"An old gent, upright as a dart, with snow-white hair and them features called aquiline! A handsome face, if ever I saw one; his eyes as blue and as fine as Captain Bohun's. There's a likeness between 'em. It must be his uncle, Sir Nash. A young man sits next him with a white, unhealthy face; and the other two--why, if I don't believe it's the young Dallorys!"
There was no reply. Mrs. Gass turned to see the reason. Her visitor was sitting back in a chair, a frightfully grey shade upon her face and lips.
"My patience! Don't you feel well, ma'am?"
"I am a little tired," replied Mrs. Cumberland, smiling languidly as she roused herself. "Looking out at passing things always fatigues me."
"Now, don't you stir, ma'am; I'll tell it off to you," came the rejoinder, spoken with sympathy. "There's only one coach more. And that have but two inside it--the doctors from Whitborough," added Mrs. Gass. "I wonder they didn't invite Mr. Oliver--the first called in to the poor young man--and Alexander. Not thought good enough by madam, perhaps, to be mixed with all these dons."
She looked after the swiftly passing pageantry with lingering admiration. Mrs. Cumberland sat still in the chair and closed her eyes, as if all interest in the funeral--and in life too, for that matter--had passed away.
The procession wound along: through the long straggling village street, past the Dallory Works, an immense group of buildings that lay on the left, and so to the church. It was the only church in the parish, inconveniently distant for some of the inhabitants. Dallory Ham spoke about building one for itself; but that honour had not yet been attained to. In a corner of the large churchyard lay Mrs. North, Mr. North's first wife and Edmund's mother. The new grave was dug by her side.
Amidst the spectators, numbers of whom had collected in the burial ground, stood Jelly. Very much no doubt to the astonishment of her mistress, had she seen her. To peep surreptitiously from behind blinds, was one thing; but to stand openly staring in the churchyard, was another; and Mrs. Cumberland would assuredly have ordered her away. Jelly had come to it with a cousin of hers, Susan Ketler, the wife of the sick man who was being attended by Dr. Rane. Jelly had curiosity enough for ten ordinary women--which is saying a great deal--and would not have missed the sight for the world.
It was soon over: our burial service is not a long one: and the coaches and mourners moved away again, leaving the field in possession of the mob. A rush ensued to obtain a view of the coffin, as yet scarcely sprinkled with earth. Jelly and her friend approached, and the former read the inscription.
"Edmund, son of John North and of Mary, his first wife. Died May 3rd, 18--, aged 33."
"I should not have put 'died,' but 'murdered,' if it was me had the writing of it," spoke Mrs. Ketler.
"And so should I, Susan," significantly replied Jelly. "Here! let's get out of this throng."
Jelly, in her loftiness of stature and opinion, was above the throng literally and figuratively; but it was dense and troublesome. Neither death nor funeral had been of an ordinary description; and others besides the great unwashed were crowding there. The two women elbowed their way out, and passed back down the broad highway to Ketler's house in Dallory. He was one of the best of the North workmen, earning good wages; and the family lived in comfort.
Ketler was in the parlour, sitting up for the first time. Under Dr. Rane's skilful treatment he was getting rapidly better. A child sat on his knee, held by his able arm; the rest were around. The children had wanted, as a matter of course, to go out and see the funeral. "No," said their father; "they might get playing, and that would be unseemly." He was a short, dark, honest-looking man; a good husband and father. Jelly sat talking for a short time, and then rose to leave.
But she was not allowed to do so. To let her depart at that hour without first partaking of tea, would have been a breach of hospitality that the well-to-do workpeople of Dallory would never hear of. Jelly, too easily persuaded where gossip was concerned, took off her bonnet, and the tray was brought in.
Cups of beer induce men to a long sitting; cups of tea women. Jelly sat on, oblivious of the lapse of time. The chief topic of conversation was the anonymous letter. Jelly found to her surprise and anger, that here, the prevailing belief was that it had been written by a clerk named Wilks, who was in the office of Dale the lawyer, and might have, become cognizant of the transaction between his master, Mr. Alexander, and Edmund North.
"Who told you that, Ketler?" sharply demanded Jelly, fixing her indignant eyes on the man.
"I can't rightly say who told me," replied Ketler; "it's the talk of the place. Wilks denies it out and out; but when he's in his evening cups--and that's not seldom--he does things that next morning he has no recollection of. Doctor Rane laughed at me, though, for saying so: a lawyer knows better than to let private matters get out to his clerks, says the doctor. But he don't know that Tim Wilks as some of us do."
"Well, I would not say too much about it's being Tim Wilks, if I were you, Ketler," cried Jelly, in suppressed wrath, brushing the crumbs from her black gown. "You might find yourself in hot water."
And then Ketler suddenly remembered that Wilks was her particular friend, so he turned the subject.
Jelly tore herself away at last, very unwillingly: gossip and tea-drinking formed her idea of an earthly paradise. Night was setting in; a light, beautiful night, the moon sailing majestically in the sky.
Just past the gates of Dallory Hall, in a bend of the road where the overhanging trees on either side gave it a lonely appearance at night: and by day too, for that matter: no dwelling of any sort being within view, stood a bench at the side of the path. It was a welcome resting-place to tired wayfarers; it was no less welcome to wandering lovers in their evening rambles. As Jelly went hastening on, a faint sound of voices broke upon her ear from this spot, and she arrested her steps instinctively. The chance of pouncing unexpectedly upon a pair exchanging soft vows, was perfectly delightful to Jelly; especially if it should happen to be a pair who had no business to exchange them.
Stealing softly along, went she, until she came to the turning, and then she looked cautiously round. The projecting bushes favoured her. To do Jelly justice, it must be affirmed that she had neither malice nor ill-will in her nature; rather the contrary; but a little innocent prying into her neighbours' affairs presented an irresistible temptation. What, then, was her astonishment to see--not a dying swain and his mistress, side by side: but her own mistress, Mrs. Cumberland, seated on the bench in an agony of grief, and Dr. Rane standing with folded arms before her.
Jelly, great at divining probabilities, easily comprehended the situation. Her mistress must have stayed to take tea with Mrs. Gass, and encountered her son in walking home.
To come down upon lovers with a startling reprimand was one thing; to intrude upon her mistress and Dr. Rane would be quite another. Jelly wished she had not gone stealing up like a mouse, and felt inclined to steal back again.
But the attitude and appearance of Mrs. Cumberland riveted her to the spot. Her face, never so grey as now, as seen in the moonlight, was raised to her son's, its expression one of yearning agony; her hands were lifted as if imploring some boon, or warding off some fear. Jelly's eyes opened to their utmost width, and in her astonishment she failed to catch the purport of the first low-breathed words.
"I tell you, you are mistaken, mother," said Dr. Rane in answer, his own voice ringing out clearly enough in the still night; though it nevertheless bore a hushed tone. "Is it probable? Is it likely? I drop the copy of the letter out of my pocketbook! What next will you suppose me capable of?"
"But--Oliver,"--and the voice was raised a little--"how else could it have been found upon her carpet?"
"I have my theory about that," he rejoined with decision. "Mother, come home: I will tell you more then. Is this a fitting time or place to have thus attacked me?"
Air, voice, action, were sharp, with authority, as he bent and took her hand. Mrs. Cumberland, saying