Probation

Sebastian’s first thought naturally resolved itself into the words, ‘A thief in the night;’ some evil-disposed person who thought to penetrate to some of the bedrooms, in the confusion, and perhaps reap a harvest of neglected brooches, watches, or shawl-pins. In such a case, it was his duty at once to warn the servants, and he was in the act of turning to go and do so as quickly as possible, when the figure reached the head of the first flight of stairs, and turned to mount the next. As this happened, Sebastian caught a momentary glimpse of the face. He was long sighted, and not given to making mistakes in the matter of identity. The man who was stealing so quietly up the stairs in such evident fear of detection was, one would suppose, the last person who should need to act in so strange a manner. It was Mr. Spenceley himself, the master of the house.

With great presence of mind Sebastian checked his movement to turn round, and neither started nor stirred, but stood pensively trifling with a fern leaf, as he gave himself time to reflect upon what had happened.

The vague, floating rumours which he had heard, as to the ‘shakiness’ of Mr. Spenceley’s commercial position, recurred to his mind. Probably there was something in them. His own business and that of Mr. Spenceley lay in utterly different lines: he had not come across him in any commercial transactions; but he knew men who had, and who were of opinion that Spenceley was playing rather a dangerous game. During those troublous years some fortunes were made, and many were lost—lost by men who seemed as little likely to fail as Mr. Spenceley of Castle Hill. Sebastian pictured the feelings of his mother, supposing she were to hear any such rumour—his mother who was probably at that moment listening with affecting interest and politeness to some circumlocutory history from the lips of Mrs. Spenceley, à propos either of Fred or of Helena. This was the day on which Helena was to come into—not her whole fortune—that was only to happen at her father’s death, or if she married—but of so much of it as would make her what many people would call a rich woman. Sebastian thought of this, and wondered if the fortune were but

His thoughts turned persistently to the girl with whom he had so lately been dancing. It was all in her honour, this ghastly, hollow mockery of an entertainment, with its spectres and shadows flitting and stealing about. All for her! She was crowned with roses, which were indeed the fitting flower for so beautiful a rose as she was herself. Those great pearls round her neck, and those massive bracelets on her slender arm—his mind recalled each item of her dress, and, as it were, every line of her beauty; he saw her standing, as she had stood more than once that evening, with a crowd round her, of friends and well-wishers—for she was popular—who congratulated her, and brought her flowers and bouquets—chiefly roses—the flowers of love and triumph. And ever, as he pictured her thus, that shadowy, stealing figure seemed to lurk and crouch behind them, now uncovering its face a little, and then, with a smile of weird meaning, drawing the veil again. He shuddered a little, and turned hastily towards the ball-room; stood in the doorway and looked. Yes, there was Helena with Hugo; he was glad she was with Hugo; smiling and laughing with him, as they flew swiftly by, past the door, and her perfumed skirts brushed him and sent an odd little thrill through him.

The ball progressed, and the evening drew drearier and drearier; he heard the excuses made by Mrs. Spenceley, and saw the care growing darker upon her brow; he heard the regrets of the guests, and saw the increasing uneasiness of the looks cast about him by Fred, with a strange sense that he alone could, if he chose, point the way upstairs and say, ‘You will find the explanation of all, if you go there and ask.’

As the tenth dance was about to begin, he saw Fred make some excuse to the lady whom he was leading to the ball-room; heard the words, ‘Very sorry—back in a minute.’ The young lady was put on a cushioned bench beside the wall, and Fred quickly departed, with a look of resolution on his face. Sebastian, with Helena on his arm, looked after Spenceley. He was going upstairs. Mallory, throughout all the dance, could not keep himself from wondering what was taking place in one of those upper rooms. What confession, or what revelation? Were things very bad? Was the crisis a very critical one?

‘You have become perfectly silent, Mr. Mallory—not to say morose,’ remarked Helena. ‘And when I was dancing with Hugo, I saw you looking in upon us with a sort of glare. What is the matter?’

‘Oh, nothing! Miss Spenceley, when did you last see your father?’

‘This morning, quite early: you know we have breakfast at eight, because we are business people. He gave me these pearls that I have on for a birthday present, and though I would much rather have had no presents, they were so beautiful, and I am so weak, that I was in ecstasies with them. But papa said he had very important business in Liverpool, and he might have to go to Manchester too. Still, he is very late,’ she added, as they began to dance again.

The waltz was over. Every one was streaming into the supper-room; Helena, with Sebastian, remained in the ball-room, watching the people out, to see that all went, when voices made themselves heard: young men were calling out, ‘I say, Spenceley!’—‘Where’s Fred?’—‘Who’s to sit where?’—‘Fred, Mrs. Spenceley wants to ask you something.’

‘Where can Fred be?’ exclaimed Helena, craning her neck to look round. ‘It is very strange in him to go away just now, when he ought to be seeing after things.’

They were standing beside a door of the ball-room; not that leading into the hall, but one which opened into a passage leading to the billiard-room, and thence to the kitchen regions and offices. Almost as Helena spoke, the door was suddenly opened, and a young woman appeared, with frightened face, and widely distended eyes, who, seeing Helena, began, after the manner of her kind, to wring her hands, and exclaim, in much agitation,

‘Oh, Miss Spenceley! Where’s missis? Oh, how dreadful! Oh!’

‘What is the matter?’ demanded Helena in a clear, decided voice.

‘Oh—master, m’! He’s——’

‘Stop!’ said Sebastian, suddenly and sternly, as he took the girl’s arm, and gave it a little shake, to restore her to her senses. ‘Don’t make such a noise! Miss Spenceley, wait here a moment. Come here!’ he added to the girl—one of the housemaids—as he drew her into the passage, and closed the door. ‘Now, what is the matter? Your master has returned. I saw him. Is he ill?’

‘Oh, sir,’ she said, with an hysterical sob, ‘he’s dead! He’s lying on the sofa in his room, and——’

‘Dead!’ repeated Sebastian, and he knew in a moment what it meant. ‘Where is Mr. Fred? Is he with him?’

‘No, sir. I haven’t seen him. I thought he was here.’

Sebastian, with a growing fear that the whole thing was much blacker and more dreadful than he had suspected, bade the young woman wait a moment, while he returned to Helena. He had rapidly reviewed the circumstances, and found there was nothing for it but to go to her. Fred was gone: he did not like to let the idea, ‘absconded,’ shape itself, even in his mind; but all the same, it was there, like an ugly black spectre. To burst upon Mrs. Spenceley with such news would have been in the highest degree inhuman and improper. Helena alone remained to take this fearful burden upon her shoulders.

He found Helena standing in the same place in which he had left her, and the last of the guests disappearing through the hall to the supper-room. Helena was composed and calm, but her eyes, as they met his, told him that she suspected a catastrophe.

‘I want you to come with me,’ said he, drawing her arm through his, and speaking in a low, gentle voice, and then they stood in the passage, with the servant-maid.

‘Show me the room where your master is, and do not speak,’ he said to her; she was crying bitterly, in a cowed and helpless fashion, but was less excited, less inclined to shriek out her dreadful news to every one she met. Helena’s face grew white, but she neither trembled nor spoke, as they followed the girl up the backstairs to a landing-door, which she threw open, and then they found themselves standing on the gallery which formed the landing, and from which all the bedroom doors opened out.

‘Which is your master’s room?’ asked Sebastian.

The maid pointed to a door, and cried more bitterly still, while Helena’s face grew whiter and more set every minute.

‘Have you seen Mr. Fred at all this evening?’

‘I saw him run upstairs, sir, and then I saw him go to his own room; but he’s not there now, and I’ve never seen him since.’

‘Very well, you can go now; but remember, you are to be silent, or it will be worse for you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. I won’t say nothing, indeed!’ said the weeping young woman, going away with her muslin apron to her eyes.

He turned to Helena. He felt he must not defer it any longer. There was pity and tenderness in his eyes and in his voice, as he said,

‘Now, Helena, you are brave, and you must be as brave as you can to-night.’

‘Tell me what it is!’ she said; ‘but don’t keep me waiting any longer.’

‘I must keep you waiting just a few moments,’ said he. ‘I want you to sit down here, and not move, while I go to your father’s room—will you?’

‘Yes,’ said Helena, seating herself with a prompt docility which contrasted strangely with her white face and distended eyes.

Sebastian left her, walked into the room, and found it all as he had expected. Mr. Spenceley had committed suicide. He had taken prussic acid, and lay dead upon the couch at the foot of his bed. Sebastian, looking quickly round, saw a written paper lying on the floor at his feet. It was merely a scrap of paper, with the words,

‘Dear Lizzie,—I am a ruined man, and I can’t bear it. I’ve never made you very happy, and the best I can do is to leave you. I don’t know what will be left, but there is always your money of your own, and Nelly’s that I——’

Here it broke off. It was not torn; it was as if the facts had rushed over the man as he wrote these words, and he had failed to pen another syllable. There was no proof that Fred had absconded, or that he knew his father’s fate. Sebastian knew he must put the matter in the best light; but he himself felt an absolute certainty of conviction on the matter.

He took the paper and went out of the room, locking the door and putting the key in his pocket. Helena looked up as he came to her, but said not a word.

‘Helena,’ he began, ‘from what has happened to-night, I fear your father has found that he is ruined.’

‘Is that all?’ said Helena, drawing a long breath of relief.

‘No. That, if true, is the least part of it. Remember what this must have been to your father. Prosperity and success were his very life.’

‘Do you mean that it has killed papa?’ asked Helena with unnatural calm, fixing her eyes upon his face.

‘I wish to spare your mother, or I would not tell you this. It has killed him—that is, he could not bear to live after such a fall. My poor child, your father has destroyed himself.’

‘He has—oh!’ came like a whisper from her white lips. Face, cheeks, brow, lips, were white as the dress she wore. She caught at a chair which stood near and supported herself upon it, looking at him with a stare of blank, utter horror, which he felt to be almost unbearable. For weeks afterwards he was haunted by the vision of the white figure in its cloudy dress; the roses scattered about it, all like one white marble figure, save the dusky hair and eyes which looked coal-black by contrast with her face.

‘Think of your mother,’ said he, feeling that that spell of horror must be broken, and he gently put his arm round her, and placed her in the chair on which she had been leaning. She did not speak for a moment, but at last said,

‘Oh, poor mamma! If she only need not know.’

‘I fear she must know a great deal of it.’

Then Helena put the question which he dreaded.

‘But where can Fred be all this time?’

‘He is not in the house. He may have gone away to see if the failure is complete—if anything remains to be saved,’ said Sebastian; ‘at any rate he is not here.’

‘Ah, yes!’ said Helena, and no suspicion like Sebastian’s conviction even for a moment troubled her mind. He gave her the paper he had found.

‘I have read it; I thought it best,’ said he. ‘And now I want you to go to your own room, and I will send Mrs. Spenceley to you, and ask all these people to go away. You will allow me!’

‘You are very good,’ said Helena, calmly.

‘You must break just what you think fit to Mrs. Spenceley,’ he added. ‘There is no one but you to do it, and she will hear it best from you. For her sake, you will keep up this brave, calm behaviour till the worst is over.’

‘Yes; and then?’

‘Trouble yourself about nothing else to-night. I will see to everything until your brother comes back. I will stay here all night. You need not leave your room again.’

Helena rose without speaking; looked at him with an indescribable expression; her lips moved, as if she would have spoken; but, without a word, she turned and went to her room. Sebastian watched until the door had closed after her, and that silence seemed to leave an enormous want in his heart. There was silence, except a murmur coming from the supper-room. That reminded him of his duty. With another earnest look at that closed door, he went downstairs.

He made his way to Mrs. Spenceley, and asked her to go to her daughter in her room. With a deep flush of terror and foreboding, she went. Neither husband nor son was there to support her. A stranger took her to the foot of the stairs and left her. Sebastian’s soul was quite possessed with the idea of these two women; one telling, the other learning, the extent of their awful calamity, so far as it was known. It haunted him, but he gathered himself together, and easily catching the attention of the startled company, he merely told them that Mrs. and Miss Spenceley wished him to express their great regret at having to leave their guests, in consequence of very distressing news which they had just received. Frederick Spenceley had had to leave home immediately, and he thought, as it was already late, the kindest thing they could do would be to leave the house as soon as possible.

Amidst a wild buzz of inquiries, suggestions, and speculations, the guests dispersed. In an hour the house was quiet, and Helena had gently told her mother the whole truth as far as she knew it.