I once heard it suggested that the typical Victorian saying was, “You must remember he is your un-cle ...
G. M. Young, Victorian Essays
It is monstrous. Monstrous. I cannot believe he has not lost his senses.
He has lost his sense of proportion. But that is not quite the same thing.
But at this juncture
My dear Tina, Cupid has a notorious contempt for other people’s convenience.
You know very well that Cupid has nothing to do with it.
I am afraid he has everything to do with it. Old hearts are the most susceptible.
It is my fault. I know he disapproves of me.
Come now, that is nonsense.
It is not nonsense. I know perfectly well that for him I am a draper’s daughter.
My dear child, contain yourself.
It is for you I am so angry.
Very well—then let me be angry on my own behalf.
There was silence then, which allows me to say that the conversation above took place in Aunt Tranter’s rear parlor. Charles stood at the window, his back to Ernestina, who had very recently cried, and who now sat twisting a lace handker-chief in a vindictive manner.
I know how much you love Winsyatt.
How Charles would have answered can only be conjec-tured, for the door opened at that moment and Aunt Tranter appeared, a pleased smile of welcome on her face.
You are back so soon!” It was half past nine of the same day we saw Charles driving up to Winsyatt House.
Charles smiled thinly. “Our business was soon . . . finished.
Something terrible and disgraceful has happened.” Aunt Tranter looked with alarm at the tragic and outraged face of her niece, who went on: “Charles had been disinherited.
Disinherited
Ernestina exaggerates. It is simply that my uncle has decided to marry. If he should be so fortunate as to have a son and heir ...
Fortunate . . . !” Ernestina slipped Charles a scalding little glance. Aunt Tranter looked in consternation from one face to the other.
But... who is the lady
Her name is Mrs. Tomkins, Mrs. Tranter. A widow.
And young enough to bear a dozen sons.
Charles smiled. “Hardly that. But young enough to bear sons.
You know her
Ernestina answered before Charles could, “That is what is so disgraceful. Only two months ago his uncle made fun of the woman to Charles in a letter. And now he is groveling at her feet.
My dear Ernestina
I will not be calm! It is too much. After all these years...” Charles took a deep breath, and turned to Aunt Tranter. “I understand she has excellent connections. Her husband was colonel in the Fortieth Hussars and left her handsomely provided for. There is no suspicion of fortune hunting.” Ernestina’s smoldering look up at him showed plainly that in her mind there was every suspicion. “I am told she is a very attractive woman.
No doubt she rides to hounds.
He smiled bleakly at Ernestina, who was referring to a black mark she had earlier gained in the monstrous uncle’s book. “No doubt. But that is not yet a crime.
Aunt Tranter plumped down on a chair and looked again from one young face to the other, searching, as ever in such situations, for some ray of hope.
But is he not too old to have children
Charles managed a gentle smile for her innocence. “He is sixty-seven, Mrs. Tranter. That is not too old.
Even though she is young enough to be his granddaugh-ter.
My dear Tina, all one has in such circumstances is one’s dignity. I must beg you for my sake not to be bitter. We must accept the event with as good a grace as possible.
She looked up and saw how nervously stern he was; that she must play a different role. She ran to him, and catching his hand, raised it to her lips. He drew her to him and kissed the top of her head, but he was not deceived. A shrew and a mouse may look the same; but they are not the same; and though he could not find a word to describe Ernestina’s reception of his shocking and unwelcome news, it was not far removed from “unladylike.” He had leaped straight from the trap bringing him back from Exeter into Aunt Tranter’s house; and expected a gentle sympathy, not a sharp rage, however flatteringly it was intended to resemble his own feelings. Perhaps that was it—that she had not divined that a gentleman could never reveal the anger she ascribed to him. But there seemed to him something only too reminiscent of the draper’s daughter in her during those first minutes; of one who had been worsted in a business deal, and who lacked a traditional imperturbability, that fine aristocratic refusal to allow the setbacks of life ever to ruffle one’s style.
He handed Ernestina back to the sofa from which she had sprung. An essential reason for his call, a decision he had come to on his long return, he now perceived must be left for discussion on the morrow. He sought for some way to demonstrate the correct attitude; and could find none better than that of lightly changing the subject.
And what great happenings have taken place in Lyme today
As if reminded, Ernestina turned to her aunt. “Did you get news of her?” And then, before Aunt Tranter could answer, she looked up at Charles, “There has been an event. Mrs. Poulteney has dismissed Miss Woodruff.
Charles felt his heart miss a beat. But any shock his face may have betrayed passed unnoticed in Aunt Tranter’s eager-ness to tell her news: for that is why she had been absent when Charles arrived. The dismissal had apparently taken place the previous evening; the sinner had been allowed one last night under the roof of Marlborough House. Very early that same morning a porter had come to collect her box— and had been instructed to take it to the White Lion. Here Charles quite literally blanched, but Aunt Tranter allayed his fears in the very next sentence.
That is the depot for the coaches, you know.” The Dor-chester to Exeter omnibuses did not descend the steep hill to Lyme, but had to be picked up at a crossroads some four miles inland on the main road to the west. “But Mrs. Hunni-cott spoke to the man. He is most positive that Miss
Woodruff was not there. The maid said she had left very early at dawn, and gave only the instructions as to her box.
And since
Not a sign.
You saw the vicar
No, but Miss Trimble assures me he went to Marlborough House this forenoon. He was told Mrs. Poulteney was un-well. He spoke to Mrs. Fairley. All she knew was that some disgraceful matter had come to Mrs. Poulteney’s knowledge, that she was deeply shocked and upset ...” The good Mrs. Tranter broke off, apparently almost as distressed at her ignorance as at Sarah’s disappearance. She sought her niece’s and Charles’s eyes. “What can it be—what can it be
She ought never to have been employed at Marlborough House. It was like offering a lamb to a wolf.” Ernestina looked at Charles for confirmation of her opinion. Feeling far less calm than he looked, he turned to Aunt Tranter.
There is no danger of ...
That is what we all fear. The vicar has sent men to search along towards Charmouth. She walks there, on the cliffs.
And they have ...
Found nothing.
Did you not say she once worked for
They have sent there. No word of her.
Grogan—has he not been called to Marlborough House?” He skillfully made use of his introduction of the name, turning to Ernestina. “That evening when we took grog—he mentioned her. I know he is concerned for her situation.
Miss Trimble saw him talking with the vicar at seven o’clock. She said he looked most agitated. Angry. That was her word.” Miss Trimble kept a ladies’ trinket shop at the bottom of Broad Street—and was therefore admirably placed to be the general information center of the town. Aunt Tranter’s gentle face achieved the impossible—and looked harshly severe. “I shall not call on Mrs. Poulteney, however ill she is.
Ernestina covered her face in her hands. “Oh, what a cruel day it’s been
Charles stared down at the two ladies. “Perhaps I should call on Grogan.
Oh Charles—what can you do? There are men enough to search.
That, of course, had not been in Charles’s mind. He guessed that Sarah’s dismissal was not unconnected with her wanderings in the Undercliff—and his horror, of course, was that she might have been seen there with him. He stood in an agony of indecision. It became imperative to discover how much was publicly known about the reason for her dismissal. He suddenly found the atmosphere of the little sitting room claustrophobic. He had to be alone. He had to consider what to do. For if Sarah was still living—but who could tell what wild decision she might have made in her night of despair, while he was quietly sleeping in his Exeter hotel?—but if she still breathed, he guessed where she was; and it oppressed him like a shroud that he was the only person in Lyme to know. And yet dared not reveal his knowledge.
A few minutes later he was striding down the hill to the White Lion. The air was mild, but the sky was overcast. Idle fingers of wet air brushed his cheeks. There was thunder in the offing, as in his heart.
