TT B E 57 F ], 7L THE UNIVERSITY CAROLINE CUSHING DUNIWAY THE LIBRARY OF OF CALIFORNIA IN MEMORY OF - 92 r.- - - - - - - - - - - - - - |- * |-|- · |- ， ，· |-|-|-|- ··|-|- |- ----|- |- （*|- »！ - |- |- |- *|-.** -- - -|-|- º- -· - %--|- ---- * … , ！ · º· |- ---- |- |-|-|- |-|- |- · |- |- ！ *… ！ • … ،|-|- |- • • • |-|-， ， ， ， · |-|- |-|-|- ， |-|-|-→ · |-··|----- ----|-|-|-|-（ º ） |-（~~~, ， ！· • • •· · · |-|- |-|- |-|-|-·|- · |× |-·|- ， ·|- ſ.|-|- |-|-·|- ！ |· |-|-|- · ----|- |- * ----|- • |-|- |-|- |-|-|- |-|- º （） ·|- |-！ |- ----|- |-* ！|- *|-|-|- |- *…|- |- *|-|- ~|- · |-|- … · |-|- |-， ， , |-|- |- - |-- - ！|-|- - .|-… |-· |-- - --- ：） · |- - - - - - * · |-|- ---- |-|- |- |- - …|-|-（ * -- |-*----* |- |-، ، ، ،| – · |-|-|- |-|- |-|- |- |-|-|- * …|-|- |-|－ ， ， |- →， ，| |×|-|-* |-|- |- |-|-|- |- |-· |- |-|- · - - - （~~~~ · ！· |-|-|-|-* |- ， · · · -- - |-， ， ， ，|- ： |----- * |-|-|- ·|-|- · · |-* ·| |-|----- |-*/ - ----| （ ）- -} |-！ |-, ！| |-----|- | |-·| |-|- |-|-|-|-|- - |-|-|- THE WYWERN MYSTERY. THE WWWERN MYSTERY. 3, #obeſ. By J. S.ULE FANU, AUTHOR OF “UNCLE SILAs,” “GUY DEVERELL," ETC., ETC. IN THREE WOLUMES. WOL. II. LONDON : TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1869. [The Right of Translation is reserved.] º LONDON : BRADBURY, EVANS, AND Co., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. Vl CONTENTS. - CHAPTER PAGE XVI.-AN ABDUCTION - . 226 XVII.-PURSUIT . - - - - . . 238 XVIII.-DAY-TVILIGHT-DARKNESS . - . 246 XIx.—EIATHERTON . - - - . . 254 XX. —THE WELCOME e - . 263 XXI.--THE WYKEFORD IDOCTOR . - . . 271 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. CHAPTER I. THE SUMMONS. WHEN Charles Fairfield came into the wainscoted dining-room a few minutes later it looked very cosy. The sun had broken the pile of western clouds, and sent low and level a red light flecked with trembling leaves on the dark panels that faced the windows. Outside in that farewell glory of the day the cawing crows were heard returning to the Sombre woods of Carwell, and the small birds whistled and warbled pleasantly in the clear air, and chatty sparrows in the ivy round gossiped and fluttered merrily before WOL. II. B THE SUMMONS. 3 hitches and annoyances were got over, I should be the happiest fellow, I think, that ever bore the name of Fairfield ; and you, darling creature, are the light of that happi- ness. My crown and my life—my beautiful Alice, my joy and my glory—I wish you knew half how I love you, and how proud I am of you.” “Oh, Charlie, Charlie, this is delightful. Oh, Ry, my darling! I’m too happy.” And with these words, in the strain of her slender embrace, she clung to him as he held her locked to his heart. The affection was there; the love was true. In the indolent nature of Charles Fairfield capabilities of good were not wanting. That dreadful interval in the soul's history, between the weak and comparatively noble state of childhood and that later period when experi- ence saddens and illuminates and begins to turn our looks regretfully backward, was long past with him. The period when women “come out” and see the world, and men in B 2 4. THE WYWERN MYSTERY. the old-fashioned phrase “Sow their wild oats”—that glorious summer-time of self-love, sin, and folly—that bleak and bitter winter of the soul, through which the mercy of God alone preserves for us alive the dormant germs of good, was past for him, without killing, as it sometimes does, all the tender- ness and truth of the nursery. In this man, Charles Fairfield, were the trodden-down but still living affections which now, in this season, unfolded themselves anew—simplicity unkilled, and the purity not of Eden, not of childhood, but of recoil. Altogether a -man who had not lost himself—capable of being happy—capable of being regenerated. I know not exactly what had evoked this sudden glow and effervescence. Perhaps it needs some manifold confluence of internal and external conditions, trifling and unnoticed, except for such unexplained results, to evolve these tremblings and lightings up that Sur- prise us like the fiercer analogies of volcanic chemistry. 6 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. He turned up his eyes, and he groaned this prayer, unconscious that it was a prayer. “I will,” he thought, “extract the sting from this miserable mystery. Between me and Alice it shall be a secret no longer. I'll tell her to-morrow. I’ll look out an oppor- 35 tunity; I will by And to nail himself to his promise this irresolute man repeated the same passionate oath, and he struck his hand on the table. Next day, therefore, when Alice was again among the flowers in the garden he entered that antique and solemn shade with a strange sensation at his heart of fear and grief. How would Alice look on him after it was over ? How would she bear it ! Pale as the man who walks after the coffin of his darling, between the tall gray piers he entered that wild and umbrageous en- closure. - His heart seemed to stop still as he saw little Alice, all unsuspicious of his dreadful THE SUMMONS. 7 message, working with her tiny trowel at the one sunny spot of the garden. She stood up—how pretty she was 1– looking on her work; and as she stood with one tiny foot advanced, and her arms folded, with her garden-gloves on, and the little diamond-shaped trowel glittering in her hand, she sang low to herself an air which he re- membered her singing when she was quite a little thing long ago at Wyvern—when he never dreamed she would be anything to him -just a picture of a little brown-haired girl and nothing dearer. Then she saw him, and— “Oh, Ry, darling!” she cried, as making a diagonal from the distant point, she ran to- Wards him through tall trees and old rasp- berries, and under the boughs of over-grown fruit trees, which now-a-days bore more moss and lichen than pears or cherries upon them. “Ry, how delightful! You so seldom come here, and now I have you, you shall see all 8 THE WYWERN MYSTERY... I’m doing, and how industrious I have been ; and we are going to have such a happy little ramble. Has anything happened, darling 4” she said, suddenly stopping and looking in his face. Here was an opportunity; but if his reso- lution was still there, presence of mind failed him, and forcing a smile, he instantly an- Swered— “Nothing, darling — nothing whatever. Come, let us look at your work; you are so industrious, and you have such wonderful taste.” And as, reassured, and holding his hand, she prattled and laughed, leading him round by the grass-grown walks to her garden, as she called that favoured bit of ground on which the sun shone, he hardly saw the old currant bushes or gray trunks of the rugged trees; his sight seemed dazzled ; his hearing seemed confused ; and he thought to himself— “Where am I—what is this—and can it THE SUMMONS. 9 be true that I am So weak or so mad as to be turned from the purpose over which I have been brooding for a day and a night, and to which I had screwed my courage so reso- lutely, by a smile and a question—What is this? Black currant ; and this is groundsel; and little Alice, your glove wants a stitch or two,” he added aloud ; “and oh here we are. Now you must enlighten me ; and what a grove of little sticks, and little inscriptions. These are your annuals, I suppose ?” And so they talked, and she laughed and chatted very merrily, and he had not the heart—perhaps the courage—to deliver his detested message ; and again it was post- poned. The next day Charles Fairfield fell into his old gloom and anxieties; the temporary relief was felt no more, and the usual reaction followed. It is something to have adopted a resolu- tion. The anguish of suspense, at least, is I 0 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. ended, and even if it be to undergo an operation, and to blow one's own brains out, men will become composed, and sometimes even cheerful, as the coroner's inquest dis- covers, when once the way and the end are known. But this melancholy Serenity now failed. Charles Fairfield, for without acknowledging it, he began a little to recede from his resolu- tion. Then was the dreadful question, how will she bear it, and even worse, how will she view the position? Is she not just the person to leave forthwith a husband thus ambigu- ously placed, and to insist that this frightful claim, however shadowy, should be met and determined in the light of day ? “I know very well what an idol she makes of me, poor little thing; but she would not stay here an hour after she heard it; she would go straight to Lady Wyndale. It would break her heart, but she would do it.” It was this fear that restrained him. Im- THE SUMMONS. ll pelling him, however, was the thought that, Sooner or later, if Harry's story were true, his enemy would find him out, and his last state be worse than his first. Again and again he cursed his own folly for not having consulted his shrewd brother before his marriage. How horribly were his words justified. How easy it would have been comparatively to disclose all to Alice before leading her into such a position. He did not believe that there was actual danger in this claim. He could swear that he meant no villany. Weak and irresolute, in a trying situation, he had been—that was all. But could he be sure that the world would not stigmatize him as a villain : Another day passed, and he could not tell what a day might bring—a day of feverish melancholy, of abstraction, of agita- tion. - She had gone to her room. It was twelve o'clock at night, when, having made up his mind to make his agitating shrift, he mounted 12 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. the old oak stairs, with his candle in his hand. “Who’s there 2 ” said his wife’s voice from the room. “I, darling.” *, And at the door she met him in her dressing-gown. Her face was pale and miserable, and her eyes swollen with crying. “Oh, Ry, darling, I’m so miserable ; I think I shall go mad.” And she hugged him fast in trembling arms, and sobbed convulsively on his breast. Charles Fairfield froze with a kind of terror. He thought, “she has found out the whole story.” She looked up in his face, and that was the face of a ghost. “Oh, Ry, darling, for God's sake tell me— is there anything very bad—is it debt only that makes you so wretched; I am in such dreadful uncertainty. Have mercy on your poor little miserable wife, and tell me what- ever it is—tell me all !” Here you would have said was something THE SUMMONS. 13 more urgent than the opportunity which he coveted; but the sight of that gaze of wildest misery smote and terrified him, it looked in reality so near despair, so near insanity. * “To tell her will be to kill her,” something seemed to whisper, and he drew her closer to him, and kissed her and laughed. “Nothing on earth but money—the want of money — debt. Upon my soul you frightened me, Alice, you looked so, so piteous. I thought you had something dreadful to tell me; but, thank God, you are quite well, and haven't even seen a ghost. You must not always be such a foolish little Creature. I'm afraid this place will turn our heads. Here we are safe and sound, and nothing wrong but my abominable debts. You would not wonder at my moping if you knew what debt is ; but I won't look, if I "an help it, quite so miserable for the future; for, after all, we must have money Soon, and you know they can't hang me for owing 14 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. them a few hundreds; and I’m quite angry with myself for having annoyed you so, you poor little thing.” “My noble Ry, it is so good of you, you make me so happy, I did not know what to think, but you have made me quite cheerful again, and I really do think it is being so much alone, I watch your looks so much, and everything prays on me so, and that seems so odious when I have my darling along with me ; but Ry will forgive his foolish little wife, I know he will, he's always so good and kind.” Then followed more re-assuring speeches from Charles, and more raptures from poor Alice. And the end was that for a time Charles was quite turned away from his pur- pose. I don't know, however, that he was able to keep his promise about more cheerful looks, certainly not beyond a day or two. A few days later he heard a tragic bit of news. Tom related to him that the miller's young wife, down at Raxleigh, hearing on a THE SUMMONS. I5 sudden that her husband was drowned in the mill-stream, though 'twas nothing after all but a ducking, was “took wi' fits, and died in three days time.” So much for surprising young wives with alarming stories Charles Fairfield listened, and made the application for himself. A few days later a letter was brought into the room, where rather silently Charles and his wife were at breakfast. It came when he had almost given up the idea of receiving one for Some days, perhaps weeks, and he had begun to please himself with the idea that the delay augured well, and Harry's silence was a sign that the alarm was subsiding. Here, however, was a letter addressed to him in Harry's bold hand. His poor little wife sitting next the tea things, eyed her husband as he opened it, with breathless alarm ; she saw him grow pale as he glanced at it ; he lowered it to the table cloth, and bit his lip, his eye still fixed on it. As he did not turn over the leaf, she saw 16 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. it could not be a long one, and must all be comprised within one page. “Ry, darling,” she asked, also very pale, in a timid voice, “it’s nothing very bad. Oh, darling, what is it !” He got up and walked to the window silently. “What do you say, darling 2" he asked, suddenly, after a little pause. She repeated her question. “No, darling, nothing, but—but possibly we may have to leave this. You can read it, darling.” He laid the letter gently on the tablecloth beside her, and she picked it up, and read— “MY DEAR CHARLIE, “The old soldier means business. I think you must go up to London, but be sure to meet me to-morrow at Hatherton, say the Commercial Hotel, at four o'clock, P.M. “Your affectionate brother, “HARRY FAIRFIELD.” THE SUMMONS. 17 “Who does he mean by the old soldier 2' asked Alice, very much frightened, after a silence. “One of those d plaguing me,” said Charles, who had returned to the window, and answered, still looking Out. “And what is his real name, dar- ling?” “I’m ashamed to say that Harry knows ten times as well as I all about my affairs. I pay interest through his hands, and he watches those people's movements; he's a rough diamond, but he has been very kind, and you see his note—where is it ! Oh, thanks. I must be off in half an hour, to meet the coach at the ‘Pied d people who are Horse. “Let me go up, darling, and help you to pack, I know where all your things are,” said poor little Alice, who looked as if she was going to faint. “Thank you, darling, you are such a good 2 × 2 WOL. II. C 18 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. little creature, and never think of yourself— never, never—half enough.” His hands were on her shoulders, and he was looking in her face, with sad strange eyes, as he said this, slowly, like a man spelling out an inscription. “I wish—I wish a thousand things. God knows how heavy my heart is. If you cared for yourself Alice, like other women, or that I weren't a fool—but—but you, poor little thing, it was such a venture, such a sea, such a crazy boat to sail in.” “I would not give up my Ry, my darling, my husband, my handsome, clever, noble Ry —I’d lose a thousand lives if I had them, one by one, for you, Charlie ; and oh, if you left me, I should die.” “Poor little thing,” he said, drawing her to him with a trembling strain, and in his eyes, unseen by her, tears were standing. “If you leave this, won't you take me, Charlie Z won't you let me go wherever you go 2 and oh, if they take my man—I’m to go THE SUMMONS. 19 with you, Charlie, promise that, and oh, my darling, you're not sorry you married your poor little Alley.” “Come, darling, come up ; you shall hear from me in a day or two, or see me. This will blow over, as so many other troubles have done,” he said, kissing her fondly. And now began the short fuss and confu- Sion of a packing on brief notice, while Tom harnessed the horse, and put him to the dog- Cart. And the moment having arrived, down came Charles Fairfield, and Tom swung his Portmanteau into its place, and poor little Alice was there with, as Old Dulcibella Said, “her poor little face all cried,” to have a last look, and a last word, her tiny feet on the big unequal paving stones, and her eyes fol- lowing Charlie's face, as he stepped up and arranged his rug and coat on the seat, and then jumped down for the last hug; and the Wild, close, hurried whisperings, last words of love and cheer from laden hearts, and pale C 2 20 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. smiles, and the last, really the last look, and the dog-cart and Tom, and the portmanteau and Charlie, and the sun's blessed light, dis- appear together through the old gateway under the wide stone arch, with tufted ivy and careless sparrows, and little Alice stands alone on the pavement for a moment, and runs out to have one last wild look at the disap- pearing “trap,” under the old trees, as it rattled swiftly down to the narrow road of Carwell Walley. It vanished—it was gone—the tinkling of the wheels was heard no more. The parting, for the present, was quite over, and poor little Alice turned at last, and threw her arms about the neck of kind old Dulcibella, who had held her when a baby in her arms in the little room at Wyvern Vicarage, and saw her now a young wife, “wooed and married, and a’,” in the beauty and the sorrows of life; and the light air of autumn rustled in the foliage above her, and a withered leaf or two fell from the sunlit summits to the shadow at 24 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “She got a letter from him o' Thursday last ; 'twill be in it no doubt, and that I take it, ma'am, is in this drawer, for she used not to lock it ; and I expect you, if ye love your young mistress, to help me to get at it,” said Mrs. Tarnley, firmly. “Lor, Mrs. Tarnley, ma'am! me to pick a lock, ma'am | I’d die first. Ye can't mean it !” “I knowd ye was a fool. I shouldn't 'a said nothing to ye about it,” said Mildred, with sharp disdain. “Lawk | I never was so frightened in my life l’ responded Dulcibella. - “Ye'll be more so, mayhap. I wash my hands o' ye,” said Mrs. Tarnley, with a furious look, and a sharp little stamp on the floor. “I thought o' nothing but your mis- tress's good, and if ye tell her I was here, I'll explain all, for I won't lie under no surmises, and I think 'twill be the death of her.” “Oh, this place, this hawful place' I never THE SUMMONS. 25 was so frightened in my days,” said Dulcibella, looking very white. “She’s in the garden now, I do suppose,” said Mildred, “and if ye mean to tell her what I was about, 'taint a pin's head to me, but I'll go out and tell her myself, and even if she lives through it, she'll never hold up her head more, and that's all you'll hear from Mildred Tarnley.” “Oh, dear ! dear! dear! my heart, how it goes!” “Come, come, woman, you're nothin' So Squeamish, I dare say.” “Well,” said Dulcibella ; “it may be all as you say, ma'am, and I’ll say ye this justice, I ha’n’t missed to the value of a pennypiece since we come here, but if ye promise me, only ye won't come up here no more while we're out, Mrs. Tarnley, I won't say nothing about it.” - “That settles it, keep your word, Mrs. Crane, and I’ll keep mine ; I'll burn my fingers no more in other people's messes; ” 26 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. and she shook the key with a considerable gingle of the whole bunch from the keyhole, and popped it grimly into her pocket. “Your Sarvant, Mrs. Crane.” “Yours, Mrs. Tarnley, ma'am,” replied Dulcibella. And the interview which had commenced so brusquely, ended with ceremony, as Mildred Tarnley withdrew. That old woman was in a sort of fever that afternoon and the next day, and her temper, Lilly Dogger thought, grew more and more savage as night approached. She had in her pocket a friendly fulsome little letter, which had reached her through the post, announcing an arrival for the night that was now ap- proaching. The coach that changed horses at the “Pied Horse,” was due there at half- past eleven, P.M., but might not be there till twelve, and then there was a long drive to Carwell Grange. “I’m wore out wi' them, I’m tired to death; I'm wore off my feet wi' them; I’m THE SUMMONS. 27 worked like a hoss. 'Twould be well for Mil- dred Tarnley, I’m thinkin', she was under the mould wi'a stone at her head, and shut o' them all.” LILLY DOGGER IS SENT TO BED. 29 for the noise of her task prevented her hear- ing distinctly. “Be alive, I say. It's gone eleven, you slut ; ye should a bin in your bed an hour,” screeched Mildred, and then relapsed into her customary grumble. “Yes, Mrs. Tarnley, please’m,” answered the little girl, resuming with improved energy. Drowsy enough was the girl. If there had been a minute's respite from her task, I think she would have nodded. “Be them things rubbed up or no, or do you mean to 'a done to-night, huzzy 4” cried Mrs. Tarnley, this time so near as to startle her, for she had unawares put her wrinkled head into the scullery. “Stop that for to- night, I say. Leave 'em lay, ye’ll finish in the morning.” “Shall I take down the fire, Mrs. Tarnley, ma'am, please ?” asked Lilly Dogger, after a little pause. “No, ye shan’t. What's that ye see on 30 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. the fire ; have ye eyes in your head 2 Don't ye see the kettle there ? How do I know but your master'll be home to-night, and want a cup o' tea, or—law knows what ?” Mrs. Tarnley looked put about, as she phrased it, and in one of those special tempers which accompanied that state. So Lilly Dogger, eyeing her with wide open eyes, made her a frightened little courtesy. - “Why don’t ye get up betimes in the morning, huzZy, and then ye needn't be mopin’ about half the night ! All the colour's washed out o' your big, ugly, platter face, wi' your laziness—as white as a turnip. When I was a girl, if I left my work over so, I'd 'a the broomstick across my back, I promise ye, and bread and water next day too good for my victuals; but now ye thinks ye can do as ye like, and all's changed An every upstart brat is as good as her betters. But don't ye think ye'll come it over me, lass, don't ye. Look up there at the clock, will ye, or do ye want me to pull LILLY DOGGER IS SENT TO BED. 31 ye up by the ear—ten minutes past eleven— wi' your dawdling, ye limb l’’ The old woman whisked about, and putting her hand on a cupboard door, she turned round again before opening it, and said— “Come on, will ye, and take your bread if you want it, and don't ye stand gaping there, ye slut, as if I had nothing to do but attend upon you, with your impittence. I shouldn't give ye that.” She thumped a great lump of bread down on the kitchen table by which the girl was now standing. “Not a bit, if I did right, and ye’ll not be sittin' up to eat that, mind ye; yell take it wi'ye to yer bed, young lady, and tumble in without delay, dye mind? For if I find ye out o' bed when I go in to see all's right, I'll just gi'e ye that bowl o' cold water over yer head. In wi' ye, an' get ye twixt the blankets before two minutes—get along.” The girl knew that Mrs. Tarnley could strike as well as “jaw,” and seldom threatened 32 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. in vain, so with eyes still fixed upon her, she took up her fragment of loaf, with a hasty courtesy, of which the old woman took no notice, and vanished frightened through a door that opened off the kitchen. The old woman holding the candle over her head, soon peeped in as she had threatened. Lilly Dogger lay close affecting to be asleep, though that feat in the time was impossible, and was afraid that the thump, thump of her heart, for she greatly feared Mrs. Tarnley, might be audible to that severe listener. Out she went, however, without anything more, to the great relief of the girl. Lilly Dogger lay awake, for fear is vigilant, and Mrs. Tarnley's temper she knew was capricious as well as violent. Through the door she heard the incessant croak of the old woman's voice, as she grumbled and scolded in soliloquy, poking here and there about the kitchen. The girl lay awake, listening vaguely in the dark, and watching the one bright spot on the white- LILLY DOGGER IS SENT TO BED. 33 washed wall at the foot of her bed, which Mrs. Tarnley's candle in the kitchen trans- mitted through the keyhole. It flitted and glided, now hither, now thither, now up, now down, like a white butterfly in a garden, silently indicating the movements of the old woman, and illustrating the clatter of her clumsy old shoes. In a little while the door opened again, and the old woman entered, having left her candle on the dresser outside. Mrs. Tarnley listened for a while, and you may be sure Lilly Dogger lay still. Then the old woman in a hard whisper asked, “Are you awake 7" and listened. “Are ye awake, lass 4° she repeated, and receiving no answer she came close to the bed, by way of tucking in the coverlet, in reality to listen. So she stood in silence by the bed for a minute, and then very quickly withdrew and closed the door. Then Lilly Dogger heard her make some WOL. II. T) 34 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. arrangements in the kitchen, and move, as she rightly concluded, a table which she placed against her door. Then the white butterfly having made a sudden sweep round the side wall, hovered no longer on Lilly Dogger's darkened walls, and old Mildred Tarnley and her candle glided out of the kitchen. The girl had grown curious, and she got up and peeped, and found that a clumsy little kitchen table had been placed against her door, which opened outward. - - Through the keyhole she also saw that Mildred had not taken down the fire. On the contrary, she had trimmed and poked it, and a kettle was simmering on the bar, . She did not believe that Mrs. Tarnley ex- pected the arrival of her master, for she had said early in the day that she thought he would come next evening. Lilly Dogger was persuaded that Mrs. Tarnley was on the look out for some one else, and guarding that fact with a very jealous secrecy. LILLY DOGGER IS SENT TO BED. 35 She went again to her bed ; wondering she listened for the sounds of her return, and looked for the little patch of light on the whitewashed wall; but that fluttering evi- dence of Mrs. Tarnley's candle did not re- appear before the tired little girl fell asleep. She was wakened in a little time by Mrs. Tarnley's somewhat noisy return. She was grumbling bitterly to herself, poking the fire, and pitching the fire-irons and other hard- ware about with angry recklessness. The girl turned over, and notwithstanding all Mildred's noisy soliloquy was soon asleep again. Again she awoke—I suppose recalled to consciousness by some noise in the kitchen. The little white light was in full play on the wall at the foot of her bed, and Mrs. Tarnley was talking fluently in an undertone. Then came a silence, during which the old Dutch clock struck one. - Lilly Dogger's eyes were wide open now, and her ears erect. She heard no one an- D 2 36 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. Swer the old woman, who resumed her talk in a minute ; and now she seemed careful to make no avoidable noise—speaking low, and when she moved about the kitchen treading softly, and moving anything she had to stir gently. Altogether she was now taking as much care not to disturb as she had shown carelessness upon the subject before. Lilly Dogger again slipped out of bed, and peeped through the keyhole. But she could not see Mrs. Tarnley nor her companion, if she had one. Old Mildred was ſtalking on, not in her grumbling interrupted soliloquy, but in the equable style of one spinning a long narra- tive. This hum was relieved now and then by the gentle clink of a teacup, or the jingle of a spoon. If Mrs. Tarnley was drinking her tea alone at this hour of night and talking so to herself, she was doing that she had never done before, thought the curious little girl; and she must be a-going mad. From this LILLY DOGGER IS SENT TO BED. 37 latter apprehension, however, she was relieved by hearing some one cough. It was not Mrs. Tarnley, who suspended her story, how- ever. But there was an unmistakable dif- ference of tone in this cough, and old Mildred said more distinctly something about a cure for a cough which she recommended. Then came an answer in an odd drawling voice. The words she could not hear, but there could no longer be any doubt as to the presence of a stranger in the kitchen. Lilly Dogger was rather frightened, she did not quite know why, and listened without power to form a conjecture. It was plain that the person who enjoyed old Mildred's hospi- tality was not her master, nor her mistress, nor old Dulcibella Crane. As she listened, and wondered, and specu- lated sleep overtook her once more, and she quite forgot the dialogue, and the kitchen, and Mildred Tarnley's tea, and went off upon her own adventures in the wild land of dreams. CHAPTER III. THE LADY HAS HER TEA. “You suffers dreadful, ma'am,” said Mil- dred Tarnley. “Do you have them tooth- aches still.” “’Twas not toothache—a worse thing.” said the stranger, demurely, who, with closed eyes, and her hand propping her head, seemed to have composed herself for a doze in the great chair. “Wuss than toothache ] That's bad. Earache mayhap 4” inquired Mrs. Tarnley with pathetic concern, though I don't think it would have troubled her much if her guest had tumbled over the precipice of Carwell Walley and broken her neck among the stones in the brook. “Pain in my face—it is called tic,” said THE LADY HAS HER TEA. 39 | the lady, with closed eyes in a languid drawl. - “Tic lawk | Well, I never heard o' the like, unless it be the field-bug as sticks in the cattle—that's a bad ailment, I do suppose,” conjectured Mrs. Tarnley. “You may have it yourself some day,” said this lady, who spoke quietly and de- liberately, but with fluency, although her accent was foreign. “When we are growing a little old our bones and nerves they will not be young still. You have your rheu- matism, I have my tic—the pain in my cheek and mouth—a great deal worse, as you will find, whenever you taste of it, as it may happen. Your tea is good—after a journey tea is so refreshing. I cannot live without my cup of tea, though it is not good for my tic. So, ha, ha, he-hal There is the tea already in my cheek—oh Well, you will be so good to give me my bag.” Mildred looked about, and found a small baize bag with an umbrella and a bandbox. 40 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “There's a green bag I have here, ma'am.” “A baize bag?” “Yes, 'm.” “Give it to me. Ha, yes, my bibe—my bibe—and my box.” - So this lady rummaged and extricated a pipe very like a meerschaum, and a small square box. “Tibbacca l' exclaimed Mrs. Tarnley. The stranger interpreted the exclamation, without interrupting her preparations. “Dobacco 3 no, better thing—some opium. You are afraid Mrs. Harry Fairfield, she would smell id. No–I do not wish to disturb her sleeb. I am quite private here, and do not wish to discover myself. Ya, ya, ya, hoo!” It was another twinge. “Sad thing, ma'am,” said Mildred. “Better now, perhaps ?” “Put a stool under my feed. Zere, zere, sat will do. Now you light that match and THE LADY HAS HER TEA. 41 hold to the end of Ze bibe, and I will zen be bedder.” Accordingly Mildred Tarnley, strongly tempted to mutter a criticism, but possibly secretly in awe of the tall and “big-made” woman who issued these orders, proceeded to obey them. “No great odds of a smell arter all,” said Mrs. Tarnley approvingly, after a little pause. “And how long since Harry married ?” inquired the smoker after another silence. “I can't know that nohow ; but ’tis since Master Charles gave 'em the lend o' the house.” “Deeb people these Wairvields are,” laughed the big woman drowsily. “When will he come here ?” “To-morrow or next day, I wouldn't won- der; but he never stays long, and he comes and goes as secret-like as a man about a murder almost.” “Ha, I dare say. Old Wairvield would cut him over the big shoulders with his * 42 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. horsewhip, I think. And when will your master come 4” “Master comes very seldom. Oh ve-ry. Just when he thinks to find Master Henry here, maybe once in a season.” “And where does he live—at home or where ?” asked the tall visitor. “Well, I can't say, I'm sure, if it baint at Wyvern. At Wyvern, I do suppose, mostly. But I daresay he travels a bit now and again. I don't know I’m sure.” “Because I wrote to him to Wyvern to meet me here. Is he at Wyvern ?” “Well, faith, I can’t tell. I know no more than you, ma'am, where Master Charles is,” said Mildred, with energy, relieved in the midst of her rosary of lies to find herself free to utter one undoubted truth. “You have been a long time in the family, Mrs. Tarnley 4” drawled the visitor, list- lessly. “Since I was the height o' that—before I can remember. I was born in Carwell gate- THE LADY HAS HER TEA. 43 house here. My mother was here in old Squire's time, meanin' the father o' the pre- sent Harry Fairfield o' Wyvern that is, and grandfather o' the two young gentlemen, Master Charles and Master Harry. Why, bless you, my grandfather, that is my mother's father, was in charge o’ the house and farm, and the woods, and the tenants, and all ; there wasn’t a tree felled, nor a cow sold, nor an acre o' ground took up but jest as he said. They called him honest Tom Pennecuick; he was thought a great deal of my grandfather was, and Carwell never turned in as good a penny to the Fairfields as in his time ; not since, and not before— never, and never will, that's sure.” “And which do you like best, Squire Charles or Squire Harry 4” inquired the languid lady. “I likes Charles,” said Mrs. Tarnley, with decision. “And why so *" “Well, Harry's a screw ; ye see he'd as 44 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. lief gie a joint o' his thumb as a sixpence. He'll take his turn out of every one good- humoured enough, and pay for trouble wi' a joke and a laugh ; a very pleasant gentle- man for such as has nothing to do but exchange work for his banter and live with- out wages; all very fine. I never seed a shillin' of hisn since he had one to spend.” “Mr. Charles can be close-fisted too, when he likes it !” suggested the lady. “No, no, no, he's not that sort if he had it. Open-handed enough, and more the gentle- man every way than Master Harry—more the gentleman,” answered Mildred. “Yes, Harry Fairfield is a shrewd, hard man, I believe ; he ought to have helped his brother a bit ; he has saved a nice bit o' money, I dare say,” said the visitor. “If he hasn’t a good handful in his kist corner 't’aint that he wastes what he gets.” “I do suppose he'll pay his brother a fair rent for the house 3’’ said the visitor. THE LADY HAS HER TEA. 45 “Master Harry'll pay for no more than he can help,” observed Mildred. “It’s a comfortable house,” pursues the stranger; “’twas so when I was here.” “Warm and roomy,” acquiesced Mrs. Tarn- ley—“chimbley, roof, and wall—staunch and stout; 'twill stand a hundred year to come, wi' a new shingle and a daub o' mortar now and again. There's a few jackdaws up in the chimbleys that ought to be drew out o' that wi' their sticks and dirt,” she reflected, respectfully. “And do you mean to tell me he pays no rent for the Grange, and keeps his wife here 4” demanded the lady, perempto- rily. “I know nothing about their dealings,” answered Mrs. Tarnley, as tartly. “And 't'aint clear to me I should care much neither ; they'll settle that, like other matters, without stoppin’ to ask Mildred what she thinks o't ; and I dare say Master Harry will be glad enough to take it for 46 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. nothing, if Master Charles will be fool enough to let him.” “Well, he shan’t do that, I’ll take care,” said the lady, maintaining her immovable pose, which, with a certain peculiarity in the tone of her voice, gave to her an inde- scribable and unpleasant langour. “I never have two pounds to lay on top o' one another. Jarity begins at home. I'll not starve for Master Harry,” and she laughed softly and unpleasantly. “His wife, you say, is a starved gurate's daughter ' " “Parson Maybell—poor he was, down at Wyvern Vicarage—meat only twice or thrice a week, as I have heard say, and treated old Squire Harry bad, I hear, about his rent; and old Squire Fairfield was kind—to her anyhow, and took her up to the hall, and so when she grew up she took her opportunity and married Master Harry.” “She was clever to catch such a shrewd chap—clever. Light again ; I shall have THE LADY HAS HER TEA. 47 three four other puff before I go to my bed— very clever. How did she take so well, and hold so fast, that wise fellow, Harry Fair- field . " “Hoo ! fancy, I do suppose, and liken'. She's a pretty lass. All them Fairfields married for beauty mostly. Some o’ them got land and money, and the like, but a pretty face allays along with the fortune.” The blind stranger, for blind she was, smiled downward, faintly and slily, while she was again preparing the pipe. “When will Harry come again : " she asked. “I never knows, he's so wary; do you want to talk to him, ma'am " " said Mil- dred. “Yes, I do,” said she ; “hold the match now, Mrs. Tarnley, please.” So she did, and—puff, puff, puff—about a dozen times, went the smoke, and the smoker was satisfied. “Well, I never knows the minute, but it 48 THE WY VERN MYSTERY. mightn't be for a fortnight,” said Mrs. Tarnley. “And when Mr. Charles Fairfield come 2" asked the visitor. “If he's got your letter he'll be here quick enough. If it's missed him he mayn't set foot in it for three months' time. That's how it is wi' him,” answered Mildred. “What news of old Harry at Wyvern ?” asked the stranger. “No news in partic'lar,” answered Mildred, “only he's well and hearty—but that's no news; the Fairfields is a long-lived stock, as everyone knows ; he'll not lie in oak and wool for many a day yet, I’m thinkin’.” Perhaps she had rightly guessed the object of the lady's solicitude, for a silence followed. “There's a saying in my country—‘God's children die young,’” said the tall lady. “And here about they do say, the Devil takes care of his own,” said Mildred Tarnley. . “But see how my score o' years be runnin' up, I take it sinners' lives be lengthened out THE LADY HAS HER TEA. 49 a bit by the Judge of all, to gi'e us time to stay our thoughts a little, and repent our misdeeds, while yet we may.” “You have made a little fire in my room, Mrs. Tarnley 7 ° inquired the stranger, who had probably no liking for theology. “Yes 'm ; everything snug.” “Would you mind running up and look- ing 2 I detest a chill,” said this selfish person. At that hour no doubt Mrs. Tarnley resented this tax on her rheumatics; but though she was not a woman to curb her resentments she made shift on this occasion ; that did not prevent her, how- ever, from giving the stranger a furious look, while she muttered inaudibly a few words. “I’ll go with pleasure, ma'am, but I’m sure it's all right,” she said aloud, very civilly, and paused, thinking perhaps that the lady would would let her off the long walk upstairs to the front of the house. WOL. II. 50 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “Very good; I'll wait here,” said the guest, unfeelingly. “As you pleasem,” said Mildred, and with a parting look round the kitchen, she took the candle, and left the lady to the light of the fire. The lady was almost reclining in her chair, as if she were dozing ; but in a few moments up she stood, and placing her hand by her ear, listened ; then, with her hands ad- vanced, she crept slowly, and as noiselessly as a cat, across the floor. She jostled a little against the table at Lilly Dogger's door; then she stopped perfectly still, withdrew the table without a sound; the door swung a little open, and the gaunt figure in grey stood at it, listening. A very faint flicker from the fire lighted this dim woman, who seemed for the moment to have no more life in her than the tall, gray stone of the Druid's hoe on Cressley Common. Lilly Dogger was fast asleep; but broken were her slumbers destined to be that night. She felt a hand on her neck, and looking up, THE LADY HAS HER TEA. 51 could not for a while see anything, so dark was the room. She jumped up in a sitting posture, with a short cry of fear, thinking that she was in the hands of a robber. “Be quiet, fool,” said the tall woman, slipping her hand over the girl's mouth. “I’m a lady, a friend of Mrs. Mildred Tarnley, and I’m gome to stay in the house. Who is the lady that sleeps upstairs in the room that used to be Mr. Harry's You must answer true, or I'll pull your ear very hard.” “It is the mistress, please 'm,” answered the frightened girl. “Married lady ?” “Yes 'm.” “Who is her husband 2’ With this question the big fingers of her visitor closed upon Lilly Dogger's ear with a monitory pinch. “The master, ma'am.” “And what's the master's name, you dirdy liddle brevarigator " E 2 52 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. And with these words her ear was wrung sharply. She would have cried, very likely, if she had been less frightened, but she only winced, with her shoulders up to her ears, and answered in tremulous haste— “Mr. Fairfield, sure.” “There's three Mr. Wairvields: there's old Mr. Vairvield, there's Mr. Charles Wairvield, and there's Mr. Harry Wairvield—you shall speak plain.” And at each name in her catalogue she twisted the child's ear with a sharp separate wring. “Oh, law, ma'am. Please’m, I mean Mr. Charles Fairfield. I didn't mean to tell you no story, indeed, my lady.” “Ho, ho—yes — Charles, Charles — very goot. Now, you tell me how you know Mr. Harry from Mr. Charles #" “Oh, law, ma'am! oh, law oh, ma'am, dear! Sure, you won't pull it no more, good lady, pleas—my ear's most broke,” gasped THE LADY HAS HER TEA. 53 the girl, who felt the torture beginning again. “You tell truth. How do you know Mr. Charles from Mr. Harry 4” “Mr. Charles has bigger eyes, ma'am, and Mr. Harry has lighter hair, and a red face, please’m, and Mr. Charles's face is brown, and he talks very quiet-like, and Mr. Harry talks very loud, and he's always travellin' about a-horseback, and Mr. Charles is the eldest son, and the little child they're lookin' for is to be the Squire o' Wyvern.” The interrogator here gave her a hard pinch by the ear, perhaps without thinking of it, for she said nothing for a minute nearly, and the girl remained with her head buried between her shoulders, and her eyes wide open, staring straight up where she conjectured her examiner's face might be. “Is the man that talks loud—Mr. Harry— here often ?” asked the voice at her bedside. “But seldom, ma'am—too busy at fairs and races, I hear them say.” 54 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “And Mr. Charles—is he often here ?” “Yes'm ; master be always here, exceptin' this time only ; he's gone about a week.” “About a week, Mr. Charles 4" “Oh la, ma'am—-yes, indeed, ma'am, dear, it's just a week to-day since master went.” Here was a silence. “That will do. If I find you've been telling me lies I'll take ye by the back of the neck and Squeeze your face against the kitchen bars till it's burnt through and through—do you see ; and I give you this one chance, if you have been telling lies to say so, and I’ll forgive you.” “Nothing but truth, indeed and indeed, ma'am.” “Old Tarnley will beat you if she hears you have told me anything. So keep your own secret, and I'll not tell of you.” She saw the brawny outline of the woman faintly like a black shadow as she made her way through the door, into the kitchen, and CHAPTER IV. THROUGH THE HOUSE. THIS stalwart lady stumbled and groped her way back to her chair, and sat down again in the kitchen. The chair in which she sat was an old-fashioned arm-chair of plain wood, uncoloured and clumsy. When Mildred Tarnley returned the changed appearance of her guest struck her. “Be ye sick, ma'am " she asked, standing, candle in hand, by the chair. The visitor was sitting bolt upright, with a large hand clutched on each arm of the chair, with a face deadly pale and distorted by a frown or a spasm that frightened old Mildred, who fancied, as she made no sign, not the slightest stir, that she was in a fit, or possibly dead. THROUGH THE HOUSE. 57 “For God's sake, ma'am,” conjured old Mildred, fiercely, “will ye speak 2 ° The lady in the chair started, shrugged, and gasped. It was like shaking off a fit. “Ho! oh, Mildred Tarnley, I was thinking —I was thinking—did you speak 2 ° Mildred looked at her, not knowing what to make of it. Too much laudanum—was it ! or that nervous pain in her head. “I only asked you how you were, ma'am— you looked so bad. I thought you was just going to work in a fit.” “What an old fool! I never was better in my life—fit ! I never had a fit—not I.” “You used to have 'em sometimes, long ago, ma'am, and they came in the Snap of a finger, like,” said Mildred, sturdily. “Clear your head of those fits, for they have left me long ago. I'm well, I tell you —never was better. You're old—you're old, woman, and that which has made you so pious is also making you blind.” “Well, you look a deal better now—you THROUGH THE HOUSE. 59 “Comfortable, quite, I hope, ma'am.” “Do I look quite well now 2° “Yes'm, pure and hearty. It was only just a turn.” “Yes, just so, perhaps, although I never felt it, and I could dance now only for—fifty things, so I won't mind.” She laughed. “I’m sleepy, and I’m not sleepy; and I love you, old Mildred Tarnley, and you'll tell me some more about Master Harry and his wife when we get upstairs. Who'd have thought that wild fellow would ever tie himself to a wife 2 Who'd have fancied that clever young man that loves making money so well, would have chosen out a wife without a florin to her for- tune 4 Everything is so surprising. Come, let's have a laugh, you and me together.” “My laughing days is over, ma'am—not that I see much to laugh at for any one, and many a thing I thought a laughing matter when I was young seems o'erlike a crying matter now I’m grown old,” said old Mildred, and snuffed the kitchen candle with her fingers. 60 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. Tº “Well, give me your arm, Mildred; there's a good old thing—yes.” And up she got her long length. Mildred took the candle and took the tall lady gently by the wrist. The guest, however, placed her great hand upon Mildred's shoulder, and thus they proceeded through the passages. Leav- ing the back stair that led to Alice's room, at the right, they mounted the great staircase and reached a comfortably warm room with a fire flickering on the hearth, for the air was sharp. In other respects the apartment had not very much to boast. “There's fire here, I feel it; place my chair near it. The bed in the old place 3’ said the tall woman, coming to a halt. “Yes'm. Little change here, ever, I war- rant ye, only the room's bin new papered,” answered Mildred. “New papered, has it ! Well, I'll sit down—thanks—and I'll get to my bed, just IlOW. “Shall I assist ye, ma'am " THROUGH THE HOUSE. 61 “By-and-by, thanks ; but not till I have eaten a bit. I have grown hungry, what your master calls peckish. What do you advise ?” “I would advise your eating something,” replied Mildred. “But what ?” “There's very little ; there's eggs quite new, there's a bit o' bacon, and there's about half a cold chicken—roast, and there's a corner o' Chedder cheese, and there's butter, and there's bread—taint much,” answered Mrs. Tarnley, glibly. “The chicken will do very nicely, and don't forget bread and salt, Mrs. Tarnley, and a glass of beer.” “Yes'm.” Mrs. Tarnley poked the fire and looked about her, and then took the only candle, marched boldly off with it, shutting the door. Toward the door the lady turned her face and listened. She heard old Mildred's step receding. 62 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. This tall woman was not pleasant to look at. Her large features were pitted with the small-pox and deadly pale with the pallor of anger, and an unpleasant Smile lighted up the whiteness of her face. “Patience, patience,” she repeated, “what a d d trick l no matter, wait a little.” She did wait a little in silence, screwing her lips and knitting her brows, and then a new resource struck her, and she groped in her bag and drew forth a bottle, which she applied to her lips more than once, and seemed better. It was no febrifuge nor opiate; but though the flicker of the fire showed no flush on her pallid features, the odour declared it brandy. CHAPTER W. THE BELL RINGS. “WILL that beast never go to bed—even there, I mind, she used to sleep with an eye open and an ear cocked—and nowhere safe from her never—here and there, up and down, without a stir or a breath, like a ghost or a devil?”—thought Mrs. Tarnley. “Thank God, she's blind now, that will quiet her.” Mildred was afraid of that woman. It was not only that she was cold and hard, but she was so awfully violent and wicked. “Satan's her name. Lord help us, in what hell did he pick her up 3" Mildred would say to herself, in old times, as with the important fury of fear, she used to knock about the kitchen utensils, and deal violently with every 64 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. chair, table, spoon, or “cannikin " that came in her way. The woman had fits, and bad fits too, in old times, when she knew her well. “And she drank like a fish cogniac neat— and she was alive still, and millions of people, younger and better, that never had a fit, and kept their bodies in soberness and temper- ance, was gone dead and buried since ; and that drunken, shattered, battered creature, wi' her fallin'sickness and her sins and her years, was here alive and strong to plague and frighten better folk. Well, she's 'ad small- pox, thank God, and well mauled she is, and them spyin', glarin’ eyes o' hers, the wild beast.” - By this time Mrs. Tarnley was again in the kitchen. She did not take down the fire yet. She did not know, for certain, whether Charles Fairfield might not arrive. The London mail that passed by the town of Darwynd, beyond Cressley Common, came later than that divergent stage coach that changed 66. THE WYWERN MYSTERY. ful man is merciful to his beast—will ye?” Mrs. Tarnley interrupted herself sharply, dealing on the lean ribs of the cat, who had got its head into a saucepan, a thump with a wooden spoon, which emitted a hollow sound and doubled the thief into a curve. “Merciful, of course, except when they're arter mischief; but them that's noxious, and hurtful, and dangerous, we're free to kill; and where's the beast so dangerous as a real bad man or woman Ž God forbid I should do wrong. I'm an old woman, nigh-hand the grave, and murder's murder!—I do suppose and allow that's it. Thou shalt do no murder. No more I would—no, not if an angel said do it ; no, I wouldn’t for untold goold. But I often wondered why if ye may, wi' a good conscience, knock a snake on the head wi'a stone, and chop a shovel down Smack on a toad, ye should stay your hand, and let a devil incarnate go her murdering way through the world, blastin’ that one wi' lies, robbin' this THE BELL RINGS. 67 one wi' craft, and murderin’ tºother, if it make for her interest, wi' poison or perjury. Lord help my poor head, and forgive me if it be sin, but I can find neither right nor reason in that, nor see, nohow, why she shouldn't be killed off-hand like a rat or a sarpent.” At this point the bell rang loud and sudden, and Mrs. Tarnley bounced and blessed herself. There was no great difficulty in settling from what quarter the summons came, for, except the hall door bell, which was a deep-toned Sonorous one, there was but one in the house in ringing order, and that was of the bed-room where her young mistress lay. “Well, here's a go! Who’d aſ thought o' her awake at these hours, and out o' her bed, and a pluckin' at her bell. I doubt it is her. The like was never before. 'Tis enough to frighten a body. The Lord help us.” Mrs. Tarnley stood straight as a grenadier on drill with her back to the fire, the poker with which, during her homily, she had been raking the bars, still in her hand. F 2 68 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “This night 'ill be the death o' me. Every- thing's gone cross and contrary. Here's that young silly lass awake and out o' her bed, that never had an eye open at these hours, since she came to the Grange, before ; and there's that other one in the state-room, not that far from her, as wide awake as she ; and here's Master Charles a comin', mayhap, this minute wi' his drummin' and bellin' at the hall door. 'Tis enough to make a body swear; ’t has given me the narves and the tremblins, and I don't know how it's to end.” And Mrs. Tarnley unconsciously shouldered her poker as if awaiting the assault of burg- lars, and vaguely thought if Charles arrived as she had described, what power on earth could keep the peace 3 Again the bell rang. “Well, there's patience for yel” She halted at the kitchen door, with the candle in her hand, listening, with a stern, frightened face. She was thinking whether THE BELL RINGS. 69 Alice might not have been frightened by some fantastic terror in her room. “She has that old fat fool, Dulcibella Crane, only a room off—why don't she call up her ?” But Mrs. Tarnley at length did go on, and up the stairs, and heard Alice's voice call along the passage, in a loud tone,— “Mrs. Tarnley ! is that you, Mrs. Tarn- ley " “Me, ma'am 2 Yes'm. I thought I heard your bell ring, and I had scant time to hustle my clothes on. Is there anything uncommon a-happenin', ma'am, or what's expected just now from an old woman like me !” “Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, I beg your pardon, I'm so sorry, and I would not disturb you, only that I heard a noise, and I thought Mr. Charles might have arrived.” “No, ma'am, he's not come, nor no sign o' him. You told me, ma'am, his letter said there was but small chance o't.” “So I did, Mildred—so it did. Still a 70 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. chance—just a chance—and I thought, per- haps—” “There's no perhaps in it, ma'am; he baint come.” “Dulcibella tells me she thought some time ago she heard some one arrive.” “So she did, mayhap, for there did come a message for Master Harry from the farmer beyond Gryce's mill; but he went his way again.” Mildred was fibbing with a fluency that almost surprised herself. “I dessay you've done wi' me now, ma'am!” said Mildred. “Lugged out o' my bed, ma'am, at these hours—my achin' old bones—taint what I’m used to, asking your pardon for making so free.” “I’m really very sorry—you won't be vexed with me. Good night, Mildred.” “Your servant, ma'am.” And Mrs. Tarnley withdrew from the door where Alice stood before her with her dressing- gown about her shoulders, looking so pale and THE BELL RINGS. 71 deprecatory and anxious, that I wonder even Mildred Tarnley did not pity her. “I’m tellin' lies enough to break a bridge, and me that's vowed against lying so stiff and strong over again only Monday last.” She shook her head slowly, and with a sudden qualm of conscience. “Well, in for a penny in for a pound. It's only for to-night; mayhap, and I can't help it, and if that old witch was once over the door-stone I’d speak truth the rest o' my days, as I ha' done, by the grace o' God, for more than a month, and here's a nice merry- go-round for my poor old head. Who's to keep all straight and smooth wi' them that's in the house, and, mayhap comin’? And that ghost upstairs, she'll be gropin’ and screechin' through the house, and then there'll be the devil to pay wi' her and the poor lass up there—if I don’t gi'e her her supper quick. Come, bustle, bustle, be alive,” she muttered, as this thought struck her with new force; and so to the little “safe” which served that 72. THE WYWERN MYSTERY. miniature household for larder she repaired. Plates clattered, and knives and forks, and the dishes in the safe slid forth, and how near she was forgetting the salt and “the bread, all right,” so here was a tray very comfortably furnished, and setting the candlestick upon it also, she contemplated the supper, with a fierce Sneer, and a wag of her head. “How sick and weak we be Tea and toast and eggs down here, and this little bit in her bed-room—heaven bless her—la' love it, poor little darling, don't I hope it may do her good 3–I wish the first mouthful may choke her—keeping me on the trot to these hours, old beast.” Passing the stairs, Mrs. Tarnley crept softly, and took pains to prevent her burden from rattling on the tray, while there rose in her brain the furious reflection,-- “Pretty rubbish that I should be this way among 'em l’ And she would have liked to dash the tray on the floor at the foot of the stairs, and to 74 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. ! not conciliated, but disgusted, and looked hard at the benevolent lady, wondering what could be in her mind. “If everything's right, I’ll wish you good night, 'm, and I’ll go down to my bed, ma'am, please.” “Wait a while with me. Do, there’s a good soul. I’ll not detain you long, you dear old lass.” “Well, ma'am, I must go down and take down the fire, and shut-to the door, or the rats will be in from the scullery; and I'll come up again, ma'am, in a few minutes.” And not waiting for permission, Mildred Tarnley, who had an anxiety of another sort in her head, took the candle in her hand and left the guest at her supper by the light of the fire. She shut the door quickly lest her de- parture should be countermanded, and trotted away and downstairs, but not to the kitchen. CHAPTER WI. TOM IS ORDERED UP. WHEN she reached the foot of the stairs that leads to the gallery on which the room occupied by Alice opens, instead of pursuing her way to the kitchen she turned into a narrow and dark passage that is hemmed in on the side opposite to the wall by the ascending staircase. The shadows of the banisters on the panelled oak flew after one another in sudden chase as the old woman glided by, and looking up and back she stopped at the door of a small room, constructed as we see in similar old houses, under the stairs. On the panel of this she struck a muffled summons with her fist, and on the third or fourth the TOM IS ORDERED UP. 77 “Starin’. Go on.” “Ye'll tell him just this, the big woman as lives at Hoxton 2 3 “Hoxton | Well ?” “That Master Harry has all the trouble wi', has come here, angry, in search of Master Harry, mind, and is in the bedroom over the hall-door. Will ye mind all that now %" “Ay,” said Tom, and repeated it. “Well, he'll know better whether it's best for him to come on or turn back. But if come On he will, let him come in at the kitchen loor, mind, and you go that way, too, and he'll find neither bolt nor bar, but open doors, and nothing but the latch between him and the kitchen, and me sitting by the fire; but don't you clap a door, nor tread heavy, but remember there's a sharp pair of ears that 'id hear a cricket through the three walls o' Carwell Grange.” She took up the candle, and herself lis- tened for a moment at the door, and again 78. THE WYWERN MYSTERY. turned her earnest and sinister face on Tom. “And again, I say, Tom, if ever ye was quick, be quick now,” and she clapped her lean hand down on his shoulder with a sort of fierce shake; “and if ever ye trod soft, go softly now, mind.” Tom, who was scratching his head, and staring in her face, nodded. “And mind you, the kitchen way, and afraid o' slips, say ye the message over again to me.” This he did, glibly enough. “Here, light your candle from this, and if ye fail your master now, never, call yourself man again.” - - -- Having thus charged him, she went softly from this nook with its slanting roof, and thinking of the thankless world, and all the trouble her old bones and brain were put to, she lost her temper, at the foot of the great staircase, and was near turning back again to the kitchen, or perhaps whisking out of the TOM IS ORDERED UP. 79 door herself, and marching off to Cressley Common to meet her master, and shock and scare him all she could, and place her re- signation, as more distinguished functionaries sometimes do theirs, in the hands of her employer, to prove his helplessness and her own importance, and so assert herself for time past and to come. Her interview with Tom had not occupied much time. She knocked at the Vrau's door, and entering, found that person at the close of a greedy repast. - Emotions of fear, I suppose, disturb the appetite, much more than others. Not caring one farthing about Charles, she did not grieve at his infidelity ; taking pro- fligacy for granted as the rule of life, it did not even shock her. But she was stung with a furious pang of jealousy, for that needs no love, being in its essence the sense of pro- perty invaded, Supremacy insulted, and self despised. In this sort of jealousy there is neither the sublimity of despair nor the S0 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. pathos of sorrow, but simply the malice, fury, and revenge of outraged egotism. There she sat, unconscious of the glimmer of the firelight, feeding as a beast will bleed- ing after a blow. Beast she was, with the bestial faculty of cherishing a long revenge, with bestial treachery and seeming uncon- cern. “Ho oh! you've come back,” she cried, with playful reproach, “cruel old girl! you leave your poor vrau alone, alone among the ghosts—now, sit down, are you sitting and tell me everything, and all the news—did you bring a little brandy or what?” Her open hand was extended, and gently moving over the tray at about the level of the top of a bottle. “No, ma'am, I haven't none in my charge, but there's a smell o' brandy about,” said Mildred, who liked saying a disagreeable thing. “So there ought,” said the gaunt woman placidly, and lifted a big black bottle that TOM IS ORDERED UP. 81 lay in her lap, like a baby, folded in a grey shawl. “But I'll want this, don't you see, when I'm on my rambles again—get a little, there's a good girl, or if you can't get that, there's rum or gin, there never was a country- house without something in it; you know very well where Harry Wairvield is there will be liquor—I know him well.” “But he baint here now, as is well known to you, ma'am,” said Mildred, dryly. “I’m not going to waste my drink, while I think there's drink in the house. Who has a right before me, old girl 7" said the stranger, grimly. “Tut, ma'am, 'tis childish talkin' So, there's none in my charge, never a drop. Master Harry, I dare say, has summat under lock and key, but not me, and why should I tell you a lie about the like ''' “You never tell lies, old Mildred, I forgot that—but young as she is, I lay my life the woman, Mrs. Harry Wairvield, upstairs, likes a nip now and then, hey! and she has WOL. II. (# 82 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. a boddle, I'll be bound, in her wardrobe, or if she's shy, 'twixt her bed and her mattress, ole rogue! you know very well, I think, does she 7 and if she likes it she sleeps sound, and go you, and while she snores, borrow you the bottle.” “She's nothing of the sort, she drinks nothing nowhere, much less in her bed-room, she's a perfect lady,” said Mrs. Tarnley, in no mood to flatter her companion. “Oh ho! that's so like old Mildred Tarnley ! Dear old cat, I’m so amused, I could stroke her thin ribs, and pet her for making me laugh so by her frisks and capers instead of throwing you by the neck out of the window for scratching and spitting—I’m So good-natured. Do you tell lies, Mil- dred 2* “I 'a told a shameful lot in my day, ma'am, but not more mayhap than many a one that hasn't grace to say so.” “You read your Bible, Mildred,” said the lady, who with a knife and fork was securing TOM IS ORDERED UP. 83 on her plate the morsels to which old Mildred helped her. “Ay, ma'am, a bit now, and a bit again, never too late to repent, ma'am.” “Repentance and grace, you’ll do, Mrs. Tarnley. It's a pleasure to hear you,” said the lady, with her mouth rather full; “and you never see my husband " “Now and again, now and again, once and away he looks in.” “Never stays a week or a month at a time 2'' “Week or a month !” echoed Mrs. Tarnley, looking quickly in the serene face of the lady, and then laughing off the suggestion scorn fully. “You’re thinking of old times, ma'am. “Thinking, thinking, I don't think I was thinking at all,” said the lady, answering Mildred's laugh with one more careless; “old times when he had a wife here, eh? old times! How old are they 3 Eh—that's eighteen years ago—you hardly knew me when I called here ?” & 2 84 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “There was a change surely. I'd like to know who wouldn't in eighteen years, there's a change in me since then.” “I shouldn’t wonder,” said the lady, quietly. “Did he ever tell you how we quarreled " “Not he,” answered Mildred. “He’s very close,” said the stranger. “A deal closer than Mr. Harry,” ac- quiesced Mildred. “Not like you and me, Mrs. Tarnley, that can't keep a secret—never. That tell truth, and shame the devil. I, because I don't care a snap of my fingers for you, or him, or the Archbishop of Canterbury; and you, because you're all for grace and repentance. How am I looking to-night—tired ?” “Tired, to be sure; you ought to be in your bed, ma'am, an hour ago; you're as white as that plate, ma'am.” “White are they —so they used to be long ago,” said the visitor. “The same set, ma'am. 'Twas a long set TOM IS ORDERED UP. 85 in my mother's time, though 'tis little better than a short set now ; but I don’t think there's more than three plates, and the cracked butter-boat, that had a stitch in it. You'll mind, although ye may a forgot, for I usen't to send it up to table—only them three, and the butter-boat broke since ; and that butter-boat, 'twouldn't a brought three ha'pence by auction, and ’twas that little slut downstairs, that doesn’t never do nothing right, that knocked it off the shelf. with her smashing.” - “And I’m not looking well to-night 4" said this pallid woman. “You’d be the better of a little blood to your cheeks; you're as white as paper, ma'am,” answered Mildred. “I never have any colour now, they tell me—always pale, pale, pale ; but it isn't muddy; 'taint what you call putty #" “Well, no.” “Ha! no ; I knew that—no, and I’d rather be a little pale. I don't like your 86 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. great, coarse peony-faced women ; it's seven years in May last since I lost my sight. Some people are persecuted; one curse after another—rank injustice Why should I lose my sight, that never did anything to signify— not half what others have, who enjoy health, wealth, rank—everything. Things are topsy- turvey a bit just now, but we'll see them righted yet.” 88 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. The bleached, big woman smiled—almost laughed with gratified vanity. “Yes, I was well dressed—something better than the young dowdies and old fromps, in this part of the world. How I used to laugh at them | I went to church, and to the races, to see them. Well, we’ll have better times yet at Wyvern; the old man there can’t live for ever; he's not the Wandering Jew, and he can't be far from a hundred ; and so sure as Charles is my hus- band, I’ll have you there, if you like it, or give you a snug house, and a bit of ground, and a garden, and a snug allowance monthly, if you like this place best. I love my own, and you've been true to me, and I never failed a friend.” “I’m growing old and silly, ma'am—never so strong as I was took for. The will was ever stronger with Mildred than the body, bless ye—no, no ; two or three quiet years to live as I should a lived always, wi'an eye on my Bible and an eye on my ways—not 92 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. with an old friend, after so long an absence —come, Mildred, come ; where's the glass 2" “Here's the glass, 'm, but not a drop for me, ma'am ; I won't drink nothing o' the sort, please.” “Not from me, I suppose; but if you mean to say you never do, I don't believe you,” said the Dutchwoman, more nettled, it seemed, than such a failure of good fellowship in Mrs. Tarnley would naturally have war- ranted. Perhaps she had particularly strong reasons for making old Mildred frank, genial, and intimate that night. “I don’t tell lies,” said Mildred. “Don’t you ?” said the “old soldier,” and elevated the brows of her sightless eyes, and screwed her lips with ugly ridicule. Mrs. Tarnley looked with a dark shrewd- ness upon this meaning mask, trying to dis- cover the exact force of its significance. She felt very uncomfortable. The blind woman's face expanded into a broad smile. She shrugged, shook her head, THE OLD SOLDIER GROWS FRIENDLY. 93 and laughed. How odiously wide her face looked as she laughed Mildred did not know exactly what to make of her. “But if you did tell lies,” drawled the lady, “even to me, what does it matter, if you promised to tell no more ?' So let us shake hands—where's your hand 4” And she kept shuffling her big hand upon the table, palm upward, with its fingers groping in the air like the claws of a crab upon its back. “Give me—give me—give me your hand, I say,” said she. “'Tain't for the like o' me,” replied Mil- dred, with grim formality. “You’d better be friendly. Come, give me your hand.” “Well, ma'am, 'tain't for me to dispute your pleasure,” answered the old servant, and she slipped her hard fingers upon the upturned palm of the Dutchwoman, who clutched them with a strenuous friendship, and held them fast. 94 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “I like you, Tarnley; we've had rough words, sometimes, but no ill blood, and I’ll do what I said. I never failed a friend, as you will see, if only you be my friend; and why or for whom should you not? Tut, we're not fools | * “The time is past for me to quarrel, being to the wrong side o' sixty more than you'd suppose, and quiet all I wants — quiet, ma'am.” “Yes, quiet and comfort, too, and both you shall have, Mildred Tarnley, if you don’t choose to quarrel with those who would be kind to you, if you'd let them. Yes, indeed, who would be kind, and very kind, if you'd only let them. No, leave your hand where it is, I can't see you, and it's sometimes dull work talking only to a voice. If I can’t see you I'll feel you, and hold you, old girl—hold you fast till I know what terms we're on.” All this time she had Mildred Tarnley's hand between hers, and was fondling and kneading it as a rustic lover in the agonies THE OLD soLDIER GROWS FRIENDLY. 95 of the momentous question might have done fifty years ago. “I don’t know what you want me to say, ma'am, no more than the plate there. Little good left in Mildred Tarnley now, and small power to help or hurt anyone, great or small, at these years.” “I want you to be friendly with me, that's all; I ask no more, and it ain't a great deal, all things considered. Friendly talk, of course, ain't all I mean, that's civility, and civility's very well, very pleasant, like a lady's fan, or her lap-dog, but nothing at a real pinch, nothing to fight a wolf with. Come, old Mildred, Mildred Tarnley, good Mildred, can I be sure of you, quite sure ?” “Sure and certain, ma'am, in all honest service.” “Honest service | Yes, of course ; what else could we think of ? You used to like, I remember, Mildred, a nice ribbon in your bonnet. I have two pieces quite new. I brought them from London. Satin ribbon— 96 THE WYVERN MYSTERY. purple one is—I know you'll like it, and you'll drink a glass of this to please 53 - Iſle. “Thanks for the ribbons, ma'am, I'll not refuse 'em ; but I won't drink nothing, ma'am, I thank you.” “Well, please yourself in that, Pour out a little for me, there's a glass, ain't there ?” “Yes, 'm. How much will you have, ma'am : * - “Half a glass. There's a dear. Stingy half glass,” she continued, putting her finger in to gauge the quantity. “ Go on, go on, remember my long journey to-day. Do you smoke, Mildred ?” . - “Smoke, 'm No, 'm Dear me, there's no smell o' tobacco, is there 2 " said Mildred, who was always suspecting Tom of smoking slily in his crib under the stairs. “Smell, no ; , but I smoke a pinch of tobacco now and again myself, the doctor says I must, and a breath just of opium when I want it. You can have a pipe of tobacco 98 THE WYVERN MYSTERY. “Heyday ! Hi! I think I do remember that old chocolate thing. Why, it can't be that, that's twenty years old. Well, look in my box, here's the key. You'll see two books with green leather backs and gold. Can ye read I’m going to make you a present.” “I can read, ma'am ; but I scarce have time to read my Bible.” “The Bible's a good book, but that's a better,” said the lady, with one of her titters. “But it ain't a book I’m going to give you. Look it out, green and gold, there are only two in the box. It is the one that has an I and a W on the back, four, the fourth volume. I have little else to amuse me. I have the news of the neighbours, but I don't like 'em, who could A bad lot, they hate one another ; 'twouldn't be a worse world if they were all hanged. They hate me because I’m a lady, so I don’t cry when baby takes the croup, nor break my heart when papa gets into the “Gazette.” Have mºxº #! º THE OLD solDIER GROWS FRIENDLY. 99 you found it ! Why, it's under your hand, there. They would not cry their eyes out for me, so I can see the funny side of their adventures, bless them l’ “Is this it, ma'am : * “There are but two books in the box. Has it an I and a W on the back 2 ° “W, O, L., I, V,” spelled out old Mildred, who was listening in a fever for the sounds of Charles Fairfield's arrival. - “That's it. That's the book you should read. I take it in, and I hire all the others, and a French one, from the Hoxton library. I make Molly Jinks, the little, dirty, starving maid, read to me two hours a day. She's got rather to like it. How are your eyes 2" “I can make out twelve or fourteen verses wi'the glasses, but not more, at one bout.” “Well, get on your glasses. This is the ‘Magazine of the Beau-Monde, and Court and Washionable Gazette,’ and full of pictures. Turn over.” II 2 100 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “La, ma'am, 'tis beautiful, but what have I to do with the like 2 ° “Well, look out for the puce gros de Naples walking dress, about page twenty- nine, and I’ll show you the picture after- wards. Do be quick. I have had it four years, it's quite good though, only I’m grown a little fuller since, and it don't fit now. So read it, and you'll see how I'll dress you.” And bending her head forward and knit- ting her brows, she listened absorbed, while old Mildred helped, or corrected, at every second word, by her blind patroness, babbled and stuttered on with her in duet recitation. “Walking dress,” said Mildred— “Go on,” said the lady, who, having this like other descriptions in that cherished work pretty well by heart, led off ener- getically with her lean old companion, and together they read— “A pelisse of puce-coloured gros de Naples, the corsage made to sit close to the shape, THE OLD SOLDIER GROWS FRIENDLY. 101 with a large round pelerine which wraps across in front. The sleeve is excessively large at the upper part of the arm. The fulness of the lower is more moderate. It is confined in three places by bands and ter- minated by a broad wrist-band. The pele- rine and bands of the sleeves are cased with Satin to correspond, and three satin rouleaus are arranged en tablier on the front of the skirt. The bonnet is of rice straw of the cottage shape, trimmed under the brim on the right side, with a band and naeud of gold-coloured ribbon. The crown being also ornamented with gold-coloured ribbon, and a sprig of lilac, placed perpendicularly. Half-boots of black gros de Naples, tipped with black kid.” Here they drew breath, and Mildred Tarn- ley was silent for a minute, thinking how much more like a lady her mother used to dress than she was able, and what fine presents of old clothes old Mrs. Fairfield used to send her now and then from 102 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. Wyvern. For a moment an air of dignity, a sense of feminine vanity, showed itself in the face and mien of Mrs. Tarnley. “That rice straw bonnet, with the gold- coloured naºud, of course I haven't got, nor the gros de Naples' boots—they're gone, of course, long ago; but it reads best, alto- gether, and I hadn't the heart to stop you, nor you to stop reading till we got to the end. And look at the pictures, you'll easily find it ; and I'll write and have the pelisse sent here by the day-coach. It will be here on Sunday. Do you like it !” “It is a bit too fine for me, I'm afraid,” said Mildred, smiling in spite of herself, with a grim elation ; “my poor mother used to dress herself grand enough, in her day, and keep me handsome also when I was a young thing. But since the ladies come no more to Carwell the Grange has been a dull place, and gives a body enough to do to live, and little thought o' fine dresses, and few to see them, except o' Sundays, if 'twas here; not THE OLD SOLDIER GROWS FRIENDLY. 103 but 'twould be more for the credit o’ the family if old Mildred Tarnley, that's known down here for housekeeper at the Grange of Carwell, wasn't turned out quite so poor and dowdy, and seeing them taking the wall o' me, which their mothers used to courtesy to mine, at church and market, and come up here to the Grange as humble as you please, when money was stirring at Car- well, and I, young as I was, thought more on, a deal more, than the best o' them.” “I drink your health, Mildred; as you won't pledge me, I do it alone.” “I thank ye, ma'am.” “Ha, yes, that does me good; I'm tired to death, Mildred.” “There's two on us so, ma'am ; shall I get you to bed, please ?” “In a minute; give me your hand again, girl; come, come, come, yes, I have it. I think you are more friendly, eh? I think so; but the little goodwill I ever show you 104. THE WYWERN MYSTERY. now is nothing to what I mean for you when I come to Wyvern—nothing.” And she strengthened the present assur- ance with an oath, and grasped Mildred's hard brown hand very tight. “And you’ll be kind to me, Mildred, when I want it; and I shall want it, mind, and I'll never forget it to you; 'twill be the making of you. I'll show you how much I trust you, for I'll put myself in your power.” And, hereupon, she shook her hand harder. Her face and manner were changed, and she looked horribly frightened for some minutes. “I don’t blame you, Mildred, but, this thing must not go on—it must not be.” Mildred in her own way looked discon- certed and even agitated at this odd speech. She screwed her mouth sharply to one side, and with her brow knit had turned a fright- ened gaze on her visitor. “There's things as can't be undone, and things as can,” said she, after a pause oracu- THE OLD SOLDIER GROWS FRIENDLY. 105 larly; “best not meddle or make—worms that is, and dust that will be, and God over all.” “God over all, why not ?” repeated the old soldier vaguely, and stood up suddenly with a kind of terrified shudder, “take me, hold me, quick.” “A fit La bless us,” cried Tarnley, seizing her in her lean arms. - The lady answered nothing, but grasped her fast by the wrist and shoulder, and so she stood for a time shuddering and swaying, “Better at last,” she said, “a little—put me in the chair.” And she made a great shuddering sigh or two, and called for water and “hartshorn’’ and the hysteria subsided. And now she seemed overpowered with languor, and an- swered faintly and in monosyllables to old Mrs. Tarnley's uncomfortable inquiries. “Now I shall get a sleep,” she said at last, in low drowsy tones, interrupted with heavy sighs, and she looked so ill that old Mildred 106 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. more than ever wished her back again at Hoxton Old Town. “Help me to my bed—support me—get off my things,” she moaned and mumbled, and at last lay down with a great groaning sigh. “What am I to do with her now?” thought Mrs. Tarnley, who was doubtful whether in this state she could be safely left to herself. But the patient set her at ease upon the point. “Get your ear down,” she whispered, “near, near—you need not stay any longer—only— one thing—the closet with the long row of pegs and the three presses in it, that lies between her room and mine, I remember it well—it isn't open—I shouldn't like her to find me here.” “No, ma'am, it ain't open, the doors were papered over, this room and hers, as I told you, when the rooms was done up.” The old soldier sighed and whispered— “My head is very bad, make no noise, THE OLD SOLDIER GROWS FRIENDLY. 107 dear, don't move the tray, don't touch any- thing—leave me to myself, and I’ll sleep till eleven o'clock to-morrow morning; but go out softly, and then, no noise, for my sleep,” groaned this huge woman, “is a bird's sleep —a bird's sleep, and a pin dropping wakes me, a mouse stirring wakes me—oh—oh— oh. That's all.” Glad to be dismissed on these easy terms, Mildred Tarnley bid her softly good night, having left her basket with her sal volatile, and all other comforts, on the table at her bedside. . And so, softly she stole on tiptoe out of the room, and closed her door, waiting for a moment to clear her head, and be quite sure that the “Dutchwoman,” whom they very much hated and feared, was actually estab- lished in her bed-room at Carwell Grange. CHAPTER VIII. NEWS FROM CRESSLEY COMMON. A PRETTY medley was revolving in old Mildred's brain as she stood outside this door, on the gallery. The epileptic old soldier, the puce gros de Naples, Tom on outpost duty on Cressley Common—had he come back". Charles Fairfield, perhaps, in the house, and that foolish poor young wife in her room, in the centre, and herself the object of all this manoeuvring and conspiring; quite uncon- scious. Mildred had a good many wires to her fingers just now ; could she possibly work them all and keep the show going 2 She was listening now, wondering whether Master Charles had arrived, wondering whe- ther the young lady was asleep, and wonder- ing, most of all, why she had been fool enough NEWS FROM CRESSLEY COMMON. 109 to meddle in other people's affairs. “What the dickens was it to her if they was all in kingdom come 2 If Mildred was a roastin' they wouldn't, not one of 'em, walk across the yard there, to take her off the spit—la, bless you, not a foot.” Mildred was troubled about many things. Among others, what was the meaning of - those oracular appeals of the Dutchwoman in which she had seemed to know something of the real state of things. Down went Mildred Tarnley, softly still, for she would not risk waking Alice, and at the foot of the second staircase she paused again. All was quiet, she peeped into Tom's little room, under the staircase. It was still empty. Into the kitchen she went, nothing had been stirred there. From habit she trotted about, and settled and unsettled some of the scanty ironmongery and earthenware, and peeped, with her candle aloft, into this corner and that, and she re- 110 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. moved the smoothing-iron that stood on the window-stool, holding the shutters close, and peeped into the paved yard, tufted with grass, high over which the solemn trees were drooping. Then, candle in hand, the fidgety old woman visited the back door, the latch was in its place, and she turned about and visited the panelled sitting-room. The smell of flowers was there, and on the little spider- table was Alice’s work-box, and some little muslin clippings and bits of thread and tape, the relics of that evening's solitary work over the little toilet on which her pretty fingers and sad eyes were now always employed. Well, there was no sign of Master Charles here ; so with a little more pottering and sniffing, out she went, and again to the back door, which softly she opened, and she toddled across the uneven pavement to the back-door and looked out, and walked forth upon the narrow road, that, darkened with thick trees, overhangs the edge of the ravine. NEWS FROM CRESSLEY COMMON. Ill Here she listened, and listened in vain. There was nothing but the soft rush of the leaves overhead in the faint visitings of the night air, and across the glen at intervals came that ghastliest of sounds, between a long-drawn hiss and shiver, from a lonely owl. - Interrupted at intervals by this freezing Sound, the old woman listened and muttered now and again a testy word or two. What was to be done, if by any mischance or blunder of Tom's the master should thunder his summons at the hall-door ? Down of course would fly his young wife to let him in, and be clasped in his arms, while from the low window of the Dutchwoman that evil tenant might overhear every word that passed, and almost touch their heads with her down-stretched hand. A pretty scene it would lead to, and agree- able consequences to Mildred herself. “The woman's insane; she's an evil spirit; many a time she would have brained me in 1 I? THE WYWERN MYSTERY. a start of anger if I hadn't been sharp. The mark of the cut glass decanter she flung at my head is in the doorcase at the foot of the stairs this minute like the scar of a bill-hook, the mad beast. I thank God she's blind, though there's an end o' them pranks, any- how. But she's a limb o' the evil one, and where there's a will there's a way, and blind though she be, I would not trust her.” She walked two or three steps slowly, toward Cressley Common, from which direc- tion she expected the approach of Charles Fairfield. No wonder Mildred was fidgeted, there were so many disasters on the cards. If she could but see Charles Fairfield something at least might be guarded against. This wiry old woman was by no means hard of hearing —rather sharp, on the contrary, was her ear. But she listened long in vain. Fearful lest something might go wrong within doors during her absence, she was turning to go back, when she thought she NEWS FROM CRESSLEY COMMON. 113 heard the distant clink of a horseshoe on the road. Her old heart throbbed suddenly, and frowning as she listened, with eyes directed towards the point of approach, softly she said “hush,” as if to quiet the faint rustle of the trees. Stooping forward, she listened, with her lean arm extended, every wrinkled knuckle of her brown hand, and every black-rimmed nail distinct in the moonlight. Yes, it was the clink of trotting horseshoes. She prayed heaven the blind woman might not hear it. There was a time when her more energetic misanthropy would possibly have enjoyed a fracas such as was now to be apprehended. But years teach us the value of quiet, the providential instincts of growing helplessness disarm our pugnacity, and all but quite reprobate spirits grow gentler and kinder as the hour of parting with earth approaches. Thus had old Mildred taken her part in this game, and as her stake be- WOL. II, I 114 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. l came deeper and more dangerous her zeal burnt intensely. Nearer and sharper came the clink, and old Mildred in her anxiety walked on, some- times five steps, sometimes twenty, to meet the rider. It was Tom who appeared, mounted on the mule. I think he took Mildred for a ghost, for he pulled up violently more than twenty yards away, and said, “Lord! who's that ?” “It's me, Tom, Mrs. Tarnley; and is he comin’?” “I hardly knowed you, Mrs. Tarnley. No, I met him up near the stone.” “Not a coming?” urged Mildred. “ No.” “Thank God. Well, and what did you tell him 2 ° “I told him your message. He first asked all about the young lady, and then I told him how she was, and then I told him your 22 message ç4 Ay º 33 NEWS FROM CRESSLEY COMMON. 115 “Word for word, and he drew bridle and stood a while, thinkin', and he wished to know whether the mistress had spoke with her—Mr. Harry's friend, I mean—and I said I didn't know ; and he asked was the house quiet, and no high words going, nor the new comer giving any trouble, and I said no, so far as I knowed. Then, says he, I think, Tom, I had best let Master Harry settle it his own way, so I’ll ride back again to Dar- wynd, and you can come over to the old place for the horse to-morrow ; and tell Mildred I thank her for her care of us, and she shall hear from me in a day or two, and tell no one else, mind, that you have seen me. Well, I asked was there anything more, and he paused a bit, and says he, no, not at present. And then again, says he, tell Mil- dred Tarnley I’ll write to her, and let her know where I am, and mind, Tom, you go yourself to the Post Office, and be sure the letters go only to the persons they are di- rected to, your mistress's to her, and Mildred's I 2 116 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. l to her, and don't you talk with that person that I hear has come to the Grange, and if by any chance she should get into talk with you, you must be wide awake and tell her nothing, and get away from her as quick as you can. It's easy to escape her, for she's blind.” “So she is,” affirmed Mildred, “as that wall. Go on.” “‘Then,’ says he, ‘good night, Tom, get ye home again.” So I wished him God speed, and I rode away, and when I was on a bit I threw a look back again over my shoulder, and I saw him still in the same spot, no more stirring than the stone at the roadside, thinking, I do suppose.” “And that's all 7" said Mildred. “That’s all.” “Bring in the beast very quiet, Tom, unless you leave him in the field for the night, and don’t be clappin' o' doors or ginglin' o' bridle bits. That one has an ear like a hare, and she'll be askin' questions; and when you've NEWS FROM CRESSLEY COMMON. 117 done in the stable come you in this way, and I'll let you in softly, and don't you be talkin' within doors above a whisper. Your voice is rough, and her ear is as sharp as a needle's point.” Tom gave her a little nod and a great wink, and got off the mule, and led him on the grass toward the stable-yard, and old Mildred at the same time got in softly by the other entrance, and in the kitchen awaited the return of Tom. She sat by the fire, troubled in mind, with . her eyes turned askance on the windows. What a small thing is a human body, and what a gigantic moral sphere surrounds that little centre That blind woman lay still as death, on a sixfoot-long bedstead, in a remote chamber. But the direful circuit of that sphere which radiated thence enveloped old Mildred Tarnley go where she would, and outspread even the bourn of the road which Charles Fairfield was to travel that night. For Mildred Tarnley, something of molesta- 118 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. tion and horror was in it, which forbid her to rest. Tom came into the yard, and Mildred was at the door, and opened it before he could place his hand on the latch. “Put off them big shoes, and not a word above your breath, and not a stir, but get ye in again to your bed as still as a mouse,” said Mrs. Tarnley, in a hard whisper, giving him a shake of the shoulder. “Ye'll gi'e me a mug o' beer, Mrs. Tarnley, and a lump o' bread, and a cut o' cheese wouldn't hurt me; I’m a bit hungry. If you won't I must even take a smoke, for I can't sleep as I am.” “Well, I will give ye a drink and a bit o' bread and cheese. Did ye lock the yard- door 7 ° “No,” said Tom. “Well, no, never you mind; I'll do it,” said Mildred, stopping him, “and go you straight to your room, and here’s the lantern for you; and now get ye in, and not a sound, mind, AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN. 121 the window, looking wild and miserably ill. Mildred stood up, and he beckoned. She signed toward the door, which she went forthwith and opened. “Come in, sir,” she said. His saddle, by the stirrup-leather, and his bridle were in his hand. Thus he entered the kitchen, and dropped them on the tiled floor. She looked in his face, he looked in hers. There was a silence. It was not Mildred's business to open the disagreeable subject. “Would you please like anything : * “No, no supper, thanks. Give me a drink of water, I’m thirsty. I'm tired, and—we're quite to ourselves?” “Yes, sir; but wouldn't ye better have beer ?” answered she. “No-water—thanks.” And he drank a deep draught. “Where's the horse, sir?” she asked after a glance at the saddle which lay on its side on the floor. T22 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “In the field, the poplar field, all right— zpell ?” - “Tom told you my message, sir,” she asked, averting her eyes a little. “Yes—where is she—asleep ’” “The mistress is in her bed, asleep I do suppose.” “Yes, yes, and quite well, Tom says. And where is the—the-you sent me word there was some one here. I know whom you mean. Where is she 7” “In the front bed-room—the old room—it will be over the hall-door, you know—she's in bed, and asleep, I'm thinkin' ; but best not make any stir—some folks sleep so light, ye know.” “It’s late,” he said, taking out his watch, but forgetting to consult it, “ and I dare say she is—she came to-night, yes—and she's tired, or ought to be—a long way.” He walked to the window, and was look- ing, with the instinct which leads us always, in dark places, to look toward the light, AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN. 123 above the dusky trees to the thin luminous cloud that streaked the sky. “Pretty well tired myself, Mr. Charles; you may guess the night I've put in ; I was a'most sleepin’ myself when ye came to the window. Tom said ye wern’t a comin'; 'tis a mercy the yard door wasn't locked; five minutes more and I’d have locked it.” “It would not have mattered much, Mil- dred.” “Ye’d a climbed, and pushed up the win- dow, mayhap.” *No : I’d have walked on ; a feather would have turned me from the door as it was.” - He turned about and looked at her dreamily. “On where 8" she inquired. “On, anywhere; on into the glen. If you are tired, Mildred, so am I.” “You need a good sleep, Master Charles.” “A long sleep, Mildred. I'm tired. I had 124 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. a mind as it was to walk on and trouble you here no more.” “Walk on—hoot | nonsense, Mr. Charles ; 'tisn't come to that ; giving up your house to a one like her.” “I wish I was dead, Mildred. I don't know whether it was a good or an evil angel that turned me in here. I’d have been easier by this time if I had gone on, and had my leap from the scaur to the bottom of the glen.” “None o' that nonsense, man | * said Mil- dred, sternly ; “ye ha’ brought that poor young lady into a doubtful pass, and ye must stand by her, Charles. You're come of no cowardly stock, and ye shan't gi'e her up, and your babe that's comin', poor little thing to shame and want for lack of a man's heart under your ribs. I say, I know nout o' the rights of it; but God will judge ye if ye leave her now.” High was Mrs. Tarnley's head, and very grim she looked as with her hand on his AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN. 125 shoulder she shook up “Master Charles” from the drowse of death. “I won't, old Tarnley,” he said at last. “You’re right—poor little Alice, the loving little thing !” He turned suddenly again to the window and wept in silence strange tears of agony. Old Tarnley looked at him sternly askance. I don't think she had much pity for him ; she was in nowise given to the melting mood, and hardly knew what that sort of whimper- ing meant. “I say,” she broke out, “I don't know the rights of it, how should I? but this I believe, if you thought you were truly married to that woman that's come to-night, you'd never a found it in your heart to act such a villain's part by the poor, young, foolish creature up stairs, and make a sham wife o' her.” “Never, never, by heaven. I’m no more that wretched woman's husband than I’m married to you.” “Mildred knew better than marry any- AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN. 127 “I didn't mean you, I meant others, quite a different person; I’m utterly miserable ; at a more unlucky moment all this could not have happened by any possibility.” “Well, I’m sure I never said it; I never thought but one thing of her ; the foul- tongued wicked beast.” “Don’t you talk that way of her,” said Charles, savagely. “Whatever she is she has suffered, she has been cruelly used, and I am to blame for all. I did not mean it, but it is all my fault.” Mrs. Tarnley sneered, but said nothing, and a silence followed. “I know,” he said, in a changed way, “you mean kindly to me.” “Be kind to yourself. I hold it's the best way in this bleak world, Mr. Charles. I never was thanked for kindness yet.” “You have always been true to me, Mil- dred, in your own way—in your own way, mind, but always true, and I’ll show you yet, if I’m spared, that I can be grateful. You 128 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. know how I am now—no power to serve anyone—no power to show my regard.” “I don't complain o' nothing,” said Mil- dred. “Has my brother been here, Mildred 7" he asked. “Not he.” “No letters for me !” asked he. “Nothing, sir.” “You never get a lift when you want it—- never,” said Charles, with a bitter groan; “never was a fellow driven harder to the wall—never a fellow nearer his wits' ends. I’m very glad, Mildred, I have some one to talk to—one old friend. I don't know what to do—I can't make up my mind to anything, and if I hadn't you just now, I think I should go distracted. I have a great deal to ask you. That lady, you say, has been in her room Some time—did she talk loud—was she angry—was there any noise ?” “No, sir.” “Who saw her 3" AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN. 129 “No one but myself, and the man as drove her.” “Thank God for that. Does she know about my—did she hear that your mistress is in the house ?” “I said she was Master Harry's wife, and told her, Lord forgive me, that he was here continually, and you hardly ever, and then only for a few hours at a time.” “That's very good—she believed it !” “Every word, so far as I could see. I aſ told a deal o’ lies.” “Well, well, and what more ?” “And the beginning of sin is like the coming in of waters, and 'twill soon make an o'er wide gap for itself, and lay all under.” “Yes—and—and—you really think she believed all you said " “Ay, I do,” answered she. “Thank God, again l’ said he, with a deep sigh. “Oh, Mildred, I wish I could think what's best to be done. There are ever so many things in my head.” WOL. II, K 130 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. She felt a trembling she thought in the hand he laid upon her arm. “Take a drink o’ beer, you're tired, sir.” said she. “No, no—not much—never mind, I'm better as I am. How has your mistress been 2° “Well, midlin’—pretty well.” “I wish she was quite well, Mildred—it's very unlucky. If the poor little thing were only quite well, it would make everything easy; but I daren't frighten her—I daren't tell her—it might be her death. Oh, Mildred, isn’t all this terrible { * “Bad enough—I can't deny.” “Would it be better to run that risk and tell her everything?” he said. “Well, it is a risk, an' a great one, and it might be the same as puttin' a pistol to her head and killin' her; 'tis a tryin' time with her, poor child, and a dangerous bed, and mind ye this, if there's any talk like that, and the crying and laughing fits mayhap that AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN. 13'l comes with it, don't ye think but the old cat will hear it, and then in the wild talk as out in no time, and the fat in the fire; no, if she's to hear it, it can’t be helped, and the will o' God be done ; but if I was her husband, I’d sooner die than tell her, being as she is.” “No, of course, no—she must not be told ; I'm sure you're right, Mildred. I wish Harry was here, he thinks of things sometimes, that don't strike me. I wish Harry would come, he might think of something—he would, I dare say—he would, I'm certain.” - “I wish that woman was back again where she came from,” said Mildred, from whose mind the puce gros de Naples was fading, for she had a profound distrust of her veracity, and the pelisse looked very like a puce-coloured lie. “Don’t Mildred—don't, like a good crea- ture—you won't for my sake, speak harshly of that unhappy person,” he said gently this time, and laying his hand on her shoulder. K 2 - 132 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “I’m glad you are here, Mildred—I’m very glad ; I remember you as long as I can remember anything—you were always kind to me, Mildred—always the same—true as steel.” He was speaking with the friendliness of distress. It is in pain that sympathy grows precious, and with the yearning for it, re- turns something of the gentleness and affec- tion of childhood. “She's come for no good,” said Mildred, “she's sly, and she's savage, and if you don't mind me saying so, I often thought she was a bit mad—folk as has them fits, ye know, they does get sometimes queerish.” “We can talk of her by-and-by,” said he; “what was in my mind was about a different thing. For a thousand reasons I should hate a fracas—I mean a row with that person at present; you know yourself how it might affect the poor little thing up stairs. Oh, my darling, my darling, what have I brought you into ?” AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN. 133 “Well, well, no help for spilled milk,” said Mildred. “What was you a-thinking of?” “Oh, yes, thank you, Mildred—I was thinking—yes—if your mistress was well enough for a journey, I'd take her away from this—I'd take her away immediately—I’d take her quite out of the reach of that— that restless person. I ought to have done so at once, but I was so miserably poor, and this place here to receive us, and who could have fancied she'd have dreamed, in her state of health, and with her affliction—her sight, you know—of coming down here again ; but I'm the unluckiest fellow on earth ; I never, by any chance, leave a blot that isn't hit. Don't you think, Mildred, I had better not wake your mistress to-night to talk over plans ?” “Don’t you go near her ; a sight of your face would tell her all wasn't right.” “I had better not see her, you think?” “Don’t see her. So soon as you know yourself what you're going to do with her, 134, THE WYWERN MYSTERY. / and if you make up your mind to-night so much the better—write you to tell her what she's to do, and give me the letter and I'll give it to her as if it came by a messenger; and take you my counsel—don't you stop here a minute longer than you can. Leave before daybreak, you're no use here, and if she finds you 'twill but make bad worse. When will ye lie down—you'll not be good for nothin' to-morrow if ye don't sleep a bit—lie down on the sofa in the parlour, and your cloak is hangin' in the passage, and be you out o' the house by daybreak, and I'll have a bit o' breakfast ready before ye go.” “And there's Lady Wyndale, I didn't tell you, offered to take care of Alice, your mis- tress, and she need only go there for the present ; but that might be too near, and I was thinking it might not do.” “Best out o' reach altogether when ye go about it,” said Mildred. “Sit here if you like it, or lie down, as I said, in the parlour, and if you Settle your mind on any plan just AN UNLOOKED FOR RETURN. 135 knock at my door, and I’ll have my clothes about me and be ready at call, and Tom's in his old crib under the stair, if you want him to get the Saddle on the horse, and I won’t take down the fire, I’ll have it handy for your breakfast, and now I can't stop talkin' no longer, for Mildred's wore off her feet—will ye take a candle, or will ye stop here ?” “Yes, give me a candle, Mildred—thanks —and don't mind the cloak, I'll get it myself, I will lie down a little, and try to sleep—I wish I could—and if you waken shake me up in an hour or two, something must be settled before I leave this, something shall be settled, and that poor little creature out of reach of trouble and insult. Don't forget. Good night, Mildred, and God bless you, Mildred, God for ever bless you.” - CHAPTER X. CHARLES FAIRFIELD ALONE. CHARLEs FAIRFIELD talked of sleep- ing. There was little chance of that. He placed the candle on one of the two old oak cupboards, as they were still called, which occupied corresponding niches in the wainscoted wall, opposite the fireplace, and he threw himself at his length on the sofa. Tired enough for sleep he was ; but who can stop the mill of anxious thought into which imagination pours continually its proper grist : In his tired head its wheels went turning, and its hammers beat with monoto- nous pulsation and whirl—weariest and most wasting of fevers He turned his face, like the men of old, in CHARLES FAIRFIELD ALONE. 137 his anguish, to the wall. Then he tried the other side, wide awake, and literally staring, from point to point, in the fear and fatigue of his vain ruminations. Then up he sat, and flung his cloak on the floor, and then to the window he went, and, opening the shutter, looked out on the moonlight, and the peaceful trees that seemed bowed in slumber, and stood, hardly seeing it—hardly thinking in his confused misery. One hand in his pocket, the other against the window-case, to which the stalworth good fellow, Harry, had leaned his shoulder in their unpleasant dialogue and altercation. Harry, his chief stay, his confidant and brother— dare he trust him now 4 If he might, where could he find him : Better do his own work —better do it indifferently than run a risk of treason. He did not quite know what to make of Harry. So with desultory resolution he said to himself, “Now I’ll think in earnest, for I’ve got but two hours to decide in.” There was CHARLES FAIRFIELD ALONE. 139 should have to pay two hundred pounds to that woman, who never gave him an easy week, and who seemed bent on ruining him if she could. By the dull light of the mutton- fat with which Mildred had furnished him he wrote this note— “My DARLING LITTLE WOMAN,- “You must make Dulcibella pack up your things. Tom will have a chaise here at eleven o'clock. Drive to Wykeford and change horses there, and go on to Lonsdale, where I will meet you at last. Then and there your own, poor, loving Ry will tell you all his plans and reasons for this sudden move. We must get away by easy stages, and baffle possible pursuit, and then a quiet and comparatively happy interval for my poor little fluttered bird. I live upon the hope of our meeting. Out of reach of all trouble We shall soon be, and your poor Ry happy, where only he can be happy, in your dear presence. I enclose ten pounds. Pay nothing 140 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. *i. and nobody at the Grange. Say I told you so. You will reach Lonsdale, if you leave Carwell not later than eleven, be- fore five. Don't delay to pack up any more than you actually want. Leave all in charge of old Mildred, and we can easily write in a day or two for anything we may want. “Ever, my own idolized little woman, “Your own poor adoring “RY.” So this was finished, and now for Harry: “My DEAR HARRY- “How you must hate the sight of my hand. I never write but to trouble you. But, as you will perceive, I am myself in trouble more than enough to warrant my asking you again to aid me if it should lie in your way. You will best judge if you can, and how you can. The fact is that what you apprehended CHARLES FAIRFIELD ALONE. 141 turns out to be too true. That person who, however I may have been at one time to blame, has certainly no right to charge me with want of generosity or consideration, seems to have made up her mind to give me all the annoyance in her power. She is at this moment here at Carwell Grange. I was absent when she arrived, and received timely notice, and perhaps ought to have turned about, but I could not do that without ascertaining first exactly how matters stood at Carwell. So I am here, without any one's being aware of it except old Mildred, who tells me that the person in question is under the impression that it is you—and not I —who are married, and that it is your wife who is residing in the house. As you have been no party to this deception, pray let her continue to think so. I shall leave this before daybreak, my visit not having exceeded four hours. I leave a note for poor little Alice, telling her to follow me to-morrow—I should say this morning—to 142 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. Lonsdale, where I shall meet her; and thence we get on to London, and from London, my present idea is, to make our way to some quiet little place on the Continent, where I mean to stay quite concealed until circum- stances alter for the better. What I want you, and beg of you to do for me at present, is just this—to sell everything at Carwell that is saleable—the horse, the mule, the two donkeys, the carts, plough, &c., &c., in fact everything out of doors; and let the farm to Mildred's nephew, who wanted to take it last year. It is, including the garden, nineteen acres. I wish him to have it, provided he pays a fair rent, because I think he would be kind to his aunt, old Mildred. He must sti- pulate to give her her usual allowances of vegetables, milk, and all the rest from the farm ; and she shall have her room, and the kitchen, and her 8!, a year as usual. Do like a good old fellow see to this, and try to turn all you can into money for me. I shall have miserably little to begin with, and any- CHARLES FAIRFIELD ALONE. 143 thing you can get together will be a lift to me. If you write under cover to J. Dylke at the old place in Westminster, it will be sure to reach me. I don’t know whether all this is intelligible. You may guess how distracted I am and miserable. But there is no use in describing. I ought to beg your pardon a thousand times for asking you to take all the trouble involved in this request. But, dear Harry, you will ask yourself who else on earth has the poor devil to look to in an emergency but his brother ? I know my good Harry will remember how urgent the case is. Any advice you can spare me in my solitary trouble will be most welcome. I think I have said everything—at least all I can think of in this miserable hurry—I feel so helpless. But you are a clever fellow, and always were—so much cleverer than I, and know how to manage things. God bless you, dear Harry, I know you won't forget how pressed I am. You were always prompt in my behalf, and I never so needed a friend 144 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. like you—for delay here might lead to the worst annoyances. “Ever, dear Harry, your affectionate brother, “CHARLES FAIRFIELD. “Carwell Grange.” It was a relief to his mind when these letters were off it, and something like the rude outline of a plan formed. Very tired was Charles Fairfield when he had folded and addressed his letters. No physical exertion exhausts like the monoto- nous pain of anxiety. For many nights he had had no sleep, but those wearying snatches of half-consciousness in which the same troublous current is still running through the brain, and the wasted nerves of endurance are still tasked. He sat now in his chair, the dim red light of the candle at his elbow, the window shutter open before him, and the cold serene light of the moon over the outer earth and sky. CHARLES FAIRFIELD ALONE. 145 Gazing on this, a weary sleep stole over his senses, and for a full hour the worn-out man slept profoundly. Into this slumber slowly wound a dream, of which he could afterwards remember only that it was somehow horrible. Dark and direful grew his slumber thus visited; and in a way that accorded well with its terrors, he was awakened. WOL. II. L CHAPTER XI. AWAKE. IN his dream, a pale frightened face ap- proached him slowly, and recoiling uttered a cry. The scream was horribly prolonged as the figure receded. He thought he recog- mised some one—dead or living he could not say—in the strange, Grecian face, fixed as marble, that with enormous eyes, had looked into his. With this sound ringing in his ears he awoke. As is the case with other over- fatigued men, on whom, at length, slumber has seized, he was for a time in the attitude of wakefulness before his senses and his recollection were thoroughly aroused, and his dream quite dissipated. Another long shriek, and another, and another, he heard. AWAKE. 147 Charles recognised, he fancied, his wife's voice. Scared, and wide awake, he ran from the room—to the foot of the stairs— up the stairs. A tread of feet he heard in the room, and the door violently shaken, and another long, agonized scream. Over this roof and around it is the serenest and happiest night. The brilliant moon, the dark azure and wide field of stars make it a night for holy thoughts, and lovers' vigils, so tender and beautiful. There is no moaning night-wind, not even a rustle in the thick ivy. The window gives no sound, except when the gray moth floating in its shadow taps softly on the pane. You can hear the leaf that drops of itself from the tree-top, and flits its way from bough to spray to the ground. Even in that gentle night there move, how- ever, symbols of guilt and danger. While the small birds, with head under wing, nestle in their leafy nooks, the white owl glides with noiseless wing, a murderous phantom, L 2 148 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. cutting the air. The demure cat creeps on and on softly as a gray shadow till its green eyes glare close on its prey. Nature, with her gentleness and cruelty, her sublimity and meanness, resembles that microcosm, the human heart, in which lodge so many con- trarieties, and the shabby contends with the heroic, the diabolic with the angelic. In this still night Alice's heart was heavy. Who can account for those sudden, silent, but terrible changes in the spiritual vision which interpose as it were a thin coloured medium between ourselves and the realities that sur- round us—how all objects, retaining their outlines, lose their rosy glow and golden lights, and on a sudden fade into dismallest gray and green 2 “Dulcibella, do you think he's coming : Oh! Dulcibella, do you think he'll come to- night !” “He may, dear. Why shouldn't he Lie down, my child, and don't be sitting up in your bed so. You'll never go asleep while 150 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. Crane on his way home. He would some- times stop a bit on the way, wi' a friend or two, at the Cat and Fiddle—'twas the only thing I could ever say wasn't quite as I could a’ liked in my poor Crane. And that's how I came to serve your good mother, miss, and your poor father, the good vicar o' Wyvern— there's not been none like him since, not one —no, indeed.” * * “You remember mamma very well ?” “Like yesterday, miss,” said old Dulcibella, who often answered that question. “Like yesterday, the pretty lady. She always looked so pleasant, too—a smiling face, like the light of the Sun coming into a room.” “I wonder, Dulcibella, there was no pic- ture.” - “No picture. No miss. Well, ye see, Miss Ally, dear, them pictures, I'm told, costs a deal o' money, and they were only beginnin' you know, and many a little ex- pense—and Wyvern Vicarage is a small livelihood at best, and ye must be managin' AWAKE. 151 if ye'd keep it—and good to the poor they was with all that, and gave what many a richer one wouldn't, and never spared trouble for them ; they counted nothin’ trouble for no one. They loved all, and lived to one another, not a wry word ever; what one liked t'other loved, and all in the light o' God’s blessin'. I never seen such a couple, never; they doated on one another, and loved all, and they two was like one angel.” “Lady Wyndale has a picture of poor mamma—very small—what they call a minia- ture. I think it quite beautiful. It was taken when she was not more than seventeen. Lady Wyndale, you know, was ever so much elder than mamma.” “Ay, so she was, ten year and more, I dare say,” answered Dulcibella. “She is very fond of it—too fond to give it to me now ; but she says, kind aunt, she has left it to me in her will. And Oh! Dulci- bella, I feel so lonely.” “Lonely! why should you, darling, wi' a 152 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. fine handsome gentleman to your husband, that will be squire o' Wyvern—think o' that —squire o' Wyvern, and that's a greater man than many a lord in Parliament; and he's good-natured, never a hard word or a skew look, always the same quiet way wi' him. Hoot, miss! ye mustn't be talkin' that way. Think o' the little baby that's a comin’. Ye won't know yourself for joy when ye see his face, please God, and I’m a longin' to show him to ye.” “You good old Dulcibella,” said the young lady, and her eyes filled with tears as she smiled. “But poor mamma died when I was born, and oh, Dulcibella, do you think I shall ever see the face of the poor little thing? Oh I wouldn’t it be sad wouldn’t it be sad l’” “Ye're not to be talkin' that nonsense, darling; 'tis sinful, wi' all that God has given you, a comfortable house over your head, and enough to eat, and good friends, and a fine, handsome husband that's kind to you, and a AWAKE. 153 blessed little child a comin' to make every minute pleasant to all that's in the house. Why, 'tis a sin to be frettin' like that, and as for this thing or that thing, or being afeard, why, everyone's afeard, if they'd let them- selves, and not one in a thousand comes by any harm ; and 'tis sinful, I tell ye, for ye know well ye're in the hands o' the good God that's took care o' ye till now, and took ye out o' the little nursery o' Wyvern Vicar- age, when ye weren’t the length o' my arm, and not a friend near but poor, foolish, old Dulcibella, that did not know where to turn. And your aunt, that only went out as poor as your darling mamma, brought homeºwell again from t'other end of the world, and well to do, your own loving kith and kin, and good friends raised up on every side, and the old squire, Harry o' Wyvern, although he be a bit angered for a while he's another good friend, that will be sure to make it up, what- ever it is came between him and Master Charles. Hot blood's not the worst blood ; AWAKE. 155 best. So what He pleases to lay on us we must even bear wi' a patient heart, if we can't wi' a cheerful; for wi' his blessin' 'twill all end well.” “Amen,” said Alice, with a cheerier smile but a load still at her heart; “I hope so, my good old Dulcibella. What should I do with- out you? Wait ! hush | Is that a noise outside No; I thought I heard a horse's tread, but there's nothing. It's too laté now ; there's no chance of him to-night. Do you think, Dulcibella, there is any chance 2° “Well, no, my dear; it's gettin' on too late—a deal too late ; no, no, we must even put that clean out of our heads. Ye'll not get a wink o' sleep if you be listening for him. Well I know them fidgets, and many a time I lay on my hot ear—now this side, now that, listening, till I could count the veins o' my head beating like a watch, and myself only wider and wider awake every hour, and more fool I; and well and hearty home wi' him, time enough, and not a minute sooner AWAKE. 157 longer, dear old Dulcibella. I've been very selfish. So, good-night.” And they kissed, as from little Allie's infancy they had always done, before settling for the night. “Good-night, and God love it ; it mustn't be frettin', and God bless you, my darling Miss Allie ; and you must get to sleep, or you'll be looking so pale and poor in the morning, he won't know you when he comes.” So, with another hug and a kiss they parted, and old Dulcibella leaving her young mistress's candle burning on the table, as was her wont, being nervous when she was alone, and screened from her eyes by the curtain, with a final good-night and another blessing she closed the door. Is there ever an unreserved and complete confidence after marriage % Even to kind old Dulcibella she could not tell all. As she smiled a little farewell on the faithful old soul her heart was ready to burst. She was long- 158 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. ing for a good cry all to herself, and now, poor little thing, she had it. She cried herself, as children do, to sleep. An hour later the old grange was silent as the neighbouring churchyard of Carwell. But there was not a household in the parish, or in the county, I suppose, many of whose tenants, at that late hour, were so oddly placed. In his chair in the oak-panelled room, down stairs, sat Charles Fairfield, in that slumber of a tormented and exhausted brain, which in its first profound submersion, resem- bles the torpor of apoplexy. In his forsaken room lay on the pillow the pale face of his young wife, her eyelashes not yet dry, fallen asleep in the sad illusion of his absence—better, perhaps, than his presence would have been, if she had known but all. In her crib down stairs, at last asleep, lay the frightened Lilly Dogger, her head still under the coverlet, under which she had popped it in panic, as she thought on the 160 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. Mildred Tarnley, a thin figure with many corners, lay her length in her clothes, her old brown stuff gown her cap and broad faded ribbons binding her busy head, and her darned black worsted stockings still on her weary feet, ready at call to jump up, pop her feet again into her misshapen shoes, and resume her duties. In her own solitary chamber, at the de- serted side of the house, the tall stranger, arrayed in a white woollen might-dress, lay her length, not stirring. After Mildred Tarnley had got herself stiffly under her quilt, she was visited with certain qualms about this person, recollections of her abhorred activity and energy in old times, and fears that the “grim white woman” was not resting in her bed. This apprehen- sion grew so intense that, tired as she was, she could not sleep. The suspicion that, bare- footed, listening, that dreadful woman was possibly groping her way through the house made her heart beat faster and faster. AWAKE. 16] At last she could bear it no longer, and up she got, lighted her candle with a match, and in her stockings glided softly through the passage, and by the room where Charles Fairfield was at that time at his letters. He recognised the step to which his ear was accustomed, and did not trouble himself to inquire what she was about. So, softly, softly, softly—Mildred Tarnley found herself at the door of the unwelcome guest and listened. You would not have supposed old Mildred capable of a nervous tremble, but she was profoundly afraid of this awful woman, before whose superior malignity and unearthly energy her own temper and activity quailed. She listened, but could hear no evidence of her presence. Was the woman there at all ? Lightly, lightly, with her nail, she tapped at the door. No answer. Then very softly she tried the door. It was Secured. But was the old soldier in the room still, or wandering about the house with WOL. II. M I62 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. who could fathom what evil purpose in her head 2 The figure in white woollen was there still; she had been lying on her side, with her pale features turned toward the door as Mildred approached. Her blind eyes were moving in their sockets—there was a listening smile on her lips—and she had turned her neck awry to get her ear in the direction of the door. She was just as wide awake as Mildred herself. Mildred watched for a time at the door, irresolute. Excuse enough, she bethought her, in the feeble state in which she had left her, had she for making her a visit. Why should she not open the door boldly and en- ter? But Mildred, in something worse than solitude, was growing more and more nervous. What if that tall, insane miscreant were waiting at the door, in a fit of revenge for her suspected perfidy, ready to clutch her by the throat as she opened it, and to strangle her on the bed ? And when there came AWAKE. 163 from the interior of the room a weary bleating “heigh-hol” she absolutely bounced backward, and for a moment froze with terror. She took a precaution as she softly with- drew. The passage, which is terminated by the “old soldier's" room, passes a dressing- room on the left, and then opens, on the other side, upon a lobby. This door is furnished with a key, and having secured it, Mrs. Tarnley, with that key in her pocket, felt that she had pretty well imprisoned that evil spirit, and returned to her own bed more serenely, and was soon lost in slumber. CHAPTER XII. RESTLESS. SoME lean, nervous temperaments, once fairly excited, and in presence of a substantial cause of uneasiness, are very hard to reduce to composure. After she had got back again, Mildred Tarnley fidgeted and turned in her bed, and lay in the dark, with her tired eyes wide open, and imagining, one after another, all sorts of horrors. She was still in her clothes; so she got up again, and lighted a candle, and stole away, angry with herself and all the world on account of her fussy and feverish condition, and crept up the great stairs, and stealthily reached again the door of the “old soldier's" room. Not a sound, not a breath, could she hear RESTLESS. 165 from within. Gently she opened the door which no longer resisted. The fire was low in the grate ; and, half afraid to look at the bed, she raised the candle and did look. There lay the “Dutchwoman,” so still that Mrs. Tarnley felt a sickening doubt as she stared at her. “Lord bless us ! she's never quite well. I wish she was somewhere else,” said Mrs. Tarnley, frowning sharply at her from the door. Then, with a little effort of resolution, she walked to the bedside, and fancied, doubt- fully, that she saw a faint motion as of breathing in the great resting figure, and she placed her fingers upon her arm, and then passed them down to her big hand, which to her relief was warm. At the touch the woman moaned and turned a little. “Faugh! what makes her sleep so like dead? She’d a frightened me a'most, if I did not know better. Some folks can't do 168 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. was called, which seemed to her to have grown chill and cheerless since she was last there, and so again cautiously up the great stair, with its clumsy banister of oak, re- lieved at every turn by a square oak block terminating in a ball, like the head of a gigantic nine-pin. Black looked the passage through this archway, at the summit of this ascent ; and for the first time Mildred was stayed by the sinking of a superstitious horror. It was by putting a kind of force upon herself that she entered this dark and silent gallery, so far away from every living being in the house, except that one of whom se- cretly she stood in awe, as of something not altogether of this earth. This gallery is pretty large, and about midway is placed another arch, with a door- case, and a door that is held open by a hook, and, as often happens in old houses, a de- scent of a couple of steps here brings you to a different level of the floor. RESTLESS. T 69 There may have been a reason of some other sort for the uncomfortable introduction of so many gratuitous steps in doorways and passages, but certainly it must have exercised the wits of the comparatively slow persons who flourished at the period of this sort of architecture, and prevented the drowsiest from falling asleep on the way to their bed- I’OOInS. It happened that as she reached this doorway her eye was caught by a cobweb hanging from the ceiling. For a sharp old servant like Mrs. Tarnley, such festoonery has an attraction of antipathy that is irre- sistible ; she tried to knock it with her hand, but it did not reach high enough, so she applied her fingers to loosen her apron, and sweep it down with a swoop of that weapon. She was still looking up at the dusty cord that waved in the air, and as she did so she received a long pull by the dress, from an unseen hand below—a determined tweak— 170 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. - tightening and relaxing as she drew a step back, and held the candle backward to enable her to see. It was not her kitten, which might have playfully followed her up stairs—it was not a prowling rat making a hungry attack. A low titter accompanied this pluck at her dress, and she saw the wide pale face of the Dutchwoman turned up towards her with an odious smile. She was seated on the step, with her shoulder leaning upon the frame of the door. “You thought I was asleep under the co- verlet,” she drawled: “ or awake, perhaps, in the other world—dead. I never sleep long, and I don’t die easily—see /* “And what for are ye out o' your bed at all, ma'am 2 Ye'll break your neck in this house, if ye go walking about, wi' its cranky steps and stairs, and you blind.” “When you go blind, old Mildred, you'll find your memory sharper than you think, and steps, and corners, and doors, and chim- RESTLESS. I71 ney-pieces will come to mind like a picture. What was I about 4” “Well, what was ye about 2 Sure I am I don't know, ma'am.” “No, I'm sure you don’t,” said she. “But you should be in your bed—that I know, ma'am.” Still holding her dress, and with a lazy laugh, the lady made answer— “So should you, old lass—a pair of us gadders; but I had a reason—I wanted you, old Mildred.” “Well, ma'am, I don't know how you'd 'a found me, for I sleep in the five-cornered room, two doors away from the spicery— you'd never a found me.” “I’d have tried—hit or miss—I would not have stayed where I was,” answered the “old soldier.” “What, not in the state room, ma'am— the finest room in the house, so 'twas always supposed ſ” “So be it ; I don’t like it,” she answered. 172 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “Ye didn't hear no noises in't, sure?" de- manded Mildred. “Not I,” said the Dutchwoman. “An- other reason quite, girl.” “And what the de'il is it? It must be. summat grand, I take it, that makes ye bet- ter here, sittin' on a hard stair, than lying your length on a good bed.” “Right well said, clever Mildred. What is the state-room without a quiet mind?” re- plied the old soldier, with an oracular smile. “What's the matter wi' your mind, ma'am "" said Mildred testily. “I’m not safe there from intrusion,” an- swered the lady, with little pauses between her words to lend an emphasis to them. “I don't know what you're afeard on, ma'am,” repeated Mrs. Tarnley, whose ac- quaintance with fine words was limited, and who was too proud to risk a mistake. “Well, it's just this—I won't be pried upon by that young lady.” “What young lady, ma'am 2" asked Mrs. RESTLESS. 173 Tarnley, who fancied she might ironically mean Miss Lilly Dogger. “Harry Fairfield's wife, of course, what other ? I choose to be private here,” said the Dutch dame imperiously. “She’ll not pry—she don't pry on no one, and if she wished it, she couldn't.” “Why, there's nothing between us, woman, but the long closet where you used to keep the linen, and the broken furniture and rattle- traps” (raddle-drabs she pronounced the word), “and she'll come and peep—every woman peeps and pries” (beebs and bries she called the words)—“I peep and pry. She'll just pretend she never knew any one was there, and she'll walk in through the closet door, and start, and beg my pardon, and say how sorry she is, and then go off, and tell you next morning how many buttons are on my pelisse, and how many pins in my pin- cushion, and let all the world know everything about me.” “But she can’t come in.” 174 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “Why?” “Why? Because, ma'am, the door is papered over.” “Fine protection—paper l’’ sneered the lady. “I saw her door locked myself before 'twas papered over,” said Mildred. “Did you, though 4" said the lady. “With my own eyes,” insisted Mildred. “I’d rather see it with mine,” joked the blind lady. “Well, see, we'll make a long story short. If I consent to stay in that room, I'll lock the door that opens into it. I’ll have a room, and not a passage, if you please. I won't be peeped on, or listened to. If I can't choose my company I’ll be alone, please.” “And what do you want, ma'am ''' asked Mildred, whose troubles were multiplying. “Another room,” said the lady, doggedly. Mildred paused. “Well, did I ever!” pondered Mrs. Tarnley, reading the lady's features sharply as she spoke ; but they were sullen, and, for aught 176 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “What key is it !” asked the old soldier. “The key of the long linen closet that was.” “And how do I know that ?” she inquired, twirling it round in her large fingers, and smiling in such a way as to nettle Mrs. Tarnley, who began— “Ye may know, I take it, because Mildred Tarnley says so, and I never yet played a trick. I never tells lies,” she concluded, pulling up on a sudden. “Well, I know that. I know you're truth itself, so far as human nature goes; but that has its limits, and can't fly very high off the ground. Come, get me up—we'll try the key. I'll lock it myself—I’ll lock it with my own fingers. Seeing is believing, and I can't see ; but feeling has no fellow, and, not doubting you, Mrs. Tarnley, I'll feel for myself.” She placed her hand on Mrs. Tarnley's shoulder, and when she had reached the corner at the further side of the bed, where . 178 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. said the blind woman, with a sleepy laugh. “As if people could sleep when they like. Why, woman, if that was so there would be no such thing as fidgets.” “Well, I suppose, no more there wouldn't —no more there wouldn't. I may take away the tray, ma'am 2 ° “Let it be till morning—I want rest. Good night. Are you going 2—good night.” “Good night, ma'am,” said Mildred, making her stiff little curtsey, although it was lost upon the lady, and a little thought- fully she left the room. The “Old Soldier” listened, sitting up, for she had lain down on her bed, and as she heard the click-clack of Mildred's shoe grow fainter— “Yes, good-night really, Mildred ; I think you need visit no more to-night.” And she got up, and secured the door that opened on the gallery. “Good-night, old Tarnley,” she said, with a nod and an unpleasant smirk, and then a RESTLESS. 179 deep and dismal sigh. Then she threw her- self again upon her bed and lay still. Old Mildred seemed also to have come to a like conclusion as to the matter of further visiting for the night, for at the door, on the step of which the Dutchwoman sitting a few minutes before had startled her, she looked back suspiciously over her shoulder, and then shutting the door noiselessly, she locked it— leaving that restless spirit a prisoner till morning. CHAPTER XIII. THROUGH THE WALL. ALICE had slept quietly for some time. The old clock at the foot of the stairs had purred and struck twice since she had ceased listening and thinking. It was for all that time an unbroken sleep, and then she wakened. She had been half conscious for some time of a noise in the room, a fidgeting little noise, that teased her sleep for a time, and finally awoke her completely. She sat up in her bed, and heard, she thought, a sigh in the room. Exactly from what point she could not be certain, nor whether it was near or far. She drew back the curtain and looked. The familiar furniture only met her view. In like manner all round the room. Encouraged THROUGH THE WALL. 181 by which evidence she took heart of grace, and got up, and quite to satisfy herself, made a search—as timid people will, because already morally certain that there is no need of a search. Happily she was spared the terror of any discovery to account for the sound that had excited her uneasiness. She turned again the key in her door, and thus secured, listened there. Everything was perfectly still. Then into bed she got, and listened to silence, and in low tones talking to herself, for the sound of her own voice was reassuring, she reasoned with her tremors, she trimmed her light and made some little clatter on the table, and bethought her that this sigh that had so much affrighted her might be no more than the slipping of one fold of her bed-curtain over another—an occurrence which she remembered to have startled her once before. So after a time she persuaded herself that her alarm was fanciful, and she composed 182 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. herself again to sleep. Soon, however, her evil genius began to worry her in another shape, and something like the gnawing and nibbling of a mouse grated on her half. sleeping ear from the woodwork of the room. So he sat up again, and said— * * - “Hish 1 ° Now toward the window, now toward the fire-place, now toward the door, and all again was quite still. Alice got up, and throwing her dressing: gown about her shoulders, opened the window-shutter and looked out upon the serene and melancholy landscape, which this old-fashioned window with its clumsy sashes and small panes commanded. Sweet and sad these moonlit views that so well accord with certain moods. But the cares at Alice's heart were real, and returned as she quite awoke with a renewed pang—and the cold and mournful glory of the sky and silvered woodlands neither cheered nor soothed her. a With a deep sigh she closed the shutter 184 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. Charlie, Charlie—oh, Ry, darling !—when will you come back to your poor wife—when shall this dreadful suspense be over and quiet come again 3’ - Then poor little Alice cried, after the manner of women, bitterly for a time, and then, as she used in all trouble, she prayed, and essayed to settle again to sleep. But hardly had she begun the attempt when it was terminated strangely. Again she heard the same stealthy Sound, as of something cutting or ripping. Again she cried “Hish, hish * but with no effect. She fancied at the far corner of the room, about as high as she could easily reach, that she saw some glittering object. It might be a little bit of looking-glass pass slowly and tremulously along the wall, horizontally, and then with the same motion, in a straight line down the wall, glimmering faintly in the candle light. At the same time was a slight trembling of that part of the wall, a slight, wavy motion, and—could she believe her 186 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. The feeling that she was not seen made Alice instinctively silent. She was almost breathless. The intruder passed on thus until she had reached the corner of the room, when she felt about for the door-case, and having got her hand upon it she quickly transferred it to the handle, which she turned, and tried the door two or three times. Oh! what Alice would have given at this moment that she had not locked it, believing, as she now did, that the stranger would have passed out quietly from the room if this ob- struction had not presented itself. As if her life was concentrated in her eyes, Alice gazed still at this person, who paused for a few seconds, and lowering her head listened fixedly. Then very cautiously she with the tips of her fingers tried—was it to turn the key in the lock or to extricate it ! At all events, she failed. She removed her hand, turned a little, stood still, and listened. To Alice's horror her business in the room was plainly not over yet. The woman stood THROUGH THE WALL. 187 Crèct, drawing a long breath, holding her underlip slightly in her teeth, with just a little nip. She turned her face toward the bed, and for the first time Alice now quite distinctly saw it—pale, seamed with small- pox, blind. This large face was now turned toward her, and the light of the candle, screened by the curtain from Alice's eyes, fell full upon its exaggerated and evil features. The woman had drawn in a long, full breath, as if coming to a resolution that needed some llerWe. Whatever this woman had come into the room for, Alice thought, with hope, that she at all events, as she stood pallid and lowering before her, with eyes white with cataract, and brows contracted in malignant calculation, knew nothing, as she undoubtedly saw no- thing, of her. Still as death sat Alice in her terror gazing into the sightless face of this woman, little more than two yards removed from her. Suddenly this short space disappeared, and THROUGH THE WALL. 189 There was hardly a momentary pause. She was afraid to stir lest the slightest motion should betray her to the search of this woman. Had she, as she stood and listened sharply, heard her breathing : With sudden decision, long light steps, and her hand laid to the wall, she glided swiftly toward her. With a gasp Alice awoke, as it were, from her nightmare, and, almost wild with terror, fled round the bed to the door. Hastening, jostling by the furniture, gliding, on the whole, very adroitly after her, her face strained with a horrible eagerness and fear, came the blind woman. Alice tried to pull open the door. She had locked it herself, but in her agitation forgot. Now she seized the key and tried to turn it, but the strong hand of the stranger in forcing it round a second time had twisted it so that it was caught in the lock and would not turn. Alice felt as people feel in dreams, when 190 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. pursuit is urgent and some little obstruction entangles flight and threatens to deliver the fugitive into the hands of an implacable pur- suer. A frantic pull and a twist or two of the key in vain, and the hand of the pursuer was all but upon her. Again she sprang and scrambled across the bed, and it seemed enraged by the delay and with a face sharp- ening and darkening with insanity, the mur- deress, guided by the sound, flung herself after her; and now, through the room and lobbies pealed shrieks of murder, as Alice flew before the outstretched hand of the beldame, who, balked of her prey, followed with reckless fury, careless now against what she struck or rushed, and clawing the air, as it seemed, within an inch of Alice's shoulder. Unequal as it appeared, in this small pen, the struggle to escape could not have lasted very long. The old closet door, thinly covered with paper, through which the sharp knife had glided almost without noise, was THROUGH THE WALL. 191 locked, and escape through it as hopeless as through the other door. Through the window she would have thrown herself, but it was fastened, and one moment's delay would have been death. Had a weapon been in her hand, had she thought of it in this extremity of terror, her softer instincts might have been reversed, and she might have turned on her pursuer and fought, as timid creatures have done, with the ferocity of despair, for her life. But the chance that might have so transformed her did not come. Flight was her one thought, and that ended suddenly, for tripping in the upturned carpet she fell helplessly to the floor. In a moment, with a gasp, her pursuer was kneeling by her side, with her hand in her dishevelled hair, and drawing herself close for those sure strokes of the knife with which she meant to mangle her. As the eyes of the white owl glare through the leaves on the awaking bird, and its brain Swims, and its little heart bounces into a 192 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. gallop, seeing its most dreadful dream accom- plished, escape impossible, its last hour come —then the talons of the spectre clutch its throat, and its short harmless life is out, so might it have been with pretty Alice. In that dreadful second of time all things that her eyes beheld looked strange, in a new reality—the room contracted, and familiar things were unlike themselves, and the cer- tainty and nearness of that which she now knew—all her life before was but a dream to her—what an infidel, what a fool she had been, here it was, and now—death. The helpless yell that burst from her lips, as this dreadful woman shuffled nearer on her knees, was answered by a crash from the door burst in, and a cry from a manly voice— the door flew wide, and Alice saw her husband pale as death ; with a single savage blow he stretched her assailant on the floor, in an- other moment Alice, wild with terror, half. fainting, was in his arms. And—did he strike her ? Good God — THROUGH THE WALL. 193 had he struck her How did she lie there bleeding 4 For a moment a dreadful remorse was bursting at his heart—he would have kneeled—he could have killed himself. Oh, manhood Gratitude Charity Could he, even in a moment of frenzy, have struck down any creature so—that had ever stood to him in the relation of that love 2 What a rush of remembrances, and hell of com- punction was there !—and for a rival! She the reckless, forlorn, guilty old love cast off, blasted with deformity and privation, and now this last fell atrocity Alice was cling- ing to him, the words “darling, darling, my Ry, my saviour, my Ry,” were in his ears, and he felt as if he hated Alice—hated her worse even than himself. He froze with horror and agony as he beheld the inefface- able image of that white, blood-stained twitch- ing face, with sightless eyes, and on the floor those straggling locks of changed, grizzled hair, that once were as black as a raven's wing to which he used to compare them. WOL. II. O THROUGH THE WALL. 195 “There, there, in his room, my room ; go, for heaven's sake l’’ Up ran Tom, making a glorious clatter with his hob-nails, and down ran Alice, and just at the foot of the stair she met Mildred Tarnley's tall slim figure. The old woman drew to the banister, and stood still, looking darkly and shrewdly at her. “Oh good Mildred—oh, Mrs. Tarnley, for God’s sake don’t leave me.” “And what’s the row, ma'am, what is it !” asked Mrs. Tarnley, with her lean arm sup- porting the poor trembling young lady who clung to her. “Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, take me with you— take me out—I can't stay in the house ; take me away—into the woods—anywhere out of the house.” “Well, well, come down, come along,” she said, more tenderly than was her wont, and watching her face hard from the corners of her eyes. She was convinced that the “old soldier” was the cause of these horrors. O 2 THROUGH THE WALL. 197 “Oh, Mildred, yes, it is she. Oh, Mildred, where shall we go, where can I hide myself : there's nowhere safe.” “Now you're just drivin' yourself dis- tracted, you be. What for need ye fear her ? She's crazy, I’ll not deny, but she's blind too, and she can’t follow ye here, if she was so minded. Why she couldn't cross the stile, nor follow ye through a spinnie. But see, ye've nout but yer dressin' gown over yer night clothes, and yer bare feet. Odd's I'll not go wi' ye—ye'll come back, and if ye must come abroad, ye'll get yer cloaks and your shoon.” “No, no, no, Mildred, I'll go as I am,” cried the terrified lady, at the same time hurrying onward to the yard door. “Well,” said the old woman following, “wilful lass will ha' her way, but ye'll clap this ower your shouthers.” And she placed her own shawl on them, and together they passed into the lonely woodlands that, spreading upward from the CHAPTER XIV. A MESSENGER. ALICE had not gone far when she was seized with a great shivering—the mediate process by which from high hysterical ten- sion, nature brings down the nerves again to their accustomed tone. The air was soft and still, and the faint gray of morning was already changing the darkness into its peculiar twilight. “Ye'll be better presently, dear,” said the old woman, with unaccustomed kindness. “There, there, yell be nothing the worse when a’s done, and yell have a cup o' tea when ye come back.” Under the great old trees near the ivied wall which screens the court is a stone bench, ***m- A MESSENGER. 201 tried to kill me. Oh! Mrs. Tarnley, I'm so terrified l’’ And with these words Alice began to cry and tremble afresh. “Hey! try to kill ye, did she I’m glad o' that—right glad o't ; 'twill rid us o' trouble, ma'am. But la I think o' that I And did she actually raise her hand to you!” “Oh yes, Mrs. Tarnley—frightful. I’m saved by a miracle—I don’t know how—the mercy of God only.” She was clinging to Mrs. Tarnley with a fast and trembling grasp. “Zooks the lass is frightened. Ye ha' seen sights to-night, young lady, yell re- member. Young folk loves pleasure, and the world, and themselves ower well to trouble their heads about death or judgment, if the Lord in His mercy didn't shake 'em up from their dreams and their sins. “Awake thou that sleepest,’ says the Word, callin' loud in a drunken ear, at dead o' night, wi' 204 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. - | there looking about her under the canopy of tall trees. “Hoot, ma'm, 'tis only the child Lilly Dogger—and well pleased I am, for I was thinkin' this minute how I could get her to me quietly. Here, Lilly—come here, ye goose-cap—dye see me !” So, closing the door behind her, the girl approached with eyes very wide, and a won- derfully solemn countenance. She had been roused and scared by the sounds which had alarmed the house, huddled on her clothes, and seeing Mrs. Tarnley's figure cross the window, had followed in a tremor. Mrs. Tarnley walked a few steps towards her, and beckoning with her lean finger, the girl drew near. “Ye'll have to go over Cressley Common, girl, to Wykeford. Ye know Wyke- ford 2* “Yes, please 'm.” “Well, ye must go through the village, and call up Mark Topham. Ye know Mark Top- 206 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. will carry ye, and take your time comin' back; and ye may get a lift, for they'll not be walkin', and you're like to get your bit o' breakfast down at Wrydell; but if ye shouln't, here's tuppence, and buy yourself a good bit o' bread in the town. Now, ye understand?” “Yes, 'm, please.” “And ye’ll not be makin' mistakes, mind?” “No, ma'am.” “Then do as I bid ye, and off ye go.”. said Mrs. Tarnley, despatching her with a peremptory gesture. So with a quaking heart, not knowing what dangers might still be lurking there, Lilly Dogger ran into the yard on her way to her bonnet, and peeped through the kitchen window, but saw nothing there in the pale gray light but “still life.” With a timid finger she lifted the latch, and stole into the familiar passage as if she were exploring a haunted house. She had quaked in her bed as thin and far away the shrill sounds of terror had penetrated through 20S THE WYWERN MYSTERY. bonnet under her chin, and obeying Mildred's impatient beckon, and— “Run, lass, run. Stir your stumps, will ye ’ ” She started at a pace that promised soon to see her across Cressley Common. - Old Mildred saw this with comfort. She knew that broad-shouldered, brown-eyed lass for a shrewd and accurate messenger, and seeing how dangerous and complicated things were growing, she was glad that fortune had opened so short and sharp a way of getting rid of the troubler of their peace. “Come in, ma'am, ye’ll catch your death o' cold here. All's quiet by this time, and I'll make the kitchen safe against the world; and Mr. Charles is in the house, and Tom Clinton up, and all safe—and who cares a rush for that blind old cat 4 Not I for one. She'll come no nonsense over Mildred Tarnley in her own kitchen, while there's a poker to rap her ower the pate. Hoot | one old blind limmer; I'd tackle six o' her sort, old as I am, A MESSENGER. 209 : and tumble 'em one after tºother into the Brawl. Never ye trouble your head about that, ma'am, and I'll bolt the door on the passage, and the scullery door likewise, and lock 'em if ye like ; and we'll get down old Dulcibella to sit wi' ye, and yell be a deal less like to see that beast in the kitchen than here. There's Miss Crane,” by which title she indicated old Dulcibella, “a lookin’ out o' her window. Ho! Miss Crane—will ye please, Miss Crane, come down and stay a bit wi' your mistress 2" “Thank God!—is she down there 2° ex- claimed she. “Come down, ma'am, please; she's quite well, and she'll be glad to see ye.” Old Dulcibella's head disappeared from the window promptly. “Now, ma'am, she'll be down, and when she comes—for ye'd like to ha’ Some one by ye—I'll go in and make the kitchen door fast.” “And won't you search it well, Mrs. Tarn- WOL. II. F 2] 0 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. ley, and the inner room, that we may be certain no one is hid there 4 Pray do—may I rely on you—won't you promise ?” “There's nothin’ there, that I promise ye.” “But, oh pray do,” urged Alice. “I will, ma'am, just to quiet ye. Ye need not fear, I’ll leave her no chance, and she'll soon be safe enough, she shall—Safe enough when she gets on her doublet of stone; and don't ye be frightenin' yourself for nothin'— just keep yourself quiet, for there is nothing to fear, and if ye will keep yourself in a fever for nothin' ye’ll be just making food for worms, mark my words.” As she spoke old Dulcibella appeared, and with a face of deep concern waddled as fast as she could toward her young mistress, raising her hands and eyes from time to time as she approached. As she drew nearer she made a solemn thanksgiving, and— “Oh! my child, my child, thank God you're well. I was almost ready to drop in 212 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “Well, dear ! Oh, Miss Alice, darling, I couldn't a' believed, and thank God you're Safe after all; that's she I heard a screechin' as strong as a dozen—and frightful words, as well as I could hear, to come from any woman's lips. Lord help us.” “Where is she now 2° “Somewhere in the front of the house, darlin', screechin’ and laughin' I thought, but heaven only knows.” “She's mad, Mrs. Tarnley says, and Mr. Fairfield said so too. Master Charles is come —my darling Ry. Oh! Dulcibella, how grateful I should be. What could I have done if he hadn’t 2" So Dulcibella persuaded her to come into the yard, and so, through the scullery door, at which Mildred stood, having secured all other access to the kitchen. So in she came, awfully frightened to find herself again in the house, but was not her husband there, and help at hand, and the doors secured ? CHAPTER XV. UNREASONABLE BERTHA. HER husband was at hand—that is to say, under the same roof, and at that moment in the room in which the blind woman was now sitting, bleeding from her head and hand, and smiling as she talked, with the false light of a malignant irony. “So, husband and wife are met again And what have you to say after so long a time !” “I’ve nothing to say. Let my deeds speak. I’ve given you year by year fully half my income.” She laughed scornfully, and exclaimed merely— “Magnificent man !” “Miserable pittance it is, but the more UNREASONABLE BERTHA. 215 points of law. Past is past, as Leonora says. If I have wronged you in anything I am sorry. I’ve tried to make amends; and though many a fellow would have been tired out long ago, I continue to give you proofs that I am not.” “That is a sort of benevolence,” she said, in her own language, “which may as well be Voluntary, for, if it be not, the magistrates will compel it.” “The magistrates are neither fools nor tyrants. You'll make nothing of the magis- trates. You have no rights, and you know it.” “An odd country where a wife has no rights.” - “Come, Bertha, there is no use in picking a quarrel. While you take me quietly you have your share, and a good deal more. You used to be reasonable.” “A reasonable wife, I suppose, gives up her position, her character, her prospects, whenever it answers her husband to sacrifice 216 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. these trifles for his villanous pleasures. Your English wives must be meek souls indeed if they like it. I don't hear they are such lambs though.” “I’m not going to argue law points, as I said before. Lawyers are the proper persons to do that. You used to be reasonable, Bertha-where's the good in pushing things to extremes 2 ° “What a gentle creature you are,” she laughed, “and how persuasivel” “I’m a quiet fellow enough, I believe, as men go, but I'm not persuasive, and I know it. I wish I were.” “Those whom you have persuaded once are not likely to be persuaded again. Your persuasions are not always lucky. Are they " “You want to quarrel about everything. You want to leave no possible point of agree- ment.” “Things are at a bad pass when husband and wife are so.” 218 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. She laughed savagely. “That lie won't do.” “Bertha, Bertha, we may hate one another if you will. But is it not as well to try whether we can agree upon anything. Let us just for the present talk intelligibly.” “You tried to murder me, you arch- villain.” “Nonsense,” said he, turning pale, “how can you talk so—how can you ? Could I help interposing 4 You may well be thank- ful that I did.” “You tried to murder me,” she screamed. “You know that's false. I took the knife from your hand, and by doing so I saved two lives. It was you—not I–who hurt your hand.” “You villain, you damned villain, I wish I could kill you dead.” “All the worse for you, Bertha.” “I wish you were dead and cold in your bed, and my hand on your face to be sure of it.” UNREASONABLE BERTHA. 219 “Now you're growing angry again. I thought we had done with storm and hys- terics for a little, and could talk, and perhaps agree upon something, or at all events not waste our few minutes in violence.” “Violence 1 — you wretch, who began it 7” “What can you mean, Bertha’ ” “You’ve married that woman. O I know it all—I your lawful wife living. I'll have you transported, double-dyed villain.” “Where's the good of screaming all this at the top of your voice : " he said, at last growing angry. “You wish you could kill me? I almost wish you could. I’ve been only too good to you, and allowed you to trouble me too long.” “Ha, ha!—you'd like to put me out of the way ?” “You’ll do that for yourself. Can't you wait, can't you listen, can't you have common reason, just for one moment 2 What do you want, what do you wish 3 Do you want every UNREASONABLE BERTHA. 223 “Tell her I stayed till I saw her better, if she asks, and that I’m coming back again. She says she is hurt.” “So much the better,” said Mildred ; “that will keep her from prowling about the house like a cat or a ghost, as she did, all night, and no good came of it.” “And will you look to her wrist: she cut it last night, and it is very clumsily tied up, and I’ll come again, tell her.” So, with a bewildered brain and a direful load at his heart, he left the room. Where was Alice, he thought. He went downstairs and up again by the back stair- case to their room, and there found the wreck and disorder of the odious scene he had witnessed, still undisturbed, and looking somehow more shocking in the sober light of morning. From this sickening record of the occur- rences of last night he turned for a moment to the window, and looked out on the tranquil and sylvan solitudes, and then back again 224 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. upon the disorder which had so nearly marked a scene of murder. “How do I keep my reason 4" thought he ; “is there in England so miserable a man Why should not I end it !” Between the room where he stood and the angle of that bedroom in which at that mo- ment was the wretch who agitated every hour of his existence with dismay, there in- tervened but eight-and-twenty feet, in that polyhedric and irregular old house. If he had but one tithe of her wickedness he had but to take up that poker, strike through, and brain her as she sat there. Why was he not a little more or a little less wicked ? If the latter, he might never have been in his present fix. If the other, he might find a short way out of the thicket— “hew his way out with a bloody axe"—and none but those whose secrecy he might rely on be the wiser | Avaunt, horrible shadows Such beckon- ing phantoms from the abyss were not UNREASONABLE BERTHA. 225 tempters, but simply terrors. No, he was far more likely to load a pistol, put the muzzle in his mouth, and blow his harrassed brains out. WOL. II. Q CHAPTER XVI. AN ABDUCTION. So far as a man not very resolute can be said to have made up his mind to anything, Charles Fairfield had quite made up his, driven thus fairly into a corner, to fight his battle now, and decisively. He would hold no terms and offer no compromise. Let her do her worst. She had found out his Secret. Oh! brother Harry, had you played him false And she had quoted your opinion against him. Had you been inflaming this insane enemy with an impracticable confi- dence 2 Well, no matter, now ; all the better, perhaps. There was already an end of Con- cealment between that enemy and himself w and soon would be of suspense. 228 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “Alice, darling, I have no good news to tell. Everything has gone wrong with me, and we must leave this. Let Dulcibella go up and get such things as are necessary to take with you ; but, Dulcibella, mind you tell nobody your mistress is leaving this. And, Alice, you'll come with me. We'll go where they can neither follow nor trace us ; and let fate do its worst. We may be happier yet in our exile than ever we were at home. And when they have banished me they have done their worst.” His tenderness for Alice, frozen for a time, had returned. As she clung to him, her large, soft gray eyes looking up in his face so piteously moved him. He had in- tended a different sort of speech—colder, dryer—and under the spell of that look had come this sudden gush of a better feeling— the fond clasp of his arm, and the hurried kiss he pressed upon her cheek. “I said, Alice, happier, happier, darling, a AN ABDUCTION. 229 \ |. thousandfold. For the present I speak in riddles. You have seen how miserable I am. I'll tell you everything by-and-by. A con- spiracy, I do believe, an unnatural conspiracy, that has worn out my miserable brain and spirits, and harassed me to death. I’ll tell you all time enough, and you'll say it is a miracle I have borne it as I do. Don’t look so frightened, you poor little thing. We are perfectly safe ; I’m in no real danger, but harassed incessantly—only harassed, and that, thank God, shall end.” He kissed her again very tenderly, and again ; and he said— “You and Dulcibella shall go on. Clinton will drive you to Hatherton, and there you’ll get horses and post on to Cranswell, and I will overtake you there. I must go now and give him his directions, and I may as well leave you this note. I wrote it yesterday. You must have some money—there is some in it, and the names of the places, and we'll be there to-night. And what is it, darling AN ABDUCTION. 231 how ill he was looking, or rather to remem- ber how it had struck her when he had appeared at the door. Yes, indeed, worn out and harassed to death. Thank God, he was now to escape from that misery, and to secure the repose which it was only too obvious he needed. - Dulcibella returned with such things as she thought indispensable, and she and her mistress were soon in more animated discus- sion than they had engaged in since the scenes of the past night. Charles Fairfield had to make a call at farmer Chubb's to persuade him to lend his horse, about which he made a difficulty. It was not far up the glen towards Church Carwell, but when he came back he found the Grange again in a new confusion. When Charles Fairfield, ascending the steep and narrow road which under tall trees darkly mounts from the Glen of Carwell to the plateau under the grey walls of the Grange, had reached that sylvan platform, AN ABDUCTION. 235 and he took the mistress's her story, and made her make oath on’t, and the same wi' the others—Mrs. Tarnley, and the little girl, and the blind woman, she be took up for murder, or I don’t know for what, only he said he could not take no bail for her, so they made her sure, and has took her off, I do suppose, to Wykeford pris'n.” “Of course, that's right, I suppose, all right, eh?” Charles looked as if he was going to drop to the earth, so leaden was his hue, and so meaningless the stare with which he looked in Tom's face. “But—but—who sent for him : I didn't. D you, who sent for him ' 'Twasn't I. And—and who's master here ? Who the devil sent for that meddling rascal from Wykeford * * Charles's voice had risen to a roar as he shook Tom furiously by the collar. Springing back a bit, Tom answered, with his hand grasping his collar where the squire had just clutched him. 236 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. “I don't know, I didn’t, and I don't believe no one did. It's a smart run from here across the common. I don't believe no one sent from the Grange—I’m sure no one went from this—not a bit, not a toe, not a soul, I'm sure and certain.” “What's this, what's this, what the devil's all this, Tom ?” said the squire, stamping, and shaking his fist in the air, like a man distracted. “Why did you let her go—why did you let them take her—d you? I’ve a mind to pitch you over that cliff and smash 22 you. “Well, sir,” said Tom, making another step or two back, and himself pale and stern now, with his open hand raised, partly in deprecation, “where's the good o' blamin' me? what could I do wi' the law again me, and how could I tell what you'd think, and 'twarn’t no one from this sent for him, not one, but news travels a-pace, and who's he can stop it 4–not me, nor you,” said Tom, AN ABDUCTION. 237 sturdily, “and he just come over of his own head, and nabbed her.” “My God! It's done. I thought you would not have allowed me to be trampled on, and the place insulted; I took ye for a man, Tom. Where's my horse—by heaven, I'll have him. I'll make it a day's work he'll remember. That d Rodney, coming down to my house with his catchpoles, to pay off old scores, and insult me.” With his fist clenched and raised, Charles Fairfield ran furiously round to the stable yard, followed cautiously by Tom Clinton. CHAPTER XVII. PURSUIT. HAVING her own misgivings as to the temper in which her master would take this coup of the arrest, Mildred Tarnley pru- dently kept her own counsel, and retreated nearly to the kitchen door, while the éclair- cissement took place outside. Popping in and out to see what would come of it, old Mildred affected to be busy about her mops and tubs. After a time, in came Tom, looking sulky and hot. - “Is he comin' this way ?” asked Mildred. “Not him,” answered Tom. “Where is he 4” “'Twixt this and Wykeford,” he answered, “across the common he's ridin’.” “To Wykeford, hey " 240 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. it. But what for should master Charles go to wry words wi' Squire Rodney, and what for should there be blows and blood spillin' between 'em 2 Nonsense !” “I can't help 'em. I’d lend master a hand if I could. Squire Rodney's no fool neither —'twill e'en be fight dog, fight bear—and there's two stout lads wi' him will make short work o't.” “Ye don’t think he's like to be hurt, do ye ’’’ “Well, ye know, they say fightin' dogs comes haltin’ home. He's as strong as two, that's all, and has a good nag under him. Now gi'e me my beer.” “”Twon't be nothin', Tom, don't you think, Tom ? It won’t come to nothin’?” “If he comes up wi' them 'twill be an up- and-down fight, I take it. 'Twas an unlucky maggot bit him.” “Bit Who 2 ” “What but the Divil brought Squire Rod- ney over here ?” PURSUIT. 24l “Who knows?” answered the dame, fum- bling in her pocket for the key of the beer- cellar—“I’m goin’ to fetch your beer, Tom.” And away she went, and in a minute re- turned with his draught of beer. “And I think,” she said, setting it down before him, “’twas well done, taking that beast to her right place, do it who might. She's just a bedlam Bess—clean out o' her wits wi' wickedness—mad wi' drink and them fits she has. We knows here what she is, and bloody work she’d a made last night wi' that poor young lady, that'll never be the same again—the old limb–and master him- self, though he's angered a bit because Jus- tice Rodney did not ask his leave to catch a murderer, if ye please, down here at the Grange l’ “There's more in it, mayhap, than just that,” said Tom, blowing the froth off his beer. “To come down here without with your leave or by your leave, to squat in the WOL. II. R DAY-TWILIGHT-DARKNESS. 247 order the terrific incidents of the night pre- ceding, relate them bit by bit to the magis- trate as he wrote them down, make oath to their truth as the basis of a public prosecu- tion, and most dreadful—the having to see and identify the spectre who had murder- ously assailed her on the night before. - Every step affrighted her, the shadow of a moving branch upon the wall chilled her with terror; the voices of people who spoke seemed to pierce the naked nerve of her ear, and to sing through her head ; even for a moment faces, kind and familiar, seemed to flicker or darken with direful meanings alien from their natures. In this nervous condition old Mildred found her. “I come, ma'am, to know what you’d wish to be done,” said she, standing at the door with her usual grim little courtesy. “I don't quite understand—done about what?” inquired she. “I mean, ma'am, Tom said you asked him DAY-TWILIGHT-DARKNESS. 249 less, I do suppose ; and it would not be well done, I'm thinkin', ma'am, for you to leave the Grange, till you see him again, for it's like enough he'll a’ changed his plans.” “I was thinking so myself. I’d rather wait here to see him—he had so much to distract him that he may easily think dif- ferently by this time. I’m glad, Mrs. Tarn- ley, you think so, for now I feel confident I may wait for his return—I think I ought to wait—and thank you, Mrs. Tarnley, for advising me in the midst of my distractions.” “I just speak my mind, ma'am, and counsel's no command, as they say ; and I never liked meddlers ; and don’t love to burn my fingers in other people's brewes ; so ye’ll please to mind, ma'am, 'tis for your own ear I speak, and your own wit will judge ; and I wouldn't have Master Charles looking askew, nor like to be shent by him for what's kindly meant to you—not that I owe much kindness nowhere, for since I could scour a platter I ever gave work for wage. So ye’ll please not HATHERTON. 255 to lie in jail. Arrested in his own house, with many sufferings and one great wrong to upbraid him with—with rights, imaginary he insisted, but honestly believed in, perhaps, by her—with other rights, which his tortured heart could not deny, the melancholy rights which are founded on outlawry and disgrace, eleemosynary, but quite irresistible when pleaded with natures not lost to all good, and which proclaim the dreadful equity—that vice has its duties no less than virtue. Baulked in his first violent impulse, Charles rode his hot horse quietly along the by-road that leads to Hatherton, over many a steep and through many a rut. Yes, pleasant it would have been to “lick” that rascal Rodney, and upset his dog-cart into the ditch, and liberate the distressed damsel. But even Charles Fairfield began to perceive consequences, and to approve a more moderate course. At Hatherton was there not Peregrine Hincks, the attorney who carried his brother, HATHERTON. 259 prison, because that stupid prig, Rodney, pleases to say she's sane, and would like to hang her, just because she was arrested at Carwell; and—and as you say, of course, if she is insane she is best out of the way; but there are ways of doing things, and I won't be bullied by that vulgar snob. By If I had caught him to-day I’d have broken his neck, I believe.” “Glad you did not meet him, sir—a row at any time brings one into mischief, but an interference with the course of law—don't you see—a very serious affair, indeed!” “Well, see—yes, I suppose so, and there was just another thing. Believing, as I do, that wretched person quite mad—don't you See ?—it would be very hard to let her—to let her half starve there where they’ve put her—don't you think 2–and I don't care to go down to the place there, and all that; and if you'd just manage to let her have this— it's all I can do just now—but—but its hap- pening at my house—although I’m not a S 2 CHAPTER XX. THE WELCOME. º CHARLES rode his horse slowly homeward. The moon got up before he reached the wild expanse of Cressley Common, a wide sea of undulating heath, with here and there a grey stone peeping above its surface in the moon- light like a distant sail. Charles was feverish—worn out in body and mind—literally. Some men more than others are framed to endure misery, and live on, and on, and on in despair. Is this melancholy strength better, or the weakness that faints under the first strain of the rack? Happy that at the longest it cannot be for very long—happy that “man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live,” seeing that he is “full of misery.” THE WELCOME. 265 which this picture was so bright—purely imaginary He was going to turn about and search the track he had traversed for it; but he bethought him, “To whom was the letter written ?” No answer could he find. “To whom ?” To no one—nothing—an imagi- nation. Conscious on a sudden, he was scared. “I want a good rest—I want some sleep —waking dreams. This is the way fellows go mad. What the devil can have put it into my head " Now rose before him the tall trees that gather as you approach the vale of Carwell, and soon the steep gables and chimneys of the Grange glimmered white among their boughs. There in his mind, as unaccountably, was the fancy that he had met and spoken with his father, old Squire Harry, at the Cat- stone, as he crossed the moor. “I’ll give his message—yes, I'll give your message.” 266 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. { And he thought what possessed him to come out without his hat, and he looked whiter than ever. And then he thought, “What brought him there 2° And then, “What was his message 2" Again a shock, a chasm—his brain had mocked him. Dreadful when that potent servant begins to mutiny, and instead of honest work for its master finds pastime for itself in fearful sport. “My God what am I thinking of " he said, with a kind of chill, looking back over his shoulder. His tired horse was plucking a mouthful of grass that grew at the foot of a tree. “We are both used up,” he said, letting his horse, at a quicker pace, pursue its homeward path. “Poor fellow, you are tired as well as I. I'll be all right, I dare say, in the morning if I could only sleep. Something wrong—something a little THE WELCOME. 267 wrong—that sleep will cure—all right to- morrow.” * He looked up as he passed toward the windows of his and Alice's room. When he Was Out a piece of the shutter was always open. But if so to-night there was no light in the room, and with a shock and a dreadful imperfection of recollection, the scene which occurred on the night past returned. “Yes, my God! So it was,” he said, as he stopped at the yard gate. “Alice—I forget —did I see Alice after that, did I–did they tell me—what is it !” He dismounted, and felt as if he were going to faint. His finger was on the latch, but he had not courage to raise it. Wain was his effort to remember. Painted in hues of light was that dreadful crisis before his eyes, but how had it ended ? Was he going quite mad?” - “My God help me,” he muttered again and again. “Is there anything bad. I can't recall it. Is there anything very bad 4” 270 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. With their fear and pain, agitated, troubled, there is love in their words. Those words, then, though in him, troubled with inward upbraidings, in her with secret fears and cares, are precious. There may not be many more between them. THE WYKEFORD DOCTOR. 273 battle, and in better hands he need not be ; I'm only afraid that you are undertaking too much yourself. That woman, Marks, you may rely upon, implicitly; a most respectable and intelligent person ; I never knew her to make a mistake yet, and she has been more than ten years at this work.” “Yes, I’m sure she is. I like her very much. And don't you think him a little better ?” she pleaded. “Well, you know, as long as he holds his own and don't lose ground, he is better; that's all we can say ; not to be worse, as time elapses, is in effect, to be better ; that you may say.” She was looking earnestly into the clear blue eyes of the old man, who turned them kindly upon her, from under his shaggy white eyebrows. “Oh thank God, then you do think him better ??” “In that sense, yes,” he answered cau- tiously, “but, of course, we must have WOL. II. T THE WYKEFORD DOCTOR. 275 on a little table at the window. “That's not a geranium : it's a pelargonium. I did not know there were such things down here— and you'll continue, I told her everything else, and go on just as before.” “And you think he's better—I mean just a little 7" she pleaded again. “Well, well, you know, I said all I could, and we must hope—we must hope, you know, that everything may go on satisfactorily, and I'll go further. I’ll say I don’t see at all why we should despair of such a result. Keep up your spirits, ma'am, and be cheery. We'll do our duty all, and leave the rest in the hands of God.” “And I suppose, Dr. Willett, we shall see you to-morrow at the usual hour !” “Certainly, ma'am, and I don’t think there will be any change to speak of till, probably, Thursday.” And her heart sank down with one dreadful dive at mention of that day of trial that might so easily be a day of doom. T 2 TIN SLEYS' MAGAZINE, An Illustrated Monthly, price One Shilling, CONTAINS: GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. A Serial Story. By Mrs. HENRY Wood, Author of “East Lynne,” &c. AUSTIN FRIARS. By the Author of “GEORGE GEITH.” BREAKING A BUTTERFLY!; oR, BLANCHE ELLERSLIE's ENDING. By the Author of “Guy Livingstone,” &c. THE LATEST PARIS FASHIONS. (Illustrated.) &c.; &c. &c. TINSLEW BROTHERS' TWU-SHILLING WOLUMES. To be had at every Railway Stall and of every Bookseller in the Kingdom. THE ADVENTURES OF DR. BRADY. By W. H. 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