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Volume Three – Chapter Eighteen.
An Overtaxed Brain

“It was dooced unfortunate, bai Jove!” Max Bray said to himself, as he sat over his dinner at the snug little hotel at the end of the third day. He could not think what the foolish girl wanted to excite herself for to such an extent. It was absurd, “bai Jove, it was!” But his plan had answered all the same, and he’d wait till she got well, if it were a month first – he would, “bai Jove!” She’d come round then, with a little quiet talking to; and, after all, they were snug and out of sight in the little town, and nobody knew them, nor was likely to know them, that was the beauty of it. Certainly he could not get his letters; but that did not matter: they were sure to be all dunning affairs, and he’d not the slightest wish to have them. The only thing he regretted was not hearing from Laura.

One thing, he said, was very evident – Ella must have been ill when they started, or this attack would never have come on so suddenly.

And all this while, burning with fever, Ella Bedford lay delirious, and with a nurse at her bedside night and day. The doctor was unremitting in his attention, and was undoubtedly skilful; but he soon found that all he could do was to palliate, for the disease would run its course. The place they were in was fortunately kept by a quiet old couple, whose sympathies were aroused by the sufferings of the gentle girl; and though, as a rule, sick visitors are not welcomed very warmly at hotels, here Ella met with almost motherly treatment.

Doctor, nurse, landlady – all had their suspicions; but the ravings of a fever-stricken girl were not sufficient warranty for them to do more than patiently watch the progress of events, and at times they anticipated that the end would be one that they could not but deplore.

For Ella indeed seemed sick unto death, and lay tossing her fevered head on the pillow, or struggled to get away to give the help that she said was needed of her.

“Hasten on, hasten on!” Those words were always ringing in her ears, and troubling her; and then she would start up in bed, press her long glorious hair back from her burning temples, and listen as if called.

Then would come a change, and she would be talking to an imaginary flower, as she plucked its petals out one by one, calling each petal a hope or aspiration; whispering too, at times, in a voice so low that it was never heard by those who bent over her, what seemed to be a name, while a smile of ineffable joy swept over her lips as she spoke.

Once more, though, those words, “Hasten on, hasten on!” repeated incessantly as she struggled to free herself from the hands that held her to her bed.

“Let me go to him,” she whispered softly once to her nurse. “He is dying, and he calls me. Let me see him once, only for a few minutes, that I may tell him how I loved him, before he goes. Please let me go!” she said pitifully, clasping her hands together; “just to see him once, and then I will go away – far away – and try to be at peace.”

“My poor child, yes,” sobbed the landlady. “I fear you will, and very soon too. But does she want him from downstairs? I’ll go and fetch him up.”

The landlady descended, to find Max, as usual, smoking, and told him of what had passed.

“Bai Jove, no! I won’t come up, thanks. I’m nervous, and have a great dread of infection, and that sort of thing.”

“But ’tisn’t an infectious disorder, sir,” said the landlady; “and I’m afraid, sir, that if you don’t come now – ”

“Eh, what? I say, bai Jove, you don’t mean that it’s serious!” exclaimed Max excitedly. “There’s no danger of that, is there?”

The landlady smoothed down her apron with a solemn look in her face; then left the room, with genuine tears of sorrow stealing down her cheeks.

“Poor young creature!” she sighed. “Such a mere girl too!”

And then she hurried back to the sick-chamber, to find Ella lying back in a state of exhaustion.

Another day, another, and another, with life seeming to hang as by a thread; while Max, strictly avoiding the sick-chamber, waited anxiously for the result; for this was an accident upon which, with all his foresight, he had not calculated. But he could obtain no comfort from doctor or nurse. Their looks grew more and more ominous, and at last he began to calculate upon what would be his position, should the worst come to the worst. Certainly, he had by deception – a stratagem, he termed it – induced Ella Bedford to place herself under his protection, and if she died it would be in the doctor’s hands. There would be no coroner’s inquest, and the law could not touch him. And besides, she had no relatives to call him to account, while surely – he smiled gravely as he thought it —his brother-in-law would say nothing!

But all the same, in his heart of hearts Max Bray knew that, if Ella died, he would be morally guilty of her murder.

That last was an ugly word, but it insisted upon being spoken, to afterwards ring again and again in his ears as he restlessly moved in his seat.

But now a change had taken place in Ella’s state. From the soft appealing prayer for leave to go and answer the calls she fancied that she heard, she now became fiercely excited, moved by a dread of pursuit, and shrinking from every one who approached her. She would even wildly inveigh against the doctor, whom she accused of being in the pay of Max to drag her away.

No more soft appeals now, but frantic shrieks and fierce struggles for freedom.

Again and again those who watched found that she had taken advantage of a few minutes’ absence to dress hurriedly, when it was only by a gentle application of force that she could be overcome.

Then came the time when she seemed to have fallen into a weak and helpless state, lying day after day apparently devoid of sense and feeling.

Max was asked again and again whether he would see her; but he invariably refused with a coward’s shiver of dread, to the great disgust of all who had taken interest in the poor girl’s state.

“I declare, it’s scandalous!” said the landlady in confidence to her husband. “He seems to neither know nor care how she is. No relatives are sent to, he has no letters; and it’s my belief there’s more than we know hanging to this.”

“’Tisn’t our business to interfere,” said the landlord. “He pays like a gentleman, if he isn’t one; and if we get our living by visitors, it isn’t for us to be playing the spy upon them.”

The landlady did not say anything, but she evidently thought a great deal. The doctor, too, had his opinion upon the subject, but he was silent, and tended his patient to the best of his ability, shaking his head when questioned as to her recovery.

Volume Three – Chapter Nineteen.
The Net Breaks

There is a boundary even to human patience; and now, after many days, Max Bray began to find his position very irksome. There was every probability of Ella’s being a long and tedious illness, succeeded by a very slow return to convalescence; and he sat, at length, one day thinking matters over, for he was thoroughly tired out. There were no amusements in the place, and not wishing to attract curiosity, he had kept himself closely within doors. It was tiresome to a degree, and, besides, his stock of money would not last for ever. Come what might, he felt that he could put up with his position no longer. To a great extent his stratagem had been successful; but this unforeseen illness had made it now a failure, and he might as well give up and go to London. It had been expensive certainly; but though he was a loser, some one else would gain enormously; and he grinned again and again as he softly rubbed his white hands together, and thought of what a banker that some one would in the future prove. She would never be able to refuse him money, however extravagant he might be, and fortunately the Vinings were enormously wealthy. “But, bai Jove!” said Max Bray half aloud, “what a sweet thing is love between brother and sister!”

Then Mr Maximilian Bray began to make his plans for the future. He told himself that time enough had elapsed; that he need not certainly give up Ella, but arrange with the landlord that he should be informed directly she was getting better, and then he could come down again – that could be easily managed – and he really was tired out of this. He also made a few other plans; building, too, a few more castles in the air, ending with the determination of going up to town by the first train in the morning, and getting to know how Laura’s affair was progressing.

“At all events, her way’s clear,” said Max, “and, bai Jove, she shall pay me for it by and by.”

“L’homme propose, mais Dieu dispose.” Max Bray arranged all future matters to his entire satisfaction, but again there were contingencies that he could not foresee. Sitting there, rolling his cigar in his mouth and reckoning how long it would be to lunch, he had made up his mind to dine the next day at his club; but he did not; neither did other matters turn out quite so satisfactorily as he wished.

The sojourn was at a quiet little hotel in a Gloucestershire town that it is unnecessary to name; suffice it if we say that, save on the weekly market-day, the streets, with two exceptions, were silent and deserted; the two exceptions being the time when the children were set free from the National Schools. Hence, then, any little noise or excitement was unusual, and it was no wonder that Max Bray was startled by a scream above stairs, a cry for help, and the trampling of feet; sounds which his coward heart soon interpreted for him to mean an awful termination to his “stratagem,” when, rising hurriedly to his feet, he stood there resting one hand upon the table, and the cold perspiration standing in great drops upon his pallid face.

There were people coming towards his room – they were coming to tell him. “What of it, then?” he cried savagely. “Could he help it? Had no doctor been obtained? It was her own mad excitement led to this termination.”

“O, sir! O, sir!” exclaimed the landlady, bursting tearful-eyed into the room, “your poor, dear, sweet lady!”

“Dead?” asked Max in a harsh whisper, his knees shaking beneath him as he spoke.

“No, sir, not dead. I only left her for a few minutes, and when I came back – ”

“Well, what? Speak, woman!” cried Max fiercely.

“She was gone, sir.”

Max Bray stood for a minute as if stunned, and then leaping at the woman he shook her savagely, before he started off to make inquiries.

“Had anyone seen her?”

“No, not a soul.” But her clothes that she had worn the day she was borne insensible to the hotel were gone, as was also her little leather reticule-bag.

“Where could she have gone?”

Only one place could strike Max Bray, as he thought of what she would do if sense had returned, and she had mastered her weakness sufficiently to enable her to steal from the house unobserved. There was only one place that she could seek with the intention of fleeing from him, and that was the railway station.

“Was their life to be bound up somehow with railways?” he asked himself as he started off in the direction of the station. “Bai Jove!” he seemed to have been always either meeting or inquiring about her at booking-offices; but why had she not been better watched?

Why indeed, unless it was that a chance might be given her for seeking freedom. But the landlady’s few minutes had been a full hour, and, as if in her sleep, Ella had slowly risen, dressed for a journey, taken her reticule in her hand, her shawl over her arm, and then, drawing down her veil, walked – unseen, unchallenged – from the house, and, as if guided by instinct, gone straight to the station.

A train was nearly due – a fast train – and still in the same quiet way she applied for a through ticket to London, took her change and walked out on to the platform, to stand there perfectly motionless and fixed of eye.

No one heeded her of the few who were waiting, no one spoke; and at last came the faint and distant sound of the panting train, nearer, nearer, nearer.

Would she escape, or would she be stayed before she could take her place?

It might have been thought that she would feel, if not betray, some excitement; but no; she stood motionless, not even seeming to hear the coming train: it was as though she were moved by some power independent of her own will.

There was the ringing of the bell, the altering of a distance signal, and the train gliding up to the platform, as a farming-looking man drew the attention of another to a gentleman running swiftly a quarter of a mile down the road.

“He’ll be too late, safe.”

“Ah!” said the other. “And they won’t wait for him; for they’re very particular here since the row was made about the accident being through the bad time-keeping of the trains.”

“Look at him, how he’s waving his hat!” said the first speaker. “He’s running too, and no mistake. Why, it’s that dandy swell fellow that’s staying at Linton’s, where his wife’s ill.”

“Serve him right too,” said the other. “Why wasn’t he in better time? Those swells are always behindhand.”

“Now then, all going on!” cried a voice; and the two men stepped into a second-class carriage, against the door of which, and looking towards the booking-office, Ella was already seated, cold, fixed, and apparently perfectly insensible to what was going on.

“Cold day, miss,” said the man who took his seat opposite to her; but there was no reply, and the next moment the man’s attention was caught by what took place at the booking-office door.

Max Bray dashed panting up as the guard sounded his whistle, but only to find the glass door fastened, when, evidently half wild with excitement, he beat at the panels, gesticulating furiously as he saw the train begin slowly to move, and Ella seated at one window.

She could have seen him too, for her face was turned towards him; she must have heard his cries for the door to be opened; but she did not start, she did not shrink back; and now, mad almost with rage and disappointment, Max Bray forgot all about telegraphs surpassing trains, everything, in the sight of his prize escaping from within his fingers; and for what? To expose his cruel duplicity.

It would be ruin, he felt, and he must reach her at all hazards.

Turning, then, from the door, he ran along by the station to where a wooden palisade bounded the platform, and as the train was slowly gliding by him, he climbed over to reach the ground before the carriage containing Ella had passed.

“Stop him!” shouted the station-master; and the guard, who had run and leaped into his van, stood pointing out the breaker of rules as he paused for a few moments upon his step.

“Here, hi! You’re too late, sir!” roared a couple of porters running in pursuit; and as Max Bray leaped on to the door-step, and clung to the handle of the compartment with his face within a few inches of Ella’s, a porter’s hand was upon his arm; there was a shout, a curse, the words “Bai Jove!” half uttered, and then the speaker felt his hands snatched from their hold; the next moment it was as though a fearful blow was struck him, and he and the porter were rolling upon the platform. But again there was a jerk, a wild shriek that froze the bystanders’ blood, and the form of one of the wrestlers was seen to be drawn down between the last carriage and the platform; the guard’s break passed on, and Max Bray lay motionless upon the line.

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty.
The Bird Flies

“Here, let-down the window! Open the door! Good heavens, there’ll be some one killed! Let him be; we’ll get him in. Those porters are so officious, and they cause accidents, instead of preventing ’em. Let him be, I tell you, and report him afterwards. There, I thought so! They’ll be killed! Heaven help him – he’s down under one of the carriages!”

So cried one of Ella’s fellow-travellers as he witnessed the struggle from within, heedless, in his excitement, that not a word he uttered was heard by the actors in the thrilling scene. But as Max was caught by the carriage and dragged under the train, the man threw open the window and leaned out as far as he could, to draw his head back after a few moments, and impart his intelligence to the pale figure close beside him.

“I’m afraid he’s killed, miss!”

Still no answer. Ella neither heard nor saw, for this part of her life – from the time when Max caught her wrists in his, and till long after – was a void that her memory could never again people.

“Deaf as a post, and a good thing too, poor lass!” muttered the man as he again leaned out.

And now there was shouting, signalling, and the stopping of the train for a few minutes, long enough for the passengers to see a motionless form lifted from the line and borne into one of the waiting-rooms, the passenger who had watched the proceedings having leaped out, but now coming panting back to reach his place as the signal for starting was once more given.

“Is he much hurt?” was eagerly asked by the other occupants of the carnage.

“I’m afraid so,” said the passenger.

“Not killed?”

“No, I don’t think he’s killed. You see, he went down at the end of the platform just where it begins to slope. If it had been off the level, he must have been crushed to death in an instant. But I didn’t have above a quarter of a minute to see him.”

“It’s very, very dangerous,” observed one, “this trying to get into a train when it’s started.”

“Very,” said another; “but they will do it. That gentleman, too, was so determined, climbing over the fence; and I suppose that made the railway folks determined too.”

“He must have been anxious to get off, or he would not have acted as he did.”

“Some particular appointment or another, I should think.”

“Well, poor fellow, I hope he is not badly injured,” was the charitable wish now uttered, when a dissertation upon the right or wrong action of porters in trying to stop people ensued, it being generally accorded that the by-laws upon which they acted ought to be rescinded, and that the guard ought to report all breaches of the regulations at the next station.

And all these comments were made within Ella’s hearing, but without once diverting her steadfast stony gaze, as now, leaning back in her corner, she looked straight out at the flying landscape as mile after mile was passed.

Once or twice a remark was made to her, but she merely bent her head; and at last she was allowed to remain unquestioned, unnoticed, as the train sped on swiftly towards the great metropolis.

She changed carriages mechanically when requested, and again and again produced her ticket, but always in the same dreamy strange way. Passengers came, and passengers went, some speaking, others paying no heed to their closely veiled and silent companion; but not once did Ella speak or evince any knowledge of what was passing around.

How that journey was performed, she never knew, nor by what strange influence she was guided in her acts; but press on she did, and to the end.

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty One.
The Copse-Hall Ghost

“I wonder what’s become of Miss Bedford!” said the cook at Mrs Brandon’s, as she sat with her fellow-servants enjoying the genial warmth of the fire before retiring to rest.

It was about half-past ten, and, probably to soften Edward the hard, the stewpan was in use, and steaming mugs of hot spiced liquid were being from time to time applied to lips.

“Married long before this, I should think,” said the housemaid, tossing her head. “You don’t suppose she’s like some people I know, going on shilly-shallying year after year, as if they never meant to get married at all.”

“Never you mind about that,” said Edward gruffly; “perhaps we shall get married when it suits us, and perhaps we sha’n’t. I don’t see no fun in going away from a good home and a good missus, to hard lines and spending all your savings, like some people as ain’t old enough to know better.”

“Does missus ever talk about her, Mr Eddard?” said Cook persuasively.

“Not often,” said Edward; “but I know one thing, – she ain’t had a letter from her for ever so long, now.”

“How do you know?” said the housemaid.

“How do I know?” exclaimed Mr Eddard contemptuously. “Why, don’t I see all the envelopes, and can’t I tell that way? But there’s something wrong about her, I believe; for there came a letter about three weeks or a month ago, and it seemed to cut missus up a good deal, and I heard her say something out aloud.”

“What did she say?” said Cook and Mary in a breath, for the recounter had stopped.

“Well, I didn’t catch it all,” said Edward, speaking in his mug; “but it was something like: ‘Gone with Mr Bray? Impossible!’”

“But what made her say that?” exclaimed Cook.

“Why, from what she read in a letter from London, to be sure, stupid. Why else should she say it?”

“There, didn’t I tell you so!” exclaimed Cook triumphantly.

“What are you up to now?” said Edward in a tone of gruff contempt. “What do you mean?”

“Why, I always thought she’d have Mr Bray, as was so wonderful attentive. Why, Mrs Pottles, down at the Seven Bells, has told me lots of times about how he used to come and put his horse up there, and then follow her about.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Edward. “When did you see Mother Pottles last?”

“Yesterday,” said Cook. “And she said she thought that Pottles would take the twenty pounds off the good-will, and – ”

“Why didn’t you tell me so before?” said Edward gruffly.

“Because she said Mr Pottles would come over and see you, and you do snub me so for interfering.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Edward again.

“What, you are going to have the Seven Bells, then?” said the housemaid. “O, I am glad; it will be nice! And you’re going to be married, after all.”

“Don’t you be in a hurry,” growled Edward. “We ain’t gone yet, and perhaps we shan’t go at all; so now then. There goes the bell; now, then, clear off. Missus is going to bed.”

“Did you fasten the side-door, Mr Ed-dard?” said the housemaid.

“Slipped the top bolt, that’s all,” said the footman, as he went to answer the bell.

“Let’s lay them bits of lace out on the lawn, Cook, and leave ’em all night; the frost ’ll bleach ’em beautiful,” said the housemaid.

“Ah, so we might,” said Cook; and taking some wet twisted-up scraps of lace from a basin, cook and housemaid tied their handkerchiefs round their necks, placed their aprons over their heads, and ran down a passage, unbolted the side-door, and went over the gravel drive to lay the lace upon the front lawn.

“I’ll pop out and take them in when I light the breakfast-room fire,” said the housemaid. “My, what a lovely night! it must be full moon.”

“Scr-r-r-r-r-r-r-eech – screech – screech!” went the cook.

“Scre-e-e-e-e-ch-h-h-h!” went the housemaid, giving vent to a shrill cry that would have made an emulative locomotive burst in despair; and, still screaming, the two women clung together, and backed slowly to the house, ran down the passage to the kitchen, shrieking still, where the cook sank into a chair, which gave way beneath her, and she fell heavily on the floor.

“Are you mad, Mary – Cook? What is the matter?” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, running into the kitchen, chamber-candlestick in hand, closely followed by Edward.

“They are mad – both on ’em!” growled the footman.

“A ghost, a ghost!” panted Mary, shuddering, and pointing towards the passage.

“A ghost!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon contemptuously. “You foolish wicked woman! How dare you alarm the children with such ridiculous, such absurd old grandmothers’ notions? You’ve been out, I suppose?”

“Yes, yes!” sobbed Mary, covering her blanched face with her hands.

“And you saw something white, I suppose, in the moonlight?”

“N-n-n-o, ’m! It was a black one, all but the horrid face with the moon on it.”

“Edward,” said Mrs Brandon, “some one has been trying to frighten them, and they have left the passage door open. You are not afraid?”

“How should I know till I see what it’s like!” growled Edward. “Anyhow, I’ll go and try.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Mrs Brandon.

Edward led the way to where the moonlight was streaming in through the open door, when he started back against his mistress, forcing her into the kitchen.

“There is something, mum!” he said hoarsely, “and I think I am a little afraid. No, no, ’m, you sha’n’t go. I’ll go first: I can’t stand that, if I am frighted.”

He again made a step in advance, for Mrs Brandon was about to take the pas; but the next moment mistress and man drew involuntarily back, as, slowly, as if feeling its way through some thick darkness, hands stretched out, palms downward, to their fullest extent, head thrown back, wild eyes staring straight before it, and face unnaturally pale, came towards them a figure draped in black.

On and on, in a strange unearthly way, rigid as if of marble, came the figure across the great kitchen, and in spite of herself Mrs Brandon felt a strange thrill pass through her as she slowly gave way; but followed still by the figure through the open door into the hall, where, reason reasserting itself, she set down the candlestick upon the marble slab, and stood firm till the strange visitor came close up to her, and she took two cold stony hands in hers.

“Ella, my child!” she gasped.

It was as though those three words had dissolved a spell; for the staring eyes slowly closed, a faint dawning as of a smile relaxed the rigid features, and, as the white lips parted, there came forth a low sigh as of relief, and then the form sank slowly down till it was supported only by the grasp Mrs Brandon maintained upon the hands.

“Here! Quick! Help, Edward!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, blushing for her excusable dread. “Good Heavens, what infamy has been practised, that this poor child should seek refuge here in such a plight? Edward!”

“I’m here, ma’am,” cried the hard footman, smiting himself heavily upon the cheek. “That I should have been such a fool! But ’twas enough to startle – ”

“Man – man, don’t talk!” cried his mistress. “Run to Mr Tiddson, he is the nearest; and don’t tell him to come, but bring him. Do you hear? —bring him!”

“That I just will,” cried the man, giving one glance at the figure at his mistress’s feet, and the next moment he was in the kitchen. “Here, rouse up!” he cried, “’tain’t nothing sooper – ”

Edward said “natural” as he ran out, hatless, into the frosty night to fetch the doctor, tying his handkerchief round his head as he sped on.

Meanwhile, Mrs Brandon lifted the wasted form in her arms, and bore it to a couch, where she strove ineffectually to restore animation. Everything she tried seemed useless; and at last, weeping bitterly, she sank upon her knees, and clasped the fragile figure to her heart, moaning as she did so:

“My poor stricken bird! my poor little dove! what does it mean – what does it mean?”

But the form she clasped might have been that from which the vital spark had just fled, save that the icy coldness began gradually to yield to the temperature of the room.