Still She Wished for Company

by Margaret Irwin

  “I think I am certain. But—could it perhaps have been a girl dressed as a boy?”

  A thrill of terror as exquisite as joy ran through her, and she clasped her hands together. “ Lucian! Lucy Clare fled England disguised as a page! Could it have been her ghost?”

  She fully expected him to laugh at her. But he replied quite gravely that a page’s dress in James I’s time included the full trunk hose and wide-sleeved doublet, whereas the figure in Juliana’s sketch apparently wore a long, loose-skirted coat to below the knees, not unlike those their father had worn as a boy, about forty years or so before.

  “But I know it was a girl,” said Juliana, “though indeed she had an odd, boyish air. She looked so—so free, I think it was. Her eyes——” She stopped in the difficulty of telling clearly her brief impression, but Lucian, leaning forward on the wall, was looking at her with a new and extraordinary interest.

  “Yes?” he said, “tell me, quickly. Her eyes, what were they like?”

  “Wide-open,” said Juliana. “She looked as though she were surprised to see me. But I was going to say when I began, that they looked so—I don’t mean so ’ brave ’—no, fearless, that was it.”

  “Ah,” said Lucian, “Light or dark?”

  “Neither, I think. They were very clear.”

  “That clear golden-brown,” he said softly.

  “Yes,” said Juliana, “a peculiar colour.” She turned suddenly on him. “But you, brother, how did you know their colour? I did not say it.”

  “No?” he said. “Perhaps I guessed.” Shall I guess a little further? Were the lips just parted, not in vacancy, but a kind of eagerness, a half-childish yet intelligent curiosity?”

  “Yes, oh yes! Oh, Lucian, how do you know?”

  “And the skin pale, a little sunburnt, yet clear, too? And a few golden brown freckles on the tip of a straight nose, and of a small, firm, tilted chin?”

  “Lucian—who—where, where have you seen her face?”

  “Juliana, my dear, kind, useful little helpmate, I would give the world to know.”

  “What! You know her face but don’t know where you have seen her?”

  “Precisely.”

  She stared at him, for he appeared to be repressing with difficulty a burst of laughter. His sallow, colourless face had flushed slightly, and his eyes were unusually, even unnaturally bright. As he met her surprised gaze he seemed to make one more effort to contain himself, and then flung back his head with that loud crackling laugh that had so startled her once or twice before. He laughed as though he could not stop, and he looked extremely ugly, his skin a dull purple, his eyes screwed up, and the upturned corners of his mouth stretching almost to his ears, revealing white, sharp-pointed teeth that made her think of some wild animal. For one shocked and self-reproachful instant, she could not but remember Lord Chesterfield’s admirable advice to his son in those letters not yet published but widely quoted among his circle of acquaintance, to be careful always to avoid the ill-bred and illiberal facial distortion of a laugh. And what could Lucian be laughing at?

  “A thousand pardons,” he began at last, suddenly grave, “but do not you yourself find it exhilarating? I spoke by chance of the Comte de Saint Germain—of Cagliostro—of the strange company they entertained. It seems I was extremely à propos. Yet what have these modern charlatans in comparison with your powers? Is it then possible, just possible, that you, Juliana, you, the most gentle and docile of daughters to the most correct of mothers, should, like Dr. Faustus, mightiest of magicians, have the power of calling up the spirits of the past? A power not entirely unassisted, perhaps, by the preparations of your humble and willing servitor.”

  He rose and bowed low, his hat before his eyes, as if to veil their intolerable brilliance—so it seemed to Juliana at that moment.

  “Of the past,” she echoed, dazed. “But you have seen her.”

  But he paid no attention to her.

  “For all your meek airs you are an arrant rebel,” he continued, still with that strange air of triumph and elation which he positively seemed to find it necessary to curb, talking fast and in a manner that suggested the need for speech as a concealment rather than as an expression of his thoughts. “Juliana, I fear you have not given sufficient attention to the philosophy of the learned and venerable Bishop Berkeley. No? I feared so. It might enlighten you on this affair. But though all the theologians in the universe inquire ‘What is matter?’ you will reply ‘Never mind.’ And should they further desire to ask ‘What is mind?’ you answer, ‘No matter.’

  “Yet you rise superior to matter and the accidents of time, where I am but able to pave the way for your more puissant spirit. Sister, I compliment your superior wizardry. I can but listen and admire where I would fain follow. I——”

  “Brother, brother, pray do not talk so fast. I cannot make out the half of what you say. What is it that you are doing, that you say we are both doing? What preparations do you speak of? We did not call forth an apparition, if that strange girl were indeed—but no, she was alive—all life and spirit.”

  “Yes, all life and spirit,” he repeated as though he were again remembering something, but so softly that she did not notice him.

  “She could not be an apparition,” decided Juliana, and then another thought struck her. “How could it be that in this age of reason, of science, I should see an apparition? If indeed it could be permitted. Dear Fanny was certain that the Almighty would not permit——”

  “So? And is there nothing in this world but what is permitted by the Almighty, as expounded in the Gospel according to Saint Fanny? Even, for instance, that rascally politician, Mr. Wilkes? Consider, Juliana, how heavy a responsibility you lay upon the Almighty. Would our lamented father, a most pious man, have agreed that the presence of Mr. Wilkes in this world could have been permitted by a beneficent God? Was there not even an occasion when our father directly attributed that presence to a powerful though inferior rival of the Almighty?”

  Juliana, vividly reminded of a political tirade at dinner many years ago, wherein the late Lord Chidleigh had made the wineglasses spring into the air by the force with which he had struck his clenched fist on the table, was obliged to agree that any dissent from his opinion would indeed have smacked of blasphemy.

  “It is all excessively puzzling,” she said, with a little sigh of excitement. “Are you indeed at all in earnest? We have been talking like children. It is not possible—Lucian, it is not possible is it?” A shiver had run through her and she drew closer to him.

  He looked down at her, and she felt rather than saw that his eyes were blazing under their half-closed lids.

  “What is it? You are not afraid, are you? And if you are, is it not pleasant to be a little afraid?”

  She gasped, and then said, “Yes, I believe it is. But, Lucian, I don’t want to be too much afraid.”

  He caught her up in his arms and kissed her.

  “Sweet sister, I shall not let you be too much afraid.”

  He was laugh ting, not with that disconcerting crack of laughter, but very softly. Juliana, nestling close against him, shivered again.

  Chapter VIII

  Juliana did not meet Lucian in the library during the following week. She received no message from him either by look or word, and when she peeped in of her own accord she found the great room empty, once more wearing its accustomed air of aloof, disdainful desolation.

  She began to think that Lucian had been teasing her. He certainly could not have meant a word of all that absurd nonsense when he had talked so wildly. He did not look as though he had ever thought of it again, and she began to feel it was very silly of her to think of it either. There was probably some quite simple explanation of the appearance of that girl in front of the windows; perhaps she was a superior-looking gipsy girl in some sort of man’s coat; or perhaps she had been half dozing for that moment and dreamed that she had seen her there.

  In any case there was something far more importan
t to think about, for her Cousin Charlotte had swaggered over on a new roan mare of Mr. Hilbury’s, which proved too unmanageable for her and succeeded in throwing her in the courtyard. Charlotte was more shaken than she would at first admit, and Lady Chidleigh insisted on her staying the night, to her own hardship, for her niece’s manners offended her exceedingly. Charlotte had in particular a trick of affirming whatever she said by a slap of her thigh and the declaration—” Wish I may die if it’s not true.” It was the nearest approach to an oath she dared venture in Lady Chidleigh’s presence, and it had failed to be repressed even by her aunt’s chilling suggestion, “Do you not fear, my Charlotte, that if you weary us too often with your wish to die should your statement be untrue, we may find ourselves wishing for its falsity?”

  George, who usually took no interest in women above the rank of an inn servant, thought her a spirited creature, worth a dozen of that mincing little miss, Sophia. He thought it chiefly to annoy his brother Vesey, who had threatened when they were both at school to fight a duel on the matter. But he was more inclined to think so in earnest on this occasion, as Charlotte was now to be married shortly to one Mr. Ramshall, a wealthy man, but a timid and modest character whom George could have easily ducked with one hand. It was monstrous of her parents to marry a fine girl like that to such a quiz, and he gloomily predicted a disgrace to the family in the shape of Charlotte’s elopement with one of the grooms before the year was out.

  Charlotte, no whit dashed by her tossing, was as noisy as ever on this visit, and bragged a good deal of the stud she would keep with her husband’s money. “Ramshall! Did you ever hear such a mean-nothing name? Mrs. Ramshall! Wish I may die if I don’t split with laughing the first time I’m called it!”

  Her thin, handsome, high-coloured face did indeed look as though it might split when she laughed, her mouth formed such a wide gap between her prominent nose and chin. One could see then what a nutcracker face she would have as an old woman.

  But in spite of Charlotte’s constant laughter, Juliana did not think her quite the same as usual. It would certainly be very odd to think of Char married to that little nervous man, who cleared his throat like a hen clucking, but it did not incline her to “split with laughing.” She felt melancholy and dissatisfied, and wondered whether Char’s restlessness did not conceal some misgivings on her own part. But she could not of course ask her cousin. It would be a shocking liberty, a disloyalty, in fact, since she was already betrothed. She could not have done it even had it been Sophia, who was of her own age and generally considered to be her particular friend. So she watched rather wistfully Aunt Emily’s wholehearted gushings of delight over Charlotte, and wondered what husband she would have herself.

  “If he is a hump-backed toad, Aunt Emily would still be pleased,” she decided.

  If only she could go and stay with Fanny in London and meet someone who would be her own, her very own choice—perhaps even a runaway match. And the childish visions she had longed for when she lay on the seat by the lake, rose before her eyes—a page in scarlet, a king. But it was all very silly and romantic, and, of course, one would be happy whomsoever one married. Fanny was very happy now, but then dear Fanny was gifted in happiness, which was no wonder since she made everyone happy round her.

  But she had not particularly wanted to marry Mr. Daunt, so much she had confided one unforgettable night when she had cried and clung to Juliana as though, for once, she were the younger sister and Juliana the elder and stronger; and had told her that she did not want to leave home, and that she could never care for Mr. Daunt whom she had only met a few times, as she cared for her own sweet precious sister.

  Charlotte rode home on one of their own horses, at Lady Chidleigh’s command, and the house seemed the quieter and happier for her departure. Juliana set out with her little dog to see Nurse again, and as she had missed her visit for three days, she stayed a particularly long time, gossiping about the wedding and what they should all wear, and what chance there was that “Miss Fanny” would come home for it. Then she would be sure to stay at least three weeks after the journey.

  When she left Nurse, she continued her walk for some way beyond the cottage before she turned back to the house. She was sauntering back, thinking idly of Fanny’s possible visit and feeling that there was much to be glad of in Charlotte’s wedding after all, when suddenly she stood still and exclaimed aloud, “What can the gardeners be about!”

  She had that moment been struck with the fact that the drive had become surprisingly untidy and overgrown with weeds. She wondered how she could have failed to notice it before, even she, who was so sadly lacking in observation. She must find one of the gardeners at once and point it out to him. She hastened her steps; Bruno, thinking it was to please him, ran barking at her side. She threw a stick for him and broke into a run. A rabbit ran across the drive, Bruno became frantic and disappeared after it into the undergrowth. She ran on, laughing and panting a little, for the drive went uphill just there.

  On the top of the incline, she stopped and caught her hands together. Some way down the drive in front of her was a straight, brown figure walking towards the house. She knew at once that it was the girl she had seen crossing the lawn outside her windows just a week ago. She was walking fast, and in another minute was lost to sight under the overhanging green branches.

  Juliana walked on, slowly, now, but breathless, as when she had been running. She had forgotten the gardeners and the bad condition of the drive. She wished Lucian were there. She wondered if she should go and find him, and then, suddenly, she decided to follow quickly and see if there were any chance of catching sight of that figure again. Yes, she would speak to her, ask her who and what she was, and why she was there. She could not hurt her. She was sure there was nothing supernatural about her, she was a girl like herself, with a frank, pleasant look. There was nothing to fear. In the courage of this resolution she hurried again, but soon realized that the girl in brown would have left the drive long before she could reach the end of it.

  And now another thought struck her—very curious, almost disconcerting, She had returned down the drive just as she had come, yet she could not remember that she had re-passed Nurse’s cottage. She must have done so, of course; she must have been too much hurried and occupied with the glimpse she had again had of that strange figure to notice the cottage. Yet it was odd, even extraordinary, to find herself wondering so persistently whether she had indeed passed it—that bright-coloured patch of garden, the only clearing and break in the whole of the long drive.

  But now she was coming out of the drive, and the girl was nowhere in sight. Juliana ran through the gardens and up and down the terraces but could see no one, and then went round to the courtyard. She was coming through the arched gateway when she stopped and stared in amazement at a strange man in still stranger clothes who was standing in the middle of the courtyard, doing something to the gravel with a kind of iron stick. “He cannot be another ghost,” thought Juliana, as she looked at the substantial calves and red face of the stranger. His odd clothes were very rough. She wondered if, perhaps, he were the new foreign gardener Lucian had said he would get to improve the Italian garden. She hesitated whether she should come forward and ask him, and at that moment two figures came out of the house and down the steps towards him, and one of them was the girl in brown.

  The other was a woman in a loose black dress. She was saying in a loud voice, “Here is my husband, so you can ask him yourself.”

  The girl went straight up to the man and said, “Good morning. I have a confession to make, and an apology and a request.”

  “That’s a lot of things to make,” said the man with a sort of rough cheerfulness.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is. On one or two walks I’ve trespassed all over your grounds and even the gardens, but I really thought the house was shut up—it does look like it, doesn’t it, but I suppose that’s only part of it—and the drive doesn’t look as thought it’s used now.”


  “Oh, the old drive? No, we don’t use that now,” said the man, who was staring at her in a very rude and open manner. “We’ve cut a new one that goes straight to the station. Yes, most of the house is shut up. Can’t fill a house this size now, you know. Families don’t run to it.”

  “And that is the confession and I am really very sorry,” she said rapidly in her low clear tones, as though she were anxious to finish all she had to say at once. She was apparently not at all put out by his stare, which made Juliana tingle with annoyance and the longing that she would cease speaking to him. But the girl continued to speak : “I want to ask if I may go on doing it, and that’s why I came to the house and asked to see Mrs. Harris, “—she turned to the woman in black—” I don’t mean I’m asking to go into the gardens again, of course, but in the drive and the park? There used to be a right of way through it, wasn’t there? I’m only staying here for a few weeks—would you mind?”

  “ Not a bit,” said the man patronizingly. “You won’t hurt the place strolling about it. Nice old place, ain’t it?”

  Juliana had been too much confused and astonished to grasp at first what was happening, or to feel uncomfortable at hearing all that was being said—though as they must see how near she was, the rudeness was theirs in ignoring her presence. For it was manifestly absurd to try and imagine these people could be apparitions. Apparitions do not talk, some of them in loud, cheerful voices, and grin, and hack the gravel with their boots. No, they were plainly real people though of the most amazing kind.

  But she now saw that this uncouth stranger was actually granting permission to the girl to walk in their grounds (where, of course, there was a right of way in any case) and was behaving generally as though he were master of the place. It was so odd and his tone of complacent ownership so ridiculous that she broke into a peal of laughter.

  The same instant she was shocked at the sound of her own merriment. However rudely and astonishingly these people were behaving, it was unpardonable to laugh aloud at them, and she came forward a step or two from the archway wondering what she could possibly say in apology and beginning hesitatingly to speak. But her words faltered and died away, for none of the group turned to her, none looked at her, they did not appear to have heard either her laughter or her speech. She stopped, a cold terror on her that turned her numb. What was it? What were they? Why could they not hear her? Why did they not look at her?