‘When have I ceased to see her?’ he groaned. ‘She has walked beside me in the crowded streets; she has come between me and the faces in the theatre. Oh, heaven! if there were any spot upon this earth where she could not come, any arid desert or hill-side cavern or snow-clad mountain where her image could not follow me, I would go and live there upon bread and water, and let the rain beat upon me, and the sun scorch me, and deem such a life happiness compared with the never ending agony of the world where she is!’
Charles Bywater turned the boat, and began to row slowly back.
Elyard never stirred. For an hour there was dead silence. At last, when they were within sight of the lighted windows of the cottage, he seemed to recover his self-possession. He raised himself from his crouching attitude at the bottom of the boat, and quietly resumed his seat.
‘What is your motive for ferreting out the secret of my life, and what use are you going to make of it?’ he asked.
‘I’ll answer your last question first. The use I mean to make of my knowledge is to bring you to the gallows. I have a warrant for your apprehension in my pocket.’
‘And not a vestige of evidence against me,’ said the other, with a diabolical coolness.
‘I will find evidence somehow, now that I have found my man,’ said the captain. ‘ As for my motive, you will understand that, I dare say, when I tell you my name. I am Charles Bywater!’
‘Great heaven!’ cried Elyard. ‘ Then it was instinct that made me hate you from the hour we first met.’
‘No doubt. A prophetic instinct, which told you I was Helen’s avenger. You leave this boat my prisoner.’
‘What if I resist?’
‘It would be worse than useless. I have been face to face with mutiny more than once in my life, and should not recoil from violence in a case of necessity. You are unarmed, I daresay, while I have a brace of loaded pistols in my pockets. You will be wise to come with me quietly.’
‘Ay,’ answered the other, lapsing into an indifferent tone. ‘I can afford to let you hector it over me for a few hours. You have not a tittle of evidence against me.’
‘That will be found hereafter.’
‘Hereafter will not do. The first magistrate before whom you take me will dismiss your accusation with contempt, You are unduly interfering with the liberty of a follow subject upon the strength of an unfounded suspicion. My raving just now was a little bit of acting got up on the spur of the moment to deceive you. I wonder you let yourself be taken in so easily.
He rose with a mocking laugh as the nose of the boat ground against the grassy shore by the willow. As his foot touched the shore a strong hand was laid upon his arm, and before he could recover himself from the surprise of that sudden grip, he found himself standing between two burly men, with both his wrists fettered.
‘What does it mean?’ he gasped.
‘I arrest you on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Helen Leeworthy, whose body was found last week in a hole in the river bank at Clerevale, with your handkerchief tied round her neck.’
‘I told you that evidence would be forthcoming,’ said Charles Bywater.
* * * * * * *
A week later Michael Elyard was found dead in his cell in the jail at Aylesbury, whither be had been carried after his examination before the magistrates at the market town near Clerevale. There had been an inquest upon the poor relics of Helen Leeworthy, a skeleton form, some tresses of golden hair, the rotted remnants of garments which were more easily recognised than the person they had clothed. The inquest had been followed by an examination before the magistrates, and coroner and magistrates had alike adjudged Michael Elphinstone, otherwise Elyard, to be the murderer. As Captain Bywater had foretold, evidence was not wanting. A gipsy came forward who had seen the young lady and her assassin together near the spot where those poor remains were found. Another witness had met Elphinstone coming away from the river path looking agitated, and well nigh distraught.
Strand by strand a rope was twisted, strong enough to hang him. But Michael Elphinstone did not wait for the public hangman and the gaping crowd in front of Aylesbury jail. With his own lean hands he strangled himself in the silence and solitude of his cell, and none knew the hour at which that dark soul took its lonely flight.
The Short Stories
Annesley Bank in the New Forest, the country house of Braddon and her husband John Maxwell
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
RALPH THE BAILIFF
CAPTAIN THOMAS
THE COLD EMBRACE
MY DAUGHTERS
THE MYSTERY AT FERNWOOD
SAMUEL LOWGOOD’S REVENGE
THE LAWYER’S SECRET
MY FIRST HAPPY CHRISTMAS
LOST AND FOUND
EVELINE’S VISITANT
FOUND IN THE MUNIMENT CHEST
HOW I HEARD MY OWN WILL READ
MILLY DARRELL
FLOWER AND WEED
GEORGE CAULFIELD’S JOURNEY
THE CLOWN’S QUEST
DR. CARRICK
‘IF SHE BE NOT FATE TO ME.’
THE SHADOW IN THE CORNER.
HIS SECRET
THOU ART THE MAN
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
CAPTAIN THOMAS
DR. CARRICK
EVELINE’S VISITANT
FLOWER AND WEED
FOUND IN THE MUNIMENT CHEST
GEORGE CAULFIELD’S JOURNEY
HIS SECRET
HOW I HEARD MY OWN WILL READ
IF SHE BE NOT FATE TO ME.
LOST AND FOUND
MILLY DARRELL
MY DAUGHTERS
MY FIRST HAPPY CHRISTMAS
RALPH THE BAILIFF
SAMUEL LOWGOOD’S REVENGE
THE CLOWN’S QUEST
THE COLD EMBRACE
THE LAWYER’S SECRET
THE MYSTERY AT FERNWOOD
THE SHADOW IN THE CORNER.
THOU ART THE MAN
The Play
Lichfield House, Richmond became Braddon’s permanent home; the house was demolished in 1936 to make way for Lichfield Court.
MARJORIE DAW
A HOUSEHOLD IDYL IN TWO ACTS
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS.
ACT I.
ACT II.
CHARACTERS.
FRANK HEATHCOTE, a Young Artist.
Dr. LUTTRELL, a Young Doctor.
Miss MATTIE PARKS.
TIME OF PLAYING — THIRTY MINUTES.
SCENERY.
SAME FOR BOTH ACTS. — Interior, a sitting-room in 3d grooves.
Backing behind window in flat, represents houses fronting a street. On flat, pictures and drawings painted; in fiat, window, cut out R. and L. 2d E.’s closed in; R. and L. 1st E.’s, practicable doors.
Carpet down in centre, edges left tare floor. Sides cumbered with artistic objects, medley, busts, plaster statues, pictures, canvases, portfolios. A. large table, piled with drawings, except at front end. B, armchair; c. C., statuettes on pedestals; D., a round table. Pictures on the side-sets. Hangings to both doors.
COSTUMES.
Of the present day.
Heathcote. — Light trousers, no waistcoat, dressing gown; wears a bandage, or, better, a large shade over the eyes in Act 1.
Luttrell. — Black suit, hat, and cane, light ulster over his coat.
Mattie. — Walking dress. Change for Act 2.
PROPERTIES.
Artistic objects, easel, armor suit, lay figure; tray with lunch, a dish of small roast game; bouquet, fancy basket.
MUSIC.
The “Seesaw Waltz” played to MATTIE’S song, and in the entr’acte.
ACT I.
SCENE — HEATHCOTE the Painter’s Lodgings, 3d grooves; the window in flat closed, and no light on the backing flat. Stage clear.
Enter LUTTRELL, L. D.
LUTTRELL. Frank is horribly fretful and discontented this morning. Why is it, I wonder, that our superior
sex is so very inferior to the inferior one in endurance of bodily affliction. My medical experience has convinced me that women beat us hollow in their power to suiter and be strong. If Job’s wife had been the chosen butt, I don’t suppose we would have had the legend handed down to us, by male scribes. Ah! here comes Mattie — dear soul! a living instance of womanly patience and long suffering. I’m sure her care of my old friend Heathcote is above all praise.
Enter MATTIE, E. d., with books, basket, and bunch of flowers.
LUTT. Well, little woman, how are you this morning?
MATTIE. HOW is he this morning? that’s the question. Did you ever hear of me being sick? I’ve no time for such expensive luxuries. I never remember being out of sorts in my life since mother used to give me brimstone and ‘lasses on spring mornings. That nearly did it. And that’s my only experience of the healing art. Æscu — Æsculent — no! what’s his name?
LUTT. You can call him Æsculapius, if you like. Robust little party! (MATTIE bustles about, tiding the room) what would become of the medical profession if all women were like you?
MATT. I rather fancy they would languish and have to call in lady-physicians — and then people in general would get better. But please tell me about him, (to LUTTRELL, C.) HOW is he this morning?
LUTT. About as irritable and low-spirited as a human being can be, short of lunacy or suicide. If I were not his old friend and schoolfellow I think I should resign my post to one more resigned.
MATT. NO, you wouldn’t, you dear thing! You are much too kind- hearted.
LUTT. Well, if you can bear with his airs and his tempers —
MATT. His temper is but temporary and his airs will blow away (puffs) — only low spirits —
LUTT. That’s a kind o’ kinder way of putting it. If you can bear with this “bear with a sore head” for four or five hours at a stretch every day, I ought to put up with him placidly for twenty minutes.
MATT. “Bear with him! put up with him! Am I not his own flesh and blood — his only surviving relation?
LUTT. Something in the way of a second cousin, aren’t you?
MATT. Well, I know it’s not a near relationship; and it’s rather difficult to explain. Like that chestnut riddle of the nigger minstrels, you see. My mother’s first cousin married his — (on her fingers) yes — his father’s sister —
LUTT. (in relief.) Ah!
MATT. SO I reckon Frank and I must be second cousins. I call him “coz.”
LUTT. Yes, and he was “an amusin’ little coz..” but now —
MATT. But we were brought up together, don’t you know? almost brother and sister.
LUTT. Precisely—”almost.” But in that kind of connection there’s a good deal of difference between almost and quite.
MATT. Well, he used to spend all his holidays at my mother’s cottage inland — sweet little place, all over roses and honeysuckles — such a dear old garden, fruit and flowers all mixed up any how so you couldn’t tell flowt from fruiers, in a manner of speaking. Frank and I used to make ourselves dreadfully sick with unripe gooseberries. Delicious little farm — cows, calf, pigs, three Black Spaniards —
LUTT.’ Seems to me I’ve read that story —
MATT. Fowls, I mean.
LUTT. Black Spaniards could not be fair.
MATT. Well, Frank would come over from school — drink gallons of new milk — revel in fresh eggs — enjoy haymaking — teach me to ride — learn to milk the cows, and declare nothing so delicious as a country life. But when he settled in the city as a student in the Academy, and boarded at a fashionable family’s, he seemed somehow to outgrow mother’s cottage; too tall for our spare bedroom last time he came to see us. And then — mother died — and I came to town to study music, and give lessons when able; and I boarded with a family not at all fashionable, and I saw no more of Frank till we ran against each other in the street, and I found he was living only two blocks off, and had just begun to be successful as a painter and be praised in the papers — when his sight failed him.
LUTT. Very sad case. Cataract. But if next week’s operation result successfully, and we can keep him quiet, he will be able to sec as well as you or I. The greatest difficulty is his mental condition. If his present depression continues I can’t answer for his health or senses. Now, you are a bright little woman, Mattie; you really must amuse him.
MATT. But, good gracious, I have been trying my very hardest, ay, and my very softest — for the last ten days — newest books — but he generally begins to yawn before I get through a chapter — I’m afraid I must read badly.
LUTT. Novels! all about girls who don’t brush their hair.
MATT. All! ought I to read him about good and great men — Massaroni, Jack Turpin, Robert Roy —
LUTT. My dear child, novels are n g. — no go, no good! Interest him in actualities — divert his mind — take him out of himself —
MATT. Wouldn’t he then be beside himself?
LUTT. In short, prevent his brooding on his affliction.
MATT, (half crying.) But how? I’m sure I tell him every scrap of family news — the family I- board with is not an interesting family, but their quarrels are almost amusing. But even they do not seem to interest Frank.
LUTT. Of course not. How could he be interested in a shabby- genteel family who eke out their means by taking in boarders?
MATT. But it’s only for the sake of my cheerful and musical society—” see Advertisement!”
LUTT. The old style! How long would you have good cheer and how long any listeners to your music if you did not pay your board?
MATT. I am afraid not very long.
LUTT. Now, to amuse your cousin tell him about some one or some thing that will rouse his curiosity — awaken his interest.
MATT. I understand, but I don’t, know any.
LUTT. What does that matter? Draw on your imagination.
MATT. What, tell fibs?
LUTT. Anything is better than to let Frank fret himself to death with gloomy anticipations about the operation and the result. I assure you I never saw a fellow in a worse state of mind.
MATT. I’ll do it — anything for his good. And if led into anything very dreadful, I can be a model of penitence when he gets better.
LUTT. Of course. Ah! (up c a little, looking l.) here he comes. Good-bye. [exit, E. D.
Enter FRANK HEATHCOTE, L. d., feeling his way with a stick. MATTIE runs to him and guides him to easy chair, R. C.
MATT. Poor darling! I do hope you feel just a little better this morning.
HEATHCOTE. (testily.) Oughtn’t to hope anything so foolish. How can I be better till this wretched business is over? Take life easily when I don’t know how this operation may result? Perhaps total failure — life-long; blindness. (MATTIE clasps her hands.) And just as I was beginning to make some way — make a name.
MATT, (leaning over him.) It is very hard, dear, very! But other people have had to go through the same trial.
HEATH. Do you think that makes it a jot easier for me? Other people? What do I care for other people? (MATTIE sighs, he catches her hand.) How plaintive! I — I do care about you, Mattie, and I do appreciate all your goodness to me, my little sister of charity. What should I do without you?.
MATT. Other people have to do without me — I mean when I run in here. It might be just a little worse, mightn’t it, if I were not living close by, and able to run in and sit with you for an hour or two. (Coming down.) Oh! I’ve brought you a few flowers — (offers to him.)
HEATH. Pah! sickly! primroses, violets, eh? if I could only see them! Ah, Mattie, if you could understand what it is to a painter to lose the one sense — source of all his happiness — to hunger for light and color — to feel his occupation gone — his ambition balked — his existence reduced to a dismal, purposeless, hopeless, life-in-death — you would pity me, and forgive me for my fretfulness.
MATT. I do pity you, without understanding anything. And yet, though I am a poor, ignorant little thing,
and never painted so much as a primrose, I think I can understand your feelings in some small measure. I know how hard it must be to have all this beautiful world darkened — not to see sun and flowers, or the clouds, and horses and carriages — not even the house over the way —
HEATH (turning towards the window involuntarily, then dropping his head) — What that great barrack of a house “to let” so long — I can endure that deprivation.
MATT. Was “to let,” you mean.
HEATH. ’Tis let?
MATT. A week ago.
HEATH. Why didn’t you tell me?
MATT. Never thought you’d care.
HEATH. You’re not generally so reticent. You tell me the twaddle about the old maids you live with. When are the family coming in?
MATT. In, now?
HEATH. Impossible! Why the house was abominably dilapidated from cellar to garret.
MATT. That’s done — done up splendidly —
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 1142
