Works of Ellen Wood, page 1279
“Sit down please, Johnny. I suppose Lena has been glad of the holiday?”
“She just has. That young lady believes French was invented for her especial torment. Have you heard from Mr. Reste, Katrine? —— What does he say about his impromptu flitting?”
She turned white as a ghost, never answering, looking at me strangely. I thought a spasm might have seized her.
“Not yet,” she faintly said. “Papa thinks — thinks he may have gone abroad.”
While I was digesting the words, some vehicle was heard rattling up the side lane; it turned the corner and stopped at the gate. “Why, Katrine,” I said, “it is a railway fly from Evesham!”
A little fair man in a grey travelling-suit got out of the fly, came up the path, and knocked at the door. Old Joan answered it and showed him into the room. “Captain Amphlett,” she said. Katrine looked ready to die.
“I must apologize for intruding,” he began, with a pleasant voice and manner. “My friend Edgar Reste is staying here, I believe.”
Katrine was taken with a shivering fit. The stranger looked at her with curiosity. I said she had been ill with ague, and was about to add that Edgar Reste had left, when Mr. Barbary came in. Captain Amphlett turned to him and went on to explain: he was on his way to spend a little time in one of the Midland shires, and had halted at Evesham for the purpose of looking up Edgar Reste — from whom he had been expecting to hear more than a week past; could not understand why he did not. Mr. Barbary, with all the courtesy of the finished gentleman, told him, in reply to this, that Edgar Reste had left Caramel Cottage a week ago.
“Dear me!” cried the stranger, evidently surprised. “And without writing to tell me. Was his departure unexpected?”
Mr. Barbary laughed lightly. That man would have retained his calmest presence of mind when going down in a wreck at sea. “Some matter of business called him away, I fancy,” he replied.
“And to what part of England was he going?” asked Captain Amphlett, after a pause. “Did he say?”
Mr. Barbary appeared to have an impulsive answer on his lips, but closed them before he could speak it. He glanced at me, and then turned his head and glanced at Katrine, as if to see whether she was there, for he was sitting with his back to her. A thought struck me that we were in the way of his plain speaking.
“He went to London,” said Mr. Barbary.
“To London!” echoed the Captain. “Why, that’s strange. He has not come to London, I assure you.”
“I can assure you it is where he told me he was going,” said Mr. Barbary, smiling. “And it was to London his luggage was addressed.”
“Well, it is altogether strange,” repeated Captain Amphlett. “I went to his chambers in the Temple yesterday, and Farnham, the barrister who shares them with him, told me Reste was still in Worcestershire; he had not heard from him for some time, and supposed he might be returning any day now. Where in the world can he be hiding himself? Had he come to London, as you suppose, Mr. Barbary, he would have sought me out the first thing.”
Whiter than any ghost ever seen or heard of, had grown Katrine as she listened. I could not take my eyes from her terrified face.
“I do not comprehend it,” resumed Captain Amphlett, looking more helpless than a rudderless ship at sea. “Are you sure, sir, that there is no mistake; that he was really going to London?”
“Not at all sure; only that he said it,” returned Mr. Barbary in a half mocking tone. “One does not inquire too closely, you know, into the private affairs of young men. We have not heard from him yet.”
“I cannot understand it at all,” persisted Captain Amphlett; “or why he has not written to me; or where he can have got to. He ought to have written.”
“Ah, yes, no doubt,” suavely remarked Mr. Barbary. “He was careless about letter-writing, I fancy. Can I offer you any refreshment?”
“None at all, thank you; I have no time to spare,” said the other, rising to depart. “I suppose you do not chance to know whether Reste had a letter from me last Tuesday week?”
“Yes, he had one. It had some bank-notes in it. He opened it here at the breakfast table.”
Quite a relief passed over Captain Amphlett’s perplexed face at the answer. “I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Barbary. By his not acknowledging receipt of the money, I feared it had miscarried.”
Bidding us good afternoon, and telling Katrine (at whose sick state he had continued to glance curiously) that he wished her better, the stranger walked rapidly out to his fly, attended by Mr. Barbary.
“Katrine,” I asked, preparing to take my own departure, “what was there in Captain Amphlett to frighten you?”
“It — it was the ague,” she answered, bringing out the words with a jerk.
“Oh — ague! Well, I’d get rid of such an ague as that. Good-bye.”
But it was not ague; it was sheer fear, as common sense told me, and I did not care to speculate upon it. An uneasy atmosphere seemed to be hanging over Caramel Cottage altogether; to have set in with Edgar Reste’s departure.
A day or two later our people departed for Crabb Cot for change of air for Lena, and we returned to school, so that nothing more was seen or heard at present of the Barbarys.
III
December weather, and snow on the ground, and Caramel Cottage looking cold and cheerless. Not so cheerless, though, as poor Katrine, who had a blue, pinched face and a bad cough.
“I can’t get her to rouse herself, or to swallow hardly a morsel of food,” lamented Joan to Mr. Duffham. “She sits like a statty all day long, sir, with her hands before her.”
“Sits like a statue, does she?” returned Duffham, who could see it for himself, and for the hundredth time wondered what it was she had upon her mind. He did his best, no doubt, in the shape of tonics and lectures, but he could make nothing of his patient. Katrine vehemently denied that she was worrying herself over any sweetheart — for that’s how Duffham delicately shaped his questions — and said it was the cold weather.
“The voyage will set her up, or — break her up,” decided Duffham, who had never treated so unsatisfactory an invalid. “As to not having anything on her mind, why she may tell that to the moon.”
Katrine was just dying of the trouble. The consciousness of what the garden could disclose filled her with horror, whilst the fear of discovery haunted her steps by day and her dreams by night. She could not sleep alone, and Joan had brought her mattress down to the room and lay on the floor. When the sun shone, Mr. Barbary would compel her to sit or walk in the garden; Katrine would turn sick and faint at sight of that plot of ground under the apple tree, and the winter greens growing there. At moments she thought her father must suspect the source of her illness; but he gave no sign of it. Since Captain Amphlett’s visit, no further inquiry had been made after Edgar Reste. Katrine lived in daily dread of it. Now and then the neighbours would ask after him. Duffham had said one day in the course of conversation: “Where’s that young Reste now?” “Oh, in London, working on for his silk gown,” Mr. Barbary lightly answered. Katrine marvelled at his coolness.
Upon getting back to the Manor for Christmas we heard that Mr. Barbary was quitting Church Dykely for Canada. “And the voyage will either kill or cure the child,” said Duffham, for it was he who gave us the news; “she is in a frightfully weak state.”
“Is it ague still?” asked Mrs. Todhetley.
“It is more like nerves than ague,” answered Duffham. “She seems to live in a chronic state of fear, starting and shrinking at every unexpected sound. I can’t make her out, and that’s the truth; she denies having received any shock. — So you have never found Don, Squire!” he broke off, leaving the other subject.
“No,” said the Squire angrily. “Dick Standish has been too much for us this time. The fellow wants hanging. Give him rope enough, and he’ll do it.”
Brazer’s dog was returned to him, safe and sound, but our dog had never come back to us, and the Squire was looking out for another. Dick Standish protested his innocence yet; but he had gone roving the country with that other dog, and no doubt had sold Don to somebody at a safe distance. Perhaps had dyed him a fine gold first; as the dyer dyed his dog at Evesham.
“Now, Miss Katrine, there’s not a bit of sense in it!”
It was Christmas Eve. Katrine was sitting in the twilight by the parlour fire, and Joan was scolding. She had brought in a tray of tea with some bread-and-butter; Katrine was glad enough of the tea, but said she could not eat; she always said so now.
“Be whipped if I can tell what has got into the child!” stormed Joan. “Do you want to starve yourself right out? — do you want to — —”
“There’s papa,” interrupted Katrine, as the house door was heard to open. “You must bring in more tea now, Joan.”
This door opened next, and some one stood looking in. Not Mr. Barbary. Katrine gazed with dilating eyes, as the firelight flickered on the intruder’s face: and then she caught hold of Joan with an awful cry. For he who had come in bore the semblance of Edgar Reste.
“Why, Katrine, my dear, have you been ill?”
Katrine burst into hysterical tears as her terror passed. She had been taking it for Mr. Reste’s apparition, you see, whereas it was Mr. Reste himself. Joan closed the shutters, stirred the fire, and went away to see what she could do for him in the shape of eatables after his journey. He sat down by Katrine, and took her poor wan face to his sheltering arms.
In the sobbing excitement of the moment, in the strangely wonderful relief his presence brought, Katrine breathed forth the truth; that she had seen him, as she believed, buried under the summer-apple tree; had believed it all this time, and that it had been slowly killing her. Mr. Reste laughed a little at the idea of his being buried, and cleared up matters in a few brief words.
“But why did you never write?” she asked.
“Being at issue with Mr. Barbary, I would not write to him: and I thought, Katrine, that the less you were reminded of me the better. I waited in London until my luggage came up, and then went straight to Dieppe, without having seen any one I knew; without having even shown myself at my Chambers — —”
“But why not, Edgar?” she interrupted. Mr. Reste laughed.
“Well, I had reasons. I had left a few outstanding accounts there, and was not then prepared to pay them and I did not care to give a clue to my address to be bothered with letters.”
“You did not even write to Captain Amphlett. He came here to see after you.”
“I wrote to him from Dieppe; not quite at first, though. Buried under the apple-tree! that is a joke, Katrine!”
It was Christmas Eve, I have said. We had gone through the snow, with Mrs. Todhetley, to help the Miss Pages decorate the church, and the Squire was alone after dinner, when Mr. Reste was shown in.
“Is it you!” cried the Squire in hearty welcome. “So you have come down for Christmas!”
“Partly for that,” answered Mr. Reste. “Partly, sir, to see you.”
“To see me! You are very good. I hope you’ll dine with us to-morrow, if Barbary will spare you.”
“Ah! I don’t know about that; I’m afraid not. Anyway, I have a tale to tell you first.”
Sitting on the other side the fire, opposite the Squire, the wine and walnuts on the table between them, he told the tale of that past Tuesday night.
He had gone out with Barbary in a fit of foolishness, not intending to do any harm to the game or to join in any harm, though Barbary had insisted on his carrying a loaded gun. The moon was remarkably bright. Not long had they been out, going cautiously, when on drawing near Dyke Neck, they became aware that some poachers were already abroad, and that the keepers were tracking them; so there was nothing for it but to steal back again. They had nearly reached Caramel Cottage, and were making for the side gate, when a huge dog flew up, barking. Barbary called out that it was the Squire’s dog, and ——
“Bless me!” interjected the Squire at this.
“Yes, sir, your dog, Don,” continued Mr. Reste. “Barbary very foolishly kicked the dog: he was in a panic, you see, lest the noise of its barking should bring up the keepers. That kick must have enraged Don, and he fastened savagely on Barbary’s leg. I, fearing for Barbary’s life, or some lesser injury, grew excited, and fired at the dog. It killed him.”
The Squire drew a deep breath.
“Not daring to leave the dog at the gate, for it might have betrayed us, we drew him across the yard to the brewhouse, and locked the door upon him. But while doing this, Ben Gibbon passed, and thereby learnt what had happened. The next day, Barbary and I had some bickering together. I wanted to come to you and confess the truth openly; Barbary forbade it, saying it would ruin him: we could bury the dog that night or the next, he said, and nobody would ever be the wiser. In the evening, Gibbon came in; he was all for Barbary’s opinion, and opposed mine. After he left, I and Barbary had a serious quarrel. I said I would leave there and then; he resented it, and followed me into the yard to try to keep me. But my temper was up, and I set off to walk to Evesham, telling him to send my traps after me, and to direct them to Euston Square Station. I took the first morning train that passed through Evesham for London, and made my mind up on the journey to go abroad for a week or two. Truth to confess,” added the speaker, “I felt a bit of a coward about the dog, not knowing what proceedings you might take if it came to light, and I deemed it as well to be out of the way for a time. But I don’t like being a coward, Mr. Todhetley, it is a role I have never been used to, and I came down to-day to confess all. Barbary is going away, so it will not damage him: besides, it was really I who killed the dog, not he. And now, sir, I throw myself upon your mercy. What do you say to me?”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” said the Squire, who was in a rare good humour, and liked the young fellow besides. “It was a bad thing to do — poor faithful Don! But it’s Christmas-tide, so I suppose we must say no more about it. Let bygones be bygones.”
Edgar Reste grasped his hand.
“Barbary’s off to Canada, we are told,” said the Squire. “A better country for him than this. He has not been thought much of in this place, as you probably know. And it’s to be hoped that poor little maiden of his will get up her health again, which seems, by all accounts, to be much shattered.”
“I think she’ll get that up now,” said Mr. Reste, with a curious smile. “She is not going out with him, sir; she stays behind with me.”
“With you!” cried the Squire, staring.
“I have just asked her to be my wife, and she says, Yes,” said Mr. Reste. “An old uncle of mine over in India has died; he has left me a few hundreds a year, so that I can afford to marry.”
“I’m sure I am glad to hear it,” said the Squire, heartily. “Poor Don, though! And what did Barbary do with him?”
“Buried him in his back garden, under the summer-apple tree.”
Coming home from our night’s work at this juncture, we found, to our surprise, a great dog fastened to the strong iron garden bench.
“What a magnificent dog!” exclaimed Tod, while the mother sprang back in alarm. “It is something like Don.”
It was very much like Don. Quite as large, and handsomer.
“I shall take it in, Johnny; the Pater would like to see it, There, mother, you go in first.”
Tod unfastened the dog and took it into the dining-room, where sat Mr. Reste. The dog seemed a gentle creature, and went about looking at us all with his intelligent eyes. Mrs. Todhetley stroked him.
“Well, that is a nice dog!” cried the Squire. “Whose is it, lads?”
“It is yours, sir, if you will accept him from me,” said Mr. Reste. “I came across him in London the other day, and thought you might like him in place of Don. I have taught him to answer to the same name.”
“We’ll call him ‘Don the Second’ — and I thank you heartily,” said the Squire, with a beaming face. “Good Don! Good old fellow! You shall be made much of.”
He married Katrine without much delay, taking her off to London to be nursed up; and Mr. Barbary set sail for Canada. The bank-notes, you ask about? Why, what Katrine saw in her father’s hands were but half the notes, for Mr. Reste divided them the day they arrived, giving thirty pounds to his host, and keeping thirty himself. And Dick Standish, for once, had not been in the fight; and the Squire, meeting him in the turnip-field on Christmas Day, gave him five shillings for a Christmas-box. Which elated Dick beyond telling; and the Squire was glad of it later, when poor Dick had gone away prematurely to the Better Land.
And all the sympathy Katrine had from her father, when he came to hear about the summer-apple tree, was a sharp wish that she could have had her ridiculous ideas shaken out of her.
A TRAGEDY
I. — GERVAIS PREEN
I
Crabb Cot, Squire Todhetley’s estate in Worcestershire, lay close to North Crabb, and from two to three miles off Islip, both of which places you have heard of already. Half way on the road to Islip from Crabb, a side road, called Brook Lane, branched straight off on the left towards unknown wilds, for the parts there were not at all frequented. Passing a solitary homestead here and there, Brook Lane would bring you at the end of less than two miles to a small hamlet, styled Duck Brook.
I am not responsible for the name. I don’t know who is. It was called Duck Brook long before my time, and will be, no doubt, long after I have left time behind me. The village rustics called it Duck Bruck.
Duck Brook proper contains some twenty or thirty houses, mostly humble dwellings, built in the form of a triangle, and two or three shops. A set of old stocks for the correction of the dead-and-gone evil-doers might be seen still, and a square pound in which to imprison stray cattle. And I would remark, as it may be of use further on, that the distance from Duck Brook to either Islip or Crabb was about equal — some three miles, or so; it stood at right angles between them. Passing down Brook Lane (which was in fact a fairly wide turnpike road) into the high road, turning to the right would bring you to Crabb; turning to the left, to Islip.
