CHAPTER IV.
When I heard the door close on Cornelius, my tears ceased; they had not moved him; they were useless; it was all over; my fate was fixed. I sat on a chair, drearily looking across the table, at my brown-faced, white- bearded grandfather, who raised his voice and called out impatiently, "Polly, Molly. Mary, Thing—where are you?" The little servant-girl answered this indiscriminate appeal by showing her full round face at the door. Mr. Thornton, resting both his hands on the table, slightly bent forward to say impressively, "That young man is never to be let in again,—do you understand?" She assented by nodding her head several times in rapid succession, then closed the door.
"But I will see Mr. O'Reilly," I exclaimed indignantly; for though he had forsaken me, I still looked up to him as to my protector and friend.
Mr. Thornton raised his eyebrows, and gave an ironical grunt. At the same moment the door again opened, and a lady, young, elegantly attired, and beautiful as the princess of a fairy tale, entered the room.
"Uncle," she began, but, on seeing me, she stopped short; then with evident wonder asked briefly. "Who is it?"
"Her name is Burns," was the short reply. The young lady looked at me, and nodded significantly. Mr. Thornton resumed, "I shall provide for her; in the meanwhile tell Mrs. Marks to take care of her, and keep her out of my way, until I have settled how she is to be disposed of." I felt very like a bale of useless goods.
"Then you will have the charity not to keep her here," observed the young lady with impatient bitterness.
"I shall have the charity not to let her become a fine lady like you,
Edith," he sarcastically answered.
"Do you mean to make a governess of your grand-daughter, as you would of your niece if you could?"
"My dear, you forget my niece could not be a governess; and neither governess nor fine lady shall be this child, whom you are pleased to call my grand-daughter. A common-place education, some decent occupation,— such is to be her destiny. And now be so good as to leave me."
"To your beetles!" she indignantly replied; "you don't care for anything but your beetles. I am sick of my life. I wish I were dead—I wish I had never seen this dreadful old hole."
"Pity you flirted with the intended of your cousin, my dear, and got packed off. Suppose you try and get married; I intend leaving England again, and it will be rather dull for you to stay here alone with Mrs. Marks."
"I'll run away sooner."
"That's just what I mean. Elope, my dear, elope!"
"I won't eat any more!" she exclaimed, crimson with vexation and shame;
"I know you don't believe it, but I won't."
"Then you'll die; I'll embalm you, and you'll make a lovely young mummy." His little black eyes sparkled as if he rather relished the idea; but it was more than the beautiful Edith could stand, for she burst into tears, and calling her uncle "a barbarous tyrant," was flying out of the room in a rage, when he coolly summoned her back to say, "Edith, take it with you!"
By "it" he meant me. She took my hand and obeyed; her beautiful blue eyes flashing resentfully, her bosom still heaving with indignant grief. But Mr. Thornton, heedless of her anger and sorrow, had resumed his magnifying glass, and was again intent on the beetle. When we both stood on the threshold of the door, Edith turned round to confront him, and said vindictively, "I wish there may never be another beetle,—there!" With this she slammed the door, dropped my hand, turned to her left, and went up an old oak staircase, dimly lit by an iron lamp riveted to the wall. She once looked back to see that I followed her, but took no other notice of me. As she reached a wide landing, she met, coming down, a tall and thin old lady in black.
"Mrs. Marks," she said briefly, "you are to attend to this child."
Without another word or look she continued her ascent. Mrs. Marks looked down at me from the landing, as I stood on the staircase a few steps below her; then up at the light figure of Edith ascending the next flight, and indignantly muttering "that she had never"—the rest did not reach me—she majestically signed me to approach. I obeyed. She eyed me from head to foot, but did not seem much enlightened by the survey. "That is the way up," she said at length, pointing with a long fore-finger to the staircase. The explanation seemed to me a very needless one, but I followed her upstairs silently. We went up until I thought we should never stop, though the ceiling becoming lower with every flight we ascended, indicated that we were approaching the highest regions of the house. I felt tired, but Mrs. Marks went on steadily, as if the tower of Babel would not have daunted her. At length she came to a pause. We had reached a low irregular corridor, that seemed to run round the whole house, and was garnished with numerous doors. Before one of these Mrs. Marks made a dead stop. She unlocked it, held it open by main force, as far as its rusty hinges would allow, then looking round at me, said, emphatically—
"That is the way in."
I hesitated, then slid in; Mrs. Marks slid in after me, then let go the door, which of its own accord closed with a snap, locking us in a small, snug room, with thick curtains, closely drawn, a warm carpet on the floor, a bright fire burning in the grate, a kettle singing on the hob, a cat purring on the hearth rug, a chair of inviting depth awaiting its tenant by the fireside, and near it a small table with tray and tea- things.
"Sit down," said Mrs. Marks, pointing to a chair.
I obeyed. She went to the fireplace, and planting herself on the rug, with her hands gathering her skirts in front, and her back to the fire, she thence surveyed me with an attentive stare. Passed from Miss Murray to Cornelius,—from him to Mr. Thornton,—from Mr. Thornton to his niece,—and from her to Mrs. Marks, I felt more apathetic than ever; but Mrs. Marks stood exactly opposite me; I could not help seeing her. She was a gaunt, tall woman, with a pale face and fixed eyes, that made her look like her own portrait. They were eclipsed by a pair of bright black pins, which projected from her cap on either side, and held some mysterious connection with her front. She wore a robe of rusty black, that fitted tight to the figure, and was not over-ample in the skirt. After a long contemplation, she uttered a solemn "I shall see," then left the room. The door snapped after her; I remained alone with the cat, which, like every creature in that house, seemed to care nothing for me, but went on purring with half-shut eyes.
Its mistress soon returned, settled herself in her arm-chair, and thence seemed inclined to survey me again; but the contemplation was disturbed by a tap at the door.
"Come in, Mrs. Digby; don't be afraid of the door," encouragingly said
Mrs. Marks.
Mrs. Digby was probably nervous, for she made several feeble attempts to introduce her person,—as suddenly darting back again,—before she gathered sufficient courage to accomplish the delicate operation.
"Gracious! I never saw such a door!" she then observed; "I wonder you can keep such a creature, Mrs. Marks."
"It has its good points," philosophically replied Mrs. Marks; "it is safer than a lock, and, like a dog, won't bite unless you are afraid of it. But if you dally with it, Mrs. Digby, why it may give you a snap!"
"Gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Digby, looking horrified; "how can you live up here, Mrs. Marks?"
"The rooms below are gloomy, and have no prospect; whereas here I sit by the window, look over the whole grounds, and, if I see anything wrong, I just touch this string,—then a bell rings,—and Richard at the lodge is warned."
"Well," dismally observed Mrs. Digby, "I dare say that is very pleasant; but I have enough of old castles, Mrs. Marks."
"This is not a castle."
"They read like such dear horrid old places, that I was quite delighted when Miss Grainger said to me the other day, 'Digby, we are going to uncle Thornton's!' I did not know they smelt more mouldy than any cheese, and that there was no sleeping with the rats."
"Yes, the little things will trot about, spite of the cat; but then one must live and let live, Mrs. Digby."
"Don't say one must let rats live, Mrs. Marks, don't! they are almost as bad as Mr. Thornton's horrid things,—only they are stuffed."
"Mr. Thornton is a learned man," sententiously replied Mrs. Marks; "but I do think he gives so much attention to natural history and entomology. Mr. Marks thought nothing of entomology, he was all for chemistry; that's the science, Mrs. Digby!"
"Didn't it blow him up?"
"Blow him up! Was Mr. Marks a gunpowder-mill, Mrs. Digby? He perished in making a scientific experiment; you will, I trust, soon learn the difference. A man of Mr. Thornton's immense mind cannot but sicken of entomology, and return to chemistry. You will not see much, but you will hear reports—"
"Gracious!" interrupted Mrs. Digby, with an alarmed air, "I wish I were out of the place."
"Then help your handsome young lady to get a husband," sneered Mrs. Marks from the depths of her arm-chair.
"If Miss Grainger had my spirit," loftily replied Mrs. Digby, "she would now be a countess of the realm, Mrs. Marks; and if she had been guided by me, she would at least be the wife of the handsomest gentleman I ever saw."
"Edward Thornton! the heir-at-law! Pooh! Mrs. Digby! he has not a penny, and Mr. Thornton won't die just yet."
"He is very handsome," spiritedly returned Mrs. Digby; "but, as I said, if Miss Grainger will put herself in the hands of Mrs. Brand, why she must bear with the consequences, Mrs. Marks."
So saying, Mrs. Digby for the first time turned towards me. She was a thin, fair, faded woman, attired in a light blue dress, which, like its wearer, was rather pass?e. She sat by the table, with the tip of her elbow resting on the edge; drooping in a graceful willow-like attitude, she raised a tortoise-shell eye-glass to her eyes, examined me through it, then dropping it with lady-like grace, sighed forth—
"How do you feel, darling?"
I was proud, more proud than shy; I resented being left to the subordinates of my grandfather's household, and did not choose to answer. Mrs. Marks spared me the trouble.
"You might as well talk to the cat, Mrs. Digby. Children," she added, giving me an impressive look of her dull eyes, "are, up to a certain age, little animal creatures: they have speech, sensation, but neither thought nor feeling. Mr. Marks and I would never have anything to do with them."
"Oh! Mrs. Marks! a baby?"
"Have you ever had one?"
Mrs. Digby reddened, and asked for an explanation. Mrs. Marks asked to know if there had not been a Mr. Digby? No. But there might have been a Mr. Wilkinson, two Messrs. Jones—Mr. Thompson was coming on, and Mr. John Smith was looming in the distance, when Mrs. Marks interrupted the series by pouring out the tea. I sat between the two ladies, but I ate nothing.
"That child won't live," observed Mrs. Marks at the close of her own hearty meal; "she is a puny thing for her age; besides it is not natural in such an essentially physical creature as a child not to eat; why don't you eat, Anna?"
I looked at her and spoke for the first time: "My name is not Anna."
"What is your name, then?—your Christian name, by which I am to call you?"
I did not relish the prospect of being called by my Christian name, for, as I have already said, I was a proud child, so I did not reply.
"Unable to answer a plain question!" observed Mrs. Marks, bespeaking the attention of Mrs. Digby with her raised forefinger; "does not know its own name!"
"My name is Miss Burns," I said indignantly.
"Does not know the difference between a surname and a Christian name!" continued Mrs. Marks, commenting on my obtuseness. "Come," she charitably added, to aid the efforts of my infant mind, "are we to call you Jane, Louisa, Mary Lucy, Alice?"
I remained silent.
"This looks like obstinacy," remarked Mrs. Marks, in a tone of discovery. "Let us reason like rational beings," she added, forgetting I was only a little animal: "if I don't know your Christian name, how am I to call you?"
"Sarah never called me by my Christian name," I bluntly replied.
"Miss Burns," solemnly inquired Mrs. Marks, "do you mean to establish a parallel? May I know who and what you take me for?"
"You are the housekeeper," I answered.
Alas! why has the plain truth the power of offending so many people besides Mrs. Marks, and who, like her, too, scorn to attribute their wrath to its true cause?
"You have been asked for your Christian name," she said, irefully; "with unparalleled obstinacy you have refused to tell it; you shall be called Burns, and go to bed at once."
The sentence was immediately carried into effect; I was taken to the next room, undressed, and hoisted up into the tall four-posted bedstead which nightly received Mrs Marks, and left there to darkness and my reflections. But no punishment from those I did not love ever had affected me. I was soon fast asleep.
Memory is a succession of vivid pictures and sudden blanks. I remember my first evening at Thornton House more distinctly than the incidents of last week, but the days that followed it are wrapt in a dim mist. But much that then seemed mysterious on account of my ignorance, I have since learned to understand.
My grandfather was a country gentleman of good family, but of eccentric character. He had from a youth devoted himself to science, and renounced the world. I believe he knew and studied everything, but his learning led to no result, save that of diminishing a fortune which had never been very ample, and of burdening still more heavily his encumbered estate. I have often thought what a dull life my poor mother must have led with him in that gloomy old house, and I can scarcely wonder that, when a man, young, amiable, and rather good-looking than plain, was imprudently thrown in her way, she knew not how to resist the temptation of love and liberty.
Mr. Thornton never forgave them. Soon after the elopement of his daughter he went abroad on some scientific errand, leaving his property to the care of lawyers, and his house to Mrs. Marks, the widow of a scientific man, whom he had taken for his housekeeper. He returned to Leigh about the time of my father's death, unaltered in temper or feelings. Wrapt in his books and studies, he went nowhere and saw no one. Fate having chosen to burden him with two feminine guests—his niece and myself—he did his best to elude the penalty, by keeping away from us both.
Miss Grainger's sojourn at Thornton House was caused by an indiscretion, in which beautiful young ladies will sometimes indulge. She had chosen to divert from the plain daughter of an aunt, with whom she resided, the affections of her betrothed; who was also my grandfather's heir. Edward Thornton lost his intended and her ten thousand pounds, and the beautiful Edith exchanged a luxurious abode and fashionable life for Thornton House and the society of her uncle. A rose and an owl would have been as well matched. Mr. Thornton shunned his niece with all his might; and, not being able to forgive her the sin of her birth, he saw still less of his grand-daughter.
A room near that of Mrs. Marks was fitted up for me. There I spent my days, occasionally enlivened by the sound of her alarum-bell; my old books and playthings my only company. Even childish errors win their retribution. I had been an exclusive, unsociable child, caring but for one being, and contemning every other affection and companionship; no one now cared for me. Miss Murray sent me my things, and troubled herself about nothing else; my grandfather I never saw; his niece came not near me; Mrs. Digby imitated her mistress. I was left to Mrs. Marks; she might have been negligent and tyrannical with utter impunity; but though she still considered me in the light of a little animal, and persisted in calling me "Burns," she did her duty by me.
My wants were attended to; but that was all; I was left to myself, to solitude and liberty. I was again sickly and languid. To go up and down stairs, to play in the court, wander in the grounds, or walk in the wild and neglected garden behind the house, were exertions beyond my strength. I remained in my room, a voluntary captive, satisfied with looking out of the window. It commanded the grounds below, a green and wild desert, with a bright stream gliding through, and looked beyond them over a soft and fertile tract of country bounded by a waving line of low hills, which opened to afford, as in a vision, a sudden view of some glorious world,— a glimpse of blending sea and heaven, limited, yet giving that sense of the infinite, for which the mind ever longs and which the eye ever seeks.
I sat at that window for hours daily, and grew not wearied of gazing. The sea, glittering as glass in sunshine, of the deepest blue in shadow, dark and sullen, or white with foam in tempest; the mellow and pastoral look of the distant country; the varied beauty of the park, with its ancient trees, woodland aspect, and bounding deer; the high grass below, suddenly swept down by the strong wind, and ever rising again; the slow and stately clouds that passed on in the blue air above me, with a sense, motion, and in a region of their own, were not, however, the objects that attracted me so irresistibly.
The avenue stretching beneath my gaze, with its dark and stately trees, under which cool shadows ever lingered, and the grass-grown path lit up by gliding sunbeams, had my first and last look. Untaught by disappointment, I kept watching for Cornelius O'Reilly. My plans were laid, and I one day tested their practicability. Deceived by a strong resemblance in height and figure, I slipped down, unlocked a side-door which nobody minded, and thus admitted into Thornton House a handsome fashionable-looking man, who seemed surprised, and asked for Miss Grainger. I stole away without answering. The same evening Mrs. Marks called me to her presence. She sat down, and made me stand before her. "Burns," she said, "was it you who let in young Mr. Thornton by the side- door?"
"Yes," I replied, unhesitatingly.
"Who told you to do so?"
"No one; I did it out of my own head."
"You did it on purpose?"
"Yes, I saw him coming, and went down."
Mrs. Marks looked astounded.
"Burns! what could be your motive?"
I remained mute, though the question was put under every variety of shape.
"Unfortunate little creature!" observed Mrs. Marks, whose dull eyes beamed compassion on me, "it does not know the nature of its own blind impulses."
Thanks to this charitable conclusion, I escaped punishment; but on the following day I found the side-door secured by a high bolt beyond my reach. I did not, however, give up the point. A wicket-gate opened from the garden on the grounds, and commanded a side view of the avenue; there, every fine day, I took my post, still vainly hoping for the coming of Cornelius.
It was thus I sometimes saw my cousin Edith. Her great loveliness and rich attire impressed me strongly. Her room was below mine. I daily heard her, like a fair lady in her bower, playing on her lute, or warbling sweet songs; she was the beauty and enchanted princess of all my fairy tales; yet, when we met, the only notice she took of me was a cold and gentle "How are you, dear?" the reply to which she never stopped to hear. She generally walked with Mrs. Digby, who, drawing her attention to my evident admiration, never failed to observe as they passed by me, "The child can't take her eyes off you, Ma'am." "Hush! Digby," invariably replied the fair Edith, in a tone implying that she disapproved of the liberty, although the sweetness of her disposition induced her to forgive it. Mrs. Digby, however, persisted in repeating her offence, even when I was not looking, and was always checked with the same gentleness.
One day, when I came down, I found Miss Grainger no longer in the company of Mrs. Digby, but sitting in an arbour with a fair and fashionable lady of thirty, or so, whom she called Bertha, and who, after eyeing me through her gold eye-glass, impressively observed, as, without noticing them, I took my usual place: "Edith, such are the consequences of love- matches! Mr. Langton—"
"But he is so old, Bertha," interrupted Edith, pouting.
"So I thought of Mr. Brand, when I married him; but it is not generous to be always thinking of age. Ah! love is very selfish, Edith."
Miss Grainger raised her handkerchief to her eyes.
"My dearest girl," said the lady, "be generous; be unselfish. Mr. Langton will be so kind—he has the means, you know,—and poor Edward—poor in every sense—can only—Edward, what brought you here?"
She addressed the same young man whom I had admitted, and who had now suddenly stepped from behind the arbour where the two ladies sat. He gave the speaker an angry look, and taking the hand of my cousin, he hastily led her away down one of the garden paths, talking earnestly. The lady bit her lip, followed them with a provoked glance, and stood waiting their return. She had to wait some time. At length young Mr. Thornton appeared; he looked pale, desperate, strode past the lady, opened the gate by which I stood, entered the grounds, leaped over a fence, and vanished. Edith came up more slowly. She was crying, and looked frightened. The lady went up to her.
"Well!" she said, eagerly.
"Edward says he'll kill himself!" sobbed Edith.
"My dear," sighed her friend, "Arthur said so too when we parted. He is alive still. I am Edward's sister, and yet, you see, I am quite easy. Do not fret, dear. You must come with me to the Mitfords this evening."
"I can't, Bertha."
"My dearest girl, you must. It is extremely selfish to brood over sorrow."
With this she kissed her, and they entered the house together.
"Burns, come in to dinner," said the voice of Mrs. Marks, addressing me from the arched doorway.
I obeyed, and, for some unexplained reason, was consigned to my room during the rest of the day, which I spent by the window, still watching for my friend with a patient persistent hope that would not be conquered. I was so absorbed that I never heard Mrs. Marks enter, until she said, close behind me, "Burns, what are you always looking out of that window for?"
Before I could reply, a sharp voice inquired from the corridor:
"Mrs. Marks, who is it I have twice this day heard you addressing by the extraordinary name of Burns?"
We both looked round. Mrs. Marks had left my door open; exactly opposite it stood a ladder leading to a trap-door in the roof of the house, through which Mr. Thornton, who had gone to survey the progress of an observatory he was causing to be erected there, now appeared descending.
"That child won't tell her other name, Sir," replied Mrs. Marks, reddening.
"Do you know it?"
"She won't tell it, Sir."
My grandfather fastened his keen black eyes full on me, and signed me to approach. He stood on the last step of the ladder. I went up to him; he gave my head a quick survey, then suddenly fixed the tip of his forefinger somewhere towards the summit, and exclaimed, in a tone that showed he had settled the bump and the question: "Firmness large; secretiveness too; but good moral and intellectual development. What is your name?"
"Margaret," I replied, unhesitatingly.
Margaret had been my mother's name. Mr. Thornton turned away at once.
"Margaret, go back to your room," shortly said Mrs. Marks.
Mr. Thornton was descending the staircase. He stopped to turn round, and observed, with great emphasis, "Miss Margaret, will you please to go back to your room?"
He went down without uttering another word.
Mrs. Marks became scarlet; and, declaring that she was not going to Miss Margaret any one, she retired to her own apartment in high dudgeon. I thought to spend this autumn evening, as usual, in the companionship of lamp, fire, books, and toys; but scarcely had Mrs. Marks brought me my light, and retired again, when Miss Grainger entered.
Was it tardy pity? Had my grandfather spoken to her? or had she come, like the fairy godmother of poor forlorn Cinderella, to visit me in all her splendour, and fill my room with a fleeting vision of elegance and beauty? Her tears had ceased, her sorrow was over; she was evidently going out for the evening: and she looked triumphant, like a long-captive princess emerging from her enchanted tower. Her dark ringlets fell on shoulders of ivory; her bright blue eyes sparkled with joy; the sweetest of smiles played on her enchanting face. A robe of rose-coloured silk fell to her feet in rustling folds; strings of pearls were wreathed in her hair, encircled her neck, and clasped her white arms. I gazed on her, mute with wonder and admiration. She looked gracious; but I ventured to touch her! She drew back with extreme alarm, glanced at her robe, and gently extending her hands before her person, to keep me at a safe distance, she smiled sweetly at me, with—"Yes, I know; good night, dear."
With this she vanished.
Why did she leave me far more chill and lonely than she had found me? Why did I remember the tender caresses of my dead father, and the embrace of Cornelius in the garden, and feel very dreary and desolate? Providence often answers our feelings and our thoughts in a manner that is both touching and strange. Ere long the door again opened; I looked up, and saw—Cornelius O'Reilly.