by Ellen Wood
He led her out with quite an excess of stately courtesy, bowed her into the waiting carriage, lifted his hat, and stood bareheaded until she had driven away.
“He is a gentleman, with all his meanness,” quoth Laura to herself. “Somehow I had feared he might not be so. And I can understand now why he and Lewis have been so antagonistic — they are too much like each other.”
CHAPTER XL.
THE FACE AGAIN!
IT was the day of the funeral of the Earl of Oakburn. In her dressing-room sat his widow, wearing her deep mourning robes and her white cap, the insignia of her bereft condition. Near to her, in robes of mourning as deep, sat the earl’s daughters, Jane, Laura, and Lucy. Lucy the child cried incessantly; Laura ever and anon gave vent to a frantic burst; Jane was tranquil. Tranquil outwardly; and none, save perhaps the countess, suspected the real inward suffering. What with the loss of him, gone from their sight in this world for ever, and the loss of one they knew not how gone, Jane Chesney’s grief was too bitterly acute for outward sign; it lay deeper than the surface.
The Earl of Oakburn and the dowager countess were left in graves side by side each other in the large cemetery; And the solicitor to the Oakburn family was coming in with the wills. A copy of that made by the countess was to be read, because it was known that legacies were left to some of those ladies sitting there. The lawyer, Mr. Mole, was a thin man, with a white shirt-frill, who surreptitiously took snuff every three minutes from under his handkerchief.
He solaced himself with a good pinch outside the dressing-room door, and went in bowing, two parchments in his hand. Lady Oakburn was not strong enough to go to the apartments below, and the lawyer was received here, as had been arranged. The will of the earl was the one he retained in his hand to read first. He took his seat and opened it.
Lord Oakburn had it not in his power to bequeath much. The estate was charged with the payment of five hundred a year to his eldest daughter, Jane Chesney, for her life; to his second daughter, Laura Carlton, he left his forgiveness; and to his third and fourth daughters, Clarice Beauchamp, and Lucy Eleanor, the sum of three thousand pounds each. Lucy was left under the personal guardianship of his wife, Eliza, Countess of Oakburn, who was charged with the expense of her education and maintenance; Clarice, when she was found, was to have her home with the countess, if she pleased; and if she did not so please, he prayed his daughter Jane to afford her one. Should it be ascertained that any untoward fate had overtaken Clarice (so ran the words of the will), that she should no longer be living, then the three thousand pounds were to revert to Jane absolutely. Lucy’s three thousand were to accumulate until she was twenty-one. A sum of three hundred pounds was to be equally divided at once among his four daughters, “to provide them with decent mourning,” Clarice’s share to be handed over to Jane, that it might be set aside for her.
Such were the terms of the will, as related to the earl’s daughters. The part of it regarding his wife and son (the latter of whom was not born when it was made, though it provided for the contingency) need not be touched upon, for it does not concern us.
When the will was read, Mr. Mole laid it down, took up the copy of that of the dowager countess, and began to read it with scarcely a moment’s interval. The old lady, who had plenty of money in her own right, had bequeathed five thousand pounds each to her grandnieces Jane and Lucy Eleanor Chesney. Jane’s five thousand was to be paid over to her within twelve months, Lucy’s was to be left to accumulate until she should be of age, both principal and interest. Neither Laura nor Clarice was mentioned in her will. Even to the last the old countess could not forgive Clarice for attempting to earn her own living; neither had she forgiven Laura’s marriage.
To describe the sore feeling, the anger, the resentment of Lady Laura at finding herself passed over both by her father and her aunt, would be a difficult task. She was of hasty and passionate temper, something like her father, too apt to give way to it upon trifling occasions, but she did not do so now. There are some injuries, or what we deem such, which tell so keenly upon the feelings, that they bury themselves in silence, and rankle there. This was one of them. Laura Carlton made no remark, no observation; she expressed not a word of disappointment, or said that it was so. One lightning flash of anger, which no one saw but the solicitor, and outward demonstration was over.
The lawyer took four parcels of bank-notes from his pocket-book, each to the amount of seventy-five pounds. Two of these parcels he handed to Lady Jane; her own and Clarice’s; one to the countess as Lucy’s share; the other parcel to Lady Laura.
And Laura took the notes without a word. Her indignant fingers trembled to fling them back in Mr. Mole’s face; but she contrived to restrain herself. “He might have left me better off,” she breathed to Jane in the course of the evening; and then she bit her lips for having said so much.
Jane also had her disappointment; but she had been prepared for it. Not a disappointment as regarded money matters: she was left as well off as she expected to be, and felt grateful to her father for doing so much, and to her aunt for her handsome legacy. Her disappointment related to Lucy. That the child whom she had loved and tended, whom in her heart she believed herself capable of training into the good Christian, the refined gentlewoman at least as efficiently as the countess, should be left away from her care, entrusted to another, was indeed a bitter trial. Jane, like Laura, spoke not of her mortification; but, unlike Laura, she strove to subdue it. “It is only another cross in my tried life,” she murmured to herself. “I must take it up meekly, and pray for help to bear it.”
“You should have her entirely indeed, if the will allowed it,” said the countess to Jane, for she divined the disappointment, and the tears in her eyes proved the fervour with which she spoke. “I love her greatly; but I would not have been so selfish as to keep her from you. She shall visit you as often as you like, Lady Jane; she is more yours than mine.”
Jane caught at the words. “Let me take her home with me for a little change then. She feels the loss greatly, and change of scene will be good for her. She can remain a week or two with me until you are strong again.”
“Willingly, willingly,” was the answer. “Ask for her when you will, at anytime, and she shall go to you. Unless — unless—”
Lady Oakburn suddenly stopped.
“Unless what?” asked Jane.
“Oh, I feel that I scarcely dare to mention it,” returned the countess. “I spoke in impulse. Pray pardon me, Lady Jane! My thought was — unless you would return and make this your home.”
Jane shook her head. “No,” she said; “I think I must have a home of my own. I have become used to it, you see. But I will come to you sometimes, and be your guest.”
So Lucy went with Jane to South Wennock. They journeyed down the second day after the funeral. Laura was silent on the way, somewhat resentful, as she brooded bitterly over the news she had to carry to her husband. Once she turned in the carriage and spoke to Jane quite sharply.
“Why did you never tell me you had asked papa about that torn note of Clarice’s? No one seems to care for me, I think.”
Jane Chesney sighed wearily. “I don’t know why I did not. Somehow I do not like to talk of Clarice; and it only left the mystery where it was,”
They reached Great Wennock in safety. Laura had not apprized her husband of her coming, and there was no carriage in waiting; the disappointment to be inflicted on him had deterred her. The omnibus and one fly stood at the station. Judith was hastening to secure the latter, but was too late. A handsome stripling leaped into it before her. It was Frederick Grey.
“Oh, Master Grey?” she said in dismayed accents. He looked tall enough now to be Mr. Grey; but Judith adhered to the familiar salutation. “You’ll give up the fly, won’t you, sir!”
“I dare say, Judith!” returned the young gentleman, with a laugh. “There’s the omnibus for you.”
“It’s not for me, Master Frederick. The ladies are here.”
He glanced across, caught sight of them, and was out of the fly in an instant, lugging with him a box, which he took to the omnibus, and offered the fly to Lady Jane. He stood with his hat in his hand, a frank smile on his pleasant countenance as he pressed them to take it.
“But it is not right to deprive you of it,” said Jane. “You had it first.”
“What, and leave you the omnibus, Lady Jane! What would you think of me? A jolting won’t hurt me; it’s rather fun than otherwise. I should walk, if it were not for the rain.”
“Have you come from London?”
“Oh no. Only from Lichford.”
He helped to place them in the fly, and they were obliged to make room for Judith, for it was raining fast, and Jane would not let her go outside. Lucy gazed at him as he stood there raising his hat when they drove away.
“What a nice face!” she exclaimed. “I like him so much, Jane!”
“I declare I forgot to tell him that we saw his father,” said Jane. “I must send for him to call.”
Mr. Carlton’s was first reached. Lady Laura alighted, and the fly drove on with the rest towards Cedar Lodge. Mr. Carlton was at home, and he welcomed Laura with many kisses. It was late, and tea was on the table; the room, bright with fire, looked cheering after her journey. Mr. Carlton loved her still, and her absence had been felt by him.
“Between Pembury and London you have been away thirteen days, Laura! And I, longing for you all the time, thinking they would never pass!”
“There is no place like home, after all,” said Laura. “And oh, Lewis, there’s no one like you! We stayed over the funeral, you know, and — to — to hear the will read.”
“And how are things left?” asked Mr. Carlton. “I suppose you are so rich now, that we poor commoners must scarcely dare to approach you.”
Laura had been sitting before the fire, her feet on the fender, Mr. Carlton leaning caressingly over her. She suddenly sprang up and turned her back upon him, apparently busying herself with some trifles that lay on a side table. She had an inward conviction that her news would not be palatable to her husband.
“Laura, I say, I suppose you inherit ten or twenty thousand pounds at the least? The countess dowager was good to you for ten, I should think.”
“I was deliberating how I should soften things to you, and I can’t do it. I’ll tell you the worst at once,” she cried, flashing round and meeting him face to face. “I am disinherited, Lewis.”
He made no reply: he only looked at her with eager, questioning eyes.
“Papa has not left me a shilling — except a trifle for mourning. It stated in the will that he bequeathed me his forgiveness. My aunt has given ten thousand pounds between Jane and Lucy; nothing to me.”
A bitter word all but escaped the lips of Mr. Carlton; he managed to suppress it before it was spoken.
“Left you nothing?” he repeated. “Neither of them.”
“Seventy-five pounds for mourning — and the ‘forgiveness!’ Oh, Lewis, it is shameful: it is an awful disappointment; a disgraceful injustice; and I feel it more for you than for myself.”
“And Jane?” he asked, after a pause.
“Jane has five hundred a year for life, and five thousand pounds absolutely. And other moneys contingent upon deaths. What shall we do, Lewis?”
“Make the best of it,” replied Mr. Carlton. “There is an old saying, Laura: What can’t be cured must be endured; you and I must exemplify it.”
She snatched up her bonnet and left the room hastily, as if to avoid saying more, leaving Mr. Carlton alone. A change came over his features then, and a livid look, whether called up by anger, or memory, or physical pain, appeared on them. The fire played on his face, rendering its features quite clear, although there was no other light in the room. This apartment, if you remember, had two large windows; one looking to the front, one to the side, near the surgery entrance. The front window had been closed for the night; the other had not; possibly Mr. Carlton had a mind to see what patients came at that dark hour. He stood in one position opposite this window, buried in thoughts called up by the communication of his wife. His eyes were bent to the ground, his hands fell listlessly on either side of him; he had trusted to this inheritance of Laura’s to clear them from their imprudently contracted debts. Mr. Carlton so stood for some minutes, and then lifted his eyes.
Lifted his eyes to rest upon — what? Peering into the fire-lit room, pressed flat against a window-pane, was that never-forgotten face. The awful face, whether human or hobgoblin, which had so scared him the night of Mrs. Crane’s death, and again the second night in Captain Chesney’s garden.
It scared him still. And Mr. Carlton staggered against the wall, as if he would be out of its sight, his suppressed cry of terror echoing through the room.
PART THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
SEAFORD.
SEVEN years to look forward to is a great period of time; to the young it seems almost interminable. It is long in passing: for we count it by hours, days, weeks, months, and years. But what is it in the retrospect? — a bubble, as it were, on the ocean; a speck in the span of life. Since the last chapter, seven years have gone over the heads of the actors in this history, and now the reader is invited to meet some of them again.
Seated on the sands of a fashionable and somewhat exclusive English watering-place was a group of ladies. Some were working as they talked, some were reading, some were enjoying in idleness and silence the fresh breeze that came wafted over the sea, and some were watching the sports of the children in the distance, running hither and thither and building castles upon the sand. A bevy of girls had congregated together, rather apart, but still within reach of voice and hearing. They were intent on their own pursuits, their peculiar interests: dress, flirtation, the libraries, the fashionable promenades of the day, the assemblies in the rooms at night. Just now they seemed inclined to be quarrelsome rather than sociable. Jealousy was creeping in amongst them.
a Say what you will, Miss Lake,” exclaimed one, “but I maintain that he is the most distinguished-looking man staying at Seaford. Am I not right?” she added, appealing to her companions.
The speaker was a tall, stately girl, with aquiline features, pale and classic. She was the daughter of General and Mrs. Vaughan, and was staying with them at Seaford. The Miss Lake she had replied to was plain and cynical. And Miss Lake, in place of answering, again drew down the corners of her lips.
“I don’t care whether he’s ‘distinguished-looking’ or not,” spoke up a pretty girl, Fanny Darlington. “I know he is the pleasantest man I ever spoke to. And if he is ‘distinguished’ it does not make him disagreeable. I hate your distinguished-looking men; they are generally vain and unapproachable; two faults that he steers clear of. He danced with me twice last night.”
“And not once with Augusta Lake, and that’s why she is accusing him this morning.”
A slight smile, suppressed out of good manners, appeared on the lips of several. Miss Vaughan was the only one who spoke.
“Dancing goes for nothing. A man may whirl himself giddy, dancing with a woman, and yet not care for her; while he may be secretly attached to one, whom he never asks to walk through a quadrille.”
“You say that, because he sits at your side in the rooms, and talks to you by the hour together, Helen Vaughan,” interposed Fanny Darlington, who sometimes spoke more freely than was quite requisite. “But you will be none the nearer to him, for all that. I don’t believe he cares two pins for any girl at Seaford.”
A tale-telling flush rose to the face of Helen Vaughan. She shook back her head haughtily, as if to intimate that retort would be beneath her.
“Talking about the rooms, though, who was it he was with there last night?” asked Miss Lake. “I have not seen her before. A lovely girl.”
“I’m sure I saw him with no lovely girl at the rooms last night,” struck in Helen Vaughan.
“I know who Miss Lake means,” cried Fanny Darlington. “She
is lovely. She sat with a tall, majestic-looking lady, quite a Juno, and he kept coming up to them. I was near when he asked her to dance. She refused, and said her mamma wished her not to do so; and he turned to the Juno, and inquired whether it was true—”
“A very ugly Juno in face, whatever she may be in figure,” interrupted Augusta. Lake.
“How you do stop me! The Juno said Yes; she thought it better that (I could not catch the name) should not dance with him, because she would then have less plea for refusing others.”
“Some second-rate City people, who would stick themselves up for ‘quality,’ and say the frequenters of the rooms are not good enough for them,” remarked the general’s daughter, with a lofty sneer.
“No, they don’t look like that; quite another sort of thing,” said a young lady quietly, who had not yet spoken. “I think they are ‘quality,’ not would-be.”
“Rubbish!” cried Miss Lake. “How do you know anything of them, Mary Miller?”
“I have the use of my eyes, and can observe them as well as you, that’s all. You saw that child who came on the sands yesterday morning, with a maid and an old black servant?”
“Well, what of him?”
“In the afternoon I saw her — the young lady — driving about with the same child,” returned Miss Miller. “I infer that they are people of consequence.”
“How can you infer it?” flashed Helen Vaughan, as if the remark disturbed her temper. “Every one sojourning at Seaford drives out daily. You are turning silly, Mary.”
Miss Miller laughed as she answered. In her quiet way she liked to excite the ire of Miss Vaughan. “The carriage was well-appointed,” was all she said.
“You may get ‘well-appointed’ carriages by paying six shillings an hour for them,” was Miss Vaughan’s scornful answer.
