by Ellen Wood
“It is not possible — your ladyship will pardon me — that it can have caught your dress in any way, and so have been carried downstairs and out of the house, and — perhaps — lost in the street?” I persisted slowly, looking at her.
Looking at her: but I could detect no emotion on her face; no drooping of the eye; no rise or fall of colour, such as one guilty would have been likely to display. She appeared to take my question literally, and to see nothing beyond it.
“I cannot tell anything about it, Mr. Strange. Had my dress been covered with parchments, I was in too much terror to notice them. Your clerks would be more able to answer you than I, for they had to assist me down to my carriage. But how should a parchment become attached to a lady’s dress?” she added, shaking out the folds of her ample skirts. “The crape is quite soft, you perceive. Touch it.”
“Quite so,” I assented, advancing for a half-moment the extreme tip of my forefinger.
“You will take a glass of wine? Now don’t say no. Why can’t you be sociable?”
“Not any wine, thank you,” I answered with a laugh. “We lawyers have to keep our heads clear, Lady Clavering: we should not do that if we took wine in the daytime.”
“Sit still, pray. You have scarcely been here five minutes. I want to speak to you, too, upon a matter of business.”
So I resumed my seat, and waited. She was looking at me very earnestly.
“It is about those missing letters of mine. Have you searched for them, Mr. Strange?”
“Partially. I do not think we hold any. There are none amongst the Clavering papers.”
“Why do you say ‘partially’?” she questioned.
“I have not had time to search amongst the packets of letters in Mr. Brightman’s cupboards and places. But I think if there were any of your letters in our possession they would have been with the Clavering papers.”
Her gaze again sought mine for a moment, and then faded to vacancy. “I wonder if he burnt them,” she dreamily uttered.
“Who? Mr. Brightman?”
“No; my husband. You must look everywhere, Mr. Strange. If those letters are in existence, I must have them. You will look?”
“Certainly I will.”
“I shall remain in town until I hear from you. You will go, then!”
“One more question ere I do go, Lady Clavering. Have you positively no recollection of seeing this lost parchment?”
She looked surprised at my pertinacity. “If I had, I should say so. I do not think I saw anything of the sort. But if I had seen it, the subsequent fright would have taken it clean out of my memory.”
So I wished her good-morning and departed. “It is not Lady Clavering,” I exclaimed to Lennard, when I reached home.
“Are you sure of that, Mr. Strange?”
“I think so. I judge by her manner: it is only consistent with perfect innocence. In truth, Lennard, I begin to see that I was foolish to have doubted her at all, the circumstances surrounding it are so intensely improbable.”
And yet, even while I spoke, something of the suspicion crept into my mind again. So prone to inconsistency is the human heart.
CHAPTER VII.
ANNABEL.
Most men have their romance in life sooner or later. Mine had come in due course, and she who made it for me was Annabel Brightman.
After my first meeting with her, when she was a child of fourteen, and I not much more than a lad of twenty, I had continued to see her from time to time, for Mr. Brightman’s first invitation to me was only the prelude to others. I watched her grow up into a good, unaffected woman, lovable and charming as she was when a child. Childhood had passed away now, and thought and gentleness had taken its place; and to my eyes and my heart no other girl in the world could compare with Annabel Brightman.
Her father suspected it. Had he lived only a little longer, he would have learned it beyond doubt, for I should have spoken out more fully upon the matter.
A little less than a year before his death — it was on a Good Friday — I was spending the day at his house, and was in the garden with Annabel. She had taken my arm, and we were pacing the broad walk to the left of the lawn, thinking only of ourselves, when, raising my eyes, I saw Mr. Brightman looking attentively at us from one of the French windows. He beckoned to me, and I went in.
“Charles,” said he, when I had stepped inside, “no nonsense. You and Annabel are too young for anything of that sort.”
I felt that his eyes were full upon me as I stood before him, and my face flushed to the roots of my hair. But I took courage to ask a question.
“Sir, every year passing over our heads will lessen that objection. Would there be any other?”
“Be quiet, Charles. Time enough to talk of these things when the years shall have passed. You are too young for them, I say.”
“I am twenty-five, sir; and Miss Brightman — —”
“Twenty-five?” he interrupted. “I was past forty when I thought of marriage. You must not turn Annabel’s head with visions of what the years may bring forth, for if you do I will not have you here. Leave that to the future.”
But there was sufficient in Mr. Brightman’s manner to prove that he had not been blind to the attachment springing up between us, and undoubtedly regarded me as the possible future husband of his daughter. At any rate he continued to invite me to his house. During the past year Annabel had been a great deal at Hastings with Miss Brightman; I wondered that her father and mother would spare her so much.
But Annabel knew nothing of that conversation, and I had never yet spoken of love to her. And now Mr. Brightman, who would, or at least might, have sanctioned it, was gone; and Mrs. Brightman, who would certainly, as I believed, oppose it, remained.
In the days immediately following Mr. Brightman’s death, I was literally overwhelmed with business. Apart from the additional work that naturally fell upon me — his share as well as mine — no end of clients came pouring in; and for no earthly purpose, that I could see, excepting curiosity. Besides this, there was the frightful search for Sir Ralph Clavering’s will, and the anxiety its loss entailed on me.
On the Wednesday afternoon, just as I had got rid of two clients, Lennard came up with the news that someone else was there. I was then in the front room, seated at Mr. Brightman’s desk. Too impatient to hear Lennard out, I told him I could see no one; could not, and would not.
“It is Miss Annabel Brightman,” rejoined Lennard quietly.
“Miss Annabel Brightman? Oh, that’s very different; I will see her.”
Annabel came in, throwing back her crape veil. She had driven up alone in the carriage to bring me a message from her mother. Mrs. Brightman had made an appointment with me for that evening at her house; she had now sent to tell me not to keep it, as she was not well enough to attend to business.
“Mamma wishes you to come to-morrow instead of to-day; early in the afternoon,” added Annabel.
That would be impossible, and I said so; my engagements would not at present permit me to give up an afternoon.
“Perhaps to-morrow evening will do,” I suggested. “In fact it must do, Annabel. I don’t know when I shall have leisure to come down to you in the daytime.”
“I dare say it will do,” assented Annabel. “At any rate, you can come to us. If mamma is not able to enter into business matters, another time can be appointed.”
“Is your mamma so very ill?”
“Sometimes I think so — but she fluctuates,” replied Annabel. “She is extremely weak, and her spirits are depressed. She will pass whole hours shut up in her room in solitude. When I ask to go in, Hatch brings out a message that mamma is not able to see even me.”
“Her illness must be on the nerves.”
“I suppose so. Yesterday she came down and walked with me in the garden in the sunshine. She seemed pretty well then, but not strong. In the evening she shut herself up again.”
“I wish you would sit down, Annabel,” I said, offering her
a chair for the third time.
“I would if I could stay. Mamma charged me to go straight back after leaving the message with you. Are you well?” she continued with hesitation. “You look harassed.”
“I am well, Annabel. But you have used the right word — I am harassed; terribly so.”
“Poor papa!” she sighed. “It has brought a world of work and care upon you, as well as of grief to us.”
“I should not mind work. But — we have had another loss, Annabel. A loss as mysterious as that of the gold; and far more important.”
“What is it?” she asked. “More money?”
“No; I wish it were. A will, deposited in the safe there, has disappeared. I cannot even guess at the consequences; ruin probably to me and to one of our best clients. Not only that. If things are to vanish so unaccountably from our strongholds, we must have an enemy at work, and it is impossible to foresee where it may end.”
“How very strange! What was the will like? I mean, what did it look like? I have a reason for asking you.”
“It was a folded parchment. You saw your father’s will, Annabel: it looked very much like that. Why do you ask?”
“Because I remember papa’s bringing home a parchment exactly like the one you describe. It was an evening or two before he died: the evening before I and mamma went to Hastings. We left on Saturday, so it must have been Friday. Do you think it could be the missing will?”
“Oh no. I have known Mr. Brightman — though very rarely — take home deeds which required studying; but he was not likely to take home Sir Ralph Clavering’s will. He made it himself, and knew every word it contained. Annabel, I did not intend to let out the name, but it will be safe with you.”
“Perfectly so; as safe as with yourself. I will not repeat it, even to mamma.”
“And what I shall do I cannot tell,” I concluded, as I attended her down to the carriage. “I would give every shilling I possess to find it.”
More work, and then the afternoon came to an end, my dinner came up, and I was at liberty to enjoy a little rest. I had taken to the front room as my sitting-room, and should speedily remove the desk and iron safe into the other, making that exclusively a business-room, and seeing clients in it. After dinner, the fire clear, my reading-lamp lighted, I took up the newspaper. But for habits of order and self-denying rules, I should never have attained to the position I enjoyed. One of those rules was, never to read the Times or any work of relaxation until my work was over for the day. I could then enjoy my paper and my cigar, and feel that I had earned both.
I took up the Times, and almost the very first paragraph my eye fell upon was the following:
“We hear that the convict ship Vengeance, after encountering stormy weather and contrary winds on her passage out, has been wrecked upon an uninhabited island. It is said that some of the convicts have escaped.”
I started up almost as if I had been shot. Tom Heriot had gone out in the Vengeance: was he one of those who had escaped? If so, where was he? and what would be his ultimate fate?
The ship had sailed from our shores in August; this was February: therefore the reader may think that the news had been long enough in reaching England. But it must be remembered that sailing-vessels were at the mercy of the winds and waves, and in those days telegrams and cablegrams had not been invented.
Throwing my cigar into the fire and the newspaper on the table, I fell into an unpleasant reverie. My lucky star did not seem in the ascendant just now. Mr. Brightman’s unhappy death; this fresh uncertainty about Tom Heriot; the certain loss of the gold, and the disappearance of the will ——
A ring at the visitors’ bell aroused me. I listened, as Leah opened the door, curious to know who could be coming after office hours, unless it was Sir Edmund Clavering. Lake was in the country.
“Is Mr. Strange in, Leah?” And the sound of the sweet voice set my heart beating.
“Yes, Miss Brightman. Please go up.”
A light foot on the stairs, and Annabel entered, holding up a parchment with its endorsement towards me. “Will of Sir Ralph Clavering.”
“Oh, Annabel! you are my guardian angel!”
I seized the deed and her hands together. She smiled, and drew away the latter.
“I still thought the parchment I spoke of might be the missing one,” she explained, “and when I got home I looked in papa’s secretaire. There it was.”
“And you have come back to bring it to me!”
“Of course I have. It would have been cruel to let you pass another night of suspense. I came as soon as I had dined.”
“Who is with you?”
“No one; I came in by the omnibus. In two omnibuses really, for the first one only brought me as far as Charing Cross.”
“You came in by omnibus! And alone?”
“Why not? Who was to know me, or what could harm me? I kept my veil down. I would not order the carriage out again. It might have disturbed mamma, and she is in bed with one of her worst headaches. And now, Charles, I must hasten back again.”
“Wait one moment, Annabel, whilst I lock up this doubly-precious will.”
“Why? You are not going to trouble yourself to accompany me, when you are so busy? It is not in the least necessary. I shall return home just as safely as I came here.”
“You silly child! That you have come here at night and alone, I cannot help; but what would Mrs. Brightman say to me if I suffered you to go back in the same manner?”
“I suppose it was not quite right,” she returned laughingly; “but I only thought of the pleasure of restoring the will.”
I locked it up in the safe, and went downstairs with her. Why Mr. Brightman should have taken the will home puzzled me considerably; but the relief to my mind was inexpressible, and I felt quite a gush of remorse towards Lady Clavering for having unjustly suspected her.
The prosy old omnibus, as it sped on its way to Clapham, was to me as an Elysian chariot. And we had it to ourselves the whole way, but never a word passed between us that might not have been spoken before a committee of dowagers. In fact, we talked chiefly of Miss Brightman. I began it by asking how she was.
“Aunt Lucy is very delicate indeed,” replied Annabel. “Papa’s death has tried her greatly: and anything that tries her at once affects her chest. She says she shall not be able to risk another winter in England, even at Hastings.”
“Where would she go?”
“To Madeira. At least, she thinks so now. In a letter mamma received from her yesterday, Aunt Lucy said she should go there in the autumn.”
“She will find it very dull and lonely — all by herself.”
“Yes,” sighed Annabel. “Mamma said she should send me with her. But of course I could not go — and leave mamma. I wish I had a sister! One of us might then accompany Aunt Lucy, and the other remain at home. What do you think that stupid Hatch said?” cried Annabel, running on. “We were talking about it at lunch, and Hatch was in the room. ‘It’s just the best thing you can do, Miss Annabel, to go with your aunt,’ she declared, following up mamma’s remark.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Brightman may take it into her head to go to Madeira also?”
Annabel made a movement of dissent. “No, I don’t think she would do that, Charles. She and Aunt Lucy used to be the very best of friends, but lately there has been some coolness between them. The reason is not known to me, but I fancy Hatch knows it.”
“Hatch seems to be quite a confidential attendant on your mamma.”
“Oh yes, she is so. She has lived with us so long, you see; and mamma, when she was Miss Chantry, knew Hatch when she was quite a child. They both come from the same place — near Malvern, in Worcestershire. Aunt Lucy and mamma were intimate in early days, and it was through that intimacy that papa first knew Miss Chantry. Why she and Aunt Lucy should have grown cool to one another now, I cannot tell; but they have done so — and oh, I am sorry for it. I love Aunt Lucy very, very much,” added the girl enthusiastically.
&nbs
p; “And I’m sure I love the name — Lucy,” I said, laughing. “It was my mother’s.”
The evening was yet early when we reached Mrs. Brightman’s, for eight o’clock was striking. Hatch, in her new mourning, came stealing down the stairs with a quiet footfall, her black cap-strings flying as usual.
“Why, Miss Annabel, where have you been?” she cried. “I couldn’t imagine what had become of you.”
“I had to go out, Hatch — to take a deed to the office that poor papa had brought home and left here. Why? Has mamma wanted me?”
“Not she,” returned Hatch. “She has just dropped off into a doze, and I am trying to keep the house free from noise. I thought you had been spirited away, Miss Annabel, and that’s the truth.”
“Mrs. Brightman has one of her bad headaches?” I remarked.
Hatch looked at me; then quickly at her young mistress: as much as to say: “You’ve been telling him that, Miss Annabel.”
“It is that bad to-night, Mr. Charles, that her temples is fit to split,” she answered. “Since master’s death she have had ’em a’most constant — and no wonder, with all the worry and the shock it brought her. Are you going already, sir?”
“Will you not stay for tea?” asked Annabel.
“Not to-night, thank you,” I replied.
“I’ll let you out quietly,” said Hatch, advancing towards the hall-door. “And mind, Miss Annabel, you are not to go anigh your mamma’s room to waken her,” she added, looking back dictatorially. “When one is racked with pain, body and mind, sleep is more precious than gold.”
Hatch had lived there during the whole of Annabel’s life, and could not always lay aside the authoritative manner she had exercised towards the child; possibly did not try to do so.
Great sway was held by Hatch in the household, and Mrs. Brightman appeared to sanction it. Certainly she never in any way interfered with it. But Hatch, always kindly, was a favourite with the servants.
With her shrewdness, capability and strong sense, it seemed a marvel that she should not have improved in manners and in her way of speaking. But she remained very much the same rough diamond that she had always been. Strangers were wont to feel surprise that Mrs. Brightman, herself so refined a woman, should put up with Hatch as her personal attendant; and in her attacks of illness Hatch would be in her mistress’s room for hours together. At this time I knew nothing of Hatch’s antecedents, very little of Mrs. Brightman’s; or of matters relating to the past; and when circumstances brought me into Hatch’s confidence, she enlightened me upon some points of the family history. A few of her communications I cannot do better than insert here, improving somewhat upon her parts of speech.
