The white witch. A novel

Front matter

THE WHITE WITCH. & fLobtl. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II. LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, JtoMisfura in ffirSinarg to gi).er <|ttajestg tht (IJtmn. 1884. [Alt J! ierits Reserved.'] CONTENTS OF VOL. II. CHAPTER PAGE I. AT SIR WILLIAM HUNT'S - - - I II. IN THE MOONLIT GALLERY - - - 32 III. LOCKED IN THE VESTRY - - - 60 IV. AN ARTIST'S SKETCH-BOOK - - - 80 V. ON THE TRACK - - - - II3 VI. BAFFLED - - - - - 1 35 VII. GODFREY AND MARY - - - " r55 VIII. FACE TO FACE WITH SIR WILLIAM - - 179 IX. MRS. MAYNE'S NIGHT ALARM - - - 207 X. DICK'S WOUNDS .... 233 XI. WITH THE DETECTIVE - - - - 262 XII. PUTTING UP USELESS BARS - -

Chapter I. At Sir William Hunt's Atters

of more kinds than one were making havoc of the mind of Godfrey Mayne. What could it have been that so terrified Mary Dixon in the parlour at the Abbey Farm ? — and in what lay the mystery connected with Sir William Hunt ? Strolling about the garden in meditative soliloquy the day after Mary's fright had occurred, he gave the reins to his thoughts. Had Mary's nervous fears overcome her, had she even fancied that she saw the ghost VOL. II. of the dead monk — for it is well known what absurd tricks the nerves are ready to play us at certain times and seasons — she would certainly have rushed from the room, reasoned Godfrey ; she would have cried out to himself and Nancy for protection — they were not beyond hearing. Instead of that, she seemed to be herself afraid of being seen. Had she been seized with fright at suddenly seeing Dick Wilding ? — who confessed to having looked in at the window.

But in that case, as with regard to the monk, she would surely have run out of the room, not have taken refuge under the cover of the side-table. The more Godfrey thought of it, the less could he make of it ; and what he also deemed very strange indeed was, that Miss Dixon did not attempt to give any explanation of the source of the alarm when they were walking home together. The affair about Sir William Hunt did not puzzle him as much. It was not impossible that Mrs. and Miss Dixon might have been acquainted with Sir William in the past, that from some cause or other they were not now on friendly terms, and that Mrs. Mayne wished to avoid meeting him again. It was also possible — Godfrey mentally confessed it — that his own suspicions had arisen with out due foundation, and that neither mother nor daughter wished to avoid meeting Sir William.

The last doubt would be speedily set at rest, for this was the day of the dinner at Goule Park. If the two ladies went to it, it would be a proof that all was right ; if they did not go, why, then the burning question would remain — why did they stay away ? Evening approached. In his restless im patience, Godfrey was ready before anybody else, and paced the drawing-room while waiting ; one instant laughing at the mystery he had conjured up ; the next, anticipating the meeting with Sir William. In his ex citement he forgot completely for the time that it could not make any difference to him, the promised husband of Elspeth Thorn hill, whether Miss Dixon were saint or sinner. At last he heard steps and voices in the 20 — hall. Opening the door, he met his father, looking very uneasy and downcast, and Miss Dixon in a magnificent lemon-coloured silk gown ; but without gloves, flowers, or orna ments.

" Here's a terrible state of things !" cried Mr. Mayne piteously. " My wife has a ner vous attack, brought on by the thunder this afternoon !" " Thunder!" exclaimed Godfrey. " There has not been any thunder — except a very little in the distance." " But that frightened her, it seems ; made her think we might have a storm before we got back again ! And she says that she should die if a storm overtook us when we were driving at night. So she won't go. When I tried to persuade her, she nearly went into hysterics." " But that is nonsense," said Godfrey im patiently, his suspicions in full force. "It must be all fancy ; we shan't have a storm. She ought to go, father." " My dear Godfrey," said his father, sur prised at his vehement tone, " if I cannot persuade her, nobody else can. Come ; we must start : we are late as it is."

" But, Miss Dixon — she is going !" cried Godfrey. For the girl had turned to go upstairs. " No, she stays at home also. Her mother will not spare her." But Godfrey went past him, and laid his hand on Miss Dixon's arm, his face and voice resolute. "What does this mean ?" said he, in a low, hard tone. " Why do you avoid this ? You shall go !" " Godfrey!" reproved his father, in surprise. " You are forgetting yourself. What business is it of yours ? You are frightening Mary, too, see. Go upstairs to your mother, my dear. And Godfrey, come along at once ; don't stand there looking angry." Casting at him a dumb, beseeching glance from her sad brown eyes, Mary went upstairs. Godfrey followed his father to the carriage, and sat perfectly deaf to his comments on his amazing conduct. Mr. Mayne was not sorry to find vent for his annoyance at his wife's unreasonable caprice.

But the young man's brain was reeling with wild conjectures and misgrivinors, and he heard not a word of the lecture. Mary returned to her mother's dressing room as the carriage drove away. It was a little room opening from the bed-chamber, used by Mrs. Mayne as a sitting, or work ing-room, not as a dressing-room, though so called. " Mary," she faltered, as her daughter en tered, " what is to be done ? I cannot think what will become of us. Suppose Sir William gets talking about the past this evening ?" "And if he does!" cheerfully replied the girl, who believed it to be her duty above all things to comfort her sorrowing mother. " It will not affect us — it will not afford any clue to the past." " One can never be sure," moaned Mrs. Mayne. " My whole life is one prolonged tor ment from fright, since I knew Sir William's place was in this neighbourhood.

He would not recognise you, I suppose ; but he would me. Good heavens, what is to be done ?" " Well, mamma, you must endeavour to keep out of his sight while they are in the neighbourhood. In a short time he and Lady Hunt leave again, and then all danger will be over." " For the present ; only for the present. Oh, my child, what will become of me ? I shall never know peace again." " You may know it better than I shall," thought Mary sadly. " Sir William might recognise your singing; take care of that," said Mrs. Mayne. " He heard it, you know, that day " " Yes, I know," interrupted Mary, with a shiver. " Mamma, I shall not be likely to sing where he can hear me." " You must never sing again," cried Mrs. Mayne, almost fiercely in her eagerness. "It was most imprudent to sing to Godfrey. To let him know that you have such a voice."

" I don't see why. He will not talk of it. I dare say I shall not sing to him again. And now, mamma, I shall tell Lydia to bring you some tea, while I go and take off this grand dress. After that I will read to you, and we will spend a pleasant evening to gether." In all this there had been an assumption of lightness in the girl, which was perhaps a little overdone. It struck Mrs. Mayne so, and she caught Mary's hand to detain her. " Mary, what is it ? All day long you have assumed a carelessness of speech and manner, done, I am sure, to hide some special anxiety and restlessness. Has any thing happened that I don't know of ? One would say you went about in more than ordinary fear." Very rapidly a flush passed over Mary's face, leaving it paler than before. But she smiled as if she were at ease.

" How observant you are growing, mam ma ! There's nothing. Truth to say, I had last night a — a very disagreeable dream, and ♦I can't forget it." " A dream ! That we had been tracked at last ?" " Worse than that." "Worse than that! Why, what could be worse ?" added Mrs. Mayne, gazing at her daughter. " Are you jesting with me, Mary ?" "Why, to be sure I am. Who ever at taches importance to a dream ?" concluded the girl, laughing, as she made her escape. But she shivered from head to foot as she went along the corridor — or gallery, as it was more often called. It had been the picture gallery in the time of the late Mr. Mayne, and a few grand old pictures hung there still. " No need to tell her of it until I am quite sure," sighed Mary ; " and oh, there may be some mistake in it. Poor mamma !"

When Mr. Mayne and his son reached Goule Park, much dismay was expressed at the non-appearance of the two ladies, especially as they were the most interesting of the invited guests. The dinner was therefore even more dull than these entertain ments generally were at Sir William's. The Underwoods were there, but Ernest was utterly downcast under his disappoint ment at not meeting Miss Dixon. Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill brought only one daughter — Matilda, the eldest. And a sly old gentleman remarked, in a tone which was purposely loud enough for Godfrey to hear, on the won derful effect a certain lady's absence had upon his spirits. For at this dinner Godfrey Mayne looked quite like a forlorn lover, lost in him self, and speaking to hardly anybody. When Lady Hunt retired with the ladies, who in this case could only be conventionally looked upon as enhancing the pleasures of the banquet by their grace and beauty, the gentle men did indeed seem to feel that they were borne down by one burden the less, and the talk grew more animated.

The Bishop's last freak ; the want of a Tory leader ; the new organ which had just been presented to Croxham church — all were discussed with other topics. " Have you been into our church since the organ was placed there, Hunt ?" asked Mr. Mayne. The Baronet shook his head. " I don't much care for music now," he said ; " it tries me. But I'll come over some day soon to hear the new organ. Godfrey, here, will play it for me." " With pleasure, sir," replied Godfrey, who was no mean musician, particularly on the organ. " I remember," said the oldest gentleman of the party, who always had a remark with this opening to drag into any discussion : "I remember the time when the music in Crox ham church was just a big fiddle and a little fiddle." " I think the congregation used to join in the singing more heartily before the choir be came of so much importance.

The old men and women don't dare to join their voices to those of that pretentious row of smart lasses and lads near the organ now," said Mr. Thornhill, who was Low Church and mild. " And a very good thing too," said the Reverend George Greville Masterton, who was High Church and fierce, and Rector of Cheston. " Such a bawling and squeaking as one may hear even yet in some out-of-the way places where the congregation, such as it is, still has it all its own way with the singing ! I call it a disgrace to divine service." " I must say I like to hear good singing in church or anywhere else," said Mr. Mayne. "When I am in London, if the opera is open I always go to it. You used to be a great lover of music, Hunt. Do you still attend the opera much when you are in town — or concerts ? I remember you and I heard Jenny Lind for the first time together."

" I have never been to any public enter tainment since my boy William died," answered Sir William gravely. " I do not go where I am likely to hear singing." " But why, Hunt ?" asked Mr. Thornhill. "Well, you may judge how fond of singing I am now, when I tell you that the most beautiful voice I ever heard, not excepting Patti's or Jenny Lind's, was the voice of the woman who tricked and led my boy to his death." " Good heavens !" exclaimed Colonel Un derwood, who was partly a stranger to the history. " How was that, Hunt ?" "It was in Rome," said Sir William; " about two years and a half ago, you know — rather more, now. A mother and daughter were there — at least I think they were mother and daughter, but I am not even yet acquainted with all the details. They " " Were they gentlewomen ?" interrupted the Colonel.

"Passed for such — adventuresses, most probably, under the rose. They lured my poor son on and on, with their cards and their wiles and their sweet singing. Such a magnificent voice it was ! I had never, as it seemed to me, heard one to equal it — and I should know it to-morrow, were I to hear it again. They lured William on, I say, and — and murdered him in the end." Godfrey, who had listened in silence, rose from table and staggered to the window. A most awful dread had crept in upon him. The air was suddenly hot as a furnace, the walls were falling upon him, his brain was bursting ; his face was wet and ghastly as he stared out into the night. Rome — two years and a half ago — most beautiful voice — -their avoidance of Sir Wil liam ! — what did it all mean ? The Gentlemen at table looked round at him.

What was amiss ? It couldn't be the wine — he had not taken much of it. Oh, only the heated room ! " That young Mayne must be a milksop !" whispered the Rector of Cheston to the neighbour at his elbow. As the large, closed carriage rolled home wards over the few miles between Goule Park and Croxham Abbey, Mr. Mayne took the opportunity to rally his son upon his newly developed delicacy. " I think it rather amusing, Godfrey, after your indignation at Mrs. Mayne's illness. Was it the thunder that upset your nerves, also ?" " I don't wish to hear any more about it — or to talk of it, father," said Godfrey. " I was not ill ; and my going to the window to get a breath of fresh air had nothinoto do «•" *__> with either nerves or thunder. You speak as if I had made a scene. The room was simply too hot ; and I have not yet sat through enough heavy dinners in stuffy old houses to be suffocated without minding it."

" Well, I don't know how you can call that big dining-room at Goule ' stuffy,' returned his father mildly. " It is twice as big as ours at the Abbey. When we have a dinner-party there you don't jump up suddenly as if you had been shot, and stagger to the window and put your head out, without answering for ever so long, when you are asked what is the matter. Old Masterton got quite nervous, and asked me if you were in the habit of fainting away. A pleasant thing for me, to be suspected of having a son who faints !" " Very !" interjected Godfrey satirically. " Of course I was mortified ; but I didn't know what to make of you myself. At first I feared you must surely have had too much wine, but I never knew you to take too much before, and I thought it curious that you should begin at Sir William's. I saw Under wood grimace, absolutely grimace, when he tried the port ; and as for the sherry — well, I believe Hunt gets it by advertisement, I do indeed.

I know I shall have a bilious attack to-morrow." "Well, well, father, let it be. I do not suppose I shall give rise to fears again that I am fainting." And perhaps the assurance appeased Mr. Mayne. He settled himself back in his corner and fell comfortably asleep. But there was no sleep, or chance of it, for Godfrey. His mind was simply distracted. One minute calling himself all sorts of wicked names for daring to attach any such suspicion, even for an instant, to Mary Dixon and her mother ; the next, recounting over and over again all the points mentioned by Sir William. How could he dare to imagine such ill of her ? Her beautiful face, with its sad brown eyes, as it had appeared to him when she reproached him for his suspicions — which were light compared with this ! — rose up to shame him for his doubts.

Doubts ! Yes, thank heaven they were only doubts. He would speak to her to-morrow — would it were pos sible that he could speak to-night ! — for, come what would of it, these dreadful doubts must be set at rest. Now he said to himself that he had no right whatever to have raised such doubts ; but he saw that, looking back upon past events, they had raised themselves up naturally, as a result of those events. In a degree they had been chased out of his mind by Mary's grace and charm, and also by common-sense, but they came back now with a terribly new meaning suggested by Sir William's words. Was it remorse for having encouraged a mere lad to gamble with cards which she was so anxious to forget ? All Godfrey knew of young William Hunt's death was that it had occurred in Rome in — as he thought — a gambling quarrel, and that the people connected with it had escaped ; that was all that anybody knew, for Sir William had an unconquerable repugnance to talk of it.

He now recalled his step-mother's agitation at the mention of cards : was it possible — but no, he would not think it ; that agita tion might arise from some totally different cause. Mary Dixon a gambling-house inmate ! — a decoy! It was a sheer impossibility. God frey had heard of such women of course, knew to what class they belonged, and of what type their attractions must be. And vol. n. the distance between such fascinations as theirs and those of the sweet girl whose manners had done even more to infatuate him than her innocent and lovely face, was immeasurable. Godfrey Mayne lived a quiet country life, and seldom visited town ; but when he was there the circle in which his re lations lived, and to which he for the time belonged, was socially among the very best, and his taste in all that concerned women was fastidiously correct.

He felt that Miss Dixon could no more have acquired the style which distinguished her from the dowdy ladies of the best, and the over-dressed ladies of the second-best society in the neighbourhood, among the riff-raff of Continental card-sharp ers, than she could have cultivated her mind and trained her voice as she had done without the most careful instruction and supervision. He bent down and held his head in his hands, trying in vain to fight his way amid the mass of contradictions every fresh thought suggested, to some key to the mystery. The only solution which occurred to him was one which woke in him a fresh torture, a mad impulse of jealousy. Mrs. Mayne had lived abroad since the death of her first hus band, doubtless for the sake of trainings her daughter's voice ; the latter had confessed, by a sudden start which he remembered, to havings studied in Italy.

Might they not have come in contact with needy adventurers who saw a source of almost boundless profit in the young girl's beauty and glorious voice ? Two years and a half ago she was only nineteen : he knew her to be passionate, sensitive, impres sionable, impulsive. Might not — the thought was fire — might not some good-looking well born roue, who deserved to be an outcast from that society whose manners he still re tained, have insinuated himself into the friendship of both ladies, into the love of the younger, and — in some way — compromised them through his own bad manners ? But, believe aught ill of themselves, he could not. There had been a time when Godfrey had had doubts about her, which some of his researches in Norfolk had seemed to justify ; but they had died with the birth of his love.

Pure she was, and must be. He would ask 21 — THE WHLTE WITCH. 20 her without loss of time what the trouble was that weighed upon her, and he would be con tent with her answer, whatever it was (short of any fatal compromise), and trust to time and the reassurance it would bring to gain her full confidence, and would defend and comfort her. She might find the whole world hard and cruel, but not him. And — if the worst came to the worst ; if he found that she could indeed be no fit wife for him, that the past raised up an insuperable barrier, why, he would still do his best to protect and shield her from the frowns of the world — as he would by some poor young relative of his own who might need it. And Godfrey's heart glowed within him at the thought only of having this girl to love as a sister, and to ward off evil from through life.

He forgot Elspeth altogether ; he forgot his dear old father, quietly dreaming by his side ; just then the whole world contained but him and her. The carriage rolled up to the door of the Abbey. William opened the door and let down the steps. Godfrey got out, and turned AT SIR WILLIAM HUNTS. 21 to help his father. Hawkins had the hall door open. "There, go on, go on, Godfrey," said Mr. Mayne sleepily : " I want to speak to Barth about the horses." Mary came running downstairs and across the hall to welcome them, and almost fell against Godfrey, who was rushing in like a whirlwind. She had taken off her dinner dress, and put on a simpler one of pale pink cashmere. " I hope you have spent a pleasant evening," said she gaily, " and are come back ready to tell us all about it." " Oh, very pleasant indeed !" answered Godfrey.

" No," he added," in a different tone : " it was intensely dull." " Dull ! What was Lady Hunt about to allow it to be dull ? Was she very much annoyed with poor mamma for not going ? I hope not. It was foolish of her to be so fanciful ; I told her so : but she is always alarmed at thunder." " Is she ?" mechanically returned Godfrey, deep in various items of thought. Mr. Mayne was coming in at the moment. Mary passed Godfrey, and took his hand. " Well, you naughty girl," said Mr. Mayne, not quite sure yet whether he was only sleepy, or just a little cross as well. "And so you can look quite cheerful and happy, when you have been the means of spoiling a whole evening's entertainment for a number of people." " Oh, don't say that ; it is very unkind to me ; you don't mean it, I'm quite sure," said she coaxingly.

" You know I did my best to persuade her to go, and it was not my fault that I failed." " But you ought to have come yourself. Lady Hunt said so." "No doubt Miss Dixon had good reasons for not wishing to come," said Godfrey carelessly, from the hat-stand. It was the last thing he ought to have said, if he intended to carry out his programme of storming Miss Dixon's confidence ; but the coolness with which she was asserting this, which he believed was not true, irritated him out of his prudence. The temptation to dis- AT SIR WLLLLAM HUNT'S. 23 turb her deceitful serenity was again strong upon him. But the serenity he disturbed was another person's. Mr. Mayne turned sharply on his son : it was the peculiar tone of voice that annoyed him. " W'hat do you know about it, Godfrey ? Mary's reasons for staying away were good — those of a dutiful daughter.

I wish you could give as good reasons for your unaccount able conduct this evening." Mary cast a lightning-glance at Godfrey ; but Mr. Mayne was speaking again. " Your mother, child : how is she now ? Has she got over the thunder — of which we did not hear another sound ?" " Yes, quite," said Mary. " Come up and see. She seems a little nervous yet, lest it should come back in the night. I won't say but she is sorry now that she did not go." " I should think so," rejoined Mr. Mayne, as he followed the girl upstairs. Mrs. Mayne was still in the dressing-room, seated on the sofa by the fire, which she had caused to be lighted : any sort of nervousness, especially that of a dreaded thunder storm, made her feel chilly, she informed her maid Lydia. She greeted her husband with an air of repentant humility which completed his subjection.

He rallied her a little on being so sagacious a weather-prophet ; and she replied, with a pretty air of yelding, that she was very, very sorry. Mary sat down by her mother. It was scarcely yet the usual hour for retiring — eleven o'clock — for the party had broken up early. Mary asked Mr. Mayne to tell them all about the dinner and the dresses. " Oh, you must ask Godfrey about the dresses ; I don't remember any of them, ex cept that Mrs. Thornhill wore a brown gown with little black velvet bows. I remember that, because I have always met her in that gown at dinner-parties for a long time now." " How severe you are getting, sir!" laughed Mary. " I didn't think you could say any thing so cutting as that." " Cutting, do you call it ?" cried Mr. Mayne. " I didn't mean it to be so. I don't at all see why a lady should not wear a dress until it is worn out, if it is pretty.

I don't think this one of Mrs. Thornhill's is pretty, though." " The dresses of people who wear them till they are worn out never are pretty," said Mary saucily. "Nonsense! Young ladies have no busi ness with such extravagant notions. Matilda was in — in white muslin, I think." " That was prettier than Mrs. Thornhills brown silk." "Well, perhaps so. When I say that Mrs. Thornhill's is not pretty, I only mean that — well, I felt as if I wanted to cut off some of the little bows. And I thought it would look better if it had one of those long flounce things behind, like the one you came down in, Mary." The girl smiled mischievously. " A train, you mean. Well, yes, I should think it would." " For my own part, I like something brighter than those dull browns and drabs. I like blue or pink," added Mr. Mayne.

" Did not Mrs. Locksley wear her pink ?" asked Mrs. Mayne, with displayed interest. "Let me see. Yes, I think she was in pink. But that is not quite the colour I mean. I like— well, I like the colour of this one that you have on, Mary." " It is a pretty shade," said the girl, looking down approvingly. " But, indeed, sir, you would not call my dresses pretty if I wore them till they were as old as Mrs. Thorn hill's." " It seems to me that Mary spends more than half her income upon dress," remarked Mrs. Mayne. " Quite too much." " Yes ; you are an extravagant girl, and a saucy one too, Miss Mary," assented Mr. Mayne playfully, " and you will never get a husband. Some handsome, dashing young fellow may think you look a nice girl ; but he will say to himself : ' She spends all her own money on dress, and that is how she would spend mine.' " " ' And the dear girl is welcome to do so,' he would add," returned the young lady with renewed sauciness.

" And then he would propose to me ; and I should know that he cared, not for the little money I have, but for myself, and I should instantly say ' Yes,' and marry him." Mr. Mayne laughed. " I shall warn Ernest Underwood that he had better look out for some one more eco nomical." " My dear Henry!" protested his wife, with what looked like a touch of real anxiety. " Well, I think it is an open secret now ; at least among ourselves, Laura," replied the well meaning, blundering man good-humouredly, not noticing that the girl herself had grown suddenly still and grave. " You should have seen how the young fellow's face fell, Miss Mary, when I and Godfrey appeared without you ! Two disconsolate lovers were enough to damp anybody's spirits at a dinner-party; and with Ernest on one side of the table and Godfrey on the other, both looking as gloomy as if they were at a funeral — - — " " Godfrey !" interrupted Mrs. Mayne.