"Tell the young lady all about it, Connie," said her mother.
But Connie was very reluctant to tell. She was very shy, and clung to her
mother, and hid her face in her ample dress; and though presently she was
beguiled by Mary's voice, and in a short time came to her side, and clung
to her as she had clung to Mrs. Turner, she still kept her secret to
herself. They were all very kind to Mary, the elder girls standing round
in a respectful circle looking at her, while their mother exhorted them
to "take a pattern" by Miss Vivian. The novelty, the awe which she
inspired, the real kindness about her, ended in overcoming in Mary's
young mind the first miserable impression of such a return to her home.
It gave her a kind of pleasure to write to Mrs. Bowyer that she had found
employment, and had thought it better to accept it at once. "Don't be
angry with me; and I think you will understand me," she said. And then
she gave herself up to the strange new scene.
The "ways" of the large simple-minded family, homely, yet kindly, so
transformed Lady Mary's graceful old rooms that they no longer looked the
same place. And when Mary sat down with them at the big heavy-laden
table, surrounded with the hum of so large a party, it was impossible for
her to believe that everything was not new about her. In no way could the
saddening recollections of a home from which the chief figure had
disappeared, have been more completely broken up. Afterwards Mrs. Turner
took her aside, and begged to know which was Mary's old room, "for I
should like to put you there, as if nothing had happened." "Oh, do not
put me there!" Mary cried, "so much has happened." But this seemed a
refinement to the kind woman, which it was far better for her young guest
not to "yield" to. The room Mary had occupied had been next to her
godmother's, with a door between, and when it turned out that Connie,
with an elder sister, was in Lady Mary's room, everything seemed
perfectly arranged in Mrs. Turner's eyes. She thought it was
providential,--with a simple belief in Mary's powers that in other
circumstances would have been amusing. But there was no amusement in
Mary's mind when she took possession of the old room "as if nothing
had happened." She sat by the fire for half the night, in an agony of
silent recollection and thought, going over the last days of her
godmother's life, calling up everything before her, and realizing as she
had never realized till now, the lonely career on which she was setting
out, the subjection to the will and convenience of strangers in which
henceforth her life must be passed. This was a kind woman who had opened
her doors to the destitute girl; but notwithstanding, however great the
torture to Mary, there was no escaping this room which was haunted by the
saddest recollections of her life. Of such things she must no longer
complain,--nay, she must think of nothing but thanking the mistress of
the house for her thoughtfulness, for the wish to be kind, which so often
exceeds the performance.
The room was warm and well lighted; the night was very calm and
sweet outside, nothing had been touched or changed of all her little
decorations, the ornaments which had been so delightful to her
girlhood. A large photograph of Lady Mary held the chief place over the
mantel-piece, representing her in the fullness of her beauty,--a
photograph which had been taken from the picture painted ages ago by a
Royal Academician. It fortunately was so little like Lady Mary in her old
age that, save as a thing which had always hung there, and belonged to
her happier life, it did not affect the girl; but no picture was
necessary to bring before her the well-remembered figure. She could not
realize that the little movements she heard on the other side of the door
were any other than those of her mistress, her friend, her mother; for
all these names Mary lavished upon her in the fullness of her heart. The
blame that was being cast upon Lady Mary from all sides made this child
of her bounty but more deeply her partisan, more warm in her adoration.
She would not, for all the inheritances of the world, have acknowledged
even to herself that Lady Mary was in fault. Mary felt that she would
rather a thousand times be poor and have to gain her daily bread, than
that she who had nourished and cherished her should have been forced in
her cheerful old age to think, before she chose to do so, of parting and
farewell and the inevitable end.
She thought, like every young creature in strange and painful
circumstances, that she would be unable to sleep, and did indeed lie
awake and weep for an hour or more, thinking of all the changes that had
happened; but sleep overtook her before she knew, while her mind was
still full of these thoughts; and her dreams were endless, confused, full
of misery and longing. She dreamed a dozen times over that she heard
Lady Mary's soft call through the open door,--which was not open, but
shut closely and locked by the sisters who now inhabited the next room;
and once she dreamed that Lady Mary came to her bedside and stood there
looking at her earnestly, with the tears flowing from her eyes. Mary
struggled in her sleep to tell her benefactress how she loved her, and
approved of all she had done, and wanted nothing,--but felt herself
bound as by a nightmare, so that she could not move or speak, or even put
out a hand to dry those tears which it was intolerable to her to see;
and woke with the struggle, and the miserable sensation of seeing her
dearest friend weep and being unable to comfort her. The moon was shining
into the room, throwing part of it into a cold, full light, while
blackness lay in all corners. The impression of her dream was so strong
that Mary's eyes turned instantly to the spot where in her dream her
godmother had stood. To be sure, there was nobody there; but as her
consciousness returned, and with it the sweep of painful recollection,
the sense of change, the miserable contrast between the present and the
past,--sleep fled from her eyes. She fell into the vividly awake
condition which is the alternative of broken sleep, and gradually, as she
lay, there came upon her that mysterious sense of another presence in the
room which is so subtle and indescribable. She neither saw anything nor
heard anything, and yet she felt that some one was there.
She lay still for some time and held her breath, listening for a
movement, even for the sound of breathing,--scarcely alarmed, yet sure
that she was not alone. After a while she raised herself on her pillow,
and in a low voice asked, "Who is there? is any one there?" There was no
reply, no sound of any description, and yet the conviction grew upon her.
Her heart began to beat, and the blood to mount to her head. Her own
being made so much sound, so much commotion, that it seemed to her she
could not hear anything save those beatings and pulsings. Yet she was not
afraid. After a time, however, the oppression became more than she could
bear. She got up and lit her candle, and searched through the familiar
room; but she found no trace that any one had been there. The furniture
was all in its usual order. There was no hiding-place where any human
thing could find refuge. When she had satisfied herself, and was about to
return to bed, suppressing a sensation which must, she said to herself,
be altogether fantastic, she was startled by a low knocking at the door
of communication. Then she heard the voice of the elder girl. "Oh, Miss
Vivian what is it? Have you seen anything?" A new sense of anger,
disdain, humiliation, swept through Mary's mind. And if she had seen
anything, she said to herself, what was that to those strangers? She
replied, "No, nothing; what should I see?" in a tone which was almost
haughty, in spite of herself.
"I thought it might be--the ghost. Oh, please, don't be angry. I thought
I heard this door open, but it is locked. Oh! perhaps it is very silly,
but I am so frightened, Miss Vivian."
"Go back to bed," said Mary; "there is no--ghost. I am going to sit up
and write some--letters. You will see my light under the door."
"Oh, thank you," cried the girl.
Mary remembered what a consolation and strength in all wakefulness had
been the glimmer of the light under her godmother's door. She smiled to
think that she herself, so desolate as she was, was able to afford this
innocent comfort to another girl, and then sat down and wept quietly,
feeling her solitude and the chill about her, and the dark and the
silence. The moon had gone behind a cloud. There seemed no light but her
small miserable candle in earth and heaven. And yet that poor little
speck of light kept up the heart of another,--which made her smile again
in the middle of her tears. And by-and-by the commotion in her head and
heart calmed down, and she too fell asleep.
Next day she heard all the floating legends that were beginning to rise
in the house. They all arose from Connie's questions about the old lady
whom she had seen going up-stairs before her, the first evening after the
new family's arrival. It was in the presence of the doctor,--who had come
to see the child, and whose surprise at finding Mary there was almost
ludicrous,--that she heard the story, though much against his will.
"There can be no need for troubling Miss Vivian about it," he said, in a
tone which was almost rude. But Mrs. Turner was not sensitive.
"When Miss Vivian has just come like a dear, to help us with Connie!" the
good woman cried. "Of course she must hear it, doctor, for otherwise, how
could she know what to do?"
"Is it true that you have come here--_here?_ to help--Good heavens, Miss
Mary, _here?_"
"Why not here?" Mary said, smiling as but she could. "I am Connie's
governess, doctor."
He burst out into that suppressed roar which serves a man instead of
tears, and jumped up from his seat, clenching his fist. The clenched fist
was to the intention of the dead woman whose fault this was; and if it
had ever entered the doctor's mind, as his mother supposed, to marry this
forlorn child, and thus bestow a home upon her whether she would or no,
no doubt he would now have attempted to carry out that plan. But as no
such thing had occurred to him, the doctor only showed his sense of the
intolerable by look and gesture. "I must speak to the vicar. I must see
Furnival. It can't be permitted," he cried.
"Do you think I shall not be kind to her, doctor?" cried Mrs. Turner.
"Oh, ask her! she is one that understands. She knows far better than
that. We're not fine people, doctor, but we're kind people. I can say
that for myself. There is nobody in this house but will be good to her,
and admire her, and take an example by her. To have a real lady with the
girls, that is what I would give anything for; and as she wants taking
care of, poor dear, and petting, and an 'ome--" Mary, who would not hear
any more, got up hastily, and took the hand of her new protectress, and
kissed her, partly out of gratitude and kindness, partly to stop her
mouth, and prevent the saying of something which it might have been still
more difficult to support. "You are a real lady yourself, dear Mrs.
Turner," she cried. (And this notwithstanding the one deficient letter:
but many people who are much more dignified than Mrs. Turner--people who
behave themselves very well in every other respect--say "'ome.")
"Oh, my dear, I don't make any pretensions," the good woman cried, but
with a little shock of pleasure which brought the tears to her eyes.
And then the story was told. Connie had seen the lady walk up-stairs, and
had thought no harm. The child supposed it was some one belonging to the
house. She had gone into the room which was now Connie's room; but as
that had a second door, there was no suspicion caused by the fact that
she was not found there a little time after, when the child told her
mother what she had seen. After this, Connie had seen the same lady
several times, and once had met her face to face. The child declared that
she was not at all afraid. She was a pretty old lady, with white hair and
dark eyes. She looked a little sad, but smiled when Connie stopped and
stared at her,--not angry at all, but rather pleased,--and looked for a
moment as if she would speak. That was all. Not a word about a ghost was
said in Connie's hearing. She had already told it all to the doctor, and
he had pretended to consider which of the old ladies in the neighborhood
this could be. In Mary's mind, occupied as it was by so many important
matters, there had been up to this time no great question about Connie's
apparition; now she began to listen closely, not so much from real
interest as from a perception that the doctor, who was her friend, did
not want her to hear. This naturally aroused her attention at once. She
listened to the child's description with growing eagerness, all the more
because the doctor opposed. "Now that will do, Miss Connie," he said; "it
is one of the old Miss Murchisons, who are always so fond of finding out
about their neighbors. I have no doubt at all on that subject. She wants
to find you out in your pet naughtiness, whatever it is, and tell me."
"I am sure it is not for that," cried Connie. "Oh, how can you be so
disagreeable? I know she is not a lady who would tell. Besides, she
is not thinking at all about me. She was either looking for something she
had lost, or,--oh, I don't know what it was!--and when she saw me she
just smiled. She is not dressed like any of the people here. She had got
no cloak on, or bonnet, or anything that is common, but a beautiful white
shawl and a long dress, and it gives a little sweep when she walks,--oh
no! not like your rustling, mamma; but all soft, like water,--and it
looks like lace upon her head, tied here," said Connie, putting her
hands to her chin, "in such a pretty, large, soft knot." Mary had
gradually risen as this description went on, starting a little at first,
looking up, getting upon her feet. The color went altogether out of her
face,--her eyes grew to twice their natural size. The doctor put out his
hand without looking at her, and laid it on her arm with a strong,
emphatic pressure. "Just like some one you have seen a picture of," he
said.
"Oh no. I never saw a picture that was so pretty," said the child.
"Doctor, why do you ask her any more? don't you see, don't you see, the
child has seen--"
"Miss Mary, for God's sake, hold your tongue; it is folly, you know. Now,
my little girl, tell me. I know this old lady is the very image of that
pretty old lady with the toys for good children, who was in the last
Christmas number?"
"Oh!" said Connie, pausing a little. "Yes, I remember; it was a very
pretty picture,--mamma put it up in the nursery. No, she is not like
that, not at all, much prettier; and then _my_ lady is sorry about
something,--except when she smiles at me. She has her hair put up like
this, and this," the child went on, twisting her own bright locks.
"Doctor, I can't bear any more."
"My dear, you are mistaken, it is all a delusion. She has seen a picture.
I think now, Mrs. Turner, that my little patient had better run away and
play. Take a good run through the woods, Miss Connie, with your brother,
and I will send you some physic which will not be at all nasty, and we
shall hear no more of your old lady. My dear Miss Vivian, if you will but
hear reason! I have known such cases a hundred times. The child has seen
a picture, and it has taken possession of her imagination. She is a
little below par, and she has a lively imagination; and she has learned
something from Prentiss, though probably she does not remember that. And
there it is! a few doses of quinine, and she will see visions no more."
"Doctor," cried Mary, "how can you speak so to me? You dare not look me
in the face. You know you dare not: as if you did not know as well as I
do! Oh, why does that child see her, and not me?"
"There it is," he said, with a broken laugh. "Could anything show better
that it is a mere delusion? Why, in the name of all that is reasonable,
should this stranger child see her, if it was anything, and not you?"
Mrs. Turner looked from one to another with wondering eyes. "You know
what it is?" she said. "Oh, you know what it is? Doctor, doctor, is it
because my Connie is so delicate? Is it a warning? Is it--"
"Oh, for heaven's sake! You will drive me mad, you ladies. Is it this,
and is it that? It is nothing, I tell you. The child is out of sorts,
and she has seen some picture that has caught her fancy,--and she thinks
she sees--I'll send her a bottle," he cried, jumping up, "that will put
an end to all that."
"Doctor, don't go away, tell me rather what I must do--if she is looking
for something! Oh, doctor, think if she were unhappy, if she were kept
out of her sweet rest!"
"Miss Mary, for God's sake, be reasonable. You ought never to have heard
a word."
"Doctor, think! if it should be anything we can do. Oh, tell me, tell me!
Don't go away and leave me; perhaps we can find out what it is."
"I will have nothing to do with your findings out. It is mere delusion.
Put them both to bed, Mrs. Turner; put them all to bed!--as if there was
not trouble enough!"
"What is it?" cried Connie's mother; "is it a warning! Oh, for the love
of God, tell me, is that what comes before a death?"
When they were all in this state of agitation, the vicar and his wife
were suddenly shown into the room. Mrs. Bowyer's eyes flew to Mary, but
she was too well bred a woman not to pay her respects first to the lady
of the house, and there were a number of politenesses exchanged, very
breathlessly on Mrs. Turner's part, before the new-comers were free to
show the real occasion of their visit. "Oh, Mary, what did you mean by
taking such a step all in a moment? How could you come here, of all
places in the world? And how could you leave me without a word?" the
vicar's wife said, with her lips against Mary's cheek. She had already
perceived, without dwelling upon it, the excitement in which all the
party were. This was said while the vicar was still making his bow to his
new parishioner, who knew very well that her visitors had not intended to
call; for the Turners were dissenters, to crown all their misdemeanors,
beside being city people and _nouveaux riches_.
"Don't ask me any questions just now," said Mary, clasping almost
hysterically her friend's hand.
"It was providential. Come and hear what the child has seen." Mrs.
Turner, though she was so anxious, was too polite not to make a fuss
about getting chairs for all her visitors. She postponed her own trouble
to this necessity, and trembling, sought the most comfortable seat for
Mrs. Bowyer, the largest and most imposing for the vicar himself. When
she had established them in a little circle, and done her best to draw
Mary, too, into a chair, she sat down quietly, her mind divided between
the cares of courtesy and the alarms of an anxious mother. Mary stood at
the table and waited till the commotion was over. The new-comers thought
she was going to explain her conduct in leaving them; and Mrs. Bowyer, at
least, who was critical in point of manners, shivered a little, wondering
if perhaps (though she could not find it in her heart to blame Mary) her
proceedings were in perfect taste.
"The little girl," Mary said, beginning abruptly. She had been standing
by the table, her lips apart, her countenance utterly pale, her mind
evidently too much absorbed to notice anything. "The little girl has seen
several times a lady going up-stairs. Once she met her and saw her
face, and the lady smiled at her; but her face was sorrowful, and the
child thought she was looking for something. The lady was old, with
white hair done up upon her forehead, and lace upon her head. She was
dressed--" here Mary's voice began to be interrupted from time to time by
a brief sob--"in a long dress that made a soft sound when she walked, and
a white shawl, and the lace tied under her chin in a large soft knot--"
"Mary, Mary!" Mrs. Bowyer had risen and stood behind the girl, in whose
slender throat the climbing sorrow was almost visible, supporting her,
trying to stop her. "Mary, Mary!" she cried; "oh, my darling, what are
you thinking of? Francis! doctor! make her stop, make her stop."
"Why should she stop?" said Mrs. Turner, rising, too, in her agitation.
"Oh, is it a warning, is it a warning? for my child has seen it,--Connie
has seen it."
"Listen to me, all of you," said Mary, with an effort. "You all know--who
that is. And she has seen her,--the little girl--"
Now the others looked at each other, exchanging a startled look.
"My dear people," cried the doctor, "the case is not the least unusual.
No, no, Mrs. Turner, it is no warning,--it is nothing of the sort. Look
here, Bowyer; you'll believe me. The child is very nervous and sensitive.
She has evidently seen a picture somewhere of our dear old friend. She
has heard the story somehow,--oh, perhaps in some garbled version from
Prentiss, or--of course they've all been talking of it. And the child is
one of those creatures with its nerves all on the surface,--and a little
below par in health, in need of iron and quinine, and all that sort of
thing. I've seen a hundred such cases," cried the doctor, "--a thousand
such; but now, of course, we'll have a fine story made of it, now that
it's come into the ladies' hands."
He was much excited with this long speech; but it cannot be said that any
one paid much attention to him. Mrs. Bowyer was holding Mary in her arms,
uttering little cries and sobs over her, and looking anxiously at her
husband. The vicar sat down suddenly in his chair, with the air of a man
who has judgment to deliver without the least idea what to say; while
Mary, freeing herself unconsciously from her friend's restraining
embrace, stood facing them all with a sort of trembling defiance; and
Mrs. Turner kept on explaining nervously that,--"no, no, her Connie was
not excitable, was not oversensitive, had never known what a delusion
was."
"This is very strange," the vicar said.
"Oh, Mr. Bowyer," cried Mary, "tell me what I am to do!--think if she
cannot rest, if she is not happy, she that was so good to everybody, that
never could bear to see any one in trouble. Oh, tell me, tell me what I
am to do! It is you that have disturbed her with all you have been
saying. Oh, what can I do, what can I do to give her rest?"
"My dear Mary! my dear Mary!" they all cried, in different tones of
consternation; and for a few minutes no one could speak. Mrs. Bowyer, as
was natural, said something, being unable to endure the silence; but
neither she nor any of the others knew what it was she said. When it was
evident that the vicar must speak, all were silent, waiting for him; and
though it now became imperative that something in the shape of a judgment
must be delivered, yet he was as far as ever from knowing what to say.
"Mary," he said, with a little tremulousness of voice, "it is quite
natural that you should ask me; but, my dear, I am not at all prepared to
answer. I think you know that the doctor, who ought to know best about
such matters--"
"Nay, not I. I only know about the physical; the other,--if there is
another,--that's your concern."
"Who ought to know best," repeated Mr. Bowyer; "for every body will tell
you, my dear, that the mind is so dependent upon the body. I suppose he
must be right. I suppose it is just the imagination of a nervous child
working upon the data which have been given,--the picture; and then, as
you justly remind me, all we have been saying--"
"How could the child know what we have been saying, Francis?"
"Connie has heard nothing that any one has been saying; and there is no
picture."
"My dear lady, you hear what the doctor says. If there is no picture, and
she has heard nothing, I suppose, then, your premises are gone, and the
conclusion falls to the ground."
"What does it matter about premises?" cried the vicar's wife; "here is
something dreadful that has happened. Oh, what nonsense that is about
imagination; children have no imagination. A dreadful thing has happened.
In heaven's name, Francis, tell this poor child what she is to do."
"My dear," said the vicar again, "you are asking me to believe in
purgatory,--nothing less. You are asking me to contradict the church's
teaching. Mary, you must compose yourself. You must wait till this
excitement has passed away."
"I can see by her eyes that she did not sleep last night," the doctor
said, relieved. "We shall have her seeing visions too, if we don't take
care."
"And, my dear Mary," said the vicar, "if you will think of it, it is
derogatory to the dignity of--of our dear friends who have passed away.
How can we suppose that one of the blessed would come down from heaven,
and walk about her own house, which she had just left, and show herself
to a--to a--little child who had never seen her before."
"Impossible," said the doctor. "I told you so; a stranger--that had no
connection with her, knew nothing about her--"
"Instead of," said the vicar, with a slight tremor, "making herself
known, if that was permitted, to--to me, for example, or our friend
here."
"That sounds reasonable, Mary," said Mrs. Bowyer; "don't you think so, my
dear? If she had come to one of us, or to yourself, my darling, I should
never have wondered, after all that has happened. But to this little
child--"
"Whereas there is nothing more likely--more consonant with all the
teachings of science--than that the little thing should have this
hallucination, of which you ought never to have heard a word. You are the
very last person--"
"That is true," said the vicar, "and all the associations of the place
must be overwhelming. My dear, we must take her away with us. Mrs.
Turner, I am sure, is very kind, but it cannot be good for Mary to be
here."
"No, no! I never thought so," said Mrs. Bowyer. "I never intended--dear
Mrs. Turner, we all appreciate your motives. I hope you will let us see
much of you, and that we may become very good friends. But Mary--it is
her first grief, don't you know?" said the vicar's wife, with the tears
in her eyes; "she has always been so much cared for, so much thought of
all her life--and then all at once! You will not think that we
misunderstand your kind motives; but it is more than she can bear. She
made up her mind in a hurry, without thinking. You must not be annoyed if
we take her away."
Mrs. Turner had been looking from one to another while this dialogue went
on. She said now, a little wounded, "I wished only to do what was kind;
but, perhaps I was thinking most of my own child. Miss Vivian must do
what she thinks best."
"You are all kind--too kind," Mary cried; "but no one must say another
word, please. Unless Mrs. Turner should send me away, until I know what
this all means, it is my place to stay here."