"What is it, my dear? That dog is not barking at you. He only wants to have a stick thrown into the sea for him."
"Oh not the dog! It was--"
"Was, what?"
"HIM!" gasped Rose.
"Who?" inquired the Colonel, far from prepared for the reply, in a terrified whisper,--
"Mr. Maddox."
"My dear child! Which, where?"
"He is gone! he is past. Oh, don't turn back! Don't let me see him again."
"You don't suppose he could hurt you, my dear."
"No," hesitated Rose, "not with you."
"Nor with any one."
"I suppose not," said Rose, common sense reviving, though her grasp was not relaxed.
"Would it distress you very much to try to point him out to me?" said the Colonel, in his irresistibly sweet tone.
"I will. Only keep hold of my hand, pray," and the little hand trembled so much that he felt himself committing a cruel action in leading her along the esplanade, but there was no fresh start of recognition, and when they had gone the whole length, she breathed more freely, and said, "No, he was not there."
Recollecting how young she had been at the time of Maddox's treason, the Colonel began to doubt if her imagination had not raised a bugbear, and he questioned her, "My dear, why are you so much afraid, of this person? What do you know about him?"
"He told wicked stories of my papa," said Rose, very low.
"True, but he could not hurt you. You don't think he goes about like Red Ridinghood's wolf?"
"No, I am not so silly now."
"Are you sure you know him? Did you often see him in your papa's house?"
"No, he was always in the laboratory, and I might not go there."
"Then you see, Rose, it must he mere fancy that you saw him, for you could not even know him by sight."
"It was not fancy," said Rose, gentle and timid as ever, but still obviously injured at the tone of reproof.
"My dear child," said Colonel Keith, with some exertion of patience, "you must try to be reasonable. How can you possibly recognise a man that you tell me you never saw?"
"I said I never saw him in the house," said Rose with a shudder; "but they said if ever I told they would give me to the lions in the Zoological Gardens."
"Who said so?"
"He, Mr. Maddox and Maria," she answered, in such trepidation that he could scarcely hear her.
"But you are old and wise enough now to know what a foolish and wicked threat that was, my dear."
"Yes, I was a little girl then, and knew no better, and once I did tell a lie when mamma asked me, and now she is dead, and I can never tell her the truth."
Colin dreaded a public outbreak of the sobs that heaved in the poor child's throat, but she had self-control enough to restrain them till he had led her into his own library, where he let her weep out her repentance for the untruth, which, wrested from her by terror, had weighed so long on her conscience. He felt that he was sparing Ermine something by receiving the first tempest of tears, in the absolute terror and anguish of revealing the secret that had preyed on her with mysterious horror.
"Now tell me all about it, my dear little girl. Who was this Maria?"
"Maria was my nurse when I lived at home. She used to take me out walking," said Rose, pressing closer to his protecting breast, and pausing as though still afraid of her own words.
"Well," he said, beginning to perceive, "and was it than that you saw this Maddox?"
"Yes, he used to come and walk with us, and sit under the trees in Kensington Gardens with her. And sometimes he gave me lemon-drops, but they said if ever I told, the lions should have me. I used to think I might be saved like Daniel; but after I told the lie, I knew I should not. Mamma asked me why my fingers were sticky, and I did say it was from a lemon-drop, but there were Maria's eyes looking at me; oh, so dreadful, and when mamma asked who gave it to me, and Maria said, 'I did, did not I, Miss Rose?' Oh, I did not seem able to help saying 'yes.'"
"Poor child! And you never dared to speak of it again?"
"Oh, no! I did long to tell; but, oh, one night it was written up in letters of fire, 'Beware of the Lions.'"
"Terror must have set you dreaming, my dear."
"No," said Rose, earnestly. "I was quite awake. Papa and mamma were gone out to dine and sleep, and Maria would put me to bed half an hour too soon. She read me to sleep, but by-and-by I woke up, as I always did at mamma's bed time, and the candle was gone, and there were those dreadful letters in light over the door."
She spoke with such conviction that he became persuaded that all was not delusion, and asked what she did.
"I jumped up, and screamed, and opened the door; but there they were growling in papa's dressing-room."
"They, the lions? Oh, Rose, you must know that was impossible."
"No, I did not see any lions, but I heard the growl, and Mr. Maddox coughed, and said, 'Here they come,' and growled again."
"And you--?"
"I tumbled into bed again, and rolled up my head in the clothes, and prayed that it might be day, and it was at last!"
"Poor child! Indeed, Rose, I do not wonder at your terror, I never heard of a more barbarous trick."
"Was it a trick?" said Rose, raising a wonderfully relieved and hopeful face.
"Did you never hear of writing in phosphorus, a substance that shines at night as the sea sometimes does?"
"Aunt Ailie has a book with a story about writing in fiery letters, but it frightened me so much that I never read to the end."
"Bring it to me, and we will read it together, and then you will see that such a cruel use can be made of phosphorus."
"It was unkind of them," said Rose, sadly, "I wonder if they did it for fun?"
"Where did you sleep?"
"I had a little room that opened into mamma's."
"And where was all this growling?"
"In papa's room. The door was just opposite to mine, and was open. All the light was there, you know. Mamma's room was dark, but there was a candle in the dressing-room."
"Did you see anything?"
"Only the light. It was such a moment. I don't think I saw Mr. Maddox, but I am quite certain I heard him, for he had an odd little cough."
"Then, Rose, I have little doubt that all this cruelty to you, poor inoffensive little being, was to hide some plots against your father."
She caught his meaning with the quickness of a mind precocious on some points though childish on others. "Then if I had been brave and told the truth, he might never have hurt papa."
"Mind, I do not know, and I never thought of blaming you, the chief sufferer! No, don't begin to cry again."
"Ah! but I did tell a lie. And I never can confess it to mamma," she said, recurring to the sad lament so long suppressed.
She found a kind comforter, who led her to the higher sources of consolation, feeling all the time the deep self-accusation with which the sight of sweet childish penitence must always inspire a grown person.
"And now you will not fear to tell your aunt," he added, "only it should be when you can mention it without such sad crying."
"Telling you is almost as good as telling her," said Rose, "and I feel safe with you," she added, caressingly drawing his arm round her. "Please tell Aunt Ermine, for my crying does give her such a headache."
"I will, then, and I think when we all know it, the terrors will leave you."
"Not when I see Mr. Maddox. Oh, please now you know why, don't make me walk without you. I do know now that he could not do anything to me, but I can't help feeling the fright. And, oh! if he was to speak to me!"
"You have not seen him here before?"
"Yes I have, at least I think so. Once when Aunt Ermine sent me to the post-office, and another time on the esplanade. That is why I can't bear going out without you or Aunt Ailie. Indeed, it is not disliking Tibbie."
"I see it is not, my dear, and we will say no more about it till you have conquered your alarm; but rememb
er, that he is not likely to know you again. You must be more changed in these three years than he is."
This consideration seemed to reassure Rose greatly, and her next inquiry was, "Please, are my eyes very red for going home?"
"Somewhat mottled--something of the York and Lancaster rose. Shall I leave you under Tibbie's care till the maiden blush complexion returns, and come back and fetch you when you have had a grand exhibition of my Indian curiosities?"
"Have you Indian curiosities! I thought they were only for ladies?"
"Perhaps they are. Is Tibbie guard enough? You know there's an Irish sergeant in the house taller than I am, if you want a garrison?"
"Oh, I am not afraid, only these eyes."
"I will tell her you have been frightened, and she shall take no notice."
Tibbie was an admirer of Rose and gladly made her welcome, while the Colonel repaired to Ermine, and greatly startled her by the disclosure of the miseries that had been inflicted on the sensitive child.
It had indeed been known that there had been tyranny in the nursery, and to this cause the aunts imputed the startled wistful expression in Rose's eyes; but they had never questioned her, thinking that silence would best wear out the recollection. The only wonder was that her senses had not been permanently injured by that night of terror, which accounted for her unconquerable dread of sleeping in the dark; and a still more inexplicable horror of the Zoological Gardens, together with many a nervous misery that Ermine had found it vain to combat. The Colonel asked if the nurse's cruelty had been the cause of her dismissal?
"No, it was not discovered till after her departure. Her fate has always been a great grief to us, though we little thought her capable of using Rose in this way. She was one of the Hathertons. You must remember the name, and the pretty picturesque hovel on the Heath."
"The squatters that were such a grievance to my uncle. Always suspected of poaching, and never caught."
"Exactly. Most of the girls turned out ill, but this one, the youngest, was remarkably intelligent and attractive at school. I remember making an excuse for calling her into the garden for you to see and confess that English beauty exceeded Scottish, and you called her a gipsy and said we had no right to her."
"So it was those big black eyes that had that fiendish malice in them!"
"Ah! if she fell into Maddox's hands, I wonder the less. She showed an amount of feeling about my illness that won Ailie's heart, and we had her for a little handmaid to help my nurse. Then, when we broke up from home, we still kept her, and every one used to be struck with her looks and manner. She went on as well as possible, and Lucy set her heart on having her in the nursery. And when the upper nurse went away, she had the whole care of Rose. We heard only of her praises till, to our horror, we found she had been sent away in disgrace at a moment's warning. Poor Lucy was young, and so much shocked as only to think of getting her out of the house, not of what was to become of her, and all we could learn was that she never went home."
"How long was this before the crash?"
"It was only a few weeks before the going abroad, but they had been absent nearly a year. No doubt Maddox must have made her aid in his schemes. You say Rose saw him?"
"So she declares, and there is an accuracy of memory about her that I should trust to. Should you or Alison know him?"
"No, we used to think it a bad sign that Edward never showed him to us. I remember Alison being disappointed that he was not at the factory the only time she saw it."
"I do not like going away while he may be lurking about. I could send a note to-night, explaining my absence."
"No, no," exclaimed Ermine, "that would be making me as bad as poor little Rose. If he be here ever so much he has done his worst, and Edward is out of his reach. What could he do to us? The affairs were wound up long ago, and we have literally nothing to be bullied out of. No, I don't think he could make me believe in lions in any shape."
"You strong-minded woman! You want to emulate the Rachel."
"You have brought her," laughed Ermine at the sound of the well-known knock, and Rachel entered bag in hand.
"I was in hopes of meeting you," she said to the Colonel. "I wanted to ask you to take charge of some of these;" and she produced a packet of prospectuses of a "Journal of Female Industry," an illustrated monthly magazine, destined to contain essays, correspondence, reviews, history, tales, etc., to be printed and illustrated in the F. U. E. E.
"I hoped," said Rachel, "to have begun with the year, but we are not forward enough, and indeed some of the expenses require a subscription in advance. A subscriber in advance will have the year's numbers for ten shillings, instead of twelve; and I should be much obliged if you would distribute a few of these at Bath, and ask Bessie to do the same. I shall set her name down at the head of the list, as soon as she has qualified it for a decoy."
"Are these printed at the F. U. E. E.?"
"No, we have not funds as yet. Mr. Mauleverer had them done at Bristol, where he has a large connexion as a lecturer, and expects to get many subscribers. I brought these down as soon as he had left them with me, in hopes that you would kindly distribute them at the wedding. And I wished," added she to Ermine, "to ask you to contribute to our first number."
"Thank you," and the doubtful tone induced Rachel to encourage her diffidence.
"I know you write a great deal, and I am sure you must produce something worthy to see the light. I have no scruple in making the request, as I know Colonel Keith agrees with me that womanhood need not be an extinguisher for talent."
"I am not afraid of him," Ermine managed to say without more smile than Rachel took for gratification.
"Then if you would only entrust me with some of your fugitive reflections, I have no doubt that something might be made of them. A practised hand," she added with a certain editorial dignity, "can always polish away any little roughnesses from inexperience."
Ermine was choking with laughter at the savage pulls that Colin was inflicting on his moustache, and feeling silence no longer honest, she answered in an odd under tone, "I can't plead inexperience."
"No!" cried Rachel. "You have written; you have not published!"
"I was forced to do whatever brought grist to the mill," said Ermine. "Indeed," she added, with a look as if to ask pardon; "our secrets have been hardly fair towards you, but we made it a rule not to spoil our breadwinner's trade by confessing my enormities."
"I assure you," said the Colonel, touched by Rachel's appalled look, "I don't know how long this cautious person would have kept me in the dark if she had not betrayed herself in the paper we discussed the first day I met you."
"The 'Traveller,'" said Rachel, her eyes widening like those of a child. "She is the 'Invalid'!"
"There, I am glad to have made a clean breast of it," said Ermine.
"The 'Invalid'!" repeated Rachel. "It is as bad as the Victoria Cross."
"There is a compliment, Ermine, for which you should make your bow," said Colin.
"Oh, I did not mean that," said Rachel; "but that it was as great a mistake as I made about Captain Keith, when I told him his own story, and denied his being the hero, till I actually saw his cross," and she spoke with a genuine simplicity that almost looked like humour, ending with, "I wonder why I am fated to make such mistakes!"
"Preconceived notions," said Ermine, smiling; "your theory suffices you, and you don't see small indications."
"There may be something in that," said Rachel, thoughtfully, "it accounts for Grace always seeing things faster than I did."
"Did Mr.--, your philanthropist, bring you this today?" said the Colonel, taking up the paper again, as if to point a practical moral to her confession of misjudgments.
"Mr. Mauleverer? Yes; I came down as soon as he had left me, only calling first upon Fanny. I am very anxious for contributions. If you would only give me a paper signed by the 'Invalid,' it would be a fortune to the institution."
Ermine made a vague answer that she doubte
d whether the 'Invalid' was separable from the 'Traveller,' and Rachel presently departed with her prospectus, but without having elicited a promise.
"Intolerable!" exclaimed the Colonel. "She was improving under Bessie's influence, but she has broken out worse than ever. 'Journal of Female Industry!' 'Journal of a Knight of Industry,' might be a better title. You will have nothing to do with it, Ermine?"
"Certainly not as the 'Invalid,' but I owe her something for having let her run into this scrape before you."
"As if you could have hindered her! Come, don't waste time and brains on a companion for Curatocult."
"You make me so idle and frivolous that I shall be expelled from the 'Traveller,' and obliged to take refuge in the 'Female Industry Journal.' Shall you distribute the prospectuses?"
"I shall give one to Bessie! That is if I go at all."
"No, no, there is no valid reason for staying away. Even if we were sure that Rose was right, nothing could well come of it, and your absence would be most invidious."
"I believe I am wanted to keep Master Alick in order, but if you have the least feeling that you would be more at ease with me at home--"
"That is not a fair question," said Ermine, smiling. "You know very well that you ought to go."
"And I shall try to bring back Harry Beauchamp," added the Colonel. "He would be able to identify the fellow."
"I do not know what would be gained by that."
"I should know whom to watch."
Ermine had seen so much of Rose's nervous timidity, and had known so many phantoms raised by it, that she attached little importance to the recognition, and when she went over the matter with her little niece, it was with far more thought of the effect of the terror, and of the long suppressed secret, upon the child's moral and physical nature, than with any curiosity as to the subject of her last alarm. She was surprised to observe that Alison was evidently in a state of much more restlessness and suspense than she was conscious of in herself, during Colin's absence, and attributed this to her sister's fear of Maddox's making some inroad upon her in her long solitary hours, in which case she tried to reassure her by promises to send at once for Mr. Mitchell or for Coombe.
The Clever Woman of the Family Page 29
