Works of ellen wood, p.962
Works of Ellen Wood, page 962
She was shocked, indignant, terrified. She leaned for support on the window-frame, panting for breath in the cold night air.
“Arnold, am I to bear this?”
He stood with folded arms. He felt for her deeply: were she connected with him by near ties of blood, he could not have been more anxious to protect her; but a strong doubt that she might be guilty was working within him. He supposed she must have received some great provocation from Lord Level.
“How cruel they are to entertain such a suspicion! If they — if they —— Oh, Arnold, they never will arrest me! — they never will publicly accuse me!” she uttered, as a new possibility occurred to her.
“Blanche, listen,” he rejoined, talking to her as he had talked when she was a child. “All that can be done for you, I will do; but I cannot work in this uncertainty. Tell me the truth; be it good or be it ill, I will stand by you; but, if I am to be of service to you, I must know it. Was it you who struck Lord Level?”
“No. Have I not just told you so?”
“What you told me I do not understand. You say you saw it done — —”
“Then I did not see it done,” she petulantly interrupted; and no more questions would she answer.
“Let me take you back to the fire,” said Mr. Ravensworth, as he shut down the window. “You are trembling with cold.”
“Not with cold,” was her reply.
Stirring the fire into a blaze, he drew the easy-chair near it for her. He then stood by, saying nothing.
“Suppose they should openly accuse me?” she began, after a silence. “Would they arrest me?”
“Blanche,” he retorted, in sharp, ringing, imperative accents, “are you guilty? Tell me, one way or the other, that I may know what to be at.”
Lady Level rose and confronted him, her blue eyes wearing their most haughty expression. “You have known me for many years, known me well; how then can you repeat that question? I guilty of attacking Lord Level!”
“I would rather believe myself — I could as soon believe my own wife guilty of such a thing; but why have you equivocated with me? You have not told me the truth, as to what passed that night.”
“My husband charged me not to tell anyone.”
“Five minutes ago you told me yourself that you saw it done; now you say you did not see it. What am I to think?”
“In saying I saw it done, I spoke hastily; what I ought to have said was, that I saw who did it. And then, to-day, Lord Level insisted that I had been dreaming,” she abstractedly continued. “Arnold, do you believe that we can see visions or dream dreams that afterwards wear the semblance of realities?”
“I wish you would not speak in riddles. The time is going on; those men of the law may come in and accuse you, and what defence am I to make for you? You know that you may trust me. What you say shall never pass my lips.”
Lady Level deliberated. “I will trust you,” she said at length: “there seems to be no help for it. I went to rest last night angry with Lord Level, for we had spoken irritating words to each other. I lay awake, I dare say for an hour, indulging bitter thoughts, and then I dropped asleep. Suddenly something woke me; I cannot tell you what it was: whether it was any noise, or whether it was the opening of the door, which I had closed, between my room and Lord Level’s. All I know is, that door was wide open, and someone stood in the doorway with a lighted candle. It was a strange-looking object, and seemed to be dressed in flannel — either a long flannel shirt or a flannel gown. In the confusion of the moment I believed it must be Lord Level, and I was struck with amazement, for Lord Level is not able to get out of bed without assistance, from the injury to his knee, and I thought how long his hair was, and how dark it had grown — that was, you know, when I was between sleeping and waking. Then I saw that it had large, flashing black eyes, so it could not be Lord Level. It crossed the room — —”
“Blanche,” he interrupted, “you speak just as if you were describing a vision. It — —”
“That is what Lord Level now says it was. Let me go on. It crossed the room as far as the dressing-table. I started up in bed then, and the wild eyes turned upon me, and at the same moment Lord Level called out from his own bed, apparently in agitation or pain. The figure dropped something, turned round, and darted back again through the open door to the other chamber. I saw the candle fall from its hand to the floor, and the place was in darkness, except for the little light that came from Lord Level’s night-lamp. Terror overwhelmed me, and I cried out, and then my husband called to me by name. I ran to his room, flinging on my warm silk dressing-gown as I went, and there I found him hurt in some way, for he was bleeding from the arm and from the side. Arnold, as I live, as I breathe, that is the whole truth,” she concluded with emotion.
“Did you again see the figure? Was it in Lord Level’s room?”
“It was not there. I saw no trace of it. I remember I picked up the candlestick, for it was right in my path, and I screamed when I saw the blood upon my husband. He caught me to him by the other arm, as I have told you, telling me not to be frightened, that he would protect me; and I saw how white he looked, and that his brow was damp. Presently I asked him who and what it was; and the question seemed to excite him. ‘Say nothing of what you have seen,’ he cried; ‘I charge you, nothing.’ I don’t quite know what I replied; it was to the effect that the household must be aroused, and the figure searched for. ‘Blanche, you are my wife,’ he said solemnly; ‘my interests are yours; I charge you, by your duty and obedience to me, that you say nothing. Bury this in silence, as you value your life and mine.’ Then he fainted and his hold relaxed, and I screamed out and the servants came. Had my life depended upon it I could not have helped screaming. What the figure had dropped in my room proved to be the knife.”
“This is a very strange account!” exclaimed Mr. Ravensworth.
“It is so strange that I lose myself at times, wondering whether I was dreaming or awake. But it was true; it was true; though I could not proclaim it in defiance of my husband.”
“Do you think the figure, as you call it, could have been one of the servants in disguise?”
“I am certain it was not. Not one of them has that dark Italian face.”
“Italian face!” echoed Mr. Ravensworth. “Why do you call it an Italian face?”
Lady Level bent her head. “The thought somehow struck me,” she answered, after a pause. “Not at the time, but since. I fancied it not unlike the Italian faces that one sees in pictures.”
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“I do not know. At the time I took it to be a man, quite young. But since, recalling the appearance — well, it seems to me that it is impossible to decide which it was.”
“And you saw no signs of this mysterious figure afterwards?”
“None whatever. There were no traces, I tell you, of its having been there, except the injury to Lord Level, the knife, and the fallen candlestick. The candlestick may have been left in Lord Level’s room the previous night, for it is precisely like those used in the household, so that the figure may have lighted it from the night-lamp.”
Mr. Ravensworth could not make much of all this. It puzzled him. “The curious thing is,” he said aloud, “where could the figure have come from?”
“The curious thing is, that Lord Level wants to persuade me now that this was only a dream of the imagination.”
“That his wounds are?”
“Not his wounds, of course — or the knife, but a great deal of what I told him. He ridicules the bare idea of its being a ‘strange figure,’ ‘strangely dressed.’ He says he caught a full view of the man who attacked him; that he should know him again; that he was dressed in a sort of soft light fustian, and was no more wild-looking than I am, except such wildness as arose from his state of inebriation, and he suspects he was a poacher who must have got in through one of the windows.”
Mr. Ravensworth pondered over the tale: and he could not help deeming it a most improbable one. But that traces of some mysterious presence had been left behind, he would have regarded it as her husband appeared partially to regard it — a midnight freak of Lady Level’s imagination. “Yet the wounds are realities,” said Mr. Ravensworth, speaking aloud, in answer to his own thoughts.
“Arnold, it is all a reality,” she said impressively. “There are moments, I say, when I am almost tempted to question it, but in my sober reason I know it to have been true; and while I ask myself, ‘Was it a dream?’ I hold a perfect, positive conviction that it was only too terrible a reality.”
“You have spoken once or twice of its wild appearance. Did it look like a madman?”
“I never saw a madman, that I know of. This creature looked wild enough to be mad. There was one thing I thought curious in connection with finding the knife,” proceeded Lady Level. “Timms, who picked it up, while Sanders had gone down for some hot water, brought it into Lord Level’s room, calling out that she had found the weapon. ‘Why, that’s Mr. Drewitt’s knife!’ exclaimed the housemaid, Deborah, as soon as she saw it; and the steward, who had only just reached the room, asked her how she could make the assertion. ‘It is yours, sir,’ said Deborah; ‘it’s your new knife; I have seen it on your table, and should know it anywhere.’ ‘Deborah, if you repeat that again, I’ll have you punished,’ sharply called out the housekeeper, without, you understand, turning from Lord Level, to whom she was attending, to ascertain whether it was or was not the knife. Now, Arnold,” added Lady Level, “ill and terrified as I felt at the moment, a conviction came across me that it was Mr. Drewitt’s knife, but that he and Mrs. Edwards were purposely denying it.”
“It is impossible to suspect them of attacking, or conniving at the attack on Lord Level.”
“They attack Lord Level! They would rather attack the whole world combined, than that a hair of his head should suffer. They are fondly, devotedly attached to him. And Deborah, it appears, has been convinced out of her assertion. Hark! who is that?”
Mr. Ravensworth opened the door to reconnoitre. The inspector was prowling about the house and passages, exploring the outlets and inlets, followed by his two men, who had done the same before him.
“I thought you had forbidden the men to search,” cried Lady Level. “Why are they disobeying you?”
“Their chief is here now, and of course his orders go before mine. Besides, after what you have told me, I consider there ought to be a thorough search,” added Mr. Ravensworth.
“In opposition to Lord Level?”
“I think that Lord Level has not taken a sufficiently serious view of the case. The only solution I can come to is, that some escaped madman got into the house before it was closed for the night, and concealed himself in it. If so, he may be in it now.”
“Now! In it now!” she exclaimed, turning pale.
“Upon my word, I think it may be so. The doors and windows were all found safely fastened, you see. Therefore he could not escape during the night. And since the doors were opened this morning, the household, I take it, has been so constantly on the alert, that it might be an extremely difficult matter for him to get away unseen. If he, this madman, did enter yesterday evening, he must have found some place of concealment and hidden himself in it for hours, since it was not until one o’clock that he made the attack on Lord Level.”
“Oh, Arnold, that is all too improbable,” she rejoined doubtingly. “A madman could not plan and do all that.”
“Madmen are more cunning than sane ones, sometimes.”
“But I — I think it was a woman,” said Lady Level, lowering her voice and her eyes.
Mr. Ravensworth looked at her. And for the first time, a feeling flashed into his mind that Lady Level had some suspicion which she would not speak of.
“Blanche,” he said sharply, “do you know who it was? Tell me, if you do.”
“I do not,” she answered emphatically. “I may imagine this and imagine that, but I do not know anything.”
“You were speaking, then, from imagination?”
“Y — es. In a case of mystery, such as this, imagination runs riot, and you can’t prevent its doing so.”
Again there was something about Lady Level that struck Mr. Ravensworth as being not honestly true. Before more could be said, steps were heard approaching the room; and Lady Level, afraid to meet the police, made her escape from it.
Running swiftly upstairs, she was passing Lord Level’s door to enter her own, when she heard his voice, speaking collectedly, and peeped in. He saw her, and held out his hand. He appeared now quite rational, though his fine gray eyes were glistening and his fair face was flushed. Mrs. Edwards was standing by the bedside, and it was to her he had been talking.
Blanche advanced timidly. “Are you feeling better?” she softly asked.
“Oh, much better; nearly well: but for my knee I should be up and about,” he answered, as he drew her towards him. “Mrs. Edwards, will you close the door? I wish to speak with my wife.”
Mrs. Edwards, with a warning glance at her lady, which seemed to say, “He is not fit for it” — at least Blanche so interpreted it — went out and shut the door. Lord Level drew her closer to his side. He was lying propped up by a mound of pillows, almost sitting up in bed, and kept her standing there.
“Blanche,” he began in very quiet tones, “I hear the police are in the house.”
“Yes,” she was obliged to answer, quite taken aback and feeling very much vexed that he had been told, as it was likely to excite him.
“Who sent for them? You?”
“Oh no.”
“Then it was your friend; that fellow Ravensworth. I thought as much.”
“But indeed it was not,” she eagerly answered, shrinking from her husband’s scornful tones. “When the two policemen came in — and we do not know who it was sent them — Mr. Ravensworth went to them by my desire to stop the search. I told him that you objected to it.”
“Objected to it! I forbade it,” haughtily rejoined Lord Level. “And if — if — —”
“Oh, pray, Archibald, do not excite yourself; do not, do not!” she interrupted, frightened and anxious. “You know you will become worse again if you do.”
“Will you go and end it in my name? End it, and send them away from the house.”
“Yes, if you tell me to do so; if you insist upon it,” she answered. “But I am afraid.”
“Why are you afraid?”
Lady Level bent her head until it was on a level with his. “For this, Archibald,” she whispered: “that they might question me — and I should be obliged to answer them.”
Lord Level gently drew her cool cheek nearer, that it might rest against his fevered one, and remained silent, apparently pondering the question.
“After I told you all that I saw that night, you bade me be silent,” she resumed. “Well, I fear the police might draw it from me if they questioned me.”
“But you must not allow them to draw it from you.”
“Oh, but perhaps I could not help it,” she sighed. “You know what the police are — how they question and cross-question people.”
“Blanche, I reminded you last night that you were my wife, and you owed me implicit obedience in all great things.”
“Yes, and I am trying to obey you; I am indeed, Archibald,” she protested, almost torn by conflicting emotions; for, in spite of her doubts and suspicions, and (as she put it to herself) her “wrongs,” she loved her husband yet.
“Well, my dear, you must be brave for my sake; ay, and for your own. Listen, Blanche: you will tell the police nothing; and they must not search the house. I don’t care to see them myself to forbid it; I don’t want to see them. For one thing, I am hardly strong enough to support the excitement it would cause me. But — —”
“Will you tell me something, Archibald?” she whispered. “Is the — the — person — that attacked you in the house now?”
Lord Level looked surprised. “In this house? Why, how could it be? Certainly not.”
“Was it — was it a woman?” she breathed, her voice low and tremulous.
He turned angry. “How can you be so silly, Blanche? A woman! Oh yes,” changing to sarcasm, “of course it was a woman. It was you, perhaps.”
“That is what they are saying, Archibald.”
“What are they saying?” he returned, in dangerous excitement — if Blanche had only noticed the signs. For all this was agitating him.
“Why, that,” she answered, bursting into tears. “The police are saying so. They are saying that it was I who stabbed you.”
Lord Level cried out as a man in agony. And, with that, delirium came on again.
CHAPTER II.
NOT LIFTED.
My Lady Level sat at the open window of her husband’s sitting-room, in the dark, her hot face lifted to the cool night air. Only a moment ago Lord Level had been calling out in his delirium, and Mrs. Edwards was putting cool appliances to his head, and damp, hot bricks to his feet. And Blanche knew that it was she who, by her indiscreet remarks and questioning, had brought on the crisis. She had not meant to harm or excite him; but she had done it; and she was very contrite.
It was now between ten and eleven o’clock. She did not intend to go to bed that night; and she had already slipped off her evening dress, and put on a morning one of soft gray cashmere. With his lordship in a fresh attack of fever, and the police about, the household did not think of going to rest.
Blanche Level sat in a miserable reverie, her lovely face pressed upon her slender hand, the tears standing in her blue eyes. She was suspecting her husband of all kinds of unorthodox things — this has been said before. Not the least disloyal of them being that an individual named Nina, who wore long gold earrings to enhance her charms, was concealed in that east wing, which might almost be called a separate house, and which owned a separate entrance.
And a conviction lay upon Lady Level — caught up since, not at the time — that it was this Nina who had attacked Lord Level. She could not drive away the impression.
