Alban took Mrs. Ellmother at her word. “I am going to venture on a
guess,” he said. “You have been with Miss de Sor to-night.”
“Quite true, Mr. Morris.”
“I am going to guess again. Did Miss de Sor ask you to stay with her,
when you went into her room?”
“That’s it! She rang for me, to see how I was getting on with my
needlework--and she was what I call hearty, for the first time since
I have been in her service. I didn’t think badly of her when she first
talked of engaging me; and I’ve had reason to repent of my opinion ever
since. Oh, she showed the cloven foot to-night! ‘Sit down,’ she says;
‘I’ve nothing to read, and I hate work; let’s have a little chat.’ She’s
got a glib tongue of her own. All I could do was to say a word now and
then to keep her going. She talked and talked till it was time to light
the lamp. She was particular in telling me to put the shade over it. We
were half in the dark, and half in the light. She trapped me (Lord knows
how!) into talking about foreign parts; I mean the place she lived in
before they sent her to England. Have you heard that she comes from the
West Indies?”
“Yes; I have heard that. Go on.”
“Wait a bit, sir. There’s something, by your leave, that I want to know.
Do you believe in Witchcraft?”
“I know nothing about it. Did Miss de Sor put that question to you?”
“She did.”
“And how did you answer?”
“Neither in one way nor the other. I’m in two minds about that matter
of Witchcraft. When I was a girl, there was an old woman in our village,
who was a sort of show. People came to see her from all the country
round--gentlefolks among them. It was her great age that made her
famous. More than a hundred years old, sir! One of our neighbors didn’t
believe in her age, and she heard of it. She cast a spell on his flock.
I tell you, she sent a plague on his sheep, the plague of the Bots. The
whole flock died; I remember it well. Some said the sheep would have had
the Bots anyhow. Some said it was the spell. Which of them was right?
How am I to settle it?”
“Did you mention this to Miss de Sor?”
“I was obliged to mention it. Didn’t I tell you, just now, that I can’t
make up my mind about Witchcraft? ‘You don’t seem to know whether you
believe or disbelieve,’ she says. It made me look like a fool. I told
her I had my reasons, and then I was obliged to give them.”
“And what did she do then?”
“She said, ‘I’ve got a better story of Witchcraft than yours.’ And she
opened a little book, with a lot of writing in it, and began to read.
Her story made my flesh creep. It turns me cold, sir, when I think of it
now.”
He heard her moaning and shuddering. Strongly as his interest was
excited, there was a compassionate reluctance in him to ask her to go
on. His merciful scruples proved to be needless. The fascination of
beauty it is possible to resist. The fascination of horror fastens
its fearful hold on us, struggle against it as we may. Mrs. Ellmother
repeated what she had heard, in spite of herself.
“It happened in the West Indies,” she said; “and the writing of a woman
slave was the writing in the little book. The slave wrote about her
mother. Her mother was a black--a Witch in her own country. There was
a forest in her own country. The devil taught her Witchcraft in the
forest. The serpents and the wild beasts were afraid to touch her.
She lived without eating. She was sold for a slave, and sent to the
island--an island in the West Indies. An old man lived there; the
wickedest man of them all. He filled the black Witch with devilish
knowledge. She learned to make the image of wax. The image of wax casts
spells. You put pins in the image of wax. At every pin you put, the
person under the spell gets nearer and nearer to death. There was a poor
black in the island. He offended the Witch. She made his image in wax;
she cast spells on him. He couldn’t sleep; he couldn’t eat; he was such
a coward that common noises frightened him. Like Me! Oh, God, like me!”
“Wait a little,” Alban interposed. “You are exciting yourself
again--wait.”
“You’re wrong, sir! You think it ended when she finished her story, and
shut up her book; there’s worse to come than anything you’ve heard yet.
I don’t know what I did to offend her. She looked at me and spoke to me,
as if I was the dirt under her feet. ‘If you’re too stupid to understand
what I have been reading,’ she says, ‘get up and go to the glass. Look
at yourself, and remember what happened to the slave who was under the
spell. You’re getting paler and paler, and thinner and thinner; you’re
pining away just as he did. Shall I tell you why?’ She snatched off the
shade from the lamp, and put her hand under the table, and brought out
an image of wax. _My_ image! She pointed to three pins in it. ‘One,’
she says, ‘for no sleep. One for no appetite. One for broken nerves.’ I
asked her what I had done to make such a bitter enemy of her. She says,
‘Remember what I asked of you when we talked of your being my servant.
Choose which you will do? Die by inches’ (I swear she said it as I hope
to be saved); ‘die by inches, or tell me--’”
There--in the full frenzy of the agitation that possessed her--there,
Mrs. Ellmother suddenly stopped.
Alban’s first impression was that she might have fainted. He looked
closer, and could just see her shadowy figure still seated in the chair.
He asked if she was ill. No.
“Then why don’t you go on?”
“I have done,” she answered.
“Do you think you can put me off,” he rejoined sternly, “with such an
excuse as that? What did Miss de Sor ask you to tell her? You promised
to trust me. Be as good as your word.”
In the days of her health and strength, she would have set him at
defiance. All she could do now was to appeal to his mercy.
“Make some allowance for me,” she said. “I have been terribly upset.
What has become of my courage? What has broken me down in this way?
Spare me, sir.”
He refused to listen. “This vile attempt to practice on your fears may
be repeated,” he reminded her. “More cruel advantage may be taken of the
nervous derangement from which you are suffering in the climate of this
place. You little know me, if you think I will allow that to go on.”
She made a last effort to plead with him. “Oh sir, is this behaving
like the good kind man I thought you were? You say you are Miss Emily’s
friend? Don’t press me--for Miss Emily’s sake!”
“Emily!” Alban exclaimed. “Is _she_ concerned in this?”
There was a change to tenderness in his voice, which persuaded Mrs.
Ellmother that she had found her way to the weak side of him. Her one
effort now was to strengthen the impression which she believed herself
to have produced. “Miss Emily _is_ concerned in it,” she confessed.
“In what way?”
“Never mind in what way.”
“But I do mind.”
“I tell you, sir, Miss Emily must never know it to her dying day!”
The first suspicion of the truth crossed Alban’s mind.
“I understand you at last,” he said. “What Miss Emily must never
know--is what Miss de Sor wanted you to tell her. Oh, it’s useless to
contradict me! Her motive in trying to frighten you is as plain to me
now as if she had confessed it. Are you sure you didn’t betray yourself,
when she showed the image of wax?”
“I should have died first!” The reply had hardly escaped her before she
regretted it. “What makes you want to be so sure about it?” she said.
“It looks as if you knew--”
“I do know.”
“What!”
The kindest thing that he could do now was to speak out. “Your secret is
no secret to _me_,” he said.
Rage and fear shook her together. For the moment she was like the Mrs.
Ellmother of former days. “You lie!” she cried.
“I speak the truth.”
“I won’t believe you! I daren’t believe you!”
“Listen to me. In Emily’s interests, listen to me. I have read of the
murder at Zeeland--”
“That’s nothing! The man was a namesake of her father.”
“The man was her father himself. Keep your seat! There is nothing to be
alarmed about. I know that Emily is ignorant of the horrid death that
her father died. I know that you and your late mistress have kept the
discovery from her to this day. I know the love and pity which plead
your excuse for deceiving her, and the circumstances that favored the
deception. My good creature, Emily’s peace of mind is as sacred to me
as it is to you! I love her as I love my own life--and better. Are you
calmer, now?”
He heard her crying: it was the best relief that could come to her.
After waiting a while to let the tears have their way, he helped her to
rise. There was no more to be said now. The one thing to do was to take
her back to the house.
“I can give you a word of advice,” he said, “before we part for the
night. You must leave Miss de Sor’s service at once. Your health will be
a sufficient excuse. Give her warning immediately.”
Mrs. Ellmother hung back, when he offered her his arm. The bare prospect
of seeing Francine again was revolting to her. On Alban’s assurance
that the notice to leave could be given in writing, she made no further
resistance. The village clock struck eleven as they ascended the terrace
steps.
A minute later, another person left the grounds by the path which led
to the house. Alban’s precaution had been taken too late. The smell of
tobacco-smoke had guided Francine, when she was at a loss which way to
turn next in search of Mrs. Ellmother. For the last quarter of an hour
she had been listening, hidden among the trees.