CHAPTER XXI. BECK'S DISCOVERY.
Under the cedar-trees at Laughton sat that accursed and abhorrentbeing who sat there, young, impassioned, hopeful, as LucretiaClavering,--under the old cedar-trees, which, save that their vastbranches cast an imperceptibly broader shade over the mossy sward, theirrevocable winters had left the same. Where, through the nether boughsthe autumn sunbeams came aslant, the windows, enriched by many a haughtyscutcheon, shone brightly against the western rays. From the flower-bedsin the quaint garden near at hand, the fresh yet tranquil air waftedfaint perfumes from the lingering heliotrope and fading rose. Thepeacock perched dozily on the heavy balustrade; the blithe robin hoppedbusily along the sun-track on the lawn; in the distance the tinklingbells of the flock, the plaining low of some wandering heifer, whilebreaking the silence, seemed still to blend with the repose. All imagesaround lent themselves to complete that picture of stately calm which isthe character of those old mansion-houses, which owner after owner hasloved and heeded, leaving to them the graces of antiquity, guarding themfrom the desolation of decay.
Alone sat Lucretia under the cedar-trees, and her heart made dismalcontrast to the noble tranquillity that breathed around. From whateversoftening or repentant emotions which the scene of her youth might firsthave awakened; from whatever of less unholy anguish which memory mighthave caused when she first, once more, sat under those rememberedboughs, and, as a voice from a former world, some faint whisper ofyouthful love sighed across the waste and ashes of her devastatedsoul,--from all such rekindled humanities in the past she had now, withgloomy power, wrenched herself away. Crime such as hers admits not longthe sentiment that softens remorse of gentler error. If there wakes onemoment from the past the warning and melancholy ghost, soon from thatabyss rises the Fury with the lifted scourge, and hunts on the franticfootsteps towards the future. In the future, the haggard intellect ofcrime must live, must involve itself mechanically in webs and meshes,and lose past and present in the welcome atmosphere of darkness.
Thus while Lucretia sat, and her eyes rested upon the halls of heryouth, her mind overleaped the gulf that yet yawned between her andthe object on which she was bent. Already, in fancy, that home was hersagain, its present possessor swept away, the interloping race of Vernonending in one of those abrupt lines familiar to genealogists, whichbranch out busily from the main tree, as if all pith and sap weremonopolized by them, continue for a single generation, and then shrinkinto a printer's bracket with the formal laconism, "Died withoutissue." Back, then, in the pedigree would turn the eye of some curiousdescendant, and see the race continue in the posterity of LucretiaClavering.
With all her ineffable vices, mere cupidity had not, as we have oftenseen, been a main characteristic of this fearful woman; and in herdesign to endow, by the most determined guilt, her son with the heritageof her ancestors, she had hitherto looked but little to mere mercenaryadvantages for herself: but now, in the sight of that venerable andbroad domain, a covetousness, absolute in itself, broke forth. Couldshe have gained it for her own use rather than her son's, she would havefelt a greater zest in her ruthless purpose. She looked upon the sceneas a deposed monarch upon his usurped realm,--it was her right. Theearly sense of possession in that inheritance returned to her.
Reluctantly would she even yield her claims to her child. Here, too,in this atmosphere she tasted once more what had long been lostto her,--the luxury of that dignified respect which surrounds thewell-born. Here she ceased to be the suspected adventuress, thefriendless outcast, the needy wrestler with hostile fortune, theskulking enemy of the law. She rose at once, and without effort, toher original state,--the honoured daughter of an illustrious house.The homeliest welcome that greeted her from some aged but unforgottenvillager, the salutation of homage, the bated breath of humblereverence,--even trifles like these were dear to her, and made her themore resolute to retain them. In her calm, relentless onward vision shesaw herself enshrined in those halls, ruling in the delegated authorityof her son, safe evermore from prying suspicion and degrading need andmiserable guilt for miserable objects. Here, but one great crime, andshe resumed the majesty of her youth! While thus dwelling on the future,her eye did not even turn from those sunlit towers to the forms below,and more immediately inviting its survey. On the very spot where, atthe opening of this tale, sat Sir Miles St. John sharing his attentionbetween his dogs and his guest, sat now Helen Mainwaring; against thebalustrade where had lounged Charles Vernon, leaned Percival St. John;and in the same place where he had stationed himself that eventfulevening, to distort, in his malignant sketch, the features of hisfather, Gabriel Varney, with almost the same smile of irony upon hislips, was engaged in transferring to his canvas a more faithful likenessof the heir's intended bride. Helen's countenance, indeed, exhibitedcomparatively but little of the ravages which the pernicious aliment,administered so noiselessly, made upon the frame. The girl's eye, it istrue, had sunk, and there was a languid heaviness in its look; butthe contour of the cheek was so naturally rounded, and the features sodelicately fine, that the fall of the muscles was less evident; and thebright, warm hue of the complexion, and the pearly sparkle of theteeth, still gave a fallacious freshness to the aspect. But as yet thepoisoners had forborne those ingredients which invade the springs oflife, resorting only to such as undermine the health and prepare the wayto unsuspected graves. Out of the infernal variety of the materials attheir command, they had selected a mixture which works by sustainingperpetual fever; which gives little pain, little suffering, beyond thatof lassitude and thirst; which wastes like consumption, and yet puzzlesthe physician, by betraying few or none of its ordinary symptoms. Butthe disorder as yet was not incurable,--its progress would graduallycease with the discontinuance of the venom.
Although October was far advanced, the day was as mild and warm asAugust. But Percival, who had been watching Helen's countenance withthe anxiety of love and fear, now proposed that the sitting should beadjourned. The sun was declining, and it was certainly no longer safefor Helen to be exposed to the air without exercise. He proposed thatthey should walk through the garden, and Helen, rising cheerfully,placed her hand on his arm. But she had scarcely descended the steps ofthe terrace when she stopped short and breathed hard and painfully. Thespasm was soon over, and walking slowly on, they passed Lucretia with abrief word or two, and were soon out of sight amongst the cedars.
"Lean more on my arm, Helen," said Percival. "How strange it is that thechange of air has done so little for you, and our country doctor stillless! I should feel miserable indeed if Simmons, whom my mother alwaysconsidered very clever, did not assure me that there was no ground foralarm,--that these symptoms were only nervous. Cheer up, Helen; sweetlove, cheer up!"
Helen raised her face and strove to smile; but the tears stood in hereyes. "It would be hard to die now, Percival!" she said falteringly.
"To die--oh, Helen! No; we must not stay here longer,--the air iscertainly too keen for you. Perhaps your aunt will go to Italy. Whynot all go there, and seek my mother? And she will nurse you, Helen,and--and--" He could not trust his voice farther.
Helen pressed his arm tenderly. "Forgive me, dear Percival, it is but atmoments that I feel so despondent; now, again, it is past. Ah, I solong to see your mother! When shall you hear from her? Are you nottoo sanguine? Do you really feel sure she will consent to so lowly achoice?"
"Never doubt her affection, her appreciation of you," answered Percival,gladly, and hoping that Helen's natural anxiety might be the latentcause of her dejected spirits; "often, when talking of the future, underthese very cedars, my mother has said: 'You have no cause to marry forambition,--marry only for your happiness.' She never had a daughter: inreturn for all her love, I shall give her that blessing."
Thus talking, the lovers rambled on till the sun set, and then,returning to the house, they found that Varney and Madame Dalibardhad preceded them. That evening Helen's spirits rose to their naturalbuoyancy, and Percival's heart was once more set at ease by her silverylaug
h.
When, at their usual early hour, the rest of the family retired tosleep, Percival remained in the drawing-room to write again, and atlength, to Lady Mary and Captain Greville. While thus engaged, his valetentered to say that Beck, who had been out since the early morning, insearch of a horse that had strayed from one of the pastures, had justreturned with the animal, who had wandered nearly as far as Southampton.
"I am glad to hear it," said Percival, abstractedly, and continuing hisletter.
The valet still lingered. Percival looked up in surprise. "If youplease, sir, you said you particularly wished to see Beck when he cameback."
"I--oh, true! Tell him to wait; I will speak to him by and by. You neednot sit up for me; let Beck attend to the bell."
The valet withdrew. Percival continued his letter, and filled pageafter page and sheet after sheet; and when at length the letters, notcontaining a tithe of what he wished to convey, were brought to a close,he fell into a revery that lasted till the candles burned low, and theclock from the turret tolled one. Starting up in surprise at the lapseof time, Percival then, for the first time, remembered Beck, and rangthe bell.
The ci-devant sweeper, in his smart livery, appeared at the door.
"Beck, my poor fellow, I am ashamed to have kept you waiting so long;but I received a letter this morning which relates to you. Let mesee,--I left it in my study upstairs. Ah, you'll never find the way;follow me,--I have some questions to put to you."
"Nothin' agin my carakter, I hopes, your honour," said Beck, timidly.
"Oh, no!"
"Noos of the mattris, then?" exclaimed Beck, joyfully.
"Nor that either," answered Percival, laughing, as he lighted thechamber candlestick, and, followed by Beck, ascended the grand staircaseto a small room which, as it adjoined his sleeping apartment, he hadhabitually used as his morning writing-room and study.
Percival had, indeed, received that day a letter which had occasionedhim much surprise; it was from John Ardworth, and ran thus:--
MY DEAR PERCIVAL,--It seems that you have taken into your servicea young man known only by the name of Beck. Is he now with you atLaughton? If so, pray retain him, and suffer him to be in readiness tocome to me at a day's notice if wanted, though it is probable enoughthat I may rather come to you. At present, strange as it may seem toyou, I am detained in London by business connected with that importantpersonage. Will you ask him carelessly, as it were, in the mean while;the following questions:--
First, how did he become possessed of a certain child's coral which heleft at the house of one Becky Carruthers, in Cole's Building?
Secondly, is he aware of any mark on his arm,--if so, will he describeit?
Thirdly, how long has he known the said Becky Carruthers?
Fourthly, does he believe her to be honest and truthful?
Take a memorandum of his answers, and send it to me. I am prettywell aware of what they are likely to be; but I desire you to put thequestions, that I may judge if there be any discrepancy between hisstatement and that of Mrs. Carruthers. I have much to tell you, and ameager to receive your kind congratulations upon an event that has givenme more happiness than the fugitive success of my little book. Tenderestregards to Helen; and hoping soon to see you, Ever affectionately yours.
P.S.--Say not a word of the contents of this letter to Madame Dalibard,Helen, or to any one except Beck. Caution him to the same discretion. Ifyou can't trust to his silence, send him to town.
When the post brought this letter, Beck was already gone on his errand,and after puzzling himself with vague conjectures, Percival's mind hadbeen naturally too absorbed with his anxieties for Helen to recur muchto the subject.
Now, refreshing his memory with the contents of the letter, he drew penand ink before him, put the questions seriatim, noted down the answersas desired, and smiling at Beck's frightened curiosity to know who couldpossibly care about such matters, and feeling confident (from that veryfright) of his discretion, dismissed the groom to his repose.
Beck had never been in that part of the house before; and when he gotinto the corridor he became bewildered, and knew not which turn to take,the right or the left. He had no candle with him; but the moon cameclear through a high and wide skylight: the light, however, gave him noguide. While pausing, much perplexed, and not sure that he should evenknow again the door of the room he had just quitted, if venturing toapply to his young master for a clew through such a labyrinth, he wasinexpressibly startled and appalled by a sudden apparition. A doorat one end of the corridor opened noiselessly, and a figure, at firstscarcely distinguishable, for it was robed from head to foot in a black,shapeless garb, scarcely giving even the outline of the human form,stole forth. Beck rubbed his eyes and crept mechanically close withinthe recess of one of the doors that communicated with the passage. Thefigure advanced a few steps towards him; and what words can describehis astonishment when he beheld thus erect, and in full possession ofphysical power and motion, the palsied cripple whose chair he had oftenseen wheeled into the garden, and whose unhappy state was the commontopic of comment in the servants' hall! Yes, the moon from above shonefull upon that face which never, once seen, could be forgotten. And itseemed more than mortally stern and pale, contrasted with the sableof the strange garb, and beheld by that mournful light. Had a ghost,indeed, risen from the dead, it could scarcely have appalled him more.Madame Dalibard did not see the involuntary spy; for the recess in whichhe had crept was on that side of the wall on which the moon's shadowwas cast. With a quick step she turned into another room, oppositethat which she had quitted, the door of which stood ajar, and vanishednoiselessly as she had appeared.
Taught suspicion by his earlier acquaintance with the "night-side" ofhuman nature, Beck had good cause for it here. This detection of animposture most familiar to his experience,--that of a pretended cripple;the hour of the night; the evil expression on the face of the deceitfulguest; Madame Dalibard's familiar intimacy and near connection withVarney,--Varney, the visitor to Grabman, who received no visitors butthose who desire, not to go to law, but to escape from its penalties;Varney, who had dared to brave the resurrection man in his den, and whoseemed so fearlessly at home in abodes where nought but poverty couldprotect the honest; Varney now, with that strange woman, an inmate of ahouse in which the master was so young, so inexperienced, so liable tobe duped by his own generous nature,--all these ideas, vaguely combined,inspired Beck with as vague a terror. Surely something, he knew notwhat, was about to be perpetrated against his benefactor,--some schemeof villany which it was his duty to detect. He breathed hard, formedhis resolves, and stealing on tiptoe, followed the shadowy form of thepoisoner through the half-opened doorway. The shutters of the room ofwhich he thus crossed the threshold were not closed,--the moon shonein bright and still. He kept his body behind the door, peeping in withstraining, fearful stare. He saw Madame Dalibard standing beside abed round which the curtains were closed,--standing for a moment or somotionless, and as if in the act of listening, with one hand on atable beside the bed. He then saw her take from the folds of her dresssomething white and glittering, and pour from it what appeared to himbut a drop or two, cautiously, slowly, into a phial on the table, fromwhich she withdrew the stopper; that done, she left the phial where shehad found it, again paused a moment, and turned towards the door. Beckretreated hastily to his former hiding-place, and gained it in time.Again the shadowy form passed him, and again the white face in the whitemoonlight froze his blood with its fell and horrible expression. Heremained cowering and shrinking against the wall for some time, strivingto collect his wits, and considering what he should do. His firstthought was to go at once and inform St. John of what he had witnessed.But the poor have a proverbial dread of deposing aught against asuperior. Madame Dalibard would deny his tale, the guest would bebelieved against the menial,--he would be but dismissed with ignominy.At that idea, he left his hiding-place, and crept along the corridor,in the hope of finding some passage at the end which might lead to theoff
ices. But when he arrived at the other extremity, he was only metby great folding-doors, which evidently communicated with the stateapartments; he must retrace his steps. He did so; and when he came tothe door which Madame Dalibard had entered, and which still stood ajar,he had recovered some courage, and with courage, curiosity seized him.For what purpose could the strange woman seek that room at night thusfeloniously? What could she have poured, and with such stealthy caution,into the phial? Naturally and suddenly the idea of poison flashed acrosshim. Tales of such crime (as, indeed, of all crime) had necessarilyoften thrilled the ear of the vagrant fellow-lodger with burglars andoutlaws. But poison to whom? Could it be meant for his benefactor? CouldSt. John sleep in that room? Why not? The woman had sought the chamberbefore her young host had retired to rest, and mingled her potion withsome medicinal draught. All fear vanished before the notion of dangerto his employer. He stole at once through the doorway, and noiselesslyapproached the table on which yet lay the phial. His hand closed on itfirmly. He resolved to carry it away, and consider next morning whatnext to do. At all events, it might contain some proof to back his taleand justify his suspicions. When he came once more into the corridor, hemade a quick rush onwards, and luckily arrived at the staircase. Therethe blood-red stains reflected on the stone floors from the blazonedcasements daunted him little less than the sight at which his hair stillbristled. He scarcely drew breath till he had got into his own littlecrib, in the wing set apart for the stable-men, when, at length, hefell into broken and agitated sleep,--the visions of all that hadsuccessively disturbed him waking, united confusedly, as in one pictureof gloom and terror. He thought that he was in his old loft in St.Giles's, that the Gravestealer was wrestling with Varney for his body,while he himself, lying powerless on his pallet, fancied he should besafe as long as he could retain, as a talisman, his child's coral, whichhe clasped to his heart. Suddenly, in that black, shapeless garb, inwhich he had beheld her, Madame Dalibard bent over him with her stern,colourless face, and wrenched from him his charm. Then, ceasing hisstruggle with his horrible antagonist, Varney laughed aloud, and theGravestealer seized him in his deadly arms.