GRACE'S SYSTEM
"Margaret!"
"Yes, Mrs. Peyton."
"Is that door shut? lock it, will you? and--just go and look out of the
window, please. No one there? Thank you!"
She sank back on her pillows with a sigh of relief.
"What is it?" asked Margaret, soothingly. "What troubles you, dear Mrs.
Peyton?"
"I am frightened!" said Emily Peyton.
"Frightened?"
"Yes. I am afraid of that girl, Margaret."
"What girl? You cannot possibly mean Grace?"
Mrs. Peyton glanced around her. Evidently she did mean Grace.
"She behaves so!" she said, in a low voice. "I don't think she is in her
right mind, to begin with; it is terrible to be with a person who may
break out into madness at any moment."
"My dear," said Margaret, "you are absolutely and wholly mistaken. Grace
is as sane as I am. She is one of the sanest persons I have ever known,
it seems to me. Of course she is singular--eccentric, if you like. But
what has she been doing, to disturb you so?"
Mrs. Peyton glanced around her again, with an apprehensive glance.
"Well!" she said, "I--I suppose I may as well tell you, Margaret. I have
been ill so long, I may have become--a little unreasonable. There is
nobody who cares; I never saw any reason why I should be reasonable.
Having to lie here, it is a pity if I may not have my own way, don't you
think so? I have had it, at any rate; I don't say that it has always
been a sensible way; I detest sensible things and people. I can't
imagine how I have endured you so long. I should not, if you were not
pretty and prim."
"Thank you!" said Margaret, soberly.
"Don't interrupt me! This has been on my mind for two weeks, and I want
to get rid of it. There is nobody else I can tell. Doctor Flower, like
a veritable fiend, after sending me this firebrand, goes off to Europe.
A physician should be indicted for going to Europe. Well--I don't know
what to tell you, or where to begin. She--she frightens me, I say. I
never know what she is going to do next. Yesterday--I felt wretchedly
yesterday, Margaret; I was in acute pain all day. I suppose I was pretty
impatient. I--well, I threw something out of the window in a pet,--my
amethyst rope it was,--and she stood and looked at me quietly, as if she
were taking notes of my appearance. I couldn't bear it; I told her to go
after it. Just a little impatient cry, it was. My dear, in an instant
she was out of the window. Gone, out of sight like a flash. I shrieked;
no one heard me. I--you will not believe this, Margaret--I got out of
bed, and dragged myself to the window, expecting to see her dead and
shattered at the bottom. There she stood, cool as crystal, shaking the
leaves from her dress. She looked up and saw me, and if ever I saw an
elfish look--do you believe in witchcraft, Margaret? my nurse did; she
told me some strange tales when I was a child."
"No need of witchcraft in this case," said Margaret, smiling. "Grace is
as active as a cat, and her special delight is to climb up and down
walls. There is a grape-vine under this window, isn't there? That would
be quite enough for the Goat, as they called her at school."
"That isn't all," said Mrs. Peyton. "She's not right, I tell you; not
canny, as Nurse used to say. You may laugh, Margaret Montfort. I tell
you, lying here year after year, one gets to thinking all kinds of
things. I could tell you--who knows the old woman was not right after
all?--listen to this. Yesterday, this very yesterday, she was standing
there by the mantel-piece, talking as quietly as we are talking now.
Suddenly, without a word, down she falls in a swoon, or trance, or
something unearthly. I had let the maids go out; we two were alone in
the house. There she lay, and I thought she was dead. I got up again! No
one knows what it cost me, Margaret. I have forgotten how to walk; I
merely dragged myself across to where she lay. She was breathing; I
could not see that she was paler than usual--she never has any color,
you know. I called and screamed; I raved and wept, I believe; you cannot
fancy how terrible it was, that living, breathing form, lying there, the
lips almost smiling, but no sign, no twitching of an eyelid, only the
beating of the heart, to tell me that she was not dead. Hush! do you
know the story of Christy Moran? My nurse's grandmother used to know
her. She was--I don't know what she was--but she used to do this very
thing. They would find her sitting in her chair, breathing, but without
speech or motion, and afterward they would hear of some devilish act or
other, committed at that very hour, in some distant town or village, by
a figure wearing her likeness. Don't laugh! don't laugh! I tell you, we
don't know everything in this civilization that we talk so much about. I
tried to say a prayer, Margaret,--I used to say them regularly,--but--and
I had hardly begun before she opened her eyes and smiled at me like a
child. 'Did you ever hear of catalepsy?' she says, and she went out of
the room without another word, and left me to get back to bed as best I
could."
Margaret was silent, not knowing what to say. She had no doubt that
Grace was acting upon some theory of her own, and was playing these wild
pranks in the hope of rousing her patient to action and exercise.
Certainly, to get Mrs. Peyton out of bed twice in two days was no small
feat; still, Margaret's gentle mind shrank from the thought of forcing
one so frail, so enfeebled by years of invalidism, into sudden activity
which might be injurious, or even fatal to her. She could not betray
Grace--what should she say? But there was no need of her saying
anything, for Mrs. Peyton went on, hurriedly, hardly glancing at her
auditor. Evidently it was a relief to her to free her mind.
"Why don't I send her away, you may ask. Margaret, I ask myself the same
question twenty times a day. My dear, she is too fascinating! She
interests me so! Have you heard her sing, and tell stories? I have not
been so interested for years. She makes me restless, I tell you; she
makes me think of things I had forgotten, or that I said good-by to
years and years ago. Look! she sits down on the floor here, beside the
bed--in the night, often, when I cannot sleep, and she has been rubbing
me--that is another reason why I do not let her go, Margaret; her touch
is like healing balm; there is magic in it, I tell you. She sits down
there, with her long hair falling all about her, in the moonlight,
looking like nothing earthly, and she talks--or chants, rather,--there
isn't anything like it, so I don't know what to call it--about foreign
countries. She has never seen them, or she says she never has. That is a
little matter to her; she knows all about them, twenty times as much as
I do, though I used to travel till I hated the sight of a railway or a
steamer. She tells me things about Sicily, and Norway, and the
Hebrides,--old Icelandic legends,--about Burnt Njal, and those people;
she makes me want to see the places, actually. There are plenty of
places I have not seen. She says Iceland is a flower-garden in summer.
Margaret, don't laugh at what I am going to say!"
"Indeed, I am not laughing, dear Mrs. Peyton."
"She says--this girl says--she thinks I could--get up. Get up and do
things, I mean, like other people. Did you ever hear of such nonsense?"
Mrs. Peyton laughed; but she looked eagerly at Margaret, and there was
something in her eyes that had never been there before.
Margaret leaned over her, and kissed the beautiful forehead. "I am sure
you could!" she said; and at the moment she did feel sure. Something of
Grace's spirit seemed to pass into her, and she felt a hope, a
confidence, that had never come into her mind before. Why not? Why
should it not be? Mrs. Peyton was still in middle life; she ought to
have years of life before her. Why might she not be roused, be taught
over again how to live, and to enjoy the good and glorious earth?
Margaret's eyes kindled.
"I am sure you could!" she repeated. "Let us try! Let me help Grace, and
let us all try our very best, dear Mrs. Peyton. Just think how wonderful
it would be to get well; to go about again, and be alive among live
people. Oh, my dear, let us try!"
But the lady's mood changed. In a flash, even as Margaret was gazing at
her with eager, loving eyes,--eyes in which stood tears of affection
and anxiety,--she changed. The mocking smile crept back to her lips, the
light of interest died from her eyes.
"Bah!" she said. "Little goose, what do you know about life and live
people? It was to get away from them that I took to my bed, do you hear?
There, go away! I have been talking great nonsense; forget all about it!
Sick folks often talk nonsense. Give me something to play with, and go
away! I had a new toy yesterday, an amber ball. It's in the top drawer.
Ah! isn't that a beauty? Give it to me! See, how smooth and cool it is,
Margaret! Do you think an amber necklace would be becoming to me? I can
wear yellow, you know; blondes of my type rarely can, but it always
suited me. Do you remember a story about the Amber Gods? It is one of
the few stories I ever cared for. To-morrow I'll order a set of amber
jewelry, bracelets and necklace, and--"
She stopped suddenly, seeing the grave compassion in Margaret's eyes.
[Illustration: "SHE LOOKED UP, AND SAW GRACE SITTING ON A BROAD, LOW
BRANCH."]
"Don't speak to me!" she cried, angrily. "You are thinking--I know
what you are thinking--that I cannot wear necklaces in bed. You think I
am a wretched, helpless, faded old woman. I hate you! Go away!" and
Margaret went.
As she passed along the garden-walk with bent head, musing soberly
enough, something struck her lightly on the head,--a cherry, which fell
at her feet. She looked up, and saw Grace sitting on a broad, low
branch.
"Come up!" said the Goat.
Margaret smiled, and shook her head. "My dear Grace, I never climbed a
tree in my life. I should not know where to begin."
"Time you learned!" said Grace, gravely. "There is no knowing when the
race will return to arboreal habits. Come, Margaret, I want you!"
Margaret hesitated, and was lost. She looked about, half fearing, half
hoping that somebody was in sight. No! no gardener came with his
watering-can, no boy with his wheelbarrow. She turned back, to meet once
more the compelling glance, and see the hand stretched out to help her.
How it was accomplished, Margaret never knew, but, after a breathless
moment, she found herself seated on the branch, too, clinging fast to
the rugged bark, and not daring to look below.
"All right!" said Grace, composedly. "See, now, what good cherries these
are! I have permission from Madame to kill myself with them, and am
doing my best. They are white oxhearts, the finest cherry that grows!"
"Oh, but I daren't let go my hold of the branch," said poor Margaret;
"and my head is so dizzy. Dear Grace, how shall I ever get down again?
Won't you help me?"
"Not now! Now it is necessary that you should stay for a space, and
learn to accept this, as other situations. Begin gradually to look down
and about you. Fix your eye on that apple-tree, the one with the
hump-back; then let your eyes travel slowly, slowly, over the ground,
till they come here, under our feet. There! you see it is easy. Is the
dizziness gone?"
"It is certainly much better. I think perhaps, in a little while, I may
get used to it, but I am quite sure I never shall like it. Why do you
like to climb so, Grace? Why is it more comfortable to sit in a tree
than on a pleasant, safe seat on the grass?"
Grace shrugged her shoulders. "Who can say?" she said. "I have always
supposed that the soul of my grandam inhabited a bird. Shakespeare! And
you know I am an owl myself in regular, if not in good, standing. What
would you? It is my nature. And how do we find the Patient to-day? Did
she tell you that she left her bed twice yesterday?"
"Yes. Grace, it frightens me, all this wild work. Are you sure what you
are doing?"
"I am sure that there is nothing the matter with this lady. I think she
can be brought back to health by foul means, but not by fair. I think
that in this case the end justifies the means. _Voila!_"
Margaret looked at her earnestly; she met a gaze so full, so clear, so
brave, that her own spirit rose to meet it.
Suddenly Grace held out her hand. "Come!" she said. "Trust me, Margaret!
I am not a hobgoblin, though I may pose as one now and then. Trust me;
and--by and by--try to love me a little, for I loved you before ever I
saw you."
Margaret took the slender hand and pressed it cordially. "I will trust
you!" she said. "I have doubted, Grace, I confess; doubted and feared;
but now I shall not fear any more. Only--oh, my dear, don't frighten her
more than you have to. She really thinks you are--not right; and some of
the things she told me were certainly rather terrifying. That trance, or
whatever it was--well--what was it, Grace?"
Grace laughed, a laugh so merry and clear that the robins left off
eating cherries to see what the sound might be. "What was it? My child,
it was nothing. I fell down, I shut my eyes--again, _voila_! Her mind
was prepared for the marvellous, and she found it. Nothing simpler than
that."
"But you said something about--catalepsy! the very sound of that word
always frightens me, because of a story I read once. I don't wonder it
frightened Mrs. Peyton."
"I asked her if she had ever heard of it. A simple question! Apparently
she had. Come, let us eat cherries, and strive to approximate the
lettuce. Do you feel any green crinkles in your veins yet? And how is
the Innocent to-day? I love that child."
"Dear Peggy! I left her trying to teach Tuck to keep a biscuit on his
nose while she counted twenty. When I left, he could not get beyond ten,
when it was devoured with yelps of joy. But I have no doubt Peggy will
succeed in time; she has plenty of patience, and plenty of
perseverance."
Grace nodded sagely. "Plenty of patience and plenty of perseverance!"
she repeated. "Great qualities, Margaret. I wonder if I have them. I am
going to find out. Now--who is the tall person who is lame, and sits in
a summer-house?"
Margaret laughed. "He doesn't sit in a summer-house all the time," she
said. "That is Peggy's brother, Hugh Montfort. I want you to know him,
Grace; he is so delightful; I know you will be friends. Come over to tea
this evening, won't you? Mrs. Peyton promised me you should; you know we
have been trying for you ever since Peggy came. Do come! Uncle John is
planning something for us; he will not tell me what, but it is sure to
be something delightful. Promise that you will come; and then you must
really help me get down, my dear, for the girls will be wondering where
I am."
"Your hands here--so! Let yourself swing clear--don't be afraid; hang
still--now drop easily! There! was that so very dreadful? Good-by, cool,
green, lovely one! I will come to-night; good-by!"
"What will Rita say," Margaret questioned herself as she took her way
homeward, "when I write her that I have been climbing cherry-trees, and
getting down from them without a ladder?"