We went down from Oxford together, I and Tod and William Whitney;
accompanying Miss Deveen and Helen and Anna Whitney, who had been there
for a few days. Miss Deveen's carriage was waiting at the Paddington
Station; they got into it with Tod, and William and I followed in a cab
with the luggage. Miss Deveen had invited us all to stay with her.
Miss Cattledon, the companion, with her tall, thin figure, her
pinched-in waist and her creaking stays, stood ready to receive us when
we reached the house. Miss Deveen held out her hand.
"How have you been, Jemima? Taking care of yourself, I hope?"
"Quite well, thank you, Miss Deveen; and very glad to see you at home
again," returned Cattledon. "This is my niece, Janet Carey."
A slight, small girl, with smooth brown hair and a quiet face that
looked as if it had just come out of some wasting illness, was hiding
herself behind Cattledon. Miss Deveen said a few pleasant words of
welcome, and took her hand. The girl looked as shy and frightened as
though we had all been a pack of gorillas.
"Thank you, ma'am; you are very kind," she said in a tremble; and her
voice, I noticed, was low and pleasant. I like nice voices, whether in
man or woman.
"It wants but half-an-hour to dinner-time," said Miss Deveen, untying
the strings of her bonnet. "Miss Cattledon, will you show these young
friends of ours the rooms you have appropriated to them."
My room and Tod's--two beds in it--was on the second floor; Helen and
Anna had the best company room below, near Miss Deveen's; Bill had a
little one lower still, half-way up the first flight of stairs. Miss
Cattledon's room, we found out, was next to ours, and her niece slept
with her.
Tod threw himself full length on his counterpane--tired out, he said.
Certain matters had not gone very smoothly for him at Oxford, and the
smart remained.
"You'll be late, Tod," I said when I was ready.
"Plenty of time, Johnny. I don't suppose I shall keep dinner waiting."
Miss Deveen stood at the door of the blue room when I went down: that
pretty sitting-room, exclusively hers, that I remembered so well. She
had on a purple silk gown, with studs of pale yellow topaz in its white
lace front, studs every whit as beautiful as the emeralds made free with
by Sophie Chalk.
"Come in here, Johnny."
She was beginning to talk to me as we stood by the fire, when some one
was heard to enter the inner room; Miss Deveen's bed-chamber, which
opened from this room as well as from the landing. She crossed over into
it, and I heard Cattledon's voice.
"It is so very kind of you, Miss Deveen, to have allowed me to bring my
niece here! Under the circumstances--with such a cloud upon her----"
"She is quite welcome," interrupted Miss Deveen's voice.
"Yes, I know that; I know it: and I could not go down without thanking
you. I have told Lettice to take some tea up to her while we dine. She
can come to the drawing-room afterwards if you have no objection."
"Why can't she dine with us?" asked Miss Deveen.
"Better not," said Cattledon. "She does not expect it; and with so many
at table----"
"Nonsense!" came Miss Deveen's quick, decisive interruption. "Many at
table! There are sufficient servants to wait on us, and I suppose you
have sufficient dinner. Go and bring her down."
Miss Deveen came back, holding out her hand to me as she crossed the
room. The gong sounded as we went down to the drawing-room. They all
came crowding in, Tod last; and we went in to dinner.
Miss Deveen, with her fresh, handsome face and her snow-white hair, took
the head of the table. Cattledon, at the foot, a green velvet ribbon
round her genteel throat, helped the soup. William Whitney sat on Miss
Deveen's right, I on her left. Janet Carey sat next to him--and this
brought her nearly opposite me.
She had an old black silk on, with a white frill at the throat--very
poor and plain as contrasted with the light gleaming silks of Helen
and Anna. But she had nice eyes; their colour a light hazel, their
expression honest and sweet. It was a pity she could not get some colour
into her wan face, and a little courage into her manner.
After coffee we sat down in the drawing-room to a round game at cards,
and then had some music; Helen playing first. Janet Carey was at the
table, looking at a view in an album. I went up to her.
Had I caught her staring at some native Indians tarred and feathered,
she could not have given a worse jump. It might have been fancy, but I
thought her face turned white.
"Did I startle you, Miss Carey? I am very sorry."
"Oh, thank you--no. Every one is very kind. The truth is"--pausing a
moment and looking at the view--"I knew the place in early life, and was
lost in old memories. Past times and events connected with it came back
to me. I recognized the place at once, though I was only ten years old
when I left it."
"Places do linger on the memory in a singularly vivid manner sometimes.
Especially those we have known when young."
"I can recognize every spot in this," she said, gazing still at the
album. "And I have not seen it for fifteen years."
"Fifteen. I--I understood you to say you were ten years old when you
left it."
"So I was. I am twenty-five now."
So much as that! So much older than any of us! I could hardly believe
it.
"I should not have taken you for more than seventeen, Miss Carey."
"At seventeen I went out to earn my own living," she said, in a sad
tone, but with a candour that I liked. "That is eight years ago."
Helen's music ceased with a crash. Miss Deveen came up to Janet Carey.
"My dear, I hear you can sing: your aunt tells me so. Will you sing a
song, to please me?"
She was like a startled fawn: looking here, looking there, and turning
white and red. But she rose at once.
"I will sing if you wish it, madam. But my singing is only plain
singing: just a few old songs. I have never learnt to sing."
"The old songs are the best," said Miss Deveen. "Can you sing that sweet
song of all songs--'Blow, blow, thou wintry wind'?"
She went to the piano, struck the chords quietly, without any flourish
or prelude, and began the first note.
Oh the soft, sweet, musical voice that broke upon us! Not a powerful
voice, that astounds the nerves like an electric machine; but one of
that intense, thrilling, plaintive harmony which brings a mist to the
eye and a throb to the heart. Tod backed against the wall to look at
her; Bill, who had taken up the cat, let it drop through his knees.
You might have heard a pin drop when the last words died away: "As
friends remembering not." Miss Deveen broke the silence: praising her
and telling her to go on again. The girl did not seem to have the least
notion of refusing: she appeared to have lived under submission. I think
Miss Deveen would have liked her to go on for ever.
"The wonder to me is that you can remember the accompaniment to so many
songs without your notes," cried Helen Whitney.
"I do not know my notes. I cannot play."
"Not know your notes!"
"I never learnt them. I never learnt music. I just play some few chords
by ear that will harmonize with the songs. That is why my singing is so
poor, so different from other people's. Where I have been living they
say it is not worth listening to."
She spoke in a meek, deprecating manner. I had heard of
self-depreciation: this was an instance of it. Janet Carey was one of
the humble ones.
The next day was Good Friday. We went to church under lowering clouds,
and came home again to luncheon. Cattledon's face was all vinegar when
we sat down to it.
"There's that woman downstairs again!--that Ness!" she exclaimed with
acrimony. "Making herself at home with the servants!"
"I'm glad to hear it," smiled Miss Deveen. "She'll get some dinner, poor
thing."