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CHAPTER XXXIII
DARKNESS

Full a week later, Frank looked up from his pillow, and said, ‘I wonder when it will be safe to have Mite back.  Mary, sweet, what is it?  I have been sure something was burthening you.  Come and tell me.  If he has the fever, you must go to him.  No!’ as she clasped his hand and laid her face down on the pillow.

‘Ah, Frank, he does not want us any more!’

‘My Mary, my poor Mary, have you been bearing such knowledge about with you?  For how long?’

‘Since that worst day, yesterday week.  Oh, but to see you getting better was the help!’

‘Can you tell me?’

She told him, in that low, steady voice, all she knew.  It was very little, for she had avoided whatever might break the composure that seemed so needful to his recovery; and he could listen quietly, partly from the lulling effect of weakness, partly from his anxiety for her, and the habit of self-restraint, in which all the earlier part of their lives had been passed, made utterance come slowly to them.

‘Life will be different to us henceforth,’ he once said.  ‘We have had three years of the most perfect happiness.  He gave and He hath taken away.  Blessed—’

And there he stopped, for he saw the working of her face.  Otherwise they hardly spoke of their loss even to one another.  It went down deeper than they could bear to utter, and their hearts and eyes met if their lips did not.  Only Lord Northmoor lay too dejected to make the steps expected in the recovery of strength for a few days after the grievous revelation, and on the day when at last he was placed on a couch by the window, his wife collapsed, and, almost unconscious, was carried to her bed.

It was not a severe or alarming attack, and all she wanted was to be let alone; but there was enough of sore throat and other symptoms to prolong the quarantine, and Lady Adela could no longer be excluded from giving her aid.  She went to and fro between the patients, and comforted each with regard to the other, telling the one how her husband’s strength was returning, and keeping the other tranquil by the assurance that what his wife most needed was perfect rest, especially from the necessity of restraining herself.  Those eyes showed how many tears were poured forth when they could have their free course.  Lady Adela had gone through enough to feel with ready tact what would be least jarring to each.  She had persuaded Bertha to go back to London, both to her many avocations and to receive Amice, who must still be kept at a distance for some time.

Lord Northmoor, as soon as he had strength and self-command for it, read poor Mrs. Morton’s letters, and also saw Eden, for whom there was little fear of infection.  She managed to tell her history and answer all his questions in detail, but she quite broke down under his kind tone of forgiveness and assurance that no blame attached to her, and that he was only grateful to her for her tender care of his child, and she went away sobbing pitifully.

Adela came back, after taking her from the room, where Frank was sitting in an easy-chair by the window, and looking out on the summer garden, which seemed to be stripped of all its charm and value for him.

‘Poor thing,’ she said, ‘she is quite overcome by your kindness.’

‘I do not think any one is more to be pitied,’ said he.

‘No, indeed, but she wishes you would have heard what she had to say about the supposing Ida to have gone in that direction.’

‘I thought it better not.  It would not have exonerated the poor little maid from carelessness, and there is no use in fostering a sense of injury or suspicion, when what is done cannot be undone,’ he said wearily.

‘Indeed you are quite right,’ said Adela earnestly.  ‘You know how to be in charity with all men.  Oh, the needless misery of hasty unjust suspicions!’  Then as he looked up at her—‘Do you know our own story?’

‘Only the main facts.’

‘I think you ought to know it.  It accounts for so much!’ said she, moved partly by the need of utterance, and partly by the sense that the turn of his thoughts might be good for him.  ‘You know what a passion for horses there has always been in this family.’

‘I know—I could have had it if my life had begun more prosperously.’

‘And you have done your best to save Herbert from it.  Well, my Arthur had it to a great degree; and so indeed had Bertha.  They were brought up to nothing else; Bertha was, I really think, a better judge than her brother, she was not so reckless.  They became intimate with a Captain Alder, who was in the barracks at Copington—much the nicest, as I used to think, of the set, though I was not very glad to see an attachment growing up between him and Bertha.  There was always such a capacity of goodness in her that I longed to see her in the way of being raised altogether.’

‘She has always been most kind to us.  There is much to admire in her.’

‘Her present life has developed all that is best; but—’  She hesitated, wondering whether the good simple man were sensible of that warp in the nature that she had felt.  She went on, ‘Then she was a masterful, high-spirited girl, to whom it seemed inevitable to come to high words with any one about whom she cared.  And I must say—she and my husband, while they were passionately fond of one another, seemed to have a sort of fascination in provoking one another, not only in words but in deeds.  Ah, you can hardly believe it of her!  How people get tamed!  Well, Arthur bought a horse, a beautiful creature, but desperately vicious.  Captain Alder had been with him when he first saw it, and admired it; but I do not think gave an opinion against it.  Bertha, however, from the moment she saw its eyes and ears, protested against it in her vehement way.  I remember imploring her not to make Arthur defy her; but really when they got into those moods, I don’t think they could stop themselves, and she thought Captain Alder encouraged him.  So Arthur went out on that fatal drive in the dog-cart, and no sooner were they out on the Colbeam road than the horse bolted, they came into collision with a hay waggon.  And—’

‘I know!’

‘Captain Alder was thrown on the top of the hay and not hurt.  He came to prepare me to receive Arthur, and then went up to the house.  Bertha, poor girl, in her wild grief almost flew at him.  It was all his doing, she said; he had egged Arthur on; she supposed Arthur had bets.  In short, she knew not what she said; but he left the house, and never has been near her again.’

‘Were they engaged?’

‘Not quite formally, but they understood one another, and were waiting for a favourable moment with old Lord Northmoor, who was not easy to deal with, and it was far from being a good match anyway.  We all thought, I believe, that the drive was the fault or rather the folly of Captain Alder, and Arthur was too ill to explain—unconscious at first—then not rousing himself.  At last he asked for his friend, and then he told me that Captain Alder had done all in his power to prevent his taking the creature out—had told him he had no right to endanger his life; and when only laughed at, had insisted on going with him, in hopes, I suppose, of averting mischief.  I wrote—Lord Northmoor wrote to him at his quarters; but our letters came back to us.  We had kept no watch on the gazette, and he had retired and left no address with his brother-officers.  Bertha knew that his parents were dead, and that he had a sister at school at Clifton.  I wrote to her, but the mistress sent back my letter; and we found that he had fetched away his sister and gone.  Even his money was taken from Coutts’s, as if to cut off any clue.’

‘He should not have so attended to a girl in her angry grief.’

‘No, but I think there was some self-blame in him, though not about that horse.  I believe he thought he might have checked Arthur more.  And he had debts which he seems to have paid on selling out his capital.  So, as I have told poor Bertha whenever she would let me, there may have been other reasons besides her stinging words.’

‘And it has preyed on her?’

‘More than any one would guess who had not known her in old times.  I was glad that you secured that child, Cea, to her.  She seems to have fastened her affections on her.’

‘Alder,’ presently repeated Frank.  ‘Alder—I was thinking how the name had come before me.  There were some clients of ours—of Mr. Burford’s, I mean—of that name; I think they sold an estate.  Some day I will find out whether he knows anything about them, and I shall remember more by and by.’

‘It would be an immense relief if you could find out anything good about the poor fellow,’ said Adela, very glad to have found any topic of interest, and pleased to find that it occupied his thoughts afterwards, when he asked whether she knew the Christian name of this young man, without mentioning any antecedent, as if he had been going on with the subject all the time.

In a few days the pair were able to meet, and to take up again the life over which a dark veil had suddenly descended, contrasting with the sunshine of those last few years.  To hold up one another, and do their duty on their way to the better world, was evidently the one thought, though they said little.

Still neither was yet in a condition to return to ordinary life, and it was determined that as soon as they were disinfected, they should leave the house to undergo the same process, and spend a few weeks at some health resort.  Only Mary shuddered at the notion of hearing the sound of the sea, and Malvern was finally fixed upon.  Lady Adela would go with them, and she wrote to beg that Constance, so soon as her term was over, might bring Amice thither, to be in a separate lodging at first, till there had been time to see whether the little girl’s company would be a solace or a trial to the bereaved parents.

Bertha, as soon as the chief anxiety was over, joined Mrs. Bury in a mountaineering expedition.  She declared that she had never dared to leave Cea before, lest the wretched father, now proved to be a myth, should come and abstract the child.

CHAPTER XXXIV
THE PHANTOM OF THE STATION

There was a crash in Mrs. Morton’s kitchen, where an elegant five o’clock tea was preparing, not only to greet Herbert, who had just come home to await the news of his fate after the last military examination open to him, but also for a friend or two of his mother’s, who, to his great annoyance, might be expected to drop in on any Wednesday afternoon.

Every one ran out to see what was the matter, and the maid was found picking up Mrs. Morton’s silver teapot, the basket-work handle of which had suddenly collapsed under the weight of tea and tea-leaves.  The mistress’s exclamations and objurgation of the maid for not having discovered its frail condition need not be repeated.  It had been a wedding-present, and was her great pride.  After due examination to see whether there were any bruises or dents, she said—

‘Well, Ida, we must have yours; run and fetch it out of the box.  You have the key of it.’  And she held out the key of the cupboard where the spoons were daily taken out by herself or Ida.

The teapot had been left to Ida by a godmother, who had been a farmer’s wife, with a small legacy, but was of an unfashionable make and seldom saw the light.

‘That horrid, great clumsy thing!’ said Ida.  ‘You had much better use the blue china one.’

‘I’ll never use that crockery for company when there’s silver in the house!  What would Mrs. Denham say if she dropped in?’

‘I won’t pour out tea in that ugly, heavy brute of a thing.’

‘Then if you won’t, I will.  Give me the key this instant!’

‘It is mine, and I am not going to give it up!’

‘Come, Ida,’ said Herbert, weary of the altercation; ‘any one would think you had made away with it!  Let us have it for peace’s sake.’

‘It’s no business of yours.’

He whistled.  However, at that moment the door-bell rang.

It was to admit a couple of old ladies, whom both the young people viewed as very dull company; and the story of the illness of ‘my brother, Lord Northmoor,’ as related by their mother, had become very tedious, so that as soon as possible they both sauntered out on the beach.

‘I wonder when uncle will send for you!’ Ida said.  ‘He must give you a good allowance now.’

‘Don’t talk of it, Ida; it makes me sick to think of it.  I say—is that the old red rock where they saw the last of the poor little kid?’

‘Yes; that was where his hat was.’

‘Did you find it?  Was it washed up?’

‘Don’t talk of such dreadful things, Bertie; I can’t bear it!  And there’s Rose Rollstone!’

Ida would have done her utmost to keep her brother and Rose Rollstone apart at any other time, but she was at the moment only too glad to divert his attention, and allowed him, without protest, to walk up to Rose, shake hands with her, and rejoice in her coming home for good; but, do what Ida would, she could not keep him from recurring to the thought of the little cousin of whom he had been very fond.

‘Such a jolly little kid!’ he said; ‘and full of spirit!  You should have seen him when I picked him up before me on the cob.  How he laughed!’

‘So good, too,’ said Rose.  ‘He looked so sweet with those pretty brown eyes and fair curls at church that last Sunday.’

‘I can’t make out how it was.  The tide could not have been high enough to wash him off going round that rock, or the other children would not have gone round it.’

‘Oh, I suppose he ran after a wave,’ said Ida hastily.

‘Do you know,’ said Rose mysteriously, ‘I could have declared I saw him that very evening, and with his nursery-maid, too!’

‘Nonsense, Rose!  We don’t believe in ghosts!’ said Ida.

‘It was not like a ghost,’ said Rose.  ‘You know I had come down for the bank-holiday, and went back to finish my quarter at the art embroidery.  Well, when we stopped at the North Westhaven station, I saw a man, woman, and child get in, and it struck me that the boy was Master Michael and the woman Louisa Hall.  I think she looked into the carriage where I was, and I was going to ask her where she was taking him.’

‘Nonsense, Rose!  How can you listen to such folly, Herbert?’

‘But that’s not all!  I saw them again under the gas when I got out.  I was very near trying to speak to her, but I lost sight of her in the throng; but I saw that face so like Master Michael, only scared and just ready to cry.’

‘You’ll run about telling that fine ghost-story,’ said Ida roughly.

‘But Louisa could not have been a ghost,’ said Rose, bewildered.  ‘I thought she was his nursery-maid taking him somewhere!  Didn’t she—’ then with a sudden flash—‘Oh!’

‘Turned off long ago for flirting with that scamp Rattler,’ said Herbert.  ‘Now she has run off with him.’

‘There was a sailor-looking man with her,’ said Rose.

‘I never heard such intolerable nonsense!’ burst out Ida.  ‘Mere absurdity!’

Herbert looked at her with surprise at the strange passion she exhibited.  He asked—

‘Did you say the Hall girl had run away?’

‘Oh, never mind, Herbert!’ cried Ida, as if unable to command herself.  ‘What is it to you what a nasty, horrid girl like that does?’

‘Hold your tongue, Ida!’ he said resolutely.  ‘If you won’t speak, let Rose.’

‘She did,’ said Rose, in a low, anxious, terrified voice.  ‘I only heard it since I came home.  She was married at the registrar’s office to that man Jones, whom they call the Rattler, and went off with him.  It must have been her whom I saw, really and truly; and, oh, Herbert, could she have been so wicked as to steal Master Michael!’

‘Somebody else has been wicked then,’ said Herbert, laying hold of his sister’s arm.

‘I don’t know what all this means,’ exclaimed Ida, in great agitation; ‘nor what you and Rose are at!  Making up such horrible, abominable insinuations against me, your poor sister!  But Rose Rollstone always hated me!’

‘She does not know what she is saying,’ sighed Rose; and, with much delicacy, she moved away.

‘Let me go, Herbert!’ cried Ida, as she felt his grip on her hand.

‘Not I, Ida—till you have answered me!  Is this so—that Michael is not drowned, but carried off by that woman?’ demanded Herbert, holding her fast and looking at her with manly gravity, not devoid of horror.

‘He is a horrid little impostor, palmed off to keep you out of the title and everything!  That’s why I did it!’ sobbed Ida, trying to wrench herself away.

‘Oh, you did it, did you?  You confess that!  And what have you done with him?’

‘I tell you he is no Morton at all—just the nurse-woman’s child, taken to spite you.  I found it all out at—what’s its name?—Botzen; only ma would not be convinced.’

‘I should suppose not!  To think that my uncle and aunt would do such a thing—why, I don’t know whether it is not worse than stealing the child!’

‘Herbert!  Herbert! do you want to bring your sister to jail, talking in that way?’

‘It is no more than you deserve.  I would bring you there if it is the only way to get back the child!  I do not know what is bad enough for you.  My poor uncle and aunt!  To have brought such misery on them!’  He clenched his hands as he spoke.

‘Everybody said she didn’t mind—didn’t ask questions, didn’t cry, didn’t go on a bit like his real mother.’

‘She could not, or it might have been the death of my uncle.  Bertha wrote it all to me; but you—you would never understand.  Ida, I can’t believe that you, my sister, could have done such an awfully wicked thing!’

‘I wouldn’t, only I was sure he was not—’

‘No more of that stuff!’ said Herbert.  ‘You don’t know what they are.’

‘I do.  So strict—not a bit like a mother.’

‘If our mother had been like them, you might not have been such a senseless monster,’ said Herbert, pausing for a word.  ‘Come, now; tell me what you have done with him, or I shall have to set on the police.’

‘Oh, Herbert, how can you be so cruel?’

‘It is not I that am cruel!  Come, speak out!  Did you bribe her with your teapot?  Ah! I see: what has she done with him?’

He gripped her arm almost as he used to torture her when they were children, and insisted again that either she must tell him the whole truth or he should set the police on the track.

‘You wouldn’t,’ she said, awed.  ‘Think of the exposure and of mother!’

‘I can think of nothing but saving Mite!  I say—my mother knows nothing of this?’

‘Oh no, no!’

Herbert breathed more freely, but he was firm, and seemed suddenly to have grown out of boyishness into manly determination, and gradually he extracted the whole story from her.  He would not listen to the delusion in which she had worked herself into believing, founded upon the negations for which she had sedulously avoided seeking positive refutation, and which had been bolstered up by her imagination and wishes, working on the unsubstantial precedents of novels.  She had brought herself absolutely to believe in the imposture, and at a moment when her uncle’s condition seemed absolutely to place within her grasp the coronet for Herbert, with all possibilities for herself.

Then came the idea of Louisa Hall, inspired by seeing her speak to little Michael on the beach, and obtain his pretty smiles and exclamation of ‘Lou, Lou! mine Lou!’ for he had certainly liked this girl better than Ellen, who was wanting in life and animation.  Ida knew that Sam Jones, alias Rattler, was going out to join his brother in Canada, and that Louisa was vehemently desirous to accompany him, but had failed to satisfy the requirements of Government as to character, so as to obtain a free passage, and was therefore about to be left behind in desertion and distress.  She might beguile Michael away quietly and carry him to Canada, where, as it seemed, there were any amount of farmers ready to adopt English children—a much better lot, in Ida’s eyes, than the little Tyrolese impostor deserved.  She even persuaded herself that she was doing an act of great goodness, when, at the price of her teapot, she obtained that Louisa should be married by the registrar to Sam Jones, and their passage paid, on condition of their carrying away Michael with them.  The man was nothing loth, having really a certain preference for Louisa, and likewise a grudge against Lord Northmoor for having spoilt that game with Miss Morton, which might have brought the means for the voyage.

They were married on Whit Monday, and Ida was warned that if she and Louisa could not get possession of the child by Wednesday, he would be left behind.  Louisa was accordingly on the watch, and Ida hovered about, just enough completely to put the nurses off their guard.  They heard Michael’s imploring call of ‘Willie!  Willie!’ and then Louisa descended on him with coaxings and promises, and Ida knew no more, except that, as she had desired, a parcel had been sent her containing the hat and shoes.  The spade she had herself picked up.

When Rose had seen them, they had no doubt been on their way to Liverpool.

It seemed to be Herbert’s horror-stricken look that first showed his sister the enormity of what she had done, and when she pleaded ‘for your sake,’ he made such a fierce sound of disgust, that she only durst add further, ‘Oh, Herbert, you will not tell?’

‘Not find him?’ he thundered.

‘No, no; I didn’t mean that!  But don’t let them know about me!  Just think—’

‘I must think!  Get away now; I can’t bear you near!’

And just then a voice was heard, ‘Miss Hider, Miss Hider, your ma wants you!’