malady whichhas defied medical help from that time to this. I am suffering (as thedoctors explain it to me) from a morbidly sensitive condition of thenerves near the surface to the action of light. If I were to draw thecurtains, and look out of that window, I should feel the acutest painall over my face. If I covered my face, and drew the curtains with mybare hands, I should feel the same pain in my hands. You can just see,perhaps, that I have a very large and very thick veil on my head. I letit fall over my face and neck and hands, when I have occasion topass along the corridors or to enter my father's study--and I find itprotection enough. Don't be too ready to deplore my sad condition,sir! I have got so used to living in the dark that I can see quite wellenough for all the purposes of _my_ poor existence. I can read and writein these shadows--I can see you, and be of use to you in many littleways, if you will let me. There is really nothing to be distressedabout. My life will not be a long one--I know and feel that. But I hopeto be spared long enough to be my father's companion through the closingyears of his life. Beyond that, I have no prospect. In the meanwhile,I have my pleasures; and I mean to add to my scanty little stack thepleasure of attending on you. You are quite an event in my life. Ilook forward to reading to you and writing for you, as some girls lookforward to a new dress, or a first ball. Do you think it very strange ofme to tell you so openly just what I have in my mind? I can't help it! Isay what I think to my father and to our poor neighbors hereabouts--andI can't alter my ways at a moment's notice. I own it when I like people;and I own it when I don't. I have been looking at you while you wereasleep; and I have read your face as I might read a book. There aresigns of sorrow on your forehead and your lips which it is strange tosee in so young a face as yours. I am afraid I shall trouble you withmany questions about yourself when we become better acquainted with eachother. Let me begin with a question, in my capacity as nurse. Are yourpillows comfortable? I can see they want shaking up. Shall I send forPeter to raise you? I am unhappily not strong enough to be able to helpyou in that way. No? You are able to raise yourself? Wait a little.There! Now lie back--and tell me if I know how to establish the rightsort of sympathy between a tumbled pillow and a weary head."
She had so indescribably touched and interested me, stranger as I was,that the sudden cessation of her faint, sweet tones affected me almostwith a sense of pain. In trying (clumsily enough) to help her with thepillows, I accidentally touched her hand. It felt so cold and so thin,that even the momentary contact with it startled me. I tried vainly tosee her face, now that it was more within reach of my range of view.The merciless darkness kept it as complete a mystery as ever. Had mycuriosity escaped her notice? Nothing escaped her notice. Her next wordstold me plainly that I had been discovered.
"You have been trying to see me," she said. "Has my hand warned you notto try again? I felt that it startled you when you touched it just now."
Such quickness of perception as this was not to be deceived; suchfearless candor demanded as a right a similar frankness on my side. Iowned the truth, and left it to her indulgence to forgive me.
She returned slowly to her chair at the foot of the bed.
"If we are to be friends," she said, "we must begin by understandingone another. Don't associate any romantic ideas of invisible beautywith _me_, Mr. Germaine. I had but one beauty to boast of before I fellill--my complexion--and that has gone forever. There is nothing to seein me now but the poor reflection of my former self; the ruin ofwhat was once a woman. I don't say this to distress you--I say it toreconcile you to the darkness as a perpetual obstacle, so far as youreyes are concerned, between you and me. Make the best instead of theworst of your strange position here. It offers you a new sensationto amuse you while you are ill. You have a nurse who is an impersonalcreature--a shadow among shadows; a voice to speak to you, and a hand tohelp you, and nothing more. Enough of myself!" she exclaimed, risingand changing her tone. "What can I do to amuse you?" She considereda little. "I have some odd tastes," she resumed; "and I think I mayentertain you if I make you acquainted with one of them. Are you likemost other men, Mr. Germaine? Do you hate cats?"
The question startled me. However, I could honestly answer that, in thisrespect at least, I was not like other men.
"To my thinking," I added, "the cat is a cruelly misunderstoodcreature--especially in England. Women, no doubt, generally do justiceto the affectionate nature of cats. But the men treat them as if theywere the natural enemies of the human race. The men drive a cat out oftheir presence if it ventures upstairs, and set their dogs at it if itshows itself in the street--and then they turn round and accuse the poorcreature (whose genial nature must attach itself to something) of beingonly fond of the kitchen!"
The expression of these unpopular sentiments appeared to raise megreatly in the estimation of Miss Dunross.
"We have one sympathy in common, at any rate," she said. "Now I canamuse you! Prepare for a surprise."
She drew her veil over her face as she spoke, and, partially opening thedoor, rang my handbell. Peter appeared, and received his instructions.
"Move the screen," said Miss Dunross. Peter obeyed; the ruddy firelightstreamed over the floor. Miss Dunross proceeded with her directions."Open the door of the cats' room, Peter; and bring me my harp. Don'tsuppose that you are going to listen to a great player, Mr. Germaine,"she went on, when Peter had departed on his singular errand, "or thatyou are likely to see the sort of harp to which you are accustomed, asa man of the modern time. I can only play some old Scotch airs; and myharp is an ancient instrument (with new strings)--an heirloom in ourfamily, some centuries old. When you see my harp, you will think ofpictures of St. Cecilia--and you will be treating my performance kindlyif you will remember, at the sam e time, that I am no saint!"
She drew her chair into the firelight, and sounded a whistle whichshe took from the pocket of her dress. In another moment the litheand shadowy figures of the cats appeared noiselessly in the red light,answering their mistress's call. I could just count six of them, as thecreatures seated themselves demurely in a circle round the chair. Peterfollowed with the harp, and closed the door after him as he went out.The streak of daylight being now excluded from the room, Miss Dunrossthrew back her veil, and took the harp on her knee; seating herself, Iobserved, with her face turned away from the fire.
"You will have light enough to see the cats by," she said, "withouthaving too much light for _me_. Firelight does not give me the acutepain which I suffer when daylight falls on my face--I feel a certaininconvenience from it, and nothing more."
She touched the strings of her instrument--the ancient harp, as she hadsaid, of the pictured St. Cecilia; or, rather, as I thought, the ancientharp of the Welsh bards. The sound was at first unpleasantly high inpitch, to my untutored ear. At the opening notes of the melody--a slow,wailing, dirgelike air--the cats rose, and circled round their mistress,marching to the tune. Now they followed each other singly; now, at achange in the melody, they walked two and two; and, now again, theyseparated into divisions of three each, and circled round the chair inopposite directions. The music quickened, and the cats quickened theirpace with it. Faster and faster the notes rang out, and faster andfaster in the ruddy firelight, the cats, like living shadows, whirledround the still black figure in the chair, with the ancient harp on itsknee. Anything so weird, wild, and ghostlike I never imagined beforeeven in a dream! The music changed, and the whirling cats began to leap.One perched itself at a bound on the pedestal of the harp. Four sprungup together, and assumed their places, two on each of her shoulders.The last and smallest of the cats took the last leap, and lighted onher head! There the six creatures kept their positions, motionless asstatues! Nothing moved but the wan, white hands over the harp-strings;no sound but the sound of the music stirred in the room. Once more themelody changed. In an instant the six cats were on the floor again,seated round the chair as I had seen them on their first entrance; theharp was laid aside; and the faint, sweet voice said quietly, "I am soontired--I must leave my cats to conclude their perfor
mances tomorrow."
She rose, and approached the bedside.
"I leave you to see the sunset through your window," she said. "Fromthe coming of the darkness to the coming of breakfast-time, you mustnot count on my services--I am taking my rest. I have no choice but toremain in bed (sleeping when I can) for twelve hours or more. The longrepose seems to keep my life in me. Have I and my cats surprised youvery much? Am I a witch; and are they my familiar spirits? Remember howfew amusements I have, and you will not wonder why I devote myself toteaching these pretty creatures their tricks, and attaching them to melike dogs! They were slow at first, and they taught me excellent lessonsof patience. Now they understand what I want of them, and they learnwonderfully well. How you will amuse your friend, when he
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