Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  I recall the scene now. It was a lovely moonlit evening, not long after the time of which I am writing. I had gone to Clapham to inquire after Mrs. Brightman, who was then seriously ill, and kept her chamber. Strolling about the garden in the soft twilight, wishing Annabel was at home instead of at Hastings, Hatch came out and joined me, and at once fell to chatting without ceremony. I made a remark, quite by chance, that touched upon the subject of Mrs. Brightman’s early life; it was immediately taken up by Hatch and enlarged upon. I heard much to which I had hitherto been a stranger.

  “Colonel Chantry and his wife, who was the daughter of Lord Onyx, lived at their seat, Chantry Hall, a beautiful place not far from Malvern in Worcestershire. They had three children — George, Frederic and Emma, who were reared in all the pride and pomp of the Chantry family. The property was strictly entailed. It would descend to George Chantry at his father’s death; and as Colonel Chantry had no other property whatever, and as he lived not only up to his income but beyond it, the future look-out for the younger son and the daughter was not a very great one.

  “Such a dash they kept up,” said Hatch, warming with her subject. “The Colonel liked show and parade, and Madam, as we always called her, had been born to it. She was the Honourable Mrs. Chantry, you see, sir, and chose to live according. They visited all the noble families round about, and were visited back again. The Somers’ at Eastnor Castle, the Lyons’ at Maddresfield, the Foleys at Whitley, the other Foleys at Stoke Edith, the Coventrys over at Croome, the Lechmeres at the Rhydd, the Hornyholds at Blacknore Park, and the Parkingtons at Ombersley — but there’d be no end if I stopped to tell you the half of ‘em. Besides that, Mrs. Chantry counted a near relative in one of the cathedral prebendaries at Worcester — and for pride and exclusiveness some of those old prebendaries capped the world. So that — —”

  “But, Hatch, why are you telling me this?” I interrupted.

  “To give you a notion of what my mistress was accustomed to when she was Miss Emma Chantry,” promptly replied Hatch. “Well, Mr. Charles, they grew up, those three children, and I watched ’em grow; not that I was as old as they were; and I looked upon ’em as the finest and grandest young people in the world. The two sons spent a good deal more than they ought. Mr. Frederic especially, and the Colonel had to find a lot o’ money, for ’twas wanted on all sides, and folks wondered how he did it. The end to it came all on a sudden — death.”

  “Whose death?”

  “The Colonel’s, sir. Mr. George, who was then Captain Chantry, and about twenty-seven years old, took the estate. But it was frightfully encumbered, and he complained bitterly to his mother that he should be a poor man for years and years to come. Madam resented what he said, and a quarrel ensued. She would not remain at the Hall, as he had expected her to do, but took a cottage at Malvern, and went into it with her daughter, with a parade of humility. She did not live very long after that, and Miss Emma was thrown on the world. Captain Chantry was married, then, to an earl’s daughter; but his wife and Miss Emma did not get on together. Miss Emma refused to make her home at the Hall with Lady Grace, and she came to London on a visit to Miss Lucy Brightman, whose mother was living there. She and Miss Lucy had been at a finishing school together years before, and they had kept up their friendship. It was there she first saw Mr. Brightman, who was a great many years older than his sister; and it ended in their being married.”

  “And you came into their service, I suppose, Hatch?”

  “I did, sir. They had been married near upon twelve months when young Mrs. Brightman found occasion to discharge two or three of her servants: and she wrote to the late housekeeper at Chantry Hall, asking her to find her some from our neighbourhood. London servants were frightful, she said: fine, lazy, extravagant and insolent. Mother heard about it, and spoke for me to go as under-housemaid. Well, I was engaged, Mr. Charles, and I came up here to Clapham: and I was called ‘Hatch’ from the beginning, because my Christian name, Emma, was the same as my lady’s. Soon after this, Miss Annabel was born. It was my duty to wait upon the nurse and the sick-room; and my lady — who was ill and weakly for a long while — grew to like to have me there. She would talk about the old place to me, for you see I knew all the people in it as well as she did. Next, she made me upper-housemaid; and in a very few years, for she had found out how clever I was at dressmaking and with the needle generally, I became her maid.”

  “And you are in her confidence, Hatch?” I rejoined. “Deservedly so, I am sure.”

  “In a measure I am, Mr. Charles. A lady like my Missis, who never loses her pride day nor night, cannot descend to be over-confidential with an inferior. But I know she values me — and so did my poor master. I mayn’t be polished, Mr. Charles, but I’d go through fire and water for them any day.”

  And I am sure she would have done so.

  Well, this was a portion of what Hatch told me. But I must now go back to the night whose events were interrupted for the purpose of recording these details. Not that there is anything more to relate of the night in question. Leaving a message that I would call on Mrs. Brightman in good time the following evening, wishing Annabel good-night, and Hatch also, I returned home.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  PERRY’S REVELATION.

  DEAR STRANGE, — Have you seen the news in to-day’s paper? I have just caught sight of it. If the Vengeance has foundered, or whatever the mishap may be, and Tom Heriot should be one of the escaped prisoners, he will be sure to make his way home. Rely upon it he has not grown less reckless than he was, but probably has become more so. What trouble may not come of it? Do try and get at the particulars officially, as to whether there’s truth in the report, or not; and let me know without delay.

  Very truly yours,

  LEVEL.

  Letters from Paris and the Continent generally were then usually delivered about mid-day. I was talking with Lennard in the front office when this one arrived. The clerks had gone to dinner.

  “Have you heard the rumour about the ship Vengeance, Lennard?” I asked, laying down Lord Level’s letter.

  “I read it yesterday,” he answered.

  “I wonder how I could learn whether there’s any foundation for it?”

  Before he could answer me, we were interrupted by Major Carlen. He was in his usual state of excitement; his face lengthened, his arms thrown about, and his everlasting blue cloak trailing about him. I slipped the letter into my desk.

  “Here’s a pretty go, Charles!” he exclaimed. “Have you heard of it yet? That convict ship’s gone to the bottom, and Tom Heriot has escaped.”

  “You should not assert that so positively, Major Carlen,” I remonstrated. “It is not certain that any of the men have escaped, I suppose. If they have, Tom Heriot may not be one of them.”

  “But they have escaped,” stuttered the gray old man, plumping himself down on a stool, around which his cloak fell like so much drapery. “Five have got off, and Tom is one of them.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “How do I know it? How could I tell you if I didn’t know it? Half an hour ago I met Percival in Downing Street, and he told me.”

  What little hope had been left within me took wings and flew away. Percival was First Lord of the Admiralty. He would certainly know the truth.

  “Government has had official news of it,” went on the Major gloomily; “and with it a list of the fugitives.”

  “And Tom’s name is amongst them?”

  “Tom’s name is amongst them.”

  There was a pause. Lennard had gone into the other room. Major Carlen rose, saying something about lunch waiting for him at his club.

  “Mark you, Charles: if Tom takes it into that rattle-pate of his to worm his way back to these shores, there may be the devil to pay. I hope with all my heart Level won’t hear of this. The disgrace has been a precious thorn to him from the first.”

  “Blanche knows nothing at all of the matter as yet. She thinks Tom is with his regiment in Indi
a. The last time I saw her in Paris, not long before Mr. Brightman’s death, she asked me what could be the reason Tom did not write to her.”

  “Much better tell her, and get it over,” spoke the Major. “I should, if I were Level. He is more careful of her than she deserves — silly chit!”

  Major Carlen and his cloak swung out again, the clerks came back, and the day and its duties went on. I wrote to Lord Level; giving him the substance of what the Major had heard, and telling him that I thought there could be little fear of Tom Heriot’s venturing back to England. He could never be so reckless as to risk the danger.

  Dinner over, I started for Mrs. Brightman’s, and was admitted by the butler, who told me, in answer to my inquiry, that his mistress had been ill all day and had not come down. Tea waited on the drawing-room table, but no one was in the room. Presently Annabel entered.

  “I am sorry you should have had the trouble to come, when perhaps you could not spare the time,” she said. “Mamma is not well enough to see you.”

  “I was not busy to-night, Annabel. Perry has just told me your mamma has not been down to-day. Is her illness anything more than would be caused by these bad headaches? Do you fear anything serious?”

  “Yes — no. I — I hope not.”

  Her voice and manner were excessively subdued, as if she could scarcely speak from fear of breaking down. She turned to the table, evidently to avoid my notice, and busied herself with the teacups.

  “What is the matter, Annabel?”

  “Nothing,” she faintly answered, though her tears were even then falling. But I knew that some great trouble must be upon her.

  “Is Mrs. Brightman vexed with you for having come up last night with that deed?”

  “No; oh no! I told mamma about it this morning, and she said I had done quite right to take it up, but that I ought to have gone in the carriage.”

  “What, then, is causing you this grief?”

  “You cannot expect me to be in very good spirits as yet,” she replied: which was a decided evasion. “There are times — when I feel — the loss — —”

  She fairly broke down, and, sinking into a chair, cried bitterly and without concealment. I waited until she had become calmer.

  “Annabel, my dear, sorrow for your loss is not all that disturbs your peace to-night. What else is there?”

  “It is true that I have had something to vex me,” she admitted after a pause. “But I cannot tell you about it.”

  “It is a momentary trouble, I hope; one that will pass away — —”

  “It will never pass away,” she interrupted, with another burst of emotion. “It will be a weight and a grief upon me as long as life shall last. I almost wish I had died with my father, rather than have to live and bear it.”

  I took her hands in mine, and spoke deliberately. “If it be so serious a trouble as that, I must know it, Annabel.”

  “And if it were of a nature to be spoken of, you should know it. But it is not, and I can tell you nothing.”

  “Could you speak of it to your father, were he still living?”

  “We should be compelled to speak of it, I fear. But — —”

  “Then, my dear, you can speak of it to me. From henceforth you must look upon me as in his place; your protector; your best friend: one who will share your cares, perhaps more closely than he could have done; who will strive to soothe them with a love that could not have been his. In a short time, Annabel, I shall ask you to give me the legal right to be and do this.”

  “It can never be,” she replied, lifting her tearful eyes to mine.

  I looked at her with an amused smile. I knew she loved me — and what other obstacle could exist? Mrs. Brightman might oppose it at first, but I did not despair of winning her over in the end.

  “Not quite yet, I know,” I answered her. “In a few months’ time.”

  “Charles, you misunderstand me. I said it could never be. Never.”

  “I certainly do not understand that. Had your father lived, it would have been; and I do not say this without reason for the assertion. I believe that he would have given you to me, Annabel, heartily, with all his good will.”

  “Yes, that may be true; I think you are right; but — —”

  “But what, then? One word, Annabel: the objection would not surely come from your heart?”

  “No, it would not,” she softly answered, blushing deeply. “Please do not speak of these things.”

  “I did not intend to speak of them so soon. But I wish to remind you that I do possess a right to share your troubles, of whatever nature those troubles may be. Come, my darling, tell me your grief.”

  “Indeed I cannot,” she answered, “and you know I am not one to refuse anything from caprice. Let me go, Charles; I must make the tea.”

  I did let her go; but I bent over her first, without warning, and kissed her fervently.

  “Oh, Charles!”

  “As an earnest of a brother’s love and care for you, Annabel, if you object for the present to the other,” I whispered.

  “Yes, yes; be a brother to me,” she returned, with strange yearning. “No other tie can now be ours.”

  “My love, it shall be.”

  She rang for the urn, which Perry brought in, and then sat down to the table. I placed myself opposite to her and drew the dry toast towards me. “Mrs. Brightman prefers this, I believe; shall I prepare some for her?”

  Annabel did not answer, and I looked up. She was struggling with her tears again. “I fear mamma is not well enough to eat,” she said, in a stifled voice.

  “Annabel!” I suddenly exclaimed, a light flashing upon me: “your mother is worse than you have confessed: it is her illness which is causing you this pain.”

  Far greater than any that had gone before was the storm of emotion that shook her now. I rose in consternation and approached her, and she buried her face in her hands. It was very singular. Annabel Brightman was calm, sensible, open as the day. She seemed to-night to have borrowed another character. Suddenly she rose, and nervously putting my hand aside, walked once or twice up and down the room, evidently to obtain calmness. Then she dried her eyes, and sat down again to the tea-tray. I confess that I looked on in amazement.

  “Will you be kind enough to ring, Charles? Twice, please. It is for Hatch.”

  I did so, and returned to my seat. Hatch appeared in answer to her signal. Annabel held the cup of tea she had poured out.

  “Mamma’s tea, Hatch.”

  “She won’t take none, miss.”

  It is impossible to resist the temptation of now and then giving the grammar and idioms Hatch had brought from her country home, and had never since attempted to alter or improve. But what Hatch lacked in accuracy she made up in fluency, for a greater talker never flourished under the sun.

  “If you could get her to drink a cup, it might do her good,” pursued Hatch’s young mistress. “Take it up, and try.”

  Hatch flirted round, giving me full view of her black streamers, and brought forward a small silver waiter. “But ‘twon’t be of no manner of use, Miss Annabel.”

  “And here’s some toast, Hatch,” cried I.

  “Toast, sir! Missis wouldn’t look at it. I might as well offer her a piece of Ingy-rubbins to eat. Miss Annabel knows — —”

  “The tea will be cold, Hatch; take it at once,” interposed Miss Annabel.

  “Annabel, who is attending your mamma? Mr. Close, I suppose.”

  “Mr. Close. She never will have anyone else. I fear mamma must have been ill for some time; but I have been so much away with Aunt Lucy that I never noticed it before.”

  “Ay; Hastings and your aunt will miss you. I suppose Mrs. Brightman will not spare you now as she has hitherto done.”

  Annabel bent her head over the tea-tray, and a burning colour dyed her face. What had my words contained to call up the emotion? Presently she suddenly rose and left the room, saying she must see whether the tea had been taken. She returned with the empty cu
p, looking somewhat more cheerful.

  “See, Charles, mamma has taken it: I do believe she would take more nourishment, if Hatch would only press it upon her. She is so very weak and depressed.”

  Annabel filled the cup again, and Hatch came in for it. “Suppose you were to take up a little toast as well; mamma might eat it,” suggested Annabel, placing the cup on the waiter.

  “Oh, well, not to contrairy you, Miss Annabel,” returned Hatch. “I know what use it will be, though.”

  She held out the waiter, and I was putting the small plate of toast upon it, when screams arose from the floor above. Loud, piercing screams; screams of fear or terror; and I felt sure that they came from Mrs. Brightman. Hatch dropped the waiter on to the table, upsetting the tea, and dashed out of the room.

  I thought nothing less than that Mrs. Brightman was on fire, and should have been upstairs as speedily as Hatch; but Annabel darted before me, closed the drawing-room door, and stood against it to prevent my exit, her arms clasping mine in the extremity of agitation, the shrieks above still sounding in our ears.

  “Charles, you must not go! Charles, stay here! I ask it of you in my father’s name.”

  “Annabel, are you in your senses? Your mother may be on fire! She must be on fire: do you not hear her screams?”

  “No; it is nothing of that sort. I know what it is. You could do no good; only harm. I am in my own house — its mistress just now — and I tell you that you must not go up.”