Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “I was about to say, Mr. James, that if you took them in yourself over the counter, they could not have been sent up to your assistant.”

  “All the people about me are trustworthy, I can assure you, ma’am,” he interrupted. “They would not lend themselves to such a thing. It was a lady who pledged those studs.”

  “A lady?”

  “Yes, ma’am, a lady. And to tell the truth, if I may venture to say it, the description you have now given of a lady just tallies with her.”

  “Mrs. Hughes?”

  “It seems so to me,” continued Mr. James. “Little, pale, and lady-like: that is just what she was.”

  “Dear me!” cried Miss Deveen, letting her hands drop on her lap as if they had lost their power. “You had better tell me as much as you can recollect, please.”

  “It was at dusk,” said Mr. James. “Not quite dark, but the lamps were lighted in the streets and the gas indoors: just the hour, ma’am, that gentlefolk choose for bringing their things to us. I happened to be standing near the door, when a lady came into the shop and asked to see the principal. I said I was he, and retired behind the counter. She brought out these emerald studs” — touching the box— “and said she wanted to sell them, or pledge them for their utmost value. She told me a tale, in apparent confidence, of a brother who had fallen into debt at college, and she was trying to get together some money to help him, or frightful trouble might come of it. If it was not genuine,” broke off Mr. James, “she was the best actor I ever saw in all my life.”

  “Please go on.”

  “I saw the emeralds were very rare and beautiful. She said they were an heirloom from her mother, who had brought the stones from India and had them linked together in England. I told her I could not buy them; she rejoined that it might be better only to pledge them, for they would not be entirely lost to her, and she might redeem them ere twelve months had passed if I would keep them as long as that. I explained that the law exacted it. The name she gave was Mary Drake, asking if I had ever heard of the famous old forefather of theirs, Admiral Drake. The name answers to the initials on the gold.”

  “‘M. D.’ They were engraved for Margaret Deveen. Perhaps she claimed the crest, also, Mr. James,” added that lady, sarcastically.

  “She did, ma’am; in so far as that she said it was the crest of the Drake family.”

  “And you call her a lady?”

  “She had every appearance of one, in tone and language too. Her hand — she took one of her gloves off when showing the studs — was a lady’s hand; small, delicate, and white as alabaster. Ma’am, rely upon it, though she may not be a lady in deeds, she must be living the life of one.”

  “But now, who was it?”

  Yes, who was it? Miss Deveen, looking at us, seemed to wait for an answer, but she did not get one.

  “How much did you lend upon the studs?”

  “Ten pounds. Of course that is nothing like their value.”

  “Should you know her again? How was she dressed?”

  “She wore an ordinary Paisley shawl; it was cold weather; and had a thick veil over her face, which she never lifted.”

  “Should not that have excited your suspicion?” interrupted Miss Deveen. “I don’t like people who keep their veils down while they talk to you.”

  The pawnbroker smiled. “Most ladies keep them down when they come here. As to knowing her again, I am quite certain that I should; and her voice too. Whoever she was, she went about it very systematically, and took me in completely. Her asking for the principal may have thrown me somewhat off my guard.”

  We came away, leaving the studs with Mr. James: the time had not arrived for Miss Deveen to redeem them. She seemed very thoughtful as we went along in the cab.

  “Johnny,” she said, breaking the silence, “we talk lightly enough about the Finger of Providence; but I don’t know what else it can be that has led to this discovery so far. Out of the hundreds of pawnbroking establishments scattered about the metropolis, it is wonderfully strange that this should have been the one the studs were taken to; and furthermore, that Bond should have been passing it last night at the moment Lady Whitney’s housemaid came forth. Had the studs been pledged elsewhere, we might never have heard of them; neither, as it is, but for the housemaid’s being connected with Mr. James’s assistant.”

  Of course it was strange.

  “You were surprised to see the studs connected together, Johnny. That was the point I mentioned in reference to Lettice Lane. ‘One might have fallen down,’ she sobbed out to me, in leaving Whitney Hall; ‘even two; but it’s beyond the bounds of probability that three should, ma’am.’ She was thinking of the studs as separated; and it convinced me that she had never seen them. True, an artful woman might say so purposely to deceive me, but I am sure that Lettice has not the art to do it. But now, Johnny, we must consider what steps to take next. I shall not rest until the matter is cleared.”

  “Suppose it should never get on any further!”

  “Suppose you are like a young bear, all your experience to come?” retorted Miss Deveen. “Why, Johnny Ludlow, do you think that when that Finger I ventured to speak of is directing an onward course, It halts midway? There cannot, I fear, be much doubt as to the thief; but we must have proof.”

  “You think it was — —”

  “Mrs. Hughes. What else can I think? She is very nice, and I could not have believed it of her. I suppose the sight of the jewels, combined with her poverty, must have proved the temptation. I shall get back the emeralds, but we must screen her.”

  “Miss Deveen, I don’t believe it was Mrs. Hughes.”

  “Not believe it?”

  “No. Her face is not that of one who would do such a thing. You might trust it anywhere.”

  “Oh, Johnny! there you are at your faces again!”

  “Well, I was never deceived in any face yet. Not in one that I thoroughly trusted.”

  “If Mrs. Hughes did not take the studs, and bring them to London, and pledge them, who else could have brought them? They were taken to Mr. James’s on the 27th, remember.”

  “That’s the puzzle of it.”

  “We must find out Mrs. Hughes, and then contrive to bring her within sight of Mr. James.”

  “The Whitneys know where she lives. Anna and Helen have been to call upon her.”

  “Then our way is pretty plain. Mind you don’t breathe a syllable of this to mortal ear, Johnny. It might defeat our aims. Miss Cattledon, always inquisitive, will question where we have been this morning with her curious eyes; but for once she will not be satisfied.”

  “I should not keep her, Miss Deveen.”

  “Yes you would, Johnny. She is faithful; she suits me very well; and her mother and I were girls together.”

  It was a sight to be painted. Helen Whitney standing there in her presentation dress. She looked wonderfully well. It was all white, with a train behind longer than half-a-dozen peacocks’ tails, lace and feathers about her hair. The whole lot of us were round her; the young ones had come from the nursery, the servants peeped in at the door; Miss Cattledon had her eye-glass up; Harry danced about the room.

  “Helen, my dear, I admire all very much except your necklace and bracelets,” said Miss Deveen, critically. “They do not match: and do not accord with the dress.”

  The necklace was a row of turquoises, and did not look much: the bracelets were gold, with blue stones in the clasps. The Whitney family did not shine in jewels, and the few diamonds they possessed were on Lady Whitney to-day.

  “But I had nothing else, Miss Deveen,” said Helen, simply. “Mamma said these must do.”

  Miss Deveen took off the string of blue beads as if to examine them, and left in its place the loveliest pearl necklace ever seen. There was a scream of surprise; some of us had only met with such transformations in fairy tales.

  “And these are the bracelets to match, my dear. Anna, I shall give you the same when your turn for making your curtsey to your quee
n comes.”

  Anna smiled faintly as she looked her thanks. She always seemed regularly down in spirits now, not to be raised by pearl necklaces. For the first time her sad countenance seemed to strike Tod. He crossed over.

  “What is wrong, Anna?” he whispered. “Are you not well?”

  “Quite well, thank you,” she answered, her cheeks flushing painfully.

  At this moment Sophie Chalk created a diversion. Unable to restrain her feelings longer, she burst into tears, knelt down outside Helen’s dress, and began kissing her hand and the pearl bracelet in a transport of joy.

  “Oh, Helen, my dear friend, how rejoiced I am? I said upstairs that your ornaments were not worthy of you.”

  Tod’s eyes were glued on her. Bill Whitney called out Bravo. Sophie, kneeling before Helen in her furbelows, made a charming tableau.

  “It is good acting, Tod,” I said in his ear.

  He turned sharply. But instead of cuffing me into next week, he just sent his eyes straight out to mine.

  “Do you call it acting?”

  “I am sure it is. But not for you.”

  “You are bold, Mr. Johnny.”

  But I could tell by the subdued tone and the subdued manner, that his own doubts had been at last awakened whether or not it was acting.

  Lady Whitney came sailing downstairs, a blaze of yellow satin; her face, with flurry, like a peony. She could hardly say a word of thanks for the pearls, for her wits had gone wool-gathering. When she was last at Court herself, Bill was a baby in long-clothes. We went out with them to the carriage; the lady’s-maid taking at least five minutes to settle the trains: and Bill said he hoped the eyes at the windows all round enjoyed the show. The postillion — an unusual sight in London — and the two men behind wore their state liveries, white and crimson; their bouquets bigger than cabbages.

  “You will dance with me the first dance to-night?” Tod whispered to Sophie Chalk, as they were going in after watching the carriage away.

  Sophie made a slight pause before she answered; and I saw her eyes wander out in the distance towards Bill Whitney.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said, with a great display of gratitude. “But I think I am engaged.”

  “Engaged for the first dance?”

  “Yes. I am so sorry.”

  “The second, then?”

  “With the greatest pleasure.”

  Anna heard it all as well as I. Tod gave Sophie’s hand a squeeze to seal the bargain, and went away whistling.

  Not being in the world of fashion, we did not know how other people finished up Drawing-room days (and when Helen Whitney went to Court they were Drawing-rooms), but the Whitneys’ programme was this: A cold collation in lieu of dinner, when Fate should bring them home again, and a ball in the evening. The ball was our joint invention. Sitting round the schoolroom fire one night we settled it for ourselves: and after Sir John and my lady had stood out well, they gave in. Not that it would be much of a ball, for they had few acquaintances in London, and the house was small.

  But now, had any aid been wanted by Miss Deveen to carry out her plans, she could not have devised better than this. For the Whitneys invited (all unconsciously) Mrs. Hughes to the ball. Anna came into Miss Deveen’s after they had been sending out the invitations (only three days before the evening), and began telling her the names as a bit of gossip. She came at last to Mrs. Hughes.

  “Mrs. Hughes,” interrupted Miss Deveen, “I am glad of that, Anna, for I want to see her.”

  Miss Deveen’s seeing her would not go for much in the matter of elucidation; it was Mr. James who must see her; and the plan by which he might do so was Miss Deveen’s own. She went down and arranged it with him, and before the night came, it was all cut and dried. He and she and I knew of it; not another soul in the world.

  “You will have to help me in it a little, Johnny,” she said. “Be at hand to watch for Mr. James’s arrival, and bring him up to me.”

  We saw them come back from the Drawing-room between five and six, Helen with a brilliant colour in her cheeks; and at eight o’clock we went in. London parties, which begin when you ought to be in your first sleep, are not understood by us country people, and eight was the hour named in the Whitneys’ invitations. Cattledon was screwed into a rich sea-green satin (somebody else’s once), with a water-lily in her thin hair; and Miss Deveen wore all her diamonds. Sir John, out of his element and frightfully disconsolate, stood against the wall, his spectacles lodged on his old red nose. The thing was not in his line. Miss Deveen went up to shake hands.

  “Sir John, I am rather expecting a gentleman to call on me on business to-night,” she said; “and have left word for him to step in and see me here. Will you forgive the liberty?”

  “I’m sure it’s no liberty; I shall be glad to welcome him,” replied Sir John, dismally. “There’ll not be much here but stupid boys and girls. We shall get no whist to-night. The plague only knows who invented balls.”

  It was a little odd that, next to ourselves, Mrs. Hughes should be the first to arrive. She was very pale and pretty, and her husband was a slender, quiet, delicate man, looking like a finished gentleman. Miss Deveen followed them with her eyes as they went up to Lady Whitney.

  “She does not look like it, does she, Johnny?” whispered Miss Deveen to me. No, I was quite sure she did not.

  Sophie Chalk was in white, with ivy leaves in her spangled hair, the sweetest fairy to look at ever seen out of a moonlight ring. Helen, in her Court dress and pearls, looked plain beside her. They stood talking together, not noticing that I and Tod were in the recess behind. Most of the people had come then, and the music was tuning up. The rooms looked well; the flowers, scattered about, had come up from Whitney Hall. Helen called to her brother.

  “We may as well begin dancing, William.”

  “Of course we may,” he answered. “I don’t know what we have waited for. I must find a partner. Miss Chalk, may I have the honour of dancing the first dance with you?”

  That Miss Chalk’s eyes went up to his with a flash of gratitude, and then down in modesty to the chalked floor, I knew as well as though they had been behind her head instead of before it.

  “Oh, thank you,” said she, “I shall be so happy.” And I no more dared glance at Tod than if he had been an uncaged crocodile. She had told him she was engaged for it.

  But just as William was about to give her his arm, and some one came and took away Helen, Lady Whitney called him. He spoke with his mother for a minute or two and came back with a cloud on his face.

  “I am awfully sorry, Sophie. The mother says I must take out Lady Esther Starr this first time, old Starr’s wife, you know, as my father’s dancing days are over. Lady Esther is seven-and-thirty if she’s a day,” growled Bill, “and as big as a lighthouse. I’ll have the second with you, Sophie.”

  “I am afraid I am engaged for the second,” hesitated Miss Sophie. “I think I have promised Joseph Todhetley.”

  “Never mind him,” said Bill. “You’ll dance it with me, mind.”

  “I can tell him I mistook the dance,” she softly suggested.

  “Tell him anything. All right.”

  He wheeled round, and went up to Lady Esther, putting on his glove. Sophie Chalk moved away, and I took courage to glance sideways at Tod.

  His face was white as death: I think with passion. He stood with his arms folded, never moving throughout the whole quadrille, only looking out straight before him with a fixed stare. A waltz came next, for which they kept their partners. And Sophie Chalk had enjoyed the luck of sitting down all the time. Whilst they were making ready for the second quadrille, Tod went up to her.

  “This is our dance, Miss Chalk.”

  Well, she had her share of boldness. She looked steadily in his face, assuring him that he was mistaken, and vowing through thick and thin that it was the third dance she had promised him. Whilst she was excusing herself, Bill came up to claim her. Tod put out his strong arm to ward him off.

&
nbsp; “Stay a moment, Whitney,” he said, with studied calmness, “let me have an understanding first with Miss Chalk. She can dance with you afterwards if she prefers to do so. Miss Chalk, you know that you promised yourself to me this morning for the second dance. I asked you for the first: you were engaged for that, you said, and would dance the second with me. There could be no mistake, on your side or on mine.”

  “Oh, but indeed I understood it to be the third, dear Mr. Todhetley,” said she. “I am dreadfully sorry if it is my fault. I will dance the third with you.”

  “I have not asked you for the third. Do as you please. If you throw me over for this second dance, I will never ask you for another again as long as I live.”

  Bill Whitney stood by laughing; seeming to treat the whole as a good joke. Sophie Chalk looked at him appealingly.

  “And you certainly promised me, Miss Chalk,” he put in. “Todhetley, it is a misunderstanding. You and I had better draw lots.”

  Tod bit his lip nearly to bleeding. All the notice he took of Bill’s speech was to turn his back upon him, and address Sophie.

  “The decision lies with you alone, Miss Chalk. You have engaged yourself to him and to me: choose between us.”

  She put her hand within Bill’s arm, and went away with him, leaving a little honeyed flattery for Tod. But Bill Whitney looked back curiously into Tod’s white face, all his brightness gone; for the first time he seemed to realize that it was serious, almost an affair of life or death. His handkerchief up, wiping his damp brow, Tod did not notice which way he was going, and ran against Anna. “I beg your pardon,” he said, with a start, as if waking out of a dream. “Will you go through this dance with me, Anna?”

  Yes. He led her up to it; and they took their places opposite Bill and Miss Chalk.

  Mr. James was to arrive at half-past nine. I was waiting for him near the entrance door. He was punctual to time; and looked very well in his evening dress. I took him up to Miss Deveen, and she made room for him on the sofa by her side, her diamonds glistening. He must have seen their value. Sir John had his rubber then in the little breakfast-parlour: Miss Cattledon, old Starr, and another making it up for him. Wanting to see the game played out, I kept by the sofa.