"Clara."
"What?" she asked, turning round to him.
"Don't speak of this to any one, my darling. It really has annoyed me. I do not suppose Lady Ellis will."
"Of course I will not." And he bent his hot face over his wife's, and kissed it by way of thanks. "What is she like?" asked Clara.
"Young, and very good-looking."
A knock at the door. Mr. Lake opened it. There stood a fair girl of fifteen or sixteen, with soft brown eyes and a pale gentle face. Her hair, of a bright chestnut-brown, was worn plain, and her voice and manners were remarkably sweet and gentle. It was Anna Chester, Mrs. Chester's step-daughter. There was a sort of patient weary look about the girl, as if she had long had to do battle with care; her black merino dress, rather shabby, was only relieved by a bit of quilled white net round the throat, and plain stitched linen bands at the wrists.
"Mrs. Chester sent me to tell you that dinner is being taken in."
"We are ready for it. Here, Anna, wait a moment," added Mr. Lake, drawing her in and shutting the door. "What brings that Lady Ellis here? I thought she was not to come until Wednesday or Thursday."
"Neither was she," answered Anna. "It put us out very much this morning when we got her letter, because things were not ready. But we did the best we could."
"That accounts for Penelope's sharpness," remarked Mr. Lake. "But she could not have come from Cheltenham this morning, Anna!"
"No, from London. She left Cheltenham on Saturday, she told, us, and wrote from London yesterday."
"Now then, you people!" called out Mrs. Chester's voice from the foot of the stairs.
"Come along, Anna," said Mr. Lake.
"Oh, I am not going to dine with you," was the girl's answer. "There would be nobody to see that things went on properly, and to wash the forks and spoons."
For Mrs. Chester had not sufficient forks and spoons to serve for all her courses without washing. The dinner was made more elaborate than it need have been, in honour of the first appearance of Lady Ellis at table. Anna Chester spoke cheerfully, with patient meekness, as if it were her province to be put upon; and Robert Lake muttered an angry word in his wife's ear about Mrs. Chester's selfishness.
In the corridor they encountered Mary and Margaret Jupp, and all descended together. The party was going into the dining-room; Mrs. Chester had momentarily disappeared; Oliver was laughing with Lydia Clapperton; Mr. Lake went up to him and claimed to be introduced; the Miss Jupps seized upon Lady Ellis with greetings and reminiscences of old times; and altogether there was some confusion. Clara Lake, naturally retiring, slipped into the dining-room behind the rest, and took her seat unobtrusively by the side of Fanny Chester. So that it happened she was not introduced to Lady Ellis. That Indian widow, casting her roving eyes around, heard her called "Clara" once or twice by Mrs. Chester, and took her for the governess. A young curate in a straight coat down to his heels, made the tenth at table.
"Mamma said I was to dine here," whispered Fanny, confidentially to Mrs. Lake, "or else there would have been an odd number."
Mr. Lake took the foot of the table, and had Lady Ellis on his right. They talked together a great deal. Altogether it was a very social dinner, plenty of laughing. Anna Chester washed up spoons and forks outside the door, kept the little boys in order, and saw to things generally.
Dinner over, they went on the lawn, where a table was set out with wine and fruit and cakes. But none of them seemed inclined to sit down to it at first; preferring to disperse in groups, and flit about amidst the walks and flowers. Oliver Jupp appropriated Lydia Clapperton, and Mr. Lake was perfectly content that it should be so. For himself he was everywhere; now with Mary Jupp; now with Margaret; now with his sister; and now, and now, and now with Lady Ellis. Chiefly with her: and she by no means objected to the companionship. In short it was a delightful, unceremonious, laisser-aller sort of gathering, with Mrs. Chester seated in her weeds to play propriety, whilst her young boys, left to themselves, got into as much mischief as they possibly could.
"And so you found yourself restless at Cheltenham?" remarked Mr. Lake, as he and Lady Ellis emerged once more in the open ground from some one of the many side walks.
"I get restless everywhere. India suited me best. It may be different, perhaps, when once I settle down."
"I never saw Cheltenham. It is a charming place, according to report."
"At this season it is nothing but heat and dust. I did intend to stay there until the middle of this week; but I couldn't do it. I could not, Mr. Lake. So I went up to London on Saturday night, and wrote word to your sister that she must expect me on Monday."
They were crossing the lawn. Seated now near Mrs. Chester, at the table, was Clara Lake, who had been beguiled indoors by Fanny Chester to the doll's frock. That important work being accomplished, Clara had come out again. Lady Ellis--her black lace shawl draped artistically round her shoulders, and her very brilliant black eyes darting their glances here and there, fixed their light upon Clara.
"Who is that young lady, Mr. Lake?"
He looked surprised, and then smiled. "Don't you know?"
"I don't know who she is. I know that she is one of the very boldest girls I ever saw."
"She bold!" returned Mr. Lake, in marked astonishment, while a flush darkened his cheek. "You are mistaken, Lady Ellis."
"Bold; and unseemly bold," repeated Lady Ellis. "I speak of that young lady who is now sitting by Mrs. Chester. Some of them called her 'Clara' at dinner. I thought she might be the governess, but she seems to take too much upon herself for that."
"I understand of whom you speak. But why do you call her bold?"
Lady Ellis was silent for a moment, and then lifted her head. "When we have lived in India, have travelled--in short, have rubbed off the reserve and rusticity which experience of the world only can effect, we like to speak out our opinion, and call things by their right names. Half an hour ago you were with her in that walk, talking to her; she held your arm, and she suddenly clasped her other hand over it, and kept it there, turning her face up to yours with what looked very like ardent admiration. It struck me as being not--not seemly."
Mr. Lake coughed down a laugh. "She has a legal right to look in my face as ardently as she pleases: and you may fully believe me when I assure you that from her you will never witness aught unseemly. That young lady is my wife."
"Your--wife!" echoed Lady Ellis, taken utterly by surprise.
"My own wife." His saucy blue eyes gazed into those amazed black ones, enjoying their confusion with an exceedingly saucy expression. Lady Ellis burst into a laugh.
"Well, I suppose I must beg your pardon now. We all seem to be letting ourselves in for mistakes and blunders. I thought she was a young girl, and I did not know you were married."
"She does look young," he answered, his eyes following his wife's pretty figure, as she went towards the house with Mrs. Chester; "nevertheless she has been my wife these three years."
"You must have married early. Is it wise, think you, of a man to do so?"
"Wise?--In what respect?"
"Repentance might come. Men scarcely know their own minds before thirty."
"A great many of us risk it."
They sat down at the dessert-table, and Mr. Lake helped her to some wine and fruit. One of the little boys ran up and clamoured for good things in the absence of his mother. Lady Ellis privately thought that children did not improve the social relations of the world.
Mrs. Chester had taken Clara to look at what she called the domestic arrangements, which in reality meant the kitchens and back premises in general. Encountering Miss Jupp as they went, she turned to accompany them.
"Had you come at the time you ought, I should have shown you over the house before dinner," grumbled Mrs. Chester, who could not forget the upsetting of her plans.
"Of course we were very sorry," spoke Mary Jupp. "It is so tiresome to put back one's dinner after it is at the fire. I should have been more cross than you, Mrs. Chester."
"What with one thing and another, I have been cross enough today," confessed Mrs. Chester, giving a jerk to her widow's cap, which never kept on two minutes together, wanting strings. "First of all, this morning, came Lady Ellis's letter to upset me, and with nothing ready for her!"
"Why did she come today?"
"Some whim, I suppose. It was a courteous letter of excuse--hoping I should pardon her, and begging me not to treat her as a stranger. How very handsome she is!"
"Her features are handsome," rejoined Mary Jupp; "but their expression's bad."
"Bad!" cried Mrs. Chester.
"I think so. There's nothing good or kind in them; and she's eaten up alive with vanity. You must take care of your husband, Clara, for she seems to covet his admiration."
Clara Lake, who was in advance, looked back and laughed merrily.
"How can you put such notions in her head?" spoke Mrs. Chester, severely. "Robert Lake's manners with women are in the highest degree absurd; but there's no need for his wife to be reminded of it to her face."
"I don't mind being reminded of it, Mrs. Chester. It means nothing."
"Of course it does not. I only hope Lady Ellis will not take offence at him. What age is she, I wonder--five-and-twenty?"
"Five-and-thirty, if she's a day!" spoke Mary Ann Jupp, in her strong decision. "She is made-up, you know--cosmetics and that, and dresses to look young. But just look quietly at her when the sun is on her face."
"But she cannot be that age."
"I think she is. I will ask mamma when I get home: she knows."
The subject dropped. Mrs. Chester took them round the house, and in at the back door, showing one thing, explaining another. The larder and the dairy were first entered.
"That is what was once the dairy," observed Mrs. Chester. "Of course, I want nothing of the sort, not possessing cows. It will do to keep herbs and pots and pans in. This is the kitchen," she continued, turning into a large, convenient room on the right of the boarded passage.
"Why, it is like print!" exclaimed Mary Jupp, in her hasty way. "There's not a speck of dirt about it; everything is in its place. How in the world have they got it into this order so soon after dinner?"
"This is the best kitchen," explained Mrs. Chester; "they cook in the other. Don't you see that there's no fire? We shall use this in winter, but while the weather is so hot, I like the cooking done as far from the sitting-rooms as possible. Farm-houses generally have two kitchens, you know. The other is in the yard. You can come and see it."
They went out of the room, but Clara did not. She stood rooted to the spot, like one in a trance, rather than a living, breathing woman. She glanced here, she glanced there; at the doors, the large window, the fireplace; at the furniture, and position of everything. Her breathing came softly; she pressed her brow to make sure she was awake.
Mrs. Chester and Mary Jupp came back, and she had not stirred: her cheek was pale, her hands were clasped, she looked very like a statue. Mrs. Chester began explaining where the several doors led to: one down to the cellar, one to the coal-house, one to the dairy, and one to a china closet; four in all, besides the entrance door. Both of them were too busy to notice her.
"Are you coming, Clara?" asked Miss Jupp, as they went out.
"Directly," she replied, speaking quietly. "Mary, I wish you would find my husband, and tell him I want him here for a minute."
"You want to show him what a model place it is," cried Mrs. Chester, complacently. "Do so, Clara. He will never have such a kitchen in his house."
Mary Jupp delivered the message to Mr. Lake, who was still at the table, and peeling a pear for Lady Ellis. The objectionable boy had disappeared. He came away when he had finished his job, leaving the two ladies together. Mrs. Chester had hastened in dire wrath after the other of her mischievous young sons, who was climbing up a prickly tree, to the detriment of his clothes.
"I had no idea until just now that Mr. Lake was a married man," observed Lady Ellis to Mary Jupp, as she leisurely eat her pear.
"No! Then whom did you suppose Mrs. Lake was?"
"I did not suppose anything about it; I did not know she was Mrs. Lake. Have they been married long?"
"About three years."
"Ah, yes; I think he said so. Any children?"
"There was one. A beautiful little child; but it died. Do you not think her very lovely? It is so sweet a face!"
Lady Ellis shrugged her shoulders. "She has no style. And she seems as much wrapt up in her husband as though they had been married yesterday."
"Why should she not be?" bluntly asked Miss Jupp. "I only hope when I am married--if ever that's to be--that I and my husband shall be as happy and united as they are."
"As she is," spoke Lady Ellis. "I would not answer for him."
Mary Jupp felt cross. It occurred to her that somebody might have been whispering tales about Mr. Lake's nonsensical flirtation with her sister Rose: and purely innocent nonsense, on both sides, she knew that to be. "Young Lake is one of those men who cannot live without flirtation," she observed, "who admire every woman they meet, and take care to let her know it. His wife can afford to laugh at it, knowing that his love is exclusively hers."
Lady Ellis drew down the corners of her mouth and coughed a little cough of mocking disbelief; for which Mary Jupp, upright and high-principled, could have scolded her for an hour.
"So very old-fashioned, those notions, my dear Miss Jupp. Love!"
"Old-fashioned, are they?" fired Mary.
"A woman hazards more than she perhaps bargains for, when she ties herself, for better or for worse, to one of these attractive men: but of course she must put up with the consequences."
"What consequences?" exclaimed Mary Jupp, feeling herself puzzled by the speech altogether.
"The seeing herself a neglected wife: the seeing others preferred before her--as she must inevitably do when her own short reign is over."
"Had you to experience that?" sharply asked Mary Jupp, intending the question as a sting.
"I!" equably returned Lady Ellis. "My husband had nothing attractive about him, and was as old as Adam. I spoke of the wives of fascinating men: others may humdrum on to their graves, and be at peace."
"I don't see what there is to fascinate in young Lake. He is light-headed and careless, if that means fascination."
"Ah," superciliously remarked Lady Ellis, playing with her jet chain.
They were interrupted by Margaret Jupp, who came up with Mrs. Chester. The young lady, hearing of the expedition to the kitchens, was not pleased to have been omitted, so Mrs. Chester was going to do the honours again.
"I think there's nothing so nice as looking over a house," said Margaret. "Kitchens have great interest for me."
"I suppose I may not ask to be of the party?" interposed Lady Ellis, looking at Mrs. Chester.
"Certainly you may: why not?" And they slowly strolled across the lawn on the expedition.
Meanwhile Mr. Lake, in obedience to the summons, had found his wife in the large kitchen. She was still standing in the middle of the floor, just as though she had been glued to it.
"Did you want me, Clara?"
"Do come here," she whispered, in quite an awestruck tone. And Mr. Lake, wondering a little, stepped up and stood beside her. Clara, touching his arm, pointed to different features of the room, turning about to do it.
"Do you see them, Robert? Do you remember?"
"I have not been in the kitchen before," was his answer, after a pause, looking curiously at the room and then at her.
"It is the kitchen of my dream!"
"The what?" exclaimed Mr. Lake.
"The kitchen I saw in my dream."
He barely stopped an irreverent laugh. What he saw upon her face arrested it.
"It is," she whispered, her voice sounding strangely hollow, as though some great physical change had taken place within. "I described its features to you that night, and now you may see them. We--we are standing in the same position!" she burst forth more eagerly, as if the fact had but that moment occurred to her. "See! I was here, you on that side me, as you are now; here was the small round dark table close to us; there is the large window, with the ironing-board underneath it; there, to the left, are the dresser and the shelves, and even the very plates and dishes upon them--"
"Of the precise willow pattern," put in Mr. Lake.
"There, behind us, is the fireplace; and around are the several doors, in the very self-same places that I saw them," she continued, too eager to notice or heed the mocking interruption. "I told, you it looked like a farm-house kitchen, large and bleak: you may see that it does, now."
"I shall begin to think that you are dreaming still," he returned.
"I wish I was! I wish I had never seen in reality the kitchen of that dream. I did not at the first moment recognise it. When I came in with Mrs. Chester and Mary Jupp, the place struck me as being familiar, and I was just going to say to them, 'I must have been here before,' when my dream flashed upon me, like a chill. I felt awestruck--sick; I feel so yet."
"This beats spirit-rapping," said Mr. Lake. "Let us lay hold of the table, and see whether it won't turn."
"Why will you turn it into mockery?" she resumed, her tone one of sharp pain. "You know that dream seemed to foretel my death."
"I declare to goodness, Clara, you will make me angry!" was his retort, his voice changing to severity. "What has come over you these last few days?"
"That dream has come over me," she replied, with a shiver. "I thought it was done with; done with by the accident of last night; and now the sight of this kitchen has renewed it in all its horror. If you could, only for one minute, feel as I am feeling, you would not wonder at me."
Her state of mind appeared to him most unaccountable: not foolish; that was not the word; far worse than foolish--obstinate and unreasonable. Never in his life had he spoken so sharply to her as he spoke now. Perhaps his recent intercourse with that equable woman of the world, Sir George's relict, had given him new ideas. "I should be sorry to feel it, even for a minute; I should be ashamed to do so: and I feel ashamed for you. What did you want with me?"
"To show you the kitchen. To tell you this."
He gave vent to an impatient word, and turned angrily to the door. She, her heart bursting, went forward to the window. Just so had it been in the dream; just so had they seemed to part, he going to the door and she to the window; just so had been her sharp conviction of coming evil. Mr. Lake looked back at her; she had laid her head against the wall near the window: her hands drooped down; in her whole air there was an utter agony of abandonment. His better nature returned to him, and he walked across the kitchen. As he drew her face from the wall he saw that it was white, and the tears were running down her cheeks.
"Clara," he exclaimed, as he took her to himself, "must I treat you and soothe you as I would a child?"
"No, treat me as your wife," she passionately answered, breaking into a storm of sobs.
He suffered her to sob for a few moments, until the paroxysm had spent itself, and then spoke; in a tone of remonstrance, it is true, but with deep tenderness. "Is it possible that you can allow a foolish superstition, a dream, to cause this wild grief?"
"It is not the dream that is causing the grief. You are causing that: you never so spoke to me: when I said it might foretel my death, you turned my words into ridicule. It is as if you do not care whether I live or die."
"Clara, you know better. What can I do for you? How can I soothe you?"
"Do not speak to me in that tone again."
"My dearest, I will do anything you wish in reason; you know I will, but you must not ask me to put faith in a dream. And if my voice sounded harsh--why, it would vex any man to find his wife so foolish."
"Well, well, it shall pass; I will not vex you with it again. If any ill does come, it must; and if not--"
"If not, you will acknowledge what a silly child you have been," he interrupted, kissing the scalding tears from her face.
"Silly, and superstitious, if you will," she whispered, "but not a child. I think I am less a child at heart than many who are older. Robert, if you ever grew unkind to me, I should die."
"That I never shall, my darling."
Standing outside the half-open door, taking a leisurely survey through the chink, was Lady Ellis, having come noiselessly along the passage matting; not purposely to deceive, she was not aware there was anything to see, but her footsteps were soft, her movements had mostly something cat-like about them. She saw his face bent on his wife's, and heard his kisses, all but heard his sweet words; heard quite enough to imagine them. An ugly look of envy, or something akin to it, rose momentarily to her pale features. Legitimate love such as this had never been hers. Mr. Lake was what she had called him, an attractive man. He had that day paid her attentions, said sentimental nothings to her in a low voice; and there are some women who would fain keep such men to themselves, whether they may have wives or not; nay, their having a wife is only an inducement the more. Was Lady Ellis one?
The smile changed its character for that of mockery. It flashed into my lady's mind that this little domestic scene was one of reconciliation after dispute, and that the dispute must have had its natural rise in those recent attentions paid to herself. The voices of Mrs. Chester and Margaret Jupp were heard approaching, and she made her safe way back to them.
"Let it pass, let it pass, Clara," Mr. Lake said hastily to his wife, hearing the voices also. "My dear, there is no reason in your fear. What harm do you suppose can arise from your visit here? There is no chance of a breakdown again as we go home."
"It is just that--that I cannot see any probability of harm. But I gave you my word just now to say no more about the matter, and I will keep it."
"Come and walk in the air, it will do you good. Your eyes are as red as if you had been crying for a day, Clara."
Lady Ellis pushed the door open and came in, followed by the others. Mrs. Chester began expatiating upon the conveniences of the kitchen, its closets and cupboards, and Mr. Lake and his wife slipped away. My lady, looking from the window, saw him pass it towards the kitchen garden, his wife upon his arm.
CHAPTER V.
Red, or Green?
The inquest on those killed by the railway accident took place on the Tuesday morning. Numbers were attracted to the spot, impatient to hear the evidence. Reports had been busy as to the conflicting nature of the testimony expected to be given, and excitement was at its height. While one party openly asserted that Cooper, the driver, was falsely trying to "whiten" himself, and so avoid punishment for his carelessness; the stationmaster was less loudly accused of having been the one in fault, and with "taking away the man's character."
Amidst the crowd, meeting at Coombe Dalton, were Mr. Lake and Oliver Jupp: the one went from Guild, the other from Katterley. Oliver Jupp, with his sisters, said adieu to Mrs. Chester on the Monday evening, and returned home: Mr. Lake and his wife stayed at Guild. Curiosity or interest in the proceedings, or opposition in their own opinions, took them both. Mr. Lake felt certain that Cooper spoke truth in saying the green light was exhibited, not the red; would have been ready to stake his life upon it. Oliver Jupp, relying upon his own eyesight, upheld the side of the stationmaster. Each one had maintained tenaciously his own opinion when discussing the affair at Mrs. Chester's; and they would not have missed the inquest for the world.
In the largest room that the small inn at Coombe Dalton could afford, the coroner and jury assembled, and proceedings commenced. About the cause of death there could be no doubt; and it needed not the testimony of old Dr. Marlow, of Katterley, who had been the first doctor to arrive at the spot on the Sunday night, to prove it. However, the requirements of law must be obeyed, and he was there with sundry of his brethren. Next came the evidence as to the cause of the accident.
The stationmaster, one porter, and a "switchman," comprised the officials who had been at the station on the Sunday night. They all gave their testimony in a very positive and unequivocal manner: that the red lights were exhibited to give warning of danger, and that the train, in reckless defiance of the red, came dashing on, and so caused the catastrophe.
"What was the danger?" officially inquired the coroner.
"Some trucks were on the line just beyond the station, and had to be shunted," replied the stationmaster. "Three minutes would have done it; and the train would not have been kept waiting longer than that, had it only stopped."
"What brought the trucks on the line just as the train was expected to pass?"
"They couldn't be shunted before, because the coal waggons were in the way."
"Why were the coal waggons there just then?"
"Because an engine had gone on and left them there."
And so on; and so on--engine, and coal waggons, and shunting, and trucks. It was like "the house that Jack built." Nobody had been in fault, apparently, or done anything wrong, except the miserable train that had dashed on to its destruction, and its still more miserable driver, Matthew Cooper.
Cooper came forward and asked leave to give his evidence. The coroner cautioned him; he thought he had better not; it might be used against him. But Cooper persisted; and he stood there to say what he had to say, his pale face, surrounded by its bandages, earnest and anxious.
"I'll say nothing but the truth, sir. If that is to be used against me, why I can't help it. I'd not tell a lie even to screen myself."
He took his own course, and gave his evidence. It was to the effect that the green lights were exhibited as usual that night, not the red. The coroner felt a little staggered. He knew Cooper to be a steady, reliable, truth-telling man. One of the witnesses observed, as if in continuation of what Cooper had just said, that "Mat Cooper wouldn't tell a lie to screen himself from nothing." The coroner had hitherto believed the same.
"Did you look at the lights?" he asked of Cooper.
"I looked at both, sir. The lamp that was at the near end of the station, and the lamp on the signal-post beyond it."
"And you say they were the green lights?"
"That they were, sir. The same green lights that are always up. He had taken the light off the post, and was swaying it about, and I couldn't conceive what he was doing it for."
"But here are three witnesses, the stationmaster and the two men, who have sworn that the red signals were up, and not the green," persisted the coroner. "It is very strange that you should maintain the contrary."
"The three may be in a league together to say so, and hide their own negligence," audibly interposed the voice of some zealous partisan from the most crowded part of the room. Upon which the coroner threatened to commit anybody so interrupting, for contempt of himself and the court.
"All I can say is, sir, that there was no difference, that night, in the lights from those exhibited on other nights," returned Cooper. "They were the green lights, and not the red; and if I had to die next minute, I'd say it."
Which was altogether unsatisfactory to the coroner and puzzling to the jury. Most of them knew Cooper well, and would have trusted him; his voice and face, now as he spoke, bore their own testimony to his truth. On the other side, the three station people, who were not to be discredited, gave him the lie direct.
"Did you see the red light swung about?" continued the coroner.
"No, sir. I saw the green; and I couldn't think what it was being swung about for."
Cooper held to this, and nothing more could be got from him--that is, nothing to a different effect. He would have descanted on its being the green light until night, had the coroner allowed him. When he was done with, a gentleman presented himself for examination. It was Colonel West.
"Can you state anything about this matter, Colonel?" asked the coroner, when he had exchanged bows with the voluntary witness.
"Yes, I can, if you will allow me to be sworn." And sworn he was.
"In anxiety to see justice done to the driver, I have come here to offer my testimony," began the colonel, addressing the coroner and jury. "I am enabled to state that the light exhibited on the signal-post, and which the man took down and swayed about, was green. When the driver asserts that it was not red, he speaks the truth."
Some excitement. The coroner drew in his lips, the jury put their heads together. Colonel West stood bolt upright, waiting to be questioned.
"Were you at the station?" inquired the coroner of the witness.
"No; I was in my garden, which is precisely opposite the signal-post on the other side of the line. I was walking about in it, smoking a cigar. I heard the train approaching, and I saw the man take the lamp off the post, lean forward, and swing it about, evidently to attract attention. A minute afterwards the accident happened."
"And you say this was not the red light?"
"It was not. It was the light that is generally up, the green."
The coroner gave an expressive look at the stationmaster, which spoke volumes, and the latter looked red and indignant. Colonel West reiterated his assertion, as if willing that all should be impressed with the truth, and with the injustice attempted to be dealt to Cooper. Then he stood down.
There ensued a commotion: at least, if numerous tongues can constitute it. The coroner interposed to stop it and restore order. When the noise had subsided, Oliver Jupp was standing by the table in Colonel West's place. One of the jury inquired of him why he was put forward.
"I don't know," returned Oliver. "Somebody pushed me up. I happened to mention that I saw the light in question exhibited and swayed about: I suppose it is for that."
"Oh, you saw it, did you," said the coroner. "Swear this witness."
Oliver Jupp took the oath accordingly, and the coroner began.
"Which light was it, the red or the green?"
"The red."
There was a pause. Perhaps more than one present thought of the old fable of the chameleon. The room fixed its eyes on Oliver Jupp.
"From whence did you see it?" demanded the coroner.
"I was in the train returning from Guild. As we got to Coombe Dalton station I looked out at the window, and saw a red light being waved about. I remarked it to my sisters, who were in the carriage with me, and one of them observed that if it was the red light there must be danger. The accident occurred almost as she spoke."
"Are you sure it was the red light, sir?" inquired one of the jury, all of whom had been so particularly impressed with Colonel West's evidence.
"Certain."
"And of course he could have no motive in saying anything but the truth," remarked the juryman to another, who seemed in a state of perplexity.
"I a motive!" haughtily observed Oliver, taking up the words. "I am put here simply to state what I saw, I expect; neither more nor less. I am sorry to give evidence that may tell against Cooper, who is respected in Katterley, but I am bound to say that it was the red light."
"Don't you think you might have been mistaken, sir?" came the next query; for Oliver Jupp's word, a young and little man, bore less weight than Colonel West's, who counted five-and-fifty years, and stood six feet two in his stockings.
"I was not mistaken. It was the red light."
Colonel West was recalled. What else could they do in the dilemma? He stood forward, and Oliver Jupp hid his head amid the ignoble crowd close behind.
With an apology for the apparent doubt, the same question was put to him. Did he think he could have been mistaken in supposing the light was the green.
"Not a bit of it," the colonel answered, with good-humoured equanimity. The lights exhibited that night were the same that always were exhibited--green. The light he saw swayed about was the green.
"Well," exclaimed the coroner, "there's hard swearing somewhere."
And hard swearing there certainly appeared to be. As a spectator audibly remarked, "one could not find an end out of it." The coroner got impatient.
"It is impossible at the present stage to come to any satisfactory conclusion, gentlemen of the jury," he observed; "and I think we had better adjourn the inquiry, when other witnesses may be forthcoming."
Adjourned it was accordingly for a fortnight.
"But for Colonel West they'd have had it all against me," remarked Cooper, who was feeling himself wronged.
"But for Colonel West there'd have been no further bother," cried the aggrieved stationmaster, who thought Cooper ought to have been committed for trial on the spot.
It was certainly singular that the only two witnesses, apart from those interested, should testify so positively in exact opposition to each other. As the spectators poured out of the inquest-room, they formed into knots to discuss it. Neither the one nor the other had any interest to favour the station people or to screen Cooper; and, indeed, both were above suspicion of anything of the sort. Colonel West had never before heard of Cooper; Oliver Jupp knew him, and was evidently sorry to give evidence against him. On the other hand, Oliver Jupp did not know the stationmaster, while Colonel West was friendly with him.
"Will you go back with me to Guild, and stay the rest of the day?" asked Mr. Lake, putting his arm within Oliver Jupp's.
"Can't," returned Oliver. "Promised them at home to get back with the verdict as soon as it was over."
"But there is no verdict."
"All the same; they'll want to know the why and the wherefore."
"As if you could not keep the girls waiting for once!"
"It's not the girls, it's the old folks; and Guild has no charms for me today. Lydia Clapperton's gone."
Mr. Lake laughed. "I say, Jupp, how could you swear so hard about the lights?"
"They swore me. I didn't ask for it."
"I mean against Cooper."
"You would not have me say the light was green when it was red?"
"Colonel West says it was green; he was close to it."
"Moonshine," quietly repeated Oliver. "What on earth causes him to say it I can't make out. Look there"--holding out the end of the cigar he had lighted, and was smoking--"what colour do you call that?"
"Red. All the world could tell that."
"Why don't you say it's green?"
"Because it is not green."
"Just so. Neither was the red lamp."
"Cooper is a reliable man; I don't believe the poor fellow would tell a lie to save himself from hanging; and Colonel West is of known honour; both of them assert that the lights were green."
"I swear that the light exhibited and swung about was red," retorted Oliver Jupp. "There; let it drop. Are you and Mrs. Lake coming home to-night?"
"No. It was uncertain what time I might reach Guild after the inquest, and Mrs. Chester seized upon it as a plea for urging us to remain another night. She wants us to stay for the week, but I don't think we shall. Clara seems rather averse to it."
They parted at the station. Oliver Jupp taking the train for Katterley: and with him we have nothing more to do at present. Mr. Lake got into the train for Guild.
Upon arriving at Mrs. Chester's he found the house empty. Going from room to room in search of them, he at length came upon Anna Chester, mending socks and pinafores.
"Where are they all?"
"I think they have gone to see the late rose show," she said; "there's one in the town today."
He stood by while she folded some pinafores she had finished. Her hands were quick; her sweet face was full of patient gentleness.
"It is not the right thing for you, Anna."
"It is pleasant work. I have been obliged to be useful all my life, you know."
"I don't mean that. Why should you be left at home, while they all go to a flower-show?"
A bloom, bright as any rose in the famous show, shone in the girl's cheeks. She loved flowers, and looked up with a happy expression.
"Perhaps time will be found for me to go tomorrow; mamma said so. It will be only sixpence then."
"And today it's a shilling, I suppose?"
"Yes."
Mr. Lake nodded his head once or twice in a rather marked manner, but did not give utterance to his thoughts, whatever they might be. Anna resumed.
"I do all the work I can--of sewing and other kinds. It has cost mamma so much to get into this house, with the new things she has been obliged to buy, that she says she is nearly ruined. With Lady Ellis here, and only two servants, we could not get along at all but for my looking to everything."
Mr. Lake went off muttering something about Penelope's selfishness. That Anna was put upon quite like another Cinderella he had long known, and his sense of fairness rose up against it.
"If the girl was a tyrant she'd not have stood it for a day," he cried, as he flung himself down on a bench and raked the gravel with his cane. "A meek temper is a misfortune."
A short while, and he heard the keys of the piano touched in the drawing-room; a soft, sweet, musical voice broke out gently in song. He knew it for Anna's. She had finished her work, and was snatching a moment for music, having come in to get the table ready for tea. The open piano tempted her. Mr. Lake listened through the song--an old one; and put his head in at the window as she was rising.
"Sing another for me, Anna."
She started round with a blush. To believe you are singing for yourself, and then to find you have an audience, is not agreeable.
"Oh, Mr. Lake! I did not know you were there."
"Just another, Anna."
"I cannot sing for you. I know only old songs."
"They are better than the new ones. The one you have just sung, 'Ye banks and braes,' is worth any ten that have been issued of late years."
"I feel quite ashamed to sing them before people; I am laughed at when I do. Lady Ellis stopped her ears this morning. Papa loved the old songs, and he did not care that I should sing new ones; so I never learnt any."
He took up a book of music much worn, "Old songs," as Anna called them. Her mother used to sing them in her youth, and the Reverend James Chester had learnt to love them. "Robin Adair," "The Banks of Allan Water," "Pray Goody," "The Baron of Mowbray," "She never blamed him," "The Minstrel-boy," and many others.
It was in his hand, and Anna stood looking over his shoulder, laughing at what Mrs. Chester sometimes called the "ancient bygones." On the table lay a drawing that Anna had done, betraying talent; the more especially when it was remembered that she could never sit to that, or anything else, for five minutes at a time. Up and down continually: called by Mrs. Chester, called by the children, called by the servants. She had never had a lesson in drawing in her life, she had never learnt to sing; what she did do was the result of native aptitude for it.
Mr. Lake had the drawing in his hand when the party entered, trooping in unceremoniously through the window, the children first. Lady Ellis's black-lace shawl was draped around her in its usual artistic fashion, and she wore a bonnet that could not by any stretch of imaginative politeness be construed into a widow's. Clara was with her, her refined face bright and radiant. The two were evidently on good terms with each other.
Mrs. Chester did not enter with them. Her household cares worried her, now that things must wear a good appearance for the new inmate, Lady Ellis. She came in presently from the hall, a cross look on her face, and spoke sharply to Anna. Selfish naturally, made intensely so by her struggle to get along, Mrs. Chester appeared to think that for her step-daughter to be in the drawing-room and not in the kitchen, though it were but for a few minutes in the day, was a heinous crime.
"Robert," she said, addressing her brother, "I wish you'd come up to my room while I take my bonnet off. I have a letter to show you."
He followed her dutifully, just as he used when he was a little boy and she a woman grown. Mrs. Chester's room, which she shared with Fanny, was small and inconvenient. Sweeping a host of things off a chair to the floor in her untidy way, she graciously told him he might sit there, but he preferred to perch himself on a corner of the dressing-table.
"I'm torn to pieces with indecision and uncertainty," she began, taking a letter from a drawer. "I begin to think now it might have been better had I adhered to my first thought--that of taking pupils. Only look at the thing I have missed!"
He held out his hand for the letter, which she struck as she spoke. In her dictatorial manner she preferred to read it to him, and waved his hand away.