Luke Blacket was waiting to let me in, and whether it was that my strained fancies tricked me into discovering a mute hostility upon his face, but it broke in upon me with a full significance that all the servants, down to the lowest scullion, must be in the secret, and were leagued against me. I saw myself entering a trap, and so piercing a sense of loneliness invaded me, that I plumbed to the very bottom of despondency. I stood in the doorway gazing across the valley. The hills stood sentinel leaguering me about, the voices of innumerable freshets sounded chilly in my ears, as though their laughter had something of a heedless cruelty; my whole nature cried out for a companion, and with so urgent a demand that I bethought me of the light shining in the steward’s office. It would be Aron without a doubt, sitting late over the books. I went down the passage and opened the door.
Aron rose hastily to his feet, and began some apology.
“Mr. Ashlock,” he said, “requested me——” But I cut him short, weary for one honest word of truth.
“That will do, Aron. I have no wish to disturb you;” and I threw myself on to a couch which was ranged against the wall. “I am very tired,” said I, and lay with my eyes closed
Aron’s pen stopped scratching. He sat for a second without moving. Then he came over to the couch, and, or ever I was aware of it, began pulling off my boots.
I opened my eyes and started up. In his old, worn face there was a look of friendliness which at that moment cheered me inexpressibly.
“Nay,” said I, “you are too old a servant, Aron, to offer help of that kind, and I too young a master to accept it. Let it be!”
He straightened his back, and the friendliness increased upon his face. He glanced quickly about the room, and stepped softly to my side.
“Master Lawrence,” he began, in much the tone a nurse may use to a child, and then, “sir, I mean, I beg your pardon.” In a trice he was the formal, precise servant again.
“Nay,” said I, “I know not but what I like the first title the better.”
“It was a liberty,” said he, with his face grown rigid.
“And the privilege of an old servant,” I replied. “But that is just the point You are not my servant, except in name,” and I turned my head petulantly away.
The next moment his mouth was at my ear.
“Master Lawrence,” he said, in a voice which was very low, “Master Lawrence, were I you, I would not ride again to Keswick.”
I started up. Aron flushed so that the bald top of his head grew red, hopped back to his table, bit his pen, and set to writing at an indescribable rate, as though he was sensible he had said too much.
I leaned upon my elbow and looked at him. So I had a friend in the household, after all! I hugged the thought close to me. Had he any precise knowledge which prompted the advice? I wondered. But I could not ask him, and for this reason amongst others—I was too grateful for this proof of his goodwill to provoke him to a further indiscretion. But as I looked at him, I recalled something which I had noticed whilst riding about the estate. I suppose it was his scribbling at the papers put it into my head, but once it had come there, I thought vaguely that it might be of relevance.
“Aron,” I said, “this plumbago? It is a valuable product?”
He looked at me startled
“Yes,” said he.
“The mine is opened once in five years?”
“Yes.”
“And on that side of the mountain which faces Borrowdale?”
“Yes.”
And with each assent his uneasiness increased.
“But there’s a ravine runs back by the flank of the mountain, and on the mountain-side there I saw a small lateral shaft.”
“It is closed now, and has been for long,” he interrupted eagerly.
“But it was open once,” I persisted. “The place is secret. Who opened it?”
“It was opened during Sir John Rookley*s life,” he answered, evading the question.
“No doubt; but by whom?”
He shuffled his feet beneath the table.
I repeated the question.
“By whom?”
“By Mr. Jervas,” he answered reluctantly.
“With Sir John’s knowledge and consent?”
Aron glanced at me with an almost piteous expression.
“Sir John knew of it”
“But before it was opened, or afterwards?”
The answer was slow in coming, but it came at last
“Afterwards.”
“Then I take it,” I resumed, “that Mr Jervas Rookley robbed his father?”
I spoke in a loud tone, and Aron started from his seat, his eyes drawn towards the door. I rose from the sofa and opened it; there was no one in the passage, but I left the door open. When I turned back again I saw that Aron was looking at me in some perplexity, as if he wondered whether I knew.
“But his father forgave him,” he said gently.
“Very true,” said I, fixing my eyes steadily upon him; “and besides, it is hardly fair to rake up the misdeeds of a man who is so very far away.”
I spoke the words very slowly one by one. Aron’s mouth dropped; a paper which he had been holding in his hand fluttered to the floor. The perplexity in his eyes changed into a blank bewilderment, and from bewilderment to fear.
“You know, sir?” he whispered, nodding his head once or twice in a way that was grotesque. “Then you know?”
“I know this, Aron,” I interrupted hastily. “I hold the estate of Blackladies upon this condition: that I do not knowingly part with a farthing of its revenue to Mr. Jervas Rookley. You know that? You know that if I fail to fulfil that condition the estate goes to the Crown?”
Aron nodded.
“But this you do not know,” I continued. “When Ashlock came to me in Paris, and told me that Mr. Jervas was disinherited because he was a Jacobite, I refused to supplant him, being a Jacobite myself. It was my steward who persuaded me, and by this argument: that when King James came to his throne, the will might easily be set aside. I accepted Blackladies upon those terms as a trust for Mr. Jervas. But to keep that trust I must fulfil the conditions of the will. I must not knowingly do aught for Mr. Rookley. The condition should be easy, for I have never been presented to Mr. Jervas. I have not so much as seen a portrait of him” and at this Aron started a little; “he might be living in my house as one of my servants. I might even suspect which was he; but I should have no proof. I should not know.”
Aron gazed at me with wondering eyes.
“You hold Blackladies in trust for Mr. Jervas?” he asked, and I gathered from the tone of the question that my steward had thought fit to keep that knowledge to himself.
“And hope to do so until it can be restored to him. But,” I urged, “I am in no great favour with the Whigs in these parts, and if they could prove I knowingly supported Mr. Jervas, they would not, I fancy, miss the occasion. My attorney, for instance, is a Whig and the attorney of Whigs, and they tell me strangely enough that Mr. Jervas Rookley has been seen in Keswick.”
Aron, however, seemed to be thinking of something totally apart He said again, and with the same wonderment—
“You hold Blackladies in trust for Mr. Jervas?”
“That is so,” said I, “but it need not keep us out of bed.” And I walked into the passage.
Aron lifted up the lamp and very politely led the way to my door. There he stopped and came into the room with me.
“Sir,” said he, setting down the lamp, “yon will pardon me one more question?”
“It is another privilege of the old servant,” I answered with a yawn.
“You were poor when Mr. Ashlock came to you in Paris?”
“Penniless,” said I, and I began kicking off my boots lazily.
“Then God knows,” he cried, “I would you were Sir John Rookley’s son;” and with that he plumped down on his knees and drew off my boots. And this time I suffered him to do it
I had not done with him, however, even for that night. For an hour or so later, when I was asleep in bed, some one shook me by the shoulder. I looked with blinking eyes at the flame of a candle held an inch from my nose. Behind the candle was Aron, with a coat buttoned up to his chin as though he had thrown it over his nightgear.
“Aron,” I said plaintively, “the question will keep till to-morrow.”
“It is no question, sir, and to-morrow I shall be in Newlands,” he said gravely. “I know nothing—only, were I you, I would not ride again to Keswick.”
“Well, I shall not ride there to-morrow, at all events,” I said, “since to-morrow I leave for Grasmere.”
But on the morrow I did ride thither after all. For I woke up the next morning with one thought fixed in my mind, as though it had taken definite shape there the while I lay asleep. I must discover Rookley’s business with Anthony Herbert. The matter was too urgent for delay. My resolve to sit no more for my portrait, my journey to Grasmere I set on one side; and while I was yet at breakfast I ordered a horse to be saddled. The fellow hurried off upon the errand, and I seemed to detect, not merely in his bearing but in the bearing of all who had attended me that morning, a new deference and alertness in their service; and I wondered whether Aron had shared with them his recent knowledge of my purpose.
As I rode down the drive I chanced to look back to the house, and I saw Aron on the steps, shaking his head dolefully, but I kept on my way.
Mr. Herbert received me with the air of a man that seeks to master an excitement He worked fitfully, with fitful intervals of talk, and I remarked a deep-seated fire in his eyes, and a tremulous wavering of the lips. His manner kept me watchful, but never a hint did he drop of any design between my steward and himself. On the contrary, his conversation was all in praise of his wife, and the great store and reliance he set on her. I listened to it for some while, deeming it not altogether extravagant; but after a little I began again to fall back upon my old question, “What end could my steward serve by playing me false?” and again, “In what respect could Herbert help him?”
In the midst of these speculations, an incident occurred which struck them clean out of my mind. I was attracted first of all by something which Herbert was saying.
“It is out of the fashion,” he said, with a sneer, “for a man to care for his wife, and ludicrous to own to it. But it is one of the few privileges of an artist, however poor he be, that he need take no stock of fashions; and for my part, Mr. Clavering, I love my wife.”
I replied carelessly enough that the profession was very creditable to him, for in truth I had seen him behave towards her with so cruel an inconsistency of temper that I was disinclined to rate his protestations very high.
“And so greatly, Mr. Clavering,” he went on—“so greatly do I love her, that”—and here he threw down his pencils and took a step or two until he reached the window—“that if aught happened amiss to her I do not think I should live long after it. If she deceived me, I do not think that I should care to live. I do not think I should even hold it worth while to exact a retribution from the man who helped in the deceit.”
And I saw his wife in the open doorway. She must have caught every word. I saw a flush as of anger overspread her face, and the flush give place to pallor.
“Mr. Ashlock, my steward, was with you last night, Mr. Herbert. Was it upon this subject that you talked?”
Herbert flung round upon his heel
“You take a tone I do not understand,” he said, after a pause. “You may have a right to pry into the conversations of your servants, Mr. Clavering, but I am not one of them—” and of a sudden he caught sight of his wife in the doorway. “You here?” he asked with a start.
“It is only fair,” she answered, “that I should be present when you discuss my frailties with your patrons. But it seems,” and her voice hardened audibly, “you do me the kindness to discuss them with your patrons’ servants too.”
She stood before him superb in pride; every line of her body seemed to demand an answer.
“It is because I love you,” he answered feebly; and at that her quietude gave way.
She flung up her arms above her head.
“Because you love me! “she cried “Was ever woman so insulted, and on so mean a plea?” And she sank down at the table in a passion of tears.
Herbert stepped over to her, and laid a hand upon her shoulder.
She shook his hand off, and rising of a sudden, confronted me with a blazing face.
“And you!” she cried bitterly—“you could listen to such talk—ay, like your servant!” And she swept out of the room before either her husband or myself could find a word to say.
Indeed, though I had not thought of the matter in that light before, I considered her accusation of the justest, and the sound of her sobbing remained in my ears, tingling me to pity of the woman and a sore indignation against the husband. It was for myself I should have felt that indignation I knew well, but I am relating what occurred, and—well, maybe I paid for the offence heavily enough.
“Mr. Herbert,” said I, rising, with as much calmness as I could command, “I will not trouble you to continue the work.”
“But the portrait!” he exclaimed, almost in alarm. “It is my best work!” And he stood a little aloof gazing at it.
“The portrait!” I cried, in a fury at his insensibility—“the portrait may go hang!”
“On the walls of Blackladies?” he asked, with a quick sneer.
“Oh,” said I slowly, “you gossiped to some purpose with my steward, it appears.”
He stood confused and silent I went into the room where it was my habit to change my dress, and left him. But when I came out I found him standing in the passage with a lighted candle in his hand, though it was broad noonday. Doubtless I looked my surprise at him.
“An ill-lighted staircase, Mr. Clavering, is the devil,” he remarked; and with a sardonic deference he preceded me to the street.
“It will rain, I think,” he said, looking op at the sky.
“The air is very heavy,” said I.
He stretched out the candlestick to the full length of his arm, and the flame barely wavered.
“Yes, no doubt it will rain,” he repeated.
I noticed that one or two people who were passing up the street stopped, as well they might, and stared at us. I bent forward and blew out the candle.
“You will pardon me,” I said.
“It has served its purpose,” said he, and he kicked the door to behind me.
I mounted, and walked my horse slowly homewards. About two miles from the town I dismounted, and tethering my horse to a tree, paced about the lake shores, resolved to unpick his sentences word by word until I had disentangled from amongst them some reference which would give me an inkling into the steward’s designs. He had told Herbert of that talk we had had together in the hall concerning the hanging of the picture. Of so much I was assured, and so much I still found myself abstractedly repeating an hour later. For alas! in spite of my resolve, my thoughts had flown along a very different path. I had a vision of the woman, and her alternations from pride to tears, ever fixed before my eyes. It was myself who had caused them. One moment I accused myself for not undertaking her defence, the next for that I had ever entered her lodging; and whatever outcry I made sprang from the single conviction that I was responsible to her for the distress which she had shown. Just for that moment there seemed but two people upon God’s earth—myself and a woman wronged by me.
“Mr. Clavering.”
The name was uttered behind me with an involuntary cry, and I knew the voice. I turned me about, and there was Mrs. Herbert standing in a gap of the trees.
She was dressed as I had seen her an hour ago, with the addition of a hood thrown loosely over her head.
“What can I do?” I cried. “I can think of nothing. It is my fault, all this. God knows I am sensible of the remorse; I feel it at the very core of my heart; but that does not help me to the remedy. What can I do?”
“It is not your fault,” she replied gently. “This would have happened sooner or later. Jealousy is never at a loss to invent an opportunity. No, it is not your fault”
“But it is,” I cried. “You know it; you know that the excuse you make for me is no more than a kindly sophistry. It is my fault. What can I do?”
She gave me no answer; indeed, it almost seemed as though there was something of impatience in her attitude.
I moved a few steps away and sat down upon a boulder by the water’s edge, with my head between my hands.
“There is but one thing that I can do,” I said, and I heard her move a step or two nearer. “But it is so small, so poor a thing; “and at that I think she stopped. “I shall not go back again to Mr. Herbert’s lodging.”
“Neither shall I.”
The words dulled and stupefied me like a blow. I sat staring out across the lake, and I noticed a ripple that broke and broke in a tiny wave, ever at the same spot, some thirty yards from the shore. I fell to counting the waves, I remember, and lost my reckoning and began afresh; and in a while I commenced to laugh, though it did not sound like laughter.
“Neither shall I,” she repeated, and struck the laugh dead. I started from my seat. She stood patiently before me with folded hands, and to argue against that patience seemed the merest waste of words. Before, however, I could make the effort, her spirit changed. Passion leapt out of her like a flame. “I hate him,” she cried, beating her hands one upon the other. “Oh, to be made a common talk for his acquaintances! The humiliation of it! Servants too, he will debate of me with them, for them to mock at.”
“No!” I answered vehemently. “You do not know that. It was I that spoke of my steward and I knew nothing. I did but guess idly, heedlessly. It was not he, it was I who spoke of Ashlock.” But there was no sign of assent in her demeanour. “It was I spoke of him,” I repeated, “and before you. Ah, God, it is my doing this, from the beginning to the end!”
“Think!” she went on, taking no more notice of my interruption. “They are making merry over me in your servants’ hall. Think, Lancelot!”
She tried to check the name, but it was carried beyond her lips on the stream of her passion. A great silence fell upon us both; I saw the colour come and go fitfully upon her face, and her bosom rise and fall with her fitful breath. Then she covered her face with her hands and sank down upon the boulder.
Yes, I thought, it was my fault. They had quarrelled before, but never for such a reason; and that reason I had provided. I had gone there of my own free will to serve my own objects. But, somehow, as I looked at her seated by my side, the thought of the slatternly room she had been compelled to live in shot into my mind. I remembered how unfitted to her I had thought it on my first going thither. Of a sudden, while I was thus watching her, she lifted her eyes to mine. What babbling incoherencies I spoke, I do not know; I do not think she caught more than their drift. If they are known at all, it is because they stand ranged against my name in the Judgment Book. I became like one drunk, his senses reeling, his words the froth of his vilest passions. I think that I cried.
“Be it so, then! Since the harm is done, let the name be Lancelot;” but I know that she rode before me on my horse to the gates of Blackladies, that we dismounted there and walked up to the house; and that I found the hall-door open, and the house to all seeming deserted.
Now, this day was the 23rd of August