I felt ill and shaken all the rest of that day. It was some time before
they would let me get up from the sofa, and I quite remember how very
strange it was to lie there in the great daylight room, with the sky
looming in through the great window, and to watch, always so close by,
and yet so distant, that screen which was drawn out by the side of the
fire. I could not keep my eyes from that harmless piece of furniture.
Aunt Milly kept coming and going, constantly talking to cheer me up, and
bring things to show me. But no sound came from the screen. There, in
that little space, shut off and shaded out of the centre of her home,
sat the woman who already fascinated me with an influence I could not
explain. Without knowing what I was doing--indeed, even I may say
against my will,--strange recollections of stories I had read came up to
my mind; about people in masks going whispering through an evil life,
about the veiled prophet in the poem, about secret hidden creatures
suspected of all manner of harm, but never found out, or betrayed. There
she was, within three paces of me, concealed and silent,--or was it not
rather watchful, lurking, with her bloodless smile and her shut up
heart? My imagination, perhaps, is always too active; somehow it quite
overpowered me that day. It seized upon Miss Sarah Mortimer’s looks and
her voice, and the strange separation which she made by that screen
between herself and the world. She was different--entirely
different--from that old ghastly Miss Mortimer whom I used to dream of
in my grandfather’s house; that one with her hair all mixed with grey,
and her dark careless dress, sitting by the fire with the ghosts of the
past about her, was a pleasant recollection in face of this. The great
beauty, deserted of all the world and fallen into solitude, had
something pathetic in her loneliness. But behind that screen there was
no pathos that I could see; nothing human, I had almost said. What folly
to speak so! To anybody’s eyes but mine, I daresay there was only an old
lady very prettily and carefully dressed, everything about her looking
as if it were intended to repeat and reproduce the effect of her white
hair; soft colours with clouds of something white coming over them. But
I could not look at her in that way. I was in awe and afraid when I
looked at the screen. It was a comfort to get out of the room, to go
upstairs, where after a while Aunt Milly took me. But I could not forget
her even upstairs. There she sat in her armchair, stony-eyed, knitting
like one of the Fates,--or was it spin they did?--and that screen
drawing a magical, dreadful shadow round her chair.
Aunt Milly had prepared our rooms for us with the greatest care, that
was very evident. There was the daintiest little bed for baby, all new
and fresh, evidently bought for him, and quite a basketful of new toys,
which already he was doing his best to pull all to pieces. Oh, such
bright, luxurious rooms! I felt my heart grow a little cold as I looked
at them. Neither Harry nor Aunt Milly had said a word to me on the
subject. They thought they could deceive me, I suppose; but the moment I
saw these apartments, don’t you think I could see what they were planned
out for? I was to be taken there when he went away.
“And, my dear, what do you think of your Aunt Sarah?” said her kind
sister, looking rather wistfully into my face.
I was so foolish that I was half afraid to answer. How could I tell that
our words were not heard behind the screen yonder? And as for meeting
her eyes I could not have done that for the world.
“But you know she is not my Aunt Sarah,” said I. “It is a love name,
dear Aunt Milly. I--I don’t know Miss Mortimer yet; you must let me keep
it for you.”
“Hush! you have not known me much longer!” cried Aunt Milly, “No such
thing, child! we are both the same relation to you. Poor dear Sarah! I
forgot to tell you about her voice. Isn’t it very sad she should have
lost her beautiful voice? She is very clever too, Milly,” said Aunt
Milly, with a sigh. “When you know her better you will admire her very
much.”
“But you know she jilted poor papa,” said I, trying to laugh and shake
off my dread of the veiled woman downstairs.
“My dear! she jilted half the county!” said Aunt Milly, rather solemnly
and not without a little pride. “Your Aunt Sarah was the greatest beauty
that ever was seen when she was as young as you.”
This speech made me smile in spite of myself. Dear Aunt Milly, perhaps,
had been a little slighted by the county. She had no compunction about
her sister’s prowess. I don’t know that I felt very sorry for her
victims myself, even poor papa, I fear. But, ah me! what kind of a woman
was this, I wonder, that had been an enchantress in her day! She was an
enchantress still. She charmed me, as a serpent, I could suppose, might
charm some poor creature. I wonder if there was any pity in her, any
feeling that there was a God and a heaven, and not merely the
century-old ceiling with the Mortimers’ arms on it, over her where she
sat? I don’t believe she cared. I don’t think there was anything in the
world but her own will and inclination, whatever it might be, that ruled
her in her dreadful solitude. I wonder when she looked across her
knitting at such a human creature as Aunt Milly how she felt; whether it
ever came into her head to wonder which of them was contrary to nature?
But I don’t suppose Miss Mortimer cared anything about nature. In this
wonderful world, all so throbbing with life and affection, I think she
must have known nothing but herself.
Thinking like this, you may suppose I could not deceive Aunt Milly to
make her think I admired her sister. I kept off speaking of her; which,
of course, though not quite so unpleasant, tells one’s mind clearly
enough. Aunt Milly gave a little sigh.
“My dear, I see you don’t take to Sarah just at once. I was in hopes if
you had taken to each other she might, perhaps, have told you something
of what is on her mind. Because, you know, after all we have heard,
something must be on her mind, whether she shows it or not. I am afraid
it is all beginning again now, Milly; but somehow she hasn’t let her
courage down as she did when that young man was about before. I suppose
she’s more prepared now. She drove out quite calm yesterday, just as
usual; though Mr. Luigi’s servant was out here with a letter the very
day I saw his master at your house.”
“So I heard,” said I.
“So you heard! Dear! How did you hear? I know things spread in the most
dreadful way,” said Aunt Milly, in great distress; “but to think that
should have reached Chester already! What did you hear?”
“I heard it only from Lizzie, my little maid,” said I, pointing to the
door of the other room. “Mr. Luigi’s servant and she are great
friends.”
Aunt Milly followed the movement of my hand with her eyes, a little
awe-stricken. “She must speak his language, for he knows no English,”
she said, with involuntary respect. “But dear, dear, she’s only a child!
To be sure she’ll go and publish it all in the servants’ hall. But
speaking of that, my dear, you ought to have a proper nurse. I felt very
nervous about baby when I saw her carrying him. She may be big, you
know, but she’s only a child.”
Here Lizzie, either because she had heard us, or by some sudden impulse
of her own, knocked pretty loud at the door. I went to it a little
timidly, rather apprehensive that she had been listening, and meant to
defend herself. I did Lizzie great injustice however. She was standing
in a paroxysm of joyful impatience on the other side of the door. I
don’t believe the most injurious expression applied to herself could
have reached Lizzie’s ears at that moment. She had her great arms
stretched out, stooping over little Harry. Her face was perfectly
radiant and flushed with delight. On they came, baby tottering on his
own little limbs, half triumphant, half terrified, Lizzie with her wings
spread out, ready to snatch him up the moment he faltered. Anybody may
imagine what I did. I dropped down on the floor and held out my arms to
him, and forgot all my troubles for the moment. When he came tottering
into my arms, the touch of his little hands swept all the cares and
sorrows out of the world. It was not for long. But a minute’s joy is a
wonderful cordial; it strengthens one’s heart.
“And oh, mem!” cried Lizzie, lifting her apron to her eyes, “the
Captain’ll see him afore he gangs away!”
“Go and fetch him,” cried Aunt Milly, turning her out of the room. Aunt
Milly was nearly as delighted as she was; but she saw it was hard upon
me to be continually reminded that Harry was to be gone so soon. By way
of putting it out of my mind, she began such a lecture about letting
babies walk too soon, and about weak ankles and bowed legs and all kinds
of horrors, that I snatched my boy up on my knee, and was as much
alarmed as I had been overjoyed. When Harry came, and found me half
frightened to allow baby to exhibit his new accomplishment, and Aunt
Milly doing her best to soften down her own declarations, and convince
me that she referred to babies in general, and not to my boy, he burst
into fits of laughter. I rather think he kissed us all round, Aunt Milly
and all. He was in very high spirits that day. It did not occur to him
what a struggle I had come through before I overcame Miss Mortimer’s
temptation; he was contented to think I had fainted from heat and
excitement and all the fatigue I had been exposed to of late; and it was
a comfort to him to have my real voluntary consent to his going away.
Then this was to be my home, and here was my dear kind friend beside me.
His heart rose, he laughed out his amusement and pleasure with the
freedom of a young man in the height of his strength and hope. The sound
startled the unaccustomed walls. I saw Aunt Milly look at him with a
kind of delighted surprise and pleasure. Youth had not been here for
long. I wondered did manhood, after Harry’s fashion of it, belong to the
Mortimers at all? Many a day since, sitting in these silent rooms, the
echo of Harry’s laugh has come back to me ringing like silver bells. Ah,
hush! we shall all laugh when he comes back.
But when Lizzie came to take her charge, the expression of the girl’s
face had completely changed. She took the child away with a certain
frightened gravity that had a great effect upon me. Aunt Milly had left
me by this time, and Harry had gone out to see the grounds, leaving me
to rest. Resting was not very much in my way; of course I got up from
the sofa the moment they were gone. What good would it do me, does
anybody suppose, to lie there and murder myself with thinking? I went
after Lizzie to ask her what was wrong. Lizzie was very slow to answer.
There was “naething wrang; she wasna minding. The man in blacks had
asked if she was the nurse or the nursery-maid. But it’s no my place to
answer questions,” said Lizzie, with indignation, “and thae English
they’re that saucy, they pretend they dinna ken what I’m saying. Eh, I
would just like to let them ken, leddies and gentlemen ay ken grand what
I’m saying! but they’ve nae education: ’Menico says that himsel’.”
“But what does ’Menico know about education, Lizzie?” said I.
Lizzie looked much affronted. “He mayna maybe ken _English_,” she said,
“but he may be a good scholar for a’ that. The tither maids just gape
and cry La! when he takes the dictionary, and laugh at every word he
says. He says they’ve nae education, thae English. He’s no’ a common
servant-man like that man in blacks. He kens a’ the gentlemen’s business
and what he’s wantin’, and everything about it. Eh,” cried Lizzie,
opening her eyes wide, and glancing behind her with involuntary caution,
“do you think yon would be _her_?”
“Who?” said I. Was it possible that Lizzie knew?
“Mem!” said Lizzie, with national unconscious skill and the deepest
earnestness, “do you think there’s ony witches in this country, like
what there was lang syne?”
I was a little startled by the question; it brought back to my mind in
an instant that extraordinary picture which had so great an effect on my
own imagination,--the veiled woman at her knitting with the screen
behind her chair.
“Or the Evil Eye,” continued Lizzie, with a little gasp of visionary
terror; “oh dinna say, if ye please, that I’m to bring _him_ into yon
muckle room! for I would do some ill to the house, or her, or
myself--and would be carried, and no ken what I was doing, if she put
any of her cantrips upon our bairn!”
“Lizzie!” cried I, “child, you forget what you are saying, and where you
are!”
“Oh no, no’ me!” cried Lizzie with vehement tears in her eyes; “but,
Mem, it maun be her; there’s nae other leddy except our leddy in this
house. And if I was never to say another word, she’s no canny; I ken
she’s no canny, if it was only what Domenico says.”
“In the name of wonder what does Domenico say?” cried I, driven to
despair by the wild words in which there was no meaning. I don’t believe
she knew herself what the meaning was.
Lizzie stopped short and repeated, with a puzzled and troubled glance at
me, “When it’s a long story it’s awfu’ fickle to ken,” she said, slowly;
“but just that yon’s the leddy. Eh, I dinna ken what they ca’ her right,
nor what ill-will they have at her; but ’Menico, he says--he says--Mem,
you’ll no be angry, it wasna _me_,--he says she’s the deil himsel’.”
“Lizzie,” said I, in considerable agitation, “try to recollect; Miss
Milly wants to know; what _does_ Domenico say?”
Lizzie blushed, and made a long pause again. “You see it’s the
Dictionary, Mem,” she said, with a sigh. “When he’s tired looking up the
words, he just gi’es a great burst out in the Italian, and thinks he’s
explained it a’. It’s awfu’ fickle when it’s a lang story; but just it’s
_her_; and eh! I’m sure she’s no canny by what Domenico says.”
I had to be content with this very unsatisfactory conclusion. It was all
Lizzie could give me,--it was _her_; and she was a dreaded mysterious
person against whom the Italian was struggling in vain. I felt a strange
thrill of curiosity, deeply as my own mind was pre-occupied. Was it a
melodrama or a tragedy I was about to be present at? The crisis,
whatever it might be, could not be long delayed. What part were we to
play in it? why did she want Harry to stay? I did not say anything
either to him or Aunt Milly of Lizzie’s communication or my own fancies;
but it seemed to me somehow, when I passed through the rooms or along
the passages that a certain tingling stillness, the pause before the
storm, was closing round and round about the house.