Works of Ellen Wood, page 975
“As it is so fine a day, Archibald, you might take me to Kensington, to call on Mrs. Page Reid, this afternoon. She sent us her address, you know.”
“I would rather not, Blanche, unless you particularly wish it. I don’t care to keep up Mrs. Page Reid’s acquaintance. She’s good for nothing but to talk scandal.”
“I do not much care for her either,” acknowledged Blanche. “We are not in the least obliged to renew her acquaintance.”
“I will take you somewhere else instead,” said he, pleased at her acquiescence. “We will go out after luncheon and make an afternoon of it — like Darby and Joan.”
Presently, when breakfast was nearly over, Blanche opened her letter from Mrs. Guy; reading out scraps of it to her husband. It told of Major Carlen’s arrival — so that he had really gone to Jersey. Then she took up the Times. An unusual thing for her to do. She did not care for newspapers, and Lord Level did not have them sent to him when in Paris: he saw the English journals at the club. No doubt he had his reasons for so doing.
Meanwhile he was opening his own letters. The one from Paris came last. Had his wife been looking at him, she might have seen a sudden change pass over his face as he read it, as though startled by some doubt or perplexity.
“Archibald, what can this mean?” exclaimed Blanche in breathless tones. “Listen: ‘The names of the five convicts said to have escaped from the ship Vengeance after her wreck on the island, supposed to be that of Tristan d’Acunha, are the following: George Ford, Walter Green, John Andison, Nathaniel Markham, and Thomas Heriot.’ That is Tom’s name.”
Cramming all his letters into his breastpocket with a hurried movement, Lord Level quietly took the paper from his wife’s hands. This was the very contretemps he had so long striven to guard against.
“My dear Blanche, do you suppose there is only one Thomas Heriot in the world?” cried he carelessly. “‘Ship Vengeance?’ ‘Escape of convicts?’ Oh, it is something that has happened over at Botany Bay.”
“Well, the name startled me, at the moment. I’m sure Tom might as well be a convict as anything else for all the news he sends us of himself.”
“He was always careless, you know, and detested letter-writing.”
Carrying away the paper, Lord Level left the room and went to the one behind it, of which he made a sort of study. There he sat down, spread the letter from Paris before him on the table, and reperused it.
“Confound the woman!” remarked his lordship. “I shall have to go down there now!”
Breakfast removed, Blanche began at once to write to Mrs. Guy, whose letter required an answer. That over, she put on her bonnet to call on Mrs. Arnold Ravensworth in Langham Place. She had called on the previous day, but found Mr. and Mrs. Ravensworth out of town: they were expected home that evening. So now Blanche went again.
Yes, they had arrived; and had brought with them Blanche’s old friend, Cecilia Ravensworth, from White Littleham Rectory.
How happy they were together, these two! It seemed an age since they had parted, and yet it was not in reality so very long ago. Lady Level remained the best part of the morning, talking of the old days of her happy, yet uneventful, girlhood.
Strolling leisurely through Cavendish Square on her way home, Blanche fell to thinking of the afternoon: speculating where it might be that her husband meant to take her. Perhaps to Hampton Court: she had never seen it, and would like to do so: she would ask him to take her there. Quickening her pace, she soon reached her own door, and saw an empty cab drawn up before it.
“Is any visitor here?” she asked of Sanders, when admitted.
“No, my lady. I have just called the cab for his lordship.”
Lord Level came out of the study at the sound of her voice, and turned with her into the front room. She thought he looked vexed — hurried.
“Blanche,” he began, “I find I have to run down to Marshdale. But I shall not be away more than a night if I can help it. I shall be back to-morrow if possible; if not, you may expect me the next day for certain.”
“To Marshdale!” she repeated, in surprise and vexation. “Then you will not be able to take me out this afternoon! I was hoping it might be to Hampton Court.”
“You shall go to Hampton Court when I return.”
“Take me with you to Marshdale.”
“I cannot,” he replied decisively. “I am going down on business.”
“Why did you not tell me of it this morning? Why have proposed to — —”
“I did not know of it then,” he interrupted. “How dismayed you look, Blanche!” he added, half laughing.
“I shall be very lonely, Archibald — all by myself here!”
He said no more, but stooped to kiss her, and left the room, looking at his watch.
“I did not think it was quite so late!” he exclaimed. Turning sharply, for he had been about to enter the study, he approached the front door, hesitated, then turned again, and went into the study.
“No, I can’t stop,” he said, coming to a final decision, as he once more came forth, shut the study door after him, and locked it, but did not take out the key. “Blanche, don’t let anyone come in here; I have left all my papers at sixes and sevens. If I wait to put them up I shall not catch Jenning.”
“Are you going to the train now, Archibald?”
“No, no; I want to see Jenning. I shall come back before going to the train.”
Getting into the cab, Lord Level was whirled away. Sanders closed the house-door. And Blanche, ascending the stairs to her chamber, in the slow manner we are apt to assume after experiencing some unexpected check, and untying her bonnet as she went up, came upon her maid, Timms. Timms appeared to be in trouble: her face was gloomy and wet with tears.
“What is the matter?” exclaimed her mistress.
“My lady, I can’t understand it. My belief is she has stole it, and nothing less. But for that dreadful sea-passage, there and back, I’d go over myself to-day, if your ladyship would spare me.”
“Now, Timms, what are you talking about?”
“Why, of the box, my lady. I was that vexed at its being left behind that I scribbled a few lines to Victorine from Dover, telling her to get Sauvage not to delay in sending it on. And I’ve got her answer this morning, denying that any box has been left. Leastways, saying that she can’t see it.”
While Timms was speaking, she had pulled a note out of her pocket, and offered it to her mistress. It was from their late chambermaid, and written in curious English for Timms’ benefit, who was no French scholar, and it certainly denied that the box inquired for, or any other box, had been left behind, so far as she, Victorine, could ascertain.
When departing from Paris three days before, Timms, counting over the luggage with Sanders, discovered at the station that one of the boxes was missing, left behind in their apartments by her own carelessness. The train was on the point of starting, and there was no time to return; but Lord Level despatched a message by a commissionaire to the concierge, Sauvage, to send it on to London by grande vitesse. The box contained wearing apparel belonging to Lady Level, and amidst it a certain dark silk dress which Timms had long coveted. Altogether she was in a state of melancholy self-reproach and had written to Victorine from Dover, urging speed. Victorine’s answer, delivered this morning, had completely upset Timms.
Lady Level laughed gaily. “Cheer up, Timms,” she said; “the box is on its road. His lordship has had a letter from Madame Sauvage this morning.” The concierge himself was no scribe, and his wife always did the writing for him.
Timms dashed her tears away. “Oh, my lady, how thankful I am! What could Victorine mean, I wonder? When was the box sent off? Does your ladyship know?”
“No — o. I — don’t know what the letter does say,” added Lady Level, calling to mind that she was as yet ignorant of its contents. “I forgot all about it after Lord Level opened it.”
Timms did not quite comprehend. “But — I beg your pardon, my lady — I suppose Madame Sauvage does say they have sent it off?”
“I dare say she does. What else should she write for?”
The maid’s countenance fell considerably.
“But, my lady,” she remonstrated, wise in her superior age and experience, “if — if your ladyship has not read the letter, it may be just the opposite. To pretend, like Victorine, that they have not found the box. Victorine may have spirited it away without their knowledge. She would uncommonly like to get some of those dresses for herself.”
This view scarcely appeared feasible to Lady Level. “How silly you are, Timms!” she cried. “You can only look at the dark side of the case. As if Lord Level would not have told me had it been that news! I wonder where he put the letter? I will look for it.”
“If you would be so kind, my lady! so as to set the doubt at rest.”
That she should find the letter on her husband’s table, Blanche no more doubted than that it was written by Madame Sauvage to announce the despatch of the box. She ran down to the study, unlocked the door, and entered.
The table was covered with quite a confused mass of papers, heaped one upon another. It seemed as though Lord Level must have been looking for some deed or other. A despatch-box, usually crammed full of papers, stood on the table, open and empty. At the opposite corner was his desk; but that was locked.
For a moment Blanche thought she would abandon her search. The confusion looked too formidable to be meddled with. Well for her own peace of mind that she had not done so!
Bending forward, for papers lay on the carpet as well as the table, she let her eyes range over the litter, slightly lifting with her thumb and forefinger a paper here and there, hoping to discern the required letter. Quite by a stroke of good fortune she came upon it. Good fortune or ill — which?
It lay, together with the two letters which had come with it, under an open parchment, close before Lord Level’s chair. One of these letters was from Mr. Jenning, his confidential solicitor, requesting his lordship to be with him at twelve o’clock that morning on a special matter; but that had nothing to do with Blanche, or with us either. She opened the envelope of the one she wished to see, and took out its letter.
But it was not a letter; not, at least, as letters run in general. It was only a piece of thin paper folded once, which bore a few lines in a fine, pointed Italian hand, and in faint-coloured ink, somewhat difficult to decipher.
Now it must be premised that Lady Level had no more thought of prying into what concerned her husband, and did not concern herself, than a child could have had. She would not have been guilty of such a thing for the world. Any one of those parchments or papers, lying open before her eyes, she would have deemed it the height of dishonour to read a word of. This letter from the wife of their late concierge, containing news of her own lost box, was a different matter.
But though the address to Lord Level was undoubtedly in the handwriting of Madame Sauvage, the inside was not. Blanche strained her eyes over it.
“I arrive to-day at Paris, and find you departed for England
with your wife and servants. I come straight on from Pisa,
without halting, to inform you of a discovery we have made;
there was no time to write. As I am so near, it is well to use
the opportunity to pay a short visit to Marshdale to see the
child, and I start this evening for it; you can join me there.
Pardon the trouble I give you. — NINA.”
With her face flaming, with trembling hands, and shortened breath, Lady Level gathered in the words and their meaning. Nina! It was the Italian girl, the base woman who had troubled before her peace of mind, and who must have got Madame Sauvage to address the letter. Evidently she did not mean, the shameless siren, to let Lord Level be at rest. And — and — and what was the meaning of that allusion about “the child”?
Leaving the letter precisely as she had found it, under the sheet of parchment, Lady Level quitted the room and turned the key in the door again. Not for very shame, now that this shameful secret had been revealed to her, would she let her husband know that she had entered. Had she found only what she sought, she would have said openly to him on his return: “Archibald, I went in for Madame Sauvage’s note, and I found it. I hope you don’t mind — we were anxious about the box.” But somehow her eyes were now opened to the fact that she had been guilty of a dishonourable action, one that could not be excused or justified. Had he not locked his door against intruders — herself as well as others?
Passing into the front room, where the table was now being laid for luncheon, which they took at one o’clock, she drew a chair near the fire, mechanically watching Sanders as he placed the dishes on the table, in reality seeing nothing; her mind was in a tumult, very painful and rebellious.
Timms came stealing in. How any lady could be so indifferent as her lady when a box of beautiful clothes was at stake, Timms could not understand: sitting quietly there over the fire, and never coming back to set a body’s mind at rest with yes or no.
“I beg pardon for intruding,” began Timms, with deprecation, “but did your ladyship find Madame Sauvage’s letter?”
“No,” curtly replied Lady Level. “I dare say the box is lost. Not much matter if it is.”
Timms withdrew, lifting her hands in condemning displeasure when she got outside. “Not much matter! if ever I heard the like of that! A whole trunk full! and some of ’em lovely!”
“Will you sit down, now, my lady, or wait for his lordship?” inquired Sanders.
Lady Level answered the question by taking her place at table. She felt as though she should never care to wait for his lordship again, for luncheon or anything else. In a few minutes a cab dashed up to the door, bringing him.
“That’s right, Blanche; I am glad you did not wait for me,” he began. “Sanders, is my hand-bag ready?”
“Quite, my lord.”
“Put it into the cab, then.”
He hastened into the study as he spoke, and began putting things straight there with a deft and rapid hand. In an incredibly short time, the papers were all in order, locked up in their various receptacles, and the table was cleared.
“Good-bye, my love,” said he, returning to the front room.
“Do you not take anything to eat?” asked Blanche, in short and sullen tones, which he was in too great a hurry to notice.
“No: or I should lose the train.”
He caught her to him. Blanche turned her face away.
“You silly child! you are cross with me for leaving you. My dear, believe me, I could not help it. Charley is coming up to dine with you this evening.”
Leaving his kisses on her lips, but getting none in return, Lord Level went out to the cab. As it drove away, there came up to the door a railway luggage van. The lost box had arrived from Paris. Timms knelt down with extra fervour that night to offer up her thanksgivings.
* * * * *
Lord Level had snatched a moment to look in upon me, and ask me to dine with Blanche that evening.
“She is not pleased at being left alone,” he said; “but I am obliged to run down to Marshdale. And, Charley, she saw something about Tom in the paper this morning: I had to turn it off in the best way I could: so be cautious if she mentions it to you.”
I had meant to look again after Tom Heriot that evening, but could not refuse this. Blanche was unusually silent throughout dinner.
“Is anything the matter, Blanche?” I asked her, when we were in the drawing-room.
“A great deal is the matter,” she replied resentfully. “I am not going to put up with it.”
“Put up with what?”
“Oh — with Lord Level. With his — his deceit. But I can’t tell you now, Charles: I shall speak to himself first.”
I laughed. “More jealousy cropping up! What has he done now, Blanche?”
“What has he gone to Marshdale for?” retorted Blanche, her cheeks flaming. “And what did he go to Pisa for when we were last in Paris?” continued she, without any pause. “He did go. It was in December; and he was away ten days.”
“Well,’ I suppose some matter or other called him there,” I said. “As to Marshdale — it is his place; his home. Why should this annoy you, Blanche? A man cannot carry his wife with him everywhere.”
“I know,” she said, catching up her fan, and beginning to use it sharply. “I know more than you do, Charles. More than he thinks for — a great deal more.”
“It strikes me, my dear, that you are doing your best to estrange your husband from you — if you speak to him as you are speaking now. That will not enhance your own happiness, Blanche.”
“The fault is his,” she cried, turning her hot face defiantly upon me.
“It may be. I don’t think so.”
“He does not care for me at all. He cares for — for — somebody else.”
“You may be mistaken. I should be sorry to believe it. But, even should it be so — listen, Blanche — even should it be so, you will do well to change your tactics. Try and win him back to you. I tell it you for the sake of your own happiness.”
Blanche tossed back her golden curls, and rose. “How old-fashioned you are, Charles! it is of no use talking to you. Will you sing our old duet with me— ‘I’ve wandered in dreams’?”
“Ay. But I am out of practice.”
She had taken her place on the music-stool, and was playing the first bars of the song, when a thought struck her, and she turned round.
“Charley, such a curious thing happened this morning. I saw in the Times a list of some escaped convicts, who had been on their way to Van Diemen’s Land, and amongst them was the name of Thomas Heriot. For a moment it startled and frightened me.”
Her eyes were upon my face, so was the light. Having a piece of music in my hand, I let it fall, and stooped to pick it up.
“Was it not strange, Charles?”
