by Ellen Wood
And in that moment a revelation came to Ann Fennel. It was this apparition which had been wont to haunt her husband in the house and terrify him beyond control. Not a thief; not Flore — but Lavinia!
XV.
On the Monday morning Flore found her mistress in so sick and suffering and strange a state, that she sent for Madame Carimon. In vain Mary Carimon, after hearing Nancy’s tale, strove to convince her that what she saw was fancy, the effect of diseased nerves. Nancy was more obstinate than a mule.
“What I saw was Lavinia,” she shivered. “Lavinia’s apparition. No good to tell me it was not; I have seen it now twice. It was as clear and evident to me, both times, as ever she herself was in life. That’s what Edwin used to see; I know it now; and he became unable to bear the house. I seem to read it all as in a book, Mary. He got his brother to send for him, and he is staying away because he dreads to come back again. But you know I cannot stay here alone now.”
Madame Carimon wrote off at once to Captain Fennel, Nancy supplying the address. She told him that his wife was ill; in a nervous state; fancying she saw Lavinia in the house. Such a report, she added, should if possible be kept from spreading to the town, and therefore she must advise him to return without delay.
The letter brought back Captain Fennel, Flore having meanwhile remained entirely at the Petite Maison Rouge. Perhaps the captain did not in secret like that little remark of its being well to keep it from the public; he may have considered it suggestive, coming from Mary Carimon. He believed she read him pretty correctly, and he hated her accordingly. Any way, he deemed it well to be on the spot. Left to herself, there was no telling what ridiculous things Nancy might be saying or fancying.
Edwin Fennel did not return alone. His brother’s wife was with him. Mrs. James, they called her, James being the brother’s Christian name. Mrs. James was not a lady in herself or in manner; but she was lively and very good-natured, and these qualities were what the Petite Maison Rouge wanted in it just now; and perhaps that was Captain Fennel’s motive in bringing her. Nancy was delighted. She almost forgot her fears and fancies. Flore was agreeable also, for she was now at liberty to return to ordinary arrangements. Thus there was a lull in the storm. They walked out with Mrs. James on the pier, and took her to see the different points of interest in the town; they even gave a little soirée for her, and in return were invited to other houses.
One day, when the two ladies were gossiping together, Nancy, in the openness of her heart, related to Mrs. James the particulars of Lavinia’s unexpected and rather mysterious death, and of her appearing in the house again after it. Captain Fennel disturbed them in the midst of the story. His wife was taking his name in vain at the moment of his entrance, saying how scared he had been at the apparition.
“Hold your peace, you foolish woman!” he thundered, looking as if he meant to strike her. “Don’t trouble Mrs. James’s head with such miserable rubbish as that.”
Mrs. James did not appear to mind it. She burst into a hearty laugh. She never had seen a ghost, she said, and was sure she never should; there were no such things. But she should like to hear all about poor Miss Preen’s death.
“There was nothing else to hear,” the captain growled. “She caught a chill on the Sunday, coming out of the hot church after morning service. It struck inwardly, bringing on inflammation, which the medical men could not subdue.”
“But you know, Edwin, the church never is hot, and you know the doctors decided it was not a chill. Monsieur Podevin especially denied it,” dissented Nancy, who possessed about as much insight as a goose, and a little less tact.
“Then what did she die of?” questioned Mrs. James. “Was she poisoned?”
“Oh, how can you suggest so dreadful a thing!” shrieked Nancy. “Poisoned! Who would be so wicked as to poison Lavinia? Every one loved her.”
Which again amused the listening lady. “You have a quick imagination, Mrs. Edwin,” she laughed. “I was thinking of mushrooms.”
“And I of tinned meats and copper saucepans,” supplemented Captain Fennel. “However, there could be no suspicion even of that sort in Lavinia’s case, since she had touched nothing but what we all partook of. She died of inflammation, Mrs. James.”
“Little doubt of it,” acquiesced Mrs. James. “A friend of mine went, not twelve months ago, to a funeral at Brompton Cemetery; the ground was damp, and she caught a chill. In four days she was dead.”
“Women have no business at funerals,” growled Edwin Fennel. “Why should they parade their grief abroad? You see nothing of the kind in France.”
“In truth I think you are not far wrong,” said Mrs. James. “It is a fashion which has sprung up of late. A few years ago it was as much unknown with us as it is with the French.”
“They will be catching it up next, I suppose,” retorted the captain, as if the thing were a personal grievance to him.
“Little doubt of it,” laughed Mrs. James.
After staying at Sainteville for a month, Mrs. James Fennel took her departure for London. Captain Fennel proposed to escort her over; but his wife went into so wild a state at the mere mention of it, that he had to give it up.
“I dare not stay in the house by myself, Edwin,” she shuddered. “I should go to the Vice-Consul and to other influential people here, and tell them of my misery — that I am afraid of seeing Lavinia.”
And Captain Fennel believed she would be capable of doing it. So he remained with her.
That the spectre of the dead-and-gone Lavinia did at times appear to them, or else their fancies conjured up the vision, was all too certain. Three times during the visit of Mrs. James the captain had been betrayed into one of his fits of terror: no need to ask what had caused it. After her departure the same thing took place. Nancy had not again seen anything, but she knew he had.
“We shall not be able to stay in the house, Edwin,” his wife said to him one evening when they were sitting in the salon at dusk after Flore’s departure; nothing having led up to the remark.
“I fancy we should be as well out of it,” replied he.
“Oh, Edwin, let us go! If we can! There will be all the rent to pay up first.”
“All the what?” said he.
“The rent,” repeated Nancy; “up to the end of the term we took it for. About three years longer, I think, Edwin. That would be sixty pounds.”
“And where do you suppose the sixty pounds would come from?”
“I don’t know. There’s the impediment, you see,” remarked Nancy blankly. “We cannot leave without paying up.”
“Unless we made a moonlight flitting of it, my dear.”
“That I never will,” she rejoined, with a firmness he could not mistake. “You are only jesting, Edwin.”
“It would be no jesting matter to pay up that claim, and others; for there are others. Our better plan, Nancy, will be to go off by the London boat some night, and not let any one know where we are until I can come back to pay. You may see it is the only thing to be done, and you must bring your mind to it.”
“Never by me,” said Nancy, strong in her innate rectitude. “As to hiding ourselves anywhere, that can never be; I should not conceal my address from Mary Carimon — I could not conceal it from Colonel Selby.”
Captain Fennel ground his teeth. “Suppose I say that this shall be, that we will go, and order you to obey me? What then?”
“No, Edwin, I could not. I should go in to Monsieur Gustave Sauvage, and say to him, ‘We were thinking of running away, but I cannot do it; please put me in prison until I can pay the debt.’ And then — —”
“Are you an idiot?” asked Captain Fennel, staring at her.
“And then, when I was in prison,” went on Nancy, “I should write to tell William Selby; and perhaps he would come over and release me. Please don’t talk in this kind of way again, Edwin. I should keep my word.”
Mr. Edwin Fennel could not have felt more astounded had his wife then and there turned into a dromedar
y before his eyes. She had hitherto been tractable as a child. But he had never tried her in a thing that touched her honour, and he saw that the card which he had intended to play was lost.
Captain Fennel played another. He went away himself.
Making the best he could of the house and its haunted state (though day by day saw him looking more and more like a walking skeleton) throughout the greater part of June, for the summer had come in, he despatched his wife to Pontipette one market day — Saturday — to remain there until the following Wednesday. Old Mrs. Hardy had gone to the homely but comfortable hotel at Pontipette for a change, and she wrote to invite Nancy to stay a short time with her. Charles Palliser was in England. Captain Fennel proceeded to London by that same Saturday night’s boat, armed with a letter from his wife to Colonel Selby, requesting the colonel to pay over to her husband her quarterly instalment instead of sending it to herself. Captain Fennel had bidden her do this; and Nancy, of strict probity in regard to other people’s money, could not resist signing over her own.
“But you will be sure to bring it all back, won’t you, Edwin? and to be here by Wednesday, the day I return?” she said to him.
“Why, of course I shall, my dear.”
“It will be a double portion now — thirty-five pounds.”
“And a good thing, too; we shall want it,” he returned.
“Indeed, yes; there’s such a heap of things owing for,” concluded Nancy.
Thus the captain went over to England in great glee, carrying with him the order for the money. But he was reckoning without his host.
Upon presenting himself at the bank in the City on Monday morning, he found Colonel Selby absent; not expected to return before the end of that week, or the beginning of the next. This was a check for Captain Fennel. He quite glared at the gentleman who thus informed him — Mr. West, who sat in the colonel’s room, and was his locum tenens for the time being.
“Business is transacted all the same, I conclude?” said he snappishly.
“Why, certainly,” replied Mr. West, marvelling at the absurdity of the question. “What can I do for you?”
Captain Fennel produced his wife’s letter, requesting that her quarter’s money should be paid over to him, and handed in her receipt for the same. Mr. West read them both, the letter twice, and then looked direct through his silver-rimmed spectacles at the applicant.
“I cannot do this,” said he; “it is a private matter of Colonel Selby’s.”
“It is not more private than any other payment you may have to make,” retorted Captain Fennel.
“Pardon me, it is. This really does not concern the bank at all. I cannot pay it without Colonel Selby’s authority: he has neither given it nor mentioned it to me. Another thing: the payment, as I gather from the wording of Mrs. Ann Fennel’s letter, is not yet due. Upon that score, apart from any other, I should decline to pay it.”
“It will be due in two or three days. Colonel Selby would not object to forestall the time by that short period.”
“That would, of course, be for the colonel’s own consideration.”
“I particularly wish to receive the money this morning.”
Mr. West shook his head in answer. “If you will leave Mrs. Fennel’s letter and receipt in my charge, sir, I will place them before the colonel as soon as he returns. That is all I can do. Or perhaps you would prefer to retain the latter,” he added, handing back the receipt over the desk.
“Business men are the very devil to stick at straws,” muttered Captain Fennel under his breath. He saw it was no use trying to move the one before him, and went out, saying he would call in a day or two.
Now it happened that Colonel Selby, who was only staying at Brighton for a rest (for he had been very unwell of late), took a run up to town that same Monday morning to see his medical attendant. His visit paid, he went on to the bank, surprising Mr. West there about one o’clock. After some conference upon business matters, Mr. West spoke of Captain Fennel’s visit, and handed over the letter he had left.
Colonel Selby drew in his lips as he read it. He did not like Mr. Edwin Fennel; and he would most assuredly not pay Ann Fennel’s money to him. He returned the letter to Mr. West.
“Should the man come here again, West, tell him, as you did this morning, that he can see me on my return — which will probably be on this day week,” said the colonel. “No need to say I have been up here to-day.”
And on the following day, Tuesday, Colonel Selby, being then at Brighton, drew out a cheque for the quarter almost due and sent it by post to Nancy at Sainteville.
Thus checkmated in regard to the money, Captain Fennel did not return home at the time he promised, even if he had had any intention of doing so. When Nancy returned to Sainteville on the Wednesday from Pontipette, he was not there. The first thing she saw waiting for her on the table was Colonel Selby’s letter containing the cheque for five-and-thirty pounds.
“How glad I am it has come to me so soon!” cried Nancy; “I can pay the bills now. I suppose William Selby thinks it would not be legal to pay it to Edwin.”
The week went on. Each time a boat came in, Nancy was promenading the port, expecting to see her husband land from it. On the Sunday morning Nancy received a letter from him, in which he told her he was waiting to see Colonel Selby, to get the money paid to him. Nancy wrote back hastily, saying it had been received by herself, and that she had paid it nearly all away in settling the bills. She begged him to come back by the next boat. Flore was staying in the house altogether, but at an inconvenience.
On the Monday evening Mrs. Fennel had another desperate fright. She went to take tea with an elderly lady and her daughter, Mrs. and Miss Lambert, bidding Flore to come for her at half-past nine o’clock. Half-past nine came, but no Flore; ten o’clock came, and then Mrs. Fennel set off alone, supposing Flore had misunderstood her and would be found waiting for her at home. The moonlit streets were crowded with promenaders returning from their summer evening walk upon the pier.
Nancy rang the bell; but it was not answered. She had her latch-key in her pocket, but preferred to be admitted, and she rang again. No one came. “Flore must have dropped asleep in the kitchen,” she petulantly thought, and drew out her key.
“Flore!” she called out, pushing the door back. “Flore, where are you?”
Flore apparently was nowhere, very much to the dismay of Mrs. Fennel. She would have to go in alone, all down the dark passage, and wake her up. Leaving the door wide open, she advanced in the dark with cautious steps, the old terror full upon her.
The kitchen was dark also, so far as fire or candlelight went, but a glimmer of moonlight shone in at the window. “Are you not here, Flore?” shivered Nancy. But there was no response.
Groping for the match-box on the mantel-shelf over the stove, and not at once finding it, Nancy suddenly took up an impression that some one was standing in the misty rays of the moon. Gazing attentively, it seemed to assume the shadowy form of Lavinia. And with a shuddering cry Nancy Fennel fell down upon the brick floor of the kitchen.
XVI.
It was a lovely summer’s day, and Madame Carimon’s neat little slip of a kitchen was bright and hot with the morning sun. Madame, herself, stood before the paste-board, making a green-apricot tart. Of pies and tarts à la mode Anglaise, Monsieur Jules was more fond than a schoolboy; and of all tarts known to the civilized world, none can equal that of a green apricot.
Madame had put down the rolling-pin, and stood for the moment idle, looking at Flore Pamart, and listening to something that Flore was saying. Flore, whisking out of the Petite Maison Rouge a few minutes before, ostensibly to do her morning’s marketings, had whisked straight off to the Rue Pomme Cuite, and was now seated at the corner of the pastry-table, telling a story to Madame Carimon.
“It was madame’s own fault,” she broke off in her tale to remark. “Madame will give me her orders in French, and half the time I can’t understand them. She had an engagement to ta
ke tea at Madame Smith’s in the Rue Lambeau, was what I thought she said to me, and that I must present myself there at half-past nine to walk home with her. Well, madame, I went accordingly, and found nobody at home there but the bonne, Thomasine. Her master was dining out at the Sous-préfet’s, and her mistress had gone out with some more ladies to walk on the pier, as it was so fine an evening. Naturally I thought my mistress was one of the ladies, and sat there waiting for her and chatting with Thomasine. Madame Smith came in at ten o’clock, and then she said that my lady had not been there and that she had not expected her.”
“She must have gone to tea elsewhere,” observed Madame Carimon.
“Clearly, madame; as I afterwards found. It was to Madame Lambert’s, in the Rue Lothaire, that I ought to have gone. I could only go home, as madame sees; and when I arrived there I found the house-door wide open. Just as I entered, a frightful cry came from the kitchen, and there I found her dropped down on the floor, half senseless with terror. Madame, she avowed to me that she had seen Mademoiselle Lavinia standing near her in the moonlight.”
Madame Carimon took up her rolling-pin slowly before she spoke. “I know she has a fancy that she appears in the house.”
“Madame Carimon, I think she is in the house,” said Flore solemnly. And for a minute or two Madame Carimon rolled her paste in silence.
“Monsieur Fennel used to see her — I am sure he did — and now his wife sees her,” went on the woman. “I think that is the secret of his running away so much: he can’t bear the house and what is haunting it.”
“It is altogether a dreadful thing; I lie awake thinking of it,” bewailed Mary Carimon.
“But it cannot be let go on like this,” said Flore; “and that’s what has brought me running here this morning — to ask you, madame, whether anything can be done. If she is left alone to see these sights, she’ll die of it. When she got up this morning she was shivering like a leaf in the wind. Has madame noticed that she is wasting away? For the matter of that, so was Monsieur Fennel.”
