You would have me tell you the story, Grandchild? 'Tis a sad one and
best forgotten--few remember it now. There are always sad and dark
stories in old families such as ours.
Yet I have promised and must keep my word. So sit down here at my feet
and rest your bright head on my lap, that I may not see in your young
eyes the shadows my story will bring across their bonny blue.
I was a mere child when it all happened, yet I remember it but too
well, and I can recall how pleased I was when my father's stepmother,
Mrs. Montressor--she not liking to be called grandmother, seeing she
was but turned of fifty and a handsome woman still--wrote to my mother
that she must send little Beatrice up to Montressor Place for the
Christmas holidays. So I went joyfully though my mother grieved to
part with me; she had little to love save me, my father, Conrad
Montressor, having been lost at sea when but three months wed.
My aunts were wont to tell me how much I resembled him, being, so they
said, a Montressor to the backbone; and this I took to mean
commendation, for the Montressors were a well-descended and
well-thought-of family, and the women were noted for their beauty.
This I could well believe, since of all my aunts there was not one but
was counted a pretty woman. Therefore I took heart of grace when I
thought of my dark face and spindling shape, hoping that when I should
be grown up I might be counted not unworthy of my race.
The Place was an old-fashioned, mysterious house, such as I delighted
in, and Mrs. Montressor was ever kind to me, albeit a little stern,
for she was a proud woman and cared but little for children, having
none of her own.
But there were books there to pore over without let or hindrance--for
nobody questioned of my whereabouts if I but kept out of the way--and
strange, dim family portraits on the walls to gaze upon, until I knew
each proud old face well, and had visioned a history for it in my own
mind--for I was given to dreaming and was older and wiser than my
years, having no childish companions to keep me still a child.
There were always some of my aunts at the Place to kiss and make much
of me for my father's sake--for he had been their favourite brother.
My aunts--there were eight of them--had all married well, so said
people who knew, and lived not far away, coming home often to take tea
with Mrs. Montressor, who had always gotten on well with her
step-daughters, or to help prepare for some festivity or other--for
they were notable housekeepers, every one.
They were all at Montressor Place for Christmas, and I got more
petting than I deserved, albeit they looked after me somewhat more
strictly than did Mrs. Montressor, and saw to it that I did not read
too many fairy tales or sit up later at nights than became my years.
But it was not for fairy tales and sugarplums nor yet for petting that
I rejoiced to be at the Place at that time. Though I spoke not of it
to anyone, I had a great longing to see my Uncle Hugh's wife,
concerning whom I had heard much, both good and bad.
My Uncle Hugh, albeit the oldest of the family, had never married
until now, and all the countryside rang with talk of his young wife. I
did not hear as much as I wished, for the gossips took heed to my
presence when I drew anear and turned to other matters. Yet, being
somewhat keener of comprehension than they knew, I heard and
understood not a little of their talk.
And so I came to know that neither proud Mrs. Montressor nor my good
aunts, nor even my gentle mother, looked with overmuch favour on what
my Uncle Hugh had done. And I did hear that Mrs. Montressor had chosen
a wife for her stepson, of good family and some beauty, but that my
Uncle Hugh would have none of her--a thing Mrs. Montressor found hard
to pardon, yet might so have done had not my uncle, on his last voyage
to the Indies--for he went often in his own vessels--married and
brought home a foreign bride, of whom no one knew aught save that her
beauty was a thing to dazzle the day and that she was of some strange
alien blood such as ran not in the blue veins of the Montressors.
Some had much to say of her pride and insolence, and wondered if Mrs.
Montressor would tamely yield her mistress-ship to the stranger. But
others, who were taken with her loveliness and grace, said that the
tales told were born of envy and malice, and that Alicia Montressor
was well worthy of her name and station.
So I halted between two opinions and thought to judge for myself, but
when I went to the Place my Uncle Hugh and his bride were gone for a
time, and I had even to swallow my disappointment and bide their
return with all my small patience.
But my aunts and their stepmother talked much of Alicia, and they
spoke slightingly of her, saying that she was but a light woman and
that no good would come of my Uncle Hugh's having wed her, with other
things of a like nature. Also they spoke of the company she gathered
around her, thinking her to have strange and unbecoming companions for
a Montressor. All this I heard and pondered much over, although my
good aunts supposed that such a chit as I would take no heed to their
whisperings.
When I was not with them, helping to whip eggs and stone raisins, and
being watched to see that I ate not more than one out of five, I was
surely to be found in the wing hall, poring over my book and grieving
that I was no more allowed to go into the Red Room.
The wing hall was a narrow one and dim, connecting the main rooms of
the Place with an older wing, built in a curious way. The hall was
lighted by small, square-paned windows, and at its end a little
flight of steps led up to the Red Room.
Whenever I had been at the Place before--and this was often--I had
passed much of my time in this same Red Room. It was Mrs. Montressor's
sitting-room then, where she wrote her letters and examined household
accounts, and sometimes had an old gossip in to tea. The room was
low-ceilinged and dim, hung with red damask, and with odd, square
windows high up under the eaves and a dark wainscoting all around it.
And there I loved to sit quietly on the red sofa and read my fairy
tales, or talk dreamily to the swallows fluttering crazily against the
tiny panes.
When I had gone this Christmas to the Place I soon bethought myself of
the Red Room--for I had a great love for it. But I had got no further
than the steps when Mrs. Montressor came sweeping down the hall in
haste and, catching me by the arm, pulled me back as roughly as if it
had been Bluebeard's chamber itself into which I was venturing.
Then, seeing my face, which I doubt not was startled enough, she
seemed to repent of her haste and patted me gently on the head.
"There, there, little Beatrice! Did I frighten you, child? Forgive an
old woman's thoughtlessness. But be not too ready to go where you are
not bidden, and never venture foot in the Red Room now, for it belongs
to your Uncle Hugh's wife, and let me tell you she is not over fond of
intruders."
I felt sorry overmuch to hear this, nor could I see why my new aunt
should care if I went in once in a while, as had been my habit, to
talk to the swallows and misplace nothing. But Mrs. Montressor saw to
it that I obeyed her, and I went no more to the Red Room, but busied
myself with other matters.
For there were great doings at the Place and much coming and going. My
aunts were never idle; there was to be much festivity Christmas week
and a ball on Christmas Eve. And my aunts had promised me--though not
till I had wearied them of my coaxing--that I should stay up that
night and see as much of the gaiety as was good for me. So I did their
errands and went early to bed every night without complaint--though I
did this the more readily for that, when they thought me safely
asleep, they would come in and talk around my bedroom fire, saying
that of Alicia which I should not have heard.
At last came the day when my Uncle Hugh and his wife were expected
home--though not until my scanty patience was well nigh wearied
out--and we were all assembled to meet them in the great hall, where a
ruddy firelight was gleaming.
My Aunt Frances had dressed me in my best white frock and my crimson
sash, with much lamenting over my skinny neck and arms, and bade me
behave prettily, as became my bringing up. So I slipped in a corner,
my hands and feet cold with excitement, for I think every drop of
blood in my body had gone to my head, and my heart beat so hardly that
it even pained me.
Then the door opened and Alicia--for so I was used to hearing her
called, nor did I ever think of her as my aunt in my own mind--came
in, and a little in the rear my tall, dark uncle.
She came proudly forward to the fire and stood there superbly while
she loosened her cloak, nor did she see me at all at first, but
nodded, a little disdainfully, it seemed, to Mrs. Montressor and my
aunts, who were grouped about the drawing-room door, very ladylike and
quiet.
But I neither saw nor heard aught at the time save her only, for her
beauty, when she came forth from her crimson cloak and hood, was
something so wonderful that I forgot my manners and stared at her as
one fascinated--as indeed I was, for never had I seen such loveliness
and hardly dreamed it.
Pretty women I had seen in plenty, for my aunts and my mother were
counted fair, but my uncle's wife was as little like to them as a
sunset glow to pale moonshine or a crimson rose to white day-lilies.
Nor can I paint her to you in words as I saw her then, with the long
tongues of firelight licking her white neck and wavering over the rich
masses of her red-gold hair.
She was tall--so tall that my aunts looked but insignificant beside
her, and they were of no mean height, as became their race; yet no
queen could have carried herself more royally, and all the passion and
fire of her foreign nature burned in her splendid eyes, that might
have been dark or light for aught that I could ever tell, but which
seemed always like pools of warm flame, now tender, now fierce.
Her skin was like a delicate white rose leaf, and when she spoke I
told my foolish self that never had I heard music before; nor do I
ever again think to hear a voice so sweet, so liquid, as that which
rippled over her ripe lips.
I had often in my own mind pictured this, my first meeting with
Alicia, now in one way, now in another, but never had I dreamed of her
speaking to me at all, so that it came to me as a great surprise when
she turned and, holding out her lovely hands, said very graciously:
"And is this the little Beatrice? I have heard much of you--come, kiss
me, child."
And I went, despite my Aunt Elizabeth's black frown, for the glamour
of her loveliness was upon me, and I no longer wondered that my Uncle
Hugh should have loved her.
Very proud of her was he too; yet I felt, rather than saw--for I was
sensitive and quick of perception, as old-young children ever
are--that there was something other than pride and love in his face
when he looked on her, and more in his manner than the fond lover--as
it were, a sort of lurking mistrust.
Nor could I think, though to me the thought seemed as treason, that
she loved her husband overmuch, for she seemed half condescending and
half disdainful to him; yet one thought not of this in her presence,
but only remembered it when she had gone.
When she went out it seemed to me that nothing was left, so I crept
lonesomely away to the wing hall and sat down by a window to dream of
her; and she filled my thoughts so fully that it was no surprise when
I raised my eyes and saw her coming down the hall alone, her bright
head shining against the dark old walls.
When she paused by me and asked me lightly of what I was dreaming,
since I had such a sober face, I answered her truly that it was of
her--whereat she laughed, as one not ill pleased, and said half
mockingly:
"Waste not your thoughts so, little Beatrice. But come with me,
child, if you will, for I have taken a strange fancy to your solemn
eyes. Perchance the warmth of your young life may thaw out the ice
that has frozen around my heart ever since I came among these cold
Montressors."
And, though I understood not her meaning, I went, glad to see the Red
Room once more. So she made me sit down and talk to her, which I did,
for shyness was no failing of mine; and she asked me many questions,
and some that I thought she should not have asked, but I could not
answer them, so 'twere little harm.
After that I spent a part of every day with her in the Red Room. And
my Uncle Hugh was there often, and he would kiss her and praise her
loveliness, not heeding my presence--for I was but a child.
Yet it ever seemed to me that she endured rather than welcomed his
caresses, and at times the ever-burning flame in her eyes glowed so
luridly that a chill dread would creep over me, and I would remember
what my Aunt Elizabeth had said, she being a bitter-tongued woman,
though kind at heart--that this strange creature would bring on us all
some evil fortune yet.
Then would I strive to banish such thoughts and chide myself for
doubting one so kind to me.
When Christmas Eve drew nigh my silly head was full of the ball day
and night. But a grievous disappointment befell me, for I awakened
that day very ill with a most severe cold; and though I bore me
bravely, my aunts discovered it soon, when, despite my piteous
pleadings, I was put to bed, where I cried bitterly and would not be
comforted. For I thought I should not see the fine folk and, more
than all, Alicia.
But that disappointment, at least, was spared me, for at night she
came into my room, knowing of my longing--she was ever indulgent to my
little wishes. And when I saw her I forgot my aching limbs and burning
brow, and even the ball I was not to see, for never was mortal
creature so lovely as she, standing there by my bed.
Her gown was of white, and there was nothing I could liken the stuff
to save moonshine falling athwart a frosted pane, and out from it
swelled her gleaming breast and arms, so bare that it seemed to me a
shame to look upon them. Yet it could not be denied they were of
wondrous beauty, white as polished marble.
And all about her snowy throat and rounded arms, and in the masses of
her splendid hair, were sparkling, gleaming stones, with hearts of
pure light, which I know now to have been diamonds, but knew not then,
for never had I seen aught of their like.
And I gazed at her, drinking in her beauty until my soul was filled,
as she stood like some goddess before her worshipper. I think she read
my thought in my face and liked it--for she was a vain woman, and to
such even the admiration of a child is sweet.
Then she leaned down to me until her splendid eyes looked straight
into my dazzled ones.
"Tell me, little Beatrice--for they say the word of a child is to be
believed--tell me, do you think me beautiful?"
I found my voice and told her truly that I thought her beautiful
beyond my dreams of angels--as indeed she was. Whereat she smiled as
one well pleased.
Then my Uncle Hugh came in, and though I thought that his face
darkened as he looked on the naked splendour of her breast and arms,
as if he liked not that the eyes of other men should gloat on it, yet
he kissed her with all a lover's fond pride, while she looked at him
half mockingly.