Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  Seated over the fire, in her comfortable parlour, after supper, Valentine told her his plans. He had come over for one month; could not leave his farm longer; just to shake hands with them all, and to take Jane Preen back with him. That discussed, Mrs. Cramp entered gingerly upon the sad news about Juliet — not having thought well to deluge him with it the moment he came in. Valentine refused to believe it — as he had refused with Jane.

  “Bless the boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Cramp, staring. “What on earth makes him say such a thing?”

  “Because I am sure of it, Aunt Mary Ann. Fancy strong-minded Juliet throwing herself into an eel pond! She is gadding about somewhere, deep already, I daresay, in another flirtation.”

  Mrs. Cramp, waiting to collect her scattered senses, shook her head plaintively. “My dear,” she said, “I don’t pretend to know the fashion of things in the outlandish world in which you live, but over here it couldn’t be. Once a girl has been drowned in a pond — whether eel, duck, or carp pond, what matters it? — she can’t come to life again and go about flirting.”

  To us all Valentine was, as Mrs. Cramp had phrased it, more welcome than the sun in harvest, and was made much of. When a young fellow has been going to the bad, and has the resolution to pull up and to persevere, he should be honoured, cried the Squire — and we did our best to honour Val. For a week or two there was nothing but visiting everywhere. He was then going to Guernsey to see his mother, when she wrote to stop him, saying she was coming back to Crabb for his wedding.

  And while Valentine was reading his mother’s letter at the tea-table — for the Channel Islands letters always came in by the second post — Mrs. Cramp was opening one directed to her. Suddenly Valentine heard a gurgle — and next a moan. Looking up, he saw his aunt gasping for breath, her face an indescribable mixture of emotions.

  “Why, Aunt Mary Ann,” he cried; “are you ill?”

  “If I’m not ill, I might be,” retorted Mrs. Cramp. “Here’s a letter from that wretched girl — that Juliet! She’s not dead after all. She has been in Guernsey all this time.”

  Valentine paused a moment to take in the truth of the announcement, and then burst into laughter deep and long. Mrs. Cramp handed him the letter.

  “Dear Aunt Mary Ann, — I hope you will forgive me! Georgie writes word that you have been in a way about me. I thought you’d be sure to guess it was only a trick. I did it to give a thorough fright to that wicked cat; you can’t think how full of malice she is. I put on my old navy-blue serge and close winter bonnet, which no one would be likely to miss or remember, and carried the other things to the edge of the pond and left them there. While you were at supper I stole away, caught the last train at Crabb Junction, and surprised Clementina at Edgbaston. She promised to be secret — she hates that she-cat — and the next morning I started for Guernsey. Clementina did not tell Georgie till a week ago, after she heard that Valentine would not believe it, and then Georgie wrote to me and blew me up. I am enchanted to hear that the toad passes her nights in horrid fear of seeing my ghost, and that her yellow hair is turning blue; Georgie says it is. — Your ever affectionate and repentant niece,

  “Julietta.

  “P.S. — I hope you will believe I am very sorry for paining you, dear Aunt Mary Ann. And I want to tell you that I think it likely I shall soon be married. An old gentleman out here who has a beautiful house and lots of money admires me very much. Please let Fred Scott know this.”

  And so, there it was — Julietta was in the land of the living and had never been out of it. And we had gone through our fright and pain unnecessarily, and the poor eels had been disturbed for nothing.

  They were married at the little church at Duck Brook; no ceremony, hardly anyone invited to it. Mr. Preen gave Jane away. Tom Chandler and Emma were there, and Mrs. Jacob Chandler and Mrs. Cramp. Jane asked me to go — to see the last of her, she said. She wore a plain silk dress of a greyish colour, and a white straw bonnet with a bit of orange blossom — which she took off before they started on their journey. For they went off at once to Liverpool — and would sail the next day for their new home.

  And Valentine is always steady and prospering, and Jane says Canada is better than England and she wouldn’t come back for the world.

  And Juliet is married and lives in Guernsey, and drives about with her old husband in his handsome carriage and pair. But Mrs. Cramp has not forgiven her yet.

  THE SILENT CHIMES

  I. — PUTTING THEM UP

  I

  The events of this history did not occur within my own recollection, and I can only relate them at second-hand — from the Squire and others. They are curious enough; especially as regard the three parsons — one following upon another — in their connection with the Monk family, causing no end of talk in Church Leet parish, as well as in other parishes within earshot.

  About three miles’ distance from Church Dykely, going northwards across country, was the rural parish of Church Leet. It contained a few farmhouses and some labourers’ cottages. The church, built of grey stone, stood in its large graveyard; the parsonage, a commodious house, was close by; both of them were covered with time-worn ivy. Nearly half a mile off, on a gentle eminence, rose the handsome mansion called Leet Hall, the abode of the Monk family. Nearly the whole of the parish — land, houses, church and all — belonged to them. At the time I am about to tell of they were the property of one man — Godfrey Monk.

  The late owner of the place (except for one short twelvemonth) was old James Monk, Godfrey’s father. Old James had three sons and one daughter — Emma — his wife dying early. The eldest son (mostly styled “young James”) was about as wild a blade as ever figured in story; the second son, Raymond, was an invalid; the third, Godfrey, a reckless lad, ran away to sea when he was fourteen.

  If the Monks were celebrated for one estimable quality more than another, it was temper: a cross-grained, imperious, obstinate temper. “Run away to sea, has he?” cried old James when he heard the news; “very well, at sea he shall stop.” And at sea Godfrey did stop, not disliking the life, and perhaps not finding any other open to him. He worked his way up in the merchant service by degrees, until he became commander and was called Captain Monk.

  The years went on. Young James died, and the other two sons grew to be middle-aged men. Old James, the father, found by signs and tokens that his own time was approaching; and he was the next to go. Save for a slender income bequeathed to Godfrey and to his daughter, the whole of the property was left to Raymond, and to Godfrey after him if Raymond had no son. The entail had been cut off in the past generation; for which act the reasons do not concern us.

  So Raymond, ailing greatly always, entered into possession of his inheritance. He lived about a twelvemonth afterwards, and then died: died unmarried. Therefore Godfrey came into all.

  People were curious, the Squire says, as to what sort of man Godfrey would turn out to be; for he had not troubled home much since he ran away. He was a widower; that much was known; his wife having been a native of Trinidad, in the West Indies.

  A handsome man, with fair, curling hair (what was left of it); proud blue eyes; well-formed features with a chronic flush upon them, for he liked his glass, and took it; a commanding, imperious manner, and a temper uncompromising as the grave. Such was Captain Godfrey Monk; now in his forty-fifth year. Upon his arrival at Leet Hall after landing, with his children and one or two dusky attendants in their train, he was received by his sister Emma, Mrs. Carradyne. Major Carradyne had died fighting in India, and his wife, at the request of her brother Raymond, came then to live at Leet Hall. Not of necessity, for Mrs. Carradyne was well off and could have made her home where she pleased, but Raymond had liked to have her. Godfrey also expressed his pleasure that she should remain; she could act as mother to his children.

  Godfrey’s children were three: Katherine, aged seventeen; Hubert, aged ten; and Eliza, aged eight. The girls had their father’s handsome features, but in their skin there ran a dusky
tinge, hinting of other than pure Saxon blood; and they were every whit as haughtily self-willed as he was. The boy, Hubert, was extremely pretty, his face fair, his complexion delicately beautiful, his auburn hair bright, his manner winning; but he liked to exercise his own will, and appeared to have generally done it.

  A day or two, and Mrs. Carradyne sat down aghast. “I never saw children so troublesome and self-willed in all my life, Godfrey,” she said to her brother. “Have they ever been controlled at all?”

  “Had their own way pretty much, I expect,” answered the Captain. “I was not often at home, you know, and there’s nobody else they’d obey.”

  “Well, Godfrey, if I am to remain here, you will have to help me manage them.”

  “That’s as may be, Emma. When I deem it necessary to speak, I speak; otherwise I don’t interfere. And you must not get into the habit of appealing to me, recollect.”

  Captain Monk’s conversation was sometimes interspersed with sundry light words, not at all orthodox, and not necessarily delivered in anger. In those past days swearing was regarded as a gentleman’s accomplishment; a sailor, it was believed, could not at all get along without it. Manners change. The present age prides itself upon its politeness: but what of its sincerity?

  Mrs. Carradyne, mild and gentle, commenced her task of striving to tame her brother’s rebellious children. She might as well have let it alone. The girls laughed at her one minute and set her at defiance the next. Hubert, who had good feeling, was more obedient; he did not openly defy her. At times, when her task pressed heavily upon her spirits, Mrs. Carradyne felt tempted to run away from Leet Hall, as Godfrey had run from it in the days gone by. Her own two children were frightened at their cousins, and she speedily sent both to school, lest they should catch their bad manners. Henry was ten, the age of Hubert; Lucy was between five and six.

  Just before the death of Raymond Monk, the living of Church Leet became vacant, and the last act of his life was to present it to a worthy young clergyman named George West. This caused intense dissatisfaction to Godfrey. He had heard of the late incumbent’s death, and when he arrived home and found the living filled up he proclaimed his anger loudly, lavishing abuse upon poor dead Raymond for his precipitancy. He had wanted to bestow it upon a friend of his, a Colonial chaplain, and had promised it to him. It was a checkmate there was no help for now, for Mr. West could not be turned out again; but Captain Monk was not accustomed to be checkmated, and resented it accordingly. He took up, for no other reason, a most inveterate dislike to George West, and showed it practically.

  In every step the Vicar took, at every turn and thought, he found himself opposed by Captain Monk. Had he a suggestion to make for the welfare of the parish, his patron ridiculed it; did he venture to propose some wise measure at a vestry meeting, the Captain put him and his measure down. Not civilly either, but with a stinging contempt, semi-covert though it was, that made its impression on the farmers around. The Reverend George West was a man of humility, given to much self-disparagement, so he bore all in silence and hoped for better times.

  The time went on; three years of it; Captain Monk had fully settled down in his ancestral home, and the neighbours had learnt what a domineering, self-willed man he was. But he had his virtues. He was kind in a general way, generous where it pleased him to be, inordinately attached to his children, and hospitable to a fault.

  On the last day of every year, as the years came round, Captain Monk, following his late father’s custom, gave a grand dinner to his tenants; and a very good custom it would have been, but that he and they got rather too jolly. The parson was always invited — and went; and sometimes a few of Captain Monk’s personal friends were added.

  Christmas came round this year as usual, and the invitations to the dinner went out. One came to Squire Todhetley, a youngish man then, and one to my father, William Ludlow, who was younger than the Squire. It was a green Christmas; the weather so warm and genial that the hearty farmers, flocking to Leet Hall, declared they saw signs of buds sprouting in the hedges, whilst the large fire in the Captain’s dining-room was quite oppressive.

  Looking from the window of the parsonage sitting-room in the twilight, while drawing on his gloves, preparatory to setting forth, stood Mr. West. His wife was bending over an easy-chair, in which their only child, little Alice, lay back, covered up. Her breathing was quick, her skin parched with fever. The wife looked sickly herself.

  “Well, I suppose it is time to go,” observed Mr. West, slowly. “I shall be late if I don’t.”

  “I rather wonder you go at all, George,” returned his wife. “Year after year, when you come back from this dinner, you invariably say you will not go to another.”

  “I know it, Mary. I dislike the drinking that goes on — and the free conversation — and the objectionable songs; I feel out of place in it all.”

  “And the Captain’s contemptuous treatment of yourself, you might add.”

  “Yes, that is another unwelcome item in the evening’s programme.”

  “Then, George, why do you go?”

  “Well, I think you know why. I do not like to refuse the invitation; it would only increase Captain Monk’s animosity and widen still further the breach between us. As patron he holds so much in his power. Besides that, my presence at the table does act, I believe, as a mild restraint on some of them, keeping the drinking and the language somewhat within bounds. Yes, I suppose my duty lies in going. But I shall not stay late, Mary,” added the parson, bending to look at the suffering child; “and if you see any real necessity for the doctor to be called in to-night, I will go for him.”

  “Dood-bye, pa-pa,” lisped the little four-year-old maiden.

  He kissed the little hot face, said adieu to his wife and went out, hoping that the child would recover without the doctor; for the living of Church Leet was but a poor one, though the parsonage house was so handsome. It was a hundred-and-sixty pounds a year, for which sum the tithes had been compounded, and Mr. West had not much money to spare for superfluities — especially as he had to substantially help his mother.

  The twilight had deepened almost to night, and the lights in the mansion seemed to smile a cheerful welcome as he approached it. The pillared entrance, ascended to by broad steps, stood in the middle, and a raised terrace of stone ran along before the windows on either side. It was quite true that every year, at the conclusion of these feasts, the Vicar resolved never to attend another; but he was essentially a man of peace, striving ever to lay oil upon troubled waters, after the example left by his Master.

  Dinner. The board was full. Captain Monk presided, genial to-day; genial even to the parson. Squire Todhetley faced the Captain at the foot; Mr. West sat at the Squire’s right hand, between him and Farmer Threpp, a quiet man and supposed to be a very substantial one. All went on pleasantly; but when the elaborate dinner gave place to dessert and wine-drinking, the company became rather noisy.

  “I think it’s about time you left us,” cried the Squire by-and-by to young Hubert, who sat next him on the other side: and over and over again Mr. Todhetley has repeated to us in later years the very words that passed.

  “By George, yes!” put in a bluff and hearty fox-hunter, the master of the hounds, bending forward to look at the lad, for he was in a line with him, and breaking short off an anecdote he was regaling the company with. “I forgot you were there, Master Hubert. Quite time you went to bed.”

  “I daresay!” laughed the boy. “Please let me alone, all of you. I don’t want attention drawn to me.”

  But the slight commotion had attracted Captain Monk’s notice. He saw his son.

  “What’s that? — Hubert! What brings you there now, you young pirate? I ordered you to go out with the cloth.”

  “I am not doing any harm, papa,” said the boy, turning his fair and beautiful face towards his father.

  Captain Monk pointed his stern finger at the door; a mandate which Hubert dared not disobey, and he went out.

&n
bsp; The company sat on, an interminable period of time it seemed to the Vicar. He glanced stealthily at his watch. Eleven o’clock.

  “Thinking of going, Parson?” said Mr. Threpp. “I’ll go with you. My head’s not one of the strongest, and I’ve had about as much as I ought to carry.”

  They rose quietly, not to disturb the table; intending to steal away, if possible, without being observed. Unluckily, Captain Monk chanced to be looking that way.

  “Halloa! who’s turning sneak? — Not you, surely, Parson!—” in a meaningly contemptuous tone. “And you, Threpp, of all men! Sit down again, both of you, if you don’t want to quarrel with me. Odds fish! has my dining-room got sharks in it, that you’d run away? Winter, just lock the door, will you; you are close to it, and pass up the key to me.”

  Mr. Winter, a jovial old man and the largest tenant on the estate, rose to do the Captain’s behest, and sent up the key.

  “Nobody quits my room,” said the host, as he took it, “until we have seen the old year out and the new one in. What else do you come for — eh, gentlemen?”

  The revelry went on. The decanters circulated more quickly, the glasses clinked, the songs became louder, the Captain’s sea stories broader. Mr. West perforce made the best of the situation, certain words of Holy Writ running through his memory:

  “Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth its colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright!”

  Well, more than well, for Captain Monk, that he had not looked upon the red wine that night!

  In the midst of all this, the hall clock began to strike twelve. The Captain rose, after filling his glass to the brim.

  “Bumpers round, gentlemen. On your legs. Ready? Hooray! Here’s to the shade of the year that’s gone, and may it have buried all our cares with it! And here’s good luck to the one setting in. A happy New Year to you all; and may we never know a moment in it worse than the present? Three-times-three — and drain your glasses.”