IN THE CHAPEL.
“Her ladyship’s sister,” said Magdalen smartly.
It was nonsense Mrs. Keith’s pretending not to know when she had been
in the house more than a month, and had been followed wherever she went
for a week.
Was the old housekeeper crazy?
For, like a woman startled out of her senses, she was coming over to
the intruders, peering at them under her bushy brows till her eyes were
like green sparks. Ronald began to cry at the look on the gnarled face
that was pushed so close to Magdalen’s.
“Speak out!” cried Mrs. Keith. “What’s your name?”
“You’re frightening the child,” cried Magdalen indignantly. “You know
perfectly well who I am--Lady Barnysdale’s sister. As for my name, it’s
Clyde--though I can’t see how it matters to you what it is. Get me some
breakfast,” she commanded, for her patience was exhausted.
“Heavens! ’tis the very speech of him!” said the housekeeper to
herself. “Clyde, she says----” She put a knotted work-worn hand on the
girl’s shoulder. “Speak out,” she muttered; “ye can! I’m Mrs. Keith.”
“I have spoken out.” Magdalen stamped her foot, for in this house it
was waste of time to be either polite or considerate, knowing what she
knew. “Now get me some breakfast. You can see for yourself I can’t take
such a little child as this to breakfast with Lord Stratharden.”
Mrs. Keith stood looking at her.
“If I was wrong,” she said, “you’ll pardon me! Ye have a look of one I
knew that’s dead, and for the sake of him ye’ll have all that’s in this
house. Though,” under her breath, and turning away, “if ye were aught
to him ye’d not hold that child by the hand!”
For want of an answer Magdalen sat down on a spotless wooden chair and
took Ronald on her lap.
Mrs. Keith, with that queer surprise still on her face, went to and fro
awkwardly, putting such a meal on the kitchen-table as Lady Barnysdale
had assuredly never seen in that house; and Magdalen’s black eyes
followed her every movement. Through the open door into the dairy she
saw the milk taken fresh from the pan; at her very elbow watched the
boiling of the eggs, the slicing of the bacon. There might be dislike
of the new Lord Barnysdale here, but there were certainly no underhand
tricks with his food. To her surprise the grim old woman laid the table
with fine china, not the thick crockery she had used herself.
“Ye’re served,” she said briefly; and if ever the words were welcome it
was to half-starved Magdalen Clyde.
“Will ye be living here for good?” said the housekeeper suddenly.
“No. I’m going back to London as soon as I can,” something beyond her
control making her tell the truth as better than lies.
But Mrs. Keith made no comment.
In silence Magdalen finished the breakfast that was putting courage
into her with every mouthful, and then lifted Ronald from his chair.
“Say good morning to Mrs. Keith, boy,” she cried lightly, “and thank
her for such a good breakfast!” with her lovely laugh.
“Ye needn’t prompt him. I’ll have none of his thanks, the spawn!”
The sudden, harsh voice made the child clutch Magdalen in silent terror.
“How dare you speak like that?” she cried, turning angrily on the
housekeeper. “He’s a child, not three years old. It isn’t his fault
that he supplanted the boy you nursed.”
The woman looked at her.
“Who may ye be meaning?” she quietly asked.
“Lord Stratharden’s son,” Magdalen replied, seeing no reason for the
question.
“Stratharden’s? Oh, ay!” and her eyes narrowed oddly. “He’s a guid lad
enough, Buff Ogilvie. But if ye come here to teach me my duty ye’d best
be going back to your own affairs.”
“I’m at them!” with a sudden inspiration. Hateful, half daft, as this
old woman seemed, she was yet the one soul in the house who could be
trusted even half-way. “While I think of it,” she continued boldly,
“why are all the screws drawn from the bolt-sockets in her ladyship’s
room?”
“Who told ye so?” but she did not look the least put out.
“My eyes.”
“Ye’ll see the same thing in a madhouse,” said Mrs. Keith, dryly,
and her hearer wondered if she had ever been shut up in one. “Come
ye’re ways with me,” the housekeeper went on hastily. “I’ll show
ye something, and for the sake of him that ye favor I’ll tell ye
something, too. I’d not be so free with your tongue in a place ye know
nothing about!” Having uttered the advice she turned away.
Without answering Magdalen picked up Ronald and followed the gaunt old
figure so strangely set off in a blue cotton gown. Up-stairs, through
long passages, across a wide hall--where it seemed to her that her
guide fairly ran, and had no desire to be seen--and into a closed room
that was curiously high and dark.
The housekeeper whipped a candle from somewhere and lighted it.
Magdalen Clyde drew back with a startled cry.
They stood in a deserted, dismantled chapel. Over the bare, dusty altar
was the despairing agony of Mary Magdalen at the foot of the cross; all
else of religion was gone from the place. The windows were boarded up,
the dust of years was soft on the floor--and in the dim candle-light
that flickered in the close air that other Magdalen turned on the
housekeeper.
“Why do you bring me here?” she demanded. “Take me away. The place
smells of death.”
“It may well; it may well.” Mrs. Keith’s face was drawn and livid, and
Magdalen saw suddenly that she was a very, very old woman. “I brought
ye here for this--and for the look on your face!”
She turned, pointing behind the girl’s shoulder.
Magdalen wheeled. There, over the door by which they had entered, hung
a second picture, facing the Mary Magdalen over the altar. And but for
a something in the cut of the mouth it might have been her own face
that was painted there, though the picture was not that of a woman, but
of a man.
A man of five-and-twenty, with a face of burned-out sorrow; yet the
eyes of it were brave still.
“That was the boy I nursed!” cried the housekeeper under her breath.
“Because ye had a look of him I fed ye. And now, if ye’re wise, ye’ll
get away to your home. His hair--that’s black in the painting--was the
color of yours when he was a child.”
Magdalen stared at the picture.
The boy Mrs. Keith nursed! Did she mean----Oh, it was not Stratharden,
nor never had been. Was it Dolly’s husband?
“Was he----” she began, and did not know why she stopped short. “It’s a
curious chance that I should look like him!” she said with bewilderment.
“There’s no such thing as chance. We’re all born to an ending.” The
words were so low and dreary that Miss Clyde looked sharply at the
withered old speaker.
There were tears in the woman’s hard eyes. She brushed them away as she
motioned the girl to follow her.
To Magdalen’s surprise only two short, dingy passages lay between the
desolate chapel and her own room, at the door of which Mrs. Keith
stopped abruptly.
“I’ll bring your luncheon to ye,” she said harshly, “if you’re meaning
not to go down. And if ye’ve any wit of your own ye’ll say nothing
about what I showed ye. Did ye say ye were going away from here?” she
suddenly inquired.
“As soon,” said Miss Clyde truthfully, “as ever I can.”
“Oh, ay! Well, when ye’re wanting to leave ye’ll tell me!” She turned
and was gone.
“Well!” Magdalen thought, staring after her, “of all the unearthly
houses and people! But my black and whiteness has done me some good at
last. I never thought I should get a good breakfast because I had the
luck to look like a dead man’s picture. It’s a pity Dolly couldn’t get
on the right side of Mrs. Keith!” But even as she thought it she knew
it was impossible; it was no light hatred that had fired Mrs. Keith’s
face when she looked at Ronald. And--that queer answer about the
madhouse flashed suddenly clear to Magdalen. It was Dolly the woman had
meant was mad!
In spite of her substantial breakfast Miss Clyde sat down limply. She
had thought of many things, but never of this. The pale indoor face of
the man who had barred their way yesterday sprang up before her with a
sudden horrid significance, and then the devilish cleverness that was
at the bottom of it all turned her cold.