Works of Ellen Wood, page 1142
“Why, yes, of course He did. As He does now.”
Mr. Tamlyn came into the room presently: he had been out to a patient. Seeing that Bertie was half asleep, he and Dr. Knox stood talking together on the hearthrug.
“What’s that?” cried the surgeon, suddenly catching sight of the movement of the restless fingers picking at the counterpane.
Dr. Knox did not answer.
“A trick he always had,” said the surgeon, breaking the silence, and trying to make believe to cheat himself still. “The maids say he wears out all his quilts.”
Bertie opened his eyes. “Is that you, papa? Is tea over?”
“Why, yes, my boy; two or three hours ago,” said the father, going forward. “Why? Do you wish for some tea?”
“Oh, I — I thought Arnold would have liked some.”
He closed his eyes again directly. Dr. Knox took leave in silence, promising to be there again in the morning. As he was passing the dining-room downstairs, he saw Mr. Shuttleworth, who had just looked in. They shook hands, began to chat, and Dr. Knox sat down.
“I hear you do not like Lefford,” he said.
“I don’t dislike Lefford: it’s a pretty and healthy place,” was Mr. Shuttleworth’s answer. “What I dislike is my position in it as Tamlyn’s partner. The practice won’t do for me.”
“A doubt lay on my mind whether it would suit you when you came down to make the engagement,” said Dr. Knox. “Parish work is not to every one’s taste. And there’s a great deal of practice besides. But the returns from that must be good.”
“I wouldn’t stay in it if it were worth a million a-year,” cried Mr. Shuttleworth. “Dockett takes the parish; I make him; but he is not up to much yet, and of course I feel that I am responsible. As to the town practice, why, I assure you nearly all of it has lain on me. Tamlyn, poor fellow, can think of nothing but his boy.”
“He will not have him here long to think of, I fear.”
“Not very long; no. I hear, doctor, he is going to offer a partnership to you.”
“He has said something about it. I shall take it, if he does. Lefford is my native place, and I would rather live here than anywhere. Besides, I don’t mind work,” he added, with a smile.
“Ah, you are younger than I am. But I’d advise you, as I have advised Tamlyn, to give up the parish. For goodness’ sake do, Knox. Tamlyn says that at one time he had not much else but the parish, but it’s different now. Your father had all the better practice then.”
“Shall you set up elsewhere?”
“Not at present,” said Mr. Shuttleworth. “We — I — perhaps you have heard, though — that I and Bessy are going to make a match of it? We shall travel for a few months, or so, and then come home and pitch our tent in some pleasant sea-side place. If a little easy practice drops in to me there, well and good: if not, we can do without it. Stay and smoke a cigar with me?”
Arnold looked at his watch, and sat down again. He wanted to ask Mr. Shuttleworth about Miss Carey’s illness.
“The cause of her illness was the loss of that bank-note,” said the surgeon. “They accused her of stealing it, and wanted to give her into custody. A little more, and she’d have had brain-fever. She was a timid, inexperienced girl, and the fright gave her system a shock.”
“Miss Carey would no more steal a bank-note than you or I would steal one, Shuttleworth.”
“Not she. I told Mrs. Knox so: but she scoffed at me.”
“That Miss Carey is innocent as the day, that she is an upright, gentle, Christian girl, I will stake my life upon,” said Dr. Knox. “How the note can have gone is another matter.”
“Are you at all interested in finding it out?” questioned Mr. Shuttleworth.
“Certainly I am. Every one ought to be, I think.”
The surgeon took his cigar from his mouth. “I’ll tell you my opinion, if you care to know it,” he said. “The note was burnt.”
“Burnt!”
“Well, it is the most likely solution of the matter that I can come to. Either burnt, or else was blown away.”
“But why do you say this?” questioned Dr. Knox.
“It was a particularly windy day. The glass-doors of the room were left open while the house ran about in a fright, attending to the child, young Dick. A flimsy bit of bank-paper, lying on the table, would get blown about like a feather in a gale. Whether it got into the fire, caught by the current of the chimney, or whether it sailed out-of-doors and disappeared in the air, is a question I can’t undertake to solve. Rely upon it, Knox, it was one of the two: and I should bet upon the fire.”
It was just the clue Dr. Knox had been wishing for. But he did not think the whole fault lay with the wind: he had another idea.
Lefford had a shock in the morning. Bertie Tamlyn was dead. The news came to Dr. Knox in a note from Mr. Tamlyn, which was delivered whilst he was dressing. “You will stay for the funeral, Arnold,” were the concluding words. And as Dr. Knox wanted to be at home a little longer on his own account, he wrote to London to say that business was temporarily detaining him. He then went to see what he could do for Mr. Tamlyn, and got back to Rose Villa for dinner.
Watching for an opportunity — which did not occur until late in the afternoon — Dr. Knox startled the servants by walking into the kitchen, and sitting down. Mrs. Knox had gone off in the pony-chaise; the children were out with the new governess. The kitchen and the servants were alike smartened-up for the rest of the day. Eliza, the cook, was making a new pudding-cloth; Sally was ironing.
“I wish to ask you both a few questions,” said Dr. Knox, taking out his note-book and pencil. “It is not possible that Miss Carey can be allowed to lie under the disgraceful accusation that was brought against her, and I am about to try and discover what became of the bank-note. Mrs. Knox was not in the house at the time, and therefore cannot give me the details.”
Eliza, who had risen and stood, work in hand, simply stared at the doctor in surprise. Sally dropped her iron on the blanket.
“We didn’t take the note, sir,” said Eliza, after a pause. “We’d not do such a thing.”
“I’m sure I didn’t; I’d burn my hands off first,” broke in Sally, with a burst of tears.
“Of course you would not,” returned Dr. Knox in a pleasant tone. “The children would not. Mrs. Knox would not. But as the note undoubtedly disappeared, and without hands, we must try and discover where the mystery lies and how it went. I dare say you would like Miss Carey to be cleared.”
“Miss Carey was a downright nice young lady,” pronounced the cook. “Quite another sort from this one we’ve got now.”
“Well, give me all the particulars as correctly as you can remember,” said the doctor. “We may get some notion or other out of them.”
Eliza plunged into the narration. She was fond of talking. Sally stood over her ironing, sniffing and sighing. Dr. Knox listened.
“Mrs. Knox left the note on the table — which was much strewed with papers — when she went out with Lady Jenkins, and Miss Carey took her place at the accounts,” repeated Dr. Knox, summing up the profuse history in a few concise words. “While — —”
“And Miss Carey declared, sir, that she never saw the note; never noticed it lying there at all,” came Eliza’s interruption.
“Yes, just so. While Miss Carey was at the table, the alarm came that Master Dick had fallen out of the tree, and she ran to him — —”
“And a fine fright that fall put us into, sir! We thought he was dead. Jim went galloping off for the doctor, and me and Sally and Miss Carey stayed bathing his head on that there very ironing-board, a-trying to find out what the damage was.”
“And the children: where were they?”
“All round us here in the kitchen, sir, sobbing and staring.”
“Meanwhile the garden-room was deserted. No one went into it, as far as you know.”
“Nobody at all, sir. When Sally ran in to look at the fire, she found it had gone clean out. The doctor had been there then, and Master Richard was in bed. A fine pickle Sally found the room in, with the scraps of paper, and that, blown about the floor. The glass-doors was standing stark staring open to the wind.”
“And, I presume, you gathered up some of these scraps of paper, and lighted the fire with them, Sally?”
Dr. Knox did not appear to look at Sally as he spoke, but he saw and noted every movement. He saw that her hand shook so that she could scarcely hold the iron.
“Has it never struck you, Sally, that you might have put the bank-note into the grate with these scraps of paper, and burnt it?” he continued. “Innocently, of course. That is how I think the note must have disappeared. Had the wind taken it into the garden, it would most probably have been found.”
Sally flung her apron over her face and herself on to a chair, and burst into a howl. Eliza looked at her.
“If you think there is a probability that this was the case, Sally, you must say so,” continued Dr. Knox. “You will never be blamed, except for not having spoken.”
“’Twas only yesterday I asked Sally whether she didn’t think this was the way it might have been,” said the cook in a low tone to Dr. Knox. “She have seemed so put out, sir, for a week past.”
“I vow to goodness that I never knew I did it,” sobbed Sally. “All the while the bother was about, and Miss Carey, poor young lady, was off her head, it never once struck me. What Eliza and me thought was, that some tramps must have come round the side of the house and got in at the open glass-doors, and stole it. The night after Miss Carey left with her aunt, I was thinking about her as I lay in bed, and wondering whether the mistress would send the police after her or not, when all of a sudden the thought flashed across me that it might have gone into the fire with the other pieces of paper. Oh mercy, I wish I was somewhere!”
“What became of the ashes out of the grate? — the cinders?” asked Dr. Knox.
“They’re all in the ash-place, sir, waiting till the garden’s ready for them,” sobbed Sally.
With as little delay as possible, Dr. Knox had the cinders carefully sifted and examined, when the traces of what had once undoubtedly been a bank-note were discovered. The greater portion of the note had been reduced to tinder, but a small part of it remained, enough to show what it had been, and — by singular good fortune — its number. It must have fallen out of the grate partly consumed, while the fire was lighting up, and been swept underneath by Sally with other remnants, where it had lain quietly until morning and been taken away with the ashes.
The traces gathered carefully into a small box and sealed up, Dr. Knox went into the presence of his step-mother.
“I think,” he said, just showing the box as it lay in his hand, “that this proof will be accepted by the Bank of England; in that case they will make good the money to me. One question, mother, I wish to ask you: how could you possibly suspect Miss Carey?”
“There was no one else for me to suspect,” replied Mrs. Knox in fretful tones; for she did not at all like this turn in the affair.
“Did you really suspect her?”
“Why, of course I did. How can you ask such foolish questions?”
“It was a great mistake in any case to take it up as you did. I am not alluding to the suspicion now; but to your harsh and cruel treatment.”
“Just mind your own business, Arnold. It’s nothing to you.”
“For my own part, I regard it as a matter that we must ever look back upon with shame.”
“There, that’s enough,” said Mrs. Knox. “The thing is done with, and it cannot be recalled. Janet Carey won’t die of it.”
Dr. Knox went about Lefford with the box in his hand, making things right. He called in at the police-station; he caused a minute account to be put in the Lefford News; he related the details to his private friends. Not once did he allude to Janet Carey, or mention her name: it was as though he would proudly ignore the stigma cast on her and assume that the world did the same. The world did: but it gave some hard words to Mrs. Knox.
Mr. Tamlyn had not much sympathy for wonders of any kind just then. Poor Bertie, lying cold and still in the chamber above, took up all his thoughts and his grief. Arnold spent a good deal of time with him, and took his round of patients.
It was the night before the funeral, and they were sitting together at twilight in the dining-room. Dr. Knox was looking through the large window at the fountain in the middle of the grass-plat: Mr. Tamlyn had his face buried; he had not looked up for the last half-hour.
“When is the very earliest time that you can come, Arnold?” he began abruptly.
“As soon as ever they will release me in London. Perhaps that will be in a month; perhaps not until the end of June, when the six months will be up.”
Mr. Tamlyn groaned. “I want you at once, Arnold. You are all I have now.”
“Shuttleworth must stay until I come.”
“Shuttleworth’s not you. You must live with me, Arnold?”
“Live with you?”
“Why, of course you must. What am I to do in this large house by myself now he is gone? Bessy will be gone too. I couldn’t stand it.”
“It would be much more convenient for me to be here, as far as the practice is concerned,” remarked Dr. Knox, after reflection.
“And more sociable. Do you never think of marriage, Arnold?”
Dr. Knox turned a little red. “It has been of no use for me to think of it hitherto, you know, sir.”
“I wish you would. Some nice, steady girl, who would make things pleasant here for us in Bessy’s place. There’s room for a wife as well as for you, Arnold. Think of these empty rooms: no one but you and me in them! And you know people like a married medical man better than a single one.”
The doctor opened his lips to speak, but his courage failed him; he would leave it to the last thing before he left on the morrow, or else write from London. Tamlyn mistook his silence.
“You’ll be well enough off to keep two wives, if the law allowed it, let alone one. From the day you join me, Arnold, half the profits shall be yours — I’ll have the deed made out — and the whole practice at my death. I’ve no one to save for, now Bertie’s gone.”
“He is better off; he is in happiness,” said Dr. Knox, his voice a little husky.
“Ay. I try to let it console me. But I’ve no one but you now, Arnold. And I don’t suppose I shall forget you in my will. To confess the truth, turning you away to make room for Shuttleworth has lain on my conscience.”
When Arnold reached home that night, Mrs. Knox and her eldest daughter were alone; she reading, Mina dressing a doll. Lefford was a place that went in for propriety, and no one gave soirées while Bertie Tamlyn lay dead. Arnold told Mrs. Knox of the new arrangement.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “Coming back to Lefford! Well, I shall be glad to have you at home again,” she added, thinking of the household bills.
“Mr. Tamlyn proposes that I shall live with him,” said Dr. Knox.
“But you will never be so stupid as to do that!”
“I have promised to do it. It will be much more convenient.”
Mrs. Knox looked sullen, and bit her lips. “How large a share are you to have?”
“I go in as full partner.”
“Oh, I am so glad!” cried out Miss Mina — for they all liked their good-natured brother. “Arnold, perhaps you’ll go and get married now!”
“Perhaps I may,” he answered.
Mrs. Knox dropped her book in the sudden fright. If Arnold married, he might want his house — and turn her out of it! He read the fear in her face.
“We may make some arrangement,” said he quietly. “You shall still occupy it and pay me a small nominal rent — five pounds a-year, say — which I shall probably return in toys for the children.”
The thought of his marriage had always lain upon her with a dread. “Who is the lady?” she asked.
“The lady? Oh, I can’t tell you, I’m sure. I have not asked any one yet.”
“Is that all!”
“Quite all — at present.”
“I think,” said Mrs. Knox slowly, as if deliberating the point with herself, and in the most affectionate of tones, “that you would be happier in a single life, Arnold. One never knows what a wife is till she’s tried.”
“Do you think so? Well, we must leave it to the future. What will be, will be.”
IV.
And now I am taking up the story for myself; I, Johnny Ludlow. Had I gone straight on with it after that last night of Janet’s sleep-walking at Miss Deveen’s, you would never have understood.
It was on the Saturday night that Janet was found out — as any one must remember who took the trouble to count up the nights and days. On the Sunday morning early, Miss Deveen’s doctor was sent for. Dr. Galliard happened to be out of town, so Mr. Black attended for him. Cattledon was like vinegar. She looked upon Janet’s proceedings as a regular scandal, and begged Miss Deveen’s pardon for having brought her niece into the house. Upon which she was requested not to be silly.
Miss Deveen told the whole tale of the lost bank-note, to me and to Helen and Anna Whitney: at least, as much as she knew of it herself. Janet was innocent as a child; she felt sure of that, she said, and much to be pitied; and that Mrs. Knox, of Lefford, seemed to be a most undesirable sort of person. To us it sounded like a romance, or a story out of a newspaper police-report.
Monday came in; a warm, bright April day. I was returning to Oxford in the evening — and why I had not returned in the past week, as ought to have been the case, there’s no space to tell here. Miss Deveen said we might go for a walk if we liked. But Helen and Anna did not seem to care about it; neither did I, to say the truth. A house with a marvel in it has attractions; and we would by far rather have gone upstairs to see Janet. Janet was better, quite composed, but weak, they said: she was up and dressed, and in Miss Deveen’s own blue-room.
“Well, do you mean to go out, or not, you young people?” asked Miss Deveen. “Dear me, here are visitors!”
George came in bringing a card. “Dr. Knox.”
