Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/223

15, 1863.] this very probable story of my stealing my great-uncle’s keys.”

Miss Lavinia de Crespigny rang the bell, which was answered by Mr. Parker, who, though usually slow to respond to any summons, was wonderfully prompt in his attendance this evening.

“Tell Mrs. Jepcott to come here,” said Miss Lavinia, “I want to speak to her.”

The butler departed upon this errand, and again there was a silent pause, which seemed a very long one, but which only extended over five minutes. At the end of that time Mrs. Jepcott appeared. She was a respectable-looking woman, prim, and rather grim in appearance. She had been in the dead man’s service for five-and-thirty years, and was about fifteen years older than the Misses de Crespigny, whom she always spoke of as “the young ladies.”

“Jepcott,” said Miss Sarah, “I want to know whether anybody whatever, except yourself, has entered Mr. de Crespigny’s room since you have been placed in charge of it?”

“Oh, dear, no, miss,” answered the housekeeper, promptly, “certainly not.”

“Are you sure of that, Jepcott?”

“Quite sure, miss, as sure as I am that I am standing here this moment.”

“You speak very confidently, Jepcott, but this is really a most serious business. I am told that you have been asleep.”

“Asleep, Miss de Crespigny! Oh, dear, who could say anything of the kind? Who could be so wicked as to tell such a story?”

“You are certain that you have not been asleep?”

“Yes, miss, quite certain. I closed my eye sometimes, for my sight is weak, as you know, miss, and the light dazzled me, and made my eyes ache. I close my eyes generally when I sit down of an evening, for my sight doesn’t allow me to do needlework by candlelight, neither to read a newspaper; and I may have closed my eyes to-night, but I didn’t go to sleep, miss, oh dear no; I was too nervous and anxious for that, a great deal; besides, I am not a good sleeper at any time, and so I should have heard if a mouse had stirred in the room.”

“You didn’t hear me come into the room, did you, Mrs. Jepcott?” asked Launcelot Darrell.

“You, Mr. Darrell? Oh, dear, no; neither you nor anybody else, sir.”

“And you don’t think that I could have come into the room without your knowing it? You don’t think I could have come in while you were asleep?”

“But I wasn’t asleep, Mr. Darrell; and as for you or anybody comin’ in without my hearin’ ’em—why, I heard every leaf that stirred outside the windows.”

“I fear that at least this part of your charge must drop to the ground, Mrs. Monckton,” Launcelot Darrell said, scornfully.

“Jepcott,” said Miss Lavinia de Crespigny, “go back and see if my uncle’s keys are safe.”

“Yes, do, Mrs. Jepcott,” explained Launcelot Darrell; “and be sure you take notice whether they have been disturbed since your master died.”

The housekeeper left the room, and returned after about three minutes’ absence.

“The keys are quite safe, Miss Lavinia,” she said.

“And they have not been disturbed?” asked Launcelot.

“No, Mr. Darrell, they haven’t been moved a quarter of an inch. They’re lyin’ just where they lay when my poor master died, half hid under a pocket-handkerchief.”

Launcelot Darrell drew a long breath. How wonderfully these foolish women had played into his hands, and helped him to escape.

“That will do, Jepcott,” said Miss Sarah, “you may go now. Remember that you are responsible for everything in my uncle’s room until the arrival of Mr. Lawford’s clerk. It would have been a very bad business for you if Mr. de Crespigny’s keys had been tampered with.”

Mrs. Jepcott looked rather alarmed at this remark, and retired without delay. Suppose she had been asleep, after all, for five minutes or so, and some mischief had arisen out of it, what might not her punishment be. She had a very vague idea of the power of the law, and did not know what penalties she might have incurred by five minutes’ unconscious dose. This honest woman had been in the habit of spending the evening in a series of intermittent naps for the last ten years, and had no idea that while closing her eyes to shade them from the glare of the light, she often slumbered soundly for an hour at a stretch.

“Well, Mrs. Monckton,” Launcelot Darrell said, when the housekeeper had left the room, “I suppose now you are convinced that all this mid-winter night’s dream is a mere hallucination of your own?”

Eleanor looked at him with a contemptuous smile whose open scorn was not the least painful torture he had been obliged to bear that night.

“Do not speak to me,” she said; “remember who I am; and let that memory keep you silent.”

The door-bell rang loudly as Eleanor finished speaking.

“Thank heaven!” exclaimed Miss de Crespigny, “Mr. Lawford’s clerk has come at last. He will take charge of everything, and if anybody has tampered with my uncle’s papers,” she added, looking first at Launcelot and then at Eleanor, “I have no doubt that he will find out all about it. We are poor unprotected women, but I dare say we shall find those who will be able to defend our rights.”

“I don’t think we have any occasion to stop here,” said Mr. Monckton; “are you ready to come home, Eleanor?”

“Quite ready,” his wife answered.

“You have nothing more to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Put on your cloak, then, and come. Goodnight, Miss de Crespigny. Good-night, Miss Lavinia.”

Mr. Lamb, the Windsor solicitor’s clerk, came in while Gilbert Monckton and his wife were leaving the room. He was the same old man whom Richard Thornton had seen at Windsor. Eleanor perceived that this man was surprised to see Launcelot Darrell. He started, and looked at