The Reluctant Widow Read online

  She went back to the bookroom after dinner and sent Barrow for some working candles. The linen chest had yielded tasks enough for the most zealous needlewoman, and a formidable pile of sheets, towels, and tablecloths had been brought downstairs to be mended. Until Barrow presently brought in the tea tray, Elinor remained occupied with this work, her brain busy at once with schemes for the immediate future and with reflections upon all that had passed since she had come into Sussex. With the coming of the tea tray she laid aside her work and began to look along the dusty bookshelves in search of something to divert her mind for an hour. None of the books was of very recent date, and quite a large amount of space seemed to be devoted to collections of sermons, very dry histories, and the ancient classical authors, bound in crumbling calf. But after wandering round the shelves for some time in growing disappointment, she came upon some books clearly acquired by the late Mrs. Cheviot. Here, jumbled among some bound copies of the Lady’s Magazine, were all Elinor’s favorite poets and a number of novels in marbled boards. Most of these were already known to her, but just as she was hesitating between Mrs. Edgeworth’s Tales of Fashionable Life and a battered copy of Thaddeus of Warsaw, her eye was caught by a title which seemed so apposite to her situation that she could not help but be diverted. She drew The School for Widows out and stood for some moments turning over the pages. Unfortunately, too many were found to be missing to make the perusal of this work eligible. She restored it to its place and took out instead a promising but not so well-worn novel by the same author, entitled The Old English Baron. With this in her hand she retired again to her chair, put another log on the fire, and settled down to be cosy for an hour before retiring to bed.

  For one who had had little leisure of late years to indulge a taste for light reading this was luxury indeed, and not even the desponding tone of Miss Clara Reeve’s story or the lachrymose behavior of her heroine had the power to disgust Elinor. She read on, heedless of the time, alternately amused and interested by the exploits of the perfect Orlando, and very wisely skimming over his Monimia’s all too frequent fainting fits. The guttering of one of the candles at last recalled her to a sense of the time. She glanced instinctively up at the bracket clock on the mantelpiece, but its hands still pointed mendaciously to a quarter to five. The candles, however, had burned so low in their sockets that it was evident the hour was far advanced. Elinor got up, feeling a little guilty, as though an irate employer might later demand of her why she had so grossly wasted the candles, and restored her novel to its place on the shelf. A slight sound, as of a creaking stair, made her start. She realized that all had been silent in the house for a long time, and had certainly supposed that the servants must long since have gone up to bed. For a moment she was frightened Then she recollected how old stairs would creak long after they had been trodden on, picked up the bedroom candlestick which Barrow had brought in to her, and kindled the wick at one of those still burning in the room. A glance at the grate to assure herself that there was no danger of the smoldering remnant of the log falling out to set the house on fire, and she snuffed the candles in the chandelier and walked over to the door. She opened it and stepped out into the hall, only to be brought up short by the unnerving sight of a complete stranger in the act of crossing it in the direction of the bookroom.

  She gave a gasp of shock, and for an instant felt her heart stand still. But, unlike Miss Reeve’s Monimia, she did not suffer from an excess of sensibility, but was, on the contrary, a very levelheaded young woman, and it did not take her more than a moment to perceive that the stranger was looking quite as aghast as she herself felt.

  The oil lamp left burning on the hall table showed him to be a gentlemanly looking young man dressed in riding breeches and a blue coat and with a drab benjamin over all. He had his hat on his head, but after the first few seconds’ astonished immobility he pulled this off and bowed, stammering, “I beg a thousand pardons! I did not know! I had no notion—Forgive, I beg!”

  He spoke with the faintest trace of a foreign accent. The removal of his hat showed him to be dark-eyed and dark-haired. He looked, at the moment, to be extremely discomfited, but his air and manner were both good and the cast of his countenance spoke a reassuring degree of refinement. Elinor, feeling all the awkwardness of her own situation, blushed and replied, “I fear you must have come, sir, to see one who is no longer here. I do not know how it is that the servant should leave you standing in the hall. Indeed, I did not hear the doorbell ring, and had supposed Barrow to have gone to bed.” As she spoke, her eyes alighted on the tall-case clock and she perceived with a start that the time wanted but ten minutes to midnight. She turned her amazed gaze upon the unknown visitor.

  He appeared to be fully conscious of the need for an explanation but in doubt as to how best to make it. After some hesitation he said, “I did not ring, madame. It is so late! Mr. Cheviot and I are friends of such long standing that I have been in the habit of walking into the house without announcement. In effect, knowing that the good Barrow must be in bed, I came in by a side door. But I did not know—I had not the least notion—”

  “Came in by a side door!” she repeated in a blank tone.

  His embarrassment increased. “I have been upon such terms with Mr. Cheviot, madame—and seeing a light burning in one of the parlors I made so bold—But had I known—You must understand that I am staying with friends in the neighborhood, and I had hoped—indeed, I had expected to have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Cheviot at—at a little soiree this evening. He did not come, and so, fearing he might be perhaps indisposed, and not desiring to leave the neighborhood without seeing him—in short, madame, I rode over. But you said, I think, that he is not here?”

  “Mr. Cheviot met with—with a fatal accident last night, sir and I regret to be obliged to inform you that he is dead,” said Elinor.

  He looked thunderstruck, and almost incredulous. “Dead!” he ejaculated.

  She bowed her head. There was silence for a moment. He broke it, saying in a voice which he strove to render calm, “If you please, how is this? I am very much shocked. I can scarcely believe it can be possible I”

  “It is very true, however. Mr. Cheviot fell into a dispute at an inn last night and was accidentally killed.”

  A flash of anger kindled his dark eyes. He exclaimed, “Oh, sapristi! He was drunk, in effect! The fool!”

  She returned no answer. After another pause, during which he stayed frowning and jerking at the lash of his riding whip, he said, “This occurred last night, you say? It was in London, no doubt?”

  “No, sir, it was here, at Wisborough Green.”

  “Then he came here yesterday!”

  “So I believe,” she concurred. His eyes wandered round the hall, as though in search of inspiration. He brought them back to her face and said with a forced smile, “Pardon! I am so much shocked! But you, madame? I do not perfectly understand—?”

  She had foreseen this question, and now answered it as coolly as she might. “I am Mrs. Cheviot, sir.”

  A look of the blankest amazement came into his face. He stood staring at her and could only repeat, “Mrs. Cheviot!”

  “Yes,” said Elinor stonily. “But—you would say my friend’s wife?”

  “His widow, sir.”

  “Good God!”

  “I dare say this news comes as a surprise to you, sir,” she said, “but it is true. My—my husband’s friends are of course welcome to his house, but you will readily understand, I am persuaded, that at this late hour, and under such circumstances, I am unable to extend to you that hospitality which—which—”

  He pulled himself together, saying quickly, “Perfectly! I will instantly leave you, madame, and with the most profound apologies! But, forgive me! You are young and alone, is it not? And this terrible tragedy has come upon you with a suddenness one does not care to think of! As a close friend of this poor Cheviot I should wish to be of all possible service! Alas, I fear all will be found to be in great disorder,
for well I know that he had not the habit of—In short, madame, if I could be of assistance to you I should count myself honored!”

  “You are extremely obliging, sir, but Mr. Cheviot’s affairs are in the hands of his cousin, Lord Carlyon, and I hope not to want for assistance.”

  “Ah, in that case—! That changes the affair, for Lord Carlyon, one is assured, will do all that one could wish. My poor friend’s papers, for instance, in such turmoil as they were—for you must know that I have been much in his confidence!—but Lord Carlyon will have taken all into his hands, I am assured.”

  “He will certainly do so, sir,” she agreed. “If you are concerned in any of Mr. Cheviot’s affairs you should consult his lordship. I am sure you will find him very ready to oblige you. I believe he is at this present a good deal occupied with the—with the sad consequences of his cousin’s death, but I expect to see him here within the next day or so with Mr. Cheviot’s lawyer, to go through whatever papers Mr. Cheviot may have had.”

  “Oh, no, no!” he said. “I am not concerned in that way, madame! It was merely that! wished, if I might, to be of assistance. But I perceive that you are left in good hands and I will leave you immediately, with renewed apologies for my intrusion upon you at such a time!”

  She acknowledged his bow with an inclination of her head and went past him to the front door, to open it. The bolts were in place and the chain up, and the young man at once hurried to Elinor’s side to relieve her of the necessity of drawing the bolts back. He soon had the door open and was bowing gracefully over her hand, begging her not to stand in the cold night air. She was glad enough to shut the door upon him and to put the chain up again, for although his manner was unexceptionable she could not like to be alone with a complete stranger at this hour of night.

  She was about to mount the stairs to her bedchamber when she recollected that the visitor had entered by a side door. She could not go to bed with any degree of comfort while a door stood unlocked into the house, so she turned back and went to see which door it might be.

  But the most zealous search failed to discover any door that was unbolted, a circumstance that puzzled her sadly. It began to seem as though the gentleman had prevaricated a little and had in fact made his entrance by way of a window. But Elinor, going with her candle from room to room, could find none that was not secure, and her surprise gave place to a feeling of great uneasiness. Some natural explanation of the visitor’s presence there must be, she told herself, but she could not think of one, and at last went up to bed with a heart that beat rather fast. Had the young man been less amiable and apologetic she would have been much inclined to have roused the household, but she could not believe that his motive in entering so mysteriously had been sinister, and as he must by now have ridden away, there could be little object in waking Barrow to go after him. But however amiable he might be, it was no very pleasant thought that strangers could apparently enter the house at will and in despite of bolted doors and windows. Elinor was glad to see a key in the lock of her own bedroom door and had no hesitation in turning it.

  She lay awake for some time in the firelight, listening intently, but no sound disturbed the silence of the house, and she fell asleep at last and slept soundly until morning.

  Chapter VII

  Elinor lost no time on the following morning in acquainting both the Barrows with what had occurred during the night. Barrow instantly professed himself ready to swear through an inch board that he had secured every door and window against intruders, but Mrs. Barrow said in a very wifely spirit that he took no care for anything, and if her eye was not upon every task none was performed.

  “But it is true that when I went to find and lock the door I could not discover any that was unbolted,” Elinor said. “Indeed, I have been puzzling my head over it, for I cannot imagine how anyone can have entered the house. Is there some door I do not know of? And yet—”

  “Never trouble your head, ma’am!” Mrs. Barrow told her robustly. “Depend upon it, the man climbed in through one of the windows! But I am put about that such a thing should have happened, and I wish you had roused me, for I would have sent my fine gentleman about his business very speedily.”

  “There was not the least need for me to rouse you. I do not mean to say that the gentleman caused me annoyance, for he was very civil and quite as taken aback as I was myself.”

  “Well, it queers me who it may have been, ma’am,” Mrs. Barrow declared. “Not but what—I wonder, was it the Honorable Francis Cheviot, perhaps? Him as is son to Lord Bedlington, which is uncle to poor Mr. Eustace.”

  “I do not know. It was stupidly done of me, but I forgot to ask him what his name was.”

  “A dentical fine gentleman?” said Barrow. “Nursed in cotton, as they say?”

  “N-no. At least, I do not know. He had an air of fashion, but he did not look to be a dandy precisely. He was dark, and quite young. Oh, he spoke with a slight foreign accent!”

  “Oh, him!”said Barrow disparagingly. “That’ll be the Frenchy, that will. I’ve seen him before, but I disremember that he ever came climbing in at the window.”

  “A Frenchman! Why, yes, he uttered a French oath, now you put me in mind of it! Pray, who is he?”

  “He came with Mr. Francis one time,” mused Barrow. “He had some outlandish name but I don’t know what it was. Came to England in a basket of cabbages, he did.”

  “Came to England in a basket of cabbages!”

  “Adone-do, Barrow!” said his wife indignantly. “It was no such thing, ma’am!”

  “It was what Mr. Eustace told me,” argued Barrow. “The Frenchy being naught but a baby, and went into the basket as snug as a mouse in a cheese, I dare say.”

  “It was a cart full of cabbages, and to be sure he did not come all the way to England in it! It was at the start of that nasty revolution they had, ma’am, and they do say there was no way for decent folks, and the quality and such, to get away but by smuggling themselves out of the town in all manner of disguises, and such shifts.”

  “Ay, no end to the outlandish tricks them Frenchies get up to,” nodded Barrow. “Not but what I don’t believe all I hear, and I always reckoned that was a loud one.”

  “An émigré family! I see!” Elinor said. “I should have guessed it, indeed.”

  “I don’t know what kind of a family it might be,” said Barrow cautiously, “but what should take him to come visiting Mr. Eustace at that hour of night? I never saw him above a couple of times in my life, and for all he’s a Frenchy he came in at the front door like a Christian.”

  “I think he said that he was visiting friends in the neighborhood.”

  Barrow seemed inclined to cavil at this. He scratched his chin. “Well, he’s not visiting his lordship, that’s sure. Nor he’s not at the Priory, for old Sir Matthew, he’s tedious set against all Frenchies. And he won’t be at Elm House, for a decenter couple of ladies than Miss Lynton and Miss Elizabeth you won’t find, and to be having gentlemen to stay is what they wouldn’t do. And if it’s the Hurst he meant, Mr. Frinton and his lady has gone up to London and won’t be back this se’nnight.”

  “Likely he came from the Hill,” suggested Mrs. Barrow comfortably. “I’m sure it’s no matter.”

  “Ay, likely he did,” agreed Barrow. “There’s no saying what they’ll do, them as live on the Hill.”

  Having expressed himself suitably as a Weald man, he seemed to think the problem settled, and went off to make an inventory of all the silver in the house.

  Elinor let the subject drop and was soon immersed in household details with Mrs. Barrow. But when that lady had sailed off kitchenward her thoughts reverted to the episode, and while she set about the several tasks that lay nearest to her hand she found herself still puzzling over it.

  At eleven o’clock the sound of hoofbeats on the carriage drive made her look out of the window. She saw the Honorable Nicholas Carlyon trotting up to the house on a stylish bay, a crossbred dog, half lurcher, half ma
stiff, bounding along beside his horse. He caught sight of her and waved his whip, calling out, “How d’ye do? Ned told me I should come over to see if you were tolerably comfortable.”

  “I am much obliged to you both!” she returned. “Do but take your horse to the stables and I will come down and let you in!”

  By the time he had done this she was already standing on the porch. He came striding along, and at once pulled off his hat and said, “Good morning, ma’am! Shall you object to Bouncer? I will leave him outside if you wish, only if I do I dare say he will be off hunting, and the thing is that Sir Matthew Kendal’s preserves abut onto this land, and he don’t above half like to have Bouncer on them.”

  “No, indeed, that would never do,” she said. “I have not the least objection to him, for you must know I have been used to dogs all my life. Pray bring him in with you!”

  He looked gratified and called the dog to heel. Barrow, who happened to be crossing the hall at that moment, looked with a good deal of reproach at his mistress and gave it as his considered opinion that if Master Nicky was to bring His dogs in, spanneling the floors, there could be no sense in summoning the gardener’s wife up to scrub them. The intelligent hound, however, lifted a lip at him, and he made off, muttering.

  “My brother has gone off somewhere in his chaise, Mrs. Cheviot,” announced Nicky, following his hostess into the bookroom. “Oh! You do not like it when one calls you by that name! Well, you know, I have been thinking, and if you should not dislike it excessively I believe I should call you Cousin Elinor. For you are our cousin, are you not?”