NEWS FROM CRESSLEY COMMON.
A pretty medley was revolving in old Mildred’s brain as she stood
outside this door, on the gallery. The epileptic old soldier, the puce
_gros de Naples_, Tom on outpost duty on Cressley Common--had he come
back? Charles Fairfield, perhaps, in the house, and that foolish poor
young wife in her room, in the centre, and herself the object of all
this manœuvring and conspiring; quite unconscious. Mildred had a good
many wires to her fingers just now; could she possibly work them all
and keep the show going?
She was listening now, wondering whether Master Charles had arrived,
wondering whether the young lady was asleep, and wondering, most of
all, why she had been fool enough to meddle in other people’s affairs.
“What the dickens was it to her if they was all in kingdom come? If
Mildred was a roastin’ they wouldn’t, not one of ’em, walk across the
yard there, to take her off the spit--la, bless you, not a foot.”
Mildred was troubled about many things. Among others, what was the
meaning of those oracular appeals of the Dutchwoman in which she had
seemed to know something of the real state of things.
Down went Mildred Tarnley, softly still, for she would not risk waking
Alice, and at the foot of the second staircase she paused again.
All was quiet, she peeped into Tom’s little room, under the staircase.
It was still empty. Into the kitchen she went, nothing had been
stirred there.
From habit she trotted about, and settled and unsettled some of the
scanty ironmongery and earthenware, and peeped, with her candle aloft,
into this corner and that, and she removed the smoothing-iron that
stood on the window stool, holding the shutters close, and peeped into
the paved yard, tufted with grass, high over which the solemn trees
were drooping.
Then, candle in hand, the fidgety old woman visited the back door, the
latch was in its place, and she turned about and visited the panelled
sitting-room. The smell of flowers was there, and on the little
spider-table was Alice’s work-box, and some little muslin clippings
and bits of thread and tape, the relics of that evening’s solitary
work over the little toilet on which her pretty fingers and sad eyes
were now always employed.
Well, there was no sign of Master Charles here; so with a little more
pottering and sniffing, out she went, and again to the back door,
which softly she opened, and she toddled across the uneven pavement to
the back door, and looked out, and walked forth upon the narrow road,
that, darkened with thick trees, overhangs the edge of the ravine.
Here she listened, and listened in vain. There was nothing but the
soft rush of the leaves overhead in the faint visitings of the night
air, and across the glen at intervals came that ghastliest of sounds,
between a long-drawn hiss and shiver, from a lonely owl.
Interrupted at intervals by this freezing sound, the old woman
listened and muttered now and again a testy word or two. What was to
be done if, by any mischance or blunder of Tom’s, the master should
thunder his summons at the hall-door? Down of course would fly his
young wife to let him in, and be clasped in his arms, while from the
low window of the Dutchwoman that evil tenant might overhear every
word that passed, and almost touch their heads with her down-stretched
hand.
A pretty scene it would lead to, and agreeable consequences to Mildred
herself.
“The woman’s insane; she’s an evil spirit; many a time she would have
brained me in a start of anger if I hadn’t been sharp. The mark of the
cut glass decanter she flung at my head is in the doorcase at the foot
of the stairs this minute like the scar of a bill-hook, the mad beast.
I thank God she’s blind, though there’s an end o’ them pranks, anyhow.
But she’s a limb o’ the evil one, and where there’s a will there’s a
way, and blind though she be, I would not trust her.”
She walked two or three steps slowly, toward Cressley Common, from
which direction she expected the approach of Charles Fairfield.
No wonder Mildred was fidgeted, there were so many disasters on the
cards. If she could but see Charles Fairfield something at least might
be guarded against. This wiry old woman was by no means hard of
hearing--rather sharp, on the contrary, was her ear. But she listened
long in vain.
Fearful lest something might go wrong within doors during her absence,
she was turning to go back, when she thought she heard the distant
clink of a horseshoe on the road.
Her old heart throbbed suddenly, and frowning as she listened, with
eyes directed towards the point of approach, softly she said “hush,”
as if to quiet the faint rustle of the trees.
Stooping forward, she listened, with her lean arm extended, every
wrinkled knuckle of her brown hand, and every black-rimmed nail
distinct in the moonlight.
Yes, it was the clink of trotting horseshoes. She prayed heaven the
blind woman might not hear it. There was a time when her more
energetic misanthropy would possibly have enjoyed a _fracas_ such as
was now to be apprehended. But years teach us the value of quiet, the
providential instincts of growing helplessness disarm our pugnacity,
and all but quite reprobate spirits grow gentler and kinder as the
hour of parting with earth approaches. Thus had old Mildred taken her
part in this game, and as her stake became deeper and more dangerous
her zeal burnt intensely.
Nearer and sharper came the clink, and old Mildred in her anxiety
walked on, sometimes five steps, sometimes twenty, to meet the rider.
It was Tom who appeared, mounted on the mule. I think he took Mildred
for a ghost, for he pulled up violently more than twenty yards away,
and said, “Lord! who’s that?”
“It’s me, Tom, Mrs. Tarnley; and is he comin’?”
“I hardly knowed you, Mrs. Tarnley. No, I met him up near the stone.”
“Not a coming?” urged Mildred.
“No.”
“Thank God. Well, and what did you tell him?”
“I told him your message. He first asked all about the young lady, and
then I told him how she was, and then I told him your message----”
“Ay?”
“Word for word, and he drew bridle and stood awhile, thinkin’, and he
wished to know whether the mistress had spoke with her--Mr. Harry’s
friend, I mean--and I said I didn’t know; and he asked was the house
quiet, and no high words going, nor the new comer giving any trouble,
and I said _no_, so far as I knowed. Then, says he, I think, Tom, I
had best let Master Harry settle it his own way, so I’ll ride back
again to Darwynd, and you can come over to the old place for the horse
to-morrow; and tell Mildred I thank her for her care of us, and she
shall hear from me in a day or two, and tell no one else, mind, that
you have seen me. Well, I asked was there anything more, and he paused
a bit, and says he, no, not at present. And then again, says he, tell
Mildred Tarnley I’ll write to her, and let her know where I am, and
mind, Tom, you go yourself to the Post Office, and be sure the letters
go only to the persons they are directed to, your mistress’s to her,
and Mildred’s to _her_, and don’t you talk with that person that I
hear has come to the Grange, and if by any chance she should get into
talk with you, you must be wide awake, and tell her _nothing_, and get
away from her as quick as you can. It’s easy to escape her, for she’s
blind.”
“So she is,” affirmed Mildred, “as that wall. Go on.”
“‘Then,’ says he, ‘good-night, Tom, get ye home again.’ So I wished
him God speed, and I rode away, and when I was on a bit I threw a look
back again over my shoulder, and I saw him still in the same spot, no
more stirring than the stone at the roadside, thinking, I do suppose.”
“And that’s all?” said Mildred.
“That’s all.”
“Bring in the beast very quiet, Tom, unless you leave him in the field
for the night, and don’t be clappin’ o’ doors or ginglin’ o’ bridle
bits. That one has an ear like a hare, and she’ll be askin’ questions;
and when you’ve done in the stable come you in this way, and I’ll let
you in softly, and don’t you be talkin’ within doors above a whisper.
Your voice is rough, and her ear is as sharp as a needle’s point.”
Tom gave her a little nod and a great wink, and got off the mule, and
led him on the grass toward the stable-yard, and old Mildred at the
same time got in softly by the other entrance, and in the kitchen
awaited the return of Tom.
She sat by the fire, troubled in mind, with her eyes turned askance on
the windows. What a small thing is a human body, and what a gigantic
moral sphere surrounds that little centre! That blind woman lay still
as death, on a six-foot-long bedstead, in a remote chamber. But the
direful circuit of that sphere which radiated thence enveloped old
Mildred Tarnley, go where she would, and outspread even the bourn of
the road which Charles Fairfield was to travel that night. For Mildred
Tarnley, something of molestation and horror was in it, which
forbid her to rest.
Tom came into the yard, and Mildred was at the door, and opened it
before he could place his hand on the latch.
“Put off them big shoes, and not a word above your breath, and not a
stir, but get ye in again to your bed as still as a mouse,” said Mrs.
Tarnley in a hard whisper, giving him a shake of the shoulder.
“Ye’ll gi’e me a mug o’ beer, Mrs. Tarnley, and a lump o’ bread, and a
cut o’ cheese wouldn’t hurt me; I’m a bit hungry. If you won’t I must
even take a smoke, for I can’t sleep as I am.”
“Well, I will give ye a drink and a bit o’ bread and cheese. Did ye
lock the yard-door?”
“No,” said Tom.
“Well, no, never you mind; I’ll do it,” said Mildred, stopping him,
“and go you straight to your room, and here’s the lantern for you; and
now get ye in, and not a sound, mind, you gi’e me your pipe here, for
you shan’t be stinkin’ the house wi’ your nasty tobaccy.”
So Tom was got quick to his bed.
And Mildred sat down again by the kitchen fire, to rest for a little,
feeling too tired to undress.
“Well, I _do_ thank God of His mercy he’s _not_ a comin’; I do. Who
can tell what would be if he _was_? And now, if only Master Harry was
sure to keep away all might go right--yes, all--all might go right.
Oh, ho, ho! I wish it was, and my old head at rest, for I’m worked
worse than a horse, and wore off my feet altogether.”
And all this time she was looking through the kitchen-window, with
dismal eyes, from her clumsy oak chair by the fire, with her feet on
the fender, and her lean shanks as close to the bars as was safe,
shaking her head from time to time as she looked out on the black
outlines of the trees which stood high and gloomy above the wall at
the other side, against the liquid moonlit sky.