Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Then that’s what took you round by Dip Lane, St. George?” interrupted Mr. Delorane.

  “That’s what took me round by Dip Lane,” acquiesced St. George, slightly smiling; “and which seems to have led to this misapprehension. But don’t give my humanity more credit than it deserves. Previously to this I had been debating in my own mind whether to take the round, seeing what a journey was before me. It was about the wildest night I ever was out in, the horse could hardly make head against the wind, and I thought we might feel it less in the small and more sheltered by-ways than in the open road. Taking up the traveller decided me.”

  “You put him down in Dip Lane, at the turning that leads to Evesham,” remarked the Squire.

  “Yes, I put him down there. It was just after you passed us. He thanked me heartily, and walked on; and I drove quickly home, glad enough to reach it. Who he was, or what he was, I do not know, and did not ask.”

  Tod was still in a quandary; his countenance betrayed it. “Did you notice that he resembled William Brook, St. George?”

  “No. It did not strike me that he resembled any one. His face was well wrapped up from the cold, and I did not get a clear view of it: I am not sure that I should know it again. I should know his voice, though,” he added quickly.

  Poor Aunt Hester, listening to all this in dismay, felt the disappointment keenly: the tears were stealing down her face. “And we have been drinking his health, and — and feeling so thankful that he was safely back again!” she murmured gently.

  “Hang it, yes,” added Mr. Delorane. “Well, well; I dare say a day or two more will bring him. I must say I thought it odd that you should not have mentioned it to me, St. George, if he had come.”

  “I should have thought it very odd, sir,” spoke St. George.

  “Will you take a glass of wine?”

  “No, thank you; I have not time for it. Those deeds have to be gone over, you know, sir, before post-time,” replied St. George; and he left the room.

  “And if ever you two boys serve me such a trick again — bringing me over with a cock-and-bull story that people have come back from sea who haven’t — I’ll punish you,” stuttered the Squire, too angry to speak clearly.

  We went away in humility; heads down, metaphorically speaking, tails between legs. The Squire kept up the ball, firing away sarcastic reproaches hotly.

  Tod never answered. The truth was, he felt angry himself. Not with the Squire, but with the affair altogether. Tod hated mystification, and the matter was mystifying him utterly. With all his heart, with all the sight of his eyes, he had believed it to be William Brook: and he could not drive the conviction away, that it was Brook, and that St. George was giving him house room.

  “I don’t like complications,” spoke he resentfully.

  “Complications!” retorted the Squire. “What complications are there in this? None. You two lads must have been thinking of William Brook, perhaps speaking of him, and so you thought you saw him. That’s all about it, Joe.”

  The complications were not at an end. A curious addition to them was at hand. The Squire came to a halt at the turning to the Ravine, undecided whether to betake himself home at once, or to make a call first at Timberdale Court, to see Robert Ashton.

  “I think we’ll go there, lads,” said he: “there’s plenty of time. I want to ask him how that squabble about the hunting arrangements has been settled.”

  So we continued our way along the road, presently crossing it to take the one in which the Court was situated: a large handsome house, lying back on the right hand. Before gaining it, however, we had to pass the pretty villa rented by Mr. St. George, its stable and coach-house and dog-kennel beside it. The railway was on ahead; a train was shrieking itself at that moment into the station.

  St. George’s groom and man-of-all-work, Japhet, was sweeping up the leaves on the little lawn. Tod, who was in advance of us, put his arms on the gate. “Are you going to make a bonfire with them?” asked he.

  “There’s enough for’t, sir,” answered Japhet. “I never see such a wind as yesterday’s,” he ran on, dropping his besom to face Tod, for the man was a lazy fellow, always ready for a gossip. “I’m sure I thought it ‘ud ha’ blowed the trees down as well as the leaves.”

  “It was pretty strong,” assented Tod, as I halted beside him, and the Squire walked on towards the Court. “We were out in it — coming home from Pigeon Green. There was one gust that I thought would have blown the horses right over.”

  “The master, he were out in it, too, a coming home from Worcester,” cried Japhet, taking off his old hat to push his red hair back. “When he got in here, he said as he’d had enough on’t for one journey. I should think the poor horse had too; his coat were all wet.”

  Tod lifted up his head, speaking impulsively. “Was your master alone, Japhet, when he got home? Had he any one with him?”

  “Yes, he were all alone, sir,” replied the man. “Miss Delorane were with him when he drove off in the morning, but she stayed at Worcester.”

  Had Tod taken a moment for thought he might not have asked the question. He had nothing of the sneak in him, and would have scorned to pump a servant about his master’s movements. The answer tended to destroy his theory of Brook’s being concealed here, and to uphold the account given by Mr. St. George.

  Quitting the railings, we ran to catch up the Squire. And at that moment two or three railway passengers loomed into view, coming from the train. One of them was Ellin Delorane.

  She came along briskly, with a buoyant step and a smiling face. The Squire dropped us a word of caution.

  “Now don’t go telling her of your stupid fancy about Brook, you two: it would only cause her disappointment.” And with the last word we met her.

  “Ah ha, Miss Ellin!” he exclaimed, taking her hands. “And so the truant’s back again!”

  “Yes, he is back again,” she softly whispered, with a blush that was deep in colour.

  The Squire did not quite catch the words. She and he were at cross-purposes. “We have but now left your house, my dear,” he continued. “Your aunt does not expect you back to-day; she thought you would stay at Worcester till Saturday.”

  Ellin smiled shyly. “Have you seen him?” she asked in the same soft whisper.

  “Seen whom, my dear?”

  “Mr. Brook.”

  “Mr. Brook! Do you mean William Brook? He is not back, is he?”

  “Yes, he is back,” she answered. “I thought you might have seen him: you spoke of the return of the truant.”

  “Why, child, I meant you,” explained the Squire. “Nobody else. Who says William Brook is back?”

  “Oh, I say it,” returned Ellin, her cheeks all rosy dimples. “He reached Worcester yesterday.”

  “And where is he now?” cried the Squire, feeling a little at sea.

  “He is here, at Timberdale,” answered Ellin. “Mr. St. George drove him home last night.”

  “There!” cried Tod with startling emphasis. “There, father, please not to disparage my sight any more.”

  Well, what do you think of this for another complication? It took me aback. The Squire rubbed his face, and stared.

  “My dear, just let us understand how the land lies,” said he, putting his hand on Ellin’s shoulder. “Do you say that William Brook reached Worcester yesterday on his return, and that St. George drove him home here at night?”

  “Yes,” replied Ellin. “Why should you doubt it? It is true.”

  “Well, we thought St. George did drive him home,” was the Squire’s answer, staring into her face; “we passed his gig in Dip Lane and thought that it was Brook that he had with him. But St. George denies this. He says it was not Brook; that he has not seen Brook, does not know he has come home; he says the man he had with him was a stranger, to whom he was giving a lift.”

  Ellin looked grave for a moment; then the smiles broke out again.

  “St. George must have been joking,” she cried; “he cannot
mean it. He happened to be at Worcester Station yesterday when Mr. Brook arrived by the Birmingham train: we suppose he then offered to drive him home. Any way, he did do it.”

  “But St. George denied that he did, Ellin,” I said.

  “He will not deny it to me, Johnny. Gregory West, returning from a visit to some client at Spetchley, met them in the gig together.”

  The Squire listened as a man dazed. “I can’t make head or tail of it,” cried he. “What does St. George mean by denying that he brought Brook? And where is Brook?”

  “Has no one seen him?” questioned Ellin.

  “Not a soul, apparently. Ellin, my girl,” added the Squire, “we will walk back with you to your father’s, and get this cleared up. Come along, boys.”

  So back we went to turn the tables upon St. George, Tod in a rapture of gratification. You might have thought he was treading upon eggs.

  We had it out this time in Mr. Delorane’s private office; the Squire walked straight into it. Not but that “having it out” must be regarded as a figure of speech, for elucidation seemed farther off than before, and the complications greater.

  Mr. Delorane and his head-clerk were both bending over the same parchment when we entered. Ellin kissed her father, and turned to St. George.

  “Why have you been saying that you did not drive home William Brook?” she asked as they shook hands.

  “A moment, my dear; let me speak,” interrupted the Squire, who never believed any one’s explanation could be so lucid as his own. “Delorane, I left you just now with an apology for having brought to you a cock-and-bull story through the misleading fancies of these boys; but we have come back again to tell you the story’s true. Your daughter here says that it was William Brook that St. George had in his gig. And perhaps Mr. St. George” — giving that gentleman a sharp nod— “will explain what he meant by denying it?”

  “I denied it because it was not he,” said Mr. St. George, not appearing to be in the least put out. “How can I tell you it was Brook when it was not Brook? If it had been — —”

  “You met William Brook at the Worcester railway-station yesterday afternoon,” interrupted Ellin. “Mrs. James Ashton saw you there; saw the meeting. You were at the station, were you not?”

  “I was at the station,” readily replied St. George, “and Mrs. James Ashton may have seen me there, for all I know — I did not see her. But she certainly did not see William Brook. Or, if she did, I didn’t.”

  “Gregory West saw you and him in your gig together later, when you were leaving Worcester,” continued Ellin. “It was at the top of Red Hill.”

  St. George shook his head. “The person I had in my gig was a stranger. Had Gregory West come up one minute earlier he would have seen me take the man into it.”

  “William has come,” persisted Ellin.

  “I don’t say he has not,” returned St. George. “All I can say is that I did not know he had come and that I have not seen him.”

  Who was right, and who was wrong? Any faces more hopelessly puzzled than the two old gentlemen’s were, as they listened to these contradictory assertions, I’d not wish to see. Nothing came of the interview; nothing but fresh mystification. Ellin declared William Brook had arrived, had been driven out of Worcester for Timberdale in St. George’s gig. We felt equally certain we had passed them in Dip Lane, sitting together in the gig; but St. George denied it in toto, affirming that the person with him was a stranger.

  And perhaps it may be as well if I here say a word about the routes. Evesham lay fifteen miles from Worcester; Timberdale not much more than half that distance, in a somewhat different direction, and on a different road. In going to Timberdale, if when about half-way there you quitted the high-road for by-ways you would come to Dip Lane. Traversing nearly the length of the lane, you would then come to a by-way leading from it on the other side, which would bring you on the direct road to Evesham, still far off. Failing to take this by-way leading to Evesham, you would presently quit the lane, and by dint of more by-ways would gain again the high-road and soon come to Timberdale. This is the route that Mr. St. George took that night.

  We went home from Mr. Delorane’s, hopelessly mystified, the Squire rubbing up his hair the wrong way; now blowing us both up for what he called our “fancies” in supposing we saw William Brook, and now veering round to the opposite opinion that we and Ellin must be alike correct in saying Brook had come.

  Ellin’s account was this: she passed a pleasant morning with Mary West, who was nearly always more or less of an invalid. At half-past one o’clock dinner was served; Philip West, his younger brother Gregory, who had recently joined him, and Mr. St. George coming in from the office to partake of it. Dinner over, they left the room, having no time to linger. In fact, Gregory rose from table before he had well finished. Mary West inquired what his haste was, and he replied that he was off to Spetchley; some one had been taken ill there and wanted a will made. It was Philip who ought to have gone, who had been sent for; but Philip had an hour or two’s business yet to do with Mr. St. George. Mrs. West told St. George that she would have tea ready at five o’clock, that he might drink a cup before starting for home.

  Later on in the afternoon, when Ellin and Mrs. West were sitting over the fire, talking of things past and present, and listening to the howling of the wind, growing more furious every hour, James Ashton’s wife came in, all excitement. Her husband, in medical practice at Worcester, was the brother of Robert Ashton of Timberdale. A very nice young woman was Marianne Ashton, but given to an excited manner. Taking no notice of Mrs. West, she flew to Ellin and began dancing round her like a demented Red Indian squaw.

  “What will you give me for my news, Ellin?”

  “Now, Marianne!” remonstrated Mrs. West. “Do be sensible, if you can.”

  “Be quiet, Mary: I am sensible. Your runaway lover is come, Ellin; quite safely.”

  They saw by her manner, heard by her earnest tone, that it was true. William Brook had indeed come, was then in the town. Throwing off her bonnet, and remarking that she meant to remain for tea, Mrs. James Ashton sat down to tell her story soberly.

  “You must know that I had to go up to the Shrub Hill Station this afternoon,” began she, “to meet the Birmingham train. We expected Patty Silvester in by it; and James has been since a most unearthly hour this morning with some cross-grained patient, who must needs go and be ill at the wrong time. I went up in the brougham, and had hardly reached the platform when the train came in. There was a good deal of confusion; there always is, you know; passengers getting out and getting in. I ran about looking for Patty, and found she had not come: taken fright at the weather, I suppose. As the train cleared off, I saw a figure that seemed familiar to me; it was William Brook; and I gave a glad cry that you might have heard on the top of St. Andrew’s spire. He was crossing the line with others who had alighted, a small black-leather travelling-bag in his hand. I was about to run over after him, when a porter stopped me, saying a stray engine was on the point of coming up, to take on the Malvern train. So, all I could do was to stand there, hoping he would turn his head and see me. Well: just as he reached the opposite platform, Mr. St. George stepped out of the station-master’s office, and I can tell you there was some shaking of hands between the two. There’s my story.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “Oh, they are somewhere together, I suppose; on their way here perhaps,” rejoined Mrs. James Ashton carelessly. “I lost sight of them: that ridiculous stray engine the man spoke of puffed up at the minute, and stopped right in front of me. When it puffed on again, leaving the way clear, both he and St. George had vanished. So I got into the brougham to bring you the news in advance, lest the sudden sight of William the deserter should cause a fainting-fit.”

  Ellin, unable to control herself, burst into glad tears of relief. “You don’t know what a strain it has been,” she said. And she sat listening for his step on the stairs. But William Brook did not come.

&nbs
p; At five o’clock punctually the tea was brought in, and waited for some little time on the table. Presently Mr. West appeared. When they told him he was late, he replied that he had lingered in the office expecting Mr. St. George. St. George had left him some time before to go to the Shrub Hill Station, having business to see to there, and had promised to be back by tea-time. However, he was not back yet. Mr. West was very glad to hear of the arrival of William Brook, and supposed St. George was then with him.

  Before the tea was quite over, Gregory West got back from Spetchley. He told them that he had met St. George just outside the town, and that he had a gentleman in his gig. He, Gregory West, who was in his brother’s gig, pulled up to ask St. George whether he was not going home earlier than he had said. Yes, somewhat, St. George called back, without stopping: when he had seen what sort of a night it was going to be, he thought it best to be off as soon as he could.

  “Of course it was William Brook that he had with him, Gregory!” exclaimed Mary West, forgetting that her brother-in-law had never seen William Brook.

  “I cannot tell,” was the only answer the young lawyer could give. “It was a stranger to me: he wore a lightish-coloured over-coat and a white comforter.”

  “That’s he,” said Mrs. James Ashton. “And he had on new tan-coloured kid gloves: I noticed them. I think St. George might have brought him here, in spite of the roughness of the night. He is jealous, Ellin.”

  They all laughed. But never a shadow of doubt rested on any one of their minds that St. George was driving William Brook home to Timberdale. And we, as you have heard, saw him, or thought we saw him, in Dip Lane.