Part 10

She wears out Ethel’s patience at last, for the young mother is depressed and feeble and longs for sleep. So she orders the nurse to lay her little infant on her arm, and to go into the next room as usual and lie down beside Katie’s cot; and after some expostulation, and many shakings of her head, the Dye complies with her mistress’s request. For some time after she is left alone, Ethel lies awake, too exhausted even to sleep, and as she does so, her mind is filled with the stories she has heard, and she clasps her little fragile infant closer to her bosom as she recalls the history of the poor murdered mother, whose child was barbarously slaughtered before her eyes. But she has too much faith in the teaching of her childhood quite to credit such a marvellous story, and she composes herself by prayer and holy thoughts until she sinks into a calm and dreamless slumber. When she wakes some hours after, it is not suddenly, but as though some one were pulling her back to consciousness. Slowly she realises her situation, and feels that somebody, the Dye she supposes, is trying to take the baby from her arms without disturbing her.

“Don’t take him from me, Dye,” she murmurs, sleepily; “he is so good--he has not moved all night.”

But the gentle pressure still continues, and then Ethel opens her eyes and sees not the Dye but a woman, tall and finely formed, and fair as the day, with golden hair floating over her shoulders, and a wild, mad look in her large blue eyes, who is quietly but forcibly taking the baby from her. Already she has one bare arm under the child, and the other over him--and her figure is bent forward, so that her beautiful face is almost on a level with that of Mrs. Dunstan’s.

“Who are you? What are you doing?” exclaims Ethel in a voice of breathless alarm, although she does not at once comprehend why she should experience it. The woman makes no answer, but with her eyes fixed on the child with a sort of wild triumph draws it steadily towards her.

“Leave my baby alone! How dare you touch him?” cries Ethel, and then she calls aloud, “Dye! Dye! come to me!”

But at the sound of her voice the woman draws the child hastily away, and Ethel sees it reposing on her arm, whilst she slowly folds her white robes about the little form, and hides it from view.

“Dye, Dye,” again screams the mother, and as the nurse rushes to her assistance the spirit woman slowly fades away, with a smile of success upon her lips.

“Bring a light. Quick,” cries Ethel. “The woman has been here; she has stolen my baby. Oh, Dye, make haste; help me to get out of bed. I will get it back again if I die in the attempt.”

The Dye runs for a lamp, and brings it to the bedside as Mrs. Dunstan is attempting to leave it.

“Missus dreaming!” she exclaims quickly, as the light falls on the pillow. “The baby is there--safe asleep. Missus get into bed again, and cover up well, or she will catch cold!”

“Ah! my baby,” cries Ethel, hysterically, as she seizes the tiny creature in her arms, “is he really there? Thank God! It was only a dream. But, Dye, what is the matter with him, and why is he so stiff and cold? He cannot--he cannot be--dead!”

Yes, it was true! It was not a dream after all. The white woman has carried the soul of the white child away with her, and left nothing but the senseless little body behind. As Ethel realises the extent of her misfortune, and the means by which it has been perpetrated, she sinks back upon her pillow in a state of utter unconsciousness.

* * * * * *

When she once more becomes aware of all that is passing around her, she finds her husband by her bedside, and Cissy Lawless acting the part of the most devoted of nurses.

“It was so wrong of me to leave you, dear, in that hurried manner,” she whispers one day when Mrs. Dunstan is convalescent, “but I was so angry to think you could suspect me of flirting with your dear old husband. I ought to have told you from the first what all those meetings and letters meant, and I should have done so only they involved the character of my darling Jack. The fact is, dear, my boy got into a terrible scrape up country--and the Colonel says the less we talk of it the better--however, it had something to do with that horrid gambling that men will indulge in, and it very nearly lost Jack his commission, and would have done so if it hadn’t been for the dear Colonel. But he and I plotted and worked together till we got Jack out of his scrape, and now we’re as happy as two kings; and you will be so too, won’t you, dear Mrs. Dunstan, now that you are well again, and know that your Charlie has flirted no more than yourself?”

“I have been terribly to blame,” replies poor Ethel. “I see that now, and I have suffered for it too, bitterly.”

“We have all suffered, my darling,” says the Colonel, tenderly; “but it may teach us a valuable lesson, never to believe that which we have not proved.”

“And never to disbelieve that which we have not disproved,” retorts Ethel. “If I had only been a little more credulous and a little less boastful of my own courage, I might not have lived to see my child torn from my arms by the spirit of the white woman.”

And whatever Ethel Dunstan believed or not, I have only, in concluding her story, to reiterate my assertion that the circumstances of it are _strictly true_.

STILL WATERS.

I often wonder if when, as the Bible tells us, “the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed,” they will be revealed to our fellow-creatures as well as to the Almighty Judge of men.

I am not usually given to philosophise, but the above remark was drawn from me by the receipt of a letter this morning from my niece, Justina Trevor, announcing the death of her “dear friend,” Mrs. Benson, which recalled the remembrance of an incident that took place a few months since, whilst I was staying at Durham Hall, in Derbyshire, the estate of her late husband, Sir Harry Trevor. I am an old bachelor, though not so old as I look; yet when I confess that I write “General” before my name, and have served most of my time in hot climates, it will readily be believed that no one would take me for a chicken. It was after an absence of fourteen years that, last November, I arrived in England, and put up at an hotel near Covent Garden, which had been a favourite resort of mine during my last stay in London. But I soon found that I had made a great mistake, for the town was dark, damp, dirty, deserted, detestable; in fact, no adjective, however long and however strong, could convey an adequate idea of the impression made upon me by a review of the great metropolis; and it was with a feeling of intense relief that I perused a letter from my niece Justina, to whom I had duly announced my advent, in which she insisted that her “dear uncle” must spend his first Christmas in England nowhere but at Durham Hall, with Sir Harry and herself. Now Justina, if not my only, is certainly my nearest relative, and _I_ knew that _she_ knew that I was an old fellow on the shady side of sixty-five, with a couple of pounds or so laid by in the Oriental Bank, and with no one to leave them to but herself or her children; but I was not going to let that fact interfere with my prospects of present comfort; and so, ordering my servant to repack my travelling cases, the next day but one saw us _en route_ for Derbyshire.

It was evening when I arrived at Durham Hall, but even on a first view I could not help being struck with the munificent manner in which all the arrangements of the household seemed to be conducted, and reflected with shame on the unworthy suspicion I had entertained respecting those two pounds of mine in the Oriental Bank, which I now felt would be but as a drop in the ocean to the display of wealth which surrounded me. The hall was full of guests, assembled to enjoy the hunting and shooting season, and to spend the coming Christmas, and amongst them I heard several persons of title mentioned; but my host and hostess paid as much attention to me as though I had been the noblest there, and I felt gratified by the reception awarded me.

I found my niece but little altered, considering the number of years which had elapsed since I had last seen her; her children were a fine, blooming set of boys and girls, whilst her husband, both in appearance and manners, far exceeded my expectations. For it so happened that I had not seen Sir Harry Trevor before, my niece’s marriage having taken place during my absence from England; but Justina had never ceased to correspond with me, and from her letters I knew that the union had been as happy as it was prosperous. But now that I met him I was more than pleased, and voted his wife a most fortunate woman. Of unusual height and muscular build, Sir Harry Trevor possessed one of those fair, frank Saxon faces which look as if their owners had never known trouble. His bright blue eyes shone with careless mirth and his yellow beard curled about a mouth ever ready to smile in unison with the outstretching of his friendly hand.

He was a specimen of a free, manly, and contented Englishman, who had everything he could desire in this world, and was thankful for it. As for Justina, she seemed perfectly to adore him; her eyes followed his figure wherever it moved; she hung upon his words, and refused to stir from home, even to take a drive or walk, unless he were by her side.

“I must congratulate you upon your husband,” I said to her, as we sat together on the second day of my visit. “I think he is one of the finest fellows I ever came across, and seems as good as he is handsome.”

“Ah, he is, indeed!” she replied, with ready enthusiasm; “and you have seen the least part of him, uncle. It would be impossible for me to tell you how good he is in all things. We have been married now for more than ten years, and during that time I have never had an unkind word from him, nor do I believe he has ever kept a thought from me. He is as open as the day, and could not keep a secret if he tried. Dear fellow!” and something very like a tear twinkled in the wife’s eyes.

“Ay, ay,” I replied, “that’s right. I don’t know much about matrimony, my dear, but if man and wife never have a secret from one another they can’t go far wrong. And now perhaps you will enlighten me a little about these guests of yours, for there is such a number of them that I feel quite confused.”

Justina passed her hand across her eyes and laughed.

“Yes, that is dear Harry’s whim. He will fill the house at Christmas from top to basement, and I let him have his way, though all my visitors are not of my own choosing. With whom shall I commence, uncle?”

We were sitting on a sofa together during the half hour before dinner, and one by one the guests, amounting perhaps to fifteen or twenty, came lounging into the drawing-room.

“Who, then, is that very handsome woman with the scarlet flower in her hair?”

“Oh, do you call _her_ handsome?” (I could tell at once from the tone of Justina’s voice that the owner of the scarlet flower was no favourite of hers.) “That is Lady Amabel Scott, a cousin of Harry’s: indeed, if she were not, she should never come into _my_ house. Now, there’s a woman, uncle, whom I can’t bear--a forward, presuming, flirting creature, with no desire on earth but to attract admiration. Look how she’s dressed this evening--absurd, for a home party. I wonder that her husband, Mr. Warden Scott (that is he looking over the photograph book), can allow her to go on so! It is quite disgraceful. I consider a flirting married woman one of the most dangerous members of society.”

“But you can have no reason to fear her attacks,” I said, confidently.

The colour mounted to her face. My niece is not a pretty woman--indeed, I had already wondered several times what made Trevor fall in love with her--but this little touch of indignation improved her.

“_Of course not!_ But Lady Amabel spares no one, and dear Harry is so good-natured that he refuses to see how conspicuous she makes both him and herself. I have tried to convince him of it several times, but he is too kind to think evil of any one, and so I must be as patient as I can till she goes. Thank Heaven, she does not spend her Christmas with us! For my part, I can’t understand how one can see any beauty in a woman with a turned-up nose.”

“Ho, ho!” I thought to myself; “this is where the shoe pinches, is it? And if a lady will secure an uncommonly good-looking and agreeable man all to herself, she must expect to see others attempt to share the prize with her.”

Poor Justina! With as many blessings as one would think heart could desire, she was not above poisoning her life’s happiness by a touch of jealousy; and so I pitied her. It is a terrible foe with which to contend.

“But this is but one off the list,” I continued, wishing to divert her mind from the contemplation of Sir Harry’s cousin. “Who are those two dark girls standing together at the side table? and who is that quiet-looking little lady who has just entered with the tall man in spectacles?”

“Oh, those--the girls--are the Misses Rushton; they are pretty, are they not?--were considered quite the belles of last season--and the old lady on the opposite side of the fireplace is their mother: their father died some years since.”

“But the gentleman in spectacles? He looks quite a character.”

“Yes, and is considered so, but he is very good and awfully clever. That is Professor Benson: you must know him and his wife too, the ‘quiet-looking little lady,’ as you called her just now. They are the greatest friends I have in the world, and it was at their house that I first met Harry. I am sure you would like Mary Benson, uncle; she is shy, but has an immense deal in her, and is the kindest creature I ever knew. You would get on capitally together. I must introduce you to each other after dinner. And the professor and she are so attached--quite a model couple, I can assure you.”

“Indeed! But whom have we here?” as the door was thrown open to admit five gentlemen and two ladies.

“Lord and Lady Mowbray; Colonel Green and his son and daughter; Captain Mackay and Mr. Cecil St. John,” whispered Lady Trevor, and as she concluded dinner was announced, and our dialogue ended.

As the only persons in whom my niece had expressed much interest were Lady Amabel Scott and Mrs. Benson, I took care to observe these two ladies very narrowly during my leisure moments at the dinner-table, and came to the conclusion that, so far as I could judge, her estimate was not far wrong of either of them. Lady Amabel was a decided beauty, notwithstanding the “turned-up nose” of which her hostess had spoken so contemptuously: it was also pretty evident that she was a decided flirt. During my lengthened career of five-and-sixty years, I had always been credited with having a keen eye for the good points of a woman or a horse; but seldom had I met with such vivid colouring, such flashing eyes, and such bright speaking looks as now shone upon me across the table from the cousin of Sir Harry Trevor. She was a lovely blonde, in the heyday of her youth and beauty, and she used her power unsparingly and without reserve. My observation quickened by what Justina’s flash of jealousy had revealed, I now perceived, or thought I perceived, that our host was by no means insensible to the attractions of his fair guest, for, after conducting her in to dinner and placing her by his side, he devoted every second not demanded by the rights of hospitality to her amusement. Yet, Lady Amabel seemed anything but desirous of engrossing his attention; on the contrary, her arrows of wit flew far and wide, and her bright glances flashed much in the same manner, some of their beams descending even upon me, spite of my grey hairs and lack of acquaintanceship. One could easily perceive that she was a universal favourite; but as Mr. Warden Scott seemed quite satisfied with the state of affairs, and calmly enjoyed his dinner, whilst his wife’s admirers, in their fervent admiration, neglected to eat theirs, I could not see that any one had a right to complain, and came to the conclusion that my niece, like many another of her sex, had permitted jealousy to blind her judgment.

I felt still more convinced of this when I turned to the contemplation of the other lady to whom she had directed my attention--the professor’s wife, who was her dearest friend, and through whose means she had first met Sir Harry Trevor. There was certainly nothing to excite the evil passions of either man or woman in Mrs. Benson. Small and insignificant in figure, she was not even pleasing in countenance; indeed, I voted her altogether uninteresting, until she suddenly raised two large brown eyes, soft as a spaniel’s and shy as a deer’s, and regarded me. She dropped them again instantly, but as she did so I observed that her lashes were long and dark, and looked the longer and darker for resting on perfectly pallid cheeks. _Au reste_, Mrs. Benson had not a feature that would repay the trouble of looking at twice, and the plain, dark dress she wore still farther detracted from her appearance. But she looked a good, quiet, harmless little thing, who, if she really possessed the sense Lady Trevor attributed to her, might prove a very valuable and worthy friend. But she was certainly not the style of woman to cause any one a heartache, or to make a wife rue the day she met her.

And indeed, when, dinner being over, we joined the ladies in the drawing-room, and I saw her surrounded by my grand-nephews and nieces, who seemed by one accord to have singled her out for persecution, I thought she looked much more like a governess or some one in a dependent situation than the most welcome guest at Durham Hall. Sir Harry seemed pleased with her notice of his children, for he took a seat by her side and entered into conversation with her, the first time that I had seen him pay his wife’s friend so open a compliment. Now I watched eagerly for the “great deal” that by Justina’s account was “in her;” but I was disappointed, for she seemed disinclined for a _tête-à-tête_, and after a few futile attempts to draw her out, I was not surprised to see her host quit his position and wander after Lady Amabel Scott into the back drawing-room, whither my niece’s eyes followed him in a restless and uneasy manner.

“I promised to introduce you to Mrs. Benson, uncle,” she exclaimed, as she perceived that I was watching her, and willy-nilly, I was taken forcible possession of, and soon found myself occupying the chair left vacant by Sir Harry.

“We can so very seldom persuade Mary to stay with us; and when she does come, her visits are so brief that we are obliged to make a great deal of them whilst they last,” was part of Justina’s introduction speech; and on that hint I commenced to speak of the charms of the country and my wonder that Mrs. Benson did not oftener take occasion to enjoy them. But barely an answer, far less an idea, could I extract from my niece’s valued friend. Mrs. Benson’s brown eyes were not once raised to meet mine, and the replies which I forced from her lips came in monosyllables. I tried another theme, but with no better success; and had just decided that she was as stupid as she looked, when, to my great relief, the professor arrived with a message from Lady Trevor, and bore his wife off into another room.

Several days passed without bringing forth much incident. The gentlemen spent most of their time in the shooting-covers or hunting-field, and did not meet the ladies until evening re-assembled them in the drawing-room; on which occasions I used to get as far as I could from Lady Trevor and the professor’s wife, and in consequence generally found myself in the vicinity of Sir Harry and Lady Amabel. Yet, free and intimate as seemed their intercourse with one another, and narrowly as, in Justina’s interest, I watched them, I could perceive nothing in their conduct which was not justified by their relationship, and treated it as a matter of the smallest consequence, until one afternoon about a fortnight after my arrival at Durham Hall.

With the exception of Sir Harry himself, who had business to transact with his bailiff, we had all been out shooting, and as, after a hard day’s work, I was toiling up to my bedroom to dress for dinner, I had occasion to pass the study appropriated to the master of the house, and with a sudden desire to give him an account of our sport, incontinently turned the handle of the door. As I did so I heard an exclamation and the rustle of a woman’s dress, which were sufficient to make me halt upon the threshold of the half-opened door, and ask if I might enter.

“Come in, by all means,” exclaimed Sir Harry. He was lying back indolently in his arm-chair beside a table strewn with books and papers,--a little flushed, perhaps, but otherwise himself, and, to my astonishment, quite alone. Yet I was positive that I had heard the unmistakable sound of a woman’s dress sweeping the carpet. Involuntarily I glanced around the room; but there was no egress.

Sir Harry caught my look of inquiry, and seemed annoyed. “What are you staring at, Wilmer?” he demanded, in the curtest tone I had yet heard from him.

“May I not glance round your den?” I replied courteously. “I have not had the honour of seeing it before.”