Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “I don’t suppose you had,” returned Mr. Pym. “But you were in that niche, where Honour saw you, for all that. Come! You must acquaint me with the particulars of that night: they may be a guide to my treatment of your mistress. I must know them, whether or not. Did she set the child on fire?”

  “No, sir, I don’t think she did. At least, not intentionally.”

  “At any rate, she was in the room at the time?”

  “Yes, she was. But I think he caught fire accidentally. There was some scuffle, and I fancy his white pinafore set alight.”

  “But she bolted the door upon him?”

  Prance actually for a moment looked distressed. “I’m afraid she did, sir: the one door. The other, I have always believed, and always shall believe, the child fastened himself.”

  “She bolted it on him when he was burning?”

  “Ah, I don’t know that, sir; I don’t know it for certain.”

  “You have feared it.”

  “Yes; only that.”

  Mr. Pym sat down in a chair opposite Prance, the table being between them. “Begin at the beginning, Prance,” he said. “This is a waste of time. How much of that night’s occurrences did you see and hear?”

  “You — you are not asking for the purpose of proving the crime against her, are you, sir?” demanded Prance.

  “Of proving the crime against her, woman!” echoed Mr.

  Pym, wrathfully. “Your mistress is past having anything of that sort proved against her: past its consequences, for that is, I presume, what you mean. Had I wished to bring it home to her, I should have stirred in it at the time. I have been as quiet and careful as you. Now then, begin. Let us hear what you had to do with it, and what brought you in the niche. You have not forgotten, I suppose?”

  “No, indeed, sir! I have thought of it all a great deal too often to be pleasant,” she said, leaning her head upon her hand. “The account I gave before had very much of truth in it: though not the whole of the truth,” she added, after a pause.

  “Then tell the whole now,” said Mr. Pym, growing impatient at the delay.

  The substance of Prance’s communication was as follows. After she had been in the herb-room, she went upstairs to wash her hands, which had become soiled from picking the herbs. Whilst in her chamber, which was next to Mrs. Carleton’s, she heard her mistress come up from the dining-room and go into her chamber, and she followed her in, to ask whether she wanted a light or anything, for it was getting quite dusk. Mrs. Carleton was not in her room, but had gone through the dressing-room, and was standing in the nursery, just inside the door, apparently gazing at something, as one transfixed: a dull sort of light came from the nursery, enabling Prance to see her distinctly. Being rather curious, she peeped in, and saw Master Benja slowly parading a lighted church about, which he carried before him: it was on this her mistress’s eyes were fixed. It was really a pretty object, Prance said, lighted up in the dark room. The child was speaking; words calculated to irritate Mrs. Carleton —

  “What were they!” interrupted Mr. Pym, when Prance had got thus far in her narrative. “Can you repeat them?”

  “‘I’ll tell you what I shall do, Honour, when I am master of Alnwick,’” repeated Prance. “‘You shall be mistress, and give all the orders, and we’ll have a great wall built up, so that mamma can’t come near us. But we’ll have Georgy, and keep him to ourselves.’” Those were the words, Prance continued, and they seemed to irritate her mistress: she darted forward, and gave the child a sharp blow on the ear. She (Prance) went away, leaving a sound of noise and crying behind her. Declared, if it were the last word she had to speak, that she had no thought of real injury. She went through the dressing-room, through the bedroom, which door she shut, and went - down into the dining-room. Georgy was asleep on the large chair, his legs hanging down. A very short while — immediately, indeed — her mistress followed her down; noticed, and thought it very singular, that she bolted the dining-room door after her. Seemed greatly excited; walked about in a strange manner; Prance thought she must have been quarrelling with Honour. Presently she sat down, and took Georgy’s feet upon her lap. This gave Prance an opportunity of slipping back the bolt, and quitting the room. Had not liked to do so before; must have been there at least a quarter-of-an-hour. Went up to her room; heard no noise whatever; never supposed but that Honour was in the nursery with Master Benja. Stood a minute or two in the passage, listening; thought she might hear them speaking of the quarrel. Heard nothing — all was quite still, and then supposed Honour had taken Master Benja down to the servants’ hall, which had been forbidden by Mrs. Carleton. Was stealing along the passage to find this out, intending to tell of her, when Honour came running up the back-stairs, and Prance, not to be seen, slipped into the niche until Honour should have entered the nursery. Found then that Master Benja was in the nursery. Honour could not open the door, and called out to ask why he had turned the button. Was peeping out of the niche, and saw Honour drop a load of things from her apron, and come flying past her into the dressing-room. Did not think at the time she was seen; passage was pretty dark. Took the opportunity to escape into her own room, and was lighting a candle when Honour’s cries startled her. Came out of her room, saw Honour running down the front staircase, her cries awful. It brought the servants from the kitchen, it brought Mrs. Carleton and Georgy out of the dining-room; and then she (Prance) found out what had happened. That was all.

  “And you mean to tell me you did not suspect anything wrong until then? “ asked Mr. Pym, as she concluded.

  “As I am a living, breathing woman, sir, I never suspected it,” answered Prance, showing for once some emotion. “I don’t think Honour herself was more shocked than I was.”

  “And why did you not tell the truth about your being in the niche?”

  “Ah, sir, I did not dare. Might it not, in the questioning that would have ensued, have directed suspicion to my mistress? The moment I discovered that Honour was not in the room when my mistress attacked Master Benja, I felt frightened to death, fearing she had done it. I”

  “Stay a minute. I don’t understand,” interrupted Mr. Pym. “You say you looked into the nursery. You must have seen that Honour was not there.”

  “Indeed, sir, I did not. I saw but a very small portion of the room; the door opens inwards to the wall, and obstructs the best part of the room to any one standing as I did. I never supposed but that Honour was present in her usual seat; otherwise I should not have left my mistress alone with the child. The boy himself, helped to mislead me: those few words he said appeared to be spoken to Honour. I concluded afterwards, that when he heard his mamma enter, he must have thought it was Honour who had gone in, and was too much occupied with his toy to turn his head to look.”

  “It’s an awful thing!” ejaculated Mr. Pym.

  “It has driven my mistress mad,” returned Prance. “But, sir — she did not purposely set him on fire: she did not. I have gathered a great deal from words she has let drop in her paroxysms, and I know it was not done purposely. ‘The church fell and set fire to his pinafore, in blazing up,’ she said one night when she was moaning: and I am sure it did.”

  “But she bolted the door on him.”

  “Ah, yes, she did that; bolted it upon him, knowing he was on fire; there’s no doubt of it I have gathered that much. I think at the moment she was mad, unconscious of what she did. She is not naturally cruel, only in these uncontrollable attacks. And then — and then—”

  “And then, what?” asked the surgeon.

  “She had taken too much wine that afternoon,” continued Prance, lowering her voice. “Not intentionally; not from the love of drinking: unthinkingly, as it were. You see, sir, she had dined at the hour when she usually took her luncheon, and she did not eat much, I noticed; made a luncheon more than a dinner. But she seemed to have a great thirst upon her, and drank a good deal of wine; champagne, and sherry, and port; altogether, I think her head was a little confused; indeed, I’m sure it
was. She would not have beaten Benja in the dining-room, but for that. Oh, the remorse that has been hers!”

  “I suppose so.”

  “It is remorse that has turned her brain. I thought in Flanders it would come on then; it did in a measure; but she got over it. Over and over again would she have given her own life to recall the boy’s; I think she would even have given Georgy’s. What she did, she did in a moment of passion; of aberration; and she has repented it ever since, and lived in dread of detection. Her horror of Honour has arisen from the feeling that had the girl not left Benja alone, it could not have happened, and she had not had the sin upon her. Indeed, sir, she is to be pitied; to be pitied more than condemned.”

  “Let us think so, at any rate, Prance,” remarked Mr. Pym. “Does Mrs. Darling know this?”

  “Well, sir, no; not exactly. I have dropped a word or two, and I know she guesses the rest; but I have not said it.”

  “Best not, perhaps,” said the surgeon. “It is a secret that may remain between you and me.”

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  A MEETING IN PARIS.

  “I WONDER why I am kept a prisoner here?” exclaimed Georgina Beauclerc.

  She stood at the open French window of the Rectory drawing-room as she said it, partly indoors, partly out, and her auditor was Frederick St. John, who was coming along the gravel path, in the twilight of the autumn evening, on his road from Castle Wafer. Georgina had happened to walk over to the Rectory early in the afternoon, and a message followed her from Sir Isaac, that she was not to go back to Castle Wafer until sent for. The young lady was surprised, indignant, and excessively curious. The message had arrived about three o’clock: it was now very nearly dinner-time, and she was not released. The dean, Mrs. Beauclerc, and their guest were at Lexington; consequently, Miss Georgina had passed the hours by herself, and very dull they had been.

  He came up, taking off his hat as he approached, as if he were warm from fast walking. Georgina retreated inside the room, but waited for him at the window.

  “I have come to release you,” he said, in answer to her question. “I am glad you obeyed me, and stayed.”

  “Obeyed you! I obeyed Sir Isaac.”

  “It was I who sent the message, Georgina.”

  “I wish I had known that!” she exclaimed, after a breathless pause. “I never should have stayed.”

  He laughed. “That’s why I used Isaac’s name. I thought you might not be obedient to me.”

  “Obedient to you, indeed, Mr. St. John! I should think not. Things would have come to a pretty pass!”

  She tossed back her shapely head, to show her indignation. Mr. St. John only laughed again.

  “Are they all out, Georgina?”

  “Yes, they are out, and I have been alone all these hours. I wonder you don’t take contrition to yourself.”

  “I wonder at it too.”

  “I should like to know the reason of my having been kept here? In all the course of my experience I never met with so outrageous a thing.”

  “Your experience has been so long a one, Georgie!”

  “Well, I am not going to be ridiculed. I shall go back to Castle Wafer: perhaps Sir Isaac will be able to enlighten me. You can stay behind here; they’ll be home sometime.”

  She tied her bonnet, fastened her mantle — having stood in them all the afternoon, momentarily expecting to be released, as he had called it — and was hastening through the window. Frederick laid a detaining hand upon her.

  “Not yet, Georgina. I have come to stop your return to Castle Wafer.”

  “I thought you said you had come to release me!”

  “I meant release you from suspense — to satisfy your curiosity, which has, I suppose, been on the rack. You are not to come back to Castle Wafer at all: we won’t have you.”

  “You can let things alone,” returned Georgina, throwing off her bonnet. “But I think you might have told me before now — keeping me with my things on all these hours!”

  “I could not conveniently come before. Well, shall I relieve that curiosity of yours?”

  Again she threw up her face petulantly. “That’s just as you like. I don’t care to hear it.”

  “You know you do care to hear it,” he said. “But indeed, Georgina” — and his half-mocking, half-tender tone changed to seriousness—” it is a subject that I shrink from entering upon. Mrs. Carleton is ill. That is the reason we are banishing you for the present from Castle Wafer.”

  Georgina’s mood changed also: the past one had been all make-believe, not real.

  “I’ll! I am so sorry. Is it anything infectious?”

  “I will tell you what it is, Georgina: it is insanity. That she was not quite sane, I have suspected some little time; but this afternoon she has become very much worse. She locked herself in her room, and Mr. Pym was obliged to burst the door open, and now she is — very excited indeed. Mr. Pym told me he feared some crisis was approaching. This was just after she fastened herself in her room; and I sent that message to you at once. Isaac agrees with me that you had better remain at home to-night: Castle Wafer will not be a very sociable place this evening; and we must respect Mrs. Darling’s feelings.”

  “Oh, I see, I see! “ impulsively interrupted Georgina, all her good qualities in full play. “Of course it would not be right for strangers to be there. Poor Mrs. Darling! But is it true, Frederick? Insane!”

  “I fear so.”

  “Perhaps it is some temporary fever that will pass off?”

  “Well — we must hope for the best. And now — will you regard this as a confidential communication?”

  “Yes, certainly; if you wish it.”

  “I think it is better to do so. She may recover; and in that case it would be very sad for the report to have been spread abroad. I knew I might trust you; otherwise I should not have spoken. We have had secrets together before.”

  “Shall you not tell papa?”

  “I shall tell him, because he knows of the matter already. No one else. Should her malady be confirmed, of course it will become generally known.”

  “Do you know, I thought you had bad news when I saw your face,” resumed Georgina. “You looked so worn and anxious. But you have looked so for some days past.”

  “Have I? I’ve been tired, I suppose, from want of sleep. I have not been in bed for some nights. I have been watching.”

  “Watching! Where?”

  “In the corridor at home.”

  Georgina looked at him in surprise. “What were you watching for?”

  “Oh — for ghosts.”

  “Please be serious. Do tell me what you mean. I don’t understand you in the least.”

  “It is so pleasant to share a secret that I think I must tell it you, Georgina. You remember your nightmare?”

  “My nightmare? Oh yes, when I fancied some one came into my room. Well?”

  “Well — I thought it just possible, that instead of a nightmare it might have been reality. That Mrs. Carleton, in her restlessness, had wandered out of her room. It was not an agreeable thought, so I have watched every night since, lest there should be a repetition of it.”

  Georgina was as quick as lightning at catching an idea. “You were afraid for me! You watched to take care of me!”

  “Something of that sort. Did you lock your door as I desired?”

  “Yes: all but one night, when I forgot to do it.”

  “Just so. Knowing what a forgetful, careless young lady I had to deal with, I concluded that I must depend upon myself, instead of her. A pretty thing, if Mrs. Carleton had run away with you!”

  A few bright rays were perceptible in the western horizon, illumining the twilight of the hitherto dull day. Georgina Beauclerc was gazing straight out to them, a very conscious look in her face. Suddenly she turned it to Mr. St. John.

  “Will you tell me — had your words to me last evening, warning me not to be abroad, anything to do with this?”

  He nodded. “Suspecting Mrs. Carleton
’s malady, I did not know who might be safe from her, who not: and I saw her in the grounds then.”

  “Last night?”

  “Last night. She was close to you.”

  A moment’s thought, which was a revelation to Georgina, and she drew nearer to him with a start. “I see it all, Frederick. I remember what you said about her jealousy: you have been protecting me.”

  “Trying to do it.”

  “How shall I thank you? And I have been so impertinent and cross! Perhaps I owe even my life to you!”

  “I have not done it for nothing, I can tell you, young lady. I have been thinking of my repayment all through it.”

  He put his arm round her before she could get away, and drew her close to him. His voice became low and tender; his face, bent to hers, was radiant with persuasive eloquence.

  “I told you last night that I thought I had saved you from a great danger—”

  “And you repaid yourself,” interrupted Georgina, with a dash of her native sauciness, and a glow on her blushing cheeks.

  “No, I did not. I — don’t know whether it’s this watching after your safety, or what else it may be; but I have arrived at the conviction, that I shall have to take care of you for life. Georgina, we might have known years ago that it would come to this.”

  “Known that! When you only hated me!”

  “If I hated you then — which I did not — I love you now. I cannot part with you. Georgina, my darling, I shall never part with you. I don’t think you would like to part with me.”

  Her heart beat as it had never beaten before in her life; her eyes were blinded with tears. Joy so great as this had never been foreshadowed, except in some rare dream. He kissed the tears away.

  “But it cannot be that you love me,” she whispered.

  “I love you dearly; although I once told a friend of yours that I would not marry Georgina Beauclerc though there were not another English girl extant. He saw into the future, it may be also into my heart, more clearly than I did.”

  “You said that? To a friend of mine! Who was it?”

  “One who lies buried in the cloisters at Westerbury.”