Part 3

Some boys were observed in a Welsh village carrying a very small snow-white kitten, with ‘eyes of most celestial blue,’ and being asked its destination, stated that they were about to consign the pretty little creature to an early and a watery grave; from which cruel fate it was promptly rescued by right of purchase. The kitten being too young to quit its bereaved parent, was temporarily returned to her charge, she having in the interim been placed on board-wages. This presumably equitable plan, from some hidden reason, did not answer, and the juvenile pensioner seemed far from thriving. Taffy’s peculiar notions as to _meum_ and _tuum_ may have had something to do with the failure. Prematurely removed to its proprietor’s care, the junior member was patiently reared by hand. This Samaritan-like deed brought fairly earned reward, for the foundling grew into a very handsome cat, and became a highly prized favourite. So great was the love of ‘Jenny Lind’ for those who had saved her from death, subsequently, under domestic difficulties, bringing her to full years of discretion, that although accompanying them in several long journeys, and living in many temporary homes, she never once offered to leave them. Petted and coveted by newer friends, she remained loyal in her allegiance to the end of her days. Another proof of attachment to persons, not places.

A cat belonging to a gentleman resident about eight miles from London, was given to a brewer living at a distant part of the metropolis; taken there after dark in a closed basket placed in a covered wagon. A fortnight had elapsed, when the poor animal, weary and footsore, walked into her former master’s kitchen, and lay down in its accustomed corner by the fire, purring with joy at having reached the old home. Such fidelity was deservedly rewarded.

A lady visiting a bird-fancier’s shop, was struck by the beauty and size of an Angora cat exhibited for sale, imprisoned in a large parrot’s cage. The captive effectually pleading for pity by licking her hand, was purchased and taken home. After some years, the cat was removed with his mistress to Brighton, though under protest as to future reformation. Tom was then probably one of the largest of his species, and universally admired. He had adopted an apparently incurable habit of sharpening his claws on a highly polished dining-room table; and also committed sad havoc amongst the flowers in the garden of his new abode, spending a great portion of leisure time luxuriously lying in the sunshine, amidst mignonette, &c. A decree of banishment was at length unwillingly issued, and poor innocently erring Tom forthwith departed to a country rectory, where he was much valued. Every kindness that could conduce to his comfort was shown, all his special tastes as to diet consulted; but the exile remained inconsolable. He never attempted to return, not seeming to have sufficient energy left to attempt aught in self-defence; he simply gave himself up to despair. It was vainly hoped that time would reconcile the mourner to his changed lot, but matters only grew worse, the cat pining and fretting till he became the shadow of his former self. He could not twine ‘fantastick garlands,’ or utter an altogether ‘melodious lay,’ like ‘the fair Ophelia,’ but wandered aimlessly about the garden, eating little except green fruit and such strange fare; dying, after a brief period, literally of a broken heart. The chief object of this devoted love was the cook he had left behind him. The attachment, unlike that of Shakspeare’s ill-starred heroine, may not have been a romantic one; still, it was purely disinterested, unwavering amidst all mere worldly temptations.

Nature is fine in love: and where ’tis fine, It sends some precious incense of itself After the thing it loves.

Poor faithful Tom gave the sole offering he had to give—his life. If it be true that ‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,’ it was in the above case proved to be a cat’s ‘whole existence.’

As an illustration of maternal devotion, the ensuing fact was contributed by a relative. A little girl had set her heart on capturing a wild kitten, which resolutely refused to enter human habitations, neither would it allow any one to go near it, having thus from its birth led a truly Bohemian life. An old gardener told the child, in forcible language, that she might as well try to catch Lucifer himself. Children are not easily daunted in such kindred pursuits, acting confidently on the understanding that everything comes to those who wait. By very slow degrees the waif was first cautiously approached, next timidly caressed, then borne triumphantly home, and finally installed there as a favoured guest. From having been literally in a savage state, it soon became remarkably gentle and domesticated, by the same principle that no rabbit grows so thoroughly tame as the wild species. She was also, during after-years, extremely fond of her young, several of which were reared without disaster; but upon one occasion the cat came to her mistress in a sadly distressed state of mind, eagerly trying to induce her to follow it. Compliance being for the moment put off, the suppliant left in dire grief; presently coming back carrying a dead kitten, which was laid before her friend with bitter lamentations. This being taken away, she brought, one by one, every member of a luckless family, none of which had seen the light. They were then buried, the mother remaining a picture of sorrow. It was hoped the curtain had fallen over the final scene of a domestic tragedy; but the interment could not have been properly carried out, for she dug them up, and again brought each successively into the house, after which they were more effectually disposed of. A long time elapsed before the poor creature could be consoled for their loss.

WANTED, A CLUE.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.

Another week passed by, Edith growing more and more prostrate each day, and I was very anxious to hear from Dr Archer. At last arrived a letter, in a hand disguised as a lady’s, on girlish light-blue note-paper, with ‘Helen’ stamped on it. These precautions would have made me smile, had I not known how necessary they were. All the letters which entered the house had first to undergo Mrs Morrell’s scrutiny.

‘I am utterly baffled,’ he wrote, in a very shaky hand. ‘The experiment from which I hoped so much has turned out an utter failure. All the substances submitted to me have been subjected to the most minute and delicate tests known to science, without discovering in any one of them the slightest trace of arsenic, or any other poison. I am in despair. I know that somehow my darling’s life is being undermined by poison, and yet I cannot trace it. I am powerless to interfere. I have nothing but suspicion to go upon, and dare not apply for a magistrate’s warrant. My only hope is in you, Miss Armitage!’

I knew I was but a slender reed to trust to; and I went up-stairs to the sickroom, feeling miserable to the last degree. Mrs Morrell was seated by the bedside. Edith looked paler and thinner than ever. She moaned out, when she saw me, that she was ‘so thirsty;’ and had hardly been supplied with a cooling draught, when the racking cramps from which she had lately suffered so terribly, came on, and she writhed in every limb. I wiped the cold dews from her forehead, afraid at the moment that she was dying, the attack was so terribly severe, and seemed to exhaust her so much. By-and-by, she fell into a doze, and Mrs Morrell went out of the room. Feeling perfectly desperate, I commenced a thorough search through the apartment for anything suspicious, without finding the smallest thing which could serve as a clue. Probably I aroused the invalid, for, in returning to the bedside, I found her staring at me with the fixed gaze of a sick person.

‘Edith, dear, tell me, have you ever seen Mrs Morrell—or anybody—put any powder or liquid into your medicine or your food? Have you ever noticed that it had a disagreeable taste, or a sediment at the bottom?’

‘No, never,’ she answered, with evident surprise. Her brain was clear enough between the paroxysms. ‘Never, Alice.’

Just then, a tap sounded at the door, and purblind old Dr Stevens came tottering in, nearly upsetting a small table, and seeming scarcely able to hold his patient’s wrist firm in his shaky old fingers. I watched him with the maddening feeling, that if ever two unscrupulous poisoners had the very medical man most desirable in their case, it was these two. Mrs Morrell came into the room, as usual during his visits, and followed him down-stairs.

I waylaid her later on in the day and asked her what Dr Stevens had said. She replied, that unfortunately their darling was very ill, but while there was life there was hope. Then summoning all my nerve, I boldly asked that I might be allowed to sit up with Edith that night. She looked rather astonished, then, thanking me warmly for my ‘kind offer,’ declined on the plea of not robbing me of my rest. I replied that it was not fair that she should have all the night-nursing; but all I got was a very decided ‘No.’

I went away convinced that the danger, whatever it was, was reserved for the night. When the invalid was left alone with her traitorous nurse, in some form the poison was administered.

‘Does Mrs Morrell sit beside you all night?’ I asked Edith, next time we were alone.

‘O no. She would, if I wanted her; but I don’t like it. It fidgets me to see her. Besides, I generally sleep pretty well the first part of the night. She puts on her dressing-gown and lies on the bed in the next room, ready to come if I call her.’

The mystery only seemed to grow the more inscrutable, the further I pursued it. I went thoughtfully to my room, in search of a book I was reading aloud to Edith, promising to return immediately. As I stooped to lift the volume from a low shelf, the one ring I wore, which had always been a great deal too large for me, slipped from my finger and rolled away across the floor, to disappear underneath the hangings of my large, old-fashioned bedstead. Much annoyed, and anxious to recover it, for it was priceless to me as my dear mother’s engagement ring, I went down on my hands and knees and tried to find it; but in vain. The darkness under the massive draperies was complete, and I could see nothing in the shadow.

I looked round for a light. But there was no gas at the Hall, and my candlestick was carried down-stairs every morning by the housemaid, to reappear no more until late in the evening, on the slab in the hall. I scarcely liked to ring for it, for my position disposed me to trouble the servants as little as possible. All at once, I recollected that the candlesticks were never taken out of Edith’s room, and that I could borrow one of hers. I did so, and lighted it, and setting it on the floor, I soon found my ring.

‘How badly that candle burns, to be sure!’ I remarked to myself as I rose to my feet. ‘The wax cannot be good.’ The light was anything but pure, being of a peculiar reddish colour; and the flame sputtered so much, that more than once I thought it was going out. At the same time it gave off a fine white smoke.

I stood watching the sputtering flame for some minutes, much puzzled, until I remembered that the invalid was alone all this time. So I carried the candle, still burning, back to her room. To explain my delay, I pointed out what I had noticed, saying that I thought the servants must have substituted some inferior articles of their own for good wax candles, either from carelessness or dishonesty.

‘The servants never meddle with my candlesticks,’ said Edith languidly. ‘They are not sent down to the kitchen; but when they want refilling, Mrs Morrell puts fresh ones in here. She keeps them in that cupboard; look, and you’ll see.’

I opened the cupboard for the first time—for I had never had occasion to go to it before—and there, sure enough, were three or four wooden boxes, which proved to be full of wax candles; thirty pounds-weight at least. Before I closed the door again, Mrs Morrell entered the room. I fancied that her face changed and she turned pale as she saw me standing by the cupboard; but if so, she quickly recovered, and when I made some remark about there being a large stock of candles, composedly answered: ‘Yes; she found it best to keep plenty ready at hand, so as not to have to disturb dear Edith by leaving the room to search for lights in the middle of the night.’

I made no further remark, as something warned me it was better to say no more; so I opened my book and began to read.

The next morning, as I was on my way to the invalid’s room about eleven o’clock, I became aware of high voices in the hall, and came upon Mrs Morrell and the housemaid Jane engaged in altercation. Jane, who was generally a civil and obliging girl, was flushed with anger, whilst her mistress was paler than usual.

‘Very well, then, ma’am, I’ll go somewhere else, where I shan’t be called to account for every paltry little bit of candle,’ said the housemaid as I approached.

‘You know perfectly well that it is not the candle I care about, but the disobedience to my express orders, Jane. A month to-day you leave my service.’

‘I’ll go to-day, ma’am; I don’t care if I do lose a month’s wages,’ returned the girl independently.

‘Very well. You need never refer to me for a character,’ said Mrs Morrell, biting her lips, as she followed me to Edith’s room. She said nothing to me in explanation, beyond merely stating that Jane had been very impertinent.

I found Edith in a terribly prostrate condition, and I could see that Dr Stevens, when he came, had very little hope. I watched Mrs Morrell as she hung over the invalid, and wondered whether I ought not to believe that she was the most tender, loving, and devoted of nurses; for I really almost thought that Dr Archer might be mistaken after all, and that her guardians were as anxious for her recovery as I was. She herself evidently realised her danger, for she asked to have the Bible read to her, and would insist upon pressing a valuable diamond ring upon me as a keepsake. My gentle little friend had so won my heart by her unvarying sweetness, that I could not restrain my tears, and retreated to my own room, where I could give free vent to my feelings.

By-and-by, a knock came at my door, and opening it, I confronted Jane in hat and jacket, ready for departure. ‘You’ve always treated me well, miss, and I thought before I go I’d like to tell you why I’m turned out like a thief, without a character, after being here three years!’ began the girl in honest indignation. ‘Mrs Morrell’s sure to take care you hear her story; so, if you please, you shall have mine first!’

‘But I would rather not. You know I am not my own mistress here. Mrs Morrell might not like’——

‘Oh, but, please, miss, do listen. It’s all on account of the candlesticks in Miss Edith’s room. You know, miss, Mrs Morrell never lets us servants touch them—they never go down to the kitchen. But this morning, when I went in at eight to see to the fire, I noticed that one candle had been guttering awfully, and the wax had run down over the sides, and made such a mess as you never saw! Mrs Morrell wasn’t there, and Miss Edith was asleep; so I took the candlestick down with me to clean it, meaning no harm. But I had the breakfast to get ready; and to tell you the truth, Miss Armitage, I forgot about it. By-and-by Mrs Morrell came down-stairs, looking reg’lar pale, and wanting to know who took one of the candlesticks away out of Miss Edith’s room. I said I had. Then Mrs Morrell went on at me awful, and wanted to know how I dared do such a thing; and I was to bring it back at once. Sarah had washed it; but when we came to look for the piece of candle that was in it, nowhere could we find it. I suspect Sarah threw it into the fire. I told Mrs Morrell it was only a little piece, not so long as my finger. But if you’ll believe me, Miss Armitage, she made as much fuss over losing that paltry bit of candle-end as some folks would over a diamond necklace. I really didn’t think missis was so mean. I suppose my temper got up, and when she said I was impertinent and should leave, I told her I’d go to-day.’

‘I fear you have been foolish and hasty, Jane,’ I said reprovingly.

But she went on: ‘The queerest thing of all, Miss Armitage, is, that when Mrs Morrell first came into the kitchen she was as white as a sheet. I should have said she was frightened—only it seems ridiculous that any lady could ever be afraid of losing a candle-end! I can’t make it out at all, miss. She always is so mortally stingy with those candles of Miss Edith’s. Do you know, is there anything about them, miss, that makes them more valuable than other candles?’

‘Not that I am aware of.’

‘Well, really, do you know, miss, I’ve sometimes thought there must be something odd about them,’ said Jane, turning to go. ‘I know, for one thing, they’re not bought with the rest from the grocer at Beecham, but come all the way from London; so perhaps that’s why Mrs Morrell sets such store by them.—And now, miss, I’ll say good-bye.’

I gave the honest girl a little silk handkerchief as a parting gift, and sat down to ruminate on what I had just heard. A drowning man clutches at a straw; and in my terrible distress of mind, I was ready to clutch at any theory, however absurd, for solving the mystery of Edith’s illness. Jane’s casual remark about there being something queer about the candles so lavishly burned in the sickroom, had set me thinking whether after all there might not be something deleterious in them, intended to act injuriously upon the invalid. It was certain they burned very badly, as if there were some foreign substance incorporated in them. On the other hand, I had never, in my wildest dreams, imagined that there could be such things as poisonous candles. I had never heard of them before. The theory seemed to me at best a very wild one; but Edith’s life was at stake, and I was bound to do my very uttermost to aid her. Mrs Morrell’s conduct about the candles seemed odd and suspicious all through. The jealous watch she kept over them; her dread of losing them; her unwillingness to let me be in Edith’s room by candle-light—surely all these extraordinary precautions meant something.

Feeling perfectly desperate, I went back to the sickroom. Edith was lying back on her pillows in utter exhaustion, and Mrs Morrell was softly reading a chapter of St John’s Gospel. Seeing no other way out of the difficulty, I said boldly: ‘Mrs Morrell, if you will go down-stairs into the dining-room, I think Mr Foster wants to speak to you.’

It was an untruth; but I could not afford to be too scrupulous. Mrs Morrell disappeared. I sprang to the cupboard, and took two candles out of a box, and at once went to hide them in my room. When the widow came back, saying she could not find her brother anywhere—I had seen him leave the house some time before—I apologised, and professed to have misunderstood the message. She resumed her reading, whilst I slipped out of the room and hastily put on my outdoor garments. I knew that in going out without leave at such a moment, I risked losing my situation; but I did not care; I was in no mood to stand upon etiquette.

I made my way to the village, to the cottage of a trustworthy man who was sometimes employed to do odd jobs about the Hall. He readily promised to take my small parcel to Dr Archer at once. Had the distance not been three miles, I should have taken it myself.

I heard nothing from Dr Archer during the whole of the next day; and in a perfect torment of doubt and apprehension, I waited and waited, too agitated to eat or sleep, seeing Edith grow worse every hour, and fearing that after all she would die before the mystery of her illness could be solved. She was in a state of prostration fearful to witness. Restless and miserable, I sat in the sickroom or wandered about the house, and had the further trial of seeing that my behaviour had at last aroused suspicion in my employers’ minds, and that a quiet surveillance was kept upon my movements. Although I had made no appointment, and scarcely expected to meet Dr Archer, I endeavoured to be in the afternoon in the fir plantation which had already been the scene of several interviews; but Mr Foster so decidedly intimated his intention of accompanying me if I took a walk, that I abandoned the attempt. I detected under the mask of grief so cleverly assumed by both brother and sister, a subdued eagerness and restlessness, attributable no doubt to anxiety as to the success of their scheme.

I felt that all was as good as lost, when, on entering the sickroom on the second morning, I found Edith pallid and almost lifeless, and learned that Mrs Morrell, in real or pretended alarm, had already sent off a messenger for Dr Stevens.

Sick at heart, I sat down by the bedside, and watched the invalid, who was too far gone to recognise me, as she usually did. There came a tap at the door, and ‘Please, ma’am, you’re wanted,’ in the voice of one of the maids; and the widow rose and noiselessly glided out of the room. My ears were quickened by anxiety, and my curiosity was intense at hearing a short sharp scream, a scuffle, and the sound of an authoritative man’s voice on the landing outside. Edith was too languid to notice anything; and even when the door opened again and Dr Archer and an elderly gentleman entered the room, she never opened her eyes.

‘My darling! Have the wretches brought you to this?’ was the young doctor’s quick exclamation; and hurrying to the window, which Mrs Morrell had always religiously kept closed, he opened it, and a stream of chilly but life-giving air came rushing in. The other doctor, who was, I afterwards found, an eminent physician from London, bent over the patient, examining her pulse and administering restoratives. I glanced interrogatively at Dr Archer and murmured one word.

‘Those candles? Poisoned. Thoroughly impregnated with arsenic. A very few nights more of breathing the poisoned air, and nothing could have saved her.—I don’t know how you came to hit upon the clue so cleverly, Miss Armitage; but I shall bless your sagacity all my life long.’