David Elginbrod

Mrs. Elton took her place.

“The day is so warm and still, Mr. Arnold, that I think Lady Emily might have a drive to-day. Perhaps Miss Cameron may be able to join us by that time.”

“I cannot think what is the matter with Euphra,” said Mr. Arnold. “She never used to be affected in this way.”

“Should you not seek some medical opinion?” said Mrs. Elton. “These constant headaches must indicate something wrong.”

The constant headache had occurred just once before, since Mrs. Elton had formed one of the family. After a pause, Mr. Arnold reverted to the former subject.

“You are most welcome to the carriage, Mrs. Elton. I am sorry I cannot accompany you myself; but I must go to town to-day. You can take Mr. Sutherland with you, if you like. He will take care of you.”

“I shall be most happy,” said Hugh.

“So shall we all,” responded Mrs. Elton kindly. “Thank you, Mr. Arnold; though I am sorry you can’t go with us.”

“What hour shall I order the carriage?”

“About one, I think. Will Herr von Funkelstein favour us with his company?”

“I am sorry,” replied Funkelstein; “but I too must leave for London to-day. Shall I have the pleasure of accompanying you, Mr. Arnold?”

“With all my heart, if you can leave so early. I must go at once to catch the express train.”

“I shall be ready in ten minutes.”

“Very well.”

“Pray, Mrs. Elton, make my adieus to Miss Cameron. I am concerned to hear of her indisposition.”

“With pleasure. I am going to her now. Good-bye.”

As soon as Mrs. Elton left the breakfast-room, Mr. Arnold rose, saying:

“I will walk round to the stable, and order the carriage myself. I shall then be able, through your means, Mr. Sutherland, to put a stop to these absurd rumours in person. Not that I mean to say anything direct, as if I placed any importance upon it; but, the coachman being an old servant, I shall be able through him, to send the report of your courage and its result, all over the house.”

This was a very gracious explanation of his measures. As he concluded it, he left the room, without allowing time for a reply.

Hugh had not expected such an immediate consequence of his policy, and felt rather uncomfortable; but he soon consoled himself by thinking, “At least it will do no harm.”

While Mr. Arnold was speaking, Funkelstein had been writing at a side-table. He now handed Hugh a cheque on a London banking-house for a hundred guineas. Hugh, in his innocence, could not help feeling ashamed of gaining such a sum by such means; for betting, like tobacco-smoking, needs a special training before it can be carried out quite comfortably, especially by the winner, if he be at all of a generous nature. But he felt that to show the least reluctance would place him at great disadvantage with a man of the world like the count. He therefore thanked him slightly, and thrust the cheque into his trowsers-pocket, as if a greater sum of money than he had ever handled before were nothing more for him to win, than the count would choose it to be considered for him to lose. He thought with himself: “Ah! well, I need not make use of it;” and repaired to the school-room.

Here he found Harry waiting for him, looking tolerably well, and tolerably happy. This was a great relief to Hugh, for he had not seen him at the breakfast-table—Harry having risen early and breakfasted before; and he had felt very uneasy lest the boy should have missed him in the night (for they were still bed-fellows), and should in consequence have had one of his dreadful attacks of fear.—It was evident that this had not taken place.

CHAPTER XXVI. AN ACCIDENT

There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.Hamlet.

When Mrs. Elton left the breakfast table, she went straight to Miss Cameron’s room to inquire after her, expecting to find her maid with her. But when she knocked at the door, there was no reply.

She went therefore to her own room, and sent her maid to find Euphra’s maid.

She came.

“Is your mistress going to get up to-day, Jane?” asked Mrs. Elton.

“I don’t know, ma’am. She has not rung yet.”

“Have you not been to see how she is?”

“No, ma’am.”

“How was it you brought that message at breakfast, then?”

Jane looked confused, and did not reply.

“Jane!” said Mrs. Elton, in a tone of objurgation.

“Well, ma’am, she told me to say so,” answered Jane.

“How did she tell you?”

Jane paused again.

“Through the door, ma’am,” she answered at length; and then muttered, that they would make her tell lies by asking her questions she couldn’t answer; and she wished she was out of the house, that she did.

Mrs. Elton heard this, and, of course, felt considerably puzzled.

“Will you go now, please, and inquire after your mistress, with my compliments?”

“I daren’t, ma’am.”

“Daren’t! What do you mean?”

“Well, ma’am, there is something about my mistress—” Here she stopped abruptly; but as Mrs. Elton stood expectant, she tried to go on. All she could add, however, was—“No, ma’am; I daren’t.”

“But there is no harm in going to her room.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I go to her room, summer and winter, at seven o’clock every morning,” answered Jane, apparently glad to be able to say something.

“Why won’t you go now, then?”

“Why—why—because she told me—” Here the girl stammered and turned pale. At length she forced out the words—“She won’t let me tell you why,” and burst into tears.

“Won’t let you tell me?” repeated Mrs. Elton, beginning to think the girl must be out of her mind. Jane looked hurriedly over her shoulder, as if she expected to see her mistress standing behind her, and then said, almost defiantly:

“No, she won’t; and I can’t.”

With these words, she hurried out of the room, while Mrs. Elton turned with baffled bewilderment to seek counsel from the face of Margaret. As to what all this meant, I am in doubt. I have recorded it as Margaret told it to Hugh afterwards—because it seems to indicate something. It shows evidently enough, that if Euphra had more than a usual influence over servants in general, she had a great deal more over this maid in particular. Was this in virtue of a power similar to that of Count Halkar over herself? And was this, or something very different, or both combined, the art which he had accused her of first exercising upon him? Might the fact that her defeat had resulted in such absolute subjection, be connected with her possession of a power similar to his, which she had matched with his in vain? Of course I only suggest these questions. I cannot answer them.

At one o’clock, the carriage came round to the door; and Hugh, in the hope of seeing Euphra alone, was the first in the hall. Mrs. Elton and Lady Emily presently came, and proceeded to take their places, without seeming to expect Miss Cameron. Hugh helped them into the carriage; but, instead of getting in, lingered, hoping that Euphra was yet going to make her appearance.

“I fear Miss Cameron is unable to join us,” said Mrs. Elton, divining his delay.

“Shall I run up-stairs, and knock at her door?” said Hugh.

“Do,” said Mrs. Elton, who, after the unsatisfactory conversation she had held with her maid, had felt both uneasy and curious, all the morning.

Hugh bounded up-stairs; but, just as he was going to knock, the door opened, and Euphra, appeared.

“Dear Euphra! how ill you look!” exclaimed Hugh.

She was pale as death, and dark under the eyes; and had evidently been weeping.

“Hush! hush!” she answered. “Never mind. It is only a bad headache. Don’t take any notice of it.”

“The carriage is at the door. Will you not come with us?”

“With whom?”

“Lady Emily and Mrs. Elton.”

“I am sick of them.”

“I am going, Euphra.”

“Stay with me.”

“I must go. I promised to take care of them.”

“Oh, nonsense! What should happen to them? Stay with me.”

“No. I am very sorry. I wish I could.”

“Then I must go with you, I suppose.” Yet her tone expressed annoyance.

“Oh! thank you,” cried Hugh in delight. “Make haste. I will run down, and tell them to wait.”

He bounded away, and told the ladies that Euphra would join them in a few minutes.

But Euphra was cool enough to inflict on them quite twenty minutes of waiting; by which time she was able to behave with tolerable propriety. When she did appear at last, she was closely veiled, and stepped into the carriage without once showing her face. But she made a very pretty apology for the delay she had occasioned; which was certainly due, seeing it had been perfectly intentional. She made room for Hugh; he took his place beside her; and away they drove.

Euphra scarcely spoke; but begged indulgence, on the ground of her headache. Lady Emily enjoyed the drive very much, and said a great many pleasant little nothings.

“Would you like a glass of milk?” said Mrs. Elton to her, as they passed a farm-house on the estate.

“I should—very much,” answered Lady Emily.

The carriage was stopped, and the servant sent to beg a glass of milk. Euphra, who, from riding backward with a headache, had been feeling very uncomfortable for some time, wished to get out while the carriage was waiting. Hugh jumped out, and assisted her. She walked a little way, leaning on his arm, up to the house, where she had a glass of water; after which she said she felt better, and returned with him to the carriage. In getting in again, either from the carelessness or the weakness occasioned by suffering, her foot slipped from the step, and she fell with a cry of alarm. Hugh caught her as she fell; and she would not have been much injured, had not the horses started and sprung forward at the moment, so that the hind wheel of the carriage passed over her ankle. Hugh, raising her in his arms, found she was insensible.

He laid her down upon the grass by the roadside. Water was procured, but she showed no sign of recovering.—What was to be done? Mrs. Elton thought she had better be carried to the farm-house. Hugh judged it better to take her home at once. To this, after a little argument, Mrs. Elton agreed.

They lifted her into the carriage, and made what arrangements they best could to allow her to recline. Blood was flowing from her foot; and it was so much swollen that it was impossible to guess at the amount of the injury. The foot was already twice the size of the other, in which Hugh for the first time recognised such a delicacy of form, as, to his fastidious eye and already ensnared heart, would have been perfectly enchanting, but for the agony he suffered from the injury to the other. Yet he could not help the thought crossing his mind, that her habit of never lifting her dress was a very strange one, and that it must have had something to do with the present accident. I cannot account for this habit, but on one of two suppositions; that of an affected delicacy, or that of the desire that the beauty of her feet should have its full power, from being rarely seen. But it was dreadful to think how far the effects of this accident might permanently injure the beauty of one of them.

Hugh would have walked home that she might have more room, but he knew he could be useful when they arrived. He seated himself so as to support the injured foot, and prevent, in some measure, the torturing effects of the motion of the carriage. When they had gone about half-way, she opened her eyes feebly, glanced at him, and closed them again with a moan of pain.

He carried her in his arms up to her own room, and laid her on a couch. She thanked him by a pitiful attempt at a smile. He mounted his horse, and galloped for a surgeon.

The injury was a serious one; but until the swelling could be a little reduced, it was impossible to tell how serious. The surgeon, however, feared that some of the bones of the ankle might be crushed. The ankle seemed to be dislocated, and the suffering was frightful. She endured it well, however—so far as absolute silence constitutes endurance.

Hugh’s misery was extreme. The surgeon had required his assistance; but a suitable nurse soon arrived, and there was no pretext for his further presence in the sick chamber. He wandered about the grounds. Harry haunted his steps like a spaniel. The poor boy felt it much; and the suffering abstraction of Hugh sealed up his chief well of comfort. At length he went to Mrs. Elton, who did her best to console him.

By the surgeon’s express orders, every one but the nurse was excluded from Euphra’s room.

CHAPTER XXVII. MORE TROUBLES

Come on and do your best

To fright me with your sprites: you’re powerful at it.

You smell this business with a sense as cold As is a dead man’s nose.

A Winter’s Tale.

When Mr. Arnold came home to dinner, and heard of the accident, his first feeling, as is the case with weak men, was one of mingled annoyance and anger. Hugh was the chief object of it; for had he not committed the ladies to his care? And the economy of his house being partially disarranged by it, had he not a good right to be angry? His second feeling was one of concern for his niece, which was greatly increased when he found that she was not in a state to see him. Still, nothing must interfere with the order of things; and when Hugh went into the drawing-room at the usual hour, he found Mr. Arnold standing there in tail coat and white neck-cloth, looking as if he had just arrived at a friend’s house, to make one of a stupid party. And the party which sat down to dinner was certainly dreary enough, consisting only, besides the host himself, of Mrs. Elton, Hugh, and Harry. Lady Emily had had exertion enough for the day, and had besides shared in the shock of Euphra’s misfortune.

Mr. Arnold was considerably out of humour, and ready to pounce upon any object of complaint. He would have attacked Hugh with a pompous speech on the subject of his carelessness, but he was rather afraid of his tutor now;—so certainly will the stronger get the upper hand in time. He did not even refer to the subject of the accident. Therefore, although it filled the minds of all at table, it was scarcely more than alluded to. But having nothing at hand to find fault with more suitable, he laid hold of the first wise remark volunteered by good Mrs. Elton; whereupon an amusing pas de deux immediately followed; for it could not be called a duel, inasmuch as each antagonist kept skipping harmlessly about the other, exploding theological crackers, firmly believed by the discharger to be no less than bomb-shells. At length Mrs. Elton withdrew.

“By the way, Mr. Sutherland,” said Mr. Arnold, “have you succeeded in deciphering that curious inscription yet? I don’t like the ring to remain long out of my own keeping. It is quite an heirloom, I assure you.”

Hugh was forced to confess that he had never thought of it again.

“Shall I fetch it at once?” added he.

“Oh! no,” replied Mr. Arnold. “I should really like to understand the inscription. To-morrow will do perfectly well.”

They went to the drawing-room. Everything was wretched. However many ghosts might be in the house, it seemed to Hugh that there was no soul in it except in one room. The wind sighed fitfully, and the rain fell in slow, soundless showers. Mr. Arnold felt the vacant oppression as well as Hugh. Mrs Elton having gone to Lady Emily’s room, he proposed back gammon; and on that surpassing game, the gentlemen expended the best part of two dreary hours. When Hugh reached his room he was too tired and spiritless for any intellectual effort; and, instead of trying to decipher the ring, went to bed, and slept as if there were never a ghost or a woman in the universe.

His first proceeding, after breakfast next day, was to get together his German books; and his next to take out the ring, which was to be subjected to their analytical influences. He went to his desk, and opened the secret place. There he stood fixed.—The ring was gone. His packet of papers was there, rather crumpled: the ring was nowhere. What had become of it? It was not long before a conclusion suggested itself. It flashed upon him all at once.

“The ghost has got it,” he said, half aloud. “It is shining now on her dead finger. It was Lady Euphrasia. She was going for it then. It wasn’t on her thumb when she went. She came back with it, shining through the dark—stepped over me, perhaps, as I lay on the floor in her way.”

He shivered, like one in an ague-fit.

Again and again, with that frenzied, mechanical motion, which, like the eyes of a ghost, has “no speculation” in it, he searched the receptacle, although it freely confessed its emptiness to any asking eye. Then he stood gazing, and his heart seemed to stand still likewise.

But a new thought stung him, turning him almost sick with a sense of loss. Suddenly and frantically he dived his hand into the place yet again, useless as he knew the search to be. He took up his papers, and scattered them loose. It was all unavailing: his father’s ring was gone as well.

He sank on a chair for a moment; but, instantly recovering, found himself, before he was quite aware of his own resolution, halfway down stairs, on his way to Mr. Arnold’s room. It was empty. He rang for his servant. Mr. Arnold had gone away on horseback, and would not be home till dinner-time. Counsel from Mrs. Elton was hopeless. Help from Euphra he could not ask. He returned to his own room. There he found Harry waiting for him. His neglected pupil was now his only comforter. Such are the revenges of divine goodness.

“Harry!” he said, “I have been robbed.”

“Robbed!” cried Harry, starting up. “Never mind, Mr. Sutherland; my papa’s a justice of the peace. He’ll catch the thief for you.”

“But it’s your papa’s ring that they’ve stolen. He lent it to me, and what if he should not believe me?”

“Not believe you, Mr. Sutherland? But he must believe you. I will tell him all about it; and he knows I never told him a lie in my life.”

“But you don’t know anything about it, Harry.”

“But you will tell me, won’t you?”

Hugh could not help smiling with pleasure at the confidence his pupil placed in him. He had not much fear about being believed, but, at the best, it was an unpleasant occurrence.

The loss of his own ring not only added to his vexation, but to his perplexity as well. What could she want with his ring? Could she have carried with her such a passion for jewels, as to come from the grave to appropriate those of others as well as to reclaim her own? Was this her comfort in Hades, ‘poor ghost’?

Would it be better to tell Mr. Arnold of the loss of both rings, or should he mention the crystal only? He came to the conclusion that it would only exasperate him the more, and perhaps turn suspicion upon himself, if he communicated the fact that he too was a loser, and to such an extent; for Hugh’s ring was worth twenty of the other, and was certainly as sacred as Mr. Arnold’s, if not so ancient. He would bear it in silence. If the one could not be found, there could certainly be no hope of the other.

Punctual as the clock, Mr. Arnold returned. It did not prejudice him in favour of the reporter of bad tidings, that he begged a word with him before dinner, when that was on the point of being served. It was, indeed, exceeding impolitic; but Hugh would have felt like an impostor, had he sat down to the table before making his confession.

“Mr. Arnold, I am sorry to say I have been robbed, and in your house, too.”

“In my house? Of what, pray, Mr. Sutherland?”

Mr. Arnold had taken the information as some weak men take any kind of information referring to themselves or their belongings—namely, as an insult. He drew himself up, and lowered portentously.

“Of your ring, Mr. Arnold.”

“Of—my—ring?”

And he looked at his ring-finger, as if he could not understand the import of Hugh’s words.

“Of the ring you lent me to decipher,” explained Hugh.

“Do you suppose I do not understand you, Mr. Sutherland? A ring which has been in the family for two hundred years at least! Robbed of it? In my house? You must have been disgracefully careless, Mr. Sutherland. You have lost it.”

“Mr. Arnold,” said Hugh, with dignity, “I am above using such a subterfuge, even if it were not certain to throw suspicion where it was undeserved.”

Mr. Arnold was a gentleman, as far as his self-importance allowed. He did not apologize for what he had said, but he changed his manner at once.

“I am quite bewildered, Mr. Sutherland. It is a very annoying piece of news—for many reasons.”

“I can show you where I laid it—in the safest corner in my room, I assure you.”

“Of course, of course. It is enough you say so. We must not keep the dinner waiting now. But after dinner I shall have all the servants up, and investigate the matter thoroughly.”

“So,” thought Hugh with himself, “some one will be made a felon of, because the cursed dead go stalking about this infernal house at midnight, gathering their own old baubles. No, that will not do. I must at least tell Mr. Arnold what I know of the doings of the night.”

So Mr. Arnold must still wait for his dinner; or rather, which was really of more consequence in the eyes of Mr. Arnold, the dinner must be kept waiting for him. For order and custom were two of Mr. Arnold’s divinities; and the economy of his whole nature was apt to be disturbed by any interruption of their laws, such as the postponement of dinner for ten minutes. He was walking towards the door, and turned with some additional annoyance when Hugh addressed him again:

“One moment, Mr. Arnold, if you please.”

Mr. Arnold merely turned and waited.

“I fear I shall in some degree forfeit your good opinion by what I am about to say, but I must run the risk.”

Mr. Arnold still waited.

“There is more about the disappearance of the ring than I can understand.”

“Or I either, Mr. Sutherland.”

“But I must tell you what happened to myself, the night that I kept watch in Lady Euphrasia’s room.”

“You said you slept soundly.”

“So I did, part of the time.”

“Then you kept back part of the truth?”

“I did.”

“Was that worthy of you?”

“I thought it best: I doubted myself.”

“What has caused you to change your mind now?”

“This event about the ring.”

“What has that to do with it? How do you even know that it was taken on that night?”

“I do not know; for till this morning I had not opened the place where it lay: I only suspect.”

“I am a magistrate, Mr. Sutherland: I would rather not be prejudiced by suspicions.”

“The person to whom my suspicions refer, is beyond your jurisdiction, Mr. Arnold.”

“I do not understand you.”

“I will explain myself.”

Hugh gave Mr. Arnold a hurried yet circumstantial sketch of the apparition he believed he had seen.

“What am I to judge from all this?” asked he, coldly, almost contemptuously.

“I have told you the facts; of course I must leave the conclusions to yourself, Mr. Arnold; but I confess, for my part, that any disbelief I had in apparitions is almost entirely removed since—”

“Since you dreamed you saw one?”

“Since the disappearance of the ring,” said Hugh.

“Bah!” exclaimed Mr. Arnold, with indignation. “Can a ghost fetch and carry like a spaniel? Mr. Sutherland, I am ashamed to have such a reasoner for tutor to my son. Come to dinner, and do not let me hear another word of this folly. I beg you will not mention it to any one.”

“I have been silent hitherto, Mr. Arnold; but circumstances, such as the commitment of any one on the charge of stealing the ring, might compel me to mention the matter. It would be for the jury to determine whether it was relevant or not.”

It was evident that Mr. Arnold was more annoyed at the imputation against the nocturnal habits of his house, than at the loss of the ring, or even its possible theft by one of his servants. He looked at Hugh for a moment as if he would break into a furious rage; then his look gradually changed into one of suspicion, and, turning without another word, he led the way to the dining-room, followed by Hugh. To have a ghost held in his face in this fashion, one bred in his own house, too, when he had positively declared his absolute contempt for every legend of the sort, was more than man could bear. He sat down to dinner in gloomy silence, breaking it only as often as he was compelled to do the duties of a host, which he performed with a greater loftiness of ceremony than usual.