Chapter XXXII: Miss Jane in Trouble

The Grey Ladies held fête sometimes, as well as the outside world; and it was gay this evening in the Grey Nunnery. The Sisters were en soirée: no guests, however, were present; only themselves. The occasion prompting it was the return of Sister Mildred: Sister Mildred grown young again, as she laughingly told them, so sprightly did she feel in her renewed health and strength.

She had brought some treasures back with her: contributed by the kind relatives with whom she had been staying. A basket of luscious hot-house grapes; a large, rich, home-made plum-cake; and two bottles of cowslip wine. These good things had been set out on the table of the parlour, and the whole of the Ladies sat round, listening to Sister Mildred's glowing accounts of her visit and of its pleasant doings.

"Why, my dears, they would fain have kept me till next year," she rejoined in answer to a remark: and her hearing was for the time so much improved that the small ear-trumpet, hanging by a ribbon from her waist, was scarcely ever taken up. "I had a battle, I assure you, to get away. My cousin has two charming little girls with her, her grandchildren, and the little mites hid the key of my box, so that it should not be packed; and they cried bitterly when I was ready to start."

"You will be sorry, now, that you have resigned the superiorship to me," whispered Mary Ursula, taking up the trumpet to speak. "I will give it back to you."

"Ah, my dear, no. I would not be head again for the world. I am better, as you see, thanks to our merciful Father in heaven; so much better that I can hardly believe it to be myself; but to keep well I must have no care or trouble. I shall be of less use here now than any of you."

"You will be of every use, dear Sister Mildred, if only to help me with counsel," returned Mary.

"Oh, it is pleasant to be at home again," resumed the elder lady, her face beaming from under its crisp muslin cap. "The sojourn with my relatives has been delightful; but, after all, there's no place like home. And you must give me an account, dear Sisters of all that has occurred during my absence. See to the thief in the candle!"

"There's not very-much to relate, I think," observed Sister Betsey, as she attended to the thief. "We had an adventure here, though, one night. Tom Dance's son went on to the chapel ruins to shoot a sea-bird for somebody at Stilborough, and his pistol exploded, and wounded him dreadfully. He came crawling here to be taken in."

"What do you say, dear?" asked Sister Mildred, her hand to her ear. "Tom Dance brought a sea-bird here?"

"No. His son, young Dance----"

But Sister Betsey's explanation was cut short by a loud, peremptory ring at the house-bell. Rings at that time of the evening, for it was close upon nine o'clock, generally betokened notice of illness or accident. Sister Ann hastened to the door, and the others held their breath.

"Who is ill? Is any case of calamity brought in?" quickly demanded Sister Mildred on her return.

"No ill case of any kind," replied Sister Aim, as she approached Mary Ursula. "It is a visitor for you, madam."

"For me!" exclaimed Mary, feeling surprised. "Is it my uncle--Mr. Castlemaine?"

"It is Lawyer Knivett, from Stilborough," said Sister Ann. "His business is very particular, he says."

Mary Ursula glanced around as she rose. It would scarcely be convenient for him to come in amid all the ladies; and she desired Sister Ann to take him to the dining-room. A cold, bare room it looked, its solitary candle standing at one end of the dinner-table as she entered. Mr. Knivett came forward and held out his hand.

"Will you forgive my disturbing you at this time, my dear Miss Castlemaine?" he asked. "I should have been here an hour or two ago; but first of all I waited for the violence of the storm to pass; and then, just as I was getting into my gig, a client came up from a distance, and insisted on an interview. Had I put off coming until to-morrow morning, if might have been midday before I got here."

They were sitting down as he spoke: Mary by the end of the table where the candle stood: he drew a chair so close in front of her that his knees nearly touched hers. Mary was inwardly wondering what his visit could relate to. A curious thought, bringing its latent unpleasantness, crossed her--that it might have to do with Anthony.

"My dear lady, I am the bearer of some sad news for you," he began. "People have said, you know, that a lawyer is like a magpie, a bird of ill-omen."

She caught up her breath with a sigh of pain. What was it that he had to tell her?

"It concerns your father's old friend and clerk, Thomas Hill," went on Mr. Knivett. "He was your friend too."

"Is he ill?" gasped Mary.

"He was ill, my dear Miss Castlemaine."

The stress on the one word was so peculiar that the inference seemed all too plain. Mary rose in agitation.

"Surely--surely he is not dead?"

"Sit down, my dear young lady. I know how grieved you will be; but agitation will not do any good. He died this afternoon at five o'clock."

There ensued a silence. Mary's breath was rising in gasps. "And--I--was not sent for to him," she cried, greatly agitated.

"There was no time to send," replied Mr. Knivett. "He had been ailing for several days past, but the doctor--it was Tillotson--said it was nothing; poor Hill himself thought it was not. This afternoon a change for the worse occurred, and I was sent for. There was no time for anything."

She pushed back the brown hair, braided so simply under the muslin cap. Pale memories were crowding upon her, mixing themselves up with present pain. The last time she had seen the surgeon, Tillotson, was the night when her father was found dead on his sofa, and poor Thomas Hill was mourning over him.

"Hill said more than once to me that he should not last long now his master Was gone," resumed the lawyer: "but I thought it was but an old man's talk, grieving after his many years' master and friend. He was right, however."

Regrets were stealing upon Mary. She had not, she thought, taken as much notice of this faithful old man as she ought. Why, oh, why, in that one sole visit she had made to Stilborough, to Mrs. Ord, did she not call to see him? These reproaches strike on us all when a friend passes away. The tears were trickling down her cheeks.

"And I should not have hastened over here to tell you this of itself, Miss Castlemaine; you'd have heard it soon without that; ill news travels fast. But nothing can be done without your sanction; hardly the first coffin ordered. You are left sole executor."

"I am! Executor!"

"Executrix, I should have said; but the other word comes more ready. His will does not contain ten lines, I think, for I made it; and there's not a name mentioned in it but yours. Every stick and stone is left to you; and sole, full power in all ways."

"But what shall I do, Mr. Knivett? To leave me executor!"

"My dear young lady, I knew you would be distressed at the first blush of the thing. I was surprised when he gave me the directions; but he would have it so. He had a notion, I fancy, that it might serve to take you abroad a bit out of this place: he did not like your being here."

"I know he did not. I strove to convince him I was happy when he came over here in the summer; but he could not think it."

"Just so. His money is well and safely invested, and will bring you in about three hundred and fifty pounds a year. There's some silver, too, and other knicknacks. It is all yours."

"What a good, kind, faithful man he was!" she said, her eyes streaming. "Good always, in every relation of life. He has gone to his reward."

"Ay, ay," nodded Mr. Knivett. "Hill was better than some of his neighbours, and that's a fact."

"But I can never act," she exclaimed. "I should not know what to do or how to do it."

"My dear Miss Mary, you need not trouble yourself on that score. Give me power, and I will make it all as easy for you as an old shoe. In fact, I will act instead of you. Not for gain," he added impressively: "I must do this little matter for you for friendship's sake. Nay, my dear, you must meet this as it is meant: remember my long friendship with your father."

"You are very kind," she faltered.

"Have you a pen and ink at hand?"

She brought one, and he caused her to assign to him the necessary power. Then he asked her wishes as to temporary matters and they consulted for a few minutes together: but she was glad to leave all to Mr. Knivett that she could leave.

"There has been another death at Stilborough to-day: at least, not more than a mile or two from it," observed the lawyer, as he rose to leave. "You have not heard of it, I suppose?"

He had his back to her as he spoke, having turned to take up his overcoat which lay on the children's form. Mary replied that she had not heard anything.

"Sir Richard Blake-Gordon's dead."

A great thump seemed to strike her heart. It stood still, and then went bounding on again.

"His death was very sudden," continued the lawyer, still occupied with his coat. "He fell down in a fit and never spoke again. Never recovered consciousness at all, Sir William tells me."

Mary lifted her eyes. Mr. Knivett had turned back to her then.

"Sir--William?" she stammered, feeling confused in all ways. The title was spoken too suddenly: it sounded strange to her; unnatural.

"It was he who came in and detained me: he had to see me upon an urgent matter. He is sadly cut up."

Hardly giving himself time to shake her hand, Mr. Knivett, bustled away. In passing the parlour-door, Sister Mildred was coming out of it. She and the lawyer were great friends, though they very rarely saw each other. He could not stay longer then, he said; and she and Mary went with him to the door, and walked with him across the waste ground to the gate.

The storm had entirely passed: it was the same evening, told of in the last chapter, when Miss Hallet took a trip to the blacksmith's: the sky was clear again and bright with a few stars. The storm had been one of those violent ones when the rain seems to descend in pitiless torrents. A great gutter of water was streaming along in front of the Grey Nunnery on the other side the low bank that divided the path from the road. Mr. Knivett's horse and gig waited in the road just out of the running water. The night was warm and still, balmy almost as in summer, though it was getting late in the year. Ten o'clock was striking from the Nunnery clock.

"I shall be over again in a day or two," said Mr. Knivett to the ladies, as he took a leap from the bank over the gutter, and the groom held the apron aside for him to get up.

The two ladies stood at the gate and watched him drive off. It was, indeed, a lovely night now, all around quiet and tranquil. Mary, with a sobbing sigh, said a word to Sister Mildred of the cause that had brought the lawyer over; but the good Sister heard, as the French say, à tort et à travers. Now, of all queer items of news, what should the ladies have been pouring into the ex-Superior's ear during Miss Castlemaine's absence from the parlour, but the unsatisfactory rumours just now beginning to circulate through the village to the detriment of Jane Hallet. Her mind full of this, no wonder Sister Mildred was more deaf than need have been to Mary's words.

"It is a very extraordinary thing, my dear," she responded to Mary; "and I think she must have lost her senses."

At that same moment, sounds, as of fleet footsteps, dawned on Mary's ear in the stillness of the night. A minute before, a figure might have been seen flying down the cliffs from the direction of Miss Hallet's dwelling; a panting, sobbing, crying woman: or rather, girl. She darted across the road, nobody being about, and made for the path that would take her by the Grey Nunnery. The ladies turned to her as she came into view. It looked like Jane Hallet. Jane, in her best things, too. She was weeping aloud; she seemed in desperate distress: and not until she was flying past the gate did she see the ladies standing there. Sister Mildred, her head running on what she had heard, glided out of the gateway to arrest and question her.

"Jane, what is amiss?"

Startled at the sight of the ladies, startled at their accosting her, Jane, to avoid them, made a spring off the pathway into the road. The bank was slippery with the rain, and she tried moreover to clear the running stream below it, just as Mr. Knivett had done. But her foot slipped, and she fell heavily.

Sister Mildred stooped over the bank, and held out her hand. Was Jane stunned? No: but just for the minute or two she could not stir. She put one hand to her side as Sister Mildred helped her on to the path. Of no use to try to escape now.

"Are you hurt, child?"

"I--I think I am, ma'am," panted Jane. "I fell on my side." And she burst into the sobs again.

"And now tell me what the matter is, and where you were going to."

"Anywhere," sobbed the girl. "My aunt has turned me out of doors?"

"Dear me!" cried Sister Mildred. "When did she turn you out of doors?"

"Now. When I got in from Stilborough. She--she--met me with reproach and passion. Oh, she is so very violent! She frightened me. I have never seen her so before."

"But where were you running to now?" persisted Sister Mildred. "There, don't sob in that way."

"Anywhere," repeated Jane, hysterically. "I can sit under a hedge till morning, and, then go to Stilborough. I am too tired to go back to Stilborough now."

Sister Mildred, who had held her firmly by the arm all this time, considered before she spoke again. Fearing there might be too much cause to condemn the girl, she yet could not in humanity suffer her to go "anywhere." Jane was an especial favourite with all the Sisters. At least, she used to be.

"Come in, child," she said. "We will take care of you until the morning. And then--why we must see what is to be done. Your aunt, so, self-contained and calm a woman, must have had some great cause, I fear, for turning you out."

Crying, wailing, sobbing, and in a state altogether of strange agitation, Jane suffered the Sister to lead her indoors, resisting not. Mary Ursula spoke a kind word or two to encourage her. It was no time for reproach: even if the Grey Ladies had deemed it their province to administer it.

Jane was shown to a room. One or two beds were always kept made up in the Grey Nunnery. Sister Betsey, invariably cheerful and pleasant with all the world, whether they were good or bad, poor or rich, went in with Jane and stayed to help her undress, chatting while she did it. And so the evening came to an end, and the house was at length steeped in quietness.

But in the middle of the night an alarm arose. Jane Hallet was ill. Her room was next to that of Sisters Ann and Phoeby they heard her moaning, and hastened to her.

"Mercy be good to us!" exclaimed the former, startled out of all equanimity by what she saw and heard. "We must call the Lady Superior.

"No, no; not her," corrected the calmer Sister Phoeby. "It is Sister Mildred who must deal with this."

So the very unusual expedient was resorted to of disturbing the ex-Superior in her bed, who was so much older than any of them. Sister Mildred dressed herself, and proceeded to Jane's room; and then lost not a minute in despatching a summons for Mr. Parker. He came at once.

At the early dawn of morning the wail of a feeble infant was heard within the chamber. A small, sickly infant that could not possibly live. The three Sisters mentioned were alone present. None of the others had been disturbed.

"The baptismal basin," whispered the elder lady to Sister Ann. "Make haste."

A china basin of great value that had been an heirloom in the Grant family, was brought in, half-filled with water. Sister Mildred rose--she had bent for a minute or two in silent prayer--took the infant in her arms, sprinkled it with the water, and named it "Jane." Laying it down gently, those in the room knelt again. Even Mr. Parker, turning from the bed, put his one knee on a chair.

By the time the Grey Ladies generally rose, all signs and symptoms of bustle were over. Nothing remained to tell of what the night had brought forth, save the sick-bed of Jane Hallet, and a dead infant (ushered into the world all too soon), covered reverently over with a sheet in the corner.

Breakfast done with, Sister Mildred betook herself up the cliff to Miss Hallet's, her ear-trumpet hanging from her waist-band. It was a painful interview. Never had the good Sister witnessed more pitiable distress. Miss Hallet's share in the pomp and pride of life had not been much, perhaps: but such as it was, it had now passed away from her for ever.

"I had far rather have died," moaned the poor lady, in her bitter feeling, her wounded pride. "Could I have died yesterday morning before this dreadful thing was revealed, I should have been comparatively happy. Heaven hears me say it."

"It is a sad world," sighed Sister Mildred, fixing the trumpet to her ear: "and it is a dreadful thing for Jane to have been drawn into its wickedness. But we must judge her charitably, Miss Hallet; she is but young."

Miss Hallet led the Sister upstairs, undid Jane's locked drawer with the blacksmith's borrowed key, and exhibited its contents as an additional aggravation in her cup of bitterness. Sister Mildred, a lover of fine work, could not avoid expressing admiration, as she took up the things one by one.

"Why, they are beautiful!" she cried. "Look at the quality of the lace and cambric! No gentleman's child could have better things provided than these. Poor Jane! she must have known well, then, what was coming. And such sewing! She learnt that from us!"

"Never, so long as she lives, shall she darken my doors again," was the severe answer. "You must fancy what an awful shock it was to me, Sister Mildred, when I opened this drawer last evening; and what I said to Jane on her entrance, I really cannot recall. I was out of my mind. Our family has been reduced lower and lower by ill-fortune; but never yet by disgrace."

"I'm sure I can't understand it," returned the puzzled Sister. "Jane was the very last girl I could have feared for. Well, well, it cannot be mended now. We will keep her until she is about again, Miss Hallet."

"I should put her outside the Nunnery gate to-day!" came the stern reply.

"That would kill her," said Sister Mildred, shaking her head in compassion. "And the destroying of her body would not save her soul. The greater the sin, the greater, remember, was the mercy of our Lord and Master."

"She can never hold up her head in this world again. And for myself, as I say, I would far rather be dead than live."

"She won't hold it up as she has held it: it is not to be expected," assented Sister Mildred with an emphatic nod. "But--well--we must see what can be done with her when she's better. Will you come to see her, Miss Hallet?"

"I come to see her!" repeated the indignant relative, feeling the proposal as nothing less than an outrage. "I would not come to see her if she lay dying. Unless it were to reproach her with her shame."

"You are all hardness now," said indulgent Sister Mildred, "and perhaps I should be in your place: I know what a bitter blow it is. But the anguish will subside. Time heals the worst sores: and, the more we are weaned from this world, the nearer we draw to Heaven."

She dropped her trumpet, held Miss Hallet's hand in hers, and turned to depart. That ruffled lady, after escorting her to the door, turned the key and shot the bolt, as if she wanted to have no more to do with the outer world, and would fain deny it entrance.

"Oh ma'am, what a sight o' news is this!" broke forth staring Nancy Gleason, meeting the Grey Lady face to face at a sudden turning of the cliff path, and lifting her two hands in reprobation.

It was the first instalment of the public unpleasantness: an unpleasantness that must perforce arise, and could only be met. Of no use for Sister Mildred to say "What do you mean?" or "Jane Hallet is nothing to you." The miserable news had gone flying about the village from end to end: it could neither be arrested nor the comments on it checked.

"I can't stay talking this morning, Nancy Gleeson," replied the deaf lady; who guessed, more than heard, what the theme must be. "You had better go home to your little ones; they may be setting themselves on fire again."

"'Twarn't so over long ago she was a lugging our Bessy up the path, and she looked fit to drop over it; all her breath gone, and her face the colour o' chalk," continued Nancy, disregarding the injunction. "Seemed to me, ma'am, then as if 'twas odd. Well, who'd ever ha' thought it o' Miss Jane Hallet?"

Sister Mildred was yards away, and Nancy Gleeson's words were wasted on the air. At the foot of the cliff, as she was crossing the road, Mrs. Bent saw her from the inn door, and came over with a solemn face.

"How is she doing?" asked the landlady, speaking close to Sister Mildred's ear.

"Pretty well."

"I shall never be surprised at anything after this, ma'am; never: When Molly, all agape, brought the news in this morning, I could have sent a plate at her head, for repeating what I thought was nothing but impossible scandal. Miss Hallet must be fit to hang herself."

"It is a sad, grievous thing for all parties, Mrs. Bent," spoke Sister Mildred. "Especially for Jane herself."

"One can't help pitying her, poor young thing. To have blighted her life at her age! And anything that's wanted for her while she's sick, that the Nunnery may be out of, please send over to me for. She's heartily welcome to it, Sister Mildred."

The Sister nodded her thanks, and walked on. Mr. Parker overtook her at the Nunnery door, and they went up together to the sick-room.

Jane lay, white and wan, on the pillow, Sister Mona standing by her side. She looked so still and colourless that for the moment it might have been thought she was dead. Their entrance, however, caused her eyes to open; and then a faint shade of pink tinged her face.

Mr. Parker ordered some refreshment to be administered; and Sister Mona left to get it. "See that she has it at once," he said, speaking into the trumpet. "I am in a hurry just now, and cannot stay."

"Is anyone ill?" asked Sister Mildred.

"A child up at the coastguard station is in convulsions, and they have sent for me in haste. Good-morning, madam, for the present. I'll call in on my return."

"Only one moment, doctor," cried Sister Mildred, following him out to the corridor, and speaking in a whisper. "Is Jane in danger?"

"No, I think not. She must be kept quiet."

Infinitely to the astonishment of Sister Mildred, somewhat to her scandal, Mr. Harry Castlemaine appeared on the staircase, close upon the descent of the doctor. He must have come into the Nunnery as the latter let himself out. Taking off his hat, he advanced straight to Sister Mildred, the open door at which she was standing no doubt indicating to him the sick-room.

"By your leave, Sister Mildred," he said, with a grave and pleasant smile--and passed in.

She was too utterly astonished to stop him. But she followed him in, and laid her arresting hand on his arm.

"Mr. Harry--Harry Castlemaine, what do you mean by this? Do you think, sir, I can allow it?"

"I must speak a word or two to Jane," he whispered in her ear, catching up the trumpet of his own accord. "Dear lady, be charitable, and leave me with her just for a minute, On my honour, my stay shall not much exceed that." And, partly through his persuasive voice, and smile, and hands, for he gently forced her to the door, partly in her own anxiety to obey the doctor's injunction of keeping Jane quiet, and wholly because she felt bewildered and helpless, Sister Mildred found herself outside in the corridor again, the door shut behind her.

"My goodness!" cried the perplexed lady to herself. "It's well it's me that's here, and not the younger Sisters."

In two minutes, or little more, he came out again; his hand held forth.

"Thank you, dear Sister Mildred. I thank you from my heart."

"No, I cannot take it," she said, turning pointedly away from his proffered hand.

"Are you so offended that I should have come in!"

"Not at that: though it is wrong. You know why I cannot touch your hand in friendship, Harry Castlemaine."

He stood a moment as though about to reply; but closed his lips without making any. "God bless you, dear lady; you are all very good: I don't know what Greylands would do without you. And--please"--he added, turning back again a step or two.

"Please what?" demanded Sister Mildred.

"Do not blame her. She does not deserve it. I do."

He went softly down the stairs and let himself out. John Bent was standing at his door as Harry came in view of the Dolphin, and the young man crossed over. But, when he got up, John had disappeared indoors. There was no mistaking that the movement was intentional, or the feeling that caused the landlord to shun him. Harry Castlemaine stood still by the bench, evidently very much annoyed. Presently he began to whistle, slowly and softly, a habit of his when in deep thought, and looked up and down the road, as if uncertain which way he should take.

A knot of fishermen had gathered round the small boats on the beach, and were talking together less lazily than usual: possibly, and indeed probably, their exciting theme was the morning's news. One of them detached himself from the rest and came up towards the Dolphin, remarking that he was going to "wet his whistle." Mr. Tim Gleeson in a blue nightcap.

To judge by his flushed face and his not altogether steady gait, the whistle had been wetted already. When he saw Mr. Harry Castlemaine standing there, he came straight up to him, touching his cap. That trifling mark of respect he did observe: but when he had got a glass within him, there was no such hail-fellow-well-met in all Greylands as Tim Gleeson. He would have accosted Mr. Castlemaine himself.

"In with the tide, Gleeson?" remarked Harry--who was always pleasant with the men.

"Her's just gone out, sir," returned Gleeson, alluding to the boat. "I didn't go in her."

"Missed her, eh?" A misfortune Mr. Gleeson often met with.

"Well, I did miss of her, as might be said. I was a-talking over the news, Mr. Harry, with Tuff and one or two on 'em, and her went and put off without me."

Harry wondered he was not turned off the boat altogether. But he said nothing: he ceased to take notice of the man, and resumed his whistling. Gleeson, however, chose to enter upon the subject of the "news," and applied a hard word to Jane.

Harry's eagle glance was turned on the man like lightning. "What is that, Gleeson?" he asked, in a quiet but imperious tone.

And Mr. Tim Gleeson, owing no doubt to the wetting of the whistle, was so imprudent as to repeat it.

The next moment he seemed to have pins and needles in his eyes, and found himself flat on the ground. Struck to it by the stern hand of Mr. Harry Castlemaine.