STRANGE GUESTS.
SEPTEMBER 29, 1791.
Two excitements to-day. First, the appearance at my doors of the person
of whose coming I was advised by Mr. Tamworth. He came in his own
carriage, and is a meager, hatchet-faced man, whose eye makes me
restless, but has not succeeded in making me lose my self-possession. He
stayed three hours, all of which he made me spend with him in the oak
parlor, and when he had finished with me and got my signature to a long
and complicated affidavit, I felt that I would rather sell my house and
flee the place than go through such another experience. Happily it is
likely to be a long time before I shall be called upon to do so. A
voyage to France and back is no light matter; and what with
complications and delays, a year or more is likely to elapse before the
subject need be opened again in my hearing. I thank God for this. For
not only shall I thus have the opportunity of regaining my equanimity,
which has been sorely shaken by these late events, but I shall have the
chance of adding a few more dollars to my store, against the time when
scandal will be busy with this spot, and public reprobation ruin its
excellent character and custom.
The oak parlor I have shut and locked. It will not be soon entered again
by me.
The other excitement to which I referred was the coming of two new
guests from New York, elegant ladies, whose appearance and manners quite
overpowered me in the few minutes of conversation I held with them when
they first entered my house.
. . . . .
Good God! what is that? I thought I felt something brush my sleeve. Yet
there is no one near me, and nothing astir in the room! And why should
such a sudden vision of the old oak parlor rise before my eyes? And why,
if I must see it, should it be the room as it looked to me on that
night when the two Urquharts sat within it, and not the room as I saw it
to-day!
Positively I must throw away the key of that room; its very presence in
my desk makes me the victim of visions.
* * * * *
OCTOBER 5, 1791.
Why is it that we promise ourselves certain things, even swear that we
will perform such and such acts, and yet never keep our promises or hold
to our oaths? Sixteen years ago I expressed a determination to refit the
oak parlor and make it look more attractive to the eye; I never did it.
A year since I declared in language as strong as I knew how to employ,
not that I would refit the oak parlor, but that I would tear it from the
house, even at the cost of demolishing the whole structure.
And now, only a week since, I promised myself, as my diary will testify,
that I would throw away the key of this place, if only to rid myself of
unpleasant reminders. But the key is still with me, and the room intact.
I have neither the power nor the inclination to touch it. The ghost of
the woman who perished there restrains me. Why? Because we are not done
with that room. The end of its story is not yet. This I feel; and I feel
something further; I feel that it will be entered soon, and that the
person who is to enter it is already in my house.
I have spoken of two ladies--God knows with but little realization of
the fatal interest they would soon possess for me. They came without
servants some four days ago, and saying they wished to remain for a
short time in this beautiful spot, at once accepted the cheerful south
room which I reserve for such guests as these. As they are very handsome
and distinguished-looking, I felt highly gratified at their patronage,
and was settling down to a state of complacency over the prospects of a
profitable week, when something, I cannot tell what, roused in me a
spirit of suspicion, and I began to notice that the elder lady was of a
very uneasy disposition, exhibiting a proneness to wander about the
house and glide through its passages, especially those on the ground
floor, which at first made me question her sanity, and then led me to
wonder if through some means unknown to me she had not received a hint
as to our secret chamber. I watch, but cannot yet make out. Meanwhile a
description of these women may not come amiss.
They are both beautiful, the younger especially. When I first saw them
seated in my humble parlor, I thought them the wife and daughter of one
of our great generals, they looked so handsome and carried themselves so
proudly. But I was presently undeceived, for the name they gave was a
foreign one, which my English tongue finds it very hard even yet to
pronounce. It is written Letellier, with a simple Madame before it for
the mother, and Mademoiselle for the daughter, but how to speak
it--well, that is a small matter. I do speak it and they never smile,
though the daughter's eye lights up at times with a spark of what I
should call mirth, if her lips were not so grave and her brow so
troubled.
Yes; troubled is the word, though she is so young. I find it difficult
to regard her in any other light than that of a child. Though she
endeavors to appear indifferent and has a way of carrying herself that
is almost noble, there is certainly grief in her eye and care on her
brow. I see it when she is alone, or rather before she becomes aware of
another's presence; I see it when she is with her mother; but when
strangers come in or she assembles with the rest of the household in the
parlor or at the table, then it vanishes, and a sweet charm comes that
reminds me--
But this is folly, sheer folly. How could she look like Mrs. Urquhart?
Imagination carries me too far. Equal innocence and a like gentle temper
have produced a like result in sweetening the expression. That is all,
and yet I remember the one woman when I look at the other, and shudder;
for the woman who calls this child daughter has her eye on the oak
parlor, and may meditate evil--must, if she knows its secret and yet
wishes to enter it. But my imagination is carrying me too far again.
This woman, whatever her faults, loves her daughter, and where love is
there cannot be danger. Yet I shudder.
Madame Letellier merits the description of an abler pen than mine. I
like her, and I hate her. I admire her, and I fear her. I obey her, and
yet hold myself in readiness for rebellion, if only to prove to myself
that I will be strong when the time comes; that no influence, however
exerted, or however hidden under winning smiles or quietly controlling
glances, shall have power to move me from what I may consider my duty,
or from the exercise of such vigilance as my secret fears seem to
demand. I hate her; let me remember that. And I distrust her. She is
here for evil, and her eye is on the oak parlor. Though it is locked and
the key hidden on my person, she will find means to possess herself of
that key and open that door. How? We will see. Meantime all this is not
a description of Madame Letellier.
She is finely formed; she is graceful; she is youthful. She dresses with
a taste that must always make her conspicuous wherever she may be. You
could not enter a room in which she was without seeing her, for her
glance has a strange power that irresistibly draws your glance to it,
though her eyes are lambent rather than brilliant, and if large, rarely
opened to their full extent. Her complexion is dark; that is, in
comparison with her daughter's, which is of a marble-like purity. But it
has strange flushes in it, and at times seems almost to sparkle. Her
hair is brown, and worn high, with a great comb in it, setting off the
contour of her face, which is almost perfect. But it is in the
expression of her mouth that her fascination lies. Without sweetness,
except when it smiles upon her daughter, without mirth, without any
expression speaking of good-will or tenderness, there is yet a turn to
the lips that moves the gazer peculiarly, making it dangerous to watch
her long unless you are hardened by doubts, as I am. Her hands are
exquisite, and her form beauty itself.
The daughter is statuesque; not in the sense of coldness or immobility,
but in the regularity of her features and the absence of any coloring in
her cheeks. She is lovely, and there breathes through every trait a
gentle soul that robs my admiration of all awe and makes my old and
empty heart long to serve her. Her eyes are gray and her hair a reddish
brown, with kinks and curls in it like-- But, pshaw! there comes that
dream again! Was Honora Urquhart's hair so very unique that a head of
wavy brown hair should bring her up so startlingly to my mind?
They are stopping here on their way to Albany--so the elder lady says.
They came from New York. So they did, but if my intuitions are not
greatly at fault, the place they started from was France. The fact that
the marks and labels have all been effaced from their baggage is
suspicious in itself. Can they be friends of the two miserable wretches
who dishonored my house with a ghastly crime? Is it from them that
madame's knowledge comes, if she has any knowledge? The thought awakens
my profoundest distrust. Would that Mr. Tamworth were within reach! I
think I will write him. But what could I write that would not look
foolish on paper? I had better wait a while till I see something or hear
something more definite.