Amy watched them from the window. If she had leaned out she might almost
have heard their words, though they appeared, indeed, to be speaking but
little as they wandered among the flower-beds, now standing still before
some beautiful branch of roses, and again moving on, slowly, idly, as if
in an enchanted land. She wondered if they were really in love, for as
she saw them now they had all the appearance of lovers, and a deep
bitterness of disappointment grew strong and stronger within her, till
she could no longer bear to watch them, and turned away.
No matter in how questionable a form her love might show itself, she
loved him really, according to her temperament, with an all-absorbing
passion, selfish as such passions must be, and alternating between a
desire to make him suffer, and a swiftly-following remorse for ever
having tried to hurt him. She had not a nature to which resignation
comes easily. Certainly she was far from being resigned just now. There
was no tenderness, no softening sentiment of any kind, left by her
wasted passion. Its trace was arid and bare; it had been like some
burning, withering acid, that had destroyed and blasted, leaving behind
it an ugly, ineffaceable scar. This afternoon, as she turned from the
window, her sense of helplessness and loss seemed to have become more
unendurable than ever, and, not being able to rest, she again went out,
though she avoided going near Denis and her mother. She wandered off by
herself, where she could see neither Rusk nor May, and where no one
would bother her with questions about her health.
She walked along a narrow path that led her past the kitchens and the
stables and on down towards the road. Presently she came in sight of the
back lodge and saw Rebecca hobbling in at the gate. The sight of the old
woman awoke strange and unpleasant thoughts in Amy’s sickened mind, and
these thoughts took on alluring, yet half-fearful, shapes, as they
seemed to stream into her brain like phantoms flying at nightfall to a
haunted house. For a moment or two she hesitated; then she gathered up
her courage and continued on her way.
Rebecca had already seen her and was waiting at the door, a smile upon
her face. Her appearance was neither more nor less prepossessing than
usual, but, to Amy’s present sense, she stood there like the very
personification of evil. She fixed the approaching girl with dark,
shining eyes, and she maybe read something in her countenance that
induced her to ask her to step inside. The younger Miss Bracknel was
indeed the only member of the family who ever did her that honour, and
Amy, in the past, had rather prided herself on the fact. This afternoon
she felt she would have done better to have refused, but she entered
nevertheless, and sat down on a painted wooden chair beside the fire,
casting a languid glance on the grey parrot, who returned her gaze with
ancient and cynical eyes.
“You’re not looking yourself at all, Miss Amy,” the old woman began.
“I’ve noticed it this long time. You that used to be so gay and bright!”
“Oh please don’t start all that,” the girl answered wearily. “I’m
getting tired of it. It’s because nobody ever says anything else that I
came in here now.”
Rebecca smiled her false, ingratiating smile. “Perhaps it’s something I
could give you a cure for, Miss Amy. I remember me curing John Maloney’s
wife for the rheumatism, when she had tried every doctor in the land,
and not one of them any use. And Jane Stevenson, when she was dying of
love, it was me that got her her man--it was indeed.”
Amy looked out of the window. “But you can’t really do such things,” she
murmured after a minute or two, feigning indifference, though a
tell-tale wave of colour had swept across her face. “What’s the use in
pretending to be able to work charms and magic at this time of day?
Nobody believes in such things, and if they were true you know you’d be
afraid to talk about them.”
“Well, if they’re not true they’re not,” said the old woman, suddenly
and unexpectedly nettled, “and I beg you to excuse me, for I’ve got some
redding-up to do and it’s getting on.” She lifted a pail from beside the
dresser and hobbled off with it to the door.
“Come back,” cried Amy petulantly, “I didn’t mean to offend you. Tell me
about this--this woman, Jane Stevenson. I like hearing all these strange
things, though I mayn’t believe in them.”
Rebecca returned to the fire. She sat down on a chair and held out her
withered hands to the glowing coals, at the same time casting a sidelong
glance at the pale, listless, red-haired girl, whose face was turned to
the window. The sight seemed to mollify her wounded feelings, for it was
in her usual fawning tone that she began:
“Jane Stevenson was in love with a fine young man, but he wouldn’t look
at her. When she’d meet him on the road he’d take no more notice than if
she’d been a tree or a sheep. Yet she couldn’t rest nor take her food
for thinking of him, and everyone said she was going into a decline. One
day, when I was alone in the house, I saw her come in, and I knew what
she wanted. She offered me all the money she had if I’d tell her a
charm! ‘Come back in a week,’ I said. At the end of a week she came back
and I gave her what she was needing. ‘You can take it with you,’ I said,
‘and give it him some day in his drink.’”
“What a horrid idea!” cried Amy, drawing back instinctively. “Besides,
it’s silly.”
She sat silent, and Rebecca watched her with an expression of senile
depravity and greed. Then the old woman bent down over the fire and
began to mumble to herself. Amy was suddenly conscious that there was
something peculiarly unpleasant about her. She felt ashamed to be
sitting there, but a kind of morbid curiosity held her, and presently
she asked:
“If there is another person: I mean, if he had loved somebody else,
would it have been just the same--would it have acted?”
“It would have acted,” said Rebecca.
“And it doesn’t do the person you give it to any harm?”
“No more than a glass of new milk.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” asked Amy, with a sudden intentness. “You
would swear it--on the Bible?”
“It will do him no harm at all.”
There was a pause. The girl’s languor had completely disappeared.
“And if I were to want you to get me this charm, how much would I have
to give for it?”
“Oh, that would be for yourself to say, Miss.”
“I haven’t much money, you know. Papa doesn’t give me much.”
“Oh, there’d be no trouble about that.”
“Of course I should only want it as a curiosity. I mean, I have been
making a collection of queer, out-of-the-way things for some time, and I
would like to have one of these just to show people.”
“I would never ask what you wanted it for, Miss Amy.”
“But that _is_ what I want it for,” cried Amy haughtily. “What do you
mean by doubting my word?”
“I don’t doubt your word, Miss Amy. What would a young lady like you
want with any other charm than her own lovely face?”
“Of course it would have to be a real charm for all that,” Amy added
hastily, “a real love-philtre, or whatever you call it. You would have
to promise that it would be real or I shouldn’t want it--like the one
you got for Jane Stevenson.”
“Yes, Miss Amy. You can trust me; you can trust old Rebecca.”
“You had a good many lovers yourself, hadn’t you, Rebecca, when you were
young?” asked Amy, suddenly smiling.
“I didn’t need no charms for them,” said Rebecca tartly. “I could have
had my pick of any young men ever _I_ fancied.”
Amy laughed. She got up from her chair, but still stood there,
hesitating. “Well, you know what I want,” she said at length, “and
you’ll promise not to breathe a word to a soul about it, won’t you?”
“You needn’t be afraid, Miss. It would be worse for me than for you if
anyone was to get word of it.”
“When will it be ready?”
“Well, it’ll take a deal of time and trouble.” A cunning look came into
her face, and she put out her hand and stroked the soft stuff of the
girl’s dress. “As soon as I can, Miss Amy, I’ll try to have it for you.”
“I’ll come for it then, in a few days,” said Amy, drawing back quickly
from her touch. “And mind you don’t say a word to anybody--even about my
having been here.”