Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  COMING HOME TO THE DARES.

  The Pyramids of Egypt grew, in the course of time, into pyramids, as was oracularly remarked by Sergeant Delves; but that official’s exertions, labour as hard as he would, grew to nothing — when applied to the cause with which he had compared the pyramids. All inquiry, all searching brought to bear upon it by him and his co-adherents, did not bring anything to light of Herbert Dare’s movements on that fatal night. Where he had passed the hours remained an impenetrable mystery; and the sergeant had to confess himself foiled. He came, not unnaturally, to the conclusion that Herbert Dare was not anywhere, so far as the outer world was concerned: that he had been at home, committing the mischief. A conclusion the sergeant had drawn from the very first, and it had never been shaken. Nevertheless, it was his duty to put all the skill and craft of the local police force into action; and very close inquiries were made. Every house of entertainment in the city, of whatever nature — whether a billiard-room or an oyster-shop; whether a chief hotel or an obscure public-house — was visited and keenly questioned; but no one would acknowledge to having seen Herbert Dare on the particular evening. In short, no trace of him could be unearthed.

  “Just as much out as I was,” said the sergeant to himself. And Helstonleigh held the same conviction.

  Pomeranian Knoll was desolate: with a desolation it had never expected to fall upon it. A shattering blow had been struck to Mr. and Mrs. Dare. To lose their eldest son in so terrible a manner, seemed, of itself, sufficient agony for a whole lifetime. Whatever may have been his faults — and Helstonleigh knew that he was somewhat rich in faults — he was dear to them; dearer than her other children to Mrs. Dare. Herbert had remarked, in conversing with Anna Lynn, that Anthony was his mother’s favourite. It was so. She had loved him deeply, had been blind to his failings. Neither Mr. Dare nor his wife was amongst the religious of the world. Religious thoughts and reflections, they, in common with many others in Helstonleigh, were content to leave to a remote death-bed. But they had been less than human, worse than heathen, could they be insensible to the fate of Anthony — hurled away with his sins upon his head. He was cut off suddenly from this world, and — what of the next? It was a question, an uncertainty, that they dared not follow; and they sat, one on each side their desolate hearth, and wailed forth their vain anguish.

  This would, in truth, have been tribulation enough to have overshadowed a life; but there was more beyond it. Hemmed in by pride, as the Dares had been, playing at being great and grand in Helstonleigh, the situation of Herbert, setting aside their fears or their sympathy for himself, was about the most complete checkmate that could have fallen upon them. It was the cup of humiliation drained to its dregs. Whether he should be proved guilty or not, he was thrown into prison as a common felon, awaiting his trial for murder; and that disgrace could not be wiped out. Did they believe him guilty? They did not know themselves. To suspect him of such a crime was painful in the last degree to their feelings; but why did he persist in refusing to state where he was on the eventful night? There was the point that staggered them.

  A deep gloom overhung the house, extending to all its inmates. Even the servants went about with sad faces and quiet steps. The young ladies knew that a calamity had been dealt to them from which they should never wholly recover. Their star of brilliancy, in its little sphere of light at Helstonleigh, had faded into dimness, if not wholly gone down below the horizon. Should Herbert be found guilty, it could never rise again. Adelaide rarely spoke; she appeared to possess some inward source of vexation or grief, apart from the general tribulation. At least, so judged Signora Varsini; and she was a shrewd observer. She, Miss Dare, spent most of her time shut up in her own room. Rosa and Minny were chiefly with their governess. They were getting of an age to feel it in an equal degree with the rest. Rosa was eighteen, and had begun to go out with Mrs. Dare and Adelaide: Minny was anticipating the same privilege. It was all stopped now — visiting, gaiety, pleasure; and it was felt as a part of the misfortune.

  The first shock of the occurrence subsided, the funeral over, and the family settled down in its mourning, the governess exacted their studies from her two pupils as before. They were loth to recommence them, and appealed to their mother. “It was cruel of mademoiselle to wish it of them,” they said. Mademoiselle rejoined that her motive was anything but cruel: she felt sure that occupation for the mind was the best counteraction to grief. If they would not study, where was the use of her remaining, she demanded. Madame Dare had better allow her to leave. She would go without notice, if madame pleased. She should be glad to get back to the Continent. They did not have murders there in society; at least, she, mademoiselle, had never encountered personal experience of it.

  Mrs. Dare did not appear willing to accede to the proposition. The governess was a most efficient instructress; and six or twelve months more of her services would be essential to her pupils, if they were to be turned out as pupils ought to be. Besides, Sergeant Delves had intimated that the signora’s testimony would be necessary at the trial, and therefore she could not be allowed to depart. Mr. Dare thought if they did allow her to depart, they might be accused of wishing to suppress evidence, and it might tell against Herbert. So mademoiselle had to resign herself to remaining. “Très bien,” she equably said; “she was willing; only the young ladies must resume their lessons.” A mandate in which Mrs. Dare acquiesced.

  Sometimes Minny, who was given to be incorrigibly idle, would burst into tears over the trouble of her work, and then lay it upon her distress touching the uncertain fate of Herbert. One day, upon doing this, the governess broke out sharply.

  “He deserves to lie in prison, does Monsieur Herbert!”

  “Why do you say that, mademoiselle?” asked Minny resentfully.

  “Because he is a fool,” politely returned mademoiselle. “He say, does he not, that he was not home at the time. It is well; but why does he not say where he was? I think he is a fool, me.”

  “You may as well say outright, mademoiselle, that you think him guilty!” retorted Minny.

  “But I not think him guilty,” dissented mademoiselle. “I have said from the first that he was not guilty. I think he is not one capable of doing such an injury, to his brother or to any one else. I used to be great friends with Monsieur Herbert once, when I gave him those Italian lessons, and I never saw to make me believe his disposition was a cruel.”

  In point of fact, the governess, more explicitly than any one else in the house, had unceasingly declared her belief in Herbert’s innocence. Truly and sincerely she did not believe him capable of so grievous a crime. He was not of a cruel or revengeful disposition: certainly not one to lie in wait, and attack another savagely and secretly. She had never believed that he was, and would not believe it now. Neither had his family. Sergeant Delves’ opinion was, that whoever had attacked Anthony had lain in wait for him in the dining room, and had sprung upon him as he entered. It is possible, however, that the same point staggered mademoiselle that staggered the rest — Herbert Dare’s refusal to state where he was at the time. Believing, as she did, that he could account for it if he chose, she deemed herself perfectly justified in applying to him the complimentary epithet you have just heard. She expressed true sympathy and regret at the untimely fate of Anthony, lamenting him much and genuinely.

  Upon Cyril and George the punishment also fell. With one brother not cold in his grave, and the other thrown into gaol to await his trial for murder, they could not, for shame, pursue their amusements as formerly; and amusements to Cyril and George Dare had become a necessity of daily life. Their friends and companions were growing shy of them — or they fancied it. Conscience is all too suggestive. They fancied people shunned them when they walked along the street: Cyril, even, as he stood in Samuel Lynn’s room at the manufactory, thought the men, as they passed in and out, looked askance at him. Very likely it was only imagination. George Dare had set his heart upon a commission; one of the members for the city had made a hal
f-promise to Mr. Dare that he would “see what could be done at the Horse Guards.” Failing available interest in that quarter, George was in hope that his father would screw out money to purchase one. But, until Herbert was proved innocent (if that time should ever arrive), the question of his entering the army must remain in abeyance. This state of things altogether did not give pleasure to Cyril and George Dare. But there was no remedy for it, and they had to content themselves with sundry private explosions of temper, by way of relief to their minds.

  Yes, the evil fell upon all; upon the parents and upon the children. Of course, the latter suffered nothing in comparison with Mr. and Mrs. Dare. Unhappy days, restless nights, were their portion now: the world seemed to be growing too miserable to live in.

  “There must be a fatality upon the boys!” Mr. Dare exclaimed one day, in the bitterness of his spirit, as he paced the room with restless steps, his wife sitting moodily, her elbow on the centre-table, her cheek pressed upon her hand. “Unless there had been a fatality upon them, they never could have turned out as they have.”

  Mrs. Dare resented the speech. In her unhappy frame of mind, which told terribly upon her temper, it seemed a sort of relief to resent everything. If Mr. Dare spoke against their sons, she stood up for them. “Turned out!” she repeated angrily.

  “Let us say, as things have turned out, then, if you will. They appear to be turning out pretty badly, as it seems to me. The boys have had every indulgence in life: they have enjoyed a luxurious home; they have ruined me to supply their extravagances — —”

  “Ruined you!” again resented Mrs. Dare.

  “Ay; ruined. It has all but come to it. And yet, what good has the indulgence or have the advantages brought them? Far better — I begin to see it now — that they had been reared to self-denial; made to work for their daily bread.”

  “How can you give utterance to such things!” rejoined Mrs. Dare, in a chafed tone.

  Mr. Dare stopped in his restless pacing, and confronted his wife. “Are we happy in our sons? Speak the truth.”

  “How could any one be happy, overwhelmed with a misfortune such as this?”

  “Put that aside: what are they without it? Rebellious to us; badly conducted in the sight of the world.”

  “Who says they are badly conducted?” asked Mrs. Dare, an undercurrent of consciousness whispering that she need not have made the objection. “They may be a little wild; but it is a common failing with those of their age and condition. Their faults are only faults of youth and of uncurbed spirits.”

  “I wish, then, their spirits had been curbed,” was Mr. Dare’s reply. “It is useless now to reproach each other,” he continued, resuming his walk; “but there must have been something radically wrong in their bringing-up. Anthony, gone: Herbert, perhaps, to follow him by almost a worse death, certainly a more disgraceful one: Cyril — —” Mr. Dare stopped abruptly in his catalogue, and went on more generally. “There is no comfort in them for us: there never will be any.”

  “What can you bring against Cyril?” sharply asked Mrs. Dare. It may be, that these complaints of her husband fretted her temper; chafed, perhaps, her conscience. Certain it was, they rendered her irritable; and Mr. Dare had latterly indulged in them frequently. “If Cyril is a little wild, it is a gentlemanly failing. There’s nothing else to urge against him.”

  “Is theft gentlemanly?”

  “Theft!” repeated Mrs. Dare.

  “Theft. I have concealed many things from you, Julia, wishing to spare your feelings. But it may be as well now that you should know a little more of what your sons really are. Cyril might have stood where Herbert will stand — at the criminal bar; though for a crime of lesser degree. For all I can tell, he may stand at it still.”

  Mrs. Dare looked scared. “What has he done?” she asked, her tone growing timid.

  “I say that I have kept these things from you. I wish I could have kept them from you always; but it seems to me that exposure is arising in many ways, and it is better that you should be prepared for it, if it must come. I awake now in the morning to apprehension; I am alarmed throughout the day at my own shadow, dreading what unknown fate may not be falling upon them. Herbert in peril of the hangman: Cyril in peril of a forced voyage to the penal settlements.”

  A sensation of utter fear stole over Mrs. Dare. For the moment, she could not speak. But she rallied her powers to defend Cyril.

  “I think Cyril is hardly used, what with one thing and another. He was to have gone on that French journey, and at the last moment was pushed out of it for Halliburton. I felt more vexed at it, almost, than Cyril himself, and I spoke a word of my mind to Mrs. Ashley.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. I did not speak of it in the light of disappointment to Cyril; the actual fact of not taking the journey; so much as of the vexation he experienced at being supplanted by one whom he — whom we all — consider inferior to himself, William Halliburton. I let Mrs. Ashley know that we regarded it as a most unmerited and uncalled-for slight; and I took care to drop a hint that we believed Halliburton to have been guilty in that cheque affair.”

  Mr. Dare paused. “What did Mrs. Ashley say?” he presently asked.

  “She said very little. I never saw her so frigid. She intimated that Mr. Ashley was a competent judge of his own business — —”

  “I mean as to the cheque?” interrupted Mr. Dare.

  “She was more frigid over that than over the other. She preferred not to discuss it, she answered; who might have stolen it; or who not.”

  “I can set you right on both points,” said Mr. Dare. “Cyril came to me, complaining of being superseded in this French journey, and I complied with his request, that I should go and remonstrate with Mr. Ashley — being a simpleton for my pains. Mr. Ashley informed me that he never had entertained the slightest intention of despatching Cyril, and why Cyril should have taken up the notion, he could not tell. Mr. Ashley went on to say that he did not consider Cyril sufficiently steady to be intrusted abroad alone — —”

  “Steady!” echoed Mrs. Dare. “What has steadiness to do with executing business? And, as to being alone, Quaker Lynn went over also.”

  “But at the outset, which was the time I spoke to him, Mr. Ashley’s intention was to dispatch only one — Halliburton. He said that Cyril’s want of steadiness would always have been a bar to his thinking of him. Shall I go on and enlighten you on the other point — the cheque?” Mr. Dare added, after a pause.

  “Y — es,” she answered, a nervous dread causing her to speak with hesitation. Had she a foreshadowing of what was coming?

  “It was Cyril who took it,” said Mr. Dare, dropping his voice to a whisper.

  “Cyril!” she gasped.

  “Our son, Cyril. No other.”

  Mrs. Dare took her hand from her cheek, and leaned back in the chair. She was very pale.

  “He was traced to White’s shop, where he changed the cheque for gold. He had put on Herbert’s cloak, the plaid lining outside. When he began to fear detection, he ripped the lining out, and left the cloak in the state it is; now in the possession of the police. Some of the jags and cuts have been sewn up, I suppose by one of the servants: I made no close inquiries. That cloak,” he added, with a passing shiver, “might tell queer tales of our sons, if it were able to speak.”

  “How did you know it was Cyril?” breathed Mrs. Dare.

  “From Delves.”

  “Delves! Does he know it?”

  “He does. And the man is keeping the secret out of consideration for us. Delves is good-hearted at bottom. Not but that I spoke a friendly word for him when he was made sergeant. It all tells.”

  “And Mr. Ashley?” she asked.

  “There is no doubt that Ashley has some suspicion: the very fact of his not making a stir in it proves that he has. It would not please him that a relative — as Cyril is — should stand his trial for felony.”

  “How harshly you put it!” exclaimed Mrs. Dare, bursting into tea
rs. “Felony.”

  “Nay; what else can I call it?”

  A pause ensued. Mr. Dare resumed his restless pacing. Mrs. Dare sat with her handkerchief to her face. Presently she looked up.

  “They said it was Halliburton’s cloak that the person wore who went to change the cheque.”

  “It was not Halliburton’s. It was Herbert’s turned inside out. Herbert knew nothing about it, for I questioned him. He had gone out that night, leaving his cloak hanging in his closet. I asked him how it happened that his cloak, on the inside, should resemble Halliburton’s, and he said it was a coincidence. I don’t believe him. I entertain little doubt that it was so contrived with a view to enacting some mischief. In fact, what with one revelation and another, I live, as I say, in constant dread of new troubles turning up.”

  Bitter, most bitter were these revelations to Mrs. Dare; bitter had they been to her husband. Too swiftly were the fruits of their children’s rearing coming home to them, bringing their recompense. “There must be a fatality upon the boys!” he reiterated. Possibly. But had neither parents nor children done aught to invoke it?

  “Since these evils have come upon our house — the fate of Anthony, the uncertainty overhanging Herbert, the certain guilt of Cyril,” resumed Mr. Dare: “I have asked myself whether the money we inherited from old Mr. Cooper may not have wrought ill for us, instead of good.”

  “Have wrought ill?”

  “Ay! Brought with it a curse, instead of a blessing.”

  She made no remark.

  “He warned us that if we took Edgar Halliburton’s share it would not bring us good. Do you remember how eagerly he spoke it? We did take it,” Mr. Dare added, dropping his voice to the lowest whisper. “And I believe it has just acted as a curse upon us.”

  “You are fanciful!” she cried, her hands shivering, as she raised her handkerchief to her pale face.

  “No; there’s no fancy in it. We should have done well to attend to the warning of the dying. Heaven is my witness that at the time, such a thought as that of appropriating it ourselves never crossed my mind. We launched out into expense, and the other share became a necessity to us. It is that expense which has ruined our children.”