Works of Ellen Wood, page 1221
“Good-night, Lizzie. Go round to that path that branches off from our front-gate; keep straight on, and you can’t miss the way.”
I had heard it all; every syllable; unable to help it. The least rustle of the laurels might have betrayed me. Betrayed me to Lizzie.
What a calamity! She did not appear to have come down after Roger, did not appear to know that he was connected with Lady Bevere — or that the names were the same. But at the tea-table the following evening she would inevitably learn all. Servants talk of their masters and their doings. And to hear Roger’s name would be ruin.
I found Roger in his chamber. “Uncle Brandon was putting inconvenient questions to me,” he said, “so I got away under pretence of looking at the weather. How cold you look, Johnny!”
“I am cold. I went into the garden, looking for you, and I had a fright there.”
“Seen a ghost?” returned he, lightly.
“Something worse than a ghost. Roger, I have some disagreeable news for you.”
“Eh? — what?” he cried, his fears leaping up: indeed they were very seldom down. “They don’t suspect anything, do they? What is it? Why do you beat about the bush?”
“I should like to prepare you. If — —”
“Prepare me!” sharply interrupted Roger, his nerves all awry. “Do you think I am a girl? Don’t I live always in too much mental excruciation to need preparation for any mortal ill?”
“Well, Lizzie’s down here.”
In spite of his boast, he turned as white as the counterpane on his bed. I sat down and told him all. His hair grew damp as he listened, his face took the hue of despair.
“Heaven help me!” he gasped.
“I suppose you did not know Harriet was her sister?”
“How was I to know it? Be you very sure Lizzie would not voluntarily proclaim to me that she had a sister in service. What wretched luck! Oh, Johnny, what is to be done?”
“Nothing — that I see. It will be sure to come out over their tea to-morrow. Harriet will say ‘Mr. Roger’s down here on a visit, and has brought Mr. Johnny Ludlow with him’ — just as a little item of gossip. And then — why, then, Lizzie will make but one step of it into the family circle, and say ‘Roger is my husband.’ It is of no use to mince the matter, Bevere,” I added, in answer to a groan of pain; “better look the worst in the face.”
The worst was a very hopeless worst. Even if we could find out where she was staying in Brighton, and he or I went to her to try to stop her coming, it would not avail; she would come all the more.
“You don’t know her depth,” groaned Roger. “She’d put two and two together, and jump to the right conclusion — that it is my home. No, there’s nothing that can be done, nothing; events must take their course. Johnny,” he passionately added, “I’d rather die than face the shame.”
Lady Bevere’s voice on the stairs interrupted him. “Roger! Johnny! Why don’t you come down? Supper’s waiting.”
“I can’t go down,” he whispered.
“You must, Roger. If not, they’ll ask the reason why.”
A fine state of mental turbulence we were in all day on Monday. Roger dared not stir abroad lest he should meet her and have to bring her home clinging to his coat-tails. Not that much going abroad was practicable, save in the beaten paths. Snow had fallen heavily all night long. But the sky to-day was blue and bright.
With the afternoon began the watching and listening. I wonder whether the reader can picture our mental state? Roger had made a resolve that as soon as Lizzie’s foot crossed the threshold, he would disclose all to his mother, forestalling her tale. Indeed, he could do nothing less. Says Lord Byron, “Whatever sky’s above me, here’s a heart for every fate.” I fear we could not then have said the same.
Three o’clock struck. Roger grew pale to the lips as he heard it. I am not sure but I did. Four o’clock struck; and yet she did not come. The suspense, the agony of those few afternoon hours brought enough pain for a lifetime.
At dusk, when she could not have known me at a distance, I went out to reconnoitre, glad to go somewhere or do something, and prowled about under shelter of the dark shrubs, watching the road. She was not in sight anywhere; coming from any part; though I stayed there till I was blue with cold.
“Not in a state to come, I expect,” gasped Roger, when I got in, and reported that I could see nothing of her, and found him still sitting over the dining-room fire.
He gave a start as the door was flung open. It was only Harriet, with the tea-tray and candles. We had dined early. George, the clergyman, was expected in the evening, and Lady Bevere thought it would be more sociable if we all took supper with him. Tottams followed the tea-tray, skipping and singing.
“I wish it was Christmas-Eve every day!” cried the child. “Cook’s making such a lot of mince pies and cakes in the kitchen.”
“Why, dear me, somebody has been drawing the curtains without having shut the shutters first!” exclaimed Harriet, hastening to remedy the mistake.
I could have told her it was Roger. As the daylight faded and the fire brightened, he had shut out the window, lest dreaded eyes should peer through it and see him.
“Your sister’s not come yet, Harriet!” said Tottams. For the advent of Harriet’s expected visitor was known in the household.
“No, Miss Tottams, she is not,” replied Harriet, “I can’t think why, unless she was afraid of the snow underfoot.”
“There’s no snow to hurt along the paths,” contended Tottams.
“Perhaps she’d not know that,” said Harriet. “But she may come yet; it is only five o’clock — and it’s a beautiful moon.”
Roger got up to leave the room and met Lady Bevere face to face. She caught sight of the despair on his, for he was off his guard. But off it, or on it, no one could fail to see that he was ill at ease. Some young men might have kept a smooth countenance through it all, for their friends and the world; Roger was sensitive to a degree, refined, thoughtful, and could not hide the signs of conflict.
“What is it that is amiss with him, Johnny?” Lady Bevere said, coming to me as I stood on the hearthrug before the fire, Tottams having disappeared with Harriet. “He looks wretchedly ill; ill with care, as it seems to me; and he cannot eat.”
What could I answer? How was it possible, with those kind, candid blue eyes, so like Roger’s, looking confidingly into mine, to tell her that nothing was amiss?
“Dear Lady Bevere, do not be troubled,” I said at length. “A little matter has been lately annoying Roger in London, and — and — I suppose he cannot forget it down here.”
“Is it money trouble?” she asked.
“Not exactly. No; it’s not money. Perhaps Roger will tell you himself. But please do not say anything to him unless he does.”
“Why cannot you tell me, Johnny?”
Had Madam Lizzie been in the house, rendering discovery inevitable, I would have told her then, and so far spared Roger the pain. But she was not; she might not come; in which case perhaps the disclosure need not be made — or, at any rate, might be staved off to a future time. Lady Bevere held my hands in hers.
“You know what this trouble is, Johnny; all about it?”
“Yes, that’s true. But I cannot tell it you. I have no right to.”
“I suppose you are right,” she sighed. “But oh, my dear, you young people cannot know what such griefs are to a mother’s heart; the dread they inflict, the cruel suspense they involve.”
And the evening passed on to its close, and Lizzie had not come.
A little circumstance occurred that night, not much to relate, but not pleasant in itself. George, a good-looking young clergyman, got in very late and half-frozen — close upon eleven o’clock. He would not have supper brought back, but said he should be glad of some hot brandy-and-water. The water was brought in and put with the brandy on a side-table. George mixed a glass for himself, and Roger went and mixed one. By-and-bye, when Roger had disposed of that, he went back to mix a second. Mr. Brandon glided up behind him.
“No, Roger, not in your mother’s house,” he whispered, interposing a hand of authority between Roger and the brandy. “Though you may drink to an unseemly extent in town, you shall not here.”
“Roger got some brandy-and-water from mamma this afternoon,” volunteered Miss Tottams, dancing up to them. She had been allowed to sit up to help dress the rooms; and, of all little pitchers, she had the sharpest ears. “He said he felt sick, Uncle John.”
They came back to the fire and sat down again, Roger looking in truth sick; sick almost unto death.
Mr. Brandon went up to bed; Lady Bevere soon followed, and we began the rooms, Harriet and Jacob coming in to help. Roger exclaimed at the splendid heaps of holly. Of late years he had seen only the poor scraps they get in London.
“A merry Christmas to you, Roger!”
“Don’t, Johnny! Better that you should wish me dead.”
The bright sun was shining into his room as I entered it on this Christmas morning: Roger stood brushing his hair at the glass. He looked very ill.
“How can I look otherwise?” retorted poor Roger. “Two nights and not a wink of sleep! — nothing but fever and apprehension and intolerable restlessness. And you come wishing me a merry Christmas!”
Well, of course it did sound like a mockery. “I will wish you a happier one for next year, then, Roger. Things may be brighter then.”
“How can they be? — with that dreadful weight that I must carry about with me for life? Do you see this?” — sweeping his hand round towards the window.
I saw nothing but the blessed sunlight — and said so.
“That’s it,” he answered: “that blessed sunlight will bring her here betimes. With a good blinding snowfall, or a pelting downpour of cats and dogs, I might have hoped for a respite. What a Christmas offering for my mother! I say! — don’t go away for a minute — did you hear Uncle John last night about the brandy?”
I nodded.
“It is not that I like drink, or care for it for drinking’s sake; I declare it to you, Johnny Ludlow; but I take it, and must take it, to drown care. With that extra glass last night, I might have got to sleep — I don’t know. Were my mind at ease, I should be as sober as you are.”
“But don’t you see, Roger, that unless you pull up now, while you can, you may not be able to do it later.”
“Oh yes, I see it all,” he carelessly said. “Well, it no longer matters much what becomes of me. There’s the breakfast-bell. You can go on, Johnny.”
The rooms looked like green bowers, for we had not spared either our pains or the holly-branches, and it would have been as happy a Christmas-Day as it was a bright one, but for the sword that was hanging over Roger Bevere’s head. Neither he nor I could enjoy it. He declined to go to church with us, saying he felt ill: the truth being that he feared to meet Lizzie. Not to attend divine service on Christmas-Day was regarded by Mr. Brandon as one of the cardinal sins. To my surprise he did not remonstrate with Roger in words: but he looked the more.
Lady Bevere’s dinner hour on Christmas-Day was four o’clock, which gave a good long evening. Roger ate some turkey and some plum-pudding, mechanically; his ears were listening for the dreaded sound of the door-bell. We were about half-way through dinner, when there came a peal that shook the house. Lady Bevere started in her chair. I fancy Roger went nearly out of his.
“Why, who can be coming here now — with such a ring as that?” she exclaimed.
“Perhaps it is Harriet’s sister!” cried the little girl, in her sharp, quick way. “Do you think it is, Harriet?”
“She’s free enough for it,” returned Harriet, in a vexed tone. “I told her she might come yesterday, Miss Tottams, my lady permitting it, but I did not tell her she might come to-day.”
I glanced at Roger. His knife and fork shook in his hands; his face wore the hue of the grave. I was little less agitated than he.
Another respite. It was only a parcel from the railway-station, which had been delayed in the delivery. And the dinner went on.
And the evening went on too, as the past one went on — undisturbed. Later, when some of us were playing at snap-dragon in the little breakfast-room, Harriet came in to march Miss Tottams off to bed.
“Your sister did not come after all, did she, Harriet?” said Mary.
“No, Miss Mary. She’s gone back to London,” continued Harriet, after a pause. “Not enough life for her, I dare say, down here.”
Roger glanced round. He did not dare ask whether Harriet knew she was gone back, or only supposed it.
Mary laughed. “Fond of life, is she?”
“She always was, Miss Mary. She is married to a gentleman. At least, that is her account of him: he is a medical man, she says. But it may be he is only a medical man’s assistant.”
“Did she go back yesterday, or to-day?” I inquired, carelessly. “She would have a cold journey.”
“Yesterday, if she’s gone at all, sir,” replied Harriet: “she’d hardly travel on Christmas-Day. If not, she’ll be here to-morrow.”
Roger groaned — and turned it off with a desperate cough, as though the raisins burnt his throat.
The next day came, Wednesday, again clear, cold, and bright. At breakfast George and Mary agreed to walk to Brighton. “You will come too,” said George, looking at us.
I said nothing. Roger shook his head. Of all places in the known world he’d not have ventured into Brighton, and run the risk of meeting her, perambulating its streets.
“No! — why, it will be a glorious walk,” remonstrated George.
“Don’t care for it this morning,” shortly answered Roger. “I’m sure Johnny doesn’t.”
Mr. Brandon came, if I may so put it, to the rescue. “I shall take a walk myself, and you two may go with me,” said he to us. “I should like to see what the country looks like yonder” — pointing to the unknown regions beyond the little church. And as this was just in the opposite direction to Brighton, Roger made no objection, and we set off soon after breakfast. The sky overhead was blue and clear, the snow on the ground dazzlingly white.
The regions beyond the church were the same as these: a long-stretched-out moor of flat dreariness. Mr. Brandon walked on. “We shall come to something or other in time,” said he. Walking with him meant walking when he was in the mood for it.
A mile or two onwards, more or less, a small settlement loomed into view, with a pound and a set of rusty stocks, and an old-fashioned inn, its swinging sign, The Rising Sun, as splendid as that other sign nearer Prior’s Glebe: and it really appeared to us as if all the inhabitants had turned out to congregate round the inn-door.
“What’s to do, I wonder?” cried Mr. Brandon: “seems to be some excitement going on.” When near enough he inquired whether anything was amiss, and the whole throng answered together.
A woman had been found that morning frozen to death in the snow, and had been carried into The Rising Sun. A young woman wearing smart clothes, added a labourer, as the rest of the voices died away: got benighted, perhaps, poor thing, and lost her way, and so lay down to die; seemed to have been dead quite a day or two, if not more. The missis at The Sheaf o’ Corn yonder had been over, and recognized her as having called in there on Sunday night and had some drink.
Why, as the man spoke, should the dread thought have flashed into my mind — was it Lizzie? Why should it have flashed simultaneously into Roger’s? Had Lizzie lost her way that past Sunday night — and sunk down into some sheltered nook to rest awhile, and so sleep and then death overtook her? Roger glanced at me with frightened eyes, a dawn of horror rising to his countenance.
“I will just step in and take a look at her,” I said, and bore on steadily for the door of the inn, deaf for once to Mr. Brandon’s authoritative call. What did I want looking at dead women, he asked: was the sight so pleasant? No, it was not pleasant, I could have answered him, and I’d rather have gone a mile away from it; but I went in for Roger’s sake.
The innkeeper — an elderly man, with a bald head and red nose — came forward, grumbling that for the past hour or two it had been sharp work to keep out the crowd, all agape to see the woman. I asked him to let me see her, assuring him it was not out of idle curiosity that I wished it. Believing me, he acquiesced at once; civilly remarking, as he led the way through the house, that he had sent for the police, and expected them every minute.
On the long table of a bleak-looking outer kitchen, probably used only in summer, lay the dead. I took my look at her.
Yes, it was Lizzie. Looking as peaceful as though she had only just gone to sleep. Poor thing!
“Do you recognize her, sir? Did you think you might?”
I shook my head in answer. It would not have done to acknowledge it. Thanking him, I went out to Roger. Mr. Brandon fired off a tirade of reproaches at me, and said he was glad to see I had turned white.
“Yes,” I emphatically whispered to Roger in the midst of it. “Go you in, and satisfy yourself.”
Roger disappeared inside the inn. Mr. Brandon was so indignant at the pair of us, that he set off at a sharp pace for home again, I with him, Roger presently catching us up. Twice during the walk, Roger was taken with a shivering-fit, as though sickening for the ague. Mr. Brandon held his tongue then, and recommended him, when we got in, to put himself between some hot blankets.
In the dead woman’s pocket was found Harriet Field’s address; and a policeman presented himself at Prior’s Glebe with the news of the calamity and to ask what Harriet knew of her. Away went Harriet to The Rising Sun, and recognized the dead. It was her sister, she said; she had called to see her on Sunday night, having walked over from Brighton, and must have lost her way on the waste land in returning. What name, was the next question put; and, after a moment’s hesitation, Harriet answered “Elizabeth Field.” Not feeling altogether sure of the marriage, she said nothing about it.
Will you accuse Roger Bevere of cowardice for holding aloof; for keeping silence? Then you must accuse me for sanctioning it. He could not bring himself to avow all the past shame to his mother. And what end would it answer now if he did? — what good effect to his poor, wretched, foolish wife? None.
