Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Then, sir, I beg your pardon a thousand times over. It occurred to me that you probably had not, Mr. Archibald; and I thought I would have said a word to prepare you, before you came upon it suddenly in the paper.”

  “To prepare me!” echoed Mr. Carlyle, as old Dill was turning away. “Why, what has come to you, Dill? Are you afraid my nerves are growing delicate, or that I shall faint over the loss of a hundred pounds? At the very most, we shall not suffer above that extent.”

  Old Dill turned back again.

  “If I don’t believe you are speaking of the failure of Kent & Green! It’s not that, Mr. Archibald. They won’t affect us much; and there’ll be a dividend, report runs.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Then you have not heard it, sir! I am glad that I’m in time. It might not be well for you to have seen it without a word of preparation, Mr. Archibald.”

  “If you have not gone demented, you will tell me what you mean, Dill, and leave me to my letters,” cried Mr. Carlyle, wondering excessively at his sober, matter-of-fact clerk’s words and manner.

  Old Dill put his hands upon the Times newspaper.

  “It’s here, Mr. Archibald, in the column of deaths; the first on the list. Please, prepare yourself a little before you look at it.”

  He shuffled out quickly, and Mr. Carlyle as quickly unfolded the paper. It was, as old Dill said, the first on the list of deaths:

  “At Cammere, in France, on the 18th inst., Isabel Mary, only child of William, late Earl of Mount Severn.”

  Clients called; Mr. Carlyle’s bell did not ring; an hour or two passed, and old Dill protested that Mr. Carlyle was engaged until he could protest no longer. He went in, deprecatingly. Mr. Carlyle sat yet with the newspaper before him, and the letters unopened at his elbow.

  “There are one or two who will come in, Mr. Archibald — who will see you; what am I to say?”

  Mr. Carlyle stared at him for a moment, as if his wits had been in the next world. Then he swept the newspaper from before him, and was the calm, collected man of business again.

  As the news of Lady Isabel’s marriage had first come in the knowledge of Lord Mount Severn through the newspapers, so singular to say did the tidings of her death. The next post brought him the letter, which his wife had tardily forwarded. But, unlike Lady Mount Severn, he did not take her death as entirely upon trust; he thought it possible the letter might have been dispatched without its having taken place; and he deemed it incumbent on him to make inquiries. He wrote immediately to the authorities of the town, in the best French he could muster, asking for particulars, and whether she was really dead.

  He received, in due course a satisfactory answer; satisfactory in so far as that it set his doubts at rest. He had inquired after her by her proper name, and title, “La Dame Isabelle Vane,” and as the authorities could find none of the survivors owning that name, they took it for granted she was dead. They wrote him word that the child and nurse were killed on the spot; two ladies, occupying the same compartment of the carriage, had since died, one of whom was no doubt the mother and lady he inquired for. She was dead and buried, sufficient money having been found upon her person to defray the few necessary expenses.

  Thus, through no premeditated intention of Lady Isabel, news of her death went forth to Lord Mount Severn and to the world. Her first intimation that she was regarded as dead, was through a copy of that very day’s Times seen by Mr. Carlyle — seen by Lord Mount Severn. An English traveller, who had been amongst the sufferers, and who received the English newspaper daily, sometimes lent them to her to read. She was not travelling under her own name; she left that behind her when she left Grenoble; she had rendered her own too notorious to risk the chance recognition of travellers; and the authorities little thought that the quiet unobtrusive Madame Vine, slowly recovering at the inn, was the Dame Isabella Vane, respecting whom the grand English comte wrote.

  Lady Isabel understood it at once; that the dispatching of her letter had been the foundation of the misapprehension; and she began to ask herself now, why she should undeceive Lord Mount Severn and the world. She longed, none knew with what intense longings, to be unknown, obscure, totally unrecognized by all; none can know it, till they have put a barrier between themselves and the world, as she had done. The child was gone — happy being! She thought she could never be sufficiently thankful that it was released from the uncertain future — therefore she had not his support to think of. She had only herself; and surely she could with ease earn enough for that; or she could starve; it mattered little which. No, there was no necessity for her continuing to accept the bounty of Lord Mount Severn, and she would let him and everybody else continue to believe that she was dead, and be henceforth only Madame Vine. A resolution she adhered to.

  Thus the unhappy Isabel’s career was looked upon as run. Lord Mount Severn forwarded her letter to Mr. Carlyle, with the confirmation of her death, which he had obtained from the French authorities. It was a nine day’s wonder: “That poor, erring Lady Isabel was dead” — people did not call her names in the very teeth of her fate — and then it was over.

  It was over. Lady Isabel was as one forgotten.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AT EAST LYNNE.

  There went, sailing up the avenue to East Lynne, a lady, one windy afternoon. If not a lady, she was attired as one; a flounced dress, and a stylish looking shawl, and a white veil. A very pretty woman, tall and slender was she, and she minced as she walked, and coquetted with her head, and, altogether contrived to show that she had quite as much vanity as brains. She went boldly up to the broad entrance of the house, and boldly rang at it, drawing her white veil over her face as she did so.

  One of the men-servants answered it, not Peter; and, seeing somebody very smart before him, bowed deferentially.

  “Miss Hallijohn is residing here, I believe. Is she within?”

  “Who, ma’am?”

  “Miss Hallijohn; Miss Joyce Hallijohn,” somewhat sharply repeated the lady, as if impatient of any delay. “I wish to see her.”

  The man was rather taken aback. He had deemed it a visitor to the house, and was prepared to usher her to the drawing-room, at least; but it seemed it was only a visitor to Joyce. He showed her into a small parlor, and went upstairs to the nursery, where Joyce was sitting with Wilson — for there had been no change in the domestic department of East Lynne. Joyce remained as upper maid, partially superintending the servants, attending upon Lucy, and making Miss Carlyle’s dresses as usual. Wilson was nurse still.

  “Miss Joyce, there’s a lady asking for you,” said the man. “I have shown her into the gray parlor.”

  “A lady for me?” repeated Joyce. “Who is it? Some one to see the children, perhaps.”

  “It’s for yourself, I think. She asked for Miss Hallijohn.”

  Joyce looked at the man; but she put down her work and proceeded to the gray parlor. A pretty woman, vain and dashing, threw up her white veil at her entrance.

  “Well, Joyce, how are you?”

  Joyce, always pale, turned paler still, as she gazed in blank consternation. Was it really Afy who stood before her — Afy, the erring?

  Afy it was. And she stood there, holding out her hand to Joyce, with what Wilson would have called, all the brass in the world. Joyce could not reconcile her mind to link her own with it.

  “Excuse me, Afy, but I cannot take your hand, I cannot welcome you here. What could have induced you to come?”

  “If you are going to be upon the high ropes, it seems I might as well have stayed away,” was Afy’s reply, given in the pert, but good-humored manner she had ever used to Joyce. “My hand won’t damage yours. I am not poison.”

  “You are looked upon in the neighborhood as worse than poison, Afy,” returned Joyce, in a tone, not of anger but of sorrow. “Where’s Richard Hare?”

  Afy tossed her head. “Where’s who?” asked she.

  “Richard Hare. My question was plain
enough.”

  “How should I know where he is? It’s like your impudence to mention him to me. Why don’t you ask me where Old Nick is, and how he does? I’d rather own acquaintance with him than with Richard Hare, if I’d my choice between the two.”

  “Then you have left Richard Hare? How long since?”

  “I have left — what do you say?” broke off Afy, whose lips were quivering ominously with suppressed passion. “Perhaps you’ll condescend to explain. I don’t understand.”

  “When you left here, did you not go after Richard Hare — did you not join him?”

  “I’ll tell you what it is, Joyce,” flashed Afy, her face indignant and her voice passionate, “I have put up with some things from you in my time, but human nature has its limits of endurance, and I won’t bear that. I have never set eyes on Richard Hare since that night of horror; I wish I could; I’d help to hang him.”

  Joyce paused. The belief that Afy was with him had been long and deeply imbued within her; it was the long-continued and firm conviction of all West Lynne, and a settled belief, such as that, is not easily shaken. Was Afy telling the truth? She knew her propensity for making false assertions, when they served to excuse herself.

  “Afy,” she said at length, “let me understand you. When you left this place, was it not to share Richard Hare’s flight? Have you not been living with him?”

  “No!” burst forth Afy, with kindling eyes. “Living with him — with our father’s murderer! Shame upon you, Joyce Hallijohn! You must be precious wicked yourself to suppose it.”

  “If I have judged you wrongly, Afy, I sincerely beg your pardon. Not only myself, but the whole of West Lynne, believed you were with him; and the thought has caused me pain night and day.”

  “What a cannibal minded set you all must be, then!” was Afy’s indignant rejoinder.

  “What have you been doing ever since, then? Where have you been?”

  “Never mind, I say,” repeated Afy. “West Lynne has not been so complimentary to me, it appears, that I need put myself out of my way to satisfy its curiosity. I was knocking about a bit at first, but I soon settled down as steady as Old Time — as steady as you.”

  “Are you married?” inquired Joyce, noting the word “settled.”

  “Catch me marrying,” retorted Afy; “I like my liberty too well. Not but what I might be induced to change my condition, if anything out of the way eligible occurred; it must be very eligible, though, to tempt me. I am what I suppose you call yourself — a lady’s maid.”

  “Indeed!” said Joyce, much relieved. “And are you comfortable, Afy? Are you in good service?”

  “Middling, for that. The pay’s not amiss, but there’s a great deal to do, and Lady Mount Severn’s too much of a Tartar for me.”

  Joyce looked at her in surprise. “What have you to do with Lady Mount Severn?”

  “Well, that’s good! It’s where I am at service.”

  “At Lady Mount Severn’s?”

  “Why not? I have been there two years. It is not a great deal longer I shall stop, though; she had too much vinegar in her for me. But it poses me to imagine what on earth could have induced you to fancy I should go off with that Dick Hare,” she added, for she could not forget the grievance.

  “Look at the circumstances,” argued Joyce. “You both disappeared.”

  “But not together.”

  “Nearly together. There were only a few days intervening. And you had neither money nor friends.”

  “You don’t know what I had. But I would rather have died of want on father’s grave than have shared his means,” continued Afy, growing passionate again.

  “Where is he? Not hung, or I should have heard of it.”

  “He has never been seen since that night, Afy.”

  “Nor heard of?”

  “Nor heard of. Most people think he is in Australia, or some other foreign land.”

  “The best place for him; the more distance he puts between him and home, the better. If he does come back, I hope he’ll get his desserts — which is a rope’s end. I’d go to his hanging.”

  “You are as bitter against him as Mr. Justice Hare. He would bring his son back to suffer, if he could.”

  “A cross-grained old camel!” remarked Afy, in allusion to the qualities, social and amiable, of the revered justice. “I don’t defend Dick Hare — I hate him too much for that — but if his father had treated him differently, Dick might have been different. Well, let’s talk of something else; the subject invariably gives me the shivers. Who is mistress here?”

  “Miss Carlyle.”

  “Oh, I might have guessed that. Is she as fierce as ever?”

  “There is little alteration in her.”

  “And there won’t be on this side the grave. I say, Joyce, I don’t want to encounter her; she might set on at me, like she has done many a time in the old days. Little love was there lost between me and Corny Carlyle. Is Mr. Carlyle at home?”

  “He will be home to dinner. I dare say you would like some tea; you shall come and take it with me and Wilson, in the nursery.”

  “I was thinking you might have the grace to offer me something,” cried Afy. “I intend to stop till to-morrow in the neighborhood. My lady gave me two days’ holiday — for she was going to see her dreadful old grandmother, where she can’t take a maid — and I thought I’d use it in coming to have a look at the old place again. Don’t stare at me in that blank way, as if you feared I should ask the grand loan of sleeping here. I shall sleep at the Mount Severn Arms.”

  “I was not glancing at such a thought, Afy. Come and take your bonnet off.”

  “Is the nursery full of children?”

  “There is only one child in it. Miss Lucy and Master William are with the governess.”

  Wilson received Afy with lofty condescension, having Richard Hare in her thoughts. But Joyce explained that it was all a misapprehension — that her sister had never been near Richard Hare, but was as indignant against him as they were. Upon which Wilson grew cordial and chatty, rejoicing in the delightful recreation her tongue would enjoy that evening.

  Afy’s account of herself, as to past proceedings, was certainly not the most satisfactory in the world; but, altogether, taken in the present, it was so vast an improvement upon Joyce’s conclusions, that she had not felt so elated for many a day. When Mr. Carlyle returned home Joyce sought him, and acquainted him with what had happened; that Afy was come; was maid to Lady Mount Severn; and, above all, that she had never been with Richard Hare.

  “Ah! You remember what I said, Joyce,” he remarked. “That I did not believe Afy was with Richard Hare.”

  “I have been telling her so, sir, to be sure, when I informed her what people had believed,” continued Joyce. “She nearly went into one of her old passions.”

  “Does she seem steady, Joyce?”

  “I think so, sir — steady for her. I was thinking, sir, that as she appears to have turned out so respectable, and is with Lady Mount Severn, you, perhaps, might see no objection to her sleeping here for to-night. It would be better than for her to go to the inn, as she talks of doing.”

  “None at all,” replied Mr. Carlyle. “Let her remain.”

  Later in the evening, after Mr. Carlyle’s dinner, a message came that Afy was to go to him. Accordingly she proceeded to his presence.

  “So, Afy, you have returned to let West Lynne know that you are alive. Sit down.”

  “West Lynne may go a-walking for me in future, sir, for all the heed I shall take of it,” retorted Afy. “A set of wicked-minded scandal-mongers, to take and say I had gone after Richard Hare!”

  “You should not have gone off at all, Afy.”

  “Well, sir, that was my business, and I chose to go. I could not stop in the cottage after that night’s work.”

  “There is a mystery attached to that night’s work, Afy,” observed Mr. Carlyle; “a mystery that I cannot fathom. Perhaps you can help me out.”

  “What m
ystery, sir?” returned Afy.

  Mr. Carlyle leaned forward, his arms on the table. Afy had taken a chair at the other end of it. “Who was it that committed the murder?” he demanded, in a grave and somewhat imperative tone.

  Afy stared some moments before she replied, astonished at the question. “Who committed the murder, sir?” she uttered at length. “Richard Hare committed it. Everybody knows that.”

  “Did you see it done?”

  “No,” replied Afy. “If I had seen it, the fright and horror would have killed me. Richard Hare quarreled with my father, and drew the gun upon him in passion.”

  “You assume this to have been the case, Afy, as others have assumed it. I do not think that it was Richard Hare who killed your father.”

  “Not Richard Hare!” exclaimed Afy, after a pause. “Then who do you think did it, sir — I?”

  “Nonsense, Afy.”

  “I know he did it,” proceeded Afy. “It is true that I did not see it done, but I know it for all that. I know it, sir.”

  “You cannot know it, Afy.”

  “I do know it, sir; I would not assert it to you if I did not. If Richard Hare was here, present before us, and swore until he was black in the face that it was not him, I could convict him.”

  “By what means?”

  “I had rather not say, sir. But you may believe me, for I am speaking truth.”

  “There was another friend of yours present that evening, Afy. Lieutenant Thorn.”

  Afy’s face turned crimson; she was evidently surprised. But Mr. Carlyle’s speech and manner were authoritative, and she saw it would be useless to attempt to trifle with him.

  “I know he was, sir. A young chap who used to ride over some evenings to see me. He had nothing to do with what occurred.”

  “Where did he ride from?”

  “He was stopping with some friends at Swainson. He was nobody, sir.”

  “What was his name?” questioned Mr. Carlyle.

  “Thorn,” said Afy.

  “I mean his real name. Thorn was an assumed name.”

  “Oh, dear no,” returned Afy. “Thorn was his name.”