Fated to Be Free Part 54

"Yes, and then it pa.s.sed through the door without opening it," added Laura, who was present. "How dear grandmother disliked the woman! She showed a sort of fear, too, of that door, which made us sure she believed the story."

"Very natural," said Mrs. Melcombe. sighing, "that she could not bear to have her misfortunes made a subject for idle talk and curiosity. I am sure I should feel keenly hurt if it was ever said that my poor innocent darling haunted the place."

"Had anything been said against him in his lifetime?" Valentine next ventured to ask. "Had he done anything which was likely to put it into people's heads to say he might be uneasy in his grave?"

"Oh no, nothing of the sort," said Laura. "And then old Becky is thought to have added circ.u.mstances to the story, so that it came from that cause to be discredited of late. It is almost forgotten now, and we never believed it at all; but it certainly is an odd coincidence that she should have told it of a man who never came back to contradict her, and who really did die, it appears, about that time."

Valentine accordingly went in the course of a few days to find old Becky Maddison. The cottage was not far from the village. Only the daughter was below, and when Valentine had told his name and errand, she went up-stairs, perhaps to prepare her mother, to whom she presently conducted him.

Valentine found her a poor bedridden creature, weak, frail, and querulous. She was in a clean and moderately comfortable bed, and when she saw him her puckered face and faded eyes began to look more intelligent and attentive, and she presently remarked on his likeness to his father.

A chair was set for him, and sitting down, he showed a sovereign in his palm, and said, "I want to hear the ghost story; tell it me as it really was, and you shall have this."

A shabby book was lying on the bed.

"Her can tell it no better'n it's told here," said the daughter.

Valentine took up the book. It was the same that he knew; the blue light and the shroud appeared in it. He put the money into her hand. "No," he said; "you shall have the money beforehand. Now, then, say what you really saw."

Old Becky clutched the gold, and said, in a weak, whimpering tone, "'Tain't often I tell it--ain't told it sin' Christmas marnin', old Madam couldn't abide to hear on't."

"Old Madam's gone," said Valentine seriously.

"Ay, her be--her wer a saint, and sings in heaven now."

"And I want to hear it."

Thereupon the old woman roused herself a little, and with the voice and manner of one repeating a lesson, told Valentine word for word the trumpery tale in the book; how she had seen Mr. Melcombe early in the morning, as she went up to the house on was.h.i.+ng-day, to help the servants. For "Madam," a widow already, had leave to live there till he should return. He was walking in his shroud among the cherry-trees, and he looked seriously at her. She pa.s.sed, but turned instantly, and he had disappeared; he must have gone right through the crack of the door.

Valentine was vexed, and yet relieved. Such a ridiculous tale could only be an invention; and yet, if she would have told it in different words, or have added anything, it might have led to some discovery--it might, at least, have shown how it came to pa.s.s that such a story had obtained credit.

"That was it, was it?" he said, feigning content. "I should like to ask you another question; perhaps your daughter will not mind going down."

With evident reluctance the daughter withdrew. Valentine shut the door, and came back to his place.

Naturally enough, he cared nothing about the story; so he approached the only thing he did care about in the matter. "I want to ask you this one thing: a ghost, you say, appeared to you--well, what do you think it was for--what did it want--what did it mean?"

Evident surprise on the part of his listener.

"It must have come for something," Valentine added, when she remained silent. "Have you never considered what?"

"Ay, sir, sure-ly. He came to let folks know he was gone."

"And that was all, you think?"

"What else could he come for?" she answered.

"n.o.body has ever said, then, that it came for anything else," thought Valentine. "The poor ghost is not accused of any crime, and there is no crime known of concerning the family or place that could be imputed to him."

"You are sure you have nothing more to say to me?"

"Ne'er a word, sir, this blessed marnin', but thank you kindly."

Perhaps Valentine had never felt better pleased in his life than he did when he went down the narrow, dark stairs, after his interview with Becky Maddison. To find that without doubt she was either a fool or an impostor, was not what should have softened his heart and opened his purse for her; but he had feared to encounter her story far more than he had known himself till now that all fear was over. So when he got down to the daughter he was gracious, and generously gave her leave to come to the house for wine and any other comforts that the old woman might require. "And I shall come and see her from time to time," he added, as he went his way, for with the old woman's last word had snapped the chain that had barred the road to Melcombe. It was his. He should dispense its charity, pay its dues, and from henceforth, without fear or superst.i.tion, enjoy its revenues.

About this time something occurred at John Mortimer's house, which made people hold up their hands, and exclaim, "What next?"

It would be a difficult matter to tell that story correctly, considering how many had a hand in the telling of it, and that no two of them told it in the least degree alike; considering also that Mr. Mortimer, who certainly could have told the greater part of it, had (so far as was known) never told it at all.

Everybody said he had knocked up Swan and Mrs. Swan at six o'clock one morning, and sent the former to call up Matthew the coachman, who also lived out of the house. "And that," said Swan, when he admitted the fact to after questioners, "Matthew never will forgive me for doing. He hates to get his orders through other folks, specially through me. He allus grudges me the respect as the family can't help feeling for me. Not but that he gets his share, but he counts nothing his if it's mine too. He'd like to pluck the very summer out of my almanack, and keep it in his own little back parlour." Everybody said, also, that Mrs. Swan had made the fire that morning in Mr. Mortimer's kitchen, and that Matthew had waited on him and his four daughters at breakfast, n.o.body else being in the house, gentle or simple.

Gentle or simple. That was certainly true, for the governess had taken her departure two days previously.

After this, everybody said that Matthew brought the carriage round, and Mr. Mortimer put in the girls, and got in himself, telling Matthew to drive to Wigfield Hall, where Mr. Brandon, coming out to meet him with a look of surprise, he said, "Giles, we are early visitors;" and Mr.

Brandon answered, "All the more welcome, John." Everybody said also that the four Miss Mortimers remained for several days with Mrs. Brandon, and very happy they seemed.

But though people knew no more, they naturally said a good deal more--they always do. Some said that Mr. Mortimer, coming home unexpectedly after a journey in the middle of the night, found the kitchen chimney on fire, and some of the servants asleep on the floor, nothing like so sober as they should have been. Others said he found a dance going on in the servants' hall, and the cook waltzing with a policeman, several gentlemen of the same craft being present. Others, again, said that when he returned he found the house not only empty, but open; that he sat down and waited, in a lowering pa.s.sion, till they all returned in two flys from some festivities at a public-house in Wigfield; and then, meeting them at the door, he retained the flys, and waving his hand, ordered them all off the premises; saw them very shortly depart, and locked the doors behind them. It was a comfort to be able to invent so many stories, and not necessary to make them tally, for no one could contradict them; certainly not any one of the four Miss Mortimers, for they had all been fast asleep the whole time.

Mr. Mortimer held his peace; but while staying with Mr. and Mrs. Brandon till he could reconstruct his household, he was observed at first to be out of spirits, and vastly inclined to be out of temper. He did his very best to hide this, but he could not hide a sort of look half shame, half amus.e.m.e.nt, which would now and then steal round the corners of his mouth, as if it had come out of some hiding-place to take a survey of things in general.

John Mortimer had perhaps rather prided himself on his penetration, his powers of good government, the order and respectability of his household, and other matters of that description. He had been taught in rather an ignominious fas.h.i.+on that he had overvalued himself in those particulars.

He was always treated by strangers whom he employed with a great deal of respect and deference; but this was mainly owing to a somewhat commanding presence and a good deal of personal dignity. When the same people got used to him, perceived the _bonhomie_ of his character, his carelessness about money matters, and his easy household ways, they were sometimes known to take all the more advantage of him from having needlessly feared him at first.

He said to Giles, "It is very evident now that I must marry. I owe it to the mother of my children, and in fact to them."

Mrs. Brandon said this to Mrs. Walker when, the next day, these two ladies met, and were alone together, excepting for the presence of St.

George Mortimer Brandon, which did not signify. "The house might have been robbed," she continued, "and the children burnt in their beds."

"Giles told you this afterwards?"

"Yes."

Emily looked uncomfortable. "One never knows how men may discuss matters when they are alone. I hope, if John ever asked advice of Giles, he would not----"

Here a pause.

"He would not recommend any one in particular," said Dorothea, looking down on her baby's face. "Oh no, I am certain he would not think of such a thing. Besides, the idea that he had any one to suggest has, I know, never entered his head."

This she said without looking at Emily, and in a matter-of-fact tone. If one had discovered anything, and the other was aware of it, she could still here at least feel perfectly safe. This sister of hers, even to her own husband, would never speak.

"And that was all?"

"No; Giles said he gave him various ludicrous particulars, and repeated, with such a sincere sigh, 'I must marry--it's a dire necessity!' that Giles laughed, and so did he."

"Poor John!" said Emily, "there certainly was not much in his first marriage to tempt him into a second. And so I suppose Giles encouraged him, saying, as he often does, that he had never known any happiness worth mentioning till he married."

"Yes, dear," said Dorothea, "and he answered, 'But you did not pitch yourself into matrimony like a man taking a header into a fathomless pool. You were in love, old fellow, and I am not. Why, I have not decided yet on the lady!' He cannot mean, therefore, to marry forthwith, Emily; besides, it must be the literal truth that he has not even half unconsciously a real preference for any one, or he could not have talked so openly to Giles. He does not even foresee any preference."