NARRATING HOW MISS LILIAS VISITED BELMONT, AND SAW A STRANGE COCKED-HAT
IN THE SHADOW BY THE WINDOW.
At that time, in every hall of gentility, there stood a sedan-chair, the
property of the lady of the house; and by the time the chairmen had
arrived and got the poles into their places, and trusty John Tracy had
got himself into his brown surtout, trimmed with white lace, and his
cane in his hand--(there was no need of a lantern, for the moon shone
softly and pleasantly down)--Miss Lilias Walsingham drew her red riding
hood about her pretty face, and stepped into the chair; and so the door
shut, the roof closed in, and the young lady was fairly under weigh. She
had so much to think of, so much to tell about her day's adventure, that
before she thought she had come half the way, they were flitting under
the shadows of the poplars that grew beside the avenue; and, through the
window, she saw the hospitable house spreading out its white front as
they drew near, and opening its wings to embrace her.
The hall-door stood half open, though it had been dark some time; and
the dogs came down with a low growl, and plenty of sniffing, which
forthwith turned into a solemn wagging of tails, for they were intimate
with the chairmen, and with John Tracy, and loved Lilias too. So she got
out in the hall, and went into the little room at the right, and opening
the door of the inner and larger one--there was no candle there, and
'twas nearly dark--saw Gertrude standing by the window which looked out
on the lawn toward the river. That side of the house was in shade, but
she saw that the window was thrown up, and Gertrude, she thought, was
looking toward her, though she did not move, until she drew nearer,
wondering why she did not approach, and then, pausing in a kind of
unpleasant doubt, she heard a murmured talking, and plainly saw the
figure of a man, with a cloak, it seemed, wrapped about him, and leaning
from outside, against the window-sill, and, as she believed, holding
Gertrude's hand.
The thing that impressed her most was the sharp outline of the
cocked-hat, with the corners so peculiarly pinched in, and the feeling
that she had never seen that particular hat before in the parish of
Chapelizod.
Lily made a step backward, and Gertrude instantly turned round, and
seeing her, uttered a little scream.
''Tis I, Gertrude, darling--Lily--Lily Walsingham,' she said, perhaps as
much dismayed as Gertrude herself; 'I'll return in a moment.'
She saw the figure, outside, glide hurriedly away by the side of the
wall.
'Lily--Lily, darling; no, don't go--I did not expect you;' and Gertrude
stopped suddenly, and then as suddenly said--
'You are very welcome, Lily;' and she drew the window down, and there
was another pause before she said--'Had not we better go up to the
drawing-room, and--and--Lily darling, you're very welcome. Are you
better?'
And she took little Lily's hand, and kissed her.
Little Lilias all this time had said nothing, so entirely was she
disconcerted. And her heart beat fast with a kind of fear: and she felt
Gertrude's cold hand tremble she fancied in hers.
'Yes, darling, the drawing-room, certainly,' answered Lily. And the two
young ladies went up stairs holding hands, and without exchanging
another word.
'Aunt Becky has gone some distance to see a sick pensioner; I don't
expect her return before an hour.'
'Yes--I know--and she came, dear Gertrude, to see me; and I should not
have come, but that she asked me, and--and----'
She stopped, for she was speaking apologetically, like an intruder, and
she was shocked to feel what a chasm on a sudden separated them, and
oppressed with the consciousness that their old mutual girlish
confidence was dead and gone; and the incident of the evening, and
Gertrude's changed aspect, and their changed relations, seemed a
dreadful dream.
Gertrude looked so pale and wretchedly, and Lily saw her eyes, wild and
clouded, once or twice steal toward her with a glance of such dark alarm
and enquiry, that she was totally unable to keep up the semblance of
their old merry gossiping talk, and felt that Gertrude read in her face
the amazement and fear which possessed her.
'Lily, darling, let us sit near the window, far away from the candles,
and look out; I hate the light.'
'With all my heart,' said Lily. And two paler faces than theirs, that
night, did not look out on the moonlight prospect.
'I hate the light, Lily,' repeated Gertrude, not looking at her
companion, but directly out through the bow-window upon the dark outline
of the lawn and river bank, and the high grounds on the other side. 'I
hate the light--yes, I hate the light, because my thoughts are
darkness--yes, my thoughts are darkness. No human being knows me; and I
feel like a person who is _haunted_. Tell me what you saw when you came
into the parlour just now.'
'Gertrude, dear, I ought not to have come in so suddenly.'
'Yes, 'twas but right--'twas but kind in you, Lily--right and kind--to
treat me like the open-hearted and intimate friend that, Heaven knows, I
was to you, Lily, all my life. I think--at least, I think--till
lately--but you were always franker than I--and truer. You've walked in
the light, Lily, and that's the way to peace. I turned aside, and walked
in mystery; and it seems to me I am treading now the valley of the
shadow of death. Waking and talking, I am, nevertheless, in the solitude
and darkness of the grave. And what did you see, Lily--I know you'll
tell me truly--when you came into the parlour, as I stood by the
window?'
'I saw, I think, the form of a man in a cloak and hat, as I believe,
talking with you in whispers, Gertrude, from without.'
'The form of a man, Lily--you're right--not a man, but the form of a
man,' she continued, bitterly; 'for it seems to me sometimes it can be
no human fascination that has brought me under the tyranny in which I
can scarce be said to breathe.'
After an interval she said--
'It will seem incredible. You've heard of Mr. Dangerfield's proposal,
and you've heard how I've received it. Well, listen.'
'Gertrude, dear!' said Lily, who was growing frightened.
'I'm going,' interrupted Miss Chattesworth, 'to tell you my strange, if
you will, but not guilty--no, _not_ guilty--secret. I'm no agent now,
but simply passive in the matter. But you must first pledge me your
sacred word that neither to my father nor to yours, nor to my aunt, nor
to any living being, will you ever reveal what I am about to tell you,
till I have released you from your promise.'
Did ever woman refuse a secret? Well, Lily wavered for a moment. But
then suddenly stooping down, and kissing her, she said:
'No, Gertrude, darling--you'll not be vexed with me--but you must not
tell me your secret. You have excuses such as I should not have--you've
been drawn into this concealment, step by step, unwillingly; but,
Gertrude, darling, I must not hear it. I could not look Aunt Becky in
the face, nor the kind general, knowing that I was----'
She tried to find a word.
'_Deceiving_ them, Lily,' said Gertrude, with a moan.
'Yes, Gertrude, darling.' And she kissed her again. 'And it might be to
your great hurt. But I thank you all the same from my heart for your
confidence and love; and I'm gladder than you'll ever know, Gerty, that
they are still the same.' And thus the two girls kissed silently and
fervently, and poor Gertrude Chattesworth wept uncomplainingly, looking
out upon the dark prospect.
'And you'll tell me, darling, when you're happier, as you soon will be?'
said Lily.
'I will--I will indeed. I'm sometimes happier--sometimes quite
happy--but I'm very low to-night, Lily,' answered she.
Then Lily comforted and caressed her friend. And I must confess she was
very curious, too, and nothing but a terror of possessing a secret under
such terms, withheld her from hearing Gertrude's confession. But on her
way home she thanked Heaven for her resolution, and was quite sure that
she was happier and better for it.
They were roused by Aunt Becky's knock at the hall-door, and her voice
and Dominick's under the window.