“What can I do for you, Miss Wilcox?” says Mr. Ellin, approaching the writing-table, and taking a chair beside it.
“Perhaps you can advise me,” was the answer; “or perhaps you can give me some information. I feel so thoroughly puzzled, and really fear all is not right.”
“Where? and how?”
“I will have redress if it be possible,” pursued the lady; “but how to set about obtaining it! Draw to the fire, Mr. Ellin; it is a cold day.”
They both drew near to the fire. She continued, “You know the Christmas holidays are near?”
He nodded.
“Well, about a fortnight since, I wrote, as is customary, to the friends of my pupils, notifying the day when we break up and requesting that, if it was desired that any girl should stay the vacation, intimation should be sent accordingly. Satisfactory and prompt answers came to all the notes except one — that addressed to Conway Fitzgibbon, Esquire, May Park, Midland County — Matilda Fitzgibbon’s father, you know.”
“What? won’t he let her go home?”
“Let her go home, my dear sir! you shall hear. two weeks elapsed, during which I daily expected an answer; none came. I felt annoyed at the delay, as I had particularly requested a speedy reply. This very morning I had made up my mind to write again, when — what do you think the post brought me?”
“I should like to know.”
“My own letter — actually my own — returned from the post-office with an intimation — such an intimation! — but read her yourself.”
She handed to Mr. Ellin an envelope; he took from it the returned note and a paper — the paper bore a hastily-scrawled line or two. It said, in brief terms, that there was no such place in Midland County as May Park, and that no such person had ever been heard of there as Conway Fitzgibbon, Esquire.
On reading this, Mr. Ellin slightly opened his eyes.
“I hardly thought it was so bad as this,” said he.
“What? you did think it was bad, then? You suspected that something was wrong?”
“Really! I scarcely know what I thought or suspected. How very odd, no such place as May Park! The grand mansion, the grounds, the oaks, the deer, vanished clean away. And then Fitzgibbon himself! But you saw Fitzgibbon — he came in his carriage?”
“In his carriage!” echoed Miss Wilcox; “a most stylish equipage, and himself a most distinguished person. Do you think, after all, there is some mistake?”
“Certainly, a mistake; but when it is rectified I don’t think Fitzgibbon or May Park will be forthcoming. Shall I run down to Midland County and look after these two precious objects?”
“Oh! would you be so good, Mr. Ellin? I knew you would be so kind; personal inquiry, you know — there’s nothing like it.”
“Nothing at all. Meantime, what shall you do with the child — the pseudo-heiress, if pseudo she be? Shall you correct her — let her know her place?”
“I think,” responded Miss Wilcox reflectively — “I think not exactly as yet; my plan is to do nothing in a hurry; we will inquire first. If after all she should turn out to be connected as was at first supposed, one had better not do anything which one might afterwards regret. No; I shall make no difference with her till I hear from you again.”
“Very good. As you please,” said Mr. Ellin, with that coolness which made him so convenient a counsellor in Miss Wilcox’s opinion. In his dry laconism she found the response suited to her outer worldliness. She thought he said enough if he did not oppose her. The comment he stinted so avariciously she did not want.
Mr. Ellin “ran down,” as he said, to Midland County. It was an errand that seemed to suit him; for he had curious predilections as well as peculiar methods of his own. Any secret quest was to his taste; perhaps there was something of the amateur detective in him. He could conduct an inquiry and draw no attention. His quiet face never looked inquisitive, nor did his sleepless eye betray vigilance.
He was away about a week. The day after his return he appeared in Miss Wilcox’s presence as cool as if he had seen her but yesterday. Confronting her with that fathomless face he liked to show her, he first told her he had done nothing.
Let Mr. Ellin be as enigmatical as he would, he never puzzled Miss Wilcox. She never saw enigma in the man. Some people feared, because they did not understand him; to her it had not yet occurred to begin to spell his nature or analyze his character. If she had an impression about him, it was, that he was an idle but obliging man, not aggressive, of few words, but often convenient. Whether he were clever and deep, or deficient and shallow, close or open, odd or ordinary, she saw no practical end to be answered by inquiry, and therefore did not inquire.
“Why had he done nothing?” she now asked.
“Chiefly because there is nothing to do.”
“Then he could give her no information?”
“Not much; only this, indeed — Conway Fitzgibbon was a man of straw; May Park a house of cards. there was no vestige of such man or mansion in Midland County, or in any other shire in England. Tradition herself had nothing to say about either name or the place. The oracle of old deeds and registers, when consulted, had not responded.”
“Who can he be, then, that came here, and who is this child?”
“That’s just what I can’t tell you; — an incapacity which makes me say I have done nothing.”
“And how am I to get paid?”
“Can’t tell you that either.”
“A quarter’s board and education owing, and master’s terms besides,” pursued Miss Wilcox. “How infamous! I can’t afford the loss.”
“And if we were only in the good old times,” said Mr. Ellin, “where we ought to be, you might just send Miss Matilda out to the plantations in Virginia, sell her for what she is worth, and pay yourself.”
“Matilda, indeed, and Fitzgibbon! A little impostor. I wonder what her real name is?”
“Betty Hodge? Poll Smith? Hannah Jones?” suggested Mr. Ellin.
“Now,” cried Miss Wilcox, “give me credit for sagacity. It’s very odd, but try as I would, — and I made every effort, — I never could really like that child. She has had every indulgence in this house; and I am sure I made great sacrifice of feeling to principle in showing her much attention, for I could not make any one believe the degree of antipathy I have all along felt towards her.”
“Yes. I can believe it. I saw it.”
“Did you? Well, it proves that my discernment is rarely at fault. Her game is now up, however; and time it was. I have said nothing to her yet; but now — “
“Have her in whilst I am here,” said Mr. Ellin. “Has she known of this business? Is she in the secret? Is she herself an accomplice, or a mere tool? Have her in.”
Miss Wilcox rang the bell, demanded Matilda Fitzgibbon, and the false heiress soon appeared. She came in her ringlets, her sash, and her furbelowed dress adornments, alas! no longer acceptable.
“Stand there!” said Miss Wilcox sternly, checking her as she approached the hearth. “Stand there on the further side of the table. I have a few questions to put to you, and your business will be to answer them. And mind, let us have the truth. We will not endure lies.”
Ever since Miss Fitzgibbon had been found in the fit, her face had retained a peculiar paleness and her eyes a dark orbit. When thus addressed, she began to shake and blanch like conscious guilt personified.
“Who are you?” demanded Miss Wilcox. “What do you know about yourself?”
A sort of half-interjection escaped the girl’s lips; it was a sound expressing partly fear, and partly the shock which the nerves feel when an evil, very long expected, at last and suddenly arrives.
“Keep yourself still, and reply, if you please,” said Miss Wilcox, whom nobody should blame for lacking pity, because nature had not made her compassionate. “What is your name? We know you have no right to that of Matilda Fitzgibbon.”
She gave no answer.
“I do insist upon a reply. Speak you shall, sooner or
later. So you had better do it at once.
This inquisition had evidently a very strong effect upon the subject of it. She stood as if palsied, trying to speak, but apparently not competent to articulate.
Miss Wilcox did not fly into a passion, but she grew very stern and urgent, spoke a little loud, and there was a dry clamor in her raised voice which seemed to beat upon the ear and bewilder the brain. Her interest had been injured — her pocket wounded. She was vindicating her rights, and she had no eye to see, and no nerve to feel, but for the point in hand. Mr. Ellin appeared to consider himself strictly a looker-on; he stood on the hearth very quiet.
At last the culprit spoke. A low voice escaped her lips. “Oh, my head!” she cried, lifting her hands to her forehead. She staggered, but caught the door and did not fall. Some accusers might have been startled by such a cry — even silenced; not so Miss Wilcox. She was neither cruel nor violent; but she was coarse because insensible. Having just drawn breath, she went on, harsh as ever.
Mr. Ellin, leaving the hearth, deliberately paced up the room, as if he were tired of standing still, and would walk a little for a change. In returning and passing near the door an the criminal, a faint breath seemed to seek his ear, whispering his name, —
“Oh, Mr. Ellin!”
The child dropped as she spoke. A curious voice — not like Mr. Ellin’s though it came from his lips — asked Miss Wilcox to cease speaking, and say no more. He gathered from the floor what had fallen on it. She seemed overcome, but not unconscious. Resting beside Mr. Ellin, in a few minutes she again drew breath. She raised her eyes to him.
“Come, my little one; have no fear,” said he.
Reposing her head against him, she gradually became assured. It did not cost him another word to bring her round; even strong trembling was calmed by the mere effects of his protection. He told Miss Wilcox with remarkable tranquillity, but still with a certain decision, that the little girl must be put to bed. He carried her up stairs, and saw her laid there himself. Returning to Miss Wilcox, he said, “Say no more to her. Beware, or you will do more mischief than you think or wish. That kind of nature is very different from yours. It is not possible that you should like it; but let it alone. We will talk more on the subject to-morrow. Let me question her.”
Charlotte Brontë’s Juvenilia
TALES OF ANGRIA
In 1834 Charlotte and her brother Branwell created an imaginary kingdom called Angria in a series of tiny handmade books. Continuing their saga some years later, the five ‘novelettes’ were written by Charlotte when she was in her early twenties and depict a aristocratic beau monde in witty and ironic style. Together the tales provide a fascinating glimpse into the mind and creative processes of the young writer before she became the great novelist.
MINA LAURY
The Cross of Rivaulx! Is that a name familiar to my readers? I rather think not. Listen then: it is a green, delightful, and quiet place half way between Angria and the foot of the Sydenham Hills; under the frown of Hawkscliffe, on the edge of its royal forest. You see a fair house, whose sash windows are set in ivy grown thick and kept in trim order; over the front door there is a little modern porch of trellis work, all the summer covered with a succession of verdant leaves and pink rose-globes, buds and full-blown blossoms. Within this, in fine weather, the door is constantly open and reveals a noble passage, almost a hall, terminating in a staircase of low white steps, traced up the middle by a brilliant carpet. You look in vain for anything like a wall or gate to shut it in: the only landmark consists in an old obelisk with moss and wild flowers at its base and an half obliterated crucifix sculptured on its side.
Well, this is no very presuming place, but on a June evening not seldom have I seen a figure, whom every eye in Angria might recognise, stride out of the domestic gloom of that little hall and stand in pleasant leisure under the porch whose flowers and leaves were disturbed by the contact of his curls. Though in a sequestered spot, the Cross of Rivaulx is not one of Zamorna’s secret houses; he’ll let anybody come there that chooses.
The day is breathless, quite still and warm. The sun, far declined for afternoon, is just melting into evening, and sheds a deep amber light. A cheerful air surrounds the mansion whose windows are up, its door as usual hospitably apart, and the broad passage reverberates with a lively conversational hum from the rooms which open into it. The day is of that perfectly mild, sunny kind that by an irresistible influence draws people out into the balmy air; see, there are two gentlemen lounging easily in the porch, sipping coffee from the cups they have brought from the drawing room; a third has stretched himself on the soft moss in the shadow of the obelisk. But for these figures, the landscape could be one of exquisite repose.
Two, [in military dress], are officers from the headquarters of Zamorna’s grand army; the other, reclining on the grass, a slight figure in black, wears a civil dress. That is Mr Warner, the home secretary. Another person was standing by him whom I should not have omitted to describe. It was a fine girl, dressed in rich black satin, with ornaments like those of a bandit’s wife in which a whole fortune seemed to have been expended; but no wonder, for they had doubtless been the gift of a king. In her ears hung two long clear drops, red as fire, and suffused with a purple tint that showed them to be the true oriental ruby. Bright delicate links of gold circled her neck again and again, and a cross of gems lay on her breast, the centre stone of which was a locket enclosing a ringlet of dark brown hair — with that little soft curl she would not have parted for a kingdom.
Warner’s eyes were fixed with interest on Miss Laury as she stood over him, a model of beautiful vigour and glowing health; there was a kind of military erectness in her form, so elegantly built, and in the manner in which her neck, sprung from her exquisite bust, was placed with graceful uprightness on her falling shoulders. Her waits too, falling in behind, and her fine slender foot, supporting her in a regulated position, plainly indicated familiarity from her childhood with the sergeant’s drill. All the afternoon she had been entertaining her exalted guests — the two in the porch were no other than Lord Hartford and Enara — and conversing with them, frankly and cheerfully. These were the only friends she had in the world. Female acquaintance she never sought, nor if she had sought, would she have found them. And so sagacious, clever, and earnest was she in all she said and did, that the haughty aristocrats did not hesitate to communicate with her often on matters of first-rate importance.
Mr Warner was now talking to her about herself.
‘My dear madam,’ he was saying in his usual imperious and still dulcet tone, ‘it is unreasonable that you should remain this exposed to danger. I am your friend — yes, madam, your true friend. Why do you not hear me and attend to my representations of the case? Angria is an unsafe place for you. You ought to leave it.’ The lady shook her head.
‘Never. Till my master compels me, his land is my land.’
‘But — but, Miss Laury, you know that our army have no warrant from the Almighty. This invasion may be successful at least for a time; and then what becomes of you? When the duke’s nation is wrestling with destruction, his glory sunk in deep waters, and himself striving desperately to recover it, can he waste a thought or a moment on one woman?’
Mina smiled.
‘I am resolved,’ said she. ‘My master himself shall not force me to leave him. You know I am hardened, Warner; shame and reproach have no effect on me. I do not care for being called a camp follower. In peace and pleasure all the ladies of Africa would be at the duke’s beck; in war and suffering he shall not lack one poor peasant girl. Why, sir, I’ve nothing else to exist for. I’ve no other interest in life. Just to stand by his grace, watch him and anticipate his wishes, or when I cannot do that, to execute them like lightning when they are signified; to wait on him when he is sick or wounded, to hear his groans and bear his heartrending animal patience in enduring pain; to breathe if I can my own inexhaustible health and energy into him, and oh, if it were practicable, to t
ake his fever and agony; to guard his interests, to take on my shoulders power from him that galls me with its weight; to fill a gap in his mighty train of service which nobody else would dare to step into: to do all that, sir, is to fulfil the destiny I was born to. I know I am of no repute amongst society at large because I have devoted myself so wholly to one man. And I know that he even seldom troubles himself to think of what I do, has never and can never appreciate the unusual feelings of subservience, the total self-sacrifice I offer at his shrine. But then he gives me my reward, and that an abundant one.
‘Mr Warner, when I was at Fort Adrian and had all the yoke of governing the garrison and military household, I used to rejoice in my responsibility, and to feel firmer, the heavier the weight assigned me to support. When my master came over, as he often did to take one of his general surveys, or on a hunting expedition with some of his state officers, I had such delight in ordering the banquets and entertainments, and in seeing the fires kindled up and the chandeliers lighted in those dark halls, knowing for whom the feast was made ready. It gave me a feeling of ecstasy to hear my young master’s voice, to see him moving about secure and powerful in his own stronghold, to know what true hearts he had about him. Besides, sir, his greeting to me, and the condescending touch of his hand, were enough to make a queen proud, let alone a sergeant’s daughter.
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 209
