Old Lady Mary - Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant
"I am sure it is not for that," cried Connie. "Oh, how can you be so
disagreeable? I know she is not a lady who would tell. Besides, she
is not thinking at all about me. She was either looking for something she
had lost, or,--oh, I don't know what it was!--and when she saw me she
just smiled. She is not dressed like any of the people here. She had got
no cloak on, or bonnet, or anything that is common, but a beautiful white
shawl and a long dress, and it gives a little sweep when she walks,--oh
no! not like your rustling, mamma; but all soft, like water,--and it
looks like lace upon her head, tied here," said Connie, putting her
hands to her chin, "in such a pretty, large, soft knot." Mary had
gradually risen as this description went on, starting a little at first,
looking up, getting upon her feet. The color went altogether out of her
face,--her eyes grew to twice their natural size. The doctor put out his
hand without looking at her, and laid it on her arm with a strong,
emphatic pressure. "Just like some one you have seen a picture of," he
said.
"Oh no. I never saw a picture that was so pretty," said the child.
"Doctor, why do you ask her any more? don't you see, don't you see, the
child has seen--"
"Miss Mary, for God's sake, hold your tongue; it is folly, you know. Now,
my little girl, tell me. I know this old lady is the very image of that
pretty old lady with the toys for good children, who was in the last
Christmas number?"
"Oh!" said Connie, pausing a little. "Yes, I remember; it was a very
pretty picture,--mamma put it up in the nursery. No, she is not like
that, not at all, much prettier; and then _my_ lady is sorry about
something,--except when she smiles at me. She has her hair put up like
this, and this," the child went on, twisting her own bright locks.
"Doctor, I can't bear any more."
"My dear, you are mistaken, it is all a delusion. She has seen a picture.
I think now, Mrs. Turner, that my little patient had better run away and
play. Take a good run through the woods, Miss Connie, with your brother,
and I will send you some physic which will not be at all nasty, and we
shall hear no more of your old lady. My dear Miss Vivian, if you will but
hear reason! I have known such cases a hundred times. The child has seen
a picture, and it has taken possession of her imagination. She is a
little below par, and she has a lively imagination; and she has learned
something from Prentiss, though probably she does not remember that. And
there it is! a few doses of quinine, and she will see visions no more."
"Doctor," cried Mary, "how can you speak so to me? You dare not look me
in the face. You know you dare not: as if you did not know as well as I
do! Oh, why does that child see her, and not me?"
"There it is," he said, with a broken laugh. "Could anything show better
that it is a mere delusion? Why, in the name of all that is reasonable,
should this stranger child see her, if it was anything, and not you?"
Mrs. Turner looked from one to another with wondering eyes. "You know
what it is?" she said. "Oh, you know what it is? Doctor, doctor, is it
because my Connie is so delicate? Is it a warning? Is it--"
"Oh, for heaven's sake! You will drive me mad, you ladies. Is it this,
and is it that? It is nothing, I tell you. The child is out of sorts,
and she has seen some picture that has caught her fancy,--and she thinks
she sees--I'll send her a bottle," he cried, jumping up, "that will put
an end to all that."
"Doctor, don't go away, tell me rather what I must do--if she is looking
for something! Oh, doctor, think if she were unhappy, if she were kept
out of her sweet rest!"
"Miss Mary, for God's sake, be reasonable. You ought never to have heard
a word."
"Doctor, think! if it should be anything we can do. Oh, tell me, tell me!
Don't go away and leave me; perhaps we can find out what it is."
"I will have nothing to do with your findings out. It is mere delusion.
Put them both to bed, Mrs. Turner; put them all to bed!--as if there was
not trouble enough!"
"What is it?" cried Connie's mother; "is it a warning! Oh, for the love
of God, tell me, is that what comes before a death?"
When they were all in this state of agitation, the vicar and his wife
were suddenly shown into the room. Mrs. Bowyer's eyes flew to Mary, but
she was too well bred a woman not to pay her respects first to the lady
of the house, and there were a number of politenesses exchanged, very
breathlessly on Mrs. Turner's part, before the new-comers were free to
show the real occasion of their visit. "Oh, Mary, what did you mean by
taking such a step all in a moment? How could you come here, of all
places in the world? And how could you leave me without a word?" the
vicar's wife said, with her lips against Mary's cheek. She had already
perceived, without dwelling upon it, the excitement in which all the
party were. This was said while the vicar was still making his bow to his
new parishioner, who knew very well that her visitors had not intended to
call; for the Turners were dissenters, to crown all their misdemeanors,
beside being city people and _nouveaux riches_.
"Don't ask me any questions just now," said Mary, clasping almost
hysterically her friend's hand.
"It was providential. Come and hear what the child has seen." Mrs.
Turner, though she was so anxious, was too polite not to make a fuss
about getting chairs for all her visitors. She postponed her own trouble
to this necessity, and trembling, sought the most comfortable seat for
Mrs. Bowyer, the largest and most imposing for the vicar himself. When
she had established them in a little circle, and done her best to draw
Mary, too, into a chair, she sat down quietly, her mind divided between
the cares of courtesy and the alarms of an anxious mother. Mary stood at
the table and waited till the commotion was over. The new-comers thought
she was going to explain her conduct in leaving them; and Mrs. Bowyer, at
least, who was critical in point of manners, shivered a little, wondering
if perhaps (though she could not find it in her heart to blame Mary) her
proceedings were in perfect taste.
"The little girl," Mary said, beginning abruptly. She had been standing
by the table, her lips apart, her countenance utterly pale, her mind
evidently too much absorbed to notice anything. "The little girl has seen
several times a lady going up-stairs. Once she met her and saw her
face, and the lady smiled at her; but her face was sorrowful, and the
child thought she was looking for something. The lady was old, with
white hair done up upon her forehead, and lace upon her head. She was
dressed--" here Mary's voice began to be interrupted from time to time by
a brief sob--"in a long dress that made a soft sound when she walked, and
a white shawl, and the lace tied under her chin in a large soft knot--"
"Mary, Mary!" Mrs. Bowyer had risen and stood behind the girl, in whose
slender throat the climbing sorrow was almost visible, supporting her,
trying to stop her. "Mary, Mary!" she cried; "oh, my darling, what are
you thinking of? Francis! doctor! make her stop, make her stop."
"Why should she stop?" said Mrs. Turner, rising, too, in her agitation.
"Oh, is it a warning, is it a warning? for my child has seen it,--Connie
has seen it."
"Listen to me, all of you," said Mary, with an effort. "You all know--who
that is. And she has seen her,--the little girl--"
Now the others looked at each other, exchanging a startled look.
"My dear people," cried the doctor, "the case is not the least unusual.
No, no, Mrs. Turner, it is no warning,--it is nothing of the sort. Look
here, Bowyer; you'll believe me. The child is very nervous and sensitive.
She has evidently seen a picture somewhere of our dear old friend. She
has heard the story somehow,--oh, perhaps in some garbled version from
Prentiss, or--of course they've all been talking of it. And the child is
one of those creatures with its nerves all on the surface,--and a little
below par in health, in need of iron and quinine, and all that sort of
thing. I've seen a hundred such cases," cried the doctor, "--a thousand
such; but now, of course, we'll have a fine story made of it, now that
it's come into the ladies' hands."
He was much excited with this long speech; but it cannot be said that any
one paid much attention to him. Mrs. Bowyer was holding Mary in her arms,
uttering little cries and sobs over her, and looking anxiously at her
husband. The vicar sat down suddenly in his chair, with the air of a man
who has judgment to deliver without the least idea what to say; while
Mary, freeing herself unconsciously from her friend's restraining
embrace, stood facing them all with a sort of trembling defiance; and
Mrs. Turner kept on explaining nervously that,--"no, no, her Connie was
not excitable, was not oversensitive, had never known what a delusion
was."
"This is very strange," the vicar said.
"Oh, Mr. Bowyer," cried Mary, "tell me what I am to do!--think if she
cannot rest, if she is not happy, she that was so good to everybody, that
never could bear to see any one in trouble. Oh, tell me, tell me what I
am to do! It is you that have disturbed her with all you have been
saying. Oh, what can I do, what can I do to give her rest?"
"My dear Mary! my dear Mary!" they all cried, in different tones of
consternation; and for a few minutes no one could speak. Mrs. Bowyer, as
was natural, said something, being unable to endure the silence; but
neither she nor any of the others knew what it was she said. When it was
evident that the vicar must speak, all were silent, waiting for him; and
though it now became imperative that something in the shape of a judgment
must be delivered, yet he was as far as ever from knowing what to say.
"Mary," he said, with a little tremulousness of voice, "it is quite
natural that you should ask me; but, my dear, I am not at all prepared to
answer. I think you know that the doctor, who ought to know best about
such matters--"
"Nay, not I. I only know about the physical; the other,--if there is
another,--that's your concern."
"Who ought to know best," repeated Mr. Bowyer; "for every body will tell
you, my dear, that the mind is so dependent upon the body. I suppose he
must be right. I suppose it is just the imagination of a nervous child
working upon the data which have been given,--the picture; and then, as
you justly remind me, all we have been saying--"
"How could the child know what we have been saying, Francis?"
"Connie has heard nothing that any one has been saying; and there is no
picture."
"My dear lady, you hear what the doctor says. If there is no picture, and
she has heard nothing, I suppose, then, your premises are gone, and the
conclusion falls to the ground."
"What does it matter about premises?" cried the vicar's wife; "here is
something dreadful that has happened. Oh, what nonsense that is about
imagination; children have no imagination. A dreadful thing has happened.
In heaven's name, Francis, tell this poor child what she is to do."
"My dear," said the vicar again, "you are asking me to believe in
purgatory,--nothing less. You are asking me to contradict the church's
teaching. Mary, you must compose yourself. You must wait till this
excitement has passed away."
"I can see by her eyes that she did not sleep last night," the doctor
said, relieved. "We shall have her seeing visions too, if we don't take
care."
"And, my dear Mary," said the vicar, "if you will think of it, it is
derogatory to the dignity of--of our dear friends who have passed away.
How can we suppose that one of the blessed would come down from heaven,
and walk about her own house, which she had just left, and show herself
to a--to a--little child who had never seen her before."
"Impossible," said the doctor. "I told you so; a stranger--that had no
connection with her, knew nothing about her--"
"Instead of," said the vicar, with a slight tremor, "making herself
known, if that was permitted, to--to me, for example, or our friend
here."
"That sounds reasonable, Mary," said Mrs. Bowyer; "don't you think so, my
dear? If she had come to one of us, or to yourself, my darling, I should
never have wondered, after all that has happened. But to this little
child--"
"Whereas there is nothing more likely--more consonant with all the
teachings of science--than that the little thing should have this
hallucination, of which you ought never to have heard a word. You are the
very last person--"
"That is true," said the vicar, "and all the associations of the place
must be overwhelming. My dear, we must take her away with us. Mrs.
Turner, I am sure, is very kind, but it cannot be good for Mary to be
here."
"No, no! I never thought so," said Mrs. Bowyer. "I never intended--dear
Mrs. Turner, we all appreciate your motives. I hope you will let us see
much of you, and that we may become very good friends. But Mary--it is
her first grief, don't you know?" said the vicar's wife, with the tears
in her eyes; "she has always been so much cared for, so much thought of
all her life--and then all at once! You will not think that we
misunderstand your kind motives; but it is more than she can bear. She
made up her mind in a hurry, without thinking. You must not be annoyed if
we take her away."
Mrs. Turner had been looking from one to another while this dialogue went
on. She said now, a little wounded, "I wished only to do what was kind;
but, perhaps I was thinking most of my own child. Miss Vivian must do
what she thinks best."
"You are all kind--too kind," Mary cried; "but no one must say another
word, please. Unless Mrs. Turner should send me away, until I know what
this all means, it is my place to stay here."
IX.
It was Lady Mary who had come into the vicarage that afternoon when Mrs.
Bowyer supposed some one had called. She wandered about to a great many
places in these days, but always returned to the scenes in which her life
had been passed, and where alone her work could be done, if it could be
done at all. She came in and listened while the tale of her own
carelessness and heedlessness was told, and stood by while her favorite
was taken to another woman's bosom for comfort, and heard everything and
saw everything. She was used to it by this time; but to be nothing is
hard, even when you are accustomed to it; and though she knew that they
would not hear her, what could she do but cry out to them as she stood
there unregarded? "Oh, have pity upon me!" Lady Mary said; and the pang
in her heart was so great that the very atmosphere was stirred, and the
air could scarcely contain her and the passion of her endeavor to make
herself known, but thrilled like a harp-string to her cry. Mrs. Bowyer
heard the jar and tingle in the inanimate world, but she thought only
that it was some charitable visitor who had come in, and gone softly away
again at the sound of tears.
And if Lady Mary could not make herself known to the poor cottagers who
had loved her, or to the women who wept for her loss while they blamed
her, how was she to reveal herself and her secret to the men who, if they
had seen her, would have thought her an hallucination? Yes, she tried
all, and even went a long journey over land and sea to visit the earl,
who was her heir, and awake in him an interest in her child. And she
lingered about all these people in the silence of the night, and tried to
move them in dreams, since she could not move them waking. It is more
easy for one who is no more of this world, to be seen and heard in sleep;
for then those who are still in the flesh stand on the borders of the
unseen, and see and hear things which, waking, they do not understand.
But, alas! when they woke, this poor wanderer discovered that her friends
remembered no more what she had said to them in their dreams.
Presently, however, when she found Mary established in her old home, in
her old room, there came to her a new hope. For there is nothing in the
world so hard to believe, or to be convinced of, as that no effort, no
device, will ever make you known and visible to those you love. Lady Mary
being little altered in her character, though so much in her being, still
believed that if she could but find the way, in a moment,--in the
twinkling of an eye, all would be revealed and understood. She went to
Mary's room with this new hope strong in her heart. When they were alone
together in that nest of comfort which she had herself made beautiful for
her child,--two hearts so full of thought for each other,--what was there
in earthly bonds which could prevent them from meeting? She went into the
silent room, which was so familiar and dear, and waited like a mother
long separated from her child, with a faint doubt trembling on the
surface of her mind, yet a quaint, joyful confidence underneath in the
force of nature. A few words would be enough,--a moment, and all would be
right. And then she pleased herself with fancies of how, when that was
done, she would whisper to her darling what has never been told to flesh
and blood; and so go home proud, and satisfied, and happy in the
accomplishment of all she had hoped.
Mary came in with her candle in her hand, and closed the door between her
and all external things. She looked round wistful with that strange
consciousness which she had already experienced, that some one was there.
The other stood so close to her that the girl could not move without
touching her. She held up her hands, imploring, to the child of her love.
She called to her, "Mary, Mary!" putting her hands upon her, and gazed
into her face with an intensity and anguish of eagerness which might have
drawn the stars out of the sky. And a strange tumult was in Mary's bosom.
She stood looking blankly round her, like one who is blind with open
eyes, and saw nothing; and strained her ears like a deaf man, but heard
nothing. All was silence, vacancy, an empty world about her. She sat
down at her little table, with a heavy sigh. "The child can see her, but
she will not come to me," Mary said, and wept.
Then Lady Mary turned away with a heart full of despair. She went quickly
from the house, out into the night. The pang of her disappointment was so
keen, that she could not endure it. She remembered what had been said to
her in the place from whence she came, and how she had been entreated to
be patient and wait. Oh, had she but waited and been patient! She sat
down upon the ground, a soul forlorn, outside of life, outside of all
things, lost in a world which had no place for her. The moon shone, but
she made no shadow in it; the rain fell upon her, but did not hurt her;
the little night breeze blew without finding any resistance in her. She
said to herself, "I have failed. What am I, that I should do what they
all said was impossible? It was my pride, because I have had my own way
all my life. But now I have no way and no place on earth, and what I have
to tell them will never, never be known. Oh, my little Mary, a servant
in her own house! And a word would make it right!--but never, never can
she hear that word. I am wrong to say never; she will know when she is in
heaven. She will not live to be old and foolish, like me. She will go up
there early, and then she will know. But I, what will become of me?--for
I am nothing here, I cannot go back to my own place."
A little moaning wind rose up suddenly in the middle of the dark night,
and carried a faint wail, like the voice of some one lost, to the windows
of the great house. It woke the children and Mary, who opened her eyes
quickly in the dark, wondering if perhaps now the vision might come to
her. But the vision had come when she could not see it, and now returned
no more.
X.
On the other side, however, visions which had nothing sacred in them
began to be heard of, and "Connie's ghost," as it was called in the
house, had various vulgar effects. A housemaid became hysterical, and
announced that she too had seen the lady, of whom she gave a description,
exaggerated from Connie's, which all the household were ready to swear
she had never heard. The lady, whom Connie had only seen passing, went to
Betsey's room in the middle of the night, and told her, in a hollow and
terrible voice, that she could not rest, opening a series of
communications by which it was evident all the secrets of the unseen
world would soon be disclosed. And following upon this, there came a sort
of panic in the house; noises were heard in various places, sounds of
footsteps pacing, and of a long robe sweeping about the passages; and
Lady Mary's costumes, and the head-dress which was so peculiar, which all
her friends had recognized in Connie's description, grew into something
portentous under the heavier hand of the foot-boy and the kitchen-maid.
Mrs. Prentiss, who had remained, as a special favor to the new people,
was deeply indignant and outraged by this treatment of her mistress. She
appealed to Mary with mingled anger and tears.
"I would have sent the hussy away at an hour's notice, if I had the power
in my hands," she cried, "but, Miss Mary, it's easily seen who is a real
lady and who is not. Mrs. Turner interferes herself in everything, though
she likes it to be supposed that she has a housekeeper."
"Dear Prentiss, you must not say Mrs. Turner is not a lady. She has far
more delicacy of feeling than many ladies," cried Mary.
"Yes, Miss Mary, dear, I allow that she is very nice to you; but who
could help that? and to hear my lady's name--that might have her faults,
but who was far above anything of the sort--in every mouth, and her
costume, that they don't know how to describe, and to think that _she_
would go and talk to the like of Betsy Barnes about what is on her mind!
I think sometimes I shall break my, heart, or else throw up my place,
Miss Mary," Prentiss said, with tears.
"Oh, don't do that; oh, don't leave me, Prentiss!" Mary said, with an
involuntary cry of dismay.
"Not if you mind, not if you mind, dear," the housekeeper cried. And then
she drew close to the young lady with an anxious look. "You haven't seen
anything?" she said. "That would be only natural, Miss Mary. I could well
understand she couldn't rest in her grave,--if she came and told it all
to you."
"Prentiss, be silent," cried Mary; "that ends everything between you and
me, if you say such a word. There has been too much said already,--oh,
far too much! as if I only loved her for what she was to leave me."
"I did not mean that, dear," said Prentiss; "but--"
"There is no but; and everything she did was right," the girl cried with
vehemence. She shed hot and bitter tears over this wrong which all her
friends did to Lady Mary's memory. "I am glad it was so," she said to
herself when she was alone, with youthful extravagance. "I am glad it was
so; for now no one can think that I loved her for anything but herself."
The household, however, was agitated by all these rumors and inventions.
Alice, Connie's elder sister, declined to sleep any longer in that which
began to be called the haunted room. She, too, began to think she saw
something, she could not tell what, gliding out of the room as it began
to get dark, and to hear sighs and moans in the corridors. The servants,
who all wanted to leave, and the villagers, who avoided the grounds after
nightfall, spread the rumor far and near that the house was haunted.
XI.
In the meantime, Connie herself was silent, and saw no more of the lady.
Her attachment to Mary grew into one of those visionary passions which
little girls so often form for young women. She followed her so-called
governess wherever she went, hanging upon her arm when she could, holding
her dress when no other hold was possible,--following her everywhere,
like her shadow. The vicarage, jealous and annoyed at first, and all the
neighbors indignant too, to see Mary transformed into a dependent of the
city family, held out as long as possible against the good-nature of Mrs.
Turner, and were revolted by the spectacle of this child claiming poor
Mary's attention wherever she moved. But by-and-by all these strong
sentiments softened, as was natural. The only real drawback was, that
amid all these agitations Mary lost her bloom. She began to droop and
grow pale under the observation of the watchful doctor, who had never
been otherwise than dissatisfied with the new position of affairs, and
betook himself to Mrs. Bowyer for sympathy and information. "Did you ever
see a girl so fallen off?" he said. "Fallen off, doctor! I think she is
prettier and prettier every day." "Oh," the poor man cried, with a
strong breathing of impatience, "You ladies think of nothing, but
prettiness!--was I talking of prettiness? She must have lost a stone
since she went back there. It is all very well to laugh," the doctor
added, growing red with suppressed anger, "but I can tell you that is the
true test. That little Connie Turner is as well as possible; she has
handed over her nerves to Mary Vivian. I wonder now if she ever talks to
you on that subject."