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Dark Night's Work

<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2> There are some people who imperceptibly float away from their youth into middle age, and thence pass into declining life with the soft and gentle motion of happy years.  There are others who are whirled, in spite of themselves, down dizzy rapids of agony away from their youth at one great bound, into old age with another sudden shock; and thence into the vast calm ocean where there are no shore-marks to tell of time. This last, it seemed, was to be Ellinor’s lot.  Her youth had gone in a single night, fifteen years ago, and now she appeared to have become an elderly woman; very still and hopeless in look and movement, but as sweet and gentle in speech and smile as ever she had been in her happiest days.  All young people, when they came to know her, loved her dearly, though at first they might call her dull, and heavy to get on with; and as for children and old people, her ready watchful sympathy in their joys as well as their sorrows was an unfailing passage to their hearts.  After the first great shock of Mr. Corbet’s marriage was over, she seemed to pass into a greater peace than she had known for years; the last faint hope of happiness was gone; it would, perhaps, be more accurate to say, of the bright happiness she had planned for herself in her early youth.  Unconsciously, she was being weaned from self-seeking in any shape, and her daily life became, if possible, more innocent and pure and holy.  One of the canons used to laugh at her for her constant attendance at all the services, and for her devotion to good works, and call her always the reverend sister.  Miss Monro was a little annoyed at this faint clerical joke; Ellinor smiled quietly.  Miss Monro disapproved of Ellinor’s grave ways and sober severe style of dress. “You may be as good as you like, my dear, and yet go dressed in some pretty colour, instead of those perpetual blacks and greys, and then there would be no need for me to be perpetually telling people you are only four-and-thirty (and they don’t believe me, though I tell them so till I am black in the face).  Or, if you would but wear a decent-shaped bonnet, instead of always wearing those of the poky shape in fashion when you were seventeen.” The old canon died, and some one was to be appointed in his stead.  These clerical preferments and appointments were the all-important interests to the inhabitants of the Close, and the discussion of probabilities came up invariably if any two met together, in street or house, or even in the very cathedral itself.  At length it was settled, and announced by the higher powers.  An energetic, hard-working clergyman from a distant part of the diocese, Livingstone by name, was to have the vacant canonry. Miss Monro said that the name was somehow familiar to her, and by degrees she recollected the young curate who had come to inquire after Ellinor in that dreadful illness she had had at Hamley in the year 1829.  Ellinor knew nothing of that visit; no more than Miss Monro did of what had passed between the two before that anxious night.  Ellinor just thought it possible it might be the same Mr. Livingstone, and would rather it were not, because she did not feel as if she could bear the frequent though not intimate intercourse she must needs have, if such were the case, with one so closely associated with that great time of terror which she was striving to bury out of sight by every effort in her power.  Miss Monro, on the contrary, was busy weaving a romance for her pupil; she thought of the passionate interest displayed by the fair young clergyman fifteen years ago, and believed that occasionally men could be constant, and hoped that if Mr. Livingstone were the new canon, he might prove the rara avis which exists but once in a century.  He came, and it was the same.  He looked a little stouter, a little older, but had still the gait and aspect of a young man.  His smooth fair face was scarcely lined at all with any marks of care; the blue eyes looked so kindly and peaceful, that Miss Monro could scarcely fancy they were the same which she had seen fast filling with tears; the bland calm look of the whole man needed the ennoblement of his evident devoutness to be raised into the type of holy innocence which some of the Romanists call the “sacerdotal face.”  His entire soul was in his work, and he looked as little likely to step forth in the character of either a hero of romance or a faithful lover as could be imagined.  Still Miss Monro was not discouraged; she remembered the warm, passionate feeling she had once seen break through the calm exterior, and she believed that what had happened once might occur again. Of course, while all eyes were directed on the new canon, he had to learn who the possessors of those eyes were one by one; and it was probably some time before the idea came into his mind that Miss Wilkins, the lady in black, with the sad pale face, so constant an attendant at service, so regular a visitor at the school, was the same Miss Wilkins as the bright vision of his youth.  It was her sweet smile at a painstaking child that betrayed her—if, indeed, betrayal it might be called where there was no wish or effort to conceal anything.  Canon Livingstone left the schoolroom almost directly, and, after being for an hour or so in his house, went out to call on Mrs. Randall, the person who knew more of her neighbours’ affairs than any one in East Chester. The next day he called on Miss Wilkins herself.  She would have been very glad if he had kept on in his ignorance; it was so keenly painful to be in the company of one the sight of whom, even at a distance, had brought her such a keen remembrance of past misery; and when told of his call, as she was sitting at her sewing in the dining-room, she had to nerve herself for the interview before going upstairs into the drawing-room, where he was being entertained by Miss Monro with warm demonstrations of welcome.  A little contraction of the brow, a little compression of the lips, an increased pallor on Ellinor’s part, was all that Miss Monro could see in her, though she had put on her glasses with foresight and intention to observe.  She turned to the canon; his colour had certainly deepened as he went forwards with out-stretched hand to meet Ellinor.  That was all that was to be seen; but on the slight foundation of that blush, Miss Monro built many castles; and when they faded away, one after one, she recognised that they were only baseless visions.  She used to put the disappointment of her hopes down to Ellinor’s unvaried calmness of demeanour, which might be taken for coldness of disposition; and to her steady refusal to allow Miss Monro to invite Canon Livingstone to the small teas they were in the habit of occasionally giving.  Yet he persevered in his calls; about once every fortnight he came, and would sit an hour or more, looking covertly at his watch, as if as Miss Monro shrewdly observed to herself, he did not go away at last because he wished to do so, but because he ought.  Sometimes Ellinor was present, sometimes she was away; in this latter case Miss Monro thought she could detect a certain wistful watching of the door every time a noise was heard outside the room.  He always avoided any reference to former days at Hamley, and that, Miss Monro feared, was a bad sign. After this long uniformity of years without any event closely touching on Ellinor’s own individual life, with the one great exception of Mr. Corbet’s marriage, something happened which much affected her.  Mr. Ness died suddenly at his parsonage, and Ellinor learnt it first from Mr. Brown, a clergyman, whose living was near Hamley, and who had been sent for by the Parsonage servants as soon as they discovered that it was not sleep, but death, that made their master so late in rising. Mr. Brown had been appointed executer by his late friend, and wrote to tell Ellinor that after a few legacies were paid, she was to have a life-interest in the remainder of the small property which Mr. Ness had left, and that it would be necessary for her, as the residuary legatee, to come to Hamley Parsonage as soon as convenient, to decide upon certain courses of action with regard to furniture, books, &c. Ellinor shrank from this journey, which her love and duty towards her dead friend rendered necessary.  She had scarcely left East Chester since she first arrived there, sixteen or seventeen years ago, and she was timorous about the very mode of travelling; and then to go back to Hamley, which she thought never to have seen again!  She never spoke much about any feelings of her own, but Miss Monro could always read her silence, and interpreted it into pretty just and forcible words that afternoon when Canon Livingstone called.  She liked to talk about Ellinor to him, and suspected that he liked to hear.  She was almost annoyed this time by the comfort he would keep giving her; there was no greater danger in travelling by railroad than by coach, a little care about certain things was required, that was all, and the average number of deaths by accidents on railroads was not greater than the average number when people travelled by coach, if you took into consideration the far greater number of travellers.  Yes! returning to the deserted scenes of one’s youth was very painful . . . Had Miss Wilkins made any provision for another lady to take her place as visitor at the school?  He believed it was her week.  Miss Monro was out of all patience at his entire calmness and reasonableness.  Later in the day she became more at peace with him, when she received a kind little note from Mrs. Forbes, a great friend of hers, and the mother of the family she was now teaching, saying that Canon Livingstone had called and told her that Ellinor had to go on a very painful journey, and that Mrs. Forbes was quite sure Miss Monro’s companionship upon it would be a great comfort to both, and that she could perfectly be set at liberty for a fortnight or so, for it would fall in admirably with the fact that “Jeanie was growing tall, and the doctor had advised sea air this spring; so a month’s holiday would suit them now even better than later on.”  Was this going straight to Mrs. Forbes, to whom she should herself scarcely have liked to name it, the act of a good, thoughtful man, or of a lover? questioned Miss Monro; but she could not answer her own inquiry, and had to be very grateful for the deed, without accounting for the motives. A coach met the train at a station about ten miles from Hamley, and Dixon was at the inn where the coach stopped, ready to receive them. The old man was almost in tears at the sight of them again in a familiar place.  He had put on his Sunday clothes to do them honour; and to conceal his agitation he kept up a pretended bustle about their luggage.  To the indignation of the inn-porters, who were of a later generation, he would wheel it himself to the Parsonage, though he broke down from fatigue once or twice on the way, and had to stand and rest, his ladies waiting by his side, and making remarks on the alterations of houses and the places of trees, in order to give him ample time to recruit himself, for there was no one to wait for them and give them a welcome to the Parsonage, which was to be their temporary home.  The respectful servants, in deep mourning, had all prepared, and gave Ellinor a note from Mr. Brown, saying that he purposely refrained from disturbing them that day after their long journey, but would call on the morrow, and tell them of the arrangements he had thought of making, always subject to Miss Wilkins’s approval. These were simple enough; certain legal forms to be gone through, any selection from books or furniture to be made, and the rest to be sold by auction as speedily as convenient, as the successor to the living might wish to have repairs and alterations effected in the old parsonage.  For some days Ellinor employed herself in business in the house, never going out except to church.  Miss Monro, on the contrary, strolled about everywhere, noticing all the alterations in place and people, which were never improvements in her opinion.  Ellinor had plenty of callers (her tenants, Mr. and Mrs. Osbaldistone among others), but, excepting in rare cases—most of them belonged to humble life—she declined to see every one, as she had business enough on her hands: sixteen years makes a great difference in any set of people.  The old acquaintances of her father in his better days were almost all dead or removed; there were one or two remaining, and these Ellinor received; one or two more, old and infirm, confined to their houses, she planned to call upon before leaving Hamley.  Every evening, when Dixon had done his work at Mr. Osbaldistone’s, he came up to the Parsonage, ostensibly to help her in moving or packing books, but really because these two clung to each other—were bound to each other by a bond never to be spoken about.  It was understood between them that once before Ellinor left she should go and see the old place, Ford Bank.  Not to go into the house, though Mr. and Mrs. Osbaldistone had begged her to name her own time for revisiting it when they and their family would be absent, but to see all the gardens and grounds once more; a solemn, miserable visit, which, because of the very misery it involved, appeared to Ellinor to be an imperative duty. Dixon and she talked together as she sat making a catalogue one evening in the old low-browed library; the casement windows were open into the garden, and the May showers had brought out the scents of the new-leaved sweetbriar bush just below.  Beyond the garden hedge the grassy meadows sloped away down to the river; the Parsonage was so much raised that, sitting in the house, you could see over the boundary hedge.  Men with instruments were busy in the meadow.  Ellinor, pausing in her work, asked Dixon what they were doing. “Them’s the people for the new railway,” said he.  “Nought would satisfy the Hamley folk but to have a railway all to themselves—coaches isn’t good enough now-a-days.” He spoke with a tone of personal offence natural to a man who had passed all his life among horses, and considered railway-engines as their despicable rivals, conquering only by stratagem. By-and-by Ellinor passed on to a subject the consideration of which she had repeatedly urged upon Dixon, and entreated him to come and form one of their household at East Chester.  He was growing old, she thought older even in looks and feelings than in years, and she would make him happy and comfortable in his declining years if he would but come and pass them under her care.  The addition which Mr. Ness’s bequest made to her income would enable her to do not only this, but to relieve Miss Monro of her occupation of teaching; which, at the years she had arrived at, was becoming burdensome.  When she proposed the removal to Dixon he shook his head. “It’s not that I don’t thank you, and kindly, too; but I’m too old to go chopping and changing.” “But it would be no change to come back to me, Dixon,” said Ellinor. “Yes, it would.  I were born i’ Hamley, and it’s i’ Hamley I reckon to die.” On her urging him a little more, it came out that he had a strong feeling that if he did not watch the spot where the dead man lay buried, the whole would be discovered; and that this dread of his had often poisoned the pleasure of his visit to East Chester. “I don’t rightly know how it is, for I sometimes think if it wasn’t for you, missy, I should be glad to have made it all clear before I go; and yet at times I dream, or it comes into my head as I lie awake with the rheumatics, that some one is there, digging; or that I hear ’em cutting down the tree; and then I get up and look out of the loft window—you’ll mind the window over the stables, as looks into the garden, all covered over wi’ the leaves of the jargonelle pear-tree?  That were my room when first I come as stable-boy, and tho’ Mr. Osbaldistone would fain give me a warmer one, I allays tell him I like th’ old place best.  And by times I’ve getten up five or six times a-night to make sure as there was no one at work under the tree.” Ellinor shivered a little.  He saw it, and restrained himself in the relief he was receiving from imparting his superstitious fancies. “You see, missy, I could never rest a-nights if I didn’t feel as if I kept the secret in my hand, and held it tight day and night, so as I could open my hand at any minute and see as it was there.  No! my own little missy will let me come and see her now and again, and I know as I can allays ask her for what I want: and if it please God to lay me by, I shall tell her so, and she’ll see as I want for nothing.  But somehow I could ne’er bear leaving Hamley.  You shall come and follow me to my grave when my time comes.” “Don’t talk so, please, Dixon,” said she. “Nay, it’ll be a mercy when I can lay me down and sleep in peace: though I sometimes fear as peace will not come to me even there.”  He was going out of the room, and was now more talking to himself than to her.  “They say blood will out, and if it weren’t for her part in it, I could wish for a clear breast before I die.” She did not hear the latter part of this mumbled sentence.  She was looking at a letter just brought in and requiring an immediate answer.  It was from Mr. Brown.  Notes from him were of daily occurrence, but this contained an open letter the writing of which was strangely familiar to her—it did not need the signature “Ralph Corbet,” to tell her whom the letter came from.  For some moments she could not read the words.  They expressed a simple enough request, and were addressed to the auctioneer who was to dispose of the rather valuable library of the late Mr. Ness, and whose name had been advertised in connection with the sale, in the Athenæum, and other similar papers.  To him Mr. Corbet wrote, saying that he should be unable to be present when the books were sold, but that he wished to be allowed to buy in, at any price decided upon, a certain rare folio edition of Virgil, bound in parchment, and with notes in Italian.  The book was fully described.  Though no Latin scholar, Ellinor knew the book well—remembered its look from old times, and could instantly have laid her hand upon it.  The auctioneer had sent the request onto his employer, Mr. Brown.  That gentleman applied to Ellinor for her consent.  She saw that the fact of the intended sale must be all that Mr. Corbet was aware of, and that he could not know to whom the books belonged.  She chose out the book, and wrapped and tied it up with trembling hands.  He might be the person to untie the knot.  It was strangely familiar to her love, after so many years, to be brought into thus much contact with him.  She wrote a short note to Mr. Brown, in which she requested him to say, as though from himself; and without any mention of her name, that he, as executor, requested Mr. Corbet’s acceptance of the Virgil, as a remembrance of his former friend and tutor.  Then she rang the bell, and gave the letter and parcel to the servant. Again alone, and Mr. Corbet’s open letter on the table.  She took it up and looked at it till the letters dazzled crimson on the white paper.  Her life rolled backwards, and she was a girl again.  At last she roused herself; but instead of destroying the note—it was long years since all her love-letters from him had been returned to the writer—she unlocked her little writing-case again, and placed this letter carefully down at the bottom, among the dead rose-leaves which embalmed the note from her father, found after his death under his pillow, the little golden curl of her sister’s, the half-finished sewing of her mother. The shabby writing-case itself was given her by her father long ago, and had since been taken with her everywhere.  To be sure, her changes of place had been but few; but if she had gone to Nova Zembla, the sight of that little leather box on awaking from her first sleep, would have given her a sense of home.  She locked the case up again, and felt all the richer for that morning. A day or two afterwards she left Hamley.  Before she went she compelled herself to go round the gardens and grounds of Ford Bank.  She had made Mrs. Osbaldistone understand that it would be painful for her to re-enter the house; but Mr. Osbaldistone accompanied her in her walk. “You see how literally we have obeyed the clause in the lease which ties us out from any alterations,” said he, smiling.  “We are living in a tangled thicket of wood.  I must confess that I should have liked to cut down a good deal; but we do not do even the requisite thinnings without making the proper application for leave to Mr. Johnson.  In fact, your old friend Dixon is jealous of every pea-stick the gardener cuts.  I never met with so faithful a fellow.  A good enough servant, too, in his way; but somewhat too old-fashioned for my wife and daughters, who complain of his being surly now and then.” “You are not thinking of parting with him?” said Ellinor, jealous for Dixon. “Oh, no; he and I are capital friends.  And I believe Mrs. Osbaldistone herself would never consent to his leaving us.  But some ladies, you know, like a little more subserviency in manner than our friend Dixon can boast.” Ellinor made no reply.  They were entering the painted flower garden, hiding the ghastly memory.  She could not speak.  She felt as if, with all her striving, she could not move—just as one does in a nightmare—but she was past the place even as this terror came to its acme; and when she came to herself, Mr. Osbaldistone was still blandly talking, and saying— “It is now a reward for our obedience to your wishes, Miss Wilkins, for if the projected railway passes through the ash-field yonder we should have been perpetually troubled with the sight of the trains; indeed, the sound would have been much more distinct than it will be now coming through the interlacing branches.  Then you will not go in, Miss Wilkins?”  Mrs. Osbaldistone desired me to say how happy—“Ah! I can understand such feelings—Certainly, certainly; it is so much the shortest way to the town, that we elder ones always go through the stable-yard; for young people, it is perhaps not quite so desirable.  Ha! Dixon,” he continued, “on the watch for the Miss Ellinor we so often hear of!  This old man,” he continued to Ellinor, “is never satisfied with the seat of our young ladies, always comparing their way of riding with that of a certain missy—” “I cannot help it, sir; they’ve quite a different style of hand, and sit all lumpish-like.  Now, Miss Ellinor, there—” “Hush, Dixon,” she said, suddenly aware of why the old servant was not popular with his mistress.  “I suppose I may be allowed to ask for Dixon’s company for an hour or so; we have something to do together before we leave.” The consent given, the two walked away, as by previous appointment, to Hamley churchyard, where he was to point out to her the exact spot where he wished to be buried.  Trampling over the long, rank grass, but avoiding passing directly over any of the thickly-strewn graves, he made straight for one spot—a little space of unoccupied ground close by, where Molly, the pretty scullery-maid, lay: <blockquote>Sacred to the Memory of    MARY GREAVES. Born 1797.  Died 1818. “We part to meet again.” </blockquote> “I put this stone up over her with my first savings,” said he, looking at it; and then, pulling out his knife, he began to clean out the letters.  “I said then as I would lie by her.  And it’ll be a comfort to think you’ll see me laid here.  I trust no one’ll be so crabbed as to take a fancy to this ’ere spot of ground.” Ellinor grasped eagerly at the only pleasure which her money enabled her to give to the old man: and promised him that she would take care and buy the right to that particular piece of ground.  This was evidently a gratification Dixon had frequently yearned after; he kept saying, “I’m greatly obleeged to ye, Miss Ellinor.  I may say I’m truly obleeged.”  And when he saw them off by the coach the next day, his last words were, “I cannot justly say how greatly I’m obleeged to you for that matter of the churchyard.”  It was a much more easy affair to give Miss Monro some additional comforts; she was as cheerful as ever; still working away at her languages in any spare time, but confessing that she was tired of the perpetual teaching in which her life had been spent during the last thirty years.  Ellinor was now enabled to set her at liberty from this, and she accepted the kindness from her former pupil with as much simple gratitude as that with which a mother receives a favour from a child.  “If Ellinor were but married to Canon Livingstone, I should be happier than I have ever been since my father died,” she used to say to herself in the solitude of her bed-chamber, for talking aloud had become her wont in the early years of her isolated life as a governess.  “And yet,” she went on, “I don’t know what I should do without her; it is lucky for me that things are not in my hands, for a pretty mess I should make of them, one way or another.  Dear! how old Mrs. Cadogan used to hate that word ‘mess,’ and correct her granddaughters for using it right before my face, when I knew I had said it myself only the moment before!  Well! those days are all over now.  God be thanked!” In spite of being glad that “things were not in her hands” Miss Monro tried to take affairs into her charge by doing all she could to persuade Ellinor to allow her to invite the canon to their “little sociable teas.”  The most provoking part was, that she was sure he would have come if he had been asked; but she could never get leave to do so.  “Of course no man could go on for ever and ever without encouragement,” as she confided to herself in a plaintive tone of voice; and by-and-by many people were led to suppose that the bachelor canon was paying attention to Miss Forbes, the eldest daughter of the family to which the delicate Jeanie belonged.  It was, perhaps, with the Forbeses that both Miss Monro and Ellinor were the most intimate of all the families in East Chester.  Mrs. Forbes was a widow lady of good means, with a large family of pretty, delicate daughters.  She herself belonged to one of the great houses in ---shire, but had married into Scotland; so, after her husband’s death, it was the most natural thing in the world that she should settle in East Chester; and one after another of her daughters had become first Miss Monro’s pupil and afterwards her friend.  Mrs. Forbes herself had always been strongly attracted by Ellinor, but it was long before she could conquer the timid reserve by which Miss Wilkins was hedged round.  It was Miss Monro, who was herself incapable of jealousy, who persevered in praising them to one another, and in bringing them together; and now Ellinor was as intimate and familiar in Mrs. Forbes’s household as she ever could be with any family not her own. Mrs. Forbes was considered to be a little fanciful as to illness; but it was no wonder, remembering how many sisters she had lost by consumption.  Miss Monro had often grumbled at the way in which her pupils were made irregular for very trifling causes.  But no one so alarmed as she, when, in the autumn succeeding Mr. Ness’s death, Mrs. Forbes remarked to her on Ellinor’s increased delicacy of appearance, and shortness of breathing.  From that time forwards she worried Ellinor (if any one so sweet and patient could ever have been worried) with respirators and precautions.  Ellinor submitted to all her friend’s wishes and cares, sooner than make her anxious, and remained a prisoner in the house through the whole of November.  Then Miss Monro’s anxiety took another turn.  Ellinor’s appetite and spirits failed her—not at all an unnatural consequence of so many weeks’ confinement to the house.  A plan was started, quite suddenly, one morning in December, that met with approval from everyone but Ellinor, who was, however, by this time too languid to make much resistance. Mrs. Forbes and her daughters were going to Rome for three or four months, so as to avoid the trying east winds of spring; why should not Miss Wilkins go with them?  They urged it, and Miss Monro urged it, though with a little private sinking of the heart at the idea of the long separation from one who was almost like a child to her.  Ellinor was, as it were, lifted off her feet and borne away by the unanimous opinion of others—the doctor included—who decided that such a step was highly desirable; if not absolutely necessary.  She knew that she had only a life interest both in her father’s property and in that bequeathed to her by Mr. Ness.  Hitherto she had not felt much troubled by this, as she had supposed that in the natural course of events she should survive Miss Monro and Dixon, both of whom she looked upon as dependent upon her.  All she had to bequeath to the two was the small savings, which would not nearly suffice for both purposes, especially considering that Miss Monro had given up her teaching, and that both she and Dixon were passing into years. Before Ellinor left England she had made every arrangement for the contingency of her death abroad that Mr. Johnson could suggest.  She had written and sent a long letter to Dixon; and a shorter one was left in charge of Canon Livingstone (she dared not hint at the possibility of her dying to Miss Monro) to be sent to the old man. As they drove out of the King’s Cross station, they passed a gentleman’s carriage entering.  Ellinor saw a bright, handsome lady, a nurse, and baby inside, and a gentleman sitting by them whose face she could never forget.  It was Mr. Corbet taking his wife and child to the railway.  They were going on a Christmas visit to East Chester deanery.  He had been leaning back, not noticing the passers-by, not attending to the other inmates of the carriage, probably absorbed in the consideration of some law case.  Such were the casual glimpses Ellinor had of one with whose life she had once thought herself bound up. Who so proud as Miss Monro when a foreign letter came?  Her correspondent was not particularly graphic in her descriptions, nor were there any adventures to be described, nor was the habit of mind of Ellinor such as to make her clear and definite in her own impressions of what she saw, and her natural reserve kept her from being fluent in communicating them even to Miss Monro.  But that lady would have been pleased to read aloud these letters to the assembled dean and canons, and would not have been surprised if they had invited her to the chapter-house for that purpose.  To her circle of untravelled ladies, ignorant of Murray, but laudably desirous of information, all Ellinor’s historical reminiscences and rather formal details were really interesting.  There was no railroad in those days between Lyons and Marseilles, so their progress was slow, and the passage of letters to and fro, when they had arrived in Rome, long and uncertain.  But all seemed going on well.  Ellinor spoke of herself as in better health; and Canon Livingstone (between whom and Miss Monro great intimacy had sprung up since Ellinor had gone away, and Miss Monro could ask him to tea) confirmed this report of Miss Wilkins’s health from a letter which he had received from Mrs. Forbes.  Curiosity about that letter was Miss Monro’s torment.  What could they have had to write to each other about?  It was a very odd proceeding; although the Livingstones and Forbeses were distantly related, after the manner of Scotland.  Could it have been that he had offered to Euphemia, after all, and that her mother had answered; or, possibly, there was a letter from Effie herself, enclosed.  It was a pity for Miss Monro’s peace of mind that she did not ask him straight away.  She would then have learnt what Canon Livingstone had no thought of concealing, that Mrs. Forbes had written solely to give him some fuller directions about certain charities than she had had time to think about in the hurry of starting.  As it was, and when, a little later on, she heard him speak of the possibility of his going himself to Rome, as soon as his term of residence was over, in time for the Carnival, she gave up her fond project in despair, and felt very much like a child whose house of bricks had been knocked down by the unlucky waft of some passing petticoat. Meanwhile, the entire change of scene brought on the exquisite refreshment of entire change of thought.  Ellinor had not been able so completely to forget her past life for many years; it was like a renewing of her youth; cut so suddenly short by the shears of Fate.  Ever since that night, she had had to rouse herself on awakening in the morning into a full comprehension of the great cause she had for much fear and heavy grief.  Now, when she wakened in her little room, fourth piano, No. 36, Babuino, she saw the strange, pretty things around her, and her mind went off into pleasant wonder and conjecture, happy recollections of the day before, and pleasant anticipations of the day to come.  Latent in Ellinor was her father’s artistic temperament; everything new and strange was a picture and a delight; the merest group in the street, a Roman facchino, with his cloak draped over his shoulder, a girl going to market or carrying her pitcher back from the fountain, everything and every person that presented it or himself to her senses, gave them a delicious shock, as if it were something strangely familiar from Pinelli, but unseen by her mortal eyes before.  She forgot her despondency, her ill-health disappeared as if by magic; the Misses Forbes, who had taken the pensive, drooping invalid as a companion out of kindness of heart, found themselves amply rewarded by the sight of her amended health, and her keen enjoyment of everything, and the half-quaint, half naive expressions of her pleasure. So March came round; Lent was late that year.  The great nosegays of violets and camellias were for sale at the corner of the Condotti, and the revellers had no difficulty in procuring much rarer flowers for the belles of the Corso.  The embassies had their balconies; the attachés of the Russian Embassy threw their light and lovely presents at every pretty girl, or suspicion of a pretty girl, who passed slowly in her carriage, covered over with her white domino, and holding her wire mask as a protection to her face from the showers of lime confetti, which otherwise would have been enough to blind her; Mrs. Forbes had her own hired balcony, as became a wealthy and respectable Englishwoman.  The girls had a great basket full of bouquets with which to pelt their friends in the crowd below; a store of moccoletti lay piled on the table behind, for it was the last day of Carnival, and as soon as dusk came on the tapers were to be lighted, to be as quickly extinguished by every means in everyone’s power.  The crowd below was at its wildest pitch; the rows of stately contadini alone sitting immovable as their possible ancestors, the senators who received Brennus and his Gauls.  Masks and white dominoes, foreign gentlemen, and the riffraff of the city, slow-driving carriages, showers of flowers, most of them faded by this time, everyone shouting and struggling at that wild pitch of excitement which may so soon turn into fury.  The Forbes girls had given place at the window to their mother and Ellinor, who were gazing half amused, half terrified, at the mad parti-coloured movement below; when a familiar face looked up, smiling a recognition; and “How shall I get to you?” was asked in English, by the well-known voice of Canon Livingstone.  They saw him disappear under the balcony on which they were standing, but it was some time before he made his appearance in their room.  And when he did, he was almost overpowered with greetings; so glad were they to see an East Chester face. “When did you come?  Where are you?  What a pity you did not come sooner!  It is so long since we have heard anything; do tell us everything!  It is three weeks since we have had any letters; those tiresome boats have been so irregular because of the weather.”  “How was everybody—Miss Monro in particular?” Ellinor asks. He, quietly smiling, replied to their questions by slow degrees.  He had only arrived the night before, and had been hunting for them all day; but no one could give him any distinct intelligence as to their whereabouts in all the noise and confusion of the place, especially as they had their only English servant with them, and the canon was not strong in his Italian.  He was not sorry he had missed all but this last day of carnival, for he was half blinded and wholly deafened, as it was.  He was at the “Angleterre;” he had left East Chester about a week ago; he had letters for all of them, but had not dared to bring them through the crowd for fear of having his pocket picked.  Miss Monro was very well, but very uneasy at not having heard from Ellinor for so long; the irregularity of the boats must be telling both ways, for their English friends were full of wonder at not hearing from Rome.  And then followed some well-deserved abuse of the Roman post, and some suspicion of the carelessness with which Italian servants posted English letters.  All these answers were satisfactory enough, yet Mrs. Forbes thought she saw a latent uneasiness in Canon Livingstone’s manner, and fancied once or twice that he hesitated in replying to Ellinor’s questions.  But there was no being quite sure in the increasing darkness, which prevented countenances from being seen; nor in the constant interruptions and screams which were going on in the small crowded room, as wafting handkerchiefs, puffs of wind, or veritable extinguishers, fastened to long sticks, and coming from nobody knew where, put out taper after taper as fast as they were lighted. “You will come home with us,” said Mrs. Forbes.  “I can only offer you cold meat with tea; our cook is gone out, this being a universal festa; but we cannot part with an old friend for any scruples as to the commissariat.” “Thank you.  I should have invited myself if you had not been good enough to ask me.” When they had all arrived at their apartment in the Babuino (Canon Livingstone had gone round to fetch the letters with which he was entrusted), Mrs. Forbes was confirmed in her supposition that he had something particular and not very pleasant to say to Ellinor, by the rather grave and absent manner in which he awaited her return from taking off her out-of-door things.  He broke off, indeed, in his conversation with Mrs. Forbes to go and meet Ellinor, and to lead her into the most distant window before he delivered her letters. “From what you said in the balcony yonder, I fear you have not received your home letters regularly?” “No!” replied she, startled and trembling, she hardly knew why. “No more has Miss Monro heard from you; nor, I believe, has some one else who expected to hear.  Your man of business—I forget his name.” “My man of business!  Something has gone wrong, Mr. Livingstone.  Tell me—I want to know.  I have been expecting it—only tell me.”  She sat down suddenly, as white as ashes. “Dear Miss Wilkins, I’m afraid it is painful enough, but you are fancying it worse than it is.  All your friends are quite well; but an old servant—” “Well!” she said, seeing his hesitation, and leaning forwards and griping at his arm. “Is taken up on a charge of manslaughter or murder.  Oh! Mrs. Forbes, come here!” For Ellinor had fainted, falling forwards on the arm she had held.  When she came round she was lying half undressed on her bed; they were giving her tea in spoonfuls. “I must get up,” she moaned.  “I must go home.” “You must lie still,” said Mrs. Forbes, firmly. “You don’t know.  I must go home,” she repeated; and she tried to sit up, but fell back helpless.  Then she did not speak, but lay and thought.  “Will you bring me some meat?” she whispered.  “And some wine?”  They brought her meat and wine; she ate, though she was choking.  “Now, please, bring me my letters, and leave me alone; and after that I should like to speak to Canon Livingstone.  Don’t let him go, please.  I won’t be long—half an hour, I think.  Only let me be alone.” There was a hurried feverish sharpness in her tone that made Mrs. Forbes very anxious, but she judged it best to comply with her requests. The letters were brought, the lights were arranged so that she could read them lying on her bed; and they left her.  Then she got up and stood on her feet, dizzy enough, her arms clasped at the top of her head, her eyes dilated and staring as if looking at some great horror.  But after a few minutes she sat down suddenly, and began to read.  Letters were evidently missing.  Some had been sent by an opportunity that had been delayed on the journey, and had not yet arrived in Rome.  Others had been despatched by the post, but the severe weather, the unusual snow, had, in those days, before the railway was made between Lyons and Marseilles, put a stop to many a traveller’s plans, and had rendered the transmission of the mail extremely uncertain; so, much of that intelligence which Miss Monro had evidently considered as certain to be known to Ellinor was entirely matter of conjecture, and could only be guessed at from what was told in these letters.  One was from Mr. Johnson, one from Mr. Brown, one from Miss Monro; of course the last mentioned was the first read.  She spoke of the shock of the discovery of Mr. Dunster’s body, found in the cutting of the new line of railroad from Hamley to the nearest railway station; the body so hastily buried long ago, in its clothes, by which it was now recognised—a recognition confirmed by one or two more personal and indestructible things, such as his watch and seal with his initials; of the shock to everyone, the Osbaldistones in particular, on the further discovery of a fleam or horse-lancet, having the name of Abraham Dixon engraved on the handle; how Dixon had gone on Mr. Osbaldistone’s business to a horse-fair in Ireland some weeks before this, and had had his leg broken by a kick from an unruly mare, so that he was barely able to move about when the officers of justice went to apprehend him in Tralee. At this point Ellinor cried out loud and shrill. “Oh, Dixon! Dixon! and I was away enjoying myself.” They heard her cry, and came to the door, but it was bolted inside. “Please, go away,” she said; “please, go.  I will be very quiet; only, please, go.” She could not bear just then to read any more of Miss Monro’s letter; she tore open Mr. Johnson’s—the date was a fortnight earlier than Miss Monro’s; he also expressed his wonder at not hearing from her, in reply to his letter of January 9; but he added, that he thought that her trustees had judged rightly; the handsome sum the railway company had offered for the land when their surveyor decided on the alteration of the line, Mr. Osbaldistone, &c. &c.  She could not read anymore; it was Fate pursuing her.  Then she took the letter up again and tried to read; but all that reached her understanding was the fact that Mr. Johnson had sent his present letter to Miss Monro, thinking that she might know of some private opportunity safer than the post.  Mr. Brown’s was just such a letter as he occasionally sent her from time to time; a correspondence that arose out of their mutual regard for their dead friend Mr. Ness.  It, too, had been sent to Miss Monro to direct.  Ellinor was on the point of putting it aside entirely, when the name of Corbet caught her eye: “You will be interested to hear that the old pupil of our departed friend, who was so anxious to obtain the folio Virgil with the Italian notes, is appointed the new judge in room of Mr. Justice Jenkin.  At least I conclude that Mr. Ralph Corbet, Q.C., is the same as the Virgil fancier.” “Yes,” said Ellinor, bitterly; “he judged well; it would never have done.”  They were the first words of anything like reproach which she ever formed in her own mind during all these years.  She thought for a few moments of the old times; it seemed to steady her brain to think of them.  Then she took up and finished Miss Monro’s letter.  That excellent friend had done all which she thought Ellinor would have wished without delay.  She had written to Mr. Johnson, and charged him to do everything he could to defend Dixon and to spare no expense.  She was thinking of going to the prison in the county town, to see the old man herself, but Ellinor could perceive that all these endeavours and purposes of Miss Monro’s were based on love for her own pupil, and a desire to set her mind at ease as far as she could, rather than from any idea that Dixon himself could be innocent.  Ellinor put down the letters, and went to the door, then turned back, and locked them up in her writing-case with trembling hands; and after that she entered the drawing-room, looking liker to a ghost than to a living woman. “Can I speak to you for a minute alone?”  Her still, tuneless voice made the words into a command.  Canon Livingstone arose and followed her into the little dining-room.  “Will you tell me all you know—all you have heard about my—you know what?” “Miss Monro was my informant—at least at first—it was in the Times the day before I left.  Miss Monro says it could only have been done in a moment of anger if the old servant is really guilty; that he was as steady and good a man as she ever knew, and she seems to have a strong feeling against Mr. Dunster, as always giving your father much unnecessary trouble; in fact, she hints that his disappearance at the time was supposed to be the cause of a considerable loss of property to Mr. Wilkins.” “No!” said Ellinor, eagerly, feeling that some justice ought to be done to the dead man; and then she stopped short, fearful of saying anything that should betray her full knowledge.  “I mean this,” she went on; “Mr. Dunster was a very disagreeable man personally—and papa—we none of us liked him; but he was quite honest—please remember that.” The canon bowed, and said a few acquiescing words.  He waited for her to speak again. “Miss Monro says she is going to see Dixon in—” “Oh, Mr. Livingstone, I can’t bear it!” He let her alone, looking at her pitifully, as she twisted and wrung her hands together in her endeavour to regain the quiet manner she had striven to maintain through the interview.  She looked up at him with a poor attempt at an apologetic smile: “It is so terrible to think of that good old man in prison!” “You do not believe him guilty!” said Canon Livingstone, in some surprise.  “I am afraid, from all I heard and read, there is but little doubt that he did kill the man; I trust in some moment of irritation, with no premeditated malice.” Ellinor shook her head. “How soon can I get to England?” asked she.  “I must start at once.” “Mrs. Forbes sent out while you were lying down.  I am afraid there is no boat to Marseilles till Thursday, the day after to-morrow.” “But I must go sooner!” said Ellinor, starting up.  “I must go; please help me.  He may be tried before I can get there!” “Alas!  I fear that will be the case, whatever haste you make.  The trial was to come on at the Hellingford Assizes, and that town stands first on the Midland Circuit list.  To-day is the 27th of February; the assizes begin on the 7th of March.” “I will start to-morrow morning early for Civita; there may be a boat there they do not know of here.  At any rate, I shall be on my way.  If he dies, I must die too.  Oh!  I don’t know what I am saying, I am so utterly crushed down!  It would be such a kindness if you would go away, and let no one come to me.  I know Mrs. Forbes is so good, she will forgive me.  I will say good-by to you all before I go to-morrow morning; but I must think now.” For one moment he stood looking at her as if he longed to comfort her by more words.  He thought better of it, however, and silently left the room. For a long time Ellinor sat still; now and then taking up Miss Monro’s letter, and re-reading the few terrible details.  Then she bethought her that possibly the canon might have brought a copy of the Times, containing the examination of Dixon before the magistrates, and she opened the door and called to a passing servant to make the inquiry.  She was quite right in her conjecture; Dr. Livingstone had had the paper in his pocket during his interview with her; but he thought the evidence so conclusive, that the perusal of it would only be adding to her extreme distress by accelerating the conviction of Dixon’s guilt, which he believed she must arrive at sooner or later. He had been reading the report over with Mrs. Forbes and her daughters, after his return from Ellinor’s room, and they were all participating in his opinion upon it, when her request for the Times was brought.  They had reluctantly agreed, saying there did not appear to be a shadow of doubt on the fact of Dixon’s having killed Mr. Dunster, only hoping there might prove to be some extenuating circumstances, which Ellinor had probably recollected, and which she was desirous of producing on the approaching trial. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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