Several weeks passed before I saw anything more of Rachel Leonard than
my passing glimpse of her in the snow at sunrise. Mrs. Hollingford, who
never had been in any but the poorest houses on the estate, walked over
with me, at Mrs. Hill's request, to pay a morning visit at the Hall. On
that occasion no Miss Leonard was to be seen. She must have gone out
walking--so said the maid who went to seek her in her room; and we came
back to the farm without having seen her. Then arrived Mrs. Hill to
return the visit, but no Miss Leonard accompanied her. Rachel was
confined to bed with a cold. The girls, who had hoped for a sight of
her, were disappointed.
And so the days went on, till it happened that I went to stay at the
Hall. I had received two or three invitations, and had always found an
excuse to stay away. At last it seemed ungracious to stay away any
longer, and I went.
How the house was changed since the quiet time of our "reading days,"
when the solitary wreath of smoke went up from Mrs. Beatty's chimney,
and the echo of one's step on the stone stair rang round the gallery
above! Now the hall, that had used to look so wide and chilly with its
grim ornaments of busts of authors, was decorated with flowers from the
hothouse, and cheered by a blazing fire. A soft murmur of prosperity was
heard throughout the house, as if Luxury were gliding about in her
velvet slippers, giving orders in her modulated voice, and breathing her
perfumed breath into all the corners. The presence of life had wrought
upon the handsome sticks and stones that furnished the rooms, and
transformed them into household gods. Firelight twinkled in all the
chambers, bringing out the lustre of coloured glass and costly hangings
into the sallow daylight of the winter noon. I do not know how it was
that on the day of my arrival at the Hall I made my appearance at an
earlier hour than they expected me. I learned afterwards, by chance,
that they had not looked for me till the dinner hour, whilst I
understood that it was desired of me to present myself early in the day,
so that Rachel and I might have some quiet hours during which to renew
our acquaintance before we should be called upon to mix among the
company now staying at the Hall. Good Mrs. Hill was one of those people
whose manner would make you believe that if you deny them the thing they
desire at your hands, you will undoubtedly destroy their peace, but who
will probably have forgotten their request and its motive whilst you are
yet pondering it, and forcing your own will that it may be complied
with. The mistake about the hour of my arrival was one of those pieces
of confusion which seem too trifling ever to be worth clearing up. But
it was a mistake which caused me months of unutterable misery.
The idea of the visit had always been distasteful to me; but, having
made up my mind to go, I thought it was better to be amiable for John's
sake. About mid-day I said good-bye to the three who were already my
mother and sisters, and set out to walk across the moor to the Hall.
John was to dine with the Hills that day, so I knew I should see him in
the evening. My baggage had been sent on before me early in the morning.
It seemed very absurd to feel so sorry at leaving home to stay at a fine
house, where the hours were to be filled with feasting and merry-making.
In earlier days it would have been otherwise. But the farm, with its
busy inmates, its old-fashioned nooks and corners, its homely sights and
sounds, had grown strangely sufficient for the desires of my life.
I arrived at the Hall, gaining the grounds by a descent from the hill at
their back, and coming, so, round by the gardens to the house. Mrs. Hill
was driving with some of her guests. Mr. Hill was out walking with some
of his guests. A maid would go and seek for Miss Leonard, and in the
meantime I was conducted to my room.
Such a room as it was. I smiled at myself for thinking it so grand, for
I had certainly slept in as fine a chamber before. But of late I had
forgotten how long is wealth's list of necessities, and had learned to
live without a velvet couch at the fireside of my sleeping apartment,
branches of wax-candles on the mantel, and long mirrors on every side to
make me feel as if half a dozen impertinent young women were for ever
prying into, and making a mockery of, my movements. I had lately been
accustomed to hear the heels of my shoes go clinking over the well-waxed
boards of my simple room, and to look out at the woods and fields
through a narrow framework of white dimity. Here were voluptuous
curtains and carpets that forbade sound, and denied the daylight. The
farm was my beau-ideal of a home; therefore my room at the farm was my
beau-ideal of a room; therefore all this comfort was oppressive and
ridiculous.
Miss Leonard did not come to seek me. Perhaps she was out. I guessed
there was a mistake, and made myself content. I declined the services of
a maid, unpacked my trunk, and laid out my dinner dress upon the bed.
After this I knew not what to do, and sat down to rest. I looked at the
swelling couch over whose cushions the firelight wavered drowsily. "We
are not likely to have velvet couches at the farm," I thought, "and it
is better to despise such foolish luxuries." So I drew out a
stiff-backed chair, and sat down to muse before the fire.
I soon got tired of this, for I could not think without conjuring up my
familiar wonders and forebodings, and these must be kept in the
background in order that I might conduct myself properly in this house.
I opened my door and looked around me. I knew the place well, but I did
not care to be seen roaming about before I had received a welcome from
my host or hostess. Weariness enabled me to overcome this difficulty,
and I presently found myself in the gallery where the pictures hung and
the curiosities were displayed in their cabinets; where chairs were
placed for people to sit upon, and screens erected to keep away the
draughts; and where the light from the dome in the roof fell mellowly
over the knight made of armour, who stood quite at the end of the
gallery, near a narrow staircase which led down to the back premises of
the house. This knight was an old friend. Mopsie had been very fond of a
nook formed by the angle of the wall at his back, and in the days of our
"readings" had dragged a deep-seated arm-chair from a near room, and
arranged a tall light screen behind his shoulders, forming a tiny
triangular chamber. When I came upon this retreat now I took possession
of it, for it was a pleasant place to sit in. The massive helmet of the
knight on his pedestal soared above the top of the screen, and stood out
in bold relief against the soft brilliance of the painted dome. I seated
myself in Mopsie's chair, and drew a little book from my pocket. In this
little book John had copied out for me some sweet quaint rhymes which
were favourites of his and mine, and because I had thought the writing
and the writer could never be glorified enough, I had wrought round the
margin of the pages a border of fanciful arabesque, which I had filled
in with colours and gold.
I turned over the pages absently. By and by I heard footsteps coming
down the gallery, and voices drawing near me. I hoped that, whoever the
people were, they might pass on without perceiving me. I did not like
the idea of strangers peeping in behind the screen and wondering who I
could be. But the people came nearer, still conversing in low earnest
tones, the sound of which made me start and wonder. They came up to the
screen, which was just at the end of the gallery, and stopped there as
people will pause at the extremity of a walk before they turn to retrace
their steps. And it seemed as if my heart paused with them, for the
speakers were Rachel Leonard and John Hollingford, and this was the
conversation I heard:
"I think you are very unkind, John," said Rachel; and she spoke
sullenly, and as if she had been crying. "I only ask you not to hurry
me, to give me time, and you complain as if I had refused altogether."
"I do not understand why you should want time," replied John; "if what
you have told me is true, if what you have promised is in good faith, I
do not see why you should delay making everything known."
"Nor do I see why you should wish for haste," said Rachel. "The
announcement will be painful enough when it must be made. Have you ever
thought of what Margery will say?"
"Margery! God bless her!" said John earnestly, "Sweet, unselfish soul!
It will be a shock, but she will get over it. While this is going on,
her eyes are a continual reproach to me. The position is intolerable. If
you will not speak soon I must break my promise to you, and enlighten
her."
"No, no, no!" said Rachel passionately. "She suspects nothing, and let
her rest awhile. She will not take it so quietly as you think. Every one
will cry out at me, and I know that I deserve it. Pity me, John"--here
her voice broke down--"but, for God's sake, leave me to myself for a
time."
"Let it be a short time, then," said John, sadly. "I must say I am
grieved to see that this is such a hard trial to you. After all that has
been, all you have told me, I did not expect to find you so weak and
selfish."
"I am weak and I am selfish," sobbed Rachel; "do not expect to find me
anything else. I am struggling to be something better; but whatever I
am, John, be sure that I love you, and have loved you all these years.
Leave me a little time, and I will do everything you wish."
"Let it be so, then," said John--"a short time, remember. My poor, dear
girl! My lost darling, so unexpectedly found."
And they walked away together down the gallery talking till their voices
and their steps died away. The thick yellow daylight was almost extinct
in the gallery by this time, and it was nearly dark behind the screen.
It was night at four o'clock in those days, and it was not till the
dressing-bell for dinner rang at near seven that I went, feeling my way
along the gallery, back to my own chamber. I do not know what I had been
doing in the meantime. A chorus of soft voices warbled in conversation
on the stairs as a band of graceful ladies tripped up to their several
apartments. Miss Leonard came to me in my rich, hot, heavy room and
helped me to dress. I told her I had come too soon, and had been
rambling about. I believe that was what I said. She fastened my sash,
and even tied my sandals, for my fingers were shaking. She bent over my
feet with her glorious face and her firm white hands. I think she had a
black velvet frock and a diamond waist buckle; but I am not sure. The
charm of her beauty overshone these things. As she busied herself among
my hooks and eyes, I saw our two reflections, in a glass--she who had
loved John for years, and I who had only known him for a few short
months.
As I went down the stairs with Rachel, I told myself it was true what
John said, that I should get over it. The drawing-room was full of gay
people, and my first thought was, looking round it, that there was no
man there equal to John--no woman there equal to Rachel. Why had I
thrust myself between them?
When John took my hand with just his old loving pressure, the first wave
of despair broke over me. "Get over it?" I asked myself; but that was
all. I believed that John was sitting by Rachel, but I did not see the
dinner-table, nor the people sitting at it. They thought I was shy or
proud, and did not trouble me with conversation. A sound was in my ears,
which I thought was like the rushing of a storm in an Indian forest. All
my life lay before me like a blot of ink on a bright page. Why must I
give trouble, and carry a sore heart? Why was I left behind to come to
Hillsbro'? Why did not my father and mother take me with them that I
might have died of their fever and been buried in their Indian grave?
But how Rachel laughed. All the evening she was the most brilliant,
beautiful, witty creature that ever enlivened a company.