Old Lady Mary - Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant
These thoughts were driven through her mind like the snowflakes in a
storm. The year had slid on since Lady Mary's death. Winter was beginning
to yield to spring; the snow was over, and the great cold. And other
changes had taken place. The great house had been let, and the family who
had taken it had been about a week in possession. Their coming had
inflicted a wound upon Mary's heart; but everybody had urged upon her the
idea that it was much better the house should be let for a time, "till
everything was settled." When all was settled, things would be different.
Mrs. Vicar did not say, "You can then do what you please," but she did
convey to Mary's mind somehow a sort of inference that she would have
something to do it with. And when Mary had protested. "It shall never be
let again with my will," the kind woman had said tremulously, "Well, my
dear!" and had changed the subject. All these things now came to Mary's
mind. They had been afraid to tell her; they had thought it would be so
much to her,--so important, such a crushing blow. To have nothing,--to be
destitute; to be written about by Mr. Furnival to the earl; to have her
case represented,--Mary felt herself stung by such unendurable
suggestions into an energy--a determination--of which her soft young life
had known nothing. No one should write about her, or ask charity for her,
she said to herself. She had gone through the woods and round the park,
which was not large, and now she could not leave these beloved precincts
without going to look at the house. Up to this time she had not had the
courage to go near the house; but to the commotion and fever of her mind
every violent sensation was congenial, and she went up the avenue now
almost gladly, with a little demonstration to herself of energy and
courage. Why not that as well as all the rest?
It was once more twilight, and the dimness favored her design. She wanted
to go there unseen, to look up at the windows with their alien lights,
and to think of the time when Lady Mary sat behind the curtains, and
there was nothing but tenderness and peace throughout the house. There
was a light in every window along the entire front, a lavishness of
firelight and lamplight which told of a household in which there were
many inhabitants. Mary's mind was so deeply absorbed, and perhaps her
eyes so dim with tears that she could scarcely see what was before her,
when the door opened suddenly and a lady came out. "I will go myself,"
she said in an agitated tone to some one behind her. "Don't get yourself
laughed at," said a voice from within. The sound of the voices roused
the young spectator. She looked with a little curiosity, mixed with
anxiety, at the lady who had come out of the house, and who started, too,
with a gesture of alarm, when she saw Mary move in the dark. "Who are
you?" she cried out in a trembling voice, "and what do you want here?"
Then Mary made a step or two forward and said, "I must ask your pardon if
I am trespassing. I did not know there was any objection--" This stranger
to make an objection! It brought something like a tremulous laugh to
Mary's lips.
"Oh, there is no objection," said the lady, "only we have been a little
put out. I see now; you are the young lady who--you are the young lady
that--you are the one that--suffered most."
"I am Lady Mary's goddaughter," said the girl. "I have lived here all my
life."
"Oh, my dear, I have heard all about you," the lady cried. The people who
had taken the house were merely rich people; they had no other
characteristic; and in the vicarage, as well as in the other houses
about, it was said, when they were spoken of, that it was a good thing
they were not people to be visited, since nobody could have had the heart
to visit strangers in Lady Mary's house. And Mary could not but feel a
keen resentment to think that her story, such as it was, the story which
she had only now heard in her own person, should be discussed by such
people. But the speaker had a look of kindness, and, so far as could be
seen, of perplexity and fretted anxiety in her face, and had been in a
hurry, but stopped herself in order to show her interest. "I wonder," she
said impulsively, "that you can come here and look at the place again,
after all that has passed."
"I never thought," said Mary, "that there could be--any objection."
"Oh, how can you think I mean that?--how can you pretend to think so?"
cried the other, impatiently. "But after you have been treated so
heartlessly, so unkindly,--and left, poor thing! they tell me, without a
penny, without any provision--"
"I don't know you," cried Mary, breathless with quick rising passion. "I
don't know what right you can have to meddle with my affairs."
The lady stared at her for a moment without speaking, and then she said,
all at once, "That is quite true,--but it is rude as well; for though I
have no right to meddle with your affairs, I did it in kindness, because
I took an interest in you from all I have heard."
Mary was very accessible to such a reproach and argument. Her face
flushed with a sense of her own churlishness. "I beg your pardon," she
said; "I am sure you mean to be kind."
"Well," said the stranger, "that is perhaps going too far on the other
side, for you can't even see my face, to know what I mean. But I do mean
to be kind, and I am very sorry for you. And though I think you've been
treated abominably, all the same I like you better for not allowing any
one to say so. And now, do you know where I was going? I was going to the
vicarage,--where you are living, I believe,--to see if the vicar, or his
wife, or you, or all of you together, could do a thing for me."
"Oh, I am sure Mrs. Bowyer--" said Mary, with a voice much less assured
than her words.
"You must not be too sure, my dear. I know she doesn't mean to call upon
me, because my husband is a city man. That is just as she pleases. I am
not very fond of city men myself. But there's no reason why I should
stand on ceremony when I want something, is there? Now, my dear, I want
to know--Don't laugh at me. I am not superstitious, so far as I am aware;
but--Tell me, in your time was there ever any disturbance, any appearance
you couldn't understand, any--Well, I don't like the word ghost. It's
disrespectful, if there's anything of the sort: and it's vulgar if there
isn't. But you know what I mean. Was there anything--of that sort--in
your time?"
In your time! Poor Mary had scarcely realized yet that her time was over.
Her heart refused to allow it when it was thus so abruptly brought before
her, but she obliged herself to subdue these rising rebellions, and to
answer, though with some _hauteur_, "There is nothing of the kind that I
ever heard of. There is no superstition or ghost in our house."
She thought it was the vulgar desire of new people to find a conventional
mystery, and it seemed to Mary that this was a desecration of her home.
Mrs. Turner, however (for that was her name), did not receive the
intimation as the girl expected, but looked at her very gravely, and
said, "That makes it a great deal more serious," as if to herself. She
paused and then added, "You see, the case is this. I have a little girl
who is our youngest, who is just my husband's idol. She is a sweet little
thing, though perhaps I should not say it. Are you fond of children? Then
I almost feel sure you would think so too. Not a moping child at all, or
too clever, or anything to alarm one. Well, you know, little Connie,
since ever we came in, has seen an old lady walking about the house."
"An old lady!" said Mary, with an involuntary smile.
"Oh, yes. I laughed too, the first time. I said it would be old Mrs.
Prentiss, or perhaps the char-woman, or some old lady from the village
that had been in the habit of coming in the former people's time. But the
child got very angry. She said it was a real lady. She would not allow me
to speak. Then we thought perhaps it was some one who did not know the
house was let, and had walked in to look at it; but nobody would go on
coming like that with all the signs of a large family in the house. And
now the doctor says the child must be low, that the place perhaps doesn't
agree with her, and that we must send her away. Now I ask you, how could
I send little Connie away, the apple of her father's eye? I should have
to go with her, of course, and how could the house get on without me?
Naturally we are very anxious. And this afternoon she has seen her again,
and sits there crying because she says the dear old lady looks so sad. I
just seized my hat, and walked out, to come to you and your friends at
the vicarage, to see if you could help me. Mrs. Bowyer may look down upon
a city person,--I don't mind that; but she is a mother, and surely she
would feel for a mother," cried the poor lady vehemently, putting up her
hands to her wet eyes.
"Oh, indeed, indeed she would! I am sure now that she will call
directly. We did not know what a--" Mary stopped herself in saying,
"what a nice woman you are," which she thought would be rude, though poor
Mrs. Turner would have liked it. But then she shook her head and added,
"What could any of us do to help you? I have never heard of any old lady.
There never was anything--I know all about the house, everything that has
ever happened, and Prentiss will tell you. There is nothing of that
kind,--indeed, there is nothing. You must have--" But here Mary stopped
again; for to suggest that a new family, a city family, should have
brought an apparition of their own with them, was too ridiculous an idea
to be entertained.
"Miss Vivian," said Mrs. Turner, "will you come back with me and speak to
the child?"
At this Mary faltered a little. "I have never been there--since
the--funeral," she said.
The good woman laid a kind hand upon her shoulder, caressing and
soothing. "You were very fond of her--in spite of the way she has used
you?"
"Oh, how dare you, or any one, to speak of her so! She used me as if I
had been her dearest child. She was more kind to me than a mother. There
is no one in the world like her!" Mary cried.
"And yet she left you without a penny. Oh, you must be a good girl to
feel for her like that. She left you without--What are you going to do,
my dear? I feel like a friend. I feel like a mother to you, though you
don't know me. You mustn't think it is only curiosity. You can't stay
with your friends for ever,--and what are you going to do?"
There are some cases in which it is more easy to speak to a stranger
than to one's dearest and oldest friend. Mary had felt this when she
rushed out, not knowing how to tell the vicar's wife that she must leave
her, and find some independence for herself. It was, however, strange to
rush into such a discussion with so little warning, and Mary's pride was
very sensitive. She said, "I am not going to burden my friends," with a
little indignation; but then she remembered how forlorn she was, and her
voice softened. "I must do something,--but I don't know what I am good
for," she said, trembling, and on the verge of tears.
"My dear, I have heard a great deal about you," said the stranger; "it is
not rash, though it may look so. Come back with me directly, and see
Connie. She is a very interesting little thing, though I say it; it is
wonderful sometimes to hear her talk. You shall be her governess, my
dear. Oh, you need not teach her anything,--that is not what I mean. I
think, I am sure, you will be the saving of her, Miss Vivian; and such a
lady as you are, it will be everything for the other girls to live with
you. Don't stop to think, but just come with me. You shall have whatever
you please, and always be treated like a lady. Oh, my dear, consider my
feelings as a mother, and come; oh, come to Connie! I know you will save
her; it is an inspiration. Come back! Come back with me!"
It seemed to Mary too like an inspiration. What it cost her to cross that
threshold and walk in a stranger, to the house which had been all her
life as her own, she never said to any one. But it was independence; it
was deliverance from entreaties and remonstrances without end. It was a
kind of setting right, so far as could be, of the balance which had got
so terribly wrong. No writing to the earl now; no appeal to friends;
anything in all the world,--much more, honest service and kindness,--must
be better than that.
VIII.
"Tell the young lady all about it, Connie," said her mother.
But Connie was very reluctant to tell. She was very shy, and clung to her
mother, and hid her face in her ample dress; and though presently she was
beguiled by Mary's voice, and in a short time came to her side, and clung
to her as she had clung to Mrs. Turner, she still kept her secret to
herself. They were all very kind to Mary, the elder girls standing round
in a respectful circle looking at her, while their mother exhorted them
to "take a pattern" by Miss Vivian. The novelty, the awe which she
inspired, the real kindness about her, ended in overcoming in Mary's
young mind the first miserable impression of such a return to her home.
It gave her a kind of pleasure to write to Mrs. Bowyer that she had found
employment, and had thought it better to accept it at once. "Don't be
angry with me; and I think you will understand me," she said. And then
she gave herself up to the strange new scene.
The "ways" of the large simple-minded family, homely, yet kindly, so
transformed Lady Mary's graceful old rooms that they no longer looked the
same place. And when Mary sat down with them at the big heavy-laden
table, surrounded with the hum of so large a party, it was impossible for
her to believe that everything was not new about her. In no way could the
saddening recollections of a home from which the chief figure had
disappeared, have been more completely broken up. Afterwards Mrs. Turner
took her aside, and begged to know which was Mary's old room, "for I
should like to put you there, as if nothing had happened." "Oh, do not
put me there!" Mary cried, "so much has happened." But this seemed a
refinement to the kind woman, which it was far better for her young guest
not to "yield" to. The room Mary had occupied had been next to her
godmother's, with a door between, and when it turned out that Connie,
with an elder sister, was in Lady Mary's room, everything seemed
perfectly arranged in Mrs. Turner's eyes. She thought it was
providential,--with a simple belief in Mary's powers that in other
circumstances would have been amusing. But there was no amusement in
Mary's mind when she took possession of the old room "as if nothing
had happened." She sat by the fire for half the night, in an agony of
silent recollection and thought, going over the last days of her
godmother's life, calling up everything before her, and realizing as she
had never realized till now, the lonely career on which she was setting
out, the subjection to the will and convenience of strangers in which
henceforth her life must be passed. This was a kind woman who had opened
her doors to the destitute girl; but notwithstanding, however great the
torture to Mary, there was no escaping this room which was haunted by the
saddest recollections of her life. Of such things she must no longer
complain,--nay, she must think of nothing but thanking the mistress of
the house for her thoughtfulness, for the wish to be kind, which so often
exceeds the performance.
The room was warm and well lighted; the night was very calm and
sweet outside, nothing had been touched or changed of all her little
decorations, the ornaments which had been so delightful to her
girlhood. A large photograph of Lady Mary held the chief place over the
mantel-piece, representing her in the fullness of her beauty,--a
photograph which had been taken from the picture painted ages ago by a
Royal Academician. It fortunately was so little like Lady Mary in her old
age that, save as a thing which had always hung there, and belonged to
her happier life, it did not affect the girl; but no picture was
necessary to bring before her the well-remembered figure. She could not
realize that the little movements she heard on the other side of the door
were any other than those of her mistress, her friend, her mother; for
all these names Mary lavished upon her in the fullness of her heart. The
blame that was being cast upon Lady Mary from all sides made this child
of her bounty but more deeply her partisan, more warm in her adoration.
She would not, for all the inheritances of the world, have acknowledged
even to herself that Lady Mary was in fault. Mary felt that she would
rather a thousand times be poor and have to gain her daily bread, than
that she who had nourished and cherished her should have been forced in
her cheerful old age to think, before she chose to do so, of parting and
farewell and the inevitable end.
She thought, like every young creature in strange and painful
circumstances, that she would be unable to sleep, and did indeed lie
awake and weep for an hour or more, thinking of all the changes that had
happened; but sleep overtook her before she knew, while her mind was
still full of these thoughts; and her dreams were endless, confused, full
of misery and longing. She dreamed a dozen times over that she heard
Lady Mary's soft call through the open door,--which was not open, but
shut closely and locked by the sisters who now inhabited the next room;
and once she dreamed that Lady Mary came to her bedside and stood there
looking at her earnestly, with the tears flowing from her eyes. Mary
struggled in her sleep to tell her benefactress how she loved her, and
approved of all she had done, and wanted nothing,--but felt herself
bound as by a nightmare, so that she could not move or speak, or even put
out a hand to dry those tears which it was intolerable to her to see;
and woke with the struggle, and the miserable sensation of seeing her
dearest friend weep and being unable to comfort her. The moon was shining
into the room, throwing part of it into a cold, full light, while
blackness lay in all corners. The impression of her dream was so strong
that Mary's eyes turned instantly to the spot where in her dream her
godmother had stood. To be sure, there was nobody there; but as her
consciousness returned, and with it the sweep of painful recollection,
the sense of change, the miserable contrast between the present and the
past,--sleep fled from her eyes. She fell into the vividly awake
condition which is the alternative of broken sleep, and gradually, as she
lay, there came upon her that mysterious sense of another presence in the
room which is so subtle and indescribable. She neither saw anything nor
heard anything, and yet she felt that some one was there.
She lay still for some time and held her breath, listening for a
movement, even for the sound of breathing,--scarcely alarmed, yet sure
that she was not alone. After a while she raised herself on her pillow,
and in a low voice asked, "Who is there? is any one there?" There was no
reply, no sound of any description, and yet the conviction grew upon her.
Her heart began to beat, and the blood to mount to her head. Her own
being made so much sound, so much commotion, that it seemed to her she
could not hear anything save those beatings and pulsings. Yet she was not
afraid. After a time, however, the oppression became more than she could
bear. She got up and lit her candle, and searched through the familiar
room; but she found no trace that any one had been there. The furniture
was all in its usual order. There was no hiding-place where any human
thing could find refuge. When she had satisfied herself, and was about to
return to bed, suppressing a sensation which must, she said to herself,
be altogether fantastic, she was startled by a low knocking at the door
of communication. Then she heard the voice of the elder girl. "Oh, Miss
Vivian what is it? Have you seen anything?" A new sense of anger,
disdain, humiliation, swept through Mary's mind. And if she had seen
anything, she said to herself, what was that to those strangers? She
replied, "No, nothing; what should I see?" in a tone which was almost
haughty, in spite of herself.
"I thought it might be--the ghost. Oh, please, don't be angry. I thought
I heard this door open, but it is locked. Oh! perhaps it is very silly,
but I am so frightened, Miss Vivian."
"Go back to bed," said Mary; "there is no--ghost. I am going to sit up
and write some--letters. You will see my light under the door."
"Oh, thank you," cried the girl.
Mary remembered what a consolation and strength in all wakefulness had
been the glimmer of the light under her godmother's door. She smiled to
think that she herself, so desolate as she was, was able to afford this
innocent comfort to another girl, and then sat down and wept quietly,
feeling her solitude and the chill about her, and the dark and the
silence. The moon had gone behind a cloud. There seemed no light but her
small miserable candle in earth and heaven. And yet that poor little
speck of light kept up the heart of another,--which made her smile again
in the middle of her tears. And by-and-by the commotion in her head and
heart calmed down, and she too fell asleep.
Next day she heard all the floating legends that were beginning to rise
in the house. They all arose from Connie's questions about the old lady
whom she had seen going up-stairs before her, the first evening after the
new family's arrival. It was in the presence of the doctor,--who had come
to see the child, and whose surprise at finding Mary there was almost
ludicrous,--that she heard the story, though much against his will.
"There can be no need for troubling Miss Vivian about it," he said, in a
tone which was almost rude. But Mrs. Turner was not sensitive.
"When Miss Vivian has just come like a dear, to help us with Connie!" the
good woman cried. "Of course she must hear it, doctor, for otherwise, how
could she know what to do?"
"Is it true that you have come here--_here?_ to help--Good heavens, Miss
Mary, _here?_"
"Why not here?" Mary said, smiling as but she could. "I am Connie's
governess, doctor."
He burst out into that suppressed roar which serves a man instead of
tears, and jumped up from his seat, clenching his fist. The clenched fist
was to the intention of the dead woman whose fault this was; and if it
had ever entered the doctor's mind, as his mother supposed, to marry this
forlorn child, and thus bestow a home upon her whether she would or no,
no doubt he would now have attempted to carry out that plan. But as no
such thing had occurred to him, the doctor only showed his sense of the
intolerable by look and gesture. "I must speak to the vicar. I must see
Furnival. It can't be permitted," he cried.
"Do you think I shall not be kind to her, doctor?" cried Mrs. Turner.
"Oh, ask her! she is one that understands. She knows far better than
that. We're not fine people, doctor, but we're kind people. I can say
that for myself. There is nobody in this house but will be good to her,
and admire her, and take an example by her. To have a real lady with the
girls, that is what I would give anything for; and as she wants taking
care of, poor dear, and petting, and an 'ome--" Mary, who would not hear
any more, got up hastily, and took the hand of her new protectress, and
kissed her, partly out of gratitude and kindness, partly to stop her
mouth, and prevent the saying of something which it might have been still
more difficult to support. "You are a real lady yourself, dear Mrs.
Turner," she cried. (And this notwithstanding the one deficient letter:
but many people who are much more dignified than Mrs. Turner--people who
behave themselves very well in every other respect--say "'ome.")
"Oh, my dear, I don't make any pretensions," the good woman cried, but
with a little shock of pleasure which brought the tears to her eyes.
And then the story was told. Connie had seen the lady walk up-stairs, and
had thought no harm. The child supposed it was some one belonging to the
house. She had gone into the room which was now Connie's room; but as
that had a second door, there was no suspicion caused by the fact that
she was not found there a little time after, when the child told her
mother what she had seen. After this, Connie had seen the same lady
several times, and once had met her face to face. The child declared that
she was not at all afraid. She was a pretty old lady, with white hair and
dark eyes. She looked a little sad, but smiled when Connie stopped and
stared at her,--not angry at all, but rather pleased,--and looked for a
moment as if she would speak. That was all. Not a word about a ghost was
said in Connie's hearing. She had already told it all to the doctor, and
he had pretended to consider which of the old ladies in the neighborhood
this could be. In Mary's mind, occupied as it was by so many important
matters, there had been up to this time no great question about Connie's
apparition; now she began to listen closely, not so much from real
interest as from a perception that the doctor, who was her friend, did
not want her to hear. This naturally aroused her attention at once. She
listened to the child's description with growing eagerness, all the more
because the doctor opposed. "Now that will do, Miss Connie," he said; "it
is one of the old Miss Murchisons, who are always so fond of finding out
about their neighbors. I have no doubt at all on that subject. She wants
to find you out in your pet naughtiness, whatever it is, and tell me."