|IGNORANT of the ruin it had wrought, the rich full voice of the
stranger still rang forth, manifestly to the admiration of the
confidential maid, since her nimble tongue failed to interrupt its
melody. She was not displeased that her lady too was listening with such
unbroken attention, and probably also looking out upon the singer;
for Mr Derrick was a very “proper man”--at all events in external
appearance--and had shewn himself in the servants-hall a while ago by
no means unconscious of the personal charms of Mistress Forest, which,
although mature, were still by no means despicable. A few years younger
than my Lady herself, Mary had been treated by Time at least with equal
courtesy; her figure was plump, her eyes were bright, her voice, which,
if not absolutely musical, could reach some very high notes, and upon
occasion, was clear and cheery. One would have said she would have been
too talkative to have suited my Lady's grave and quiet ways; but this
was not so. Lady Lisgard had that blessed gift of being able not
to listen unless it pleased her to do so, which enables so many
conscientious persons to speak favourably of sermons; all the avalanche
of her maid's eloquence passed clean over her head, and suffered her
to pursue her own meditations at the easy tribute of an appreciating nod
when all was ended. Even had she been much more inconvenienced by the
_debris_ of words, her tormentor would have been freely forgiven.
The affection between mistress and maid was deep and genuine, and had
extended over more than half their lifetime.
Mary Forest was the daughter of a fisherman at Coveton, the village
on whose sandy beach Sir Robert had picked up his bride. To old Jacob
Forest's cottage, the human flotsam and jetsam had been conveyed,
and upon Mary, then almost a child, had much of its tending at first
devolved. The kindly little nurse soon won the regard of her patient,
cut off by that one night's storm from kith and kin, for this emigrant
ship had contained all that were near or dear to her on earth, and
ready as a babe to clasp the tendrils of love about whoever shewed her
kindness. Removed from the cottage to the rectory, where the clergyman
and his wife welcomed her very hospitably, first, as a poor human waif,
that claimed some lodgment ere she could decide upon her future calling,
for a short time after that as their nursery governess, and finally as
guest and inmate pending those arrangements of her betrothed husband
which subsequently took her to France, Lucy Gavestone--for that was the
name by which my Lady was then known--did not forget little Mary and her
loving ministrations. She asked and easily obtained permission of
Sir Robert that the girl should accompany her to the semi-scholastic
establishment at Dijon in which he had decided to place her previous
to their marriage. This she accordingly did; and many a strange
reminiscence unshared by others (itself a great knitter of the bond of
friendship) had mistress and maid in common. The fortunes of the latter
of course rose with those of the former, and of all the household at
Mirk Abbey there was none in higher trust than Mary Forest, nor more
certain of the envied position she held, since the affection of my Lady
set her above the machinations of that Nemesis of favourite servants, a
Domestic Cabal. Those natural enemies, the butler and the cook, had even
shaken hands together for the purpose of compassing Mary's downfall,
but their combined endeavours had only obtained for a reward her
sovereign forgiveness and (I am afraid I must add) contempt.
In a word, Mary Forest was as happy in her circumstances as any woman
at her time of life could expect to be whose title of “Mistress” was
only brevet rank. She had subjugated many other male folks beside the
butler (the ancient coachman, for example, with the back view of whose
broad shoulders and no neck the Lisgard family had been familiar for
half a century), but such victories had not at all been owing to her
charms. By them, hitherto, Man had been an unconquered animal, and this
was the knot in the otherwise smooth surface of Mary's destiny which
no amount of planing (within _her_ philosophy) could make even. She
had been wooed, of course (what woman of twoscore, according to her own
account, has not?), but hitherto the suitors had not been eligible, or
her own ideas had been too ambitious. The time had now arrived with her
when compromise begins to be expedient, and high expectations abate.
Matrimonial opportunities at the Abbey were few and far between. She
had not received such marked attention from anybody for months as this
stranger, living upon his own means at the _Lisgard Arms_, had paid her
that very night in the servants-hall. No wonder, then, that while he
sang, she should for once be content to be a listener.
O'er the hill and o'er the vale
Each king bears a present;
Wise men go a child to hail,
Monarchs seek a peasant;
And a star in front proceeds,
Over rocks and rivers leads,
Shines with beams incessant.
Therefore onward, onward still,
Ford the stream, and climb the hill--
Love makes all things pleasant.
“There, now, I call that very pretty, my Lady,” exclaimed Mistress
Forest, as the last cadence died away; “and a very pretty sentiment at
the end--'Love makes all things pleasant;' although, for my part,
I know nothing about _that_, thank Heaven, and prefer to be my own
mistress--that is, with the exception of your Ladyship, to obey whom is
a labour of love. I am sure there are few husbands for whom I would give
up such a service as yours, my Lady. I wish Mr What's-his-name--dear
me, how stupid of me--ah, Derrick! It's rather a pretty name too;
don't you think so, my Lady? I wish this Mr Derrick would sing
us another song. He has a very beautiful voice, and I am sure his
expression--don't you think so, my Lady? Ahem. No; I hear them moving
off. Well, he will be in the choir to-morrow morning, that's sure. Had
you not better come to the fire, my---- Ah, great Heaven! Mistress, my
dear darling mistress, what is the matter? Let me ring for help!”
It was impossible to misunderstand my Lady's “No,” although it was
not articulate.
Huddled up, as I have said, in the space between the curtain and the
window-seat, white and cold as the snow without, voiceless and almost
breathless as her maid found her upon venturing to draw aside the heavy
damask folds between them, such a look of agonised apprehension yet shot
from her eyes as at once to prevent Mistress Forest from putting her
design with respect to the bell into effect; nay, more, having assisted
my Lady to the sofa, she rightly interpreted a second glance in the
direction of the door, to mean “Lock it,” and this she did even
before arranging the cushions, which would have been the first action
with most persons of her class. Mary Forest, although a babbler, was
no fool, and she perceived immediately that the distress which was
agitating her beloved mistress was at least as much mental as physical.
Once before, and only once, she had known my Lady to be what females
call “overcome”--that was upon the eve of her marriage with Sir
Robert; there was much similarity between the two attacks, but the
present was far more violent. In the first instance, she had been told
by her Ladyship that it was owing to “the heart,” which was
fitting enough under her then circumstances--but now when there was
no bridegroom-expectant to flutter that organ, it did seem singular
certainly. Doubtless her mistress would speak presently, and afford
the fullest information; in the meantime there was nothing for it but
silence and sal volatile.
My Lady's eyes are closed, and her features pale and still as marble,
but her lips are a little parted. With her white hands thus crosswise
over her bosom, she looks, thinks the confidential maid--for all the
world like that Dame Lisgard in the chancel, by the side of whose
marble couch her twelve fair children kneel, and take their mother's
ceaseless blessing. All twelve so near of an age, and so marvellously
alike, thanks to the skill of the sculptor, that one would have thought
the whole dozen--but that four, as Mistress Forest has read in _Portents
and Prodigies_, is the extreme limit--had made their simultaneous
arrival in the world. Stiff and cold almost as marble are my Lady's
limbs, blue-veined like it and rounded; but by degrees, as Mary rubs
them steadily, their life returns.
“Thank you, thank you,” murmurs her Ladyship. “I feel better now;
but” (this with effort) “I wish to be left alone.”
“Alone, my Lady! I dare not leave you thus, without even knowing what
ails you.”
“Nothing ails me now, Mary--nothing.” Lady Lisgard made a feint of
smiling, but kept her eyelids shut. She did not dare to let her maid
read what was written in her eyes.
“Was it your poor heart, again, madam?”
“Ay, my poor heart!” My Lady was speaking truth there. Among the
thousand millions born to suffer on this earth, there was not one
upon that Christmas Eve in mental agony more deep than hers. The blow
received had been so terrible and unexpected, that it had at first half
stupified all feeling; the real torture was now commencing, when she was
about to realise the full extent of her injuries. Lady Lisgard was not
without courage; but she was no Indian warrior to desire a spectator
of such torments. “I must be alone, dear Mary,” repeated she. “Be
sure you breathe no word of this to any one. Say, however, that I am not
very well. The cold when I opened that window to the Waits”--here she
visibly shuddered--“seems to have frozen me to the marrow--you may
tell them I have taken cold. I shall not be down to breakfast.”
“And I should recommend you to stay indoors, my dear (as I hope to
persuade Miss Letty to do), although it _is_ Christmas Day,” said Mary
tenderly, as she made up the fire before leaving the room; “for the
church is far from warm.”
“I shall not go to church,” said Lady Lisgard, with a decision
that reassured her attendant, and enabled her to wish her mistress
“good-night” without much apprehension.
“He will be in the choir to-morrow morning,” was the thought which
was crossing the minds of mistress and maid at the same instant.