“Rachel, I’m afraid Mrs. Shadwell’s very ill. She’s in her own room — you must send to Raby for the doctor.”
Rachel ran to her mother’s bedside, having entreated Agnes to send.
When the doctor came, he found the poor lady hurried from one epileptic fit into another, and in about an hour after his arrival, sudden symptoms of a fatal kind appeared; a vessel in the brain had given way, and the case was hopeless!
Miss Marlyn went into the room. The hour of her intended departure had long passed. She put a few questions to the doctor. She looked for a moment at the dying and unconscious lady, and then she said to Rachel —
“We must telegraph for your papa.”
“He’s gone to London, but we don’t know where,” said Rachel.
“No; he’s in Birmingham, at Wycombe’s Hotel. He told me he was going to stay there for some days,” said Agnes Marlyn, reciting this solitary confidence with an evil pride, resulting from a strange mixture of feelings.
Old Wyndle looked at her savagely, and muttered to herself. But Agnes Marlyn, with a calm, pale face and collected manner, went downstairs and wrote a message for the Telegraph Office to Mark Shadwell.
“Mrs. Shadwell is dying: return to Raby instantly.”
She hesitated; she would not be herself the sender of this message; it would associate her in his mind with a shock with which she would not be connected. The drawingroom door was open, and as she stood musing, with the paper in her fingers, she saw the doctor, and went into the hall, as he was getting his hat and coat.
“Don’t you think, sir, that Mr. Shadwell should be sent for?” she said.
“Certainly; telegraph,” he said.
“From what I am told, sir, I am afraid this message says no more than truth?”
And Miss Marlyn placed what she had written in his hands.
“Too true; but he’ll not be in time — Birmingham ‘s a good way: he’ll not find her living,” said he, with a shake of his head.
“But he ought to be here,” said Miss Marlyn, decisively; “will you sign this? — we’ll find a messenger here.”
So the doctor signed it, and filled in dates, and so forth.
“She’ll be gone before an hour, poor little thing! — She was the nicest creature, I think, I ever met almost.”
So the doctor went, and Miss Marlyn saw old Jem Truelock, and with the fresh horse that was to have brought her to the station, away he rode with his message.
Mark Shadwell’s letter, which the maid had seen in Agnes Marlyn’s hand as she entered Mrs. Shadwell’s room, was found on the counterpane, and old Wyndle took it.
That night, the Rev. Stour Temple called. He had heard the sad news, and rode over, not knowing that Mark was away. Rachel had fallen into that deep sleep which succeeds grief and excitement, and is the closing compensation for that frightful suspense. Old “Wyndle had her voluble and bitter story to tell.
“She was better this morning than I saw her for two years or more, when in came that Agnes Marlyn, wi’ this letter in her fist — Jane Cherry saw her, before ten o’clock — and I picked up the letter off the quilt. It’s from the master — God forgive him! — telling her he blames her for everything, as I think — he left last night — but the two that God joined together, should be sundered by such villainy! and that letter was the death o’ her; and here it is — I can’t make much o’t myself — but you must read it, and see how it is wi’ poor Miss Rachel.”
After a few more questions, therefore, he did read that shocking letter, and after a long silence, he said that he would call again next day — having considered the matter carefully meanwhile — and see and talk with Rachel.
Late that night Mark returned. He knew by the face of the servant who opened the door, that his wife was dead.
He heard the short tale in silence. There was a sense of recovered liberty; there was something of remorse; also an angry shame, which tortured his pride, and made him uneasy in the presence of his own servants.
Sullen as a wounded beast,. Mark Shadwell made his way to his bedroom, where, not in sleep nor in prayer, but in an agitated hurry of thought and emotion, he passed a long and troubled night.
When Stour Temple called next morning, and learned that Mark Shadwell had arrived, he contented himself with inquiries at the door, and did not ask to go in.
Wyndle in her own way had told him something of Miss Marlyn’s movements. The more he heard of that young lady’s doings, the less he liked or trusted her. It pained him that she should be at Raby. Still he hoped that it was the confusion of this sudden death that had postponed her departure. There were suspicions afloat in his mind which he would not have liked to tell to anybody., Rachel was past the strange curiosity of childhood. She could not bring herself to look at her dead mother and companion. She lay sobbing on her bed, now and then reading more serenely in her Bible, and then, as the truth — incredible for a moment — returned, bursting into a wild convulsion of weeping again.
Old Wyndle often looked in, and stood or sat by her bed, talking in her own rough, quaint way. But now she had gone, and, with Jane Cherry, the housemaid, was busy in poor Mrs. Shadwell’s room.
And now their sad office was ended, and she lay, cold and sad, in the white robes of her purity.
The blinds were lowered, the room darkened, and old Wyndle, having sent Jane Cherry away, remained for a few minutes, looking with rueful and bitter thoughts upon the young, forlorn face, with the light of a wonderful smile upon it.
There came a low tap at the door, and, expecting to see Jane Cherry come in,’ Wyndle walked a few cautious steps towards the door, and in a low tone, such as is heard in sick chambers, she bid the visitor come in.
It was not Jane Cherry who entered, but Agnes Marlyn. The old housekeeper, very erect, made one step backward, and a silence of some moments followed.
“And ye’ve actually come in!” exclaimed old Mrs. Wyndle, with a strange gasp, and her arms across, the fingers of one at the elbow of the other, and a gaze dark and stern, as if she had seen an evil spirit in the room.
“Mrs. Wyndle, you’ll please not to speak to me,” said the young lady, coldly. “Once for all, I come here at your master’s desire, to lock these drawers, and wardrobes, and boxes,” she said, with a stem deliberateness, “and to take charge of the keys for him. I shall do my duty, whatever other people may. Will you be good enough to move a little aside, and let me reach that wardrobe?”
“I don’t believe the master ever sent ye in here, nor desired ye no such thing,” said old Wyndle, pale and fierce.
“Come — come, Mrs. Wyndle; you must know it can’t be pleasant to any one coming in here.”
And, turning suddenly on the old woman, with eyes that flashed, she added:
“What can you propose to yourself, woman, by trying to quarrel with me?”
“No, bad as he’s bin, I can’t believe that of him,” said the old servant, sturdily.
“Bad as he has been!” repeated Miss Marlyn. “Why, you ungrateful old woman, of what use on earth are you? If he had not been a great deal too kind, you’d have been in the workhouse long ago. There — do, for goodness sake, just be decently quiet.”
That brilliant, beautiful girl, with a strangely heightened colour and flashing eyes, pushed by her, locked the wardrobe, locked the drawers, gathered up some rings, chains, and trinkets that were on the dressing-table.
“Look here, please,” she said, “I place them in this box.”
Old Wyndle only lifted up her hands and eyes, and said:
“Oh! my mistress! my poor, little, good mistress! Did I live to see this day?”
Carrying her head high, and angrier than she cared to show, Miss Marlyn proceeded to lock up everything that seemed of any value.
Then said Miss Marlyn, coldly:
“He said particularly, there’s the — a gold ring, and a diamond guard on her finger.”
“Her weddin’-ring! Oh! master! — the ring you put on her fin
ger!” She was speaking almost in a scream. “Oh! Mr. Shadwell — oh, man! could ye let her fingers on it?”
“There’s a guardring, too, a brilliant hoop, that he says I must take.”
“Take them! Touch her? Touch her hand? My God! you would not dare to touch her!” shrieked old “Wyndle.
“Take them off yourself — why, that’s what I said,” exclaimed Miss Agnes Marlyn, with a very wicked look at the old woman, though in a calm voice.
“Oh! my poor mistress! my darling! angel bright!” cried old “Wyndle, standing at the foot of the bed, with her hands clasped, and tears trickling down her cheeks. “To think such things could be! No — no — I say! I’ll take ‘em off wi’ my own old fingers, and I’ll put them in the hand that gave them — the hand she loved — the hand that laid her there; but you sha’n’t touch them or her. Yes, my darling! — ye’ll give ‘em up — gentle — gentle — like your beautiful self. Look at her! Ye’ve killed her. Look at her there — the poor little thing! Arn’t ye afeard she’d stand up like an angel, and strike ye wi’ a look o’ her white face? Look — look, woman — look! Lyin’ there, wi’ the light o’ heaven on her face — murdered by ye! To think o’t! Why does God stan’ such things? She — the blessed creature, simple and lovin’, that wouldn’t hurt a fly, as meek as a little child — a little child! May God judge them that did it — gone — ye poor, little thing! and you that done it — there, to see! standin’ on yer two feet, hale, and strong, and happy — my God! and full o’ life. But she’s the upper hand o’ ye still: she’s raised in power — better off than the best o’ you, with her crown incorruptible and robes of white, to tell her story before the throne. Oh! look at the poor, grieved, little face of her, you cruel, dreadful creature!”
“I never was anything in my life but kind to her, you stupid, wicked, old woman. Look at her! why shouldn’t I? I’ve done my duty by her better than ever you did, who never did anything of any earthly use. Of course I’ll look at her.”
And with a quick step she came by the bedpost at the foot of the bed, and with a bright flush and a strange defiance, did look on that saddest and most angelic sight vouchsafed to mortals.
“When Miss Marlyn left the room, old Wyndle grimly shut the door after her, and stood at the foot of the bed, thinking.
“I see how ‘twill be — I a’ seen it long-enough. I can see a bit still, though my old head’s little good now; but think I must — if I don’t, who will? — about the poor lassie, Rachel. I’ll set my wits to work on’t, and ‘appen counsel may come; and so it will, for God can’t mean to leave his creature, without help or care, to them that’ll grudge her-her bit and sup, and the clothes on her back!”
CHAPTER XV.
MARK SHADWELL TAKES A DECIDED STEP.
GOODNATURED as old Wyndle was, she had a proper regard for herself, and her thoughts naturally turned to her own future, a subject which the changes she saw at hand involved in utter uncertainty.
She was recalled, however, by fancying that she heard Agnes Marlyn’s voice in the gallery. She looked on the face before her, and a gush of kindly recollections and bitter feelings found vent in a flood of tears.
Drying them hastily, and half-hoping to meet Miss Marlyn, she issued from the room, closing the door reverently. But she did not encounter that young lady on her way to Rachel’s room, which, without ceremony, she entered.
Though not undressed, Rachel lay upon her bed with, her face to the pillow, you would have said in a deep sleep, had it not been for a convulsive sob every now and then.
“Get up, Miss,” said old Wyndle, sternly, laying her hand on her shoulder; “this is no house for you.”
The young lady sat up on the side of the bed, like a person called up from a swoon, and looked in old Wyndle’s face, without speaking.
“Mind ye, Miss,” said old Wyndle, inspired with sudden decision, “ye don’t stay here; ye just come wi’ me, and look your last on your poor mamma, and then go ye straight to Miss Barbara, down at the vicar’s.”
“Hold your tongue, Wyndle,” said a stem voice, near the door. “Come, rouse yourself, Rachel, and listen to me.”
. Old Wyndle, with half a glance, saw Mark Shadwell standing within the shadow of the door.
“Ah!” groaned old Wyndle, bitterly, shaking her head slowly.
“Do you hear me, Rachel? Collect your thoughts,” he repeated.
“Oh! yes — papa — papa!” And she caught him in a wild embrace, and lay close to his breast, sobbing, and straining him in her girlish arms.
He had not expected any such thing. This sudden burst of affection disconcerted and pained him.
“Go, “Wyndle,” said he, sternly. “Miss Rachel will ring for you when she wants you. Shut the door.”
“Sit down, Rachel — do command your feelings — and attend to what I say, which shan’t be much,” he said, leading her to a chair.
“And first, you must not allow that ungrateful old woman, “Wyndle, to talk to you about my plans, as they affect you or myself; and, also, I request that you’ll not make a confidante of her. When you know as much of the world as I do, you’ll learn that old persons in her rank are pushing and prying, conceited, and officious, and must be kept in their proper places. Wyndle is a prejudiced, impudent old woman, and I don’t choose any confidences with such a person, d’ye mind. And, Rachel, as to yourself — ourselves, I mean. I must run up to town forthwith, to consult about business; my stay and visits here, in fact, must be uncertain, and may be interrupted by very long intervals. Miss Marlyn and you don’t get on pleasantly, and, even if she could remain in her late position, she is too young to take charge of you, and, the fact is, I must look about for another home for you — for the present, at least — for the idea of leaving you here at Raby, alone, is quite out of the question; and, at the same time, I wish, of course, to consult your feelings in making a choice. I am sure Miss Temple, so old a friend, would be glad to have you at the Vicarage, if you liked it, and I could arrange. And — think it over, and tell me tomorrow whether you would like it — or any other arrangement better; only, you see, staying here is not to be thought of, and whatever is to be done, must be arranged immediately.”
He got up gloomily, and stooping over her, touched her forehead with a cold kiss, and then left the room.
In a few days this arrangement was actually made. I need hardly say that Mark Shadwell had first ascertained that Charles Mordant had rejoined his regiment — and Rachel Shadwell found herself, to the great delight of kind Miss Barbara, domesticated at the Vicarage.
Miss Marlyn at the same time left Raby, and honest Roger Temple, like the captain in the song, “lost his spirits daily,” and moped about, and sighed, and grew to be a silent man; and one day, walking with Doctor Stalton towards Wynderfel, less because he affected the doctor’s company than because he loved a stroll in that particular direction, the doctor said:
“Miss Marlyn has left Raby some time — the-same day that Miss Shadwell came to the Vicarage.”
“Oh?” said Roger, interrogatively; for though he knew the fact only too well, he wished to hear more on that tender theme, and so tried to lead the physician on.
“Devilish pretty, whatever else she may be,” continued the doctor, knowing nothing of poor: Roger’s little secret.
Roger sighed, and looked down, in soft and silent expectation, on the grass, as they walked along.
“Mark Shadwell is still at Raby,” resumed the doctor; “but — between you and me — I’m afraid that d — d woman has got a fast hold of him.”
“Oh?” said Roger Temple, quite quietly, but feeling all the time, as if he had got a hard box in the ear; he was stunned, tingling, but could not resent it. In secret he conned it over, and grew frightened and sadder.
Time, the healer, the destroyer, the constructor, had been working his potent changes.
The doctor’s remark about Miss Agnes Marlyn and Mark Shadwell, expressed pretty distinctly the surmises of the little town of
Raby and its neighbourhood. And soon the scandal darkened.
Mark had now been for many weeks absent from the country. No letter had reached Raby, or the vicar, or his attorney at the village, for all that time.
At length there arrived a letter from Mark Shadwell to the vicar, which surprised that rustic clergyman a good deal. It was a long letter, for a lazy man like Mark, and was written, it seemed, in dejection.
It began by assuming that Stour Temple would not be much surprised if he, Mark Shadwell, acted as most men do when, in middle life, placed in his sad and solitary circumstances. His ideas of right and wrong, and those of the vicar, though drawn from different sources, were very much alike, in fact, in most points identical; and the step he was going to take, after the most careful consideration of what was best and most proper, was one, he was confident, which the vicar would thoroughly approve. He was about, in fact, to marry. He was a man of few acquaintances, and he did not care to look up any of his old London friends. A wife educated in that atmosphere would never do at Raby. “What was needed there was a person who could content herself with plain clothes, plain fare, servants few and clumsy, and no society, and who, in addition to all this, could make herself positively useful to a man who had often more business to look after than two men could be reasonably expected to get through. “Would the vicar mention all this to his sister, and consult with her as to how best to open it to Rachel. Girls are so odd, and in these circumstances so seldom see what is really so much for their own advantage. But where there was a temper — and Rachel had one of her own — they run away with things, and required to be reasoned with; and so he would kindly use his discretion in communicating this news to Rachel. He would, for his daughter’s sake, advise her denying herself an indulgence in that anger and jealousy on this occasion, to which women are prone — which affect a higher inspiration, but are, in fact, so narrow, selfish, and vulgar.
Such was the tenor of the letter.
“Who can it be?” said Barbara, looking hard at the vicar, as they conferred, in his study, over the letter.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 433
