Works of Ellen Wood, page 801
Very good, the juryman answered. She could go on with her evidence.
After preparing the proper quantity of herb, had taken it to the scullery and laid it on what was called the cook’s shelf. Did not see any of the servants except the under-housemaid, who was lighting up the lower passages, but heard their voices in conversation. Could not tell whether the under-housemaid saw her; thought not. Went then into the dining-room, to ask if she should not take Master George, as it was getting the hour for the nursery tea. Did not take Master George. He was asleep in the large chair. Waited some time, hoping he would wake; but he did not. At last got tired of waiting, and left the dining-room, Master George still asleep, with his feet on his mamma’s lap. Went straight upstairs then, and was about to get a light in her own room, when she heard alarming cries from Honour. Could only see the outline of her form as she flew along the corridor to the grand staircase. The upper part of the house had not been lighted up, only the lower, and a very faint reflection came upstairs. The cries were alarming, full of terror. Witness was frightened, and it was not a little thing that frightened her. Ran down after Honour, and saw Mrs. St. John come out of the dining-room, frightened also at the cries. For the next few minutes could not give a precise account of what happened. The chief thing she remembered was running back with others to the nursery. Poor little Master George also went. He stole up unnoticed in the confusion, and saw what was left of his brother burning, or, rather, smouldering. That was all she knew.
Mrs. St. John was not called as a witness. Having been shut up — as was understood — the whole of the time in the dining-room with little George, her evidence could not be of importance, and the jury had respect to her feelings and did not call her. It was announced to the jury that she freely acknowledged having gone from her dressing-room into the nursery in the morning, and that it was very possible she had omitted to fasten the door afterwards. That, however, was of no consequence: the door had been left open as Honour had proved: by whom did not matter.
All the evidence was taken, and a discussion ensued in regard to the point not cleared up, the fastening of this door. Half the jury, including Mr. Pym, inclined to the view that it had not been bolted at all, only shut; but that Honour’s state of haste and agitation had prevented her getting the door open at the first moment, and caused her to fancy that it was fastened. The other half of the jury including the coroner, thought that when the unfortunate little child had pushed-to the door in obedience to Honour, the bolt had shot into the groove with the movement: and this appeared the more reasonable solution. In vain Honour protested that neither was correct: that the door was bolted, and that it could not have bolted itself when the child closed it; he shut it very gently, and she must have heard the movement had there been any. She might as well have talked to the wind: and to her excessive surprise Mr. Pym approached her with a stern whisper and a warning look.
“I wouldn’t say any more about this, Honour.”
Will it be believed that Mrs. Darling only heard of this calamity when the jury were sitting? Living some distance on the other side of Alnwick, news did not at all times penetrate quickly to her house. At any rate, this had not done so: reversing for once the popular saying that ill news travels fast. Mrs. St. John had omitted to send to her — perhaps it was excusable in the dreadful confusion — and it was a positive fact that the inquest was being held before the tidings were carried to Mrs. Darling.
She might not have heard it even then, but that she happened to send a servant into the village to execute a commission, and the maid brought back the news. As is usual in such cases, she ran open-mouthed with it to her mistress. Mrs. Darling, who had been feeling very poorly ever since the previous day, and was saying to herself that if no better on the following one she should send for Mr. Pym, was lying on the sofa, when the door abruptly opened, and the servant burst in with the news, her very haste rendering her incoherent. Mrs. Darling started from the sofa in terror, only half comprehending t “What do you say has happened, Cole?”
“One of the little boys is killed,” spoke up the servant eagerly. “Oh, ma’am, it’s true! He was killed last night, and they are already holding the inquest on him. It was the heir, Master Benja.”
Almost as one turned to Stone, stood Mrs. Darling. If ever woman looked in awful fear, it was she. She could not speak at first: she only gazed at the maid-servant, her lips apart, her ‘eyes wild.
“Killed! Master Benja!” she gasped.
“He was burnt to death,” cried the woman, with sobs of emotion. “I don’t know the rights of it, though the place is full of nothing else; some said one thing and some another. Any way, the fault was Honour’s. She left him alone with a lighted candle, and he set himself on fire. There is a tale that somebody fastened the doors upon him to let him burn; but you know, ma’am, it can’t be true. Not a bit of business is doing at Alnwick, and most of the shops have a shutter or two up. The inquest is on now, at the Carleton Arms.”
With a prolonged shudder, Mrs. Darling seemed to come to herself. “How is it that I was not sent for?” she asked: and though the servant took the question to herself, and answered that she did not know, it was evident that it was not put to her.
All her indisposition forgotten, her bodily pain no longer felt in the greater mental pain, Mrs. Darling put on her cloak and bonnet and went out. The maid remonstrated that she was not fit to walk; wished her to at least wait until a fly could be sent for: she was as one who heard not. Striking into the field-path, by which means she avoided the gossiping village — and she was in no mood for it then, Mrs. Darling emerged from the fields almost close to Alnwick Hall, just below the Carleton Arms. Had there been any way to avoid passing the inn, Mrs. Darling had surely chosen it: but there was none. As she came within view of it, and saw the idlers congregated around it in small groups, a sick feeling of dread took possession of her, and she shuddered as she had done in her own drawing-room. Dread of what? Perhaps Mrs. Darling could not precisely have defined what: but she did think it would be a mercy had the earth opened and let her through to the opposite side of the globe, away from all trouble and care.
Not a word did she speak to any one, not a question ask. She drew her veil over her face, pulled her cloak more closely around her, and was hastening on, looking neither to the right nor to The left, when she nearly ran against Mr. Pym the surgeon, who had just strolled outside from the heat and bustle of the crowded inquest-room.
“Is it you, Mrs. Darling?”
“What is all this?” was the rejoinder of Mrs. Darling, throwing back her veil for a moment, and then seeming to recollect herself, and putting it down again. “Is Benja really dead?”
“Really dead!” echoed Mr. Pym. “He has been dead since yesterday evening. Had you not heard of it?”
“I never heard a word until half-an-hour ago. What was it? How was it done?”
“Honour left him alone in the nursery with some paper toy that had a candle in it. When she got back he was burnt to death.”
Mr. Pym was speaking strangely, in a cold, hard sort of manner; and, instead of looking at Mrs. Darling, his eyes were directed straight over her head.
“Then it was an accident,” said Mrs. Darling, after a pause.
“That will no doubt be the verdict of the jury.”
The two stood in silence. Mr. Pym with his far-away gaze, Mrs. Darling stealing surreptitious glances at him through her veil. Presently she spoke, scarcely above a whisper.
“What tale is it that people have got hold of, about the child being locked in the room?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Pym, “that’s Honour’s tale. She says that when she left the boy, to go downstairs, the nursery doors were unbolted; that when she returned, both were fastened. Her theory is, implied if not avowed, that the doors had been deliberately closed upon the burning child.”
Mrs. Darling turned her face away. She was as little given as any one to betraying signs of emotion, but the eyes, for all they were not looking at her, saw that the face was turning livid.
“It can’t be true,” she whispered.
“As I tell Honour. Are you going to the Hall? Most of its inmates are here, at the inquest.”
“Charlotte is not here!” exclaimed Mrs. Darling, turning to him in what looked like alarm.
“No. The jury dispense with her evidence.”
“Is — is — little Benja here?”
Mr. Pym shook his head. “The coroner and jury went up to look at the remains, and adjourned here. It is a dreadful thing; very dreadful.”
At the emphasized word, a sound, that was as much like a groan as anything, escaped Mrs. Darling’s lips. The surgeon turned towards the inn door, she continued her way. Striking into the avenue amongst the fine old park trees, she threw back her veil where no eye was on her, gasping as it seemed for air, in the twilight of the coming night.
A servant answered her summons, and she walked straight through the hall to a small sitting-room, where the man said he believed his mistress was. She went in gently, not to disturb her: but Mrs. St. John was standing still in the midst of the room in an attitude of breathless expectation; of what looked like terrified expectation; and unless the darkness of the evening deceived her, Mrs. Darling had never seen her face so intensely pale, or with that haggard look upon it.
“Charlotte!”
“Is it you, mamma? I thought you were ill.”
“I was ill; ill for me, who never ail anything. But this — this — What’s that?”
Mrs. Darling sprang aside. A heap of something covered over on the sofa had startled her. Surely her nerves were unstrung to-night!
“It’s Georgy,” answered Mrs. St. John. “He has been ill since yesterday. Hush! don’t wake him.”
She took off her cloak and untied her bonnet, and sat down by the fire near her daughter. Mrs. St. John did not speak.
“Charlotte, I have been dreadfully shocked. You should not have allowed me to hear of this by accident. How did it happen?”
“You must ask Honour that.”
“Was no one with him? Could no one hear his cries?”
“It seems not.”
“Will you not give me the details, Charlotte?”
“I only know them from hearsay.”
“But you — were — in the house at the time?”
“I was in the dining-room.”
Mrs. St. John was evidently not inclined to be communicative. She sat looking at the fire, and Mrs. Darling stole surreptitious glances at her face, as she had recently done at Mr. Pym’s; not that the face was very discernible in the increasing gloom of the November evening.
“Do give me the particulars, Charlotte!”
“I can’t, I tell you, mamma. I only know them myself from hearsay. I was shut up in the dining-room with Georgy, and knew nothing until startled by Honour’s cries.”
“You were shut up in the dining-room!”
“Just as you found me shut up in this room now. Georgy was asleep, and I had his feet on my lap. I wish you wouldn’t ask me about it. It is not a pleasant thing to talk of. I am sorry now for having beaten him.”
“You beat him? — Benja?”
“He was naughty after dinner. He had a new watch, and would not lend it to Georgy, and they got quarrelling. He beat Georgy, and I beat him. I am sorry for it now.”
“But it was not then that he was burnt!” exclaimed Mrs. Darling, scarcely understanding.
“No. Honour took him away, and I stayed in the dining room with Georgy.”
“Did the accident happen immediately?”
“Not for a long while. Two hours, perhaps, I don’t know how long exactly. I had been to sleep. It was daylight when he went away, and it was dark when we heard the screams.”
“And you, my poor child, had never moved from the diningroom!”
“Don’t I say so, mamma!” came the answer, a shade of peevishness at being questioned in the otherwise impassive tone. “I had kept Georgy with me.”
Mrs. Darling drew a long sigh: it seemed like a relief from some nightmare. “How came Honour to leave him with a lighted candle?” she exclaimed in anger.
“Mamma, I wish you would not ask me these things! I don’t care to talk of them.”
For some minutes there was silence, but Mrs. Darling was an impulsive woman, and it was almost impossible for her to think of any fresh point without breaking out with a question. She did so now; suddenly, abruptly.
“Is it true that the doors were fastened?”
“Who told you they were?” exclaimed Mrs. St. John.
“Mr. Pym. I saw him as I came up here.”
“Mr. Pym told you the doors were fastened?” repeated Mrs, St. John, fixing her strange eyes upon her mother.
“Yes. At least — What he said was, that Honour asserts they were fastened.”
“Ay, that’s true. But no one believes her. Mr. Pym does not believe her; he told her she must be careful what she said. Prance thinks Honour was so flurried at the time, that her recollection is not clear.”
Again there was a pause. Mrs. St. John sat as before, gazing at the fire, her haggard face — yes, it certainly was unnaturally haggard — bent on her hand. Mrs. Darling seemed buried in perplexity, and her fingers unconsciously smoothed down her bonnet-strings. Georgy stirred in his sleep, and they both looked at the sofa; but he did not awake, and both were silent for a moment.
“Is the inquest over, do you know?” asked Mrs. St. John.
“It was not when I came past. Charlotte, have you written to Castle Wafer?”
“I have not written to any one. Surely there’s time enough!”
“My dear, I did not mean to anger you. I What’s this? They must be coming back from the inquest!”
The noise of many steps outside had called forth the interruption. Mrs. St. John rose from her seat and stood in the middle of the room, facing the door; waiting defiantly, as it seemed, to confront any who might enter. It was just the same position, the same look that had surprised Mrs. Darling when she arrived. The butler came in. — .
“The verdict is ‘Accidental Death,’” he said. “Appended to which was a severe censure on Honour Tritton for leaving the child alone with so dangerous a toy. And ma’am,” he emphatically added to his mistress, “she deserves it: and she seems to think so.”
The mistress of Alnwick sat down again. Mrs. Darling caught up her cloak and went out of the room, her curiosity on the rack for the sad details withheld by her daughter.
Honour did seem to think she deserved the censure, as the butler had observed. Fully, fully had her repentant heart echoed the condemnation of the jury. A never-dying remorse had taken up its abode within her. Mrs. Darling came upon her on the staircase. The girl’s face looked flushed, her eyes glistening; and there was a wildness in their expression that spoke of incipient fever, had any been at leisure to note the signs, or been capable of understanding them.
“Oh Honour! what an awful thing this is!” breathed Mrs. Darling.
“It’s more than awful,” answered Honour. “I suppose I shall get over it sometime, if I live: I don’t know. Perhaps God will be pleased to take me.”
She spoke almost with the unnatural calmness of her mistress. That alone would have told of something mentally wrong, or becoming so.
“Honour — indeed I don’t wish to reproach you, for I’m sure your pain must be too great to need it; but I must speak — how could you leave the child alone with that lighted candle?”
“Will you see him? — what’s left of him?” was the rejoinder. And without waiting for reply, Honour went into the nursery. Something was resting there on trestles with a sheet thrown over it. Whether it was a coffin, whether it was not, Mrs. Darling did not stay to inquire. She arrested Honour’s hand.
“No,” she said. “I don’t know that I could bear the sight.”
Honour dropped the corner of the sheet again. “Well,” she said, “he is there; my darling treasure that was dearer to me than anything in life. They were beating him black and blue in the dining-room, and I brought him out, and I finished the paper toy to soothe and comfort his poor little sobbing heart, and I did leave him alone with it, the candle lighted inside it. If I ever forget my folly, or cease to mourn for it in repentance, I hope God will forget me. But, I am not the sole author of his death; Mrs. Darling, I am not. Those who came and fastened the doors upon him, and so let him burn, are more guilty of it than me.”
“Hush, Honour! You were mistaken. The doors could not have been so fastened.”
Honour laid her hand upon the sheet again, touching what was beneath it.
“Mrs. Darling, don’t you be deceived. Some do not believe what I say, and some are wishing to hush the matter up. I swear that it was as I assert: I swear it by this, all that’s left of him. They say Benja must have buttoned the one door himself; let it go so: I don’t think he did, but let it go so: but he could not have bolted the other on the outside. They are hushing the matter up; and I must do the same: I am only one against many.”
“Who is hushing it up?” asked Mrs. Darling, from between her white lips.
“Mr. Pym, for one. I say nothing about others, I am only one amongst them. From this time I shall drop the matter, and speak of it no more: but I should like you to remember what I say, and to believe me. It is the truth. Heaven knows it is. The doors were fastened upon him, and he was left there — in a living tomb — to burn to death. When the facts come to light, as they will sometime, if there’s justice in the world, we shall learn the truth. At present I don’t pretend to understand it.”
Mrs. Darling felt frightened at the girl’s words, at her resolute manner (her impassiveness had now changed to passion), at her hectic cheeks and wild eyes — all the symptoms of threatening fever or insanity. She quitted the room, retaining a last glimpse of Honour’s throwing herself beside the trestles in a burst of anguish, and sought Prance. Scarcely able to speak from an agitation which she vainly endeavoured to suppress, Mrs. Darling commanded Prance to furnish her with the particulars, to the minutest detail.
