“Come out, Miss Perdita, please, till I show you one of our castles; and if old Martha hears you whistling on Sunday; I don’t know what may happen. I know I dare not do it.”
She blushed, she laughed, and she ran out.
“You were very good to come, and make no favor of it,” said William, speaking low.
“It is none, sir. It may lie in my power yet to serve you, and if it should, I will.”
“I’m sure you would — though I don’t deserve it. I call you Miss Perdita, because I don’t know your name, and you won’t tell it; and I should consider that a favor, for instance, if you would.”
“Any name you please, sir. Names are nothing.”
“We go by this path. You see the ruin, quite close to us. We lived there once, before this house was built. But why won’t you tell me your name? — ain’t that very unkind?”
“‘Twould be no kindness to tell it, sir; my name’s no consequence.”
“If you knew me better, perhaps you would tell it?”
“Yes, sir — if I knew you better.”
“And liked me better?”
“I’m of no consequence, sir; I shan’t be here long,” she said, very gravely. “I should not like my name mentioned. If some people could find out where I was, they would hurt me, I think; and please, sir, don’t ask me.”
He walked on a few steps in silence, looking down at the grass near his feet — disappointed. After a while, said William, raising his eyes, and looking about him:
“There is one place that I have been at, that is wonderfully like this; and oh! I wish I knew everything that has ever happened there.”
Rather a crazy speech was this, but he looked serious enough. He was thinking of the paragraph about the fugitive nun in the Beacon of Northumbria, which had begun to trouble him.
“It is a place on the borders of Lancashire and Yorkshire; it is very like this — only it has a nunnery, but that is in a hollow, and shows very little; and there is a ruined castle there — so like this — with just the same kind of trees about it; it is called Fothergang, and I think you have been there, not very long ago; I’m nearly sure — and — will you tell me?”
It was not mere curiosity that urged this question. It was an entreaty rather than a question, and urged with an earnestness that was pathetic.
The girl looked at him darkly with a side-glance for a second, and dropped her eyes, and then looked, in silence, at the walls of the old castle; and then, with a fearless look at William, dismissing her momentary embarrassment, and with a little tone of defiance in what she said, she answered:
“Yes, sir, I have seen that place; I suppose you have been told so. I’ve been at Fothergang lately; and now you may tell the people that’s looking for me, if ye like.”
She turned away slowly, pale, and with a faint smile in which he saw pain and scorn.
“Tell those people!” he repeated. “Why, I’d die to protect you! How can you — how could you — say anything so cruel? Not to living creature but yourself should I for worlds say anything that could endanger you!”
“I was vexed. I don’t think, maybe, all I said; and I won’t talk of Fothergang another word.”
“Nor I,” said the Squire,’ “nor ask a question.”
A considerable silence intervened before he resumed his office of cicerone.
“From this little knoll it looks very well. I don’t know why they did not go on living there; it was a much finer building than the house. The house was built just 180 years ago, and we have been growing poorer and poorer ever since. It was not lucky, you see. There used to be fighting here long ago, in these northern counties — very different from our times. We had seven castles; that is half as many as the Howards had,” said William.
“One house is enough for a family — and too much often,” she said, quietly.
“You mean where there is not money to keep it,” said William with a shrug and a laugh.
“You say you’re poor, sir, but you’ve been very kind; would not it be vile in me to laugh at your poverty? You’ll not think so of me.” She looked beautifully proud, and her fiery black eyes turned on him for a moment. “I would not let any one make little of you, sir.”
I don’t know that William Haworth had ever felt so gratified before. He was silent for a little time — he was so happy and proud.
He did not acknowledge it; he went on speaking of the ruined towers before them. He was looking at her, and had never seen, he thought, anything so beautiful. William Haworth, you never were in so great danger before! He was growing, without half knowing it, to love her.
“Come as far as that door; through it you can see a great deal.”
They stood side by side, and she looked into the chiaroscuro of the old chamber; and on its great stone angle, on which was seen the chiselling of seven hundred years before, she leaned her hand, an image of perishable youth and grace.
“You never saw a place like that before, did you?” said William.
“Oh yes, sir; we were once close to one very like this. I used to be in it every day, running up and down a curlikew stair like that, and running along the wall at top; I was always very nimble.”
So William told his story, and pointed out all that was worth seeing; and, leaning on the side of the doorway, he looked at her and sighed.
“I like you better every hour; it is hard you don’t like me better!” and with this odd and sad speech he was silent. Then he said:
“I tell you what — I’ll set this down in my mind. Whenever you tell me your name, it will be a sign that you trust me more, and like me better; and I won’t ask — you shall do it of yourself. But I’ll tell you mine. My name is Willie, and you must call me by it, and never ‘Sir’ any more.”
“I’m only a poor girl, sir; I could not do that.”
“You will — I entreat!”
“No, sir. My people — we keep separate — they like that best. I’ll take no such freedom, sir; I’m only a poor girl.”
“No, you’re not poor. You’re the wealthiest girl in England, in the true wealth of beauty, and grace, and mind; and the finest lady that ever I saw or could imagine!”
“I did not think you could talk so foolish, sir,” said the girl, turning her head toward home, with a pained look.
“Is it foolish ever to speak the truth?” said he, impetuously.
“I’m going home, sir, to the house; the old lady will be expecting me. There was a thing I was going to tell you — a question to ask — but that don’t matter.”
“But it does matter; I implore of you to tell me!”
“No, sir. I don’t like that wild talk you’re so fond of — it’s making little of me.”
“It was, perhaps, very wrong,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “I’ll be quite different, you’ll see. You must forgive me. You don’t think — you couldn’t — that I ever forgot the respect I owe you?”
“No, I don’t think that; but I don’t like it, sir, nohow; and can’t we talk quiet, like other folk?”
“Well — well, can I do more than promise? I won’t; I’ll speak just as you please. I’ll keep my word, upon my honor!”
“Well, sir, I’ll tell you.”
CHAPTER X.
THE TWO PURSUERS.
“IT is only this, sir,” said the girl. “A friend has warned me, that two men, who bear me an ill-will, are coming to the Fair of Willarden on Tuesday, and that they believe I am somewhere about this part of the country, and think to meet with me there. So, sir, I’ll leave this place early in the morning, before night; and I know the road they’re coming, and I can be sure, by making a round, to keep clear of them — and get safe, I hope, to my own friends. And I’m very grateful, sir, for your kindness. You’ve been good to me — may God bless you!”
“Oh, no! you’re not to think of going yet How can you like to torture me so? What is old Martha to do without you? Don’t you feel safe where you are? You say I’ve been kind. I know it is not in
my power to show the kindness I feel — it is the curse of being so poor; but surely you won’t be so cruel as to go, on this short notice. It is the one favor I ask, that you don’t leave us for a few days — a week. These fellows will soon have left this part of the world; but in the meantime, how can you, or any one, tell where they may be prowling? And — and — I entreat you’ll not think of it.”
There was no mistaking the genuineness of his entreaty.
“Well, sir, it is a good chance to get clear away, but I won’t go for a few days. You ought not to tell me to stay. If I do, I can’t go till I learn what way they travel after the fair, and that could not be till Wednesday. I’ve been here too long — I have indeed, sir; it is best to go.”
“You are not to go. You consented to stay. I have your promise, and you must keep it.”
The girl looked in his face, and laughed low, and not unkindly.
“I like this place,” she said. “I like Mrs. Martha: you’re all good to me. I like Haworth, for a while, but I couldn’t stay long — no, no, I couldn’t.”
“Well, that can’t be helped, when the time comes; but you must stay a week, and then good-by. We’ll not think of it till the time comes; and then, if fate will have it so, farewell, our pleasant friend.” They walked side by side, a little way, in silence.
“Tell me,” he said, “if I should chance to meet those fellows, that I may know them and give you warning: what are they like, and what are their names?”
“There’s two, sir. They are very bad fellows. The old fellow is of middle height, but very broad in the shoulders, and awful strong — with a very brown face, and a flat nose, and very long black hair, and with always a stick in his hand — and he goes by the name of Cowper. The young man is tall and light-built, and he goes by the name of Lussha Sinfield. He wears a short coat, and he has a colored kerchief about his neck, red-and green, commonly. He has now got two horses to sell; one is chestnut, and the other, taller by a hand or more, is an iron-gray hunter. He rides very well; he’ll be putting the horse over jumps, to show him off, and he’s quick to quarrel, and bloody-minded; and he never forgets a wry word, or an ill-turn — he’s sure to pay you off some day; and he’s very strong, and awful good at the cudgel. He got three months in jail, they say, for killing a man, with a rap across the temple, in Lincoln. It was a fair fight, though, and that saved him. He has a cudgel in his hand commonly, and if he should get into a quarrel without one, the old man is sure to be nigh, and lends him his. And the old fellow will be going to and fro in the fair, you’d suppose he had nothing to do, but he’s after his own business for all that; and if you should see them anywhere near here, I’d like well you’d tell me, for there’s not two blacker-hearted men in England, or that wishes any creature worse than they do to me.”
“If I can help it they shan’t vex you. Why do you look so troubled? While you stay here it is impossible — the miscreants! — you are as safe as if you were in the Queen’s palace. But tell me how it happens that these men should hate and pursue you — so young, and, if it were no tiling else, so powerless, as you are, to harm them?”
“I despised them, sir; and I said they were thieves and worse, and they never forgive anything or any one; and they are cunning, sir, not easy to match them. If I was with my people, sir, I would not care, but it is a long way still. Those fellows would come here in a minute, if they thought they might find me, pretending to sell their horses — and there’s my danger.”
“But they are to be at the fair on Tuesday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And do you know what road they are coming?”
“Up, sir, from the south.”
“Well, this lies quite out of their way — to the left, don’t you see? You are quite safe here, for the present, and I think I shall hear something about their movements. I shall learn all about them, and have them properly watched; and mind, you have promised to stay quietly here, a little longer — for a week, at least.”
“I say again, God bless you, sir! Now I’ll go in, sir, please; Mrs. Gillyflower will be wondering where I am.”
“In a moment — only one word. I thought you had been in a convent, and had made your escape — that, I daresay, is all a mistake; but — will you forgive me? — your accent, your way of speaking, makes me think you have been with foreigners, and your appearance is foreign; and only one question — if it is impertinent, say so — but do any of your people live in Spain?”
“Yes, sir; when we were staying for awhile at a place called Church Sterndale, in Derbyshire, we met a man there; he was in trouble, but he had seen them there, and told us a deal about them. And I didn’t much mind; I was a young thing then — just a fool of a child, sprawlin’ on the grass, and stringin’ daisies, and blowin’ the clock-flower to see what hour it was; and I listened in a way, for it seemed to me like a story of king and queen, and the woods and the fairies. But that’s all, and ask me no more about my people, nor where I came from, nor where I am going to. I must hold my tongue, and if you would have me speak, I can’t — that’s all — I can’t, and I must only go.”
“Did not I say that you were to answer nothing but what you pleased? And on this express condition I am going to venture one more question — very trifling — only about a toy, a little string of beads, with, I think, a cross to the end of it. It ain’t a necklace, is it? I saw it quite accidentally — will you tell me what it is?”
“No, I’ll not tell that — nor nothing; I’ll hold my tongue about myself, sir, please,” she said, with a look of unmixed disdain, and a sudden flash from her splendid eyes. “If you thought ’twas a toy, sir, you’d never have asked. I know what you think — and so you may; but no one will pick out from me more than I choose to tell, and no gentleman will try.”
“Well, I did think it something more. I was wrong to ask. Won’t you make it up? I did wrong.”
“I was wrong too, sir, to speak so quick to you, that has been so good to me. I’m sorry, sir.
“You’ll give me your hand; it is all forgiven then, is not it?”
She did give him her hand, with a sigh. Grief is everywhere, like the air about us, though we don’t see it; and pain is coursing through its allotted channels, like the blood, though it throbs concealed!
CHAPTER XI.
LOST AND FOUND.
THAT night William smoked his pipe into the chimney, as usual. The girl, for a wonder, seemed out of spirits. William talked, but only old Martha answered; and when the time came, he wished all “Good night,” and went away to his study. The guest bid her “Good night” also, and departed to her room; and Martha Gillyflower, being now alone, made some final arrangements in the kitchen, and in a little time, according to her careful custom, knocked at the stranger’s door, purposing to go in and take away her candle.
No answer was returned.
“Just her head under her wing, and asleep wi’ her, like a bird,” said the old woman. But when she went in the girl was nowhere to be seen. The candle was there, but nothing was disturbed or missing except the small bag of scarlet cloth, and the things she had in it when she arrived. Her dark-gray cloak, too, had disappeared from the peg on which it hung beside the door.
“There it is!” said Mrs. Gillyflower, energetically. “See how she serves one! Why, it can’t be! There’s the bed turned down as I saw it an hour ago. Not a hand to it since — nothing stirred in the room but her cloak and the little red bag. Only her candle’s here. I’d say there wasn’t a soul in the room but myself tonight. And there’s her things gone, and her cloak; and — it may be she’s gone to Mall’s room to talk a bit; but I don’t think it — I don’t.
She hurried away, being, nevertheless, strongly of that opinion.
“Get up, Mall, and help me to look. The lass is gone! Sweetbrier’s goner as sure as you’re there! Get up, and don’t be ogglin’ there like a nofflin’; there’s Sweetbrier gane awa’, and tale or tidings o’ her nowhere.”
“Agoy!” exclaimed the las
s, blinking and staring in wonder, just emerging from her deep first sleep.
“Come — will ye! Huddle yer things on, and come wi’ me this minute.”
Mall’s simple equipment was not long in completing.
“Now, ye look under the bedstocks — I can’t stoop so. Well, is she?”
“Na, neyâwheere,” answered the girl. “She’s outen — she’s awa’, I’m feared.”
“Nane o’ yer proas, child, but stir and look about ye. She was ever sa keen, but I doubt she is gane, she’d be awa’ like that Stir, lass — twill be a dull house without her.”
They were looking irresolutely about the room, as they stood with their backs to the bedstead; and there came from above, on Mrs. Gillyflower’s head, a tap with a little naked foot.
“Well, child?” said she, sharply, to Mall.
“Yes, ‘m,” answered Mall.
“Well? Is there aught? Is there nout to show or point to? WeH, will ye mind how ye’re turnin’ and knockin’ yersel’ about?”
“Yes, ‘m,” answered Mall “Ye searched the press, then — so did I, and now ye see— “
Here was another little tap of the same tiny foot “Stop that pushin’, ye fool!” said old Martha.
“Yes, ‘m,” said Mall, removing a little from her side.
“And noo ye see what gratitude is! She’s let herself out by the scullery-door, and she’s gane. She’s tae’n hersel’ awa’ without as much as ‘fares-ta-weel,’ the fause lass! We’ll just gang and see what way she went out, and then I’ll to your master in the study, and tell him a’ — and I could sit down here and greet!”
Mall looked on the point of “blubberin’,” as she termed it, also. At the same moment the same little foot was laid lightly on the shoulder of Mrs. Gillyflower, who had now turned towards the door.
“Tak yer hand aff my shooder — what’s the matter wi’ ye?” said the housekeeper, with a proper sense of the liberty — at the same time placing her own hand peremptorily, as she supposed, on Mall’s.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 769