When I heard the door close on Cornelius, my tears ceased; they had not
moved him; they were useless; it was all over; my fate was fixed. I sat
on a chair, drearily looking across the table, at my brown-faced, white-
bearded grandfather, who raised his voice and called out impatiently,
"Polly, Molly. Mary, Thing--where are you?" The little servant-girl
answered this indiscriminate appeal by showing her full round face at the
door. Mr. Thornton, resting both his hands on the table, slightly bent
forward to say impressively, "That young man is never to be let in
again,--do you understand?" She assented by nodding her head several
times in rapid succession, then closed the door.
"But I will see Mr. O'Reilly," I exclaimed indignantly; for though he had
forsaken me, I still looked up to him as to my protector and friend.
Mr. Thornton raised his eyebrows, and gave an ironical grunt. At the same
moment the door again opened, and a lady, young, elegantly attired, and
beautiful as the princess of a fairy tale, entered the room.
"Uncle," she began, but, on seeing me, she stopped short; then with
evident wonder asked briefly. "Who is it?"
"Her name is Burns," was the short reply. The young lady looked at me,
and nodded significantly. Mr. Thornton resumed, "I shall provide for her;
in the meanwhile tell Mrs. Marks to take care of her, and keep her out of
my way, until I have settled how she is to be disposed of." I felt very
like a bale of useless goods.
"Then you will have the charity not to keep her here," observed the young
lady with impatient bitterness.
"I shall have the charity not to let her become a fine lady like you,
Edith," he sarcastically answered.
"Do you mean to make a governess of your grand-daughter, as you would of
your niece if you could?"
"My dear, you forget my niece could not be a governess; and neither
governess nor fine lady shall be this child, whom you are pleased to call
my grand-daughter. A common-place education, some decent occupation,--
such is to be her destiny. And now be so good as to leave me."
"To your beetles!" she indignantly replied; "you don't care for anything
but your beetles. I am sick of my life. I wish I were dead--I wish I had
never seen this dreadful old hole."
"Pity you flirted with the intended of your cousin, my dear, and got
packed off. Suppose you try and get married; I intend leaving England
again, and it will be rather dull for you to stay here alone with Mrs.
Marks."
"I'll run away sooner."
"That's just what I mean. Elope, my dear, elope!"
"I won't eat any more!" she exclaimed, crimson with vexation and shame;
"I know you don't believe it, but I won't."
"Then you'll die; I'll embalm you, and you'll make a lovely young mummy."
His little black eyes sparkled as if he rather relished the idea; but it
was more than the beautiful Edith could stand, for she burst into tears,
and calling her uncle "a barbarous tyrant," was flying out of the room in
a rage, when he coolly summoned her back to say, "Edith, take it with
you!"
By "it" he meant me. She took my hand and obeyed; her beautiful blue eyes
flashing resentfully, her bosom still heaving with indignant grief. But
Mr. Thornton, heedless of her anger and sorrow, had resumed his
magnifying glass, and was again intent on the beetle. When we both stood
on the threshold of the door, Edith turned round to confront him, and
said vindictively, "I wish there may never be another beetle,--there!"
With this she slammed the door, dropped my hand, turned to her left, and
went up an old oak staircase, dimly lit by an iron lamp riveted to the
wall. She once looked back to see that I followed her, but took no other
notice of me. As she reached a wide landing, she met, coming down, a tall
and thin old lady in black.
"Mrs. Marks," she said briefly, "you are to attend to this child."
Without another word or look she continued her ascent. Mrs. Marks looked
down at me from the landing, as I stood on the staircase a few steps
below her; then up at the light figure of Edith ascending the next
flight, and indignantly muttering "that she had never"--the rest did not
reach me--she majestically signed me to approach. I obeyed. She eyed me
from head to foot, but did not seem much enlightened by the survey. "That
is the way up," she said at length, pointing with a long fore-finger to
the staircase. The explanation seemed to me a very needless one, but I
followed her upstairs silently. We went up until I thought we should
never stop, though the ceiling becoming lower with every flight we
ascended, indicated that we were approaching the highest regions of the
house. I felt tired, but Mrs. Marks went on steadily, as if the tower of
Babel would not have daunted her. At length she came to a pause. We had
reached a low irregular corridor, that seemed to run round the whole
house, and was garnished with numerous doors. Before one of these Mrs.
Marks made a dead stop. She unlocked it, held it open by main force, as
far as its rusty hinges would allow, then looking round at me, said,
emphatically--
"That is the way in."
I hesitated, then slid in; Mrs. Marks slid in after me, then let go the
door, which of its own accord closed with a snap, locking us in a small,
snug room, with thick curtains, closely drawn, a warm carpet on the
floor, a bright fire burning in the grate, a kettle singing on the hob, a
cat purring on the hearth rug, a chair of inviting depth awaiting its
tenant by the fireside, and near it a small table with tray and tea-
things.
"Sit down," said Mrs. Marks, pointing to a chair.
I obeyed. She went to the fireplace, and planting herself on the rug,
with her hands gathering her skirts in front, and her back to the fire,
she thence surveyed me with an attentive stare. Passed from Miss Murray
to Cornelius,--from him to Mr. Thornton,--from Mr. Thornton to his
niece,--and from her to Mrs. Marks, I felt more apathetic than ever; but
Mrs. Marks stood exactly opposite me; I could not help seeing her. She
was a gaunt, tall woman, with a pale face and fixed eyes, that made her
look like her own portrait. They were eclipsed by a pair of bright black
pins, which projected from her cap on either side, and held some
mysterious connection with her front. She wore a robe of rusty black,
that fitted tight to the figure, and was not over-ample in the skirt.
After a long contemplation, she uttered a solemn "I shall see," then left
the room. The door snapped after her; I remained alone with the cat,
which, like every creature in that house, seemed to care nothing for me,
but went on purring with half-shut eyes.
Its mistress soon returned, settled herself in her arm-chair, and thence
seemed inclined to survey me again; but the contemplation was disturbed
by a tap at the door.
"Come in, Mrs. Digby; don't be afraid of the door," encouragingly said
Mrs. Marks.
Mrs. Digby was probably nervous, for she made several feeble attempts to
introduce her person,--as suddenly darting back again,--before she
gathered sufficient courage to accomplish the delicate operation.
"Gracious! I never saw such a door!" she then observed; "I wonder you can
keep such a creature, Mrs. Marks."
"It has its good points," philosophically replied Mrs. Marks; "it is
safer than a lock, and, like a dog, won't bite unless you are afraid of
it. But if you dally with it, Mrs. Digby, why it may give you a snap!"
"Gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Digby, looking horrified; "how can you live up
here, Mrs. Marks?"
"The rooms below are gloomy, and have no prospect; whereas here I sit by
the window, look over the whole grounds, and, if I see anything wrong, I
just touch this string,--then a bell rings,--and Richard at the lodge is
warned."
"Well," dismally observed Mrs. Digby, "I dare say that is very pleasant;
but I have enough of old castles, Mrs. Marks."
"This is not a castle."
"They read like such dear horrid old places, that I was quite delighted
when Miss Grainger said to me the other day, 'Digby, we are going to
uncle Thornton's!' I did not know they smelt more mouldy than any cheese,
and that there was no sleeping with the rats."
"Yes, the little things will trot about, spite of the cat; but then one
must live and let live, Mrs. Digby."
"Don't say one must let rats live, Mrs. Marks, don't! they are almost as
bad as Mr. Thornton's horrid things,--only they are stuffed."
"Mr. Thornton is a learned man," sententiously replied Mrs. Marks; "but I
do think he gives so much attention to natural history and entomology.
Mr. Marks thought nothing of entomology, he was all for chemistry; that's
the science, Mrs. Digby!"
"Didn't it blow him up?"
"Blow him up! Was Mr. Marks a gunpowder-mill, Mrs. Digby? He perished in
making a scientific experiment; you will, I trust, soon learn the
difference. A man of Mr. Thornton's immense mind cannot but sicken of
entomology, and return to chemistry. You will not see much, but you will
hear reports--"
"Gracious!" interrupted Mrs. Digby, with an alarmed air, "I wish I were
out of the place."
"Then help your handsome young lady to get a husband," sneered Mrs. Marks
from the depths of her arm-chair.
"If Miss Grainger had my spirit," loftily replied Mrs. Digby, "she would
now be a countess of the realm, Mrs. Marks; and if she had been guided by
me, she would at least be the wife of the handsomest gentleman I ever
saw."
"Edward Thornton! the heir-at-law! Pooh! Mrs. Digby! he has not a penny,
and Mr. Thornton won't die just yet."
"He is very handsome," spiritedly returned Mrs. Digby; "but, as I said,
if Miss Grainger will put herself in the hands of Mrs. Brand, why she
must bear with the consequences, Mrs. Marks."
So saying, Mrs. Digby for the first time turned towards me. She was a
thin, fair, faded woman, attired in a light blue dress, which, like its
wearer, was rather _pass?e_. She sat by the table, with the tip of her
elbow resting on the edge; drooping in a graceful willow-like attitude,
she raised a tortoise-shell eye-glass to her eyes, examined me through
it, then dropping it with lady-like grace, sighed forth--
"How do you feel, darling?"
I was proud, more proud than shy; I resented being left to the
subordinates of my grandfather's household, and did not choose to answer.
Mrs. Marks spared me the trouble.
"You might as well talk to the cat, Mrs. Digby. Children," she added,
giving me an impressive look of her dull eyes, "are, up to a certain age,
little animal creatures: they have speech, sensation, but neither thought
nor feeling. Mr. Marks and I would never have anything to do with them."
"Oh! Mrs. Marks! a baby?"
"Have you ever had one?"
Mrs. Digby reddened, and asked for an explanation. Mrs. Marks asked to
know if there had not been a Mr. Digby? No. But there might have been a
Mr. Wilkinson, two Messrs. Jones--Mr. Thompson was coming on, and Mr.
John Smith was looming in the distance, when Mrs. Marks interrupted the
series by pouring out the tea. I sat between the two ladies, but I ate
nothing.
"That child won't live," observed Mrs. Marks at the close of her own
hearty meal; "she is a puny thing for her age; besides it is not natural
in such an essentially physical creature as a child not to eat; why don't
you eat, Anna?"
I looked at her and spoke for the first time: "My name is not Anna."
"What is your name, then?--your Christian name, by which I am to call
you?"
I did not relish the prospect of being called by my Christian name, for,
as I have already said, I was a proud child, so I did not reply.
"Unable to answer a plain question!" observed Mrs. Marks, bespeaking the
attention of Mrs. Digby with her raised forefinger; "does not know its
own name!"
"My name is Miss Burns," I said indignantly.
"Does not know the difference between a surname and a Christian name!"
continued Mrs. Marks, commenting on my obtuseness. "Come," she charitably
added, to aid the efforts of my infant mind, "are we to call you Jane,
Louisa, Mary Lucy, Alice?"
I remained silent.
"This looks like obstinacy," remarked Mrs. Marks, in a tone of discovery.
"Let us reason like rational beings," she added, forgetting I was only a
little animal: "if I don't know your Christian name, how am I to call
you?"
"Sarah never called me by my Christian name," I bluntly replied.
"Miss Burns," solemnly inquired Mrs. Marks, "do you mean to establish a
parallel? May I know who and what you take me for?"
"You are the housekeeper," I answered.
Alas! why has the plain truth the power of offending so many people
besides Mrs. Marks, and who, like her, too, scorn to attribute their
wrath to its true cause?
"You have been asked for your Christian name," she said, irefully; "with
unparalleled obstinacy you have refused to tell it; you shall be called
Burns, and go to bed at once."
The sentence was immediately carried into effect; I was taken to the next
room, undressed, and hoisted up into the tall four-posted bedstead which
nightly received Mrs Marks, and left there to darkness and my
reflections. But no punishment from those I did not love ever had
affected me. I was soon fast asleep.
Memory is a succession of vivid pictures and sudden blanks. I remember my
first evening at Thornton House more distinctly than the incidents of
last week, but the days that followed it are wrapt in a dim mist. But
much that then seemed mysterious on account of my ignorance, I have since
learned to understand.
My grandfather was a country gentleman of good family, but of eccentric
character. He had from a youth devoted himself to science, and renounced
the world. I believe he knew and studied everything, but his learning led
to no result, save that of diminishing a fortune which had never been
very ample, and of burdening still more heavily his encumbered estate. I
have often thought what a dull life my poor mother must have led with him
in that gloomy old house, and I can scarcely wonder that, when a man,
young, amiable, and rather good-looking than plain, was imprudently
thrown in her way, she knew not how to resist the temptation of love and
liberty.
Mr. Thornton never forgave them. Soon after the elopement of his daughter
he went abroad on some scientific errand, leaving his property to the
care of lawyers, and his house to Mrs. Marks, the widow of a scientific
man, whom he had taken for his housekeeper. He returned to Leigh about
the time of my father's death, unaltered in temper or feelings. Wrapt in
his books and studies, he went nowhere and saw no one. Fate having chosen
to burden him with two feminine guests--his niece and myself--he did his
best to elude the penalty, by keeping away from us both.
Miss Grainger's sojourn at Thornton House was caused by an indiscretion,
in which beautiful young ladies will sometimes indulge. She had chosen to
divert from the plain daughter of an aunt, with whom she resided, the
affections of her betrothed; who was also my grandfather's heir. Edward
Thornton lost his intended and her ten thousand pounds, and the beautiful
Edith exchanged a luxurious abode and fashionable life for Thornton House
and the society of her uncle. A rose and an owl would have been as well
matched. Mr. Thornton shunned his niece with all his might; and, not
being able to forgive her the sin of her birth, he saw still less of his
grand-daughter.
A room near that of Mrs. Marks was fitted up for me. There I spent my
days, occasionally enlivened by the sound of her alarum-bell; my old
books and playthings my only company. Even childish errors win their
retribution. I had been an exclusive, unsociable child, caring but for
one being, and contemning every other affection and companionship; no one
now cared for me. Miss Murray sent me my things, and troubled herself
about nothing else; my grandfather I never saw; his niece came not near
me; Mrs. Digby imitated her mistress. I was left to Mrs. Marks; she might
have been negligent and tyrannical with utter impunity; but though she
still considered me in the light of a little animal, and persisted in
calling me "Burns," she did her duty by me.
My wants were attended to; but that was all; I was left to myself, to
solitude and liberty. I was again sickly and languid. To go up and down
stairs, to play in the court, wander in the grounds, or walk in the wild
and neglected garden behind the house, were exertions beyond my strength.
I remained in my room, a voluntary captive, satisfied with looking out of
the window. It commanded the grounds below, a green and wild desert, with
a bright stream gliding through, and looked beyond them over a soft and
fertile tract of country bounded by a waving line of low hills, which
opened to afford, as in a vision, a sudden view of some glorious world,--
a glimpse of blending sea and heaven, limited, yet giving that sense of
the infinite, for which the mind ever longs and which the eye ever seeks.
I sat at that window for hours daily, and grew not wearied of gazing. The
sea, glittering as glass in sunshine, of the deepest blue in shadow, dark
and sullen, or white with foam in tempest; the mellow and pastoral look
of the distant country; the varied beauty of the park, with its ancient
trees, woodland aspect, and bounding deer; the high grass below, suddenly
swept down by the strong wind, and ever rising again; the slow and
stately clouds that passed on in the blue air above me, with a sense,
motion, and in a region of their own, were not, however, the objects that
attracted me so irresistibly.
The avenue stretching beneath my gaze, with its dark and stately trees,
under which cool shadows ever lingered, and the grass-grown path lit up
by gliding sunbeams, had my first and last look. Untaught by
disappointment, I kept watching for Cornelius O'Reilly. My plans were
laid, and I one day tested their practicability. Deceived by a strong
resemblance in height and figure, I slipped down, unlocked a side-door
which nobody minded, and thus admitted into Thornton House a handsome
fashionable-looking man, who seemed surprised, and asked for Miss
Grainger. I stole away without answering. The same evening Mrs. Marks
called me to her presence. She sat down, and made me stand before her.
"Burns," she said, "was it you who let in young Mr. Thornton by the side-
door?"
"Yes," I replied, unhesitatingly.
"Who told you to do so?"
"No one; I did it out of my own head."
"You did it on purpose?"
"Yes, I saw him coming, and went down."
Mrs. Marks looked astounded.
"Burns! what could be your motive?"
I remained mute, though the question was put under every variety of
shape.
"Unfortunate little creature!" observed Mrs. Marks, whose dull eyes
beamed compassion on me, "it does not know the nature of its own blind
impulses."
Thanks to this charitable conclusion, I escaped punishment; but on the
following day I found the side-door secured by a high bolt beyond my
reach. I did not, however, give up the point. A wicket-gate opened from
the garden on the grounds, and commanded a side view of the avenue;
there, every fine day, I took my post, still vainly hoping for the coming
of Cornelius.
It was thus I sometimes saw my cousin Edith. Her great loveliness and
rich attire impressed me strongly. Her room was below mine. I daily heard
her, like a fair lady in her bower, playing on her lute, or warbling
sweet songs; she was the beauty and enchanted princess of all my fairy
tales; yet, when we met, the only notice she took of me was a cold and
gentle "How are you, dear?" the reply to which she never stopped to hear.
She generally walked with Mrs. Digby, who, drawing her attention to my
evident admiration, never failed to observe as they passed by me, "The
child can't take her eyes off you, Ma'am." "Hush! Digby," invariably
replied the fair Edith, in a tone implying that she disapproved of the
liberty, although the sweetness of her disposition induced her to forgive
it. Mrs. Digby, however, persisted in repeating her offence, even when I
was not looking, and was always checked with the same gentleness.
One day, when I came down, I found Miss Grainger no longer in the company
of Mrs. Digby, but sitting in an arbour with a fair and fashionable lady
of thirty, or so, whom she called Bertha, and who, after eyeing me
through her gold eye-glass, impressively observed, as, without noticing
them, I took my usual place: "Edith, such are the consequences of love-
matches! Mr. Langton--"
"But he is so old, Bertha," interrupted Edith, pouting.
"So I thought of Mr. Brand, when I married him; but it is not generous to
be always thinking of age. Ah! love is very selfish, Edith."
Miss Grainger raised her handkerchief to her eyes.
"My dearest girl," said the lady, "be generous; be unselfish. Mr. Langton
will be so kind--he has the means, you know,--and poor Edward--poor in
every sense--can only--Edward, what brought you here?"
She addressed the same young man whom I had admitted, and who had now
suddenly stepped from behind the arbour where the two ladies sat. He gave
the speaker an angry look, and taking the hand of my cousin, he hastily
led her away down one of the garden paths, talking earnestly. The lady
bit her lip, followed them with a provoked glance, and stood waiting
their return. She had to wait some time. At length young Mr. Thornton
appeared; he looked pale, desperate, strode past the lady, opened the
gate by which I stood, entered the grounds, leaped over a fence, and
vanished. Edith came up more slowly. She was crying, and looked
frightened. The lady went up to her.
"Well!" she said, eagerly.
"Edward says he'll kill himself!" sobbed Edith.
"My dear," sighed her friend, "Arthur said so too when we parted. He is
alive still. I am Edward's sister, and yet, you see, I am quite easy. Do
not fret, dear. You must come with me to the Mitfords this evening."
"I can't, Bertha."
"My dearest girl, you must. It is extremely selfish to brood over
sorrow."
With this she kissed her, and they entered the house together.
"Burns, come in to dinner," said the voice of Mrs. Marks, addressing me
from the arched doorway.
I obeyed, and, for some unexplained reason, was consigned to my room
during the rest of the day, which I spent by the window, still watching
for my friend with a patient persistent hope that would not be conquered.
I was so absorbed that I never heard Mrs. Marks enter, until she said,
close behind me, "Burns, what are you always looking out of that window
for?"
Before I could reply, a sharp voice inquired from the corridor:
"Mrs. Marks, who is it I have twice this day heard you addressing by the
extraordinary name of Burns?"
We both looked round. Mrs. Marks had left my door open; exactly opposite
it stood a ladder leading to a trap-door in the roof of the house,
through which Mr. Thornton, who had gone to survey the progress of an
observatory he was causing to be erected there, now appeared descending.
"That child won't tell her other name, Sir," replied Mrs. Marks,
reddening.
"Do you know it?"
"She won't tell it, Sir."
My grandfather fastened his keen black eyes full on me, and signed me to
approach. He stood on the last step of the ladder. I went up to him; he
gave my head a quick survey, then suddenly fixed the tip of his
forefinger somewhere towards the summit, and exclaimed, in a tone that
showed he had settled the bump and the question: "Firmness large;
secretiveness too; but good moral and intellectual development. What is
your name?"
"Margaret," I replied, unhesitatingly.
Margaret had been my mother's name. Mr. Thornton turned away at once.
"Margaret, go back to your room," shortly said Mrs. Marks.
Mr. Thornton was descending the staircase. He stopped to turn round, and
observed, with great emphasis, "Miss Margaret, will you please to go back
to your room?"
He went down without uttering another word.
Mrs. Marks became scarlet; and, declaring that she was not going to Miss
Margaret any one, she retired to her own apartment in high dudgeon. I
thought to spend this autumn evening, as usual, in the companionship of
lamp, fire, books, and toys; but scarcely had Mrs. Marks brought me my
light, and retired again, when Miss Grainger entered.
Was it tardy pity? Had my grandfather spoken to her? or had she come,
like the fairy godmother of poor forlorn Cinderella, to visit me in all
her splendour, and fill my room with a fleeting vision of elegance and
beauty? Her tears had ceased, her sorrow was over; she was evidently
going out for the evening: and she looked triumphant, like a long-captive
princess emerging from her enchanted tower. Her dark ringlets fell on
shoulders of ivory; her bright blue eyes sparkled with joy; the sweetest
of smiles played on her enchanting face. A robe of rose-coloured silk
fell to her feet in rustling folds; strings of pearls were wreathed in
her hair, encircled her neck, and clasped her white arms. I gazed on her,
mute with wonder and admiration. She looked gracious; but I ventured to
touch her! She drew back with extreme alarm, glanced at her robe, and
gently extending her hands before her person, to keep me at a safe
distance, she smiled sweetly at me, with--"Yes, I know; good night,
dear."
With this she vanished.
Why did she leave me far more chill and lonely than she had found me? Why
did I remember the tender caresses of my dead father, and the embrace of
Cornelius in the garden, and feel very dreary and desolate? Providence
often answers our feelings and our thoughts in a manner that is both
touching and strange. Ere long the door again opened; I looked up, and
saw--Cornelius O'Reilly.