THE UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
For two whole days Barbara Stafford did not leave her bed. She was
exhausted by a long sea-voyage, and saddened by many an anxious day and
night, which had made her passage a wretched one. So she lay still and
tried to rest, that she might gather strength to meet the destiny that
lay before her, whatever that destiny might be.
Meantime the ship was being unloaded. Trunks and packages, marked by the
stranger's name, somewhat ostentatiously it would seem, were conveyed
from its cabin to the farm-house. With this luggage came half a dozen
great boxes, clamped with iron and securely fastened, which astonished
Jason Brown by their heaviness.
These boxes, according to his promise given the dark-browed stranger,
whom he had guided to his own house, Jason Brown stowed away in his
barn, covering them carefully with hay; for there was a mystery in their
weight which made him anxious, and he concealed them conscientiously,
marvelling what they contained and who their owner could be.
At last the strange lady grew restive in the close confinement of that
little room. She arose on the third morning and prepared to dress
herself. She was seized with a desire to go out into the new world, to
learn what it had of good or evil in store for her. Still she dreaded to
look forth and see that great monster ocean which had hurled her to and
fro upon the fearful heave of its waves that terrible night. She had
been here received on that shore with a tempest that had almost
swallowed her up in its angry whirlpools. No wonder that she was filled
with vague dread, and hesitated to look out of the window, which,
curtained with morning-glory vines, framed in a splendid view of the
ocean.
For a time she stood trembling on the floor, half from weakness, half
from an uncontrollable dread of leaving the quiet pillow on which
supreme fatigue had made her slumber sweet. She glanced at the open
sash, through which the sunshine of a lovely summer morning trembled.
She saw the purple bells of the morning-glory vines swaying to and fro
in the soft wind that came sighing up from the water, while drops of dew
fell in glittering rain from the heart-shaped leaves. Alone and beyond
all this came the gushing song of birds, as it were hailing her with
sweet welcomes.
Every thing out of doors seemed so bright that Barbara Stafford grew
strong and almost cheerful. She was now eager to go forth and breathe
the fresh air.
Out of the baggage brought from the vessel she drew forth a dark
brocaded silk, adorned at the neck and sleeves with delicate lace. In
this she proceeded to dress herself, quite unconscious that its richness
was out of keeping with either the scene or her present habitation. It
was the costume of a highly bred gentlewoman of her own country, and
from mere habit she put it on.
The exertion brought a beautiful color to her cheeks. She leaned from
the window and looked out fearlessly on the great ocean which had so
lately threatened her life. It lay before her now like a vast field of
azure, turning the sunshine into opals. Spite of herself she turned from
its treacherous loveliness with a shudder.
Blessed or cursed--I know not which to call it--with that exquisite
delicacy of sense which makes the most brilliant mind at times almost a
slave of the material, she detected among all the perfumes of
neighboring woods the faint fragrance of a sweetbriar that had tangled
itself with the morning-glories, and blossomed with them. She recognized
the perfume. Her quick mind seized upon this as an omen.
Strangely arrayed, it must be confessed, for that simple old homestead,
Barbara Stafford went through the kitchen, which was, for the moment,
empty, and wandered around an angle of the house where the morning
sunshine lay warmly upon an old stone bench half buried in the grass.
Here she sat down, for the exertion of dressing had wearied her. The air
was sweet and balmy, just brightened with a breeze from the distant sea,
and a pretty little opening of cultivated fields, separated from her by
a rail fence, lay dreamily at her left.
Barbara longed to go forth into the shade of those mammoth trees, which
filled the distance with their green leafiness, and under their shelter
look out upon the New World; but a gentle lassitude lay upon her, and,
while she desired exertion, her limbs remained passive--they had not yet
shaken off the numbing effects of the storm.
She sat dreamily looking forth with the sunshine playing among the waves
of her golden hair, and revealing every line and shadow, on a singularly
delicate face, which had carried the complexion of infancy almost into
middle age. The rich scarf, which she had flung over her in coming
forth, fell softly downward, and swept the grass with its gorgeous
folds. She was conscious of nothing but a sensation of pleasure at
seeing the beautiful earth again after a dreary, dreary voyage across
the ocean.
As she sat there, the noise of hoofs on the broken road, leading from
town, had no power to arrest more than a passing thought. This was
followed by a slight rustle of silks, and directly a lady, dressed
somewhat after her own fashion, came through an opening in the fence,
and walked gracefully forward to where Barbara Stafford was sitting.
"I beg ten thousand pardons, madam, but Goody Brown is nowhere to be
seen, and I am compelled to introduce myself," she said, with a charming
little laugh. "I know at a glance that you are the lady I am in search
of; and I--really it is awkward--but I am Lady Phipps."
Barbara Stafford gave a sudden start. Her large, gray eyes grew wild and
black; slowly and steadily her features shrunk together; and making a
faint movement with one hand, as if to catch at something, she struggled
to arise, but fell senseless at her visitor's feet.
When Barbara Stafford arose from the stone bench against which she had
fallen, there was pallor on her cheek, and bewilderment in her eyes,
deeper and more painful to behold than is usual after a mere
fainting-fit. Lady Phipps observed the pallor increase, and that she
shrunk back with a shudder from the arm which was striving to support
her.
"My dear madam, you are not well; you suffer," said the kind matron,
coloring slightly as she felt the thrill of repulsion. "Let me help you
into the house."
"No," answered Barbara, sweeping one hand across her forehead three or
four times, while her eyes were fastened on Lady Phipps with a troubled,
wistful look, as if she had not really seen her features before. "I
think--"
She paused, turned her eyes away from the face she had been searching,
and a spasm of pain swept over her forehead, drawing the brows together
with an unmistakable sign of acute sensibility. She looked up again,
striving to smile.
"Ah, now I remember. Yes, I am sometimes subject to these turns--it is
very girlish and weak, no doubt, but the long sea-voyage, the storm--do
not mind me, lady, I am well now; quite well and strong. Forgive me,
but"--again she broke off, pressed one hand hard against her side, and
said, with a quick catch of the breath, "Lady Phipps--did you say that
Lady Phipps had done me this honor?"
"Yes; I was about to give my name, when you were seized with this
terrible fainting-fit. The governor is so much occupied just now that he
could not come himself, though he was deeply interested in your
condition. I assure you I really could hardly keep from embracing that
dear young Lovel for his bravery in rescuing you from the foundered
boat."
"Young Lovel!" repeated Barbara, quickly; "young Lovel! Is that his
name?"
"Of course you could not be expected to know any thing about names; but
you will remember the young man who nearly lost his own life in dragging
you from the water?"
"Remember him! oh, yes."
"And the dear old minister, brother Parris, with his mild, quiet
ways--to think that he should have been in Boston for the first time in
years, just to help save you; it seems quite like a miracle, or a bit of
the witchcraft that is so fashionable just now."
"Parris--Parris!" repeated Barbara, with a laboring breath.
"That," said Lady Phipps, "was the name of the tall gentleman; an old
friend of Sir William's; indeed, the very man whose benediction made me
his wife."
The hand which Barbara had again lifted to her forehead dropped slowly
down; her lips looked cold and blue, but she stood up firmly, and
excepting one wild glance over her shoulder, as if impelled to flee,
kept her ground, though for an instant she seemed turning into a statue.
After a little, she looked up with one of those gentle smiles, with
which the most refined anguish seeks to clothe itself before the world,
and said:
"You are very kind, my lady, and I am not ungrateful. But since I came
to this land every thing seems like a dream. Indeed, my voyage itself is
more like a vision than reality; in a little time I can better express
myself. Will you be seated here, in the morning sunshine?--it is very
pleasant, or seemed pleasant a little while ago--or would you prefer to
sit in-doors? My good friends here have given me a tolerably pretty
room, and will make Lady--Lady Phipps very welcome."
She spoke the lady's title with the same quick gasp that had marked her
utterance before, and again the shudder ran through her form.
"Yes, yes; let us go in-doors; then you can lie down quietly, or sit in
an easy-chair, while I do my little errand more ceremoniously, for to
speak the truth you look very pale yet. Take my arm; indeed you can
hardly walk."
Barbara only bowed; she could not force herself to touch the lady's arm,
but, with a will that was like strength, walked into the house. Lady
Phipps followed her, lifting the skirt of her dress daintily from the
grass, and smiling with a sort of puzzled air, as if she did not quite
understand the scene she was acting in.
Barbara entered her own room, which was the best apartment in the house,
and according to the usages of the time, furnished with a high bed,
covered with a blue and white yarn coverlet, and pillows like little
snow-drifts. A bureau of cherry-tree wood, with two or three stiff
wooden chairs, an oaken arm-chair with a broad, splint bottom, stood by
the window, with its curtain of sweetbrier and morning-glory vines.
This, Barbara offered to her visitor. But Lady Phipps, with that genial
grace which made every action of hers like a sunbeam, wheeled the chair
around, and motioned that Barbara should occupy it. Then she seated
herself on the bed, burying one elbow in the snow of the pillow, and
drooping her round cheek into the palm of her hand.
"Now," she said, with a charming smile, "that we are both comfortable,
let me give my invitation in proper form. First, young Lovel, who is my
husband's secretary, you know, or are now informed, has set the whole
gubernatorial mansion wild about you. He will have it--but no matter
about his young fancies--he of course is very anxious that you should
not suffer inconvenience, or remain a stranger in the New World, where
Englishmen and Englishwomen should meet as brothers and sisters. He
could not come himself."
"I trust--I hope--that the young gentleman has suffered no injury?" said
Barbara, half starting from the chair; while for the first time Lady
Phipps saw the color rush to her face. "I should be grieved."
"No harm in the world," said Lady Phipps, laughingly interrupting her;
"but to tell you the truth, he was so pleasantly employed, that I had no
heart to bring him away."
Barbara looked up with a questioning glance; a grave smile stole over
her lips, and she said very quietly--
"Indeed! You must all have been very anxious about him."
"Anxious! You never saw such a night! None of us thought of rest. The
governor, whose self-control is the admiration of everybody, wandered
about the town all night long, while I and poor little Elizabeth
Parris--the pretty young creature I hinted at, you know--really fretted
ourselves almost into hysterics. Let me assure you, upon my honor, I
almost knew how people feel when they are unhappy."
"Almost!" murmured Barbara Stafford, lifting her eyes with a gleam of
mournful astonishment. But Lady Phipps was full of her subject, and went
on.
"So, after we had welcomed Norman back again, and petted him into
believing himself of the greatest possible consequence, I came off here
to beg that you will leave this lonesome old place, and honor Sir
William's roof, while it shall suit your convenience."
"But I am a stranger--even a nameless one."
"I beg your pardon--not altogether. Sir William has, as you know, lived
a good deal in England, and the Staffords, of Lincolnshire, are among
his most powerful friends."
"The Staffords, of Lincolnshire?"
"Oh, I forget, you have no idea how we found out the name. It was on the
handkerchief you lost in the sand. 'Barbara Stafford,' a fine old name
that my husband loves well."
A faint smile stole over the strange lady's face, but she only bent her
head in acknowledgment of Lady Phipps's kindness.
"Your name alone is sufficient introduction, but Sir William is curious
to know to what branch of the family it belongs--the earl?"
"I am in no way connected with the Earl of Stafford," said Barbara,
quickly; "in fact, have no claim upon the hospitality of your--of Sir
William Phipps. My object in coming to America is perhaps already
accomplished. With many thanks for this kindness, I must, for the
present at least, decline your invitation."
Lady Phipps looked a little disappointed. She was so accustomed to
having her own way, and seeing her very caprices regarded as a law, that
this refusal of the stranger to become her guest brought the color to
her brow.
"The governor will be greatly disappointed," she said, displacing her
elbow from the pillow with a movement of graceful impatience. "I really
shan't know what to say. Norman, too, will be quite beside himself. They
will think me a miserable ambassadress--in fact, if any thing makes me
ill-natured and awkward, it is a refusal."
Barbara almost smiled. Notwithstanding her summertime of life, there was
something very attracting in Lady Phipps's sparkling manner, which,
beneath the frank playfulness of a child, betrayed all the dignity of a
proud woman.
"It is not a refusal," said Barbara, gently; "perhaps only a delay; but
just now I am too--too weary for society, and need time for rest."
"Then we shall yet have the pleasure?" exclaimed Lady Phipps,
brightening, and holding out her hand; but she became grave in an
instant, for the palm that met hers was cold as snow.
"You are, indeed, quite unfit for exertion," she said.
Barbara drew the cold hand from Lady Phipps's clasp, and, standing up,
looked at her with a strained gaze as she left the room. The moment she
was quite alone, wrapped up in the stillness of an empty house, the pale
woman walked forward to the bed, fell upon it without a breath or a sob,
and lay motionless with her face to the pillow.
That night, after all the family were asleep, except Goody Brown, she
was surprised by the rustle of a silk dress at her elbow, just as she
was raking up the kitchen fire for the night. She turned quickly, and
saw her guest, who stood shivering on the hearth as if it had been the
depth of winter.
"Goodness me!" exclaimed the housewife, planting her iron shovel with a
plunge into the ashes; "I thought you'd gone to bed long ago. Any thing
the matter?"
"Nothing--nothing!" answered the lady, sinking into one of the
straight-backed chairs that stood near the hearth; "I heard you
stirring, and so came out. Sit down a little while; I would like to ask
a few questions about this new country--about Boston and its people."
Goody Brown seated herself on the dye-tub, which occupied a corner of
the chimney, and smoothing down her checked apron prepared to listen.
She was no great talker at any time, and though the questions asked by
her guest were low-toned, and uttered at long intervals, she heard them
patiently and answered each in its place, without betraying any of that
curiosity said to be characteristic of the New England matron of later
days.
During the whole conversation, Barbara sat back in her chair, quite
still, gazing upon the half-smothered embers with a dull, heavy look.
The tallow candle, with its long tow wick, that occupied a little round
stand in a corner, left her face in the shadow, and the good woman
remained quite unconscious how pale it was till her guest arose to say
good-night; then she remembered how husky her voice had been, and how
she seemed to shiver with cold.
"Do let me rake open the embers and give you a bowl of yarb tea, and put
another coverlet on the bed," she urged, in her stiff, motherly way;
"the teeth e'en a'most chatter in your head; you'll sartinly be took
down agin."
"No, no! I shall be quieter now that I know--that I know all about the
country, thank you."
And with a soft, gliding step, noiseless as when she entered, Barbara
went into her room again.
"That's strange," muttered Goody Brown, as she sat before the buried
fire with a foot planted on each andiron, meditating on the conversation
she had just held. "Now can she be any relative to the governor or his
wife, or the Salem minister, I wonder? She's mighty curious about them.
Well, thank goodness, I'd as lief tell her all I know about 'em as not.
There ain't no witchcraft in the truth."