The “Dutchwoman” resumed in a minute, and observed—
“Well, old Tarnley, there’s no good in talking where you can’t right yourself, and where you can revenge, there’s no good in talk either; but gone it is, and the doctors say no cutting, nothing safe in my case; no cure, so let it be. I liked dress once; I dressed pretty well.”
“Beautiful!” exclaimed old Mildred, kindling for a moment into her earlier admiration of the French and London finery, with which once this tall and faded beauty had amazed the solitudes of Carwell.
The bleached, big woman smiled—almost laughed with gratified vanity.
“Yes, I was well dressed—something better than the young dowdies and old fromps, in this part of the world. How I used to laugh at them! I went to church, and to the races, to see them. Well, we’ll have better times yet at Wyvern; the old man there can’t live for ever; he’s not the Wandering Jew, and he can’t be far from a hundred; and so sure as Charles is my husband, I’ll have you there, if you like it, or give you a snug house, and a bit of ground, and a garden, and a snug allowance monthly, if you like this place best. I love my own, and you’ve been true to me, and I never failed a friend.”
“I’m growing old and silly, ma’am—never so strong as I was took for. The will was ever stronger with Mildred than the body, bless ye—no, no; two or three quiet years to live as I should a lived always, wi’ an eye on my Bible and an eye on my ways—not that I ever did aught I need be one bit ashamed on—no, not I; honest and sober, and most respectable, thank God, as the family will testify, and the neighbours; but I’ll not deny, ’twould be something not that bad, if my old bones could rest a bit,” said old Mildred.
“Ha, girl, they shall; your old bones shall rest, my child,” said the lady.
“They’ll rest some day in the old churchyard o’ Carwell, but not much sooner, I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Tarnley.
“Folly, folly! ole girl! you’ve many a year to go before that journey; you’ll live to see me, Mrs. Vairvield of Wyvern, and it won’t be a bad day for you, old Mildred.”
The “Dutchwoman,” or the old soldier, as they used to call her long ago in this sequestered nook, drawled this languidly, and yawned a long, listless yawn.
“Well, ma’am, if you’re tired, so am I,” said Mildred, a little tartly; “and as for dreamin’ o’ quiet in this world, I ha’ cleared my head o’ that nonsense many a year ago. There’s little good can happen old Mildred now, and less I look for, and none I’ll seek, ma’am; and as for a roof over my head for nothing, and that bit o’ ground ye spoke of, and wages to live on without no work, I don’t believe there’s no such luck going for no one.”
“Listen to me, Mildred,” said the stranger, more sternly than before; “is it because I don’t swear you won’t believe? Hear, now, once for all, and understand: I’ll make that a good day for you that makes me the lady of Wyvern. Sharp and hard I’ve been with those I owed a knock to, but I never yet forgot a friend; you may do me a service to-morrow or next day, mind, and if you stand by me, I’ll stand by you; you need but ask and have, ask what you will.”
“Well, now, ma’am—bah! what talk it is! Lawk, ma’am; don’t I know the world, ma’am, and what sort o’ place it is? I a’ bin promised many a fine thing in my day, and here I am still—old and weary—among the pots and pans every night and mornin’, and up to my elbows in suds every Saturday; that’s all that ever came o’ fine promises to Mildred Tarnley.”
“Well, you used to say, it’s a long lane that has no turn. You’ll have a glass of this?” and she popped the brandy-bottle on the table beside her, with her hand fast on its neck.
“No brandy—no nothing, ma’am, I thank ye.”
“What! no brandy? Pish, girl, nonsense.”
“No, ma’am, I thank ye, I never drinks nothing o’ the sort—a mug o’ beer after washing or the like—but my headache never would abear brandy.”
“Once and away—come,” solicited the old soldier.
“No, I thank ye, ma’am; I’ll swallow nothing o’ the kind, please.”
“What a mule! You won’t have a nip with an old friend, after so long an absence—come, Mildred, come; where’s the glass?”
“Here’s the glass, ’m, but not a drop for me, ma’am; I won’t drink nothing o’ the sort, please.”
“Not from me, I suppose; but if you mean to say you never do, I don’t believe you,” said the Dutchwoman, more nettled, it seemed, than such a failure of good fellowship in Mrs. Tarnley would naturally have warranted. Perhaps she had particularly strong reasons for making old Mildred frank, genial, and intimate that night.
“I don’t tell lies,” said Mildred.
“Don’t you?” said the “old soldier,” and elevated the brows of her sightless eyes, and screwed her lips with ugly ridicule.
Mrs. Tarnley looked with a dark shrewdness upon this meaning mask, trying to discover the exact force of its significance. She felt very uncomfortable.
The blind woman’s face expanded into a broad smile. She shrugged, shook her head, and laughed. How odiously wide her face looked as she laughed! Mildred did not know exactly what to make of her.
“But if you did tell lies,” drawled the lady, “even to me, what does it matter, if you promised to tell no more? So let us shake hands—where’s your hand?”
And she kept shuffling her big hand upon the table, palm upward, with its fingers groping in the air like the claws of a crab upon its back.
“Give me—give me—give me your hand, I say,” said she.
“’Tain’t for the like o’ me,” replied Mildred, with grim formality.
“You’d better be friendly. Come, give me your hand.”
“Well, ma’am, ’tain’t for me to dispute your pleasure,” answered the old servant, and she slipped her hard fingers upon the upturned palm of the Dutchwoman, who clutched them with a strenuous friendship, and held them fast.
“I like you, Tarnley; we’ve had rough words, sometimes, but no ill blood, and I’ll do what I said. I never failed a friend, as you will see, if only you be my friend; and why or for whom should you not? Tut, we’re not fools!”
“The time is past for me to quarrel, being to the wrong side o’ sixty more than you’d suppose, and quiet all I wants—quiet, ma’am.”
“Yes, quiet and comfort, too, and both you shall have, Mildred Tarnley, if you don’t choose to quarrel with those who would be kind to you, if you’d let them. Yes, indeed, who would be kind, and very kind, if you’d only let them. No, leave your hand where it is, I can’t see you, and it’s sometimes dull work talking only to a voice. If I can’t see you I’ll feel you, and hold you, old girl—hold you fast till I know what terms we’re on.”
All this time she had Mildred Tarnley’s hand between hers, and was fondling and kneading it as a rustic lover in the agonies of the momentous question might have done fifty years ago.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, ma’am, no more than the plate there. Little good left in Mildred Tarnley now, and small power to help or hurt any one, great or small, at these years.”
“I want you to be friendly with me, that’s all; I ask no more, and it ain’t a great deal, all things considered. Friendly talk, of course, ain’t all I mean, that’s civility, and civility’s very well, very pleasant, like a lady’s fan, or her lap-dog, but nothing at a real pinch, nothing to fight a wolf with. Come, old Mildred, Mildred Tarnley, good Mildred, can I be sure of you, quite sure?”
“Sure and certain, ma’am, in all honest service.”
“Honest service! Yes, of course; what else could we think of? You used to like, I remember, Mildred, a nice ribbon in your bonnet. I have two pieces quite new. I brought them from London. Satin ribbon—purple one is—I know you’ll like it, and you’ll drink a glass of this to please me.”
“Thanks for the ribbons, ma’am, I’ll not refuse ’em; but I won’t drink nothing, ma’am, I thank you.”
“Well, please yourself in that. Pour out a little for me, there’s a glass, ain’t there?”
“Yes, ’m. How much will you have, ma’am?”
“Half a glass. There’s a dear. Stingy half glass,” she continued, putting her finger in to gauge the quantity. “Go on, go on, remember my long journey to-day. Do you smoke, Mildred?”
“Smoke, ’m? No, ’m! Dear me, there’s no smell o’ tobacco, is there?” said Mildred, who was always suspecting Tom of smoking slily in his crib under the stairs.
“Smell, no; but I smoke a pinch of tobacco now and again myself, the doctor says I must, and a breath just of opium when I want it. You can have a pipe of tobacco if you like, child, and you needn’t be shy. Well?”
“Ho, Fau! No, ma’am, I thank ye.”
“Fau!” echoed the Dutchwoman, with a derisive, chilling laugh, which apprised old Mildred of her solecism. But the lady did not mean to quarrel.
“What sort of dress have you for Sundays, going to church, and all that?”
“An old dress it is now. I had the material, ye’ll mind, when ye was here, long ago; but it wasn’t made up till long after. It’s very genteel, the folk all says. Chocolate colour—British cashmere—’twas old Mrs. Hartlepool, the parson’s widow, made me a compliment o’t when she was goin’, and I kept it all the time, wi’ whole pepper and camphor, in my box, by my bed, and it looked as fresh when I took it out to give it to Miss Maddox to make up as if ’twas just put new on the counter. She did open her eyes, that’s nigh seven years gone, when I told her how old it was.”
“Heyday! Hi! I think I do remember that old chocolate thing. Why, it can’t be that, that’s twenty years old. Well, look in my box, here’s the key. You’ll see two books with green leather backs and gold. Can ye read? I’m going to make you a present.”
“I can read, ma’am; but I scarce have time to read my Bible.”
“The Bible’s a good book, but that’s a better,” said the lady, with one of her titters. “But it ain’t a book I’m going to give you. Look it out, green and gold, there are only two in the box. It is the one that has an I and a V on the back, four, the fourth volume. I have little else to amuse me. I have the news of the neighbours, but I don’t like ’em, who could? A bad lot, they hate one another; ’twouldn’t be a worse world if they were all hanged. They hate me because I’m a lady, so I don’t cry when baby takes the croup, nor break my heart when papa gets into the ‘Gazette.’ Have you found it? Why, it’s under your hand there. They would not cry their eyes out for me, so I can see the funny side of their adventures, bless them!”
“Is this it, ma’am?”
“There are but two books in the box. Has it an I and a V on the back?”
“V, O, L, I, V,” spelled out old Mildred, who was listening in a fever for the sounds of Charles Fairfield’s arrival.
“That’s it. That’s the book you should read. I take it in, and I hire all the others, and a French one, from the Hoxton library. I make Molly Jinks, the little, dirty, starving maid, read to me two hours a day. She’s got rather to like it. How are your eyes?”
“I can make out twelve or fourteen verses wi’ the glasses, but not more, at one bout.”
“Well, get on your glasses. This is the ‘Magazine of the Beau-Monde, and Court and Vashionable Gazette,’ and full of pictures. Turn over.”
“La, ma’am, ’tis beautiful, but what have I to do with the like?”
“Well, look out for the puce gros de Naples walking dress, about page twenty-nine, and I’ll show you the picture afterwards. Do be quick. I have had it four years, it’s quite good though, only I’m grown a little fuller since, and it don’t fit now. So read it, and you’ll see how I’ll dress you.”
And bending her head forward and knitting her brows, she listened absorbed, while old Mildred helped, or corrected, at every second word, by her blind patroness, babbled and stuttered on with her in duet recitation.
“Walking dress,” said Mildred—
“Go on,” said the lady, who, having this like other descriptions in that cherished work pretty well by heart, led off energetically with her lean old companion, and together they read—
“A pelisse of puce-coloured gros de Naples, the corsage made to sit close to the shape, with a large round pelerine which wraps across in front. The sleeve is excessively large at the upper part of the arm. The fulness of the lower is more moderate. It is confined in three places by bands and terminated by a broad wrist-band. The pelerine and bands of the sleeves are cased with satin to correspond, and three satin rouleaus are arranged en tablier on the front of the skirt. The bonnet is of rice straw of the cottage shape, trimmed under the brim on the right side, with a band and nœud of gold-coloured ribbon. The crown being also ornamented with gold-coloured ribbon, and a sprig of lilac, placed perpendicularly. Half-boots of black gros de Naples, tipped with black kid.”
Here they drew breath, and Mildred Tarnley was silent for a minute, thinking how much more like a lady her mother used to dress than she was able, and what fine presents of old clothes old Mrs. Fairfield used to send her now and then from Wyvern. For a moment an air of dignity, a sense of feminine vanity, showed itself in the face and mien of Mrs. Tarnley.
“That rice straw bonnet, with the gold-coloured nœud, of course I haven’t got, nor the gros de Naples’ boots—they’re gone, of course, long ago; but it reads best, altogether, and I hadn’t the heart to stop you, nor you to stop reading till we got to the end. And look at the pictures, you’ll easily find it; and I’ll write and have the pelisse sent here by the day-coach. It will be here on Sunday. Do you like it?”
“It is a bit too fine for me, I’m afraid,” said Mildred, smiling in spite of herself, with a grim elation; “my poor mother used to dress herself grand enough, in her day, and keep me handsome also when I was a young thing. But since the ladies come no more to Carwell the Grange has been a dull place, and gives a body enough to do to live, and little thought o’ fine dresses, and few to see them, except o’ Sundays, if ’twas here; not but ’twould be more for the credit o’ the family if old Mildred Tarnley, that’s known down here for housekeeper at the Grange of Carwell, wasn’t turned out quite so poor and dowdy, and seeing them taking the wall o’ me, which their mothers used to courtesy to mine, at church and market, and come up here to the Grange as humble as you please, when money was stirring at Carwell, and I, young as I was, thought more on, a deal more, than the best o’ them.”
“I drink your health, Mildred; as you won’t pledge me, I do it alone.”
“I thank ye, ma’am.”
“Ha, yes, that does me good; I’m tired to death, Mildred.”
“There’s two on us so, ma’am; shall I get you to bed, please?”
“In a minute; give me your hand again, girl; come, come, come,—yes, I have it. I think you are more friendly, eh? I think so; but the little goodwill I ever show you now is nothing to what I mean for you when I come to Wyvern—nothing.”
And she strengthened the present assurance with an oath, and grasped Mildred’s hard brown hand very tight.
“And you’ll be kind to me, Mildred, when I want it; and I shall want it, mind, and I’ll never forget it to you; ’twill be the making of you. I’ll show you how much I trust you, for I’ll put myself in your power.”
And, hereupon, she shook her hand harder. Her face and manner were changed, and she looked horribly frightened for some minutes.
“I don’t blame you, Mildred, but this thing must not go on—it must not be.”
Mildred in her own way looked disconcerted and even agitated at this odd speech. She screwed her mouth sharply to one side, and with her brow knit had turned a frightened gaze on her visitor.
“There’s things as can’t be undone, and things as can,” said she, after a pause oracularly; “best not meddle or make—worms that is, and dust that will be, and God over all.”
“God over all, why not?” repeated the old soldier vaguely, and stood up suddenly with a kind of terrified shudder, “take me, hold me, quick.”
“A fit? La bless us,” cried Tarnley, seizing her in her lean arms.
The lady answered nothing, but grasped her fast by the wrist and shoulder, and so she stood for a time shuddering and swaying. “Better at last,” she said, “a little—put me in the chair.”
And she made a great shuddering sigh or two, and called for water and “hartshorn,” and the hysteria subsided. And now she seemed overpowered with languor, and answered faintly and in monosyllables to old Mrs. Tarnley’s uncomfortable inquiries.
“Now I shall get a sleep,” she said at last, in low drowsy tones, interrupted with heavy sighs, and she looked so ill that old Mildred more than ever wished her back again at Hoxton Old Town.
“Help me to my bed—support me—get off my things,” she moaned and mumbled, and at last lay down with a great groaning sigh.
“What am I to do with her now?” thought Mrs. Tarnley, who was doubtful whether in this state she could be safely left to herself.
But the patient set her at ease upon the point.
“Get your ear down,” she whispered, “near, near—you need not stay any longer—only—one thing—the closet with the long row of pegs and the three presses in it, that lies between her room and mine, I remember it well—it isn’t open—I shouldn’t like her to find me here.”
“No, ma’am, it ain’t open, the doors were papered over, this room and hers, as I told you, when the rooms was done up.”
The old soldier sighed and whispered—
“My head is very bad, make no noise, dear, don’t move the tray, don’t touch anything—leave me to myself, and I’ll sleep till eleven o’clock to-morrow morning; but go out softly, and then, no noise, for my sleep,” groaned this huge woman, “is a bird’s sleep—a bird’s sleep, and a pin dropping wakes me, a mouse stirring wakes me—oh—oh—oh. That’s all.” Glad to be dismissed on these easy terms, Mildred Tarnley bid her softly good-night, having left her basket with her sal volatile, and all other comforts, on the table at her bedside.
And so, softly she stole on tiptoe out of the room, and closed her door, waiting for a moment to clear her head, and be quite sure that the “Dutchwoman,” whom they very much hated and feared, was actually established in her bed-room at Carwell Grange.
A pretty medley was revolving in old Mildred’s brain as she stood outside this door, on the gallery. The epileptic old soldier, the puce gros de Naples, Tom on outpost duty on Cressley Common—had he come back? Charles Fairfield, perhaps, in the house, and that foolish poor young wife in her room, in the centre, and herself the object of all this manœuvring and conspiring; quite unconscious. Mildred had a good many wires to her fingers just now; could she possibly work them all and keep the show going?
She was listening now, wondering whether Master Charles had arrived, wondering whether the young lady was asleep, and wondering, most of all, why she had been fool enough to meddle in other people’s affairs. “What the dickens was it to her if they was all in kingdom come? If Mildred was a roastin’ they wouldn’t, not one of ’em, walk across the yard there, to take her off the spit—la, bless you, not a foot.”
Mildred was troubled about many things. Among others, what was the meaning of those oracular appeals of the Dutchwoman in which she had seemed to know something of the real state of things.
Down went Mildred Tarnley, softly still, for she would not risk waking Alice, and at the foot of the second staircase she paused again.
All was quiet, she peeped into Tom’s little room, under the staircase. It was still empty. Into the kitchen she went, nothing had been stirred there.
From habit she trotted about, and settled and unsettled some of the scanty ironmongery and earthenware, and peeped, with her candle aloft, into this corner and that, and she removed the smoothing-iron that stood on the window stool, holding the shutters close, and peeped into the paved yard, tufted with grass, high over which the solemn trees were drooping.
Then, candle in hand, the fidgety old woman visited the back door, the latch was in its place, and she turned about and visited the panelled sitting-room. The smell of flowers was there, and on the little spider-table was Alice’s work-box, and some little muslin clippings and bits of thread and tape, the relics of that evening’s solitary work over the little toilet on which her pretty fingers and sad eyes were now always employed.
Well, there was no sign of Master Charles here; so with a little more pottering and sniffing, out she went, and again to the back door, which softly she opened, and she toddled across the uneven pavement to the back door, and looked out, and walked forth upon the narrow road, that, darkened with thick trees, overhangs the edge of the ravine.
Here she listened, and listened in vain. There was nothing but the soft rush of the leaves overhead in the faint visitings of the night air, and across the glen at intervals came that ghastliest of sounds, between a long-drawn hiss and shiver, from a lonely owl.
Interrupted at intervals by this freezing sound, the old woman listened and muttered now and again a testy word or two. What was to be done if, by any mischance or blunder of Tom’s, the master should thunder his summons at the hall-door? Down of course would fly his young wife to let him in, and be clasped in his arms, while from the low window of the Dutchwoman that evil tenant might overhear every word that passed, and almost touch their heads with her down-stretched hand.
A pretty scene it would lead to, and agreeable consequences to Mildred herself.
“The woman’s insane; she’s an evil spirit; many a time she would have brained me in a start of anger if I hadn’t been sharp. The mark of the cut glass decanter she flung at my head is in the doorcase at the foot of the stairs this minute like the scar of a bill-hook, the mad beast. I thank God she’s blind, though there’s an end o’ them pranks, anyhow. But she’s a limb o’ the evil one, and where there’s a will there’s a way, and blind though she be, I would not trust her.”
She walked two or three steps slowly, toward Cressley Common, from which direction she expected the approach of Charles Fairfield.
No wonder Mildred was fidgeted, there were so many disasters on the cards. If she could but see Charles Fairfield something at least might be guarded against. This wiry old woman was by no means hard of hearing—rather sharp, on the contrary, was her ear. But she listened long in vain.
Fearful lest something might go wrong within doors during her absence, she was turning to go back, when she thought she heard the distant clink of a horseshoe on the road.
Her old heart throbbed suddenly, and frowning as she listened, with eyes directed towards the point of approach, softly she said “hush,” as if to quiet the faint rustle of the trees.
Stooping forward, she listened, with her lean arm extended, every wrinkled knuckle of her brown hand, and every black-rimmed nail distinct in the moonlight.
Yes, it was the clink of trotting horseshoes. She prayed heaven the blind woman might not hear it. There was a time when her more energetic misanthropy would possibly have enjoyed a fracas such as was now to be apprehended. But years teach us the value of quiet, the providential instincts of growing helplessness disarm our pugnacity, and all but quite reprobate spirits grow gentler and kinder as the hour of parting with earth approaches. Thus had old Mildred taken her part in this game, and as her stake became deeper and more dangerous her zeal burnt intensely.
Nearer and sharper came the clink, and old Mildred in her anxiety walked on, sometimes five steps, sometimes twenty, to meet the rider.
It was Tom who appeared, mounted on the mule. I think he took Mildred for a ghost, for he pulled up violently more than twenty yards away, and said, “Lord! who’s that?”
“It’s me, Tom, Mrs. Tarnley; and is he comin’?”
“I hardly knowed you, Mrs. Tarnley. No, I met him up near the stone.”
“Not a coming?” urged Mildred.
“No.”
“Thank God. Well, and what did you tell him?”
“I told him your message. He first asked all about the young lady, and then I told him how she was, and then I told him your message——”
“Ay?”
“Word for word, and he drew bridle and stood awhile, thinkin’, and he wished to know whether the mistress had spoke with her—Mr. Harry’s friend, I mean—and I said I didn’t know; and he asked was the house quiet, and no high words going, nor the new comer giving any trouble, and I said no, so far as I knowed. Then, says he, I think, Tom, I had best let Master Harry settle it his own way, so I’ll ride back again to Darwynd, and you can come over to the old place for the horse to-morrow; and tell Mildred I thank her for her care of us, and she shall hear from me in a day or two, and tell no one else, mind, that you have seen me. Well, I asked was there anything more, and he paused a bit, and says he, no, not at present. And then again, says he, tell Mildred Tarnley I’ll write to her, and let her know where I am, and mind, Tom, you go yourself to the Post Office, and be sure the letters go only to the persons they are directed to, your mistress’s to her, and Mildred’s to her, and don’t you talk with that person that I hear has come to the Grange, and if by any chance she should get into talk with you, you must be wide awake, and tell her nothing, and get away from her as quick as you can. It’s easy to escape her, for she’s blind.”
“So she is,” affirmed Mildred, “as that wall. Go on.”
“‘Then,’ says he, ‘good-night, Tom, get ye home again.’ So I wished him God speed, and I rode away, and when I was on a bit I threw a look back again over my shoulder, and I saw him still in the same spot, no more stirring than the stone at the roadside, thinking, I do suppose.”
“And that’s all?” said Mildred.
“That’s all.”
“Bring in the beast very quiet, Tom, unless you leave him in the field for the night, and don’t be clappin’ o’ doors or ginglin’ o’ bridle bits. That one has an ear like a hare, and she’ll be askin’ questions; and when you’ve done in the stable come you in this way, and I’ll let you in softly, and don’t you be talkin’ within doors above a whisper. Your voice is rough, and her ear is as sharp as a needle’s point.”
Tom gave her a little nod and a great wink, and got off the mule, and led him on the grass toward the stable-yard, and old Mildred at the same time got in softly by the other entrance, and in the kitchen awaited the return of Tom.
She sat by the fire, troubled in mind, with her eyes turned askance on the windows. What a small thing is a human body, and what a gigantic moral sphere surrounds that little centre! That blind woman lay still as death, on a six-foot-long bedstead, in a remote chamber. But the direful circuit of that sphere which radiated thence enveloped old Mildred Tarnley, go where she would, and outspread even the bourn of the road which Charles Fairfield was to travel that night. For Mildred Tarnley, something of molestation and horror was in it, which forbid her to rest.
Tom came into the yard, and Mildred was at the door, and opened it before he could place his hand on the latch.
“Put off them big shoes, and not a word above your breath, and not a stir, but get ye in again to your bed as still as a mouse,” said Mrs. Tarnley in a hard whisper, giving him a shake of the shoulder.
“Ye’ll gi’e me a mug o’ beer, Mrs. Tarnley, and a lump o’ bread, and a cut o’ cheese wouldn’t hurt me; I’m a bit hungry. If you won’t I must even take a smoke, for I can’t sleep as I am.”
“Well, I will give ye a drink and a bit o’ bread and cheese. Did ye lock the yard-door?”
“No,” said Tom.
“Well, no, never you mind; I’ll do it,” said Mildred, stopping him, “and go you straight to your room, and here’s the lantern for you; and now get ye in, and not a sound, mind, you gi’e me your pipe here, for you shan’t be stinkin’ the house wi’ your nasty tobaccy.”
So Tom was got quick to his bed.
And Mildred sat down again by the kitchen fire, to rest for a little, feeling too tired to undress.
“Well, I do thank God of His mercy he’s not a comin’; I do. Who can tell what would be if he was? And now, if only Master Harry was sure to keep away all might go right—yes, all—all might go right. Oh, ho, ho! I wish it was, and my old head at rest, for I’m worked worse than a horse, and wore off my feet altogether.”
And all this time she was looking through the kitchen-window, with dismal eyes, from her clumsy oak chair by the fire, with her feet on the fender, and her lean shanks as close to the bars as was safe, shaking her head from time to time as she looked out on the black outlines of the trees which stood high and gloomy above the wall at the other side, against the liquid moonlit sky.
In spite of her troubles, as she sat by the fire, looking out through the window, fatigue overcame Mildred, and she nodded. But her brain being troubled, and her attitude uneasy, she awoke suddenly from a sinister dream, and as still unconscious where she was, her eyes opened upon the same melancholy foliage and moonlit sky and the dim enclosure of the yard, the scenery on which they had closed. She saw a pale face staring in upon her through the window. The fingers were tapping gently on the glass.
Old Mildred blinked and shook her head to get rid of what seemed to her a painful illusion.
It was Charles Fairfield who stood at the window, looking wild and miserably ill.
Mildred stood up, and he beckoned. She signed toward the door, which she went forthwith and opened.
“Come in, sir,” she said.
His saddle, by the stirrup-leather, and his bridle were in his hand. Thus he entered the kitchen, and dropped them on the tiled floor. She looked in his face, he looked in hers. There was a silence. It was not Mildred’s business to open the disagreeable subject.
“Would you please like anything?”
“No, no supper, thanks. Give me a drink of water, I’m thirsty. I’m tired, and—we’re quite to ourselves?”
“Yes, sir; but wouldn’t ye better have beer?” answered she.
“No—water—thanks.”
And he drank a deep draught.
“Where’s the horse, sir?” she asked after a glance at the saddle which lay on its side on the floor.
“In the field, the poplar field, all right—well?”
“Tom told you my message, sir?” she asked, averting her eyes a little.
“Yes—where is she—asleep?”
“The mistress is in her bed, asleep I do suppose.”
“Yes, yes, and quite well, Tom says. And where is the—the—you sent me word there was some one here. I know whom you mean. Where is she?”
“In the front bed-room—the old room—it will be over the hall-door, you know—she’s in bed, and asleep, I’m thinkin’; but best not make any stir—some folks sleep so light, ye know.”
“It’s late,” he said, taking out his watch, but forgetting to consult it, “and I dare say she is—she came to-night, yes—and she’s tired, or ought to be—a long way.”
He walked to the window, and was looking, with the instinct which leads us always, in dark places, to look toward the light, above the dusky trees to the thin luminous cloud that streaked the sky.
“Pretty well tired myself, Mr. Charles; you may guess the night I’ve put in; I was a’most sleepin’ myself when ye came to the window. Tom said ye weren’t a comin’; ’tis a mercy the yard door wasn’t locked; five minutes more and I’d have locked it.”
“It would not have mattered much, Mildred.”
“Ye’d a climbed, and pushed up the window, mayhap.”
“No; I’d have walked on; a feather would have turned me from the door as it was.”
He turned about and looked at her dreamily.
“On where?” she inquired.
“On, anywhere; on into the glen. If you are tired, Mildred, so am I.”
“You need a good sleep, Master Charles.”
“A long sleep, Mildred. I’m tired. I had a mind as it was to walk on and trouble you here no more.”
“Walk on—hoot! nonsense, Mr. Charles; ’tisn’t come to that; giving up your house to a one like her.”
“I wish I was dead, Mildred. I don’t know whether it was a good or an evil angel that turned me in here. I’d have been easier by this time if I had gone on, and had my leap from the scaur to the bottom of the glen.”
“None o’ that nonsense, man!” said Mildred, sternly; “ye ha’ brought that poor young lady into a doubtful pass, and ye must stand by her, Charles. You’re come of no cowardly stock, and ye sha’n’t gi’e her up, and your babe that’s comin’, poor little thing, to shame and want for lack of a man’s heart under your ribs. I say, I know nout o’ the rights of it; but God will judge ye if ye leave her now.”
High was Mrs. Tarnley’s head, and very grim she looked as with her hand on his shoulder she shook up “Master Charles” from the drowse of death.
“I won’t, old Tarnley,” he said at last. “You’re right—poor little Alice, the loving little thing!”
He turned suddenly again to the window and wept in silence strange tears of agony.
Old Tarnley looked at him sternly askance. I don’t think she had much pity for him, she was in nowise given to the melting mood, and hardly knew what that sort of whimpering meant.
“I say,” she broke out, “I don’t know the rights of it, how should I? but this I believe, if you thought you were truly married to that woman that’s come to-night, you’d never a found it in your heart to act such a villain’s part by the poor, young, foolish creature upstairs, and make a sham wife o’ her.”
“Never, never, by heaven. I’m no more that wretched woman’s husband than I’m married to you.”
“Mildred knew better than marry any one; there’s little I see but tears and wrinkles, and oftentimes rags and hunger comes of it; but ’twill be done, marryin’ and givin’ in marriage, says the Scriptures, ’tis so now, ’twas so when Noah went into the ark, and ’twill be so when the day of judgment breaks over us.”
“Yes,” said Charles Fairfield, abstractedly; “of course that miserable woman sticks at no assertion; her idea is simply to bully her way to her object. It doesn’t matter what she says, and it never surprised me. I always knew if she lived she’d give me trouble one day; but that’s all; just trouble, but no more; not the slightest chance of succeeding—not the smallest; she knows it; I know it. The only thing that vexes me is that people who know all about it as well as I do, and people who, of all others, should feel for me, and feel with me, should talk as if they had doubts upon the subject now.”
“I didn’t say so, Master Charles,” said Mildred.
“I didn’t mean you, I meant others, quite a different person; I’m utterly miserable; at a more unlucky moment all this could not have happened by any possibility.”
“Well, I’m sure I never said it; I never thought but one thing of her; the foul-tongued wicked beast.”
“Don’t you talk that way of her,” said Charles, savagely. “Whatever she is she has suffered, she has been cruelly used, and I am to blame for all. I did not mean it, but it is all my fault.”
Mrs. Tarnley sneered, but said nothing, and a silence followed.
“I know,” he said, in a changed way, “you mean kindly to me.”
“Be kind to yourself. I hold it’s the best way in this bleak world, Mr. Charles. I never was thanked for kindness yet.”
“You have always been true to me, Mildred, in your own way—in your own way, mind, but always true, and I’ll show you yet, if I’m spared, that I can be grateful. You know how I am now—no power to serve any one—no power to show my regard.”
“I don’t complain o’ nothing,” said Mildred.
“Has my brother been here, Mildred?” he asked.
“Not he.”
“No letters for me?” asked he.
“Nothing, sir.”
“You never get a lift when you want it—never,” said Charles, with a bitter groan; “never was a fellow driven harder to the wall—never a fellow nearer his wits’ ends. I’m very glad, Mildred, I have some one to talk to—one old friend. I don’t know what to do—I can’t make up my mind to anything, and if I hadn’t you just now, I think I should go distracted. I have a great deal to ask you. That lady, you say, has been in her room some time—did she talk loud—was she angry—was there any noise?”
“No, sir.”
“Who saw her?”
“No one but myself, and the man as drove her.”
“Thank God for that. Does she know about my—did she hear that your mistress is in the house?”
“I said she was Master Harry’s wife, and told her, Lord forgive me, that he was here continually, and you hardly ever, and then only for a few hours at a time.”
“That’s very good—she believed it?”
“Every word, so far as I could see. I a’ told a deal o’ lies.”
“Well, well, and what more?”
“And the beginning of sin is like the coming in of waters, and ’twill soon make an o’er wide gap for itself, and lay all under.”
“Yes—and—and—you really think she believed all you said?”
“Ay, I do,” answered she.
“Thank God, again!” said he, with a deep sigh. “Oh, Mildred, I wish I could think what’s best to be done. There are ever so many things in my head.”
She felt a trembling she thought in the hand he laid upon her arm.
“Take a drink o’ beer, you’re tired, sir,” said she.
“No, no—not much—never mind, I’m better as I am. How has your mistress been?”
“Well, midlin’—pretty well.”
“I wish she was quite well, Mildred—it’s very unlucky. If the poor little thing were only quite well, it would make everything easy; but I daren’t frighten her—I daren’t tell her—it might be her death. Oh, Mildred, isn’t all this terrible?”
“Bad enough—I can’t deny.”
“Would it be better to run that risk and tell her everything?” he said.
“Well, it is a risk, an’ a great one, and it might be the same as puttin’ a pistol to her head and killin’ her; ’tis a tryin’ time with her, poor child, and a dangerous bed, and mind ye this, if there’s any talk like that, and the crying and laughing fits mayhap that comes with it, don’t ye think but the old cat will hear it, and then in the wild talk a’s out in no time, and the fat in the fire; no, if she’s to hear it, it can’t be helped, and the will o’ God be done; but if I was her husband, I’d sooner die than tell her, being as she is.”
“No, of course, no—she must not be told; I’m sure you’re right, Mildred. I wish Harry was here, he thinks of things sometimes that don’t strike me. I wish Harry would come, he might think of something—he would, I dare say—he would, I’m certain.”
“I wish that woman was back again where she came from,” said Mildred, from whose mind the puce gros de Naples was fading, for she had a profound distrust of her veracity, and the pelisse looked very like a puce-coloured lie.
“Don’t, Mildred—don’t, like a good creature—you won’t for my sake, speak harshly of that unhappy person,” he said gently this time, and laying his hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad you are here, Mildred—I’m very glad; I remember you as long as I can remember anything—you were always kind to me, Mildred—always the same—true as steel.”
He was speaking with the friendliness of distress. It is in pain that sympathy grows precious, and with the yearning for it, returns something of the gentleness and affection of childhood.
“She’s come for no good,” said Mildred, “she’s sly, and she’s savage, and if you don’t mind me saying so, I often thought she was a bit mad—folk as has them fits, ye know, they does get sometimes queerish.”
“We can talk of her by-and-by,” said he; “what was in my mind was about a different thing. For a thousand reasons I should hate a fracas—I mean a row with that person at present; you know yourself how it might affect the poor little thing upstairs. Oh, my darling, my darling, what have I brought you into?”
“Well, well, no help for spilled milk,” said Mildred. “What was you a-thinking of?”
“Oh, yes, thank you, Mildred—I was thinking—yes—if your mistress was well enough for a journey, I’d take her away from this—I’d take her away immediately—I’d take her quite out of the reach of that—that restless person. I ought to have done so at once, but I was so miserably poor, and this place here to receive us, and who could have fancied she’d have dreamed, in her state of health, and with her affliction—her sight, you know—of coming down here again; but I’m the unluckiest fellow on earth; I never, by any chance, leave a blot that isn’t hit. Don’t you think, Mildred, I had better not wake your mistress to-night to talk over plans?”
“Don’t you go near her; a sight of your face would tell her all wasn’t right.”
“I had better not see her, you think?”
“Don’t see her. So soon as you know yourself what you’re going to do with her, and if you make up your mind to-night so much the better—write you to tell her what she’s to do, and give me the letter and I’ll give it to her as if it came by a messenger; and take you my counsel—don’t you stop here a minute longer than you can. Leave before daybreak, you’re no use here, and if she finds you ’twill but make bad worse. When will ye lie down—you’ll not be good for nothin’ to-morrow if ye don’t sleep a bit—lie down on the sofa in the parlour, and your cloak is hangin’ in the passage, and be you out o’ the house by daybreak, and I’ll have a bit o’ breakfast ready before ye go.”
“And there’s Lady Wyndale, I didn’t tell you, offered to take care of Alice, your mistress, and she need only go there for the present; but that might be too near, and I was thinking it might not do.”
“Best out o’ reach altogether when ye go about it,” said Mildred. “Sit here if you like it, or lie down, as I said, in the parlour, and if you settle your mind on any plan just knock at my door, and I’ll have my clothes about me and be ready at call, and Tom’s in his old crib under the stair, if you want him to get the saddle on the horse, and I won’t take down the fire, I’ll have it handy for your breakfast, and now I can’t stop talkin’ no longer, for Mildred’s wore off her feet—will ye take a candle, or will ye stop here?”
“Yes, give me a candle, Mildred—thanks—and don’t mind the cloak, I’ll get it myself, I will lie down a little, and try to sleep—I wish I could—and if you waken shake me up in an hour or two, something must be settled before I leave this, something shall be settled, and that poor little creature out of reach of trouble and insult. Don’t forget. Good-night, Mildred, and God bless you, Mildred, God for ever bless you.”
Charles Fairfield talked of sleeping. There was little chance of that. He placed the candle on one of the two old oak cupboards, as they were still called, which occupied corresponding niches in the wainscoted wall, opposite the fireplace, and he threw himself at his length on the sofa.
Tired enough for sleep he was; but who can stop the mill of anxious thought into which imagination pours continually its proper grist? In his tired head its wheels went turning, and its hammers beat with monotonous pulsation and whirl—weariest and most wasting of fevers!
He turned his face, like the men of old, in his anguish, to the wall. Then he tried the other side, wide awake, and literally staring, from point to point, in the fear and fatigue of his vain ruminations. Then up he sat, and flung his cloak on the floor, and then to the window he went, and, opening the shutter, looked out on the moonlight, and the peaceful trees that seemed bowed in slumber, and stood, hardly seeing it—hardly thinking in his confused misery.
One hand in his pocket, the other against the window-case, to which the stalworth good fellow, Harry, had leaned his shoulder in their unpleasant dialogue and altercation. Harry, his chief stay, his confidant and brother—dare he trust him now? If he might, where could he find him? Better do his own work—better do it indifferently than run a risk of treason. He did not quite know what to make of Harry.
So with desultory resolution he said to himself, “Now I’ll think in earnest, for I’ve got but two hours to decide in.” There was a pretty little German village, quite out of the ordinary route of tourists. He remembered its rocks and hills, its ruined castle and forest scenery, as if he had seen them but yesterday—the very place for Alice, with her simple tastes and real enjoyment of nature. On that point, though under present circumstances by short journeys, they should effect their retreat.
In three hours’ time he would himself leave the Grange. In the meantime he must define his plans exactly. He must write to Harry—he must write to Alice, for he was quite clear he would not see her; and, after all, he might have been making a great deal too much of this odious affair, which, rightly managed, might easily end in smoke.
Pen, ink, and paper he found, and now to clear his head and fix his attention. Luckily he had a hundred pounds in his pocket-book. Too hard that out of his miserable pittance, scarcely five hundred pounds a year, he should have to pay two hundred pounds to that woman, who never gave him an easy week, and who seemed bent on ruining him if she could. By the dull light of the mutton-fat with which Mildred had furnished him he wrote this note—