Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “I see you serving in it yourself sometimes.”

  “I can serve the stationery — and the pickles and fish sauce — and the pearl barley,” contended she, “but not the drugs. I don’t meddle with them. When a prescription comes in to be made up, if I attempted to do it I might put opium for senna, and poison people. I have not learnt Latin, as Margaret has.”

  “But, Mrs. Rymer — —”

  “Now we’ll just drop the subject, sir, if it’s all the same to you,” loudly put in Mrs. Rymer. “I have told you before that Margaret must stay where she is, and keep the business together for me and her brother. No need to repeat it fifty times over.”

  She caught up her muff, and went out of the room and up the stairs as she delivered this final edict. Mr. Sale rose.

  “You see how it is,” said Margaret, in a low tone of emotion, and keeping her eyelids down to hide the tears. “You must go without me. I cannot leave. I can only say, God speed you.”

  “There are many wrongs enacted in this world, and this is one,” he replied in a hard voice — not hard for her — as he took her hands in his, and stood before her. “I don’t know that I altogether blame you, Margaret; but it is cruel upon you and upon me. Good-night.”

  He went out quite abruptly without kissing her, leaving her alone with her aching heart.

  Tuesday afternoon, and the ice and the snow on the ground still. We were to dine at five o’clock — the London codfish and a prime turkey — and the Coneys were coming in as well as the Rector and his wife.

  But Mrs. Coney did not come; old Coney and Tom brought in word that she was not feeling well enough; and the Tanertons only drove up on the stroke of five. As I helped Grace down from the pony-chaise, muffled up to the chin in furs, for the cold was enough to freeze an Icelander’s nose off, I told her her aunt was not well enough to come.

  “Aunt Coney not well enough to come!” returned Grace. “What a pity! Have I time to run in to see her before dinner, Johnny?”

  “That you’ve not. You are late, as it is. The Squire has been telling us all that the fish must be in rags already.”

  Grace laughed as she ran in; her husband followed her unwinding the folds of his white woollen comforter. There was a general greeting and much laughter, especially when old Coney told Grace that her cheeks were as purple as his Sunday necktie. In the midst of it Thomas announced dinner.

  The codfish came up all right, and the oyster sauce was in Molly’s best style — made of cream, and plenty of oysters in it. The turkey was fine: the plum-pudding better than good. Hugh and Lena sat at the table; and altogether we had a downright merry dinner. Not a sober face amongst us, except Herbert Tanerton’s: as to his face — well, you might have thought he was perpetually saying “For what we are going to receive — —” It had struck eight ever so long when the last nut was eaten.

  “Will you run over with me to my aunt’s, Johnny?” whispered Grace as she passed my chair. “I should like to go at once, if you will.”

  So I followed her out of the room. She put her wraps on, and we went trudging across the road in the moonlight, over the crunching snow. Grace’s foot went into a soft rut, and she gave a squeal.

  “I shall have to borrow a shoe whilst this dries,” said she. “Do you care to come in, Johnny?”

  “No, I’ll go back. I can run over for you presently.”

  “Don’t do that. One of the servants will see me safe across.”

  “All right. Tell Mrs. Coney what a jolly dinner it was. We were all sorry she did not come.”

  Grace went in and shut the door. I was rushing back through our own gate, when some tall fellow glided out of the laurels, and put his hand on my arm. The moonlight fell upon his face and its reddish beard — and, to my intense surprise, I recognized Benjamin Rymer. I knew him then for the man who had been dodging in and out of the shrubs the night but one before.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “It is, as I am well aware, a very unusual and unceremonious way of accosting you, or any one else, but I want particularly to speak with you, in private, Mr. Ludlow.”

  “You were here on Sunday night!”

  “Yes. I saw the Squire and the rest of them go out to church, but I did not see you go, and I was trying to ascertain whether you were at home and alone. Tom Coney’s coming in startled me and sent me away.”

  We had been speaking in a low key, but Ben Rymer dropped his to a lower, as he explained. When he went away ten months before, it was in fear and dread that the truth of the escapade he had been guilty of, in regard to the bank-note, was coming out to the world, and that he might be called upon to answer for it. His mother had since assured him he had nothing to fear; but Ben was evidently a cautious man, and preferred to ascertain that fact before showing himself openly at Timberdale. Knowing I was to be trusted not to injure a fellow (as he was pleased to say), he had come down here to ask me my opinion as to whether the Squire would harm him, or not. There was no one else to fear now Jelf was dead.

  “Harm you!” I exclaimed in my enthusiasm, my head full of poor, patient Margaret; “why, the Squire would be the very one to hold you free of harm, Mr. Rymer. I remember his saying, at the time, Heaven forbid that he, having sons of his own, should put a stumbling-block in your path, when you were intending to turn over a new leaf. He will help you on, instead of harming you.”

  “It’s very good of him,” said Ben. “I was an awful fool, and nothing else. That was the only dangerous thing I ever did, and I have been punished severely for it. I believe it was nothing but the fear and remorse it brought that induced me to pull up, and throw ill ways behind me.”

  “I’m sure I am glad that you do,” I answered, for something in Ben’s tone seemed to imply that the bad ways were thrown behind him for good. “Are you thinking of coming back to Timberdale?”

  “Not until I shall have passed for a surgeon — which will not be long now. I have been with a surgeon in London as assistant, since I left here. It was a letter from Margaret that induced me to come down. She — do you know anything about her, Mr. Johnny?”

  “I know that a parson wants her to go out with him to the Bahamas; he is Tanerton’s curate; and that the pills and powders stand in the way of it.”

  “Just so. Is he a good fellow, this parson?”

  “Good in himself. Not much to look at.”

  “Maggie shall go with him, then. I should be the last to stand willingly in her way. You see, I have not known whether it was safe for me at Timberdale: or I should never have left Maggie to the shop alone. Does any one know of the past — my past — besides you and the Squire?”

  “Yes; Herbert Tanerton knows of it; and — and the curate, Mr. Sale.” And I told him what had passed only on the previous day, softening the Rector’s speeches — and it seemed a curious coincidence, taken with this visit of Ben’s, that it should have passed. His mouth fell as he listened.

  “It is another mortification for me,” he said. “I should like to have stood as well as might be with Margaret’s husband. Perhaps, knowing this, he will not think more of her.”

  “I don’t believe he will let it make any difference. I don’t think he is the man to let it. Perhaps — if you were to go to him — and show him how straight things are with you now — and — —”

  I broke down in my hesitating suggestion. Ben was years older than I, miles taller and broader, and it sounded like the mouse attempting to help the lion.

  “Yes, I will go to him,” he said slowly. “It is the only plan. And — and you think there’s no fear that Herbert Tanerton will get talking to others?”

  “I’m sure there’s none. He is indoors now, dining with us. I am sure you are quite safe in all respects. The thing is buried in the past, and even its remembrance will pass away. The old postman, Lee, thinks it was Cotton; the Squire persuaded him into the belief at the time. Where is Cotton?”

  “Where all such rogues deserve to be — transported. But for him and his friends I should nev
er have done much that’s wrong. Thank you for the encouragement you give me.”

  He half put out his hand to endorse the thanks, and drew it back again; but I put mine freely into his. Ben Rymer was Ben Rymer, and no favourite of mine to boot; but when a man has been down and is trying to get up again, he deserves respect and sympathy.

  “I was about here all last evening, hoping to get sight of you,” he remarked, as he went out at the gate. “I never saw such light nights in all my life as these few last have been, what with the moon and the snow. Good-night, Mr. Johnny. By the way, though, where does the curate live?”

  “At Mrs. Boughton’s. Nearly the last house, you know, before you come to the churchyard.”

  Ben Rymer went striding towards Timberdale, putting his coat-collar well up, that he might not be recognized when going through the village, and arrived at the curate’s lodgings. Mr. Sale was at home, sitting by the fire in a brown study, that seemed to have no light at all in it. Ben, as I knew later, sat down by him, and made a clean breast of everything: his temptation, his fall, and his later endeavours to do right.

  “Please God, I shall get on in the world now,” he said; “and I think make a name in my profession. I don’t wish to boast — and time of course will alone prove it — but I believe I have a special aptitude for surgery. My mother will be my care now; and Margaret — as you are good enough to say you still wish for her — shall be your care in future. There are few girls so deserving as she is.”

  “I know that,” said the curate. And he shook Ben’s hand upon it as heartily as though it had been a duke royal’s.

  It was close upon ten when Ben left him. Mrs. Rymer about that same time was making her usual preparations before retiring — namely, putting her curls in paper by the parlour fire. Margaret sat at the table, reading the Bible in silence, and so trying to school her aching heart. Her mother had been cross and trying all the evening: which did not mend the inward pain.

  “What are you crying for?” suddenly demanded Mrs. Rymer, her sharp eyes seeing a tear fall on the book.

  “For nothing,” faintly replied Margaret.

  “Nothing! Don’t tell me. You are frizzling your bones over that curate, Sale. I’m sure he is a beauty to look at.”

  Margaret made no rejoinder; and just then the young servant put in her head.

  “Be there anything else wanted, missis?”

  “No,” snapped Mrs. Rymer. “You can be off to bed.”

  But, before the girl had shut the parlour-door, a loud ring came to the outer one. Such late summonses were not unusual; they generally meant a prescription to be made up. Whilst the girl went to the door, Margaret closed the Bible, dried her eyes, and rose up to be in readiness.

  But instead of a prescription, there entered Mr. Benjamin Rymer. His mother stood up, staring, her hair a mass of white corkscrews. Ben clasped Margaret in his arms, and kissed her heartily.

  “My goodness me!” cried Mrs. Rymer. “Is it you, Ben?”

  “Yes, it is, mother,” said Ben, turning to her. “Maggie, dear, you look as though you did not know me.”

  “Why, what on earth have you come for, in this startling way?” demanded Mrs. Rymer. “I don’t believe your bed’s aired.”

  “I’ll sleep between the blankets — the best place to-night. What have I come for, you ask, mother? I have come home to stay.”

  Margaret was gazing at him, her mild eyes wide open, a spot of hectic on each cheek.

  “For your sake, Maggie,” he whispered, putting his arm round her waist, and bending his great red head (but not so red as his mother’s) down on her. “I shall not much like to lose you, though, my little sister. The Bahamas are further off than I could have wished.”

  And, for answer, poor Margaret, what with one thing and another, sank quietly down in her chair, and fainted. Ben strode into the shop — as much at home amongst the bottles as though he had never quitted them — and came back with some sal volatile.

  They were married in less than a month; for Mr. Sale’s chaplaincy would not wait for him. The Rector was ailing as usual, or said he was, and Charles Ashton came over to perform the ceremony. Margaret was in a bright dark silk, a light shawl, and a plain bonnet; they were to go away from the church door, and the boxes were already at the station. Ben, dressed well, and looking not unlike a gentleman, gave her away; but there was no wedding-party. Mrs. Rymer stayed at home in a temper, which I dare say nobody regretted: she considered Margaret ought to have remained single. And after a day or two spent in the seaport town they were to sail from, regaling their eyes with the ships crowding the water, the Reverend Isaac Sale and his wife embarked for their future home in the Bahama Isles.

  XIII.

  THE OTHER EARRING.

  “And if I could make sure that you two boys would behave yourselves and give me no trouble, possibly I might take you this year just for a treat.”

  “Behave ourselves!” exclaimed Tod, indignantly. “Do you think we are two children, sir?”

  “We would be as good as gold, sir,” I added, turning eagerly to the Squire.

  “Well, Johnny, I’m not much afraid but that you would. Perhaps I’ll trust you both, then, Joe.”

  “Thank you, father.”

  “I shall see,” added the pater, thinking it well to put in a little qualification. “It’s not quite a promise, mind. But it must be two or three years now, I think, since you went to them.”

  “It seems like six,” said Tod. “I know it’s four.”

  We were talking of Worcester Races. At that period they used to take place early in August. Dr. Frost had an unpleasant habit of reassembling his pupils either the race-week or the previous one; and to get over to the races was almost as difficult for Tod and for me as though they had been run in California. To hear the pater say he might perhaps take us this year, just as the Midsummer holidays were drawing to an end, and say it voluntarily, was as good as it was unexpected. He meant it, too; in spite of the reservation: and Dr. Frost was warned that he need not expect us until the race-week was at its close.

  The Squire drove into Worcester on the Monday, to be ready for the races on Tuesday morning, with Tod, myself, and the groom — Giles; and put up, as usual, at the Star and Garter. Sometimes he only drove in and back on each of the three race-days; or perhaps on two of them: this he could do very well from Crabb Cot, but it was a good pull for the horses from Dyke Manor. This year, to our intense gratification, he meant to stay in the town.

  The Faithful City was already in a bustle. It had put on its best appearance, and had its windows cleaned; some of the shop-fronts were being polished off as we drove slowly up the streets. Families were, like ourselves, coming in: more would come before night. The theatre was open, and we went to it after dinner; and saw, I remember, “Guy Mannering” (over which the pater went to sleep), and an after-piece with a ghost in it.

  The next morning I took the nearest way from the hotel to Sansome Walk, and went up it to call on one of our fellows who lived near the top. His friends always let him stay at home for the race-week. A maid-servant came running to answer my knock at the door.

  “Is Harry Parker at home?”

  “No, sir,” answered the girl, who seemed to be cleaning up for the races on her own account, for her face and arms were all “colly.” “Master Harry have gone down to Pitchcroft, I think.”

  “I hope he has gone early enough!” said I, feeling disappointed. “Why, the races won’t begin for hours yet.”

  “Well, sir,” she said, “I suppose there’s a deal more life to be seen there than here, though it is early in the day.”

  That might easily be. For of all solitary places Sansome Walk was, in those days, the dreariest, especially portions of it. What with the overhanging horse-chestnut trees, and the high dead wall behind those on the one hand, and the flat stretch of lonely fields on the other, Sansome Walk was what Harry Parker used to call a caution. You might pass through all its long length from end to end and n
ever meet a soul.

  Taking that narrow by-path on my way back that leads into the Tything by St. Oswald’s Chapel, and whistling a bar of the sweet song I had heard at the theatre overnight, “There’s nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,” some one came swiftly advancing down the same narrow path, and I prepared to back sideways to give her room to pass — a young woman, with a large shabby shawl on, and the remains of faded gentility about her.

  It was Lucy Bird! As she drew near, lifting her sad sweet eyes to mine with a mournful smile, my heart gave a great throb of pity. Faded, worn, anxious, reduced! — oh, how unlike she was, poor girl, to the once gay and charming Lucy Ashton!

  “Why, Lucy! I did not expect to see you in Worcester! We heard you had left it months ago.”

  “Yes, we left last February for London,” she answered. “Captain Bird has only come down for the races.”

  As she took her hand from under her shawl to respond to mine, I saw that she was carrying some cheese and a paper of cold cooked meat. She must have been buying the meat at the cook’s shop, as the Worcester people called it, which was in the middle of High Street. Oh! what a change — what a change for the delicately-bred Lucy Ashton! Better that her Master of Ravenswood had buried his horse and himself in the flooded land, as the other one did, than have brought her to this.

  “Where are you going to, down this dismal place, Lucy?”

  “Home,” she answered. “We have taken lodgings at the top of Sansome Walk.”

  “At one of the cottages a little beyond it?”

  “Yes, at one of those. How are you all, Johnny? How is Mrs. Todhetley?”

  “Oh, she’s first-rate. Got no neuralgia just now.”

  “Is she at Worcester?”

  “No; at Dyke Manor. She would not come. The Squire drove us in yesterday. We are at the Star.”

  “Ah! yes,” she said, her eyes taking a dreamy, far-off look. “I remember staying at the Star myself one race-week. Papa brought me. It was the year I left school. Have you heard or seen anything of my brothers lately, Johnny Ludlow?”