“Ho! oh, Mildred Tarnley, I was thinking — I was thinking — did you speak?”
Mildred looked at her, not knowing what to make of it. Too much laudanum — was it? or that nervous pain in her head.
“I only asked you how you were, ma’am — you looked so bad. I thought you was just going to work in a fit.”
“What an old fool! I never was better in my life — fit! I never had a fit — not I.”
“You used to have ‘em sometimes, long ago, ma’am, and they came in the snap of a finger, like,” said Mildred, sturdily.
“Clear your head of those fits, for they have left me long ago. I’m well, I tell you — never was better. You’re old — you’re old, woman, and that which has made you so pious is also making you blind.”
“Well, you look a deal better now — you do,” said Mildred, who did not want to have a corpse or an epileptic suddenly on her hands, and was much relieved by the signs of returning vivacity and colour.
“Tarnley, you’ve been a faithful creature and true to me; I hope I may live to reward you,” said the lady, extending her hand vaguely towards the old servant.
“I’m true to them as gives me bread, and ever was, and that’s old Mildred Tarnley’s truth. If she eats their bread, she’ll maintain their right, and that’s only honest — that’s reason, ma’am.”
“I have no right to cry no; I cry excellent, good, good, very good, for as you are my husband’s servant, I have all the benefit of your admirable fidelity. Boo! I am so grateful, and one day or other, old girl, I’ll reward you — and very good tea, and every care of me. I will tell Mr. Vairvield when he comes how good you have been — and, tell me, how is the fire, and the bed, and the bedroom — all quite comfortable?”
“Comfortable, quite, I hope, ma’am.”
“Do I look quite well now?”
“Yes’m, pure and hearty. It was only just a turn.”
“Yes, just so, perhaps, although I never felt it, and I could dance now only for — fifty things, so I won’t mind.” She laughed. “I’m sleepy, and I’m not sleepy; and I love you, old Mildred Tarnley, and you’ll tell me some more about Master Harry and his wife when we get upstairs. Who’d have thought that wild fellow would ever tie himself to a wife? Who’d have fancied that clever young man that loves making money so well, would have chosen out a wife without a florin to her fortune? Everything is so surprising. Come, let’s have a laugh, you and me together.”
“My laughing days is over, ma’am — not that I see much to laugh at for any one, and many a thing I thought a laughing matter when I was young seems o’erlike a crying matter now I’m grown old,” said old Mildred, and snuffed the kitchen candle with her fingers.
“Well, give me your arm, Mildred; there’s a good old thing — yes.”
And up she got her long length. Mildred took the candle and took the tall lady gently by the wrist. The guest, however, placed her great hand upon Mildred’s shoulder, and thus they proceeded through the passages. Leaving the back stair that led to Alice’s room, at the right, they mounted the great staircase and reached a comfortably warm room with a fire flickering on the hearth, for the air was sharp. In other respects the apartment had not very much to boast.
“There’s fire here, I feel it; place my chair near it. The bed in the old place?” said the tall woman, coming to a halt.
“Yes’m. Little change here, ever, I warrant ye, only the room’s bin new papered,” answered Mildred.
“New papered, has it? Well, I’ll sit down — thanks — and I’ll get to my bed, just now.”
“Shall I assist ye, ma’am?”
“By-and-by, thanks; but not till I have eaten a bit. I have grown hungry, what your master calls peckish. What do you advise?”
“I would advise your eating something,” replied Mildred.
“But what?”
“There’s very little; there’s eggs quite new, there’s a bit o’ bacon, and there’s about half a cold chicken — roast, and there’s a corner o’ Chedder cheese, and there’s butter, and there’s bread— ‘taint much,” answered Mrs. Tarnley, glibly.
“The chicken will do very nicely, and don’t forget bread and salt, Mrs. Tarnley, and a glass of beer.”
“Yes’m.”
Mrs. Tarnley poked the fire and looked about her, and then took the only candle, marched boldly off with it, shutting the door.
Toward the door the lady turned her face and listened. She heard old Mildred’s step receding.
This tall woman was not pleasant to look at. Her large features were pitted with the smallpox and deadly pale with the pallor of anger, and an unpleasant smile lighted up the whiteness of her face.
“Patience, patience,” she repeated, “what a d —— d trick! no matter, wait a little.”
She did wait a little in silence, screwing her lips and knitting her brows, and then a new resource struck her, and she groped in her bag and drew forth a bottle, which she applied to her lips more than once, and seemed better. It was no febrifuge nor opiate; but though the flicker of the fire showed no flush on her pallid features, the odour declared it brandy.
CHAPTER V.
THE BELL RINGS.
“Will that beast never go to bed — even there, I mind, she used to sleep with an eye open and an ear cocked — and nowhere safe from her never — here and there, up and down, without a stir or a breath, like a ghost or a devil?” — thought Mrs. Tarnley. “Thank God, she’s blind now, that will quiet her.”
Mildred was afraid of that woman. It was not only that she was cold and hard, but she was so awfully violent and wicked.
“Satan’s her name. Lord help us, in what hell did he pick her up?” Mildred would say to herself, in old times, as with the important fury of fear, she used to knock about the kitchen utensils, and deal violently with every chair, table, spoon, or “cannikin” that came in her way.
The woman had fits, and bad fits too, in old times, when she knew her well.
“And she drank like a fish cogniac neat — and she was alive still, and millions of people, younger and better, that never had a fit, and kept their bodies in soberness and temperance, was gone dead and buried since; and that drunken, shattered, battered creature, wi’ her fallin’ sickness and her sins and her years, was here alive and strong to plague and frighten better folk. Well, she’s ‘ad smallpox, thank God, and well mauled she is, and them spyin’, glarin’ eyes o’ hers, the wild beast.”
By this time Mrs. Tarnley was again in the kitchen. She did not take down the fire yet. She did not know, for certain, whether Charles Fairfield might not arrive. The London mail that passed by the town of Darwynd, beyond Cressley Common, came later than that divergent stage coach that changed on the line of road that passes the Pied Horse.
What a situation it would have been if Charles Fairfield and the Vrau had found themselves vis-à-vis as inside passengers in the coach that night. Would the matter have been much mended if the Dutch woman had loitered long enough in the kitchen for Charles to step in and surprise her? It was a thought that occurred more than once to Mildred with a qualm of panic. But she was afraid to hasten the stranger’s departure to her room, for that lady’s mind swarmed with suspicion which a stir would set in motion.
“The Lord gave us dominion over the beast o’ the field, Parson Winyard said in his sermon last Sunday; but we ain’t allowed to kill nor hurt, but for food or for defence; and good old Parson Buckles, that was as good as two of he, said, I mind, the very same words. I often thought o’ them of late — merciful to them brutes, for they was made by the one Creator as made ourselves. So the merciful man is merciful to his beast — will ye?”
Mrs. Tarnley interrupted herself sharply, dealing on the lean ribs of the cat, who had got its head into a saucepan, a thump with a wooden spoon, which emitted a hollow sound and doubled the thief into a curve.
“Merciful, of course, except when they’re arter mischief; but them that’s noxious, and hurtful, and dangerous, we’re fr
ee to kill; and where’s the beast so dangerous as a real bad man or woman? God forbid I should do wrong. I’m an old woman, nigh-hand the grave, and murder’s murder! — I do suppose and allow that’s it. Thou shalt do no murder. No more I would — no, not if an angel said do it; no, I wouldn’t for untold goold. But I often wondered why if ye may, wi’ a good conscience, knock a snake on the head wi’ a stone, and chop a shovel down smack on a toad, ye should stay your hand, and let a devil incarnate go her murdering way through the world, blastin’ that one wi’ lies, robbin’ this one wi’ craft, and murderin’ t’other, if it make for her interest, wi’ poison or perjury. Lord help my poor head, and forgive me if it be sin, but I can find neither right nor reason in that, nor see, nohow, why she shouldn’t be killed offhand like a rat or a sarpent.”
At this point the bell rang loud and sudden, and Mrs. Tarnley bounced and blessed herself. There was no great difficulty in settling from what quarter the summons came, for, except the hall door bell, which was a deep-toned sonorous one, there was but one in the house in ringing order, and that was of the bedroom where her young mistress lay.
“Well, here’s a go! Who’d a’ thought o’ her awake at these hours, and out o’ her bed, and a pluckin’ at her bell. I doubt it is her. The like was never before. ’Tis enough to frighten a body. The Lord help us.”
Mrs. Tarnley stood straight as a grenadier on drill with her back to the fire, the poker with which, during her homily, she had been raking the bars, still in her hand.
“This night’ll be the death o’ me. Everything’s gone cross and contrary. Here’s that young silly lass awake and out o’ her bed, that never had an eye open at these hours, since she came to the Grange, before; and there’s that other one in the state-room, not that far from her, as wide awake as she; and here’s Master Charles a comin’, mayhap, this minute wi’ his drummin’ and bellin’ at the hall door. ’Tis enough to make a body swear; ‘t has given me the narves and the tremblins, and I don’t know how it’s to end.”
And Mrs. Tarnley unconsciously shouldered her poker as if awaiting the assault of burglars, and vaguely thought if Charles arrived as she had described, what power on earth could keep the peace?
Again the bell rang.
“Well, there’s patience for ye!”
She halted at the kitchen door, with the candle in her hand, listening, with a stern, frightened face. She was thinking whether Alice might not have been frightened by some fantastic terror in her room.
“She has that old fat fool, Dulcibella Crane, only a room off — why don’t she call up her?”
But Mrs. Tarnley at length did go on, and up the stairs, and heard Alice’s voice call along the passage, in a loud tone, —
“Mrs. Tarnley! is that you, Mrs. Tarnley?”
“Me, ma’am? Yes’m. I thought I heard your bell ring, and I had scant time to hustle my clothes on. Is there anything uncommon a-happenin’, ma’am, or what’s expected just now from an old woman like me?”
“Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, I beg your pardon, I’m so sorry, and I would not disturb you, only that I heard a noise, and I thought Mr. Charles might have arrived.”
“No, ma’am, he’s not come, nor no sign o’ him. You told me, ma’am, his letter said there was but small chance o’t.”
“So I did, Mildred — so it did. Still a chance — just a chance — and I thought, perhaps — — “
“There’s no perhaps in it, ma’am; he baint come.”
“Dulcibella tells me she thought some time ago she heard some one arrive.”
“So she did, mayhap, for there did come a message for Master Harry from the farmer beyond Gryce’s mill; but he went his way again.”
Mildred was fibbing with a fluency that almost surprised herself.
“I dessay you’ve done wi’ me now, ma’am?” said Mildred. “Lugged out o’ my bed, ma’am, at these hours — my achin’ old bones— ‘taint what I’m used to, asking your pardon for making so free.”
“I’m really very sorry — you won’t be vexed with me. Good night, Mildred.”
“Your servant, ma’am.”
And Mrs. Tarnley withdrew from the door where Alice stood before her with her dressing-gown about her shoulders, looking so pale and deprecatory and anxious, that I wonder even Mildred Tarnley did not pity her.
“I’m tellin’ lies enough to break a bridge, and me that’s vowed against lying so stiff and strong over again only Monday last.”
She shook her head slowly, and with a sudden qualm of conscience.
“Well, in for a penny in for a pound. It’s only for tonight; mayhap, and I can’t help it, and if that old witch was once over the door-stone I’d speak truth the rest o’ my days, as I ha’ done, by the grace o’ God, for more than a month, and here’s a nice merry-go-round for my poor old head. Who’s to keep all straight and smooth wi’ them that’s in the house, and, mayhap comin’? And that ghost upstairs, — she’ll be gropin’ and screechin’ through the house, and then there’ll be the devil to pay wi’ her and the poor lass up there — if I don’t gi’e her her supper quick. Come, bustle, bustle, be alive,” she muttered, as this thought struck her with new force; and so to the little “safe” which served that miniature household for larder she repaired. Plates clattered, and knives and forks, and the dishes in the safe slid forth, and how near she was forgetting the salt! and “the bread, all right,” so here was a tray very comfortably furnished, and setting the candlestick upon it also, she contemplated the supper, with a fierce sneer, and a wag of her head.
“How sick and weak we be! Tea and toast and eggs down here, and this little bit in her bedroom — heaven bless her — la’ love it, poor little darling, don’t I hope it may do her good? — I wish the first mouthful may choke her — keeping me on the trot to these hours, old beast.”
Passing the stairs, Mrs. Tarnley crept softly, and took pains to prevent her burden from rattling on the tray, while there rose in her brain the furious reflection, —
“Pretty rubbish that I should be this way among ‘em!”
And she would have liked to dash the tray on the floor at the foot of the stairs, and to leave the startled inhabitants to their own courses.
This, of course, was but an emotion. The old woman completed her long march cautiously, and knocked at the Vrau’s door.
“Come in, dear,’ said the inmate, and Mildred Tarnley, with her tray in her hands, marched into the room, and looked round peevishly for a table to set it down on.
“You’ll find all as you said, ‘m,” said old Tarnley. “Shall I set it before you, or will you move this way, please ‘m?”
“Before me, dear.”
So Mildred carried the table and supper over, and placed it before the lady, who sat up and said, —
“Good Mildred, how good you are; give me now the knife and fork, in my fingers, and put some salt just there. Very good. How good of you to take so much trouble for poor me, you kind old Mildred?”
How wondrous sweet she had grown in a minute. The old servant, who knew her, was not conciliated, but disgusted, and looked hard at the benevolent lady, wondering what could be in her mind.
“If everything’s right, I’ll wish you good night, ‘m, and I’ll go down to my bed, ma’am, please.”
“Wait a while with me. Do, there’s a good soul. I’ll not detain you long, you dear old lass.”
“Well, ma’am, I must go down and take down the fire, and shut-to the door, or the rats will be in from the scullery; and I’ll come up again, ma’am, in a few minutes.”
And not waiting for permission, Mildred Tarnley, who had an anxiety of another sort in her head, took the candle in her hand and left the guest at her supper by the light of the fire.
She shut the door quickly lest her departure should be countermanded, and trotted away and downstairs, but not to the kitchen.
CHAPTER VI.
TOM IS ORDERED UP.
When she reached the foot of the stairs that leads to the gallery on which t
he room occupied by Alice opens, instead of pursuing her way to the kitchen she turned into a narrow and dark passage that is hemmed in on the side opposite to the wall by the ascending staircase.
The shadows of the banisters on the panelled oak flew after one another in sudden chase as the old woman glided by, and looking up and back she stopped at the door of a small room, constructed as we see in similar old houses, under the stairs. On the panel of this she struck a muffled summons with her fist, and on the third or fourth the startled voice of Tom demanded roughly from within, —
“What’s that?”
“Hish!” said the old woman, through a bit of the open door.
“’Tis Mrs. Tarnley — only me.”
“Lauk, woman, ye did take a rise out o’ me. I thought ye was — I don’t know what — I was a dreaming, I think.”
“Never mind, you must be awake for an hour or so,” said Mrs. Tarnley, entering the den without more ceremony.
Tom didn’t mind Mrs. Tarnley, nor Mrs. Tarnley Tom, a rush. She set the candle on the tiled floor. Tom was sitting in his shirt on the side of his “settlebed,” with his hands on his knees.
“Ye must get on your things, Tom, and if ever you stirred yourself, be alive now. The master’s a comin’, and may be here, across Cressley Common in half an hour, or might be in five minutes, and ye must go out a bit and meet him, and — are ye awake?”
“Starin’. Go on.”
“Ye’ll tell him just this, the big woman as lives at Hoxton — — “
“Hoxton! Well?”
“That Master Harry has all the trouble wi’, has come here, angry, in search of Master Harry, mind, and is in the bedroom over the hall-door. Will ye mind all that now?”
“Ay,” said Tom, and repeated it.
“Well, he’ll know better whether it’s best for him to come on or turn back. But if come on he will, let him come in at the kitchen door, mind, and you go that way, too, and he’ll find neither bolt nor bar, but open doors, and nothing but the latch between him and the kitchen, and me sitting by the fire; but don’t you clap a door, nor tread heavy, but remember there’s a sharp pair of ears that ‘id hear a cricket through the three walls o’ Carwell Grange.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 496