Works of Ellen Wood, page 1232
“Oh, they are gone off to some baths in Germany for a twelvemonth, with suppressed gout, and their house is let to a mysterious tenant.”
“Mysterious in what way?”
“Well, nobody sees her, and she keeps the doors bolted and barred. The Dennets left it all in Mrs. Cramp’s hands, being intimate with her, for they started in a hurry, and she put it into a new agent’s hands at Worcester, and he put an advertisement in the papers. Some lady answered it, a stranger; she agreed to all conditions by letter, took possession of the house, and has shut herself up as if something uncanny were inside it. Mrs. Cramp does not like it at all; and queer rumours are beginning to go about.”
“What’s her name?”
“Nobody knows.”
The house spoken of was North Villa, where Jacob Chandler used to live. When the Chandlers went down in the world it was taken on lease by the Miss Dennets, two steady middle-aged sisters.
The first visit we paid the following morning was to Oxlip Grange, to see Coralie. Meeting the Squire on the way he said he would go with us. North Villa lies not far from us, soon after you turn into the Islip Road, and the Grange is about a quarter-of-a-mile farther on. I took a good stare at the villa in passing. Two of the upstairs windows were open, but the mysterious tenant was not to be seen.
Old Ozias was in the Grange garden, helping the gardener; it was how he professed to fill up his time; and the door was opened by a tall, smart maid, with curled hair and pink bows in her cap. Where had I seen her? Why, at the lodgings in the Marylebone Road in London! She was Maria, who had been housemaid there during the enacting of that tragedy.
Coralie Fontaine sat in her pretty parlour, one opening from the large drawing-room, flirting a paper hand-screen between her face and the fire, which she would have, as Sir Dace used to, whether it might be cold weather or hot. Small and pale, her black hair smooth and silky, her dark eyes meeting ours honestly, her chin pointed, her pretty teeth white, she was not a whit changed. Her morning dress was white, with scarlet ribbons, and she was downright glad to see us. The Squire inquired after Verena.
“She is quite well,” replied Coralie. “At least, she would be but for grumbling.”
“What has she to grumble about, my dear?”
“Nothing,” said Coralie.
“Then why does she do it? Dear me! Is her husband not kind to her?”
Coralie laughed at the notion. “He is too kind, Mr. Todhetley. Kindness to people is George Bazalgette’s weakness, especially to Verena. Her grievance lies in George’s sister, Magnolia Bazalgette.”
“What a splendacious name!” interrupted Tod. “Magnolia!”
“She was named after the estate, Magnolia Range, a very beautiful place and one of the finest properties on the island,” said Coralie. “Magnolia lives with George, it was always her home, you see; and Verena does not take kindly to her. She complains that Magnolia domineers over the household and over herself. It is just one of Verena’s silly fancies; she always wants to be first and foremost; and I have written her one or two sharp letters.”
“Coralie,” I said here, “is not the girl, who showed us in, Maria? — she who used to live in those lodgings in London?”
Coralie nodded. “The last time I was staying in London, Maria came to me, saying she had left her place and was in want of one. I engaged her at once. I like the girl.”
“She is an uncommonly smart girl in the way of curls and caps,” remarked Tod.
“I like smart people about me,” laughed Coralie.
Who should come in then but Mrs. Cramp. She was smart. A flounced gown of shiny material, green in one light, red in another, and a purple bonnet with white strings. She was Stephen Cramp’s widow, formerly Mary Ann Chandler; her speech was honest and homely, and her comely face wore a look of perplexity.
“I don’t much like the look of things down yonder,” she began, nodding her head in the direction of North Villa and as she sat down her flounces went up, displaying her white cotton stockings and low, tied shoes. “I have been calling there again, and I can’t get in.”
“Nobody can get in,” said Coralie.
“They have put a chain on the door, and they answer people through it. No chain was ever there before, as long as I have known the house. I paid no attention to the things people were saying,” continued Mrs. Cramp; “but I did not much like something I heard last night. I’ll see the lady, I said to myself this morning, and down to the house I went, walked up the garden, and — —”
“But what is it that people have been saying, Mrs. Cramp?” struck in the Squire. “These boys have heard something or other.”
“What’s said is, that there’s something queer about the lady,” replied Mrs. Cramp. “I can’t make it out myself, Squire. Some people say she’s pig-faced.”
“Pig-faced!”
“Well, they do. Last night I heard she was black. And, putting two and two together, as one can’t help doing in such a case, I don’t like that report at all.”
The Squire stared — and began thinking. He believed he knew what Mrs. Cramp meant.
“Well, I went there, and rang,” she resumed. “And they opened the door a couple of inches and talked to me over the chain: some sour-faced woman-servant of middle age. I told her I had come to see my tenant — her mistress; she answered that her mistress could not be seen, and shut the door in my face.”
Mrs. Cramp untied her white satin bonnet-strings, tilted back her bonnet, caught up the painted fan, fellow to the one Coralie was handling, and fanned herself while she talked.
“As long as it was said the lady was pig-faced and hid herself from people’s eyes accordingly, I thought little of it, you understand, Squire; but if she is black, that’s a different matter. It sets one fearing that some scandal may come of it. The Miss Dennets would drop down in a fit on the spot if they heard that person had got into their house.”
Coralie laughed.
“Ah, my dear, you careless young people make jokes of things that would fret us old ones to fiddle-strings,” reproved Mrs. Cramp. “The four Indians may be with her, you know, and most likely are, concealed in cupboards. You don’t know what such desperate characters might do — break into your house here some dark night and kill you in your bed. It is not a pleasant thing, is it, Squire?”
“That it’s not, if it be as you put it,” assented he, growing hot.
“Look here, Mrs. Cramp,” interposed Tod. “If the lady has never been seen, how can it be known she is black, or pig-faced?”
“I’ve never treated the pig-faced report as anything but rubbish,” answered Mrs. Cramp; “but I’ll tell you, Mr. Joseph, how it has come out that she’s black. I heard from Susan Dennet yesterday morning, and she asked whether any letters were lying at home for her or Mary. So I sent my servant Peggy last evening to inquire — a stupid thing of a girl she is, comes from over beyond Bromyard. Peggy went to the kitchen-door — and they have a chain there as well as to the other — and was told that no letters had come for the Miss Dennets. It was growing dark, and Peggy, who had never been on the premises before, mistook the path, and turned into one that took her to the latticed arbour. Many a time have I sat there in poor Jacob’s days, with the Malvern Hills in the distance.”
“So have I, Mary Ann,” added the Squire, calling her unconsciously by her Christian name, his thoughts back in the time when they were boy and girl together.
“Peggy found her mistake then, and was turning back, when there stood in her path a black woman, who must have followed her down: black face, black hands, all black. What’s more, she was wrapped round in yellow; a shroud, Peggy declares, but the girl was quite beyond herself with fright, and could not be expected to know shrouds from cloaks in the twilight. The woman stood stock still, never speaking, only staring; and Peggy tore back in her terror, and fell into the arms of a railway-porter, just then bringing a parcel from the station. ‘Goodness help us!’ she shrieked out, ‘there’s a blackamore in the path yonder:’ and the girl came home more dead than alive. That is how I’ve learnt the mysterious lady is black,” summed up Mrs. Cramp; “and knowing what we do know, I don’t like it.”
Neither did the Squire. And Mrs. Cramp departed in a flutter. We all liked her, in spite of her white stockings and shoes.
Some few months before this, a party of strangers appeared one morning at Worcester, and took handsome lodgings there. Four fashionable-looking gentlemen, with dark skins and darker hair; natives, apparently, of some remote quarter of the globe, say Asia or Africa, whose inhabitants are of a fine copper colour; and one lady, understood to be their sister, who was darker than they were — almost quite black. Two rather elderly and very respectable English servants, man and wife, were in their train. They lived well, these people, regardless of cost: had sumptuous dishes on their table, choice fruits, hot-house flowers. They made no acquaintance whatever in the town, rarely went abroad on foot, but took an airing most days in a large old rumbling open barouche, supplied by the livery stables. Worcester, not less alive to curiosity than is any other city, grew to be all excitement over these people, watched their movements with admiration, and called them “The Indians.” The lady was seen in the barouche but once, enveloped in a voluminous yellow mantle, the hood of which was drawn over her face. It transpired that she was not in good health, and one evening, when she had a fainting-fit, a doctor was called in to her. His report to the town the next day was that she was really a coloured woman, very much darker than her brothers, with the manners and culture of a lady, but strikingly reserved. After a sojourn of about two months, the party, servants and all, quitted their lodgings, giving the landlady only an hour’s notice, to spend, as they gave out, a week at Malvern. They paid their bill in full, asked permission to leave two or three of their heaviest trunks with her, and departed.
But they did not go to Malvern. It was not discovered where they did go. Nothing more was seen of them; nothing certain heard. The trunks they had left proved to be empty; some accounts owing in the town came in to be paid. All this looked curious. By-and-by a frightful rumour arose — that these people had been mixed up in some dreadful crime: one report said forgery, another murder. It was affirmed that Scotland Yard had been looking for them for months, and that they had disguised themselves as Indians (to quote the word Worcester used) to avert detection. But some observant individuals maintained that they were Indians (to use the word again), that no disguise or making-up could have converted their faces to what they were. Nothing more had as yet been heard of them, saving that a sum of money, enough to cover the small amount of debts left behind, was transmitted to the landlady anonymously. Excitement had not yet absolutely died away in the town. It was popularly supposed that the Indians were lying concealed in some safe hiding-place, perhaps not far distant.
And now, having disclosed this strange episode, the fame of which had gone about the county, you will be able to understand Mrs. Cramp’s consternation. It appeared to be only too probable that the hiding-place was North Villa: of the lady in the yellow mantle, at any rate, whether her four brothers were with her or not.
II.
I sat, perched on the fence of the opposite field, as though waiting for some one, whistling softly, and taking crafty looks at North Villa, for our curiosity as to its doings grew with the days, when a fine, broad-shouldered, well-dressed gentleman came striding along the road, flicking his cane.
“Well, Johnny!”
At the first moment I did not know him, I really did not; he looked too grand a gentleman for Benjamin Rymer, too handsome. It was Ben, however. The improvement in him had been going on gradually for some years now; and Ben, in looks, in manner, ay, and in conduct, could hold his own with the best in the land.
“I did not know you were down here,” I said, meeting his offered hand. Time was when he would not have presumed to hold out his hand to me unsolicited, boy though I was in those old days: he might have thought nothing of offering it to a nabob now.
“I got down yesterday,” said Ben. “Glad enough to have taken my M.D., and to have done with London.”
“I thought you did not mean to take a physician’s degree.”
“I did not, as I chiefly go in for surgery. But when I considered that my life will probably be spent in this country place, almost as a general practitioner, I thought it best to take it. It gives one a standing, you see, Ludlow. And so,” he added laughing, “I am Dr. Rymer. What are you sitting here for, Johnny? Watching that house?”
“Have you heard about it?” I asked.
“Coralie — Miss Fontaine — told me of it when I was with her last evening. Is there anything to be seen?”
“Nothing at all. I have been here for twenty minutes and have not caught a glimpse of any one, black or white. Yesterday, when Salmon’s boy took some grocery there, he saw the black lady peeping at him behind the blind.”
“It seems a strange affair altogether,” remarked Ben. “The sudden appearance of the people at Worcester, that was strange, as was their sudden disappearance. If it be in truth they who are hiding themselves here, I can’t say much for their wisdom: they are too near to the old scene.”
“I wonder you don’t set up in London,” I said to Ben as we walked onwards.
“It is what I should like to do of all things,” he replied in a tone of eagerness, “and confine my practice wholly to surgery. But my home must be here. Circumstances are stronger than we are.”
“Will it be at Oxlip Grange?” I quietly asked.
Ben turned his head to study my face, and what he read there told tales. “I see,” he said, “you know. Yes, it will be at Oxlip Grange. That has been settled a long while past.”
“I wish you every happiness; all good luck.”
“Thank you, Johnny.”
We were nearing the place in question when Mrs. Cramp turned out of its small iron gate, that stood beside the ornamental large ones, in her bewitching costume of green and purple. “And how are you, Mr. Benjamin?” she asked. “Come down for good?”
“Yes.”
“And he is Dr. Rymer now, Mrs. Cramp,” I added.
“I am glad to hear it,” said she warmly, “and I’ll shake your hand on the strength of it,” and she gave his hand a hearty shake. “At one time you said you never would take a doctor’s degree.”
“So I did,” said Ben. “But somebody wished me to take it.”
“Your mother, I guess,” — though, for my part, I did not suppose it was his mother. “Any way, you’ll do well now.”
“I hope so,” answered Ben. “You look fluttered, Mrs. Cramp.”
“I’m more fluttered than I care to be; I am living in a chronic state of flutter,” avowed Mrs. Cramp. “It’s over that tenant of mine; that woman down yonder,” pointing towards North Villa.
“Why should you flutter yourself over her?” he remonstrated. “She is not your tenant.”
“Indeed but she is my tenant. To all intents and purposes she is my tenant. The Miss Dennets left the house in my hands.”
“How was it you did not have references with her, Mrs. Cramp?”
“That donkey of an agent never asked for any,” retorted she. “He was thrown off his guard, he says, by her sending him the first month’s rent in advance, and telling him she had only one or two old servants, and no children, and the furniture would be as much cared for as if it were made of gold. Last night she sends to me the advance rent for next month, though it’s not due for two days yet, and that has fluttered me, I can tell you, Mr. Benjamin, for I was hoping she wouldn’t pay, and that I might be able to get her out. I am now going there with the receipt, and to try again to get to see her: the woman who left the money never waited for one. Afraid of being catechised, I take it.”
Picking up her green skirts she sailed down the road. Coralie Fontaine was leaning over the little gate, and opened it as we approached. A beautiful cashmere shawl, all scarlet and gold, contrasted with her white dress, and her drooping gold ear-drops glittered in the autumn sun. She made a dainty picture, and I saw Dr. Benjamin’s enraptured eyes meet hers. If they were not over head and ears in love with one another, never you trust me again.
“Mrs. Cramp is in a way,” cried Coralie, as we strolled with her up the garden, amidst its old-fashioned flowers, all bloom and sweetness. “I’m sure that black lady is as good as a play to us.”
“News came to me this morning from my sister,” said Benjamin. “She and the Archdeacon are coming home; he has not been well, and has six months’ leave of absence.”
“Do they bring the children?” asked Coralie.
“As if they’d leave them! Why, Coralie, those two small damsels are the very light of Margaret’s eyes — to judge by her letters; and of Sale’s too, I shouldn’t wonder. Margaret asks me to take lodgings for them. I think Mrs. Boughton’s might be large enough — where Sale lodged in the old days.”
“Lodgings!” indignantly exclaimed Coralie. “I do think you Europeans, you English, are the most inhospitable race on the face of the earth! Your only sister, whom you have not seen for years, of whom you are very fond, is coming back to her native place with her husband and children for a temporary stay, and you can talk of putting them into lodgings? For shame, Benjamin!”
“But what else am I to do?” questioned he, good-humouredly laughing at her. “I have only one bedroom and one sitting-room of my own, the two about as large as a good-sized clothes-closet; I cannot invite a man and his wife and two children to share them, and he an archdeacon! There wouldn’t be space to turn round in.”
“Let them come here,” said Coralie.
“Thank you,” he said, after a few moments’ hesitation: and it struck me he might be foreseeing difficulties. “But — they will not be here just yet.”
He had some patients at Islip, and went on there; I said adieu to Coralie and walked homewards, thinking of the ups and downs of life. Presently Mrs. Cramp’s green gown loomed into view; her face red, her bonnet awry. I saw she had not met with any luck.
