One Sunday, when he had been gone about three weeks, and Nancy had been spending the day in the Rue Pomme Cuite, Mary Carimon walked home with her in the evening. Monsieur Jules had gone to see his cousin off by the nine-o’clock train—Mademoiselle Priscille Carimon, who had come in to spend the day with them. She lived at Drecques.
“You will come in with me, Mary?” said Ann Fennel, as they gained the door.
“To be sure I will,” replied Madame Carimon, laughing lightly, for none knew about the fears better than she.
Nancy took her hand as they went up the passage. She lighted the candle at the slab, and they went into the salon. Madame Carimon sat down for a few minutes, by way of reassuring her. Nancy took off her bonnet and mantle. On the table was a small tray with the tea-things upon it. Flore had left it there in readiness, not quite certain whether her mistress would come in to tea or not.
“I had such a curious dream last night,” began Nancy; “those tea-things put me in mind of it. Lavinia–”
“For goodness’ sake don’t begin upon dreams to-night!” interposed Madame Carimon. “You know they always frighten you.”
“Oh, but this was a pleasant dream, Mary. I thought that I and Lavinia were seated at a little table, with two teacups between us full of tea. The cups were very pretty; pale amber with gilt scrolls, and the china so thin as to be transparent. I can see them now. And Lavinia said something which made me smile; but I don’t remember what it was. Ah, Mary! if she were only back again with us!”
“She is better off, you know,” said Mary Carimon in tender tones.
“All the same, it was a cruel fate that took her; I shall never think otherwise. I wish I knew what it was she died of! Flore told me one day that Monsieur Podevin quite laughed at the idea of its being a chill.”
“Well, Nancy, it was you who stopped it, you know.”
“Stopped what?” asked Nancy.
“The investigation the doctors would have made after death. Both of them were much put out at your forbidding it: for their own satisfaction they wished to ascertain particulars. I may tell you now that I thought you were wrong to interfere.”
“It was Captain Fennel,” said Nancy calmly.
“Captain Fennel!” echoed Mary Carimon. “Monsieur Dupuis told me that Captain Fennel wished for it as much as he and Monsieur Podevin.”
Captain Fennel’s wife shook her head. “They asked him about it before they left, after she died. He came to me, and I said, Oh, let them do what they would; it could not hurt her now she was dead. I was in such terrible distress, Mary, that I hardly knew or cared what I said. Then Edwin drew so dreadful a picture of what post-mortems are, and how barbarously her poor neck and arms would be cut and slashed, that I grew sick and frightened.”
“And so you stopped it—by reason of the picture he drew?”
“Yes. I came running down here to Monsieur Dupuis—Monsieur Podevin had gone—for Edwin said it must be my decision, not his, and his name had better not be mentioned; and I begged and prayed Monsieur Dupuis not to hold it. I think I startled him, good old man. I was almost out of my mind; quite wild with agitation; and he promised me it should be as I wished. That’s how it all was, Mary.”
Mary Carimon’s face wore a curious look. Then she rallied, speaking even lightly.
“Well, well; it could not have brought her back to life; and I repeat that we must remember she is better off. And now, Nancy, I want you to show me the pretty purse that Miss Perry has knitted for you, if you have it at hand.”
Nancy rose, opened her workbox, which stood on the side-table, and brought forth the purse. Of course Madame Carimon’s motive had been to change her thoughts. After admiring the purse, and talking of other pleasant matters, Mary took her departure.
And the moment the outer door had closed upon her that feeling of terror seized upon Nancy. Catching up her mantle with one hand and the candle with the other, she made for the staircase, leaving her bonnet and gloves in the salon. The staircase struck cold to her, and she could hear the wind whistling, for it was a windy night. As to the candle, it seemed to burn with a pale flame and not to give half its usual light.
In her nervous agitation, just as she gained the uppermost stair, she dropped her mantle. Raising her head from stooping to pick it up, she suddenly saw some figure before her at the end of the passage. It stood beyond the door of her own room, close to that which had been her sister’s.
It was Lavinia. She appeared to be habited in the silver-grey silk already spoken of. Her gaze was fixed upon Nancy, with the same imploring aspect of appeal, as if she wanted something; her pale face was inexpressibly mournful. With a terrible cry, Nancy tore into her own room, the mantle trailing after her. She shut the door and bolted it, and buried her face in the counterpane in wild agony.
And in that moment a revelation came to Ann Fennel. It was this apparition which had been wont to haunt her husband in the house and terrify him beyond control. Not a thief; not Flore—but Lavinia!
XV
On the Monday morning Flore found her mistress in so sick and suffering and strange a state, that she sent for Madame Carimon. In vain Mary Carimon, after hearing Nancy’s tale, strove to convince her that what she saw was fancy, the effect of diseased nerves. Nancy was more obstinate than a mule.
“What I saw was Lavinia,” she shivered. “Lavinia’s apparition. No good to tell me it was not; I have seen it now twice. It was as clear and evident to me, both times, as ever she herself was in life. That’s what Edwin used to see; I know it now; and he became unable to bear the house. I seem to read it all as in a book, Mary. He got his brother to send for him, and he is staying away because he dreads to come back again. But you know I cannot stay here alone now.”
Madame Carimon wrote off at once to Captain Fennel, Nancy supplying the address. She told him that his wife was ill; in a nervous state; fancying she saw Lavinia in the house. Such a report, she added, should if possible be kept from spreading to the town, and therefore she must advise him to return without delay.
The letter brought back Captain Fennel, Flore having meanwhile remained entirely at the Petite Maison Rouge. Perhaps the captain did not in secret like that little remark of its being well to keep it from the public; he may have considered it suggestive, coming from Mary Carimon. He believed she read him pretty correctly, and he hated her accordingly. Any way, he deemed it well to be on the spot. Left to herself, there was no telling what ridiculous things Nancy might be saying or fancying.
Edwin Fennel did not return alone. His brother’s wife was with him. Mrs. James, they called her, James being the brother’s Christian name. Mrs. James was not a lady in herself or in manner; but she was lively and very good-natured, and these qualities were what the Petite Maison Rouge wanted in it just now; and perhaps that was Captain Fennel’s motive in bringing her. Nancy was delighted. She almost forgot her fears and fancies. Flore was agreeable also, for she was now at liberty to return to ordinary arrangements. Thus there was a lull in the storm. They walked out with Mrs. James on the pier, and took her to see the different points of interest in the town; they even gave a little soirée for her, and in return were invited to other houses.
One day, when the two ladies were gossiping together, Nancy, in the openness of her heart, related to Mrs. James the particulars of Lavinia’s unexpected and rather mysterious death, and of her appearing in the house again after it. Captain Fennel disturbed them in the midst of the story. His wife was taking his name in vain at the moment of his entrance, saying how scared he had been at the apparition.
“Hold your peace, you foolish woman!” he thundered, looking as if he meant to strike her. “Don’t trouble Mrs. James’s head with such miserable rubbish as that.”
Mrs. James did not appear to mind it. She burst into a hearty laugh. She never had seen a ghost, she said, and was sure she never should; there were no such things. But she should like to hear all about poor Miss Preen’s death.
“There was nothing else to hear,” the captain growled. “She caught a chill on the Sunday, coming out of the hot church after morning service. It struck inwardly, bringing on inflammation, which the medical men could not subdue.”
“But you know, Edwin, the church never is hot, and you know the doctors decided it was not a chill. Monsieur Podevin especially denied it,” dissented Nancy, who possessed about as much insight as a goose, and a little less tact.
“Then what did she die of?” questioned Mrs. James. “Was she poisoned?”
“Oh, how can you suggest so dreadful a thing!” shrieked Nancy. “Poisoned! Who would be so wicked as to poison Lavinia? Every one loved her.”
Which again amused the listening lady. “You have a quick imagination, Mrs. Edwin,” she laughed. “I was thinking of mushrooms.”
“And I of tinned meats and copper saucepans,” supplemented Captain Fennel. “However, there could be no suspicion even of that sort in Lavinia’s case, since she had touched nothing but what we all partook of. She died of inflammation, Mrs. James.”
“Little doubt of it,” acquiesced Mrs. James. “A friend of mine went, not twelve months ago, to a funeral at Brompton Cemetery; the ground was damp, and she caught a chill. In four days she was dead.”
“Women have no business at funerals,” growled Edwin Fennel. “Why should they parade their grief abroad? You see nothing of the kind in France.”
“In truth I think you are not far wrong,” said Mrs. James. “It is a fashion which has sprung up of late. A few years ago it was as much unknown with us as it is with the French.”
“They will be catching it up next, I suppose,” retorted the captain, as if the thing were a personal grievance to him.
“Little doubt of it,” laughed Mrs. James.
After staying at Sainteville for a month, Mrs. James Fennel took her departure for London. Captain Fennel proposed to escort her over; but his wife went into so wild a state at the mere mention of it, that he had to give it up.
“I dare not stay in the house by myself, Edwin,” she shuddered. “I should go to the Vice-Consul and to other influential people here, and tell them of my misery—that I am afraid of seeing Lavinia.”
And Captain Fennel believed she would be capable of doing it. So he remained with her.
That the spectre of the dead-and-gone Lavinia did at times appear to them, or else their fancies conjured up the vision, was all too certain. Three times during the visit of Mrs. James the captain had been betrayed into one of his fits of terror: no need to ask what had caused it. After her departure the same thing took place. Nancy had not again seen anything, but she knew he had.
“We shall not be able to stay in the house, Edwin,” his wife said to him one evening when they were sitting in the salon at dusk after Flore’s departure; nothing having led up to the remark.
“I fancy we should be as well out of it,” replied he.
“Oh, Edwin, let us go! If we can! There will be all the rent to pay up first.”
“All the what?” said he.
“The rent,” repeated Nancy; “up to the end of the term we took it for. About three years longer, I think, Edwin. That would be sixty pounds.”
“And where do you suppose the sixty pounds would come from?”
“I don’t know. There’s the impediment, you see,” remarked Nancy blankly. “We cannot leave without paying up.”
“Unless we made a moonlight flitting of it, my dear.”
“That I never will,” she rejoined, with a firmness he could not mistake. “You are only jesting, Edwin.”
“It would be no jesting matter to pay up that claim, and others; for there are others. Our better plan, Nancy, will be to go off by the London boat some night, and not let any one know where we are until I can come back to pay. You may see it is the only thing to be done, and you must bring your mind to it.”
“Never by me,” said Nancy, strong in her innate rectitude. “As to hiding ourselves anywhere, that can never be; I should not conceal my address from Mary Carimon—I could not conceal it from Colonel Selby.”
Captain Fennel ground his teeth. “Suppose I say that this shall be, that we will go, and order you to obey me? What then?”
“No, Edwin, I could not. I should go in to Monsieur Gustave Sauvage, and say to him, ‘We were thinking of running away, but I cannot do it; please put me in prison until I can pay the debt.’ And then–”
“Are you an idiot?” asked Captain Fennel, staring at her.
“And then, when I was in prison,” went on Nancy, “I should write to tell William Selby; and perhaps he would come over and release me. Please don’t talk in this kind of way again, Edwin. I should keep my word.”
Mr. Edwin Fennel could not have felt more astounded had his wife then and there turned into a dromedary before his eyes. She had hitherto been tractable as a child. But he had never tried her in a thing that touched her honour, and he saw that the card which he had intended to play was lost.
Captain Fennel played another. He went away himself.
Making the best he could of the house and its haunted state (though day by day saw him looking more and more like a walking skeleton) throughout the greater part of June, for the summer had come in, he despatched his wife to Pontipette one market day—Saturday—to remain there until the following Wednesday. Old Mrs. Hardy had gone to the homely but comfortable hotel at Pontipette for a change, and she wrote to invite Nancy to stay a short time with her. Charles Palliser was in England. Captain Fennel proceeded to London by that same Saturday night’s boat, armed with a letter from his wife to Colonel Selby, requesting the colonel to pay over to her husband her quarterly instalment instead of sending it to herself. Captain Fennel had bidden her do this; and Nancy, of strict probity in regard to other people’s money, could not resist signing over her own.
“But you will be sure to bring it all back, won’t you, Edwin? and to be here by Wednesday, the day I return?” she said to him.
“Why, of course I shall, my dear.”
“It will be a double portion now—thirty-five pounds.”
“And a good thing, too; we shall want it,” he returned.
“Indeed, yes; there’s such a heap of things owing for,” concluded Nancy.
Thus the captain went over to England in great glee, carrying with him the order for the money. But he was reckoning without his host.
Upon presenting himself at the bank in the City on Monday morning, he found Colonel Selby absent; not expected to return before the end of that week, or the beginning of the next. This was a check for Captain Fennel. He quite glared at the gentleman who thus informed him—Mr. West, who sat in the colonel’s room, and was his locum tenens for the time being.
“Business is transacted all the same, I conclude?” said he snappishly.
“Why, certainly,” replied Mr. West, marvelling at the absurdity of the question. “What can I do for you?”
Captain Fennel produced his wife’s letter, requesting that her quarter’s money should be paid over to him, and handed in her receipt for the same. Mr. West read them both, the letter twice, and then looked direct through his silver-rimmed spectacles at the applicant.
“I cannot do this,” said he; “it is a private matter of Colonel Selby’s.”
“It is not more private than any other payment you may have to make,” retorted Captain Fennel.
“Pardon me, it is. This really does not concern the bank at all. I cannot pay it without Colonel Selby’s authority: he has neither given it nor mentioned it to me. Another thing: the payment, as I gather from the wording of Mrs. Ann Fennel’s letter, is not yet due. Upon that score, apart from any other, I should decline to pay it.”
“It will be due in two or three days. Colonel Selby would not object to forestall the time by that short period.”
“That would, of course, be for the colonel’s own consideration.”
“I particularly wish to receive the money this morning.”
Mr. West shook his head in answer. “If you will leave Mrs. Fennel’s letter and receipt in my charge, sir, I will place them before the colonel as soon as he returns. That is all I can do. Or perhaps you would prefer to retain the latter,” he added, handing back the receipt over the desk.
“Business men are the very devil to stick at straws,” muttered Captain Fennel under his breath. He saw it was no use trying to move the one before him, and went out, saying he would call in a day or two.
Now it happened that Colonel Selby, who was only staying at Brighton for a rest (for he had been very unwell of late), took a run up to town that same Monday morning to see his medical attendant. His visit paid, he went on to the bank, surprising Mr. West there about one o’clock. After some conference upon business matters, Mr. West spoke of Captain Fennel’s visit, and handed over the letter he had left.
Colonel Selby drew in his lips as he read it. He did not like Mr. Edwin Fennel; and he would most assuredly not pay Ann Fennel’s money to him. He returned the letter to Mr. West.
“Should the man come here again, West, tell him, as you did this morning, that he can see me on my return—which will probably be on this day week,” said the colonel. “No need to say I have been up here to-day.”
And on the following day, Tuesday, Colonel Selby, being then at Brighton, drew out a cheque for the quarter almost due and sent it by post to Nancy at Sainteville.
Thus checkmated in regard to the money, Captain Fennel did not return home at the time he promised, even if he had had any intention of doing so. When Nancy returned to Sainteville on the Wednesday from Pontipette, he was not there. The first thing she saw waiting for her on the table was Colonel Selby’s letter containing the cheque for five-and-thirty pounds.
“How glad I am it has come to me so soon!” cried Nancy; “I can pay the bills now. I suppose William Selby thinks it would not be legal to pay it to Edwin.”
The week went on. Each time a boat came in, Nancy was promenading the port, expecting to see her husband land from it. On the Sunday morning Nancy received a letter from him, in which he told her he was waiting to see Colonel Selby, to get the money paid to him. Nancy wrote back hastily, saying it had been received by herself, and that she had paid it nearly all away in settling the bills. She begged him to come back by the next boat. Flore was staying in the house altogether, but at an inconvenience.
On the Monday evening Mrs. Fennel had another desperate fright. She went to take tea with an elderly lady and her daughter, Mrs. and Miss Lambert, bidding Flore to come for her at half-past nine o’clock. Half-past nine came, but no Flore; ten o’clock came, and then Mrs. Fennel set off alone, supposing Flore had misunderstood her and would be found waiting for her at home. The moonlit streets were crowded with promenaders returning from their summer evening walk upon the pier.
Nancy rang the bell; but it was not answered. She had her latch-key in her pocket, but preferred to be admitted, and she rang again. No one came. “Flore must have dropped asleep in the kitchen,” she petulantly thought, and drew out her key.
“Flore!” she called out, pushing the door back. “Flore, where are you?”
Flore apparently was nowhere, very much to the dismay of Mrs. Fennel. She would have to go in alone, all down the dark passage, and wake her up. Leaving the door wide open, she advanced in the dark with cautious steps, the old terror full upon her.
The kitchen was dark also, so far as fire or candlelight went, but a glimmer of moonlight shone in at the window. “Are you not here, Flore?” shivered Nancy. But there was no response.
Groping for the match-box on the mantel-shelf over the stove, and not at once finding it, Nancy suddenly took up an impression that some one was standing in the misty rays of the moon. Gazing attentively, it seemed to assume the shadowy form of Lavinia. And with a shuddering cry Nancy Fennel fell down upon the brick floor of the kitchen.