Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  ‘Who?’ I asked: and she turned her deathly face round and pointed to the door of the room. I cannot describe to you, Laura, the horror, the fear, that at that moment seemed to take possession of me. ‘Come and see,’ Clarice said, and glided towards the door. I seemed to rise from my bed, and follow her, without the power of resistance. She kept looking over her shoulder, with her dead face and her dead fixed eyes, and beckoned to me. But oh! the dread, the fear I seemed to experience at having to look beyond that door! It was a dread such as we can never feel in life. I thought Clarice went out before me, — went out in obedience to one who was compelling her to go, as she was compelling me. It seemed that I would have given my own life not to look, but I had no thought of resistance. There, standing outside, and waiting for her, was—”

  “A — h!” shrieked Laura, her nerves strung beyond their tension by superstitious terror. “Look at Judith!”

  Jane started at the interruption, and turned round. Judith’s face was almost as deathly as the face in Jane’s dream. She stammered forth an excuse.

  “I am not ill, my ladies; but it frightens me to hear these strange dreams.”

  Lady Jane resumed.

  “Standing outside, waiting for Clarice, was the person she seemed to have spoken of as preventing her from telling us, as being ‘too quick for her.’ It was Mr. Carlton. He was looking at her sternly, and pointing with his outstretched hand to some dark place in the distance. I remember no more. I awoke with the terror, the horror — such horror, I tell you, Laura, as we can never experience in life, except in a dream. And yet I was collected enough not to scream. Papa was just getting better from his attack of gout, and I dared not raise the house, and alarm him. I drew my head under the bedclothes, and I believe a full hour passed before I had courage to take it out again. There I lay, shivering and shaking, bathed in perspiration.” —

  “It was a singular dream,” said Laura musingly. “But, Jane, it could have had no meaning.”

  “I argued so to myself. Clarice was at a distance, in London, as we supposed, and Mr. Carlton was at South Wennock; that very evening, as late as half-past seven, he had been at our house with papa. This dream of mine took place before ten, for I heard the clock strike after I awoke. I had not liked Mr. Carlton before; we do take likes and dislikes; but it is impossible to tell you how very much that dream set me against him. Unjustly, you will say; but we cannot help these things. He was ever after associated in my mind with terror, with dread; and I would rather have seen you marry any one else in the world. This night, for the first time, I begin to see that the dream had a meaning, for Clarice must have been at South Wennock. Her note was dated the tenth, the previous Friday.”

  “How absurd, Jane! What meaning?”

  “I cannot conjecture; unless, as I say, those young Wests brought any ill to Clarice, and Mr. Carlton was privy to it.”

  Laura would not accept the suggestion; she ridiculed it in the highest degree. And when she at length went away to her room she left a mocking, laughing word of censure behind her at Jane for what she called her “folly.”

  “I shall go to Mrs. Jenkinson’s in the morning,” murmured Jane.

  She spoke aloud, though the words were only uttered in commune with herself. Judith came forward, a little wash-leather bag in her hand.

  “It will be of no use your going to Mrs. Jenkinson’s — as I believe, my lady. Did your ladyship ever see this?”

  She took a trinket from the bag and laid it in Lady Jane’s hand. An elegant little locket, the back of blue enamel, the rim set round with pearls, with a short fine gold chain some six inches in length attached to it on either side. Lady Jane needed to cast but one glance at it.

  “Oh, Judith!” she cried, “where did you get this? It belongs to Lady Clarice.”

  “It did belong to her,” returned Judith in a low tone. “My lady, I can tell you what became of her, I think. But the tale is full of horror and distress; one that you will not like to hear.”

  “Tell it,” murmured Lady Jane, “tell it, whatever it may be.”

  “That poor lady about whom so much has been said in South Wennock — who died the very night of your dream, my lady, not at Mrs. Jenkinson’s, but at the Widow Gould’s, next door to it — she gave me the locket.”

  Lady Jane stood with dilating eyes. She could not sufficiently collect her ideas to understand.

  “I speak of Mrs. Crane, my lady, who died after taking the composing draught sent in by Mr. Stephen Grey.”

  “She could not have been my sister!” panted Lady Jane scarcely above her breath. “Judith, she could not have been my sister!”

  “I truly believe she must have been so, my lady,” whispered Judith. “She told me it was her own hair inside. And that letter, which Lady Laura brought in to-night, was the one read by the coroner at the inquest; that is, it was only partly read, for half of it was missing.”

  Jane sank upon her knees, unable to support herself in the shock of discovery. Just as she had sunk in another shock of discovery once before, that long-ago evening when her father had brought home his unwelcome bride.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CROSS-PURPOSES.

  THE revelation disturbed Lady Jane’s previous theory. Mrs. Crane? Then it appeared evident that Clarice had married the Mr. Crane spoken of by Mrs. West. But there were discrepancies still. How account for the assertion in that letter to her husband, that she had not taken her proper name, when she called herself Mrs. Crane?

  What feeling induced Jane to withhold the news of this discovery from Laura? An instinct? What feeling caused her to give orders for quitting Mr. Carlton’s house on the following morning? — hurrying away Lucy, almost at the risk of her health? Of the true facts of the case she was in complete uncertainty; but a dark suspicion kept floating within her that the man seen on the stairs by Mr. Carlton the night of the death was the husband, Mr. Crane. The poor lady had asserted that her husband was travelling; but, by the letter above alluded to, it was apparent that her husband was then in South Wennock. It was altogether incomprehensible. Judith wore a timid, downcast look when questioned by her mistress, as if fearing she should be asked too much.

  “This is a sudden departure, Lady Jane,” cried Mr. Carlton, as she went into his presence in the morning. “I thought you would have been here at least a few days longer. Mind! I do not guarantee that Lucy is fit to be moved.”

  “I take the risk upon myself, Mr. Carlton. I — I thank you sincerely for your hospitality, for your kindness and attention to Lucy? but I am anxious to be at home, I feel that I must be at liberty; free to pursue this investigation of which I spoke to you last night, regarding the fate of my sister Clarice. Had you been more open with me, Mr. Carlton, I might not have gone so soon.”

  A shade of annoyance crossed his countenance. “It is a singular thing that you should persist in attributing to me a knowledge of these things, Lady Jane.”

  “My firm conviction is, that you do possess the knowledge,” was Jane’s answer. “But in speaking of Clarice last night, I may have somewhat misled you; I was misled myself. It was not at Mrs. Jenkinson’s that she stayed when at South Wennock, but next door. That ill-fated lady who died at the Widow Gould’s was my sister Clarice.”

  Mr. Carlton made no reply. He looked hard at Jane.

  “She called herself Mrs. Crane. Of course I can only conclude that she married, not Tom West, but the Mr. Crane who used to visit at the Wests’. You must have known him well, Mr. Carlton. What sort of a man was he?”

  “Sort of man?” repeated Mr. Carlton, who seemed half buried in his own thoughts. “He was a short man, stout, had black hair. At least, if my memory serves me well. I protest that I have never seen or heard of him, since the time he used to go to the Wests’. What have you learnt, Lady Jane, that can induce you to think that dead lady was your sister?”

  “Short and stout, with black hair,” repeated Jane, unmindful of the rest. “It must have been he: the same you saw on the sta
irs.”

  “That it was not,” burst forth Mr. Carlton, unusually heated. “The face I saw on the stairs — if I did see one — bore no earthly resemblance to any one I had ever seen in my whole life.”

  “Did you know that Clarice — that Miss Beauchamp, married Mr. Crane?”

  “I did not.”

  “I cannot divest myself of the idea that you know more of this past business than you disclose,” she rejoined. “I want the clue to it. If you can furnish it, why will you not do so? You certainly were called in to Mrs. Crane: you gave evidence to that effect at the inquest.”

  “We are at cross-purposes, Lady Jane,” was the surgeon’s answer. “I can tell you nothing whatever. The lady I was called to attend in Palace Street was a stranger to me. As to the supposition you have taken up, that she was your sister, I think you must be wholly mistaken. But whether or not, my advice to you would be to let it drop. No good can result from it, investigate it as you will. The poor lady cannot be recalled to life, and it would not be pleasant for you or for my wife to have the matter raked up again and placed before the public. Let it drop, Lady Jane,”

  “I shall never let it drop,” answered Jane. “And as to the unpleasantness — we must put up with that.”

  “As you please, of course,” said Mr. Carlton with indifference. “I can say no more.”

  At cross-purposes they seemed indeed to be, and at cross-purposes they parted. Jane began to doubt whether she who died really was Miss Beauchamp, but she was resolute in her work of discovery, and as soon as Lucy was safely at home she went at once to Tupper’s cottage. Judith told her that Mrs. Smith had confessed to her that the child was Mrs. Crane’s.

  Generally speaking, the door stood open: the sun, streaming in on a bright winter’s day, was cheering: but it was shut now. Mrs. Smith opened it, and Jane said she wished for half-an-hour’s interview with her, if she was at leisure.

  “At too much leisure,” was the woman’s sad reply. “I am but watching the dead.”

  “The dead! He is not dead — that little child?”

  “He is. He died between nine and ten this morning.”

  Jane sank into a chair in the kitchen. “And I never gave him a kiss for his mother’s sake! I never knew that he belonged to her. Dead! He was — as I believe — my little nephew.”

  The woman stared at her. “Your nephew, madam! You are one of the Ladies Chesney.”

  “Yes — stay. This little child’s mother died in Palace Street. Who was she? What was her married name?”

  “I don’t know. I would give a great deal to know.”

  Lady Jane felt sick at heart. Was it to be always thus? Was obstacle after obstacle ever to be thrust in her way?

  “I pray you let us have no more concealment!” she said in a voice of anguish. “If I cannot come to the bottom of this business by fair entreaty, I must call in the help of the law. Did you never know that young lady’s name before her marriage or after it?”

  “I knew it before — at least the one she went by. I knew her first when she was governess at the Lortons’ She was Miss Beauchamp.”

  “And my dear sister!” exclaimed Jane, her doubts at rest. “Whom did she marry?”

  Mrs. Smith held out her right hand. “I would give this to know.”

  “Let me see the child,” said Jane. —

  He was lying on the bed upstairs in his white nightgown, a little cambric cap shading his wan white face. His hands were laid by his side, and a few geraniums were strewn on the sheet.

  “He was so fond of flowers in life,” said Mrs. Smith. “Geraniums especially. So was his mother.”

  Jane’s tears fell upon the placid little countenance, and she stooped and kissed it. “I did not do it while he lived,” she said. “Why did you not tell me whose child he was then?”

  “Nay, my lady, why did you not tell me who his mother was? — How was I to suspect she could be anything to the Ladies Chesney? I only knew her as a governess. Passers-by were always asking me about him in idle curiosity, just because they saw he was ill, and that we were strangers in the place. I thought you only asked from the same motive.”

  “You were attached to his mother,” said Jane, as she gave a short history of her sister Clarice.

  “I don’t think I was ever so much attached to any one,” was Mrs. Smith’s answer; “though it was not for long I knew her.”

  “Then I ask you by that attachment to give me every particular you can respecting her.”

  “You might have heard all I know long ago, my lady, had I but been aware what you were to her. I knew her first at the Lortons’ in Gloucester Terrace. I and Mrs. Lorton are cousins; yes, we are. She’s a great lady, and lives in style, and tries to make herself out a greater; but she’ll never be one, let her try ever so. We lived in a country town. Her father was a pastry-cook, and mine (they were brothers) kept a public-house. She thought the pastry line was more genteel than the public line, and held her head rather high. She married; married well — some London gentleman — and I stopped at home for many years, marrying nobody. In course of time my father and mother died, and all they had became mine. What with their savings and the sale of the business, I found I had about a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Then came my turn. George Smith, who had used our house for years, was sweet upon me, as the saying runs, and said why should we not join our means together: his salary, a hundred and fifty, and my hundred and fifty, would make three hundred, and we should be comfortable for life? I said nothing against it, but that I was getting on to be forty years of age and liked my own way. He, poor fellow, was turned forty by some years, and as mild as milk. So we married, and settled in London, where his master’s house of business was, he being their country traveller. I couldn’t set up for a lady, and I didn’t; I was as plain and rough as ever. That didn’t please Mrs. Lorton, and she shunned me. But when, soon after, Mrs. Lorton was taken with a dangerous illness, she was glad enough to send for me to nurse her through it. It was then I saw Miss Beauchamp. I thought her the sweetest girl I had ever met, and the more I saw of her the more I liked her. A real lady she was, there was no mistaking that. She had none of Mrs. Lorton’s stuck-up airs, but spoke gently and kindly to folks, as if they were human beings. I was there for a month, for my husband was away on his journey, and when I left, Miss Beauchamp promised faithfully to come and see me at Islington, where we lived. She did come, and she told me she had left Mrs. Lorton’s, through that great big booby of a son making up to her, and had gone to Mrs. West’s. After that, I saw no more of her for some months, until — I think it must have been September in the following year; and then she came, and asked if I could recommend her to a lodging. Of course I was surprised, and she told me she would confide a secret to me — that she was married. I asked why it was a secret. She laughed, and said for two reasons; one was, that her husband could not and would not tell his father, on account of some money matters between them that were not settled amicably; and the other reason was, that she, on her part, could not tell her family, for they were very high and proud, and would say she had disgraced them by her choice. Her husband, she said, was a professional man, and as soon as he got on well, so as to keep her in comfort and tolerable style, then they should declare it, and care for nobody.”

  “What did she say her name was?” interrupted Lady Jane.

  “She did not say, madam. When I pressed her, she said it was better that it should not be known, especially as I was connected with the Gloucester Terrace Lortons; it might get to them, and it might get to the Wests, and that would not do. I said, then what was I to call her, and she laughed again, and said I might call her Miss Beauchamp; she was not afraid of my misconstruing her position. My lady, she never left my house again until she came down to South Wennock.”

  “Never left it!”

  “I mean, not to live. Ours was a good house, and I said the drawing-room and bedroom level with it were at her service. But she would pay for them, and my servant waited on her. In
December, my little child was born, the only one I ever had; and she, dear lady, used to sit with me, and be—”

  “But did her husband never come to see her all that time?” interrupted Lady Jane with wonder.

  “Never once to my house. From what I could gather — for she would let a word now and then drop in forgetfulness — he seemed to have left London for the country. He would occasionally come to London, and of that she made no secret, and at those times she would go out and be away for a day or two. But I never knew where she stayed.”

  “How were her letters addressed?” asked Jane. “She must have received letters.”

  “No letters came to the house; she used to go to Islington postoffice for them. Once, when she was expecting one, she was too ill to go out, and sent the maid. I saw the letter in, the girl’s hand as she came in; it was directed ‘C. C.’”

  “For Clarice Crane,” thought Jane. Though it might have served equally for Clarice Chesney.

  “Towards the next March she grew restless. She would be expecting her own illness in May, and she did not like to be ill so far from her husband. She said she would go down to where he lived, whether he was pleased or not. He said she was not to go — so she told me; and I spoke against it; I did not think she was strong enough to travel. I was in great grief at that time, for my child had died; and, as to my husband, I thought he’d never be pacified. When old folks like us get blessed with a child for the first time, they are as fond of it and proud of it as a dog with two tails. Ah, well!” added Mrs. Smith, in an indifferent tone, as she rubbed her nose, “it’s all over, and I’m almost glad it didn’t live, for the world’s full of trouble and wickedness. Miss Beauchamp promised that I should nurse hers, and, my lady, I looked to that promise as a famished man looks to food, for I am naturally fond of children: and I didn’t want her to go away, lest I should not get the baby, after all.”