Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Don’t cry, mamma. It didn’t hurt me much. But, indeed, the snowball was not mine.”

  At ten years old the boys were sent to school. Young Tom, allowed to have his own way, grew beyond every one’s control, even his father’s; and Stephen packed him off to school. Selina besought her husband to send Francis also. Why not, replied Mr. Radcliffe; the boy must be educated. And, in spite of Stephen’s opposition, Francis was despatched. It was frightfully lonely and unpleasant for Selina after that, and she grew to have a pitiful look on her face.

  The school was a sharp one, and Francis got on well; he seemed to possess his grandfather Elliot’s aptitude for learning. Tom hated it. After each of the half-yearly holidays, it took Stephen himself to get him to school again: and before he was fourteen he capped it all by appearing at home uncalled for, a red-hot fugitive, and announcing an intention of going to sea.

  Tom carried his point. After some feats of skirmishing between him and his father, he was shipped off as “midshipman” on board a fine merchantman bound for Hong Kong. Stephen Radcliffe might never have given a consent, but for the certainty that if he did not give it, Tom would decamp from the Torr, as he did from school, and go off as a common seaman before the mast. It was strange, with his crabbed nature, how much he cared for those two children!

  “You’ll have that other one home now,” said sullen Stephen to his father. “No good to be paying for him there.”

  And most likely it would have been so; but fate, or fortune, intervened. Francis had a wind-fall. A clergyman, who had known Mr. Elliot, died, and left Francis a thousand pounds. Selina decided that it should be spent, or at least a portion of it, in completing his education in a more advanced manner — though, no doubt, Stephen would have liked to get hold of the money. Francis was sent up to King’s College in London, and to board at the house of one of the masters. In this way a few more years passed on. Francis chose the Bar as a profession, and began to study law.

  “The Bar!” sneered Stephen. “A penniless beggar like Francis Radcliffe! Put a pig to learn to spell!”

  A bleak day in winter. The wind was howling and crying round Sandstone Torr, tearing through the branches of the almost leafless trees, whirling the weather-cock atop of the lofty tower, playing madly on the window-panes. If there was one spot in the county that the wind seemed to favour above all other spots, it was the Torr. It would go shrieking in the air round about there like so many unquiet spirits.

  In the dusk of evening, on a sofa beside the fire in the Pine Room lay Mrs. Radcliffe, with a white, worn face and hollow eyes. She was slowly dying. Until to-day she had not thought there was any immediate danger: but she knew it all now, and that the end was at hand.

  So it was not that knowledge which had caused her, a day or two ago, to write to London for Francis. Some news brought in by Stephen Radcliffe had unhinged and shocked her beyond expression. Francis was leading a loose, bad life, drinking and gambling, and going to the deuce headlong, ran the tales, and Stephen repeated them indoors.

  That same night she wrote for Francis. She could not rest day or night until she could see him face to face, and say — Is this true, or untrue? He might have reached the Torr the previous day; but he did not. She was lying listening for him now in the twilight gloom amidst the blasts of that shrieking wind.

  “If God had but taken my child in infancy!” came the chief thought of her troubled heart. “If I could only know that I should meet him on the everlasting shores!”

  “Mother!”

  She started up with a yearning cry. It was Francis. He had arrived, and come upstairs, and his opening of the door had been drowned by the wind. A tall, slender, bright-faced young fellow of twenty, with the same sunny hair as in his childhood, and a genial heart.

  Francis halted, and stood in startled consternation. The firelight played on her wasted face, and he saw — what was there. In manners he was still almost a boy; his disposition open, his nature transparent.

  She made room for him on the sofa; sitting beside him, and laying her weary head for a moment on his shoulder. Francis took a few deep breaths while getting over the shock.

  “How long have you been like this, mother? What has brought it about?”

  “Nothing in particular; nothing fresh,” she answered. “I have been getting nearer and nearer to it for years and years.”

  “Is there no hope?”

  “None. And oh, my darling, but for you I should be so glad to die. Sitting here in my loneliness for ever, with only heaven to look forward to, it seems that I have learnt to see a little already of what its rest will be.”

  Francis pushed his hair from his brow, and left his hand there. He had loved his mother intensely, and the blow was cruel.

  Quietly, holding his other hand in hers, she spoke of what Stephen Radcliffe had heard. Francis’s face turned to scarlet as he listened. But in that solemn hour he could not and would not tell a lie.

  Yes, it was true; partly true, he said. He was not always so steady as he ought to be. Some of his acquaintances, young men studying law like himself, or medicine, or what not, were rather wild, and he had been the same. Drink? — well, yes; at times they did take more than might be quite needful. But they were not given to gambling: that was false.

  “Francis,” she said, her heart beating wildly with its pain, “the worst of all is the drink. If once you suffer yourself to acquire a love for it, you may never leave it off. It is so insidious — —”

  “But I don’t love it, mother; I don’t care for it — and I am sure you must know that I would tell you nothing but truth now,” he interrupted. “I have only done as the others do. I’ll leave it off.”

  “Will you promise me that?”

  “Yes, I will. I do promise it.”

  She carried his hand to her lips and kissed it. Francis had always kept his promises.

  “It is so difficult for young fellows without a home to keep straight in London,” he acknowledged. “There’s no good influence over us; there’s no pleasant family circle where we can spend our evenings: and we go out, and get drawn into this and that. It all comes of thoughtlessness, mother.”

  “You have promised me, Francis.”

  “Oh yes. And I will perform.”

  “How long will it be before you are called to the Bar?” she asked, after a pause.

  “Two years.”

  “So much as that?”

  “I think so. How the wind howls!”

  Mrs. Radcliffe sighed; Francis’s future seemed not to be very clear. Unless he could get on pretty quickly, and make a living for himself —

  “When I am gone, Francis,” she said aloud, interrupting her own thoughts, “this will not be any home for you.”

  “It has not been one for me for some years now, mother.”

  “But if you do not get into work soon, and your own funds come to an end, you will have no home but this to turn to.”

  “If I attempted to turn to it, Stephen would soon make it too hot for me, I expect.”

  “That might not be all; not the worst,” she quickly answered, dropping her voice to a tone of fear, and glancing around as one in a fever.

  Francis looked round too. He supposed she was seeking something.

  “It is always scaring me, Francis,” she whispered. “There are times when I fancy I am going to see it enacted before my eyes. It puts me into a state of nervous dread not to be described.”

  “See what enacted?” he asked.

  “I was sitting here about ten days ago, Francis, thinking of you, thinking of the future, when all at once a most startling prevision — yes, I call it so — a prevision came upon me of some dreadful ill in store for you; ill wrought by Stephen. I — I am not sure but it was — that — that he took your life,” she added, scarcely above her breath, and in tones that made Francis shiver.

  “Why, what do you mean, mother?”

  “Every day, every day since, every night and nearly all night, that strange convict
ion has lain upon me. I know it will be fulfilled: when the hand of death is closing on us, these previsions are an instinct. As surely as that I am now disclosing this to you, Francis, so surely will you fall in some way under the iron hand of Stephen.”

  “Perhaps you were dreaming, mother dear,” suggested Francis: for he had his share of common sense.

  “It will be in this house; the Torr,” she went on, paying no attention to him; “for it is always these rooms and the dreary trees outside that seem to lie before me. For that reason, I would not have you live here — —”

  “But don’t you think you may have been dreaming?” repeated Francis, interrupting the rest.

  “I was as wide awake as I am now, Francis, but I was deep in thought. It stole upon me, this impression, without any sort of warning, or any train of ideas that could have led to it; and it lies within me, a sure and settled conviction. Beware of Stephen. But oh, Francis! even while I give you this caution I know that you will not escape the evil — whatever it may turn out to be.”

  “I hope I shall,” he said, rather lightly. “I’ll try, at any rate.”

  “Well, I have warned you, Francis. Be always upon your guard. And keep away from the Torr, if you can.”

  Holt, quite an aged woman now, came in with some tea for her mistress. Francis took the opportunity to go down and see his father. Mr. Radcliffe, in a shabby old coat, was sitting in his arm-chair at the parlour fire. He looked pleased to see Francis, and kept his hand for a minute after he had shaken it.

  “My mother is very ill, sir,” said Francis.

  “Ay,” replied the old man, dreamily. “Been so for some time now.”

  “Can nothing be done to — to — keep her with us a little longer, father?”

  “I suppose not. Ask Duffham.”

  “What the devil! — is it you! What brings you here?”

  The coarse salutation came from Stephen. Francis turned to see him enter and bang the door after him. His shoes were dirty, his beaver gaiters splashed, and his hair was like a tangled mop.

  “I came down to see my father and mother,” answered Francis, as he held out his hand. But Stephen did not choose to see it.

  Mrs. Stephen, in a straight-down blue cloth gown and black cap garnished with red flowers, looking more angular and hard than of yore, came in with the tea-tray. She did as much work in the house as a servant. Lizzy had been married the year before, and lived in Birmingham with her husband, who was curate at one of the churches there.

  “You’ll have to sleep on the sofa to-night, young man,” was Mrs. Stephen’s snappish salutation to Francis. “There’s not a bed in the house that’s aired.”

  “The sofa will do,” he answered.

  “Let his bed be aired to-morrow, Becca,” interposed the old man. And they stared in astonishment to hear him say it.

  Francis sat down to the tea-table with Stephen and his wife; but neither of them spoke a word to him. Mr. Radcliffe had his tea in his arm-chair at the fire, as usual. Afterwards, Francis took his hat and went out. He was going to question the doctor; and the wind came rushing and howling about him as he bore onwards down the lane towards Church Dykely.

  In about an hour’s time he came back again with red eyes. He said it was the wind, but his subdued voice sounded as though he had been crying. His father, with bent head, was smoking a long pipe; Stephen sat at the table, reading the sensational police reports in a low weekly newspaper.

  “Been out for a stroll, lad?” asked old Radcliffe — and it was the first voluntary question he had put for months. Stephen, listening, could not think what was coming to him.

  “I have been to Duffham’s,” answered Francis. “He — he—” with a stopping of the breath, “says that nothing can be done for my mother; that a few days now will see the end of it.”

  “Ay,” quietly responded the old man. “Our turns must all come.”

  “Her turn ought not to have come yet,” said Francis, nearly breaking down.

  “No?”

  “I have been looking forward at odd moments to a time when I should be in work, and able to give her a happy home with me, father. It is very hard to come here and find this.”

  Old Radcliffe took a long whiff; and, opening his mouth, let the smoke curl upwards. “Have a pipe, Francis?”

  “No, thank you, sir. I am going up to my mother.”

  As he left the room, Stephen, having finished the police reports, was turning the paper to see what it said about the markets, when his father put down his pipe and began to speak.

  “Only a few days, he says, Ste!”

  “What?” demanded Stephen in his surly and ungracious tones.

  “She’s been ailing always; and has sat up there away from us, Ste. But we shall miss her.”

  “Miss her!” retorted Ste, leaving the paper, and walking to the fire. “Why, what good has she been? Miss her? The house’ll have a good riddance of her,” he added, under his breath.

  “It’ll be my turn next, Ste. And not long first, either.”

  Stephen took a keen look at his father from beneath his overhanging, bushy eyebrows, that were beginning to turn grey. All this sounded very odd.

  “When you and me and Becca’s left alone here by ourselves, we shall be as easy as can be,” he said.

  “What month is it, Ste?”

  “November.”

  “Ay. You’ll have seen the last o’ me before Christmas.”

  “Think so?” was Stephen’s equable remark. The old man nodded; and there came a pause.

  “And you and Becca’ll be glad to get us out, Ste.”

  Stephen did not take the trouble to gainsay it. He was turning about in his thoughts something that he had a mind to speak of.

  “They’ve been nothing but interlopers from the first — she and him. I expect you to do what’s right by me, father.”

  “Ay, I shall do what’s right,” answered the old man.

  “About the money, I mean. It must all come to me, father. I was heir to it before you ever set eyes on her; and her brat must not be let stand in my way. Do you hear?”

  “Yes, I hear. It’ll be all right, Ste.”

  “Take only a fraction from the income, and how would the Torr be kept up?” pursued Stephen, plucking up his spirits at the last answer. “He has got his fine profession, and he can make a living for himself out of it: some o’ them counsellors make their thousands a-year. But he must not be let rob me.”

  “He shan’t rob you, Ste. It will be all right.”

  And covetous Stephen, thus reassured and put at ease, strolled into the kitchen, and ordered Becca to provide his favourite dish, toasted cheese, for supper.

  The “few days” spoken of by Mr. Duffham, were slowly passing. There was not much difference to be observed in Selina; except that her voice grew weaker. She could only use it at intervals. But her face had a beautiful look of peace upon it, just as though she were three parts in heaven. I have heard Duffham say so many a time since; I, Johnny Ludlow.

  On the fifth day she was so much better that it seemed little short of a miracle. They found her in the Pine Room early, up and dressed: when Holt went in to light the fire, she was looking over the two books that lay on the round table. One of them was the Bible; the other was a translation of the German tale “Sintram,” which Francis had brought her when he came down the last summer. The story had taken hold of her imagination, and she knew it nearly by heart.

  Down went Holt, and told them that the mistress (for, contradictory though it may seem, Selina had been always accorded that title) had taken a “new lease of life,” and was getting well. Becca, astonished, went stalking up: perhaps she was afraid it might be true. Selina had “Sintram” in her hand as she sat: her eyes looked bright, her cheeks pink, her voice was improved.

  “Oh,” said Becca. “What have you left your bed for at this early hour?”

  “I feel so well,” Selina answered with a smile, letting the book lie open on the table. “Won’t
you shake hands with me? — and — and kiss me?”

  Now Becca had never kissed her in all the years they had lived together, and she did not seem to care about beginning now. “I’ll go down and beat you up an egg and a spoonful of wine,” said she, just touching the tips of Selina’s fingers, in response to the held-out hand: and, with that, went away.

  Stephen was the only one who did not pay the Pine Room a visit that day. He heard of the surprising change while he was feeding the pigs: for Becca went out and told him. Stephen splashed some wash over the side of the trough, and gave a little pig a smack with the bucket, and that was all his answer. Old Radcliffe sat an hour in the room; but he never spoke all the time: so his company could not be considered as much.

  Selina crept as far as the window, and looked out on the bare pines and the other dreary trees. Most trees are dreary in November. Francis saw a shiver take her as she stood, leaning on the window-frame; and he went to give her his arm and bring her back again. They were by themselves then.

  “A week, or so, of this improvement, mother, and you will be as you used to be,” said he cheerfully, seating her on the sofa and stirring up the fire. “We shall have our home together yet.”

  She turned her face full on his, as he sat down by her; a half-questioning, half-wondering look in her eyes.

  “Not in this world, Francis. Surely you are not deceived!” and his over-sanguine heart went down like lead.

  “It is but the flickering of the spirit before it finally quits the weary frame; just as you may have seen the flame shoot up from an expiring candle,” she continued. “The end is very near now.”

  A spasm of pain rose in his throat. She took his hands between her own feeble ones.

  “Don’t grieve, Francis; don’t grieve for me! Remember what my life has been.”

  He did remember it. He remembered also the answer Duffham gave when he had inquired what malady it was his mother was dying of. “A broken heart.”