Works of Ellen Wood, page 861
“Yes, Mr. Greatorex once related them to me. The young men in the office get speaking of it.”
“Ah, they had all something to do with Counsellor Ollivera, so to say. Jenner was his clerk in chambers. Hurst’s father was the surgeon called in at the death; Yorke was in Port Natal at the time, but his folks knew him. Talkative young fellows, all the lot; like gossip, I’ll be bound, better than work. I’ll answer that one of ’em does — Mr. Roland Yorke.”
A smile crossed the manager’s face at thought of Roland’s work. “When I hear them begin to speak of the late Mr. Ollivera’s death, I stop it at once,” he remarked. “Jenner is very much given to it, never considering whose office he is in. The name of a man who has committed self-destruction, cannot be pleasant to his relations.”
“As to self-destruction,” spoke Mr. Butterby, with a nod, “I don’t say it was that in Ollivera’s case. I don’t say it was not. There’s only two people have held out against it; and they’ve been obstinate enough in the cause for two thousand. Parson Ollivera, and the young woman in this house, Alletha Rye.”
“On the other hand,” observed the clerk, “some are as positive that he did commit it. Mrs. Jones for one, Mr. Bede Greatorex for another. They possess the same knowledge of details that the other two do, and are certainly as able of conclusion.”
Jonas Butterby opened his mouth, as if to let in a whiff of air to his teeth, for he closed it again without speaking. In the heat of argument his usual cautious reticence had for once nearly failed him, and he all but betrayed his private opinion — that Bede Greatorex had grown to suspect Godfrey Pitman.
“Who told you that Bede Greatorex holds to that view, Mr. Brown?”
“It is well known he does. I have heard him say so myself.”
“He did, and no mistake,” nodded the shrewd detective, who, upon reflection, saw no reason why he should not speak out. “He made as sure that it was suicide, at the time, as you are that that’s a inkpot afore you. But if he has not drawed round a bit to the contrary opinion, my name’s not Jonas Butterby. Bede Greatorex, in his innard breast, has picked up doubts of the missing man, that worthy Pitman.”
Mr. Brown got up to do something to the window-blind, and the peculiar look that crossed his face — not a smile, not a spasm of pain, not a sharp contraction of fear, but something of all three — was thereby hidden from his visitor. He was calm enough when he came back again.
“Did Mr. Bede Greatorex tell you so?”
“Not he. He let drop a word or two, and I could see at once the man was on his mind. But that’s not our business, Mr. Brown, neither must it be made so, you understand. What I want to talk about, is the cheque affair. Let’s go over the particulars quietly together.”
Not so very quietly to begin with. A swinging-open of the street-door as if the house itself were being pushed back; a stamping of feet in the passage; a shouting out to everybody — Mrs. J., Miss Rye, the servant Betsey — to bring him hot water, announced the arrival at home of Mr. Roland Yorke.
CHAPTER XIX.
A Fountain shivered.
THE day is not yet over. It had been a busy one at the house of Greatorex and Greatorex. What with business, what with inward vexation, of one or two kinds, Mr. Greatorex felt cross and weary as the evening drew on.
There had been some unnecessary delay in the prosecution of a cause being tried at Westminster, for which Bede was in fault. A large bill for fripperies had been presented to the office that day, and by mistake to Mr. Greatorex instead of to Mrs. Bede’s husband. The capricious treatment being dealt out to Miss Channing had been spoken of by Jane to her grandpapa; and preparations for another enormous reception for that night were in active progress. All these matters, as well as others, were trying the usually placid temper of Mr. Greatorex.
He did not appear at the dinner-table that evening, but had a chop taken to his private sitting-room. Calling for his son Bede, he found he was not forthcoming. Bede, Mr. Greatorex was told, had gone to London Bridge to meet a steamer from France, by which his wife’s sister was expected. Jane Greatorex ran in to her grandpapa, and asked, spoilt child that she was, if he would not invite her and Miss Channing to drink tea with him: Mrs. Bede not having bidden them to the soirée. Yes, Mr. Greatorex said; they should spend the evening in his room. Closed in there quietly and snugly, they heard only as from a distance the turmoil of the large gathering above, and Mr, Greatorex partially forgot his cares, Mrs, Bede Greatorex’s rooms were lighted up, shutting out the remains of daylight, when Roland Yorke entered them. For it was to get himself up for this soirée that Roland had gone home in a commotion, calling for half the people in the house to wait on him. The company was large, elbowing each other as usual, and fighting for space on the staircase and landing with the beauteous plants that lined the walls. Whatever might be Mrs. Bede’s short-comings in some of the duties of life, she never failed in one — that of gathering a vast crowd at her bidding. This evening was to be great in music; and some of the first singers and performers of the day had been secured to delight the company; at what cost, was known only to Bede’s pocket.
Roland’s chief motive in coming to it — for he did not always attend when invited — was to get an interview with Miss Channing. The vision of her tearful face, seen in the morning, the revelation contained in the careless words of Jane Greatorex, had been making a hot place in his breast ever since. Roland wanted to know what it meant, and why she put up with it. His eyes went roaming into every corner in search of Annabel; but he could not see her.
“Ill-conditioned old she-stork!” ejaculated Roland, apostrophising the unconscious Mrs. Bede Greatorex. “She has gone and kept her out of the way to-night.”
In consequence of this failure in his expectations, Roland had leisure to concentrate his attention on the general company; and he did it in a slightly ungracious mood; his blood was boiling up with the awful injustice (imaginary rather than real) dealt out to the governess.
“And all because that nasty conceited little pig, Jane Greatorex, must get an education.”
“What’s that, Roland?”
Roland, in his indignation, had spoken so as to be overheard. He turned to see the bright face of Hamish Charming, who had entered the room with his wife on his arm.
“You here, Hamish! Well, I never!”
“I’ve come out of my shell for once,” said Hamish. “One cannot be a hermit always, when one has an exacting wife. Mine threatened me with unheard-of penalties if I didn’t bring her to-night.”
“Hamish!” exclaimed Mrs. Channing. “He does nothing but talk against me, Roland. It is good for him to come out sometimes.”
“I say, I can’t see Annabel,” cried Roland, in a most resentful tone, as he, still hoping against hope, cast his eyes in search of her over people’s heads. “It’s a thundering shame! she is a prisoner up-stairs to-night, I suppose, taking care of Jane Greatorex.”
“But that’s no reason why you should call the little lady names,” laughed Hamish.
“I called her a little pig, avowed Roland. “I should like to call somebody else a great pig; to her face too; only she might turn me out for my bad manners. If there’s one thing I hold in contempt more than another, Hamish, it is a Tyrant.”
“Does that apply to Miss Annabel Channing?”
“Bad manners to you then, Hamish, for speaking such a word!” burst forth Roland. “Annabel a tyrant! You’ll tell me I’m a Mormon next! She’s the sweetest-tempered girl in the world; she’s meek and gentle and friendless here, and so that woman puts upon her.
You used to snub her at home when she was a child; they snub her here: but there’s not one of the lot of you fit to tie her shoe. There.”
Roland backed against the wall in dudgeon, and stood there, pulling at his whiskers. Hamish enjoyed these moods of Roland’s beyond everything; they were so genuine.
“And if I were getting on as my father’s son ought to be, with a decent home, and a few hundreds a year to keep it up, it’s not long she should be left to the mercy of any of you, I can tell you that, Mr. Charming.” Hamish Channing’s laugh was interrupted by Mrs. Bede Greatorex— “that woman” as Roland had just disrespectfully called her. Mr and Mrs. Channing had been slowly threading their way to her, a difficult matter from the impeding crowd. She welcomed them with both hands. Hamish, a favourite of hers, was the courtly, sunny Hamish as of yore; making the chief attraction of whatever society he might happen to be in.
“I am very glad to see you; but I wonder you like to show your face to me,” said Mrs. Bede.
“What is my offence?” enquired Hamish.
“As if you need ask! I don’t think you’ve been to one of my gatherings for three months. If it were not for your wife, I’d leave off sending you cards, sir.”
“It was my wife’s doings to come this evening; she dragged me out,” answered saucy Hamish. “You’ve no idea how she puts upon a fellow, Mrs. Greatorex.” Ellen laughed. “The real truth is, Mrs. Greatorex, that he was a little less pressed for work than usual, and came of his own accord.”
“That horrid work!” spoke Mrs. Bede. “You are a slave to it.”
“Wait until my fortune’s made,” said Hamish.
“That will be when your book’s out!”
“Oh yes, of course.”
The answer was given banteringly. But a slight hectic came into his face, his voice unconsciously took a deeper tone. Heaven alone knew what that anticipated book already was to his spirit.
“When will it be finished?”
“It is finished.”
“How glad you must be!” concluded Mrs. Bede.
The evening went on. Roland kept his place against the wall, looking as if everybody were his natural enemy. On the whole, Roland did not like soirées; there was no room for his elbows; and the company never seemed to be in their natural manners; rather on artificial stilts. Having come out to this one for the specific purpose of meeting Annabel, Roland could but regard the disappointment in the light of a personal wrong, and resent it accordingly.
In the midst of a grand, tremendous cavatina, loud enough to split the ceiling, while the room was preparing itself to applaud, and Roland was thinking it might have been more agreeable to ears if given out of doors, say on the quai at Durban, he happened to raise his head, and saw Gerald opposite. Their eyes met. Roland nodded, but Gerald gave no response. Gerald happened to be standing next to Hamish Channing.
And the two were attracting some attention, for they were known by many present to be rising stars in the literary world. Perhaps Hamish was also gaining notice by his personal attributes; it was not often so entirely good-looking a man was seen in the polite society of soirées and drums. Side by side they stood, the aspiring candidates for literary honours, soon to be enrolled amidst the men who have written Books. Which of them — that is, which work — would be the most successful? That remained to be learnt. Hamish Channing had the advantage (and a very great one) in looks; anybody might see that: Hamish had the advantage in scholarship; and he had the advantage, though perhaps the world could not see it yet, of genius. Hamish Channing’s education had been also sound and comprehensive: he was a College man. Gerald was not. Mr. Channing the elder had been straitened for means, as the public has heard of, but he had contrived to send his eldest son to Cambridge. A wonderful outward difference was there in the two men, as they stood side by side: would there be as much contrast in their books?
Gerald was looking fierce. The sight of Hamish Channing brought to his mind the adverse opinion pronounced on his manuscript. His resentment had grown more bitter; his determination, to be revenged, into a firm and fixed resolve. He could not completely cut Hamish, as it was his pleasure to cut his brother Roland, but he was haughty and distant. Hamish, of genial temper himself, and his attention distracted by the large assembly, observed it not.
The crashing came to an end, the applause also, and in the general move that succeeded, Roland got away. Seeing a vacant sofa in a comparatively deserted room, he took possession of one end of it. A fashionable young woman seated herself at the other end and took a survey of him.
“I am sure you are one of the Yorkes of Helstonleigh! Is it Roland?”
Roland turned to the speaker: and saw a general resemblance (in the chignon and shoulder-blades) to Mrs. Bede Greatorex.
“Yes, I am Roland,” he answered, staring.
“Don’t you remember me? — Clare Joliffe?”
“Good gracious!” cried Roland, seizing her hand and shaking it nearly off. Clare Joliffe had never been a particular favourite of his; but, regarded in the light of a home face, she was agreeably welcome. “Whatever brings you here, Miss Joliffe?”
“I am come over on a visit,” said the young lady. “Louisa has invited me for the first time since her marriage. I only got here at seven o’clock to-night; we had a rough passage and the boat was late.”
“Over from where? What boat?”
“Boulogne.”
“Have you been staying there?”
“We are living there. We have left Helstonleigh — oh, ever so long ago. Mamma got tired of it, and so did I and Mary.”
Roland’s ill-humour disappeared with the old reminiscences, for they plunged into histories past and present. Home days and home people, mixed with slight anecdotes of Port Natal life. Mrs. Joliffe had quitted Helstonleigh very shortly after that occurrence that had so startled the town — the death of John Ollivera. It was perhaps natural, perhaps only a curious accident, that the sad fact should be reverted to between them now as they talked: we all know how one subject leads to another. Clare Joliffe grew confidential about that and other things. One bond she and Roland seemed to have between them this night — a grievance against Mrs. Bede Greatorex. Roland’s consisted in that lady’s unkind treatment (real or fancied) of Miss Channing, the notion of which he had but picked up that self-same day. Clare Joliffe’s resentment appeared to be more general, and of longer standing.
“It is such an unkind thing of her, Roland — I may call you Roland, I suppose?”
“Call me Ro if you like,” said easy Roland. “Here’s Louisa in this nice position, servants, and carriages, and company about her, no children, living like a queen; and never once has she invited me or Mary inside her doors. It’s a great shame. She should hear what mamma thinks of it. I don’t suppose she’d have asked me now, only she could not well avoid it, as I am passing through London to visit some friends in the country. Mamma wrote to ask her to give me a night’s lodging, and then she wrote back, inviting me to stay a week or two.”
“Why should she not have had you before?”
“Oh, I don’t suppose there has been any reason, except that she has not thought of it. Louisa was always made up of self. We never fancied she’d marry Bede Greatorex.”
“Why not?”
“At least, what we thought was, that Bede would not marry her. He must have cared for her very much, or he would not, after the affair about John Ollivera.”
“What had that to do with it?” questioned Roland, opening his eyes — for he supposed the young lady was alluding to the barrister’s death.
“She engaged herself to both of them.”
“Who did?”
“Louisa.”
“Did she!”
Clare Joliffe nodded. “We never quite understood how it was. She was up here on a visit for ever so long, weeks and weeks; it was in the time of Mrs. Greatorex; and if she did not promise herself to Bede, there was at least a good deal of flirtation going on between them. We got to know that after Louisa returned home. The next year, when John Ollivera was at Helstonleigh, she had a flirtation with him. I know she used to write to both of them. Any way, at the time of his last visit, when the death occurred, she had managed to engage herself to the two.”
“I’ve heard of two wives, but I never heard of two engagements going on together,” observed Roland. “Which of the fellows did she like best?”
“I think she liked John Ollivera. But Bede had a good income ready made to his hand, and money went for a great deal with Louisa. She could not marry both of them, that was certain; and how she would have got out of the dilemma but for poor John Ollivera’s death, it is impossible to imagine. I never shall forget her look of fright the night Bede Greatorex came in unexpectedly. We had a few friends with us; mamma had invited Mr. Ollivera, and the tea waited for him. There was a ring at the bell, and then the room-door opened for somebody to be shown in. ‘Here’s your counsellor,’ I whispered to Louisa. Instead of him, the servant announced Mr. Bede Greatorex; Louisa’s face turned ghastly.”
“I don’t understand,” said Roland, rather at sea, “When was it?”
“It was the night that John Ollivera came by his death. He was in Helstonleigh for the assizes, you know; he was to have pleaded the next day in a cause mamma was interested in. He said he would come in to tea if he were able; and when Bede Greatorex appeared we were all surprised, not knowing that he was at Helstonleigh. We still expected Mr. Ollivera, and Louisa kept casting frightened glances to the door every time it opened. I know she felt at her wit’s end; for of course with both her lovers on the scene, a crisis was inevitable, and her deceit would have to come out. Bede Greatorex was whispering to her at times throughout the evening; there seemed to be some trouble between them. Mr. Ollivera did not come — Bede told us he had left him busy, and complaining of a headache. I thought Bede seemed very angry with Louisa; and as soon as he left, she bolted herself in her chamber, and we did not see her again that night. The next morning she sent word down she was ill, and stayed in bed. Mary said she knew what it was that ailed her — worry; but I thought she only wished to avoid being down stairs if the two called. We were at breakfast when Hurst, the surgeon, came in — he was attending mamma at the time — and brought the dreadful news to us, that Mr. Ollivera had been found dead. I carried the tidings up to Louisa, and told her that she must have gone out and killed him. Nothing else could have extricated her so completely from the dilemma.”
