by Ellen Wood
“You need not wait up for me,” said the surgeon.
“And the horse, sir?” returned Evan, opening his eyes.
“The horse will not be back to-night.”
He drove away, leaving Evan standing there and looking after him. Mr. Carlton was not a communicative master at any time, but Evan did marvel that he had given no further explanation now. Was he to be up earlier than usual in the morning to receive the horse and Mr. Carlton? All that Evan supposed was, that he was going to some patient where he was likely to be detained for hours. But, then, what of the portmanteau?
“Where’s the master gone to?” was Hannah’s rather sharp question as he turned into the house.
“Who’s to know?” retorted Evan. “He told me I was not to sit up for the horse. I suppose they’ll neither of ’em be home to-night.”
“To-night!” somewhat sarcastically repeated Hannah. “He’s not coming home for some days; so he told me. It’s always the way! I wanted to ask him for three parts of a day’s holiday tomorrow, and now I can’t take it.”
Mr. Carlton drove quickly up the gentle ascent that led to the Rise, and was about to turn into the lane, agreed upon as the place of rendezvous, when advancing footsteps met his ear.
“Good evening,” said Mr. Grey. “A nasty night.”
“Very,” emphatically pronounced Mr. Carlton. “Have you been far?”
“Only to Captain Chesney’s.”
“To Captain Chesney’s! Why! who is ill there? Not the captain, for I saw him go by my house not half-an-hour ago.”
“I have been to the little girl. She met with an accident this morning; fell against the window and cut her hands badly. You don’t happen to have heard in the town whether the Earl of Oakburn is dead, do you?” continued Mr. Grey.
Mr. Carlton had heard nothing at all about the Earl of Oakburn: but the name occurred to him as being the one mentioned by Captain Chesney the night of the coroner’s inquest. “Why do you ask?” he said.
“Well, I have not heard of his death; but it strikes me that he is dead,” replied Mr. Grey. “Two days ago I know that he was lying almost without hope, ill of typhus fever; and as letters have come to Captain Chesney’s addressed to the Earl of Oakburn, I think there’s no doubt that the worst has occurred. In fact, I feel sure of it. I thought perhaps you might have heard it mentioned in the town.”
Mr. Carlton was a little at sea. He did not understand the allusion to the letters addressed to the Earl of Oakburn which had come to Captain Chesney’s.
“Why, if he is dead, Captain Chesney is Earl of Oakburn, and the letters must be meant for him. I have just suggested that view of the matter to Miss Chesney.”
Mr. Carlton was of too impassive a temperament to betray surprise. Other men might have dropped the reins in their astonishment, might have given vent to it in fifty ways. Mr. Carlton it only rendered silent. Captain Chesney, Earl of Oakburn? Why, then his daughters were the Ladies Chesney!
“You think it so?” he asked.
“I don’t think? said Mr. Grey; “I feel certain of it. Good evening.”
“Good evening,” repeated the younger surgeon, and touching his horse with the whip, he turned into the lane and waited.
It was a somewhat singular thing, noted afterwards, that John Grey should have encountered both of them on that eventful night, in the very act of escaping. Laura Chesney, watching her time to steal away unobserved, took the opportunity of doing so when she knew Mr. Grey was in the drawing-room with Jane and Lucy. But she was not to get away without a fright or two.
She stole downstairs, along the kitchen passage, and out by the back door. There she saw Judith coming from the brewhouse with a lighted candle in her hand, and Miss Laura had to whisk round an angle of the house and wait. When the coast was, as she hoped, clear, she hastened down the side path, all the more hastily perhaps that she heard the drawing-room bell give a loud peal, and was turning into the broader walk near the gate, when she came into contact with Mr. Grey. The drawing-room bell had rung for him to be shown out, but he had forestalled it in his quickness. Laura Chesney’s heart gave a great bound, and she felt frightened enough to faint.
“Good evening, Miss Laura Chesney. Are you going out on such a night as this?”
“Oh no. I — I — I was going to look at the weather,” stammered Laura, feeling that the Fates were certainly opposed to her expedition.
“The weather is nearly as bad as it can be,” observed Mr. Grey. “It may clear up in a few minutes, but only to come on again. We shall have a rough night. Don’t come farther, my dear young lady; it’s enough to drown you.”
She turned back, apparently all obedience. But she only slipped in amidst the wet trees until Mr. Grey should be at a safe distance. Her heart was beating wildly: her conscience, even then, suggested to her to abandon the project. Of course, people who are bent upon these romantic expeditions cannot be supposed to remember common sense in the flitting; and Miss Laura Chesney had come out in thin kid shoes and without an umbrella. Neither was she wrapped up for travelling: she had not dared to put on anything but her ordinary attire, lest it should attract attention, were she met. Mr. Grey gone, she came forth from her hiding-place, and sped on in the mud and rain to the spot in Blister Lane — it was not five minutes’ distance — where Mr. Carlton was awaiting her.
He had not waited long. Laura went up, panting with agitation and fright. The rain was then coming down in torrents. Mr. Carlton left his restive horse — for the horse did seem unusually restive that night — and sprang forward to meet and welcome her. She burst into a flood of tears as he hurried her into the carriage, under cover of its shelter.
“Oh, Lewis! I could not go through it again,” she sobbed. “I was all but stopped by Mr. Grey.”
They started. Mr. Carlton drove along at the utmost speed that the lane and circumstances allowed; and Laura gradually regained tolerable composure. But she felt sick with apprehension; her heart was fluttering, her ears were strained to catch any sound behind her, so apprehensive was she of enemies in pursuit. Mr. Carlton asked her what it was that had arisen in connection with letters and the Earl of Oakburn, and Laura mechanically answered. In a moment of less agitation, she would have inquired how he came to know anything about it; but the question never occurred to her in this.
“We have been expecting Lord Oakburn all day,” she said. “He is related to us; his father and papa were first cousins.”
“You have been expecting him?”
“Yes, but he had not arrived when I came away. Two letters have come addressed to him; and therefore we know he must be coming. When Jane was worrying about a room for him this morning, I could have told her, had I dared, that mine would be at liberty,” —
It was evident that Laura knew nothing of the earl’s illness, or the view of affairs suggested by Mr. Grey. Mr. Carlton suffered her to remain in ignorance. Did the idea occur to him that the Lady Laura Chesney, daughter of the Earl of Oakburn, might not be so ready to take flight with a country surgeon struggling into practice, as Miss Laura Chesney, daughter of the poor and embarrassed halfpay post-captain, was proving herself to be? It cannot be told. South Wennock had its opinion upon the point afterwards, and gave vent to it freely.
They were within a mile and a half of Lichford, and Mr. Carlton was urging his horse madly along, like a second Phaeton, afraid of missing the train, when a check occurred. The horse fell down. Suddenly, with as little warning or cause as there had been on that memorable Sunday night, the animal came down suddenly, and the carriage turned over on its side, one of the wheels flying off.
Mr. Carlton and Laura were not thrown out. The hood over their heads, the apron over their knees, they were too well wedged in to be spilled. Mr. Carlton extricated himself, he hardly knew how, and released Laura.
The horse was plunging violently. Placing the terrified girl on the bank as much out of harm’s way as was possible, Mr. Carlton had to give his best attention to the horse. There
was nothing for it but to cut the traces. Fortunately he had a sharp knife in his pocket, and succeeded in severing them; and the horse started off into space, it was impossible to tell where.
Here was a pretty situation! Did Mr. Carlton remember the ridiculous words of the woman who had come to his aid on that Sunday night? Had he been of the same belief that she was, he might surely have taken this upset as a warning against persisting in the present journey. Mr. Carlton was not half so metaphysical or superstitious. He simply threw an ugly word after the offending horse, and blamed his own folly for trusting to the surefootedness of an animal that had once fallen.
Mr. Carlton looked around him in the dark night. The rain, which had ceased for half-an-hour or so, was coming down again violently. Laura shivered against the bank where he had placed her, too sick and terrified for tears. It was of the utmost importance that they should reach the station in time for the next train that passed, and be away, if they would escape the pursuit that might follow on detection at South Wennock. But Mr. Carlton did not see how they were to get to it.
He could not leave the disabled carriage in the narrow road; he could not — at least Laura could not — reach the station without procuring another. He did not know this locality at all personally; he had never traversed it; it was a by-road leading to Lichford, and that was all he knew about it. Whether any assistance was to be obtained or not, he was in complete ignorance.
As he peered about, wondering if anything more human than trees and hedges was between the spot and Lichford, a faint glimmer of light on one side the lane gradually disclosed itself to view through the misty darkness of the night. At the same moment the voice of his companion was heard, its accents full of lamentation and affright.
“What is to become of us? What shall we do? Oh, Lewis! I wish we had never come!”
He felt for her situation more keenly than she could. He implored her to be tranquil, not to give way to fear or despondency; he promised to extricate her from the embarrassment with the best exertion of his best efforts, and moved forward in the direction of the light.
He found that it proceeded from a candle placed in a cottage window. Mr. Carlton shouted, but it elicited no response, so he went close up, through what seemed a complete slough of despond, if mud can constitute that agreeable situation, and opened the door.
The room was empty. A poor room, bare of fire, with a clock in one corner and the candle in the window. Mr. Carlton shouted again, and it brought forth an old man from some back premises, in a blue frock and a cotton nightcap.
A thoroughly stupid old man, who was deaf, and looked aghast at the sight of the gentleman. He began saying something about “th’ old ‘ooman, who had gone to some neighbouring village and ought to have been home two hour afore and hadn’t come yet, so he had stuck a candle in the winder to light her across the opposite field.” Mr. Carlton explained his accident, and asked whether he could by any means obtain a conveyance that would take him on.
“Not nearer nor Lichford,” answered the old man, when he had mastered the question by dint of putting his hand to his ear and bending it forward until it nearly touched Mr, Carlton’s lips.
“Not nearer than Lichford!” repeated Mr. Carlton. “Are there no houses, no farms about?”
“No, there’s nothing o’ the sort,” the old man rejoined. “There’s a sprinkling o’ cottages, a dozen maybe in all, atween this and Lichford, but they be all poor folk, without as much as a cart among ‘em.”
“Halloa! what’s to do here?” came forth on Mr. Carlton’s ear in hearty tones from the outside. Glad enough to hear them, he hastened out. A couple of labouring men, young and strong, had come upon the overturned carriage in going along the lane to their homes after their day’s work. They almost seemed like two angels to Mr. Carlton, in his helpless position.
By their exertions — and Mr: Carlton also gave his aid — the carriage and wheel were dragged under a shed belonging to the old man’s cottage. They confirmed the information that no horse or vehicle was to be had nearer than Lichford, and Mr. Carlton was asking one of the men to go there and procure one, when he was interrupted by Laura.
Oh, let her walk! let her walk! she said. She should not dare to trust herself again behind a strange horse that night; and besides, if they waited they should inevitably lose the train.
“You cannot walk, Laura. Think of the rain — the roads. You can shelter within this old man’s cottage until the conveyance comes for you.”
But Laura, when she chose, could be as persistent as any one, and she was determined to bear on at once to Lichford, braving all inconveniences and discomforts. Poor thing! the chance of pursuit, of discovery, appeared to her as a vista of terror and disgrace. She had embarked on this mad scheme, and there remained nothing but to go on with it now.
So they started: one of the men carrying Mr. Carlton’s portmanteau, a small parcel brought by Laura, and a lantern; the other, well bribed, entering on a search with another lantern after Mr. Carlton’s fugitive horse. But it was a comfortless journey, that mile and a half of lane; a wretched journey. Umbrellas appeared to be as scarce an article in the locality as carriages; the old man confessed to possessing one—” a old green un, wi’ ne’er a whalebone i’ th’ half o’ him,” — but his missing wife had got it with her. How they gained the station, Laura never knew, Mr. Carlton almost as little. He had taken off his overcoat and wrapped it about her; but the rain was drenching them, and both were wet through when they reached Lichford station.
When within a few yards of it, the whistle and the noise of an advancing train sounded in their ears. Laura screamed and flew onward.
“Lewis, we shall be too late!”
Instinct, more than the lights, guided her through a waiting-room to the platform. Mr. Carlton, in little less commotion than herself, looked about for the place where tickets were issued, and found it closed. The rattle he gave at the board was enough to frighten the ticket-clerk inside, had one been there. But that did not appear to be the case: the place maintained an obstinate silence, and the board continued down. Mr. Carlton, in a frenzy, knocked and called, for the train was dashing into the station. Not a soul was about that he could see; not a creature. The labourer with the portmanteau and parcel stood behind him staring helplessly, and Laura had gone through to the platform.
Yes, Laura Chesney had gone through, and stood on the platform, hardly knowing what she did, her upraised hands by their gesture imploring the train to stop. But the train did not stop; it did not even slacken speed. The train went whirling recklessly on with the velocity of an express, and by the light of a lamp that hung in a first-class carriage, Laura saw, quietly seated in it, the form of Captain Chesney.
With a faint cry, with a shiver of dismay, she fell back against the wall. We know how different was the object of Captain Chesney’s sudden journey, but Laura naturally concluded that he had gone in pursuit of her. He did not see her; there was some comfort in that; he had his face bent rather from her, as he conversed with a passenger on the opposite side of the compartment, and never looked towards her at all. Laura stood there in helpless fear, gazing after the train, expecting that it would stop and back in.
Mr. Carlton came forth from the room in an access of rage not easily described, at the neglect (as he supposed it) of the officials of the station. He looked after the train also, now whirling out of view, and could not understand why it had not stopped. A man with a band round his hat, who appeared to belong to the station, was advancing leisurely from some remote part of the platform, a huge lantern in his hand. Mr. Carlton attacked him vigorously.
What was the meaning of this? Passengers waiting to go by the train, and no one in attendance to issue tickets! He’d complain to the Company; he’d write to the Times; he’d — he’d — in Mr. Carlton’s explosive anger it was impossible to say what he would not do.
The man received it all with stolid equanimity, simply saying in reply that the gentleman was mistaking the trains
, if he had thought to get tickets for the one just gone by. It didn’t stop there.
“Not stop here?” repeated Mr. Carlton, a little taken aback. “But there is a train stops here about this time?”
The man shook his head. “One stopped here twenty minutes ago,” he said. “The one just gone on never stopped at Lichford yet, since I have been on the service.”
And Mr. Carlton, hastily taking out his watch, which he might have consulted before, found that they had lost their intended train by more than twenty minutes, thanks to the accident.
“When does the next train pass that stops here?” he inquired.
“At midnight. Take tickets ten minutes afore it.”
Mr. Carlton drew Laura’s hand within his, and asked for the waiting-room. There was no waiting-room, he had the pleasure of hearing, except the small, cold, bare place where he had stood thumping for the ticket-clerk. The fire was nearly out; Mr. Carlton stirred it into a blaze and demanded more coal.
Placing her in a chair before it, he paid the man who had brought the portmanteau and dismissed him. Then he asked the porter, who had gone into the place where the tickets were kept, whether refreshments could be obtained anywhere for the lady, and was answered by the same stolid stare. Such a question had never been put in that station before, and refreshments were not more procurable than tickets. It appeared that Mr. Carlton could only resign himself to the situation.
Laura was shivering inwardly and outwardly. Mr. Carlton took off some of her things, shook them, and hung them on a chair. Indeed it was not a pleasant plight to be placed in: arrested midway in this most provoking manner, in all this discomfort.
“I am so sorry!” he murmured. “If you don’t mind waiting here alone, I’ll go on to the village and bring you back something in the shape of refreshment. There’s sure to be an inn in it. You are trembling with the cold and rain.”
“It is not that — it is not that; and as for refreshment, I could not touch it. Did you see him?” she continued in a shivering whisper.
