Chetwynd Calverley

“Ah, we’ve had a frightful scene, Norris!” he said. “It will surprise me if the old gentleman survives it. I suppose Mr. Chetwynd is gone?”

“I really can’t say, sir. He was here a few minutes ago.”

“Looking rather wild, eh?”

“I’m sure he looked wild enough when he passed me just now,” observed the clerk. “I thought he’d have thrown me over the banisters.”

“Serve you right, too!” muttered Norris.

“Nothing could be more injudicious, and, I may add, more unfeeling, than his conduct to his father,” remarked Carteret.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said the butler; “but you must make some allowance for him.”

“I can make every allowance,” rejoined the attorney. “But no good purpose can be answered by such violence as he gave way to. On the contrary, irreparable harm is done.”

“Not irreparable harm, I hope, sir?”

“I very much fear so. He used language towards Mrs. Calverley that I don’t think she will ever forgive It’s of the last importance that he should be set right with her. Should you see him before he goes, tell him so.”

“I will, sir – if I do see him. There’s master’s bell. Excuse me; I must go upstairs.”

“Don’t mind me, Norris. I can let myself out. As I drive back, at Mrs. Calverley’s request, I shall call on Doctor Spencer, and send him to see Mr. Calverley at once. That will save time.”

“Very good, sir,” replied the butler.

And he flew upstairs; while Mr. Carteret and his clerk went out at the front door.

“Has anybody just left the house, Edward?” inquired Mr. Carteret of his groom, who was waiting with the phaeton near the door.

“No, sir,” replied the man.

“I fancied he was not gone,” thought the attorney. “I am glad I spoke to Norris.”

VI. SELF-EXAMINATION

Chetwynd had become more tranquillised since he entered the room that had once belonged to him – and that might be said to belong to him still – since it had always been kept for him.

A comfortable bed-chamber, with windows looking upon the garden. Night was now coming on, but it was still light enough to see every object in the room, and Chetwynd examined them with interest – almost with emotion.

The furniture was precisely the same he had left; the narrow iron bed, without curtains, and covered with an eider-down quilt – the easy-chair on which he used to sit and smoke – the books on the shelf and the prints on the walls, were still there, as of yore. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

When he last occupied that room Teresa was his father’s ward, and believing himself in love with her, he indulged in dreams of future happiness – for there seemed no obstacle to their union.

Now, all was gone. Teresa had become hateful to him. Yet, somehow or other, her image was associated with the room.

Throwing open the windows, he looked out into the garden, and, after listening to the singing of the birds, sat down in the easy-chair, and tried to lay out a plan for the future.

Impossible! His mind was much too confused for the task. He could decide on nothing. Never having done anything during his life but amuse himself, he had no idea what he should have to do when thrown upon his own resources.

Compelled to examine himself, he found his knowledge of business exceedingly limited. However, he had plenty of friends, and did not doubt they would help him to a situation of some kind.

The thought that most annoyed him was that he had well-nigh spent all his money. He had not enough to pay a passage to Australia.

At length, Norris made his appearance, and explained that he could not come sooner, having had a good deal to do in Mr. Calverley’s room. Doctor Spencer had paid a visit to his patient, and had only just left.

“However, all is quiet for the present,” said the butler, “and I will therefore beg you to come with me to my room, where I have got a little supper for you.”

“I shall really be glad of it, Norris. I suppose we sha’n’t meet any of the other servants?”

“No; I have taken care of that, sir,” replied Norris.

In the butler’s pantry, to which they repaired, they found a cold pigeon-pie and a bottle of claret on the table, and being very hungry, Chetwynd made a hearty meal.

“I’m sorry I cannot give you a very good report of what has been going on upstairs, sir,” said the butler; “though your father is not so bad as I feared. He has been put to bed, and Doctor Spencer has seen him, as I told you. The doctor gave him some stimulant that helped to revive him, and has left a small phial with Mrs. Calverley, from which she is to administer a few drops to him, as she may deem fit. I hope he may last out the night, and I think he will, for he seemed better when I left him just now. Heaven grant you may see him again, sir!”

“I despair of doing anything with him, Norris.”

“Never despair, sir, – never despair!”

“Well, that’s a good maxim. Extraordinary things have sometimes been done when all has been deemed hopeless. Fresh wills have been made almost in extremis. It may be so in my father’s case, but I don’t think it likely.”

“You must remain in the house to-night, sir. It’s your last chance.”

“Is there a chance, Norris?”

“You shall judge for yourself, sir. When I was in your father’s room just now, standing by his bedside, he spoke to me about you in a way that showed his good feelings towards you had returned. Evidently, he didn’t want Mrs. Calverley to hear what he said; but she was in the dressing-room, though the door was partly open. He asked me, in a low voice, if you were really gone; and seemed much relieved when I told him you were still in the house, but begged me not to mention it to his wife. ‘It may alarm, her, Norris,’ he said. I couldn’t say anything more to him at the time, for she came out of the dressing-room; but I shall have another opportunity to-night. Of one thing I’m certain, sir; but I shall have another opportunity to-night. Of one thing I’m certain, sir – you haven’t lost your hold of your father’s affections.”

At this moment a slight sound outside caught Chet-wynd’s ear.

Wishing to ascertain if there was a listener, he immediately got up, and, opening the door, looked along the passage right and left; but it was quite dark, and he could distinguish no one.

“It was a false alarm,” he said, as he came back. “For the moment I fancied it might be Mrs. Calverley.”

“No fear of that, sir; she never comes down here.”

“Let us go back to my room. I shall feel easier there. After what you’ve told me, Norris, I shan’t think of leaving to-night.”

“That’s the right thing to do, sir,” cried the butler, joyfully.

“Bring the bottle of claret and the glasses with you, and come along,” said Chetwynd.

VII. TERRIBLE SUSPICIONS

|In half a minute more they were in the old room upstairs

The blinds were drawn down, the candles on the chimney-piece lighted, the claret and glasses set on the table, Chetwynd was seated in an easy-chair, and old Norris had taken a place opposite him.

“Now, Norris,” said Chetwynd, “I should like to ask you a few questions. In the first place, what is the matter with my father? Till I came here this evening I have never heard he was unwell. What is his complaint? What does Doctor Spencer say about him?”

“Doctor Spencer says it’s a complete ‘break up,’” replied the butler; “but I don’t think he understands the case at all. Your father used to be a remarkably stout man for his years, as I needn’t tell you, sir. I never recollect him having a day’s illness till his marriage; and, indeed, he was as well as ever for three months, when he caught a cold, and then a very sudden change occurred, and I thought all would soon he over with him – but he rallied.”

“Did he quite recover from his cold?”

“No, sir, he was much weakened, and didn’t regain his strength. He looked to me as if gradually wasting away.”

“Why, so he was, I suppose, Norris. There is nothing but what is perfectly natural in all this; yet you seem suspicious.”

“I hope he has been fairly treated, sir.”

“Why should you think otherwise?”

“Because he has symptoms that I don’t exactly like, sir.”

Then lowering his voice, as if afraid to speak the words aloud, he added, “It looks to me almost like a case of slow poisoning!”

Chetwynd seemed horror-stricken at the idea.

“You must be mistaken, Norris,” he said. “It cannot he. Whatever opinion I may entertain of the person it is evident you suspect, I am certain she is incapable of such a monstrous crime. Have you mentioned your suspicions to Doctor Spencer, or any one else?”

“I told Doctor Spencer I thought it a very strange illness, but he said there was nothing unusual in it – it was simply the result of a bad cold. ‘It was quite impossible,’ he said, ‘that Mr. Calverley could be more carefully attended to than by his wife. She had really kept him alive.’ I don’t know what he would have said if I had ventured to breathe a word against her.”

“Did you warn my father? It was your duty to do so, if you really believed he was being poisoned.”

“My immediate discharge would have been the consequence,” said Norris. “And how could I prove what I asserted? Doctor Spencer thought me a stupid old fool; my master would have thought me crazy; Mrs. Calverley would have thought a lunatic asylum fitter for me than Ouselcroft; and Miss Mildred would have been of the same opinion. So I held my tongue, and let things go on. Had you been at home, sir, I should have consulted you, and you could have taken such steps as you deemed proper. But it is now too late to save him.”

“If this were true it would be dreadful,” exclaimed Chetwynd. “But I cannot believe it. It must have been found out. Doctor Spencer, who is a very clever, shrewd man, has been in constant attendance on my father, and must have been struck by any unusual symptoms in his illness, but he appears to have been quite satisfied that everything was going on properly. To make an accusation of this sort, with nothing to support it, would have been culpable in the highest degree, and I am glad you kept quiet.”

“Still, I can hardly reconcile my conduct to myself, sir,” said Norris; “but I fear I should have done no good.”

“No; you would have done great mischief. I am quite certain you are utterly mistaken.”

Norris did not seem to think so, but he made no further remark.

After a brief silence he got up, and said:

“I must now go up to my master’s room, and see whether he wants anything. Perhaps I may find an opportunity of speaking to him.”

VIII. DEATH OF MR. CALVERLEY

Left alone, Chetwynd revolved what the butler had told him; and on considering the matter, he came to the conclusion he had previously arrived at – that there was nothing whatever to justify the old man’s suspicions.

“I cannot imagine how he has got such a notion into his head,” he thought; “but, according to his own account, he has not a shadow of proof to support the charge. Besides, setting all else aside, there is no motive for such a crime. She could not wish to get rid of my father. Perhaps she might desire to come into the property, but, even if she were bad enough to do it, she would never run such a frightful risk. No, no, the supposition is absurd and monstrous!”

At this moment the very person of whom he was thinking came in, and closed the door.

In her hand she had a small lamp, but she set it down.

She looked very pale, but her manner was perfectly composed, though there was a slight quivering of the lip.

Chetwynd arose, and regarded her in astonishment.

“You need not be alarmed at my appearance,” she said. “I have no unfriendly intentions towards you. I heard you were still here, and came to speak to you. I am anxious to prevent further unpleasantness. You are acting very foolishly. Why should you quarrel with me? Whatever you may think, I mean you well.”

By this time Chetwynd had recovered from his surprise, and, regarding her sternly, said:

“I have no desire to hold any conversation with you, madam; but my conduct requires explanation. I was about to depart, but have been induced to remain for various reasons. I have learnt matters that have determined me to see my father again.”

The latter words were pronounced with great significance, but did not seem to produce any impression upon Mrs. Calverley.

“I do not wish to prevent you from seeing him, Chetwynd, if you will promise to behave quietly,” she replied.

“I cannot let him go out of the world in the belief that you have acted properly to him,” said Chetwynd, fiercely.

“Then you shall not see him! Nothing you could allege against me would produce the slightest effect upon him, but you shall not disturb his latest moments.”

“You dare not leave me alone with him – ”

“No,” she replied, in a severe tone, “because you cannot control yourself. In my opinion, you ought to ask your father’s pardon for your manifold acts of disobedience, and if you do so in a proper spirit I am certain you will obtain it.”

“You venture to give the advice,” he said. “But have you yourself obtained pardon from my father?”

“Pardon for what?” she cried.

“For any crime you may have committed,” he replied. “It is not for me to search your heart!”

“I disdain to answer such an infamous charge!” she rejoined, contemptuously.

“Have you not shortened his days?”

“What mean you by that dark insinuation?” she cried.

“My meaning is intelligible enough,” he rejoined. “But I will make it plainer, if you will.”

A singular change come over her countenance.

But she instantly recovered, and threw a scornful glance at Chetwynd.

“What have you done to him?” he demanded.

“Striven to make his latter days happy,” she replied, “and I believe I have succeeded. At any rate, he seemed happy.”

“That was before his illness,” observed Chetwynd.

“Since his illness I have nursed him with so much care that those best able to judge think I preserved his life. I saved him from all pain and annoyance, and his confidence in me was such that he has left all to my management.”

“I know it, madam; and you have been in haste to assume the power, but it may be wrested from your hands!”

“Make the attempt,” she rejoined, defiantly. “You will only injure yourself!”

Just then voices were heard outside that startled them both, and checked their converse.

“Great heaven, it is your father!” exclaimed Mrs. Calverley. “He has risen from the bed of death to come here!”

Next moment the door was thrown open, and the old gentleman came in, sustained by Norris.

A dressing-gown scarcely concealed his emaciated frame. His features had the most ghastly expression, and bore the impress of death. But for the aid of the old butler he must have fallen to the ground.

Behind him came Mildred, carrying a light.

“Why did you allow him to quit his couch?” cried his wife, in a voice of anguish.

“I remonstrated with him,” replied Norris. “But I could not prevent him. He would come down to see his son.”

“I likewise tried to dissuade him, but in vain,” said Mildred,

“Chetwynd is here, is he not?” cried the old man. “I can’t see him.”

“Yes, I am here, father,” he replied, springing towards him, and throwing himself at his feet. “Have you come to grant me forgiveness?”

“Yes, my son,” replied the old man. “But first let me hear that you are reconciled to my dear wife – your stepmother. Answer me truly. Is it so?”

“Father!” hesitated Chetwynd.

“Stand up, my son,” said the old man.

Chetwynd obeyed.

“Now, speak to me. Is there peace between you?”

“If you can forgive her, father, I will forgive her.”

“I have nothing to forgive. She has been the best of wives to me, and is without a fault. These are my last words.”

“Your blessing, father – your blessing!” almost shrieked Chetwynd.

The old man made an effort to raise his hands; but strength and utterance failed him, and he fell dead into his son’s arms.

END OF THE INTRODUCTION

BOOK THE FIRST – MILDRED

I. SUITORS

|Mrs. Calverley had been nearly a year a widow

She was still at Ouselcroft, and apparently meant to remain there. No change whatever had been made in the establishment, and old Norris was still in his place.

The will had not been disputed, and the widow was in possession of her late husband’s entire property.

She intended to allow Chetwynd six hundred a year, in accordance with his father’s request, and instructed Mr Carteret to pay him the amount quarterly; but he peremptorily refused to accept any allowance from her, and ordered the money to be returned.

He had remained at Ouselcroft until after the funeral, and then went abroad. As may be supposed, no reconciliation took place between him and his stepmother.

Hitherto the fair widow had lived in perfect retirement with Mildred, and was only to be seen arrayed in deep mourning in Daresbury Church, in the vaults of which her husband was interred; but she now began to pay visits, and receive her friends.

When Mildred re-appeared in society, after her temporary seclusion, she created quite a sensation.

We are afraid to say how many persons fell in love with her. She was still in mourning, of course, but her dark attire set off her fair tresses and exquisitely delicate complexion, and suited her slight graceful figure. Then her amiable and captivating manner heightened the effect of her charms, and rendered her almost irresistible.

During her father’s lifetime she had been greatly admired, and was accounted, as we have said, the prettiest girl in Cheshire; but her beauty was more talked about now, and many a gallant youth thought himself excessively fortunate if he could obtain her hand for a waltz.

But Mildred was by no means a flirt, and had no desire to make conquests. On the contrary, she was a very quiet girl, and gave the herd of young men who beset her at balls and parties very little encouragement. She did not care to dance much, and would only dance with those who pleased her, or amused her.

There was no sort of rivalry between the lovely girl and her beautiful stepmother. That there were already numerous aspirants to the hand of the wealthy young widow was certain; but it was equally certain she was in no haste to take another husband. She, therefore, felt no jealousy of Mildred, but was delighted to see her admired and sought after, and would willingly have promoted any advantageous match.

Mildred, however, made some objection or other to all who were recommended to her. Thus, when Mrs. Calverley praised young Mr. Capesthorne, and said he would have a fine old Elizabethan mansion, with a park attached to it, and asked if he wouldn’t do, the young lady replied that she admired Mr. Capesthorne’s old house, but didn’t care for him.

Again, when Colonel Blakemere, who was about to return to Madras, and wanted to take a wife with him, paid her marked attention, and got Mrs. Calverley to back his suit, Mildred settled the matter by declaring she would never go to India.

However, these were nothing as compared with what followed.

It never rains but it pours, and offers now came by the dozen.

Mrs. Calverley received a number of little notes, the writers whereof begged permission to wait upon her, intimating that they had an important matter to lay before her, and at the same time making some slight reference to Mildred, that left her no doubt as to their object.

Before replying to any of them, she consulted Mildred; and, having ascertained her sentiments, agreed to see a couple of them on a particular day, and within half an hour of each other.

On the appointed day she was alone in the drawing-room, seated in an easy-chair, and wondering who would appear first, when Mr. Vernon Brook was announced by Norris.

Mr. Vernon Brook belonged to a good old family, but was a younger son.

Dark, sallow-complexioned, and long-visaged, he piqued himself upon having a Vandyke face. To assist the expression, he scrupulously shaved his cheeks, and cultivated a pointed beard.

He had ridden over from his father’s place, which was about ten miles off, and arrived in very good spirits, deeming himself sure of success.

Mrs. Calverley received him very graciously, and begged him to be seated. After a few words had passed between them, he came to the point.

“I’ve a question to ask you, my dear Mrs. Calverley, which I hope you will be able to answer in the affirmative. Your daughter – step-daughter, I ought to say – is a very charming girl, and I want to know if I have your permission to pay my addresses to her?”

He said this in a very easy manner, and as if quite certain the response would be favourable.

Mrs. Calverley’s looks rather discouraged him.

“I must be allowed to consider THe matter, Mr. Brook,” she replied. “My late husband entrusted his daughter entirely to my care, and I cannot allow an engagement to take place unless I feel sure it would conduce to her happiness.”

“But this would not amount to an engagement, my dear madam, though it might lead to one – at least, I hope so.”

“It will be best to come to a clear understanding at first, Mr. Brook. I think it right to say that I see no objection to you. You have many agreeable personal qualities, and are unexceptionable in regard to family, but I am not exactly aware of your expectations.”

Vernon Brook’s dark cheek coloured, and he rather hesitated. He was not prepared for such a point-blank question.

“I am a younger son, as you are aware, Mrs. Calverley,” He said; “and, like most younger sons, my expectations are not very great.”

“I may as well speak frankly, Mr. Brook,” she rejoined. “He who aspires to Miss Calverley’s hand must bring a corresponding fortune. He must have a thousand a year, or a prospect of it.”

“I am sorry to say I have neither the one nor the other, but I hope my want of fortune may not be a bar. I think we could be very happy together.”

“Possibly; but the days of romantic marriages are over, and only exist in novels. I have dealt with you very fairly, Mr. Brook. Miss Calverley, as I have said, was left to my care by her father, and I shall act for her as he would have acted.”

“But I have reason to believe Mr. Calverley would not have made it a sine qua non that a suitor to his daughter should be a man of property.”

“You have been misinformed, Mr. Brook. No one can be so well acquainted as myself with my late husband’s intentions.”

“Then I am not to hope?”

“It would be useless, sir.”

Mr. Vernon Brook arose, and was reluctantly preparing to depart, when Norris announced Sir Bridgnorth Charlton.

Thereupon he hurriedly bade Mrs. Calverley adieu, bowed stiffly to the new-comer, and made his exit.

II. SIR BRIDGNORTH CHARLTON

Sir Bridgnorth Charlton, Baronet, of Charlton Hall, in. Staffordshire, a very fine place, was a person of considerable importance. He had been a member for the county, and was still a zealous politician. That he had not married earlier in life was owing to a disappointment he experienced, which had deeply affected him and caused him to remain a bachelor.

In age Sir Bridgnorth was not far from sixty, still handsome, though rather portly, and exceedingly gentlemanlike in manner. He had seen Mildred at a county ball, and, being much struck by her resemblance to his former love, the old flame was revived, and he determined to offer his hand.

Accordingly, he wrote to Mrs. Calverley, as we have explained.

Sir Bridgnorth had never been in Ouselcroft before, and after a few observations on the beauty of the grounds, he said:

“You will, no doubt, have conjectured why I have done myself the honour of waiting upon you, ma’am?”

Mrs. Calverley slightly moved.

“You have a very lovely step-daughter. It is not necessary for me to launch into her praises; but I may say I have only seen one person in the course of my life who has charmed me so much. That person would have been my wife had she not jilted me and wedded another. Miss Calverley shall be Lady Charlton if she will accept me.

“You do us great honour, Sir Bridgnorth!” observed Mrs. Calverley.

“I don’t know whether I am right, ma’am,” he pursued; “but I prefer making this offer through you, instead of direct to the young lady, as you can put an end to the affair at once, if you think proper. I needn’t enter into any particulars. You know my position; you know what sort of place I have got you know I can make a good settlement on my wife, as well as give her a title. The main question is – will Miss Calverley have me? Is she wholly free? for I would not, for the world, interfere with any other engagement. I have suffered too much myself not to be careful. I am not foolish enough to persuade myself she can love me; but I believe I could make her a very good husband, and hope she would be happy. I am quite sure she would be indulged.”