But you will have to move out of your room, I'm sorry to say.'
"And for the next twelve hours Miss Lucy was more descriptive of her
family glories in general, and of the glories of her sister and
brother-in-law in particular, than ever.
"Sunday was a day of mixed experiences to us; some pleasant and some
the reverse. Miss Lucy in her best clothes was almost intolerably
patronizing, and a general stiffness seemed to pervade everything, the
ladies' silk dresses included. After breakfast we dawdled about till
it was time to dress for church, and as most of the ladies took about
five minutes more than they had allowed for, it seemed likely that we
should be late. At the last moment, Miss Lucy lost her Prayer Book,
and it was not till another five minutes had gone in the search that
she remembered having left it in church the Sunday before. This being
settled we all stowed away in the carriages and drove off. It was only
a short drive; but when we came in sight of the quaint little church
there was no sound of bells, and it became evident that we were late.
In the porch we shook out our dresses, the Irishman divided the burden
of Prayer Books he had been gallantly bearing, our hostess turned back
from the half-open door to say in a loud and encouraging whisper,
'It's only the Confession;' and we swept up the little church into a
huge square pew.
"My dear Ida, I must tell you that we had been brought up to have a
just horror of being late for service, this being a point on which my
father was what is called 'very particular.' Fatima and I therefore
felt greatly discomposed by our late and disturbing entrance, though
we were in no way to blame. We had also been taught to kneel during
the prayers, and it was with a most uncomfortable sensation of doubt
and shame-facedness that we saw one lady after another sit down and
bend her bonnet over her lap, and hesitated ourselves to follow our
own customs in the face of such a majority. But the red-haired young
lady seemed fated to help us out of our difficulties. She sank at once
on her knees in a corner of the pew, her green silk falling round her;
we knelt by her side, and the question was settled. The little
Irishman cast a doubtful glance at her for a moment, and then sat
down, bending his head deeply into his hat. We went through a similar
process about responding, which did not seem to be the fashion with
our hostess and her friends. The red-haired young lady held to her own
customs, however, and we held with her. Our responses were the less
conspicuous, as they were a good deal drowned by the voice of an old
gentleman in the next pew. Diversity seemed to prevail in the manners
of the congregation. This gentleman stood during prayers, balancing a
huge Prayer Book on the corner of the pew, and responding in a loud
voice, more devout than tuneful, keeping exact time with the parson
also, as if he had a grudge against the clerk and felt it due to
himself to keep in advance of him. I remember, Ida, that as we came
in, he was just saying, 'those things which we ought _not_ to have
done,' and he said it in so terrible a voice, and took such a glance
at us over his gold-rimmed spectacles, that I wished the massive
pulpit-hangings would fall and bury my confusion. When the text of
the sermon had been given out, our hostess rustled up, and drew the
curtains well round our pew. Opposite to me, however, there was a gap
through which I could see the old gentleman. He had settled himself
facing the pulpit, and sat there gazing at the preacher with a rigid
attention which seemed to say--'Sound doctrine, if you please; I have
my eye on you.'
"We returned as we came.
"'Is there afternoon service?' I asked Miss Lucy.
"'Oh, yes!' was the reply, 'the servants go in the afternoon.'
"'Don't you?' I asked.
"'Oh, no!' said Miss Lucy, 'once is enough. You can go with the maids,
if you want to, my dears,' she added, with one of the occasional
touches of insolence in which she indulged.
"Afternoon arrived, and I held consultation with Fatima as to what we
were to do.
"When once roused, Fatima was more resolute than I.
"'Of course we'll go,' said she; 'what's the use of having written out
all our good rules and sticking at this? We always go twice at home.
Let's look for Bedford.'
"On which mission I set forth, but when I reached the top of the
stairs I caught sight of the red-haired young lady, in her bonnet and
shawl, standing at the open door, a Prayer Book in her hand. I dashed
downstairs, and entered the hall just as the Irishman came into it by
another door. In his hand was a Prayer Book also, and he picked up his
hat, and went smiling towards her. But as he approached the young
lady, she looked so much annoyed--not to say cross--that I hesitated
to go forwards.
"'Are you going to church?' said the little Irishman, with a pleased
look.
"'I don't know,' said the young lady, briefly, 'are you?'
"'I was--' he began, and stopped short, looking puzzled and vexed.
"'Is no else going?' he asked, after a moment's pause.
"'No one else ever does go,' she said, impatiently, and moved into the
hall.
"The Irishman coloured.
"'I am in the habit of going twice myself, though you may not think
it,' he said, quietly; 'my poor mother always did. But I do not
pretend to go to such good purpose as she did, or as you would, so if
it is to lie between us--' and, without finishing his sentence, he
threw his book (not too gently) on to the table, and, just lifting his
hat as he passed her, dashed out into the garden.
"I did not at all understand this little scene, but, as soon as he was
gone, I ran up to ask our friend if she were going to church, and
would take us. She consented, and I went back in triumph to Fatima. As
there was no time to lose, we dressed quickly enough; so that I was
rather surprised, when we went down, to find the Irish gentleman, with
his face restored to its usual good humour, standing by our friend,
and holding her Prayer Book as well as his own. The young lady did not
speak, but, cheerfully remarking that we had plenty of time before us,
he took our books also, and we all set forth.
"I remember that walk so well, Ida! The hot, sweet summer
afternoon--the dusty plants by the pathway--the clematis in the hedges
(I put a bit into my Prayer Book, which was there for years)--the
grasshoppers and flies that our dresses caught up from the long grass,
and which reappeared as we sat during the sermon.
"The old gentleman was in his pew, but his glance was almost
benevolent, as, in good time, we took our places. We (literally)
_followed_ his example with much heartiness in the responses; and, if
he looked over into our pew during prayers (and from his position he
could hardly avoid it), he must have seen that even the Irishman had
rejected compromises, and that we all knelt together.
"There was one other feature of that service not to be forgotten. When
the sermon was ended, and I had lost sight of the last grasshopper in
my hasty rising, we found that there was to be a hymn. It was the old
custom of this church so to conclude Evening Prayer. No one seemed to
use a book--it was Bishop Ken's evening hymn, which everyone knew,
and, I think, everyone sang. But the feature of it to us was when the
Irishman began to sing. From her startled glance, I think not even the
red-haired young lady had known that he possessed so beautiful a
voice. It had a clearness without effort, a tone, a truth, a pathos,
such as I have not often heard. It sounded strangely above the nasal
tones of the school-children, and the scraping of a solitary fiddle.
Even our neighbour, who had lustily followed the rhythm of the tune,
though without much varying from the note on which he responded,
softened his own sounds and turned to look at the Irishman, who sang
on without noticing it, till, in the last verse, he seemed disturbed
to discover how many eyes were on him. Happily, self-consciousness had
come too late. The hymn was ended.
"We knelt again for the Benediction, and then went back through the
summer fields.
"The red-haired young lady talked very little. Once she said:
"'How is it we have never heard you sing?'
"To which the Irishman replied:
"'I don't understand music, I sing by ear; and I hate 'company'
performances. I will sing to you whenever you like.'
"'Mary,' said Fatima, when we were in our room again, 'I believe those
two will marry each other some day.'
"'So do I,' I answered; 'but don't say anything about it to Lucy.'
"'No, indeed!' said Fatima, warmly. So we kept this idea sacred from
Miss Lucy's comments--why, I do not think either of us could have told
in words.
'Pity, that pleasant impressions--pity, that most impressions--pass
away so soon!
* * * * *
"The evening was not altogether so satisfactory as the afternoon had
been. First, Miss Lucy took us to see her sister's wedding-presents,
most of which were still here in her mother's keeping. They were
splendid, and Miss Lucy was eloquent. From them we dawdled on into her
room, where she displayed her own treasures, with a running commentary
on matters of taste and fashion, which lasted till it was time to
dress for the evening, when she made the usual inquiry, 'What shall
you put on to-night, my dear girls?' and we blushed to own that there
was nothing further of our limited toilettes to reveal.
"In the drawing-room, similar subjects of conversation awaited us. Our
hostess and her friends did not seem to care much for reading, and, as
they did not work on Sunday evening, they talked the more. The chatter
ran chiefly upon the Bath fashions, and upon some ball which had been
held somewhere, where somebody had been dressed after a manner that it
appeared needful to protest against; whilst somebody else (a cousin of
our hostess) was at all points so perfectly attired, that it seemed as
if she should have afforded ample consolation for the other lady's
defects.
"Upon the beauty of this cousin, her father's wealth, and her
superabundant opportunities of matrimony, Miss Lucy enlarged to us, as
we sat in a corner. Another of her peculiarities, by-the-by, was this.
By her own account, all her relatives and friends were in some sense
beautiful. The men were generally 'splendidly handsome;' the ladies,
'the loveliest creatures.' If not 'lovely,' they were 'stylish;' if
nothing else, they were 'charming.' For those who were beyond the
magic circle, this process was reversed. If pretty, they 'wanted
style.' If the dress was beyond criticism, the nose, the complexion,
the hand was at fault. I have met with this _trait_ in other cliques,
since then.
"My dear Ida, I wish to encourage no young lady of the hoydenish age
of thirteen, in despising nice dressing and pretty looks and manners;
or in neglecting to pick up any little hints which she may glean in
such things from older friends. But there are people to whom these
questions seem of such first importance, that to be with them when you
are young and impressionable, is to feel every defect in your own
personal appearance to be a crime, and to believe that there is
neither worth, nor love, nor happiness (no life, in fact, worth living
for) connected with much less than ten thousand a year, and
'connections.' Through some such ordeal we passed that evening, in
seeing and hearing of all the expensive luxuries without which it
seemed impossible to feed, dress, sleep, go out--in fact, exist; and
all the equally expensive items of adornment, without which it
appeared to be impossible to have (or at any rate retain) the respect
and affection of your friends.
"Meanwhile, the evening slipped by, and our Sunday reading had not
been accomplished. We had found little good habits less easy to
maintain in a strange household than we had thought, and this one
seemed likely to follow some others that had been allowed to slip.
The red-haired young lady had been absent for about half an hour, and
the Irishman had been prowling restlessly round the room, performing
murderous-looking fidgets with the paper-knives, when she returned
with a book in her hand, which she settled herself resolutely to read.
The Irishman gave a comical glance at the serious-looking volume, and
then, seating himself on a chair just behind her, found apparent peace
in the effort to sharpen a flat ruler on his knees. The young lady
read on. It was evident that her Sunday customs were not apt to be
disturbed by circumstances.
"I began to feel uncomfortable. Fatima was crouched down near Lucy,
listening to the history of a piece of lace. I waited some little time
to catch her eye, and then beckoned her to me.
"'We haven't read,' I whispered.
"'Dare you go?' asked Fatima.
"'We ought,' I said.
"It required more daring than may appear. To such little people as
ourselves it _was_ rather an undertaking to cross the big
drawing-room, stealing together over the soft carpet; to attack the
large, smooth handle, open the heavy door, and leave the room in the
face of the company. We did it, however, our confusion being much
increased by the Irish gentleman, who jumped up to open the door for
us. We were utterly unable to thank him, and, stumbling over each
other in the passage, flew up to our own room like caged birds set
free.
"Fatima drew out the pillows from the bed, and made herself easy on
the floor. I found the book, and climbed into the window-seat. The sun
was setting, the light would not last much longer; yet I turned over
the pages slowly, to find the place, which was in the second part,
thinking of the conversation downstairs. Fatima heaved a deep sigh
among her cushions, and said: 'I wish we were rich.'
"'I wish we were at home,' I answered.
"'When one's at home,' Fatima continued, in doleful tones, 'one
doesn't feel it, because one sees nobody; but when one goes among
other people, it _is_ wretched not to have plenty of money and things.
And it's no good saying it isn't,' she added, hurriedly, as if to
close the subject.
"'It's getting dark,' I said.
"'I beg your pardon: go on,' sighed Fatima.
"I lifted up my voice, and read till I could see no longer. It was
about the Valley of Humiliation through which Mr. Greatheart led
Christiana and her children. The 'green valley, beautified with
lilies,' in whose meadows the air was pleasant; where 'a man shall be
free from the noise and from the hurryings of this life;' and where
'in former times men have met with angels.'
"The last streaks of crimson were fading in the sky when I read the
concluding lines of the shepherd-boy's song--
'Fulness to such a burden is,
That go on pilgrimage,
Here little, and hereafter bliss,
Is best from age to age.'
"'Here little, and hereafter bliss!'
"It is not always easy to realize what one believes. One needs
sometimes to get away from the world around, 'from the noise and from
the hurryings of this life,' and to hear, read, see, or do something
to remind one that there is a standard which is not of drawing-rooms;
that petty troubles are the pilgrimage of the soul; that great and
happy lives have been lived here by those who have had but little; and
that satisfying bliss is not here, but hereafter.
"We went downstairs slowly, hand in hand.
"'I wonder what mother is doing?' said Fatima.
* * * * *
"The next day Miss Lucy very good-naturedly helped us to move our
belongings into the smaller room we were now to occupy. It was in
another part of the house, and we rather enjoyed the running to and
fro, especially as Miss Lucy was gracious and communicative in the
extreme.
"'This is the oldest part of the house,' she said, as we sat on the
bed resting from our labours, for the day was sultry; 'and it breaks
off here in an odd way. There are no rooms beyond this. There were
some that matched the other side of the house, but they were pulled
down.'
"'Why?' we asked.
"'Well, there's a story about it, in the family,' said Miss Lucy,
mysteriously. 'But it's a ghost story. I'll tell you, if you like. But
some people are afraid of ghost stories. I'm not; but if you are, I
won't tell it.'
"Of course we declared we were not afraid. Sitting there together, on
a sunny summer's afternoon, perhaps we were not.
"'It's years and years ago,' began Miss Lucy; 'you know the place has
belonged to another branch of our family for generations. Well, at
last it came down to an old Mr. Bartlett, who had one daughter, who,
of course, was to be the heiress. Well, she fell in love with a man
whose name I forget, but he was of inferior family, and very queer
character; and her father would not hear of it, and swore that if she
married him he would disinherit her. She would have married the man in
spite of this, though; but what he wanted was her money; so, when he
found that the old man was quite resolute, and that there was no
chance of his dying soon, he murdered him.'
"We both exclaimed; for this sudden catastrophe fairly took away our
breath. Miss Lucy's nerves were not sensitive, however, and she
rattled on.
"'He smothered him in bed, and, as he was a very old man, and might
easily have died in the night some other way, and as nothing could be
proved, he got off. Well, he married the daughter, and got the
property; but the very first evening after he took possession, as he
was passing the door of the old man's room, he heard somebody
breathing heavily inside, and when he looked in, there was the old
father asleep in his bed.'
"'Not really?' we said.
"'Of course not really,' said Miss Lucy, 'but so it was said. That's
the ghost part of it. Well, do what he would, he never could get rid
of the old man, who was always there asleep; so he pulled the rooms
down, and at last he went abroad, and there both he and his wife died,
and the property went to a cousin, who took the name of Bartlett.'
"'How awful!' we murmured. But Miss Lucy laughed, and told us other
family anecdotes, and the ghost story somewhat passed from our minds,
especially as a little later we heard wheels, and, peeping from the
landing window, beheld a post-chaise drive up.
"'It's Cecilia!' screamed Miss Lucy, and left us at once.
"I may as well say here, my dear Ida, that Cecilia and the major
proved altogether different from our expectations. Cecilia, in
travelling gear, taking off an old bonnet, begging for a cup of tea,
and complaining in soft accents that butter was a halfpenny a pound
dearer in Bath than at home, seemed to have no connection with that
Cecilia into the trimmings of whose dresses bank-notes had recklessly
dissolved. The major, an almost middle-aged man, of roughish exterior,
in plain clothes, pulling his moustache over a letter that had arrived
for him, dispelled our visions of manly beauty and military pomp even
more effectually. Later on, we discovered that Cecilia was really
pretty, soft, and gentle, a good deal lectured by her mother, and
herself more critical of Miss Lucy's dress and appearance than that
young lady had been of ours. The major proved kind and sensible. He
was well-to-do and had 'expectations,' which facts shed round him a
glory invisible to us. They seemed a happy couple; more like the rest
of the world than we had been led to suppose.
"The new-comers completely absorbed our attention during the evening,
and it was not till we were fairly entering the older part on the
house on our way to bed, that the story of the old man's ghost
recurred to my mind. It was a relief to meet Bedford at this point, to
hear her cheerful good-night, and to see her turn into a room only two
doors from ours. Once while we were undressing I said:
"'What a horrid story that was that Lucy told us.'
"To which sensible Fatima made answer: 'Don't talk about it.'
"We dismissed the subject by consent, got into bed, and I fell asleep.
I do not quite know how far on it was into the night when I was roused
by Fatima's voice repeating my name over and over again, in tones of
subdued terror. I know nothing more irritatingly alarming, when one is
young and nervous, than to be roused thus by a voice in which the
terror is evident and the cause unknown.
"'What's the matter?' I asked.
"'Don't you hear?' gasped Fatima, in a whisper.
"If she had said at once that there was a robber under the bed, a
burglar at the window, or a ghost in the wardrobe, I should have
prepared for the worst, and it would have been less alarming than this
unknown evil.
"'I hear nothing,' I said, pettishly. 'I wish you'd go to sleep,
Fatima.'
"'There!--now!' said Fatima.
"I held my breath, and in the silence heard distinctly the sound of
some one snoring in an adjoining apartment.
"'It's only some one snoring,' I said.
"'Where?' asked Fatima, with all the tragedy in her voice unabated.
"'In the room behind us, of course,' I said, impatiently. 'Can't you
hear?'
"Fatima's voice might have been the voice of a shadow as she answered:
'_There is no room there._'
"And then a cold chill crept over me also; for I remembered that the
wall from behind which the snoring unmistakably proceeded was an outer
wall. There had been the room of old Mr. Bartlett, which his
son-in-law and murderer had pulled down. There he had been heard
'breathing heavily,' and had been seen asleep upon his bed, long after
he was smothered in his own pillows, and his body shut up in the
family vault. At least, so it was said, and at that particular moment
we felt no comfort from the fact that Miss Lucy had said that 'of
course it wasn't true.' I said something, to which Fatima made no
reply, and I could feel her trembling, and hear a half-choked sob. I
think fear for her overpowered my other alarm, and gave me a sort of
strength.
"'Don't, dear,' I begged. 'Let's be brave. It must be something else.
And there's nothing in the room. Let's go to Bedford. She's next door
but one.'
"Fatima could speak no more. By the moonlight through the blind, I
jumped up, and half dragged, half helped her out of bed and across the
room. Opening the door was the worst. To touch anything at such a
moment is a trial. We groped down the passage; I felt the handle of
the first door, and turned that of the second, and in we went. The
window-blind of this room was drawn up, and the moonlight streamed
over everything. A nest of white drapery covered one chair, a muslin
dress lay like a sick ghost over a second, some little black satin
shoes and web-like stockings were on the floor, a gold watch and one
or two feminine ornaments lay on the table; and in the bed
reposed--not Bedford, but our friend Kate, fast asleep, with one arm
over the bed-clothes, and her long red hair in a pigtail streaming
over the pillow. I climbed up and treated her as Fatima had treated
me, calling her in low, frightened tones over and over again. She woke
at last, and sat up.
"'You sprites! What is the matter?' she exclaimed.
"I stumbled through an account of our misfortunes, in the middle of
which the young lady lay down, and before it was ended I believe she
was asleep again. Poor Fatima, who saw nothing before us but to return
to our room with all its terrors, here began to sob violently, which
roused our friend once more, and she became full of pity.
"'You poor children!' she said, 'I'm so sleepy. I cannot get up and
go after the ghost now; besides, one might meet somebody. But you may
get into bed if you like; there's plenty of room, and nothing to
frighten you.'
"In we both crept, most willingly. She gave us the long tail of her
hair, and said, 'If you want me, pull. But go to sleep, if you
can!'--and, before she had well finished the sentence, her eyes closed
once more. In such good company a snoring ghost seemed a thing hardly
to be realized. We held the long plait between us, and, clinging to it
as drowning men to a rope, we soon slept also.
"When we returned to our room next day, there was no snoring to be
heard, and in the full sunshine of a summer morning our fright seemed
so completely a thing of the past, that I persuaded myself to suggest
that it might have been 'fancy' (Kate had already expressed her
deliberate opinion to this effect), to which Fatima, whose convictions
were of a more resolute type than mine, replied, 'What's the use of
trying to believe what's not true? I heard it; and shall know that I
heard it, if I live till I'm a hundred.'