THE LITTLE WOMAN IN BLACK.
About a fortnight after the Pelhams had taken up their residence at
Pelham Towers a little old woman might have been seen making her way
slowly up the avenue. From the lodge gates to the mansion was a distance
of nearly two miles. The little woman as she walked kept muttering to
herself.
“Craft shall meet craft,” she was saying. “Yes, if Clary had confided in
me I wouldn’t ha’ done nothing secret or unbeknown, but as it is, I’ll
just find out for myself what I can. The child’s as good a little lad as
ever walked the earth. He’s all the same to me as if he were bone of my
bone and flesh of my flesh. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. But a
dearie me! I ain’t a-going to be gulled not for nobody, and by Clary
least of all. Haven’t I nursed her and dangled her in my arms and lay
awake with her when she was teething, and is she going to make a fool of
her old mother now? Not a bit of it.
“There’s a mighty secret wrapped up in that little lad, and I’m going to
get to the bottom of it. He never told me—poor darling!—but Clary didn’t
count that he’d talk in his sleep. She gives me three pound a week for
looking after him; s’pose I make her give me ten or fifteen, or s’pose I
tell her that her secret and I ain’t going to be bedfellows much longer.
S’pose I refuse to keep it altogether? Ah, I have Clary in my power.
Fancy me having a woman like that under my thumb! But it is so—it is so.
When she was young she was always one too many for me. Even as a little
tot she would have her own way, and she’d look round at me as spiteful
as you please, and just do the very thing I told her not, but the tables
is going to be turned now, or I’m much mistook. I wish no ill to my own
darter, but I’ll know her secret or my name’s not Sary Ives.”
The little woman walked on as rapidly as she could. She was a smart
little personage and very trim and spruce for her years. It was a windy
day, and her thin skirts were blown about her spare figure. She wore an
old-fashioned poke bonnet, and a black shawl was pinned neatly across
her chest. She looked the very essence of rustic respectability. Her
dress was of black merino, and she had a gay crimson kerchief peeping
out under the shawl; her gloves were of crimson cloth of the same color
as the kerchief. She wore cloth boots with elastic sides, and looked
down at them now and then with complacency.
“Aye, I’m as neat as a new pin,” she said to herself; “and these boots
are as comfortable as can be. Yes, I’ll find out all I can, and I’ll let
out nothing. Now, I wonder who this pretty young miss is a-coming up the
avenue. I’ll bob a curtsey to her leastways.”
A tall girl leading a bicycle and wearing a dark blue serge cycling
dress was seen approaching. A couple of dogs were following her. The
dogs made at once for the old woman, barking loudly as they did so. But
Mrs. Ives was no coward. She dropped two or three curtseys, as was her
manner, first to the lady and then to the dogs. The dogs began to leap
up at her.
“Manners, manners!” she cried to them. “Get down. Call ’em off, please,
missy, call ’em off. I ain’t afeared, for I don’t think they’ll bite,
but I don’t want to be stretched flat on the road. Call ’em off, please,
missy.”
Barbara whistled to the dogs, who immediately bounded back to her. She
drew up before the little woman, who dropped another curtsey.
“Eh, but you’re a pretty gel, and it’s a pleasure to look at you,” said
Mrs. Ives.
Barbara colored.
“I don’t know your face,” she said. “I know most of the people round
here. Are you a stranger?”
“My dearie, that I am, and my name is Ives—Mrs. Ives—at your service.”
“Ives!” said Barbara, feeling puzzled. “Ives—it is an uncommon name,”
she added.
“Yes, my love, but not so uncommon in Cornwall as here. I hail from
Cornwall, missy.”
“I have never been in Cornwall,” said Barbara, “but I understand that it
is a beautiful county.”
“That it is. Eh, but you won’t mind a compliment from an old woman—you
have a sweet face. I like them big brown eyes and that clear sort of
complexion without any freckles. Was you ever troubled with freckles,
dear?”
“No,” replied Barbara.
“Well, there’s a beautiful recipe I has got for getting rid of ’em. It’s
mostly made of buttermilk, but the buttermilk must be fresh. Oh, I beg
your pardon, Miss”—for Barbara was beginning to move on. “I was on my
way to the house to see the lady, the new lady what has got lately
married—Lady Pelham. I want to ask her some questions.”
“I am Lady Pelham,” said Barbara, “so you need not go to the house to
see me. Can I do anything for you?”
“Oh, sakes alive!” Mrs. Ives dropped three or four curtseys in quick
succession. “To think that I should be looking at a real titled dame! It
must be wonderful comfortin’ to be called Lady. Do you like it, my dear
young Miss?”
“Yes,” answered Barbara, who began to be much entertained. “I like to be
called Lady Pelham because I know then that I am my dear husband’s wife.
I love him with all my heart.”
“That’s right, and as it should be,” said old Mrs. Ives in an emphatic
voice. “I like to hear a young lady stand up for her good man. And how
long is you wedded, dear?”
“Not long—not quite two months.”
“Aye, these are early days. You haven’t had your first quarrel, has
you?”
“No; why should I ever have a quarrel?”
“Oh, they come in the best intentioned families—they’re certain to come.
You’ll fret, and you’ll fume, and you’ll say ’ard things to one another,
and you’ll get a little away from each other, but if you’re a sensible
miss, as I take you to be by that glint in your eyes, you’ll come
together again. Things will be all right if you’ll only use common sense
and bear and forbear. That’s it, my dear young lady. Bear and forbear.
That’s what I’d like to say to my darter, who’s lately married, but she
wouldn’t hear it from me.”
“And why should she not hear it from you, for it is excellent advice?”
said Barbara. “But you say you’re a stranger to these parts.”
“I come from the next county, Miss.”
“And you want to say something to me?”
“I thought I’d call in, for I’m sort of curious. Seems to me as I know
your name.”
“I daresay you have heard it before. The Pelhams of Pelham Towers are
well known.”
“In their own county, no doubt,” said the old woman, “but not in mine,
at least, not among the cottagers.”
“But you have heard the name?”
“Aye, and that’s my secret.”
“You look rather fagged with your walk. You must come down to the house
with me and have something to eat. You don’t look too strong.”
“But I am, my dear; I’m as strong as can be. I’ll be seventy my next
birthday. Come November I’ll have done my three score years and ten, but
dear heart, there ain’t no failing about me. I’m a bit withered—ripe, I
tells the child.”
“Oh, you have a child. Is he your own?”
“Not he. He’s a little lad what lives with me. I call ’im my own child,
for I’m fond of him. Yes, I’ll come to the house with you if you like.
I’d be glad of a bite and a sup. Beer is what I takes. I can’t abear
tea—it’s washy stuff.”
“You shall have a glass of beer and some cold meat. Come this way.”
“But you was going for a ride on that wicked-looking machine,” said the
old woman.
“Oh, the ride can keep,” returned Barbara. “I’ll come with you and make
you comfortable.”
As she spoke she turned her bicycle and walked down the long avenue by
the little woman’s side.
“This is a powerful big place,” said Mrs. Ives.
“It is,” answered Barbara.
“Your husband must be a rich man.”
“He is, very.”
“Now, I wonder has you any other places to call your own?”
“I believe we have several.”
“Dear heart! it seems too much for a young couple. You’ll be wore out
with the responsibility of ’em, my deary. You’d ha’ done a deal better
to pray the prayer of Agar and be satisfied with what he asked the
Almighty for.”
“I don’t remember what he wanted at this moment,” replied Barbara with a
smile.
“Oh, my word! you ain’t been brought up proper on your Bible. ‘Give me
neither poverty nor riches,’ was Agar’s cry, ‘and feed me with food
convenient for me.’ I often thought how beautiful was his words, and
when I sees the rich and great of the earth I says to mysel’, ‘Well,
they’re not Agars.’ They might ha’ been Agars if they liked and gave
away some of their property to feed the starving, but they didn’t like
it and they ain’t got the blessing. My deary, I’d like well to see that
husband of yours.”
“If we meet him I’ll introduce him to you.”
“What’s his name, dear?”
“Sir Richard Pelham.”
“Aye, that’s a pretty name; and you’re not married more than two
months?”
“No.”
“I hope you’ll be happy, Lady Pelham, and you has my best wishes. Oh, is
this the house?”
They were turning a corner of the avenue as the old woman spoke, and now
the magnificent old pile, gray with age, appeared in view. Mrs. Ives
dropped a succession of curtseys with great rapidity.
“It’s my way of expressing my feelings,” she said, looking at Barbara.
“It’s a magnificent place, and you must be proud of it.”
“Not at all. Sometimes one feels both pleasure and pain in possessing a
place of this sort.”
“Oh, that’s because you’re young to it,” said Mrs. Ives. “You’ll soon
get accustomed, mark my words. Of course, only being wedded two months,
you naturally feel a bit strange. Perhaps afore you was married you was
a poor girl like my Clary.”
“Clara!” cried Barbara in astonishment. “Clara Ives! Do you mean to tell
me,” she cried excitedly, “that you are the mother of Clara Ives, the
nurse?”
“Same, love, same. She’s my own true darter—a plain girl.”
“And she’s married to Dr. Tarbot?”
“Yes, my dear; like yourself, she’s married riches—from poverty she has
come to great wealth.”
“I was never exactly poor in that way,” said Barbara, who did not care
to have her past compared to that of Clara Ives. “But this is
interesting!” she cried. “You are not like Mrs. Tarbot.”
“Oh, something the same, my dear. I’ve just them sort of crabbed
notions; she was always a crabbed girl, but mortal clever. Well, I was
curious to see the place and now I’ve seen it, and I’m pleased to have
had this talk with you. Now, your husband, he don’t have your feelings,
do he? He’s accustomed to wealth from his birth, ain’t that so?”
“Well, no, that’s the curious part,” said Barbara, who found herself
confiding in this old woman, and not in the least minding the fact that
she was doing so. “Dick, my dear husband, came in for the property
unexpectedly.”
“Indeed, that do sound romantic. Was it a sudden death, a shipwreck, or
a murder, that done it?”
“Oh, no, no, nothing like that—but it was very sad. Mr. Pelham, as he
was then, was very poor, and he loved me well, but we could not marry.
Then his dear little cousin died—such a sweet boy—and Dick became Sir
Richard Pelham.”
“Ah, quite a little child it was who stood in the way and he died?” said
Mrs. Ives.
“Yes,” replied Barbara, “the little boy died.”
“A baby were he, love?”
“Oh, no, not a baby. He was seven years old—such a pretty boy!”
“To be sure now, that was great trouble. And so your husband came in for
the property then?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago, may I ask?”
“Two or three months ago. It all happened unexpectedly. The boy was
never strong—he died of heart disease. By the way,” continued Barbara,
looking full at the old woman, “you must have heard about it, for your
daughter nursed him during his last illness.”
“A mercy me!” said Mrs. Ives. “As if that makes any difference! Clary
talk about her patients to her old mother! Not she. I knows nothing
about it, dear, and I’d like well to hear the story. But your eyes are
full of tears; you look quite sad.”
“I always feel sad when I think of him—dear little Piers!”
“To be sure, to be sure. What was it you called him, love?”
“Piers.”
“That’s an uncommon name.”
“It is, but it has belonged to the family of the Pelhams for
generations. I am sorry Dick is not Piers, although, of course, I like
his own name.”
“I am vastly interested by what you tells me, love. The child must have
been a nice little gentleman.”
“Yes; but I can’t talk of him any more. It makes me too sad. Come this
way, Mrs. Ives.”
Barbara entered the house and took the old woman in the direction of the
housekeeper’s room. The housekeeper’s name was Mrs. Posset. She was very
stout, and she always wore the richest of black silk dresses and the
finest of real lace caps. When Barbara entered she rose and looked with
anything but approval at Mrs. Ives.
“Please, Mrs. Posset,” said Barbara in her kind voice, “will you give
this old lady something to eat? She is tired and has come a long way.”
“Eh, _dear_, what a beautiful dress!” cried Mrs. Ives, dropping a low
curtsey to the housekeeper, who was much more stately in her manner than
Barbara herself.
A little flattery always mollified Mrs. Posset, and she told Barbara
that she would do what was necessary. Accordingly she invited Mrs. Ives
to seat herself, and ringing a bell, the still-room maid appeared.
Directions were given to her, with the result that in about five minutes
a trayful of appetizing viands was brought into the room. The tray was
placed in front of Mrs. Ives, who drew off her crimson gloves,
unfastened her black shawl, and prepared to enjoy herself.
“Eh,” she said, looking up at Mrs. Posset presently, “it’s a mournful
tale.”
“What?” asked the housekeeper.
“That about the little lad who died.”
“I’d rather not talk of it,” said Mrs. Posset. As she spoke her face
began to work—it got crimson, then her eyes filled with tears. She
covered her face and sobbed audibly.
“She do take it to heart. I can pump her a bit,” thought the old woman.
After a moment she said—
“You’re upset, ma’am, and I’m sorry.”
“I am,” said Mrs. Posset. “I loved him as if he were my own. He was a
dear little chap.”
“He must have been, and the young lady what got her husband and the
beautiful place, too, by means of the death, seems mighty troubled, too.
I s’pose he was a handsome little feller?”
“Handsome!” cried Mrs. Posset. “I never saw his like, never. The most
beautiful child you ever set eyes on.”
“Fair, I s’pose? Most of the quality is fair.”
“Not a bit of it. Dark as a raven, black hair, beautiful brown eyes, and
such a complexion. And the manner with him and the loving words, and the
way he’d fling his arms round my neck and say, ‘I love you, Posset.
Posset, have you got a bit of cake for me?’ Oh, he was a darling little
chap!”
“He must have been,” said Mrs. Ives. “It’s afflictin’ to hear you,
ma’am. Maybe you has got his picter? I’d like well to see it.”
“I have got a lovely photograph, but I don’t show it to everybody.”
“Well, then, ma’am, I won’t ask again, and I’m very much obliged for the
nice food and thank you kindly. I sympathize with your grief. I has lost
children of my own, and I know what it means.”
“If you would really like to see the photograph,” began Mrs. Posset, “I
don’t mind showing it to you, for you seem a feeling sort of body.”
As she spoke she crossed the room, opened a chiffonier and took out a
leather case. This she unfastened and laid before the little woman. Mrs.
Ives dropped three or four curtseys in succession, her face turned white
and her lips trembled.
“I thank you, ma’am. It brings the tears to my eyes to see that little
face,” she said.
Then she made a hasty adieu and vanished.