A DEPARTURE.
"I am extremely sorry, Sophronia, that you were so alarmed last night. I
trust you feel no ill effects this morning?"
"Ill effects! My dear John, I am a wreck! Simply a wreck, mentally and
physically. I shall never recover from it--never."
"Oh, don't say that, Cousin Sophronia!" exclaimed Margaret, who was
really much distressed at all that passed.
"My love, if it is the truth, I must say it. Truth, Margaret, is what I
live for. No, I shall never recover, I feel it. My prayer is that these
unhappy children may never know that they are the cause of my
untimely--"
"Has Basil made his apology?" asked Mr. Montfort, abruptly.
"Yes, John, yes; I am bound to say he has, though he showed little
feeling in it. Not a tenth part so much as little Merton, who was in
real sorrow,--actually shed tears,--although he had no hand in the cruel
deceit. Ah! Merton is the only one of those children who has any heart."
"Indeed?" said Mr. Montfort, "I didn't know it was as bad as that."
"Quite, I assure you, dearest John. If it were not for my poor William
and his children, I should take Merton with me and be a mother to him.
His nerves, like mine, are shattered by the terrible occurrences of the
last two nights. He was positively hysterical as he pointed out to
me--what I had already pointed out to you, Margaret--that the _real
thing_ had not been explained. I might, in time, live down the effect of
those children's wicked jest; but the Voice of Fernley has never been
explained, and never will be."
Mr. Montfort pulled his moustache, and looked out of the window,
observing the prospect; but Margaret cried:
"Oh, Cousin Sophronia, you are wrong; indeed, indeed you are! Young Mr.
Merryweather found out all about it last night, only he had not time to
tell us. He said it was something perfectly simple, and that there was
no need of being alarmed in the least."
"By the way," said Mr. Montfort, "I have a note from the lad this
morning. He found some special tools were needed, and went up to town by
the early train to see about them. May be gone a day or two, he says.
What was the noise like, Margaret?"
Margaret was about to tell all she knew, but Miss Sophronia interrupted.
"Spare me, dearest Margaret, spare me the recalling of details. I am
still too utterly broken,--I shall faint, I know I shall. John, it was
simply the voice that was heard ten, or it may be fifteen years ago,
when I was a young girl. You must remember; it is impossible but that
you must remember."
"I remember perfectly," said Mr. Montfort. "That was thirty years ago,
Sophronia; that was in 1866. Oh, yes, I remember." Again Mr. Montfort
became absorbed in the view from the window. His face was very grave;
why, then, did the buttons on his waistcoat shake? "And Master Merton
was frightened, was he?" he resumed, presently. "Ha! that looks bad.
Good morning, Jones," as a respectable-looking man in livery came up the
gravel walk. "A note for me? no answer? thanks." The man touched his
hat, and departed; Mr. Montfort opened the pretty, pearl-coloured note,
and read, as follows:
"DEAR JOHN:
"Don't punish the children; it was partly my
fault, and partly your own. I supposed you
expected something to happen, and I thought the
old trick would serve as well as a new one.
"As ever,
E. P."
"Humph!" said Mr. Montfort, twisting the note, and frowning at the
window. "Precisely! and so, you were saying, Sophronia--ahem! that is,
you are obliged to leave us?"
"Yes, my dearest John, I must go. I could not, no! I could not sleep
another night beneath this roof. I have told Willis. I am cut to the
heart at leaving you, so helpless, with only this poor child here, and
those--those dreadful children of Anthony's. I would so gladly have
made a home for you, my poor cousin. I live only for others; but still
it seems my duty _to_ live, and I am convinced that another night here
would be my death."
"I will not attempt to change your purpose, Sophronia. At the same time
I am bound to tell you that--a--that the disturbance of which you speak
is of no supernatural kind, but is attributable to--to human agency
altogether. If you wish, I will have it looked into at once, or we can
wait till young Merryweather comes back. He seemed to know about it, you
say, Margaret. And--but at any rate, Sophronia, we can write you the
sequel, and, if you feel uneasy, why, as you say-- You have ordered
Willis? Then I'll go and get some tags for your trunks."
Mr. Montfort retired with some alacrity, and Margaret, with an
unexplained feeling of guilt at her heart, offered to help Miss
Sophronia with her packing.
An hour later the lady was making her adieux. The carriage was at the
door, Willis had strapped on the two trunks, and all was ready. Mr.
Montfort shook his cousin by the hand, and was sorry that her visit had
ended in such an untoward manner. Margaret begged Cousin Sophronia's
pardon for anything she might have done amiss. Indeed, the girl's heart
was full of a vague remorse. She had tried, but she felt that she might
have tried harder to make things go smoothly. But Miss Sophronia bore,
she declared, no malice to any one.
"I came, dear John, determined to do my best, to be a sister to you in
every way; it will always be a comfort to think that I have been with
you these two months. It may be that some time, when my nerves are
restored, I may be able to come to Fernley again; if you should make any
changes, you understand me. Indeed, a complete change, my dear cousin,
is the thing I should most recommend. Missing me as you will,--a
companion of your own age,--you might still marry, dearest John, you
might indeed. Emily--"
"That will do, Sophronia!" said Mr. Montfort, sternly. "Have you
everything you want for the journey?"
"Everything, I think, dear John. Ah! well, good-bye, Margaret! It has
been a blow to find that you do not love me, my dear, as I have loved
you, but we must bear our burdens."
"What do you--what can you mean, Cousin Sophronia?" asked Margaret,
turning crimson. "I am sure I have tried--"
"Ah! well, my dear, one gives oneself away," said the lady. "You said in
your letter to your cousin,--I recall the precise words--'I have tried
to love her, but I cannot succeed.' Yes; very painful to one who has a
heart like mine; but I find so few--"
"Cousin Sophronia," cried the girl, all softer thoughts now merged in a
burning resentment. "You--you read my letter, the letter that was on my
own desk, in my own room?"
"Certainly, my love, I did. I hope I know something about young girls
and their ways; I considered it my duty, my sacred duty, to see what you
wrote."
"You seem to know little about the ways of gentle people!" cried
Margaret, unable for once to restrain herself. Her uncle laid his hand
on her arm. "Steady, little woman!" he said. His quiet, warning voice
brought the angry girl to herself, the more quickly that she knew his
sympathy was all with her.
"I--I should not have said that, Cousin Sophronia," she said. "I beg
your pardon! Good-bye!"
She could not say more; she stood still, with burning cheeks, while Mr.
Montfort helped the lady into the carriage.
"A pleasant journey to you, Sophronia," he said, as he closed the door.
"Willis--"
"Good-bye!" cried Miss Sophronia, out of the window. "Bless you, dearest
John! Margaret, my love, I shall always think of you most tenderly,
believe me, in spite of everything. It is impossible for me to harbour
resentment. No, my child, I shall always love you as a sister. I have
taken the old vinaigrette with me, as a little souvenir of you; I knew
it would give you pleasure to have me use it. Bless you! And, John, if
you want me to look up some good servants for you, I know of an
excellent woman who would be the very thing--"
"Willis!" said Mr. Montfort again. "You'll miss that train, Sophronia,
if you don't,--_bon voyage!_"
Mr. Montfort stood for some seconds looking after the carriage as it
drove off; then he drew a long breath, and threw out his arms, opening
his broad chest.
"Ha!" said he. "So that is over. Here endeth the-- What, crying, May
Margaret? Come and sit here beside me, child; or shall we come out and
see the roses? Really astonishing to have this number of roses in
August; but some of these late kinds are very fine, I think."
Chatting quietly and cheerfully, he moved from one shrub to another,
while Margaret wiped her eyes, and gradually quieted her troubled
spirit.
"Thank you, Uncle John!" she said, presently. "You know, don't you? You
always know, just as papa did. But--but I never heard of any one's doing
such a thing, did you?"
"Didn't you, my dear? Well, you see, you didn't know your Cousin
Sophronia when she was a girl. And--let us be just," he added. "You,
belonging to the new order, have no idea of what many people thought and
did forty years ago. I have no doubt, from my recollection of my Aunt
Melissa, Sophronia's mother, that she read all her children's letters. I
know she searched my pockets once, thinking I had stolen sugar; I
hadn't, that time, and my white rat was in my pocket, and bit her, and I
was glad."
Seeing Margaret laugh again, Mr. Montfort added, in a different tone,
"And now, I must see those boys."
The children were sent for to the study, where they remained for some
time. Basil and Susan D. came out looking very grave; they went up to
the nursery in silence, and sat on the sofa, rubbing their heads
together, and now and then exchanging a murmur of sympathy and
understanding. Merton remained after the others, and when he emerged
from the fatal door, he was weeping profusely, and refused to be
comforted by Elizabeth; and was found an hour after, pinching Chico's
tail, and getting bitten in return. Telling Margaret about it
afterward, Mr. Montfort said:
"Basil and the little girl tell a perfectly straight story. It is just
as I supposed; they were trying the old ghost trick that we other boys,
your father and Richard and I, Margaret, played on Sophronia years ago.
If the thunder-storm had not brought you all up-stairs, there would have
been some very pretty ghost-gliding, and the poor soul would very likely
have been frightened into a real fit instead of an imaginary one.
Children don't realise that sort of thing; I certainly did not, nor my
brothers; but I think these two realise it now, and they are not likely
to try anything of the kind again. As for the noise,--"
"Yes, Uncle John, I am really much more puzzled about that noise, for,
of course, I saw the other foolishness with my eyes."
"Well!" said Mr. Montfort, comfortably, "we used to make that noise with
a thing we called a roarer; I don't know whether they have such things
now. You take a tomato-can, and put a string through it, and then you--
It really does make a fine noise, very much what you describe. Yes, I
have that on my conscience, too, Margaret. You see, I told you I knew
this kind of child, and so I do, and for good reason. But Basil won't
say anything at all about the matter. He says it was not his hunt, and
he will tell all that he did, but cannot tell on others; which is
entirely proper. But when I turned to that other little scamp, Merton, I
could get nothing but floods of tears, and entreaties that I would ask
Frances. 'Frances knows all about it!' he said, over and over."
"And have you seen Frances?"
"N--no," replied Mr. Montfort, rather slowly. "I am going to see Frances
now."
Accordingly, a few minutes later, Frances, bustling about her kitchen,
became aware of her master standing in the doorway. She became aware of
him, I say, but it was with "the tail of her eye" only; she took no
notice of him, and went on rattling dish-pans at an alarming rate. She
appeared to be house-cleaning; at all events, the usually neat kitchen
was in a state of upheaval, and the chairs and tables, tubs and
clothes-horses, were so disposed that it was next to impossible for any
one to enter. Moreover, Frances apparently had a toothache, for her face
was tied up in a fiery red handkerchief; and when Mr. Montfort saw that
handkerchief, he looked grave, and hung about the door more like a
schoolboy than a dignified gentleman and the proprietor of Fernley
House.
"Good morning, Frances," he said at length, in a conciliatory tone.
"Good morning, sir," said Frances; and plunged her mop into a pail of
hot water.
"You have a toothache, Frances? I am very sorry."
"Yes, sir, I have; thank you, sir."
"A--Frances--I came to ask if you can tell me anything about the strange
noise that frightened the ladies so, last night and the night before."
"No, sir," said Frances. "I can't tell you nothing about it. There do be
rats enough in this house, Mr. Montfort, to make any kind of a noise;
and I do wish, sir, as the next time you are in town, you would get me a
rat-trap as is good for something. There's nothing but trash, as the
rats won't look at, and small blame to them. I can't be expected to do
without things to do with, Mr. Montfort, and I was saying so to
Elizabeth only this morning."
"I will see to the traps, Frances. But this noise that I am speaking of;
Master Merton says--"
"And I was wishful to ask you, sir, if you would please tell Master
Merton to keep out of my kitchen, and not come bothering here every hour
in the day. The child is that greedy, he do eat himself mostly ill every
day, sir, as his father would be uneasy if he knew it, sir. And to have
folks hanging round my kitchen when I am busy is a thing I never could
abide, Mr. John, as you know very well, sir, and I hope you'll excuse me
for speaking out; and if you'd go along, sir, and be so kind, maybe I
could get through my cleaning so as to have dinner not above half an
hour or so late, though I'm doubtful myself, harried as I have been."
"I really don't see what I am to do with Frances," said Mr. Montfort, as
he went back to his study; "she grows more and more impracticable. She
will be giving me notice to quit one of these days, if I don't mind. I
am very sure the house belongs to her, and not to me. But, until Master
Gerald Merryweather comes back, I really don't see how I am to find out
who worked that roarer."