How the First Floor Went to Crowley Castle, Pt. 2

PART TWO OF HOW THE FIRST FLOOR WENT TO CROWLEY CASTLE BY ELIZABETH CASCLE A fortnight later, when no news had come from Theresa for many weeks, a poor chaise was seen from the castle windows, lumbering slowly up the carriage road to the gates. No one thought much of it. Perhaps it was some friend of the housekeepers, perhaps it was some humble relation of Mrs. dukes, for many such had found out their cousin since her marriage. No one noticed the shabby carriage much until the hall porter was startled by the sound of the great bell pealing, and, on opening wide the hall doors, saw standing before him the Mademoiselle Victorine of old days, thinner, sallower in mourning. In the carriage sat Theresa, in the deep widow's weeds of those days. She looked out of the carriage window, wistfully, in beyond Joseph, the hall porter. "'My father!' she cried eagerly, before Victorine could speak. "'Is Sir Mark well?' Alive was her first thought, but she dared not give the word utterance. "'Call Mr. Duke,' said Joseph, speaking to someone unseen. Then he came forward. "'God bless you, miss, God bless you, and this day of all days. Sir Mark is well—leastways, he's sadly changed. Where's Mr. Duke? Call him. My young lady's fainting.' And this was Theresa's return home. No one ever knew how much she had suffered since she had left home. If any one had known, Victorine would never have stood there dressed in that mourning. She put it on, sorely against her will, for the purpose of upholding the lying fiction of Theresa's having been a happy, prosperous marriage. She was always indignant if any of the old servants fell back into the once-familiar appellation of Miss Theresa. "'The Countess!' she would say, in lofty rebuke. What passed between Theresa and her father at that first interview? No one ever knew. Whether she told him anything of her married life, or whether she only soothed the tears he shed on seeing her again by sweet repetition of tender words and caresses, such as are the sugared pabulum of age as well as of infancy, no one ever knew. Neither Duke nor his wife ever heard her allude to the time she had passed in Paris except in the most cursory and superficial manner. Sir Mark was anxious to show her that all was forgiven, and would fain have displaced Bessie from her place as Lady of the Castle, and made Theresa take the headship of the house and sit at a table where the mistress ought to be. And Bessie would have given up her onerous dignities without a word, for Duke was always more jealous for his wife's position than she herself was. But Theresa declined to assume any such place in the household, saying, in the languid way which now seemed habitual to her, that English housekeeping and all the domestic arrangements of an English country house were cumbrous and wearisome to her, that if Bessie would continue to act as she had done hitherto, and would so forestall what must be her natural duties at some future period, she, Theresa, should be infinitely obliged. Bessie consented, and in everything tried to remember what Theresa liked, and how affairs were ordered in the old Theresa days. She wished the servants to feel that the countess had equal rights with herself in the management of the house, but she, to whom the housekeeper takes her accounts, she, in whose hands the power of conferring favours and privileges remains de facto, will always be held by servants as the mistress. And Theresa's claims soon sank into the background, at first she was too broken-spirited, too languid, to care for anything but quiet rest in her father's companionship. They sat sometimes for hours hand in hand, or they sauntered out on to the terraces, hardly speaking, but happy, because they were once more together, and once more on loving terms. Theresa grew strong during this time of gentle brooding peace. The pinched pale face of anxiety, lined with traces of suffering, relaxed into the soft oval. The light came into the eyes, the colour came into the cheeks. But in the autumn after Theresa's return, Sir Mark died. It had been a gradual decline of strength, and his last moments were passed in her arms. Her new misfortune threw her back into the one worn creature she had been when she first came home, a widow, to Crowley Castle. She shut herself up in her rooms, and allowed no one to come near her but Victorine. Neither Duke nor Bessie was admitted into the darkened rooms, which she had hung with black cloth in solemn funereal state. Victorine's life, since her return to the castle, had been anything but peaceable. New powers had arisen in the housekeeper's room. Madam Brownlow had her maid, far more exacting than Madam Brownlow herself, and a new housekeeper reigned in the place of her who was formerly but an echo of Victorine's opinions. Victorine's own temper, too, was not improved by her four years abroad, and there was a general disposition among the servants to resist all her assumption of authority. She felt her powerlessness after a struggle or two, but treasured up her vengeance. If she had lost power over the household, however, there was no diminution of her influence over her mistress. It was her device, at last, that lured the countess out of her gloomy seclusion. Almost the only creature Victorine cared for, besides Theresa, was the little Mary Brownlow. What there was of softness in her woman's nature seemed to come out towards children, though, if the child had been a boy instead of a girl, it is probable that Victorine might not have taken it into her good graces. As it was, the French nurse and the English child were capital friends, and when Victorine sent Mary into the countess's room, and bade her not be afraid, but asked the lady, in her infantime babble, to come out and see Mary's snowman, she knew that the little one, for her sake, would put her small hand into Theresa's, and thus plead with more success, because with less purpose, than anyone else had been able to plead. Out came Theresa, colourless and sad, holding Mary by the hand. They went, unobserved as they thought, to the great gallery window, and looked out into the courtyard. Then Theresa returned to her rooms, but the ice was broken, and before the winter was over, Theresa fell into her old ways, and sometimes smiled, and sometimes even laughed, until chance visitors again spoke of her rare beauty and her courtly grace. It was noticeable that Theresa revived first out of her lassitude to an interest in all Duke's pursuits. She grew weary of Bessie's small cares and domestic talk, now about the servants, now about her mother and the parsonage, now about the parish. She questioned Duke about his travels, and could enter into his appreciation and judgment of foreign nations. She perceived the latent powers of his mind. She became impatient of their remaining dormant in country seclusion. She had spoken of leaving Crowley Castle, and of finding some other home soon after her father's death, but both Duke and Bessie had urged her to stay with them, Bessie saying, in the pure innocence of her heart, how glad she was, in the probably increasing cares of her nursery, Duke would have a companion so much to his mind. About a year after St. Mark's death, the member for Sussex died, and Theresa set herself to stir up Duke to assume his place. With some difficulty, for Bessie was passive, perhaps even opposed to the scheme in her quiet way. Theresa succeeded, and Duke was elected. She was vexed at Bessie's torpor, as she called it, in the whole affair, vexed as she now often was, Bessie's sluggish interest in all things beyond her immediate ken. Once when Theresa tried to make Bessie perceive how Duke might shine and rise in his new sphere, Bessie burst into tears, and said, You speak as if his presence here were nothing, and his fame in London everything. I cannot help fearing that he will leave off caring for all the quiet ways in which we have been so happy ever since we were married. But when he is here, replied Theresa, and when he wants to talk to you of politics, of foreign news, of great public interest, you drag him down to your level of woman's cares. Do I, said Bessie, do I drag him down? I wish I was cleverer, but you know, Theresa, I was never clever in anything but housewifery. Theresa was touched for a moment by this humility. Yet, Bessie, you have a great deal of judgment if you will but exercise it. Try and take an interest in all he cares for, as well as making him try and take an interest in home affairs." But somehow this kind of conversation, too, often ended in dissatisfaction on both sides, and the servants gathered, from induction rather than from words, that the two ladies were not, on the most cordial terms, however friendly they might wish to be, and might strive to appear. Madam Hawtry, too, allowed her jealousy of Theresa to deepen into dislike. She was jealous because, in some unreasonable way, she had taken it into her head that Theresa's presence at the castle was the reason why she was not urged to take up her abode there on Sir Mark's death, as if there were not rooms and suites of rooms enough to lodge a wilderness of dowagers in the building, if the owner so wished. But Duke had certain ideas pretty strongly fixed in his mind, and one was a repugnance to his mother-in-law's constant company. But he greatly increased her income as soon as he had it in his power, and left it entirely to herself how she should spend it. Having now the means of travelling about, Madam Hawtry betook herself pretty frequently to such watering-places as were in vogue at that day, or went to pay visits at the houses of those friends who occasionally came lumbering up in shabby vehicles to visit their cousin Bessie at the castle. Theresa cared little for Madam Hawtry's coldness—perhaps, indeed, never perceived it. She gave up striving with Bessie too. It was hopeless to try to make her an intellectual, ambitious companion to her husband. He had spoken in the house. He had written a pamphlet that made much noise. The minister of the day had sought him out, and was trying to attach him to the government. Theresa, with her Parisian experience of the way in which women influence politics, would have given anything for the Brownlows to have taken a house in London. She longed to see the great politicians, to find herself in the thick of the struggle for place and power, the brilliant centre of all that was worth hearing and seeing in the kingdom. There had been some talk of this same London house, but Bessie had pleaded against it earnestly, while Theresa sat by, in indignant silence, until she could bear the discussion no longer, going off to her own sitting-room, where Victorine was at work. Here her pent-up words found vent, not addressed to her servant, but not restrained before her. I cannot bear it to see him cramped in by her narrow mind, to hear her weak, selfish arguments, urged because she feels she would be out of place beside him. And Duke is hampered with this woman, he whose powers are unknown even to himself, or he would put her feeble nature on one side and seek his higher atmosphere. How he would shine! How he does shine! Good heaven! To think! And here she sank into silence, watched by Victorine's furtive eyes. Duke had excelled all he had previously done by some great burst of eloquence, and the country rang with his words. He was to come down to Crowley Castle for a parliamentary recess, which occurred almost immediately after this. Theresa calculated the hours of each part of the complicated journey, and could have told to five minutes when he might be expected. But the baby was ill, and absorbed all Bessie's attention. She was in the nursery by the cradle in which the child slept, when her husband came riding up to the castle gate. But Theresa was at the gate, her hair all out of powder, and blowing away into dishevelled curls, as the hood of her cloak fell back. Her lips parted with a breathless welcome, her eyes shining out love and pride. Duke was but mortal. All London chanted his rising fame, and here in his home Theresa seemed to be the only person who appreciated him. The servants clustered in the great hall, for it was now some length of time since he had been at home. Victorine was there with some headgear for her lady, and when, in reply to his inquiry for his wife, the grave butler asserted that she was with young master, who was, they feared, very seriously ill, Victorine said, with the familiarity of an old servant, and as if to assuage Duke's anxiety, Madame fancies the child is ill, because she can think of nothing but him, and perpetual watching has made her nervous. The child, however, was really ill, and after a brief greeting to her husband, Bessie returned to her nursery, leaving Theresa to question, to hear, to sympathise. That night she gave way to another burst of disparaging remarks, on poor motherly homely Bessie, and that night Victorine thought she read a deeper secret in Theresa's heart. The child was scarcely ever out of its mother's arms, but the illness became worse, and it was nigh unto death. Some cream had been set aside for the little wailing creature, and Victorine had unwittingly used it for the making of a cosmetic for her mistress. When the servant in charge of it reproved her, a quarrel began as to their respective mistress's right to give orders in the household. Before the dispute ended, pretty strong things had been said on both sides. The child died. The air was lifeless. The servants were in whispering dismay, and bustling discussion of their mourning. Duke felt the vanity of fame as compared to a baby's life. Theresa was full of sympathy, but dared not express it to him, so tender was her heart becoming. Victorine regretted the death in her own way. Bessie lay speechless and tearless, not caring for loving voices, nor for gentle touches, taking neither food nor drink, neither sleeping nor weeping. Sent for her mother, the doctor said, for Madame Hortory was away on her visits, and the letters telling her of her grandchild's illness had not reached her in the slow-delaying cross-country posts of those days. So she was sent for, by a man riding express, as a quicker and surer means than the post. Meanwhile, the nurses, exhausted by their watching, found the care of little Mary by day quite enough. Madame's maid sat up with Bessie for a night or two, Duke striding in from time to time through the dark hours to look at the white motionless face, which would have seemed like the face of one dead, but for the long quivering sighs that came up from the overladen heart. The doctor tried his drugs in vain, and then he tried again. This night Victorine, at her own earnest request, sat up instead of the maid. As usual, towards midnight, Duke came stealing in with shaded light. Hush! said Victorine, her finger on her lips. She sleeps at last. Morning, dawn, faint and pale, and still she slept. The doctor came and stole in on tiptoe, rejoicing in the effects of his drugs. They all stood round the bed, Duke, Teresa, Victorine. Suddenly, the doctor, a strange change upon him, a strange fear in his face, felt the patient's pulse, put his ear to her open lips, called for a glass, a feather. The mirror was not dimmed. The delicate fibres stirred not. Bessie was dead. I pass rapidly over many months. Teresa was again overwhelmed with grief, or rather, I should say remorse, for now that Bessie was gone and buried out of sight, all her innocent virtues, all her feminine homeliness came vividly into Teresa's mind, not as wearisome, but as admirable qualities of which she had been too blind to perceive the value. Bessie had been her old companion too, in her happy days of childhood and of innocence. Teresa rather shunned than sought Duke's company now. She remained at the castle, it is true, and Madame Hortory, as Teresa's only condition of continuing where she was, came to live under the same roof. Duke felt his wife's death deeply, but reasonably, as became his character. He was perplexed by Teresa's bursts of grief, knowing, as he dimly did, that she and Bessie had not lived together in perfect harmony. But he was much in London now, a rising statesman, and when, in autumn, he spent some time at the castle, he was full of admiration for the strangely patient way in which Teresa behaved towards the old lady. It seemed to Duke that in his absence Madame Hortory had assumed absolute power in his household, and that the high-spirited Teresa submitted to her fantasies with even more docility than her own daughter would have done. Towards Mary, Teresa was always kind and indulgent. Another autumn came, and before it went, old ties were renewed, and Teresa was pledged to become her cousin's wife. There were two people strongly affected by the news when it was promulgated. One, and this was natural under the circumstances, was Madame Hortory, who chose to resent the marriage as a deep personal offence to herself, as well as to her daughter's memory, and who, sternly rejecting all Teresa's entreaties and Duke's invitation to continue her residence at the castle, went off into lodgings in the village. The only other person strongly affected by the news was Victorine. From being a dry, active, energetic, middle-aged woman, she now, at the time of Teresa's engagement, sank into the passive langour of advanced life. It seemed as if she felt no more need of effort or strain or exertion. She sought solitude, liked nothing better than to sit in her room adjoining Teresa's dressing-room, sometimes sunk in her reverie, sometimes employed on an intricate piece of knitting with almost spasmodic activity. But wherever Teresa went, thither would Victorine go. Teresa had imagined that her old nurse would prefer being left at the castle in the soothing tranquillity of the country, to accompanying her and her husband to the house in Grosvenor Square, which they had taken for the parliamentary season. But the mere offer of a choice seemed to irritate Victorine inexpressibly. She looked upon the proposal as a sign that Teresa considered her as superannuated, that her nurseling was weary of her, and wished to supplant her services by those of a younger maid. It seemed impossible to dislodge this idea when it had once entered into her head, and it led to frequent bursts of temper, in which she violently upbraided Teresa for her ingratitude towards so faithful a follower. One day, Victorine went a little further in her expressions than usual, and Teresa, usually so forbearing towards her, turned at last. "'Really, Victorine,' she said, "'this is misery to both of us. "'You say you never feel so wicked "'as when I am near you, "'that my ingratitude is such "'as would be disowned by fiends. "'What can I—what must I do? "'You say you are never so unhappy "'as when you are near me. "'Must we then part? "'Would that be for your happiness?' "'And is that what it has come to? "'In my country, "'they reckon a building secure "'against the wind and storm "'and all the ravages of time "'if the first mortar used "'has been tempered with human blood. "'But not even our joint secret, "'though it was tempered well with blood, "'can hold our lives together. "'How much less all the care, "'all the love that I lavished upon you "'in the days of my youth and strength!' "'Theresa came close to the chair "'in which Victorine was seated. "'She took hold of her hand "'and held it fast in her own. "'Speak, Victorine,' said she hoarsely, "'and tell me what you mean. "'What is our joint secret? "'And what do you mean "'by its being a secret of blood? "'Speak out. "'I will know.' "'As if you do not know,' "'replied Victorine harshly. "'You don't remember my visits to Bianconi, "'the Italian chemist in the Marais, long ago.' "'She looked into Theresa's face "'to see if her words had suggested "'any deeper meaning than met the ear. "'No, Theresa's look was stern, "'but free and innocent. "'You told me you went there "'to learn the composition of certain "'unguents and cosmetics "'and domestic medicines.' "'Ay, and bid aye for my knowledge too. "'said Victorine with a loud chuckle. "'I learned more than you have mentioned, "'my Lady Countess. "'I learnt the secret nature of many drugs. "'To speak plainly, "'I learnt the art of poisoning. "'And, suddenly standing up, "'it was for your sake I learnt it, "'for your service, "'for you, who would fain "'cast me off in my old age, for you.' "'Theresa blanched to a deadly white, "'but she tried to move "'neither feature nor limb, "'nor to avert her eyes "'for one moment "'from the eyes that defied her. "'For my service, Victorine? "'Yes, the quieting draught "'was all ready for your husband "'when they brought him home dead. "'Thank God his death "'does not lie at your door.' "'Thank God!' mocked Victorine. "'The wish for his death "'does lie at your door, "'and the intent to rid you of him "'does lie at my door, "'and I am not ashamed of it, "'not I. "'It was not for myself "'I would have done it, "'but because you suffered so. "'He had struck you, "'whom I had nursed on my breast.' "'Oh, Victorine!' said Theresa, "'with a shudder. "'Those days are past, "'don't let us recall them. "'I was so wicked "'because I was so miserable, "'and now I am so happy, "'so inexpressibly happy, "'that do let me try "'to make you happy too.' "'You ought to try,' said Victorine, "'not yet pacified. "'Can't you see "'how the incomplete action, "'once stopped by fate, "'was tried again, "'and with success? "'And how you are now "'reaping the benefit of my sin, "'if sin it was. "'Victorine, "'I do not know what you mean. "'But some terror "'must have come over her.' "'She trembled and so shivered. "'Do you not, indeed? "'Madame Brownlow, "'the country girl "'from Crowley Partonage, "'needed sleep, "'and would fain forget "'the little child's death "'that was pressing on her brain. "'I helped the doctor to his end. "'She sleeps now, "'and she has met her baby "'before this, "'if priest's tales are true. "'And you, my beauty, "'my queen, "'you reign in her stead. "'Don't treat the poor Victorine "'as if she were mad "'and speaking in her madness. "'I have heard of tricks "'like that being played "'when the crime was done "'and the criminal of use no longer.' "'That evening, "'Duke was surprised "'by his wife's entreaty "'and petition "'that she might leave him "'and return with Victorine "'and her other personal servants "'to the seclusion of Crowley Castle. "'She, the great London toast, "'the powerful enchantress of society, "'and most of all, "'the darling wife and true companion, "'with this sudden fancy "'for this complete retirement "'and for leaving her husband "'when he was first fully entering "'into the comprehension "'of all that a wife might be. "'Was it ill health? "'Only last night she had been "'in dazzling beauty, "'in brilliant spirits. "'This morning only "'she had been so merry and tender. "'But Teresa denied "'that she was in any way indisposed "'and seemed suddenly "'so unwilling to speak of herself "'and so much depressed "'that Duke saw nothing for it "'but to grant her wish "'and let her go. "'He missed her terribly. "'No more pleasant tete-a-tete breakfast "'enlivened by her sense and wit "'and cheered by her pretty caressing ways. "'No gentle secretary now "'to sit by his side "'through long, long hours, "'never weary. "'When he went into society "'he no longer found his appearance "'watched and waited for "'by the loveliest woman there. "'When he came home "'from the house at night "'there was no one to take "'an interest in his speeches, "'to be indignant at all "'that annoyed him "'and charmed and proud "'of all the admiration he had won. "'He longed for the time to come "'when he would be able "'to go down for a day or two "'to see his wife, "'for her letters appeared to him "'dull and flat "'after her bright companionship. "'No wonder that her letters "'came out of a heavy heart, "'knowing what she knew. "'She scarcely dared to go near Victorine, "'whose moods were becoming as variable "'as though she were indeed the madwoman "'she had tauntingly defied "'Theresa to call her. "'At times she was miserable "'because Theresa looked so ill "'and seemed so deeply unhappy. "'At other times she was jealous "'because she fancied "'Theresa shrank from her "'and avoided her. "'So, wearing her life out with passion, "'Victorine's health grew "'daily worse and worse "'during that summer. "'Theresa's only comfort "'seemed to be little Mary's society. "'She seemed as though "'she could not lavish love enough "'upon the motherless child "'who repaid Theresa's affection "'with all the pretty demonstrativeness "'of her age. "'She would carry "'the little three-year-old maiden "'in her arms "'when she went to see Victorine, "'or would have Mary "'playing about in her dressing-room, "'if the old Frenchwoman, "'for some jealous freak, "'would come and arrange "'her lady's hair "'with her trembling hands. "'To avoid giving offence "'to Victorine, "'Theresa engaged "'no other maid. "'To shun overmatch "'or overfrank conversation "'with her Victorine, "'she always had "'little Mary with her "'when there was a chance "'of the French waiting-maid "'coming in. "'For the presence of the child "'was a holy restraint, "'even on Victorine's tongue. "'She would sometimes "'check her fierce temper "'to caress the little creature "'playing at her knees, "'and would only dart "'a covert bitter sting "'at Theresa, "'under the guise "'of a warning "'against ingratitude "'to Mary. "'Theresa drooped "'and drooped "'in this dreadful life. "'She sought out "'Madame Hortry, "'and prayed her "'to come on a long visit "'to the castle. "'She was lonely,' "'she said, "'asking for Madame's company "'as a favour to herself. "'Madame Hortry "'was difficult to persuade, "'but the more she resisted, "'the more Theresa entreated, "'and when once "'Madame was at the castle, "'her own daughter "'had never been so dutiful, "'so humble a slave "'to her slightest fancy, "'as was the proud Theresa now. "'Yet, "'for all this, "'the lady of the castle "'drooped and drooped, "'and when Duke "'came down to see his darling, "'he was in utter dismay "'at her looks. "'Yet, "'she said she was well enough, "'only tired. "'If she had anything "'more upon her mind, "'she refused him her confidence. "'He watched her narrowly, "'trying to forestall "'her smallest desires. "'He saw her tender affection "'for Mary, "'and thought he had never seen "'so lovely and tender a mother "'to another woman's child. "'He wondered at her patience "'with Madame Hortry, "'remembering how often "'his own stock had been "'exhausted by his mother-in-law, "'and how the brilliant "'Theresa had formerly "'scouted and flouted "'at the vicar's wife. "'With all this renewed "'sense of his darling's "'virtues and charms, "'the idea of losing her "'was too terrible to bear. "'He would listen to no pleas, "'to no objections. "'Before he returned to town, "'where his presence "'was a political necessity, "'he sought the best "'medical advice "'that could be had "'in the neighbourhood. "'The doctors came. "'They could make "'but little out of Theresa, "'if her vehement "'assertion were true, "'that she had nothing "'on her mind—nothing. "'Humour him at least, "'my dear lady,' "'said the doctor, "'who had known Theresa "'from her infancy, "'but who, "'living at the distant "'county town, "'was only called in "'on the Olympian occasions "'of great state illnesses. "'Humour your husband, "'and perhaps do yourself "'some good, too, "'by consenting to his desire "'that you should have "'a change of air. "'Brightham Stone "'is a quiet village "'by the seaside. "'Consent, "'like a gracious lady, "'to go there for a few weeks.' "'So Theresa, "'worn out with opposition, "'consented, "'and Duke made "'all the arrangements "'for taking her "'and little Mary "'and the necessary "'suite of servants "'to Brighton, "'as we call it now. "'He resolved in his own mind "'that Theresa's personal attendant "'should be some woman "'young enough to watch "'and wait upon her mistress, "'and not Victorine, "'to whom Theresa "'was in reality a servant. "'But of this plan, "'neither Theresa nor Victorine "'knew anything, "'until the former "'was in the carriage "'with her husband, "'some miles distant "'from the castle. "'Then he, "'a little exultant "'in the good management "'by which he supposed "'he had spared his wife "'the pain and trouble of decision, "'told her that Victorine "'was left behind, "'and that a new "'accomplished London maid "'would await her "'at her journey's end. "'Theresa only exclaimed, "'Oh! "'What will Victorine say?' "'and covered her face, "'and sat shivering "'and speechless. "'What Victorine did say, "'when she found out the trick, "'that she esteemed it, "'that had been played upon her, "'was too terrible to repeat. "'She lashed herself up "'into an ungoverned passion, "'and then, "'became so really "'and seriously ill, "'that the servants "'went to fetch "'Madame Hortory "'in terror and dismay. "'But when that lady came, "'Victorine shut her eyes, "'and refused to look at her. "'She has got her daughter "'in her hand. "'I will not look.' "'Shaking all the time, "'she uttered these "'awestricken words, "'as if she were "'in an ague fit. "'Bring the countess "'back to me. "'Let her face "'the dead woman "'standing there. "'I will not do it. "'They wanted her to sleep, "'and so did the countess, "'that she might step "'into her lawful place. "'Theresa, "'where are you? "'You tempted me. "'What I did, "'I did in your service, "'and you have gone away "'and left me alone "'with the dead woman. "'It was the same drug "'as the doctor gave, "'after all. "'Only he gave little, "'and I gave much. "'My lady, "'the countess, "'spent her money well, "'when she sent me "'to the old Italian "'to learn his trade. "'Lotions for the complexion, "'and a discriminating "'use of poisonous drugs. "'I discriminated, "'and Theresa profited. "'And now, "'she is his wife, "'and has left me here "'alone with the dead woman. "'Theresa, "'come back "'and save me "'from the dead woman.' Madame Autry stood by, horror-stricken. "'Fetch the vicar,' said she, under her breath, to a servant. "'The village doctor is coming,' said someone near. "'How she raves! "'Is it delirium?' "'It is no delirium,' said Bessie's mother. "'Wood to heaven it were!' Theresa had a happy day with her husband at Bright Helmstone, before he set off on his return to London. She watched him riding away, his servants following with his portmanteau. Often and often did Duke look back at the figure of his wife, waving her handkerchief, till a turn of the road hid her from his sight. He had to pass through a little village, not ten miles from his home. And there a servant with his letters and further luggage was to await him. There he found a mysterious imperative note, requiring his immediate presence at Crowley Castle. Something in the awe-stricken face of the servant from the castle led Duke to question him, but all he could say was that Victorine lay dying, and that Madame Hortory had said that after that letter the master was sure to return, and so would need no luggage. Something lurked behind evidently. Duke rode home at speed. The vicar was looking out for him. "'My dear boy,' said he, relapsing into the old relations of tutor and pupil, "'prepare yourself.' "'What for?' said Duke abruptly, for the being told to prepare himself without being told for what irritated him in his present mood. "'Victorine is dead?' "'No. She says she will not die until she has seen you, and got you to forgive her, if Madame Hortory will not. "'But first read this. "'It is a terrible confession, "'made by her before me, "'a magistrate, "'believing herself "'to be on the point of death.' Duke read the paper, containing little more in point of detail than I have already given, the horrible words taken down in the shorthand in which the vicar used to write his mild, prosy sermons. His pupil knew the character of old. Duke read it twice. Then he said, "'She is raving, poor creature.' But for all that, his heart's blood ran cold, and he would fain not have faced the woman, but would rather have remained in doubt to his dying day. He went up the stairs three steps at a time, and then turned and faced the vicar, with a look like the stern calmness of death. "'I wish to see her alone.' He turned out all the watching women, and then he went to the bedside where Victorine sat, half propped up with pillows, watching all his doings and his looks with her hollow, awful eyes. "'Now, Victorine, I will read this paper aloud to you. Perhaps your mind has been wandering. But you understand me now?' A fable murmur of a scent met his listening ear. "'If any statements in this paper be not true, make me a sign. Hold up your hand, for God's sake, hold up your hand, and if you can do it with truth in this, your hour of dying, Lord have mercy upon you. But if you cannot hold up your hand, then Lord have mercy upon me.' He read the paper slowly, clause by clause he read the paper. No sign, no uplifted hand. At the end she spoke, and he bent his head to listen. "'Sir Countess, Theresa, you know. She who has left me to die alone. She—' Then mortal strength failed, and Duke was left alone in the chamber of death. He stayed in the chamber many minutes, quite still. Then he left the room, and said to the first domestic he could find, "'The woman is dead. See that she is attended to.' But he went to the vicar, and had a long talk with him. He sent a confidential servant for little Mary, on some pretext, hardly careful or plausible enough. But his mood was desperate, and he seemed to forget almost everything but Bessie, his first wife, his innocent, girlish bride. Theresa could ill spare her little darling, and was perplexed by the summons. But an explanation of it was to come in a day or two. It came. "'Victorine is dead. I need say no more.' She could not carry her awful secret into the next world, but told all. I can think of nothing but my poor Bessie, delivered over to the cruelty of such a woman. And you, Theresa, I leave you to your conscience, for you have slept in my bosom. Henceforward I am a stranger to you. By the time you receive this, I and my child, and that poor murdered girl's mother, will have left England. What will be our next step, I know not. My agents will do for you what you need.' Theresa sprang up and rang her bell with mad haste. "'Get me a horse!' she cried, and bid William to be ready to ride with me for his life, for my life, along the coast to Dover.' They rode, and they galloped through the night, scarcely staying to bait their horses. But when they came to Dover, they looked out to see upon the white sails that moored Duke and his child away. Theresa was too late, and it broke her heart. She lies buried in a Dover churchyard. After long years, Duke returned to England, but his place in parliaments knew him no more, and his daughter's husband, sold Crowley Castle to a stranger. End of How the First Floor Went to Crowley Castle by Elizabeth Gaskell Read by Phil Benson in Sydney, Australia