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THE NEXT THING.
As I sat in my study, in the twilight of that same day, the door was
hurriedly opened, and Judy entered. She looked about the room with a
quick glance to see that we were alone, then caught my hand in both
of hers, and burst out crying.
"Why, Judy!" I said, "what IS the matter?" But the sobs would not
allow her to answer. I was too frightened to put any more questions,
and so stood silent--my chest feeling like an empty tomb that waited
for death to fill it. At length with a strong effort she checked the
succession of her sobs, and spoke.
"They are killing auntie. She looks like a ghost already," said the
child, again bursting into tears.
"Tell me, Judy, what CAN I do for her?"
"You must find out, Mr Walton. If you loved her as much as I do, you
would find out what to do."
"But she will not let me do anything for her."
"Yes, she will. She says you promised to help her some day."
"Did she send you, then?"
"No. She did not send me."
"Then how--what--what can I do!"
"Oh, you exact people! You must have everything square and in print
before you move. If it had been me now, wouldn't I have been off
like a shot! Do get your hat, Mr Walton."
"Come, then, Judy. I will go at once.--Shall I see her?"
And every vein throbbed at the thought of rescuing her from her
persecutors, though I had not yet the smallest idea how it was to be
effected.
"We will talk about that as we go," said Judy, authoritatively.
In a moment more we were in the open air. It was a still night, with
an odour of damp earth, and a hint of green buds in it. A pale
half-moon hung in the sky, now and then hidden by the clouds that
swept across it, for there was wind in the heavens, though upon
earth all was still. I offered Judy my arm, but she took my hand,
and we walked on without a word till we had got through the village
and out upon the road.
"Now, Judy," I said at last, "tell me what they are doing to your
aunt?"
"I don't know what they are doing. But I am sure she will die."
"Is she ill?"
"She is as white as a sheet, and will not leave her room. Grannie
must have frightened her dreadfully. Everybody is frightened at her
but me, and I begin to be frightened too. And what will become of
auntie then?"
"But what can her mother do to her?"
"I don't know. I think it is her determination to have her own way
that makes auntie afraid she will get it somehow; and she says now
she will rather die than marry Captain Everard. Then there is no one
allowed to wait on her but Sarah, and I know the very sight of her
is enough to turn auntie sick almost. What has become of Jane I
don't know. I haven't seen her all day, and the servants are
whispering together more than usual. Auntie can't eat what Sarah
brings her, I am sure; else I should almost fancy she was starving
herself to death to keep clear of that Captain Everard."
"Is he still at the Hall?"
"Yes. But I don't think it is altogether his fault. Grannie won't
let him go. I don't believe he knows how determined auntie is not to
marry him. Only, to be sure, though grannie never lets her have more
than five shillings in her pocket at a time, she will be worth
something when she is married."
"Nothing can make her worth more than she is, Judy," I said, perhaps
with some discontent in my tone.
"That's as you and I think, Mr Walton; not as grannie and the
captain think at all. I daresay he would not care much more than
grannie whether she was willing or not, so long as she married him."
"But, Judy, we must have some plan laid before we reach the Hall;
else my coming will be of no use."
"Of course. I know how much I can do, and you must arrange the rest
with her. I will take you to the little room up-stairs--we call it
the octagon. That you know is just under auntie's room. They will be
at dinner--the captain and grannie. I will leave you there, and
tell auntie that you want to see her."
"But, Judy,---"
"Don't you want to see her, Mr Walton?"
"Yes, I do; more than you can think."
"Then I will tell her so."
"But will she come to me?"
"I don't know. We have to find that out."
"Very well. I leave myself in your hands."
I was now perfectly collected. All my dubitation and distress were
gone, for I had something to do, although what I could not yet tell.
That she did not love Captain Everard was plain, and that she had as
yet resisted her mother was also plain, though it was not equally
certain that she would, if left at her mercy, go on to resist her.
This was what I hoped to strengthen her to do. I saw nothing more
within my reach as yet. But from what I knew of Miss Oldcastle, I
saw plainly enough that no greater good could be done for her than
this enabling to resistance. Self-assertion was so foreign to her
nature, that it needed a sense of duty to rouse her even to
self-defence. As I have said before, she was clad in the mail of
endurance, but was utterly without weapons. And there was a danger
of her conduct and then of her mind giving way at last, from the
gradual inroads of weakness upon the thews which she left
unexercised. In respect of this, I prayed heartily that I might help
her.
Judy and I scarcely spoke to each other from the moment we entered
the gate till I found myself at a side door which I had never
observed till now. It was fastened, and Judy told me to wait till
she went in and opened it. The moon was now quite obscured, and I
was under no apprehension of discovery. While I stood there I could
not help thinking of Dr Duncan's story, and reflecting that the
daughter was now returning the kindness shown to the mother.
I had not to wait long before the door opened behind me noiselessly,
and I stepped into the dark house. Judy took me by the hand, and led
me along a passage, and then up a stair into the little
drawing-room. There was no light. She led me to a seat at the
farther end, and opening a door close beside me, left me in the
dark.
There I sat so long that I fell into a fit of musing, broken ever by
startled expectation. Castle after castle I built up; castle after
castle fell to pieces in my hands. Still she did not come. At length
I got so restless and excited that only the darkness kept me from
starting up and pacing the room. Still she did not come, and partly
from weakness, partly from hope deferred, I found myself beginning
to tremble all over. Nor could I control myself. As the trembling
increased, I grew alarmed lest I should become unable to carry out
all that might be necessary.
Suddenly from out of the dark a hand settled on my arm. I looked up
and could just see the whiteness of a face. Before I could speak, a
voice said brokenly, in a half-whisper:--
"WILL you save me, Mr Walton? But you're trembling; you are ill; you
ought not to have come to me. I will get you something."
And she moved to go, but I held her. All my trembling was gone in a
moment. Her words, so careful of me even in her deep misery, went to
my heart and gave me strength. The suppressed feelings of many
months rushed to my lips. What I said I do not know, but I know that
I told her I loved her. And I know that she did not draw her hand
from mine when I said so.
But ere I ceased came a revulsion of feeling.
"Forgive me," I said, "I am selfishness itself to speak to you thus
now, to take advantage of your misery to make you listen to mine.
But, at least, it will make you sure that if all I am, all I have
will save you--"
"But I am saved already," she interposed, "if you love me--for I
love you."
And for some moments there were no words to speak. I stood holding
her hand, conscious only of God and her. At last I said:
"There is no time now but for action. Nor do I see anything but to
go with me at once. Will you come home to my sister? Or I will take
you wherever you please."
"I will go with you anywhere you think best. Only take me away."
"Put on your bonnet, then, and a warm cloak, and we will settle all
about it as we go."
She had scarcely left the room when Mrs Oldcastle came to the door.
"No lights here!" she said. "Sarah, bring candles, and tell Captain
Everard, when he will join us, to come to the octagon room. Where
can that little Judy be? The child gets more and more troublesome, I
do think. I must take her in hand."
I had been in great perplexity how to let her know that I was there;
for to announce yourself to a lady by a voice out of the darkness of
her boudoir, or to wait for candles to discover you where she
thought she was quite alone--neither is a pleasant way of presenting
yourself to her consciousness. But I was helped out of the beginning
into the middle of my difficulties, once more by that blessed little
Judy. I did not know she was in the room till I heard her voice. Nor
do I yet know how much she had heard of the conversation between her
aunt and myself; for although I sometimes see her look roguish even
now that she is a middle-aged woman with many children, when
anything is said which might be supposed to have a possible
reference to that night, I have never cared to ask her.
"Here I" am, grannie," said her voice. "But I won't be taken in hand
by you or any one else. I tell you that. So mind. And Mr Walton is
here, too, and Aunt Ethelwyn is going out with him for a long walk."
"What do you mean, you silly child ?"
"I mean what I say," and "Miss Judy speaks the truth," fell together
from her lips and mine.
"Mr Walton," began Mrs Oldcastle, indignantly, "it is scarcely like
a gentleman to come where you are not wanted---"
Here Judy interrupted her.
"I beg your pardon, grannie, Mr Walton WAS wanted--very much
wanted. I went and fetched him."
But Mrs Oldcastle went on unheeding.
"---and to be sitting in my room in the dark too!"
"That couldn't be helped, grannie. Here comes Sarah with candles."
"Sarah," said Mrs Oldcastle, "ask Captain Everard to be kind enough
to step this way."
"Yes, ma'am," answered Sarah, with an untranslatable look at me as
she set down the candles.
We could now see each other. Knowing words to be but idle breath, I
would not complicate matters by speech, but stood silent, regarding
Mrs Oldcastle. She on her part did not flinch, but returned my look
with one both haughty and contemptuous. In a few moments, Captain
Everard entered, bowed slightly, and looked to Mrs Oldcastle as if
for an explanation. Whereupon she spoke, but to me.
"Mr Walton," she said, "will you explain to Captain Everard to what
we owe the UNEXPECTED pleasure of a visit from you?"
"Captain Everard has no claim to any explanation from me. To you,
Mrs Oldcastle, I would have answered, had you asked me, that I was
waiting for Miss Oldcastle."
"Pray inform Miss Oldcastle, Judy, that Mr Walton insists upon
seeing her at once."
"That is quite unnecessary. Miss Oldcastle will be here presently,"
I said.
Mrs Oldcastle turned slightly livid with wrath. She was always
white, as I have said: the change I can describe only by the word I
have used, indicating a bluish darkening of the whiteness. She
walked towards the door beside me. I stepped between her and it.
"Pardon me, Mrs Oldcastle. That is the way to Miss Oldcastle's room.
I am here to protect her."
Without saying a word she turned and looked at Captain Everard. He
advanced with a long stride of determination. But ere he reached me,
the door behind me opened, and Miss Oldcastle appeared in her bonnet
and shawl, catrying a small bag in her hand. Seeing how things were,
the moment she entered, she put her hand on my arm, and stood
fronting the enemy with me. Judy was on my right, her eyes flashing,
and her cheek as red as a peony, evidently prepared to do battle a
toute outrance for her friends.
"Miss Oldcastle, go to your room instantly, I COMMAND you," said her
mother; and she approached as if to remove her hand from my arm. I
put my other arm between her and her daughter.
"No, Mrs Oldcastle," I said. "You have lost all a mother's rights by
ceasing to behave like a mother, Miss Oldcastle will never more do
anything in obedience to your commands, whatever she may do in
compliance with your wishes."
"Allow me to remark," said Captain Everard, with attempted
nonchalance, "that that is strange doctrine for your cloth."
"So much the worse for my cloth, then," I answered, "and the better
for yours if it leads you to act more honourably."
Still keeping himself entrenched in the affectation of a
supercilious indifference, he smiled haughtily, and gave a look of
dramatic appeal to Mrs Oldcastle.
"At least," said that lady, "do not disgrace yourself, Ethelwyn, by
leaving the house in this unaccountable manner at night and on foot.
If you WILL leave the protection of your mother's roof, wait at
least till tomorrow."
"I would rather spend the night in the open air than pass another
under your roof, mother. You have been a strange mother to me--and
Dorothy too!"
"At least do not put your character in question by going in this
unmaidenly fashion. People will talk to your prejudice--and Mr
Walton's too."
Ethelwyn smiled.--She was now as collected as I was, seeming to have
cast off all her weakness. My heart was uplifted more than I can
say.--She knew her mother too well to be caught by the change in her
tone.
I had not hitherto interrupted her once when she took the answer
upon herself, for she was not one to be checked when she chose to
speak. But now she answered nothing, only looked at me, and I
understood her, of course.
"They will hardly have time to do so, I trust, before it will be out
of their power. It rests with Miss Oldcastle herself to say when
that shall be."
As if she had never suspected that such was the result of her
scheming, Mrs Oldcastle's demeanour changed utterly. The form of her
visage was altered. She made a spring at her daughter, and seized
her by the arm.
"Then I forbid it," she screamed; "and I WILL be obeyed. I stand on
my rights. Go to your room, you minx."
"There is no law human or divine to prevent her from marrying whom
she will. How old are you, Ethelwyn?"
I thought it better to seem even cooler than I was.
"Twenty-seven," answered Miss Oldcastle.
"Is it possible you can be so foolish, Mrs Oldcastle, as to think
you have the slightest hold on your daughter's freedom? Let her arm
go."
But she kept her grasp.
"You hurt me, mother," said Miss Oldcastle.
"Hurt you? you smooth-faced hypocrite! I will hurt you then!"
But I took Mrs Oldcastle's arm in my hand, and she let go her hold.
"How dare you touch a woman?" she said.
"Because she has so far ceased to be a woman as to torture her own
daughter."
Here Captain Everard stepped forward, saying,--
"The riot-act ought to be read, I think. It is time for the military
to interfere."
"Well put, Captain Everard," I said. "Our side will disperse if you
will only leave room for us to go."
"Possibly I may have something to say in the matter."
"Say on."
"This lady has jilted me."
"Have you, Ethelwyn?"
"I have not."
"Then, Captain Everard, you lie."
"You dare to tell me so?"
And he strode a pace nearer.
"It needs no daring. I know you too well; and so does another who
trusted you and found you false as hell."
"You presume on your cloth, but--" he said, lifting his hand.
"You may strike me, presuming on my cloth," I answered; "and I will
not return your blow. Insult me as you will, and I will bear it.
Call me coward, and I will say nothing. But lay one hand on me to
prevent me from doing my duty, and I knock you down--or find you
more of a man than I take you for."
It was either conscience or something not so good that made a coward
of him. He turned on his heel.
"I really am not sufficiently interested in the affair to oppose
you. You may take the girl for me. Both your cloth and the presence
of ladies protect your insolence. I do not like brawling where one
cannot fight. You shall hear from me before long, Mr Walton."
"No, Captain Everard, I shall not hear from you. You know you dare
not write to me. I know that of you which, even on the code of the
duellist, would justify any gentleman in refusing to meet you. Stand
out of my way!"
I advanced with Miss Oldcastle on my arm. He drew back; and we left
the room.
As we reached the door, Judy bounded after us, threw her arms round
her aunt's neck, then round mine, kissing us both, and returned to
her place on the sofa. Mrs Oldcastle gave a scream, and sunk
fainting on a chair. It was a last effort to detain her daughter and
gain time. Miss Oldcastle would have returned, but I would not
permit her.
"No," I said; "she will be better without you. Judy, ring the bell
for Sarah."
"How dare you give orders in my house?" exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle,
sitting bolt upright in the chair, and shaking her fist at us. Then
assuming the heroic, she added, "From this moment she is no daughter
of mine. Nor can you touch one farthing of her money, sir. You have
married a beggar after all, and that you'll both know before long."
"Thy money perish with thee!" I said, and repented the moment I had
said it. It sounded like an imprecation, and I know I had no
correspondent feeling; for, after all, she was the mother of my
Ethelwyn. But the allusion to money made me so indignant, that the
words burst from me ere I could consider their import.
The cool wind greeted us like the breath of God, as we left the
house and closed the door behind us. The moon was shining from the
edge of a vaporous mountain, which gradually drew away from her,
leaving her alone in the midst of a lake of blue. But we had not
gone many paces from the house when Miss Oldcastle began to tremble
violently, and could scarcely get along with all the help I could
give her. Nor, for the space of six weeks did one word pass between
us about the painful occurrences of that evening. For all that time
she was quite unable to bear it.
When we managed at last to reach the vicarage, I gave her in charge
to my sister, with instructions to help her to bed at once, while I
went for Dr Duncan.
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