IV
A GHOSTLY INTERIOR
The hall into which I had stepped was so dark that for a few minutes Icould see nothing but the indistinct outline of a young woman with avery white face. She had uttered some sort of murmur at my words, butfor some reason was strangely silent, and, if I could trust my eyes,seemed rather to be looking back over her shoulder than into the face ofher advancing guest. This was odd, but before I could quite satisfymyself as to the cause of her abstraction, she suddenly bethoughtherself, and throwing open the door of an adjoining room, let in astream of light by which we were enabled to see each other and exchangethe greetings suitable to the occasion.
"Miss Butterworth, my mother's old friend," she murmured, with an almostpitiful effort to be cordial, "we are so glad to have you visit us.Won't you--won't you sit down?"
What did it mean? She had pointed to a chair in the sitting-room, buther face was turned away again as if drawn irresistibly toward somesecret object of dread. Was there anyone or anything at the top of thedim staircase I could faintly see in the distance? It would not do forme to ask, nor was it wise for me to show that I thought this receptiona strange one. Stepping into the room she pointed out, I waited for herto follow me, which she did with manifest reluctance. But when she wasonce out of the atmosphere of the hall, or out of reach of the sight orsound of whatever it was that frightened her, her face took on a smilethat ingratiated her with me at once and gave to her very delicateaspect, which up to that moment had not suggested the remotest likenessto her mother, a piquant charm and subtle fascination that were notunworthy of the daughter of Althea Burroughs.
"You must not mind the poverty of your welcome," she said, with ahalf-proud, half-apologetic look around her, which I must say thebareness and shabby character of the room we were in fully justified."We have not been very well off since father died and mother left us.Had you given us a chance we should have written you that our home wouldnot offer many inducements to you after your own, but you have comeunexpectedly and----"
"There, there," I put in, for I saw that her embarrassment would soonget the better of her, "do not speak of it. I did not come to enjoy yourhome, but to see you. Are you the eldest, my dear, and where are yoursister and brother?"
"I am not the eldest," she said. "I am Lucetta. My sister"--hereher head stole irresistibly back to its old position oflistening--"will--will come soon. My brother is not in the house."
"Well," said I, astonished that she did not ask me to take off mythings, "you are a pretty girl, but you do not look very strong. Are youquite well, my dear?"
She started, looked at me eagerly, almost anxiously, for a moment, thenstraightened herself and began to lose some of her abstraction.
"I am not a strong person," she smiled, "but neither am I so very weakeither. I was always small. So was my mother, you know."
I was glad to have her talk of her mother. I therefore answered her in away to prolong the conversation.
"Yes, your mother was small," I admitted, "but never thin or pallid. Shewas like a fairy among us schoolgirls. Does it seem odd to hear so old awoman as I speak of herself as a schoolgirl?"
"Oh, no!" she said, but there was no heart in her voice.
"I had almost forgotten those days till I happened to hear the name ofAlthea mentioned the other day," I proceeded, seeing I must keep up theconversation if we were not to sit in total silence. "Then my earlyfriendship with your mother recurred to me, and I started up--as Ialways do when I come to any decision, my dear--and sent that telegram,which I hope I have not followed by an unwelcome presence."
"Oh, no," she repeated, but this time with some feeling; "we needfriends, and if you will overlook our shortcomings--But you have nottaken off your hat. What will Loreen say to me?"
And with a sudden nervous action as marked as her late listlessness, shejumped up and began busying herself over me, untying my bonnet andlaying aside my bundles, which up to this moment I had held in my hands.
"I--I am so absent-minded," she murmured. "I--I did not think--I hopeyou will excuse me. Loreen would have given you a much better welcome."
"Then Loreen should have been here," I said, with a smile. I could notrestrain this slight rebuke, yet I liked the girl; notwithstandingeverything I had heard and her own odd and unaccountable behavior, therewas a sweetness in her face, when she chose to smile, that proved anirresistible attraction. And then, for all her absent-mindedness andabstracted ways, she was such a lady! Her plain dress, her restrainedmanner, could not hide this fact. It was apparent in every line of herthin but graceful form and in every inflection of her musical butconstrained voice. Had I seen her in my own parlor instead of betweenthese bare and moldering walls, I should have said the same thing: "Sheis such a lady!" But this only passed through my mind at the time. I wasnot studying her personality, but trying to understand why my presencein the house had so visibly disturbed her. Was it the embarrassment ofpoverty, not knowing how to meet the call made so suddenly upon it? Ihardly thought so. Fear would not enter into a sensation of this kind,and fear was what I had seen in her face before the front door hadclosed upon me. But that fear? Was it connected with me or withsomething threatening her from another portion of the house?
The latter supposition seemed the probable one. The way her ear wasturned, the slight start she gave at every sound, convinced me that hercause of dread lay elsewhere than with myself, and therefore was worthyof my closest attention. Though I chatted and tried in every way toarouse her confidence, I could not help asking myself between thesentences, if the cause of her apprehension lay with her sister, herbrother, or in something entirely apart from either, and connected withthe dreadful matter which had drawn me to X. Or another suppositionstill, was it merely the sign of an habitual distemper which,misunderstood by Mr. Gryce, had given rise to the suspicions which itwas my possible mission here to dispel?
Anxious to force things a little, I remarked, with a glance at thedismal branches that almost forced their way into the open casements:"What a scene for young eyes like yours! Do you never get tired of thesepine-boughs and clustering shadows? Would not a little cottage in thesunnier part of the town be preferable to all this dreary grandeur?"
She looked up with sudden wistfulness that made her smile piteous.
"Some of my happiest days have been passed here and some of my saddest.I do not think I should like to leave it for any sunny cottage. We werenot made for bonny homes," she continued. "The sombreness of this oldhouse suits us."
"And of this road," I ventured. "It is the darkest and most picturesqueI ever rode through. I thought I was threading a wilderness."
For a moment she forgot her cause of anxiety and looked at me quiteintently, while a subtle shade of doubt passed slowly over her features.
"It is a solitary one," she acquiesced. "I do not wonder it struck youas dismal. Have you heard--has any one ever told you that--that it wasnot considered quite safe?"
"Safe?" I repeated, with--God forgive me!--an expression of mild wonderin my eyes.
"Yes, it has not the best of reputations. Strange things have happenedin it. I thought that some one might have been kind enough to tell youthis at the station."
There was a gentle sort of sarcasm in the tone; only that, or so itseemed to me at the time. I began to feel myself in a maze.
"Somebody--I suppose it was the station-master--did say something to meabout a boy lost somewhere in this portion of the woods. Do you meanthat, my dear?"
She nodded, glancing again over her shoulder and partly rising as ifmoved by some instinct of flight.
"They are dark enough, for more than one person to have been lost intheir recesses," I observed with another look toward the heavilycurtained windows.
"They certainly are," she assented, reseating herself and eying menervously while she spoke. "We are used to the terrors they inspire instrangers, but if you"--she leaped to her feet in manifest eagerness andher whole face changed in a way she little realized herself--"if youhav
e any fear of sleeping amid such gloomy surroundings, we can procureyou a room in the village where you will be more comfortable, and wherewe can visit you almost as well as we can here. Shall I do it? Shall Icall----"
My face must have assumed a very grim look, for her words tripped atthat point, and a flush, the first I had seen on her cheek, suffused herface, giving her an appearance of great distress.
"Oh, I wish Loreen would come! I am not at all happy in my suggestions,"she said, with a deprecatory twitch of her lip that was one of hersubtle charms. "Oh, there she is! Now I may go," she cried; and withoutthe least appearance of realizing that she had said anything out ofplace, she rushed from the room almost before her sister had entered it.
But not before their eyes had met in a look of unusual significance.
Lost Man's Lane: A Second Episode in the Life of Amelia Butterworth Page 5