THE MYSTERIOUS LIGHT.
"Still further on she crept with trembling feet,
With hope a friend, with fear a foe to meet;
And there was something fearful in the sight
And in the sound of what appear'd to-night;
For now, of night and nervous terror bred,
Arose a strong and superstitious dread;
She heard strange noises, and the shapes she saw
Of fancied beings bound her soul in awe."
CRABBE.
But few of the party returned home in the very best of spirits, or
appeared to have enjoyed their afternoon's pleasure on the ice. Charles
scarcely raised his eyes during dinner, or addressed a word to any one.
Anne was infinitely disgusted at his inattention and dulness, having
made up her mind during Mr. Hall's absence to thoroughly enjoy herself,
being in no fear of a look from those earnest eyes of his, as she
rattled away almost heedless of what fell from her lips, or hazarded
trifling, thoughtless remarks.
Frances' face, if possible, wore a more scornful expression than usual;
she was inwardly chafing at her want of tact and judgment in giving way
to temper, and allowing Charles to see that Amy was the cause of it.
That thought vexed her proud spirit beyond measure, and although to all
appearance she was calm and self-possessed, yet inwardly her heart
trembled with angry passions, and her mind was filled with forebodings
and dim shadowings of the future and what it would reveal to her.
Was it possible she could be supplanted by another, and that other no
proud beauty like herself, but a governess! The thought was gall and
wormwood to her. It was not only her pride that was touched. No; as I
have said before, she loved her cousin with all the love of that proud,
and to all appearance, cold heart. Should he not love her in return?
Yes, he must. He should never be Amy's. Never! And she pressed her lips
together and contracted the delicately-pencilled brows at the bare
supposition. She would not believe--could not--that in so short a time
his heart was another's. It was merely a liking, not love, and it must
be her care to prevent the latter.
What right had he in the school-room? What was he doing there when she
entered so inopportunely?
Ah! she had never guessed that secret yet, or found out the theft of the
"Holy work," or her heart would have been even sorer than it was, and
her thoughts more bitter and revengeful towards Amy.
Frances had never been thwarted; all had as yet gone smoothly with her;
the bare possibility of the one great object in life--her love--being
unvalued only made her the more determined to succeed. She had no
softness, no gentleness of nature; her love was fierce and
strong--headlong in its course; like a torrent it swept along, and
carried away all and everything that impeded its course. There was no
calm, no sunshine, no breaking of the heavy clouds; all was storm--would
be until the end might be gained, and then--even then, there was a
question if the troubled, angry spirit would be quiet, or at rest, or
ever satisfied.
Charles did not re-enter the drawing room after dinner. "Gone for a
smoke or prefers the company of Bob," was Alfred's ungracious rejoinder
when his sister questioned him; so retiring to an ottoman in a far-off
corner, Frances wrapt herself up in her thoughts, or, as Anne remarked,
made herself as disagreeable as she could by refusing to join in any one
game or amusement proposed. After fruitless attempts to strike up a
flirtation with somebody, Anne walked off to bed, thinking a quiet chat
with her sister was preferable to the dulness below.
As she reached the first landing on her way up stairs, a gust of cold
wind from the sudden opening of the hall door made her pause and look
round; and presently Mr. Hall's voice reached her: very pleasant and
cheery she thought it sounded, and she could not resist the temptation
of peeping over, just to see how he looked after his cold ride.
Yes, there he was, close by the fire, full in the light of the lamp,
shaking himself like a large dog, his thick hair in a shocking tangled
mass, but this was nothing unusual.
Anne smiled. "What a figure he is!" thought she, "such a great unwieldy
creature!" and then half turned, as if to retrace her steps, but
woman-like, fearful lest he should guess why she returned, magnanimously
went on, but on reaching her own room, no Julia was there to unburden
her vexations to, or talk herself into a more congenial mood with.
"She plays me this trick every night," said she, taking off her dress
and throwing a shawl round her shoulders; then stirring up the fire into
a blaze, she sat down and reviewed in her own mind the events of the day
and the evening's dulness.
Some minutes slipped by; and then, whether she grew tired of being alone
in that large room or vexed at her sister's prolonged absence she
determined on going in quest of her.
Springing up, away she went to Miss Tremlow's room, and receiving no
reply to her repeated knocks for admission, cautiously opened the door
and went in, expecting to find her sister.
Miss Tremlow was disrobed for the night, and had tied a large yellow
handkerchief round her head, the only symptom of a cap being the huge
border overshadowing her small thin face like a pall; while one or two
curl-papers--Miss Tremlow wore her hair in ringlets--made themselves
guiltily perceptible here and there. Anne burst out laughing.
"My goodness, Miss Tremlow! how extraordinary you look," exclaimed she.
"Do you always dress yourself out in this style when you have a cold?"
"A cold, Miss Anne? I have no cold."
"Then why on earth have you decked yourself out with that handkerchief.
Oh! I know, you are afraid of thieves, and think the sight will frighten
them. Well, you are not far wrong there."
"No such thing; I am subject to rheumatism, so take every precaution
against it," replied Miss Tremlow stiffly, not exactly knowing whether
to feel offended or not.
"Of course, quite right," replied Anne, not daring to raise her eyes
until Miss Tremlow turned her back, and then the corner of the bright
handkerchief stood out so oddly over the high-crowned cap, while a
border almost as wide and stiffly starched as the front one drooped from
under it, that the incentive to mirth was irresistible, and Anne laughed
again.
"I cannot help it, indeed I cannot," said she, as the lady's now angry
face met her gaze. "It is of no use looking so vexed, you should not
make such a figure of yourself."
"You had better go to bed, Miss Anne," said Miss Tremlow sharply,
opening the door.
And very submissively Anne went out of the room, but instead of going to
bed, bent her steps towards the school-room, and there found the object
of her search; her sister with Miss Neville.
"Such a scrape as you have led me into, Mag," began she, still laughing,
and drawing a chair near the two round the fire. "Of course I thought
you were in that queer sick creature's room. What a fright she has made
of herself with her head tied up in that yellow handkerchief, enough to
make any one laugh."
"I hope, Anne, you did not," replied her sister.
"Then hope no such thing, for I laughed outright, and so would Miss
Neville, I am sure. I defy even that sober Mr. Hall to have stood it,"
and again Anne laughed at the bare recollection. "It's all your fault,
Mag, had you gone quietly to bed as you ought, I should never like the
Caliph have roamed abroad in search of adventure."
"Why did you come up to bed so soon?" asked Julia.
"So soon! I am sure I never spent so dull an evening; I suppose people's
hearts were frozen as well as their toes with coming in contact with the
ice. As to Frances, she behaved abominably, and turned the cold-shoulder
to everybody. If it is to be like this every evening, I would far rather
have the 'short commons' of home than the dainty fare here."
"For shame, Anne! What will Miss Neville think?"
"Think that I am in a bad temper, that's all. Isabella might have tried
to amuse us a little; but no, she only thought of self, sitting so
cosily flirting with Mr. Vavasour. How I do dislike that man! I am sure
he is no good, and no one seems to know who he is. I do wish that
handsome Captain Styles were here. Do you remember last year, what fun
we used to have? We never had a dull evening then," and Anne sighed, and
looked so comically sad that Julia and Amy both laughed.
"It is just as well he is not here," replied the former. "And as for
Mr. Vavasour, everyone knows how intimate old Mr. Vavasour and Mr.
Linchmore's father were."
"Yes; but that gives no clue as to who young Mr. Vavasour is."
Who Vavasour's parents were had never transpired. All he himself knew
was, that he had been left an orphan at an early age, and entrusted to
Mr. Vavasour. The utmost care had been bestowed on his education; no
pains, no money had been spared.
Mr. Vavasour was an eccentric, passionate old bachelor, fond and proud
of his adopted son, or, as some supposed, his own son; but this latter
was mere idle surmise. He was certainly treated and regarded by the
servants and even friends as such; and yet they had not a shadow of
proof that he was so.
It must not be imagined that Robert rested calmly, or made no attempts
to obtain a clue to his history, and clear up the doubt under which his
proud, impatient spirit chafed. He did. He battled and waged war at
times against the other's will, when the weight became more intolerable
than he could bear; but only to meet with stern rebuffs, and a will as
determined as his own. In that one particular, the two resembled each
other; not otherwise. In outward form they were unlike.
It was after one of these battles, in which as usual Robert was
vanquished, that wounded to the quick by the other's violence, and
seeing the hopelessness of ever moving that iron will, Robert left the
only home he had ever known, and went abroad.
After that nothing went right. The old man fretted, grew more and more
exacting to those about him, and gave way more frequently to violent
fits of rage. There was no Robert to act as mediator, or control and
subdue him; and few were surprised to hear of his almost sudden death.
He bequeathed not only his forgiveness but his wealth to Robert, who
only returned in time to follow him to the grave.
He sought amongst the old man's papers for some document to throw a
light on his birth. There was none. The only letter--if such it could be
called--bearing at all on the subject was addressed to his lawyer, and
ran thus--
"This is to certify that Robert Vavasour is not my son, as some fools as
well as wise men suppose. The secret of his birth was never made known
to me. He was entrusted to my care as a helpless orphan, under a solemn
promise that I would never reveal by whom. That promise I have
faithfully kept, and will, with God's help, keep to the end; believing
it can answer no good purpose to reveal it, but only entail much
unhappiness and sorrow."
He was not the old man's son then. There was comfort in that, small as
it was: perhaps after all there was no shame attached to him. It was too
late to remedy now his disbelief of Mr. Vavasour's word, and the angry
manner in which they had parted, but it pained and grieved him deeply;
until now that he was dead, Robert had never thought how much he had
loved the only friend he had ever known.
Perhaps the person who had entrusted him to old Mr. Vavasour was still
alive, perhaps even now watched over him. He thought it could not be his
mother; she would not have left him so long without some token of her
love. He would still hope that some day his birth might be no secret,
but as clear as day: yet it weighed on his mind, and made him appear
older than he was, and more reserved; and his manner at times was cold
and distant, with no fancy for the light talk and every-day trifles
passing around him.
No wonder Anne disliked him. Here was a something which checked her
thoughtlessness far more decidedly than poor Mr. Hall's sober face. The
one she had no fear of, while the other's sometimes sarcastic look
annoyed and vexed her, and made her anxious to escape into a far corner
away from him, whenever she saw that peculiar curl of the lip betokening
so utter a contempt for what she was saying. No wonder she tried to
prejudice Amy against him; her pride having been wounded ever since the
day she thought he had neglected her so shamefully, and walked out with
Miss Neville, leaving her to fare as best she could with Mr. Hall.
Seeing Julia determined on taking his part, she turned to Amy.
"You do not like him, do you, Miss Neville? I am sure Charles is worth
twenty such men as Mr. Vavasour."
"I know so little of either."
"Oh, nonsense! It is a very safe reply, no doubt, but it will not do. My
cousin was here half the summer."
"Only a fortnight the first time he came; and the second visit he made,
I was at Ashleigh, at home."
"Quite long enough for you to find out what a good-for-nothing,
kind-hearted creature he is. Besides, for the fortnight you had the
field all to yourself, and after that advantage ought not to allow
another to bowl you out."
"How you do talk, Anne; I am sure Miss Neville does not understand one
half you are saying, you go on at such a rate."
"Of course I do; what is the use of sitting like this?" and she clasped
her two hands together on her lap and twirled her thumbs. "Do tell me
what you two say to one another when I am not here, for if Mag comes
every night, and I suppose she does not go to that sick-body's room,
seeing she dresses herself up in a style enough to frighten half a dozen
children, with the belief she is the veritable 'Bogy,' you surely do not
sit like two Quakeresses, without a word, waiting for the spirit to move
you. Positively, Miss Neville, I look upon Mag's coming here as an
invasion of my rights, since I am left shivering in bed, and frightened
to death for fear of ghosts. They do say the house is haunted; and once
I nearly fainted when a coal dropped out of the fire into the fender. I
really thought the ghost had come, and durst not emerge from under the
bedcloths until I was pretty nearly smothered."
"You surely are not afraid of ghosts, Miss Bennet?"
"Oh, but I am, though, ghosts, hobgoblins, thieves, and every other
existing and non-existing horror; and if we are to talk of such things,
I vote for the door being locked. Do stir the fire, and turn up the
lamp. There, it does look rather less gloomy now. But how cold it is!"
"Cold?" said Julia, "I am as warm as a toast."
"No doubt of it Mag, so cosily as you are wrapped up in 'joint-stock
property.' I wonder you are not ashamed to let me see you looking so
comfortable, even your feet tucked up too. Would you believe it, Miss
Neville, 'joint-stock property' is that dressing-gown, and belongs to
both of us, hence its name, but Mag coolly walks off with it in this
most shameful way every night."
"Perhaps she thinks you do not want it."
"I suppose she does; but having, as I say a share in it, I think I might
be allowed to wear it sometimes."
"By all means, Anne. Why not?" said her sister.
"Why not? You shall hear, Miss Neville, and judge whether I complain
without reason. You must know Mag and I have an allowance, and we found
out we could not get on without a dressing-gown; so, as we are neither
of us doomed to gruel and hot water at the same time, we agreed to club
together and have a joint property one, since which the number of colds
Miss Julia has had is quite unaccountable and shocking. I declare to
goodness the gown--look when I will--is never on the peg, but for ever
round her shoulders; however, it certainly will be my turn next, for I
never felt so frozen in all my life. There!" said she, sneezing, or
pretending to do so, "what do you think of that signal? does it not
portend stormy weather ahead? And now cease laughing, and let us go to
bed, for I am awfully sleepy, and tired into the bargain; quite done
up."
"And no wonder," said Julia. "Did you ever hear anyone talk as she
does? She never knows when to stop."
Amy thought she never had; but it was amusing and pleasant talk; there
could be no dismals where Anne was. It was light talk, but still it was
pleasant, and made everyone in a good mood, or at least cheerful.
"I shall see you early to-morrow, Miss Neville," said Julia. "I have so
much to say to you."
"If you do not come to bed, Mag," said Anne, from the half-opened door,
"I declare I will talk in my sleep to vex you."
Amy went with them as far as the baize door which separated this wing of
the house from the other rooms, and then bid good-night to her visitors.
As the light from the candle Anne carried vanished, she was surprised at
seeing a dim light glimmering through the key-hole of an unoccupied room
opposite. It was but momentary, yet while it lasted it threw a long,
thin, bright streak of light across the corridor, full against the wall
close beside where she stood.
In some surprise, she retraced her steps, and drew aside the window
curtain of her room and tried to look out. But there was no moon; it was
one of those dark, pitchy nights, with not a star visible, betokening
either rain or another fall of snow.
Full of conjecture as to whether her eyes had deceived her or not, and
feeling too timid to venture out again, Amy went to bed, and tried to
imagine all manner of solutions as to the cause of the light, all of
which she in turn rejected as utterly improbable. She had satisfied
herself it was not the moon's rays; then what could it be?
She recalled to memory the day Nurse Hopkins showed her over the house.
The picture gallery, with its secret stairs leading into some quaint old
unused rooms, with their old worn-out hangings and antique furniture;
ghostly-looking, and certainly dismal and solitary, in being so far
removed from that part of the house now teeming with life and gaiety;
yet Nurse apparently had no fear, but walked boldly on, and appeared in
no hurry to emerge into the life beyond, as she talked of the former
greatness of the Hall. To Amy, however, the feeling of utter loneliness,
the dull, dead sound of the opening and shutting of doors, as they
passed through, sent a chill to her heart. Even the jingling of the
ponderous bunch of keys Nurse carried jarred against her nerves, so that
perhaps her own shadow might have startled and alarmed her.
But although Nurse, in a loud tone of voice, seemed never tired of
recounting the by-gone grandeur, which had been handed down to her from
the sayings of former housekeepers, yet her voice had sunk into a
whisper, as in passing by that door, she stopped and said, "No one ever
goes in there. It was old Mrs. Linchmore's room," as if the simple fact
of its having been old Mrs. Linchmore's room forbade further enquiry,
and was in itself sufficient to check all idle curiosity.
Amy passed by the door whenever she went into the long corridor. The
room stood at one end, facing the entire length of the passage; but the
door was at the side adjoining the door of another room, and opposite
the baize door, so that Amy's dress almost brushed its panels in passing
by, and never could she recollect having once seen the door standing
open, or the signs of a housemaid's work near it.
Perhaps the room was held sacred by Mr. Linchmore as having been his
mother's; perhaps he it was who was there now, although it did seem
strange his going at such an hour, being past twelve o'clock by Anne's
watch when they parted. Still, it might be his peculiar fancy to go,
when secure from interruption and the remarks of others.
All people had strange fancies; perhaps this was his. And partly
comforted and assured with the conclusion she had arrived at, and partly
wearied with the effort, Amy fell asleep.