a chance that the invitation for that evening to Sea-view Cottage +might be put off. Now, as ever, equal to the occasion, Captain Wragge +called his useful information once more to the rescue. Under the +learned auspices of Joyce, he plunged, for the third time, into the +ocean of science, and brought up another pearl. He was still haranguing +(on Pneumatics this time), still improving Mrs. Lecount’s mind with his +politest perseverance and his smoothest flow of language—when the +walking party stopped at Noel Vanstone’s door. + +“Bless my soul, here we are at your house, sir!” said the captain, +interrupting himself in the middle of one of his graphic sentences. “I +won’t keep you standing a moment. Not a word of apology, Mrs. Lecount, +I beg and pray! I will put that curious point in Pneumatics more +clearly before you on a future occasion. In the meantime I need only +repeat that you can perform the experiment I have just mentioned to +your own entire satisfaction with a bladder, an exhausted receiver, and +a square box. At seven o’clock this evening, sir—at seven o’clock, Mrs. +Lecount. We have had a remarkably pleasant walk, and a most instructive +interchange of ideas. Now, my dear girl, your aunt is waiting for us.” + +While Mrs. Lecount stepped aside to open the garden gate, Noel Vanstone +seized his opportunity and shot a last tender glance at Magdalen, under +shelter of the umbrella, which he had taken into his own hands for that +express purpose. “Don’t forget,” he said, with the sweetest smile; +“don’t forget, when you come this evening, to wear that charming hat!” +Before he could add any last words, Mrs. Lecount glided back to her +place, and the sheltering umbrella changed hands again immediately. + +“An excellent morning’s work!” said Captain Wragge, as he and Magdalen +walked on together to North Shingles. “You and I and Joyce have all +three done wonders. We have secured a friendly invitation at the first +day’s fishing for it.” + +He paused for an answer; and, receiving none, observed Magdalen more +attentively than he had observed her yet. Her face had turned deadly +pale again; her eyes looked out mechanically straight before her in +heedless, reckless despair. + +“What is the matter?” he asked, with the greatest surprise. “Are you +ill?” + +She made no reply; she hardly seemed to hear him. + +“Are you getting alarmed about Mrs. Lecount?” he inquired next. “There +is not the least reason for alarm. She may fancy she has heard +something like your voice before, but your face evidently bewilders +her. Keep your temper, and you keep her in the dark. Keep her in the +dark, and you will put that two hundred pounds into my hands before the +autumn is over.” + +He waited again for an answer, and again she remained silent. The +captain tried for the third time in another direction. + +“Did you get any letters this morning?” he went on. “Is there bad news +again from home? Any fresh difficulties with your sister?” + +“Say nothing about my sister!” she broke out passionately. “Neither you +nor I are fit to speak of her.” + +She said those words at the garden-gate, and hurried into the house by +herself. He followed her, and heard the door of her own room violently +shut to, violently locked and double-locked. Solacing his indignation +by an oath, Captain Wragge sullenly went into one of the parlors on the +ground-floor to look after his wife. The room communicated with a +smaller and darker room at the back of the house by means of a quaint +little door with a window in the upper half of it. Softly approaching +this door, the captain lifted the white muslin curtain which hung over +the window, and looked into the inner room. + +There was Mrs. Wragge, with her cap on one side, and her shoes down at +heel; with a row of pins between her teeth; with the Oriental Cashmere +Robe slowly slipping off the table; with her scissors suspended +uncertain in one hand, and her written directions for dressmaking held +doubtfully in the other—so absorbed over the invincible difficulties of +her employment as to be perfectly unconscious that she was at that +moment the object of her husband’s superintending eye. Under other +circumstances she would have been soon brought to a sense of her +situation by the sound of his voice. But Captain Wragge was too anxious +about Magdalen to waste any time on his wife, after satisfying himself +that she was safe in her seclusion, and that she might be trusted to +remain there. + +He left the parlor, and, after a little hesitation in the passage, +stole upstairs and listened anxiously outside Magdalen’s door. A dull +sound of sobbing—a sound stifled in her handkerchief, or stifled in the +bed-clothes—was all that caught his ear. He returned at once to the +ground-floor, with some faint suspicion of the truth dawning on his +mind at last. + +“The devil take that sweetheart of hers!” thought the captain. “Mr. +Noel Vanstone has raised the ghost of him at starting.” + + + +CHAPTER V. + +When Magdalen appeared in the parlor shortly before seven o’clock, not +a trace of discomposure was visible in her manner. She looked and spoke +as quietly and unconcernedly as usual. + +The lowering distrust on Captain Wragge’s face cleared away at the +sight of her. There had been moments during the afternoon when he had +seriously doubted whether the pleasure of satisfying the grudge he owed +to Noel Vanstone, and the prospect of earning the sum of two hundred +pounds, would not be dearly purchased by running the risk of discovery +to which Magdalen’s uncertain temper might expose him at any hour of +the day. The plain proof now before him of her powers of self-control +relieved his mind of a serious anxiety. It mattered little to the +captain what she suffered in the privacy of her own chamber, as long as +she came out of it with a face that would bear inspection, and a voice +that betrayed nothing. + +On the way to Sea-view Cottage, Captain Wragge expressed his intention +of asking the housekeeper a few sympathizing questions on the subject +of her invalid brother in Switzerland. He was of opinion that the +critical condition of this gentleman’s health might exercise an +important influence on the future progress of the conspiracy. Any +chance of a separation, he remarked, between the housekeeper and her +master was, under existing circumstances, a chance which merited the +closest investigation. “If we can only get Mrs. Lecount out of the way +at the right time,” whispered the captain, as he opened his host’s +garden gate, “our man is caught!” + +In a minute more Magdalen was again under Noel Vanstone’s roof; this +time in the character of his own invited guest. + +The proceedings of the evening were for the most part a repetition of +the proceedings during the morning walk. Noel Vanstone vibrated between +his admiration of Magdalen’s beauty and his glorification of his own +possessions. Captain Wragge’s inexhaustible outbursts of +information—relieved by delicately-indirect inquiries relating to Mrs. +Lecount’s brother—perpetually diverted the housekeeper’s jealous +vigilance from dwelling on the looks and language of her master. So the +evening passed until ten o’clock. By that time the captain’s ready-made +science was exhausted, and the housekeeper’s temper was forcing its way +to the surface. Once more Captain Wragge warned Magdalen by a look, +and, in spite of Noel Vanstone’s hospitable protest, wisely rose to say +good-night. + +“I have got my information,” remarked the captain on the way back. +“Mrs. Lecount’s brother lives at Zurich. He is a bachelor; he possesses +a little money, and his sister is his nearest relation. If he will only +be so obliging as to break up altogether, he will save us a world of +trouble with Mrs. Lecount.” + +It was a fine moonlight night. He looked round at Magdalen, as he said +those words, to see if her intractable depression of spirits had seized +on her again. + +No! her variable humor had changed once more. She looked about her with +a flaunting, feverish gayety; she scoffed at the bare idea of any +serious difficulty with Mrs. Lecount; she mimicked Noel Vanstone’s +high-pitched voice, and repeated Noel Vanstone’s high-flown +compliments, with a bitter enjoyment of turning him into ridicule. +Instead of running into the house as before, she sauntered carelessly +by her companion’s side, humming little snatches of song, and kicking +the loose pebbles right and left on the garden-walk. Captain Wragge +hailed the change in her as the best of good omens. He thought he saw +plain signs that the family spirit was at last coming back again. + +“Well,” he said, as he lit her bedroom candle for her, “when we all +meet on the Parade tomorrow, we shall see, as our nautical friends say, +how the land lies. One thing I can tell you, my dear girl—I have used +my eyes to very little purpose if there is not a storm brewing tonight +in Mr. Noel Vanstone’s domestic atmosphere.” + +The captain’s habitual penetration had not misled him. As soon as the +door of Sea-view Cottage was closed on the parting guests, Mrs. Lecount +made an effort to assert the authority which Magdalen’s influence was +threatening already. + +She employed every artifice of which she was mistress to ascertain +Magdalen’s true position in Noel Vanstone’s estimation. She tried again +and again to lure him into an unconscious confession of the pleasure +which he felt already in the society of the beautiful Miss Bygrave; she +twined herself in and out of every weakness in his character, as the +frogs and efts twined themselves in and out of the rock-work of her +Aquarium. But she made one serious mistake which very clever people in +their intercourse with their intellectual inferiors are almost +universally apt to commit—she trusted implicitly to the folly of a +fool. She forgot that one of the lowest of human qualities—cunning—is +exactly the capacity which is often most largely developed in the +lowest of intellectual natures. If she had been honestly angry with her +master, she would probably have frightened him. If she had opened her +mind plainly to his view, she would have astonished him by presenting a +chain of ideas to his limited perceptions which they were not strong +enough to grasp; his curiosity would have led him to ask for an +explanation; and by practicing on that curiosity, she might have had +him at her mercy. As it was, she set her cunning against his, and the +fool proved a match for her. Noel Vanstone, to whom all large-minded +motives under heaven were inscrutable mysteries, saw the small-minded +motive at the bottom of his housekeeper’s conduct with as instantaneous +a penetration as if he had been a man of the highest ability. Mrs. +Lecount left him for the night, foiled, and knowing she was foiled—left +him, with the tigerish side of her uppermost, and a low-lived longing +in her elegant finger-nails to set them in her master’s face. + +She was not a woman to be beaten by one defeat or by a hundred. She was +positively determined to think, and think again, until she had found a +means of checking the growing intimacy with the Bygraves at once and +forever. In the solitude of her own room she recovered her composure, +and set herself for the first time to review the conclusions which she +had gathered from the events of the day. + +There was something vaguely familiar to her in the voice of this Miss +Bygrave, and, at the same time, in unaccountable contradiction, +something strange to her as well. The face and figure of the young lady +were entirely new to her. It was a striking face, and a striking +figure; and if she had seen either at any former period, she would +certainly have remembered it. Miss Bygrave was unquestionably a +stranger; and yet— + +She had got no further than this during the day; she could get no +further now: the chain of thought broke. Her mind took up the +fragments, and formed another chain which attached itself to the lady +who was kept in seclusion—to the aunt, who looked well, and yet was +nervous; who was nervous, and yet able to ply her needle and thread. An +incomprehensible resemblance to some unremembered voice in the niece; +an unintelligible malady which kept the aunt secluded from public view; +an extraordinary range of scientific cultivation in the uncle, +associated with a coarseness and audacity of manner which by no means +suggested the idea of a man engaged in studious pursuits—were the +members of this small family of three what they seemed on the surface +of them? + +With that question on her mind, she went to bed. + +As soon as the candle was out, the darkness seemed to communicate some +inexplicable perversity to her thoughts. They wandered back from +present things to past, in spite of her. They brought her old master +back to life again; they revived forgotten sayings and doings in the +English circle at Zurich; they veered away to the old man’s death-bed +at Brighton; they moved from Brighton to London; they entered the bare, +comfortless room at Vauxhall Walk; they set the Aquarium back in its +place on the kitchen table, and put the false Miss Garth in the chair +by the side of it, shading her inflamed eyes from the light; they +placed the anonymous letter, the letter which glanced darkly at a +conspiracy, in her hand again, and brought her with it into her +master’s presence; they recalled the discussion about filling in the +blank space in the advertisement, and the quarrel that followed when +she told Noel Vanstone that the sum he had offered was preposterously +small; they revived an old doubt which had not troubled her for weeks +past—a doubt whether the threatened conspiracy had evaporated in mere +words, or whether she and her master were likely to hear of it again. +At this point her thoughts broke off once more, and there was a +momentary blank. The next instant she started up in bed; her heart +beating violently, her head whirling as if she had lost her senses. +With electric suddenness her mind pieced together its scattered +multitude of thoughts, and put them before her plainly under one +intelligible form. In the all-mastering agitation of the moment, she +clapped her hands together, and cried out suddenly in the darkness: + +“Miss Vanstone again!!!” + +She got out of bed and kindled the light once more. Steady as her +nerves were, the shock of her own suspicion had shaken them. Her firm +hand trembled as she opened her dressing-case and took from it a little +bottle of sal-volatile. In spite of her smooth cheeks and her +well-preserved hair, she looked every year of her age as she mixed the +spirit with water, greedily drank it, and, wrapping her dressing-gown +round her, sat down on the bedside to get possession again of her +calmer self. + +She was quite incapable of tracing the mental process which had led her +to discovery. She could not get sufficiently far from herself to see +that her half-formed conclusions on the subject of the Bygraves had +ended in making that family objects of suspicion to her; that the +association of ideas had thereupon carried her mind back to that other +object of suspicion which was represented by the conspiracy against her +master; and that the two ideas of those two separate subjects of +distrust, coming suddenly in contact, had struck the light. She was not +able to reason back in this way from the effect to the cause. She could +only feel that the suspicion had become more than a suspicion already: +conviction itself could not have been more firmly rooted in her mind. + +Looking back at Magdalen by the new light now thrown on her, Mrs. +Lecount would fain have persuaded herself that she recognized some +traces left of the false Miss Garth’s face and figure in the graceful +and beautiful girl who had sat at her master’s table hardly an hour +since—that she found resemblances now, which she had never thought of +before, between the angry voice she had heard in Vauxhall Walk and the +smooth, well-bred tones which still hung on her ears after the +evening’s experience downstairs. She would fain have persuaded herself +that she had reached these results with no undue straining of the truth +as she really knew it, but the effort was in vain. + +Mrs. Lecount was not a woman to waste time and thought in trying to +impose on herself. She accepted the inevitable conclusion that the +guesswork of a moment had led her to discovery. And, more than that, +she recognized the plain truth—unwelcome as it was—that the conviction +now fixed in her own mind was thus far unsupported by a single fragment +of producible evidence to justify it to the minds of others. + +Under these circumstances, what was the safe course to take with her +master? + +If she candidly told him, when they met the next morning, what had +passed through her mind that night, her knowledge of Noel Vanstone +warned her that one of two results would certainly happen. Either he +would be angry and disputatious; would ask for proofs; and, finding +none forthcoming, would accuse her of alarming him without a cause, to +serve her own jealous end of keeping Magdalen out of the house; or he +would be seriously startled, would clamor for the protection of the +law, and would warn the Bygraves to stand on their defense at the +outset. If Magdalen only had been concerned in the plot this latter +consequence would have assumed no great importance in the housekeeper’s +mind. But seeing the deception as she now saw it, she was far too +clever a woman to fail in estimating the captain’s inexhaustible +fertility of resource at its true value. “If I can’t meet this impudent +villain with plain proofs to help me,” thought Mrs. Lecount, “I may +open my master’s eyes to-morrow morning, and Mr. Bygrave will shut them +up again before night. The rascal is playing with all his own cards +under the table, and he will win the game to a certainty, if he sees my +hand at starting.” + +This policy of waiting was so manifestly the wise policy—the wily Mr. +Bygrave was so sure to have provided himself, in case of emergency, +with evidence to prove the identity which he and his niece had assumed +for their purpose—that Mrs. Lecount at once decided to keep her own +counsel the next morning, and to pause before attacking the conspiracy +until she could produce unanswerable facts to help her. Her master’s +acquaintance with the Bygraves was only an acquaintance of one day’s +standing. There was no fear of its developing into a dangerous intimacy +if she merely allowed it to continue for a few days more, and if she +permanently checked it, at the latest, in a week’s time. + +In that period what measures could she take to remove the obstacles +which now stood in her way, and to provide herself with the weapons +which she now wanted? + +Reflection showed her three different chances in her favor—three +different ways of arriving at the necessary discovery. + +The first chance was to cultivate friendly terms with Magdalen, and +then, taking her unawares, to entrap her into betraying herself in Noel +Vanstone’s presence. The second chance was to write to the elder Miss +Vanstone, and to ask (with some alarming reason for putting the +question) for information on the subject of her younger sister’s +whereabouts, and of any peculiarities in her personal appearance which +might enable a stranger to identify her. The third chance was to +penetrate the mystery of Mrs. Bygrave’s seclusion, and to ascertain at +a personal interview whether the invalid lady’s real complaint might +not possibly be a defective capacity for keeping her husband’s secrets. +Resolving to try all three chances, in the order in which they are here +enumerated, and to set her snares for Magdalen on the day that was now +already at hand, Mrs. Lecount at last took off her dressing-gown and +allowed her weaker nature to plead with her for a little sleep. + +The dawn was breaking over the cold gray sea as she lay down in her bed +again. The last idea in her mind before she fell asleep was +characteristic of the woman—it was an idea that threatened the captain. +“He has trifled with the sacred memory of my husband,” thought the +Professor’s widow. “On my life and honor, I will make him pay for it.” + +Early the next morning Magdalen began the day, according to her +agreement with the captain, by taking Mrs. Wragge out for a little +exercise at an hour when there was no fear of her attracting the public +attention. She pleaded hard to be left at home; having the Oriental +Cashmere Robe still on her mind, and feeling it necessary to read her +directions for dressmaking, for the hundredth time at least, before (to +use her own expression) she could “screw up her courage to put the +scissors into the stuff.” But her companion would take no denial, and +she was forced to go out. The one guileless purpose of the life which +Magdalen now led was the resolution that poor Mrs. Wragge should not be +made a prisoner on her account; and to that resolution she mechanically +clung, as the last token left her by which she knew her better-self. + +They returned later than usual to breakfast. While Mrs. Wragge was +upstairs, straightening herself from head to foot to meet the morning +inspection of her husband’s orderly eye; and while Magdalen and the +captain were waiting for her in the parlor, the servant came in with a +note from Sea-view Cottage. The messenger was waiting for an answer, +and the note was addressed to Captain Wragge. + +The captain opened the note and read these lines: + +“DEAR SIR, + Mr. Noel Vanstone desires me to write and tell you that he proposes + enjoying this fine day by taking a long drive to a place on the + coast here called Dunwich. He is anxious to know if you will share + the expense of a carriage, and give him the pleasure of your + company and Miss Bygrave’s company on this excursion. I am kindly + permitted to be one of the party; and if I may say so without + impropriety, I would venture to add that I shall feel as much + pleasure as my master if you and your young lady will consent to + join us. We propose leaving Aldborough punctually at eleven + o’clock. + + +“Believe me, dear sir, +“your humble servant, +“VIRGINIE LECOUNT.” + + +“Who is the letter from?” asked Magdalen, noticing a change in Captain +Wragge’s face as he read it. “What do they want with us at Sea-view +Cottage?” + +“Pardon me,” said the captain, gravely, “this requires consideration. +Let me have a minute or two to think.” + +He took a few turns up and down the room, then suddenly stepped aside +to a table in a corner on which his writing materials were placed. “I +was not born yesterday, ma’am!” said the captain, speaking jocosely to +himself. He winked his brown eye, took up his pen, and wrote the +answer. + +“Can you speak now?” inquired Magdalen, when the servant had left the +room. “What does that letter say, and how have you answered it?” + +The captain placed the letter in her hand. “I have accepted the +invitation,” he replied, quietly. + +Magdalen read the letter. “Hidden enmity yesterday,” she said, “and +open friendship to-day. What does it mean?” + +“It means,” said Captain Wragge, “that Mrs. Lecount is even sharper +than I thought her. She has found you out.” + +“Impossible,” cried Magdalen. “Quite impossible in the time.” + +“I can’t say _how_ she has found you out,” proceeded the captain, with +perfect composure. “She may know more of your voice than we supposed +she knew. Or she may have thought us, on reflection, rather a +suspicious family; and anything suspicious in which a woman was +concerned may have taken her mind back to that morning call of yours in +Vauxhall Walk. Whichever way it may be, the meaning of this sudden +change is clear enough. She has found you out; and she wants to put her +discovery to the proof by slipping in an awkward question or two, under +cover of a little friendly talk. My experience of humanity has been a +varied one, and Mrs. Lecount is not the first sharp practitioner in +petticoats whom I have had to deal with. All the world’s a stage, my +dear girl, and one of the scenes on our little stage is shut in from +this moment.” + +With those words he took his copy of Joyce’s Scientific Dialogues out +of his pocket. “You’re done with already, my friend!” said the captain, +giving his useful information a farewell smack with his hand, and +locking it up in the cupboard. “Such is human popularity!” continued +the indomitable vagabond, putting the key cheerfully in his pocket. +“Yesterday Joyce was my all-in-all. To-day I don’t care that for him!” +He snapped his fingers and sat down to breakfast. + +“I don’t understand you,” said Magdalen, looking at him angrily. “Are +you leaving me to my own resources for the future?” + +“My dear girl!” cried Captain Wragge, “can’t you accustom yourself to +my dash of humor yet? I have done with my ready-made science simply +because I am quite sure that Mrs. Lecount has done believing in me. +Haven’t I accepted the invitation to Dunwich? Make your mind easy. The +help I have given you already counts for nothing compared with the help +I am going to give you now. My honor is concerned in bowling out Mrs. +Lecount. This last move of hers has made it a personal matter between +us. _The woman actually thinks she can take me in!!!_” cried the +captain, striking his knife-handle on the table in a transport of +virtuous indignation. “By heavens, I never was so insulted before in my +life! Draw your chair in to the table, my dear, and give me half a +minute’s attention to what I have to say next.” + +Magdalen obeyed him. Captain Wragge cautiously lowered his voice before +he went on. + +“I have told you all along,” he said, “the one thing needful is never +to let Mrs. Lecount catch you with your wits wool-gathering. I say the +same after what has happened this morning. Let her suspect you! I defy +her to find a fragment of foundation for her suspicions, unless we help +her. We shall see to-day if she has been foolish enough to betray +herself to her master before she has any facts to support her. I doubt +it. If she has told him, we will rain down proofs of our identity with +the Bygraves on his feeble little head till it absolutely aches with +conviction. You have two things to do on this excursion. First, to +distrust every word Mrs. Lecount says to you. Secondly, to exert all +your fascinations, and make sure of Mr. Noel Vanstone, dating from +to-day. I will give you the opportunity when we leave the carriage and +take our walk at Dunwich. Wear your hat, wear your smile; do your +figure justice, lace tight; put on your neatest boots and brightest +gloves; tie the miserable little wretch to your apron-string—tie him +fast; and leave the whole management of the matter after that to me. +Steady! here is Mrs. Wragge: we must be doubly careful in looking after +her now. Show me your cap, Mrs. Wragge! show me your shoes! What do I +see on your apron? A spot? I won’t have spots! Take it off after +breakfast, and put on another. Pull your chair to the middle of the +table—more to the left—more still. Make the breakfast.” + +At a quarter before eleven Mrs. Wragge (with her own entire +concurrence) was dismissed to the back room, to bewilder herself over +the science of dressmaking for the rest of the day. Punctually as the +clock struck the hour, Mrs. Lecount and her master drove up to the gate +of North Shingles, and found Magdalen and Captain Wragge waiting for +them in the garden. + +On the way to Dunwich nothing occurred to disturb the enjoyment of the +drive. Noel Vanstone was in excellent health and high good-humor. +Lecount had apologized for the little misunderstanding of the previous +night; Lecount had petitioned for the excursion as a treat to herself. +He thought of these concessions, and looked at Magdalen, and smirked +and simpered without intermission. Mrs. Lecount acted her part to +perfection. She was motherly with Magdalen and tenderly attentive to +Noel Vanstone. She was deeply interested in Captain Wragge’s +conversation, and meekly disappointed to find it turn on general +subjects, to the exclusion of science. Not a word or look escaped her +which hinted in the remotest degree at her real purpose. She was +dressed with her customary elegance and propriety; and she was the only +one of the party on that sultry summer’s day who was perfectly cool in +the hottest part of the journey. + +As they left the carriage on their arrival at Dunwich, the captain +seized a moment when Mrs. Lecount’s eye was off him and fortified +Magdalen by a last warning word. + +“‘Ware the cat!” he whispered. “She will show her claws on the way +back.” + +They left the village and walked to the ruins of a convent near at +hand—the last relic of the once populous city of Dunwich which has +survived the destruction of the place, centuries since, by the +all-devouring sea. After looking at the ruins, they sought the shade of +a little wood between the village and the low sand-hills which overlook +the German Ocean. Here Captain Wragge maneuvered so as to let Magdalen +and Noel Vanstone advance some distance in front of Mrs. Lecount and +himself, took the wrong path, and immediately lost his way with the +most consummate dexterity. After a few minutes’ wandering (in the wrong +direction), he reached an open space near the sea; and politely opening +his camp-stool for the housekeeper’s accommodation, proposed waiting +where they were until the missing members of the party came that way +and discovered them. + +Mrs. Lecount accepted the proposal. She was perfectly well aware that +her escort had lost himself on purpose, but that discovery exercised no +disturbing influence on the smooth amiability of her manner. Her day of +reckoning with the captain had not come yet—she merely added the new +item to her list, and availed herself of the camp-stool. Captain Wragge +stretched himself in a romantic attitude at her feet, and the two +determined enemies (grouped like two lovers in a picture) fell into as +easy and pleasant a conversation as if they had been friends of twenty +years’ standing. + +“I know you, ma’am!” thought the captain, while Mrs. Lecount was +talking to him. “You would like to catch me tripping in my ready-made +science, and you wouldn’t object to drown me in the Professor’s Tank!” + +“You villain with the brown eye and the green!” thought Mrs. Lecount, +as the captain caught the ball of conversation in his turn; “thick as +your skin is, I’ll sting you through it yet!” + +In this frame of mind toward each other they talked fluently on general +subjects, on public affairs, on local scenery, on society in England +and society in Switzerland, on health, climate, books, marriage and +money—talked, without a moment’s pause, without a single +misunderstanding on either side for nearly an hour, before Magdalen and +Noel Vanstone strayed that way and made the party of four complete +again. + +When they reached the inn at which the carriage was waiting for them, +Captain Wragge left Mrs. Lecount in undisturbed possession of her +master, and signed to Magdalen to drop back for a moment and speak to +him. + +“Well?” asked the captain, in a whisper, “is he fast to your +apron-string?” + +She shuddered from head to foot as she answered. + +“He has kissed my hand,” she said. “Does that tell you enough? Don’t +let him sit next me on the way home! I have borne all I can bear—spare +me for the rest of the day.” + +“I’ll put you on the front seat of the carriage,” replied the captain, +“side by side with me.” + +On the journey back Mrs. Lecount verified Captain Wragge’s prediction. +She showed her claws. + +The time could not have been better chosen; the circumstances could +hardly have favored her more. Magdalen’s spirits were depressed: she +was weary in body and mind; and she sat exactly opposite the +housekeeper, who had been compelled, by the new arrangement, to occupy +the seat of honor next her master. With every facility for observing +the slightest changes that passed over Magdalen’s face, Mrs. Lecount +tried her first experiment by leading the conversation to the subject +of London, and to the relative advantages offered to residents by the +various quarters of the metropolis on both sides of the river. The +ever-ready Wragge penetrated her intention sooner than she had +anticipated, and interposed immediately. “You’re coming to Vauxhall +Walk, ma’am,” thought the captain; “I’ll get there before you.” + +He entered at once into a purely fictitious description of the various +quarters of London in which he had himself resided; and, adroitly +mentioning Vauxhall Walk as one of them, saved Magdalen from the sudden +question relating to that very locality with which Mrs. Lecount had +proposed startling her, to begin with. From his residences he passed +smoothly to himself, and poured his whole family history (in the +character of Mr. Bygrave) into the housekeeper’s ears—not forgetting +his brother’s grave in Honduras, with the monument by the self-taught +negro artist, and his brother’s hugely corpulent widow, on the +ground-floor of the boarding-house at Cheltenham. As a means of giving +Magdalen time to compose herself, this outburst of autobiographical +information attained its object, but it answered no other purpose. Mrs. +Lecount listened, without being imposed on by a single word the captain +said to her. He merely confirmed her conviction of the hopelessness of +taking Noel Vanstone into her confidence before she had facts to help +her against Captain Wragge’s otherwise unassailable position in the +identity which he had assumed. She quietly waited until he had done, +and then returned to the charge. + +“It is a coincidence that your uncle should have once resided in +Vauxhall Walk,” she said, addressing herself to Magdalen. “Mr. Noel has +a house in the same place, and we lived there before we came to +Aldborough. May I inquire, Miss Bygrave, whether you know anything of a +lady named Miss Garth?” + +This time she put the question before the captain could interfere. +Magdalen ought to have been prepared for it by what had already passed +in her presence, but her nerves had been shaken by the earlier events +of the day; and she could only answer the question in the negative, +after an instant’s preliminary pause to control herself. Her hesitation +was of too momentary a nature to attract the attention of any +unsuspicious person. But it lasted long enough to confirm Mrs. +Lecount’s private convictions, and to encourage her to advance a little +further. + +“I only asked,” she continued, steadily fixing her eyes on Magdalen, +steadily disregarding the efforts which Captain Wragge made to join in +the conversation, “because Miss Garth is a stranger to me, and I am +curious to find out what I can about her. The day before we left town, +Miss Bygrave, a person who presented herself under the name I have +mentioned paid us a visit under very extraordinary circumstances.” + +With a smooth, ingratiating manner, with a refinement of contempt which +was little less than devilish in its ingenious assumption of the +language of pity, she now boldly described Magdalen’s appearance in +disguise in Magdalen’s own presence. She slightingly referred to the +master and mistress of Combe-Raven as persons who had always annoyed +the elder and more respectable branch of the family; she mourned over +the children as following their parents’ example, and attempting to +take a mercenary advantage of Mr. Noel Vanstone, under the protection +of a respectable person’s character and a respectable person’s name. +Cleverly including her master in the conversation, so as to prevent the +captain from effecting a diversion in that quarter; sparing no petty +aggravation; striking at every tender place which the tongue of a +spiteful woman can wound, she would, beyond all doubt, have carried her +point, and tortured Magdalen into openly betraying herself, if Captain +Wragge had not checked her in full career by a loud exclamation of +alarm, and a sudden clutch at Magdalen’s wrist. + +“Ten thousand pardons, my dear madam!” cried the captain. “I see in my +niece’s face, I feel in my niece’s pulse, that one of her violent +neuralgic attacks has come on again. My dear girl, why hesitate among +friends to confess that you are in pain? What mistimed politeness! Her +face shows she is suffering—doesn’t it Mrs. Lecount? Darting pains, Mr. +Vanstone, darting pains on the left side of the head. Pull down your +veil, my dear, and lean on me. Our friends will excuse you; our +excellent friends will excuse you for the rest of the day.” + +Before Mrs. Lecount could throw an instant’s doubt on the genuineness +of the neuralgic attack, her master’s fidgety sympathy declared itself +exactly as the captain had anticipated, in the most active +manifestations. He stopped the carriage, and insisted on an immediate +change in the arrangement of the places—the comfortable back seat for +Miss Bygrave and her uncle, the front seat for Lecount and himself. Had +Lecount got her smelling-bottle? Excellent creature! let her give it +directly to Miss Bygrave, and let the coachman drive carefully. If the +coachman shook Miss Bygrave he should not have a half-penny for +himself. Mesmerism was frequently useful in these cases. Mr. Noel +Vanstone’s father had been the most powerful mesmerist in Europe, and +Mr. Noel Vanstone was his father’s son. Might he mesmerize? Might he +order that infernal coachman to draw up in a shady place adapted for +the purpose? Would medical help be preferred? Could medical help be +found any nearer than Aldborough? That ass of a coachman didn’t know. +Stop every respectable man who passed in a gig, and ask him if he was a +doctor! So Mr. Noel Vanstone ran on, with brief intervals for +breathing-time, in a continually-ascending scale of sympathy and +self-importance, throughout the drive home. + +Mrs. Lecount accepted her defeat without uttering a word. From the +moment when Captain Wragge interrupted her, her thin lips closed and +opened no more for the remainder of the journey. The warmest +expressions of her master’s anxiety for the suffering young lady +provoked from her no outward manifestations of anger. She took as +little notice of him as possible. She paid no attention whatever to the +captain, whose exasperating consideration for his vanquished enemy made +him more polite to her than ever. The nearer and the nearer they got to +Aldborough the more and more fixedly Mrs. Lecount’s hard black eyes +looked at Magdalen reclining on the opposite seat, with her eyes closed +and her veil down. + +It was only when the carriage stopped at North Shingles, and when +Captain Wragge was handing Magdalen out, that the housekeeper at last +condescended to notice him. As he smiled and took off his hat at the +carriage door, the strong restraint she had laid on herself suddenly +gave way, and she flashed one look at him which scorched up the +captain’s politeness on the spot. He turned at once, with a hasty +acknowledgment of Noel Vanstone’s last sympathetic inquiries, and took +Magdalen into the house. “I told you she would show her claws,” he +said. “It is not my fault that she scratched you before I could stop +her. She hasn’t hurt you, has she?” + +“She has hurt me, to some purpose,” said Magdalen—“she has given me the +courage to go on. Say what must be done to-morrow, and trust me to do +it.” She sighed heavily as she said those words, and went up to her +room. + +Captain Wragge walked meditatively into the parlor, and sat down to +consider. He felt by no means so certain as he could have wished of the +next proceeding on the part of the enemy after the defeat of that day. +The housekeeper’s farewell look had plainly informed him that she was +not at the end of her resources yet, and the old militia-man felt the +full importance of preparing himself in good time to meet the next step +which she took in advance. He lit a cigar, and bent his wary mind on +the dangers of the future. + +While Captain Wragge was considering in the parlor at North Shingles, +Mrs. Lecount was meditating in her bedroom at Sea View. Her +exasperation at the failure of her first attempt to expose the +conspiracy had not blinded her to the instant necessity of making a +second effort before Noel Vanstone’s growing infatuation got beyond her +control. The snare set for Magdalen having failed, the chance of +entrapping Magdalen’s sister was the next chance to try. Mrs. Lecount +ordered a cup of tea, opened her writing-case, and began the rough +draft of a letter to be sent to Miss Vanstone, the elder, by the +morrow’s post. + +So the day’s skirmish ended. The heat of the battle was yet to come. + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +All human penetration has its limits. Accurately as Captain Wragge had +seen his way hitherto, even his sharp insight was now at fault. He +finished his cigar with the mortifying conviction that he was totally +unprepared for Mrs. Lecount’s next proceeding. In this emergency, his +experience warned him that there was one safe course, and one only, +which he could take. He resolved to try the confusing effect on the +housekeeper of a complete change of tactics before she had time to +press her advantage and attack him in the dark. With this view he sent +the servant upstairs to request that Miss Bygrave would come down and +speak to him. + +“I hope I don’t disturb you,” said the captain, when Magdalen entered +the room. “Allow me to apologize for the smell of tobacco, and to say +two words on the subject of our next proceedings. To put it with my +customary frankness, Mrs. Lecount puzzles me, and I propose to return +the compliment by puzzling her. The course of action which I have to +suggest is a very simple one. I have had the honor of giving you a +severe neuralgic attack already, and I beg your permission (when Mr. +Noel Vanstone sends to inquire to-morrow morning) to take the further +liberty of laying you up altogether. Question from Sea-view Cottage: +‘How is Miss Bygrave this morning?’ Answer from North Shingles: ‘Much +worse: Miss Bygrave is confined to her room.’ Question repeated every +day, say for a fortnight: ‘How is Miss Bygrave?’ Answer repeated, if +necessary, for the same time: ‘No better.’ Can you bear the +imprisonment? I see no objection to your getting a breath of fresh air +the first thing in the morning, or the last thing at night. But for the +whole of the day, there is no disguising it, you must put yourself in +the same category with Mrs. Wragge—you must keep your room.” + +“What is your object in wishing me to do this?” inquired Magdalen. + +“My object is twofold,” replied the captain. “I blush for my own +stupidity; but the fact is, I can’t see my way plainly to Mrs. +Lecount’s next move. All I feel sure of is, that she means to make +another attempt at opening her master’s eyes to the truth. Whatever +means she may employ to discover your identity, personal communication +with you _must_ be necessary to the accomplishment of her object. Very +good. If I stop that communication, I put an obstacle in her way at +starting—or, as we say at cards, I force her hand. Do you see the +point?” + +Magdalen saw it plainly. The captain went on. + +“My second reason for shutting you up,” he said, “refers entirely to +Mrs. Lecount’s master. The growth of love, my dear girl, is, in one +respect, unlike all other growths—it flourishes under adverse +circumstances. Our first course of action is to make Mr. Noel Vanstone +feel the charm of your society. Our next is to drive him distracted by +the loss of it. I should have proposed a few more meetings, with a view +to furthering this end, but for our present critical position toward +Mrs. Lecount. As it is, we must trust to the effect you produced +yesterday, and try the experiment of a sudden separation rather sooner +than I could have otherwise wished. I shall see Mr. Noel Vanstone, +though you don’t; and if there _is_ a raw place established anywhere +about the region of that gentleman’s heart, trust me to hit him on it! +You are now in full possession of my views. Take your time to consider, +and give me your answer—Yes or no.” + +“Any change is for the better,” said Magdalen “which keeps me out of +the company of Mrs. Lecount and her master! Let it be as you wish.” + +She had hitherto answered faintly and wearily; but she spoke those last +words with a heightened tone and a rising color—signs which warned +Captain Wragge not to press her further. + +“Very good,” said the captain. “As usual, we understand each other. I +see you are tired; and I won’t detain you any longer.” + +He rose to open the door, stopped half-way to it, and came back again. +“Leave me to arrange matters with the servant downstairs,” he +continued. “You can’t absolutely keep your bed, and we must purchase +the girl’s discretion when she answers the door, without taking her +into our confidence, of course. I will make her understand that she is +to say you are ill, just as she might say you are not at home, as a way +of keeping unwelcome acquaintances out of the house. Allow me to open +the door for you—I beg your pardon, you are going into Mrs. Wragge’s +work-room instead of going to your own.” + +“I know I am,” said Magdalen. “I wish to remove Mrs. Wragge from the +miserable room she is in now, and to take her upstairs with me.” + +“For the evening?” + +“For the whole fortnight.” + +Captain Wragge followed her into the dining-room, and wisely closed the +door before he spoke again. + +“Do you seriously mean to inflict my wife’s society on yourself for a +fortnight?” he asked, in great surprise. + +“Your wife is the only innocent creature in this guilty house,” she +burst out vehemently. “I must and will have her with me!” + +“Pray don’t agitate yourself,” said the captain. “Take Mrs. Wragge, by +all means. I don’t want her.” Having resigned the partner of his +existence in those terms, he discreetly returned to the parlor. “The +weakness of the sex!” thought the captain, tapping his sagacious head. +“Lay a strain on the female intellect, and the female temper gives way +directly.” + +The strain to which the captain alluded was not confined that evening +to the female intellect at North Shingles: it extended to the female +intellect at Sea View. For nearly two hours Mrs. Lecount sat at her +desk writing, correcting, and writing again, before she could produce a +letter to Miss Vanstone, the elder, which exactly accomplished the +object she wanted to attain. At last the rough draft was completed to +her satisfaction; and she made a fair copy of it forthwith, to be +posted the next day. + +Her letter thus produced was a masterpiece of ingenuity. After the +first preliminary sentences, the housekeeper plainly informed Norah of +the appearance of the visitor in disguise at Vauxhall Walk; of the +conversation which passed at the interview; and of her own suspicion +that the person claiming to be Miss Garth was, in all probability, the +younger Miss Vanstone herself. Having told the truth thus far, Mrs. +Lecount next proceeded to say that her master was in possession of +evidence which would justify him in putting the law in force; that he +knew the conspiracy with which he was threatened to be then in process +of direction against him at Aldborough; and that he only hesitated to +protect himself in deference to family considerations, and in the hope +that the elder Miss Vanstone might so influence her sister as to render +it unnecessary to proceed to extremities. + +Under these circumstances (the letter continued) it was plainly +necessary that the disguised visitor to Vauxhall Walk should be +properly identified; for if Mrs. Lecount’s guess proved to be wrong, +and if the person turned out to be a stranger, Mr. Noel Vanstone was +positively resolved to prosecute in his own defense. Events at +Aldborough, on which it was not necessary to dwell, would enable Mrs. +Lecount in a few days to gain sight of the suspected person in her own +character. But as the housekeeper was entirely unacquainted with the +younger Miss Vanstone, it was obviously desirable that some better +informed person should, in this particular, take the matter in hand. If +the elder Miss Vanstone happened to be at liberty to come to Aldborough +herself, would she kindly write and say so? and Mrs. Lecount would +write back again to appoint a day. If, on the other hand, Miss Vanstone +was prevented from taking the journey, Mrs. Lecount suggested that her +reply should contain the fullest description of her sister’s personal +appearance—should mention any little peculiarities which might exist in +the way of marks on her face or her hands—and should state (in case she +had written lately) what the address was in her last letter, and +failing that, what the post-mark was on the envelope. With this +information to help her, Mrs. Lecount would, in the interest of the +misguided young lady herself, accept the responsibility of privately +identifying her, and would write back immediately to acquaint the elder +Miss Vanstone with the result. + +The difficulty of sending this letter to the right address gave Mrs. +Lecount very little trouble. Remembering the name of the lawyer who had +pleaded the cause of the two sisters in Michael Vanstone’s time, she +directed her letter to “Miss Vanstone, care of——Pendril, Esquire, +London.” This she inclosed in a second envelope, addressed to Mr. Noel +Vanstone’s solicitor, with a line inside, requesting that gentleman to +send it at once to the office of Mr. Pendril. + +“Now,” thought Mrs. Lecount, as she locked the letter up in her desk, +preparatory to posting it the next day with her own hand, “now I have +got her!” + +The next morning the servant from Sea View came, with her master’s +compliments, to make inquiries after Miss Bygrave’s health. Captain +Wragge’s bulletin was duly announced—Miss Bygrave was so ill as to be +confined to her room. + +On the reception of this intelligence, Noel Vanstone’s anxiety led him +to call at North Shingles himself when he went out for his afternoon +walk. Miss Bygrave was no better. He inquired if he could see Mr. +Bygrave. The worthy captain was prepared to meet this emergency. He +thought a little irritating suspense would do Noel Vanstone no harm, +and he had carefully charged the servant, in case of necessity, with +her answer: “Mr. Bygrave begged to be excused; he was not able to see +any one.” + +On the second day inquiries were made as before, by message in the +morning, and by Noel Vanstone himself in the afternoon. The morning +answer (relating to Magdalen) was, “a shade better.” The afternoon +answer (relating to Captain Wragge) was, “Mr. Bygrave has just gone +out.” That evening Noel Vanstone’s temper was very uncertain, and Mrs. +Lecount’s patience and tact were sorely tried in the effort to avoid +offending him. + +On the third morning the report of the suffering young lady was less +favorable—“Miss Bygrave was still very poorly, and not able to leave +her bed.” The servant returning to Sea View with this message, met the +postman, and took into the breakfast-room with her two letters +addressed to Mrs. Lecount. + +The first letter was in a handwriting familiar to the housekeeper. It +was from the medical attendant on her invalid brother at Zurich; and it +announced that the patient’s malady had latterly altered in so marked a +manner for the better that there was every hope now of preserving his +life. + +The address on the second letter was in a strange handwriting. Mrs. +Lecount, concluding that it was the answer from Miss Vanstone, waited +to read it until breakfast was over, and she could retire to her own +room. + +She opened the letter, looked at once for the name at the end, and +started a little as she read it. The signature was not “Norah +Vanstone,” but “Harriet Garth.” + +Miss Garth announced that the elder Miss Vanstone had, a week since, +accepted an engagement as governess, subject to the condition of +joining the family of her employer at their temporary residence in the +south of France, and of returning with them when they came back to +England, probably in a month or six weeks’ time. During the interval of +this necessary absence Miss Vanstone had requested Miss Garth to open +all her letters, her main object in making that arrangement being to +provide for the speedy answering of any communication which might +arrive for her from her sister. Miss Magdalen Vanstone had not written +since the middle of July—on which occasion the postmark on the letter +showed that it must have been posted in London, in the district of +Lambeth—and her elder sister had left England in a state of the most +distressing anxiety on her account. + +Having completed this explanation, Miss Garth then mentioned that +family circumstances prevented her from traveling personally to +Aldborough to assist Mrs. Lecount’s object, but that she was provided +with a substitute; in every way fitter for the purpose, in the person +of Mr. Pendril. That gentleman was well acquainted with Miss Magdalen +Vanstone, and his professional experience and discretion would render +his assistance doubly valuable. He had kindly consented to travel to +Aldborough whenever it might be thought necessary. But as his time was +very valuable, Miss Garth specially requested that he might not be sent +for until Mrs. Lecount was quite sure of the day on which his services +might be required. + +While proposing this arrangement, Miss Garth added that she thought it +right to furnish her correspondent with a written description of the +younger Miss Vanstone as well. An emergency might happen which would +allow Mrs. Lecount no time for securing Mr. Pendril’s services; and the +execution of Mr. Noel Vanstone’s intentions toward the unhappy girl who +was the object of his forbearance might be fatally delayed by an +unforeseen difficulty in establishing her identity. The personal +description, transmitted under these circumstances, then followed. It +omitted no personal peculiarity by which Magdalen could be recognized, +and it included the “two little moles close together on the left side +of the neck,” which had been formerly mentioned in the printed +handbills sent to York. + +In conclusion, Miss Garth expressed her fears that Mrs. Lecount’s +suspicions were only too likely to be proved true. While, however, +there was the faintest chance that the conspiracy might turn out to be +directed by a stranger, Miss Garth felt bound, in gratitude toward Mr. +Noel Vanstone, to assist the legal proceedings which would in that case +be instituted. She accordingly appended her own formal denial—which she +would personally repeat if necessary—of any identity between herself +and the person in disguise who had made use of her name. She was the +Miss Garth who had filled the situation of the late Mr. Andrew +Vanstone’s governess, and she had never in her life been in, or near, +the neighborhood of Vauxhall Wall. + +With this disclaimer, and with the writer’s fervent assurances that she +would do all for Magdalen’s advantage which her sister might have done +if her sister had been in England, the letter concluded. It was signed +in full, and was dated with the business-like accuracy in such matters +which had always distinguished Miss Garth’s character. + +This letter placed a formidable weapon in the housekeeper’s hands. + +It provided a means of establishing Magdalen’s identity through the +intervention of a lawyer by profession. It contained a personal +description minute enough to be used to advantage, if necessary, before +Mr. Pendril’s appearance. It presented a signed exposure of the false +Miss Garth under the hand of the true Miss Garth; and it established +the fact that the last letter received by the elder Miss Vanstone from +the younger had been posted (and therefore probably written) in the +neighborhood of Vauxhall Walk. If any later letter had been received +with the Aldborough postmark, the chain of evidence, so far as the +question of localities was concerned, might doubtless have been more +complete. But as it was, there was testimony enough (aided as that +testimony might be by the fragment of the brown alpaca dress still in +Mrs. Lecount’s possession) to raise the veil which hung over the +conspiracy, and to place Mr. Noel Vanstone face to face with the plain +and startling truth. + +The one obstacle which now stood in the way of immediate action on the +housekeeper’s part was the obstacle of Miss Bygrave’s present seclusion +within the limits of her own room. The question of gaining personal +access to her was a question which must be decided before any +communication could be opened with Mr. Pendril. Mrs. Lecount put on her +bonnet at once, and called at North Shingles to try what discoveries +she could make for herself before post-time. + +On this occasion Mr. Bygrave was at home, and she was admitted without +the least difficulty. + +Careful consideration that morning had decided Captain Wragge on +advancing matters a little nearer to the crisis. The means by which he +proposed achieving this result made it necessary for him to see the +housekeeper and her master separately, and to set them at variance by +producing two totally opposite impressions relating to himself on their +minds. Mrs. Lecount’s visit, therefore, instead of causing him any +embarrassment, was the most welcome occurrence he could have wished +for. He received her in the parlor with a marked restraint of manner +for which she was quite unprepared. His ingratiating smile was gone, +and an impenetrable solemnity of countenance appeared in its stead. + +“I have ventured to intrude on you, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount, “to +express the regret with which both my master and I have heard of Miss +Bygrave’s illness. Is there no improvement?” + +“No, ma’am,” replied the captain, as briefly as possible. “My niece is +no better.” + +“I have had some experience, Mr. Bygrave, in nursing. If I could be of +any use—” + +“Thank you, Mrs. Lecount. There is no necessity for our taking +advantage of your kindness.” + +This plain answer was followed by a moment’s silence. The housekeeper +felt some little perplexity. What had become of Mr. Bygrave’s elaborate +courtesy, and Mr. Bygrave’s many words? Did he want to offend her? If +he did, Mrs. Lecount then and there determined that he should not gain +his object. + +“May I inquire the nature of the illness?” she persisted. “It is not +connected, I hope, with our excursion to Dunwich?” + +“I regret to say, ma’am,” replied the captain, “it began with that +neuralgic attack in the carriage.” + +“So! so!” thought Mrs. Lecount. “He doesn’t even _try_ to make me think +the illness a real one; he throws off the mask at starting.—Is it a +nervous illness, sir?” she added, aloud. + +The captain answered by a solemn affirmative inclination of the head. + +“Then you have _two_ nervous sufferers in the house, Mr. Bygrave?” + +“Yes, ma’am—two. My wife and my niece.” + +“That is rather a strange coincidence of misfortunes.” + +“It is, ma’am. Very strange.” + +In spite of Mrs. Lecount’s resolution not to be offended, Captain +Wragge’s exasperating insensibility to every stroke she aimed at him +began to ruffle her. She was conscious of some little difficulty in +securing her self-possession before she could say anything more. + +“Is there no immediate hope,” she resumed, “of Miss Bygrave being able +to leave her room?” + +“None whatever, ma’am.” + +“You are satisfied, I suppose, with the medical attendance?” + +“I have no medical attendance,” said the captain, composedly. “I watch +the case myself.” + +The gathering venom in Mrs. Lecount swelled up at that reply, and +overflowed at her lips. + +“Your smattering of science, sir,” she said, with a malicious smile, +“includes, I presume, a smattering of medicine as well?” + +“It does, ma’am,” answered the captain, without the slightest +disturbance of face or manner. “I know as much of one as I do of the +other.” + +The tone in which he spoke those words left Mrs. Lecount but one +dignified alternative. She rose to terminate the interview. The +temptation of the moment proved too much for her, and she could not +resist casting the shadow of a threat over Captain Wragge at parting. + +“I defer thanking you, sir, for the manner in which you have received +me,” she said, “until I can pay my debt of obligation to some purpose. +In the meantime I am glad to infer, from the absence of a medical +attendant in the house, that Miss Bygrave’s illness is much less +serious than I had supposed it to be when I came here.” + +“I never contradict a lady, ma’am,” rejoined the incorrigible captain. +“If it is your pleasure, when we next meet to think my niece quite +well, I shall bow resignedly to the expression of your opinion.” With +those words, he followed the housekeeper into the passage, and politely +opened the door for her. “I mark the trick, ma’am!” he said to himself, +as he closed it again. “The trump-card in your hand is a sight of my +niece, and I’ll take care you don’t play it!” + +He returned to the parlor, and composedly awaited the next event which +was likely to happen—a visit from Mrs. Lecount’s master. In less than +an hour results justified Captain Wragge’s anticipations, and Noel +Vanstone walked in. + +“My dear sir!” cried the captain, cordially seizing his visitor’s +reluctant hand, “I know what you have come for. Mrs. Lecount has told +you of her visit here, and has no doubt declared that my niece’s +illness is a mere subterfuge. You feel surprised—you feel hurt—you +suspect me of trifling with your kind sympathies—in short, you require +an explanation. That explanation you shall have. Take a seat. Mr. +Vanstone. I am about to throw myself on your sense and judgment as a +man of the world. I acknowledge that we are in a false position, sir; +and I tell you plainly at the outset—your housekeeper is the cause of +it.” + +For once in his life, Noel Vanstone opened his eyes. “Lecount!” he +exclaimed, in the utmost bewilderment. + +“The same, sir,” replied Captain Wragge. “I am afraid I offended Mrs. +Lecount, when she came here this morning, by a want of cordiality in my +manner. I am a plain man, and I can’t assume what I don’t feel. Far be +it from me to breathe a word against your housekeeper’s character. She +is, no doubt, a most excellent and trustworthy woman, but she has one +serious failing common to persons at her time of life who occupy her +situation—she is jealous of her influence over her master, although you +may not have observed it.” + +“I beg your pardon,” interposed Noel Vanstone; “my observation is +remarkably quick. Nothing escapes me.” + +“In that case, sir,” resumed the captain, “you cannot fail to have +noticed that Mrs. Lecount has allowed her jealousy to affect her +conduct toward my niece?” + +Noel Vanstone thought of the domestic passage at arms between Mrs. +Lecount and himself when his guests of the evening had left Sea View, +and failed to see his way to any direct reply. He expressed the utmost +surprise and distress—he thought Lecount had done her best to be +agreeable on the drive to Dunwich—he hoped and trusted there was some +unfortunate mistake. + +“Do you mean to say, sir,” pursued the captain, severely, “that you +have not noticed the circumstance yourself? As a man of honor and a man +of observation, you can’t tell me that! Your housekeeper’s superficial +civility has not hidden your housekeeper’s real feeling. My niece has +seen it, and so have you, and so have I. My niece, Mr. Vanstone, is a +sensitive, high-spirited girl; and she has positively declined to +cultivate Mrs. Lecount’s society for the future. Don’t misunderstand +me! To my niece as well as to myself, the attraction of _your_ society, +Mr. Vanstone, remains the same. Miss Bygrave simply declines to be an +apple of discord (if you will permit the classical allusion) cast into +your household. I think she is right so far, and I frankly confess that +I have exaggerated a nervous indisposition, from which she is really +suffering, into a serious illness—purely and entirely to prevent these +two ladies for the present from meeting every day on the Parade, and +from carrying unpleasant impressions of each other into your domestic +establishment and mine.” + +“I allow nothing unpleasant in _my_ establishment,” remarked Noel +Vanstone. “I’m master—you must have noticed that already, Mr. +Bygrave—I’m master.” + +“No doubt of it, my dear sir. But to live morning, noon, and night in +the perpetual exercise of your authority is more like the life of a +governor of a prison than the life of a master of a household. The wear +and tear—consider the wear and tear.” + +“It strikes you in that light, does it?” said Noel Vanstone, soothed by +Captain Wragge’s ready recognition of his authority. “I don’t know that +you’re not right. But I must take some steps directly. I won’t be made +ridiculous—I’ll send Lecount away altogether, sooner than be made +ridiculous.” His color rose, and he folded his little arms fiercely. +Captain Wragge’s artfully irritating explanation had awakened that +dormant suspicion of his housekeeper’s influence over him which +habitually lay hidden in his mind, and which Mrs. Lecount was now not +present to charm back to repose as usual. “What must Miss Bygrave think +of me!” he exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of vexation. “I’ll send +Lecount away. Damme, I’ll send Lecount away on the spot!” + +“No, no, no!” said the captain, whose interest it was to avoid driving +Mrs. Lecount to any desperate extremities. “Why take strong measures +when mild measures will do? Mrs. Lecount is an old servant; Mrs. +Lecount is attached and useful. She has this little drawback of +jealousy—jealousy of her domestic position with her bachelor master. +She sees you paying courteous attention to a handsome young lady; she +sees that young lady properly sensible of your politeness; and, poor +soul, she loses her temper! What is the obvious remedy? Humor her—make +a manly concession to the weaker sex. If Mrs. Lecount is with you, the +next time we meet on the Parade, walk the other way. If Mrs. Lecount is +not with you, give us the pleasure of your company by all means. In +short, my dear sir, try the _suaviter in modo_ (as we classical men +say) before you commit yourself to the _fortiter in re!”_ + +There was one excellent reason why Noel Vanstone should take Captain +Wragge’s conciliatory advice. An open rupture with Mrs. Lecount—even if +he could have summoned the courage to face it—would imply the +recognition of her claims to a provision, in acknowledgment of the +services she had rendered to his father and to himself. His sordid +nature quailed within him at the bare prospect of expressing the +emotion of gratitude in a pecuniary form; and, after first consulting +appearances by a show of hesitation, he consented to adopt the +captain’s suggestion, and to humor Mrs. Lecount. + +“But I must be considered in this matter,” proceeded Noel Vanstone. “My +concession to Lecount’s weakness must not be misunderstood. Miss +Bygrave must not be allowed to suppose I am afraid of my housekeeper.” + +The captain declared that no such idea ever had entered, or ever could +enter, Miss Bygrave’s mind. Noel Vanstone returned to the subject +nevertheless, again and again, with his customary pertinacity. Would it +be indiscreet if he asked leave to set himself right personally with +Miss Bygrave? Was there any hope that he might have the happiness of +seeing her on that day? or, if not, on the next day? or if not, on the +day after? Captain Wragge answered cautiously: he felt the importance +of not rousing Noel Vanstone’s distrust by too great an alacrity in +complying with his wishes. + +“An interview to-day, my dear sir, is out of the question,” he said. +“She is not well enough; she wants repose. To-morrow I propose taking +her out before the heat of the day begins—not merely to avoid +embarrassment, after what has happened with Mrs. Lecount, but because +the morning air and the morning quiet are essential in these nervous +cases. We are early people here—we shall start at seven o’clock. If you +are early, too, and if you would like to join us, I need hardly say +that we can feel no objection to your company on our morning walk. The +hour, I am aware, is an unusual one—but later in the day my niece may +be resting on the sofa, and may not be able to see visitors.” + +Having made this proposal purely for the purpose of enabling Noel +Vanstone to escape to North Shingles at an hour in the morning when his +housekeeper would be probably in bed, Captain Wragge left him to take +the hint, if he could, as indirectly as it had been given. He proved +sharp enough (the case being one in which his own interests were +concerned) to close with the proposal on the spot. Politely declaring +that he was always an early man when the morning presented any special +attraction to him, he accepted the appointment for seven o’clock, and +rose soon afterward to take his leave. + +“One word at parting,” said Captain Wragge. “This conversation is +entirely between ourselves. Mrs. Lecount must know nothing of the +impression she has produced on my niece. I have only mentioned it to +you to account for my apparently churlish conduct and to satisfy your +own mind. In confidence, Mr. Vanstone—strictly in confidence. +Good-morning!” + +With these parting words, the captain bowed his visitor out. Unless +some unexpected disaster occurred, he now saw his way safely to the end +of the enterprise. He had gained two important steps in advance that +morning. He had sown the seeds of variance between the housekeeper and +her master, and he had given Noel Vanstone a common interest with +Magdalen and himself, in keeping a secret from Mrs. Lecount. “We have +caught our man,” thought Captain Wragge, cheerfully rubbing his +hands—“we have caught our man at last!” + +On leaving North Shingles Noel Vanstone walked straight home, fully +restored to his place in his own estimation, and sternly determined to +carry matters with a high hand if he found himself in collision with +Mrs. Lecount. + +The housekeeper received her master at the door with her mildest manner +and her gentlest smile. She addressed him with downcast eyes; she +opposed to his contemplated assertion of independence a barrier of +impenetrable respect. + +“May I venture to ask, sir,” she began, “if your visit to North +Shingles has led you to form the same conclusion as mine on the subject +of Miss Bygrave’s illness?” + +“Certainly not, Lecount. I consider your conclusion to have been both +hasty and prejudiced.” + +“I am sorry to hear it, sir. I felt hurt by Mr. Bygrave’s rude +reception of me, but I was not aware that my judgment was prejudiced by +it. Perhaps he received _you_, sir, with a warmer welcome?” + +“He received me like a gentleman—that is all I think it necessary to +say, Lecount—he received me like a gentleman.” + +This answer satisfied Mrs. Lecount on the one doubtful point that had +perplexed her. Whatever Mr. Bygrave’s sudden coolness toward herself +might mean, his polite reception of her master implied that the risk of +detection had not daunted him, and that the plot was still in full +progress. The housekeeper’s eyes brightened; she had expressly +calculated on this result. After a moment’s thinking, she addressed her +master with another question: “You will probably visit Mr. Bygrave +again, sir?” + +“Of course I shall visit him—if I please.” + +“And perhaps see Miss Bygrave, if she gets better?” + +“Why not? I should be glad to know why not? Is it necessary to ask your +leave first, Lecount?” + +“By no means, sir. As you have often said (and as I have often agreed +with you), you are master. It may surprise you to hear it, Mr. Noel, +but I have a private reason for wishing that you should see Miss +Bygrave again.” + +Mr. Noel started a little, and looked at his housekeeper with some +curiosity. + +“I have a strange fancy of my own, sir, about that young lady,” +proceeded Mrs. Lecount. “If you will excuse my fancy, and indulge it, +you will do me a favor for which I shall be very grateful.” + +“A fancy?” repeated her master, in growing surprise. “What fancy?” + +“Only this, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. + +She took from one of the neat little pockets of her apron a morsel of +note-paper, carefully folded into the smallest possible compass, and +respectfully placed it in Noel Vanstone’s hands. + +“If you are willing to oblige an old and faithful servant, Mr. Noel,” +she said, in a very quiet and very impressive manner, “you will kindly +put that morsel of paper into your waistcoat pocket; you will open and +read it, for the first time, _when you are next in Miss Bygrave’s +company_, and you will say nothing of what has now passed between us to +any living creature, from this time to that. I promise to explain my +strange request, sir, when you have done what I ask, and when your next +interview with Miss Bygrave has come to an end.” + +She courtesied with her best grace, and quietly left the room. + +Noel Vanstone looked from the folded paper to the door, and from the +door back to the folded paper, in unutterable astonishment. A mystery +in his own house! under his own nose! What did it mean? + +It meant that Mrs. Lecount had not wasted her time that morning. While +the captain was casting the net over his visitor at North Shingles, the +housekeeper was steadily mining the ground under his feet. The folded +paper contained nothing less than a carefully written extract from the +personal description of Magdalen in Miss Garth’s letter. With a daring +ingenuity which even Captain Wragge might have envied, Mrs. Lecount had +found her instrument for exposing the conspiracy in the unsuspecting +person of the victim himself! + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +Late that evening, when Magdalen and Mrs. Wragge came back from their +walk in the dark, the captain stopped Magdalen on her way upstairs to +inform her of the proceedings of the day. He added the expression of +his opinion that the time had come for bringing Noel Vanstone, with the +least possible delay, to the point of making a proposal. She merely +answered that she understood him, and that she would do what was +required of her. Captain Wragge requested her in that case to oblige +him by joining a walking excursion in Mr. Noel Vanstone’s company at +seven o’clock the next morning. “I will be ready,” she replied. “Is +there anything more?” There was nothing more. Magdalen bade him +good-night and returned to her own room. + +She had shown the same disinclination to remain any longer than was +necessary in the captain’s company throughout the three days of her +seclusion in the house. + +During all that time, instead of appearing to weary of Mrs. Wragge’s +society, she had patiently, almost eagerly, associated herself with her +companion’s one absorbing pursuit. She who had often chafed and fretted +in past days under the monotony of her life in the freedom of +Combe-Raven, now accepted without a murmur the monotony of her life at +Mrs. Wragge’s work-table. She who had hated the sight of her needle and +thread in old times—who had never yet worn an article of dress of her +own making—now toiled as anxiously over the making of Mrs. Wragge’s +gown, and bore as patiently with Mrs. Wragge’s blunders, as if the sole +object of her existence had been the successful completion of that one +dress. Anything was welcome to her—the trivial difficulties of fitting +a gown: the small, ceaseless chatter of the poor half-witted creature +who was so proud of her assistance, and so happy in her +company—anything was welcome that shut her out from the coming future, +from the destiny to which she stood self-condemned. That sorely-wounded +nature was soothed by such a trifle now as the grasp of her companion’s +rough and friendly hand—that desolate heart was cheered, when night +parted them, by Mrs. Wragge’s kiss. + +The captain’s isolated position in the house produced no depressing +effect on the captain’s easy and equal spirits. Instead of resenting +Magdalen’s systematic avoidance of his society, he looked to results, +and highly approved of it. The more she neglected him for his wife the +more directly useful she became in the character of Mrs. Wragge’s +self-appointed guardian. He had more than once seriously contemplated +revoking the concession which had been extorted from him, and removing +his wife, at his own sole responsibility, out of harm’s way; and he had +only abandoned the idea on discovering that Magdalen’s resolution to +keep Mrs. Wragge in her own company was really serious. While the two +were together, his main anxiety was set at rest. They kept their door +locked by his own desire while he was out of the house, and, whatever +Mrs. Wragge might do, Magdalen was to be trusted not to open it until +he came back. That night Captain Wragge enjoyed his cigar with a mind +at ease, and sipped his brandy-and-water in happy ignorance of the +pitfall which Mrs. Lecount had prepared for him in the morning. + +Punctually at seven o’clock Noel Vanstone made his appearance. The +moment he entered the room Captain Wragge detected a change in his +visitor’s look and manner. “Something wrong!” thought the captain. “We +have not done with Mrs. Lecount yet.” + +“How is Miss Bygrave this morning?” asked Noel Vanstone. “Well enough, +I hope, for our early walk?” His half-closed eyes, weak and watery with +the morning light and the morning air, looked about the room furtively, +and he shifted his place in a restless manner from one chair to +another, as he made those polite inquiries. + +“My niece is better—she is dressing for the walk,” replied the captain, +steadily observing his restless little friend while he spoke. “Mr. +Vanstone!” he added, on a sudden, “I am a plain Englishman—excuse my +blunt way of speaking my mind. You don’t meet me this morning as +cordially as you met me yesterday. There is something unsettled in your +face. I distrust that housekeeper of yours, sir! Has she been presuming +on your forbearance? Has she been trying to poison your mind against me +or my niece?” + +If Noel Vanstone had obeyed Mrs. Lecount’s injunctions, and had kept +her little morsel of note-paper folded in his pocket until the time +came to use it, Captain Wragge’s designedly blunt appeal might not have +found him unprepared with an answer. But curiosity had got the better +of him; he had opened the note at night, and again in the morning; it +had seriously perplexed and startled him; and it had left his mind far +too disturbed to allow him the possession of his ordinary resources. He +hesitated; and his answer, when he succeeded in making it, began with a +prevarication. + +Captain Wragge stopped him before he had got beyond his first sentence. + +“Pardon me, sir,” said the captain, in his loftiest manner. “If you +have secrets to keep, you have only to say so, and I have done. I +intrude on no man’s secrets. At the same time, Mr. Vanstone, you must +allow me to recall to your memory that I met you yesterday without any +reserves on my side. I admitted you to my frankest and fullest +confidence, sir—and, highly as I prize the advantages of your society, +I can’t consent to cultivate your friendship on any other than equal +terms.” He threw open his respectable frock-coat and surveyed his +visitor with a manly and virtuous severity. + +“I mean no offense!” cried Noel Vanstone, piteously. “Why do you +interrupt me, Mr. Bygrave? Why don’t you let me explain? I mean no +offense.” + +“No offense is taken, sir,” said the captain. “You have a perfect right +to the exercise of your own discretion. I am not offended—I only claim +for myself the same privilege which I accord to you.” He rose with +great dignity and rang the bell. “Tell Miss Bygrave,” he said to the +servant, “that our walk this morning is put off until another +opportunity, and that I won’t trouble her to come downstairs.” + +This strong proceeding had the desired effect. Noel Vanstone vehemently +pleaded for a moment’s private conversation before the message was +delivered. Captain Wragge’s severity partially relaxed. He sent the +servant downstairs again, and, resuming his chair, waited confidently +for results. In calculating the facilities for practicing on his +visitor’s weakness, he had one great superiority over Mrs. Lecount. His +judgment was not warped by latent female jealousies, and he avoided the +error into which the housekeeper had fallen, self-deluded—the error of +underrating the impression on Noel Vanstone that Magdalen had produced. +One of the forces in this world which no middle-aged woman is capable +of estimating at its full value, when it acts against her, is the force +of beauty in a woman younger than herself. + +“You are so hasty, Mr. Bygrave—you won’t give me time—you won’t wait +and hear what I have to say!” cried Noel Vanstone, piteously, when the +servant had closed the parlor door. + +“My family failing, sir—the blood of the Bygraves. Accept my excuses. +We are alone, as you wished; pray proceed.” + +Placed between the alternatives of losing Magdalen’s society or +betraying Mrs. Lecount, unenlightened by any suspicion of the +housekeeper’s ultimate object, cowed by the immovable scrutiny of +Captain Wragge’s inquiring eye, Noel Vanstone was not long in making +his choice. He confusedly described his singular interview of the +previous evening with Mrs. Lecount, and, taking the folded paper from +his pocket, placed it in the captain’s hand. + +A suspicion of the truth dawned on Captain Wragge’s mind the moment he +saw the mysterious note. He withdrew to the window before he opened it. +The first lines that attracted his attention were these: “Oblige me, +Mr. Noel, by comparing the young lady who is now in your company with +the personal description which follows these lines, and which has been +communicated to me by a friend. You shall know the name of the person +described—which I have left a blank—as soon as the evidence of your own +eyes has forced you to believe what you would refuse to credit on the +unsupported testimony of Virginie Lecount.” + +That was enough for the captain. Before he had read a word of the +description itself, he knew what Mrs. Lecount had done, and felt, with +a profound sense of humiliation, that his female enemy had taken him by +surprise. + +There was no time to think; the whole enterprise was threatened with +irrevocable overthrow. The one resource in Captain Wragge’s present +situation was to act instantly on the first impulse of his own +audacity. Line by line he read on, and still the ready inventiveness +which had never deserted him yet failed to answer the call made on it +now. He came to the closing sentence—to the last words which mentioned +the two little moles on Magdalen’s neck. At that crowning point of the +description, an idea crossed his mind; his party-colored eyes twinkled; +his curly lips twisted up at the corners; Wragge was himself again. He +wheeled round suddenly from the window, and looked Noel Vanstone +straight in the face with a grimly-quiet suggestiveness of something +serious to come. + +“Pray, sir, do you happen to know anything of Mrs. Lecount’s family?” +he inquired. + +“A respectable family,” said Noel Vanstone—“that’s all I know. Why do +you ask?” + +“I am not usually a betting man,” pursued Captain Wragge. “But on this +occasion I will lay you any wager you like there is madness in your +housekeeper’s family.” + +“Madness!” repeated Noel Vanstone, amazedly + +“Madness!” reiterated the captain, sternly tapping the note with his +forefinger. “I see the cunning of insanity, the suspicion of insanity, +the feline treachery of insanity in every line of this deplorable +document. There is a far more alarming reason, sir, than I had supposed +for Mrs. Lecount’s behavior to my niece. It is clear to me that Miss +Bygrave resembles some other lady who has seriously offended your +housekeeper—who has been formerly connected, perhaps, with an outbreak +of insanity in your housekeeper—and who is now evidently confused with +my niece in your housekeeper’s wandering mind. That is my conviction, +Mr. Vanstone. I may be right, or I may be wrong. All I say is +this—neither you, nor any man, can assign a sane motive for the +production of that incomprehensible document, and for the use which you +are requested to make of it.” + +“I don’t think Lecount’s mad,” said Noel Vanstone, with a very blank +look, and a very discomposed manner. “It couldn’t have escaped me, with +my habits of observation; it couldn’t possibly have escaped me if +Lecount had been mad.” + +“Very good, my dear sir. In my opinion, she is the subject of an insane +delusion. In your opinion, she is in possession of her senses, and has +some mysterious motive which neither you nor I can fathom. Either way, +there can be no harm in putting Mrs. Lecount’s description to the test, +not only as a matter of curiosity, but for our own private satisfaction +on both sides. It is of course impossible to tell my niece that she is +to be made the subject of such a preposterous experiment as that note +of yours suggests. But you can use your own eyes, Mr. Vanstone; you can +keep your own counsel; and—mad or not—you can at least tell your +housekeeper, on the testimony of your own senses, that she is wrong. +Let me look at the description again. The greater part of it is not +worth two straws for any purpose of identification; hundreds of young +ladies have tall figures, fair complexions, light brown hair, and light +gray eyes. You will say, on the other hand, hundreds of young ladies +have not got two little moles close together on the left side of the +neck. Quite true. The moles supply us with what we scientific men call +a Crucial Test. When my niece comes downstairs, sir, you have my full +permission to take the liberty of looking at her neck.” + +Noel Vanstone expressed his high approval of the Crucial Test by +smirking and simpering for the first time that morning. + +“Of looking at her neck,” repeated the captain, returning the note to +his visitor, and then making for the door. “I will go upstairs myself, +Mr. Vanstone,” he continued, “and inspect Miss Bygrave’s walking-dress. +If she has innocently placed any obstacles in your way, if her hair is +a little too low, or her frill is a little too high, I will exert my +authority, on the first harmless pretext I can think of, to have those +obstacles removed. All I ask is, that you will choose your opportunity +discreetly, and that you will not allow my niece to suppose that her +neck is the object of a gentleman’s inspection.” + +The moment he was out of the parlor Captain Wragge ascended the stairs +at the top of his speed and knocked at Magdalen’s door. She opened it +to him in her walking-dress, obedient to the signal agreed on between +them which summoned her downstairs. + +“What have you done with your paints and powders?” asked the captain, +without wasting a word in preliminary explanations. “They were not in +the box of costumes which I sold for you at Birmingham. Where are +they?” + +“I have got them here,” replied Magdalen. “What can you possibly mean +by wanting them now?” + +“Bring them instantly into my dressing-room—the whole collection, +brushes, palette, and everything. Don’t waste time in asking questions; +I’ll tell you what has happened as we go on. Every moment is precious +to us. Follow me instantly!” + +His face plainly showed that there was a serious reason for his strange +proposal. Magdalen secured her collection of cosmetics and followed him +into the dressing-room. He locked the door, placed her on a chair close +to the light, and then told her what had happened. + +“We are on the brink of detection,” proceeded the captain, carefully +mixing his colors with liquid glue, and with a strong “drier” added +from a bottle in his own possession. “There is only one chance for us +(lift up your hair from the left side of your neck)—I have told Mr. +Noel Vanstone to take a private opportunity of looking at you; and I am +going to give the lie direct to that she-devil Lecount by painting out +your moles.” + +“They can’t be painted out,” said Magdalen. “No color will stop on +them.” + +“_My_ color will,” remarked Captain Wragge. “I have tried a variety of +professions in my time—the profession of painting among the rest. Did +you ever hear of such a thing as a Black Eye? I lived some months once +in the neighborhood of Drury Lane entirely on Black Eyes. My +flesh-color stood on bruises of all sorts, shades, and sizes, and it +will stand, I promise you, on your moles.” + +With this assurance, the captain dipped his brush into a little lump of +opaque color which he had mixed in a saucer, and which he had graduated +as nearly as the materials would permit to the color of Magdalen’s +skin. After first passing a cambric handkerchief, with some white +powder on it, over the part of her neck on which he designed to +operate, he placed two layers of color on the moles with the tip of the +brush. The process was performed in a few moments, and the moles, as if +by magic, disappeared from view. Nothing but the closest inspection +could have discovered the artifice by which they had been concealed; at +the distance of two or three feet only, it was perfectly invisible. + +“Wait here five minutes,” said Captain Wragge, “to let the paint +dry—and then join us in the parlor. Mrs. Lecount herself would be +puzzled if she looked at you now.” + +“Stop!” said Magdalen. “There is one thing you have not told me yet. +How did Mrs. Lecount get the description which you read downstairs? +Whatever else she has seen of me, she has not seen the mark on my +neck—it is too far back, and too high up; my hair hides it.” + +“Who knows of the mark?” asked Captain Wragge. + +She turned deadly pale under the anguish of a sudden recollection of +Frank. + +“My sister knows it,” she said, faintly. + +“Mrs. Lecount may have written to your sister,” suggested the captain: + +“Do you think my sister would tell a stranger what no stranger has a +right to know? Never! never!” + +“Is there nobody else who could tell Mrs. Lecount? The mark was +mentioned in the handbills at York. Who put it there?” + +“Not Norah! Perhaps Mr. Pendril. Perhaps Miss Garth.” + +“Then Mrs. Lecount has written to Mr. Pendril or Miss Garth—more likely +to Miss Garth. The governess would be easier to deal with than the +lawyer.” + +“What can she have said to Miss Garth?” + +Captain Wragge considered a little. + +“I can’t say what Mrs. Lecount may have written,” he said, “but I can +tell you what I should have written in Mrs. Lecount’s place. I should +have frightened Miss Garth by false reports about you, to begin with, +and then I should have asked for personal particulars, to help a +benevolent stranger in restoring you to your friends.” The angry +glitter flashed up instantly in Magdalen’s eyes. + +“What _you_ would have done is what Mrs. Lecount has done,” she said, +indignantly. “Neither lawyer nor governess shall dispute my right to my +own will and my own way. If Miss Garth thinks she can control my +actions by corresponding with Mrs. Lecount, I will show Miss Garth she +is mistaken! It is high time, Captain Wragge, to have done with these +wretched risks of discovery. We will take the short way to the end we +have in view sooner than Mrs. Lecount or Miss Garth think for. How long +can you give me to wring an offer of marriage out of that creature +downstairs?” + +“I dare not give you long,” replied Captain Wragge. “Now your friends +know where you are, they may come down on us at a day’s notice. Could +you manage it in a week?” + +“I’ll manage it in half the time,” she said, with a hard, defiant +laugh. “Leave us together this morning as you left us at Dunwich, and +take Mrs. Wragge with you, as an excuse for parting company. Is the +paint dry yet? Go downstairs and tell him I am coming directly.” + +So, for the second time, Miss Garth’s well-meant efforts defeated their +own end. So the fatal force of circumstance turned the hand that would +fain have held Magdalen back into the hand that drove her on. + +The captain returned to his visitor in the parlor, after first stopping +on his way to issue his orders for the walking excursion to Mrs. +Wragge. + +“I am shocked to have kept you waiting,” he said, sitting down again +confidentially by Noel Vanstone’s side. “My only excuse is, that my +niece had accidentally dressed her hair so as to defeat our object. I +have been persuading her to alter it, and young ladies are apt to be a +little obstinate on questions relating to their toilet. Give her a +chair on that side of you when she comes in, and take your look at her +neck comfortably before we start for our walk.” + +Magdalen entered the room as he said those words, and after the first +greetings were exchanged, took the chair presented to her with the most +unsuspicious readiness. Noel Vanstone applied the Crucial Test on the +spot, with the highest appreciation of the fair material which was the +subject of experiment. Not the vestige of a mole was visible on any +part of the smooth white surface of Miss Bygrave’s neck. It mutely +answered the blinking inquiry of Noel Vanstone’s half-closed eyes by +the flattest practical contradiction of Mrs. Lecount. That one central +incident in the events of the morning was of all the incidents that had +hitherto occurred, the most important in its results. That one +discovery shook the housekeeper’s hold on her master as nothing had +shaken it yet. + +In a few minutes Mrs. Wragge made her appearance, and excited as much +surprise in Noel Vanstone’s mind as he was capable of feeling while +absorbed in the enjoyment of Magdalen’s society. The walking-party left +the house at once, directing their steps northward, so as not to pass +the windows of Sea-view Cottage. To Mrs. Wragge’s unutterable +astonishment, her husband, for the first time in the course of their +married life, politely offered her his arm, and led her on in advance +of the young people, as if the privilege of walking alone with her +presented some special attraction to him! “Step out!” whispered the +captain, fiercely. “Leave your niece and Mr. Vanstone alone! If I catch +you looking back at them, I’ll put the Oriental Cashmere Robe on the +top of the kitchen fire! Turn your toes out, and keep step—confound +you, keep step!” Mrs. Wragge kept step to the best of her limited +ability. Her sturdy knees trembled under her. She firmly believed the +captain was intoxicated. + +The walk lasted for rather more than an hour. Before nine o’clock they +were all back again at North Shingles. The ladies went at once into the +house. Noel Vanstone remained with Captain Wragge in the garden. +“Well,” said the captain, “what do you think now of Mrs. Lecount?” + +“Damn Lecount!” replied Noel Vanstone, in great agitation. “I’m half +inclined to agree with you. I’m half inclined to think my infernal +housekeeper is mad.” + +He spoke fretfully and unwillingly, as if the merest allusion to Mrs. +Lecount was distasteful to him. His color came and went; his manner was +absent and undecided; he fidgeted restlessly about the garden walk. It +would have been plain to a far less acute observation than Captain +Wragge’s, that Magdalen had met his advances by an unexpected grace and +readiness of encouragement which had entirely overthrown his +self-control. + +“I never enjoyed a walk so much in my life!” he exclaimed, with a +sudden outburst of enthusiasm. “I hope Miss Bygrave feels all the +better, for it. Do you go out at the same time to-morrow morning? May I +join you again?” + +“By all means, Mr. Vanstone,” said the Captain, cordially. “Excuse me +for returning to the subject—but what do you propose saying to Mrs. +Lecount?” + +“I don’t know. Lecount is a perfect nuisance! What would you do, Mr. +Bygrave, if you were in my place?” + +“Allow me to ask a question, my dear sir, before I tell you. What is +your breakfast-hour?” + +“Half-past nine.” + +“Is Mrs. Lecount an early riser?” + +“No. Lecount is lazy in the morning. I hate lazy women! If you were in +my place, what should you say to her?” + +“I should say nothing,” replied Captain Wragge. “I should return at +once by the back way; I should let Mrs. Lecount see me in the front +garden as if I was taking a turn before breakfast; and I should leave +her to suppose that I was only just out of my room. If she asks you +whether you mean to come here today, say No. Secure a quiet life until +circumstances force you to give her an answer. Then tell the plain +truth—say that Mr. Bygrave’s niece and Mrs. Lecount’s description are +at variance with each other in the most important particular, and beg +that the subject may not be mentioned again. There is my advice. What +do you think of it?” + +If Noel Vanstone could have looked into his counselor’s mind, he might +have thought the captain’s advice excellently adapted to serve the +captain’s interests. As long as Mrs. Lecount could be kept in ignorance +of her master’s visits to North Shingles, so long she would wait until +the opportunity came for trying her experiment, and so long she might +be trusted not to endanger the conspiracy by any further proceedings. +Necessarily incapable of viewing Captain Wragge’s advice under this +aspect, Noel Vanstone simply looked at it as offering him a temporary +means of escape from an explanation with his housekeeper. He eagerly +declared that the course of action suggested to him should be followed +to the letter, and returned to Sea View without further delay. + +On this occasion Captain Wragge’s anticipations were in no respect +falsified by Mrs. Lecount’s conduct. She had no suspicion of her +master’s visit to North Shingles: she had made up her mind, if +necessary, to wait patiently for his interview with Miss Bygrave until +the end of the week; and she did not embarrass him by any unexpected +questions when he announced his intention of holding no personal +communication with the Bygraves on that day. All she said was, “Don’t +you feel well enough, Mr. Noel? or don’t you feel inclined?” He +answered, shortly, “I don’t feel well enough”; and there the +conversation ended. + +The next day the proceedings of the previous morning were exactly +repeated. This time Noel Vanstone went home rapturously with a keepsake +in his breast-pocket; he had taken tender possession of one of Miss +Bygrave’s gloves. At intervals during the day, whenever he was alone, +he took out the glove and kissed it with a devotion which was almost +passionate in its fervor. The miserable little creature luxuriated in +his moments of stolen happiness with a speechless and stealthy delight +which was a new sensation to him. The few young girls whom he had met +with, in his father’s narrow circle at Zurich, had felt a mischievous +pleasure in treating him like a quaint little plaything; the strongest +impression he could make on their hearts was an impression in which +their lap-dogs might have rivaled him; the deepest interest he could +create in them was the interest they might have felt in a new trinket +or a new dress. The only women who had hitherto invited his admiration, +and taken his compliments seriously had been women whose charms were on +the wane, and whose chances of marriage were fast failing them. For the +first time in his life he had now passed hours of happiness in the +society of a beautiful girl, who had left him to think of her afterward +without a single humiliating remembrance to lower him in his own +esteem. + +Anxiously as he tried to hide it, the change produced in his look and +manner by the new feeling awakened in him was not a change which could +be concealed from Mrs. Lecount. On the second day she pointedly asked +him whether he had not made an arrangement to call on the Bygraves. He +denied it as before. “Perhaps you are going to-morrow, Mr. Noel?” +persisted the housekeeper. He was at the end of his resources; he was +impatient to be rid of her inquiries; he trusted to his friend at North +Shingles to help him; and this time he answered Yes. “If you see the +young lady,” proceeded Mrs. Lecount, “don’t forget that note of mine, +sir, which you have in your waistcoat-pocket.” No more was said on +either side, but by that night’s post the housekeeper wrote to Miss +Garth. The letter merely acknowledged, with thanks, the receipt of Miss +Garth’s communication, and informed her that in a few days Mrs. Lecount +hoped to be in a position to write again and summon Mr. Pendril to +Aldborough. + +Late in the evening, when the parlor at North Shingles began to get +dark, and when the captain rang the bell for candles as usual, he was +surprised by hearing Magdalen’s voice in the passage telling the +servant to take the lights downstairs again. She knocked at the door +immediately afterward, and glided into the obscurity of the room like a +ghost. + +“I have a question to ask you about your plans for to-morrow,” she +said. “My eyes are very weak this evening, and I hope you will not +object to dispense with the candles for a few minutes.” + +She spoke in low, stifled tones, and felt her way noiselessly to a +chair far removed from the captain in the darkest part of the room. +Sitting near the window, he could just discern the dim outline of her +dress, he could just hear the faint accents of her voice. For the last +two days he had seen nothing of her except during their morning walk. +On that afternoon he had found his wife crying in the little backroom +down-stairs. She could only tell him that Magdalen had frightened +her—that Magdalen was going the way again which she had gone when the +letter came from China in the terrible past time at Vauxhall Walk. + +“I was sorry to hear that you were ill to-day, from Mrs. Wragge,” said +the captain, unconsciously dropping his voice almost to a whisper as he +spoke. + +“It doesn’t matter,” she answered quietly, out of the darkness. “I am +strong enough to suffer, and live. Other girls in my place would have +been happier—they would have suffered, and died. It doesn’t matter; it +will be all the same a hundred years hence. Is he coming again tomorrow +morning at seven o’clock?” + +“He is coming, if you feel no objection to it.” + +“I have no objection to make; I have done with objecting. But I should +like to have the time altered. I don’t look my best in the early +morning—-I have bad nights, and I rise haggard and worn. Write him a +note this evening, and tell him to come at twelve o’clock.” + +“Twelve is rather late, under the circumstances, for you to be seen out +walking.” + +“I have no intention of walking. Let him be shown into the parlor—” + +Her voice died away in silence before she ended the sentence. + +“Yes?” said Captain Wragge. + +“And leave me alone in the parlor to receive him.” + +“I understand,” said the captain. “An admirable idea. I’ll be out of +the way in the dining-room while he is here, and you can come and tell +me about it when he has gone.” + +There was another moment of silence. + +“Is there no way but telling you?” she asked, suddenly. “I can control +myself while he is with me, but I can’t answer for what I may say or do +afterward. Is there no other way?” + +“Plenty of ways,” said the captain. “Here is the first that occurs to +me. Leave the blind down over the window of your room upstairs before +he comes. I will go out on the beach, and wait there within sight of +the house. When I see him come out again, I will look at the window. If +he has said nothing, leave the blind down. If he has made you an offer, +draw the blind up. The signal is simplicity itself; we can’t +misunderstand each other. Look your best to-morrow! Make sure of him, +my dear girl—make sure of him, if you possibly can.” + +He had spoken loud enough to feel certain that she had heard him, but +no answering word came from her. The dead silence was only disturbed by +the rustling of her dress, which told him she had risen from her chair. +Her shadowy presence crossed the room again; the door shut softly; she +was gone. He rang the bell hurriedly for the lights. The servant found +him standing close at the window, looking less self-possessed than +usual. He told her he felt a little poorly, and sent her to the +cupboard for the brandy. + +At a few minutes before twelve the next day Captain Wragge withdrew to +his post of observation, concealing himself behind a fishing-boat drawn +up on the beach. Punctually as the hour struck, he saw Noel Vanstone +approach North Shingles and open the garden gate. When the house door +had closed on the visitor, Captain Wragge settled himself comfortably +against the side of the boat and lit his cigar. + +He smoked for half an hour—for ten minutes over the half-hour, by his +watch. He finished the cigar down to the last morsel of it that he +could hold in his lips. Just as he had thrown away the end, the door +opened again and Noel Vanstone came out. + +The captain looked up instantly at Magdalen’s window. In the absorbing +excitement of the moment, he counted the seconds. She might get from +the parlor to her own room in less than a minute. He counted to thirty, +and nothing happened. He counted to fifty, and nothing happened. He +gave up counting, and left the boat impatiently, to return to the +house. + +As he took his first step forward he saw the signal. + +The blind was drawn up. + +Cautiously ascending the eminence of the beach, Captain Wragge looked +toward Sea-view Cottage before he showed himself on the Parade. Noel +Vanstone had reached home again; he was just entering his own door. + +“If all your money was offered me to stand in your shoes,” said the +captain, looking after him—“rich as you are, I wouldn’t take it!” + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +On returning to the house, Captain Wragge received a significant +message from the servant. “Mr. Noel Vanstone would call again at two +o’clock that afternoon, when he hoped to have the pleasure of finding +Mr. Bygrave at home.” + +The captain’s first inquiry after hearing this message referred to +Magdalen. “Where was Miss Bygrave?” “In her own room.” “Where was Mrs. +Bygrave?” “In the back parlor.” Captain Wragge turned his steps at once +in the latter direction, and found his wife, for the second time, in +tears. She had been sent out of Magdalen’s room for the whole day, and +she was at her wits’ end to know what she had done to deserve it. +Shortening her lamentations without ceremony, her husband sent her +upstairs on the spot, with instructions to knock at the door, and to +inquire whether Magdalen could give five minutes’ attention to a +question of importance which must be settled before two o’clock. + +The answer returned was in the negative. Magdalen requested that the +subject on which she was asked to decide might be mentioned to her in +writing. She engaged to reply in the same way, on the understanding +that Mrs. Wragge, and not the servant, should be employed to deliver +the note and to take back the answer. + +Captain Wragge forthwith opened his paper-case and wrote these lines: +“Accept my warmest congratulations on the result of your interview with +Mr. N. V. He is coming again at two o’clock—no doubt to make his +proposals in due form. The question to decide is, whether I shall press +him or not on the subject of settlements. The considerations for your +own mind are two in number. First, whether the said pressure (without +at all underrating your influence over him) may not squeeze for a long +time before it squeezes money out of Mr. N. V. Secondly, whether we are +altogether justified—considering our present position toward a certain +sharp practitioner in petticoats—in running the risk of delay. Consider +these points, and let me have your decision as soon as convenient.” + +The answer returned to this note was written in crooked, blotted +characters, strangely unlike Magdalen’s usually firm and clear +handwriting. It only contained these words: “Give yourself no trouble +about settlements. Leave the use to which he is to put his money for +the future in my hands.” + +“Did you see her?” asked the captain, when his wife had delivered the +answer. + +“I tried,” said Mrs. Wragge, with a fresh burst of tears—“but she only +opened the door far enough to put out her hand. I took and gave it a +little squeeze—and, oh poor soul, it felt so cold in mine!” + +When Mrs. Lecount’s master made his appearance at two o’clock, he stood +alarmingly in need of an anodyne application from Mrs. Lecount’s green +fan. The agitation of making his avowal to Magdalen; the terror of +finding himself discovered by the housekeeper; the tormenting suspicion +of the hard pecuniary conditions which Magdalen’s relative and guardian +might impose on him—all these emotions, stirring in conflict together, +had overpowered his feebly-working heart with a trial that strained it +sorely. He gasped for breath as he sat down in the parlor at North +Shingles, and that ominous bluish pallor which always overspread his +face in moments of agitation now made its warning appearance again. +Captain Wragge seized the brandy bottle in genuine alarm, and forced +his visitor to drink a wine-glassful of the spirit before a word was +said between them on either side. + +Restored by the stimulant, and encouraged by the readiness with which +the captain anticipated everything that he had to say, Noel Vanstone +contrived to state the serious object of his visit in tolerably plain +terms. All the conventional preliminaries proper to the occasion were +easily disposed of. The suitor’s family was respectable; his position +in life was undeniably satisfactory; his attachment, though hasty, was +evidently disinterested and sincere. All that Captain Wragge had to do +was to refer to these various considerations with a happy choice of +language in a voice that trembled with manly emotion, and this he did +to perfection. For the first half-hour of the interview, no allusion +whatever was made to the delicate and dangerous part of the subject. +The captain waited until he had composed his visitor, and when that +result was achieved came smoothly to the point in these terms: + +“There is one little difficulty, Mr. Vanstone, which I think we have +both overlooked. Your housekeeper’s recent conduct inclines me to fear +that she will view the approaching change in your life with anything +but a friendly eye. Probably you have not thought it necessary yet to +inform her of the new tie which you propose to form?” + +Noel Vanstone turned pale at the bare idea of explaining himself to +Mrs. Lecount. + +“I can’t tell what I’m to do,” he said, glancing aside nervously at the +window, as if he expected to see the housekeeper peeping in. “I hate +all awkward positions, and this is the most unpleasant position I ever +was placed in. You don’t know what a terrible woman Lecount is. I’m not +afraid of her; pray don’t suppose I’m afraid of her—” + +At those words his fears rose in his throat, and gave him the lie +direct by stopping his utterance. + +“Pray don’t trouble yourself to explain,” said Captain Wragge, coming +to the rescue. “This is the common story, Mr. Vanstone. Here is a woman +who has grown old in your service, and in your father’s service before +you; a woman who has contrived, in all sorts of small, underhand ways, +to presume systematically on her position for years and years past; a +woman, in short, whom your inconsiderate but perfectly natural kindness +has allowed to claim a right of property in you—” + +“Property!” cried Noel Vanstone, mistaking the captain, and letting the +truth escape him through sheer inability to conceal his fears any +longer. “I don’t know what amount of property she won’t claim. She’ll +make me pay for my father as well as for myself. Thousands, Mr. +Bygrave—thousands of pounds sterling out of my pocket!!!” He clasped +his hands in despair at the picture of pecuniary compulsion which his +fancy had conjured up—his own golden life-blood spouting from him in +great jets of prodigality, under the lancet of Mrs. Lecount. + +“Gently, Mr. Vanstone—gently! The woman knows nothing so far, and the +money is not gone yet.” + +“No, no; the money is not gone, as you say. I’m only nervous about it; +I can’t help being nervous. You were saying something just now; you +were going to give me advice. I value your advice; you don’t know how +highly I value your advice.” He said those words with a conciliatory +smile which was more than helpless; it was absolutely servile in its +dependence on his judicious friend. + +“I was only assuring you, my dear sir, that I understood your +position,” said the captain. “I see your difficulty as plainly as you +can see it yourself. Tell a woman like Mrs. Lecount that she must come +off her domestic throne, to make way for a young and beautiful +successor, armed with the authority of a wife, and an unpleasant scene +must be the inevitable result. An unpleasant scene, Mr. Vanstone, if +your opinion of your housekeeper’s sanity is well founded. Something +far more serious, if my opinion that her intellect is unsettled happens +to turn out the right one.” + +“I don’t say it isn’t my opinion, too,” rejoined Noel Vanstone. +“Especially after what has happened to-day.” + +Captain Wragge immediately begged to know what the event alluded to +might be. + +Noel Vanstone thereupon explained—with an infinite number of +parentheses all referring to himself—that Mrs. Lecount had put the +dreaded question relating to the little note in her master’s pocket +barely an hour since. He had answered her inquiry as Mr. Bygrave had +advised him. On hearing that the accuracy of the personal description +had been fairly put to the test, and had failed in the one important +particular of the moles on the neck, Mrs. Lecount had considered a +little, and had then asked him whether he had shown her note to Mr. +Bygrave before the experiment was tried. He had answered in the +negative, as the only safe form of reply that he could think of on the +spur of the moment, and the housekeeper had then addressed him in these +strange and startling words: “You are keeping the truth from me, Mr. +Noel. You are trusting strangers, and doubting your old servant and +your old friend. Every time you go to Mr. Bygrave’s house, every time +you see Miss Bygrave, you are drawing nearer and nearer to your +destruction. They have got the bandage over your eyes in spite of me; +but I tell them, and tell you, before many days are over I will take it +off!” To this extraordinary outbreak—accompanied as it was by an +expression in Mrs. Lecount’s face which he had never seen there +before—Noel Vanstone had made no reply. Mr. Bygrave’s conviction that +there was a lurking taint of insanity in the housekeeper’s blood had +recurred to his memory, and he had left the room at the first +opportunity. + +Captain Wragge listened with the closest attention to the narrative +thus presented to him. But one conclusion could be drawn from it—it was +a plain warning to him to hasten the end. + +“I am not surprised,” he said, gravely, “to hear that you are inclining +more favorably to my opinion. After what you have just told me, Mr. +Vanstone, no sensible man could do otherwise. This is becoming serious. +I hardly know what results may not be expected to follow the +communication of your approaching change in life to Mrs. Lecount. My +niece may be involved in those results. She is nervous; she is +sensitive in the highest degree; she is the innocent object of this +woman’s unreasoning hatred and distrust. You alarm me, sir! I am not +easily thrown off my balance, but I acknowledge you alarm me for the +future.” He frowned, shook his head, and looked at his visitor +despondently. + +Noel Vanstone began to feel uneasy. The change in Mr. Bygrave’s manner +seemed ominous of a reconsideration of his proposals from a new and +unfavorable point of view. He took counsel of his inborn cowardice and +his inborn cunning, and proposed a solution of the difficulty +discovered by himself. + +“Why should we tell Lecount at all?” he asked. “What right has Lecount +to know? Can’t we be married without letting her into the secret? And +can’t somebody tell her afterward when we are both out of her reach?” + +Captain Wragge received this proposal with an expression of surprise +which did infinite credit to his power of control over his own +countenance. His foremost object throughout the interview had been to +conduct it to this point, or, in other words, to make the first idea of +keeping the marriage a secret from Mrs. Lecount emanate from Noel +Vanstone instead of from himself. No one knew better than the captain +that the only responsibilities which a weak man ever accepts are +responsibilities which can be perpetually pointed out to him as resting +exclusively on his own shoulders. + +“I am accustomed to set my face against clandestine proceedings of all +kinds,” said Captain Wragge. “But there are exceptions to the strictest +rules; and I am bound to admit, Mr. Vanstone, that your position in +this matter is an exceptional position, if ever there was one yet. The +course you have just proposed—however unbecoming I may think it, +however distasteful it may be to myself—would not only spare you a very +serious embarrassment (to say the least of it), but would also protect +you from the personal assertion of those pecuniary claims on the part +of your housekeeper to which you have already adverted. These are both +desirable results to achieve—to say nothing of the removal, on my side, +of all apprehension of annoyance to my niece. On the other hand, +however, a marriage solemnized with such privacy as you propose must be +a hasty marriage; for, as we are situated, the longer the delay the +greater will be the risk that our secret may escape our keeping. I am +not against hasty marriages where a mutual flame is fanned by an +adequate income. My own was a love-match contracted in a hurry. There +are plenty of instances in the experience of every one, of short +courtships and speedy marriages, which have turned up trumps—I beg your +pardon—which have turned out well after all. But if you and my niece, +Mr. Vanstone, are to add one to the number of these eases, the usual +preliminaries of marriage among the higher classes must be hastened by +some means. You doubtless understand me as now referring to the subject +of settlements.” + +“I’ll take another teaspoonful of brandy,” said Noel Vanstone, holding +out his glass with a trembling hand as the word “settlements” passed +Captain Wragge’s lips. + +“I’ll take a teaspoonful with you,” said the captain, nimbly +dismounting from the pedestal of his respectability, and sipping his +brandy with the highest relish. Noel Vanstone, after nervously +following his host’s example, composed himself to meet the coming +ordeal, with reclining head and grasping hands, in the position +familiarly associated to all civilized humanity with a seat in a +dentist’s chair. + +The captain put down his empty glass and got up again on his pedestal. + +“We were talking of settlements,” he resumed. “I have already +mentioned, Mr. Vanstone, at an early period of our conversation, that +my niece presents the man of her choice with no other dowry than the +most inestimable of all gifts—the gift of herself. This circumstance, +however (as you are no doubt aware), does not disentitle me to make the +customary stipulations with her future husband. According to the usual +course in this matter, my lawyer would see yours—consultations would +take place—delays would occur—strangers would be in possession of your +intentions—and Mrs. Lecount would, sooner or later, arrive at that +knowledge of the truth which you are anxious to keep from her. Do you +agree with me so far?” + +Unutterable apprehension closed Noel Vanstone’s lips. He could only +reply by an inclination of the head. + +“Very good,” said the captain. “Now, sir, you may possibly have +observed that I am a man of a very original turn of mind. If I have not +hitherto struck you in that light, it may then be necessary to mention +that there are some subjects on which I persist in thinking for myself. +The subject of marriage settlements is one of them. What, let me ask +you, does a parent or guardian in my present condition usually do? +After having trusted the man whom he has chosen for his son-in-law with +the sacred deposit of a woman’s happiness, he turns round on that man, +and declines to trust him with the infinitely inferior responsibility +of providing for her pecuniary future. He fetters his son-in-law with +the most binding document the law can produce, and employs with the +husband of his own child the same precautions which he would use if he +were dealing with a stranger and a rogue. I call such conduct as this +inconsistent and unbecoming in the last degree. You will not find it my +course of conduct, Mr. Vanstone—you will not find me preaching what I +don’t practice. If I trust you with my niece, I trust you with every +inferior responsibility toward her and toward me. Give me your hand, +sir; tell me, on your word of honor, that you will provide for your +wife as becomes her position and your means, and the question of +settlements is decided between us from this moment at once and +forever!” Having carried out Magdalen’s instructions in this lofty +tone, he threw open his respectable frockcoat, and sat with head erect +and hand extended, the model of parental feeling and the picture of +human integrity. + +For one moment Noel Vanstone remained literally petrified by +astonishment. The next, he started from his chair and wrung the hand of +his magnanimous friend in a perfect transport of admiration. Never yet, +throughout his long and varied career, had Captain Wragge felt such +difficulty in keeping his countenance as he felt now. Contempt for the +outburst of miserly gratitude of which he was the object; triumph in +the sense of successful conspiracy against a man who had rated the +offer of his protection at five pounds; regret at the lost opportunity +of effecting a fine stroke of moral agriculture, which his dread of +involving himself in coming consequences had forced him to let slip—all +these varied emotions agitated the captain’s mind; all strove together +to find their way to the surface through the outlets of his face or his +tongue. He allowed Noel Vanstone to keep possession of his hand, and to +heap one series of shrill protestations and promises on another, until +he had regained his usual mastery over himself. That result achieved, +he put the little man back in his chair, and returned forthwith to the +subject of Mrs. Lecount. + +“Suppose we now revert to the difficulty which we have not conquered +yet,” said the captain. “Let us say that I do violence to my own habits +and feelings; that I allow the considerations I have already mentioned +to weigh with me; and that I sanction your wish to be united to my +niece without the knowledge of Mrs. Lecount. Allow me to inquire in +that case what means you can suggest for the accomplishment of your +end?” + +“I can’t suggest anything,” replied Noel Vanstone, helplessly. “Would +you object to suggest for me?” + +“You are making a bolder request than you think, Mr. Vanstone. I never +do things by halves. When I am acting with my customary candor, I am +frank (as you know already) to the utmost verge of imprudence. When +exceptional circumstances compel me to take an opposite course, there +isn’t a slyer fox alive than I am. If, at your express request, I take +off my honest English coat here and put on a Jesuit’s gown—if, purely +out of sympathy for your awkward position, I consent to keep your +secret for you from Mrs. Lecount—I must have no unseasonable scruples +to contend with on your part. If it is neck or nothing on my side, sir, +it must be neck or nothing on yours also.” + +“Neck or nothing, by all means,” said Noel Vanstone, briskly—“on the +understanding that you go first. I have no scruples about keeping +Lecount in the dark. But she is devilish cunning, Mr. Bygrave. How is +it to be done?” + +“You shall hear directly,” replied the captain. “Before I develop my +views, I should like to have your opinion on an abstract question of +morality. What do you think, my dear sir, of pious frauds in general?” + +Noel Vanstone looked a little embarrassed by the question. + +“Shall I put it more plainly?” continued Captain Wragge. “What do you +say to the universally-accepted maxim that ‘all stratagems are fair in +love and war’?—Yes or No?” + +“Yes!” answered Noel Vanstone, with the utmost readiness. + +“One more question and I have done,” said the captain. “Do you see any +particular objection to practicing a pious fraud on Mrs. Lecount?” + +Noel Vanstone’s resolution began to falter a little. + +“Is Lecount likely to find it out?” he asked cautiously. + +“She can’t possibly discover it until you are married and out of her +reach.” + +“You are sure of that?” + +“Quite sure.” + +“Play any trick you like on Lecount,” said Noel Vanstone, with an air +of unutterable relief. “I have had my suspicions lately that she is +trying to domineer over me; I am beginning to feel that I have borne +with Lecount long enough. I wish I was well rid of her.” + +“You shall have your wish,” said Captain Wragge. “You shall be rid of +her in a week or ten days.” + +Noel Vanstone rose eagerly and approached the captain’s chair. + +“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed. “How do you mean to send her away?” + +“I mean to send her on a journey,” replied Captain Wragge. + +“Where?” + +“From your house at Aldborough to her brother’s bedside at Zurich.” + +Noel Vanstone started back at the answer, and returned suddenly to his +chair. + +“How can you do that?” he inquired, in the greatest perplexity. “Her +brother (hang him!) is much better. She had another letter from Zurich +to say so, this morning.” + +“Did you see the letter?” + +“Yes. She always worries about her brother—she _would_ show it to me.” + +“Who was it from? and what did it say?” + +“It was from the doctor—he always writes to her. I don’t care two +straws about her brother, and I don’t remember much of the letter, +except that it was a short one. The fellow was much better; and if the +doctor didn’t write again, she might take it for granted that he was +getting well. That was the substance of it.” + +“Did you notice where she put the letter when you gave it her back +again?” + +“Yes. She put it in the drawer where she keeps her account-books.” + +“Can you get at that drawer?” + +“Of course I can. I have got a duplicate key—I always insist on a +duplicate key of the place where she keeps her account books. I never +allow the account-books to be locked up from my inspection: it’s a rule +of the house.” + +“Be so good as to get that letter to-day, Mr. Vanstone, without your +housekeeper’s knowledge, and add to the favor by letting me have it +here privately for an hour or two.” + +“What do you want it for?” + +“I have some more questions to ask before I tell you. Have you any +intimate friend at Zurich whom you could trust to help you in playing a +trick on Mrs. Lecount?” + +“What sort of help do you mean?” asked Noel Vanstone. + +“Suppose,” said the captain, “you were to send a letter addressed to +Mrs. Lecount at Aldborough, inclosed in another letter addressed to one +of your friends abroad? And suppose you were to instruct that friend to +help a harmless practical joke by posting Mrs. Lecount’s letter at +Zurich? Do you know any one who could be trusted to do that?” + +“I know two people who could be trusted!” cried Noel Vanstone. “Both +ladies—both spinsters—both bitter enemies of Lecount’s. But what is +your drift, Mr. Bygrave? Though I am not usually wanting in +penetration, I don’t altogether see your drift.” + +“You shall see it directly, Mr. Vanstone.” + +With those words he rose, withdrew to his desk in the corner of the +room, and wrote a few lines on a sheet of note-paper. After first +reading them carefully to himself, he beckoned to Noel Vanstone to come +and read them too. + +“A few minutes since,” said the captain, pointing complacently to his +own composition with the feather end of his pen, “I had the honor of +suggesting a pious fraud on Mrs. Lecount. There it is!” + +He resigned his chair at the writing-table to his visitor. Noel +Vanstone sat down, and read these lines: + +“MY DEAR MADAM—Since I last wrote, I deeply regret to inform you that +your brother has suffered a relapse. The symptoms are so serious, that +it is my painful duty to summon you instantly to his bedside. I am +making every effort to resist the renewed progress of the malady, and I +have not yet lost all hope of success. But I cannot reconcile it to my +conscience to leave you in ignorance of a serious change in my patient +for the worse, which _may_ be attended by fatal results. With much +sympathy, I remain, etc. etc.” + +Captain Wragge waited with some anxiety for the effect which this +letter might produce. Mean, selfish, and cowardly as he was, even Noel +Vanstone might feel some compunction at practicing such a deception as +was here suggested on a woman who stood toward him in the position of +Mrs. Lecount. She had served him faithfully, however interested her +motives might be—she had lived since he was a lad in the full +possession of his father’s confidence—she was living now under the +protection of his own roof. Could he fail to remember this; and, +remembering it, could he lend his aid without hesitation to the scheme +which was now proposed to him? Captain Wragge unconsciously retained +belief enough in human nature to doubt it. To his surprise, and, it +must be added, to his relief, also, his apprehensions proved to be +groundless. The only emotions aroused in Noel Vanstone’s mind by a +perusal of the letter were a hearty admiration of his friend’s idea, +and a vainglorious anxiety to claim the credit to himself of being the +person who carried it out. Examples may be found every day of a fool +who is no coward; examples may be found occasionally of a fool who is +not cunning; but it may reasonably be doubted whether there is a +producible instance anywhere of a fool who is not cruel. + +“Perfect!” cried Noel Vanstone, clapping his hands. “Mr. Bygrave, you +are as good as Figaro in the French comedy. Talking of French, there is +one serious mistake in this clever letter of yours—it is written in the +wrong language. When the doctor writes to Lecount, he writes in French. +Perhaps you meant me to translate it? You can’t manage without my help, +can you? I write French as fluently as I write English. Just look at +me! I’ll translate it, while I sit here, in two strokes of the pen.” + +He completed the translation almost as rapidly as Captain Wragge had +produced the original. “Wait a minute!” he cried, in high critical +triumph at discovering another defect in the composition of his +ingenious friend. “The doctor always dates his letters. Here is no date +to yours.” + +“I leave the date to you,” said the captain, with a sardonic smile. +“You have discovered the fault, my dear sir—pray correct it!” + +Noel Vanstone mentally looked into the great gulf which separates the +faculty that can discover a defect, from the faculty that can apply a +remedy, and, following the example of many a wiser man, declined to +cross over it. + +“I couldn’t think of taking the liberty,” he said, politely. “Perhaps +you had a motive for leaving the date out?” + +“Perhaps I had,” replied Captain Wragge, with his easiest good-humor. +“The date must depend on the time a letter takes to get to Zurich. _I_ +have had no experience on that point—_you_ must have had plenty of +experience in your father’s time. Give me the benefit of your +information, and we will add the date before you leave the +writing-table.” + +Noel Vanstone’s experience was, as Captain Wragge had anticipated, +perfectly competent to settle the question of time. The railway +resources of the Continent (in the year eighteen hundred and +forty-seven) were but scanty; and a letter sent at that period from +England to Zurich, and from Zurich back again to England, occupied ten +days in making the double journey by post. + +“Date the letter in French five days on from to-morrow,” said the +captain, when he had got his information. “Very good. The next thing is +to let me have the doctor’s note as soon as you can. I may be obliged +to practice some hours before I can copy your translation in an exact +imitation of the doctor’s handwriting. Have you got any foreign +note-paper? Let me have a few sheets, and send, at the same time, an +envelope addressed to one of those lady-friends of yours at Zurich, +accompanied by the necessary request to post the inclosure. This is all +I need trouble you to do, Mr. Vanstone. Don’t let me seem inhospitable; +but the sooner you can supply me with my materials, the better I shall +be pleased. We entirely understand each other, I suppose? Having +accepted your proposal for my niece’s hand, I sanction a private +marriage in consideration of the circumstances on your side. A little +harmless stratagem is necessary to forward your views. I invent the +stratagem at your request, and you make use of it without the least +hesitation. The result is, that in ten days from to-morrow Mrs. Lecount +will be on her way to Switzerland; in fifteen days from to-morrow Mrs. +Lecount will reach Zurich, and discover the trick we have played her; +in twenty days from to-morrow Mrs. Lecount will be back at Aldborough, +and will find her master’s wedding-cards on the table, and her master +himself away on his honey-moon trip. I put it arithmetically, for the +sake of putting it plain. God bless you. Good-morning!” + +“I suppose I may have the happiness of seeing Miss Bygrave to-morrow?” +said Noel Vanstone, turning round at the door. + +“We must be careful,” replied Captain Wragge. “I don’t forbid +to-morrow, but I make no promise beyond that. Permit me to remind you +that we have got Mrs. Lecount to manage for the next ten days.” + +“I wish Lecount was at the bottom of the German Ocean!” exclaimed Noel +Vanstone, fervently. “It’s all very well for you to manage her—you +don’t live in the house. What am I to do?” + +“I’ll tell you to-morrow,” said the captain. “Go out for your walk +alone, and drop in here, as you dropped in to-day, at two o’clock. In +the meantime, don’t forget those things I want you to send me. Seal +them up together in a large envelope. When you have done that, ask Mrs. +Lecount to walk out with you as usual; and while she is upstairs +putting her bonnet on, send the servant across to me. You understand? +Good-morning.” + +An hour afterward, the sealed envelope, with its inclosures, reached +Captain Wragge in perfect safety. The double task of exactly imitating +a strange handwriting, and accurately copying words written in a +language with which he was but slightly acquainted, presented more +difficulties to be overcome than the captain had anticipated. It was +eleven o’clock before the employment which he had undertaken was +successfully completed, and the letter to Zurich ready for the post. + +Before going to bed, he walked out on the deserted Parade to breathe +the cool night air. All the lights were extinguished in Sea-view +Cottage, when he looked that way, except the light in the housekeeper’s +window. Captain Wragge shook his head suspiciously. He had gained +experience enough by this time to distrust the wakefulness of Mrs. +Lecount. + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +If Captain Wragge could have looked into Mrs. Lecount’s room while he +stood on the Parade watching the light in her window, he would have +seen the housekeeper sitting absorbed in meditation over a worthless +little morsel of brown stuff which lay on her toilet-table. + +However exasperating to herself the conclusion might be, Mrs. Lecount +could not fail to see that she had been thus far met and baffled +successfully at every point. What was she to do next? If she sent for +Mr. Pendril when he came to Aldborough (with only a few hours spared +from his business at her disposal), what definite course would there be +for him to follow? If she showed Noel Vanstone the original letter from +which her note had been copied, he would apply instantly to the writer +for an explanation: would expose the fabricated story by which Mrs. +Lecount had succeeded in imposing on Miss Garth; and would, in any +event, still declare, on the evidence of his own eyes, that the test by +the marks on the neck had utterly failed. Miss Vanstone, the elder, +whose unexpected presence at Aldborough might have done wonders—whose +voice in the hall at North Shingles, even if she had been admitted no +further, might have reached her sister’s ears and led to instant +results—Miss Vanstone, the elder, was out of the country, and was not +likely to return for a month at least. Look as anxiously as Mrs. +Lecount might along the course which she had hitherto followed, she +failed to see her way through the accumulated obstacles which now +barred her advance. + +Other women in this position might have waited until circumstances +altered, and helped them. Mrs. Lecount boldly retraced her steps, and +determined to find her way to her end in a new direction. Resigning for +the present all further attempt to prove that the false Miss Bygrave +was the true Magdalen Vanstone, she resolved to narrow the range of her +next efforts; to leave the actual question of Magdalen’s identity +untouched; and to rest satisfied with convincing her master of this +simple fact—that the young lady who was charming him at North Shingles, +and the disguised woman who had terrified him in Vauxhall Walk, were +one and the same person. + +The means of effecting this new object were, to all appearance, far +less easy of attainment than the means of effecting the object which +Mrs. Lecount had just resigned. Here no help was to be expected from +others, no ostensibly benevolent motives could be put forward as a +blind—no appeal could be made to Mr. Pendril or to Miss Garth. Here the +housekeeper’s only chance of success depended, in the first place, on +her being able to effect a stolen entrance into Mr. Bygrave’s house, +and, in the second place, on her ability to discover whether that +memorable alpaca dress from which she had secretly cut the fragment of +stuff happened to form part of Miss Bygrave’s wardrobe. + +Taking the difficulties now before her in their order as they occurred, +Mrs. Lecount first resolved to devote the next few days to watching the +habits of the inmates of North Shingles, from early in the morning to +late at night, and to testing the capacity of the one servant in the +house to resist the temptation of a bribe. Assuming that results proved +successful, and that, either by money or by stratagem, she gained +admission to North Shingles (without the knowledge of Mr. Bygrave or +his niece), she turned next to the second difficulty of the two—the +difficulty of obtaining access to Miss Bygrave’s wardrobe. + +If the servant proved corruptible, all obstacles in this direction +might be considered as removed beforehand. But if the servant proved +honest, the new problem was no easy one to solve. + +Long and careful consideration of the question led the housekeeper at +last to the bold resolution of obtaining an interview—if the servant +failed her—with Mrs. Bygrave herself. What was the true cause of this +lady’s mysterious seclusion? Was she a person of the strictest and the +most inconvenient integrity? or a person who could not be depended on +to preserve a secret? or a person who was as artful as Mr. Bygrave +himself, and who was kept in reserve to forward the object of some new +deception which was yet to come? In the first two cases, Mrs. Lecount +could trust in her own powers of dissimulation, and in the results +which they might achieve. In the last case (if no other end was +gained), it might be of vital importance to her to discover an enemy +hidden in the dark. In any event, she determined to run the risk. Of +the three chances in her favor on which she had reckoned at the outset +of the struggle—the chance of entrapping Magdalen by word of mouth, the +chance of entrapping her by the help of her friends, and the chance of +entrapping her by means of Mrs. Bygrave—two had been tried, and two had +failed. The third remained to be tested yet; and the third might +succeed. + +So, the captain’s enemy plotted against him in the privacy of her own +chamber, while the captain watched the light in her window from the +beach outside. + +Before breakfast the next morning, Captain Wragge posted the forged +letter to Zurich with his own hand. He went back to North Shingles with +his mind not quite decided on the course to take with Mrs. Lecount +during the all-important interval of the next ten days. + +Greatly to his surprise, his doubts on this point were abruptly decided +by Magdalen herself. + +He found her waiting for him in the room where the breakfast was laid. +She was walking restlessly to and fro, with her head drooping on her +bosom and her hair hanging disordered over her shoulders. The moment +she looked up on his entrance, the captain felt the fear which Mrs. +Wragge had felt before him—the fear that her mind would be struck +prostrate again, as it had been struck once already, when Frank’s +letter reached her in Vauxhall Walk. + +“Is he coming again to-day?” she asked, pushing away from her the chair +which Captain Wragge offered, with such violence that she threw it on +the floor. + +“Yes,” said the captain, wisely answering her in the fewest words. “He +is coming at two o’clock.” + +“Take me away!” she exclaimed, tossing her hair back wildly from her +face. “Take me away before he comes. I can’t get over the horror of +marrying him while I am in this hateful place; take me somewhere where +I can forget it, or I shall go mad! Give me two days’ rest—two days out +of sight of that horrible sea—two days out of prison in this horrible +house—two days anywhere in the wide world away from Aldborough. I’ll +come back with you! I’ll go through with it to the end! Only give me +two days’ escape from that man and everything belonging to him! Do you +hear, you villain?” she cried, seizing his arm and shaking it in a +frenzy of passion; “I have been tortured enough—I can bear it no +longer!” + +There was but one way of quieting her, and the captain instantly took +it. + +“If you will try to control yourself,” he said, “you shall leave +Aldborough in an hour’s time.” + +She dropped his arm, and leaned back heavily against the wall behind +her. + +“I’ll try,” she answered, struggling for breath, but looking at him +less wildly. “You shan’t complain of me, if I can help it.” She +attempted confusedly to take her handkerchief from her apron pocket, +and failed to find it. The captain took it out for her. Her eyes +softened, and she drew her breath more freely as she received the +handkerchief from him. “You are a kinder man than I thought you were,” +she said; “I am sorry I spoke so passionately to you just now—I am +very, very sorry.” The tears stole into her eyes, and she offered him +her hand with the native grace and gentleness of happier days. “Be +friends with me again,” she said, pleadingly. “I’m only a girl, Captain +Wragge—I’m only a girl!” + +He took her hand in silence, patted it for a moment, and then opened +the door for her to go back to her own room again. There was genuine +regret in his face as he showed her that trifling attention. He was a +vagabond and a cheat; he had lived a mean, shuffling, degraded life, +but he was human; and she had found her way to the lost sympathies in +him which not even the self-profanation of a swindler’s existence could +wholly destroy. “Damn the breakfast!” he said, when the servant came in +for her orders. “Go to the inn directly, and say I want a carriage and +pair at the door in an hour’s time.” He went out into the passage, +still chafing under a sense of mental disturbance which was new to him, +and shouted to his wife more fiercely than ever—“Pack up what we want +for a week’s absence, and be ready in half an hour!” Having issued +those directions, he returned to the breakfast-room, and looked at the +half-spread table with an impatient wonder at his disinclination to do +justice to his own meal. “She has rubbed off the edge of my appetite,” +he said to himself, with a forced laugh. “I’ll try a cigar, and a turn +in the fresh air.” + +If he had been twenty years younger, those remedies might have failed +him. But where is the man to be found whose internal policy succumbs to +revolution when that man is on the wrong side of fifty? Exercise and +change of place gave the captain back into the possession of himself. +He recovered the lost sense of the flavor of his cigar, and recalled +his wandering attention to the question of his approaching absence from +Aldborough. A few minutes’ consideration satisfied his mind that +Magdalen’s outbreak had forced him to take the course of all others +which, on a fair review of existing emergencies, it was now most +desirable to adopt. + +Captain Wragge’s inquiries on the evening when he and Magdalen had +drunk tea at Sea View had certainly informed him that the housekeeper’s +brother possessed a modest competence; that his sister was his nearest +living relative; and that there were some unscrupulous cousins on the +spot who were anxious to usurp the place in his will which properly +belonged to Mrs. Lecount. Here were strong motives to take the +housekeeper to Zurich when the false report of her brother’s relapse +reached England. But if any idea of Noel Vanstone’s true position +dawned on her in the meantime, who could say whether she might not, at +the eleventh hour, prefer asserting her large pecuniary interest in her +master, to defending her small pecuniary interest at her brother’s +bedside? While that question remained undecided, the plain necessity of +checking the growth of Noel Vanstone’s intimacy with the family at +North Shingles did not admit of a doubt; and of all means of effecting +that object, none could be less open to suspicion than the temporary +removal of the household from their residence at Aldborough. Thoroughly +satisfied with the soundness of this conclusion, Captain Wragge made +straight for Sea-view Cottage, to apologize and explain before the +carriage came and the departure took place. + +Noel Vanstone was easily accessible to visitors; he was walking in the +garden before breakfast. His disappointment and vexation were freely +expressed when he heard the news which his friend had to communicate. +The captain’s fluent tongue, however, soon impressed on him the +necessity of resignation to present circumstances. The bare hint that +the “pious fraud” might fail after all, if anything happened in the ten +days’ interval to enlighten Mrs. Lecount, had an instant effect in +making Noel Vanstone as patient and as submissive as could be wished. + +“I won’t tell you where we are going, for two good reasons,” said +Captain Wragge, when his preliminary explanations were completed. “In +the first place, I haven’t made up my mind yet; and, in the second +place, if you don’t know where our destination is, Mrs. Lecount can’t +worm it out of you. I have not the least doubt she is watching us at +this moment from behind her window-curtain. When she asks what I wanted +with you this morning, tell her I came to say good-by for a few days, +finding my niece not so well again, and wishing to take her on a short +visit to some friends to try change of air. If you could produce an +impression on Mrs. Lecount’s mind (without overdoing it), that you are +a little disappointed in me, and that you are rather inclined to doubt +my heartiness in cultivating your acquaintance, you will greatly help +our present object. You may depend on our return to North Shingles in +four or five days at furthest. If anything strikes me in the meanwhile, +the post is always at our service, and I won’t fail to write to you.” + +“Won’t Miss Bygrave write to me?” inquired Noel Vanstone, piteously. +“Did she know you were coming here? Did she send me no message?” + +“Unpardonable on my part to have forgotten it!” cried the captain. “She +sent you her love.” + +Noel Vanstone closed his eyes in silent ecstasy. + +When he opened them again Captain Wragge had passed through the garden +gate and was on his way back to North Shingles. As soon as his own door +had closed on him, Mrs. Lecount descended from the post of observation +which the captain had rightly suspected her of occupying, and addressed +the inquiry to her master which the captain had rightly foreseen would +follow his departure. The reply she received produced but one +impression on her mind. She at once set it down as a falsehood, and +returned to her own window to keep watch over North Shingles more +vigilantly than ever. + +To her utter astonishment, after a lapse of less than half an hour she +saw an empty carriage draw up at Mr. Bygrave’s door. Luggage was +brought out and packed on the vehicle. Miss Bygrave appeared, and took +her seat in it. She was followed into the carriage by a lady of great +size and stature, whom the housekeeper conjectured to be Mrs. Bygrave. +The servant came next, and stood waiting on the path. The last person +to appear was Mr. Bygrave. He locked the house door, and took the key +away with him to a cottage near at hand, which was the residence of the +landlord of North Shingles. On his return, he nodded to the servant, +who walked away by herself toward the humbler quarter of the little +town, and joined the ladies in the carriage. The coachman mounted the +box, and the vehicle disappeared. + +Mrs. Lecount laid down the opera-glass, through which she had been +closely investigating these proceedings, with a feeling of helpless +perplexity which she was almost ashamed to acknowledge to herself. The +secret of Mr. Bygrave’s object in suddenly emptying his house at +Aldborough of every living creature in it was an impenetrable mystery +to her. + +Submitting herself to circumstances with a ready resignation which +Captain Wragge had not shown, on his side, in a similar situation, Mrs. +Lecount wasted neither time nor temper in unprofitable guess-work. She +left the mystery to thicken or to clear, as the future might decide, +and looked exclusively at the uses to which she might put the morning’s +event in her own interests. Whatever might have become of the family at +North Shingles, the servant was left behind, and the servant was +exactly the person whose assistance might now be of vital importance to +the housekeeper’s projects. Mrs. Lecount put on her bonnet, inspected +the collection of loose silver in her purse, and set forth on the spot +to make the servant’s acquaintance. + +She went first to the cottage at which Mr. Bygrave had left the key of +North Shingles, to discover the servant’s present address from the +landlord. So far as this object was concerned, her errand proved +successful. The landlord knew that the girl had been allowed to go home +for a few days to her friends, and knew in what part of Aldborough her +friends lived. But here his sources of information suddenly dried up. +He knew nothing of the destination to which Mr. Bygrave and his family +had betaken themselves, and he was perfectly ignorant of the number of +days over which their absence might be expected to extend. All he could +say was, that he had not received a notice to quit from his tenant, and +that he had been requested to keep the key of the house in his +possession until Mr. Bygrave returned to claim it in his own person. + +Baffled, but not discouraged, Mrs. Lecount turned her steps next toward +the back street of Aldborough, and astonished the servant’s relatives +by conferring on them the honor of a morning call. + +Easily imposed on at starting by Mrs. Lecount’s pretense of calling to +engage her, under the impression that she had left Mr. Bygrave’s +service, the servant did her best to answer the questions put to her. +But she knew as little as the landlord of her master’s plans. All she +could say about them was, that she had not been dismissed, and that she +was to await the receipt of a note recalling her when necessary to her +situation at North Shingles. Not having expected to find her better +informed on this part of the subject, Mrs. Lecount smoothly shifted her +ground, and led the woman into talking generally of the advantages and +defects of her situation in Mr. Bygrave’s family. + +Profiting by the knowledge gained, in this indirect manner, of the +little secrets of the household, Mrs. Lecount made two discoveries. She +found out, in the first place, that the servant (having enough to do in +attending to the coarser part of the domestic work) was in no position +to disclose the secrets of Miss Bygrave’s wardrobe, which were known +only to the young lady herself and to her aunt. In the second place, +the housekeeper ascertained that the true reason of Mrs. Bygrave’s +rigid seclusion was to be found in the simple fact that she was little +better than an idiot, and that her husband was probably ashamed of +allowing her to be seen in public. These apparently trivial discoveries +enlightened Mrs. Lecount on a very important point which had been +previously involved in doubt. She was now satisfied that the likeliest +way to obtaining a private investigation of Magdalen’s wardrobe lay +through deluding the imbecile lady, and not through bribing the +ignorant servant. + +Having reached that conclusion—pregnant with coming assaults on the +weakly-fortified discretion of poor Mrs. Wragge—the housekeeper +cautiously abstained from exhibiting herself any longer under an +inquisitive aspect. She changed the conversation to local topics, +waited until she was sure of leaving an excellent impression behind +her, and then took her leave. + +Three days passed; and Mrs. Lecount and her master—each with their +widely-different ends in view—watched with equal anxiety for the first +signs of returning life in the direction of North Shingles. In that +interval, no letter either from the uncle or the niece arrived for Noel +Vanstone. His sincere feeling of irritation under this neglectful +treatment greatly assisted the effect of those feigned doubts on the +subject of his absent friends which the captain had recommended him to +express in the housekeeper’s presence. He confessed his apprehensions +of having been mistaken, not in Mr. Bygrave only, but even in his niece +as well, with such a genuine air of annoyance that he actually +contributed a new element of confusion to the existing perplexities of +Mrs. Lecount. + +On the morning of the fourth day Noel Vanstone met the postman in the +garden; and, to his great relief, discovered among the letters +delivered to him a note from Mr. Bygrave. + +The date of the note was “Woodbridge,” and it contained a few lines +only. Mr. Bygrave mentioned that his niece was better, and that she +sent her love as before. He proposed returning to Aldborough on the +next day, when he would have some new considerations of a strictly +private nature to present to Mr. Noel Vanstone’s mind. In the meantime +he would beg Mr. Vanstone not to call at North Shingles until he +received a special invitation to do so—which invitation should +certainly be given on the day when the family returned. The motive of +this apparently strange request should be explained to Mr. Vanstone’s +perfect satisfaction when he was once more united to his friends. Until +that period arrived, the strictest caution was enjoined on him in all +his communications with Mrs. Lecount; and the instant destruction of +Mr. Bygrave’s letter, after due perusal of it, was (if the classical +phrase might be pardoned) a _sine qua non_. + +The fifth day came. Noel Vanstone (after submitting himself to the +_sine qua non_, and destroying the letter) waited anxiously for +results; while Mrs. Lecount, on her side, watched patiently for events. +Toward three o’clock in the afternoon the carriage appeared again at +the gate of North Shingles. Mr. Bygrave got out and tripped away +briskly to the landlord’s cottage for the key. He returned with the +servant at his heels. Miss Bygrave left the carriage; her giant +relative followed her example; the house door was opened; the trunks +were taken off; the carriage disappeared, and the Bygraves were at home +again! + +Four o’clock struck, five o’clock, six o’clock, and nothing happened. +In half an hour more, Mr. Bygrave—spruce, speckless, and respectable as +ever—appeared on the Parade, sauntering composedly in the direction of +Sea View. + +Instead of at once entering the house, he passed it; stopped, as if +struck by a sudden recollection; and, retracing his steps, asked for +Mr. Vanstone at the door. Mr. Vanstone came out hospitably into the +passage. Pitching his voice to a tone which could be easily heard by +any listening individual through any open door in the bedroom regions, +Mr. Bygrave announced the object of his visit on the door-mat in the +fewest possible words. He had been staying with a distant relative. The +distant relative possessed two pictures—Gems by the Old Masters—which +he was willing to dispose of, and which he had intrusted for that +purpose to Mr. Bygrave’s care. If Mr. Noel Vanstone, as an amateur in +such matters, wished to see the Gems, they would be visible in half an +hour’s time, when Mr. Bygrave would have returned to North Shingles. + +Having delivered himself of this incomprehensible announcement, the +arch-conspirator laid his significant forefinger along the side of his +short Roman nose, said, “Fine weather, isn’t it? Good-afternoon!” and +sauntered out inscrutably to continue his walk on the Parade. + +On the expiration of the half-hour Noel Vanstone presented himself at +North Shingles, with the ardor of a lover burning inextinguishably in +his bosom, through the superincumbent mental fog of a thoroughly +bewildered man. To his inexpressible happiness, he found Magdalen alone +in the parlor. Never yet had she looked so beautiful in his eyes. The +rest and relief of her four days’ absence from Aldborough had not +failed to produce their results; she had more than recovered her +composure. Vibrating perpetually from one violent extreme to another, +she had now passed from the passionate despair of five days since to a +feverish exaltation of spirits which defied all remorse and confronted +all consequences. Her eyes sparkled; her cheeks were bright with color; +she talked incessantly, with a forlorn mockery of the girlish gayety of +past days; she laughed with a deplorable persistency in laughing; she +imitated Mrs. Lecount’s smooth voice, and Mrs. Lecount’s insinuating +graces of manner with an overcharged resemblance to the original, which +was but the coarse reflection of the delicately-accurate mimicry of +former times. Noel Vanstone, who had never yet seen her as he saw her +now, was enchanted; his weak head whirled with an intoxication of +enjoyment; his wizen cheeks flushed as if they had caught the infection +from hers. The half-hour during which he was alone with her passed like +five minutes to him. When that time had elapsed, and when she suddenly +left him—to obey a previously-arranged summons to her aunt’s +presence—miser as he was, he would have paid at that moment five golden +sovereigns out of his pocket for five golden minutes more passed in her +society. + +The door had hardly closed on Magdalen before it opened again, and the +captain walked in. He entered on the explanations which his visitor +naturally expected from him with the unceremonious abruptness of a man +hard pressed for time, and determined to make the most of every moment +at his disposal. + +“Since we last saw each other,” he began, “I have been reckoning up the +chances for and against us as we stand at present. The result on my own +mind is this: If you are still at Aldborough when that letter from +Zurich reaches Mrs. Lecount, all the pains we have taken will have been +pains thrown away. If your housekeeper had fifty brothers all dying +together, she would throw the whole fifty over sooner than leave you +alone at Sea View while we are your neighbors at North Shingles.” + +Noel Vanstone’s flushed cheek turned pale with dismay. His own +knowledge of Mrs. Lecount told him that this view of the case was the +right one. + +“If _we_ go away again,” proceeded the captain, “nothing will be +gained, for nothing would persuade your housekeeper, in that case, that +we have not left you the means of following us. _You_ must leave +Aldborough this time; and, what is more, you must go without leaving a +single visible trace behind you for us to follow. If we accomplish this +object in the course of the next five days, Mrs. Lecount will take the +journey to Zurich. If we fail, she will be a fixture at Sea View, to a +dead certainty. Don’t ask questions! I have got your instructions ready +for you, and I want your closest attention to them. Your marriage with +my niece depends on your not forgetting a word of what I am now going +to tell you.—One question first. Have you followed my advice? Have you +told Mrs. Lecount you are beginning to think yourself mistaken in me?” + +“I did worse than that,” replied Noel Vanstone penitently. “I committed +an outrage on my own feelings. I disgraced myself by saying that I +doubted Miss Bygrave!” + +“Go on disgracing yourself, my dear sir! Doubt us both with all your +might, and I’ll help you. One question more. Did I speak loud enough +this afternoon? Did Mrs. Lecount hear me?” + +“Yes. Lecount opened her door; Lecount heard you. What made you give me +that message? I see no pictures here. Is this another pious fraud, Mr. +Bygrave?” + +“Admirably guessed, Mr. Vanstone! You will see the object of my +imaginary picture-dealing in the very next words which I am now about +to address to you. When you get back to Sea View, this is what you are +to say to Mrs. Lecount. Tell her that my relative’s works of Art are +two worthless pictures—copies from the Old Masters, which I have tried +to sell you as originals at an exorbitant price. Say you suspect me of +being little better than a plausible impostor, and pity my unfortunate +niece for being associated with such a rascal as I am. There is your +text to speak from. Say in many words what I have just said in a few. +You can do that, can’t you?” + +“Of course I can do it,” said Noel Vanstone. “But I can tell you one +thing—Lecount won’t believe me.” + +“Wait a little, Mr. Vanstone; I have not done with my instructions yet. +You understand what I have just told you? Very good. We may get on from +to-day to to-morrow. Go out to-morrow with Mrs. Lecount at your usual +time. I will meet you on the Parade, and bow to you. Instead of +returning my bow, look the other way. In plain English, cut me! That is +easy enough to do, isn’t it?” + +“She won’t believe me, Mr. Bygrave—she won’t believe me!” + +“Wait a little again, Mr. Vanstone. There are more instructions to +come. You have got your directions for to-day, and you have got your +directions for to-morrow. Now for the day after. The day after is the +seventh day since we sent the letter to Zurich. On the seventh day +decline to go out walking as before, from dread of the annoyance of +meeting me again. Grumble about the smallness of the place; complain of +your health; wish you had never come to Aldborough, and never made +acquaintances with the Bygraves; and when you have well worried Mrs. +Lecount with your discontent, ask her on a sudden if she can’t suggest +a change for the better. If you put that question to her naturally, do +you think she can be depended on to answer it?” + +“She won’t want to be questioned at all,” replied Noel Vanstone, +irritably. “I have only got to say I am tired of Aldborough; and, if +she believes me—which she won’t; I’m quite positive, Mr. Bygrave, she +won’t!—she will have her suggestion ready before I can ask for it.” + +“Ay! ay!” said the captain eagerly. “There is some place, then, that +Mrs. Lecount wants to go to this autumn?” + +“She wants to go there (hang her!) every autumn.” + +“To go where?” + +“To Admiral Bartram’s—you don’t know him, do you?—at St. +Crux-in-the-Marsh.” + +“Don’t lose your patience, Mr. Vanstone! What you are now telling me is +of the most vital importance to the object we have in view. Who is +Admiral Bartram?” + +“An old friend of my father’s. My father laid him under obligations—my +father lent him money when they were both young men. I am like one of +the family at St. Crux; my room is always kept ready for me. Not that +there’s any family at the admiral’s except his nephew, George Bartram. +George is my cousin; I’m as intimate with George as my father was with +the admiral; and I’ve been sharper than my father, for I haven’t lent +my friend any money. Lecount always makes a show of liking George—I +believe to annoy me. She likes the admiral, too; he flatters her +vanity. He always invites her to come with me to St. Crux. He lets her +have one of the best bedrooms, and treats her as if she was a lady. She +is as proud as Lucifer—she likes being treated like a lady—and she +pesters me every autumn to go to St. Crux. What’s the matter? What are +you taking out your pocketbook for?” + +“I want the admiral’s address, Mr. Vanstone, for a purpose which I will +explain immediately.” + +With those words, Captain Wragge opened his pocketbook and wrote down +the address from Noel Vanstone’s dictation, as follows: “Admiral +Bartram, St. Crux-in-the-Marsh, near Ossory, Essex.” + +“Good!” cried the captain, closing his pocketbook again. “The only +difficulty that stood in our way is now cleared out of it. Patience, +Mr. Vanstone—patience! Let us take up my instructions again at the +point where we dropped them. Give me five minutes’ more attention, and +you will see your way to your marriage as plainly as I see it. On the +day after to-morrow you declare you are tired of Aldborough, and Mrs. +Lecount suggests St. Crux. You don’t say yes or no on the spot; you +take the next day to consider it, and you make up your mind the last +thing at night to go to St. Crux the first thing in the morning. Are +you in the habit of superintending your own packing up, or do you +usually shift all the trouble of it on Mrs. Lecount’s shoulders?” + +“Lecount has all the trouble, of course; Lecount is paid for it! But I +don’t really go, do I?” + +“You go as fast as horses can take you to the railway without having +held any previous communication with this house, either personally or +by letter. You leave Mrs. Lecount behind to pack up your curiosities, +to settle with the tradespeople, and to follow you to St. Crux the next +morning. The next morning is the tenth morning. On the tenth morning +she receives the letter from Zurich; and if you only carry out my +instructions, Mr. Vanstone, as sure as you sit there, to Zurich she +goes.” + +Noel Vanstone’s color began to rise again, as the captain’s stratagem +dawned on him at last in its true light. + +“And what am I to do at St. Crux?” he inquired. + +“Wait there till I call for you,” replied the captain. “As soon as Mrs. +Lecount’s back is turned, I will go to the church here and give the +necessary notice of the marriage. The same day or the next, I will +travel to the address written down in my pocketbook, pick you up at the +admiral’s, and take you on to London with me to get the license. With +that document in our possession, we shall be on our way back to +Aldborough while Mrs. Lecount is on her way out to Zurich; and before +she starts on her return journey, you and my niece will be man and +wife! There are your future prospects for you. What do you think of +them?” + +“What a head you have got!” cried Noel Vanstone, in a sudden outburst +of enthusiasm. “You’re the most extraordinary man I ever met with. One +would think you had done nothing all your life but take people in.” + +Captain Wragge received that unconscious tribute to his native genius +with the complacency of a man who felt that he thoroughly deserved it. + +“I have told you already, my dear sir,” he said, modestly, “that I +never do things by halves. Pardon me for reminding you that we have no +time for exchanging mutual civilities. Are you quite sure about your +instructions? I dare not write them down for fear of accidents. Try the +system of artificial memory; count your instructions off after me, on +your thumb and your four fingers. To-day you tell Mrs. Lecount I have +tried to take you in with my relative’s works of Art. To-morrow you cut +me on the Parade. The day after you refuse to go out, you get tired of +Aldborough, and you allow Mrs. Lecount to make her suggestion. The next +day you accept the suggestion. And the next day to that you go to St. +Crux. Once more, my dear sir! Thumb—works of Art. Forefinger—cut me on +the Parade. Middle finger—tired of Aldborough. Third finger—take +Lecount’s advice. Little finger—off to St. Crux. Nothing can be +clearer—nothing can be easier to do. Is there anything you don’t +understand? Anything that I can explain over again before you go?” + +“Only one thing,” said Noel Vanstone. “Is it settled that I am not to +come here again before I go to St. Crux?” + +“Most decidedly!” answered the captain. “The whole success of the +enterprise depends on your keeping away. Mrs. Lecount will try the +credibility of everything you say to her by one test—the test of your +communicating, or not, with this house. She will watch you night and +day! Don’t call here, don’t send messages, don’t write letters; don’t +even go out by yourself. Let her see you start for St. Crux on her +suggestion, with the absolute certainty in her own mind that you have +followed her advice without communicating it in any form whatever to me +or to my niece. Do that, and she _must_ believe you, on the best of all +evidence for our interests, and the worst for hers—the evidence of her +own senses.” + +With those last words of caution, he shook the little man warmly by the +hand and sent him home on the spot. + + + +CHAPTER X. + +On returning to Sea View, Noel Vanstone executed the instructions which +prescribed his line of conduct for the first of the five days with +unimpeachable accuracy. A faint smile of contempt hovered about Mrs. +Lecount’s lips while the story of Mr. Bygrave’s attempt to pass off his +spurious pictures as originals was in progress, but she did not trouble +herself to utter a single word of remark when it had come to an end. +“Just what I said!” thought Noel Vanstone, cunningly watching her face; +“she doesn’t believe a word of it!” + +The next day the meeting occurred on the Parade. Mr. Bygrave took off +his hat, and Noel Vanstone looked the other way. The captain’s start of +surprise and scowl of indignation were executed to perfection, but they +plainly failed to impose on Mrs. Lecount. “I am afraid, sir, you have +offended Mr. Bygrave to-day,” she ironically remarked. “Happily for +you, he is an excellent Christian! and I venture to predict that he +will forgive you to-morrow.” + +Noel Vanstone wisely refrained from committing himself to an answer. +Once more he privately applauded his own penetration; once more he +triumphed over his ingenious friend. + +Thus far the captain’s instructions had been too clear and simple to be +mistaken by any one. But they advanced in complication with the advance +of time, and on the third day Noel Vanstone fell confusedly into the +commission of a slight error. After expressing the necessary weariness +of Aldborough, and the consequent anxiety for change of scene, he was +met (as he had anticipated) by an immediate suggestion from the +housekeeper, recommending a visit to St. Crux. In giving his answer to +the advice thus tendered, he made his first mistake. Instead of +deferring his decision until the next day, he accepted Mrs. Lecount’s +suggestion on the day when it was offered to him. + +The consequences of this error were of no great importance. The +housekeeper merely set herself to watch her master one day earlier than +had been calculated on—a result which had been already provided for by +the wise precautionary measure of forbidding Noel Vanstone all +communication with North Shingles. Doubting, as Captain Wragge had +foreseen, the sincerity of her master’s desire to break off his +connection with the Bygraves by going to St. Crux, Mrs. Lecount tested +the truth or falsehood of the impression produced on her own mind by +vigilantly watching for signs of secret communication on one side or on +the other. The close attention with which she had hitherto observed the +out-goings and in-comings at North Shingles was now entirely +transferred to her master. For the rest of that third day she never let +him out of her sight; she never allowed any third person who came to +the house, on any pretense whatever, a minute’s chance of private +communication with him. At intervals through the night she stole to the +door of his room, to listen and assure herself that he was in bed; and +before sunrise the next morning, the coast-guardsman going his rounds +was surprised to see a lady who had risen as early as himself engaged +over her work at one of the upper windows of Sea View. + +On the fourth morning Noel Vanstone came down to breakfast conscious of +the mistake that he had committed on the previous day. The obvious +course to take, for the purpose of gaining time, was to declare that +his mind was still undecided. He made the assertion boldly when the +housekeeper asked him if he meant to move that day. Again Mrs. Lecount +offered no remark, and again the signs and tokens of incredulity showed +themselves in her face. Vacillation of purpose was not at all unusual +in her experience of her master. But on this occasion she believed that +his caprice of conduct was assumed for the purpose of gaining time to +communicate with North Shingles, and she accordingly set her watch on +him once more with doubled and trebled vigilance. + +No letters came that morning. Toward noon the weather changed for the +worse, and all idea of walking out as usual was abandoned. Hour after +hour, while her master sat in one of the parlors, Mrs. Lecount kept +watch in the other, with the door into the passage open, and with a +full view of North Shingles through the convenient side-window at which +she had established herself. Not a sign that was suspicious appeared, +not a sound that was suspicious caught her ear. As the evening closed +in, her master’s hesitation came to an end. He was disgusted with the +weather; he hated the place; he foresaw the annoyance of more meetings +with Mr. Bygrave, and he was determined to go to St. Crux the first +thing the next morning. Lecount could stay behind to pack up the +curiosities and settle with the trades-people, and could follow him to +the admiral’s on the next day. The housekeeper was a little staggered +by the tone and manner in which he gave these orders. He had, to her +own certain knowledge, effected no communication of any sort with North +Shingles, and yet he seemed determined to leave Aldborough at the +earliest possible opportunity. For the first time she hesitated in her +adherence to her own conclusions. She remembered that her master had +complained of the Bygraves before they returned to Aldborough; and she +was conscious that her own incredulity had once already misled her when +the appearance of the traveling-carriage at the door had proved even +Mr. Bygrave himself to be as good as his word. + +Still Mrs. Lecount determined to act with unrelenting caution to the +last. That night, when the doors were closed, she privately removed the +keys from the door in front and the door at the back. She then softly +opened her bedroom window and sat down by it, with her bonnet and cloak +on, to prevent her taking cold. Noel Vanstone’s window was on the same +side of the house as her own. If any one came in the dark to speak to +him from the garden beneath, they would speak to his housekeeper as +well. Prepared at all points to intercept every form of clandestine +communication which stratagem could invent, Mrs. Lecount watched +through the quiet night. When morning came, she stole downstairs before +the servant was up, restored the keys to their places, and re-occupied +her position in the parlor until Noel Vanstone made his appearance at +the breakfast-table. Had he altered his mind? No. He declined posting +to the railway on account of the expense, but he was as firm as ever in +his resolution to go to St. Crux. He desired that an inside place might +be secured for him in the early coach. Suspicious to the last, Mrs. +Lecount sent the baker’s man to take the place. He was a public +servant, and Mr. Bygrave would not suspect him of performing a private +errand. + +The coach called at Sea View. Mrs. Lecount saw her master established +in his place, and ascertained that the other three inside seats were +already occupied by strangers. She inquired of the coachman if the +outside places (all of which were not yet filled up) had their full +complement of passengers also. The man replied in the affirmative. He +had two gentlemen to call for in the town, and the others would take +their places at the inn. Mrs. Lecount forthwith turned her steps toward +the inn, and took up her position on the Parade opposite from a point +of view which would enable her to see the last of the coach on its +departure. In ten minutes more it rattled away, full outside and in; +and the housekeeper’s own eyes assured her that neither Mr. Bygrave +himself, nor any one belonging to North Shingles, was among the +passengers. + +There was only one more precaution to take, and Mrs. Lecount did not +neglect it. Mr. Bygrave had doubtless seen the coach call at Sea View. +He might hire a carriage and follow it to the railway on pure +speculation. Mrs. Lecount remained within view of the inn (the only +place at which a carriage could be obtained) for nearly an hour longer, +waiting for events. Nothing happened; no carriage made its appearance; +no pursuit of Noel Vanstone was now within the range of human +possibility. The long strain on Mrs. Lecount’s mind relaxed at last. +She left her seat on the Parade, and returned in higher spirits than +usual, to perform the closing household ceremonies at Sea View. + +She sat down alone in the parlor and drew a long breath of relief. +Captain Wragge’s calculations had not deceived him. The evidence of her +own senses had at last conquered the housekeeper’s incredulity, and had +literally forced her into the opposite extreme of belief. + +Estimating the events of the last three days from her own experience of +them; knowing (as she certainly knew) that the first idea of going to +St. Crux had been started by herself, and that her master had found no +opportunity and shown no inclination to inform the family at North +Shingles that he had accepted her proposal, Mrs. Lecount was fairly +compelled to acknowledge that not a fragment of foundation remained to +justify the continued suspicion of treachery in her own mind. Looking +at the succession of circumstances under the new light thrown on them +by results, she could see nothing unaccountable, nothing contradictory +anywhere. The attempt to pass off the forged pictures as originals was +in perfect harmony with the character of such a man as Mr. Bygrave. Her +master’s indignation at the attempt to impose on him; his +plainly-expressed suspicion that Miss Bygrave was privy to it; his +disappointment in the niece; his contemptuous treatment of the uncle on +the Parade; his weariness of the place which had been the scene of his +rash intimacy with strangers, and his readiness to quit it that +morning, all commended themselves as genuine realities to the +housekeeper’s mind, for one sufficient reason. Her own eyes had seen +Noel Vanstone take his departure from Aldborough without leaving, or +attempting to leave, a single trace behind him for the Bygraves to +follow. + +Thus far the housekeeper’s conclusions led her, but no further. She was +too shrewd a woman to trust the future to chance and fortune. Her +master’s variable temper might relent. Accident might at any time give +Mr. Bygrave an opportunity of repairing the error that he had +committed, and of artfully regaining his lost place in Noel Vanstone’s +estimation. Admitting that circumstances had at last declared +themselves unmistakably in her favor, Mrs. Lecount was not the less +convinced that nothing would permanently assure her master’s security +for the future but the plain exposure of the conspiracy which she had +striven to accomplish from the first—which she was resolved to +accomplish still. + +“I always enjoy myself at St. Crux,” thought Mrs. Lecount, opening her +account-books, and sorting the tradesmen’s bills. “The admiral is a +gentleman, the house is noble, the table is excellent. No matter! Here +at Sea View I stay by myself till I have seen the inside of Miss +Bygrave’s wardrobe.” + +She packed her master’s collection of curiosities in their various +cases, settled the claims of the trades-people, and superintended the +covering of the furniture in the course of the day. Toward nightfall +she went out, bent on investigation, and ventured into the garden at +North Shingles under cover of the darkness. She saw the light in the +parlor window, and the lights in the windows of the rooms upstairs, as +usual. After an instant’s hesitation she stole to the house door, and +noiselessly tried the handle from the outside. It turned the lock as +she had expected, from her experience of houses at Aldborough and at +other watering-places, but the door resisted her; the door was +distrustfully bolted on the inside. After making that discovery, she +went round to the back of the house, and ascertained that the door on +that side was secured in the same manner. “Bolt your doors, Mr. +Bygrave, as fast as you like,” said the housekeeper, stealing back +again to the Parade. “You can’t bolt the entrance to your servant’s +pocket. The best lock you have may be opened by a golden key.” + +She went back to bed. The ceaseless watching, the unrelaxing excitement +of the last two days, had worn her out. + +The next morning she rose at seven o’clock. In half an hour more she +saw the punctual Mr. Bygrave—as she had seen him on many previous +mornings at the same time—issue from the gate of North Shingles, with +his towels under his arm, and make his way to a boat that was waiting +for him on the beach. Swimming was one among the many personal +accomplishments of which the captain was master. He was rowed out to +sea every morning, and took his bath luxuriously in the deep blue +water. Mrs. Lecount had already computed the time consumed in this +recreation by her watch, and had discovered that a full hour usually +elapsed from the moment when he embarked on the beach to the moment +when he returned. + +During that period she had never seen any other inhabitant of North +Shingles leave the house. The servant was no doubt at her work in the +kitchen; Mrs. Bygrave was probably still in her bed; and Miss Bygrave +(if she was up at that early hour) had perhaps received directions not +to venture out in her uncle’s absence. The difficulty of meeting the +obstacle of Magdalen’s presence in the house had been, for some days +past, the one difficulty which all Mrs. Lecount’s ingenuity had thus +far proved unable to overcome. + +She sat at the window for a quarter of an hour after the captain’s boat +had left the beach with her mind hard at work, and her eyes fixed +mechanically on North Shingles—she sat considering what written excuse +she could send to her master for delaying her departure from Aldborough +for some days to come—when the door of the house she was watching +suddenly opened, and Magdalen herself appeared in the garden. There was +no mistaking her figure and her dress. She took a few steps hastily +toward the gate, stopped and pulled down the veil of her garden hat as +if she felt the clear morning light too much for her, then hurried out +on the Parade and walked away northward, in such haste, or in such +pre-occupation of mind, that she went through the garden gate without +closing it after her. + +Mrs. Lecount started up from her chair with a moment’s doubt of the +evidence of her own eyes. Had the opportunity which she had been vainly +plotting to produce actually offered itself to her of its own accord? +Had the chances declared themselves at last in her favor, after +steadily acting against her for so long? There was no doubt of it: in +the popular phrase, “her luck had turned.” She snatched up her bonnet +and mantilla, and made for North Shingles without an instant’s +hesitation. Mr. Bygrave out at sea; Miss Bygrave away for a walk; Mrs. +Bygrave and the servant both at home, and both easily dealt with—the +opportunity was not to be lost; the risk was well worth running! + +This time the house door was easily opened: no one had bolted it again +after Magdalen’s departure. Mrs. Lecount closed the door softly, +listened for a moment in the passage, and heard the servant noisily +occupied in the kitchen with her pots and pans. “If my lucky star leads +me straight into Miss Bygrave’s room,” thought the housekeeper, +stealing noiselessly up the stairs, “I may find my way to her wardrobe +without disturbing anybody.” + +She tried the door nearest to the front of the house on the right-hand +side of the landing. Capricious chance had deserted her already. The +lock was turned. She tried the door opposite, on her left hand. The +boots ranged symmetrically in a row, and the razors on the +dressing-table, told her at once that she had not found the right room +yet. She returned to the right-hand side of the landing, walked down a +little passage leading to the back of the house, and tried a third +door. The door opened, and the two opposite extremes of female +humanity, Mrs. Wragge and Mrs. Lecount, stood face to face in an +instant! + +“I beg ten thousand pardons!” said Mrs. Lecount, with the most +consummate self-possession. + +“Lord bless us and save us!” cried Mrs. Wragge, with the most helpless +amazement. + +The two exclamations were uttered in a moment, and in that moment Mrs. +Lecount took the measure of her victim. Nothing of the least importance +escaped her. She noticed the Oriental Cashmere Robe lying half made, +and half unpicked again, on the table; she noticed the imbecile foot of +Mrs. Wragge searching blindly in the neighborhood of her chair for a +lost shoe; she noticed that there was a second door in the room besides +the door by which she had entered, and a second chair within easy +reach, on which she might do well to seat herself in a friendly and +confidential way. “Pray don’t resent my intrusion,” pleaded Mrs. +Lecount, taking the chair. “Pray allow me to explain myself!” + +Speaking in her softest voice, surveying Mrs. Wragge with a sweet smile +on her insinuating lips, and a melting interest in her handsome black +eyes, the housekeeper told her little introductory series of falsehoods +with an artless truthfulness of manner which the Father of Lies himself +might have envied. She had heard from Mr. Bygrave that Mrs. Bygrave was +a great invalid; she had constantly reproached herself, in her idle +half-hours at Sea View (where she filled the situation of Mr. Noel +Vanstone’s housekeeper), for not having offered her friendly services +to Mrs. Bygrave; she had been directed by her master (doubtless well +known to Mrs. Bygrave, as one of her husband’s friends, and, naturally, +one of her charming niece’s admirers), to join him that day at the +residence to which he had removed from Aldborough; she was obliged to +leave early, but she could not reconcile it to her conscience to go +without calling to apologize for her apparent want of neighborly +consideration; she had found nobody in the house; she had not been able +to make the servant hear; she had presumed (not discovering that +apartment downstairs) that Mrs. Bygrave’s boudoir might be on the upper +story; she had thoughtlessly committed an intrusion of which she was +sincerely ashamed, and she could now only trust to Mrs. Bygrave’s +indulgence to excuse and forgive her. + +A less elaborate apology might have served Mrs. Lecount’s purpose. As +soon as Mrs. Wragge’s struggling perceptions had grasped the fact that +her unexpected visitor was a neighbor well known to her by repute, her +whole being became absorbed in admiration of Mrs. Lecount’s lady-like +manners, and Mrs. Lecount’s perfectly-fitting gown! “What a noble way +she has of talking!” thought poor Mrs. Wragge, as the housekeeper +reached her closing sentence. “And, oh my heart alive, how nicely she’s +dressed!” + +“I see I disturb you,” pursued Mrs. Lecount, artfully availing herself +of the Oriental Cashmere Robe as a means ready at hand of reaching the +end she had in view—“I see I disturb you, ma’am, over an occupation +which, I know by experience, requires the closest attention. Dear, dear +me, you are unpicking the dress again, I see, after it has been made! +This is my own experience again, Mrs. Bygrave. Some dresses are so +obstinate! Some dresses seem to say to one, in so many words, ‘No! you +may do what you like with me; I won’t fit!’” + +Mrs. Wragge was greatly struck by this happy remark. She burst out +laughing, and clapped her great hands in hearty approval. + +“That’s what this gown has been saying to me ever since I first put the +scissors into it,” she exclaimed, cheerfully. “I know I’ve got an awful +big back, but that’s no reason. Why should a gown be weeks on hand, and +then not meet behind you after all? It hangs over my Boasom like a +sack—it does. Look here, ma’am, at the skirt. It won’t come right. It +draggles in front, and cocks up behind. It shows my heels—and, Lord +knows, I get into scrapes enough about my heels, without showing them +into the bargain!” + +“May I ask a favor?” inquired Mrs. Lecount, confidentially. “May I try, +Mrs. Bygrave, if I can make my experience of any use to you? I think +our bosoms, ma’am, are our great difficulty. Now, this bosom of +yours?—Shall I say in plain words what I think? This bosom of yours is +an Enormous Mistake!” + +“Don’t say that!” cried Mrs. Wragge, imploringly. “Don’t please, +there’s a good soul! It’s an awful big one, I know; but it’s modeled, +for all that, from one of Magdalen’s own.” + +She was far too deeply interested on the subject of the dress to notice +that she had forgotten herself already, and that she had referred to +Magdalen by her own name. Mrs. Lecount’s sharp ears detected the +mistake the instant it was committed. “So! so!” she thought. “One +discovery already. If I had ever doubted my own suspicions, here is an +estimable lady who would now have set me right.—I beg your pardon,” she +proceeded, aloud, “did you say this was modeled from one of your +niece’s dresses?” + +“Yes,” said Mrs. Wragge. “It’s as like as two peas.” + +“Then,” replied Mrs. Lecount, adroitly, “there must be some serious +mistake in the making of your niece’s dress. Can you show it to me?” + +“Bless your heart—yes!” cried Mrs. Wragge. “Step this way, ma’am; and +bring the gown along with you, please. It keeps sliding off, out of +pure aggravation, if you lay it out on the table. There’s lots of room +on the bed in here.” + +She opened the door of communication and led the way eagerly into +Magdalen’s room. As Mrs. Lecount followed, she stole a look at her +watch. Never before had time flown as it flew that morning! In twenty +minutes more Mr. Bygrave would be back from his bath. + +“There!” said Mrs. Wragge, throwing open the wardrobe, and taking a +dress down from one of the pegs. “Look there! There’s plaits on her +Boasom, and plaits on mine. Six of one and half a dozen of the other; +and mine are the biggest—that’s all!” + +Mrs. Lecount shook her head gravely, and entered forthwith into +subtleties of disquisition on the art of dressmaking which had the +desired effect of utterly bewildering the proprietor of the Oriental +Cashmere Robe in less than three minutes. + +“Don’t!” cried Mrs. Wragge, imploringly. “Don’t go on like that! I’m +miles behind you; and my head’s Buzzing already. Tell us, like a good +soul, what’s to be done. You said something about the pattern just now. +Perhaps I’m too big for the pattern? I can’t help it if I am. Many’s +the good cry I had, when I was a growing girl, over my own size! +There’s half too much of me, ma’am—measure me along or measure me +across, I don’t deny it—there’s half too much of me, anyway.” + +“My dear madam,” protested Mrs. Lecount, “you do yourself a wrong! +Permit me to assure you that you possess a commanding figure—a figure +of Minerva. A majestic simplicity in the form of a woman imperatively +demands a majestic simplicity in the form of that woman’s dress. The +laws of costume are classical; the laws of costume must not be trifled +with! Plaits for Venus, puffs for Juno, folds for Minerva. I venture to +suggest a total change of pattern. Your niece has other dresses in her +collection. Why may we not find a Minerva pattern among them?” + +As she said those words, she led the way back to the wardrobe. + +Mrs. Wragge followed, and took the dresses out one by one, shaking her +head despondently. Silk dresses appeared, muslin dresses appeared. The +one dress which remained invisible was the dress of which Mrs. Lecount +was in search. + +“There’s the lot of ’em,” said Mrs. Wragge. “They may do for Venus and +the two other Ones (I’ve seen ’em in picters without a morsel of decent +linen among the three), but they won’t do for Me.” + +“Surely there is another dress left?” said Mrs. Lecount, pointing to +the wardrobe, but touching nothing in it. “Surely I see something +hanging in the corner behind that dark shawl?” + +Mrs. Wragge removed the shawl; Mrs. Lecount opened the door of the +wardrobe a little wider. There—hitched carelessly on the innermost +peg—there, with its white spots, and its double flounce, was the brown +Alpaca dress! + +The suddenness and completeness of the discovery threw the housekeeper, +practiced dissembler as she was, completely off her guard. She started +at the sight of the dress. The instant afterward her eyes turned +uneasily toward Mrs. Wragge. Had the start been observed? It had passed +entirely unnoticed. Mrs. Wragge’s whole attention was fixed on the +Alpaca dress: she was staring at it incomprehensibly, with an +expression of the utmost dismay. + +“You seem alarmed, ma’am,” said Mrs. Lecount. “What is there in the +wardrobe to frighten you?” + +“I’d have given a crown piece out of my pocket,” said Mrs. Wragge, “not +to have set my eyes on that gown. It had gone clean out of my head, and +now it’s come back again. Cover it up!” cried Mrs. Wragge, throwing the +shawl over the dress in a sudden fit of desperation. “If I look at it +much longer, I shall think I’m back again in Vauxhall Walk!” + +Vauxhall Walk! Those two words told Mrs. Lecount she was on the brink +of another discovery. She stole a second look at her watch. There was +barely ten minutes to spare before the time when Mr. Bygrave might +return; there was not one of those ten minutes which might not bring +his niece back to the house. Caution counseled Mrs. Lecount to go, +without running any more risks. Curiosity rooted her to the spot, and +gave the courage to stay at all hazards until the time was up. Her +amiable smile began to harden a little as she probed her way tenderly +into Mrs. Wragge’s feeble mind. + +“You have some unpleasant remembrances of Vauxhall Walk?” she said, +with the gentlest possible tone of inquiry in her voice. “Or perhaps I +should say, unpleasant remembrances of that dress belonging to your +niece?” + +“The last time I saw her with that gown on,” said Mrs. Wragge, dropping +into a chair and beginning to tremble, “was the time when I came back +from shopping and saw the Ghost.” + +“The Ghost?” repeated Mrs. Lecount, clasping her hands in graceful +astonishment. “Dear madam, pardon me! Is there such a thing in the +world? Where did you see it? In Vauxhall Walk? Tell me—you are the +first lady I ever met with who has seen a ghost—pray tell me!” + +Flattered by the position of importance which she had suddenly assumed +in the housekeeper’s eyes, Mrs. Wragge entered at full length into the +narrative of her supernatural adventure. The breathless eagerness with +which Mrs. Lecount listened to her description of the specter’s +costume, the specter’s hurry on the stairs, and the specter’s +disappearance in the bedroom; the extraordinary interest which Mrs. +Lecount displayed on hearing that the dress in the wardrobe was the +very dress in which Magdalen happened to be attired at the awful moment +when the ghost vanished, encouraged Mrs. Wragge to wade deeper and +deeper into details, and to involve herself in a confusion of +collateral circumstances out of which there seemed to be no prospect of +her emerging for hours to come. Faster and faster the inexorable +minutes flew by; nearer and nearer came the fatal moment of Mr. +Bygrave’s return. Mrs. Lecount looked at her watch for the third time, +without an attempt on this occasion to conceal the action from her +companion’s notice. There were literally two minutes left for her to +get clear of North Shingles. Two minutes would be enough, if no +accident happened. She had discovered the Alpaca dress; she had heard +the whole story of the adventure in Vauxhall Walk; and, more than that, +she had even informed herself of the number of the house—which Mrs. +Wragge happened to remember, because it answered to the number of years +in her own age. All that was necessary to her master’s complete +enlightenment she had now accomplished. Even if there had been time to +stay longer, there was nothing worth staying for. “I’ll strike this +worthy idiot dumb with a _coup d’etat_,” thought the housekeeper, “and +vanish before she recovers herself.” + +“Horrible!” cried Mrs. Lecount, interrupting the ghostly narrative by a +shrill little scream and making for the door, to Mrs. Wragge’s +unutterable astonishment, without the least ceremony. “You freeze the +very marrow of my bones. Good-morning!” She coolly tossed the Oriental +Cashmere Robe into Mrs. Wragge’s expansive lap and left the room in an +instant. + +As she swiftly descended the stairs, she heard the door of the bedroom +open. + +“Where are your manners?” cried a voice from above, hailing her feebly +over the banisters. “What do you mean by pitching my gown at me in that +way? You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” pursued Mrs. Wragge, turning +from a lamb to a lioness, as she gradually realized the indignity +offered to the Cashmere Robe. “You nasty foreigner, you ought to be +ashamed of yourself!” + +Pursued by this valedictory address, Mrs. Lecount reached the house +door, and opened it without interruption. She glided rapidly along the +garden path, passed through the gate, and finding herself safe on the +Parade, stopped, and looked toward the sea. + +The first object which her eyes encountered was the figure of Mr. +Bygrave standing motionless on the beach—a petrified bather, with his +towels in his hand! One glance at him was enough to show that he had +seen the housekeeper passing out through his garden gate. + +Rightly conjecturing that Mr. Bygrave’s first impulse would lead him to +make instant inquiries in his own house, Mrs. Lecount pursued her way +back to Sea View as composedly as if nothing had happened. When she +entered the parlor where her solitary breakfast was waiting for her, +she was surprised to see a letter lying on the table. She approached to +take it up with an expression of impatience, thinking it might be some +tradesman’s bill which she had forgotten. + +It was the forged letter from Zurich. + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +The postmark and the handwriting on the address (admirably imitated +from the original) warned Mrs. Lecount of the contents of the letter +before she opened it. + +After waiting a moment to compose herself, she read the announcement of +her brother’s relapse. + +There was nothing in the handwriting, there was no expression in any +part of the letter which could suggest to her mind the faintest +suspicion of foul play. Not the shadow of a doubt occurred to her that +the summons to her brother’s bedside was genuine. The hand that held +the letter dropped heavily into her lap; she became pale, and old, and +haggard in a moment. Thoughts, far removed from her present aims and +interests; remembrances that carried her back to other lands than +England, to other times than the time of her life in service, prolonged +their inner shadows to the surface, and showed the traces of their +mysterious passage darkly on her face. The minutes followed each other, +and still the servant below stairs waited vainly for the parlor bell. +The minutes followed each other, and still she sat, tearless and quiet, +dead to the present and the future, living in the past. + +The entrance of the servant, uncalled, roused her. With a heavy sigh, +the cold and secret woman folded the letter up again and addressed +herself to the interests and the duties of the passing time. + +She decided the question of going or not going to Zurich, after a very +brief consideration of it. Before she had drawn her chair to the +breakfast-table she had resolved to go. + +Admirably as Captain Wragge’s stratagem had worked, it might have +failed—unassisted by the occurrence of the morning—to achieve this +result. The very accident against which it had been the captain’s chief +anxiety to guard—the accident which had just taken place in spite of +him—was, of all the events that could have happened, the one event +which falsified every previous calculation, by directly forwarding the +main purpose of the conspiracy! If Mrs. Lecount had not obtained the +information of which she was in search before the receipt of the letter +from Zurich, the letter might have addressed her in vain. She would +have hesitated before deciding to leave England, and that hesitation +might have proved fatal to the captain’s scheme. + +As it was, with the plain proofs in her possession, with the gown +discovered in Magdalen’s wardrobe, with the piece cut out of it in her +own pocketbook, and with the knowledge, obtained from Mrs. Wragge, of +the very house in which the disguise had been put on, Mrs. Lecount had +now at her command the means of warning Noel Vanstone as she had never +been able to warn him yet, or, in other words, the means of guarding +against any dangerous tendencies toward reconciliation with the +Bygraves which might otherwise have entered his mind during her absence +at Zurich. The only difficulty which now perplexed her was the +difficulty of deciding whether she should communicate with her master +personally or by writing, before her departure from England. + +She looked again at the doctor’s letter. The word “instantly,” in the +sentence which summoned her to her dying brother, was twice underlined. +Admiral Bartram’s house was at some distance from the railway; the time +consumed in driving to St. Crux, and driving back again, might be time +fatally lost on the journey to Zurich. Although she would infinitely +have preferred a personal interview with Noel Vanstone, there was no +choice on a matter of life and death but to save the precious hours by +writing to him. + +After sending to secure a place at once in the early coach, she sat +down to write to her master. + +Her first thought was to tell him all that had happened at North +Shingles that morning. On reflection, however, she rejected the idea. +Once already (in copying the personal description from Miss Garth’s +letter) she had trusted her weapons in her master’s hands, and Mr. +Bygrave had contrived to turn them against her. She resolved this time +to keep them strictly in her own possession. The secret of the missing +fragment of the Alpaca dress was known to no living creature but +herself; and, until her return to England, she determined to keep it to +herself. The necessary impression might be produced on Noel Vanstone’s +mind without venturing into details. She knew by experience the form of +letter which might be trusted to produce an effect on him, and she now +wrote it in these words: + +“DEAR MR. NOEL—Sad news has reached me from Switzerland. My beloved +brother is dying and his medical attendant summons me instantly to +Zurich. The serious necessity of availing myself of the earliest means +of conveyance to the Continent leaves me but one alternative. I must +profit by the permission to leave England, if necessary, which you +kindly granted to me at the beginning of my brother’s illness, and I +must avoid all delay by going straight to London, instead of turning +aside, as I should have liked, to see you first at St. Crux. + +“Painfully as I am affected by the family calamity which has fallen on +me, I cannot let this opportunity pass without adverting to another +subject which seriously concerns your welfare, and in which (on that +account) your old housekeeper feels the deepest interest. + +“I am going to surprise and shock you, Mr. Noel. Pray don’t be +agitated! pray compose yourself! + +“The impudent attempt to cheat you, which has happily opened your eyes +to the true character of our neighbors at North Shingles, was not the +only object which Mr. Bygrave had in forcing himself on your +acquaintance. The infamous conspiracy with which you were threatened in +London has been in full progress against you under Mr. Bygrave’s +direction, at Aldborough. Accident—I will tell you what accident when +we meet—has put me in possession of information precious to your future +security. I have discovered, to an absolute certainty, that the person +calling herself Miss Bygrave is no other than the woman who visited us +in disguise at Vauxhall Walk. + +“I suspected this from the first, but I had no evidence to support my +suspicions; I had no means of combating the false impression produced +on you. My hands, I thank Heaven, are tied no longer. I possess +absolute proof of the assertion that I have just made—proof that your +own eyes can see—proof that would satisfy you, if you were judge in a +Court of Justice. + +“Perhaps even yet, Mr. Noel, you will refuse to believe me? Be it so. +Believe me or not, I have one last favor to ask, which your English +sense of fair play will not deny me. + +“This melancholy journey of mine will keep me away from England for a +fortnight, or, at most, for three weeks. You will oblige me—and you +will certainly not sacrifice your own convenience and pleasure—by +staying through that interval with your friends at St. Crux. If, before +my return, some unexpected circumstance throws you once more into the +company of the Bygraves, and if your natural kindness of heart inclines +you to receive the excuses which they will, in that case, certainly +address to you, place one trifling restraint on yourself, for your own +sake, if not for mine. Suspend your flirtation with the young lady (I +beg pardon of all other young ladies for calling her so!) until my +return. If, when I come back, I fail to prove to you that Miss Bygrave +is the woman who wore that disguise, and used those threatening words, +in Vauxhall Wall, I will engage to leave your service at a day’s +notice; and I will atone for the sin of bearing false witness against +my neighbor by resigning every claim I have to your grateful +remembrance, on your father’s account as well as on your own. I make +this engagement without reserves of any kind; and I promise to abide by +it—if my proofs fail—on the faith of a good Catholic, and the word of +an honest woman. Your faithful servant, + +“VIRGINIE LECOUNT.” + + +The closing sentences of this letter—as the housekeeper well knew when +she wrote them—embodied the one appeal to Noel Vanstone which could be +certainly trusted to produce a deep and lasting effect. She might have +staked her oath, her life, or her reputation, on proving the assertion +which she had made, and have failed to leave a permanent impression on +his mind. But when she staked not only her position in his service, but +her pecuniary claims on him as well, she at once absorbed the ruling +passion of his life in expectation of the result. There was not a doubt +of it, in the strongest of all his interests—the interest of saving his +money—he would wait. + +“Checkmate for Mr. Bygrave!” thought Mrs. Lecount, as she sealed and +directed the letter. “The battle is over—the game is played out.” + +While Mrs. Lecount was providing for her master’s future security at +Sea View, events were in full progress at North Shingles. + +As soon as Captain Wragge recovered his astonishment at the +housekeeper’s appearance on his own premises, he hurried into the +house, and, guided by his own forebodings of the disaster that had +happened, made straight for his wife’s room. + +Never, in all her former experience, had poor Mrs. Wragge felt the full +weight of the captain’s indignation as she felt it now. All the little +intelligence she naturally possessed vanished at once in the whirlwind +of her husband’s rage. The only plain facts which he could extract from +her were two in number. In the first place, Magdalen’s rash desertion +of her post proved to have no better reason to excuse it than +Magdalen’s incorrigible impatience: she had passed a sleepless night; +she had risen feverish and wretched; and she had gone out, reckless of +all consequences, to cool her burning head in the fresh air. In the +second place, Mrs. Wragge had, on her own confession, seen Mrs. +Lecount, had talked with Mrs. Lecount, and had ended by telling Mrs. +Lecount the story of the ghost. Having made these discoveries, Captain +Wragge wasted no time in contending with his wife’s terror and +confusion. He withdrew at once to a window which commanded an +uninterrupted prospect of Noel Vanstone’s house, and there established +himself on the watch for events at Sea View, precisely as Mrs. Lecount +had established herself on the watch for events at North Shingles. + +Not a word of comment on the disaster of the morning escaped him when +Magdalen returned and found him at his post. His flow of language +seemed at last to have run dry. “I told you what Mrs. Wragge would do,” +he said, “and Mrs. Wragge has done it.” He sat unflinchingly at the +window with a patience which Mrs. Lecount herself could not have +surpassed. The one active proceeding in which he seemed to think it +necessary to engage was performed by deputy. He sent the servant to the +inn to hire a chaise and a fast horse, and to say that he would call +himself before noon that day and tell the hostler when the vehicle +would be wanted. Not a sign of impatience escaped him until the time +drew near for the departure of the early coach. Then the captain’s +curly lips began to twitch with anxiety, and the captain’s restless +fingers beat the devil’s tattoo unremittingly on the window-pane. + +The coach appeared at last, and drew up at Sea View. In a minute more, +Captain Wragge’s own observation informed him that one among the +passengers who left Aldborough that morning was—Mrs. Lecount. + +The main uncertainty disposed of, a serious question—suggested by the +events of the morning—still remained to be solved. Which was the +destined end of Mrs. Lecount’s journey—Zurich or St. Crux? That she +would certainly inform her master of Mrs. Wragge’s ghost story, and of +every other disclosure in relation to names and places which might have +escaped Mrs. Wragge’s lips, was beyond all doubt. But of the two ways +at her disposal of doing the mischief—either personally or by letter—it +was vitally important to the captain to know which she had chosen. If +she had gone to the admiral’s, no choice would be left him but to +follow the coach, to catch the train by which she traveled, and to +outstrip her afterward on the drive from the station in Essex to St. +Crux. If, on the contrary, she had been contented with writing to her +master, it would only be necessary to devise measures for intercepting +the letter. The captain decided on going to the post-office, in the +first place. Assuming that the housekeeper had written, she would not +have left the letter at the mercy of the servant—she would have seen it +safely in the letter-box before leaving Aldborough. + +“Good-morning,” said the captain, cheerfully addressing the postmaster. +“I am Mr. Bygrave of North Shingles. I think you have a letter in the +box, addressed to Mr.—?” + +The postmaster was a short man, and consequently a man with a proper +idea of his own importance. He solemnly checked Captain Wragge in full +career. + +“When a letter is once posted, sir,” he said, “nobody out of the office +has any business with it until it reaches its address.” + +The captain was not a man to be daunted, even by a postmaster. A bright +idea struck him. He took out his pocketbook, in which Admiral Bartram’s +address was written, and returned to the charge. + +“Suppose a letter has been wrongly directed by mistake?” he began. “And +suppose the writer wants to correct the error after the letter is put +into the box?” + +“When a letter is once posted, sir,” reiterated the impenetrable local +authority, “nobody out of the office touches it on any pretense +whatever.” + +“Granted, with all my heart,” persisted the captain. “I don’t want to +touch it—I only want to explain myself. A lady has posted a letter +here, addressed to ‘Noel Vanstone, Esq., Admiral Bartram’s, St. +Crux-in-the-Marsh, Essex.’ She wrote in a great hurry, and she is not +quite certain whether she added the name of the post-town, ‘Ossory.’ It +is of the last importance that the delivery of the letter should not be +delayed. What is to hinder your facilitating the post-office work, and +obliging a lady, by adding the name of the post-town (if it happens to +be left out), with your own hand? I put it to you as a zealous officer, +what possible objection can there be to granting my request?” + +The postmaster was compelled to acknowledge that there could be no +objection, provided nothing but a necessary line was added to the +address, provided nobody touched the letter but himself, and provided +the precious time of the post-office was not suffered to run to waste. +As there happened to be nothing particular to do at that moment, he +would readily oblige the lady at Mr. Bygrave’s request. + +Captain Wragge watched the postmaster’s hands, as they sorted the +letters in the box, with breathless eagerness. Was the letter there? +Would the hands of the zealous public servant suddenly stop? Yes! They +stopped, and picked out a letter from the rest. + +“‘Noel Vanstone, Esquire,’ did you say?” asked the postmaster, keeping +the letter in his own hand. + +“‘Noel Vanstone, Esquire,’” replied the captain, “‘Admiral Bartram’s, +St. Crux-in-the-Marsh.’” + +“Ossory, Essex,” chimed in the postmaster, throwing the letter back +into the box. “The lady has made no mistake, sir. The address is quite +right.” + +Nothing but a timely consideration of the heavy debt he owed to +appearances prevented Captain Wragge from throwing his tall white hat +up in the air as soon as he found the street once more. All further +doubt was now at an end. Mrs. Lecount had written to her +master—therefore Mrs. Lecount was on her way to Zurich! + +With his head higher than ever, with the tails of his respectable +frock-coat floating behind him in the breeze, with his bosom’s native +impudence sitting lightly on its throne, the captain strutted to the +inn and called for the railway time-table. After making certain +calculations (in black and white, as a matter of course), he ordered +his chaise to be ready in an hour—so as to reach the railway in time +for the second train running to London—with which there happened to be +no communication from Aldborough by coach. + +His next proceeding was of a far more serious kind; his next proceeding +implied a terrible certainty of success. The day of the week was +Thursday. From the inn he went to the church, saw the clerk, and gave +the necessary notice for a marriage by license on the following Monday. + +Bold as he was, his nerves were a little shaken by this last +achievement; his hand trembled as it lifted the latch of the garden +gate. He doctored his nerves with brandy and water before he sent for +Magdalen to inform her of the proceedings of the morning. Another +outbreak might reasonably be expected when she heard that the last +irrevocable step had been taken, and that notice had been given of the +wedding-day. + +The captain’s watch warned him to lose no time in emptying his glass. +In a few minutes he sent the necessary message upstairs. While waiting +for Magdalen’s appearance, he provided himself with certain materials +which were now necessary to carry the enterprise to its crowning point. +In the first place, he wrote his assumed name (by no means in so fine a +hand as usual) on a blank visiting-card, and added underneath these +words: “Not a moment is to be lost. I am waiting for you at the +door—come down to me directly.” His next proceeding was to take some +half-dozen envelopes out of the case, and to direct them all alike to +the following address: “Thomas Bygrave, Esq., Mussared’s Hotel, +Salisbury Street, Strand, London.” After carefully placing the +envelopes and the card in his breast-pocket, he shut up the desk. As he +rose from the writing-table, Magdalen came into the room. + +The captain took a moment to decide on the best method of opening the +interview, and determined, in his own phrase, to dash at it. In two +words he told Magdalen what had happened, and informed her that Monday +was to be her wedding-day. + +He was prepared to quiet her, if she burst into a frenzy of passion; to +reason with her, if she begged for time; to sympathize with her, if she +melted into tears. To his inexpressible surprise, results falsified all +his calculations. She heard him without uttering a word, without +shedding a tear. When he had done, she dropped into a chair. Her large +gray eyes stared at him vacantly. In one mysterious instant all her +beauty left her; her face stiffened awfully, like the face of a corpse. +For the first time in the captain’s experience of her, +fear—all-mastering fear—had taken possession of her, body and soul. + +“You are not flinching,” he said, trying to rouse her. “Surely you are +not flinching at the last moment?” + +No light of intelligence came into her eyes, no change passed over her +face. But she heard him—for she moved a little in the chair, and slowly +shook her head. + +“You planned this marriage of your own freewill,” pursued the captain, +with the furtive look and the faltering voice of a man ill at ease. “It +was your own idea—not mine. I won’t have the responsibility laid on my +shoulders—no! not for twice two hundred pounds. If your resolution +fails you; if you think better of it—?” + +He stopped. Her face was changing; her lips were moving at last. She +slowly raised her left hand, with the fingers outspread; she looked at +it as if it was a hand that was strange to her; she counted the days on +it, the days before the marriage. + +“Friday, one,” she whispered to herself; “Saturday, two; Sunday, three; +Monday—” Her hands dropped into her lap, her face stiffened again; the +deadly fear fastened its paralyzing hold on her once more, and the next +words died away on her lips. + +Captain Wragge took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. + +“Damn the two hundred pounds!” he said. “Two thousand wouldn’t pay me +for this!” + +He put the handkerchief back, took the envelopes which he had addressed +to himself out of his pocket, and, approaching her closely for the +first time, laid his hand on her arm. + +“Rouse yourself,” he said, “I have a last word to say to you. Can you +listen?” + +She struggled, and roused herself—a faint tinge of color stole over her +white cheeks—she bowed her head. + +“Look at these,” pursued Captain Wragge, holding up the envelopes. “If +I turn these to the use for which they have been written, Mrs. +Lecount’s master will never receive Mrs. Lecount’s letter. If I tear +them up, he will know by to-morrow’s post that you are the woman who +visited him in Vauxhall Walk. Say the word! Shall I tear the envelopes +up, or shall I put them back in my pocket?” + +There was a pause of dead silence. The murmur of the summer waves on +the shingle of the beach and the voices of the summer idlers on the +Parade floated through the open window, and filled the empty stillness +of the room. + +She raised her head; she lifted her hand and pointed steadily to the +envelopes. + +“Put them back,” she said. + +“Do you mean it?” he asked. + +“I mean it.” + +As she gave that answer, there was a sound of wheels on the road +outside. + +“You hear those wheels?” said Captain Wragge. + +“I hear them.” + +“You see the chaise?” said the captain, pointing through the window as +the chaise which had been ordered from the inn made its appearance at +the garden gate. + +“I see it.” + +“And, of your own free-will, you tell me to go?” + +“Yes. Go!” + +Without another word he left her. The servant was waiting at the door +with his traveling bag. “Miss Bygrave is not well,” he said. “Tell your +mistress to go to her in the parlor.” + +He stepped into the chaise, and started on the first stage of the +journey to St. Crux. + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +Toward three o’clock in the afternoon Captain Wragge stopped at the +nearest station to Ossory which the railway passed in its course +through Essex. Inquiries made on the spot informed him that he might +drive to St. Crux, remain there for a quarter of an hour, and return to +the station in time for an evening train to London. In ten minutes more +the captain was on the road again, driving rapidly in the direction of +the coast. + +After proceeding some miles on the highway, the carriage turned off, +and the coachman involved himself in an intricate network of +cross-roads. + +“Are we far from St. Crux?” asked the captain, growing impatient, after +mile on mile had been passed without a sign of reaching the journey’s +end. + +“You’ll see the house, sir, at the next turn in the road,” said the +man. + +The next turn in the road brought them within view of the open country +again. Ahead of the carriage, Captain Wragge saw a long dark line +against the sky—the line of the sea-wall which protects the low coast +of Essex from inundation. The flat intermediate country was intersected +by a labyrinth of tidal streams, winding up from the invisible sea in +strange fantastic curves—rivers at high water, and channels of mud at +low. On his right hand was a quaint little village, mostly composed of +wooden houses, straggling down to the brink of one of the tidal +streams. On his left hand, further away, rose the gloomy ruins of an +abbey, with a desolate pile of buildings, which covered two sides of a +square attached to it. One of the streams from the sea (called, in +Essex, “backwaters”) curled almost entirely round the house. Another, +from an opposite quarter, appeared to run straight through the grounds, +and to separate one side of the shapeless mass of buildings, which was +in moderate repair, from another, which was little better than a ruin. +Bridges of wood and bridges of brick crossed the stream, and gave +access to the house from all points of the compass. No human creature +appeared in the neighborhood, and no sound was heard but the hoarse +barking of a house-dog from an invisible courtyard. + +“Which door shall I drive to, sir?” asked the coachman. “The front or +the back?” + +“The back,” said Captain Wragge, feeling that the less notice he +attracted in his present position, the safer that position might be. + +The carriage twice crossed the stream before the coachman made his way +through the grounds into a dreary inclosure of stone. At an open door +on the inhabited side of the place sat a weather-beaten old man, busily +at work on a half-finished model of a ship. He rose and came to the +carriage door, lifting up his spectacles on his forehead, and looking +disconcerted at the appearance of a stranger. + +“Is Mr. Noel Vanstone staying here?” asked Captain Wragge. + +“Yes, sir,” replied the old man. “Mr. Noel came yesterday.” + +“Take that card to Mr. Vanstone, if you please,” said the captain, “and +say I am waiting here to see him.” + +In a few minutes Noel Vanstone made his appearance, breathless and +eager—absorbed in anxiety for news from Aldborough. Captain Wragge +opened the carriage door, seized his outstretched hand, and pulled him +in without ceremony. + +“Your housekeeper has gone,” whispered the captain, “and you are to be +married on Monday. Don’t agitate yourself, and don’t express your +feelings—there isn’t time for it. Get the first active servant you can +find in the house to pack your bag in ten minutes, take leave of the +admiral, and come back at once with me to the London train.” + +Noel Vanstone faintly attempted to ask a question. The captain declined +to hear it. + +“As much talk as you like on the road,” he said. “Time is too precious +for talking here. How do we know Lecount may not think better of it? +How do we know she may not turn back before she gets to Zurich?” + +That startling consideration terrified Noel Vanstone into instant +submission. + +“What shall I say to the admiral?” he asked, helplessly. + +“Tell him you are going to be married, to be sure! What does it matter, +now Lecount’s back is turned? If he wonders you didn’t tell him before, +say it’s a runaway match, and the bride is waiting for you. Stop! Any +letters addressed to you in your absence will be sent to this place, of +course? Give the admiral these envelopes, and tell him to forward your +letters under cover to me. I am an old customer at the hotel we are +going to; and if we find the place full, the landlord may be depended +on to take care of any letters with my name on them. A safe address in +London for your correspondence may be of the greatest importance. How +do we know Lecount may not write to you on her way to Zurich?” + +“What a head you have got!” cried Noel Vanstone, eagerly taking the +envelopes. “You think of everything.” + +He left the carriage in high excitement, and ran back into the house. +In ten minutes more Captain Wragge had him in safe custody, and the +horses started on their return journey. + +The travelers reached London in good time that evening, and found +accommodation at the hotel. + +Knowing the restless, inquisitive nature of the man he had to deal +with, Captain Wragge had anticipated some little difficulty and +embarrassment in meeting the questions which Noel Vanstone might put to +him on the way to London. To his great relief, a startling domestic +discovery absorbed his traveling companion’s whole attention at the +outset of the journey. By some extraordinary oversight, Miss Bygrave +had been left, on the eve of her marriage, unprovided with a maid. Noel +Vanstone declared that he would take the whole responsibility of +correcting this deficiency in the arrangements, on his own shoulders; +he would not trouble Mr. Bygrave to give him any assistance; he would +confer, when they got to their journey’s end, with the landlady of the +hotel, and would examine the candidates for the vacant office himself. +All the way to London, he returned again and again to the same subject; +all the evening, at the hotel, he was in and out of the landlady’s +sitting-room, until he fairly obliged her to lock the door. In every +other proceeding which related to his marriage, he had been kept in the +background; he had been compelled to follow in the footsteps of his +ingenious friend. In the matter of the lady’s maid he claimed his +fitting position at last—he followed nobody; he took the lead! + +The forenoon of the next day was devoted to obtaining the license—the +personal distinction of making the declaration on oath being eagerly +accepted by Noel Vanstone, who swore, in perfect good faith (on +information previously obtained from the captain) that the lady was of +age. The document procured, the bridegroom returned to examine the +characters and qualifications of the women-servants out of the place +whom the landlady had engaged to summon to the hotel, while Captain +Wragge turned his steps, “on business personal to himself,” toward the +residence of a friend in a distant quarter of London. + +The captain’s friend was connected with the law, and the captain’s +business was of a twofold nature. His first object was to inform +himself of the legal bearings of the approaching marriage on the future +of the husband and the wife. His second object was to provide +beforehand for destroying all traces of the destination to which he +might betake himself when he left Aldborough on the wedding-day. Having +reached his end successfully in both these cases, he returned to the +hotel, and found Noel Vanstone nursing his offended dignity in the +landlady’s sitting-room. Three ladies’ maids had appeared to pass their +examination, and had all, on coming to the question of wages, +impudently declined accepting the place. A fourth candidate was +expected to present herself on the next day; and, until she made her +appearance, Noel Vanstone positively declined removing from the +metropolis. Captain Wragge showed his annoyance openly at the +unnecessary delay thus occasioned in the return to Aldborough, but +without producing any effect. Noel Vanstone shook his obstinate little +head, and solemnly refused to trifle with his responsibilities. + +The first event which occurred on Saturday morning was the arrival of +Mrs. Lecount’s letter to her master, inclosed in one of the envelopes +which the captain had addressed to himself. He received it (by previous +arrangement with the waiter) in his bedroom—read it with the closest +attention—and put it away carefully in his pocketbook. The letter was +ominous of serious events to come when the housekeeper returned to +England; and it was due to Magdalen—who was the person threatened—to +place the warning of danger in her own possession. + +Later in the day the fourth candidate appeared for the maid’s +situation—a young woman of small expectations and subdued manners, who +looked (as the landlady remarked) like a person overtaken by +misfortune. She passed the ordeal of examination successfully, and +accepted the wages offered without a murmur. The engagement having been +ratified on both sides, fresh delays ensued, of which Noel Vanstone was +once more the cause. He had not yet made up his mind whether he would, +or would not, give more than a guinea for the wedding-ring; and he +wasted the rest of the day to such disastrous purpose in one jeweler’s +shop after another, that he and the captain, and the new lady’s maid +(who traveled with them), were barely in time to catch the last train +from London that evening. It was late at night when they left the +railway at the nearest station to Aldborough. Captain Wragge had been +strangely silent all through the journey. His mind was ill at ease. He +had left Magdalen, under very critical circumstances, with no fit +person to control her, and he was wholly ignorant of the progress of +events in his absence at North Shingles. + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +What had happened at Aldborough in Captain Wragge’s absence? Events had +occurred which the captain’s utmost dexterity might have found it hard +to remedy. + +As soon as the chaise had left North Shingles, Mrs. Wragge received the +message which her husband had charged the servant to deliver. She +hastened into the parlor, bewildered by her stormy interview with the +captain, and penitently conscious that she had done wrong, without +knowing what the wrong was. If Magdalen’s mind had been unoccupied by +the one idea of the marriage which now filled it—if she had possessed +composure enough to listen to Mrs. Wragge’s rambling narrative of what +had happened during her interview with the housekeeper—Mrs. Lecount’s +visit to the wardrobe must, sooner or later, have formed part of the +disclosure; and Magdalen, although she might never have guessed the +truth, must at least have been warned that there was some element of +danger lurking treacherously in the Alpaca dress. As it was, no such +consequence as this followed Mrs. Wragge’s appearance in the parlor; +for no such consequence was now possible. + +Events which had happened earlier in the morning, events which had +happened for days and weeks past, had vanished as completely from +Magdalen’s mind as if they had never taken place. The horror of the +coming Monday—the merciless certainty implied in the appointment of the +day and hour—petrified all feeling in her, and annihilated all thought. +Mrs. Wragge made three separate attempts to enter on the subject of the +housekeeper’s visit. The first time she might as well have addressed +herself to the wind, or to the sea. The second attempt seemed likely to +be more successful. Magdalen sighed, listened for a moment +indifferently, and then dismissed the subject. “It doesn’t matter,” she +said. “The end has come all the same. I’m not angry with you. Say no +more.” Later in the day, from not knowing what else to talk about, Mrs. +Wragge tried again. This time Magdalen turned on her impatiently. “For +God’s sake, don’t worry me about trifles! I can’t bear it.” Mrs. Wragge +closed her lips on the spot, and returned to the subject no more. +Magdalen, who had been kind to her at all other times, had angrily +forbidden it. The captain—utterly ignorant of Mrs. Lecount’s interest +in the secrets of the wardrobe—had never so much as approached it. All +the information that he had extracted from his wife’s mental confusion, +he had extracted by putting direct questions, derived purely from the +resources of his own knowledge. He had insisted on plain answers, +without excuses of any kind; he had carried his point as usual; and his +departure the same morning had left him no chance of re-opening the +question, even if his irritation against his wife had permitted him to +do so. There the Alpaca dress hung, neglected in the dark—the +unnoticed, unsuspected center of dangers that were still to come. + +Toward the afternoon Mrs. Wragge took courage to start a suggestion of +her own—she pleaded for a little turn in the fresh air. + +Magdalen passively put on her hat; passively accompanied her companion +along the public walk, until they reached its northward extremity. Here +the beach was left solitary, and here they sat down, side by side, on +the shingle. It was a bright, exhilarating day; pleasure-boats were +sailing on the calm blue water; Aldborough was idling happily afloat +and ashore. Mrs. Wragge recovered her spirits in the gayety of the +prospect—she amused herself like a child, by tossing pebbles into the +sea. From time to time she stole a questioning glance at Magdalen, and +saw no encouragement in her manner, no change to cordiality in her +face. She sat silent on the slope of the shingle, with her elbow on her +knee, and her head resting on her hand, looking out over the +sea—looking with rapt attention, and yet with eyes that seemed to +notice nothing. Mrs. Wragge wearied of the pebbles, and lost her +interest in looking at the pleasure-boats. Her great head began to nod +heavily, and she dozed in the warm, drowsy air. When she woke, the +pleasure-boats were far off; their sails were white specks in the +distance. The idlers on the beach were thinned in number; the sun was +low in the heaven; the blue sea was darker, and rippled by a breeze. +Changes on sky and earth and ocean told of the waning day; change was +everywhere—except close at her side. There Magdalen sat, in the same +position, with weary eyes that still looked over the sea, and still saw +nothing. + +“Oh, do speak to me!” said Mrs. Wragge. + +Magdalen started, and looked about her vacantly. + +“It’s late,” she said, shivering under the first sensation that reached +her of the rising breeze. “Come home; you want your tea.” They walked +home in silence. + +“Don’t be angry with me for asking,” said Mrs. Wragge, as they sat +together at the tea-table. “Are you troubled, my dear, in your mind?” + +“Yes,” replied Magdalen. “Don’t notice me. My trouble will soon be +over.” + +She waited patiently until Mrs. Wragge had made an end of the meal, and +then went upstairs to her own room. + +“Monday!” she said, as she sat down at her toilet-table. “Something may +happen before Monday comes!” + +Her fingers wandered mechanically among the brushes and combs, the tiny +bottles and cases placed on the table. She set them in order, now in +one way, and now in another—then on a sudden pushed them away from her +in a heap. For a minute or two her hands remained idle. That interval +passed, they grew restless again, and pulled the two little drawers +backward and forward in their grooves. Among the objects laid in one of +them was a Prayer-book which had belonged to her at Combe-Raven, and +which she had saved with her other relics of the past, when she and her +sister had taken their farewell of home. She opened the Prayer-book, +after a long hesitation, at the Marriage Service, shut it again before +she had read a line, and put it back hurriedly in one of the drawers. +After turning the key in the locks, she rose and walked to the window. +“The horrible sea!” she said, turning from it with a shudder of +disgust—“the lonely, dreary, horrible sea!” + +She went back to the drawer, and took the Prayer-book out for the +second time, half opened it again at the Marriage Service, and +impatiently threw it back into the drawer. This time, after turning the +lock, she took the key away, walked with it in her hand to the open +window, and threw it violently from her into the garden. It fell on a +bed thickly planted with flowers. It was invisible; it was lost. The +sense of its loss seemed to relieve her. + +“Something may happen on Friday; something may happen on Saturday; +something may happen on Sunday. Three days still!” + +She closed the green shutters outside the window and drew the curtains +to darken the room still more. Her head felt heavy; her eyes were +burning hot. She threw herself on her bed, with a sullen impulse to +sleep away the time. The quiet of the house helped her; the darkness of +the room helped her; the stupor of mind into which she had fallen had +its effect on her senses; she dropped into a broken sleep. Her restless +hands moved incessantly, her head tossed from side to side of the +pillow, but still she slept. Ere long words fell by ones and twos from +her lips; words whispered in her sleep, growing more and more +continuous, more and more articulate, the longer the sleep lasted—words +which seemed to calm her restlessness and to hush her into deeper +repose. She smiled; she was in the happy land of dreams; Frank’s name +escaped her. “Do you love me, Frank?” she whispered. “Oh, my darling, +say it again! say it again!” + +The time passed, the room grew darker; and still she slumbered and +dreamed. Toward sunset—without any noise inside the house or out to +account for it—she started up on the bed, awake again in an instant. +The drowsy obscurity of the room struck her with terror. She ran to the +window, pushed open the shutters, and leaned far out into the evening +air and the evening light. Her eyes devoured the trivial sights on the +beach; her ears drank in the welcome murmur of the sea. Anything to +deliver her from the waking impression which her dreams had left! No +more darkness, no more repose. Sleep that came mercifully to others +came treacherously to her. Sleep had only closed her eyes on the +future, to open them on the past. + +She went down again into the parlor, eager to talk—no matter how idly, +no matter on what trifles. The room was empty. Perhaps Mrs. Wragge had +gone to her work—perhaps she was too tired to talk. Magdalen took her +hat from the table and went out. The sea that she had shrunk from, a +few hours since, looked friendly now. How lovely it was in its cool +evening blue! What a god-like joy in the happy multitude of waves +leaping up to the light of heaven! + +She stayed out until the night fell and the stars appeared. The night +steadied her. + +By slow degrees her mind recovered its balance and she looked her +position unflinchingly in the face. The vain hope that accident might +defeat the very end for which, of her own free-will, she had +ceaselessly plotted and toiled, vanished and left her; self-dissipated +in its own weakness. She knew the true alternative, and faced it. On +one side was the revolting ordeal of the marriage; on the other, the +abandonment of her purpose. Was it too late to choose between the +sacrifice of the purpose and the sacrifice of herself? Yes! too late. +The backward path had closed behind her. Time that no wish could +change, Time that no prayers could recall, had made her purpose a part +of herself: once she had governed it; now it governed her. The more she +shrank, the harder she struggled, the more mercilessly it drove her on. +No other feeling in her was strong enough to master it—not even the +horror that was maddening her—the horror of her marriage. + +Toward nine o’clock she went back to the house. + +“Walking again!” said Mrs. Wragge, meeting her at the door. “Come in +and sit down, my dear. How tired you must be!” + +Magdalen smiled, and patted Mrs. Wragge kindly on the shoulder. + +“You forget how strong I am,” she said. “Nothing hurts me.” + +She lit her candle and went upstairs again into her room. As she +returned to the old place by her toilet-table, the vain hope in the +three days of delay, the vain hope of deliverance by accident, came +back to her—this time in a form more tangible than the form which it +had hitherto worn. + +“Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Something may happen to him; something may +happen to me. Something serious; something fatal. One of us may die.” + +A sudden change came over her face. She shivered, though there was no +cold in the air. She started, though there was no noise to alarm her. + +“One of us may die. I may be the one.” + +She fell into deep thought, roused herself after a while, and, opening +the door, called to Mrs. Wragge to come and speak to her. + +“You were right in thinking I should fatigue myself,” she said. “My +walk has been a little too much for me. I feel tired, and I am going to +bed. Good-night.” She kissed Mrs. Wragge and softly closed the door +again. + +After a few turns backward and forward in the room, she abruptly opened +her writing-case and began a letter to her sister. The letter grew and +grew under her hands; she filled sheet after sheet of note-paper. Her +heart was full of her subject: it was her own story addressed to Norah. +She shed no tears; she was composed to a quiet sadness. Her pen ran +smoothly on. After writing for more than two hours, she left off while +the letter was still unfinished. There was no signature attached to +it—there was a blank space reserved, to be filled up at some other +time. After putting away the case, with the sheets of writing secured +inside it, she walked to the window for air, and stood there looking +out. + +The moon was waning over the sea. The breeze of the earlier hours had +died out. On earth and ocean, the spirit of the Night brooded in a deep +and awful calm. + +Her head drooped low on her bosom, and all the view waned before her +eyes with the waning moon. She saw no sea, no sky. Death, the Tempter, +was busy at her heart. Death, the Tempter, pointed homeward, to the +grave of her dead parents in Combe-Raven churchyard. + +“Nineteen last birthday,” she thought. “Only nineteen!” She moved away +from the window, hesitated, and then looked out again at the view. “The +beautiful night!” she said, gratefully. “Oh, the beautiful night!” + +She left the window and lay down on her bed. Sleep, that had come +treacherously before, came mercifully now; came deep and dreamless, the +image of her last waking thought—the image of Death. + +Early the next morning Mrs. Wragge went into Magdalen’s room, and found +that she had risen betimes. She was sitting before the glass, drawing +the comb slowly through and through her hair—thoughtful and quiet. + +“How do you feel this morning, my dear?” asked Mrs. Wragge. “Quite well +again?” + +“Yes.” + +After replying in the affirmative, she stopped, considered for a +moment, and suddenly contradicted herself. + +“No,” she said, “not quite well. I am suffering a little from +toothache.” + +As she altered her first answer in those words she gave a twist to her +hair with the comb, so that it fell forward and hid her face. + +At breakfast she was very silent, and she took nothing but a cup of +tea. + +“Let me go to the chemist’s and get something,” said Mrs. Wragge. + +“No, thank you.” + +“Do let me!” + +“No!” + +She refused for the second time, sharply and angrily. As usual, Mrs. +Wragge submitted, and let her have her own way. When breakfast was +over, she rose, without a word of explanation, and went out. Mrs. +Wragge watched her from the window and saw that she took the direction +of the chemist’s shop. + +On reaching the chemist’s door she stopped—paused before entering the +shop, and looked in at the window—hesitated, and walked away a +little—hesitated again, and took the first turning which led back to +the beach. + +Without looking about her, without caring what place she chose, she +seated herself on the shingle. The only persons who were near to her, +in the position she now occupied, were a nursemaid and two little boys. +The youngest of the two had a tiny toy-ship in his hand. After looking +at Magdalen for a little while with the quaintest gravity and +attention, the boy suddenly approached her, and opened the way to an +acquaintance by putting his toy composedly on her lap. + +“Look at my ship,” said the child, crossing his hands on Magdalen’s +knee. + +She was not usually patient with children. In happier days she would +not have met the boy’s advance toward her as she met it now. The hard +despair in her eyes left them suddenly; her fast-closed lips parted and +trembled. She put the ship back into the child’s hands and lifted him +on her lap. + +“Will you give me a kiss?” she said, faintly. The boy looked at his +ship as if he would rather have kissed the ship. + +She repeated the question—repeated it almost humbly. The child put his +hand up to her neck and kissed her. + +“If I was your sister, would you love me?” All the misery of her +friendless position, all the wasted tenderness of her heart, poured +from her in those words. + +“Would you love me?” she repeated, hiding her face on the bosom of the +child’s frock. + +“Yes,” said the boy. “Look at my ship.” + +She looked at the ship through her gathering tears. + +“What do you call it?” she asked, trying hard to find her way even to +the interest of a child. + +“I call it Uncle Kirke’s ship,” said the boy. “Uncle Kirke has gone +away.” + +The name recalled nothing to her memory. No remembrances but old +remembrances lived in her now. “Gone?” she repeated absently, thinking +what she should say to her little friend next. + +“Yes,” said the boy. “Gone to China.” + +Even from the lips of a child that word struck her to the heart. She +put Kirke’s little nephew off her lap, and instantly left the beach. + +As she turned back to the house, the struggle of the past night renewed +itself in her mind. But the sense of relief which the child had brought +to her, the reviving tenderness which she had felt while he sat on her +knee, influenced her still. She was conscious of a dawning hope, +opening freshly on her thoughts, as the boy’s innocent eyes had opened +on her face when he came to her on the beach. Was it too late to turn +back? Once more she asked herself that question, and now, for the first +time, she asked it in doubt. + +She ran up to her own room with a lurking distrust in her changed self +which warned her to act, and not to think. Without waiting to remove +her shawl or to take off her hat, she opened her writing-case and +addressed these lines to Captain Wragge as fast as her pen could trace +them: + +“You will find the money I promised you inclosed in this. My resolution +has failed me. The horror of marrying him is more than I can face. I +have left Aldborough. Pity my weakness, and forget me. Let us never +meet again.” + +With throbbing heart, with eager, trembling fingers, she drew her +little white silk bag from her bosom and took out the banknotes to +inclose them in the letter. Her hand searched impetuously; her hand had +lost its discrimination of touch. She grasped the whole contents of the +bag in one handful of papers, and drew them out violently, tearing some +and disarranging the folds of others. As she threw them down before her +on the table, the first object that met her eye was her own +handwriting, faded already with time. She looked closer, and saw the +words she had copied from her dead father’s letter—saw the lawyer’s +brief and terrible commentary on them confronting her at the bottom of +the page: + +_Mr. Vanstone’s daughters are Nobody’s Children, and the law leaves +them helpless at their uncle’s mercy._ + +Her throbbing heart stopped; her trembling hands grew icily quiet. All +the Past rose before her in mute, overwhelming reproach. She took up +the lines which her own hand had written hardly a minute since, and +looked at the ink, still wet on the letters, with a vacant incredulity. + +The color that had risen on her cheeks faded from them once more. The +hard despair looked out again, cold and glittering, in her tearless +eyes. She folded the banknotes carefully, and put them back in her bag. +She pressed the copy of her father’s letter to her lips, and returned +it to its place with the banknotes. When the bag was in her bosom +again, she waited a little, with her face hidden in her hands, then +deliberately tore up the lines addressed to Captain Wragge. Before the +ink was dry, the letter lay in fragments on the floor. + +“No!” she said, as the last morsel of the torn paper dropped from her +hand. “On the way I go there is no turning back.” + +She rose composedly and left the room. While descending the stairs, she +met Mrs. Wragge coming up. “Going out again, my dear?” asked Mrs. +Wragge. “May I go with you?” + +Magdalen’s attention wandered. Instead of answering the question, she +absently answered her own thoughts. + +“Thousands of women marry for money,” she said. “Why shouldn’t I?” + +The helpless perplexity of Mrs. Wragge’s face as she spoke those words +roused her to a sense of present things. “My poor dear!” she said; “I +puzzle you, don’t I? Never mind what I say—all girls talk nonsense, and +I’m no better than the rest of them. Come! I’ll give you a treat. You +shall enjoy yourself while the captain is away. We will have a long +drive by ourselves. Put on your smart bonnet, and come with me to the +hotel. I’ll tell the landlady to put a nice cold dinner into a basket. +You shall have all the things you like, and I’ll wait on you. When you +are an old, old woman, you will remember me kindly, won’t you? You will +say: ‘She wasn’t a bad girl; hundreds worse than she was live and +prosper, and nobody blames them.’ There! there! go and put your bonnet +on. Oh, my God, what is my heart made of! How it lives and lives, when +other girls’ hearts would have died in them long ago!” + +In half an hour more she and Mrs. Wragge were seated together in the +carriage. One of the horses was restive at starting. “Flog him,” she +cried angrily to the driver. “What are you frightened about? Flog him! +Suppose the carriage was upset,” she said, turning suddenly to her +companion; “and suppose I was thrown out and killed on the spot? +Nonsense! don’t look at me in that way. I’m like your husband; I have a +dash of humor, and I’m only joking.” + +They were out the whole day. When they reached home again, it was after +dark. The long succession of hours passed in the fresh air left them +both with the same sense of fatigue. Again that night Magdalen slept +the deep dreamless sleep of the night before. And so the Friday closed. + +Her last thought at night had been the thought which had sustained her +throughout the day. She had laid her head on the pillow with the same +reckless resolution to submit to the coming trial which had already +expressed itself in words when she and Mrs. Wragge met by accident on +the stairs. When she woke on the morning of Saturday, the resolution +was gone. The Friday’s thoughts—the Friday’s events even—were blotted +out of her mind. Once again, creeping chill through the flow of her +young blood, she felt the slow and deadly prompting of despair which +had come to her in the waning moonlight, which had whispered to her in +the awful calm. + +“I saw the end as the end must be,” she said to herself, “on Thursday +night. I have been wrong ever since.” + +When she and her companion met that morning, she reiterated her +complaint of suffering from the toothache; she repeated her refusal to +allow Mrs. Wragge to procure a remedy; she left the house after +breakfast, in the direction of the chemist’s shop, exactly as she had +left it on the morning before. + +This time she entered the shop without an instant’s hesitation. + +“I have got an attack of toothache,” she said, abruptly, to an elderly +man who stood behind the counter. + +“May I look at the tooth, miss?” + +“There is no necessity to look. It is a hollow tooth. I think I have +caught cold in it.” + +The chemist recommended various remedies which were in vogue fifteen +years since. She declined purchasing any of them. + +“I have always found Laudanum relieve the pain better than anything +else,” she said, trifling with the bottles on the counter, and looking +at them while she spoke, instead of looking at the chemist. “Let me +have some Laudanum.” + +“Certainly, miss. Excuse my asking the question—it is only a matter of +form. You are staying at Aldborough, I think?” + +“Yes. I am Miss Bygrave, of North Shingles.” + +The chemist bowed; and, turning to his shelves, filled an ordinary +half-ounce bottle with laudanum immediately. In ascertaining his +customer’s name and address beforehand, the owner of the shop had taken +a precaution which was natural to a careful man, but which was by no +means universal, under similar circumstances, in the state of the law +at that time. + +“Shall I put you up a little cotton wool with the laudanum?” he asked, +after he had placed a label on the bottle, and had written a word on it +in large letters. + +“If you please. What have you just written on the bottle?” She put the +question sharply, with something of distrust as well as curiosity in +her manner. + +The chemist answered the question by turning the label toward her. She +saw written on it, in large letters—POISON. + +“I like to be on the safe side, miss,” said the old man, smiling. “Very +worthy people in other respects are often sadly careless where poisons +are concerned.” + +She began trifling again with the bottles on the counter, and put +another question, with an ill-concealed anxiety to hear the answer. + +“Is there danger,” she asked, “in such a little drop of Laudanum as +that?” + +“There is Death in it, miss,” replied the chemist, quietly. + +“Death to a child, or to a person in delicate health?” + +“Death to the strongest man in England, let him be who he may.” + +With that answer, the chemist sealed up the bottle in its wrapping of +white paper and handed the laudanum to Magdalen across the counter. She +laughed as she took it from him, and paid for it. + +“There will be no fear of accidents at North Shingles,” she said. “I +shall keep the bottle locked up in my dressing-case. If it doesn’t +relieve the pain, I must come to you again, and try some other remedy. +Good-morning.” + +“Good-morning, miss.” + +She went straight back to the house without once looking up, without +noticing any one who passed her. She brushed by Mrs. Wragge in the +passage as she might have brushed by a piece of furniture. She ascended +the stairs, and caught her foot twice in her dress, from sheer +inattention to the common precaution of holding it up. The trivial +daily interests of life had lost their hold on her already. + +In the privacy of her own room, she took the bottle from its wrapping, +and threw the paper and the cotton wool into the fire-place. At the +moment when she did this there was a knock at the door. She hid the +little bottle, and looked up impatiently. Mrs. Wragge came into the +room. + +“Have you got something for your toothache, my dear?” + +“Yes.” + +“Can I do anything to help you?” + +“No.” + +Mrs. Wragge still lingered uneasily near the door. Her manner showed +plainly that she had something more to say. + +“What is it?” asked Magdalen, sharply. + +“Don’t be angry,” said Mrs. Wragge. “I’m not settled in my mind about +the captain. He’s a great writer, and he hasn’t written. He’s as quick +as lightning, and he hasn’t come back. Here’s Saturday, and no signs of +him. Has he run away, do you think? Has anything happened to him?” + +“I should think not. Go downstairs; I’ll come and speak to you about it +directly.” + +As soon as she was alone again, Magdalen rose from her chair, advanced +toward a cupboard in the room which locked, and paused for a moment, +with her hand on the key, in doubt. Mrs. Wragge’s appearance had +disturbed the whole current of her thoughts. Mrs. Wragge’s last +question, trifling as it was, had checked her on the verge of the +precipice—had roused the old vain hope in her once more of release by +accident. + +“Why not?” she said. “Why may something not have happened to one of +them?” + +She placed the laudanum in the cupboard, locked it, and put the key in +her pocket. “Time enough still,” she thought, “before Monday. I’ll wait +till the captain comes back.” + +After some consultation downstairs, it was agreed that the servant +should sit up that night, in expectation of her master’s return. The +day passed quietly, without events of any kind. Magdalen dreamed away +the hours over a book. A weary patience of expectation was all she felt +now—the poignant torment of thought was dulled and blunted at last. She +passed the day and the evening in the parlor, vaguely conscious of a +strange feeling of aversion to going back to her own room. As the night +advanced, as the noises ceased indoors and out, her restlessness began +to return. She endeavored to quiet herself by reading. Books failed to +fix her attention. The newspaper was lying in a corner of the room: she +tried the newspaper next. + +She looked mechanically at the headings of the articles; she listlessly +turned over page after page, until her wandering attention was arrested +by the narrative of an Execution in a distant part of England. There +was nothing to strike her in the story of the crime, and yet she read +it. It was a common, horribly common, act of bloodshed—the murder of a +woman in farm-service by a man in the same employment who was jealous +of her. He had been convicted on no extraordinary evidence, he had been +hanged under no unusual circumstances. He had made his confession, when +he knew there was no hope for him, like other criminals of his class, +and the newspaper had printed it at the end of the article, in these +terms: + +“I kept company with the deceased for a year or thereabouts. I said I +would marry her when I had money enough. She said I had money enough +now. We had a quarrel. She refused to walk out with me any more; she +wouldn’t draw me my beer; she took up with my fellow-servant, David +Crouch. I went to her on the Saturday, and said I would marry her as +soon as we could be asked in church if she would give up Crouch. She +laughed at me. She turned me out of the wash-house, and the rest of +them saw her turn me out. I was not easy in my mind. I went and sat on +the gate—the gate in the meadow they call Pettit’s Piece. I thought I +would shoot her. I went and fetched my gun and loaded it. I went out +into Pettit’s Piece again. I was hard put to it to make up my mind. I +thought I would try my luck—I mean try whether to kill her or not—-by +throwing up the Spud of the plow into the air. I said to myself, if it +falls flat, I’ll spare her; if it falls point in the earth, I’ll kill +her. I took a good swing with it, and shied it up. It fell point in the +earth. I went and shot her. It was a bad job, but I did it. I did it, +as they said I did it at the trial. I hope the Lord will have mercy on +me. I wish my mother to have my old clothes. I have no more to say.” + +In the happier days of her life, Magdalen would have passed over the +narrative of the execution, and the printed confession which +accompanied it unread; the subject would have failed to attract her. +She read the horrible story now—read it with an interest unintelligible +to herself. Her attention, which had wandered over higher and better +things, followed every sentence of the murderer’s hideously direct +confession from beginning to end. If the man or the woman had been +known to her, if the place had been familiar to her memory, she could +hardly have followed the narrative more closely, or have felt a more +distinct impression of it left on her mind. She laid down the paper, +wondering at herself; she took it up once more, and tried to read some +other portion of the contents. The effort was useless; her attention +wandered again. She threw the paper away, and went out into the garden. +The night was dark; the stars were few and faint. She could just see +the gravel-walk—she could just pace backward and forward between the +house door and the gate. + +The confession in the newspaper had taken a fearful hold on her mind. +As she paced the walk, the black night opened over the sea, and showed +her the murderer in the field hurling the Spud of the plow into the +air. She ran, shuddering, back to the house. The murderer followed her +into the parlor. She seized the candle and went up into her room. The +vision of her own distempered fancy followed her to the place where the +laudanum was hidden, and vanished there. + +It was midnight, and there was no sign yet of the captain’s return. + +She took from the writing-case the long letter which she had written to +Norah, and slowly read it through. The letter quieted her. When she +reached the blank space left at the end, she hurriedly turned back and +began it over again. + +One o’clock struck from the church clock, and still the captain never +appeared. + +She read the letter for the second time; she turned back obstinately, +despairingly, and began it for the third time. As she once more reached +the last page, she looked at her watch. It was a quarter to two. She +had just put the watch back in the belt of her dress, when there came +to her—far off in the stillness of the morning—a sound of wheels. + +She dropped the letter and clasped her cold hands in her lap and +listened. The sound came on, faster and faster, nearer and nearer—the +trivial sound to all other ears; the sound of Doom to hers. It passed +the side of the house; it traveled a little further on; it stopped. She +heard a loud knocking—then the opening of a window—then voices—then a +long silence—than the wheels again coming back—then the opening of the +door below, and the sound of the captain’s voice in the passage. + +She could endure it no longer. She opened her door a little way and +called to him. + +He ran upstairs instantly, astonished that she was not in bed. She +spoke to him through the narrow opening of the door, keeping herself +hidden behind it, for she was afraid to let him see her face. + +“Has anything gone wrong?” she asked. + +“Make your mind easy,” he answered. “Nothing has gone wrong.” + +“Is no accident likely to happen between this and Monday?” + +“None whatever. The marriage is a certainty.” + +“A certainty?” + +“Yes.” + +“Good-night.” + +She put her hand out through the door. He took it with some little +surprise; it was not often in his experience that she gave him her hand +of her own accord. + +“You have sat up too long,” he said, as he felt the clasp of her cold +fingers. “I am afraid you will have a bad night—I’m afraid you will not +sleep.” + +She softly closed the door. + +“I shall sleep,” she said, “sounder than you think for.” + +It was past two o’clock when she shut herself up alone in her room. Her +chair stood in its customary place by the toilet-table. She sat down +for a few minutes thoughtfully, then opened her letter to Norah, and +turned to the end where the blank space was left. The last lines +written above the space ran thus: “... I have laid my whole heart bare +to you; I have hidden nothing. It has come to this. The end I have +toiled for, at such terrible cost to myself, is an end which I must +reach or die. It is wickedness, madness, what you will—but it is so. +There are now two journeys before me to choose between. If I can marry +him—the journey to the church. If the profanation of myself is more +than I can bear—the journey to the grave!” + +Under that last sentence, she wrote these lines: + +“My choice is made. If the cruel law will let you, lay me with my +father and mother in the churchyard at home. Farewell, my love! Be +always innocent; be always happy. If Frank ever asks about me, say I +died forgiving him. Don’t grieve long for me, Norah—I am not worth it.” + +She sealed the letter, and addressed it to her sister. The tears +gathered in her eyes as she laid it on the table. She waited until her +sight was clear again, and then took the banknotes once more from the +little bag in her bosom. After wrapping them in a sheet of note paper, +she wrote Captain Wragge’s name on the inclosure, and added these words +below it: “Lock the door of my room, and leave me till my sister comes. +The money I promised you is in this. You are not to blame; it is my +fault, and mine only. If you have any friendly remembrance of me, be +kind to your wife for my sake.” + +After placing the inclosure by the letter to Norah, she rose and looked +round the room. Some few little things in it were not in their places. +She set them in order, and drew the curtains on either side at the head +of her bed. Her own dress was the next object of her scrutiny. It was +all as neat, as pure, as prettily arranged as ever. Nothing about her +was disordered but her hair. Some tresses had fallen loose on one side +of her head; she carefully put them back in their places with the help +of her glass. “How pale I look!” she thought, with a faint smile. +“Shall I be paler still when they find me in the morning?” + +She went straight to the place where the laudanum was hidden, and took +it out. The bottle was so small that it lay easily in the palm of her +hand. She let it remain there for a little while, and stood looking at +it. + +“DEATH!” she said. “In this drop of brown drink—DEATH!” + +As the words passed her lips, an agony of unutterable horror seized on +her in an instant. She crossed the room unsteadily, with a maddening +confusion in her head, with a suffocating anguish at her heart. She +caught at the table to support herself. The faint clink of the bottle, +as it fell harmlessly from her loosened grasp and rolled against some +porcelain object on the table, struck through her brain like the stroke +of a knife. The sound of her own voice, sunk to a whisper—her voice +only uttering that one word, Death—rushed in her ears like the rushing +of a wind. She dragged herself to the bedside, and rested her head +against it, sitting on the floor. “Oh, my life! my life!” she thought; +“what is my life worth, that I cling to it like this?” + +An interval passed, and she felt her strength returning. She raised +herself on her knees and hid her face on the bed. She tried to pray—to +pray to be forgiven for seeking the refuge of death. Frantic words +burst from her lips—words which would have risen to cries, if she had +not stifled them in the bed-clothes. She started to her feet; despair +strengthened her with a headlong fury against herself. In one moment +she was back at the table; in another, the poison was once more in her +hand. + +She removed the cork and lifted the bottle to her mouth. + +At the first cold touch of the glass on her lips, her strong young life +leaped up in her leaping blood, and fought with the whole frenzy of its +loathing against the close terror of Death. Every active power in the +exuberant vital force that was in her rose in revolt against the +destruction which her own will would fain have wreaked on her own life. +She paused: for the second time, she paused in spite of herself. There, +in the glorious perfection of her youth and health—there, trembling on +the verge of human existence, she stood; with the kiss of the Destroyer +close at her lips, and Nature, faithful to its sacred trust, fighting +for the salvation of her to the last. + +No word passed her lips. Her cheeks flushed deep; her breath came thick +and fast. With the poison still in her hand, with the sense that she +might faint in another moment, she made for the window, and threw back +the curtain that covered it. + +The new day had risen. The broad gray dawn flowed in on her, over the +quiet eastern sea. + +She saw the waters heaving, large and silent, in the misty calm; she +felt the fresh breath of the morning flutter cool on her face. Her +strength returned; her mind cleared a little. At the sight of the sea, +her memory recalled the walk in the garden overnight, and the picture +which her distempered fancy had painted on the black void. In thought, +she saw the picture again—the murderer hurling the Spud of the plow +into the air, and setting the life or death of the woman who had +deserted him on the hazard of the falling point. The infection of that +terrible superstition seized on her mind as suddenly as the new day had +burst on her view. The promise of release which she saw in it from the +horror of her own hesitation roused the last energies of her despair. +She resolved to end the struggle by setting her life or death on the +hazard of a chance. + +On what chance? + +The sea showed it to her. Dimly distinguishable through the mist, she +saw a little fleet of coasting-vessels slowly drifting toward the +house, all following the same direction with the favoring set of the +tide. In half an hour—perhaps in less—the fleet would have passed her +window. The hands of her watch pointed to four o’clock. She seated +herself close at the side of the window, with her back toward the +quarter from which the vessels were drifting down on her—with the +poison placed on the window-sill and the watch on her lap. For one +half-hour to come she determined to wait there and count the vessels as +they went by. If in that time an even number passed her, the sign given +should be a sign to live. If the uneven number prevailed, the end +should be Death. + +With that final resolution, she rested her head against the window and +waited for the ships to pass. + +The first came, high, dark and near in the mist, gliding silently over +the silent sea. An interval—and the second followed, with the third +close after it. Another interval, longer and longer drawn out—and +nothing passed. She looked at her watch. Twelve minutes, and three +ships. Three. + +The fourth came, slower than the rest, larger than the rest, further +off in the mist than the rest. The interval followed; a long interval +once more. Then the next vessel passed, darkest and nearest of all. +Five. The next uneven number— + +Five. + +She looked at her watch again. Nineteen minutes, and five ships. Twenty +minutes. Twenty-one, two, three—and no sixth vessel. Twenty-four, and +the sixth came by. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, +and the next uneven number—the fatal Seven—glided into view. Two +minutes to the end of the half-hour. And seven ships. + +Twenty-nine, and nothing followed in the wake of the seventh ship. The +minute-hand of the watch moved on half-way to thirty, and still the +white heaving sea was a misty blank. Without moving her head from the +window, she took the poison in one hand, and raised the watch in the +other. As the quick seconds counted each other out, her eyes, as quick +as they, looked from the watch to the sea, from the sea to the +watch—looked for the last time at the sea—and saw the EIGHTH ship. + +She never moved, she never spoke. The death of thought, the death of +feeling, seemed to have come to her already. She put back the poison +mechanically on the ledge of the window and watched, as in a dream, the +ship gliding smoothly on its silent way—gliding till it melted dimly +into shadow—gliding till it was lost in the mist. + +The strain on her mind relaxed when the Messenger of Life had passed +from her sight. + +“Providence?” she whispered faintly to herself. “Or chance?” + +Her eyes closed, and her head fell back. When the sense of life +returned to her, the morning sun was warm on her face—the blue heaven +looked down on her—and the sea was a sea of gold. + +She fell on her knees at the window and burst into tears. + + +Towards noon that day, the captain, waiting below stairs, and hearing +no movement in Magdalen’s room, felt uneasy at the long silence. He +desired the new maid to follow him upstairs, and, pointing to the door, +told her to go in softly and see whether her mistress was awake. + +The maid entered the room, remained there a moment, and came out again, +closing the door gently. + +“She looks beautiful, sir,” said the girl; “and she’s sleeping as +quietly as a new-born child.” + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +The morning of her husband’s return to North Shingles was a morning +memorable forever in the domestic calendar of Mrs. Wragge. She dated +from that occasion the first announcement which reached her of +Magdalen’s marriage. + +It had been Mrs. Wragge’s earthly lot to pass her life in a state of +perpetual surprise. Never yet, however, had she wandered in such a maze +of astonishment as the maze in which she lost herself when the captain +coolly told her the truth. She had been sharp enough to suspect Mr. +Noel Vanstone of coming to the house in the character of a sweetheart +on approval; and she had dimly interpreted certain expressions of +impatience which had fallen from Magdalen’s lips as boding ill for the +success of his suit, but her utmost penetration had never reached as +far as a suspicion of the impending marriage. She rose from one climax +of amazement to another, as her husband proceeded with his disclosure. +A wedding in the family at a day’s notice! and that wedding Magdalen’s! +and not a single new dress ordered for anybody, the bride included! and +the Oriental Cashmere Robe totally unavailable on the occasion when she +might have worn it to the greatest advantage! Mrs. Wragge dropped +crookedly into a chair, and beat her disorderly hands on her +unsymmetrical knees, in utter forgetfulness of the captain’s presence +and the captain’s terrible eye. It would not have surprised her to hear +that the world had come to an end, and that the only mortal whom +Destiny had overlooked, in winding up the affairs of this earthly +planet, was herself! + +Leaving his wife to recover her composure by her own unaided efforts, +Captain Wragge withdrew to wait for Magdalen’s appearance in the lower +regions of the house. It was close on one o’clock before the sound of +footsteps in the room above warned him that she was awake and stirring. +He called at once for the maid (whose name he had ascertained to be +Louisa), and sent her upstairs to her mistress for the second time. + +Magdalen was standing by her dressing-table when a faint tap at the +door suddenly roused her. The tap was followed by the sound of a meek +voice, which announced itself as the voice of “her maid,” and inquired +if Miss Bygrave needed any assistance that morning. + +“Not at present,” said Magdalen, as soon as she had recovered the +surprise of finding herself unexpectedly provided with an attendant. “I +will ring when I want you.” + +After dismissing the woman with that answer, she accidentally looked +from the door to the window. Any speculations on the subject of the new +servant in which she might otherwise have engaged were instantly +suspended by the sight of the bottle of laudanum, still standing on the +ledge of the window, where she had left it at sunrise. She took it once +more in her hand, with a strange confusion of feeling—with a vague +doubt even yet, whether the sight of it reminded her of a terrible +reality or a terrible dream. Her first impulse was to rid herself of it +on the spot. She raised the bottle to throw the contents out of the +window, and paused, in sudden distrust of the impulse that had come to +her. “I have accepted my new life,” she thought. “How do I know what +that life may have in store for me?” She turned from the window and +went back to the table. “I may be forced to drink it yet,” she said, +and put the laudanum into her dressing-case. + +Her mind was not at ease when she had done this: there seemed to be +some indefinable ingratitude in the act. Still she made no attempt to +remove the bottle from its hiding-place. She hurried on her toilet; she +hastened the time when she could ring for the maid, and forget herself +and her waking thoughts in a new subject. After touching the bell, she +took from the table her letter to Norah and her letter to the captain, +put them both into her dressing-case with the laudanum, and locked it +securely with the key which she kept attached to her watch-chain. + +Magdalen’s first impression of her attendant was not an agreeable one. +She could not investigate the girl with the experienced eye of the +landlady at the London hotel, who had characterized the stranger as a +young person overtaken by misfortune, and who had showed plainly, by +her look and manner, of what nature she suspected that misfortune to +be. But with this drawback, Magdalen was perfectly competent to detect +the tokens of sickness and sorrow lurking under the surface of the new +maid’s activity and politeness. She suspected the girl was +ill-tempered; she disliked her name; and she was indisposed to welcome +any servant who had been engaged by Noel Vanstone. But after the first +few minutes, “Louisa” grew on her liking. She answered all the +questions put to her with perfect directness; she appeared to +understand her duties thoroughly; and she never spoke until she was +spoken to first. After making all the inquiries that occurred to her at +the time, and after determining to give the maid a fair trial, Magdalen +rose to leave the room. The very air in it was still heavy to her with +the oppression of the past night. + +“Have you anything more to say to me?” she asked, turning to the +servant, with her hand on the door. + +“I beg your pardon, miss,” said Louisa, very respectfully and very +quietly. “I think my master told me that the marriage was to be +to-morrow?” + +Magdalen repressed the shudder that stole over her at that reference to +the marriage on the lips of a stranger, and answered in the +affirmative. + +“It’s a very short time, miss, to prepare in. If you would be so kind +as to give me my orders about the packing before you go downstairs—?” + +“There are no such preparations to make as you suppose,” said Magdalen, +hastily. “The few things I have here can be all packed at once, if you +like. I shall wear the same dress to-morrow which I have on to-day. +Leave out the straw bonnet and the light shawl, and put everything else +into my boxes. I have no new dresses to pack; I have nothing ordered +for the occasion of any sort.” She tried to add some commonplace +phrases of explanation, accounting as probably as might be for the +absence of the usual wedding outfit and wedding-dress. But no further +reference to the marriage would pass her lips, and without another word +she abruptly left the room. + +The meek and melancholy Louisa stood lost in astonishment. “Something +wrong here,” she thought. “I’m half afraid of my new place already.” +She sighed resignedly, shook her head, and went to the wardrobe. She +first examined the drawers underneath, took out the various articles of +linen laid inside, and placed them on chairs. Opening the upper part of +the wardrobe next, she ranged the dresses in it side by side on the +bed. Her last proceeding was to push the empty boxes into the middle of +the room, and to compare the space at her disposal with the articles of +dress which she had to pack. She completed her preliminary calculations +with the ready self-reliance of a woman who thoroughly understood her +business, and began the packing forthwith. Just as she had placed the +first article of linen in the smaller box, the door of the room opened, +and the house-servant, eager for gossip, came in. + +“What do you want?” asked Louisa, quietly. + +“Did you ever hear of anything like this!” said the house-servant, +entering on her subject immediately. + +“Like what?” + +“Like this marriage, to be sure. You’re London bred, they tell me. Did +you ever hear of a young lady being married without a single new thing +to her back? No wedding veil, and no wedding breakfast, and no wedding +favors for the servants. It’s flying in the face of Providence—that’s +what I say. I’m only a poor servant, I know. But it’s wicked, downright +wicked—and I don’t care who hears me!” + +Louisa went on with the packing. + +“Look at her dresses!” persisted the house-servant, waving her hand +indignantly at the bed. “I’m only a poor girl, but I wouldn’t marry the +best man alive without a new gown to my back. Look here! look at this +dowdy brown thing here. Alpaca! You’re not going to pack this Alpaca +thing, are you? Why, it’s hardly fit for a servant! I don’t know that +I’d take a gift of it if it was offered me. It would do for me if I +took it up in the skirt, and let it out in the waist—and it wouldn’t +look so bad with a bit of bright trimming, would it?” + +“Let that dress alone, if you please,” said Louisa, as quietly as ever. + +“What did you say?” inquired the other, doubting whether her ears had +not deceived her. + +“I said, let that dress alone. It belongs to my mistress, and I have my +mistress’s orders to pack up everything in the room. You are not +helping me by coming here—you are very much in my way.” + +“Well!” said the house-servant, “you may be London bred, as they say. +But if these are your London manners, give me Suffolk!” She opened the +door with an angry snatch at the handle, shut it violently, opened it +again, and looked in. “Give me Suffolk!” said the house-servant, with a +parting nod of her head to point the edge of her sarcasm. + +Louisa proceeded impenetrably with her packing up. + +Having neatly disposed of the linen in the smaller box, she turned her +attention to the dresses next. After passing them carefully in review, +to ascertain which was the least valuable of the collection, and to +place that one at the bottom of the trunk for the rest to lie on, she +made her choice with very little difficulty. The first gown which she +put into the box was—the brown Alpaca dress. + +Meanwhile, Magdalen had joined the captain downstairs. Although he +could not fail to notice the languor in her face and the listlessness +of all her movements, he was relieved to find that she met him with +perfect composure. She was even self-possessed enough to ask him for +news of his journey, with no other signs of agitation than a passing +change of color and a little trembling of the lips. + +“So much for the past,” said Captain Wragge, when his narrative of the +expedition to London by way of St. Crux had come to an end. “Now for +the present. The bridegroom—” + +“If it makes no difference,” she interposed, “call him Mr. Noel +Vanstone.” + +“With all my heart. Mr. Noel Vanstone is coming here this afternoon to +dine and spend the evening. He will be tiresome in the last degree; +but, like all tiresome people, he is not to be got rid of on any terms. +Before he comes, I have a last word or two of caution for your private +ear. By this time to-morrow we shall have parted—without any certain +knowledge, on either side, of our ever meeting again. I am anxious to +serve your interests faithfully to the last; I am anxious you should +feel that I have done all I could for your future security when we say +good-by.” + +Magdalen looked at him in surprise. He spoke in altered tones. He was +agitated; he was strangely in earnest. Something in his look and manner +took her memory back to the first night at Aldborough, when she had +opened her mind to him in the darkening solitude—when they two had sat +together alone on the slope of the martello tower. “I have no reason to +think otherwise than kindly of you,” she said. + +Captain Wragge suddenly left his chair, and took a turn backward and +forward in the room. Magdalen’s last words seemed to have produced some +extraordinary disturbance in him. + +“Damn it!” he broke out; “I can’t let you say that. You have reason to +think ill of me. I have cheated you. You never got your fair share of +profit from the Entertainment, from first to last. There! now the +murder’s out!” + +Magdalen smiled, and signed to him to come back to his chair. + +“I know you cheated me,” she said, quietly. “You were in the exercise +of your profession, Captain Wragge. I expected it when I joined you. I +made no complaint at the time, and I make none now. If the money you +took is any recompense for all the trouble I have given you, you are +heartily welcome to it.” + +“Will you shake hands on that?” asked the captain, with an awkwardness +and hesitation strongly at variance with his customary ease of manner. + +Magdalen gave him her hand. He wrung it hard. “You are a strange girl,” +he said, trying to speak lightly. “You have laid a hold on me that I +don’t quite understand. I’m half uncomfortable at taking the money from +you now; and yet you don’t want it, do you?” He hesitated. “I almost +wish,” he said, “I had never met you on the Walls of York.” + +“It is too late to wish that, Captain Wragge. Say no more. You only +distress me—say no more. We have other subjects to talk about. What +were those words of caution which you had for my private ear?” + +The captain took another turn in the room, and struggled back again +into his every-day character. He produced from his pocketbook Mrs. +Lecount’s letter to her master, and handed it to Magdalen. + +“There is the letter that might have ruined us if it had ever reached +its address,” he said. “Read it carefully. I have a question to ask you +when you have done.” + +Magdalen read the letter. “What is this proof,” she inquired, “which +Mrs. Lecount relies on so confidently!” + +“The very question I was going to ask you,” said Captain Wragge. +“Consult your memory of what happened when you tried that experiment in +Vauxhall Walk. Did Mrs. Lecount get no other chance against you than +the chances you have told me of already?” + +“She discovered that my face was disguised, and she heard me speak in +my own voice.” + +“And nothing more?” + +“Nothing more.” + +“Very good. Then my interpretation of the letter is clearly the right +one. The proof Mrs. Lecount relies on is my wife’s infernal ghost +story—which is, in plain English, the story of Miss Bygrave having been +seen in Miss Vanstone’s disguise; the witness being the very person who +is afterward presented at Aldborough in the character of Miss Bygrave’s +aunt. An excellent chance for Mrs. Lecount, if she can only lay her +hand at the right time on Mrs. Wragge, and no chance at all, if she +can’t. Make your mind easy on that point. Mrs. Lecount and my wife have +seen the last of each other. In the meantime, don’t neglect the warning +I give you, in giving you this letter. Tear it up, for fear of +accidents, but don’t forget it.” + +“Trust me to remember it,” replied Magdalen, destroying the letter +while she spoke. “Have you anything more to tell me?” + +“I have some information to give you,” said Captain Wragge, “which may +be useful, because it relates to your future security. Mind, I want to +know nothing about your proceedings when to-morrow is over; we settled +that when we first discussed this matter. I ask no questions, and I +make no guesses. All I want to do now is to warn you of your legal +position after your marriage, and to leave you to make what use you +please of your knowledge, at your own sole discretion. I took a +lawyer’s opinion on the point when I was in London, thinking it might +be useful to you.” + +“It is sure to be useful. What did the lawyer say?” + +“To put it plainly, this is what he said. If Mr. Noel Vanstone ever +discovers that you have knowingly married him under a false name, he +can apply to the Ecclesiastical Court to have his marriage declared +null and void. The issue of the application would rest with the judges. +But if he could prove that he had been intentionally deceived, the +legal opinion is that his case would be a strong one.” + +“Suppose I chose to apply on my side?” said Magdalen, eagerly. “What +then?” + +“You might make the application,” replied the captain. “But remember +one thing—you would come into Court with the acknowledgment of your own +deception. I leave you to imagine what the judges would think of that.” + +“Did the lawyer tell you anything else?” + +“One thing besides,” said Captain Wragge. “Whatever the law might do +with the marriage in the lifetime of both the parties to it—on the +death of either one of them, no application made by the survivor would +avail; and, as to the case of that survivor, the marriage would remain +valid. You understand? If he dies, or if you die—and if no application +has been made to the Court—he the survivor, or you the survivor, would +have no power of disputing the marriage. But in the lifetime of both of +you, if he claimed to have the marriage dissolved, the chances are all +in favor of his carrying his point.” + +He looked at Magdalen with a furtive curiosity as he said those words. +She turned her head aside, absently tying her watch-chain into a loop +and untying it again, evidently thinking with the closest attention +over what he had last said to her. Captain Wragge walked uneasily to +the window and looked out. The first object that caught his eye was Mr. +Noel Vanstone approaching from Sea View. He returned instantly to his +former place in the room, and addressed himself to Magdalen once more. + +“Here is Mr. Noel Vanstone,” he said. “One last caution before he comes +in. Be on your guard with him about your age. He put the question to me +before he got the License. I took the shortest way out of the +difficulty, and told him you were twenty-one, and he made the +declaration accordingly. Never mind about _me_; after to-morrow I am +invisible. But, in your own interests, don’t forget, if the subject +turns up, that you were of age when you were married. There is nothing +more. You are provided with every necessary warning that I can give +you. Whatever happens in the future, remember I have done my best.” + +He hurried to the door without waiting for an answer, and went out into +the garden to receive his guest. + +Noel Vanstone made his appearance at the gate, solemnly carrying his +bridal offering to North Shingles with both hands. The object in +question was an ancient casket (one of his father’s bargains); inside +the casket reposed an old-fashioned carbuncle brooch, set in silver +(another of his father’s bargains)—bridal presents both, possessing the +inestimable merit of leaving his money undisturbed in his pocket. He +shook his head portentously when the captain inquired after his health +and spirits. He had passed a wakeful night; ungovernable apprehensions +of Lecount’s sudden re-appearance had beset him as soon as he found +himself alone at Sea View. Sea View was redolent of Lecount: Sea View +(though built on piles, and the strongest house in England) was +henceforth odious to him. He had felt this all night; he had also felt +his responsibilities. There was the lady’s maid, to begin with. Now he +had hired her, he began to think she wouldn’t do. She might fall sick +on his hands; she might have deceived him by a false character; she and +the landlady of the hotel might have been in league together. Horrible! +Really horrible to think of. Then there was the other +responsibility—perhaps the heavier of the two—the responsibility of +deciding where he was to go and spend his honeymoon to-morrow. He would +have preferred one of his father’s empty houses: But except at Vauxhall +Walk (which he supposed would be objected to), and at Aldborough (which +was of course out of the question) all the houses were let. He would +put himself in Mr. Bygrave’s hands. Where had Mr. Bygrave spent his own +honeymoon? Given the British Islands to choose from, where would Mr. +Bygrave pitch his tent, on a careful review of all the circumstances? + +At this point the bridegroom’s questions suddenly came to an end, and +the bridegroom’s face exhibited an expression of ungovernable +astonishment. His judicious friend, whose advice had been at his +disposal in every other emergency, suddenly turned round on him, in the +emergency of the honeymoon, and flatly declined discussing the subject. + +“No!” said the captain, as Noel Vanstone opened his lips to plead for a +hearing, “you must really excuse me. My point of view in this matter +is, as usual, a peculiar one. For some time past I have been living in +an atmosphere of deception, to suit your convenience. That atmosphere, +my good sir, is getting close; my Moral Being requires ventilation. +Settle the choice of a locality with my niece, and leave me, at my +particular request, in total ignorance of the subject. Mrs. Lecount is +certain to come here on her return from Zurich, and is certain to ask +me where you are gone. You may think it strange, Mr. Vanstone; but when +I tell her I don’t know, I wish to enjoy the unaccustomed luxury of +feeling, for once in a way, that I am speaking the truth!” + +With those words, he opened the sitting-room door, introduced Noel +Vanstone to Magdalen’s presence, bowed himself out of the room again, +and set forth alone to while away the rest of the afternoon by taking a +walk. His face showed plain tokens of anxiety, and his party-colored +eyes looked hither and thither distrustfully, as he sauntered along the +shore. “The time hangs heavy on our hands,” thought the captain. “I +wish to-morrow was come and gone.” + +The day passed and nothing happened; the evening and the night +followed, placidly and uneventfully. Monday came, a cloudless, lovely +day; Monday confirmed the captain’s assertion that the marriage was a +certainty. Toward ten o’clock, the clerk, ascending the church steps +quoted the old proverb to the pew-opener, meeting him under the porch: +“Happy the bride on whom the sun shines!” + +In a quarter of an hour more the wedding-party was in the vestry, and +the clergyman led the way to the altar. Carefully as the secret of the +marriage had been kept, the opening of the church in the morning had +been enough to betray it. A small congregation, almost entirely +composed of women, were scattered here and there among the pews. +Kirke’s sister and her children were staying with a friend at +Aldborough, and Kirke’s sister was one of the congregation. + +As the wedding-party entered the church, the haunting terror of Mrs. +Lecount spread from Noel Vanstone to the captain. For the first few +minutes, the eyes of both of them looked among the women in the pews +with the same searching scrutiny, and looked away again with the same +sense of relief. The clergyman noticed that look, and investigated the +License more closely than usual. The clerk began to doubt privately +whether the old proverb about the bride was a proverb to be always +depended on. The female members of the congregation murmured among +themselves at the inexcusable disregard of appearances implied in the +bride’s dress. Kirke’s sister whispered venomously in her friend’s ear, +“Thank God for to-day for Robert’s sake.” Mrs. Wragge cried silently, +with the dread of some threatening calamity she knew not what. The one +person present who remained outwardly undisturbed was Magdalen herself. +She stood, with tearless resignation, in her place before the +altar—stood, as if all the sources of human emotion were frozen up +within her. + +The clergyman opened the Book. + + +It was done. The awful words which speak from earth to Heaven were +pronounced. The children of the two dead brothers—inheritors of the +implacable enmity which had parted their parents—were Man and Wife. + +From that moment events hurried with a headlong rapidity to the parting +scene. They were back at the house while the words of the Marriage +Service seemed still ringing in their ears. Before they had been five +minutes indoors the carriage drew up at the garden gate. In a minute +more the opportunity came for which Magdalen and the captain had been +on the watch—the opportunity of speaking together in private for the +last time. She still preserved her icy resignation; she seemed beyond +all reach now of the fear that had once mastered her, of the remorse +that had once tortured her soul. With a firm hand she gave him the +promised money. With a firm face she looked her last at him. “I’m not +to blame,” he whispered, eagerly; “I have only done what you asked me.” +She bowed her head; she bent it toward him kindly and let him touch her +fore-head with his lips. “Take care!” he said. “My last words are—for +God’s sake take care when I’m gone!” She turned from him with a smile, +and spoke her farewell words to his wife. Mrs. Wragge tried hard to +face her loss bravely—the loss of the friend whose presence had fallen +like light from Heaven over the dim pathway of her life. “You have been +very good to me, my dear; I thank you kindly; I thank you with all my +heart.” She could say no more; she clung to Magdalen in a passion of +tears, as her mother might have clung to her, if her mother had lived +to see that horrible day. “I’m frightened for you!” cried the poor +creature, in a wild, wailing voice. “Oh, my darling, I’m frightened for +you!” Magdalen desperately drew herself free—kissed her—and hurried out +to the door. The expression of that artless gratitude, the cry of that +guileless love, shook her as nothing else had shaken her that day. It +was a refuge to get to the carriage—a refuge, though the man she had +married stood there waiting for her at the door. + +Mrs. Wragge tried to follow her into the garden. But the captain had +seen Magdalen’s face as she ran out, and he steadily held his wife back +in the passage. From that distance the last farewells were exchanged. +As long as the carriage was in sight, Magdalen looked back at them; she +waved her handkerchief as she turned the corner. In a moment more the +last thread which bound her to them was broken; the familiar +companionship of many months was a thing of the past already! + +Captain Wragge closed the house door on the idlers who were looking in +from the Parade. He led his wife back into the sitting-room, and spoke +to her with a forbearance which she had never yet experienced from him. + +“She has gone her way,” he said, “and in another hour we shall have +gone ours. Cry your cry out—I don’t deny she’s worth crying for.” + +Even then—even when the dread of Magdalen’s future was at its darkest +in his mind—the ruling habit of the man’s life clung to him. +Mechanically he unlocked his dispatch-box. Mechanically he opened his +Book of Accounts, and made the closing entry—the entry of his last +transaction with Magdalen—in black and white. “By Rec’d from Miss +Vanstone,” wrote the captain, with a gloomy brow, “Two hundred pounds.” + +“You won’t be angry with me?” said Mrs. Wragge, looking timidly at her +husband through her tears. “I want a word of comfort, captain. Oh, do +tell me, when shall I see her again?” + +The captain closed the book, and answered in one inexorable word: +“Never!” + +Between eleven and twelve o’clock that night Mrs. Lecount drove into +Zurich. + +Her brother’s house, when she stopped before it, was shut up. With some +difficulty and delay the servant was aroused. She held up her hands in +speechless amazement when she opened the door and saw who the visitor +was. + +“Is my brother alive?” asked Mrs. Lecount, entering the house. + +“Alive!” echoed the servant. “He has gone holiday-making into the +country, to finish his recovery in the fine fresh air.” + +The housekeeper staggered back against the wall of the passage. The +coachman and the servant put her into a chair. Her face was livid, and +her teeth chattered in her head. + +“Send for my brother’s doctor,” she said, as soon as she could speak. + +The doctor came. She handed him a letter before he could say a word. + +“Did you write that letter?” + +He looked it over rapidly, and answered her without hesitation, + +“Certainly not!” + +“It is your handwriting.” + +“It is a forgery of my handwriting.” + +She rose from the chair with a new strength in her. + +“When does the return mail start for Paris?” she asked. + +“In half an hour.” + +“Send instantly and take me a place in it!” + +The servant hesitated, the doctor protested. She turned a deaf ear to +them both. + +“Send!” she reiterated, “or I will go myself.” + +They obeyed. The servant went to take the place: the doctor remained +and held a conversation with Mrs. Lecount. When the half-hour had +passed, he helped her into her place in the mail, and charged the +conductor privately to take care of his passenger. + +“She has traveled from England without stopping,” said the doctor; “and +she is traveling back again without rest. Be careful of her, or she +will break down under the double journey.” + +The mail started. Before the first hour of the new day was at an end +Mrs. Lecount was on her way back to England. + +THE END OF THE FOURTH SCENE. + + + +BETWEEN THE SCENES. +PROGRESS OF THE STORY THROUGH THE POST. + +I. +From George Bartram to Noel Vanstone. + +“St. Crux, September 4th, 1847. + + +“My dear Noel, + +“Here are two plain questions at starting. In the name of all that is +mysterious, what are you hiding for? And why is everything relating to +your marriage kept an impenetrable secret from your oldest friends? + +“I have been to Aldborough to try if I could trace you from that place, +and have come back as wise as I went. I have applied to your lawyer in +London, and have been told, in reply, that you have forbidden him to +disclose the place of your retreat to any one without first receiving +your permission to do so. All I could prevail on him to say was, that +he would forward any letter which might be sent to his care. I write +accordingly, and mind this, I expect an answer. + +“You may ask, in your ill-tempered way, what business I have to meddle +with affairs of yours which it is your pleasure to keep private. My +dear Noel, there is a serious reason for our opening communications +with you from this house. You don’t know what events have taken place +at St. Crux since you ran away to get married; and though I detest +writing letters, I must lose an hour’s shooting to-day in trying to +enlighten you. + +“On the twenty-third of last month, the admiral and I were disturbed +over our wine after dinner by the announcement that a visitor had +unexpectedly arrived at St. Crux. Who do you think the visitor was? +Mrs. Lecount! + +“My uncle, with that old-fashioned bachelor gallantry of his which pays +equal respect to all wearers of petticoats, left the table directly to +welcome Mrs. Lecount. While I was debating whether I should follow him +or not, my meditations were suddenly brought to an end by a loud call +from the admiral. I ran into the morning-room, and there was your +unfortunate housekeeper on the sofa, with all the women servants about +her, more dead than alive. She had traveled from England to Zurich, and +from Zurich back again to England, without stopping; and she looked, +seriously and literally, at death’s door. I immediately agreed with my +uncle that the first thing to be done was to send for medical help. We +dispatched a groom on the spot, and, at Mrs. Lecount’s own request, +sent all the servants in a body out of the room. + +“As soon as we were alone, Mrs. Lecount surprised us by a singular +question. She asked if you had received a letter which she had +addressed to you before leaving England at this house. When we told her +that the letter had been forwarded, under cover to your friend Mr. +Bygrave, by your own particular request, she turned as pale as ashes; +and when we added that you had left us in company with this same Mr. +Bygrave, she clasped her hands and stared at us as if she had taken +leave of her senses. Her next question was, ‘Where is Mr. Noel now?’ We +could only give her one reply—Mr. Noel had not informed us. She looked +perfectly thunderstruck at that answer. ‘He has gone to his ruin!’ she +said. ‘He has gone away in company with the greatest villain in +England. I must find him! I tell you I must find Mr. Noel! If I don’t +find him at once, it will be too late. He will be married!’ she burst +out quite frantically. ‘On my honor and my oath, he will be married!’ +The admiral, incautiously perhaps, but with the best intentions, told +her you were married already. She gave a scream that made the windows +ring again and dropped back on the sofa in a fainting-fit. The doctor +came in the nick of time, and soon brought her to. But she was taken +ill the same night; she has grown worse and worse ever since; and the +last medical report is, that the fever from which she has been +suffering is in a fair way to settle on her brain. + +“Now, my dear Noel, neither my uncle nor I have any wish to intrude +ourselves on your confidence. We are naturally astonished at the +extraordinary mystery which hangs over you and your marriage, and we +cannot be blind to the fact that your housekeeper has, apparently, some +strong reason of her own for viewing Mrs. Noel Vanstone with an enmity +and distrust which we are quite ready to believe that lady has done +nothing to deserve. Whatever strange misunderstanding there may have +been in your household, is your business (if you choose to keep it to +yourself), and not ours. All we have any right to do is to tell you +what the doctor says. His patient has been delirious; he declines to +answer for her life if she goes on as she is going on now; and he +thinks—finding that she is perpetually talking of her master—that your +presence would be useful in quieting her, if you could come here at +once, and exert your influence before it is too late. + +“What do you say? Will you emerge from the darkness that surrounds you +and come to St. Crux? If this was the case of an ordinary servant, I +could understand your hesitating to leave the delights of your +honeymoon for any such object as is here proposed to you. But, my dear +fellow, Mrs. Lecount is not an ordinary servant. You are under +obligations to her fidelity and attachment in your father’s time, as +well as in your own; and if you _can_ quiet the anxieties which seem to +be driving this unfortunate woman mad, I really think you ought to come +here and do so. Your leaving Mrs. Noel Vanstone is of course out of the +question. There is no necessity for any such hard-hearted proceeding. +The admiral desires me to remind you that he is your oldest friend +living, and that his house is at your wife’s disposal, as it has always +been at yours. In this great rambling-place she need dread no near +association with the sick-room; and, with all my uncle’s oddities, I am +sure she will not think the offer of his friendship an offer to be +despised. + +“Have I told you already that I went to Aldborough to try and find a +clue to your whereabouts? I can’t be at the trouble of looking back to +see; so, if I have told you, I tell you again. The truth is, I made an +acquaintance at Aldborough of whom you know something—at least by +report. + +“After applying vainly at Sea View, I went to the hotel to inquire +about you. The landlady could give me no information; but the moment I +mentioned your name, she asked if I was related to you; and when I told +her I was your cousin, she said there was a young lady then at the +hotel whose name was Vanstone also, who was in great distress about a +missing relative, and who might prove of some use to me—or I to her—if +we knew of each other’s errand at Aldborough. I had not the least idea +who she was, but I sent in my card at a venture; and in five minutes +afterward I found myself in the presence of one of the most charming +women these eyes ever looked on. + +“Our first words of explanation informed me that my family name was +known to her by repute. Who do you think she was? The eldest daughter +of my uncle and yours—Andrew Vanstone. I had often heard my poor mother +in past years speak of her brother Andrew, and I knew of that sad story +at Combe-Raven. But our families, as you are aware, had always been +estranged, and I had never seen my charming cousin before. She has the +dark eyes and hair, and the gentle, retiring manners that I always +admire in a woman. I don’t want to renew our old disagreement about +your father’s conduct to those two sisters, or to deny that his brother +Andrew may have behaved badly to him; I am willing to admit that the +high moral position he took in the matter is quite unassailable by such +a miserable sinner as I am; and I will not dispute that my own +spendthrift habits incapacitate me from offering any opinion on the +conduct of other people’s pecuniary affairs. But, with all these +allowances and drawbacks, I can tell you one thing, Noel. If you ever +see the elder Miss Vanstone, I venture to prophesy that, for the first +time in your life, you will doubt the propriety of following your +father’s example. + +“She told me her little story, poor thing, most simply and +unaffectedly. She is now occupying her second situation as a +governess—and, as usual, I, who know everybody, know the family. They +are friends of my uncle’s, whom he has lost sight of latterly—the +Tyrrels of Portland Place—and they treat Miss Vanstone with as much +kindness and consideration as if she was a member of the family. One of +their old servants accompanied her to Aldborough, her object in +traveling to that place being what the landlady of the hotel had stated +it to be. The family reverses have, it seems, had a serious effect on +Miss Vanstone’s younger sister, who has left her friends and who has +been missing from home for some time. She had been last heard of at +Aldborough; and her elder sister, on her return from the Continent with +the Tyrrels, had instantly set out to make inquiries at that place. + +“This was all Miss Vanstone told me. She asked whether you had seen +anything of her sister, or whether Mrs. Lecount knew anything of her +sister—I suppose because she was aware you had been at Aldborough. Of +course I could tell her nothing. She entered into no details on the +subject, and I could not presume to ask her for any. All I did was to +set to work with might and main to assist her inquiries. The attempt +was an utter failure; nobody could give us any information. We tried +personal description of course; and strange to say, the only young lady +formerly staying at Aldborough who answered the description was, of all +the people in the world, the lady you have married! If she had not had +an uncle and aunt (both of whom have left the place), I should have +begun to suspect that you had married your cousin without knowing it! +Is this the clue to the mystery? Don’t be angry; I must have my little +joke, and I can’t help writing as carelessly as I talk. The end of it +was, our inquiries were all baffled, and I traveled back with Miss +Vanstone and her attendant as far as our station here. I think I shall +call on the Tyrrels when I am next in London. I have certainly treated +that family with the most inexcusable neglect. + +“Here I am at the end of my third sheet of note-paper! I don’t often +take the pen in hand; but when I do, you will agree with me that I am +in no hurry to lay it aside again. Treat the rest of my letter as you +like, but consider what I have told you about Mrs. Lecount, and +remember that time is of consequence. + +“Ever yours, +“GEORGE BARTRAM.” + + +II. +From Norah Vanstone to Miss Garth. + +“Portland Place. + + +“MY DEAR MISS GARTH, + +“More sorrow, more disappointment! I have just returned from +Aldborough, without making any discovery. Magdalen is still lost to us. + +“I cannot attribute this new overthrow of my hopes to any want of +perseverance or penetration in making the necessary inquiries. My +inexperience in such matters was most kindly and unexpectedly assisted +by Mr. George Bartram. By a strange coincidence, he happened to be at +Aldborough, inquiring after Mr. Noel Vanstone, at the very time when I +was there inquiring after Magdalen. He sent in his card, and knowing, +when I looked at the name, that he was my cousin—if I may call him so—I +thought there would be no impropriety in my seeing him and asking his +advice. I abstained from entering into particulars for Magdalen’s sake, +and I made no allusion to that letter of Mrs. Lecount’s which you +answered for me. I only told him Magdalen was missing, and had been +last heard of at Aldborough. The kindness which he showed in devoting +himself to my assistance exceeds all description. He treated me, in my +forlorn situation, with a delicacy and respect which I shall remember +gratefully long after he has himself perhaps forgotten our meeting +altogether. He is quite young—not more than thirty, I should think. In +face and figure, he reminded me a little of the portrait of my father +at Combe-Raven—I mean the portrait in the dining-room, of my father +when he was a young man. + +“Useless as our inquiries were, there is one result of them which has +left a very strange and shocking impression on my mind. + +“It appears that Mr. Noel Vanstone has lately married, under mysterious +circumstances, a young lady whom he met with at Aldborough, named +Bygrave. He has gone away with his wife, telling nobody but his lawyer +where he has gone to. This I heard from Mr. George Bartram, who was +endeavoring to trace him, for the purpose of communicating the news of +his housekeeper’s serious illness—the housekeeper being the same Mrs. +Lecount whose letter you answered. So far, you may say, there is +nothing which need particularly interest either of us. But I think you +will be as much surprised as I was when I tell you that the description +given by the people at Aldborough of Miss Bygrave’s appearance is most +startlingly and unaccountably like the description of Magdalen’s +appearance. This discovery, taken in connection with all the +circumstances we know of, has had an effect on my mind which I cannot +describe to you—which I dare not realize to myself. Pray come and see +me! I have never felt so wretched about Magdalen as I feel now. +Suspense must have weakened my nerves in some strange way. I feel +superstitious about the slightest things. This accidental resemblance +of a total stranger to Magdalen fills me every now and then with the +most horrible misgivings—merely because Mr. Noel Vanstone’s name +happens to be mixed up with it. Once more, pray come to me; I have so +much to say to you that I cannot, and dare not, say in writing. + +“Gratefully and affectionately yours, +“NORAH.” + + +III. +From Mr. John Loscombe (Solicitor) to George Bartram, Esq. + +“Lincoln’s Inn, London, +“September 6th, 1847. + + +“SIR, + +“I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your note, inclosing a letter +addressed to my client, Mr. Noel Vanstone, and requesting that I will +forward the same to Mr. Vanstone’s present address. + +“Since I last had the pleasure of communicating with you on this +subject, my position toward my client is entirely altered. Three days +ago I received a letter from him, which stated his intention of +changing his place of residence on the next day then ensuing, but which +left me entirely in ignorance on the subject of the locality to which +it was his intention to remove. I have not heard from him since; and, +as he had previously drawn on me for a larger sum of money than usual, +there would be no present necessity for his writing to me +again—assuming that it is his wish to keep his place of residence +concealed from every one, myself included. + +“Under these circumstances, I think it right to return you your letter, +with the assurance that I will let you know, if I happen to be again +placed in a position to forward it to its destination. + +“Your obedient servant, +“JOHN LOSCOMBE.” + + +IV. +From Norah Vanstone to Miss Garth. + +“Portland Place. + + +“MY DEAR MISS GARTH, + +“Forget the letter I wrote to you yesterday, and all the gloomy +forebodings that it contains. This morning’s post has brought new life +to me. I have just received a letter, addressed to me at your house, +and forwarded here, in your absence from home yesterday, by your +sister. Can you guess who the writer is?—Magdalen! + +“The letter is very short; it seems to have been written in a hurry. +She says she has been dreaming of me for some nights past, and the +dreams have made her fear that her long silence has caused me more +distress on her account than she is worth. She writes, therefore, to +assure me that she is safe and well—that she hopes to see me before +long—and that she has something to tell me, when we meet, which will +try my sisterly love for her as nothing has tried it yet. The letter is +not dated; but the postmark is ‘Allonby,’ which I have found, on +referring to the Gazetteer, to be a little sea-side place in +Cumberland. There is no hope of my being able to write back, for +Magdalen expressly says that she is on the eve of departure from her +present residence, and that she is not at liberty to say where she is +going to next, or to leave instructions for forwarding any letters +after her. + +“In happier times I should have thought this letter very far from being +a satisfactory one, and I should have been seriously alarmed by that +allusion to a future confidence on her part which will try my love for +her as nothing has tried it yet. But after all the suspense I have +suffered, the happiness of seeing her handwriting again seems to fill +my heart and to keep all other feelings out of it. I don’t send you her +letter, because I know you are coming to me soon, and I want to have +the pleasure of seeing you read it. + +“Ever affectionately yours, +“NORAH. + + +“P.S.—Mr. George Bartram called on Mrs. Tyrrel to-day. He insisted on +being introduced to the children. When he was gone, Mrs. Tyrrel laughed +in her good-humored way, and said that his anxiety to see the children +looked, to her mind, very much like an anxiety to see _me_. You may +imagine how my spirits are improved when I can occupy my pen in writing +such nonsense as this!” + +V. +From Mrs. Lecount to Mr. de Bleriot, General Agent, London. + +“St. Crux, October 23d, 1847. + + +“DEAR SIR, + +“I have been long in thanking you for the kind letter which promises me +your assistance, in friendly remembrance of the commercial relations +formerly existing between my brother and yourself. The truth is, I have +over-taxed my strength on my recovery from a long and dangerous +illness; and for the last ten days I have been suffering under a +relapse. I am now better again, and able to enter on the business which +you so kindly offer to undertake for me. + +“The person whose present place of abode it is of the utmost importance +to me to discover is Mr. Noel Vanstone. I have lived, for many years +past, in this gentleman’s service as house-keeper; and not having +received my formal dismissal, I consider myself in his service still. +During my absence on the Continent he was privately married at +Aldborough, in Suffolk, on the eighteenth of August last. He left +Aldborough the same day, taking his wife with him to some place of +retreat which was kept a secret from everybody except his lawyer, Mr. +Loscombe, of Lincoln’s Inn. After a short time he again removed, on the +4th of September, without informing Mr. Loscombe, on this occasion, of +his new place of abode. From that date to this the lawyer has remained +(or has pretended to remain) in total ignorance of where he now is. +Application has been made to Mr. Loscombe, under the circumstances, to +mention what that former place of residence was, of which Mr. Vanstone +is known to have informed him. Mr. Loscombe has declined acceding to +this request, for want of formal permission to disclose his client’s +proceedings after leaving Aldborough. I have all these latter +particulars from Mr. Loscombe’s correspondent—the nephew of the +gentleman who owns this house, and whose charity has given me an +asylum, during the heavy affliction of my sickness, under his own roof. + +“I believe the reasons which have induced Mr. Noel Vanstone to keep +himself and his wife in hiding are reasons which relate entirely to +myself. In the first place, he is aware that the circumstances under +which he has married are such as to give me the right of regarding him +with a just indignation. In the second place, he knows that my faithful +services, rendered through a period of twenty years, to his father and +to himself, forbid him, in common decency, to cast me out helpless on +the world without a provision for the end of my life. He is the meanest +of living men, and his wife is the vilest of living women. As long as +he can avoid fulfilling his obligations to me, he will; and his wife’s +encouragement may be trusted to fortify him in his ingratitude. + +“My object in determining to find him out is briefly this. His marriage +has exposed him to consequences which a man of ten times his courage +could not face without shrinking. Of those consequences he knows +nothing. His wife knows, and keeps him in ignorance. I know, and can +enlighten him. His security from the danger that threatens him is in my +hands alone; and he shall pay the price of his rescue to the last +farthing of the debt that justice claims for me as my due—no more, and +no less. + +“I have now laid my mind before you, as you told me, without reserve. +You know why I want to find this man, and what I mean to do when I find +him. I leave it to your sympathy for me to answer the serious question +that remains: How is the discovery to be made? If a first trace of them +can be found, after their departure from Aldborough, I believe careful +inquiry will suffice for the rest. The personal appearance of the wife, +and the extraordinary contrast between her husband and herself, are +certain to be remarked, and remembered, by every stranger who sees +them. + +“When you favor me with your answer, please address it to ‘Care of +Admiral Bartram, St. Crux-in the-Marsh, near Ossory, Essex’. + +“Your much obliged, +“VIRGINIE LECOUNT.” + + +VI. +From Mr. de Bleriot to Mrs. Lecount. + +“Dark’s Buildings, Kingsland, +“October 25th, 1847. + + +“Private and Confidential. + +“DEAR MADAM, + +“I hasten to reply to your favor of Saturday’s date. Circumstances have +enabled me to forward your interests, by consulting a friend of mine +possessing great experience in the management of private inquiries of +all sorts. I have placed your case before him (without mentioning +names); and I am happy to inform you that my views and his views of the +proper course to take agree in every particular. + +“Both myself and friend, then, are of opinion that little or nothing +can be done toward tracing the parties you mention, until the place of +their temporary residence after they left Aldborough has been +discovered first. If this can be done, the sooner it is done the +better. Judging from your letter, some weeks must have passed since the +lawyer received his information that they had shifted their quarters. +As they are both remarkable-looking people, the strangers who may have +assisted them on their travels have probably not forgotten them yet. +Nevertheless, expedition is desirable. + +“The question for you to consider is, whether they may not possibly +have communicated the address of which we stand in need to some other +person besides the lawyer. The husband may have written to members of +his family, or the wife may have written to members of her family. Both +myself and friend are of opinion that the latter chance is the likelier +of the two. If you have any means of access in the direction of the +wife’s family, we strongly recommend you to make use of them. If not, +please supply us with the names of any of her near relations or +intimate female friends whom you know, and we will endeavor to get +access for you. + +“In any case, we request you will at once favor us with the most exact +personal description that can be written of both the parties. We may +require your assistance, in this important particular, at five minutes’ +notice. Favor us, therefore, with the description by return of post. In +the meantime, we will endeavor to ascertain on our side whether any +information is to be privately obtained at Mr. Loscombe’s office. The +lawyer himself is probably altogether beyond our reach. But if any one +of his clerks can be advantageously treated with on such terms as may +not overtax your pecuniary resources, accept my assurance that the +opportunity shall be made the most of by, + +“Dear madam, +“Your faithful servant, +“ALFRED DE BLERIOT.” + + +VII. +From Mr. Pendril to Norah Vanstone. + +“Serle Street, October 27th. 1847. + + +“MY DEAR MISS VANSTONE, + +“A lady named Lecount (formerly attached to Mr. Noel Vanstone’s service +in the capacity of housekeeper) has called at my office this morning, +and has asked me to furnish her with your address. I have begged her to +excuse my immediate compliance with her request, and to favor me with a +call to-morrow morning, when I shall be prepared to meet her with a +definite answer. + +“My hesitation in this matter does not proceed from any distrust of +Mrs. Lecount personally, for I know nothing whatever to her prejudice. +But in making her request to me, she stated that the object of the +desired interview was to speak to you privately on the subject of your +sister. Forgive me for acknowledging that I determined to withhold the +address as soon as I heard this. You will make allowances for your old +friend, and your sincere well-wisher? You will not take it amiss if I +express my strong disapproval of your allowing yourself, on any +pretense whatever, to be mixed up for the future with your sister’s +proceedings. + +“I will not distress you by saying more than this. But I feel too deep +an interest in your welfare, and too sincere an admiration of the +patience with which you have borne all your trials, to say less. + +“If I cannot prevail on you to follow my advice, you have only to say +so, and Mrs. Lecount shall have your address to-morrow. In this case +(which I cannot contemplate without the greatest unwillingness), let me +at least recommend you to stipulate that Miss Garth shall be present at +the interview. In any matter with which your sister is concerned, you +may want an old friend’s advice, and an old friend’s protection against +your own generous impulses. If I could have helped you in this way, I +would; but Mrs. Lecount gave me indirectly to understand that the +subject to be discussed was of too delicate a nature to permit of my +presence. Whatever this objection may be really worth, it cannot apply +to Miss Garth, who has brought you both up from childhood. I say, +again, therefore, if you see Mrs. Lecount, see her in Miss Garth’s +company. + +“Always most truly yours, +“WILLIAM PENDRIL.” + + +VIII. +From Norah Vanstone to Mr. Pendril. + +“Portland Place, Wednesday. + + +“DEAR MR. PENDRIL, + +“Pray don’t think I am ungrateful for your kindness. Indeed, indeed I +am not! But I must see Mrs. Lecount. You were not aware when you wrote +to me that I had received a few lines from Magdalen—not telling me +where she is, but holding out the hope of our meeting before long. +Perhaps Mrs. Lecount may have something to say to me on this very +subject. Even if it should not be so, my sister—do what she may—is +still my sister. I can’t desert her; I can’t turn my back on any one +who comes to me in her name. You know, dear Mr. Pendril, I have always +been obstinate on this subject, and you have always borne with me. Let +me owe another obligation to you which I can never return, and bear +with me still! + +“Need I say that I willingly accept that part of your advice which +refers to Miss Garth? I have already written to beg that she will come +here at four to-morrow afternoon. When you see Mrs. Lecount, please +inform her that Miss Garth will be with me, and that she will find us +both ready to receive her here to-morrow at four o’clock. + +“Gratefully yours, +“NORAH VANSTONE.” + + +IX. +From Mr. de Bleriot to Mrs. Lecount. + +“Dark’s Buildings, October 28th. + + +“Private. + +“DEAR MADAM, + +“One of Mr. Loscombe’s clerks has proved amenable to a small pecuniary +consideration, and has mentioned a circumstance which it may be of some +importance to you to know. + +“Nearly a month since, accident gave the clerk in question an +opportunity of looking into one of the documents on his master’s table, +which had attracted his attention from a slight peculiarity in the form +and color of the paper. He had only time, during Mr. Loscombe’s +momentary absence, to satisfy his curiosity by looking at the beginning +of the document and at the end. At the beginning he saw the customary +form used in making a will; at the end he discovered the signature of +Mr. Noel Vanstone, with the names of two attesting witnesses, and the +date (of which he is quite certain)—_the thirtieth of September last._ + +“Before the clerk had time to make any further investigations, his +master returned, sorted the papers on the table, and carefully locked +up the will in the strong box devoted to the custody of Mr. Noel +Vanstone’s documents. It has been ascertained that, at the close of +September, Mr. Loscombe was absent from the office. If he was then +employed in superintending the execution of his client’s will—which is +quite possible—it follows clearly that he was in the secret of Mr. +Vanstone’s address after the removal of the 4th of September; and if +you can do nothing on your side, it may be desirable to have the lawyer +watched on ours. In any case, it is certainly ascertained that Mr. Noel +Vanstone has made his will since his marriage. I leave you to draw your +own conclusions from that fact, and remain, in the hope of hearing from +you shortly, + +“Your faithful servant, +“ALFRED DE BLERIOT.” + + +X. +From Miss Garth to Mr. Pendril. + +“Portland Place, October 28th. + + +“MY DEAR SIR, + +“Mrs. Lecount has just left us. If it was not too late to wish, I +should wish, from the bottom of my heart, that Norah had taken your +advice, and had refused to see her. + +“I write in such distress of mind that I cannot hope to give you a +clear and complete account of the interview. I can only tell you +briefly what Mrs. Lecount has done, and what our situation now is. The +rest must be left until I am more composed, and until I can speak to +you personally. + +“You will remember my informing you of the letter which Mrs. Lecount +addressed to Norah from Aldborough, and which I answered for her in her +absence. When Mrs. Lecount made her appearance to-day, her first words +announced to us that she had come to renew the subject. As well as I +can remember it, this is what she said, addressing herself to Norah: + +“‘I wrote to you on the subject of your sister, Miss Vanstone, some +little time since, and Miss Garth was so good as to answer the letter. +What I feared at that time has come true. Your sister has defied all my +efforts to check her; she has disappeared in company with my master, +Mr. Noel Vanstone; and she is now in a position of danger which may +lead to her disgrace and ruin at a moment’s notice. It is my interest +to recover my master, it is your interest to save your sister. Tell +me—for time is precious—have you any news of her?’ + +“Norah answered, as well as her terror and distress would allow her, ‘I +have had a letter, but there was no address on it.’ + +“Mrs. Lecount asked, ‘Was there no postmark on the envelope?’ + +“Norah said, ‘Yes; Allonby.’ + +“‘Allonby is better than nothing,’ said Mrs. Lecount. ‘Allonby may help +you to trace her. Where is Allonby?’ + +“Norah told her. It all passed in a minute. I had been too much +confused and startled to interfere before, but I composed myself +sufficiently to interfere now. + +“‘You have entered into no particulars,’ I said. ‘You have only +frightened us—you have told us nothing.’ + +“‘You shall hear the particulars, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Lecount; ‘and you +and Miss Vanstone shall judge for yourselves if I have frightened you +without a cause.’ + +“Upon this, she entered at once upon a long narrative, which I cannot—I +might almost say, which I dare not—repeat. You will understand the +horror we both felt when I tell you the end. If Mrs. Lecount’s +statement is to be relied on, Magdalen has carried her mad resolution +of recovering her father’s fortune to the last and most desperate +extremity—she has married Michael Vanstone’s son under a false name. +Her husband is at this moment still persuaded that her maiden name was +Bygrave, and that she is really the niece of a scoundrel who assisted +her imposture, and whom I recognize, by the description of him, to have +been Captain Wragge. + +“I spare you Mrs. Lecount’s cool avowal, when she rose to leave us, of +her own mercenary motives in wishing to discover her master and to +enlighten him. I spare you the hints she dropped of Magdalen’s purpose +in contracting this infamous marriage. The one aim and object of my +letter is to implore you to assist me in quieting Norah’s anguish of +mind. The shock she has received at hearing this news of her sister is +not the worst result of what has happened. She has persuaded herself +that the answers she innocently gave, in her distress, to Mrs. +Lecount’s questions on the subject of her letter—the answers wrung from +her under the sudden pressure of confusion and alarm—may be used to +Magdalen’s prejudice by the woman who purposely startled her into +giving the information. I can only prevent her from taking some +desperate step on her side—some step by which she may forfeit the +friendship and protection of the excellent people with whom she is now +living—by reminding her that if Mrs. Lecount traces her master by means +of the postmark on the letter, we may trace Magdalen at the same time, +and by the same means. Whatever objection you may personally feel to +renewing the efforts for the rescue of this miserable girl which failed +so lamentably at York, I entreat you, for Norah’s sake, to take the +same steps now which we took then. Send me the only assurance which +will quiet her—the assurance, under your own hand, that the search on +our side has begun. If you will do this, you may trust me, when the +time comes, to stand between these two sisters, and to defend Norah’s +peace, character, and future prosperity at any price. + +“Most sincerely yours, +“HARRIET GARTH.” + + +XI. +From Mrs. Lecount to Mr. de Bleriot. + +“October 28th. + + +“DEAR SIR, + +“I have found the trace you wanted. Mrs. Noel Vanstone has written to +her sister. The letter contains no address, but the postmark is +Allonby, in Cumberland. From Allonby, therefore, the inquiries must +begin. You have already in your possession the personal description of +both husband and wife. I urgently recommend you not to lose one +unnecessary moment. If it is possible to send to Cumberland immediately +on receipt of this letter, I beg you will do so. + +“I have another word to say before I close my note—a word about the +discovery in Mr. Loscombe’s office. + +“It is no surprise to me to hear that Mr. Noel Vanstone has made his +will since his marriage, and I am at no loss to guess in whose favor +the will is made. If I succeed in finding my master, let that person +get the money if that person can. A course to follow in this matter has +presented itself to my mind since I received your letter, but my +ignorance of details of business and intricacies of law leaves me still +uncertain whether my idea is capable of ready and certain execution. I +know no professional person whom I can trust in this delicate and +dangerous business. Is your large experience in other matters large +enough to help me in this? I will call at your office to-morrow at two +o’clock, for the purpose of consulting you on the subject. It is of the +greatest importance, when I next see Mr. Noel Vanstone, that he should +find me thoroughly prepared beforehand in this matter of the will. + +“Your much obliged servant, +“VIRGINIE LECOUNT.” + + +XII. +From Mr. Pendril to Miss Garth. + +“Serle Street, October 29th. + + +“DEAR MISS GARTH, + +“I have only a moment to assure you of the sorrow with which I have +read your letter. The circumstances under which you urge your request, +and the reasons you give for making it, are sufficient to silence any +objection I might otherwise feel to the course you propose. A +trustworthy person, whom I have myself instructed, will start for +Allonby to-day, and as soon as I receive any news from him, you shall +hear of it by special messenger. Tell Miss Vanstone this, and pray add +the sincere expression of my sympathy and regard. + +“Faithfully yours, +“WILLIAM PENDRIL.” + + +XIII. +From Mr. de Bleriot to Mrs. Lecount. + +“Dark’s Buildings. November 1st. + + +“DEAR MADAM, + +“I have the pleasure of informing you that the discovery has been made +with far less trouble than I had anticipated. + +“Mr. and Mrs. Noel Vanstone have been traced across the Solway Firth to +Dumfries, and thence to a cottage a few miles from the town, on the +banks of the Nith. The exact address is Baliol Cottage, near Dumfries. + +“This information, though easily hunted up, has nevertheless been +obtained under rather singular circumstances. + +“Before leaving Allonby, the persons in my employ discovered, to their +surprise, that a stranger was in the place pursuing the same inquiry as +themselves. In the absence of any instructions preparing them for such +an occurrence as this, they took their own view of the circumstance. +Considering the man as an intruder on their business, whose success +might deprive them of the credit and reward of making the discovery, +they took advantage of their superiority in numbers, and of their being +first in the field, and carefully misled the stranger before they +ventured any further with their own investigations. I am in possession +of the details of their proceedings, with which I need not trouble you. +The end is, that this person, whoever he may be, was cleverly turned +back southward on a false scent before the men in my employment crossed +the Firth. + +“I mention the circumstance, as you may be better able than I am to +find a clue to it, and as it may possibly be of a nature to induce you +to hasten your journey. + +“Your faithful servant, +“ALFRED DE BLERIOT.” + + +XIV. +From Mrs. Lecount to Mr. de Bleriot. + +“November 1st. + + +“DEAR SIR, + +“One line to say that your letter has just reached me at my lodging in +London. I think I know who sent the strange man to inquire at Allonby. +It matters little. Before he finds out his mistake, I shall be at +Dumfries. My luggage is packed, and I start for the North by the next +train. + +“Your deeply obliged, +“VIRGINIE LECOUNT.” + + + +THE FIFTH SCENE. +BALIOL COTTAGE, DUMFRIES. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +Toward eleven o’clock, on the morning of the third of November, the +breakfast-table at Baliol Cottage presented that essentially +comfortless appearance which is caused by a meal in a state of +transition—that is to say, by a meal prepared for two persons, which +has been already eaten by one, and which has not yet been approached by +the other. It must be a hardy appetite which can contemplate without a +momentary discouragement the battered egg-shell, the fish half stripped +to a skeleton, the crumbs in the plate, and the dregs in the cup. There +is surely a wise submission to those weaknesses in human nature which +must be respected and not reproved, in the sympathizing rapidity with +which servants in places of public refreshment clear away all signs of +the customer in the past, from the eyes of the customer in the present. +Although his predecessor may have been the wife of his bosom or the +child of his loins, no man can find himself confronted at table by the +traces of a vanished eater, without a passing sense of injury in +connection with the idea of his own meal. + +Some such impression as this found its way into the mind of Mr. Noel +Vanstone when he entered the lonely breakfast-parlor at Baliol Cottage +shortly after eleven o’clock. He looked at the table with a frown, and +rang the bell with an expression of disgust. + +“Clear away this mess,” he said, when the servant appeared. “Has your +mistress gone?” + +“Yes, sir—nearly an hour ago.” + +“Is Louisa downstairs?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“When you have put the table right, send Louisa up to me.” + +He walked away to the window. The momentary irritation passed away from +his face; but it left an expression there which remained—an expression +of pining discontent. Personally, his marriage had altered him for the +worse. His wizen little cheeks were beginning to shrink into hollows, +his frail little figure had already contracted a slight stoop. The +former delicacy of his complexion had gone—the sickly paleness of it +was all that remained. His thin flaxen mustaches were no longer +pragmatically waxed and twisted into a curl: their weak feathery ends +hung meekly pendent over the querulous corners of his mouth. If the ten +or twelve weeks since his marriage had been counted by his locks, they +might have reckoned as ten or twelve years. He stood at the window +mechanically picking leaves from a pot of heath placed in front of it, +and drearily humming the forlorn fragment of a tune. + +The prospect from the window overlooked the course of the Nith at a +bend of the river a few miles above Dumfries. Here and there, through +wintry gaps in the wooded bank, broad tracts of the level cultivated +valley met the eye. Boats passed on the river, and carts plodded along +the high-road on their way to Dumfries. The sky was clear; the November +sun shone as pleasantly as if the year had been younger by two good +months; and the view, noted in Scotland for its bright and peaceful +charm, was presented at the best which its wintry aspect could assume. +If it had been hidden in mist or drenched with rain, Mr. Noel Vanstone +would, to all appearance, have found it as attractive as he found it +now. He waited at the window until he heard Louisa’s knock at the door, +then turned back sullenly to the breakfast-table and told her to come +in. + +“Make the tea,” he said. “I know nothing about it. I’m left here +neglected. Nobody helps me.” + +The discreet Louisa silently and submissively obeyed. + +“Did your mistress leave any message for me,” he asked, “before she +went away?” + +“No message in particular, sir. My mistress only said she should be too +late if she waited breakfast any longer.” + +“Did she say nothing else?” + +“She told me at the carriage door, sir, that she would most likely be +back in a week.” + +“Was she in good spirits at the carriage door?” + +“No, sir. I thought my mistress seemed very anxious and uneasy. Is +there anything more I can do, sir?” + +“I don’t know. Wait a minute.” + +He proceeded discontentedly with his breakfast. Louisa waited +resignedly at the door. + +“I think your mistress has been in bad spirits lately,” he resumed, +with a sudden outbreak of petulance. + +“My mistress has not been very cheerful, sir.” + +“What do you mean by not very cheerful? Do you mean to prevaricate? Am +I nobody in the house? Am I to be kept in the dark about everything? Is +your mistress to go away on her own affairs, and leave me at home like +a child—and am I not even to ask a question about her? Am I to be +prevaricated with by a servant? I won’t be prevaricated with! Not very +cheerful? What do you mean by not very cheerful?” + +“I only meant that my mistress was not in good spirits, sir.” + +“Why couldn’t you say it, then? Don’t you know the value of words? The +most dreadful consequences sometimes happen from not knowing the value +of words. Did your mistress tell you she was going to London?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“What did you think when your mistress told you she was going to +London? Did you think it odd she was going without me?” + +“I did not presume to think it odd, sir.—Is there anything more I can +do for you, if you please, sir?” + +“What sort of a morning is it out? Is it warm? Is the sun on the +garden?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Have you seen the sun yourself on the garden?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Get me my great-coat; I’ll take a little turn. Has the man brushed it? +Did you see the man brush it yourself? What do you mean by saying he +has brushed it, when you didn’t see him? Let me look at the tails. If +there’s a speck of dust on the tails, I’ll turn the man off!—Help me on +with it.” + +Louisa helped him on with his coat, and gave him his hat. He went out +irritably. The coat was a large one (it had belonged to his father); +the hat was a large one (it was a misfit purchased as a bargain by +himself). He was submerged in his hat and coat; he looked singularly +small, and frail, and miserable, as he slowly wended his way, in the +wintry sunlight, down the garden walk. The path sloped gently from the +back of the house to the water side, from which it was parted by a low +wooden fence. After pacing backward and forward slowly for some little +time, he stopped at the lower extremity of the garden, and, leaning on +the fence, looked down listlessly at the smooth flow of the river. + +His thoughts still ran on the subject of his first fretful question to +Louisa—he was still brooding over the circumstances under which his +wife had left the cottage that morning, and over the want of +consideration toward himself implied in the manner of her departure. +The longer he thought of his grievance, the more acutely he resented +it. He was capable of great tenderness of feeling where any injury to +his sense of his own importance was concerned. His head drooped little +by little on his arms, as they rested on the fence, and, in the deep +sincerity of his mortification, he sighed bitterly. + +The sigh was answered by a voice close at his side. + +“You were happier with _me_, sir,” said the voice, in accents of tender +regret. + +He looked up with a scream—literally, with a scream—and confronted Mrs. +Lecount. + +Was it the specter of the woman, or the woman herself? Her hair was +white; her face had fallen away; her eyes looked out large, bright, and +haggard over her hollow cheeks. She was withered and old. Her dress +hung loose round her wasted figure; not a trace of its buxom autumnal +beauty remained. The quietly impenetrable resolution, the smoothly +insinuating voice—these were the only relics of the past which sickness +and suffering had left in Mrs. Lecount. + +“Compose yourself, Mr. Noel,” she said, gently. “You have no cause to +be alarmed at seeing me. Your servant, when I inquired, said you were +in the garden, and I came here to find you. I have traced you out, sir, +with no resentment against yourself, with no wish to distress you by so +much as the shadow of a reproach. I come here on what has been, and is +still, the business of my life—your service.” + +He recovered himself a little, but he was still incapable of speech. He +held fast by the fence, and stared at her. + +“Try to possess your mind, sir, of what I say,” proceeded Mrs. Lecount. +“I have come here not as your enemy, but as your friend. I have been +tried by sickness, I have been tried by distress. Nothing remains of me +but my heart. My heart forgives you; my heart, in your sore need—need +which you have yet to feel-places me at your service. Take my arm, Mr. +Noel. A little turn in the sun will help you to recover yourself.” + +She put his hand through her arm and marched him slowly up the garden +walk. Before she had been five minutes in his company, she had resumed +full possession of him in her own right. + +“Now down again, Mr. Noel,” she said. “Gently down again, in this fine +sunlight. I have much to say to you, sir, which you never expected to +hear from me. Let me ask a little domestic question first. They told me +at the house door Mrs. Noel Vanstone was gone away on a journey. Has +she gone for long?” + +Her master’s hand trembled on her arm as she put that question. Instead +of answering it, he tried faintly to plead for himself. The first words +that escaped him were prompted by his first returning sense—the sense +that his housekeeper had taken him into custody. He tried to make his +peace with Mrs. Lecount. + +“I always meant to do something for you,” he said, coaxingly. “You +would have heard from me before long. Upon my word and honor, Lecount, +you would have heard from me before long!” + +“I don’t doubt it, sir,” replied Mrs. Lecount. “But for the present, +never mind about Me. You and your interests first.” + +“How did you come here?” he asked, looking at her in astonishment. “How +came you to find me out?” + +“It is a long story, sir; I will tell it you some other time. Let it be +enough to say now that I _have_ found you. Will Mrs. Noel be back again +at the house to-day? A little louder, sir; I can hardly hear you. So! +so! Not back again for a week! And where has she gone? To London, did +you say? And what for?—I am not inquisitive, Mr. Noel; I am asking +serious questions, under serious necessity. Why has your wife left you +here, and gone to London by herself?” + +They were down at the fence again as she made that last inquiry, and +they waited, leaning against it, while Noel Vanstone answered. Her +reiterated assurances that she bore him no malice were producing their +effect; he was beginning to recover himself. The old helpless habit of +addressing all his complaints to his housekeeper was returning already +with the re-appearance of Mrs. Lecount—returning insidiously, in +company with that besetting anxiety to talk about his grievances, which +had got the better of him at the breakfast-table, and which had shown +the wound inflicted on his vanity to his wife’s maid. + +“I can’t answer for Mrs. Noel Vanstone,” he said, spitefully. “Mrs. +Noel Vanstone has not treated me with the consideration which is my +due. She has taken my permission for granted, and she has only thought +proper to tell me that the object of her journey is to see her friends +in London. She went away this morning without bidding me good-by. She +takes her own way as if I was nobody; she treats me like a child. You +may not believe it, Lecount, but I don’t even know who her friends are. +I am left quite in the dark; I am left to guess for myself that her +friends in London are her uncle and aunt.” + +Mrs. Lecount privately considered the question by the help of her own +knowledge obtained in London. She soon reached the obvious conclusion. +After writing to her sister in the first instance, Magdalen had now, in +all probability, followed the letter in person. There was little doubt +that the friends she had gone to visit in London were her sister and +Miss Garth. + +“Not her uncle and aunt, sir,” resumed Mrs. Lecount, composedly. “A +secret for your private ear! She has no uncle and aunt. Another little +turn before I explain myself—another little turn to compose your +spirits.” + +She took him into custody once more, and marched him back toward the +house. + +“Mr. Noel!” she said, suddenly stopping in the middle of the walk. “Do +you know what was the worst mischief you ever did yourself in your +life? I will tell you. That worst mischief was sending me to Zurich.” + +His hand began to tremble on her arm once more. + +“I didn’t do it!” he cried piteously. “It was all Mr. Bygrave.” + +“You acknowledge, sir, that Mr. Bygrave deceived _me?_” proceeded Mrs. +Lecount. “I am glad to hear that. You will be all the readier to make +the next discovery which is waiting for you—the discovery that Mr. +Bygrave has deceived _you_. He is not here to slip through my fingers +now, and I am not the helpless woman in this place that I was at +Aldborough. Thank God!” + +She uttered that devout exclamation through her set teeth. All her +hatred of Captain Wragge hissed out of her lips in those two words. + +“Oblige me, sir, by holding one side of my traveling-bag,” she resumed, +“while I open it and take something out.” + +The interior of the bag disclosed a series of neatly-folded papers, all +laid together in order, and numbered outside. Mrs. Lecount took out one +of the papers, and shut up the bag again with a loud snap of the spring +that closed it. + +“At Aldborough, Mr. Noel, I had only my own opinion to support me,” she +remarked. “My own opinion was nothing against Miss Bygrave’s youth and +beauty, and Mr. Bygrave’s ready wit. I could only hope to attack your +infatuation with proofs, and at that time I had not got them. I have +got them now! I am armed at all points with proofs; I bristle from head +to foot with proofs; I break my forced silence, and speak with the +emphasis of my proofs. Do you know this writing, sir?” + +He shrank back from the paper which she offered to him. + +“I don’t understand this,” he said, nervously. “I don’t know what you +want, or what you mean.” + +Mrs. Lecount forced the paper into his hand. “You shall know what I +mean, sir, if you will give me a moment’s attention,” she said. “On the +day after you went away to St. Crux, I obtained admission to Mr. +Bygrave’s house, and I had some talk in private with Mr. Bygrave’s +wife. That talk supplied me with the means to convince you which I had +wanted to find for weeks and weeks past. I wrote you a letter to say +so—I wrote to tell you that I would forfeit my place in your service, +and my expectations from your generosity, if I did not prove to you +when I came back from Switzerland that my own private suspicion of Miss +Bygrave was the truth. I directed that letter to you at St. Crux, and I +posted it myself. Now, Mr. Noel, read the paper which I have forced +into your hand. It is Admiral Bartram’s written affirmation that my +letter came to St. Crux, and that he inclosed it to you, under cover to +Mr. Bygrave, at your own request. Did Mr. Bygrave ever give you that +letter? Don’t agitate yourself, sir! One word of reply will do—Yes or +No.” + +He read the paper, and looked up at her with growing bewilderment and +fear. She obstinately waited until he spoke. “No,” he said, faintly; “I +never got the letter.” + +“First proof!” said Mrs. Lecount, taking the paper from him, and +putting it back in the bag. “One more, with your kind permission, +before we come to things more serious still. I gave you a written +description, sir, at Aldborough, of a person not named, and I asked you +to compare it with Miss Bygrave the next time you were in her company. +After having first shown the description to Mr. Bygrave—it is useless +to deny it now, Mr. Noel; your friend at North Shingles is not here to +help you!—after having first shown my note to Mr. Bygrave, you made the +comparison, and you found it fail in the most important particular. +There were two little moles placed close together on the left side of +the neck, in my description of the unknown lady, and there were no +little moles at all when you looked at Miss Bygrave’s neck. I am old +enough to be your mother, Mr. Noel. If the question is not indelicate, +may I ask what the present state of your knowledge is on the subject of +your wife’s neck?” + +She looked at him with a merciless steadiness. He drew back a few +steps, cowering under her eye. “I can’t say,” he stammered. “I don’t +know. What do you mean by these questions? I never thought about the +moles afterward; I never looked. She wears her hair low—” + +“She has excellent reasons to wear it low, sir,” remarked Mrs. Lecount. +“We will try and lift that hair before we have done with the subject. +When I came out here to find you in the garden, I saw a neat young +person through the kitchen window, with her work in her hand, who +looked to my eyes like a lady’s maid. Is this young person your wife’s +maid? I beg your pardon, sir, did you say yes? In that case, another +question, if you please. Did you engage her, or did your wife?” + +“I engaged her—” + +“While I was away? While I was in total ignorance that you meant to +have a wife, or a wife’s maid?” + +“Yes.” + +“Under those circumstances, Mr. Noel, you cannot possibly suspect me of +conspiring to deceive you, with the maid for my instrument. Go into the +house, sir, while I wait here. Ask the woman who dresses Mrs. Noel +Vanstone’s hair morning and night whether her mistress has a mark on +the left side of her neck, and (if so) what that mark is?” + +He walked a few steps toward the house without uttering a word, then +stopped, and looked back at Mrs. Lecount. His blinking eyes were +steady, and his wizen face had become suddenly composed. Mrs. Lecount +advanced a little and joined him. She saw the change; but, with all her +experience of him, she failed to interpret the true meaning of it. + +“Are you in want of a pretense, sir?” she asked. “Are you at a loss to +account to your wife’s maid for such a question as I wish you to put to +her? Pretenses are easily found which will do for persons in her +station of life. Say I have come here with news of a legacy for Mrs. +Noel Vanstone, and that there is a question of her identity to settle +before she can receive the money.” + +She pointed to the house. He paid no attention to the sign. His face +grew paler and paler. Without moving or speaking he stood and looked at +her. + +“Are you afraid?” asked Mrs. Lecount. + +Those words roused him; those words lit a spark of the fire of manhood +in him at last. He turned on her like a sheep on a dog. + +“I won’t be questioned and ordered!” he broke out, trembling violently +under the new sensation of his own courage. “I won’t be threatened and +mystified any longer! How did you find me out at this place? What do +you mean by coming here with your hints and your mysteries? What have +you got to say against my wife?” + +Mrs. Lecount composedly opened the traveling-bag and took out her +smelling bottle, in case of emergency. + +“You have spoken to me in plain words,” she said. “In plain words, sir, +you shall have your answer. Are you too angry to listen?” + +Her looks and tones alarmed him, in spite of himself. His courage began +to sink again; and, desperately as he tried to steady it, his voice +trembled when he answered her. + +“Give me my answer,” he said, “and give it at once.” + +“Your commands shall be obeyed, sir, to the letter,” replied Mrs. +Lecount. “I have come here with two objects. To open your eyes to your +own situation, and to save your fortune—perhaps your life. Your +situation is this. Miss Bygrave has married you under a false character +and a false name. Can you rouse your memory? Can you call to mind the +disguised woman who threatened you in Vauxhall Walk? That woman—as +certainly as I stand here—is now your wife.” + +He looked at her in breathless silence, his lips falling apart, his +eyes fixed in vacant inquiry. The suddenness of the disclosure had +overreached its own end. It had stupefied him. + +“My wife?” he repeated, and burst into an imbecile laugh. + +“Your wife,” reiterated Mrs. Lecount. + +At the repetition of those two words the strain on his faculties +relaxed. A thought dawned on him for the first time. His eyes fixed on +her with a furtive alarm, and he drew back hastily. “Mad!” he said to +himself, with a sudden remembrance of what his friend Mr. Bygrave had +told him at Aldborough, sharpened by his own sense of the haggard +change that he saw in her face. + +He spoke in a whisper, but Mrs. Lecount heard him. She was close at his +side again in an instant. For the first time, her self-possession +failed her, and she caught him angrily by the arm. + +“Will you put my madness to the proof, sir?” she asked. + +He shook off her hold; he began to gather courage again, in the intense +sincerity of his disbelief, courage to face the assertion which she +persisted in forcing on him. + +“Yes,” he answered. “What must I do?” + +“Do what I told you,” said Mrs. Lecount. “Ask the maid that question +about her mistress on the spot. And if she tells you the mark is there, +do one thing more. Take me up into your wife’s room, and open her +wardrobe in my presence with your own hands.” + +“What do you want with her wardrobe?” he asked. + +“You shall know when you open it.” + +“Very strange!” he said to himself, vacantly. “It’s like a scene in a +novel—it’s like nothing in real life.” He went slowly into the house, +and Mrs. Lecount waited for him in the garden. + +After an absence of a few minutes only he appeared again, on the top of +the flight of steps which led into the garden from the house. He held +by the iron rail with one hand, while with the other he beckoned to +Mrs. Lecount to join him on the steps. + +“What does the maid say?” she asked, as she approached him. “Is the +mark there?” + +He answered in a whisper, “Yes.” What he had heard from the maid had +produced a marked change in him. The horror of the coming discovery had +laid its paralyzing hold on his mind. He moved mechanically; he looked +and spoke like a man in a dream. + +“Will you take my arm, sir?” + +He shook his head, and, preceding her along the passage and up the +stairs, led the way into his wife’s room. When she joined him and +locked the door, he stood passively waiting for his directions, without +making any remark, without showing any external appearance of surprise. +He had not removed either his hat or coat. Mrs. Lecount took them off +for him. “Thank you,” he said, with the docility of a well-trained +child. “It’s like a scene in a novel—it’s like nothing in real life.” + +The bed-chamber was not very large, and the furniture was heavy and +old-fashioned. But evidences of Magdalen’s natural taste and refinement +were visible everywhere, in the little embellishments that graced and +enlivened the aspect of the room. The perfume of dried rose-leaves hung +fragrant on the cool air. Mrs. Lecount sniffed the perfume with a +disparaging frown and threw the window up to its full height. “Pah!” +she said, with a shudder of virtuous disgust, “the atmosphere of +deceit!” + +She seated herself near the window. The wardrobe stood against the wall +opposite, and the bed was at the side of the room on her right hand. +“Open the wardrobe, Mr. Noel,” she said. “I don’t go near it. I touch +nothing in it myself. Take out the dresses with your own hand and put +them on the bed. Take them out one by one until I tell you to stop.” + +He obeyed her. “I’ll do it as well as I can,” he said. “My hands are +cold, and my head feels half asleep.” + +The dresses to be removed were not many, for Magdalen had taken some of +them away with her. After he had put two dresses on the bed, he was +obliged to search in the inner recesses of the wardrobe before he could +find a third. When he produced it, Mrs. Lecount made a sign to him to +stop. The end was reached already; he had found the brown Alpaca dress. + +“Lay it out on the bed, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. “You will see a double +flounce running round the bottom of it. Lift up the outer flounce, and +pass the inner one through your fingers, inch by inch. If you come to a +place where there is a morsel of the stuff missing, stop and look up at +me.” + +He passed the flounce slowly through his fingers for a minute or more, +then stopped and looked up. Mrs. Lecount produced her pocket-book and +opened it. + +“Every word I now speak, sir, is of serious consequence to you and to +me,” she said. “Listen with your closest attention. When the woman +calling herself Miss Garth came to see us in Vauxhall Walk, I knelt +down behind the chair in which she was sitting and I cut a morsel of +stuff from the dress she wore, which might help me to know that dress +if I ever saw it again. I did this while the woman’s whole attention +was absorbed in talking to you. The morsel of stuff has been kept in my +pocketbook from that time to this. See for yourself, Mr. Noel, if it +fits the gap in that dress which your own hands have just taken from +your wife’s wardrobe.” + +She rose and handed him the fragment of stuff across the bed. He put it +into the vacant space in the flounce as well as his trembling fingers +would let him. + +“Does it fit, sir?” asked Mrs. Lecount. + +The dress dropped from his hands, and the deadly bluish pallor—which +every doctor who attended him had warned his housekeeper to +dread—overspread his face slowly. Mrs. Lecount had not reckoned on such +an answer to her question as she now saw in his cheeks. She hurried +round to him, with the smelling-bottle in her hand. He dropped to his +knees and caught at her dress with the grasp of a drowning man. “Save +me!” he gasped, in a hoarse, breathless whisper. “Oh, Lecount, save +me!” + +“I promise to save you,” said Mrs. Lecount; “I am here with the means +and the resolution to save you. Come away from this place—come nearer +to the air.” She raised him as she spoke, and led him across the room +to the window. “Do you feel the chill pain again on your left side?” +she asked, with the first signs of alarm that she had shown yet. “Has +your wife got any eau-de-cologne, any sal-volatile in her room? Don’t +exhaust yourself by speaking—point to the place!” + +He pointed to a little triangular cupboard of old worm-eaten +walnut-wood fixed high in a corner of the room. Mrs. Lecount tried the +door: it was locked. + +As she made that discovery, she saw his head sink back gradually on the +easy-chair in which she had placed him. The warning of the doctors in +past years—“If you ever let him faint, you let him die”—recurred to her +memory as if it had been spoken the day before. She looked at the +cupboard again. In a recess under it lay some ends of cord, placed +there apparently for purposes of packing. Without an instant’s +hesitation, she snatched up a morsel of cord, tied one end fast round +the knob of the cupboard door, and seizing the other end in both hands, +pulled it suddenly with the exertion of her whole strength. The rotten +wood gave way, the cupboard doors flew open, and a heap of little +trifles poured out noisily on the floor. Without stopping to notice the +broken china and glass at her feet, she looked into the dark recesses +of the cupboard and saw the gleam of two glass bottles. One was put +away at the extreme back of the shelf, the other was a little in +advance, almost hiding it. She snatched them both out at once, and took +them, one in each hand, to the window, where she could read their +labels in the clearer light. + +The bottle in her right hand was the first bottle she looked at. It was +marked—_Sal-volatile_. + +She instantly laid the other bottle aside on the table without looking +at it. The other bottle lay there, waiting its turn. It held a dark +liquid, and it was labeled—POISON. + + + +CHAPTER II. + +Mrs. Lecount mixed the sal-volatile with water, and administered it +immediately. The stimulant had its effect. In a few minutes Noel +Vanstone was able to raise himself in the chair without assistance; his +color changed again for the better, and his breath came and went more +freely. + +“How do you feel now, sir?” asked Mrs. Lecount. “Are you warm again on +your left side?” + +He paid no attention to that inquiry; his eyes, wandering about the +room, turned by chance toward the table. To Mrs. Lecount’s surprise, +instead of answering her, he bent forward in his chair, and looked with +staring eyes and pointing hand at the second bottle which she had taken +from the cupboard, and which she had hastily laid aside without paying +attention to it. Seeing that some new alarm possessed him, she advanced +to the table, and looked where he looked. The labeled side of the +bottle was full in view; and there, in the plain handwriting of the +chemist at Aldborough, was the one startling word confronting them +both—“Poison.” + +Even Mrs. Lecount’s self-possession was shaken by that discovery. She +was not prepared to see her own darkest forebodings—the unacknowledged +offspring of her hatred for Magdalen—realized as she saw them realized +now. The suicide-despair in which the poison had been procured; the +suicide-purpose for which, in distrust of the future, the poison had +been kept, had brought with them their own retribution. There the +bottle lay, in Magdalen’s absence, a false witness of treason which had +never entered her mind—treason against her husband’s life! + +With his hand still mechanically pointing at the table Noel Vanstone +raised his head and looked up at Mrs. Lecount. + +“I took it from the cupboard,” she said, answering the look. “I took +both bottles out together, not knowing which might be the bottle I +wanted. I am as much shocked, as much frightened, as you are.” + +“Poison!” he said to himself, slowly. “Poison locked up by my wife in +the cupboard in her own room.” He stopped, and looked at Mrs. Lecount +once more. “For _me?_” he asked, in a vacant, inquiring tone. + +“We will not talk of it, sir, until your mind is more at ease,” said +Mrs. Lecount. “In the meantime, the danger that lies waiting in this +bottle shall be instantly destroyed in your presence.” She took out the +cork, and threw the laudanum out of window, and the empty bottle after +it. “Let us try to forget this dreadful discovery for the present,” she +resumed; “let us go downstairs at once. All that I have now to say to +you can be said in another room.” + +She helped him to rise from the chair, and took his arm in her own. “It +is well for him; it is well for me,” she thought, as they went +downstairs together, “that I came when I did.” + +On crossing the passage, she stepped to the front door, where the +carriage was waiting which had brought her from Dumfries, and +instructed the coachman to put up his horses at the nearest inn, and to +call again for her in two hours’ time. This done, she accompanied Noel +Vanstone into the sitting-room, stirred up the fire, and placed him +before it comfortably in an easy-chair. He sat for a few minutes, +warming his hands feebly like an old man, and staring straight into the +flame. Then he spoke. + +“When the woman came and threatened me in Vauxhall Walk,” he began, +still staring into the fire, “you came back to the parlor after she was +gone, and you told me—?” He stopped, shivered a little, and lost the +thread of his recollections at that point. + +“I told you, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount, “that the woman was, in my +opinion, Miss Vanstone herself. Don’t start, Mr. Noel! Your wife is +away, and I am here to take care of you. Say to yourself, if you feel +frightened, ‘Lecount is here; Lecount will take care of me.’ The truth +must be told, sir, however hard to bear the truth may be. Miss Magdalen +Vanstone was the woman who came to you in disguise; and the woman who +came to you in disguise is the woman you have married. The conspiracy +which she threatened you with in London is the conspiracy which has +made her your wife. That is the plain truth. You have seen the dress +upstairs. If that dress had been no longer in existence, I should still +have had my proofs to convince you. Thanks to my interview with Mrs. +Bygrave I have discovered the house your wife lodged at in London; it +was opposite our house in Vauxhall Walk. I have laid my hand on one of +the landlady’s daughters, who watched your wife from an inner room, and +saw her put on the disguise; who can speak to her identity, and to the +identity of her companion, Mrs. Bygrave; and who has furnished me, at +my own request, with a written statement of facts, which she is ready +to affirm on oath if any person ventures to contradict her. You shall +read the statement, Mr. Noel, if you like, when you are fitter to +understand it. You shall also read a letter in the handwriting of Miss +Garth—who will repeat to you personally every word she has written to +me—a letter formally denying that she was ever in Vauxhall Walk, and +formally asserting that those moles on your wife’s neck are marks +peculiar to Miss Magdalen Vanstone, whom she has known from childhood. +I say it with a just pride—you will find no weak place anywhere in the +evidence which I bring you. If Mr. Bygrave had not stolen my letter, +you would have had your warning before I was cruelly deceived into +going to Zurich; and the proofs which I now bring you, after your +marriage, I should then have offered to you before it. Don’t hold me +responsible, sir, for what has happened since I left England. Blame +your uncle’s bastard daughter, and blame that villain with the brown +eye and the green!” + +She spoke her last venomous words as slowly and distinctly as she had +spoken all the rest. Noel Vanstone made no answer—he still sat cowering +over the fire. She looked round into his face. He was crying silently. +“I was so fond of her!” said the miserable little creature; “and I +thought she was so fond of Me!” + +Mrs. Lecount turned her back on him in disdainful silence. “Fond of +her!” As she repeated those words to herself, her haggard face became +almost handsome again in the magnificent intensity of its contempt. + +She walked to a book-case at the lower end of the room, and began +examining the volumes in it. Before she had been long engaged in this +way, she was startled by the sound of his voice, affrightedly calling +her back. The tears were gone from his face; it was blank again with +terror when he now turned it toward her. + +“Lecount!” he said, holding to her with both hands. “Can an egg be +poisoned? I had an egg for breakfast this morning, and a little toast.” + +“Make your mind easy, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. “The poison of your +wife’s deceit is the only poison you have taken yet. If she had +resolved already on making you pay the price of your folly with your +life, she would not be absent from the house while you were left living +in it. Dismiss the thought from your mind. It is the middle of the day; +you want refreshment. I have more to say to you in the interests of +your own safety—I have something for you to do, which must be done at +once. Recruit your strength, and you will do it. I will set you the +example of eating, if you still distrust the food in this house. Are +you composed enough to give the servant her orders, if I ring the bell? +It is necessary to the object I have in view for you, that nobody +should think you ill in body or troubled in mind. Try first with me +before the servant comes in. Let us see how you look and speak when you +say, ‘Bring up the lunch.’” + +After two rehearsals, Mrs. Lecount considered him fit to give the +order, without betraying himself. + +The bell was answered by Louisa—Louisa looked hard at Mrs. Lecount. The +luncheon was brought up by the house-maid—the house-maid looked hard at +Mrs. Lecount. When luncheon was over, the table was cleared by the +cook—the cook looked hard at Mrs. Lecount. The three servants were +plainly suspicious that something extraordinary was going on in the +house. It was hardly possible to doubt that they had arranged to share +among themselves the three opportunities which the service of the table +afforded them of entering the room. + +The curiosity of which she was the object did not escape the +penetration of Mrs. Lecount. “I did well,” she thought, “to arm myself +in good time with the means of reaching my end. If I let the grass grow +under my feet, one or the other of those women might get in my way.” +Roused by this consideration, she produced her traveling-bag from a +corner, as soon as the last of the servants had entered the room; and +seating herself at the end of the table opposite Noel Vanstone, looked +at him for a moment, with a steady, investigating attention. She had +carefully regulated the quantity of wine which he had taken at +luncheon—she had let him drink exactly enough to fortify, without +confusing him; and she now examined his face critically, like an artist +examining his picture at the end of the day’s work. The result appeared +to satisfy her, and she opened the serious business of the interview on +the spot. + +“Will you look at the written evidence I have mentioned to you, Mr. +Noel, before I say any more?” she inquired. “Or are you sufficiently +persuaded of the truth to proceed at once to the suggestion which I +have now to make to you?” + +“Let me hear your suggestion,” he said, sullenly resting his elbows on +the table, and leaning his head on his hands. + +Mrs. Lecount took from her traveling-bag the written evidence to which +she had just alluded, and carefully placed the papers on one side of +him, within easy reach, if he wished to refer to them. Far from being +daunted, she was visibly encouraged by the ungraciousness of his +manner. Her experience of him informed her that the sign was a +promising one. On those rare occasions when the little resolution that +he possessed was roused in him, it invariably asserted itself—like the +resolution of most other weak men—aggressively. At such times, in +proportion as he was outwardly sullen and discourteous to those about +him, his resolution rose; and in proportion as he was considerate and +polite, it fell. The tone of the answer he had just given, and the +attitude he assumed at the table, convinced Mrs. Lecount that Spanish +wine and Scotch mutton had done their duty, and had rallied his sinking +courage. + +“I will put the question to you for form’s sake, sir, if you wish it,” +she proceeded. “But I am already certain, without any question at all, +that you have made your will?” + +He nodded his head without looking at her. + +“You have made it in your wife’s favor?” + +He nodded again. + +“You have left her everything you possess?” + +“No.” + +Mrs. Lecount looked surprised. + +“Did you exercise a reserve toward her, Mr. Noel, of your own accord?” +she inquired; “or is it possible that your wife put her own limits to +her interest in your will?” + +He was uneasily silent—he was plainly ashamed to answer the question. +Mrs. Lecount repeated it in a less direct form. + +“How much have you left your widow, Mr. Noel, in the event of your +death?” + +“Eighty thousand pounds.” + +That reply answered the question. Eighty thousand pounds was exactly +the fortune which Michael Vanstone had taken from his brother’s orphan +children at his brother’s death—exactly the fortune of which Michael +Vanstone’s son had kept possession, in his turn, as pitilessly as his +father before him. Noel Vanstone’s silence was eloquent of the +confession which he was ashamed to make. His doting weakness had, +beyond all doubt, placed his whole property at the feet of his wife. +And this girl, whose vindictive daring had defied all restraints—this +girl, who had not shrunk from her desperate determination even at the +church door—had, in the very hour of her triumph, taken part only from +the man who would willingly have given all!—had rigorously exacted her +father’s fortune from him to the last farthing; and had then turned her +back on the hand that was tempting her with tens of thousands more! For +the moment, Mrs. Lecount was fairly silenced by her own surprise; +Magdalen had forced the astonishment from her which is akin to +admiration, the astonishment which her enmity would fain have refused. +She hated Magdalen with a tenfold hatred from that time. + +“I have no doubt, sir,” she resumed, after a momentary silence, “that +Mrs. Noel gave you excellent reasons why the provision for her at your +death should be no more, and no less, than eighty thousand pounds. And, +on the other hand, I am equally sure that you, in your innocence of all +suspicion, found those reasons conclusive at the time. That time has +now gone by. Your eyes are opened, sir; and you will not fail to remark +(as I remark) that the Combe-Raven property happens to reach the same +sum exactly, as the legacy which your wife’s own instructions directed +you to leave her. If you are still in any doubt of the motive for which +she married you, look in your own will—and there the motive is!” + +He raised his head from his hands, and became closely attentive to what +she was saying to him, for the first time since they had faced each +other at the table. The Combe-Raven property had never been classed by +itself in his estimation. It had come to him merged in his father’s +other possessions, at his father’s death. The discovery which had now +opened before him was one to which his ordinary habits of thought, as +well as his innocence of suspicion, had hitherto closed his eyes. He +said nothing; but he looked less sullenly at Mrs. Lecount. His manner +was more ingratiating; the high tide of his courage was already on the +ebb. + +“Your position, sir, must be as plain by this time to you as it is to +me,” said Mrs. Lecount. “There is only one obstacle now left between +this woman and the attainment of her end. _That obstacle is your life._ +After the discovery we have made upstairs, I leave you to consider for +yourself what your life is worth.” + +At those terrible words, the ebbing resolution in him ran out to the +last drop. “Don’t frighten me!” he pleaded; “I have been frightened +enough already.” He rose, and dragged his chair after him, round the +table to Mrs. Lecount’s side. He sat down and caressingly kissed her +hand. “You good creature!” he said, in a sinking voice. “You excellent +Lecount! Tell me what to do. I’m full of resolution—I’ll do anything to +save my life!” + +“Have you got writing materials in the room, sir?” asked Mrs. Lecount. +“Will you put them on the table, if you please?” + +While the writing materials were in process of collection, Mrs. Lecount +made a new demand on the resources of her traveling-bag. She took two +papers from it, each indorsed in the same neat commercial handwriting. +One was described as “Draft for proposed Will,” and the other as “Draft +for proposed Letter.” When she placed them before her on the table, her +hand shook a little; and she applied the smelling-salts, which she had +brought with her in Noel Vanstone’s interests, to her own nostrils. + +“I had hoped, when I came here, Mr. Noel,” she proceeded, “to have +given you more time for consideration than it seems safe to give you +now. When you first told me of your wife’s absence in London, I thought +it probable that the object of her journey was to see her sister and +Miss Garth. Since the horrible discovery we have made upstairs, I am +inclined to alter that opinion. Your wife’s determination not to tell +you who the friends are whom she has gone to see, fills me with alarm. +She may have accomplices in London—accomplices, for anything we know to +the contrary, in this house. All three of your servants, sir, have +taken the opportunity, in turn, of coming into the room and looking at +me. I don’t like their looks! Neither you nor I know what may happen +from day to day, or even from hour to hour. If you take my advice, you +will get the start at once of all possible accidents; and, when the +carriage comes back, you will leave this house with me!” + +“Yes, yes!” he said, eagerly; “I’ll leave the house with you. I +wouldn’t stop here by myself for any sum of money that could be offered +me. What do we want the pen and ink for? Are you to write, or am I?” + +“You are to write, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. “The means taken for +promoting your own safety are to be means set in motion, from beginning +to end, by yourself. I suggest, Mr. Noel—and you decide. Recognize your +own position, sir. What is your first and foremost necessity? It is +plainly this. You must destroy your wife’s interest in your death by +making another will.” + +He vehemently nodded his approval; his color rose, and his blinking +eyes brightened in malicious triumph. “She shan’t have a farthing,” he +said to himself, in a whisper—“she shan’t have a farthing!” + +“When your will is made, sir,” proceeded Mrs. Lecount, “you must place +it in the hands of a trustworthy person—not my hands, Mr. Noel; I am +only your servant! Then, when the will is safe, and when you are safe, +write to your wife at this house. Tell her her infamous imposture is +discovered; tell her you have made a new will, which leaves her +penniless at your death; tell her, in your righteous indignation, that +she enters your doors no more. Place yourself in that strong position, +and it is no longer you who are at your wife’s mercy, but your wife who +is at yours. Assert your own power, sir, with the law to help you, and +crush this woman into submission to any terms for the future that you +please to impose.” + +He eagerly took up the pen. “Yes,” he said, with a vindictive +self-importance, “any terms I please to impose.” He suddenly checked +himself and his face became dejected and perplexed. “How can I do it +now?” he asked, throwing down the pen as quickly as he had taken it up. + +“Do what, sir?” inquired Mrs. Lecount. + +“How can I make my will, with Mr. Loscombe away in London, and no +lawyer here to help me?” + +Mrs. Lecount gently tapped the papers before her on the table with her +forefinger. + +“All the help you need, sir, is waiting for you here,” she said. “I +considered this matter carefully before I came to you; and I provided +myself with the confidential assistance of a friend to guide me through +those difficulties which I could not penetrate for myself. The friend +to whom I refer is a gentleman of Swiss extraction, but born and bred +in England. He is not a lawyer by profession—but he has had his own +sufficient experience of the law, nevertheless; and he has supplied me, +not only with a model by which you may make your will, but with the +written sketch of a letter which it is as important for us to have, as +the model of the will itself. There is another necessity waiting for +you, Mr. Noel, which I have not mentioned yet, but which is no less +urgent in its way than the necessity of the will.” + +“What is it?” he asked, with roused curiosity. + +“We will take it in its turn, sir,” answered Mrs. Lecount. “Its turn +has not come yet. The will, if you please, first. I will dictate from +the model in my possession and you will write.” + +Noel Vanstone looked at the draft for the Will and the draft for the +Letter with suspicious curiosity. + +“I think I ought to see the papers myself, before you dictate,” he +said. “It would be more satisfactory to my own mind, Lecount.” + +“By all means, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Lecount, handing him the papers +immediately. + +He read the draft for the Will first, pausing and knitting his brows +distrustfully, wherever he found blank spaces left in the manuscript to +be filled in with the names of persons and the enumeration of sums +bequeathed to them. Two or three minutes of reading brought him to the +end of the paper. He gave it back to Mrs. Lecount without making any +objection to it. + +The draft for the Letter was a much longer document. He obstinately +read it through to the end, with an expression of perplexity and +discontent which showed that it was utterly unintelligible to him. “I +must have this explained,” he said, with a touch of his old +self-importance, “before I take any steps in the matter.” + +“It shall be explained, sir, as we go on,” said Mrs. Lecount. + +“Every word of it?” + +“Every word of it, Mr. Noel, when its turn comes. You have no objection +to the will? To the will, then, as I said before, let us devote +ourselves first. You have seen for yourself that it is short enough and +simple enough for a child to understand it. But if any doubts remain on +your mind, by all means compose those doubts by showing your will to a +lawyer by profession. In the meantime, let me not be considered +intrusive if I remind you that we are all mortal, and that the lost +opportunity can never be recalled. While your time is your own, sir, +and while your enemies are unsuspicious of you, make your will!” + +She opened a sheet of note-paper and smoothed it out before him; she +dipped the pen in ink, and placed it in his hands. He took it from her +without speaking—he was, to all appearance, suffering under some +temporary uneasiness of mind. But the main point was gained. There he +sat, with the paper before him, and the pen in his hand; ready at last, +in right earnest, to make his will. + +“The first question for you to decide, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount, after a +preliminary glance at her Draft, “is your choice of an executor. I have +no desire to influence your decision; but I may, without impropriety, +remind you that a wise choice means, in other words, the choice of an +old and tried friend whom you know that you can trust.” + +“It means the admiral, I suppose?” said Noel Vanstone. + +Mrs. Lecount bowed. + +“Very well,” he continued. “The admiral let it be.” + +There was plainly some oppression still weighing on his mind. Even +under the trying circumstances in which he was placed it was not in his +nature to take Mrs. Lecount’s perfectly sensible and disinterested +advice without a word of cavil, as he had taken it now. + +“Are you ready, sir?” + +“Yes.” + +Mrs. Lecount dictated the first paragraph from the Draft, as follows: + +“This is the last Will and Testament of me, Noel Vanstone, now living +at Baliol Cottage, near Dumfries. I revoke, absolutely and in every +particular, my former will executed on the thirtieth of September, +eighteen hundred and forty-seven; and I hereby appoint Rear-Admiral +Arthur Everard Bartram, of St. Crux-in-the-Marsh, Essex, sole executor +of this my will.” + +“Have you written those words, sir?” + +“Yes.” + +Mrs. Lecount laid down the Draft; Noel Vanstone laid down the pen. They +neither of them looked at each other. There was a long silence. + +“I am waiting, Mr. Noel,” said Mrs. Lecount, at last, “to hear what +your wishes are in respect to the disposal of your fortune. Your +_large_ fortune,” she added, with merciless emphasis. + +He took up the pen again, and began picking the feathers from the quill +in dead silence. + +“Perhaps your existing will may help you to instruct me, sir,” pursued +Mrs. Lecount. “May I inquire to whom you left all your surplus money, +after leaving the eighty thousand pounds to your wife?” + +If he had answered that question plainly, he must have said: “I have +left the whole surplus to my cousin, George Bartram”—and the implied +acknowledgment that Mrs. Lecount’s name was not mentioned in the will +must then have followed in Mrs. Lecount’s presence. A much bolder man, +in his situation, might have felt the same oppression and the same +embarrassment which he was feeling now. He picked the last morsel of +feather from the quill; and, desperately leaping the pitfall under his +feet, advanced to meet Mrs. Lecount’s claims on him of his own accord. + +“I would rather not talk of any will but the will I am making now,” he +said uneasily. “The first thing, Lecount—” He hesitated—put the bare +end of the quill into his mouth—gnawed at it thoughtfully—and said no +more. + +“Yes, sir?” persisted Mrs. Lecount. + +“The first thing is—” + +“Yes, sir?” + +“The first thing is, to—to make some provision for You?” + +He spoke the last words in a tone of plaintive interrogation—as if all +hope of being met by a magnanimous refusal had not deserted him even +yet. Mrs. Lecount enlightened his mind on this point, without a +moment’s loss of time. + +“Thank you, Mr. Noel,” she said, with the tone and manner of a woman +who was not acknowledging a favor, but receiving a right. + +He took another bite at the quill. The perspiration began to appear on +his face. + +“The difficulty is,” he remarked, “to say how much.” + +“Your lamented father, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Lecount, “met that +difficulty (if you remember) at the time of his last illness?” + +“I don’t remember,” said Noel Vanstone, doggedly. + +“You were on one side of his bed, sir, and I was on the other. We were +vainly trying to persuade him to make his will. After telling us he +would wait and make his will when he was well again, he looked round at +me, and said some kind and feeling words which my memory will treasure +to my dying day. Have you forgotten those words, Mr. Noel?” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Noel, without hesitation. + +“In my present situation, sir,” retorted Mrs. Lecount, “delicacy +forbids me to improve your memory.” + +She looked at her watch, and relapsed into silence. He clinched his +hands, and writhed from side to side of his chair in an agony of +indecision. Mrs. Lecount passively refused to take the slightest notice +of him. + +“What should you say—?” he began, and suddenly stopped again. + +“Yes, sir?” + +“What should you say to—a thousand pounds?” + +Mrs. Lecount rose from her chair, and looked him full in the face, with +the majestic indignation of an outraged woman. + +“After the service I have rendered you to-day, Mr. Noel,” she said, “I +have at least earned a claim on your respect, if I have earned nothing +more. I wish you good-morning.” + +“Two thousand!” cried Noel Vanstone, with the courage of despair. + +Mrs. Lecount folded up her papers and hung her traveling-bag over her +arm in contemptuous silence. + +“Three thousand!” + +Mrs. Lecount moved with impenetrable dignity from the table to the +door. + +“Four thousand!” + +Mrs. Lecount gathered her shawl round her with a shudder, and opened +the door. + +“Five thousand!” + +He clasped his hands, and wrung them at her in a frenzy of rage and +suspense. “Five thousand” was the death-cry of his pecuniary suicide. + +Mrs. Lecount softly shut the door again, and came back a step. + +“Free of legacy duty, sir?” she inquired. + +“No.” + +Mrs. Lecount turned on her heel and opened the door again. + +“Yes.” + +Mrs. Lecount came back, and resumed her place at the table as if +nothing had happened. + +“Five thousand pounds, free of legacy duty, was the sum, sir, which +your father’s grateful regard promised me in his will,” she said, +quietly. “If you choose to exert your memory, as you have not chosen to +exert it yet, your memory will tell you that I speak the truth. I +accept your filial performance of your father’s promise, Mr. Noel—and +there I stop. I scorn to take a mean advantage of my position toward +you; I scorn to grasp anything from your fears. You are protected by my +respect for myself, and for the Illustrious Name I bear. You are +welcome to all that I have done, and to all that I have suffered in +your service. The widow of Professor Lecompte, sir, takes what is +justly hers—and takes no more!” + +As she spoke those words, the traces of sickness seemed, for the +moment, to disappear from her face; her eyes shone with a steady inner +light; all the woman warmed and brightened in the radiance of her own +triumph—the triumph, trebly won, of carrying her point, of vindicating +her integrity, and of matching Magdalen’s incorruptible self-denial on +Magdalen’s own ground. + +“When you are yourself again, sir, we will proceed. Let us wait a +little first.” + +She gave him time to compose himself; and then, after first looking at +her Draft, dictated the second paragraph of the will, in these terms: + +“I give and bequeath to Madame Virginie Lecompte (widow of Professor +Lecompte, late of Zurich) the sum of Five Thousand Pounds, free of +Legacy Duty. And, in making this bequest, I wish to place it on record +that I am not only expressing my own sense of Madame Lecompte’s +attachment and fidelity in the capacity of my housekeeper, but that I +also believe myself to be executing the intentions of my deceased +father, who, but for the circumstance of his dying intestate, would +have left Madame Lecompte, in _his_ will, the same token of grateful +regard for her services which I now leave her in mine.” + +“Have you written the last words, sir?” + +“Yes.” + +Mrs. Lecount leaned across the table and offered Noel Vanstone her +hand. + +“Thank you, Mr. Noel,” she said. “The five thousand pounds is the +acknowledgment on your father’s side of what I have done for him. The +words in the will are the acknowledgment on yours.” + +A faint smile flickered over his face for the first time. It comforted +him, on reflection, to think that matters might have been worse. There +was balm for his wounded spirit in paying the debt of gratitude by a +sentence not negotiable at his banker’s. Whatever his father might have +done, _he_ had got Lecount a bargain, after all! + +“A little more writing, sir,” resumed Mrs. Lecount, “and your painful +but necessary duty will be performed. The trifling matter of my legacy +being settled, we may come to the important question that is left. The +future direction of a large fortune is now waiting your word of +command. To whom is it to go?” + +He began to writhe again in his chair. Even under the all-powerful +fascination of his wife the parting with his money on paper had not +been accomplished without a pang. He had endured the pang; he had +resigned himself to the sacrifice. And now here was the dreaded ordeal +again, awaiting him mercilessly for the second time! + +“Perhaps it may assist your decision, sir, if I repeat a question which +I have put to you already,” observed Mrs. Lecount. “In the will that +you made under your wife’s influence, to whom did you leave the surplus +money which remained at your own disposal?” + +There was no harm in answering the question now. He acknowledged that +he had left the money to his cousin George. + +“You could have done nothing better, Mr. Noel; and you can do nothing +better now,” said Mrs. Lecount. “Mr. George and his two sisters are +your only relations left. One of those sisters is an incurable invalid, +with more than money enough already for all the wants which her +affliction allows her to feel. The other is the wife of a man even +richer than yourself. To leave the money to these sisters is to waste +it. To leave the money to their brother George is to give your cousin +exactly the assistance which he will want when he one day inherits his +uncle’s dilapidated house and his uncle’s impoverished estate. A will +which names the admiral your executor and Mr. George your heir is the +right will for you to make. It does honor to the claims of friendship, +and it does justice to the claims of blood.” + +She spoke warmly; for she spoke with a grateful remembrance of all that +she herself owed to the hospitality of St. Crux. Noel Vanstone took up +another pen and began to strip the second quill of its feathers as he +had stripped the first. + +“Yes,” he said, reluctantly, “I suppose George must have it—I suppose +George has the principal claim on me.” He hesitated: he looked at the +door, he looked at the window, as if he longed to make his escape by +one way or the other. “Oh, Lecount,” he cried, piteously, “it’s such a +large fortune! Let me wait a little before I leave it to anybody.” + +To his surprise; Mrs. Lecount at once complied with this characteristic +request. + +“I wish you to wait, sir,” she replied. “I have something important to +say, before you add another line to your will. A little while since, I +told you there was a second necessity connected with your present +situation, which had not been provided for yet, but which must be +provided for, when the time came. The time has come now. You have a +serious difficulty to meet and conquer before you can leave your +fortune to your cousin George.” + +“What difficulty?” he asked. + +Mrs. Lecount rose from her chair without answering, stole to the door, +and suddenly threw it open. No one was listening outside; the passage +was a solitude, from one end to the other. + +“I distrust all servants,” she said, returning to her place—“your +servants particularly. Sit closer, Mr. Noel. What I have now to say to +you must be heard by no living creature but ourselves.” + + + +CHAPTER III. + +There was a pause of a few minutes while Mrs. Lecount opened the second +of the two papers which lay before her on the table, and refreshed her +memory by looking it rapidly through. This done, she once more +addressed herself to Noel Vanstone, carefully lowering her voice, so as +to render it inaudible to any one who might be listening in the passage +outside. + +“I must beg your permission, sir,” she began, “to return to the subject +of your wife. I do so most unwillingly; and I promise you that what I +have now to say about her shall be said, for your sake and for mine, in +the fewest words. What do we know of this woman, Mr. Noel—judging her +by her own confession when she came to us in the character of Miss +Garth, and by her own acts afterward at Aldborough? We know that, if +death had not snatched your father out of her reach, she was ready with +her plot to rob him of the Combe-Raven money. We know that, when you +inherited the money in your turn, she was ready with her plot to rob +_you_. We know how she carried that plot through to the end; and we +know that nothing but your death is wanted, at this moment, to crown +her rapacity and her deception with success. We are sure of these +things. We are sure that she is young, bold, and clever—that she has +neither doubts, scruples, nor pity—and that she possesses the personal +qualities which men in general (quite incomprehensibly to _me!_) are +weak enough to admire. These are not fancies, Mr. Noel, but facts; you +know them as well as I do.” + +He made a sign in the affirmative, and Mrs. Lecount went on: + +“Keep in your mind what I have said of the past, sir, and now look with +me to the future. I hope and trust you have a long life still before +you; but let us, for the moment only, suppose the case of your +death—your death leaving this will behind you, which gives your fortune +to your cousin George. I am told there is an office in London in which +copies of all wills must be kept. Any curious stranger who chooses to +pay a shilling for the privilege may enter that office, and may read +any will in the place at his or her discretion. Do you see what I am +coming to, Mr. Noel? Your disinherited widow pays her shilling, and +reads your will. Your disinherited widow sees that the Combe-Raven +money, which has gone from your father to you, goes next from you to +Mr. George Bartram. What is the certain end of that discovery? The end +is, that you leave to your cousin and your friend the legacy of this +woman’s vengeance and this woman’s deceit-vengeance made more resolute, +deceit made more devilish than ever, by her exasperation at her own +failure. What is your cousin George? He is a generous, unsuspicious +man; incapable of deceit himself, and fearing no deception in others. +Leave him at the mercy of your wife’s unscrupulous fascinations and +your wife’s unfathomable deceit, and I see the end as certainly as I +see you sitting there! She will blind his eyes, as she blinded yours; +and, in spite of _you_, in spite of _me_, she will have the money!” + +She stopped, and left her last words time to gain their hold on his +mind. The circumstances had been stated so clearly, the conclusion from +them had been so plainly drawn, that he seized her meaning without an +effort, and seized it at once. + +“I see!” he said, vindictively clinching his hands. “I understand, +Lecount! She shan’t have a farthing. What shall I do? Shall I leave the +money to the admiral?” He paused, and considered a little. “No,” he +resumed; “there’s the same danger in leaving it to the admiral that +there is in leaving it to George.” + +“There is no danger, Mr. Noel, if you take my advice.” + +“What is your advice?” + +“Follow your own idea, sir. Take the pen in hand again, and leave the +money to Admiral Bartram.” + +He mechanically dipped the pen in the ink, and then hesitated. + +“You shall know where I am leading you, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount, +“before you sign your will. In the meantime, let us gain every inch of +ground we can, as we go on. I want the will to be all written out +before we advance a single step beyond it. Begin your third paragraph, +Mr. Noel, under the lines which leave me my legacy of five thousand +pounds.” + +She dictated the last momentous sentence of the will (from the rough +draft in her own possession) in these words: + +“The whole residue of my estate, after payment of my burial expenses +and my lawful debts, I give and bequeath to Rear-Admiral Arthur Everard +Bartram, my Executor aforesaid; to be by him applied to such uses as he +may think fit. + +“Signed, sealed, and delivered, this third day of November, eighteen +hundred and forty-seven, by Noel Vanstone, the within-named testator, +as and for his last Will and Testament, in the presence of us—” + +“Is that all?” asked Noel Vanstone, in astonishment. + +“That is enough, sir, to bequeath your fortune to the admiral; and +therefore that is all. Now let us go back to the case which we have +supposed already. Your widow pays her shilling, and sees this will. +There is the Combe-Raven money left to Admiral Bartram, with a +declaration in plain words that it is his, to use as he likes. When she +sees this, what does she do? She sets her trap for the admiral. He is a +bachelor, and he is an old man. Who is to protect him against the arts +of this desperate woman? Protect him yourself, sir, with a few more +strokes of that pen which has done such wonders already. You have left +him this legacy in your will—which your wife sees. Take the legacy away +again, in a letter—which is a dead secret between the admiral and you. +Put the will and the letter under one cover, and place them in the +admiral’s possession, with your written directions to him to break the +seal on the day of your death. Let the will say what it says now; and +let the letter (which is your secret and his) tell him the truth. Say +that, in leaving him your fortune, you leave it with the request that +he will take his legacy with one hand from you, and give it with the +other to his nephew George. Tell him that your trust in this matter +rests solely on your confidence in his honor, and on your belief in his +affectionate remembrance of your father and yourself. You have known +the admiral since you were a boy. He has his little whims and oddities; +but he is a gentleman from the crown of his head to the sole of his +foot; and he is utterly incapable of proving false to a trust in his +honor, reposed by his dead friend. Meet the difficulty boldly, by such +a stratagem as this; and you save these two helpless men from your +wife’s snare, one by means of the other. Here, on one side, is your +will, which gives the fortune to the admiral, and sets her plotting +accordingly. And there, on the other side, is your letter, which +privately puts the money into the nephew’s hands!” + +The malicious dexterity of this combination was exactly the dexterity +which Noel Vanstone was most fit to appreciate. He tried to express his +approval and admiration in words. Mrs. Lecount held up her hand +warningly and closed his lips. + +“Wait, sir, before you express your opinion,” she went on. “Half the +difficulty is all that we have conquered yet. Let us say, the admiral +has made the use of your legacy which you have privately requested him +to make of it. Sooner or later, however well the secret may be kept, +your wife will discover the truth. What follows that discovery! She +lays siege to Mr. George. All you have done is to leave him the money +by a roundabout way. There he is, after an interval of time, as much at +her mercy as if you had openly mentioned him in your will. What is the +remedy for this? The remedy is to mislead her, if we can, for the +second time—to set up an obstacle between her and the money, for the +protection of your cousin George. Can you guess for yourself, Mr. Noel, +what is the most promising obstacle we can put in her way?” + +He shook his head. Mrs. Lecount smiled, and startled him into close +attention by laying her hand on his arm. + +“Put a Woman in her way, sir!” she whispered in her wiliest tones. +“_We_ don’t believe in that fascinating beauty of hers—whatever _you_ +may do. _Our_ lips don’t burn to kiss those smooth cheeks. _Our_ arms +don’t long to be round that supple waist. _We_ see through her smiles +and her graces, and her stays and her padding—she can’t fascinate _us!_ +Put a woman in her way, Mr. Noel! Not a woman in my helpless situation, +who is only a servant, but a woman with the authority and the jealousy +of a Wife. Make it a condition, in your letter to the admiral, that if +Mr. George is a bachelor at the time of your death, he shall marry +within a certain time afterward, or he shall not have the legacy. +Suppose he remains single in spite of your condition, who is to have +the money then? Put a woman in your wife’s way, sir, once more—and +leave the fortune, in that case, to the married sister of your cousin +George.” + +She paused. Noel Vanstone again attempted to express his opinion, and +again Mrs. Lecount’s hand extinguished him in silence. + +“If you approve, Mr. Noel,” she said, “I will take your approval for +granted. If you object, I will meet your objection before it is out of +your mouth. You may say: Suppose this condition is sufficient to answer +the purpose, why hide it in a private letter to the admiral? Why not +openly write it down, with my cousin’s name, in the will? Only for one +reason, sir. Only because the secret way is the sure way, with such a +woman as your wife. The more secret you can keep your intentions, the +more time you force her to waste in finding them out for herself. That +time which she loses is time gained from her treachery by the +admiral—time gained by Mr. George (if he is still a bachelor) for his +undisturbed choice of a lady—time gained, for her own security, by the +object of his choice, who might otherwise be the first object of your +wife’s suspicion and your wife’s hostility. Remember the bottle we have +discovered upstairs; and keep this desperate woman ignorant, and +therefore harmless, as long as you can. There is my advice, Mr. Noel, +in the fewest and plainest words. What do you say, sir? Am I almost as +clever in my way as your friend Mr. Bygrave? Can I, too, conspire a +little, when the object of my conspiracy is to assist your wishes and +to protect your friends?” + +Permitted the use of his tongue at last, Noel Vanstone’s admiration of +Mrs. Lecount expressed itself in terms precisely similar to those which +he had used on a former occasion, in paying his compliments to Captain +Wragge. “What a head you have got!” were the grateful words which he +had once spoken to Mrs. Lecount’s bitterest enemy. “What a head you +have got!” were the grateful words which he now spoke again to Mrs. +Lecount herself. So do extremes meet; and such is sometimes the +all-embracing capacity of the approval of a fool! + +“Allow my head, sir, to deserve the compliment which you have paid to +it,” said Mrs. Lecount. “The letter to the admiral is not written yet. +Your will there is a body without a soul—an Adam without an Eve—until +the letter is completed and laid by its side. A little more dictation +on my part, a little more writing on yours, and our work is done. +Pardon me. The letter will be longer than the will; we must have larger +paper than the note-paper this time.” + +The writing-case was searched, and some letter paper was found in it of +the size required. Mrs. Lecount resumed her dictation; and Noel +Vanstone resumed his pen. + +“Baliol Cottage, Dumfries, +“November 3d, 1847. + + +“Private. + +“DEAR ADMIRAL BARTRAM, + +“When you open my Will (in which you are named my sole executor), you +will find that I have bequeathed the whole residue of my estate—after +payment of one legacy of five thousand pounds—to yourself. It is the +purpose of my letter to tell you privately what the object is for which +I have left you the fortune which is now placed in your hands. + +“I beg you to consider this large legacy as intended, under certain +conditions, to be given by you to your nephew George. If your nephew is +married at the time of my death, and if his wife is living, I request +you to put him at once in possession of your legacy; accompanying it by +the expression of my desire (which I am sure he will consider a sacred +and binding obligation on him) that he will settle the money on his +wife—and on his children, if he has any. If, on the other hand, he is +unmarried at the time of my death, or if he is a widower—in either of +those cases, I make it a condition of his receiving the legacy, that he +shall be married within the period of—” + +Mrs. Lecount laid down the Draft letter from which she had been +dictating thus far, and informed Noel Vanstone by a sign that his pen +might rest. + +“We have come to the question of time, sir,” she observed. “How long +will you give your cousin to marry, if he is single, or a widower, at +the time of your death?” + +“Shall I give him a year?” inquired Noel Vanstone. + +“If we had nothing to consider but the interests of Propriety,” said +Mrs. Lecount, “I should say a year too, sir—especially if Mr. George +should happen to be a widower. But we have your wife to consider, as +well as the interests of Propriety. A year of delay, between your death +and your cousin’s marriage, is a dangerously long time to leave the +disposal of your fortune in suspense. Give a determined woman a year to +plot and contrive in, and there is no saying what she may not do.” + +“Six months?” suggested Noel Vanstone. + +“Six months, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Lecount, “is the preferable time of +the two. A six months’ interval from the day of your death is enough +for Mr. George. You look discomposed, sir; what is the matter?” + +“I wish you wouldn’t talk so much about my death,” he broke out, +petulantly. “I don’t like it! I hate the very sound of the word!” + +Mrs. Lecount smiled resignedly, and referred to her Draft. + +“I see the word ‘decease’ written here,” she remarked. “Perhaps, Mr. +Noel, you would prefer it?” + +“Yes,” he said; “I prefer ‘Decease.’ It doesn’t sound so dreadful as +‘Death.’” + +“Let us go on with the letter, sir.” + +She resumed her dictation, as follows: + +“...in either of those cases, I make it a condition of his receiving +the legacy that he shall be married within the period of Six calendar +months from the day of my decease; that the woman he marries shall not +be a widow; and that his marriage shall be a marriage by Banns, +publicly celebrated in the parish church of Ossory—where he has been +known from his childhood, and where the family and circumstances of his +future wife are likely to be the subject of public interest and +inquiry.” + +“This,” said Mrs. Lecount, quietly looking up from the Draft, “is to +protect Mr. George, sir, in case the same trap is set for him which was +successfully set for you. She will not find her false character and her +false name fit quite so easily next time—no, not even with Mr. Bygrave +to help her! Another dip of ink, Mr. Noel; let us write the next +paragraph. Are you ready?” + +“Yes.” + +Mrs. Lecount went on. + +“If your nephew fails to comply with these conditions—that is to say, +if being either a bachelor or a widower at the time of my decease, he +fails to marry in all respects as I have here instructed him to marry, +within Six calendar months from that time—it is my desire that he shall +not receive the legacy, or any part of it. I request you, in the case +here supposed, to pass him over altogether; and to give the fortune +left you in my will to his married sister, Mrs. Girdlestone. + +“Having now put you in possession of my motives and intentions, I come +to the next question which it is necessary to consider. If, when you +open this letter, your nephew is an unmarried man, it is clearly +indispensable that he should know of the conditions here imposed on +him, as soon, if possible, as you know of them yourself. Are you, under +these circumstances, freely to communicate to him what I have here +written to you? Or are you to leave him under the impression that no +such private expression of my wishes as this is in existence; and are +you to state all the conditions relating to his marriage, as if they +emanated entirely from yourself? + +“If you will adopt this latter alternative, you will add one more to +the many obligations under which your friendship has placed me. + +“I have serious reason to believe that the possession of my money, and +the discovery of any peculiar arrangements relating to the disposal of +it, will be objects (after my decease) of the fraud and conspiracy of +an unscrupulous person. I am therefore anxious—for your sake, in the +first place—that no suspicion of the existence of this letter should be +conveyed to the mind of the person to whom I allude. And I am equally +desirous—for Mrs. Girdlestone’s sake, in the second place—that this +same person should be entirely ignorant that the legacy will pass into +Mrs. Girdlestone’s possession, if your nephew is not married in the +given time. I know George’s easy, pliable disposition; I dread the +attempts that will be made to practice on it; and I feel sure that the +prudent course will be, to abstain from trusting him with secrets, the +rash revelation of which might be followed by serious, and even +dangerous results. + +“State the conditions, therefore, to your nephew, as if they were your +own. Let him think they have been suggested to your mind by the new +responsibilities imposed on you as a man of property, by your position +in my will, and by your consequent anxiety to provide for the +perpetuation of the family name. If these reasons are not sufficient to +satisfy him, there can be no objection to your referring him, for any +further explanations which he may desire, to his wedding-day. + +“I have done. My last wishes are now confided to you, in implicit +reliance on your honor, and on your tender regard for the memory of +your friend. Of the miserable circumstances which compel me to write as +I have written here, I say nothing. You will hear of them, if my life +is spared, from my own lips—for you will be the first friend whom I +shall consult in my difficulty and distress. Keep this letter strictly +secret, and strictly in your own possession, until my requests are +complied with. Let no human being but yourself know where it is, on any +pretense whatever. + +“Believe me, dear Admiral Bartram, +“Affectionately yours, +“NOEL VANSTONE.” + + +“Have you signed, sir?” asked Mrs. Lecount. “Let me look the letter +over, if you please, before we seal it up.” + +She read the letter carefully. In Noel Vanstone’s close, cramped +handwriting, it filled two pages of letter-paper, and ended at the top +of the third page. Instead of using an envelope, Mrs. Lecount folded +it, neatly and securely, in the old-fashioned way. She lit the taper in +the ink-stand, and returned the letter to the writer. + +“Seal it, Mr. Noel,” she said, “with your own hand, and your own seal.” +She extinguished the taper, and handed him the pen again. “Address the +letter, sir,” she proceeded, “to _Admiral Bartram, St. +Crux-in-the-Marsh, Essex._ Now, add these words, and sign them, above +the address: _To be kept in your own possession, and to be opened by +yourself only, on the day of my death_—or ‘Decease,’ if you prefer +it—_Noel Vanstone._ Have you done? Let me look at it again. Quite right +in every particular. Accept my congratulations, sir. If your wife has +not plotted her last plot for the Combe-Raven money, it is not your +fault, Mr. Noel—and not mine!” + +Finding his attention released by the completion of the letter, Noel +Vanstone reverted at once to purely personal considerations. “There is +my packing-up to be thought of now,” he said. “I can’t go away without +my warm things.” + +“Excuse me, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Lecount, “there is the Will to be +signed first; and there must be two persons found to witness your +signature.” She looked out of the front window, and saw the carriage +waiting at the door. “The coachman will do for one of the witnesses,” +she said. “He is in respectable service at Dumfries, and he can be +found if he happens to be wanted. We must have one of your own +servants, I suppose, for the other witness. They are all detestable +women; but the cook is the least ill-looking of the three. Send for the +cook, sir; while I go out and call the coachman. When we have got our +witnesses here, you have only to speak to them in these words: ‘I have +a document here to sign, and I wish you to write your names on it, as +witnesses of my signature.’ Nothing more, Mr. Noel! Say those few words +in your usual manner—and, when the signing is over, I will see myself +to your packing-up, and your warm things.” + +She went to the front door, and summoned the coachman to the parlor. On +her return, she found the cook already in the room. The cook looked +mysteriously offended, and stared without intermission at Mrs. Lecount. +In a minute more the coachman—an elderly man—came in. He was preceded +by a relishing odor of whisky; but his head was Scotch; and nothing but +his odor betrayed him. + +“I have a document here to sign,” said Noel Vanstone, repeating his +lesson; “and I wish you to write your names on it, as witnesses of my +signature.” + +The coachman looked at the will. The cook never removed her eyes from +Mrs. Lecount. + +“Ye’ll no object, sir,” said the coachman, with the national caution +showing itself in every wrinkle on his face—“ye’ll no object, sir, to +tell me, first, what the Doecument may be?” + +Mrs. Lecount interposed before Noel Vanstone’s indignation could +express itself in words. + +“You must tell the man, sir, that this is your Will,” she said. “When +he witnesses your signature, he can see as much for himself if he looks +at the top of the page.” + +“Ay, ay,” said the coachman, looking at the top of the page +immediately. “His last Will and Testament. Hech, sirs! there’s a sair +confronting of Death in a Doecument like yon! A’ flesh is grass,” +continued the coachman, exhaling an additional puff of whisky, and +looking up devoutly at the ceiling. “Tak’ those words in connection +with that other Screepture: Many are ca’ad, but few are chosen. Tak’ +that again, in connection with Rev’lations, Chapter the First, verses +One to Fefteen. Lay the whole to heart; and what’s your Walth, then? +Dross, sirs! And your body? (Screepture again.) Clay for the potter! +And your life? (Screepture once more.) The Breeth o’ your Nostrils!” + +The cook listened as if the cook was at church: but she never removed +her eyes from Mrs. Lecount. + +“You had better sign, sir. This is apparently some custom prevalent in +Dumfries during the transaction of business,” said Mrs. Lecount, +resignedly. “The man means well, I dare say.” + +She added those last words in a soothing tone, for she saw that Noel +Vanstone’s indignation was fast merging into alarm. The coachman’s +outburst of exhortation seemed to have inspired him with fear, as well +as disgust. + +He dipped the pen in the ink, and signed the Will without uttering a +word. The coachman (descending instantly from Theology to Business) +watched the signature with the most scrupulous attention; and signed +his own name as witness, with an implied commentary on the proceeding, +in the form of another puff of whisky, exhaled through the medium of a +heavy sigh. The cook looked away from Mrs. Lecount with an +effort—signed her name in a violent hurry—and looked back again with a +start, as if she expected to see a loaded pistol (produced in the +interval) in the housekeeper’s hands. “Thank you,” said Mrs. Lecount, +in her friendliest manner. The cook shut up her lips aggressively and +looked at her master. “You may go!” said her master. The cook coughed +contemptuously, and went. + +“We shan’t keep you long,” said Mrs. Lecount, dismissing the coachman. +“In half an hour, or less, we shall be ready for the journey back.” + +The coachman’s austere countenance relaxed for the first time. He +smiled mysteriously, and approached Mrs. Lecount on tiptoe. + +“Ye’ll no forget one thing, my leddy,” he said, with the most +ingratiating politeness. “Ye’ll no forget the witnessing as weel as the +driving, when ye pay me for my day’s wark!” He laughed with guttural +gravity; and, leaving his atmosphere behind him, stalked out of the +room. + +“Lecount,” said Noel Vanstone, as soon as the coachman closed the door, +“did I hear you tell that man we should be ready in half an hour?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Are you blind?” + +He asked the question with an angry stamp of his foot. Mrs. Lecount +looked at him in astonishment. + +“Can’t you see the brute is drunk?” he went on, more and more +irritably. “Is my life nothing? Am I to be left at the mercy of a +drunken coachman? I won’t trust that man to drive me, for any +consideration under heaven! I’m surprised you could think of it, +Lecount.” + +“The man has been drinking, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. “It is easy to see +and to smell that. But he is evidently used to drinking. If he is sober +enough to walk quite straight—which he certainly does—and to sign his +name in an excellent handwriting—which you may see for yourself on the +Will—I venture to think he is sober enough to drive us to Dumfries.” + +“Nothing of the sort! You’re a foreigner, Lecount; you don’t understand +these people. They drink whisky from morning to-night. Whisky is the +strongest spirit that’s made; whisky is notorious for its effect on the +brain. I tell you, I won’t run the risk. I never was driven, and I +never will be driven, by anybody but a sober man.” + +“Must I go back to Dumfries by myself, sir?” + +“And leave me here? Leave me alone in this house after what has +happened? How do I know my wife may not come back to-night? How do I +know her journey is not a blind to mislead me? Have you no feeling, +Lecount? Can you leave me in my miserable situation—?” He sank into a +chair and burst out crying over his own idea, before he had completed +the expression of it in words. “Too bad!” he said, with his +handkerchief over his face—“too bad!” + +It was impossible not to pity him. If ever mortal was pitiable, he was +the man. He had broken down at last, under the conflict of violent +emotions which had been roused in him since the morning. The effort to +follow Mrs. Lecount along the mazes of intricate combination through +which she had steadily led the way, had upheld him while that effort +lasted: the moment it was at an end, he dropped. The coachman had +hastened a result—of which the coachman was far from being the cause. + +“You surprise me—you distress me, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. “I entreat +you to compose yourself. I will stay here, if you wish it, with +pleasure—I will stay here to-night, for your sake. You want rest and +quiet after this dreadful day. The coachman shall be instantly sent +away, Mr. Noel. I will give him a note to the landlord of the hotel, +and the carriage shall come back for us to-morrow morning, with another +man to drive it.” + +The prospect which those words presented cheered him. He wiped his +eyes, and kissed Mrs. Lecount’s hand. “Yes!” he said, faintly; “send +the coachman away—and you stop here. You good creature! You excellent +Lecount! Send the drunken brute away, and come back directly. We will +be comfortable by the fire, Lecount—and have a nice little dinner—and +try to make it like old times.” His weak voice faltered; he returned to +the fire side, and melted into tears again under the pathetic influence +of his own idea. + +Mrs. Lecount left him for a minute to dismiss the coachman. When she +returned to the parlor she found him with his hand on the bell. + +“What do you want, sir?” she asked. + +“I want to tell the servants to get your room ready,” he answered. “I +wish to show you every attention, Lecount.” + +“You are all kindness, Mr. Noel; but wait one moment. It may be well to +have these papers put out of the way before the servant comes in again. +If you will place the Will and the Sealed Letter together in one +envelope—and if you will direct it to the admiral—I will take care that +the inclosure so addressed is safely placed in his own hands. Will you +come to the table, Mr. Noel, only for one minute more?” + +No! He was obstinate; he refused to move from the fire; he was sick and +tired of writing: he wished he had never been born, and he loathed the +sight of pen and ink. All Mrs. Lecount’s patience and all Mrs. +Lecount’s persuasion were required to induce him to write the admiral’s +address for the second time. She only succeeded by bringing the blank +envelope to him upon the paper-case, and putting it coaxingly on his +lap. He grumbled, he even swore, but he directed the envelope at last, +in these terms: “To Admiral Bartram, St. Crux-in-the-Marsh. Favored by +Mrs. Lecount.” With that final act of compliance his docility came to +an end. He refused, in the fiercest terms, to seal the envelope. There +was no need to press this proceeding on him. His seal lay ready on the +table, and it mattered nothing whether he used it, or whether a person +in his confidence used it for him. Mrs. Lecount sealed the envelope, +with its two important inclosures placed safely inside. + +She opened her traveling-bag for the last time, and pausing for a +moment before she put the sealed packet away, looked at it with a +triumph too deep for words. She smiled as she dropped it into the bag. +Not the shadow of a suspicion that the Will might contain superfluous +phrases and expressions which no practical lawyer would have used; not +the vestige of a doubt whether the Letter was quite as complete a +document as a practical lawyer might have made it, troubled her mind. +In blind reliance—born of her hatred for Magdalen and her hunger for +revenge—in blind reliance on her own abilities and on her friend’s law, +she trusted the future implicitly to the promise of the morning’s work. + +As she locked her traveling-bag Noel Vanstone rang the bell. On this +occasion, the summons was answered by Louisa. + +“Get the spare room ready,” said her master; “this lady will sleep here +to-night. And air my warm things; this lady and I are going away +to-morrow morning.” + +The civil and submissive Louisa received her orders in sullen +silence—darted an angry look at her master’s impenetrable guest—and +left the room. The servants were evidently all attached to their +mistress’s interests, and were all of one opinion on the subject of +Mrs. Lecount. + +“That’s done!” said Noel Vanstone, with a sigh of infinite relief. +“Come and sit down, Lecount. Let’s be comfortable—let’s gossip over the +fire.” + +Mrs. Lecount accepted the invitation and drew an easy-chair to his +side. He took her hand with a confidential tenderness, and held it in +his while the talk went on. A stranger, looking in through the window, +would have taken them for mother and son, and would have thought to +himself: “What a happy home!” + +The gossip, led by Noel Vanstone, consisted as usual of an endless +string of questions, and was devoted entirely to the subject of himself +and his future prospects. Where would Lecount take him to when they +went away the next morning? Why to London? Why should he be left in +London, while Lecount went on to St. Crux to give the admiral the +Letter and the Will? Because his wife might follow him, if he went to +the admiral’s? Well, there was something in that. And because he ought +to be safely concealed from her, in some comfortable lodging, near Mr. +Loscombe? Why near Mr. Loscombe? Ah, yes, to be sure—to know what the +law would do to help him. Would the law set him free from the Wretch +who had deceived him? How tiresome of Lecount not to know! Would the +law say he had gone and married himself a second time, because he had +been living with the Wretch, like husband and wife, in Scotland? +Anything that publicly assumed to be a marriage was a marriage (he had +heard) in Scotland. How excessively tiresome of Lecount to sit there +and say she knew nothing about it! Was he to stay long in London by +himself, with nobody but Mr. Loscombe to speak to? Would Lecount come +back to him as soon as she had put those important papers in the +admiral’s own hands? Would Lecount consider herself still in his +service? The good Lecount! the excellent Lecount! And after all the +law-business was over—what then? Why not leave this horrid England and +go abroad again? Why not go to France, to some cheap place near Paris? +Say Versailles? say St. Germain? In a nice little French house—cheap? +With a nice French _bonne_ to cook—who wouldn’t waste his substance in +the grease-pot? With a nice little garden—where he could work himself, +and get health, and save the expense of keeping a gardener? It wasn’t a +bad idea. And it seemed to promise well for the future—didn’t it, +Lecount? + +So he ran on—the poor weak creature! the abject, miserable little man! + +As the darkness gathered at the close of the short November day he +began to grow drowsy—his ceaseless questions came to an end at last—he +fell asleep. The wind outside sang its mournful winter-song; the tramp +of passing footsteps, the roll of passing wheels on the road ceased in +dreary silence. He slept on quietly. The firelight rose and fell on his +wizen little face and his nervous, drooping hands. Mrs. Lecount had not +pitied him yet. She began to pity him now. Her point was gained; her +interest in his will was secured; he had put his future life, of his +own accord, under her fostering care—the fire was comfortable; the +circumstances were favorable to the growth of Christian feeling. “Poor +wretch!” said Mrs. Lecount, looking at him with a grave +compassion—“poor wretch!” + +The dinner-hour roused him. He was cheerful at dinner; he reverted to +the idea of the cheap little house in France; he smirked and simpered; +and talked French to Mrs. Lecount, while the house-maid and Louisa +waited, turn and turn about, under protest. When dinner was over, he +returned to his comfortable chair before the fire, and Mrs. Lecount +followed him. He resumed the conversation—which meant, in his case, +repeating his questions. But he was not so quick and ready with them as +he had been earlier in the day. They began to flag—they continued, at +longer and longer intervals—they ceased altogether. Toward nine o’clock +he fell asleep again. + +It was not a quiet sleep this time. He muttered, and ground his teeth, +and rolled his head from side to side of the chair. Mrs. Lecount +purposely made noise enough to rouse him. He woke, with a vacant eye +and a flushed cheek. He walked about the room restlessly, with a new +idea in his mind—the idea of writing a terrible letter; a letter of +eternal farewell to his wife. How was it to be written? In what +language should he express his feelings? The powers of Shakespeare +himself would be unequal to the emergency! He had been the victim of an +outrage entirely without parallel. A wretch had crept into his bosom! A +viper had hidden herself at his fireside! Where could words be found to +brand her with the infamy she deserved? He stopped, with a suffocating +sense in him of his own impotent rage—he stopped, and shook his fist +tremulously in the empty air. + +Mrs. Lecount interfered with an energy and a resolution inspired by +serious alarm. After the heavy strain that had been laid on his +weakness already, such an outbreak of passionate agitation as was now +bursting from him might be the destruction of his rest that night and +of his strength to travel the next day. With infinite difficulty, with +endless promises to return to the subject, and to advise him about it +in the morning, she prevailed on him, at last, to go upstairs and +compose himself for the night. She gave him her arm to assist him. On +the way upstairs his attention, to her great relief, became suddenly +absorbed by a new fancy. He remembered a certain warm and comfortable +mixture of wine, eggs, sugar, and spices, which she had often been +accustomed to make for him in former times, and which he thought he +should relish exceedingly before he went to bed. Mrs. Lecount helped +him on with his dressing-gown—then went down-stairs again to make his +warm drink for him at the parlor fire. + +She rang the bell and ordered the necessary ingredients for the +mixture, in Noel Vanstone’s name. The servants, with the small +ingenious malice of their race, brought up the materials one by one, +and kept her waiting for each of them as long as possible. She had got +the saucepan, and the spoon, and the tumbler, and the nutmeg-grater, +and the wine—but not the egg, the sugar, or the spices—when she heard +him above, walking backward and forward noisily in his room; exciting +himself on the old subject again, beyond all doubt. + +She went upstairs once more; but he was too quick for her—he heard her +outside the door; and when she opened it, she found him in his chair, +with his back cunningly turned toward her. Knowing him too well to +attempt any remonstrance, she merely announced the speedy arrival of +the warm drink and turned to leave the room. On her way out, she +noticed a table in a corner, with an inkstand and a paper-case on it, +and tried, without attracting his attention, to take the writing +materials away. He was too quick for her again. He asked, angrily, if +she doubted his promise. She put the writing materials back on the +table, for fear of offending him, and left the room. + +In half an hour more the mixture was ready. She carried it up to him, +foaming and fragrant, in a large tumbler. “He will sleep after this,” +she thought to herself, as she opened the door; “I have made it +stronger than usual on purpose.” + +He had changed his place. He was sitting at the table in the +corner—still with his back to her, writing. This time his quick ears +had not served him; this time she caught him in the fact. + +“Oh, Mr. Noel! Mr. Noel!” she said, reproachfully, “what is your +promise worth?” + +He made no answer. He was sitting with his left elbow on the table, and +with his head resting on his left hand. His right hand lay back on the +paper, with the pen lying loose in it. “Your drink, Mr. Noel,” she +said, in a kinder tone, feeling unwilling to offend him. He took no +notice of her. She went to the table to rouse him. Was he deep in +thought? + +He was dead! + +THE END OF THE FIFTH SCENE. + + + +BETWEEN THE SCENES. +PROGRESS OF THE STORY THROUGH THE POST. + +I. +From Mrs. Noel Vanstone to Mr. Loscombe. + +“Park Terrace, St. John’s Wood, November 5th. + + +“Dear Sir, + +“I came to London yesterday for the purpose of seeing a relative, +leaving Mr. Vanstone at Baliol Cottage, and proposing to return to him +in the course of the week. I reached London late last night, and drove +to these lodgings, having written to secure accommodation beforehand. + +“This morning’s post has brought me a letter from my own maid, whom I +left at Baliol Cottage, with instructions to write to me if anything +extraordinary took place in my absence. You will find the girl’s letter +inclosed in this. I have had some experience of her; and I believe she +is to be strictly depended on to tell the truth. + +“I purposely abstain from troubling you by any useless allusions to +myself. When you have read my maid’s letter, you will understand the +shock which the news contained in it has caused me. I can only repeat +that I place implicit belief in her statement. I am firmly persuaded +that my husband’s former housekeeper has found him out, has practiced +on his weakness in my absence, and has prevailed on him to make another +Will. From what I know of this woman, I feel no doubt that she has used +her influence over Mr. Vanstone to deprive me, if possible, of all +future interests in my husband’s fortune. + +“Under such circumstances as these, it is in the last degree +important—for more reasons than I need mention here—that I should see +Mr. Vanstone, and come to an explanation with him, at the earliest +possible opportunity. You will find that my maid thoughtfully kept her +letter open until the last moment before post-time—without, however, +having any later news to give me than that Mrs. Lecount was to sleep at +the cottage last night and that she and Mr. Vanstone were to leave +together this morning. But for that last piece of intelligence, I +should have been on my way back to Scotland before now. As it is, I +cannot decide for myself what I ought to do next. My going back to +Dumfries, after Mr. Vanstone has left it, seems like taking a journey +for nothing —and my staying in London appears to be almost equally +useless. + +“Will you kindly advise me in this difficulty? I will come to you at +Lincoln’s Inn at any time this afternoon or to-morrow which you may +appoint. My next few hours are engaged. As soon as this letter is +dispatched, I am going to Kensington, with the object of ascertaining +whether certain doubts I feel about the means by which Mrs. Lecount may +have accomplished her discovery are well founded or not. If you will +let me have your answer by return of post, I will not fail to get back +to St. John’s Wood in time to receive it. + +“Believe me, dear sir, yours sincerely, +“MAGDALEN VANSTONE.” + + +II. +From Mr. Loscombe to Mrs. Noel Vanstone. + +“Lincoln’s Inn, November 5th. + + +“DEAR MADAM, + +“Your letter and its inclosure have caused me great concern and +surprise. Pressure of business allows me no hope of being able to see +you either to-day or to-morrow morning. But if three o’clock to-morrow +afternoon will suit you, at that hour you will find me at your service. + +“I cannot pretend to offer a positive opinion until I know more of the +particulars connected with this extraordinary business than I find +communicated either in your letter or in your maid’s. But with this +reserve, I venture to suggest that your remaining in London until +to-morrow may possibly lead to other results besides your consultation +at my chambers. There is at least a chance that you or I may hear +something further in this strange matter by the morning’s post. + +“I remain, dear Madam, faithfully yours, +“JOHN LOSCOMBE.” + + +III. +From Mrs. Noel Vanstone to Miss Garth. + +“November 5th, Two o’clock. + + +“I have just returned from Westmoreland House—after purposely leaving +it in secret, and purposely avoiding you under your own roof. You shall +know why I came, and why I went away. It is due to my remembrance of +old times not to treat you like a stranger, although I can never again +treat you like a friend. + +“I set forth on the third from the North to London. My only object in +taking this long journey was to see Norah. I had been suffering for +many weary weeks past such remorse as only miserable women like me can +feel. Perhaps the suffering weakened me; perhaps it roused some old +forgotten tenderness—God knows!—I can’t explain it; I can only tell you +that I began to think of Norah by day, and to dream of Norah by night, +till I was almost heartbroken. I have no better reason than this to +give for running all the risks which I ran, and coming to London to see +her. I don’t wish to claim more for myself than I deserve; I don’t wish +to tell you I was the reformed and repenting creature whom _you_ might +have approved. I had only one feeling in me that I know of. I wanted to +put my arms round Norah’s neck, and cry my heart out on Norah’s bosom. +Childish enough, I dare say. Something might have come of it; nothing +might have come of it—who knows? + +“I had no means of finding Norah without your assistance. However you +might disapprove of what I had done, I thought you would not refuse to +help me to find my sister. When I lay down last night in my strange +bed, I said to myself, ‘I will ask Miss Garth, for my father’s sake and +my mother’s sake, to tell me.’ You don’t know what a comfort I felt in +that thought. How should you? What do good women like you know of +miserable sinners like me? All you know is that you pray for us at +church. + +“Well, I fell asleep happily that night—for the first time since my +marriage. When the morning came, I paid the penalty of daring to be +happy only for one night. When the morning came, a letter came with it, +which told me that my bitterest enemy on earth (you have meddled +sufficiently with my affairs to know what enemy I mean) had revenged +herself on me in my absence. In following the impulse which led me to +my sister, I had gone to my ruin. + +“The mischief was beyond all present remedy, when I received the news +of it. Whatever had happened, whatever might happen, I made up my mind +to persist in my resolution of seeing Norah before I did anything else. +I suspected _you_ of being concerned in the disaster which had +overtaken me—because I felt positively certain at Aldborough that you +and Mrs. Lecount had written to each other. But I never suspected +Norah. If I lay on my death-bed at this moment I could say with a safe +conscience I never suspected Norah. + +“So I went this morning to Westmoreland House to ask you for my +sister’s address, and to acknowledge plainly that I suspected you of +being again in correspondence with Mrs. Lecount. + +“When I inquired for you at the door, they told me you had gone out, +but that you were expected back before long. They asked me if I would +see your sister, who was then in the school-room. I desired that your +sister should on no account be disturbed: my business was not with her, +but with you. I begged to be allowed to wait in a room by myself until +you returned. + +“They showed me into the double room on the ground-floor, divided by +curtains—as it was when I last remember it. There was a fire in the +outer division of the room, but none in the inner; and for that reason, +I suppose, the curtains were drawn. The servant was very civil and +attentive to me. I have learned to be thankful for civility and +attention, and I spoke to her as cheerfully as I could. I said to her, +‘I shall see Miss Garth here, as she comes up to the door, and I can +beckon her in through the long window.’ The servant said I could do so, +if you came that way, but that you let yourself in sometimes with your +own key by the back-garden gate; and if you did this, she would take +care to let you know of my visit. I mention these trifles, to show you +that there was no pre-meditated deceit in my mind when I came to the +house. + +“I waited a weary time, and you never came: I don’t know whether my +impatience made me think so, or whether the large fire burning made the +room really as hot as I felt it to be—I only know that, after a while, +I passed through the curtains into the inner room, to try the cooler +atmosphere. + +“I walked to the long window which leads into the back garden, to look +out, and almost at the same time I heard the door opened—the door of +the room I had just left, and your voice and the voice of some other +woman, a stranger to me, talking. The stranger was one of the +parlor-boarders, I dare say. I gathered from the first words you +exchanged together, that you had met in the passage—she on her way +downstairs, and you on your way in from the back garden. Her next +question and your next answer informed me that this person was a friend +of my sister’s, who felt a strong interest in her, and who knew that +you had just returned from a visit to Norah. So far, I only hesitated +to show myself, because I shrank, in my painful situation, from facing +a stranger. But when I heard my own name immediately afterward on your +lips and on hers, then I purposely came nearer to the curtain between +us, and purposely listened. + +“A mean action, you will say? Call it mean, if you like. What better +can you expect from such a woman as I am? + +“You were always famous for your memory. There is no necessity for my +repeating the words you spoke to your friend, and the words your friend +spoke to you, hardly an hour since. When you read these lines, you will +know, as well as I know, what those words told me. I ask for no +particulars; I will take all your reasons and all your excuses for +granted. It is enough for me to know that you and Mr. Pendril have been +searching for me again, and that Norah is in the conspiracy this time, +to reclaim me in spite of myself. It is enough for me to know that my +letter to my sister has been turned into a trap to catch me, and that +Mrs. Lecount’s revenge has accomplished its object by means of +information received from Norah’s lips. + +“Shall I tell you what I suffered when I heard these things? No; it +would only be a waste of time to tell you. Whatever I suffer, I deserve +it—don’t I? + +“I waited in that inner room—knowing my own violent temper, and not +trusting myself to see you, after what I had heard—I waited in that +inner room, trembling lest the servant should tell you of my visit +before I could find an opportunity of leaving the house. No such +misfortune happened. The servant, no doubt, heard the voices upstairs, +and supposed that we had met each other in the passage. I don’t know +how long or how short a time it was before you left the room to go and +take off your bonnet—you went, and your friend went with you. I raised +the long window softly, and stepped into the back garden. The way by +which you returned to the house was the way by which I left it. No +blame attaches to the servant. As usual, where I am concerned, nobody +is to blame but me. + +“Time enough has passed now to quiet my mind a little. You know how +strong I am? You remember how I used to fight against all my illnesses +when I was a child? Now I am a woman, I fight against my miseries in +the same way. Don’t pity me, Miss Garth! Don’t pity me! + +“I have no harsh feeling against Norah. The hope I had of seeing her is +a hope taken from me; the consolation I had in writing to her is a +consolation denied me for the future. I am cut to the heart; but I have +no angry feeling toward my sister. She means well, poor soul—I dare say +she means well. It would distress her, if she knew what has happened. +Don’t tell her. Conceal my visit, and burn my letter. + +“A last word to yourself and I have done: + +“If I rightly understand my present situation, your spies are still +searching for me to just as little purpose as they searched at York. +Dismiss them—you are wasting your money to no purpose. If you +discovered me to-morrow, what could you do? My position has altered. I +am no longer the poor outcast girl, the vagabond public performer, whom +you once hunted after. I have done what I told you I would do—I have +made the general sense of propriety my accomplice this time. Do you +know who I am? I am a respectable married woman, accountable for my +actions to nobody under heaven but my husband. I have got a place in +the world, and a name in the world, at last. Even the law, which is the +friend of all you respectable people, has recognized my existence, and +has become _my_ friend too! The Archbishop of Canterbury gave me his +license to be married, and the vicar of Aldborough performed the +service. If I found your spies following me in the street, and if I +chose to claim protection from them, the law would acknowledge my +claim. You forget what wonders my wickedness has done for me. It has +made Nobody’s Child Somebody’s Wife. + +“If you will give these considerations their due weight; if you will +exert your excellent common sense, I have no fear of being obliged to +appeal to my newly-found friend and protector—the law. You will feel, +by this time, that you have meddled with me at last to some purpose. I +am estranged from Norah—I am discovered by my husband—I am defeated by +Mrs. Lecount. You have driven me to the last extremity; you have +strengthened me to fight the battle of my life with the resolution +which only a lost and friendless woman can feel. Badly as your schemes +have prospered, they have not proved totally useless after all! + +“I have no more to say. If you ever speak about me to Norah, tell her +that a day may come when she will see me again—the day when we two +sisters have recovered our natural rights; the day when I put Norah’s +fortune into Norah’s hand. + +“Those are my last words. Remember them the next time you feel tempted +to meddle with me again. + +“MAGDALEN VANSTONE.” + + +IV. +From Mr. Loscombe to Mrs. Noel Vanstone. + +“Lincoln’s Inn, November 6th. + + +“DEAR MADAM, + +“This morning’s post has doubtless brought you the same shocking news +which it has brought to me. You must know by this time that a terrible +affliction has befallen you—the affliction of your husband’s sudden +death. + +“I am on the point of starting for the North, to make all needful +inquiries, and to perform whatever duties I may with propriety +undertake, as solicitor to the deceased gentleman. Let me earnestly +recommend you not to follow me to Baliol Cottage, until I have had time +to write to you first, and to give you such advice as I cannot, through +ignorance of all the circumstances, pretend to offer now. You may rely +on my writing, after my arrival in Scotland, by the first post. + +“I remain, dear Madam, faithfully yours, +“JOHN LOSCOMBE.” + + +V. +From Mr. Pendril to Miss Garth. + +“Serle Street, November 6th. + + +“DEAR MISS GARTH, + +“I return you Mrs. Noel Vanstone’s letter. I can understand your +mortification at the tone in which it is written, and your distress at +the manner in which this unhappy woman has interpreted the conversation +that she overheard at your house. I cannot honestly add that I lament +what has happened. My opinion has never altered since the Combe-Raven +time. I believe Mrs. Noel Vanstone to be one of the most reckless, +desperate, and perverted women living; and any circumstances that +estrange her from her sister are circumstances which I welcome, for her +sister’s sake. + +“There cannot be a moment’s doubt on the course you ought to follow in +this matter. Even Mrs. Noel Vanstone herself acknowledges the propriety +of sparing her sister additional and unnecessary distress. By all +means, keep Miss Vanstone in ignorance of the visit to Kensington, and +of the letter which has followed it. It would be not only unwise, but +absolutely cruel, to enlighten her. If we had any remedy to apply, or +even any hope to offer, we might feel some hesitation in keeping our +secret. But there is no remedy, and no hope. Mrs. Noel Vanstone is +perfectly justified in the view she takes of her own position. Neither +you nor I can assert the smallest right to control her. + +“I have already taken the necessary measures for putting an end to our +useless inquiries. In a few days I will write to Miss Vanstone, and +will do my best to tranquilize her mind on the subject of her sister. +If I can find no sufficient excuse to satisfy her, it will be better +she should think we have discovered nothing than that she should know +the truth. + +“Believe me most truly yours, +“WILLIAM PENDRIL.” + + +VI. +From Mr. Loscombe to Mrs. Noel Vanstone. + +“Lincoln’s Inn, November 15th. + + +“Private. + +“DEAR MADAM, + +“In compliance with your request, I now proceed to communicate to you +in writing what (but for the calamity which has so recently befallen +you) I should have preferred communicating by word of mouth. Be pleased +to consider this letter as strictly confidential between yourself and +me. + +“I enclose, as you desire, a copy of the Will executed by your late +husband on the third of this month. There can be no question of the +genuineness of the original document. I protested, as a matter of form, +against Admiral Bartram’s solicitor assuming a position of authority at +Baliol Cottage. But he took the position, nevertheless; acting as legal +representative of the sole Executor under the second Will. I am bound +to say I should have done the same myself in his place. + +“The serious question follows, What can we do for the best in your +interests? The Will executed under my professional superintendence, on +the thirtieth of September last, is at present superseded and revoked +by the second and later Will, executed on the third of November. Can we +dispute this document? + +“I doubt the possibility of disputing the new Will on the face of it. +It is no doubt irregularly expressed; but it is dated, signed, and +witnessed as the law directs; and the perfectly simple and +straightforward provisions that it contains are in no respect, that I +can see, technically open to attack. + +“This being the case, can we dispute the Will on the ground that it has +been executed when the Testator was not in a fit state to dispose of +his own property? or when the Testator was subjected to undue and +improper influence? + +“In the first of these cases, the medical evidence would put an +obstacle in our way. We cannot assert that previous illness had +weakened the Testator’s mind. It is clear that he died suddenly, as the +doctors had all along declared he would die, of disease of the heart. +He was out walking in his garden, as usual, on the day of his death; he +ate a hearty dinner; none of the persons in his service noticed any +change in him; he was a little more irritable with them than usual, but +that was all. It is impossible to attack the state of his faculties: +there is no case to go into court with, so far. + +“Can we declare that he acted under undue influence; or, in plainer +terms, under the influence of Mrs. Lecount? + +“There are serious difficulties, again, in the way of taking this +course. We cannot assert, for example, that Mrs. Lecount has assumed a +place in the will which she has no fair claim to occupy. She has +cunningly limited her own legacy, not only to what is fairly due her, +but to what the late Mr. Michael Vanstone himself had the intention of +leaving her. If I were examined on the subject, I should be compelled +to acknowledge that I had heard him express this intention myself. It +is only the truth to say that I have heard him express it more than +once. There is no point of attack in Mrs. Lecount’s legacy, and there +is no point of attack in your late husband’s choice of an executor. He +has made the wise choice, and the natural choice, of the oldest and +trustiest friend he had in the world. + +“One more consideration remains—the most important which I have yet +approached, and therefore the consideration which I have reserved to +the last. On the thirtieth of September, the Testator executes a will, +leaving his widow sole executrix, with a legacy of eighty thousand +pounds. On the third of November following, he expressly revokes this +will, and leaves another in its stead, in which his widow is never once +mentioned, and in which the whole residue of his estate, after payment +of one comparatively trifling legacy, is left to a friend. + +“It rests entirely with you to say whether any valid reason can or +cannot be produced to explain such an extraordinary proceeding as this. +If no reason can be assigned—and I know of none myself—I think we have +a point here which deserves our careful consideration; for it may be a +point which is open to attack. Pray understand that I am now appealing +to you solely as a lawyer, who is obliged to look all possible +eventualities in the face. I have no wish to intrude on your private +affairs; I have no wish to write a word which could be construed into +any indirect reflection on yourself. + +“If you tell me that, so far as you know, your husband capriciously +struck you out of his will, without assignable reason or motive for +doing so, and without other obvious explanation of his conduct than +that he acted in this matter entirely under the influence of Mrs. +Lecount, I will immediately take Counsel’s opinion touching the +propriety of disputing the will on this ground. If, on the other hand, +you tell me that there are reasons (known to yourself, though unknown +to me) for not taking the course I propose, I will accept that +intimation without troubling you, unless you wish it, to explain +yourself further. In this latter event, I will write to you again; for +I shall then have something more to say, which may greatly surprise +you, on the subject of the Will. + +“Faithfully yours, +“JOHN LOSCOMBE.” + + +VII. +From Mrs. Noel Vanstone to Mr. Loscombe. + +“November 16th. + + +“DEAR SIR, + +“Accept my best thanks for the kindness and consideration with which +you have treated me; and let the anxieties under which I am now +suffering plead my excuse, if I reply to your letter without ceremony, +in the fewest possible words. + +“I have my own reasons for not hesitating to answer your question in +the negative. It is impossible for us to go to law, as you propose, on +the subject of the Will. + +“Believe me, dear sir, yours gratefully, +“MAGDALEN VANSTONE.” + + +VIII. +From Mr. Loscombe to Mrs. Noel Vanstone. + +“Lincoln’s Inn. November 17th. + + +“DEAR MADAM, + +“I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, answering my proposal +in the negative, for reasons of your own. Under these circumstances—on +which I offer no comment—I beg to perform my promise of again +communicating with you on the subject of your late husband’s Will. + +“Be so kind as to look at your copy of the document. You will find that +the clause which devises the whole residue of your husband’s estate to +Admiral Bartram ends in these terms: _to be by him applied to such uses +as he may think fit._ + +“Simple as they may seem to you, these are very remarkable words. In +the first place, no practical lawyer would have used them in drawing +your husband’s will. In the second place, they are utterly useless to +serve any plain straightforward purpose. The legacy is left +unconditionally to the admiral; and in the same breath he is told that +he may do what he likes with it! The phrase points clearly to one of +two conclusions. It has either dropped from the writer’s pen in pure +ignorance, or it has been carefully set where it appears to serve the +purpose of a snare. I am firmly persuaded that the latter explanation +is the right one. The words are expressly intended to mislead some +person—yourself in all probability—and the cunning which has put them +to that use is a cunning which (as constantly happens when uninstructed +persons meddle with law) has overreached itself. My thirty years’ +experience reads those words in a sense exactly opposite to the sense +which they are intended to convey. I say that Admiral Bartram is _not_ +free to apply his legacy to such purposes as he may think fit; I +believe he is privately controlled by a supplementary document in the +shape of a Secret Trust. + +“I can easily explain to you what I mean by a Secret Trust. It is +usually contained in the form of a letter from a Testator to his +Executors, privately informing them of testamentary intentions on his +part which he has not thought proper openly to acknowledge in his will. +I leave you a hundred pounds; and I write a private letter enjoining +you, on taking the legacy, not to devote it to your own purposes, but +to give it to some third person, whose name I have my own reasons for +not mentioning in my will. That is a Secret Trust. + +“If I am right in my own persuasion that such a document as I here +describe is at this moment in Admiral Bartram’s possession—a persuasion +based, in the first instance, on the extraordinary words that I have +quoted to you; and, in the second instance, on purely legal +considerations with which it is needless to incumber my letter—if I am +right in this opinion, the discovery of the Secret Trust would be, in +all probability, a most important discovery to your interests. I will +not trouble you with technical reasons, or with references to my +experience in these matters, which only a professional man could +understand. I will merely say that I don’t give up your cause as +utterly lost, until the conviction now impressed on my own mind is +proved to be wrong. + +“I can add no more, while this important question still remains +involved in doubt; neither can I suggest any means of solving that +doubt. If the existence of the Trust was proved, and if the nature of +the stipulations contained in it was made known to me, I could then say +positively what the legal chances were of your being able to set up a +Case on the strength of it: and I could also tell you whether I should +or should not feel justified in personally undertaking that Case under +a private arrangement with yourself. + +“As things are, I can make no arrangement, and offer no advice. I can +only put you confidentially in possession of my private opinion, +leaving you entirely free to draw your own inferences from it, and +regretting that I cannot write more confidently and more definitely +than I have written here. All that I could conscientiously say on this +very difficult and delicate subject, I have said. + +“Believe me, dear madam, faithfully yours, +“JOHN LOSCOMBE. + + +“P.S.—I omitted one consideration in my last letter, which I may +mention here, in order to show you that no point in connection with the +case has escaped me. If it had been possible to show that Mr. Vanstone +was _domiciled_ in Scotland at the time of his death, we might have +asserted your interests by means of the Scotch law, which does not +allow a husband the power of absolutely disinheriting his wife. But it +is impossible to assert that Mr. Vanstone was legally domiciled in +Scotland. He came there as a visitor only; he occupied a furnished +house for the season; and he never expressed, either by word or deed, +the slightest intention of settling permanently in the North.” + +IX. +From Mrs. Noel Vanstone to Mr. Loscombe. + +“DEAR SIR, + +“I have read your letter more than once, with the deepest interest and +attention; and the oftener I read it, the more firmly I believe that +there is really such a Letter as you mention in Admiral Bartram’s +hands. + +“It is my interest that the discovery should be made, and I at once +acknowledge to you that I am determined to find the means of secretly +and certainly making it. My resolution rests on other motives than the +motives which you might naturally suppose would influence me. I only +tell you this, in case you feel inclined to remonstrate. There is good +reason for what I say, when I assure you that remonstrance will be +useless. + +“I ask for no assistance in this matter; I will trouble nobody for +advice. You shall not be involved in any rash proceedings on my part. +Whatever danger there may be, I will risk it. Whatever delays may +happen, I will bear them patiently. I am lonely and friendless, and +surely troubled in mind, but I am strong enough to win my way through +worse trials than these. My spirits will rise again, and my time will +come. If that Secret Trust is in Admiral Bartram’s possession—when you +next see me, you shall see me with it in my own hands. + +“Yours gratefully, +“MAGDALEN VANSTONE.” + + + +THE SIXTH SCENE. +ST. JOHN’S WOOD. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +It wanted little more than a fortnight to Christmas; but the weather +showed no signs yet of the frost and snow, conventionally associated +with the coming season. The atmosphere was unnaturally warm, and the +old year was dying feebly in sapping rain and enervating mist. + +Toward the close of the December afternoon, Magdalen sat alone in the +lodging which she had occupied since her arrival in London. The fire +burned sluggishly in the narrow little grate; the view of the wet +houses and soaking gardens opposite was darkening fast; and the bell of +the suburban muffin-boy tinkled in the distance drearily. Sitting close +over the fire, with a little money lying loose in her lap, Magdalen +absently shifted the coins to and fro on the smooth surface of her +dress, incessantly altering their positions toward each other, as if +they were pieces of a “child’s puzzle” which she was trying to put +together. The dim fire-light flaming up on her faintly from time to +time showed changes which would have told their own tale sadly to +friends of former days. Her dress had become loose through the wasting +of her figure; but she had not cared to alter it. The old restlessness +in her movements, the old mobility in her expression, appeared no more. +Her face passively maintained its haggard composure, its changeless +unnatural calm. Mr. Pendril might have softened his hard sentence on +her, if he had seen her now; and Mrs. Lecount, in the plenitude of her +triumph, might have pitied her fallen enemy at last. + +Hardly four months had passed since the wedding-day at Aldborough, and +the penalty for that day was paid already—paid in unavailing remorse, +in hopeless isolation, in irremediable defeat! Let this be said for +her; let the truth which has been told of the fault be told of the +expiation as well. Let it be recorded of her that she enjoyed no secret +triumph on the day of her success. The horror of herself with which her +own act had inspired her, had risen to its climax when the design of +her marriage was achieved. She had never suffered in secret as she +suffered when the Combe-Raven money was left to her in her husband’s +will. She had never felt the means taken to accomplish her end so +unutterably degrading to herself, as she felt them on the day when the +end was reached. Out of that feeling had grown the remorse which had +hurried her to seek pardon and consolation in her sister’s love. Never +since it had first entered her heart, never since she had first felt it +sacred to her at her father’s grave, had the Purpose to which she had +vowed herself, so nearly lost its hold on her as at this time. Never +might Norah’s influence have achieved such good as on the day when that +influence was lost—the day when the fatal words were overheard at Miss +Garth’s—the day when the fatal letter from Scotland told of Mrs. +Lecount’s revenge. + +The harm was done; the chance was gone. Time and Hope alike had both +passed her by. + +Faintly and more faintly the inner voices now pleaded with her to pause +on the downward way. The discovery which had poisoned her heart with +its first distrust of her sister; the tidings which had followed it of +her husband’s death; the sting of Mrs. Lecount’s triumph, felt through +all, had done their work. The remorse which had embittered her married +life was deadened now to a dull despair. It was too late to make the +atonement of confession—too late to lay bare to the miserable husband +the deeper secrets that had once lurked in the heart of the miserable +wife. Innocent of all thought of the hideous treachery which Mrs. +Lecount had imputed to her—she was guilty of knowing how his health was +broken when she married him; guilty of knowing, when he left her the +Combe-Raven money, that the accident of a moment, harmless to other +men, might place his life in jeopardy, and effect her release. His +death had told her this—had told her plainly what she had shrunk, in +his lifetime, from openly acknowledging to herself. From the dull +torment of that reproach; from the dreary wretchedness of doubting +everybody, even to Norah herself; from the bitter sense of her defeated +schemes; from the blank solitude of her friendless life—what refuge was +left? But one refuge now. She turned to the relentless Purpose which +was hurrying her to her ruin, and cried to it with the daring of her +despair—Drive me on! + +For days and days together she had bent her mind on the one object +which occupied it since she had received the lawyer’s letter. For days +and days together she had toiled to meet the first necessity of her +position—to find a means of discovering the Secret Trust. There was no +hope, this time, of assistance from Captain Wragge. Long practice had +made the old militia-man an adept in the art of vanishing. The plow of +the moral agriculturist left no furrows—not a trace of him was to be +found! Mr. Loscombe was too cautious to commit himself to an active +course of any kind; he passively maintained his opinions and left the +rest to his client—-he desired to know nothing until the Trust was +placed in his hands. Magdalen’s interests were now in Magdalen’s own +sole care. Risk or no risk, what she did next she must do by herself. + +The prospect had not daunted her. Alone she had calculated the chances +that might be tried. Alone she was now determined to make the attempt. + +“The time has come,” she said to herself, as she sat over the fire. “I +must sound Louisa first.” + +She collected the scattered coins in her lap, and placed them in a +little heap on the table, then rose and rang the bell. The landlady +answered it. + +“Is my servant downstairs?” inquired Magdalen. + +“Yes, ma’am. She is having her tea.” + +“When she has done, say I want her up here. Wait a moment. You will +find your money on the table—the money I owe you for last week. Can you +find it? or would you like to have a candle?” + +“It’s rather dark, ma’am.” + +Magdalen lit a candle. “What notice must I give you,” she asked, as she +put the candle on the table, “before I leave?” + +“A week is the usual notice, ma’am. I hope you have no objection to +make to the house?” + +“None whatever. I only ask the question, because I may be obliged to +leave these lodgings rather sooner than I anticipated. Is the money +right?” + +“Quite right, ma’am. Here is your receipt.” + +“Thank you. Don’t forget to send Louisa to me as soon as she has done +her tea.” + +The landlady withdrew. As soon as she was alone again, Magdalen +extinguished the candle, and drew an empty chair close to her own chair +on the hearth. This done, she resumed her former place, and waited +until Louisa appeared. There was doubt in her face as she sat looking +mechanically into the fire. “A poor chance,” she thought to herself; +“but, poor as it is, a chance that I must try.” + +In ten minutes more, Louisa’s meek knock was softly audible outside. +She was surprised, on entering the room, to find no other light in it +than the light of the fire. + +“Will you have the candles, ma’am?” she inquired, respectfully. + +“We will have candles if you wish for them yourself,” replied Magdalen; +“not otherwise. I have something to say to you. When I have said it, +you shall decide whether we sit together in the dark or in the light.” + +Louisa waited near the door, and listened to those strange words in +silent astonishment. + +“Come here,” said Magdalen, pointing to the empty chair; “come here and +sit down.” + +Louisa advanced, and timidly removed the chair from its position at her +mistress’s side. Magdalen instantly drew it back again. “No!” she said. +“Come closer—come close by me.” After a moment’s hesitation, Louisa +obeyed. + +“I ask you to sit near me,” pursued Magdalen, “because I wish to speak +to you on equal terms. Whatever distinctions there might once have been +between us are now at an end. I am a lonely woman thrown helpless on my +own resources, without rank or place in the world. I may or may not +keep you as my friend. As mistress and maid the connection between us +must come to an end.” + +“Oh, ma’am, don’t, don’t say that!” pleaded Louisa, faintly. + +Magdalen sorrowfully and steadily went on. + +“When you first came to me,” she resumed, “I thought I should not like +you. I have learned to like you—I have learned to be grateful to you. +From first to last you have been faithful and good to me. The least I +can do in return is not to stand in the way of your future prospects.” + +“Don’t send me away, ma’am!” said Louisa, imploringly. “If you can only +help me with a little money now and then, I’ll wait for my wages—I +will, indeed.” + +Magdalen took her hand and went on, as sorrowfully and as steadily as +before. + +“My future life is all darkness, all uncertainty,” she said. “The next +step I may take may lead me to my prosperity or may lead me to my ruin. +Can I ask you to share such a prospect as this? If your future was as +uncertain as mine is—if you, too, were a friendless woman thrown on the +world—my conscience might be easy in letting you cast your lot with +mine. I might accept your attachment, for I might feel I was not +wronging you. How can I feel this in your case? You have a future to +look to. You are an excellent servant; you can get another place—a far +better place than mine. You can refer to me; and if the character I +give is not considered sufficient, you can refer to the mistress you +served before me—” + +At the instant when that reference to the girl’s last employer escaped +Magdalen’s lips, Louisa snatched her hand away and started up +affrightedly from her chair. There was a moment’s silence. Both +mistress and maid were equally taken by surprise. + +Magdalen was the first to recover herself. + +“Is it getting too dark?” she asked, significantly. “Are you going to +light the candles, after all?” + +Louisa drew back into the dimmest corner of the room. + +“You suspect me, ma’am!” she answered out of the darkness, in a +breathless whisper. “Who has told you? How did you find out—?” She +stopped, and burst into tears. “I deserve your suspicion,” she said, +struggling to compose herself. “I can’t deny it to _you_. You have +treated me so kindly; you have made me so fond of you! Forgive me, Mrs. +Vanstone—I am a wretch; I have deceived you.” + +“Come here and sit down by me again,” said Magdalen. “Come—or I will +get up myself and bring you back.” + +Louisa slowly returned to her place. Dim as the fire-light was, she +seemed to fear it. She held her handkerchief over her face, and shrank +from her mistress as she seated herself again in the chair. + +“You are wrong in thinking that any one has betrayed you to me,” said +Magdalen. “All that I know of you is, what your own looks and ways have +told me. You have had some secret trouble weighing on your mind ever +since you have been in my service. I confess I have spoken with the +wish to find out more of you and your past life than I have found out +yet—not because I am curious, but because I have my secret troubles +too. Are you an unhappy woman, like me? If you are, I will take you +into my confidence. If you have nothing to tell me—if you choose to +keep your secret—I don’t blame you; I only say, Let us part. I won’t +ask how you have deceived me. I will only remember that you have been +an honest and faithful and competent servant while I have employed you; +and I will say as much in your favor to any new mistress you like to +send to me.” + +She waited for the reply. For a moment, and only for a moment, Louisa +hesitated. The girl’s nature was weak, but not depraved. She was +honestly attached to her mistress; and she spoke with a courage which +Magdalen had not expected from her. + +“If you send me away, ma’am,” she said, “I won’t take my character from +you till I have told you the truth; I won’t return your kindness by +deceiving you a second time. Did my master ever tell you how he engaged +me?” + +“No. I never asked him, and he never told me.” + +“He engaged me, ma’am, with a written character—” + +“Yes?” + +“The character was a false one.” + +Magdalen drew back in amazement. The confession she heard was not the +confession she had anticipated. + +“Did your mistress refuse to give you a character?” she asked. “Why?” + +Louisa dropped on her knees and hid her face in her mistress’s lap. +“Don’t ask me!” she said. “I’m a miserable, degraded creature; I’m not +fit to be in the same room with you!” Magdalen bent over her, and +whispered a question in her ear. Louisa whispered back the one sad word +of reply. + +“Has he deserted you?” asked Magdalen, after waiting a moment, and +thinking first. + +“No.” + +“Do you love him?” + +“Dearly.” + +The remembrance of her own loveless marriage stung Magdalen to the +quick. + +“For God’s sake, don’t kneel to _me!_” she cried, passionately. “If +there is a degraded woman in this room, I am the woman—not you!” + +She raised the girl by main force from her knees, and put her back in +the chair. They both waited a little in silence. Keeping her hand on +Louisa’s shoulder, Magdalen seated herself again, and looked with +unutterable bitterness of sorrow into the dying fire. “Oh,” she +thought, “what happy women there are in the world! Wives who love their +husbands! Mothers who are not ashamed to own their children! Are you +quieter?” she asked, gently addressing Louisa once more. “Can you +answer me, if I ask you something else? Where is the child?” + +“The child is out at nurse.” + +“Does the father help to support it?” + +“He does all he can, ma’am.” + +“What is he? Is he in service? Is he in a trade?” + +“His father is a master-carpenter—he works in his father’s yard.” + +“If he has got work, why has he not married you?” + +“It is his father’s fault, ma’am—not his. His father has no pity on us. +He would be turned out of house and home if he married me.” + +“Can he get no work elsewhere?” + +“It’s hard to get good work in London, ma’am. There are so many in +London—they take the bread out of each other’s mouths. If we had only +had the money to emigrate, he would have married me long since.” + +“Would he marry you if you had the money now?” + +“I am sure he would, ma’am. He could get plenty of work in Australia, +and double and treble the wages he gets here. He is trying hard, and I +am trying hard, to save a little toward it—I put by all I can spare +from my child. But it is so little! If we live for years to come, there +seems no hope for us. I know I have done wrong every way—I know I don’t +deserve to be happy. But how could I let my child suffer?—I was obliged +to go to service. My mistress was hard on me, and my health broke down +in trying to live by my needle. I would never have deceived anybody by +a false character, if there had been another chance for me. I was alone +and helpless, ma’am; and I can only ask you to forgive me.” + +“Ask better women than I am,” said Magdalen, sadly. “I am only fit to +feel for you, and I do feel for you with all my heart. In your place I +should have gone into service with a false character, too. Say no more +of the past—you don’t know how you hurt me in speaking of it. Talk of +the future. I think I can help you, and do you no harm. I think you can +help me, and do me the greatest of all services in return. Wait, and +you shall hear what I mean. Suppose you were married—how much would it +cost for you and your husband to emigrate?” + +Louisa mentioned the cost of a steerage passage to Australia for a man +and his wife. She spoke in low, hopeless tones. Moderate as the sum +was, it looked like unattainable wealth in her eyes. + +Magdalen started in her chair, and took the girl’s hand once more. + +“Louisa!” she said, earnestly; “if I gave you the money, what would you +do for me in return?” + +The proposal seemed to strike Louisa speechless with astonishment. She +trembled violently, and said nothing. Magdalen repeated her words. + +“Oh, ma’am, do you mean it?” said the girl. “Do you really mean it?” + +“Yes,” replied Magdalen; “I really mean it. What would you do for me in +return?” + +“Do?” repeated Louisa. “Oh what is there I would _not_ do!” She tried +to kiss her mistress’s hand; but Magdalen would not permit it. She +resolutely, almost roughly, drew her hand away. + +“I am laying you under no obligation,” she said. “We are serving each +other—that is all. Sit quiet, and let me think.” + +For the next ten minutes there was silence in the room. At the end of +that time Magdalen took out her watch and held it close to the grate. +There was just firelight enough to show her the hour. It was close on +six o’clock. + +“Are you composed enough to go downstairs and deliver a message?” she +asked, rising from her chair as she spoke to Louisa again. “It is a +very simple message—it is only to tell the boy that I want a cab as +soon as he can get me one. I must go out immediately. You shall know +why later in the evening. I have much more to say to you; but there is +no time to say it now. When I am gone, bring your work up here, and +wait for my return. I shall be back before bed-time.” + +Without another word of explanation, she hurriedly lit a candle and +withdrew into the bedroom to put on her bonnet and shawl. + + + +CHAPTER II. + +Between nine and ten o’clock the same evening, Louisa, waiting +anxiously, heard the long-expected knock at the house door. She ran +downstairs at once and let her mistress in. + +Magdalen’s face was flushed. She showed far more agitation on returning +to the house than she had shown on leaving it. “Keep your place at the +table,” she said to Louisa, impatiently; “but lay aside your work. I +want you to attend carefully to what I am going to say.” + +Louisa obeyed. Magdalen seated herself at the opposite side of the +table, and moved the candles, so as to obtain a clear and uninterrupted +view of her servant’s face. + +“Have you noticed a respectable elderly woman,” she began, abruptly, +“who has been here once or twice in the last fortnight to pay me a +visit?” + +“Yes, ma’am; I think I let her in the second time she came. An elderly +person named Mrs. Attwood?” + +“That is the person I mean. Mrs. Attwood is Mr. Loscombe’s housekeeper; +not the housekeeper at his private residence, but the housekeeper at +his offices in Lincoln’s Inn. I promised to go and drink tea with her +some evening this week, and I have been to-night. It is strange of me, +is it not, to be on these familiar terms with a woman in Mrs. Attwood’s +situation?” + +Louisa made no answer in words. Her face spoke for her: she could +hardly avoid thinking it strange. + +“I had a motive for making friends with Mrs. Attwood,” Magdalen went +on. “She is a widow, with a large family of daughters. Her daughters +are all in service. One of them is an under-housemaid in the service of +Admiral Bartram, at St. Crux-in-the-Marsh. I found that out from Mrs. +Attwood’s master; and as soon as I arrived at the discovery, I +privately determined to make Mrs. Attwood’s acquaintance. Stranger +still, is it not?” + +Louisa began to look a little uneasy. Her mistress’s manner was at +variance with her mistress’s words—it was plainly suggestive of +something startling to come. + +“What attraction Mrs. Attwood finds in my society,” Magdalen continued, +“I cannot presume to say. I can only tell you she has seen better days; +she is an educated person; and she may like my society on that account. +At any rate, she has readily met my advances toward her. What +attraction I find in this good woman, on my side, is soon told. I have +a great curiosity—an unaccountable curiosity, you will think—about the +present course of household affairs at St. Crux-in-the-Marsh. Mrs. +Attwood’s daughter is a good girl, and constantly writes to her mother. +Her mother is proud of the letters and proud of the girl, and is ready +enough to talk about her daughter and her daughter’s place. That is +Mrs. Attwood’s attraction to _me._ You understand, so far?” + +Yes—Louisa understood. Magdalen went on. “Thanks to Mrs. Attwood and +Mrs. Attwood’s daughter,” she said, “I know some curious particulars +already of the household at St. Crux. Servants’ tongues and servants’ +letters—as I need not tell _you_—are oftener occupied with their +masters and mistresses than their masters and mistresses suppose. The +only mistress at St. Crux is the housekeeper. But there is a +master—Admiral Bartram. He appears to be a strange old man, whose whims +and fancies amuse his servants as well as his friends. One of his +fancies (the only one we need trouble ourselves to notice) is, that he +had men enough about him when he was living at sea, and that now he is +living on shore, he will be waited on by women-servants alone. The one +man in the house is an old sailor, who has been all his life with his +master—he is a kind of pensioner at St. Crux, and has little or nothing +to do with the housework. The other servants, indoors, are all women; +and instead of a footman to wait on him at dinner, the admiral has a +parlor-maid. The parlor-maid now at St. Crux is engaged to be married, +and as soon as her master can suit himself she is going away. These +discoveries I made some days since. But when I saw Mrs. Attwood +to-night, she had received another letter from her daughter in the +interval, and that letter has helped me to find out something more. The +housekeeper is at her wits’ end to find a new servant. Her master +insists on youth and good looks—he leaves everything else to the +housekeeper—but he will have that. All the inquiries made in the +neighborhood have failed to produce the sort of parlor-maid whom the +admiral wants. If nothing can be done in the next fortnight or three +weeks, the housekeeper will advertise in the _Times_, and will come to +London herself to see the applicants, and to make strict personal +inquiry into their characters.” + +Louisa looked at her mistress more attentively than ever. The +expression of perplexity left her face, and a shade of disappointment +appeared there in its stead. “Bear in mind what I have said,” pursued +Magdalen; “and wait a minute more, while I ask you some questions. +Don’t think you understand me yet—I can assure you, you don’t +understand me. Have you always lived in service as lady’s maid?” + +“No, ma’am.” + +“Have you ever lived as parlor-maid?” + +“Only in one place, ma’am, and not for long there.” + +“I suppose you lived long enough to learn your duties?” + +“Yes, ma’am.” + +“What were your duties besides waiting at table?” + +“I had to show visitors in.” + +“Yes; and what else?” + +“I had the plate and the glass to look after; and the table-linen was +all under my care. I had to answer all the bells, except in the +bedrooms. There were other little odds and ends sometimes to do—” + +“But your regular duties were the duties you have just mentioned?” + +“Yes, ma’am.” + +“How long ago is it since you lived in service as a parlor-maid?” + +“A little better than two years, ma’am.” + +“I suppose you have not forgotten how to wait at table, and clean +plate, and the rest of it, in that time?” + +At this question Louisa’s attention, which had been wandering more and +more during the progress of Magdalen’s inquiries, wandered away +altogether. Her gathering anxieties got the better of her discretion, +and even of her timidity. Instead of answering her mistress, she +suddenly and confusedly ventured on a question of her own. + +“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said. “Did you mean me to offer for the +parlor-maid’s place at St. Crux?” + +“You?” replied Magdalen. “Certainly not! Have you forgotten what I said +to you in this room before I went out? I mean you to be married, and go +to Australia with your husband and your child. You have not waited as I +told you, to hear me explain myself. You have drawn your own +conclusions, and you have drawn them wrong. I asked a question just +now, which you have not answered—I asked if you had forgotten your +parlor-maid’s duties?” + +“Oh, no, ma’am!” Louisa had replied rather unwillingly thus far. She +answered readily and confidently now. + +“Could you teach the duties to another servant?” asked Magdalen. + +“Yes, ma’am—easily, if she was quick and attentive.” + +“Could you teach the duties to Me?” + +Louisa started, and changed color. “You, ma’am!” she exclaimed, half in +incredulity, half in alarm. + +“Yes,” said Magdalen. “Could you qualify me to take the parlor-maid’s +place at St. Crux?” + +Plain as those words were, the bewilderment which they produced in +Louisa’s mind seemed to render her incapable of comprehending her +mistress’s proposal. “You, ma’am!” she repeated, vacantly. + +“I shall perhaps help you to understand this extraordinary project of +mine,” said Magdalen, “if I tell you plainly what the object of it is. +Do you remember what I said to you about Mr. Vanstone’s will when you +came here from Scotland to join me?” + +“Yes, ma’am. You told me you had been left out of the will altogether. +I’m sure my fellow-servant would never have been one of the witnesses +if she had known—” + +“Never mind that now. I don’t blame your fellow-servant—I blame nobody +but Mrs. Lecount. Let me go on with what I was saying. It is not at all +certain that Mrs. Lecount can do me the mischief which Mrs. Lecount +intended. There is a chance that my lawyer, Mr. Loscombe, may be able +to gain me what is fairly my due, in spite of the will. The chance +turns on my discovering a letter which Mr. Loscombe believes, and which +I believe, to be kept privately in Admiral Bartram’s possession. I have +not the least hope of getting at that letter if I make the attempt in +my own person. Mrs. Lecount has poisoned the admiral’s mind against me, +and Mr. Vanstone has given him a secret to keep from me. If I wrote to +him, he would not answer my letter. If I went to his house, the door +would be closed in my face. I must find my way into St. Crux as a +stranger—I must be in a position to look about the house, unsuspected—I +must be there with plenty of time on my hands. All the circumstances +are in my favor, if I am received into the house as a servant; and as a +servant I mean to go.” + +“But you are a lady, ma’am,” objected Louisa, in the greatest +perplexity. “The servants at St. Crux would find you out.” + +“I am not at all afraid of their finding me out,” said Magdalen. “I +know how to disguise myself in other people’s characters more cleverly +than you suppose. Leave me to face the chances of discovery—that is my +risk. Let us talk of nothing now but what concerns _you._ Don’t decide +yet whether you will, or will not, give me the help I want. Wait, and +hear first what the help is. You are quick and clever at your needle. +Can you make me the sort of gown which it is proper for a servant to +wear—and can you alter one of my best silk dresses so as to make it fit +yourself —in a week’s time?” + +“I think I could get them done in a week, ma’am. But why am I to wear—” + +“Wait a little, and you will see. I shall give the landlady her week’s +notice to-morrow. In the interval, while you are making the dresses, I +can be learning the parlor-maid’s duties. When the house-servant here +has brought up the dinner, and when you and I are alone in the +room—instead of your waiting on me, as usual, I will wait on you. (I am +quite serious; don’t interrupt me!) Whatever I can learn besides, +without hindering you, I will practice carefully at every opportunity. +When the week is over, and the dresses are done, we will leave this +place, and go into other lodgings—you as the mistress and I as the +maid.” + +“I should be found out, ma’am,” interposed Louisa, trembling at the +prospect before her. “I am not a lady.” + +“And I am,” said Magdalen, bitterly. “Shall I tell you what a lady is? +A lady is a woman who wears a silk gown, and has a sense of her own +importance. I shall put the gown on your back, and the sense in your +head. You speak good English; you are naturally quiet and +self-restrained; if you can only conquer your timidity, I have not the +least fear of you. There will be time enough in the new lodging for you +to practice your character, and for me to practice mine. There will be +time enough to make some more dresses—another gown for me, and your +wedding-dress (which I mean to give you) for yourself. I shall have the +newspaper sent every day. When the advertisement appears, I shall +answer it—in any name I can take on the spur of the moment; in your +name, if you like to lend it to me; and when the housekeeper asks me +for my character, I shall refer her to you. She will see you in the +position of mistress, and me in the position of maid—no suspicion can +possibly enter her mind, unless you put it there. If you only have the +courage to follow my instructions, and to say what I shall tell you to +say, the interview will be over in ten minutes.” + +“You frighten me, ma’am,” said Louisa, still trembling. “You take my +breath away with surprise. Courage! Where shall I find courage?” + +“Where I keep it for you,” said Magdalen—“in the passage-money to +Australia. Look at the new prospect which gives you a husband, and +restores you to your child—and you will find your courage there.” + +Louisa’s sad face brightened; Louisa’s faint heart beat quick. A spark +of her mistress’s spirit flew up into her eyes as she thought of the +golden future. + +“If you accept my proposal,” pursued Magdalen, “you can be asked in +church at once, if you like. I promise you the money on the day when +the advertisement appears in the newspaper. The risk of the +housekeeper’s rejecting me is my risk—not yours. My good looks are +sadly gone off, I know. But I think I can still hold my place against +the other servants—I think I can still _look_ the parlor-maid whom +Admiral Bartram wants. There is nothing for you to fear in this matter; +I should not have mentioned it if there had been. The only danger is +the danger of my being discovered at St. Crux, and that falls entirely +on me. By the time I am in the admiral’s house you will be married, and +the ship will be taking you to your new life.” + +Louisa’s face, now brightening with hope, now clouding again with fear, +showed plain signs of the struggle which it cost her to decide. She +tried to gain time; she attempted confusedly to speak a few words of +gratitude; but her mistress silenced her. + +“You owe me no thanks,” said Magdalen. “I tell you again, we are only +helping each other. I have very little money, but it is enough for your +purpose, and I give it you freely. I have led a wretched life; I have +made others wretched about me. I can’t even make you happy, except by +tempting you to a new deceit. There! there! it’s not your fault. Worse +women than you are will help me, if you refuse. Decide as you like, but +don’t be afraid of taking the money. If I succeed, I shall not want it. +If I fail—” + +She stopped, rose abruptly from her chair, and hid her face from Louisa +by walking away to the fire-place. + +“If I fail,” she resumed, warming her foot carelessly at the fender, +“all the money in the world will be of no use to me. Never mind +why—never mind Me—think of yourself. I won’t take advantage of the +confession you have made to me; I won’t influence you against your +will. Do as you yourself think best. But remember one thing—my mind is +made up; nothing you can say or do will change it.” + +Her sudden removal from the table, the altered tones of her voice as +she spoke the last words, appeared to renew Louisa’s hesitation. She +clasped her hands together in her lap, and wrung them hard. “This has +come on me very suddenly, ma’am,” said the girl. “I am sorely tempted +to say Yes; and yet I am almost afraid—” + +“Take the night to consider it,” interposed Magdalen, keeping her face +persistently turned toward the fire; “and tell me what you have decided +to do, when you come into my room to-morrow morning. I shall want no +help to-night—I can undress myself. You are not so strong as I am; you +are tired, I dare say. Don’t sit up on my account. Good-night, Louisa, +and pleasant dreams!” + +Her voice sank lower and lower as she spoke those kind words. She +sighed heavily, and, leaning her arm on the mantel-piece, laid her head +on it with a reckless weariness miserable to see. Louisa had not left +the room, as she supposed—Louisa came softly to her side, and kissed +her hand. Magdalen started; but she made no attempt, this time, to draw +her hand away. The sense of her own horrible isolation subdued her, at +the touch of the servant’s lips. Her proud heart melted; her eyes +filled with burning tears. “Don’t distress me!” she said, faintly. “The +time for kindness has gone by; it only overpowers me now. Good-night!” + +When the morning came, the affirmative answer which Magdalen had +anticipated was the answer given. + +On that day the landlady received her week’s notice to quit, and +Louisa’s needle flew fast through the stitches of the parlor-maid’s +dress. + +THE END OF THE SIXTH SCENE. + + + +BETWEEN THE SCENES. +PROGRESS OF THE STORY THROUGH THE POST. + +I. +From Miss Garth to Mr. Pendril. + +“Westmoreland House, +January 3d, 1848. + + +“Dear Mr. Pendril, + +“I write, as you kindly requested, to report how Norah is going on, and +to tell you what changes I see for the better in the state of her mind +on the subject of her sister. + +“I cannot say that she is becoming resigned to Magdalen’s continued +silence—I know her faithful nature too well to say it. I can only tell +you that she is beginning to find relief from the heavy pressure of +sorrow and suspense in new thoughts and new hopes. I doubt if she has +yet realized this in her own mind; but I see the result, although she +is not conscious of it herself. I see her heart opening to the +consolation of another interest and another love. She has not said a +word to me on the subject, nor have I said a word to her. But as +certainly as I know that Mr. George Bartram’s visits have lately grown +more and more frequent to the family at Portland Place—so certainly I +can assure you that Norah is finding a relief under her suspense, which +is not of my bringing, and a hope in the future, which I have not +taught her to feel. + +“It is needless for me to say that I tell you this in the strictest +confidence. God knows whether the happy prospect which seems to me to +be just dawning will grow brighter or not as time goes on. The oftener +I see Mr. George Bartram—and he has called on me more than once—the +stronger my liking for him grows. To my poor judgment he seems to be a +gentleman in the highest and truest sense of the word. If I could live +to see Norah his wife, I should almost feel that I had lived long +enough. But who can discern the future? We have suffered so much that I +am afraid to hope. + +“Have you heard anything of Magdalen? I don’t know why or how it is; +but since I have known of her husband’s death, my old tenderness for +her seems to cling to me more obstinately than ever. + +“Always yours truly, +“HARRIET GARTH.” + + +II. +From Mr. Pendril to Miss Garth. + +“Serle Street, January 4th, 1848. + + +“DEAR MISS GARTH, + +“Of Mrs. Noel Vanstone herself I have heard nothing. But I have +learned, since I saw you, that the report of the position in which she +is left by the death of her husband may be depended upon as the truth. +No legacy of any kind is bequeathed to her. Her name is not once +mentioned in her husband’s will. + +“Knowing what we know, it is not to be concealed that this circumstance +threatens us with more embarrassment, and perhaps with more distress. +Mrs. Noel Vanstone is not the woman to submit, without a desperate +resistance, to the total overthrow of all her schemes and all her +hopes. The mere fact that nothing whatever has been heard of her since +her husband’s death is suggestive to my mind of serious mischief to +come. In her situation, and with her temper, the quieter she is now, +the more inveterately I, for one, distrust her in the future. It is +impossible to say to what violent measures her present extremity may +not drive her. It is impossible to feel sure that she may not be the +cause of some public scandal this time, which may affect her innocent +sister as well as herself. + +“I know you will not misinterpret the motive which has led me to write +these lines; I know you will not think that I am inconsiderate enough +to cause you unnecessary alarm. My sincere anxiety to see that happy +prospect realized to which your letter alludes has caused me to write +far less reservedly than I might otherwise have written. I strongly +urge you to use your influence, on every occasion when you can fairly +exert it, to strengthen that growing attachment, and to place it beyond +the reach of any coming disasters, while you have the opportunity of +doing so. When I tell you that the fortune of which Mrs. Noel Vanstone +has been deprived is entirely bequeathed to Admiral Bartram; and when I +add that Mr. George Bartram is generally understood to be his uncle’s +heir—you will, I think, acknowledge that I am not warning you without a +cause. + +“Yours most truly, +“WILLIAM PENDRIL.” + + +III. +From Admiral Bartram to Mrs. Drake +(housekeeper at St. Crux). + +“St. Crux, January 10th, 1848. + + +“MRS. DRAKE, + +“I have received your letter from London, stating that you have found +me a new parlor-maid at last, and that the girl is ready to return with +you to St. Crux when your other errands in town allow you to come back. + +“This arrangement must be altered immediately, for a reason which I am +heartily sorry to have to write. + +“The illness of my niece, Mrs. Girdlestone—which appeared to be so +slight as to alarm none of us, doctors included—has ended fatally. I +received this morning the shocking news of her death. Her husband is +said to be quite frantic with grief. Mr. George has already gone to his +brother-in-law’s, to superintend the last melancholy duties and I must +follow him before the funeral takes place. We propose to take Mr. +Girdlestone away afterward, and to try the effect on him of change of +place and new scenes. Under these sad circumstances, I may be absent +from St. Crux a month or six weeks at least; the house will be shut up, +and the new servant will not be wanted until my return. + +“You will therefore tell the girl, on receiving this letter, that a +death in the family has caused a temporary change in our arrangements. +If she is willing to wait, you may safely engage her to come here in +six weeks’ time; I shall be back then, if Mr. George is not. If she +refuses, pay her what compensation is right, and so have done with her. + +“Yours, +“ARTHUR BARTRAM.” + + +IV. +From Mrs. Drake to Admiral Bartram. + +“January 11th. + + +“HONORED SIR, + +“I hope to get my errands done, and to return to St. Crux to-morrow, +but write to save you anxiety, in case of delay. + +“The young woman whom I have engaged (Louisa by name) is willing to +wait your time; and her present mistress, taking an interest in her +welfare, will provide for her during the interval. She understands that +she is to enter on her new service in six weeks from the present +date—namely, on the twenty-fifth of February next. + +“Begging you will accept my respectful sympathy under the sad +bereavement which has befallen the family, + +“I remain, honored sir, your humble servant, +“SOPHIA DRAKE.” + + + +THE SEVENTH SCENE. +ST. CRUX-IN-THE-MARSH. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +“This is where you are to sleep. Put yourself tidy, and then come down +again to my room. The admiral has returned, and you will have to begin +by waiting on him at dinner to-day.” + +With those words, Mrs. Drake, the housekeeper, closed the door; and the +new parlor-maid was left alone in her bed-chamber at St. Crux. + +That day was the eventful twenty-fifth of February. In barely four +months from the time when Mrs. Lecount had placed her master’s private +Instructions in his Executor’s hands, the one combination of +circumstances against which it had been her first and foremost object +to provide was exactly the combination which had now taken place. Mr. +Noel Vanstone’s widow and Admiral Bartram’s Secret Trust were together +in the same house. + +Thus far, events had declared themselves without an exception in +Magdalen’s favor. Thus far, the path which had led her to St. Crux had +been a path without an obstacle: Louisa, whose name she had now taken, +had sailed three days since for Australia, with her husband and her +child; she was the only living creature whom Magdalen had trusted with +her secret, and she was by this time out of sight of the English land. +The girl had been careful, reliable and faithfully devoted to her +mistress’s interests to the last. She had passed the ordeal of her +interview with the housekeeper, and had forgotten none of the +instructions by which she had been prepared to meet it. She had herself +proposed to turn the six weeks’ delay, caused by the death in the +admiral’s family, to good account, by continuing the all-important +practice of those domestic lessons, on the perfect acquirement of which +her mistress’s daring stratagem depended for its success. Thanks to the +time thus gained, when Louisa’s marriage was over, and the day of +parting had come, Magdalen had learned and mastered, in the nicest +detail, everything that her former servant could teach her. On the day +when she passed the doors of St. Crux she entered on her desperate +venture, strong in the ready presence of mind under emergencies which +her later life had taught her, stronger still in the trained capacity +that she possessed for the assumption of a character not her own, +strongest of all in her two months’ daily familiarity with the +practical duties of the position which she had undertaken to fill. + +As soon as Mrs. Drake’s departure had left her alone, she unpacked her +box, and dressed herself for the evening. + +She put on a lavender-colored stuff-gown—half-mourning for Mrs. +Girdlestone; ordered for all the servants, under the admiral’s +instructions—a white muslin apron, and a neat white cap and collar, +with ribbons to match the gown. In this servant’s costume—in the plain +gown fastening high round her neck, in the neat little white cap at the +back of her head—in this simple dress, to the eyes of all men, not +linen-drapers, at once the most modest and the most alluring that a +woman can wear, the sad changes which mental suffering had wrought in +her beauty almost disappeared from view. In the evening costume of a +lady, with her bosom uncovered, with her figure armed, rather than +dressed, in unpliable silk, the admiral might have passed her by +without notice in his own drawing-room. In the evening costume of a +servant, no admirer of beauty could have looked at her once and not +have turned again to look at her for the second time. + +Descending the stairs, on her way to the house-keeper’s room, she +passed by the entrances to two long stone corridors, with rows of doors +opening on them; one corridor situated on the second, and one on the +first floor of the house. “Many rooms!” she thought, as she looked at +the doors. “Weary work searching here for what I have come to find!” + +On reaching the ground-floor she was met by a weather-beaten old man, +who stopped and stared at her with an appearance of great interest. He +was the same old man whom Captain Wragge had seen in the backyard at +St. Crux, at work on the model of a ship. All round the neighborhood he +was known, far and wide, as “the admiral’s coxswain.” His name was +Mazey. Sixty years had written their story of hard work at sea, and +hard drinking on shore, on the veteran’s grim and wrinkled face. Sixty +years had proved his fidelity, and had brought his battered old +carcass, at the end of the voyage, into port in his master’s house. + +Seeing no one else of whom she could inquire, Magdalen requested the +old man to show her the way that led to the housekeeper’s room. + +“I’ll show you, my dear,” said old Mazey, speaking in the high and +hollow voice peculiar to the deaf. “You’re the new maid—eh? And a +fine-grown girl, too! His honor, the admiral, likes a parlor-maid with +a clean run fore and aft. You’ll do, my dear—you’ll do.” + +“You must not mind what Mr. Mazey says to you,” remarked the +housekeeper, opening her door as the old sailor expressed his approval +of Magdalen in these terms. “He is privileged to talk as he pleases; +and he is very tiresome and slovenly in his habits; but he means no +harm.” + +With that apology for the veteran, Mrs. Drake led Magdalen first to the +pantry, and next to the linen-room, installing her, with all due +formality, in her own domestic dominions. This ceremony completed, the +new parlor-maid was taken upstairs, and was shown the dining-room, +which opened out of the corridor on the first floor. Here she was +directed to lay the cloth, and to prepare the table for one person +only—Mr. George Bartram not having returned with his uncle to St. Crux. +Mrs. Drake’s sharp eyes watched Magdalen attentively as she performed +this introductory duty; and Mrs. Drake’s private convictions, when the +table was spread, forced her to acknowledge, so far, that the new +servant thoroughly understood her work. + +An hour later the soup-tureen was placed on the table; and Magdalen +stood alone behind the admiral’s empty chair, waiting her master’s +first inspection of her when he entered the dining-room. + +A large bell rang in the lower regions—quick, shambling footsteps +pattered on the stone corridor outside—the door opened suddenly—and a +tall lean yellow old man, sharp as to his eyes, shrewd as to his lips, +fussily restless as to all his movements, entered the room, with two +huge Labrador dogs at his heels, and took his seat in a violent hurry. +The dogs followed him, and placed themselves, with the utmost gravity +and composure, one on each side of his chair. This was Admiral Bartram, +and these were the companions of his solitary meal. + +“Ay! ay! ay! here’s the new parlor-maid, to be sure!” he began, looking +sharply, but not at all unkindly, at Magdalen. “What’s your name, my +good girl? Louisa, is it? I shall call you Lucy, if you don’t mind. +Take off the cover, my dear—I’m a minute or two late to-day. Don’t be +unpunctual to-morrow on that account; I am as regular as clock-work +generally. How are you after your journey? Did my spring-cart bump you +about much in bringing you from the station? Capital soup this—hot as +fire—reminds me of the soup we used to have in the West Indies in the +year Three. Have you got your half-mourning on? Stand there, and let me +see. Ah, yes, very neat, and nice, and tidy. Poor Mrs. Girdlestone! Oh +dear, dear, dear, poor Mrs. Girdlestone! You’re not afraid of dogs, are +you, Lucy? Eh? What? You like dogs? That’s right! Always be kind to +dumb animals. These two dogs dine with me every day, except when +there’s company. The dog with the black nose is Brutus, and the dog +with the white nose is Cassius. Did you ever hear who Brutus and +Cassius were? Ancient Romans? That’s right—-good girl. Mind your book +and your needle, and we’ll get you a good husband one of these days. +Take away the soup, my dear, take away the soup!” + +This was the man whose secret it was now the one interest of Magdalen’s +life to surprise! This was the man whose name had supplanted hers in +Noel Vanstone’s will! + +The fish and the roast meat followed; and the admiral’s talk rambled +on—now in soliloquy, now addressed to the parlor-maid, and now directed +to the dogs—as familiarly and as discontentedly as ever. Magdalen +observed with some surprise that the companions of the admiral’s dinner +had, thus far, received no scraps from their master’s plate. The two +magnificent brutes sat squatted on their haunches, with their great +heads over the table, watching the progress of the meal, with the +profoundest attention, but apparently expecting no share in it. The +roast meat was removed, the admiral’s plate was changed, and Magdalen +took the silver covers off the two made-dishes on either side of the +table. As she handed the first of the savory dishes to her master, the +dogs suddenly exhibited a breathless personal interest in the +proceedings. Brutus gluttonously watered at the mouth; and the tongue +of Cassius, protruding in unutterable expectation, smoked again between +his enormous jaws. + +The admiral helped himself liberally from the dish; sent Magdalen to +the side-table to get him some bread; and, when he thought her eye was +off him, furtively tumbled the whole contents of his plate into +Brutus’s mouth. Cassius whined faintly as his fortunate comrade +swallowed the savory mess at a gulp. “Hush! you fool,” whispered the +admiral. “Your turn next!” + +Magdalen presented the second dish. Once more the old gentleman helped +himself largely—once more he sent her away to the side-table—once more +he tumbled the entire contents of the plate down the dog’s throat, +selecting Cassius this time, as became a considerate master and an +impartial man. When the next course followed—consisting of a plain +pudding and an unwholesome “cream”—Magdalen’s suspicion of the function +of the dogs at the dinner-table was confirmed. While the master took +the simple pudding, the dogs swallowed the elaborate cream. The admiral +was plainly afraid of offending his cook on the one hand, and of +offending his digestion on the other—and Brutus and Cassius were the +two trained accomplices who regularly helped him every day off the +horns of his dilemma. “Very good! very good!” said the old gentleman, +with the most transparent duplicity. “Tell the cook, my dear, a capital +cream!” + +Having placed the wine and dessert on the table, Magdalen was about to +withdraw. Before she could leave the room, her master called her back. + +“Stop, stop!” said the admiral; “you don’t know the ways of the house +yet, Lucy. Put another wine-glass here, at my right hand—the largest +you can find, my dear. I’ve got a third dog, who comes in at dessert—a +drunken old sea-dog who has followed my fortunes, afloat and ashore, +for fifty years and more. Yes, yes, that’s the sort of glass we want. +You’re a good girl—you’re a neat, handy girl. Steady, my dear! there’s +nothing to be frightened at!” + +A sudden thump on the outside of the door, followed by one mighty bark +from each of the dogs, had made Magdalen start. “Come in!” shouted the +admiral. The door opened; the tails of Brutus and Cassius cheerfully +thumped the floor; and old Mazey marched straight up to the right-hand +side of his master’s chair. The veteran stood there, with his legs wide +apart and his balance carefully adjusted, as if the dining-room had +been a cabin, and the house a ship pitching in a sea-way. + +The admiral filled the large glass with port, filled his own glass with +claret, and raised it to his lips. + +“God bless the Queen, Mazey,” said the admiral. + +“God bless the Queen, your honor,” said old Mazey, swallowing his port, +as the dogs swallowed the made-dishes, at a gulp. + +“How’s the wind, Mazey?” + +“West and by Noathe, your honor.” + +“Any report to-night, Mazey!” + +“No report, your honor.” + +“Good-evening, Mazey.” + +“Good-evening, your honor.” + +The after-dinner ceremony thus completed, old Mazey made his bow, and +walked out of the room again. Brutus and Cassius stretched themselves +on the rug to digest mushrooms and made gravies in the lubricating heat +of the fire. “For what we have received, the Lord make us truly +thankful,” said the admiral. “Go downstairs, my good girl, and get your +supper. A light meal, Lucy, if you take my advice—a light meal, or you +will have the nightmare. Early to bed, my dear, and early to rise, +makes a parlor-maid healthy and wealthy and wise. That’s the wisdom of +your ancestors—you mustn’t laugh at it. Good-night.” In those words +Magdalen was dismissed; and so her first day’s experience of Admiral +Bartram came to an end. + +After breakfast the next morning, the admiral’s directions to the new +parlor-maid included among them one particular order which, in +Magdalen’s situation, it was especially her interest to receive. In the +old gentleman’s absence from home that day, on local business which +took him to Ossory, she was directed to make herself acquainted with +the whole inhabited quarter of the house, and to learn the positions of +the various rooms, so as to know where the bells called her when the +bells rang. Mrs. Drake was charged with the duty of superintending the +voyage of domestic discovery, unless she happened to be otherwise +engaged—in which case any one of the inferior servants would be equally +competent to act as Magdalen’s guide. + +At noon the admiral left for Ossory, and Magdalen presented herself in +Mrs. Drake’s room, to be shown over the house. Mrs. Drake happened to +be otherwise engaged, and referred her to the head house-maid. The head +house-maid happened on that particular morning to be in the same +condition as Mrs. Drake, and referred her to the under-house-maids. The +under-house-maids declared they were all behindhand and had not a +minute to spare—they suggested, not too civilly, that old Mazey had +nothing on earth to do, and that he knew the house as well, or better, +than he knew his A B C. Magdalen took the hint, with a secret +indignation and contempt which it cost her a hard struggle to conceal. +She had suspected, on the previous night, and she was certain now, that +the women-servants all incomprehensibly resented her presence among +them with the same sullen unanimity of distrust. Mrs. Drake, as she had +seen for herself, was really engaged that morning over her accounts. +But of all the servants under her who had made their excuses not one +had even affected to be more occupied than usual. Their looks said +plainly, “We don’t like you; and we won’t show you over the house.” + +She found her way to old Mazey, not by the scanty directions given her, +but by the sound of the veteran’s cracked and quavering voice, singing +in some distant seclusion a verse of the immortal sea-song—“Tom +Bowling.” Just as she stopped among the rambling stone passages on the +basement story of the house, uncertain which way to turn next, she +heard the tuneless old voice in the distance, singing these lines: + +“His form was of the manliest beau-u-u-uty, + His heart was ki-i-ind and soft; +Faithful below Tom did his duty, + But now he’s gone alo-o-o-o-oft— + But now he’s go-o-o-one aloft!” + + +Magdalen followed in the direction of the quavering voice, and found +herself in a little room looking out on the back yard. There sat old +Mazey, with his spectacles low on his nose, and his knotty old hands +blundering over the rigging of his model ship. There were Brutus and +Cassius digesting before the fire again, and snoring as if they +thoroughly enjoyed it. There was Lord Nelson on one wall, in flaming +watercolors; and there, on the other, was a portrait of Admiral +Bartram’s last flagship, in full sail on a sea of slate, with a +salmon-colored sky to complete the illusion. + +“What, they won’t show you over the house—won’t they?” said old Mazey. +“I will, then! That head house-maid’s a sour one, my dear—if ever there +was a sour one yet. You’re too young and good-looking to please +’em—that’s what you are.” He rose, took off his spectacles, and feebly +mended the fire. “She’s as straight as a poplar,” said old Mazey, +considering Magdalen’s figure in drowsy soliloquy. “I say she’s as +straight as a poplar, and his honor the admiral says so too! Come +along, my dear,” he proceeded, addressing himself to Magdalen again. +“I’ll teach you your Pints of the Compass first. When you know your +Pints, blow high, blow low, you’ll find it plain sailing all over the +house.” + +He led the way to the door—stopped, and suddenly bethinking himself of +his miniature ship, went back to put his model away in an empty +cupboard—led the way to the door again—stopped once more—remembered +that some of the rooms were chilly—and pottered about, swearing and +grumbling, and looking for his hat. Magdalen sat down patiently to wait +for him. She gratefully contrasted his treatment of her with the +treatment she had received from the women. Resist it as firmly, despise +it as proudly as we may, all studied unkindness—no matter how +contemptible it may be—has a stinging power in it which reaches to the +quick. Magdalen only knew how she had felt the small malice of the +female servants, by the effect which the rough kindness of the old +sailor produced on her afterward. The dumb welcome of the dogs, when +the movements in the room had roused them from their sleep, touched her +more acutely still. Brutus pushed his mighty muzzle companionably into +her hand; and Cassius laid his friendly fore-paw on her lap. Her heart +yearned over the two creatures as she patted and caressed them. It +seemed only yesterday since she and the dogs at Combe-Raven had roamed +the garden together, and had idled away the summer mornings luxuriously +on the shady lawn. + +Old Mazey found his hat at last, and they started on their exploring +expedition, with the dogs after them. + +Leaving the basement story of the house, which was entirely devoted to +the servants’ offices, they ascended to the first floor, and entered +the long corridor, with which Magdalen’s last night’s experience had +already made her acquainted. “Put your back ag’in this wall,” said old +Mazey, pointing to the long wall—pierced at irregular intervals with +windows looking out over a courtyard and fish-pond—which formed the +right-hand side of the corridor, as Magdalen now stood. “Put your back +here,” said the veteran, “and look straight afore you. What do you +see?”—“The opposite wall of the passage,” said Magdalen.—“Ay! ay! what +else?”—“The doors leading into the rooms.”—“What else?”—“I see nothing +else.” Old Mazey chuckled, winked, and shook his knotty forefinger at +Magdalen, impressively. “You see one of the Pints of the Compass, my +dear. When you’ve got your back ag’in this wall, and when you look +straight afore you, you look Noathe. If you ever get lost hereaway, put +your back ag’in the wall, look out straight afore you, and say to +yourself: ‘I look Noathe!’ You do that like a good girl, and you won’t +lose your bearings.” + +After administering this preliminary dose of instruction, old Mazey +opened the first of the doors on the left-hand side of the passage. It +led into the dining-room, with which Magdalen was already familiar. The +second room was fitted up as a library; and the third, as a +morning-room. The fourth and fifth doors—both belonging to dismantled +and uninhabited rooms, and both locked-brought them to the end of the +north wing of the house, and to the opening of a second and shorter +passage, placed at a right angle to the first. Here old Mazey, who had +divided his time pretty equally during the investigation of the rooms, +in talking of “his honor the Admiral,” and whistling to the dogs, +returned with all possible expedition to the points of the compass, and +gravely directed Magdalen to repeat the ceremony of putting her back +against the wall. She attempted to shorten the proceedings, by +declaring (quite correctly) that in her present position she knew she +was looking east. “Don’t you talk about the east, my dear,” said old +Mazey, proceeding unmoved with his own system of instruction, “till you +know the east first. Put your back ag’in this wall, and look straight +afore you. What do you see?” The remainder of the catechism proceeded +as before. When the end was reached, Magdalen’s instructor was +satisfied. He chuckled and winked at her once more. “Now you may talk +about the east, my dear,” said the veteran, “for now you know it.” + +The east passage, after leading them on for a few yards only, +terminated in a vestibule, with a high door in it which faced them as +they advanced. The door admitted them to a large and lofty +drawing-room, decorated, like all the other apartments, with valuable +old-fashioned furniture. Leading the way across this room, Magdalen’s +conductor pushed back a heavy sliding-door, opposite the door of +entrance. “Put your apron over your head,” said old Mazey. “We are +coming to the Banqueting-Hall now. The floor’s mortal cold, and the +damp sticks to the place like cockroaches to a collier. His honor the +admiral calls it the Arctic Passage. I’ve got my name for it, too—I +call it, Freeze-your-Bones.” + +Magdalen passed through the doorway, and found herself in the ancient +Banqueting-Hall of St. Crux. + +On her left hand she saw a row of lofty windows, set deep in +embrasures, and extending over a frontage of more than a hundred feet +in length. On her right hand, ranged in one long row from end to end of +the opposite wall, hung a dismal collection of black, begrimed old +pictures, rotting from their frames, and representing battle-scenes by +sea and land. Below the pictures, midway down the length of the wall, +yawned a huge cavern of a fireplace, surmounted by a towering +mantel-piece of black marble. The one object of furniture (if furniture +it might be called) visible far or near in the vast emptiness of the +place, was a gaunt ancient tripod of curiously chased metal, standing +lonely in the middle of the hall, and supporting a wide circular pan, +filled deep with ashes from an extinct charcoal fire. The high ceiling, +once finely carved and gilt, was foul with dirt and cobwebs; the naked +walls at either end of the room were stained with damp; and the cold of +the marble floor struck through the narrow strip of matting laid down, +parallel with the windows, as a foot-path for passengers across the +wilderness of the room. No better name for it could have been devised +than the name which old Mazey had found. “Freeze-your-Bones” accurately +described, in three words, the Banqueting-Hall at St. Crux. + +“Do you never light a fire in this dismal place?” asked Magdalen. + +“It all depends on which side of Freeze-your-Bones his honor the +admiral lives,” said old Mazey. “His honor likes to shift his quarters, +sometimes to one side of the house, sometimes to the other. If he lives +Noathe of Freeze-your-Bones—which is where you’ve just come from—we +don’t waste our coals here. If he lives South of +Freeze-your-Bones—which is where we are going to next—we light the fire +in the grate and the charcoal in the pan. Every night, when we do that, +the damp gets the better of us: every morning, we turn to again, and +get the better of the damp.” + +With this remarkable explanation, old Mazey led the way to the lower +end of the Hall, opened more doors, and showed Magdalen through another +suite of rooms, four in number, all of moderate size, and all furnished +in much the same manner as the rooms in the northern wing. She looked +out of the windows, and saw the neglected gardens of St. Crux, +overgrown with brambles and weeds. Here and there, at no great distance +in the grounds, the smoothly curving line of one of the tidal streams +peculiar to the locality wound its way, gleaming in the sunlight, +through gaps in the brambles and trees. The more distant view ranged +over the flat eastward country beyond, speckled with its scattered +little villages; crossed and recrossed by its network of “back-waters”; +and terminated abruptly by the long straight line of sea-wall which +protects the defenseless coast of Essex from invasion by the sea. + +“Have we more rooms still to see?” asked Magdalen, turning from the +view of the garden, and looking about her for another door. + +“No more, my dear—we’ve run aground here, and we may as well wear round +and put back again,” said old Mazey. “There’s another side of the +house—due south of you as you stand now—which is all tumbling about our +ears. You must go out into the garden if you want to see it; it’s built +off from us by a brick bulkhead, t’other side of this wall here. The +monks lived due south of us, my dear, hundreds of years afore his honor +the admiral was born or thought of, and a fine time of it they had, as +I’ve heard. They sang in the church all the morning, and drank grog in +the orchard all the afternoon. They slept off their grog on the best of +feather-beds, and they fattened on the neighborhood all the year round. +Lucky beggars! lucky beggars!” + +Apostrophizing the monks in these terms, and evidently regretting that +he had not lived himself in those good old times, the veteran led the +way back through the rooms. On the return passage across +“Freeze-your-Bones,” Magdalen preceded him. “She’s as straight as a +poplar,” mumbled old Mazey to himself, hobbling along after his +youthful companion, and wagging his venerable head in cordial approval. +“I never was particular what nation they belonged to; but I always +_did_ like ’em straight and fine grown, and I always _shall_ like ’em +straight and fine grown, to my dying day.” + +“Are there more rooms to see upstairs, on the second floor?” asked +Magdalen, when they had returned to the point from which they had +started. + +The naturally clear, distinct tones of her voice had hitherto reached +the old sailor’s imperfect sense of hearing easily enough. Rather to +her surprise, he became stone deaf on a sudden, to her last question. + +“Are you sure of your Pints of the Compass?” he inquired. “If you’re +not sure, put your back ag’in the wall, and we’ll go all over ’em +again, my dear, beginning with the Noathe.” + +Magdalen assured him that she felt quite familiar, by this time, with +all the points, the “Noathe” included; and then repeated her question +in louder tones. The veteran obstinately matched her by becoming deafer +than ever. + +“Yes, my dear,” he said, “you’re right; it _is_ chilly in these +passages; and unless I go back to my fire, my fire’ll go out—won’t it? +If you don’t feel sure of your Pints of the Compass, come in to me and +I’ll put you right again.” He winked benevolently, whistled to the +dogs, and hobbled off. Magdalen heard him chuckle over his own success +in balking her curiosity on the subject of the second floor. “I know +how to deal with ’em!” said old Mazey to himself, in high triumph. +“Tall and short, native and foreign, sweethearts and wives—_I_ know how +to deal with ’em!” + +Left by herself, Magdalen exemplified the excellence of the old +sailor’s method of treatment, in her particular case, by ascending the +stairs immediately, to make her own observations on the second floor. +The stone passage here was exactly similar, except that more doors +opened out of it, to the passage on the first floor. She opened the two +nearest doors, one after another, at a venture, and discovered that +both rooms were bed-chambers. The fear of being discovered by one of +the woman-servants in a part of the house with which she had no +concern, warned her not to push her investigations on the bedroom floor +too far at starting. She hurriedly walked down the passage to see where +it ended, discovered that it came to its termination in a lumber-room, +answering to the position of the vestibule downstairs, and retraced her +steps immediately. + +On her way back she noticed an object which had previously escaped her +attention. It was a low truckle-bed, placed parallel with the wall, and +close to one of the doors on the bedroom side. In spite of its strange +and comfortless situation, the bed was apparently occupied at night by +a sleeper; the sheets were on it, and the end of a thick red +fisherman’s cap peeped out from under the pillow. She ventured on +opening the door near which the bed was placed, and found herself, as +she conjectured from certain signs and tokens, in the admiral’s +sleeping chamber. A moment’s observation of the room was all she dared +risk, and, softly closing the door again, she returned to the kitchen +regions. + +The truckle-bed, and the strange position in which it was placed, dwelt +on her mind all through the afternoon. Who could possibly sleep in it? +The remembrance of the red fisherman’s cap, and the knowledge she had +already gained of Mazey’s dog-like fidelity to his master, helped her +to guess that the old sailor might be the occupant of the truckle-bed. +But why, with bedrooms enough and to spare, should he occupy that cold +and comfortless situation at night? Why should he sleep on guard +outside his master’s door? Was there some nocturnal danger in the house +of which the admiral was afraid? The question seemed absurd, and yet +the position of the bed forced it irresistibly on her mind. + +Stimulated by her own ungovernable curiosity on this subject, Magdalen +ventured to question the housekeeper. She acknowledged having walked +from end to end of the passage on the second floor, to see if it was as +long as the passage on the first; and she mentioned having noticed with +astonishment the position of the truckle-bed. Mrs. Drake answered her +implied inquiry shortly and sharply. “I don’t blame a young girl like +you,” said the old lady, “for being a little curious when she first +comes into such a strange house as this. But remember, for the future, +that your business does not lie on the bedroom story. Mr. Mazey sleeps +on that bed you noticed. It is his habit at night to sleep outside his +master’s door.” With that meager explanation Mrs. Drake’s lips closed, +and opened no more. + +Later in the day Magdalen found an opportunity of applying to old Mazey +himself. She discovered the veteran in high good humor, smoking his +pipe, and warming a tin mug of ale at his own snug fire. + +“Mr. Mazey,” she asked, boldly, “why do you put your bed in that cold +passage?” + +“What! you have been upstairs, you young jade, have you?” said old +Mazey, looking up from his mug with a leer. + +Magdalen smiled and nodded. “Come! come! tell me,” she said, coaxingly. +“Why do you sleep outside the admiral’s door?” + +“Why do you part your hair in the middle, my dear?” asked old Mazey, +with another leer. + +“I suppose, because I am accustomed to do it,” answered Magdalen. + +“Ay! ay!” said the veteran. “That’s why, is it? Well, my dear, the +reason why you part your hair in the middle is the reason why I sleep +outside the admiral’s door. I know how to deal with ’em!” chuckled old +Mazey, lapsing into soliloquy, and stirring up his ale in high triumph. +“Tall and short, native and foreign, sweethearts and wives—_I_ know how +to deal with ’em!” + +Magdalen’s third and last attempt at solving the mystery of the +truckle-bed was made while she was waiting on the admiral at dinner. +The old gentleman’s questions gave her an opportunity of referring to +the subject, without any appearance of presumption or disrespect; but +he proved to be quite as impenetrable, in his way, as old Mazey and +Mrs. Drake had been in theirs. “It doesn’t concern you, my dear,” said +the admiral, bluntly. “Don’t be curious. Look in your Old Testament +when you go downstairs, and see what happened in the Garden of Eden +through curiosity. Be a good girl, and don’t imitate your mother Eve.” + +Late at night, as Magdalen passed the end of the second-floor passage, +proceeding alone on her way up to her own room, she stopped and +listened. A screen was placed at the entrance of the corridor, so as to +hide it from the view of persons passing on the stairs. The snoring she +heard on the other side of the screen encouraged her to slip round it, +and to advance a few steps. Shading the light of her candle with her +hand, she ventured close to the admiral’s door, and saw, to her +surprise, that the bed had been moved since she had seen it in the +day-time, so as to stand exactly across the door, and to bar the way +entirely to any one who might attempt to enter the admiral’s room. +After this discovery, old Mazey himself, snoring lustily, with the red +fisherman’s cap pulled down to his eyebrows, and the blankets drawn up +to his nose, became an object of secondary importance only, by +comparison with his bed. That the veteran did actually sleep on guard +before his master’s door, and that he and the admiral and the +housekeeper were in the secret of this unaccountable proceeding, was +now beyond all doubt. + +“A strange end,” thought Magdalen, pondering over her discovery as she +stole upstairs to her own sleeping-room—“a strange end to a strange +day!” + + + +CHAPTER II. + +The first week passed, the second week passed, and Magdalen was, to all +appearance, no nearer to the discovery of the Secret Trust than on the +day when she first entered on her service at St. Crux. + +But the fortnight, uneventful as it was, had not been a fortnight lost. +Experience had already satisfied her on one important point—experience +had shown that she could set the rooted distrust of the other servants +safely at defiance. Time had accustomed the women to her presence in +the house, without shaking the vague conviction which possessed them +all alike, that the newcomer was not one of themselves. All that +Magdalen could do in her own defense was to keep the instinctive female +suspicion of her confined within those purely negative limits which it +had occupied from the first, and this she accomplished. + +Day after day the women watched her with the untiring vigilance of +malice and distrust, and day after day not the vestige of a discovery +rewarded them for their pains. Silently, intelligently, and +industriously—with an ever-present remembrance of herself and her +place—the new parlor-maid did her work. Her only intervals of rest and +relaxation were the intervals passed occasionally in the day with old +Mazey and the dogs, and the precious interval of the night during which +she was secure from observation in the solitude of her room. Thanks to +the superfluity of bed-chambers at St. Crux, each one of the servants +had the choice, if she pleased, of sleeping in a room of her own. Alone +in the night, Magdalen might dare to be herself again—might dream of +the past, and wake from the dream, encountering no curious eyes to +notice that she was in tears—might ponder over the future, and be +roused by no whisperings in corners, which tainted her with the +suspicion of “having something on her mind.” + +Satisfied, thus far, of the perfect security of her position in the +house, she profited next by a second chance in her favor, which—before +the fortnight was at an end—relieved her mind of all doubt on the +formidable subject of Mrs. Lecount. + +Partly from the accidental gossip of the women at the table in the +servants’ hall; partly from a marked paragraph in a Swiss newspaper, +which she had found one morning lying open on the admiral’s +easy-chair—she gained the welcome assurance that no danger was to be +dreaded, this time, from the housekeeper’s presence on the scene. Mrs. +Lecount had, as it appeared, passed a week or more at St. Crux after +the date of her master’s death, and had then left England, to live on +the interest of her legacy, in honorable and prosperous retirement, in +her native place. The paragraph in the Swiss newspaper described the +fulfillment of this laudable project. Mrs. Lecount had not only +established herself at Zurich, but (wisely mindful of the uncertainty +of life) had also settled the charitable uses to which her fortune was +to be applied after her death. One half of it was to go to the founding +of a “Lecompte Scholarship” for poor students in the University of +Geneva. The other half was to be employed by the municipal authorities +of Zurich in the maintenance and education of a certain number of +orphan girls, natives of the city, who were to be trained for domestic +service in later life. The Swiss journalist adverted to these +philanthropic bequests in terms of extravagant eulogy. Zurich was +congratulated on the possession of a Paragon of public virtue; and +William Tell, in the character of benefactor to Switzerland, was +compared disadvantageously with Mrs. Lecount. + +The third week began, and Magdalen was now at liberty to take her first +step forward on the way to the discovery of the Secret Trust. + +She ascertained from old Mazey that it was his master’s custom, during +the winter and spring months, to occupy the rooms in the north wing; +and during the summer and autumn to cross the Arctic passage of +“Freeze-your-Bones,” and live in the eastward apartments which looked +out on the garden. While the Banqueting-Hall remained—owing to the +admiral’s inadequate pecuniary resources—in its damp and dismantled +state, and while the interior of St. Crux was thus comfortlessly +divided into two separate residences, no more convenient arrangement +than this could well have been devised. Now and then (as Magdalen +understood from her informant) there were days, both in winter and +summer, when the admiral became anxious about the condition of the +rooms which he was not occupying at the time, and when he insisted on +investigating the state of the furniture, the pictures, and the books +with his own eyes. On these occasions, in summer as in winter, a +blazing fire was kindled for some days previously in the large grate, +and the charcoal was lighted in the tripod-pan, to keep the +Banqueting-Hall as warm as circumstances would admit. As soon as the +old gentleman’s anxieties were set at rest the rooms were shut up +again, and “Freeze-your-Bones” was once more abandoned for weeks and +weeks together to damp, desolation, and decay. The last of these +temporary migrations had taken place only a few days since; the admiral +had satisfied himself that the rooms in the east wing were none the +worse for the absence of their master, and he might now be safely +reckoned on as settled in the north wing for weeks, and perhaps, if the +season was cold, for months to come. + +Trifling as they might be in themselves, these particulars were of +serious importance to Magdalen, for they helped her to fix the limits +of the field of search. Assuming that the admiral was likely to keep +all his important documents within easy reach of his own hand, she +might now feel certain that the Secret Trust was secured in one or +other of the rooms in the north wing. + +In which room? That question was not easy to answer. + +Of the four inhabitable rooms which were all at the admiral’s disposal +during the day—that is to say, of the dining-room, the library, the +morning-room, and the drawing-room opening out of the vestibule—the +library appeared to be the apartment in which, if he had a preference, +he passed the greater part of his time. There was a table in this room, +with drawers that locked; there was a magnificent Italian cabinet, with +doors that locked; there were five cupboards under the book-cases, +every one of which locked. There were receptacles similarly secured in +the other rooms; and in all or any of these papers might be kept. + +She had answered the bell, and had seen him locking and unlocking, now +in one room, now in another, but oftenest in the library. She had +noticed occasionally that his expression was fretful and impatient when +he looked round at her from an open cabinet or cupboard and gave his +orders; and she inferred that something in connection with his papers +and possessions—it might or might not be the Secret Trust—irritated and +annoyed him from time to time. She had heard him more than once lock +something up in one of the rooms, come out and go into another room, +wait there a few minutes, then return to the first room with his keys +in his hand, and sharply turn the locks and turn them again. This +fidgety anxiety about his keys and his cupboards might be the result of +the inbred restlessness of his disposition, aggravated in a naturally +active man by the aimless indolence of a life in retirement—a life +drifting backward and forward among trifles, with no regular employment +to steady it at any given hour of the day. On the other hand, it was +just as probable that these comings and goings, these lockings and +unlockings, might be attributable to the existence of some private +responsibility which had unexpectedly intruded itself into the old +man’s easy existence, and which tormented him with a sense of +oppression new to the experience of his later years. Either one of +these interpretations might explain his conduct as reasonably and as +probably as the other. Which was the right interpretation of the two, +it was, in Magdalen’s position, impossible to say. + +The one certain discovery at which she arrived was made in her first +day’s observation of him. The admiral was a rigidly careful man with +his keys. + +All the smaller keys he kept on a ring in the breast-pocket of his +coat. The larger he locked up together; generally, but not always, in +one of the drawers of the library table. Sometimes he left them secured +in this way at night; sometimes he took them up to the bedroom with him +in a little basket. He had no regular times for leaving them or for +taking them away with him; he had no discoverable reason for now +securing them in the library-table drawer, and now again locking them +up in some other place. The inveterate willfulness and caprice of his +proceedings in these particulars defied every effort to reduce them to +a system, and baffled all attempts at calculating on them beforehand. + +The hope of gaining positive information to act on, by laying artful +snares for him which he might fall into in his talk, proved, from the +outset, to be utterly futile. + +In Magdalen’s situation all experiments of this sort would have been in +the last degree difficult and dangerous with any man. With the admiral +they were simply impossible. His tendency to veer about from one +subject to another; his habit of keeping his tongue perpetually going, +so long as there was anybody, no matter whom, within reach of the sound +of his voice; his comical want of all dignity and reserve with his +servants, promised, in appearance, much, and performed in reality +nothing. No matter how diffidently or how respectfully Magdalen might +presume on her master’s example, and on her master’s evident liking for +her, the old man instantly discovered the advance she was making from +her proper position, and instantly put her back in it again, with a +quaint good humor which inflicted no pain, but with a blunt +straightforwardness of purpose which permitted no escape. Contradictory +as it may sound, Admiral Bartram was too familiar to be approached; he +kept the distance between himself and his servant more effectually than +if he had been the proudest man in England. The systematic reserve of a +superior toward an inferior may be occasionally overcome—the systematic +familiarity never. + +Slowly the time dragged on. The fourth week came; and Magdalen had made +no new discoveries. The prospect was depressing in the last degree. +Even in the apparently hopeless event of her devising a means of +getting at the admiral’s keys, she could not count on retaining +possession of them unsuspected more than a few hours—hours which might +be utterly wasted through her not knowing in what direction to begin +the search. The Trust might be locked up in any one of some twenty +receptacles for papers, situated in four different rooms; and which +room was the likeliest to look in, which receptacle was the most +promising to begin with, which position among other heaps of papers the +one paper needful might be expected to occupy, was more than she could +say. Hemmed in by immeasurable uncertainties on every side; condemned, +as it were, to wander blindfold on the very brink of success, she +waited for the chance that never came, for the event that never +happened, with a patience which was sinking already into the patience +of despair. + +Night after night she looked back over the vanished days, and not an +event rose on her memory to distinguish them one from the other. The +only interruptions to the weary uniformity of the life at St. Crux were +caused by the characteristic delinquencies of old Mazey and the dogs. + +At certain intervals, the original wildness broke out in the natures of +Brutus and Cassius. The modest comforts of home, the savory charms of +made dishes, the decorous joy of digestions accomplished on +hearth-rugs, lost all their attractions, and the dogs ungratefully left +the house to seek dissipation and adventure in the outer world. On +these occasions the established after-dinner formula of question and +answer between old Mazey and his master varied a little in one +particular. “God bless the Queen, Mazey,” and “How’s the wind, Mazey?” +were followed by a new inquiry: “Where are the dogs, Mazey?” “Out on +the loose, your honor, and be damned to ’em,” was the veteran’s +unvarying answer. The admiral always sighed and shook his head gravely +at the news, as if Brutus and Cassius had been sons of his own, who +treated him with a want of proper filial respect. In two or three days’ +time the dogs always returned, lean, dirty, and heartily ashamed of +themselves. For the whole of the next day they were invariably tied up +in disgrace. On the day after they were scrubbed clean, and were +formally re-admitted to the dining-room. There, Civilization, acting +through the subtle medium of the Saucepan, recovered its hold on them; +and the admiral’s two prodigal sons, when they saw the covers removed, +watered at the mouth as copiously as ever. + +Old Mazey, in his way, proved to be just as disreputably inclined on +certain occasions as the dogs. At intervals, the original wildness in +_his_ nature broke out; he, too, lost all relish for the comforts of +home, and ungratefully left the house. He usually disappeared in the +afternoon, and returned at night as drunk as liquor could make him. He +was by many degrees too seasoned a vessel to meet with any disasters on +these occasions. His wicked old legs might take roundabout methods of +progression, but they never failed him; his wicked old eyes might see +double, but they always showed him the way home. Try as hard as they +might, the servants could never succeed in persuading him that he was +drunk; he always scorned the imputation. He even declined to admit the +idea privately into his mind, until he had first tested his condition +by an infallible criterion of his own. + +It was his habit, in these cases of Bacchanalian emergency, to stagger +obstinately into his room on the ground-floor, to take the model-ship +out of the cupboard, and to try if he could proceed with the +never-to-be-completed employment of setting up the rigging. When he had +smashed the tiny spars, and snapped asunder the delicate ropes—then, +and not till then, the veteran admitted facts as they were, on the +authority of practical evidence. “Ay! ay!” he used to say +confidentially to himself, “the women are right. Drunk again, +Mazey—drunk again!” Having reached this discovery, it was his habit to +wait cunningly in the lower regions until the admiral was safe in his +room, and then to ascend in discreet list slippers to his post. Too +wary to attempt getting into the truckle-bed (which would have been +only inviting the catastrophe of a fall against his master’s door), he +always walked himself sober up and down the passage. More than once +Magdalen had peeped round the screen, and had seen the old sailor +unsteadily keeping his watch, and fancying himself once more at his +duty on board ship. “This is an uncommonly lively vessel in a sea-way,” +he used to mutter under his breath, when his legs took him down the +passage in zigzag directions, or left him for the moment studying the +“Pints of the Compass” on his own system, with his back against the +wall. “A nasty night, mind you,” he would maunder on, taking another +turn. “As dark as your pocket, and the wind heading us again from the +old quarter.” On the next day old Mazey, like the dogs, was kept +downstairs in disgrace. On the day after, like the dogs again, he was +reinstated in his privileges; and another change was introduced in the +after-dinner formula. On entering the room, the old sailor stopped +short and made his excuses in this brief yet comprehensive form of +words, with his back against the door: “Please your honor, I’m ashamed +of myself.” So the apology began and ended. “This mustn’t happen again, +Mazey,” the admiral used to answer. “It shan’t happen again, your +honor.” “Very good. Come here, and drink your glass of wine. God bless +the Queen, Mazey.” The veteran tossed off his port, and the dialogue +ended as usual. + +So the days passed, with no incidents more important than these to +relieve their monotony, until the end of the fourth week was at hand. + +On the last day, an event happened; on the last day, the long deferred +promise of the future unexpectedly began to dawn. While Magdalen was +spreading the cloth in the dining-room, as usual, Mrs. Drake looked in, +and instructed her on this occasion, for the first time, to lay the +table for two persons. The admiral had received a letter from his +nephew. Early that evening Mr. George Bartram was expected to return to +St. Crux. + + + +CHAPTER III. + +After placing the second cover, Magdalen awaited the ringing of the +dinner-bell, with an interest and impatience which she found it no easy +task to conceal. The return of Mr. Bartram would, in all probability, +produce a change in the life of the house; and from change of any kind, +no matter how trifling, something might be hoped. The nephew might be +accessible to influences which had failed to reach the uncle. In any +case, the two would talk of their affairs over their dinner; and +through that talk—proceeding day after day in her presence—the way to +discovery, now absolutely invisible, might, sooner or later, show +itself. + +At last the bell rang, the door opened, and the two gentlemen entered +the room together. + +Magdalen was struck, as her sister had been struck, by George Bartram’s +resemblance to her father—judging by the portrait at Combe-Raven, which +presented the likeness of Andrew Vanstone in his younger days. The +light hair and florid complexion, the bright blue eyes and hardy +upright figure, familiar to her in the picture, were all recalled to +her memory, as the nephew followed the uncle across the room and took +his place at table. She was not prepared for this sudden revival of the +lost associations of home. Her attention wandered as she tried to +conceal its effect on her; and she made a blunder in waiting at table, +for the first time since she had entered the house. + +A quaint reprimand from the admiral, half in jest, half in earnest, +gave her time to recover herself. She ventured another look at George +Bartram. The impression which he produced on her this time roused her +curiosity immediately. His face and manner plainly expressed anxiety +and preoccupation of mind. He looked oftener at his plate than at his +uncle, and at Magdalen herself (except one passing inspection of the +new parlor-maid, when the admiral spoke to her) he never looked at all. +Some uncertainty was evidently troubling his thoughts; some oppression +was weighing on his natural freedom of manner. What uncertainty? what +oppression? Would any personal revelations come out, little by little, +in the course of conversation at the dinner-table? + +No. One set of dishes followed another set of dishes, and nothing in +the shape of a personal revelation took place. The conversation halted +on irregularly, between public affairs on one side and trifling private +topics on the other. Politics, home and foreign, took their turn with +the small household history of St. Crux; the leaders of the revolution +which expelled Louis Philippe from the throne of France marched side by +side, in the dinner-table review, with old Mazey and the dogs. The +dessert was put on the table, the old sailor came in, drank his loyal +toast, paid his respects to “Master George,” and went out again. +Magdalen followed him, on her way back to the servants’ offices, having +heard nothing in the conversation of the slightest importance to the +furtherance of her own design, from the first word of it to the last. +She struggled hard not to lose heart and hope on the first day. They +could hardly talk again to-morrow, they could hardly talk again the +next day, of the French Revolution and the dogs. Time might do wonders +yet; and time was all her own. + +Left together over their wine, the uncle and nephew drew their +easy-chairs on either side of the fire; and, in Magdalen’s absence, +began the very conversation which it was Magdalen’s interest to hear. + +“Claret, George?” said the admiral, pushing the bottle across the +table. “You look out of spirits.” + +“I am a little anxious, sir,” replied George, leaving his glass empty, +and looking straight into the fire. + +“I am glad to hear it,” rejoined the admiral. “I am more than a little +anxious myself, I can tell you. Here we are at the last days of +March—and nothing done! Your time comes to an end on the third of May; +and there you sit, as if you had years still before you, to turn round +in.” + +George smiled, and resignedly helped himself to some wine. + +“Am I really to understand, sir,” he asked, “that you are serious in +what you said to me last November? Are you actually resolved to bind me +to that incomprehensible condition?” + +“I don’t call it incomprehensible,” said the admiral, irritably. + +“Don’t you, sir? I am to inherit your estate, unconditionally—as you +have generously settled it from the first. But I am not to touch a +farthing of the fortune poor Noel left you unless I am married within a +certain time. The house and lands are to be mine (thanks to your +kindness) under any circumstances. But the money with which I might +improve them both is to be arbitrarily taken away from me, if I am not +a married man on the third of May. I am sadly wanting in intelligence, +I dare say, but a more incomprehensible proceeding I never heard of!” + +“No snapping and snarling, George! Say your say out. We don’t +understand sneering in Her Majesty’s Navy!” + +“I mean no offense, sir. But I think it’s a little hard to astonish me +by a change of proceeding on your part, entirely foreign to my +experience of your character—and then, when I naturally ask for an +explanation, to turn round coolly and leave me in the dark. If you and +Noel came to some private arrangement together before he made his will, +why not tell me? Why set up a mystery between us, where no mystery need +be?” + +“I won’t have it, George!” cried the admiral, angrily drumming on the +table with the nutcrackers. “You are trying to draw me like a badger, +but I won’t be drawn! I’ll make any conditions I please; and I’ll be +accountable to nobody for them unless I like. It’s quite bad enough to +have worries and responsibilities laid on my unlucky shoulders that I +never bargained for—never mind what worries: they’re not yours, they’re +mine—without being questioned and cross-questioned as if I was a +witness in a box. Here’s a pretty fellow!” continued the admiral, +apostrophizing his nephew in red-hot irritation, and addressing himself +to the dogs on the hearth-rug for want of a better audience. “Here’s a +pretty fellow? He is asked to help himself to two uncommonly +comfortable things in their way—a fortune and a wife; he is allowed six +months to get the wife in (we should have got her, in the Navy, bag and +baggage, in six days); he has a round dozen of nice girls, to my +certain knowledge, in one part of the country and another, all at his +disposal to choose from, and what does he do? He sits month after +month, with his lazy legs crossed before him; he leaves the girls to +pine on the stem, and he bothers his uncle to know the reason why! I +pity the poor unfortunate women. Men were made of flesh and blood, and +plenty of it, too, in my time. They’re made of machinery now.” + +“I can only repeat, sir, I am sorry to have offended you,” said George. + +“Pooh! pooh! you needn’t look at me in that languishing way if you +are,” retorted the admiral. “Stick to your wine, and I’ll forgive you. +Your good health, George. I’m glad to see you again at St. Crux. Look +at that plateful of sponge-cakes! The cook has sent them up in honor of +your return. We can’t hurt her feelings, and we can’t spoil our wine. +Here!”—The admiral tossed four sponge-cakes in quick succession down +the accommodating throats of the dogs. “I am sorry, George,” the old +gentleman gravely proceeded; “I am really sorry you haven’t got your +eye on one of those nice girls. You don’t know what a loss you’re +inflicting on yourself; you don’t know what trouble and mortification +you’re causing me by this shilly-shally conduct of yours.” + +“If you would only allow me to explain myself, sir, you would view my +conduct in a totally different light. I am ready to marry to-morrow, if +the lady will have me.” + +“The devil you are! So you have got a lady in your eye, after all? Why +in Heaven’s name couldn’t you tell me so before? Never mind, I’ll +forgive you everything, now I know you have laid your hand on a wife. +Fill your glass again. Here’s her health in a bumper. By-the-by, who is +she?” + +“I’ll tell you directly, admiral. When we began this conversation, I +mentioned that I was a little anxious—” + +“She’s not one of my round dozen of nice girls—aha, Master George, I +see that in your face already! Why are you anxious?” + +“I am afraid you will disapprove of my choice, sir.” + +“Don’t beat about the bush! How the deuce can I say whether I +disapprove or not, if you won’t tell me who she is?” + +“She is the eldest daughter of Andrew Vanstone, of Combe-Raven.” + +“Who!!!” + +“Miss Vanstone, sir.” + +The admiral put down his glass of wine untasted. + +“You’re right, George,” he said. “I do disapprove of your choice +—strongly disapprove of it.” + +“Is it the misfortune of her birth, sir, that you object to?” + +“God forbid! the misfortune of her birth is not her fault, poor thing. +You know as well as I do, George, what I object to.” + +“You object to her sister?” + +“Certainly! The most liberal man alive might object to her sister, I +think.” + +“It’s hard, sir, to make Miss Vanstone suffer for her sister’s faults.” + +“_Faults_, do you call them? You have a mighty convenient memory, +George, when your own interests are concerned.” + +“Call them crimes if you like, sir—I say again, it’s hard on Miss +Vanstone. Miss Vanstone’s life is pure of all reproach. From first to +last she has borne her hard lot with such patience, and sweetness, and +courage as not one woman in a thousand would have shown in her place. +Ask Miss Garth, who has known her from childhood. Ask Mrs. Tyrrel, who +blesses the day when she came into the house—” + +“Ask a fiddlestick’s end! I beg your pardon, George, but you are enough +to try the patience of a saint. My good fellow, I don’t deny Miss +Vanstone’s virtues. I’ll admit, if you like, she’s the best woman that +ever put on a petticoat. That is not the question—” + +“Excuse me, admiral—it _is_ the question, if she is to be my wife.” + +“Hear me out, George; look at it from my point of view, as well as your +own. What did your cousin Noel do? Your cousin Noel fell a victim, poor +fellow, to one of the vilest conspiracies I ever heard of, and the +prime mover of that conspiracy was Miss Vanstone’s damnable sister. She +deceived him in the most infamous manner; and as soon as she was down +for a handsome legacy in his will, she had the poison ready to take his +life. This is the truth; we know it from Mrs. Lecount, who found the +bottle locked up in her own room. If you marry Miss Vanstone, you make +this wretch your sister-in-law. She becomes a member of our family. All +the disgrace of what she has done; all the disgrace of what she _may_ +do—and the Devil, who possesses her, only knows what lengths she may go +to next—becomes _our_ disgrace. Good heavens, George, consider what a +position that is! Consider what pitch you touch, if you make this woman +your sister-in-law.” + +“You have put your side of the question, admiral,” said George +resolutely; “now let me put mine. A certain impression is produced on +me by a young lady whom I meet with under very interesting +circumstances. I don’t act headlong on that impression, as I might have +done if I had been some years younger; I wait, and put it to the trial. +Every time I see this young lady the impression strengthens; her beauty +grows on me, her character grows on me; when I am away from her, I am +restless and dissatisfied; when I am with her, I am the happiest man +alive. All I hear of her conduct from those who know her best more than +confirms the high opinion I have formed of her. The one drawback I can +discover is caused by a misfortune for which she is not responsible—the +misfortune of having a sister who is utterly unworthy of her. Does this +discovery—an unpleasant discovery, I grant you—destroy all those good +qualities in Miss Vanstone for which I love and admire her? Nothing of +the sort—it only makes her good qualities all the more precious to me +by contrast. If I am to have a drawback to contend with—and who expects +anything else in this world?—I would infinitely rather have the +drawback attached to my wife’s sister than to my wife. My wife’s sister +is not essential to my happiness, but my wife is. In my opinion, sir, +Mrs. Noel Vanstone has done mischief enough already. I don’t see the +necessity of letting her do more mischief, by depriving me of a good +wife. Right or wrong, that is my point of view. I don’t wish to trouble +you with any questions of sentiment. All I wish to say is that I am old +enough by this time to know my own mind, and that my mind is made up. +If my marriage is essential to the execution of your intentions on my +behalf, there is only one woman in the world whom I _can_ marry, and +that woman is Miss Vanstone.” + +There was no resisting this plain declaration. Admiral Bartram rose +from his chair without making any reply, and walked perturbedly up and +down the room. + +The situation was emphatically a serious one. Mrs. Girdlestone’s death +had already produced the failure of one of the two objects contemplated +by the Secret Trust. If the third of May arrived and found George a +single man, the second (and last) of the objects would then have failed +in its turn. In little more than a fortnight, at the very latest, the +Banns must be published in Ossory church, or the time would fail for +compliance with one of the stipulations insisted on in the Trust. +Obstinate as the admiral was by nature, strongly as he felt the +objections which attached to his nephew’s contemplated alliance, he +recoiled in spite of himself, as he paced the room and saw the facts on +either side immovably staring him in the face. + +“Are you engaged to Miss Vanstone?” he asked, suddenly. + +“No, sir,” replied George. “I thought it due to your uniform kindness +to me to speak to you on the subject first.” + +“Much obliged, I’m sure. And you have put off speaking to me to the +last moment, just as you put off everything else. Do you think Miss +Vanstone will say yes when you ask her?” + +George hesitated. + +“The devil take your modesty!” shouted the admiral. “This is not a time +for modesty; this is a time for speaking out. Will she or won’t she?” + +“I think she will, sir.” + +The admiral laughed sardonically, and took another turn in the room. He +suddenly stopped, put his hands in his pockets, and stood still in a +corner, deep in thought. After an interval of a few minutes, his face +cleared a little; it brightened with the dawning of a new idea. He +walked round briskly to George’s side of the fire, and laid his hand +kindly on his nephew’s shoulder. + +“You’re wrong, George,” he said; “but it is too late now to set you +right. On the sixteenth of next month the Banns must be put up in +Ossory church, or you will lose the money. Have you told Miss Vanstone +the position you stand in? Or have you put that off to the eleventh +hour, like everything else?” + +“The position is so extraordinary, sir, and it might lead to so much +misapprehension of my motives, that I have felt unwilling to allude to +it. I hardly know how I can tell her of it at all.” + +“Try the experiment of telling her friends. Let them know it’s a +question of money, and they will overcome her scruples, if you can’t. +But that is not what I had to say to you. How long do you propose +stopping here this time?” + +“I thought of staying a few days, and then—” + +“And then of going back to London and making your offer, I suppose? +Will a week give you time enough to pick your opportunity with Miss +Vanstone—a week out of the fortnight or so that you have to spare?” + +“I will stay here a week, admiral, with pleasure, if you wish it.” + +“I don’t wish it. I want you to pack up your traps and be off +to-morrow.” + +George looked at his uncle in silent astonishment. + +“You found some letters waiting for you when you got here,” proceeded +the admiral. “Was one of those letters from my old friend, Sir Franklin +Brock?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Was it an invitation to you to go and stay at the Grange?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“To go at once?” + +“At once, if I could manage it.” + +“Very good. I want you to manage it; I want you to start for the Grange +to-morrow.” + +George looked back at the fire, and sighed impatiently. + +“I understand you now, admiral,” he said. “You are entirely mistaken in +me. My attachment to Miss Vanstone is not to be shaken in _that_ +manner.” + +Admiral Bartram took his quarter-deck walk again, up and down the room. + +“One good turn deserves another, George,” said the old gentleman. “If I +am willing to make concessions on my side, the least you can do is to +meet me half-way, and make concessions on yours.” + +“I don’t deny it, sir.” + +“Very well. Now listen to my proposal. Give me a fair hearing, George—a +fair hearing is every man’s privilege. I will be perfectly just to +begin with. I won’t attempt to deny that you honestly believe Miss +Vanstone is the only woman in the world who can make you happy. I don’t +question that. What I do question is, whether you really know your own +mind in this matter quite so well as you think you know it yourself. +You can’t deny, George, that you have been in love with a good many +women in your time? Among the rest of them, you have been in love with +Miss Brock. No longer ago than this time last year there was a sneaking +kindness between you and that young lady, to say the least of it. And +quite right, too! Miss Brock is one of that round dozen of darlings I +mentioned over our first glass of wine.” + +“You are confusing an idle flirtation, sir, with a serious attachment,” +said George. “You are altogether mistaken—you are, indeed.” + +“Likely enough; I don’t pretend to be infallible—I leave that to my +juniors. But I happen to have known you, George, since you were the +height of my old telescope; and I want to have this serious attachment +of yours put to the test. If you can satisfy me that your whole heart +and soul are as strongly set on Miss Vanstone as you suppose them to +be, I must knock under to necessity, and keep my objections to myself. +But I _must_ be satisfied first. Go to the Grange to-morrow, and stay +there a week in Miss Brock’s society. Give that charming girl a fair +chance of lighting up the old flame again if she can, and then come +back to St. Crux, and let me hear the result. If you tell me, as an +honest man, that your attachment to Miss Vanstone still remains +unshaken, you will have heard the last of my objections from that +moment. Whatever misgivings I may feel in my own mind, I will say +nothing, and do nothing, adverse to your wishes. There is my proposal. +I dare say it looks like an old man’s folly, in your eyes. But the old +man won’t trouble you much longer, George; and it may be a pleasant +reflection, when you have got sons of your own, to remember that you +humored him in his last days.” + +He came back to the fire-place as he said those words, and laid his +hand once more on his nephew’s shoulder. George took the hand and +pressed it affectionately. In the tenderest and best sense of the word, +his uncle had been a father to him. + +“I will do what you ask me, sir,” he replied, “if you seriously wish +it. But it is only right to tell you that the experiment will be +perfectly useless. However, if you prefer my passing a week at the +Grange to my passing it here, to the Grange I will go.” + +“Thank you, George,” said the admiral, bluntly. “I expected as much +from you, and you have not disappointed me.—If Miss Brock doesn’t get +us out of this mess,” thought the wily old gentleman, as he resumed his +place at the table, “my nephew’s weather-cock of a head has turned +steady with a vengeance!—We’ll consider the question settled for +to-night, George,” he continued, aloud, “and call another subject. +These family anxieties don’t improve the flavor of my old claret. The +bottle stands with you. What are they doing at the theaters in London? +We always patronized the theaters, in my time, in the Navy. We used to +like a good tragedy to begin with, and a hornpipe to cheer us up at the +end of the entertainment.” + +For the rest of the evening, the talk flowed in the ordinary channels. +Admiral Bartram only returned to the forbidden subject when he and his +nephew parted for the night. + +“You won’t forget to-morrow, George?” + +“Certainly not, sir. I’ll take the dog-cart, and drive myself over +after breakfast.” + +Before noon the next day Mr. George Bartram had left the house, and the +last chance in Magdalen’s favor had left it with him. + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +When the servants’ dinner-bell at St. Crux rang as usual on the day of +George Bartram’s departure, it was remarked that the new parlor-maid’s +place at table remained empty. One of the inferior servants was sent to +her room to make inquiries, and returned with the information that +“Louisa” felt a little faint, and begged that her attendance at table +might be excused for that day. Upon this, the superior authority of the +housekeeper was invoked, and Mrs. Drake went upstairs immediately to +ascertain the truth for herself. Her first look of inquiry satisfied +her that the parlor-maid’s indisposition, whatever the cause of it +might be, was certainly not assumed to serve any idle or sullen purpose +of her own. She respectfully declined taking any of the remedies which +the housekeeper offered, and merely requested permission to try the +efficacy of a walk in the fresh air. + +“I have been accustomed to more exercise, ma’am, than I take here,” she +said. “Might I go into the garden, and try what the air will do for +me?” + +“Certainly. Can you walk by yourself, or shall I send some one with +you?” + +“I will go by myself, if you please, ma’am.” + +“Very well. Put on your bonnet and shawl, and, when you get out, keep +in the east garden. The admiral sometimes walks in the north garden, +and he might feel surprised at seeing you there. Come to my room, when +you have had air and exercise enough, and let me see how you are.” + +In a few minutes more Magdalen was out in the east garden. The sky was +clear and sunny; but the cold shadow of the house rested on the garden +walk and chilled the midday air. She walked toward the ruins of the old +monastery, situated on the south side of the more modern range of +buildings. Here there were lonely open spaces to breathe in freely; +here the pale March sunshine stole through the gaps of desolation and +decay, and met her invitingly with the genial promise of spring. + +She ascended three or four riven stone steps, and seated herself on +some ruined fragments beyond them, full in the sunshine. The place she +had chosen had once been the entrance to the church. In centuries long +gone by, the stream of human sin and human suffering had flowed, day +after day, to the confessional, over the place where she now sat. Of +all the miserable women who had trodden those old stones in the bygone +time, no more miserable creature had touched them than the woman whose +feet rested on them now. + +Her hands trembled as she placed them on either side of her, to support +herself on the stone seat. She laid them on her lap; they trembled +there. She held them out, and looked at them wonderingly; they trembled +as she looked. “Like an old woman!” she said, faintly, and let them +drop again at her side. + +For the first time, that morning, the cruel discovery had forced itself +on her mind—the discovery that her strength was failing her, at the +time when she had most confidently trusted to it, at the time when she +wanted it most. She had felt the surprise of Mr. Bartram’s unexpected +departure, as if it had been the shock of the severest calamity that +could have befallen her. That one check to her hopes—a check which at +other times would only have roused the resisting power in her to new +efforts—had struck her with as suffocating a terror, had prostrated her +with as all-mastering a despair, as if she had been overwhelmed by the +crowning disaster of expulsion from St. Crux. But one warning could be +read in such a change as this. Into the space of little more than a +year she had crowded the wearing and wasting emotions of a life. The +bountiful gifts of health and strength, so prodigally heaped on her by +Nature, so long abused with impunity, were failing her at last. + +She looked up at the far faint blue of the sky. She heard the joyous +singing of birds among the ivy that clothed the ruins. Oh the cold +distance of the heavens! Oh the pitiless happiness of the birds! Oh the +lonely horror of sitting there, and feeling old and weak and worn, in +the heyday of her youth! She rose with a last effort of resolution, and +tried to keep back the hysterical passion swelling at her heart by +moving and looking about her. Rapidly and more rapidly she walked to +and fro in the sunshine. The exercise helped her, through the very +fatigue that she felt from it. She forced the rising tears desperately +back to their sources; she fought with the clinging pain, and wrenched +it from its hold. Little by little her mind began to clear again: the +despairing fear of herself grew less vividly present to her thoughts. +There were reserves of youth and strength in her still to be wasted; +there was a spirit sorely wounded, but not yet subdued. + +She gradually extended the limits of her walk; she gradually recovered +the exercise of her observation. + +At the western extremity the remains of the monastery were in a less +ruinous condition than at the eastern. In certain places, where the +stout old walls still stood, repairs had been made at some former time. +Roofs of red tile had been laid roughly over four of the ancient cells; +wooden doors had been added; and the old monastic chambers had been +used as sheds to hold the multifarious lumber of St. Crux. No padlocks +guarded any of the doors. Magdalen had only to push them to let the +daylight in on the litter inside. She resolved to investigate the sheds +one after the other—not from curiosity, not with the idea of making +discoveries of any sort. Her only object was to fill up the vacant +time, and to keep the thoughts that unnerved her from returning to her +mind. + +The first shed she opened contained the gardener’s utensils, large and +small. The second was littered with fragments of broken furniture, +empty picture-frames of worm-eaten wood, shattered vases, boxes without +covers, and books torn from their bindings. As Magdalen turned to leave +the shed, after one careless glance round her at the lumber that it +contained, her foot struck something on the ground which tinkled +against a fragment of china lying near it. She stooped, and discovered +that the tinkling substance was a rusty key. + +She picked up the key and looked at it. She walked out into the air, +and considered a little. More old forgotten keys were probably lying +about among the lumber in the sheds. What if she collected all she +could find, and tried them, one after another, in the locks of the +cabinets and cupboards now closed against her? Was there chance enough +that any one of them might fit to justify her in venturing on the +experiment? If the locks at St. Crux were as old-fashioned as the +furniture—if there were no protective niceties of modern invention to +contend against—there was chance enough beyond all question. Who could +say whether the very key in her hand might not be the lost duplicate of +one of the keys on the admiral’s bunch? In the dearth of all other +means of finding the way to her end, the risk was worth running. A +flash of the old spirit sparkled in her weary eyes as she turned and +re-entered the shed. + +Half an hour more brought her to the limits of the time which she could +venture to allow herself in the open air. In that interval she had +searched the sheds from first to last, and had found five more keys. +“Five more chances!” she thought to herself, as she hid the keys, and +hastily returned to the house. + +After first reporting herself in the housekeeper’s room, she went +upstairs to remove her bonnet and shawl; taking that opportunity to +hide the keys in her bed-chamber until night came. They were crusted +thick with rust and dirt; but she dared not attempt to clean them until +bed-time secluded her from the prying eyes of the servants in the +solitude of her room. + +When the dinner hour brought her, as usual, into personal contact with +the admiral, she was at once struck by a change in him. For the first +time in her experience the old gentleman was silent and depressed. He +ate less than usual, and he hardly said five words to her from the +beginning of the meal to the end. Some unwelcome subject of reflection +had evidently fixed itself on his mind, and remained there +persistently, in spite of his efforts to shake it off. At intervals +through the evening, she wondered with an ever-growing perplexity what +the subject could be. + +At last the lagging hours reached their end, and bed-time came. Before +she slept that night Magdalen had cleaned the keys from all impurities, +and had oiled the wards, to help them smoothly into the locks. The last +difficulty that remained was the difficulty of choosing the time when +the experiment might be tried with the least risk of interruption and +discovery. After carefully considering the question overnight, Magdalen +could only resolve to wait and be guided by the events of the next day. + +The morning came, and for the first time at St. Crux events justified +the trust she had placed in them. The morning came, and the one +remaining difficulty that perplexed her was unexpectedly smoothed away +by no less a person than the admiral himself! To the surprise of every +one in the house, he announced at breakfast that he had arranged to +start for London in an hour; that he should pass the night in town; and +that he might be expected to return to St. Crux in time for dinner on +the next day. He volunteered no further explanations to the housekeeper +or to any one else, but it was easy to see that his errand to London +was of no ordinary importance in his own estimation. He swallowed his +breakfast in a violent hurry, and he was impatiently ready for the +carriage before it came to the door. + +Experience had taught Magdalen to be cautious. She waited a little, +after Admiral Bartram’s departure, before she ventured on trying her +experiment with the keys. It was well she did so. Mrs. Drake took +advantage of the admiral’s absence to review the condition of the +apartments on the first floor. The results of the investigation by no +means satisfied her; brooms and dusters were set to work; and the +house-maids were in and out of the rooms perpetually, as long as the +daylight lasted. + +The evening passed, and still the safe opportunity for which Magdalen +was on the watch never presented itself. Bed-time came again, and found +her placed between the two alternatives of trusting to the doubtful +chances of the next morning, or of trying the keys boldly in the dead +of night. In former times she would have made her choice without +hesitation. She hesitated now; but the wreck of her old courage still +sustained her, and she determined to make the venture at night. + +They kept early hours at St. Crux. If she waited in her room until +half-past eleven, she would wait long enough. At that time she stole +out on to the staircase, with the keys in her pocket, and the candle in +her hand. + +On passing the entrance to the corridor on the bedroom floor, she +stopped and listened. No sound of snoring, no shuffling of infirm +footsteps was to be heard on the other side of the screen. She looked +round it distrustfully. The stone passage was a solitude, and the +truckle-bed was empty. Her own eyes had shown her old Mazey on his way +to the upper regions, more than an hour since, with a candle in his +hand. Had he taken advantage of his master’s absence to enjoy the +unaccustomed luxury of sleeping in a room? As the thought occurred to +her, a sound from the further end of the corridor just caught her ear. +She softly advanced toward it, and heard through the door of the last +and remotest of the spare bed-chambers the veteran’s lusty snoring in +the room inside. The discovery was startling, in more senses than one. +It deepened the impenetrable mystery of the truckle-bed; for it showed +plainly that old Mazey had no barbarous preference of his own for +passing his nights in the corridor; he occupied that strange and +comfortless sleeping-place purely and entirely on his master’s account. + +It was no time for dwelling on the reflections which this conclusion +might suggest. Magdalen retraced her steps along the passage, and +descended to the first floor. Passing the doors nearest to her, she +tried the library first. On the staircase and in the corridors she had +felt her heart throbbing fast with an unutterable fear; but a sense of +security returned to her when she found herself within the four walls +of the room, and when she had closed the door on the ghostly quiet +outside. + +The first lock she tried was the lock of the table-drawer. None of the +keys fitted it. Her next experiment was made on the cabinet. Would the +second attempt fail, like the first? + +No! One of the keys fitted; one of the keys, with a little patient +management, turned the lock. She looked in eagerly. There were open +shelves above, and one long drawer under them. The shelves were devoted +to specimens of curious minerals, neatly labeled and arranged. The +drawer was divided into compartments. Two of the compartments contained +papers. In the first, she discovered nothing but a collection of +receipted bills. In the second, she found a heap of business documents; +but the writing, yellow with age, was enough of itself to warn her that +the Trust was not there. She shut the doors of the cabinet, and, after +locking them again with some little difficulty, proceeded to try the +keys in the bookcase cupboards next, before she continued her +investigations in the other rooms. + +The bookcase cupboards were unassailable, the drawers and cupboards in +all the other rooms were unassailable. One after another she tried them +patiently in regular succession. It was useless. The chance which the +cabinet in the library had offered in her favor was the first chance +and the last. + +She went back to her room, seeing nothing but her own gliding shadow, +hearing nothing but her own stealthy footfall in the midnight stillness +of the house. After mechanically putting the keys away in their former +hiding-place, she looked toward her bed, and turned away from it, +shuddering. The warning remembrance of what she had suffered that +morning in the garden was vividly present to her mind. “Another chance +tried,” she thought to herself, “and another chance lost! I shall break +down again if I think of it; and I shall think of it if I lie awake in +the dark.” She had brought a work-box with her to St. Crux, as one of +the many little things which in her character of a servant it was +desirable to possess; and she now opened the box and applied herself +resolutely to work. Her want of dexterity with her needle assisted the +object she had in view; it obliged her to pay the closest attention to +her employment; it forced her thoughts away from the two subjects of +all others which she now dreaded most—herself and the future. + +The next day, as he had arranged, the admiral returned. His visit to +London had not improved his spirits. The shadow of some unconquerable +doubt still clouded his face; his restless tongue was strangely quiet, +while Magdalen waited on him at his solitary meal. That night the +snoring resounded once more on the inner side of the screen, and old +Mazey was back again in the comfortless truckle-bed. + +Three more days passed—April came. On the second of the month +—returning as unexpectedly as he had departed a week before—Mr. George +Bartram re-appeared at St. Crux. + +He came back early in the afternoon, and had an interview with his +uncle in the library. The interview over, he left the house again, and +was driven to the railway by the groom in time to catch the last train +to London that night. The groom noticed, on the road, that “Mr. George +seemed to be rather pleased than otherwise at leaving St. Crux.” He +also remarked, on his return, that the admiral swore at him for +overdriving the horses—an indication of ill-temper, on the part of his +master, which he described as being entirely without precedent in all +his former experience. Magdalen, in her department of service, had +suffered in like manner under the old man’s irritable humor: he had +been dissatisfied with everything she did in the dining-room; and he +had found fault with all the dishes, one after another, from the +mutton-broth to the toasted cheese. + +The next two days passed as usual. On the third day an event happened. +In appearance, it was nothing more important than a ring at the +drawing-room bell. In reality, it was the forerunner of approaching +catastrophe—the formidable herald of the end. + +It was Magdalen’s business to answer the bell. On reaching the +drawing-room door, she knocked as usual. There was no reply. After +again knocking, and again receiving no answer, she ventured into the +room, and was instantly met by a current of cold air flowing full on +her face. The heavy sliding door in the opposite wall was pushed back, +and the Arctic atmosphere of Freeze-your-Bones was pouring unhindered +into the empty room. + +She waited near the door, doubtful what to do next; it was certainly +the drawing-room bell that had rung, and no other. She waited, looking +through the open doorway opposite, down the wilderness of the +dismantled Hall. + +A little consideration satisfied her that it would be best to go +downstairs again, and wait there for a second summons from the bell. On +turning to leave the room, she happened to look back once more, and +exactly at that moment she saw the door open at the opposite extremity +of the Banqueting-Hall—the door leading into the first of the +apartments in the east wing. A tall man came out, wearing his great +coat and his hat, and rapidly approached the drawing-room. His gait +betrayed him, while he was still too far off for his features to be +seen. Before he was quite half-way across the Hall, Magdalen had +recognized—the admiral. + +He looked, not irritated only, but surprised as well, at finding his +parlor-maid waiting for him in the drawing-room, and inquired, sharply +and suspiciously, what she wanted there? Magdalen replied that she had +come there to answer the bell. His face cleared a little when he heard +the explanation. “Yes, yes; to be sure,” he said. “I did ring, and then +I forgot it.” He pulled the sliding door back into its place as he +spoke. “Coals,” he resumed, impatiently, pointing to the empty scuttle. +“I rang for coals.” + +Magdalen went back to the kitchen regions. After communicating the +admiral’s order to the servant whose special duty it was to attend to +the fires, she returned to the pantry, and, gently closing the door, +sat down alone to think. + +It had been her impression in the drawing-room—and it was her +impression still—that she had accidentally surprised Admiral Bartram on +a visit to the east rooms, which, for some urgent reason of his own, he +wished to keep a secret. Haunted day and night by the one dominant idea +that now possessed her, she leaped all logical difficulties at a bound, +and at once associated the suspicion of a secret proceeding on the +admiral’s part with the kindred suspicion which pointed to him as the +depositary of the Secret Trust. Up to this time it had been her settled +belief that he kept all his important documents in one or other of the +suite of rooms which he happened to be occupying for the time being. +Why—she now asked herself, with a sudden distrust of the conclusion +which had hitherto satisfied her mind—why might he not lock some of +them up in the other rooms as well? The remembrance of the keys still +concealed in their hiding-place in her room sharpened her sense of the +reasonableness of this new view. With one unimportant exception, those +keys had all failed when she tried them in the rooms on the north side +of the house. Might they not succeed with the cabinets and cupboards in +the east rooms, on which she had never tried them, or thought of trying +them, yet? If there was a chance, however small, of turning them to +better account than she had turned them thus far, it was a chance to be +tried. If there was a possibility, however remote, that the Trust might +be hidden in any one of the locked repositories in the east wing, it +was a possibility to be put to the test. When? Her own experience +answered the question. At the time when no prying eyes were open, and +no accidents were to be feared—when the house was quiet—in the dead of +night. + +She knew enough of her changed self to dread the enervating influence +of delay. She determined to run the risk headlong that night. + +More blunders escaped her when dinner-time came; the admiral’s +criticisms on her waiting at table were sharper than ever. His hardest +words inflicted no pain on her; she scarcely heard him—her mind was +dull to every sense but the sense of the coming trial. The evening +which had passed slowly to her on the night of her first experiment +with the keys passed quickly now. When bed-time came, bed-time took her +by surprise. + +She waited longer on this occasion than she had waited before. The +admiral was at home; he might alter his mind and go downstairs again, +after he had gone up to his room; he might have forgotten something in +the library and might return to fetch it. Midnight struck from the +clock in the servants’ hall before she ventured out of her room, with +the keys again in her pocket, with the candle again in her hand. + +At the first of the stairs on which she set her foot to descend, an +all-mastering hesitation, an unintelligible shrinking from some peril +unknown, seized her on a sudden. She waited, and reasoned with herself. +She had recoiled from no sacrifices, she had yielded to no fears, in +carrying out the stratagem by which she had gained admission to St. +Crux; and now, when the long array of difficulties at the outset had +been patiently conquered, now, when by sheer force of resolution the +starting-point was gained, she hesitated to advance. “I shrank from +nothing to get here,” she said to herself. “What madness possesses me +that I shrink now?” + +Every pulse in her quickened at the thought, with an animating shame +that nerved her to go on. She descended the stairs, from the third +floor to the second, from the second to the first, without trusting +herself to pause again within easy reach of her own room. In another +minute, she had reached the end of the corridor, had crossed the +vestibule, and had entered the drawing-room. It was only when her grasp +was on the heavy brass handle of the sliding door—it was only at the +moment before she pushed the door back—that she waited to take breath. +The Banqueting-Hall was close on the other side of the wooden partition +against which she stood; her excited imagination felt the death-like +chill of it flowing over her already. + +She pushed back the sliding door a few inches—and stopped in momentary +alarm. When the admiral had closed it in her presence that day, she had +heard no noise. When old Mazey had opened it to show her the rooms in +the east wing, she had heard no noise. Now, in the night silence, she +noticed for the first time that the door made a sound—a dull, rushing +sound, like the wind. + +She roused herself, and pushed it further back—pushed it halfway into +the hollow chamber in the wall constructed to receive it. She advanced +boldly into the gap, and met the night view of the Banqueting-Hall face +to face. + +The moon was rounding the southern side of the house. Her paling beams +streamed through the nearer windows, and lay in long strips of slanting +light on the marble pavement of the Hall. The black shadows of the +pediments between each window, alternating with the strips of light, +heightened the wan glare of the moonshine on the floor. Toward its +lower end, the Hall melted mysteriously into darkness. The ceiling was +lost to view; the yawning fire-place, the overhanging mantel-piece, the +long row of battle pictures above, were all swallowed up in night. But +one visible object was discernible, besides the gleaming windows and +the moon-striped floor. Midway in the last and furthest of the strips +of light, the tripod rose erect on its gaunt black legs, like a monster +called to life by the moon—a monster rising through the light, and +melting invisibly into the upper shadows of the Hall. Far and near, all +sound lay dead, drowned in the stagnant cold. The soothing hush of +night was awful here. The deep abysses of darkness hid abysses of +silence more immeasurable still. + +She stood motionless in the door-way, with straining eyes, with +straining ears. She looked for some moving thing, she listened for some +rising sound, and looked and listened in vain. A quick ceaseless +shivering ran through her from head to foot. The shivering of fear, or +the shivering of cold? The bare doubt roused her resolute will. “Now,” +she thought, advancing a step through the door-way, “or never! I’ll +count the strips of moonlight three times over, and cross the Hall.” + +“One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, +three, four, five.” + +As the final number passed her lips at the third time of counting, she +crossed the Hall. Looking for nothing, listening for nothing, one hand +holding the candle, the other mechanically grasping the folds of her +dress, she sped, ghost-like, down the length of the ghostly place. She +reached the door of the first of the eastern rooms, opened it, and ran +in. The sudden relief of attaining a refuge, the sudden entrance into a +new atmosphere, overpowered her for the moment. She had just time to +put the candle safely on a table before she dropped giddy and +breathless into the nearest chair. + +Little by little she felt the rest quieting her. In a few minutes she +became conscious of the triumph of having won her way to the east +rooms. In a few minutes she was strong enough to rise from the chair, +to take the keys from her pocket, and to look round her. + +The first objects of furniture in the room which attracted her +attention were an old bureau of carved oak, and a heavy buhl table with +a cabinet attached. She tried the bureau first; it looked the likeliest +receptacle for papers of the two. Three of the keys proved to be of a +size to enter the lock, but none of them would turn it. The bureau was +unassailable. She left it, and paused to trim the wick of the candle +before she tried the buhl cabinet next. + +At the moment when she raised her hand to the candle, she heard the +stillness of the Banqueting-Hall shudder with the terror of a sound—a +sound faint and momentary, like the distant rushing of the wind. + +The sliding door in the drawing-room had moved. + +Which way had it moved? Had an unknown hand pushed it back in its +socket further than she had pushed it, or pulled it to again, and +closed it? The horror of being shut out all night, by some +undiscoverable agency, from the life of the house, was stronger in her +than the horror of looking across the Banqueting-Hall. She made +desperately for the door of the room. + +It had fallen to silently after her when she had come in, but it was +not closed. She pulled it open, and looked. + +The sight that met her eyes rooted her, panic-stricken, to the spot. + +Close to the first of the row of windows, counting from the +drawing-room, and full in the gleam of it, she saw a solitary figure. +It stood motionless, rising out of the furthest strip of moonlight on +the floor. As she looked, it suddenly disappeared. In another instant +she saw it again, in the second strip of moonlight—lost it again—saw it +in the third strip—lost it once more—and saw it in the fourth. Moment +by moment it advanced, now mysteriously lost in the shadow, now +suddenly visible again in the light, until it reached the fifth and +nearest strip of moonlight. There it paused, and strayed aside slowly +to the middle of the Hall. It stopped at the tripod, and stood, +shivering audibly in the silence, with its hands raised over the dead +ashes, in the action of warming them at a fire. It turned back again, +moving down the path of the moonlight, stopped at the fifth window, +turned once more, and came on softly through the shadow straight to the +place where Magdalen stood. + +Her voice was dumb, her will was helpless. Every sense in her but the +seeing sense was paralyzed. The seeing sense—held fast in the fetters +of its own terror—looked unchangeably straightforward, as it had looked +from the first. There she stood in the door-way, full in the path of +the figure advancing on her through the shadow, nearer and nearer, step +by step. + +It came close. + +The bonds of horror that held her burst asunder when it was within +arm’s-length. She started back. The light of the candle on the table +fell full on its face, and showed her—Admiral Bartram. + +A long, gray dressing-gown was wrapped round him. His head was +uncovered; his feet were bare. In his left hand he carried his little +basket of keys. He passed Magdalen slowly, his lips whispering without +intermission, his open eyes staring straight before him with the glassy +stare of death. His eyes revealed to her the terrifying truth. He was +walking in his sleep. + +The terror of seeing him as she saw him now was not the terror she had +felt when her eyes first lighted on him—an apparition in the +moon-light, a specter in the ghostly Hall. This time she could struggle +against the shock; she could feel the depth of her own fear. + +He passed her, and stopped in the middle of the room. Magdalen ventured +near enough to him to be within reach of his voice as he muttered to +himself. She ventured nearer still, and heard the name of her dead +husband fall distinctly from the sleep-walker’s lips. + +“Noel!” he said, in the low monotonous tones of a dreamer talking in +his sleep, “my good fellow, Noel, take it back again! It worries me day +and night. I don’t know where it’s safe; I don’t know where to put it. +Take it back, Noel—take it back!” + +As those words escaped him, he walked to the buhl cabinet. He sat down +in the chair placed before it, and searched in the basket among his +keys. Magdalen softly followed him, and stood behind his chair, waiting +with the candle in her hand. He found the key, and unlocked the +cabinet. Without an instant’s hesitation, he drew out a drawer, the +second of a row. The one thing in the drawer was a folded letter. He +removed it, and put it down before him on the table. “Take it back, +Noel!” he repeated, mechanically; “take it back!” + +Magdalen looked over his shoulder and read these lines, traced in her +husband’s handwriting, at the top of the letter: _To be kept in your +own possession, and to be opened by yourself only on the day of my +decease. Noel Vanstone._ She saw the words plainly, with the admiral’s +name and the admiral’s address written under them. + +The Trust within reach of her hand! The Trust traced to its +hiding-place at last! + +She took one step forward, to steal round his chair and to snatch the +letter from the table. At the instant when she moved, he took it up +once more, locked the cabinet, and, rising, turned and faced her. + +In the impulse of the moment, she stretched out her hand toward the +hand in which he held the letter. The yellow candle-light fell full on +him. The awful death-in-life of his face—the mystery of the sleeping +body, moving in unconscious obedience to the dreaming mind—daunted her. +Her hand trembled, and dropped again at her side. + +He put the key of the cabinet back in the basket, and crossed the room +to the bureau, with the basket in one hand and the letter in the other. +Magdalen set the candle on the table again, and watched him. As he had +opened the cabinet, so he now opened the bureau. Once more Magdalen +stretched out her hand, and once more she recoiled before the mystery +and the terror of his sleep. He put the letter in a drawer at the back +of the bureau, and closed the heavy oaken lid again. “Yes,” he said. +“Safer there, as you say, Noel—safer there.” So he spoke. So, time +after time, the words that betrayed him revealed the dead man living +and speaking again in the dream. + +Had he locked the bureau? Magdalen had not heard the lock turn. As he +slowly moved away, walking back once more toward the middle of the +room, she tried the lid. It was locked. That discovery made, she looked +to see what he was doing next. He was leaving the room again, with the +basket of keys in his hand. When her first glance overtook him, he was +crossing the threshold of the door. + +Some inscrutable fascination possessed her, some mysterious attraction +drew her after him, in spite of herself. She took up the candle and +followed him mechanically, as if she too were walking in her sleep. One +behind the other, in slow and noiseless progress, they crossed the +Banqueting-Hall. One behind the other, they passed through the +drawing-room, and along the corridor, and up the stairs. She followed +him to his own door. He went in, and shut it behind him softly. She +stopped, and looked toward the truckle-bed. It was pushed aside at the +foot, some little distance away from the bedroom door. Who had moved +it? She held the candle close and looked toward the pillow, with a +sudden curiosity and a sudden doubt. + +The truckle-bed was empty. + +The discovery startled her for the moment, and for the moment only. +Plain as the inferences were to be drawn from it, she never drew them. +Her mind, slowly recovering the exercise of its faculties, was still +under the influence of the earlier and the deeper impressions produced +on it. Her mind followed the admiral into his room, as her body had +followed him across the Banqueting-Hall. + +Had he lain down again in his bed? Was he still asleep? She listened at +the door. Not a sound was audible in the room. She tried the door, and, +finding it not locked, softly opened it a few inches and listened +again. The rise and fall of his low, regular breathing instantly caught +her ear. He was still asleep. + +She went into the room, and, shading the candle-light with her hand, +approached the bedside to look at him. The dream was past; the old +man’s sleep was deep and peaceful; his lips were still; his quiet hand +was laid over the coverlet in motionless repose. He lay with his face +turned toward the right-hand side of the bed. A little table stood +there within reach of his hand. Four objects were placed on it; his +candle, his matches, his customary night drink of lemonade, and his +basket of keys. + +The idea of possessing herself of his keys that night (if an +opportunity offered when the basket was not in his hand) had first +crossed her mind when she saw him go into his room. She had lost it +again for the moment, in the surprise of discovering the empty +truckle-bed. She now recovered it the instant the table attracted her +attention. It was useless to waste time in trying to choose the one key +wanted from the rest—the one key was not well enough known to her to be +readily identified. She took all the keys from the table, in the basket +as they lay, and noiselessly closed the door behind her on leaving the +room. + +The truckle-bed, as she passed it, obtruded itself again on her +attention, and forced her to think of it. After a moment’s +consideration, she moved the foot of the bed back to its customary +position across the door. Whether he was in the house or out of it, the +veteran might return to his deserted post at any moment. If he saw the +bed moved from its usual place, he might suspect something wrong, he +might rouse his master, and the loss of the keys might be discovered. + +Nothing happened as she descended the stairs, nothing happened as she +passed along the corridor; the house was as silent and as solitary as +ever. She crossed the Banqueting-Hall this time without hesitation; the +events of the night had hardened her mind against all imaginary +terrors. “Now, I have got it!” she whispered to herself, in an +irrepressible outburst of exaltation, as she entered the first of the +east rooms and put her candle on the top of the old bureau. + +Even yet there was a trial in store for her patience. Some minutes +elapsed—minutes that seemed hours—before she found the right key and +raised the lid of the bureau. At last she drew out the inner drawer! At +last she had the letter in her hand! + +It had been sealed, but the seal was broken. She opened it on the spot, +to make sure that she had actually possessed herself of the Trust +before leaving the room. The end of the letter was the first part of it +she turned to. It came to its conclusion high on the third page, and it +was signed by Noel Vanstone. Below the name these lines were added in +the admiral’s handwriting: + +“This letter was received by me at the same time with the will of my +friend, Noel Vanstone. In the event of my death, without leaving any +other directions respecting it, I beg my nephew and my executors to +understand that I consider the requests made in this document as +absolutely binding on me. + +“ARTHUR EVERARD BARTRAM.” + +She left those lines unread. She just noticed that they were not in +Noel Vanstone’s handwriting; and, passing over them instantly, as +immaterial to the object in view, turned the leaves of the letter, and +transferred her attention to the opening sentences on the first page. +She read these words: + +“DEAR ADMIRAL BARTRAM—When you open my Will (in which you are named my +sole executor), you will find that I have bequeathed the whole residue +of my estate—after payment of one legacy of five thousand pounds—to +yourself. It is the purpose of my letter to tell you privately what the +object is for which I have left you the fortune which is now placed in +your hands. + +“I beg you to consider this large legacy as intended——” + +She had proceeded thus far with breathless curiosity and interest, when +her attention suddenly failed her. Something—she was too deeply +absorbed to know what—had got between her and the letter. Was it a +sound in the Banqueting-Hall again? She looked over her shoulder at the +door behind her, and listened. Nothing was to be heard, nothing was to +be seen. She returned to the letter. + +The writing was cramped and close. In her impatient curiosity to read +more, she failed to find the lost place again. Her eyes, attracted by a +blot, lighted on a sentence lower in the page than the sentence at +which she had left off. The first three words she saw riveted her +attention anew—they were the first words she had met with in the letter +which directly referred to George Bartram. In the sudden excitement of +that discovery, she read the rest of the sentence eagerly, before she +made any second attempt to return to the lost place: + +“If your nephew fails to comply with these conditions—that is to say, +if, being either a bachelor or a widower at the time of my decease, he +fails to marry in all respects as I have here instructed him to marry, +within six calendar months from that time—it is my desire that he shall +not receive—” + +She had read to that point, to that last word and no further, when a +hand passed suddenly from behind her between the letter and her eye, +and gripped her fast by the wrist in an instant. + +She turned with a shriek of terror, and found herself face to face with +old Mazey. + +The veteran’s eyes were bloodshot; his hand was heavy; his list +slippers were twisted crookedly on his feet; and his body swayed to and +fro on his widely parted legs. If he had tested his condition that +night by the unfailing criterion of the model ship, he must have +inevitably pronounced sentence on himself in the usual form: “Drunk +again, Mazey; drunk again.” + +“You young Jezebel!” said the old sailor, with a leer on one side of +his face, and a frown on the other. “The next time you take to +night-walking in the neighborhood of Freeze-your-Bones, use those sharp +eyes of yours first, and make sure there’s nobody else night walking in +the garden outside. Drop it, Jezebel! drop it!” + +Keeping fast hold of Magdalen’s arm with one hand, he took the letter +from her with the other, put it back into the open drawer, and locked +the bureau. She never struggled with him, she never spoke. Her energy +was gone; her powers of resistance were crushed. The terrors of that +horrible night, following one close on the other in reiterated shocks, +had struck her down at last. She yielded as submissively, she trembled +as helplessly, as the weakest woman living. + +Old Mazey dropped her arm, and pointed with drunken solemnity to a +chair in an inner corner of the room. She sat down, still without +uttering a word. The veteran (breathing very hard over it) steadied +himself on both elbows against the slanting top of the bureau, and from +that commanding position addressed Magdalen once more. + +“Come and be locked up!” said old Mazey, wagging his venerable head +with judicial severity. “There’ll be a court of inquiry to-morrow +morning, and I’m witness—worse luck!—I’m witness. You young jade, +you’ve committed burglary—that’s what you’ve done. His honor the +admiral’s keys stolen; his honor the admiral’s desk ransacked; and his +honor the admiral’s private letters broke open. Burglary! Burglary! +Come and be locked up!” He slowly recovered an upright position, with +the assistance of his hands, backed by the solid resisting power of the +bureau; and lapsed into lachrymose soliloquy. “Who’d have thought it?” +said old Mazey, paternally watering at the eyes. “Take the outside of +her, and she’s as straight as a poplar; take the inside of her, and +she’s as crooked as Sin. Such a fine-grown girl, too. What a pity! what +a pity!” + +“Don’t hurt me!” said Magdalen, faintly, as old Mazey staggered up to +the chair, and took her by the wrist again. “I’m frightened, Mr. +Mazey—I’m dreadfully frightened.” + +“Hurt you?” repeated the veteran. “I’m a deal too fond of you—and more +shame for me at my age!—to hurt you. If I let go of your wrist, will +you walk straight before me, where I can see you all the way? Will you +be a good girl, and walk straight up to your own door?” + +Magdalen gave the promise required of her—gave it with an eager longing +to reach the refuge of her room. She rose, and tried to take the candle +from the bureau, but old Mazey’s cunning hand was too quick for her. +“Let the candle be,” said the veteran, winking in momentary +forgetfulness of his responsible position. “You’re a trifle quicker on +your legs than I am, my dear, and you might leave me in the lurch, if I +don’t carry the light.” + +They returned to the inhabited side of the house. Staggering after +Magdalen, with the basket of keys in one hand and the candle in the +other, old Mazey sorrowfully compared her figure with the straightness +of the poplar, and her disposition with the crookedness of Sin, all the +way across “Freeze-your-Bones,” and all the way upstairs to her own +door. Arrived at that destination, he peremptorily refused to give her +the candle until he had first seen her safely inside the room. The +conditions being complied with, he resigned the light with one hand, +and made a dash with the other at the key, drew it from the inside of +the lock, and instantly closed the door. Magdalen heard him outside +chuckling over his own dexterity, and fitting the key into the lock +again with infinite difficulty. At last he secured the door, with a +deep grunt of relief. “There she is safe!” Magdalen heard him say, in +regretful soliloquy. “As fine a girl as ever I sat eyes on. What a +pity! what a pity!” + +The last sounds of his voice died out in the distance; and she was left +alone in her room. + +Holding fast by the banister, old Mazey made his way down to the +corridor on the second floor, in which a night light was always +burning. He advanced to the truckle-bed, and, steadying himself against +the opposite wall, looked at it attentively. Prolonged contemplation of +his own resting-place for the night apparently failed to satisfy him. +He shook his head ominously, and, taking from the side-pocket of his +great-coat a pair of old patched slippers, surveyed them with an aspect +of illimitable doubt. “I’m all abroad to-night,” he mumbled to himself. +“Troubled in my mind—that’s what it is—troubled in my mind.” + +The old patched slippers and the veteran’s existing perplexities +happened to be intimately associated one with the other, in the +relation of cause and effect. The slippers belonged to the admiral, who +had taken one of his unreasonable fancies to this particular pair, and +who still persisted in wearing them long after they were unfit for his +service. Early that afternoon old Mazey had taken the slippers to the +village cobbler to get them repaired on the spot, before his master +called for them the next morning; he sat superintending the progress +and completion of the work until evening came, when he and the cobbler +betook themselves to the village inn to drink each other’s healths at +parting. They had prolonged this social ceremony till far into the +night, and they had parted, as a necessary consequence, in a finished +and perfect state of intoxication on either side. + +If the drinking-bout had led to no other result than those night +wanderings in the grounds of St. Crux, which had shown old Mazey the +light in the east windows, his memory would unquestionably have +presented it to him the next morning in the aspect of one of the +praiseworthy achievements of his life. But another consequence had +sprung from it, which the old sailor now saw dimly, through the +interposing bewilderment left in his brain by the drink. He had +committed a breach of discipline, and a breach of trust. In plainer +words, he had deserted his post. + +The one safeguard against Admiral Bartram’s constitutional tendency to +somnambulism was the watch and ward which his faithful old servant kept +outside his door. No entreaties had ever prevailed on him to submit to +the usual precaution taken in such cases. He peremptorily declined to +be locked into his room; he even ignored his own liability, whenever a +dream disturbed him, to walk in his sleep. Over and over again, old +Mazey had been roused by the admiral’s attempts to push past the +truckle-bed, or to step over it, in his sleep; and over and over again, +when the veteran had reported the fact the next morning, his master had +declined to believe him. As the old sailor now stood, staring in vacant +inquiry at the bed-chamber door, these incidents of the past rose +confusedly on his memory, and forced on him the serious question +whether the admiral had left his room during the earlier hours of the +night. If by any mischance the sleep-walking fit had seized him, the +slippers in old Mazey’s hand pointed straight to the conclusion that +followed—his master must have passed barefoot in the cold night over +the stone stairs and passages of St. Crux. “Lord send he’s been quiet!” +muttered old Mazey, daunted, bold as he was and drunk as he was, by the +bare contemplation of that prospect. “If his honor’s been walking +to-night, it will be the death of him!” + +He roused himself for the moment by main force—strong in his dog-like +fidelity to the admiral, though strong in nothing else—and fought off +the stupor of the drink. He looked at the bed with steadier eyes and a +clearer mind. Magdalen’s precaution in returning it to its customary +position presented it to him necessarily in the aspect of a bed which +had never been moved from its place. He next examined the counterpane +carefully. Not the faintest vestige appeared of the indentation which +must have been left by footsteps passing over it. There was the plain +evidence before him—the evidence recognizable at last by his own +bewildered eyes—that the admiral had never moved from his room. + +“I’ll take the Pledge to-morrow!” mumbled old Mazey, in an outburst of +grateful relief. The next moment the fumes of the liquor floated back +insidiously over his brain; and the veteran, returning to his customary +remedy, paced the passage in zigzag as usual, and kept watch on the +deck of an imaginary ship. + +Soon after sunrise, Magdalen suddenly heard the grating of the key from +outside in the lock of the door. The door opened, and old Mazey +re-appeared on the threshold. The first fever of his intoxication had +cooled, with time, into a mild, penitential glow. He breathed harder +than ever, in a succession of low growls, and wagged his venerable head +at his own delinquencies without intermission. + +“How are you now, you young land-shark in petticoats?” inquired the old +sailor. “Has your conscience been quiet enough to let you go to sleep?” + +“I have not slept,” said Magdalen, drawing back from him in doubt of +what he might do next. “I have no remembrance of what happened after +you locked the door—I think I must have fainted. Don’t frighten me +again, Mr. Mazey! I feel miserably weak and ill. What do you want?” + +“I want to say something serious,” replied old Mazey, with impenetrable +solemnity. “It’s been on my mind to come here and make a clean breast +of it, for the last hour or more. Mark my words, young woman. I’m going +to disgrace myself.” + +Magdalen drew further and further back, and looked at him in rising +alarm. + +“I know my duty to his honor the admiral,” proceeded old Mazey, waving +his hand drearily in the direction of his master’s door. “But, try as +hard as I may, I can’t find it in my heart, you young jade, to be +witness against you. I liked the make of you (especially about the +waist) when you first came into the house, and I can’t help liking the +make of you still—though you _have_ committed burglary, and though you +_are_ as crooked as Sin. I’ve cast the eyes of indulgence on fine-grown +girls all my life, and it’s too late in the day to cast the eyes of +severity on ’em now. I’m seventy-seven, or seventy-eight, I don’t +rightly know which. I’m a battered old hulk, with my seams opening, and +my pumps choked, and the waters of Death powering in on me as fast as +they can. I’m as miserable a sinner as you’ll meet with anywhere in +these parts—Thomas Nagle, the cobbler, only excepted; and he’s worse +than I am, for he’s the younger of the two, and he ought to know +better. But the long and short or it is, I shall go down to my grave +with an eye of indulgence for a fine-grown girl. More shame for me, you +young Jezebel—more shame for me!” + +The veteran’s unmanageable eyes began to leer again in spite of him, as +he concluded his harangue in these terms: the last reserves of +austerity left in his face entrenched themselves dismally round the +corners of his mouth. Magdalen approached him again, and tried to +speak. He solemnly motioned her back with another dreary wave of his +hand. + +“No carneying!” said old Mazey; “I’m bad enough already, without that. +It’s my duty to make my report to his honor the admiral, and I _will_ +make it. But if you like to give the house the slip before the +burglary’s reported, and the court of inquiry begins, I’ll disgrace +myself by letting you go. It’s market morning at Ossory, and Dawkes +will be driving the light cart over in a quarter of an hour’s time. +Dawkes will take you if I ask him. I know my duty—my duty is to turn +the key on you, and see Dawkes damned first. But I can’t find it in my +heart to be hard on a fine girl like you. It’s bred in the bone, and it +wunt come out of the flesh. More shame for me, I tell you again—more +shame for me!” + +The proposal thus strangely and suddenly presented to her took Magdalen +completely by surprise. She had been far too seriously shaken by the +events of the night to be capable of deciding on any subject at a +moment’s notice. “You are very good to me, Mr. Mazey,” she said. “May I +have a minute by myself to think?” + +“Yes, you may,” replied the veteran, facing about forthwith and leaving +the room. “They’re all alike,” proceeded old Mazey, with his head still +running on the sex. “Whatever you offer ’em, they always want something +more. Tall and short, native and foreign, sweethearts and wives, +they’re all alike!” + +Left by herself, Magdalen reached her decision with far less difficulty +than she had anticipated. + +If she remained in the house, there were only two courses before her—to +charge old Mazey with speaking under the influence of a drunken +delusion, or to submit to circumstances. Though she owed to the old +sailor her defeat in the very hour of success, his consideration for +her at that moment forbade the idea of defending herself at his +expense—even supposing, what was in the last degree improbable, that +the defense would be credited. In the second of the two cases (the case +of submission to circumstances), but one result could be +expected—instant dismissal, and perhaps discovery as well. What object +was to be gained by braving that degradation—by leaving the house +publicly disgraced in the eyes of the servants who had hated and +distrusted her from the first? The accident which had literally +snatched the Trust from her possession when she had it in her hand was +irreparable. The one apparent compensation under the disaster—in other +words, the discovery that the Trust actually existed, and that George +Bartram’s marriage within a given time was one of the objects contained +in it—was a compensation which could only be estimated at its true +value by placing it under the light of Mr. Loscombe’s experience. Every +motive of which she was conscious was a motive which urged her to leave +the house secretly while the chance was at her disposal. She looked out +into the passage, and called softly to old Mazey to come back. + +“I accept your offer thankfully, Mr. Mazey,” she said. “You don’t know +what hard measure you dealt out to me when you took that letter from my +hand. But you did your duty, and I can be grateful to you for sparing +me this morning, hard as you were upon me last night. I am not such a +bad girl as you think me—I am not, indeed.” + +Old Mazey dismissed the subject with another dreary wave of his hand. + +“Let it be,” said the veteran; “let it be! It makes no difference, my +girl, to such an old rascal as I am. If you were fifty times worse than +you are, I should let you go all the same. Put on your bonnet and +shawl, and come along. I’m a disgrace to myself and a warning to +others—that’s what I am. No luggage, mind! Leave all your rattle-traps +behind you: to be overhauled, if necessary, at his honor the admiral’s +discretion. I can be hard enough on your boxes, you young Jezebel, if I +can’t be hard on you.” + +With these words, old Mazey led the way out of the room. “The less I +see of her the better—especially about the waist,” he said to himself, +as he hobbled downstairs with the help of the banisters. + +The cart was standing in the back yard when they reached the lower +regions of the house, and Dawkes (otherwise the farm-bailiff’s man) was +fastening the last buckle of the horse’s harness. The hoar-frost of the +morning was still white in the shade. The sparkling points of it +glistened brightly on the shaggy coats of Brutus and Cassius, as they +idled about the yard, waiting, with steaming mouths and slowly wagging +tails, to see the cart drive off. Old Mazey went out alone and used his +influence with Dawkes, who, staring in stolid amazement, put a leather +cushion on the cart-seat for his fellow-traveler. Shivering in the +sharp morning air, Magdalen waited, while the preliminaries of +departure were in progress, conscious of nothing but a giddy +bewilderment of thought, and a helpless suspension of feeling. The +events of the night confused themselves hideously with the trivial +circumstances passing before her eyes in the courtyard. She started +with the sudden terror of the night when old Mazey re-appeared to +summon her out to the cart. She trembled with the helpless confusion of +the night when the veteran cast the eyes of indulgence on her for the +last time, and gave her a kiss on the cheek at parting. The next minute +she felt him help her into the cart, and pat her on the back. The next, +she heard him tell her in a confidential whisper that, sitting or +standing, she was as straight as a poplar either way. Then there was a +pause, in which nothing was said, and nothing done; and then the driver +took the reins in hand and mounted to his place. + +She roused herself at the parting moment and looked back. The last +sight she saw at St. Crux was old Mazey wagging his head in the +courtyard, with his fellow-profligates, the dogs, keeping time to him +with their tails. The last words she heard were the words in which the +veteran paid his farewell tribute to her charms: + +“Burglary or no burglary,” said old Mazey, “she’s a fine-grown girl, if +ever there was a fine one yet. What a pity! what a pity!” + +THE END OF THE SEVENTH SCENE. + + + +BETWEEN THE SCENES. +PROGRESS OF THE STORY THROUGH THE POST. + +I. +From George Bartram to Admiral Bartram. + +“London, April 3d, 1848. + + +“My dear uncle, + +“One hasty line, to inform you of a temporary obstacle, which we +neither of us anticipated when we took leave of each other at St. Crux. +While I was wasting the last days of the week at the Grange, the +Tyrrels must have been making their arrangements for leaving London. I +have just come from Portland Place. The house is shut up, and the +family (Miss Vanstone, of course, included) left England yesterday, to +pass the season in Paris. + +“Pray don’t let yourself be annoyed by this little check at starting. +It is of no serious importance whatever. I have got the address at +which the Tyrrels are living, and I mean to cross the Channel after +them by the mail to-night. I shall find my opportunity in Paris just as +soon as I could have found it in London. The grass shall not grow under +my feet, I promise you. For once in my life, I will take Time as +fiercely by the forelock as if I was the most impetuous man in England; +and, rely on it, the moment I know the result, you shall know the +result, too. + +“Affectionately yours, +“GEORGE BARTRAM.” + + +II. +From George Bartram to Miss Garth. + +“Paris, April 13th. + + +“DEAR MISS GARTH, + +“I have just written, with a heavy heart, to my uncle, and I think I +owe it to your kind interest in me not to omit writing next to you. + +“You will feel for my disappointment, I am sure, when I tell you, in +the fewest and plainest words, that Miss Vanstone has refused me. + +“My vanity may have grievously misled me, but I confess I expected a +very different result. My vanity may be misleading me still; for I must +acknowledge to you privately that I think Miss Vanstone was sorry to +refuse me. The reason she gave for her decision—no doubt a sufficient +reason in her estimation—did not at the time, and does not now, seem +sufficient to _me_. She spoke in the sweetest and kindest manner, but +she firmly declared that ‘her family misfortunes’ left her no honorable +alternative—but to think of my own interests as I had not thought of +them myself—and gratefully to decline accepting my offer. + +“She was so painfully agitated that I could not venture to plead my own +cause as I might otherwise have pleaded it. At the first attempt I made +to touch the personal question, she entreated me to spare her, and +abruptly left the room. I am still ignorant whether I am to interpret +the ‘family misfortunes’ which have set up this barrier between us, as +meaning the misfortune for which her parents alone are to blame, or the +misfortune of her having such a woman as Mrs. Noel Vanstone for her +sister. In whichever of these circumstances the obstacle lies, it is no +obstacle in my estimation. Can nothing remove it? Is there no hope? +Forgive me for asking these questions. I cannot bear up against my +bitter disappointment. Neither she, nor you, nor any one but myself, +can know how I love her. + +“Ever most truly yours, +“GEORGE BARTRAM. + + +“P. S.—I shall leave for England in a day or two, passing through +London on my way to St. Crux. There are family reasons, connected with +the hateful subject of money, which make me look forward with anything +but pleasure to my next interview with my uncle. If you address your +letter to Long’s Hotel, it will be sure to reach me.” + +III. +From Miss Garth to George Bartram. + +“Westmoreland House, April 16th. + + +“DEAR MR. BARTRAM, + +“You only did me justice in supposing that your letter would distress +me. If you had supposed that it would make me excessively angry as +well, you would not have been far wrong. I have no patience with the +pride and perversity of the young women of the present day. + +“I have heard from Norah. It is a long letter, stating the particulars +in full detail. I am now going to put all the confidence in your honor +and your discretion which I really feel. For your sake, and for +Norah’s, I am going to let you know what the scruple really is which +has misled her into the pride and folly of refusing you. I am old +enough to speak out; and I can tell you, if she had only been wise +enough to let her own wishes guide her, she would have said Yes—and +gladly, too. + +“The original cause of all the mischief is no less a person than your +worthy uncle—Admiral Bartram. + +“It seems that the admiral took it into his head (I suppose during your +absence) to go to London by himself and to satisfy some curiosity of +his own about Norah by calling in Portland Place, under pretense of +renewing his old friendship with the Tyrrels. He came at luncheon-time, +and saw Norah; and, from all I can hear, was apparently better pleased +with her than he expected or wished to be when he came into the house. + +“So far, this is mere guess-work; but it is unluckily certain that he +and Mrs. Tyrrel had some talk together alone when luncheon was over. +Your name was not mentioned; but when their conversation fell on Norah, +you were in both their minds, of course. The admiral (doing her full +justice personally) declared himself smitten with pity for her hard lot +in life. The scandalous conduct of her sister must always stand (he +feared) in the way of her future advantage. Who could marry her, +without first making it a condition that she and her sister were to be +absolute strangers to each other? And even then, the objection would +remain—the serious objection to the husband’s family—of being connected +by marriage with such a woman as Mrs. Noel Vanstone. It was very sad; +it was not the poor girl’s fault, but it was none the less true that +her sister was her rock ahead in life. So he ran on, with no real +ill-feeling toward Norah, but with an obstinate belief in his own +prejudices which bore the aspect of ill-feeling, and which people with +more temper than judgment would be but too readily disposed to resent +accordingly. + +“Unfortunately, Mrs. Tyrrel is one of those people. She is an +excellent, warm-hearted woman, with a quick temper and very little +judgment; strongly attached to Norah, and heartily interested in +Norah’s welfare. From all I can learn, she first resented the +expression of the admiral’s opinion, in his presence, as worldly and +selfish in the last degree; and then interpreted it, behind his back, +as a hint to discourage his nephew’s visits, which was a downright +insult offered to a lady in her own house. This was foolish enough so +far; but worse folly was to come. + +“As soon as your uncle was gone, Mrs. Tyrrel, most unwisely and +improperly, sent for Norah, and, repeating the conversation that had +taken place, warned her of the reception she might expect from the man +who stood toward you in the position of a father, if she accepted an +offer of marriage on your part. When I tell you that Norah’s faithful +attachment to her sister still remains unshaken, and that there lies +hidden under her noble submission to the unhappy circumstances of her +life a proud susceptibility to slights of all kinds, which is deeply +seated in her nature—you will understand the true motive of the refusal +which has so naturally and so justly disappointed you. They are all +three equally to blame in this matter. Your uncle was wrong to state +his objections so roundly and inconsiderately as he did. Mrs. Tyrrel +was wrong to let her temper get the better of her, and to suppose +herself insulted where no insult was intended. And Norah was wrong to +place a scruple of pride, and a hopeless belief in her sister which no +strangers can be expected to share, above the higher claims of an +attachment which might have secured the happiness and the prosperity of +her future life. + +“But the mischief has been done. The next question is, can the harm be +remedied? + +“I hope and believe it can. My advice is this: Don’t take No for an +answer. Give her time enough to reflect on what she has done, and to +regret it (as I believe she will regret it) in secret; trust to my +influence over her to plead your cause for you at every opportunity I +can find; wait patiently for the right moment, and ask her again. Men, +being accustomed to act on reflection themselves, are a great deal too +apt to believe that women act on reflection, too. Women do nothing of +the sort. They act on impulse; and, in nine cases out of ten, they are +heartily sorry for it afterward. + +“In the meanwhile, you must help your own interests by inducing your +uncle to alter his opinion, or at least to make the concession of +keeping his opinion to himself. Mrs. Tyrrel has rushed to the +conclusion that the harm he has done he did intentionally—which is as +much as to say, in so many words, that he had a prophetic conviction, +when he came into the house, of what she would do when he left it. My +explanation of the matter is a much simpler one. I believe that the +knowledge of your attachment naturally aroused his curiosity to see the +object of it, and that Mrs. Tyrrel’s injudicious praises of Norah +irritated his objections into openly declaring themselves. Anyway, your +course lies equally plain before you. Use your influence over your +uncle to persuade him into setting matters right again; trust my +settled resolution to see Norah your wife before six months more are +over our heads; and believe me, your friend and well-wisher, + +“HARRIET GARTH.” + + +IV. +From Mrs. Drake to George Bartram. + +“St. Crux, April 17th. + + +“SIR, + +“I direct these lines to the hotel you usually stay at in London, +hoping that you may return soon enough from foreign parts to receive my +letter without delay. + +“I am sorry to say that some unpleasant events have taken place at St. +Crux since you left it, and that my honored master, the admiral, is far +from enjoying his usual good health. On both these accounts, I venture +to write to you on my own responsibility, for I think your presence is +needed in the house. + +“Early in the month a most regrettable circumstance took place. Our new +parlor-maid was discovered by Mr. Mazey, at a late hour of the night +(with her master’s basket of keys in her possession), prying into the +private documents kept in the east library. The girl removed herself +from the house the next morning before we were any of us astir, and she +has not been heard of since. This event has annoyed and alarmed my +master very seriously; and to make matters worse, on the day when the +girl’s treacherous conduct was discovered, the admiral was seized with +the first symptoms of a severe inflammatory cold. He was not himself +aware, nor was any one else, how he had caught the chill. The doctor +was sent for, and kept the inflammation down until the day before +yesterday, when it broke out again, under circumstances which I am sure +you will be sorry to hear, as I am truly sorry to write of them. + +“On the date I have just mentioned—I mean the fifteenth of the month—my +master himself informed me that he had been dreadfully disappointed by +a letter received from you, which had come in the morning from foreign +parts, and had brought him bad news. He did not tell me what the news +was—but I have never, in all the years I have passed in the admiral’s +service, seen him so distressingly upset, and so unlike himself, as he +was on that day. At night his uneasiness seemed to increase. He was in +such a state of irritation that he could not bear the sound of Mr. +Mazey’s hard breathing outside his door, and he laid his positive +orders on the old man to go into one of the bedrooms for that night. +Mr. Mazey, to his own great regret, was of course obliged to obey. + +“Our only means of preventing the admiral from leaving his room in his +sleep, if the fit unfortunately took him, being now removed, Mr. Mazey +and I agreed to keep watch by turns through the night, sitting, with +the door ajar, in one of the empty rooms near our master’s bed-chamber. +We could think of nothing better to do than this, knowing he would not +allow us to lock him in, and not having the door key in our possession, +even if we could have ventured to secure him in his room without his +permission. I kept watch for the first two hours, and then Mr. Mazey +took my place. After having been some little time in my own room, it +occurred to me that the old man was hard of hearing, and that if his +eyes grew at all heavy in the night, his ears were not to be trusted to +warn him if anything happened. I slipped on my clothes again, and went +back to Mr. Mazey. He was neither asleep nor awake—he was between the +two. My mind misgave me, and I went on to the admiral’s room. The door +was open, and the bed was empty. + +“Mr. Mazey and I went downstairs instantly. We looked in all the north +rooms, one after another, and found no traces of him. I thought of the +drawing-room next, and, being the more active of the two, went first to +examine it. The moment I turned the sharp corner of the passage, I saw +my master coming toward me through the open drawing-room door, asleep +and dreaming, with his keys in his hands. The sliding door behind him +was open also; and the fear came to me then, and has remained with me +ever since, that his dream had led him through the Banqueting-Hall into +the east rooms. We abstained from waking him, and followed his steps +until he returned of his own accord to his bed-chamber. The next +morning, I grieve to say, all the bad symptoms came back; and none of +the remedies employed have succeeded in getting the better of them yet. +By the doctor’s advice, we refrained from telling the admiral what had +happened. He is still under the impression that he passed the night as +usual in his own room. + +“I have been careful to enter into all the particulars of this +unfortunate accident, because neither Mr. Mazey nor myself desire to +screen ourselves from blame, if blame we have deserved. We both acted +for the best, and we both beg and pray you will consider our +responsible situation, and come as soon as possible to St. Crux. Our +honored master is very hard to manage; and the doctor thinks, as we do, +that your presence is wanted in the house. + +“I remain, sir, with Mr. Mazey’s respects and my own, your humble +servant, + +“SOPHIA DRAKE.” + + +V. +From George Bartram to Miss Garth. + +“St. Crux, April 22d. + + +“DEAR MISS GARTH, + +“Pray excuse my not thanking you sooner for your kind and consoling +letter. We are in sad trouble at St. Crux. Any little irritation I +might have felt at my poor uncle’s unlucky interference in Portland +Place is all forgotten in the misfortune of his serious illness. He is +suffering from internal inflammation, produced by cold; and symptoms +have shown themselves which are dangerous at his age. A physician from +London is now in the house. You shall hear more in a few days. +Meantime, believe me, with sincere gratitude, + +“Yours most truly, +“GEORGE BARTRAM.” + + +VI. +From Mr. Loscombe to Mrs. Noel Vanstone. + +“Lincoln’s Inn Fields, May 6th. + + +“DEAR MADAM, + +“I have unexpectedly received some information which is of the most +vital importance to your interests. The news of Admiral Bartram’s death +has reached me this morning. He expired at his own house, on the fourth +of the present month. + +“This event at once disposes of the considerations which I had +previously endeavored to impress on you, in relation to your discovery +at St. Crux. The wisest course we can now follow is to open +communications at once with the executors of the deceased gentleman; +addressing them through the medium of the admiral’s legal adviser, in +the first instance. + +“I have dispatched a letter this day to the solicitor in question. It +simply warns him that we have lately become aware of the existence of a +private Document, controlling the deceased gentleman in his use of the +legacy devised to him by Mr. Noel Vanstone’s will. My letter assumes +that the document will be easily found among the admiral’s papers; and +it mentions that I am the solicitor appointed by Mrs. Noel Vanstone to +receive communications on her behalf. My object in taking this step is +to cause a search to be instituted for the Trust—in the very probable +event of the executors not having met with it yet—before the usual +measures are adopted for the administration of the admiral’s estate. We +will threaten legal proceedings, if we find that the object does not +succeed. But I anticipate no such necessity. Admiral Bartram’s +executors must be men of high standing and position; and they will do +justice to you and to themselves in this matter by looking for the +Trust. + +“Under these circumstances, you will naturally ask, ‘What are our +prospects when the document is found?’ Our prospects have a bright side +and a dark side. Let us take the bright side to begin with. + +“What do we actually know? + +“We know, first, that the Trust does really exist. Secondly, that there +is a provision in it relating to the marriage of Mr. George Bartram in +a given time. Thirdly, that the time (six months from the date of your +husband’s death) expired on the third of this month. Fourthly, that Mr. +George Bartram (as I have found out by inquiry, in the absence of any +positive information on the subject possessed by yourself) is, at the +present moment, a single man. The conclusion naturally follows, that +the object contemplated by the Trust, in this case, is an object that +has failed. + +“If no other provisions have been inserted in the document—or if, being +inserted, those other provisions should be discovered to have failed +also—I believe it to be impossible (especially if evidence can be found +that the admiral himself considered the Trust binding on him) for the +executors to deal with your husband’s fortune as legally forming part +of Admiral Bartram’s estate. The legacy is expressly declared to have +been left to him, on the understanding that he applies it to certain +stated objects—and those objects have failed. What is to be done with +the money? It was not left to the admiral himself, on the testator’s +own showing; and the purposes for which it _was_ left have not been, +and cannot be, carried out. I believe (if the case here supposed really +happens) that the money must revert to the testator’s estate. In that +event the Law, dealing with it as a matter of necessity, divides it +into two equal portions. One half goes to Mr. Noel Vanstone’s childless +widow, and the other half is divided among Mr. Noel Vanstone’s next of +kin. + +“You will no doubt discover the obvious objection to the case in our +favor, as I have here put it. You will see that it depends for its +practical realization not on one contingency, but on a series of +contingencies, which must all happen exactly as we wish them to happen. +I admit the force of the objection; but I can tell you, at the same +time, that these said contingencies are by no means so improbable as +they may look on the face of them. + +“We have every reason to believe that the Trust, like the Will, was +_not_ drawn by a lawyer. That is one circumstance in our favor that is +enough of itself to cast a doubt on the soundness of all, or any, of +the remaining provisions which we may not be acquainted with. Another +chance which we may count on is to be found, as I think, in that +strange handwriting, placed under the signature on the third page of +the Letter, which you saw, but which you, unhappily, omitted to read. +All the probabilities point to those lines as written by Admiral +Bartram: and the position which they occupy is certainly consistent +with the theory that they touch the important subject of his own sense +of obligation under the Trust. + +“I wish to raise no false hopes in your mind. I only desire to satisfy +you that we have a case worth trying. + +“As for the dark side of the prospect, I need not enlarge on it. After +what I have already written, you will understand that the existence of +a sound provision, unknown to us, in the Trust, which has been properly +carried out by the admiral—or which can be properly carried out by his +representatives—would be necessarily fatal to our hopes. The legacy +would be, in this case, devoted to the purpose or purposes contemplated +by your husband—and, from that moment, you would have no claim. + +“I have only to add, that as soon as I hear from the late admiral’s man +of business, you shall know the result. + +“Believe me, dear madam, +“Faithfully yours, +“JOHN LOSCOMBE.” + + +VII. +From George Bartram to Miss Garth. + +“St. Crux, May 15th. + + +“DEAR MISS GARTH, + +“I trouble you with another letter: partly to thank you for your kind +expression of sympathy with me, under the loss that I have sustained; +and partly to tell you of an extraordinary application made to my +uncle’s executors, in which you and Miss Vanstone may both feel +interested, as Mrs. Noel Vanstone is directly concerned in it. + +“Knowing my own ignorance of legal technicalities, I inclose a copy of +the application, instead of trying to describe it. You will notice as +suspicious, that no explanation is given of the manner in which the +alleged discovery of one of my uncle’s secrets was made, by persons who +are total strangers to him. + +“On being made acquainted with the circumstances, the executors at once +applied to me. I could give them no positive information—for my uncle +never consulted me on matters of business. But I felt in honor bound to +tell them, that during the last six months of his life, the admiral had +occasionally let fall expressions of impatience in my hearing, which +led to the conclusion that he was annoyed by a private responsibility +of some kind. I also mentioned that he had imposed a very strange +condition on me—a condition which, in spite of his own assurances to +the contrary, I was persuaded could not have emanated from himself—of +marrying within a given time (which time has now expired), or of not +receiving from him a certain sum of money, which I believed to be the +same in amount as the sum bequeathed to him in my cousin’s will. The +executors agreed with me that these circumstances gave a color of +probability to an otherwise incredible story; and they decided that a +search should be instituted for the Secret Trust, nothing in the +slightest degree resembling this same Trust having been discovered, up +to that time, among the admiral’s papers. + +“The search (no trifle in such a house as this) has now been in full +progress for a week. It is superintended by both the executors, and by +my uncle’s lawyer, who is personally, as well as professionally, known +to Mr. Loscombe (Mrs. Noel Vanstone’s solicitor), and who has been +included in the proceedings at the express request of Mr. Loscombe +himself. Up to this time, nothing whatever has been found. Thousands +and thousands of letters have been examined, and not one of them bears +the remotest resemblance to the letter we are looking for. + +“Another week will bring the search to an end. It is only at my express +request that it will be persevered with so long. But as the admiral’s +generosity has made me sole heir to everything he possessed, I feel +bound to do the fullest justice to the interests of others, however +hostile to myself those interests may be. + +“With this view, I have not hesitated to reveal to the lawyer a +constitutional peculiarity of my poor uncle’s, which was always kept a +secret among us at his own request—I mean his tendency to somnambulism. +I mentioned that he had been discovered (by the housekeeper and his old +servant) walking in his sleep, about three weeks before his death, and +that the part of the house in which he had been seen, and the basket of +keys which he was carrying in his hand, suggested the inference that he +had come from one of the rooms in the east wing, and that he might have +opened some of the pieces of furniture in one of them. I surprised the +lawyer (who seemed to be quite ignorant of the extraordinary actions +constantly performed by somnambulists), by informing him that my uncle +could find his way about the house, lock and unlock doors, and remove +objects of all kinds from one place to another, as easily in his sleep +as in his waking hours. And I declared that, while I felt the faintest +doubt in my own mind whether he might not have been dreaming of the +Trust on the night in question, and putting the dream in action in his +sleep, I should not feel satisfied unless the rooms in the east wing +were searched again. + +“It is only right to add that there is not the least foundation in fact +for this idea of mine. During the latter part of his fatal illness, my +poor uncle was quite incapable of speaking on any subject whatever. +From the time of my arrival at St. Crux, in the middle of last month, +to the time of his death, not a word dropped from him which referred in +the remotest way to the Secret Trust. + +“Here then, for the present, the matter rests. If you think it right to +communicate the contents of this letter to Miss Vanstone, pray tell her +that it will not be my fault if her sister’s assertion (however +preposterous it may seem to my uncle’s executors) is not fairly put to +the proof. + +“Believe me, dear Miss Garth, +“Always truly yours, +“GEORGE BARTRAM. + + +“P. S.—As soon as all business matters are settled, I am going abroad +for some months, to try the relief of change of scene. The house will +be shut up, and left under the charge of Mrs. Drake. I have not +forgotten your once telling me that you should like to see St. Crux, if +you ever found yourself in this neighborhood. If you are at all likely +to be in Essex during the time when I am abroad, I have provided +against the chance of your being disappointed, by leaving instructions +with Mrs. Drake to give you, and any friends of yours, the freest +admission to the house and grounds.” + +VIII. +From Mr. Loscombe to Mrs. Noel Vanstone. + +“Lincoln’s Inn Fields, May 24th. + + +“DEAR MADAM, + +“After a whole fortnight’s search—conducted, I am bound to admit, with +the most conscientious and unrelaxing care—no such document as the +Secret Trust has been found among the papers left at St. Crux by the +late Admiral Bartram. + +“Under these circumstances, the executors have decided on acting under +the only recognizable authority which they have to guide them—the +admiral’s own will. This document (executed some years since) bequeaths +the whole of his estate, both real and personal (that is to say, all +the lands he possesses, and all the money he possesses, at the time of +his death), to his nephew. The will is plain, and the result is +inevitable. Your husband’s fortune is lost to you from this moment. Mr. +George Bartram legally inherits it, as he legally inherits the house +and estate of St. Crux. + +“I make no comment upon this extraordinary close to the proceedings. +The Trust may have been destroyed, or the Trust may be hidden in some +place of concealment inaccessible to discovery. Either way, it is, in +my opinion, impossible to found any valid legal declaration on a +knowledge of the document so fragmentary and so incomplete as the +knowledge which you possess. If other lawyers differ from me on this +point, by all means consult them. I have devoted money enough and time +enough to the unfortunate attempt to assert your interests; and my +connection with the matter must, from this moment, be considered at an +end. + +“Your obedient servant, +“JOHN LOSCOMBE.” + + +IX. +From Mrs. Ruddock (Lodging-house Keeper) to Mr. Loscombe. + +“Park Terrace, St. John’s Wood, +“June 2d. + + +“SIR, + +“Having, by Mrs. Noel Vanstone’s directions, taken letters for her to +the post, addressed to you—and knowing no one else to apply to—I beg to +inquire whether you are acquainted with any of her friends; for I think +it right that they should be stirred up to take some steps about her. + +“Mrs. Vanstone first came to me in November last, when she and her maid +occupied my apartments. On that occasion, and again on this, she has +given me no cause to complain of her. She has behaved like a lady, and +paid me my due. I am writing, as a mother of a family, under a sense of +responsibility—I am not writing with an interested motive. + +“After proper warning given, Mrs. Vanstone (who is now quite alone) +leaves me to-morrow. She has not concealed from me that her +circumstances are fallen very low, and that she cannot afford to remain +in my house. This is all she has told me—I know nothing of where she is +going, or what she means to do next. But I have every reason to believe +she desires to destroy all traces by which she might be found, after +leaving this place—for I discovered her in tears yesterday, burning +letters which were doubtless letters from her friends. In looks and +conduct she has altered most shockingly in the last week. I believe +there is some dreadful trouble on her mind; and I am afraid, from what +I see of her, that she is on the eve of a serious illness. It is very +sad to see such a young woman so utterly deserted and friendless as she +is now. + +“Excuse my troubling you with this letter; it is on my conscience to +write it. If you know any of her relations, please warn them that time +is not to be wasted. If they lose to-morrow, they may lose the last +chance of finding her. + +“Your humble servant, +“CATHERINE RUDDOCK.” + + +X. +From Mr. Loscombe to Mrs. Ruddock. + +“Lincoln’s Inn Fields, June 2d. + + +“MADAM, + +“My only connection with Mrs. Noel Vanstone was a professional one, and +that connection is now at an end. I am not acquainted with any of her +friends; and I cannot undertake to interfere personally, either with +her present or future proceedings. + +“Regretting my inability to afford you any assistance, I remain, your +obedient servant, + +“JOHN LOSCOMBE.” + + + +THE LAST SCENE. +AARON’S BUILDINGS + + + +CHAPTER I. + +On the seventh of June, the owners of the merchantman _Deliverance_ +received news that the ship had touched at Plymouth to land passengers, +and had then continued her homeward voyage to the Port of London. Five +days later, the vessel was in the river, and was towed into the East +India Docks. + +Having transacted the business on shore for which he was personally +responsible, Captain Kirke made the necessary arrangements, by letter, +for visiting his brother-in-law’s parsonage in Suffolk, on the +seventeenth of the month. As usual in such cases, he received a list of +commissions to execute for his sister on the day before he left London. +One of these commissions took him into the neighborhood of Camden Town. +He drove to his destination from the Docks; and then, dismissing the +vehicle, set forth to walk back southward, toward the New Road. + +He was not well acquainted with the district; and his attention +wandered further and further away from the scene around him as he went +on. His thoughts, roused by the prospect of seeing his sister again, +had led his memory back to the night when he had parted from her, +leaving the house on foot. The spell so strangely laid on him, in that +past time, had kept its hold through all after-events. The face that +had haunted him on the lonely road had haunted him again on the lonely +sea. The woman who had followed him, as in a dream, to his sister’s +door, had followed him—thought of his thought, and spirit of his +spirit—to the deck of his ship. Through storm and calm on the voyage +out, through storm and calm on the voyage home, she had been with him. +In the ceaseless turmoil of the London streets, she was with him now. +He knew what the first question on his lips would be, when he had seen +his sister and her boys. “I shall try to talk of something else,” he +thought; “but when Lizzie and I am alone, it will come out in spite of +me.” + +The necessity of waiting to let a string of carts pass at a turning +before he crossed awakened him to present things. He looked about in a +momentary confusion. The street was strange to him; he had lost his +way. + +The first foot passenger of whom he inquired appeared to have no time +to waste in giving information. Hurriedly directing him to cross to the +other side of the road, to turn down the first street he came to on his +right hand, and then to ask again, the stranger unceremoniously +hastened on without waiting to be thanked. + +Kirke followed his directions and took the turning on his right. The +street was short and narrow, and the houses on either side were of the +poorer order. He looked up as he passed the corner to see what the name +of the place might be. It was called “Aaron’s Buildings.” + +Low down on the side of the “Buildings” along which he was walking, a +little crowd of idlers was assembled round two cabs, both drawn up +before the door of the same house. Kirke advanced to the crowd, to ask +his way of any civil stranger among them who might _not_ be in a hurry +this time. On approaching the cabs, he found a woman disputing with the +drivers; and heard enough to inform him that two vehicles had been sent +for by mistake, where only one was wanted. + +The house door was open; and when he turned that way next, he looked +easily into the passage, over the heads of the people in front of him. + +The sight that met his eyes should have been shielded in pity from the +observation of the street. He saw a slatternly girl, with a frightened +face, standing by an old chair placed in the middle of the passage, and +holding a woman on the chair, too weak and helpless to support +herself—a woman apparently in the last stage of illness, who was about +to be removed, when the dispute outside was ended, in one of the cabs. +Her head was drooping when he first saw her, and an old shawl which +covered it had fallen forward so as to hide the upper part of her face. + +Before he could look away again, the girl in charge of her raised her +head and restored the shawl to its place. The action disclosed her face +to view, for an instant only, before her head drooped once more on her +bosom. In that instant he saw the woman whose beauty was the haunting +remembrance of his life—whose image had been vivid in his mind not five +minutes since. + +The shock of the double recognition—the recognition, at the same +moment, of the face, and of the dreadful change in it—struck him +speechless and helpless. The steady presence of mind in all emergencies +which had become a habit of his life, failed him for the first time. +The poverty-stricken street, the squalid mob round the door, swam +before his eyes. He staggered back and caught at the iron railings of +the house behind him. + +“Where are they taking her to?” he heard a woman ask, close at his +side. + +“To the hospital, if they will have her,” was the reply. “And to the +work-house, if they won’t.” + +That horrible answer roused him. He pushed his way through the crowd +and entered the house. + +The misunderstanding on the pavement had been set right, and one of the +cabs had driven off. + +As he crossed the threshold of the door he confronted the people of the +house at the moment when they were moving her. The cabman who had +remained was on one side of the chair, and the woman who had been +disputing with the two drivers was on the other. They were just lifting +her, when Kirke’s tall figure darkened the door. + +“What are you doing with that lady?” he asked. + +The cabman looked up with the insolence of his reply visible in his +eyes, before his lips could utter it. But the woman, quicker than he, +saw the suppressed agitation in Kirke’s face, and dropped her hold of +the chair in an instant. + +“Do you know her, sir?” asked the woman, eagerly. “Are you one of her +friends?” + +“Yes,” said Kirke, without hesitation. + +“It’s not my fault, sir,” pleaded the woman, shirking under the look he +fixed on her. “I would have waited patiently till her friends found +her—I would, indeed!” + +Kirke made no reply. He turned, and spoke to the cabman. + +“Go out,” he said, “and close the door after you. I’ll send you down +your money directly. What room in the house did you take her from, when +you brought her here?” he resumed, addressing himself to the woman +again. + +“The first floor back, sir.” + +“Show me the way to it.” + +He stooped, and lifted Magdalen in his arms. Her head rested gently on +the sailor’s breast; her eyes looked up wonderingly into the sailor’s +face. She smiled, and whispered to him vacantly. Her mind had wandered +back to old days at home; and her few broken words showed that she +fancied herself a child again in her father’s arms. “Poor papa!” she +said, softly. “Why do you look so sorry? Poor papa!” + +The woman led the way into the back room on the first floor. It was +very small; it was miserably furnished. But the little bed was clean, +and the few things in the room were neatly kept. Kirke laid her +tenderly on the bed. She caught one of his hands in her burning +fingers. “Don’t distress mamma about me,” she said. “Send for Norah.” +Kirke tried gently to release his hand; but she only clasped it the +more eagerly. He sat down by the bedside to wait until it pleased her +to release him. The woman stood looking at them and crying, in a corner +of the room. Kirke observed her attentively. “Speak,” he said, after an +interval, in low, quiet tones. “Speak in _her_ presence; and tell me +the truth.” + +With many words, with many tears, the woman spoke. + +She had let her first floor to the lady a fortnight since. The lady had +paid a week’s rent, and had given the name of Gray. She had been out +from morning till night, for the first three days, and had come home +again, on every occasion, with a wretchedly weary, disappointed look. +The woman of the house had suspected that she was in hiding from her +friends, under a false name; and that she had been vainly trying to +raise money, or to get some employment, on the three days when she was +out for so long, and when she looked so disappointed on coming home. +However that might be, on the fourth day she had fallen ill, with +shivering fits and hot fits, turn and turn about. On the fifth day she +was worse; and on the sixth, she was too sleepy at one time, and too +light-headed at another, to be spoken to. The chemist (who did the +doctoring in those parts) had come and looked at her, and had said he +thought it was a bad fever. He had left a “saline draught,” which the +woman of the house had paid for out of her own pocket, and had +administered without effect. She had ventured on searching the only box +which the lady had brought with her; and had found nothing in it but a +few necessary articles of linen—no dresses, no ornaments, not so much +as the fragment of a letter which might help in discovering her +friends. Between the risk of keeping her under these circumstances, and +the barbarity of turning a sick woman into the street, the landlady +herself had not hesitated. She would willingly have kept her tenant, on +the chance of the lady’s recovery, and on the chance of her friends +turning up. But not half an hour since, her husband—who never came near +the house, except to take her money—had come to rob her of her little +earnings, as usual. She had been obliged to tell him that no rent was +in hand for the first floor, and that none was likely to be in hand +until the lady recovered, or her friends found her. On hearing this, he +had mercilessly insisted—well or ill—that the lady should go. There was +the hospital to take her to; and if the hospital shut its doors, there +was the workhouse to try next. If she was not out of the place in an +hour’s time, he threatened to come back and take her out himself. His +wife knew but too well that he was brute enough to be as good as his +word; and no other choice had been left her but to do as she had done, +for the sake of the lady herself. + +The woman told her shocking story, with every appearance of being +honestly ashamed of it. Toward the end, Kirke felt the clasp of the +burning fingers slackening round his hand. He looked back at the bed +again. Her weary eyes were closing; and, with her face still turned +toward the sailor, she was sinking into sleep. + +“Is there any one in the front room?” said Kirke, in a whisper. “Come +in there; I have something to say to you.” + +The woman followed him through the door of communication between the +rooms. + +“How much does she owe you?” he asked. + +The landlady mentioned the sum. Kirke put it down before her on the +table. + +“Where is your husband?” was his next question. + +“Waiting at the public-house, sir, till the hour is up.” + +“You can take him the money or not, as you think right,” said Kirke, +quietly. “I have only one thing to tell you, as far as your husband is +concerned. If you want to see every bone in his skin broken, let him +come to the house while I am in it. Stop! I have something more to say. +Do you know of any doctor in the neighborhood who can be depended on?” + +“Not in our neighborhood, sir. But I know of one within half an hour’s +walk of us.” + +“Take the cab at the door; and, if you find him at home, bring him back +in it. Say I am waiting here for his opinion on a very serious case. He +shall be well paid, and you shall be well paid. Make haste!” + +The woman left the room. + +Kirke sat down alone, to wait for her return. He hid his face in his +hands, and tried to realize the strange and touching situation in which +the accident of a moment had placed him. + +Hidden in the squalid by-ways of London under a false name; cast, +friendless and helpless, on the mercy of strangers, by illness which +had struck her prostrate, mind and body alike—so he met her again, the +woman who had opened a new world of beauty to his mind; the woman who +had called Love to life in him by a look! What horrible misfortune had +struck her so cruelly, and struck her so low? What mysterious destiny +had guided him to the last refuge of her poverty and despair, in the +hour of her sorest need? “If it is ordered that I am to see her again, +I _shall_ see her.” Those words came back to him now—the memorable +words that he had spoken to his sister at parting. With that thought in +his heart, he had gone where his duty called him. Months and months had +passed; thousands and thousands of miles, protracting their desolate +length on the unresting waters had rolled between them. And through the +lapse of time, and over the waste of oceans—day after day, and night +after night, as the winds of heaven blew, and the good ship toiled on +before them—he had advanced nearer and nearer to the end that was +waiting for him; he had journeyed blindfold to the meeting on the +threshold of that miserable door. “What has brought me here?” he said +to himself in a whisper. “The mercy of chance? No. The mercy of God.” + +He waited, unregardful of the place, unconscious of the time, until the +sound of footsteps on the stairs came suddenly between him and his +thoughts. The door opened, and the doctor was shown into the room. + +“Dr. Merrick,” said the landlady, placing a chair for him. + +“_Mr._ Merrick,” said the visitor, smiling quietly as he took the +chair. “I am not a physician—I am a surgeon in general practice.” + +Physician or surgeon, there was something in his face and manner which +told Kirke at a glance that he was a man to be relied on. + +After a few preliminary words on either side, Mr. Merrick sent the +landlady into the bedroom to see if his patient was awake or asleep. +The woman returned, and said she was “betwixt the two, light in the +head again, and burning hot.” The doctor went at once into the bedroom, +telling the landlady to follow him, and to close the door behind her. + +A weary time passed before he came back into the front room. When he +re-appeared, his face spoke for him, before any question could be +asked. + +“Is it a serious illness?” said Kirke his voice sinking low, his eyes +anxiously fixed on the doctor’s face. + +“It is a _dangerous_ illness,” said Mr. Merrick, with an emphasis on +the word. + +He drew his chair nearer to Kirke and looked at him attentively. + +“May I ask you some questions which are not strictly medical?” he +inquired. + +Kirke bowed. + +“Can you tell me what her life has been before she came into this +house, and before she fell ill?” + +“I have no means of knowing. I have just returned to England after a +long absence.” + +“Did you know of her coming here?” + +“I only discovered it by accident.” + +“Has she no female relations? No mother? no sister? no one to take care +of her but yourself?” + +“No one—unless I can succeed in tracing her relations. No one but +myself.” + +Mr. Merrick was silent. He looked at Kirke more attentively than ever. +“Strange!” thought the doctor. “He is here, in sole charge of her—and +is this all he knows?” + +Kirke saw the doubt in his face; and addressed himself straight to that +doubt, before another word passed between them, + +“I see my position here surprises you,” he said, simply. “Will you +consider it the position of a relation—the position of her brother or +her father—until her friends can be found?” His voice faltered, and he +laid his hand earnestly on the doctor’s arm. “I have taken this trust +on myself,” he said; “and as God shall judge me, I will not be unworthy +of it!” + +The poor weary head lay on his breast again, the poor fevered fingers +clasped his hand once more, as he spoke those words. + +“I believe you,” said the doctor, warmly. “I believe you are an honest +man.—Pardon me if I have seemed to intrude myself on your confidence. I +respect your reserve—from this moment it is sacred to me. In justice to +both of us, let me say that the questions I have asked were not +prompted by mere curiosity. No common cause will account for the +illness which has laid my patient on that bed. She has suffered some +long-continued mental trial, some wearing and terrible suspense—and she +has broken down under it. It might have helped me if I could have known +what the nature of the trial was, and how long or how short a time +elapsed before she sank under it. In that hope I spoke.” + +“When you told me she was dangerously ill,” said Kirke, “did you mean +danger to her reason or to her life?” + +“To both,” replied Mr. Merrick. “Her whole nervous system has given +way; all the ordinary functions of her brain are in a state of +collapse. I can give you no plainer explanation than that of the nature +of the malady. The fever which frightens the people of the house is +merely the effect. The cause is what I have told you. She may lie on +that bed for weeks to come; passing alternately, without a gleam of +consciousness, from a state of delirium to a state of repose. You must +not be alarmed if you find her sleep lasting far beyond the natural +time. That sleep is a better remedy than any I can give, and nothing +must disturb it. All our art can accomplish is to watch her, to help +her with stimulants from time to time, and to wait for what Nature will +do.” + +“Must she remain here? Is there no hope of our being able to remove her +to a better place?” + +“No hope whatever, for the present. She has already been disturbed, as +I understand, and she is seriously the worse for it. Even if she gets +better, even if she comes to herself again, it would still be a +dangerous experiment to move her too soon—the least excitement or alarm +would be fatal to her. You must make the best of this place as it is. +The landlady has my directions; and I will send a good nurse to help +her. There is nothing more to be done. So far as her life can be said +to be in any human hands, it is as much in your hands now as in mine. +Everything depends on the care that is taken of her, under your +direction, in this house.” With those farewell words he rose and +quitted the room. + +Left by himself, Kirke walked to the door of communication, and, +knocking at it softly, told the landlady he wished to speak with her. + +He was far more composed, far more like his own resolute self, after +his interview with the doctor, than he had been before it. A man living +in the artificial social atmosphere which _this_ man had never breathed +would have felt painfully the worldly side of the situation—its novelty +and strangeness; the serious present difficulty in which it placed him; +the numberless misinterpretations in the future to which it might lead. +Kirke never gave the situation a thought. He saw nothing but the duty +it claimed from him—a duty which the doctor’s farewell words had put +plainly before his mind. Everything depended on the care taken of her, +under his direction, in that house. There was his responsibility, and +he unconsciously acted under it, exactly as he would have acted in a +case of emergency with women and children on board his own ship. He +questioned the landlady in short, sharp sentences; the only change in +him was in the lowered tone of his voice, and in the anxious looks +which he cast, from time to time, at the room where she lay. + +“Do you understand what the doctor has told you?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“The house must be kept quiet. Who lives in the house?” + +“Only me and my daughter, sir; we live in the parlors. Times have gone +badly with us since Lady Day. Both the rooms above this are to let.” + +“I will take them both, and the two rooms down here as well. Do you +know of any active trustworthy man who can run on errands for me?” + +“Yes, sir. Shall I go—?” + +“No; let your daughter go. You must not leave the house until the nurse +comes. Don’t send the messenger up here. Men of that sort tread +heavily. I’ll go down, and speak to him at the door.” + +He went down when the messenger came, and sent him first to purchase +pen, ink, and paper. The man’s next errand dispatched him to make +inquiries for a person who could provide for deadening the sound of +passing wheels in the street by laying down tan before the house in the +usual way. This object accomplished, the messenger received two letters +to post. The first was addressed to Kirke’s brother-in-law. It told +him, in few and plain words, what had happened; and left him to break +the news to his wife as he thought best. The second letter was directed +to the landlord of the Aldborough Hotel. Magdalen’s assumed name at +North Shingles was the only name by which Kirke knew her; and the one +chance of tracing her relatives that he could discern was the chance of +discovering her reputed uncle and aunt by means of inquiries starting +from Aldborough. + +Toward the close of the afternoon a decent middle-aged woman came to +the house, with a letter from Mr. Merrick. She was well known to the +doctor as a trustworthy and careful person, who had nursed his own +wife; and she would be assisted, from time to time, by a lady who was a +member of a religious Sisterhood in the district, and whose +compassionate interest had been warmly aroused in the case. Toward +eight o’clock that evening the doctor himself would call and see that +his patient wanted for nothing. + +The arrival of the nurse, and the relief of knowing that she was to be +trusted, left Kirke free to think of himself. His luggage was ready +packed for his contemplated journey to Suffolk the next day. It was +merely necessary to transport it from the hotel to the house in Aaron’s +Buildings. + +He stopped once only on his way to the hotel to look at a toyshop in +one of the great thoroughfares. The miniature ships in the window +reminded him of his nephew. “My little name-sake will be sadly +disappointed at not seeing me to-morrow,” he thought. “I must make it +up to the boy by sending him something from his uncle.” He went into +the shop and bought one of the ships. It was secured in a box, and +packed and directed in his presence. He put a card on the deck of the +miniature vessel before the cover of the box was nailed on, bearing +this inscription: “A ship for the little sailor, with the big sailor’s +love.”—“Children like to be written to, ma’am,” he said, +apologetically, to the woman behind the counter. “Send the box as soon +as you can—I am anxious the boy should get it to-morrow.” + +Toward the dusk of the evening he returned with his luggage to Aaron’s +Buildings. He took off his boots in the passage and carried his trunk +upstairs himself; stopping, as he passed the first floor, to make his +inquiries. Mr. Merrick was present to answer them. + +“She was awake and wandering,” said the doctor, “a few minutes since. +But we have succeeded in composing her, and she is sleeping now.” + +“Have no words escaped her, sir, which might help us to find her +friends?” + +Mr. Merrick shook his head. + +“Weeks and weeks may pass yet,” he said, “and that poor girl’s story +may still be a sealed secret to all of us. We can only wait.” + +So the day ended—the first of many days that were to come. + + + +CHAPTER II. + +The warm sunlight of July shining softly through a green blind; an open +window with fresh flowers set on the sill; a strange bed, in a strange +room; a giant figure of the female sex (like a dream of Mrs. Wragge) +towering aloft on one side of the bed, and trying to clap its hands; +another woman (quickly) stopping the hands before they could make any +noise; a mild expostulating voice (like a dream of Mrs. Wragge again) +breaking the silence in these words, “She knows me, ma’am, she knows +me; if I mustn’t be happy, it will be the death of me!”—such were the +first sights, such were the first sounds, to which, after six weeks of +oblivion, Magdalen suddenly and strangely awoke. + +After a little, the sights grew dim again, and the sounds sank into +silence. Sleep, the merciful, took her once more, and hushed her back +to repose. + +Another day—and the sights were clearer, the sounds were louder. +Another—and she heard a man’s voice, through the door, asking for news +from the sick-room. The voice was strange to her; it was always +cautiously lowered to the same quiet tone. It inquired after her, in +the morning, when she woke—at noon, when she took her refreshment—in +the evening, before she dropped asleep again. “Who is so anxious about +me?” That was the first thought her mind was strong enough to form—“Who +is so anxious about me?” + +More days—and she could speak to the nurse at her bedside; she could +answer the questions of an elderly man, who knew far more about her +than she knew about herself, and who told her he was Mr. Merrick, the +doctor; she could sit up in bed, supported by pillows, wondering what +had happened to her, and where she was; she could feel a growing +curiosity about that quiet voice, which still asked after her, morning, +noon, and night, on the other side of the door. + +Another day’s delay—and Mr. Merrick asked her if she was strong enough +to see an old friend. A meek voice, behind him, articulating high in +the air, said, “It’s only me.” The voice was followed by the prodigious +bodily apparition of Mrs. Wragge, with her cap all awry, and one of her +shoes in the next room. “Oh, look at her! look at her!” cried Mrs. +Wragge, in an ecstasy, dropping on her knees at Magdalen’s bedside, +with a thump that shook the house. “Bless her heart, she’s well enough +to laugh at me already. ‘Cheer, boys, cheer—!’ I beg your pardon, +doctor, my conduct isn’t ladylike, I know. It’s my head, sir; it isn’t +_me._ I must give vent somehow, or my head will burst!” No coherent +sentence, in answer to any sort of question put to her, could be +extracted that morning from Mrs. Wragge. She rose from one climax of +verbal confusion to another—and finished her visit under the bed, +groping inscrutably for the second shoe. + +The morrow came—and Mr. Merrick promised that she should see another +old friend on the next day. In the evening, when the inquiring voice +asked after her, as usual, and when the door was opened a few inches to +give the reply, she answered faintly for herself: “I am better, thank +you.” There was a moment of silence—and then, just as the door was shut +again, the voice sank to a whisper, and said, fervently, “Thank God!” +Who was he? She had asked them all, and no one would tell her. Who was +he? + +The next day came; and she heard her door opened softly. Brisk +footsteps tripped into the room; a lithe little figure advanced to the +bed-side. Was it a dream again? No! There he was in his own evergreen +reality, with the copious flow of language pouring smoothly from his +lips; with the lambent dash of humor twinkling in his party-colored +eyes—there he was, more audacious, more persuasive, more respectable +than ever, in a suit of glossy black, with a speckless white cravat, +and a rampant shirt frill—the unblushing, the invincible, unchangeable +Wragge! + +“Not a word, my dear girl!” said the captain, seating himself +comfortably at the bedside, in his old confidential way. “I am to do +all the talking; and, I think you will own, a more competent man for +the purpose could not possibly have been found. I am really +delighted—honestly delighted, if I may use such an apparently +inappropriate word—to see you again, and to see you getting well. I +have often thought of you; I have often missed you; I have often said +to myself—never mind what! Clear the stage, and drop the curtain on the +past. _Dum vivimus, vivamus!_ Pardon the pedantry of a Latin quotation, +my dear, and tell me how I look. Am I, or am I not, the picture of a +prosperous man?” + +Magdalen attempted to answer him. The captain’s deluge of words flowed +over her again in a moment. + +“Don’t exert yourself,” he said. “I’ll put all your questions for you. +What have I been about? Why do I look so remarkably well off? And how +in the world did I find my way to this house? My dear girl, I have been +occupied, since we last saw each other, in slightly modifying my old +professional habits. I have shifted from Moral Agriculture to Medical +Agriculture. Formerly I preyed on the public sympathy, now I prey on +the public stomach. Stomach and sympathy, sympathy and stomach—look +them both fairly in the face when you reach the wrong side of fifty, +and you will agree with me that they come to much the same thing. +However that may be, here I am—incredible as it may appear—a man with +an income, at last. The founders of my fortune are three in number. +Their names are Aloes, Scammony, and Gamboge. In plainer words, I am +now living—on a Pill. I made a little money (if you remember) by my +friendly connection with you. I made a little more by the happy decease +(_Requiescat in Pace!_) of that female relative of Mrs. Wragge’s from +whom, as I told you, my wife had expectations. Very good. What do you +think I did? I invested the whole of my capital, at one fell swoop, in +advertisements, and purchased my drugs and my pill-boxes on credit. The +result is now before you. Here I am, a Grand Financial Fact. Here I am, +with my clothes positively paid for; with a balance at my banker’s; +with my servant in livery, and my gig at the door; solvent, +flourishing, popular—and all on a Pill.” + +Magdalen smiled. The captain’s face assumed an expression of mock +gravity; he looked as if there was a serious side to the question, and +as if he meant to put it next. + +“It’s no laughing matter to the public, my dear,” he said. “They can’t +get rid of me and my Pill; they must take us. There is not a single +form of appeal in the whole range of human advertisement which I am not +making to the unfortunate public at this moment. Hire the last new +novel, there I am, inside the boards of the book. Send for the last new +Song—the instant you open the leaves, I drop out of it. Take a cab—I +fly in at the window in red. Buy a box of tooth-powder at the +chemist’s—I wrap it up for you in blue. Show yourself at the theater—I +flutter down on you in yellow. The mere titles of my advertisements are +quite irresistible. Let me quote a few from last week’s issue. +Proverbial Title: ‘A Pill in time saves Nine.’ Familiar Title: ‘Excuse +me, how is your Stomach?’ Patriotic Title: ‘What are the three +characteristics of a true-born Englishman? His Hearth, his Home, and +his Pill.’ Title in the form of a nursery dialogue: ‘Mamma, I am not +well.’ ‘What is the matter, my pet?’ ‘I want a little Pill.’ Title in +the form of a Historical Anecdote: ‘New Discovery in the Mine of +English History. When the Princes were smothered in the Tower, their +faithful attendant collected all their little possessions left behind +them. Among the touching trifles dear to the poor boys, he found a tiny +Box. It contained the Pill of the Period. Is it necessary to say how +inferior that Pill was to its Successor, which prince and peasant alike +may now obtain?’—Et cetera, et cetera. The place in which my Pill is +made is an advertisement in itself. I have got one of the largest shops +in London. Behind one counter (visible to the public through the lucid +medium of plate-glass) are four-and-twenty young men, in white aprons, +making the Pill. Behind another counter are four-and-twenty young men, +in white cravats, making the boxes. At the bottom of the shop are three +elderly accountants, posting the vast financial transactions accruing +from the Pill in three enormous ledgers. Over the door are my name, +portrait, and autograph, expanded to colossal proportions, and +surrounded in flowing letters, by the motto of the establishment, ‘Down +with the Doctors!’ Even Mrs. Wragge contributes her quota to this +prodigious enterprise. She is the celebrated woman whom I have cured of +indescribable agonies from every complaint under the sun. Her portrait +is engraved on all the wrappers, with the following inscription beneath +it: ‘Before she took the Pill you might have blown this patient away +with a feather. Look at her now!!!’ Last, not least, my dear girl, the +Pill is the cause of my finding my way to this house. My department in +the prodigious Enterprise already mentioned is to scour the United +Kingdom in a gig, establishing Agencies everywhere. While founding one +of those Agencies, I heard of a certain friend of mine, who had lately +landed in England, after a long sea-voyage. I got his address in +London—he was a lodger in this house. I called on him forthwith, and +was stunned by the news of your illness. Such, in brief, is the history +of my existing connection with British Medicine; and so it happens that +you see me at the present moment sitting in the present chair, now as +ever, yours truly, Horatio Wragge.” In these terms the captain brought +his personal statement to a close. He looked more and more attentively +at Magdalen, the nearer he got to the conclusion. Was there some latent +importance attaching to his last words which did not appear on the face +of them? There was. His visit to the sick-room had a serious object, +and that object he had now approached. + +In describing the circumstances under which he had become acquainted +with Magdalen’s present position, Captain Wragge had skirted, with his +customary dexterity, round the remote boundaries of truth. Emboldened +by the absence of any public scandal in connection with Noel Vanstone’s +marriage, or with the event of his death as announced in the newspaper +obituary, the captain, roaming the eastern circuit, had ventured back +to Aldborough a fortnight since, to establish an agency there for the +sale of his wonderful Pill. No one had recognized him but the landlady +of the hotel, who at once insisted on his entering the house and +reading Kirke’s letter to her husband. The same night Captain Wragge +was in London, and was closeted with the sailor in the second-floor +room at Aaron’s Buildings. + +The serious nature of the situation, the indisputable certainty that +Kirke must fail in tracing Magdalen’s friends unless he first knew who +she really was, had decided the captain on disclosing part, at least, +of the truth. Declining to enter into any particulars—for family +reasons, which Magdalen might explain on her recovery, if she +pleased—he astounded Kirke by telling him that the friendless woman +whom he had rescued, and whom he had only known up to that moment as +Miss Bygrave—was no other than the youngest daughter of Andrew +Vanstone. The disclosure, on Kirke’s side, of his father’s connection +with the young officer in Canada, had followed naturally on the +revelation of Magdalen’s real name. Captain Wragge had expressed his +surprise, but had made no further remark at the time. A fortnight +later, however, when the patient’s recovery forced the serious +difficulty on the doctor of meeting the questions which Magdalen was +sure to ask, the captain’s ingenuity had come, as usual, to the rescue. + +“You can’t tell her the truth,” he said, “without awakening painful +recollections of her stay at Aldborough, into which I am not at liberty +to enter. Don’t acknowledge just yet that Mr. Kirke only knew her as +Miss Bygrave of North Shingles when he found her in this house. Tell +her boldly that he knew who she was, and that he felt (what she must +feel) that he had a hereditary right to help and protect her as his +father’s son. I am, as I have already told you,” continued the captain, +sticking fast to his old assertion, “a distant relative of the +Combe-Raven family; and, if there is nobody else at hand to help you +through this difficulty, my services are freely at your disposal.” + +No one else was at hand, and the emergency was a serious one. Strangers +undertaking the responsibility might ignorantly jar on past +recollections, which it would, perhaps, be the death of her to revive +too soon. Near relatives might, by their premature appearance at the +bedside, produce the same deplorable result. The alternative lay +between irritating and alarming her by leaving her inquiries +unanswered, or trusting Captain Wragge. In the doctor’s opinion, the +second risk was the least serious risk of the two—and the captain was +now seated at Magdalen’s bedside in discharge of the trust confided to +him. + +Would she ask the question which it had been the private object of all +Captain Wragge’s preliminary talk lightly and pleasantly to provoke? +Yes; as soon as his silence gave her the opportunity, she asked it: +“Who was that friend of his living in the house?” + +“You ought by rights to know him as well as I do,” said the captain. +“He is the son of one of your father’s old military friends, when your +father was quartered with his regiment in Canada. Your cheeks mustn’t +flush up! If they do, I shall go away.” + +She was astonished, but not agitated. Captain Wragge had begun by +interesting her in the remote past, which she only knew by hearsay, +before he ventured on the delicate ground of her own experience. + +In a moment more she advanced to her next question: “What was his +name?” + +“Kirke,” proceeded the captain. “Did you never hear of his father, +Major Kirke, commanding officer of the regiment in Canada? Did you +never hear that the major helped your father through a great +difficulty, like the best of good fellows and good friends?” + +Yes; she faintly fancied she had heard something about her father and +an officer who had once been very good to him when he was a young man. +But she could not look back so long. “Was Mr. Kirke poor?” Even Captain +Wragge’s penetration was puzzled by that question. He gave the true +answer at hazard. “No,” he said, “not poor.” + +Her next inquiry showed what she had been thinking of. “If Mr. Kirke +was not poor, why did he come to live in that house?” + +“She has caught me!” thought the captain. “There is only one way out of +it—I must administer another dose of truth. Mr. Kirke discovered you +here by chance,” he proceeded, aloud, “very ill, and not nicely +attended to. Somebody was wanted to take care of you while you were not +able to take care of yourself. Why not Mr. Kirke? He was the son of +your father’s old friend—which is the next thing to being _your_ old +friend. Who had a better claim to send for the right doctor, and get +the right nurse, when I was not here to cure you with my wonderful +Pill? Gently! gently! you mustn’t take hold of my superfine black +coat-sleeve in that unceremonious manner.” + +He put her hand back on the bed, but she was not to be checked in that +way. She persisted in asking another question.—How came Mr. Kirke to +know her? She had never seen him; she had never heard of him in her +life. + +“Very likely,” said Captain Wragge. “But your never having seen _him_ +is no reason why he should not have seen _you_.” + +“When did he see me?” + +The captain corked up his doses of truth on the spot without a moment’s +hesitation. “Some time ago, my dear. I can’t exactly say when.” + +“Only once?” + +Captain Wragge suddenly saw his way to the administration of another +dose. “Yes,” he said, “only once.” + +She reflected a little. The next question involved the simultaneous +expression of two ideas, and the next question cost her an effort. + +“He only saw me once,” she said, “and he only saw me some time ago. How +came he to remember me when he found me here?” + +“Aha!” said the captain. “Now you have hit the right nail on the head +at last. You can’t possibly be more surprised at his remembering you +than I am. A word of advice, my dear. When you are well enough to get +up and see Mr. Kirke, try how that sharp question of yours sounds in +_his_ ears, and insist on his answering it himself.” Slipping out of +the dilemma in that characteristically adroit manner, Captain Wragge +got briskly on his legs again and took up his hat. + +“Wait!” she pleaded. “I want to ask you—” + +“Not another word,” said the captain. “I have given you quite enough to +think of for one day. My time is up, and my gig is waiting for me. I am +off, to scour the country as usual. I am off, to cultivate the field of +public indigestion with the triple plowshare of aloes, scammony and +gamboge.” He stopped and turned round at the door. “By-the-by, a +message from my unfortunate wife. If you will allow her to come and see +you again, Mrs. Wragge solemnly promises _not_ to lose her shoe next +time. _I_ don’t believe her. What do you say? May she come?” + +“Yes; whenever she likes,” said Magdalen. “If I ever get well again, +may poor Mrs. Wragge come and stay with me?” + +“Certainly, my dear. If you have no objection, I will provide her +beforehand with a few thousand impressions in red, blue, and yellow of +her own portrait (‘You might have blown this patient away with a +feather before she took the Pill. Look at her now!’). She is sure to +drop herself about perpetually wherever she goes, and the most +gratifying results, in an advertising point of view, must inevitably +follow. Don’t think me mercenary—I merely understand the age I live +in.” He stopped on his way out, for the second time, and turned round +once more at the door. “You have been a remarkably good girl,” he said, +“and you deserve to be rewarded for it. I’ll give you a last piece of +information before I go. Have you heard anybody inquiring after you, +for the last day or two, outside your door? Ah! I see you have. A word +in your ear, my dear. That’s Mr. Kirke.” He tripped away from the +bedside as briskly as ever. Magdalen heard him advertising himself to +the nurse before he closed the door. “If you are ever asked about it,” +he said, in a confidential whisper, “the name is Wragge, and the Pill +is to be had in neat boxes, price thirteen pence half-penny, government +stamp included. Take a few copies of the portrait of a female patient, +whom you might have blown away with a feather before she took the Pill, +and whom you are simply requested to contemplate now. Many thanks. +_Good_-morning.” + +The door closed and Magdalen was alone again. She felt no sense of +solitude; Captain Wragge had left her with something new to think of. +Hour after hour her mind dwelt wonderingly on Mr. Kirke, until the +evening came, and she heard his voice again through the half-opened +door. + +“I am very grateful,” she said to him, before the nurse could answer +his inquiries—“very, very grateful for all your goodness to me.” + +“Try to get well,” he replied, kindly. “You will more than reward me, +if you try to get well.” + +The next morning Mr. Merrick found her impatient to leave her bed, and +be moved to the sofa in the front room. The doctor said he supposed she +wanted a change. “Yes,” she replied; “I want to see Mr. Kirke.” The +doctor consented to move her on the next day, but he positively forbade +the additional excitement of seeing anybody until the day after. She +attempted a remonstrance—Mr. Merrick was impenetrable. She tried, when +he was gone, to win the nurse by persuasion—the nurse was impenetrable, +too. + +On the next day they wrapped her in shawls, and carried her in to the +sofa, and made her a little bed on it. On the table near at hand were +some flowers and a number of an illustrated paper. She immediately +asked who had put them there. The nurse (failing to notice a warning +look from the doctor) said Mr. Kirke had thought that she might like +the flowers, and that the pictures in the paper might amuse her. After +that reply, her anxiety to see Mr. Kirke became too ungovernable to be +trifled with. The doctor left the room at once to fetch him. + +She looked eagerly at the opening door. Her first glance at him as he +came in raised a doubt in her mind whether she now saw that tall figure +and that open sun-burned face for the first time. But she was too weak +and too agitated to follow her recollections as far back as Aldborough. +She resigned the attempt, and only looked at him. He stopped at the +foot of the sofa and said a few cheering words. She beckoned to him to +come nearer, and offered him her wasted hand. He tenderly took it in +his, and sat down by her. They were both silent. His face told her of +the sorrow and the sympathy which his silence would fain have +concealed. She still held his hand—consciously now—as persistently as +she had held it on the day when he found her. Her eyes closed, after a +vain effort to speak to him, and the tears rolled slowly over her wan +white cheeks. + +The doctor signed to Kirke to wait and give her time. She recovered a +little and looked at him. “How kind you have been to me!” she murmured. +“And how little I have deserved it!” + +“Hush! hush!” he said. “You don’t know what a happiness it was to me to +help you.” + +The sound of his voice seemed to strengthen her, and to give her +courage. She lay looking at him with an eager interest, with a +gratitude which artlessly ignored all the conventional restraints that +interpose between a woman and a man. “Where did you see me,” she said, +suddenly, “before you found me here?” + +Kirke hesitated. Mr. Merrick came to his assistance. + +“I forbid you to say a word about the past to Mr. Kirke,” interposed +the doctor; “and I forbid Mr. Kirke to say a word about it to _you._ +You are beginning a new life to-day, and the only recollections I +sanction are recollections five minutes old.” + +She looked at the doctor and smiled. “I must ask him one question,” she +said, and turned back again to Kirke. “Is it true that you had only +seen me once before you came to this house?” + +“Quite true!” He made the reply with a sudden change of color which she +instantly detected. Her brightening eyes looked at him more earnestly +than ever, as she put her next question. + +“How came you to remember me after only seeing me once?” + +His hand unconsciously closed on hers, and pressed it for the first +time. He attempted to answer, and hesitated at the first word. “I have +a good memory,” he said at last; and suddenly looked away from her with +a confusion so strangely unlike his customary self-possession of manner +that the doctor and the nurse both noticed it. + +Every nerve in her body felt that momentary pressure of his hand, with +the exquisite susceptibility which accompanies the first faltering +advance on the way to health. She looked at his changing color, she +listened to his hesitating words, with every sensitive perception of +her sex and age quickened to seize intuitively on the truth. In the +moment when he looked away from her, she gently took her hand from him, +and turned her head aside on the pillow. “_Can_ it be?” she thought, +with a flutter of delicious fear at her heart, with a glow of delicious +confusion burning on her cheeks. “_Can_ it be?” + +The doctor made another sign to Kirke. He understood it, and rose +immediately. The momentary discomposure in his face and manner had both +disappeared. He was satisfied in his own mind that he had successfully +kept his secret, and in the relief of feeling that conviction he had +become himself again. + +“Good-by till to-morrow,” he said, as he left the room. + +“Good-by,” she answered, softly, without looking at him. + +Mr. Merrick took the chair which Kirke had resigned, and laid his hand +on her pulse. “Just what I feared,” remarked the doctor; “too quick by +half.” + +She petulantly snatched away her wrist. “Don’t!” she said, shrinking +from him. “Pray don’t touch me!” + +Mr. Merrick good-humoredly gave up his place to the nurse. “I’ll return +in half an hour,” he whispered, “and carry her back to bed. Don’t let +her talk. Show her the pictures in the newspaper, and keep her quiet in +that way.” + +When the doctor returned, the nurse reported that the newspaper had not +been wanted. The patient’s conduct had been exemplary. She had not been +at all restless, and she had never spoken a word. + +The days passed, and the time grew longer and longer which the doctor +allowed her to spend in the front room. She was soon able to dispense +with the bed on the sofa—she could be dressed, and could sit up, +supported by pillows, in an arm-chair. Her hours of emancipation from +the bedroom represented the great daily event of her life. They were +the hours she passed in Kirke’s society. + +She had a double interest in him now—her interest in the man whose +protecting care had saved her reason and her life; her interest in the +man whose heart’s deepest secret she had surprised. Little by little +they grew as easy and familiar with each other as old friends; little +by little she presumed on all her privileges, and wound her way +unsuspected into the most intimate knowledge of his nature. + +Her questions were endless. Everything that he could tell her of +himself and his life she drew from him delicately and insensibly: he, +the least self-conscious of mankind, became an egotist in her dexterous +hands. She found out his pride in his ship, and practiced on it without +remorse. She drew him into talking of the fine qualities of the vessel, +of the great things the vessel had done in emergencies, as he had never +in his life talked yet to any living creature on shore. She found him +out in private seafaring anxieties and unutterable seafaring +exultations which he had kept a secret from his own mate. She watched +his kindling face with a delicious sense of triumph in adding fuel to +the fire; she trapped him into forgetting all considerations of time +and place, and striking as hearty a stroke on the rickety little +lodging-house table, in the fervor of his talk, as if his hand had +descended on the solid bulwark of his ship. His confusion at the +discovery of his own forgetfulness secretly delighted her; she could +have cried with pleasure when he penitently wondered what he could +possibly have been thinking of. + +At other times she drew him from dwelling on the pleasures of his life, +and led him into talking of its perils—the perils of that jealous +mistress the sea, which had absorbed so much of his existence, which +had kept him so strangely innocent and ignorant of the world on shore. +Twice he had been shipwrecked. Times innumerable he and all with him +had been threatened with death, and had escaped their doom by the +narrowness of a hair-breadth. He was always unwilling at the outset to +speak of this dark and dreadful side of his life: it was only by +adroitly tempting him, by laying little snares for him in his talk, +that she lured him into telling her of the terrors of the great deep. +She sat listening to him with a breathless interest, looking at him +with a breathless wonder, as those fearful stories—made doubly vivid by +the simple language in which he told them—fell, one by one, from his +lips. His noble unconsciousness of his own heroism—the artless modesty +with which he described his own acts of dauntless endurance and devoted +courage, without an idea that they were anything more than plain acts +of duty to which he was bound by the vocation that he followed—raised +him to a place in her estimation so hopelessly high above her that she +became uneasy and impatient until she had pulled down the idol again +which she herself had set up. It was on these occasions that she most +rigidly exacted from him all those little familiar attentions so +precious to women in their intercourse with men. “This hand,” she +thought, with an exquisite delight in secretly following the idea while +he was close to her—“this hand that has rescued the drowning from death +is shifting my pillows so tenderly that I hardly know when they are +moved. This hand that has seized men mad with mutiny, and driven them +back to their duty by main force, is mixing my lemonade and peeling my +fruit more delicately and more neatly than I could do it for myself. +Oh, if I could be a man, how I should like to be such a man as this!” + +She never allowed her thoughts, while she was in his presence, to lead +her beyond that point. It was only when the night had separated them +that she ventured to let her mind dwell on the self-sacrificing +devotion which had so mercifully rescued her. Kirke little knew how she +thought of him, in the secrecy of her own chamber, during the quiet +hours that elapsed before she sank to sleep. No suspicion crossed his +mind of the influence which he was exerting over her—of the new spirit +which he was breathing into that new life, so sensitively open to +impression in the first freshness of its recovered sense. “She has +nobody else to amuse her, poor thing,” he used to think, sadly, sitting +alone in his small second-floor room. “If a rough fellow like me can +beguile the weary hours till her friends come here, she is heartily +welcome to all that I can tell her.” + +He was out of spirits and restless now whenever he was by himself. +Little by little he fell into a habit of taking long, lonely walks at +night, when Magdalen thought he was sleeping upstairs. Once he went +away abruptly in the day-time—on business, as he said. Something had +passed between Magdalen and himself the evening before which had led +her into telling him her age. “Twenty last birthday,” he thought. “Take +twenty from forty-one. An easy sum in subtraction—as easy a sum as my +little nephew could wish for.” He walked to the Docks, and looked +bitterly at the shipping. “I mustn’t forget how a ship is made,” he +said. “It won’t be long before I am back at the old work again.” On +leaving the Docks he paid a visit to a brother sailor—a married man. In +the course of conversation he asked how much older his friend might be +than his friend’s wife. There was six years’ difference between them. +“I suppose that’s difference enough?” said Kirke. “Yes,” said his +friend; “quite enough. Are you looking out for a wife at last? Try a +seasoned woman of thirty-five—that’s your mark, Kirke, as near as I can +calculate.” + +The time passed smoothly and quickly—the present time, in which _she_ +was recovering so happily—the present time, which _he_ was beginning to +distrust already. + +Early one morning Mr. Merrick surprised Kirke by a visit in his little +room on the second floor. + +“I came to the conclusion yesterday,” said the doctor, entering +abruptly on his business, “that our patient was strong enough to +justify us at last in running all risks, and communicating with her +friends; and I have accordingly followed the clue which that queer +fellow, Captain Wragge, put into our hands. You remember he advised us +to apply to Mr. Pendril, the lawyer? I saw Mr. Pendril two days ago, +and was referred by him—not overwillingly, as I thought—to a lady named +Miss Garth. I heard enough from her to satisfy me that we have +exercised a wise caution in acting as we have done. It is a very, very +sad story; and I am bound to say that I, for one, make great allowances +for the poor girl downstairs. Her only relation in the world is her +elder sister. I have suggested that the sister shall write to her in +the first instance, and then, if the letter does her no harm, follow it +personally in a day or two. I have not given the address, by way of +preventing any visits from being paid here without my permission. All I +have done is to undertake to forward the letter, and I shall probably +find it at my house when I get back. Can you stop at home until I send +my man with it? There is not the least hope of my being able to bring +it myself. All you need do is to watch for an opportunity when she is +not in the front room, and to put the letter where she can see it when +she comes in. The handwriting on the address will break the news before +she opens the letter. Say nothing to her about it—take care that the +landlady is within call—and leave her to herself. I know I can trust +_you_ to follow my directions, and that is why I ask you to do us this +service. You look out of spirits this morning. Natural enough. You’re +used to plenty of fresh air, captain, and you’re beginning to pine in +this close place.” + +“May I ask a question, doctor? Is _she_ pining in this close place, +too? When her sister comes, will her sister take her away?” + +“Decidedly, if my advice is followed. She will be well enough to be +moved in a week or less. Good-day. You are certainly out of spirits, +and your hand feels feverish. Pining for the blue water, captain—pining +for the blue water!” With that expression of opinion, the doctor +cheerfully went out. + +In an hour the letter arrived. Kirke took it from the landlady +reluctantly, and almost roughly, without looking at it. Having +ascertained that Magdalen was still engaged at her toilet, and having +explained to the landlady the necessity of remaining within call, he +went downstairs immediately, and put the letter on the table in the +front room. Magdalen heard the sound of the familiar step on the floor. +“I shall soon be ready,” she called to him, through the door. + +He made no reply; he took his hat and went out. After a momentary +hesitation, he turned his face eastward, and called on the ship-owners +who employed him, at their office in Cornhill. + + + +CHAPTER III. + +Magdalen’s first glance round the empty room showed her the letter on +the table. The address, as the doctor had predicted, broke the news the +moment she looked at it. + +Not a word escaped her. She sat down by the table, pale and silent, +with the letter in her lap. Twice she attempted to open it, and twice +she put it back again. The bygone time was not alone in her mind as she +looked at her sister’s handwriting: the fear of Kirke was there with +it. “My past life!” she thought. “What will he think of me when he +knows my past life?” + +She made another effort, and broke the seal. A second letter dropped +out of the inclosure, addressed to her in a handwriting with which she +was not familiar. She put the second letter aside and read the lines +which Norah had written: + +“Ventnor, Isle of Wight, August 24th. + + +“MY DEAREST MAGDALEN, + +“When you read this letter, try to think we have only been parted since +yesterday; and dismiss from your mind (as I have dismissed from mine) +the past and all that belongs to it. + +“I am strictly forbidden to agitate you, or to weary you by writing a +long letter. Is it wrong to tell you that I am the happiest woman +living? I hope not, for I can’t keep the secret to myself. + +“My darling, prepare yourself for the greatest surprise I have ever +caused you. I am married. It is only a week to-day since I parted with +my old name—it is only a week since I have been the happy wife of +George Bartram, of St. Crux. + +“There were difficulties at first in the way of our marriage, some of +them, I am afraid, of my making. Happily for me, my husband knew from +the beginning that I really loved him: he gave me a second chance of +telling him so, after I had lost the first, and, as you see, I was wise +enough to take it. You ought to be especially interested, my love, in +this marriage, for you are the cause of it. If I had not gone to +Aldborough to search for the lost trace of you—if George had not been +brought there at the same time by circumstances in which you were +concerned, my husband and I might never have met. When we look back to +our first impressions of each other, we look back to _you_. + +“I must keep my promise not to weary you; I must bring this letter +(sorely against my will) to an end. Patience! patience! I shall see you +soon. George and I are both coming to London to take you back with us +to Ventnor. This is my husband’s invitation, mind, as well as mine. +Don’t suppose I married him, Magdalen, until I had taught him to think +of you as I think—to wish with my wishes, and to hope with my hopes. I +could say so much more about this, so much more about George, if I +might only give my thoughts and my pen their own way; but I must leave +Miss Garth (at her own special request) a blank space to fill up on the +last page of this letter; and I must only add one word more before I +say good-by—a word to warn you that I have another surprise in store, +which I am keeping in reserve until we meet. Don’t attempt to guess +what it is. You might guess for ages, and be no nearer than you are now +to the discovery of the truth. + +“Your affectionate sister, +“NORAH BARTRAM.” + + +(Added by Miss Garth.) + + +“MY DEAR CHILD, + +“If I had ever lost my old loving recollection of you, I should feel it +in my heart again now, when I know that it has pleased God to restore +you to us from the brink of the grave. I add these lines to your +sister’s letter because I am not sure that you are quite so fit yet, as +she thinks you, to accept her proposal. She has not said a word of her +husband or herself which is not true. But Mr. Bartram is a stranger to +you; and if you think you can recover more easily and more pleasantly +to yourself under the wing of your old governess than under the +protection of your new brother-in-law, come to me first, and trust to +my reconciling Norah to the change of plans. I have secured the refusal +of a little cottage at Shanklin, near enough to your sister to allow of +your seeing each other whenever you like, and far enough away, at the +same time, to secure you the privilege, when you wish it, of being +alone. Send me one line before we meet to say Yes or No, and I will +write to Shanklin by the next post. + +“Always yours affectionately, +“HARRIET GARTH” + + +The letter dropped from Magdalen’s hand. Thoughts which had never risen +in her mind yet rose in it now. + +Norah, whose courage under undeserved calamity had been the courage of +resignation—Norah, who had patiently accepted her hard lot; who from +first to last had meditated no vengeance and stooped to no deceit—Norah +had reached the end which all her sister’s ingenuity, all her sister’s +resolution, and all her sister’s daring had failed to achieve. Openly +and honorably, with love on one side and love on the other, Norah had +married the man who possessed the Combe-Raven money—and Magdalen’s own +scheme to recover it had opened the way to the event which had brought +husband and wife together. + +As the light of that overwhelming discovery broke on her mind, the old +strife was renewed; and Good and Evil struggled once more which should +win her—but with added forces this time; with the new spirit that had +been breathed into her new life; with the nobler sense that had grown +with the growth of her gratitude to the man who had saved her, fighting +on the better side. All the higher impulses of her nature, which had +never, from first to last, let her err with impunity—which had tortured +her, before her marriage and after it, with the remorse that no woman +inherently heartless and inherently wicked can feel—all the nobler +elements in her character, gathered their forces for the crowning +struggle and strengthened her to meet, with no unworthy shrinking, the +revelation that had opened on her view. Clearer and clearer, in the +light of its own immortal life, the truth rose before her from the +ashes of her dead passions, from the grave of her buried hopes. When +she looked at the letter again—when she read the words once more which +told her that the recovery of the lost fortune was her sister’s +triumph, not hers, she had victoriously trampled down all little +jealousies and all mean regrets; she could say in her hearts of hearts, +“Norah has deserved it!” + +The day wore on. She sat absorbed in her own thoughts, and heedless of +the second letter which she had not opened yet, until Kirke’s return. + +He stopped on the landing outside, and, opening the door a little way +only, asked, without entering the room, if she wanted anything that he +could send her. She begged him to come in. His face was worn and weary; +he looked older than she had seen him look yet. “Did you put my letter +on the table for me?” she asked. + +“Yes. I put it there at the doctor’s request.” + +“I suppose the doctor told you it was from my sister? She is coming to +see me, and Miss Garth is coming to see me. They will thank you for all +your goodness to me better than I can.” + +“I have no claim on their thanks,” he answered, sternly. “What I have +done was not done for them, but for you.” He waited a little, and +looked at her. His face would have betrayed him in that look, his voice +would have betrayed him in the next words he spoke, if she had not +guessed the truth already. “When your friends come here,” he resumed, +“they will take you away, I suppose, to some better place than this.” + +“They can take me to no place,” she said, gently, “which I shall think +of as I think of the place where you found me. They can take me to no +dearer friend than the friend who saved my life.” + +There was a moment’s silence between them. + +“We have been very happy here,” he went on, in lower and lower tones. +“You won’t forget me when we have said good-by?” + +She turned pale as the words passed his lips, and, leaving her chair, +knelt down at the table, so as to look up into his face, and to force +him to look into hers. + +“Why do you talk of it?” she asked. “We are not going to say good-by, +at least not yet.” + +“I thought—” he began. + +“Yes?” + +“I thought your friends were coming here—” + +She eagerly interrupted him. “Do you think I would go away with +anybody,” she said, “even with the dearest relation I have in the +world, and leave you here, not knowing and not caring whether I ever +saw you again? Oh, you don’t think that of me!” she exclaimed, with the +passionate tears springing into her eyes—“I’m sure you don’t think that +of me!” + +“No,” he said; “I never have thought, I never can think, unjustly or +unworthily of you.” + +Before he could add another word she left the table as suddenly as she +had approached it, and returned to her chair. He had unconsciously +replied in terms that reminded her of the hard necessity which still +remained unfulfilled—the necessity of telling him the story of the +past. Not an idea of concealing that story from his knowledge crossed +her mind. “Will he love me, when he knows the truth, as he loves me +now?” That was her only thought as she tried to approach the subject in +his presence without shrinking from it. + +“Let us put my own feelings out of the question,” she said. “There is a +reason for my not going away, unless I first have the assurance of +seeing you again. You have a claim—the strongest claim of any one—to +know how I came here, unknown to my friends, and how it was that you +found me fallen so low.” + +“I make no claim,” he said, hastily. “I wish to know nothing which +distresses you to tell me.” + +“You have always done your duty,” she rejoined, with a faint smile. +“Let me take example from you, if I can, and try to do mine.” + +“I am old enough to be your father,” he said, bitterly. “Duty is more +easily done at my age than it is at yours.” + +His age was so constantly in his mind now that he fancied it must be in +her mind too. She had never given it a thought. The reference he had +just made to it did not divert her for a moment from the subject on +which she was speaking to him. + +“You don’t know how I value your good opinion of me,” she said, +struggling resolutely to sustain her sinking courage. “How can I +deserve your kindness, how can I feel that I am worthy of your regard, +until I have opened my heart to you? Oh, don’t encourage me in my own +miserable weakness! Help me to tell the truth—_force_ me to tell it, +for my own sake if not for yours!” + +He was deeply moved by the fervent sincerity of that appeal. + +“You _shall_ tell it,” he said. “You are right—and I was wrong.” He +waited a little, and considered. “Would it be easier to you,” he asked, +with delicate consideration for her, “to write it than to tell it?” + +She caught gratefully at the suggestion. “Far easier,” she replied. “I +can be sure of myself—I can be sure of hiding nothing from you, if I +write it. Don’t write to me on your side!” she added, suddenly, seeing +with a woman’s instinctive quickness of penetration the danger of +totally renouncing her personal influence over him. “Wait till we meet, +and tell me with your own lips what you think.” + +“Where shall I tell it?” + +“Here!” she said eagerly. “Here, where you found me helpless—here, +where you have brought me back to life, and where I have first learned +to know you. I can bear the hardest words you say to me if you will +only say them in this room. It is impossible I can be away longer than +a month; a month will be enough and more than enough. If I come back—” +She stopped confusedly. “I am thinking of myself,” she said, “when I +ought to be thinking of you. You have your own occupations and your own +friends. Will you decide for us? Will you say how it shall be?” + +“It shall be as you wish. If you come back in a month, you will find me +here.” + +“Will it cause you no sacrifice of your own comfort and your own +plans?” + +“It will cause me nothing,” he replied, “but a journey back to the +City.” He rose and took his hat. “I must go there at once,” he added, +“or I shall not be in time.” + +“It is a promise between us?” she said, and held out her hand. + +“Yes,” he answered, a little sadly; “it is a promise.” + +Slight as it was, the shade of melancholy in his manner pained her. +Forgetting all other anxieties in the anxiety to cheer him, she gently +pressed the hand he gave her. “If _that_ won’t tell him the truth,” she +thought, “nothing will.” + +It failed to tell him the truth; but it forced a question on his mind +which he had not ventured to ask himself before. “Is it her gratitude, +or her love; that is speaking to me?” he wondered. “If I was only a +younger man, I might almost hope it was her love.” That terrible sum in +subtraction which had first presented itself on the day when she told +him her age began to trouble him again as he left the house. He took +twenty from forty-one, at intervals, all the way back to the +ship-owners’ office in Cornhill. + +Left by herself, Magdalen approached the table to write the line of +answer which Miss Garth requested, and gratefully to accept the +proposal that had been made to her. + +The second letter which she had laid aside and forgotten was the first +object that caught her eye on changing her place. She opened it +immediately, and, not recognizing the handwriting, looked at the +signature. To her unutterable astonishment, her correspondent proved to +be no less a person than—old Mr. Clare! + +The philosopher’s letter dispensed with all the ordinary forms of +address, and entered on the subject without prefatory phrases of any +kind, in these uncompromising terms: + +“I have more news for you of that contemptible cur, my son. Here it is +in the fewest possible words. + +“I always told you, if you remember, that Frank was a Sneak. The very +first trace recovered of him, after his running away from his employers +in China, presents him in that character. Where do you think he turns +up next? He turns up, hidden behind a couple of flour barrels, on board +an English vessel bound homeward from Hong-Kong to London. + +“The name of the ship was the _Deliverance_, and the commander was one +Captain Kirke. Instead of acting like a sensible man, and throwing +Frank overboard, Captain Kirke was fool enough to listen to his story. +He made the most of his misfortunes, you may be sure. He was half +starved; he was an Englishman lost in a strange country, without a +friend to help him; his only chance of getting home was to sneak into +the hold of an English vessel—and he had sneaked in, accordingly, at +Hong-Kong, two days since. That was his story. Any other lout in +Frank’s situation would have been rope’s ended by any other captain. +Deserving no pity from anybody, Frank was, as a matter of course, +coddled and compassionated on the spot. The captain took him by the +hand, the crew pitied him, and the passengers patted him on the back. +He was fed, clothed, and presented with his passage home. Luck enough +so far, you will say. Nothing of the sort; nothing like luck enough for +my despicable son. + +“The ship touched at the Cape of Good Hope. Among his other acts of +folly Captain Kirke took a woman passenger on board at that place—not a +young woman by any means—the elderly widow of a rich colonist. Is it +necessary to say that she forthwith became deeply interested in Frank +and his misfortunes? Is it necessary to tell you what followed? Look +back at my son’s career, and you will see that what followed was all of +a piece with what went before. He didn’t deserve your poor father’s +interest in him—and he got it. He didn’t deserve your attachment—and he +got it. He didn’t deserve the best place in one of the best offices in +London; he didn’t deserve an equally good chance in one of the best +mercantile houses in China; he didn’t deserve food, clothing, pity, and +a free passage home—and he got them all. Last, not least, he didn’t +even deserve to marry a woman old enough to be his grandmother—and he +has done it! Not five minutes since I sent his wedding-cards out to the +dust-hole, and tossed the letter that came with them into the fire. The +last piece of information which that letter contains is that he and his +wife are looking out for a house and estate to suit them. Mark my +words! Frank will get one of the best estates in England; a seat in the +House of Commons will follow as a matter of course; and one of the +legislators of this Ass-ridden country will be—MY LOUT! + +“If you are the sensible girl I have always taken you for, you have +long since learned to rate Frank at his true value, and the news I send +you will only confirm your contempt for him. I wish your poor father +could but have lived to see this day! Often as I have missed my old +gossip, I don’t know that I ever felt the loss of him so keenly as I +felt it when Frank’s wedding-cards and Frank’s letter came to this +house. + +“Your friend, if you ever want one, +“FRANCIS CLARE, Sen.” + + +With one momentary disturbance of her composure, produced by the +appearance of Kirke’s name in Mr. Clare’s singular narrative, Magdalen +read the letter steadily through from beginning to end. The time when +it could have distressed her was gone by; the scales had long since +fallen from her eyes. Mr. Clare himself would have been satisfied if he +had seen the quiet contempt on her face as she laid aside his letter. +The only serious thought it cost her was a thought in which Kirke was +concerned. The careless manner in which he had referred in her presence +to the passengers on board his ship, without mentioning any of them by +their names, showed her that Frank must have kept silence on the +subject of the engagement once existing between them. The confession of +that vanished delusion was left for her to make, as part of the story +of the past which she had pledged herself unreservedly to reveal. + +She wrote to Miss Garth, and sent the letter to the post immediately. + +The next morning brought a line of rejoinder. Miss Garth had written to +secure the cottage at Shanklin, and Mr. Merrick had consented to +Magdalen’s removal on the following day. Norah would be the first to +arrive at the house; and Miss Garth would follow, with a comfortable +carriage to take the invalid to the railway. Every needful arrangement +had been made for her; the effort of moving was the one effort she +would have to make. + +Magdalen read the letter thankfully, but her thoughts wandered from it, +and followed Kirke on his return to the City. What was the business +which had once already taken him there in the morning? And why had the +promise exchanged between them obliged him to go to the City again, for +the second time in one day? + +Was it by any chance business relating to the sea? Were his employers +tempting him to go back to his ship? + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +The first agitation of the meeting between the sisters was over; the +first vivid impressions, half pleasurable, half painful, had softened a +little, and Norah and Magdalen sat together hand in hand, each rapt in +the silent fullness of her own joy. Magdalen was the first to speak. + +“You have something to tell me, Norah?” + +“I have a thousand things to tell you, my love; and you have ten +thousand things to tell me.—Do you mean that second surprise which I +told you of in my letter?” + +“Yes. I suppose it must concern me very nearly, or you would hardly +have thought of mentioning it in your first letter?” + +“It does concern you very nearly. You have heard of George’s house in +Essex? You must be familiar, at least, with the name of St. Crux?—What +is there to start at, my dear? I am afraid you are hardly strong enough +for any more surprises just yet?” + +“Quite strong enough, Norah. I have something to say to you about St. +Crux—I have a surprise, on my side, for _you._” + +“Will you tell it me now?” + +“Not now. You shall know it when we are at the seaside; you shall know +it before I accept the kindness which has invited me to your husband’s +house.” + +“What _can_ it be? Why not tell me at once?” + +“You used often to set me the example of patience, Norah, in old times; +will you set me the example now?” + +“With all my heart. Shall I return to my own story as well? Yes? Then +we will go back to it at once. I was telling you that St. Crux is +George’s house, in Essex, the house he inherited from his uncle. +Knowing that Miss Garth had a curiosity to see the place, he left word +(when he went abroad after the admiral’s death) that she and any +friends who came with her were to be admitted, if she happened to find +herself in the neighborhood during his absence. Miss Garth and I, and a +large party of Mr. Tyrrel’s friends, found ourselves in the +neighborhood not long after George’s departure. We had all been invited +to see the launch of Mr. Tyrrel’s new yacht from the builder’s yard at +Wivenhoe, in Essex. When the launch was over, the rest of the company +returned to Colchester to dine. Miss Garth and I contrived to get into +the same carriage together, with nobody but my two little pupils for +our companions. We gave the coachman his orders, and drove round by St. +Crux. The moment Miss Garth mentioned her name we were let in, and +shown all over the house. I don’t know how to describe it to you. It is +the most bewildering place I ever saw in my life—” + +“Don’t attempt to describe it, Norah. Go on with your story instead.” + +“Very well. My story takes me straight into one of the rooms at St. +Crux—a room about as long as your street here—so dreary, so dirty, and +so dreadfully cold that I shiver at the bare recollection of it. Miss +Garth was for getting out of it again as speedily as possible, and so +was I. But the housekeeper declined to let us off without first looking +at a singular piece of furniture, the only piece of furniture in the +comfortless place. She called it a tripod, I think. (There is nothing +to be alarmed at, Magdalen; I assure you there is nothing to be alarmed +at!) At any rate, it was a strange, three-legged thing, which supported +a great panful of charcoal ashes at the top. It was considered by all +good judges (the housekeeper told us) a wonderful piece of chasing in +metal; and she especially pointed out the beauty of some scroll-work +running round the inside of the pan, with Latin mottoes on it, +signifying—I forget what. I felt not the slightest interest in the +thing myself, but I looked close at the scroll-work to satisfy the +housekeeper. To confess the truth, she was rather tiresome with her +mechanically learned lecture on fine metal work; and, while she was +talking, I found myself idly stirring the soft feathery white ashes +backward and forward with my hand, pretending to listen, with my mind a +hundred miles away from her. I don’t know how long or how short a time +I had been playing with the ashes, when my fingers suddenly encountered +a piece of crumpled paper hidden deep among them. When I brought it to +the surface, it proved to be a letter—a long letter full of cramped, +close writing.—You have anticipated my story, Magdalen, before I can +end it! You know as well as I do that the letter which my idle fingers +found was the Secret Trust. Hold out your hand, my dear. I have got +George’s permission to show it to you, and there it is!” + +She put the Trust into her sister’s hand. Magdalen took it from her +mechanically. “You!” she said, looking at her sister with the +remembrance of all that she had vainly ventured, of all that she had +vainly suffered, at St. Crux—“_you_ have found it!” + +“Yes,” said Norah, gayly; “the Trust has proved no exception to the +general perversity of all lost things. Look for them, and they remain +invisible. Leave them alone, and they reveal themselves! You and your +lawyer, Magdalen, were both justified in supposing that your interest +in this discovery was an interest of no common kind. I spare you all +our consultations after I had produced the crumpled paper from the +ashes. It ended in George’s lawyer being written to, and in George +himself being recalled from the Continent. Miss Garth and I both saw +him immediately on his return. He did what neither of us could do—he +solved the mystery of the Trust being hidden in the charcoal ashes. +Admiral Bartram, you must know, was all his life subject to fits of +somnambulism. He had been found walking in his sleep not long before +his death—just at the time, too, when he was sadly troubled in his mind +on the subject of that very letter in your hand. George’s idea is that +he must have fancied he was doing in his sleep what he would have died +rather than do in his waking moments—destroying the Trust. The fire had +been lighted in the pan not long before, and he no doubt saw it still +burning in his dream. This was George’s explanation of the strange +position of the letter when I discovered it. The question of what was +to be done with the letter itself came next, and was no easy question +for a woman to understand. But I determined to master it, and I did +master it, because it related to you.” + +“Let me try to master it, in my turn,” said Magdalen. “I have a +particular reason for wishing to know as much about this letter as you +know yourself. What has it done for others, and what is it to do for +me?” + +“My dear Magdalen, how strangely you look at it! how strangely you talk +of it! Worthless as it may appear, that morsel of paper gives you a +fortune.” + +“Is my only claim to the fortune the claim which this letter gives me?” + +“Yes; the letter is your only claim. Shall I try if I can explain it in +two words? Taken by itself, the letter might, in the lawyer’s opinion, +have been made a matter for dispute, though I am sure George would have +sanctioned no proceeding of that sort. Taken, however, with the +postscript which Admiral Bartram attached to it (you will see the lines +if you look under the signature on the third page), it becomes legally +binding, as well as morally binding, on the admiral’s representatives. +I have exhausted my small stock of legal words, and must go on in my +own language instead of in the lawyer’s. The end of the thing was +simply this. All the money went back to Mr. Noel Vanstone’s estate +(another legal word! my vocabulary is richer than I thought), for one +plain reason—that it had not been employed as Mr. Noel Vanstone +directed. If Mrs. Girdlestone had lived, or if George had married me a +few months earlier, results would have been just the other way. As it +is, half the money has been already divided between Mr. Noel Vanstone’s +next of kin; which means, translated into plain English, my husband, +and his poor bedridden sister—who took the money formally, one day, to +satisfy the lawyer, and who gave it back again generously, the next, to +satisfy herself. So much for one half of this legacy. The other half, +my dear, is all yours. How strangely events happen, Magdalen! It is +only two years since you and I were left disinherited orphans—and we +are sharing our poor father’s fortune between us, after all!” + +“Wait a little, Norah. Our shares come to us in very different ways.” + +“Do they? Mine comes to me by my husband. Yours comes to you—” She +stopped confusedly, and changed color. “Forgive me, my own love!” she +said, putting Magdalen’s hand to her lips. “I have forgotten what I +ought to have remembered. I have thoughtlessly distressed you!” + +“No!” said Magdalen; “you have encouraged me.” + +“Encouraged you?” + +“You shall see.” + +With those words, she rose quietly from the sofa, and walked to the +open window. Before Norah could follow her, she had torn the Trust to +pieces, and had cast the fragments into the street. + +She came back to the sofa and laid her head, with a deep sigh of +relief, on Norah’s bosom. “I will owe nothing to my past life,” she +said. “I have parted with it as I have parted with those torn morsels +of paper. All the thoughts and all the hopes belonging to it are put +away from me forever!” + +“Magdalen, my husband will never allow you! I will never allow you +myself—” + +“Hush! hush! What your husband thinks right, Norah, you and I will +think right too. I will take from _you_ what I would never have taken +if that letter had given it to me. The end I dreamed of has come. +Nothing is changed but the position I once thought we might hold toward +each other. Better as it is, my love—far, far better as it is!” + +So she made the last sacrifice of the old perversity and the old pride. +So she entered on the new and nobler life. + + +A month had passed. The autumn sunshine was bright even in the murky +streets, and the clocks in the neighborhood were just striking two, as +Magdalen returned alone to the house in Aaron’s Buildings. + +“Is he waiting for me?” she asked, anxiously, when the landlady let her +in. + +He was waiting in the front room. Magdalen stole up the stairs and +knocked at the door. He called to her carelessly and absently to come +in, plainly thinking that it was only the servant who applied for +permission to enter the room. + +“You hardly expected me so soon?” she said speaking on the threshold, +and pausing there to enjoy his surprise as he started to his feet and +looked at her. + +The only traces of illness still visible in her face left a delicacy in +its outline which added refinement to her beauty. She was simply +dressed in muslin. Her plain straw bonnet had no other ornament than +the white ribbon with which it was sparingly trimmed. She had never +looked lovelier in her best days than she looked now, as she advanced +to the table at which he had been sitting, with a little basket of +flowers that she had brought with her from the country, and offered him +her hand. + +He looked anxious and careworn when she saw him closer. She interrupted +his first inquiries and congratulations to ask if he had remained in +London since they had parted—if he had not even gone away, for a few +days only, to see his friends in Suffolk? No; he had been in London +ever since. He never told her that the pretty parsonage house in +Suffolk wanted all those associations with herself in which the poor +four walls at Aaron’s Buildings were so rich. He only said he had been +in London ever since. + +“I wonder,” she asked, looking him attentively in the face, “if you are +as happy to see me again as I am to see you?” + +“Perhaps I am even happier, in my different way,” he answered, with a +smile. + +She took off her bonnet and scarf, and seated herself once more in her +own arm-chair. “I suppose this street is very ugly,” she said; “and I +am sure nobody can deny that the house is very small. And yet—and yet +it feels like coming home again. Sit there where you used to sit; tell +me about yourself. I want to know all that you have done, all that you +have thought even, while I have been away.” She tried to resume the +endless succession of questions by means of which she was accustomed to +lure him into speaking of himself. But she put them far less +spontaneously, far less adroitly, than usual. Her one all-absorbing +anxiety in entering that room was not an anxiety to be trifled with. +After a quarter of an hour wasted in constrained inquiries on one side, +in reluctant replies on the other, she ventured near the dangerous +subject at last. + +“Have you received the letters I wrote to you from the seaside?” she +asked, suddenly looking away from him for the first time. + +“Yes,” he said; “all.” + +“Have you read them?” + +“Every one of them—many times over.” + +Her heart beat as if it would suffocate her. She had kept her promise +bravely. The whole story of her life, from the time of the home-wreck +at Combe-Raven to the time when she had destroyed the Secret Trust in +her sister’s presence, had been all laid before him. Nothing that she +had done, nothing even that she had thought, had been concealed from +his knowledge. As he would have kept a pledged engagement with her, so +she had kept her pledged engagement with him. She had not faltered in +the resolution to do this; and now she faltered over the one decisive +question which she had come there to ask. Strong as the desire in her +was to know if she had lost or won him, the fear of knowing was at that +moment stronger still. She waited and trembled; she waited, and said no +more. + +“May I speak to you about your letters?” he asked. “May I tell you—?” + +If she had looked at him as he said those few words, she would have +seen what he thought of her in his face. She would have seen, innocent +as he was in this world’s knowledge, that he knew the priceless value, +the all-ennobling virtue, of a woman who speaks the truth. But she had +no courage to look at him—no courage to raise her eyes from her lap. + +“Not just yet,” she said, faintly. “Not quite so soon after we have met +again.” + +She rose hurriedly from her chair, and walked to the window, turned +back again into the room, and approached the table, close to where he +was sitting. The writing materials scattered near him offered her a +pretext for changing the subject, and she seized on it directly. “Were +you writing a letter,” she asked, “when I came in?” + +“I was thinking about it,” he replied. “It was not a letter to be +written without thinking first.” He rose as he answered her to gather +the writing materials together and put them away. + +“Why should I interrupt you?” she said. “Why not let me try whether I +can’t help you instead? Is it a secret?” + +“No, not a secret.” + +He hesitated as he answered her. She instantly guessed the truth. + +“Is it about your ship?” + +He little knew how she had been thinking in her absence from him of the +business which he believed that he had concealed from her. He little +knew that she had learned already to be jealous of his ship. “Do they +want you to return to your old life?” she went on. “Do they want you to +go back to the sea? Must you say Yes or No at once?” + +“At once.” + +“If I had not come in when I did would you have said Yes?” + +She unconsciously laid her hand on his arm, forgetting all inferior +considerations in her breathless anxiety to hear his next words. The +confession of his love was within a hair-breadth of escaping him; but +he checked the utterance of it even yet. “I don’t care for myself,” he +thought; “but how can I be certain of not distressing _her?_” + +“Would you have said Yes?” she repeated. + +“I was doubting,” he answered—“I was doubting between Yes and No.” + +Her hand tightened on his arm; a sudden trembling seized her in every +limb, she could bear it no longer. All her heart went out to him in her +next words: + +“Were you doubting _for my sake?”_ + +“Yes,” he said. “Take my confession in return for yours—I was doubting +for your sake.” + +She said no more; she only looked at him. In that look the truth +reached him at last. The next instant she was folded in his arms, and +was shedding delicious tears of joy, with her face hidden on his bosom. + +“Do I deserve my happiness?” she murmured, asking the one question at +last. “Oh, I know how the poor narrow people who have never felt and +never suffered would answer me if I asked them what I ask you. If +_they_ knew my story, they would forget all the provocation, and only +remember the offense; they would fasten on my sin, and pass all my +suffering by. But you are not one of them! Tell me if you have any +shadow of a misgiving! Tell me if you doubt that the one dear object of +all my life to come is to live worthy of you! I asked you to wait and +see me; I asked you, if there was any hard truth to be told, to tell it +me here with your own lips. Tell it, my love, my husband!—tell it me +now!” + +She looked up, still clinging to him as she clung to the hope of her +better life to come. + +“Tell me the truth!” she repeated. + +“With my own lips?” + +“Yes!” she answered, eagerly. “Say what you think of me with your own +lips.” + +He stooped and kissed her. + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of No Name, by Wilkie Collins + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1438 *** |