HOW THE MISTRESS CAME HOME
THE avenue of lofty elms was veiled in a white fog; upon the low-lying parklands, cropped meadows, and sere stubble-fields, the same woolly vapor lay dankly. But the square windows of the fine old Tudor manor-house flashed with ruddy light, and the hospitable hearth-fires of the hall diffused glow and radiance through open doors. Sir Vivian and Lady Wroth were coming home after a honeymoon of eight months’ duration spent in scampering over the face of the habitable globe; and the village was in a state of loyal ferment over the advent of the lord and lady of the manor. Already the local band, heavily primed with home-brewed, was posted at the station in readiness to burst into the strains of “See the Conquering Hero� upon the arrival of the London express. Eight sturdy laborers, in clean smock-frocks, waited, rope in hand, for the opportunity of harnessing themselves to the bridal brougham, while Venetian masts, upbearing strings of flags and fairy lanterns, testified to the strength and temperature of popular goodwill.
“A sweet pretty creature, ’m, I hear!� said Mrs. Ansdey, the white-haired, handsome, black-silk-clad housekeeper to the Rector’s wife, who had driven up to the house to ask for a cup of tea, and leave a parcel addressed to the new mistress of the manor, containing three dozen very raspy cambric handkerchiefs, hemmed and initialed by the Girls’ Sewing Class at the National Schools.
“Quite a picture, Sir Vivian’s valet said!� added the butler, who was comparatively young, not being over sixty, and therefore looked down upon by Mrs. Ansdey from her vantage of fifteen summers.
“Beauty is grass!� said the Rector’s wife, who was not overburdened with the commodity. She was a long, thin, high-nosed woman, with color distributed over her countenance in little islands. She drank her tea, and toasted her large, useful feet at the glowing wood-fire, and praised the Sally Lunns.
Her reverend partner was down at the village reading-rooms, rehearsing the shrill-voiced school children in the “Greet Ye To-night, Thrice Happy Pair,� chorus from Lohengrin. She knew the quality of the cocoa to be obtained there, and longed to share with him the hospitable burden of Mrs. Ansdey’s silver tray. But as this amicable division of spoil was manifestly impossible, the Rector’s wife consoled herself by making a clean sweep. And so she ate and drank and chatted to the not displeased Mrs. Ansdey with unflagging vigor, while the famous Reynolds portraits of departed ladies of the manor smiled and simpered from the shining paneled walls, and the gray-muzzled bloodhounds, last of a famous race and favorite of the last Baronet, snored upon the leopard-skin hearthrug.
“You have had many visitors this season?� queried the Rector’s wife, with a calculating glance at the donation box, the contents of which went to the Cottage Hospital twice in the year.
“Troops of them,� returned the housekeeper, nodding her lace lappets. “And, as usual, half of ’em with American twangs. Even if they didn’t talk through their noses, I should guess ’em from the States, shouldn’t you, Mr. Cradell?�
“Without doubt, ma’am,� rejoined the butler. “There’s a feverish anxiety to get the greatest amount of information in the shortest possible time, and an equally ardent determination to finger what isn’t meant to be fingered, price what can’t be priced, and buy what isn’t for sale, which, to my mind, is a trademark distinguishing the bearer, male or female, as hailing from the other side of the Atlantic.�
“Even if he didn’t call me ‘marm’—if he’s a man and middle-aged, and put American dollars in the box instead of English half-crowns if he happens to be a lady,� continued Mrs. Ansdey. “But what I will say is, if it was with my latest breath, that the young ladies are most elegant and have a real appreciation for old and what you might call romantic things,� she added somewhat hastily; and the Rector’s wife said, as she added sugar to her fourth cup:
“The new Lady Wroth is an American, I have always understood.�
“Born in Washington, but edicated in Paris,� said Mr. Cradell, putting a fresh log of apple-wood upon the glowing fire at the lower end of the hall.
“She comes of a fine old family, we have always understood,� said the housekeeper, smoothing her lace apron with her plump white hands. “Rutherfoord her maiden name was, and with her beauty and her jewels—for her late papa was a Senator, besides being what I’ve heard called a Railway King—she created a sensation when she was presented by the Duchess of Balgowrie last May but one.�
“As to her style of good looks,� said Mr. Cradell, dusting lichen from his coat, “Sir Vivian was always partial to dark beauty. ‘What is she like?’ says he to me when I took the liberty of asking, as an old servant may. ‘A black pearl, Cradell, and I hope to wear my jewel in my bonnet as my ancestor Sir Guy wore Queen Elizabeth’s ruby—until the day I die!’ He’d a light in his eyes when he said it, and what with love and happiness and all, he looked more like a boy of twenty-three than a man of forty. And I said to Mrs. Ansdey, ‘If ever there was a love-match,’ I says, ‘Sir Vivian’s is one.’ And now the carriage is waiting at the station to bring home both the master and the mistress—bless them both!�
“She wrote to me from Mentone,� went on Mrs. Ansdey, “and I truly call it a pretty thought, and a gracious one, of me that have been my master’s nurse, and held him on my knees when he picked out bounding ‘B’ and curly ‘Q’ with an ivory crotchet-hook.� She produced from a morocco pocketbook, of solid and responsible appearance, a letter written with violet ink on thin, foreign paper, in delicate upright characters. “‘My husband has told me of all your faithful service and true devotion to him and his,’ she read; ‘and I hope before long to take your kind hand in mine and thank you for him and for myself!’ There now!�
“Gracious and graceful too,� said old Cradell, who had beaten noiseless time to the reading of the young mistress’s letter with one wrinkled finger on a withered palm. “Good breeding there—and old blood—in every line!�
“And she looks forward to seeing her husband’s dear old English home,� went on the housekeeper, “and prays God to give them many days in it together—and I trust He will!�
“Let us hope so, for all concerned!� said the Rector’s wife, who resented theological references as trenching upon her own particular province.
“Though in this family it’s been like a fate, or a doom, or whatever you might please to term it,� said Mrs. Ansdey, “that the course of true love, the deeper it was and the truer it was, was always to be broken—not by change or faithlessness of one that loved, but by the hand of death. There was Sir Geoffrey and Lady Euphrasia—hundreds of years back—that were drowned crossing the ford on the ride home from their baby’s christening and the baby lived to be Sir Launcelot, whose bride was carried off by the Black Death before the roses on her wedding garland were withered.... And then there were Sir Alan and Sir Guy, who were both killed in battle within a year of their weddings, and Sir Vivian’s great-grandfather, old Sir Vivian, found his young wife dead at her tapestry-frame when he’d crept up quiet to surprise her with his unexpected return from the Embassy to Rome. And Sir Vivian’s own dear mother lived but a very few years after the dear child came to comfort her for his father’s early loss. But time goes by, and the curse—if it be a curse, as they say it is, brought upon the founder of the family for some secret deed of evil—the curse may have passed over, or worn itself out. What’s that?�
“What’s what, ma’am?� asked the butler, as Mrs. Ansdey rose in her rustling silks and made a sign for silence.
“I fancied I heard a timid kind of tap on the hall door,� said the housekeeper.
“A robin blew against it, perhaps,� said the butler. “They’re stupid with the frost.�
“There was a footstep too,� said Mrs. Ansdey, holding up her hand and making her old-fashioned rings gleam and twinkle in the firelight. “At least, if there wasn’t, Mr. Cradell, I admit I’ve been deceived!�
“We’ll see, we’ll see!� said Cradell, moving to the great oaken door. “It may be a tramp.� The handle turned, the massive oak door moved inward. The fog had thinned, it had grown clearer beyond doors. Within the frame of the massive lintels appeared the glimmering stone steps, a segment of the formal garden, with its black Irish yews, pale marble urns, and cartwheel beds of late flowers, enclosed within borders of box. Beyond the trees reared a somber barrier, shutting out the sky, and the chill wind of winter drove the dead leaves in swirls and drifts across the melancholy picture. The Rector’s wife, thinking of her walk across the park to the Rectory, sniffed and shivered, and the housekeeper motioned to the butler to shut the door.
“For I was mistaken, as you see, and there’s not a living soul about, unless it’s skulking in the shadow of the trees,� she said. “Another cup of tea, or a drop of cherry-brandy, ma’am, to keep the bitter air out as you walk home? Though there’s no reason you should walk when there’s the pony-chair.... Or perhaps you would rather——� She started. “Call me nervous, or finical, or what you like,� she said, peering anxiously through her gold-rimmed spectacles in the direction of the door. “But, if I spoke with my dying breath, there was a tap, and then a pause, and then another tap, as plain as plain could be!�
“Dear me!� The Rector’s wife, alarm in her eyes and crumbs on her chin, rose from her chair, dropping her imitation sable boa. “I really believe I heard it too!... Had you not better——?�
Cradell shook his old head and clucked softly with his tongue. “The ladies must always have their way!� he said, shuffling on his neatly polished shoes toward the hall-door. He opened it, and both the housekeeper and the Rector’s wife uttered a simultaneous exclamation of surprise.
For a woman was standing in the moonlight outside. She was of slight form, and wore a wide-brimmed feathered hat, and the heavy shadow of the portico fell blackly over her, so that she seemed no more than a silhouette with a pale glimmering background. But a delicate perfume stole upon the senses of those who, from within, looked out at her, and when she moved there was the unmistakable frou-frou of silken linings.
“Ma’am!� the butler began.
“I came on before,� a sweet plaintive voice said—a voice that was viola-like in its rather thin, but sweet and vibrating quality. “And you must be Cradell.�
“Ma’am?� the old servant said again, while the Rector’s wife and the housekeeper listened with strained anxiety.
“I am Lady Wroth,� came in the clear, vibrating tones. “I came on before.... It does not matter why. There was a slight accident between Greystoke Station and the Elvand Tunnel. Do not be alarmed. Sir Vivian is safe, quite safe,� she went on, as agitated exclamations broke from the three listeners. “Indeed only one person was killed, though two or three are injured, and he—my husband—is helping the sufferers. He is always like that, so ready to help, so full of sympathy....�
She was now standing in the firelight, whose ruddy glow illumined the slight figure, and drew gleams of crimson and emerald from the jewels at her throat and shone in the depths of her great dark eyes. Her face was of delicate, pearly paleness, her hair had the tints of autumn leaves, and her draperies, too, were of the tints of autumn. She drew off a glove, and her wedding ring, with its diamond keeper, showed upon the slight and pretty hand, as her traveling mantle of velvet trimmed with costly sables fell to the floor.
“Oh, your ladyship!� cried the housekeeper. “What must you think of us—standing here and staring? But as goodness sees us—what with your sudden coming, and the news about the accident, and all—we’ve lost our heads, me and Mr. Cradell!�
“So very alarming!� said the Rector’s wife. “I trust Lady Wroth will excuse what may seem like an intrusion——�
“The intrusion is mine,� said the sweet viola-voice. “I should have given warning of my coming, but it was not to be. Oh! the dear house!� She looked with wondering, shining eyes upon the paneled walls, the trophied arms, the noble pictures, and the quaint antique furniture, and between her lips, of the faintest rose, her delicate teeth gleamed like pearls, as her breath came quick and eager. “Vivian’s old home ... Vivian’s home, and mine!� she whispered to herself, and laid a hand upon her heart, as though to check its beating.
“I will not intrude,� said the Rector’s wife. “I will hope for the pleasure of calling, with the Rector, at a more fitting time. Good-night, Lady Wroth.�
The Rector’s wife had held out her large hand in its cheap glove, but the new mistress of the manor only smiled upon her with vague wistful sweetness, and did not touch the massive extremity. Whereupon its owner set down Lady Wroth as “proud,� and made a mental note to tell the Rector so, as her large feet carried her out of the house and out of the story.
The two old servants exchanged a glance as the slight figure of their mistress moved across the polished floor, strewn with Oriental rugs and skins of wild beasts.
“Would my lady wish to go to her room, or to have some refreshment in the dining-room?� the housekeeper asked.
My lady declined.
“I have no need of anything. I only wish to rest a little and see my husband’s home before starting upon a journey,� she explained.
“A journey? Dear, gracious me! And your ladyship just fresh from travel, and shaken by an accident and all!� cried Mrs. Ansdey, shaking her lace lappets.
“I am so used to travel,� said her ladyship, “though this is the longest journey I have ever taken—or ever shall take!� She smiled upon the two old people, and settled herself in the seat she had chosen, and resting her elbow upon the arm of it, and her pretty chin in her delicate palm, let her sweet shining eyes travel about the place. “All as he described it, yes!� she whispered to herself. “The mullioned windows with the coats of arms, the carved and painted ceiling, the hooded Tudor fireplaces, the arms and the pictures.... That is the great Gainsborough portrait of Sir Alan’s young wife, the girl who died of grief when they brought her husband’s bâton of Field Marshal to her—won an hour before he was killed in battle. There is the painting by Velasquez of the Wroth who was made Bishop of Toledo. That must be the Vandyck of Lady Marjorie with the deerhound by her side, and there is the Watts picture of Vivian’s young mother playing ball with her boy. Ah! what a sweet, sweet child!�
The plaintive voice thrilled and trembled. Tears might not have been far from the shadowy dark eyes, as Lady Wroth rose and moved to the foot of the great staircase, attended by the housekeeper.
“Shall I show you your rooms, my lady?� Mrs. Ansdey began. “The fires are burning beautifully, and everything is quite ready, and I feel sure your ladyship must need rest after——�
“I will rest presently. But what I wish now, is to be shown the house, if you are not too tired. Lady Audrey’s turret, and the paneled chamber where Sir Roger fought the duel with the Spanish cavalier, and the bedroom where Queen Elizabeth slept, and the banqueting-hall and the chapel where the Templar’s heart is buried under the altar, and the gallery where Lady Euphrasia danced with King Henry VIII., in masquing dress, and the whispering corridor, and the painted room——�
“And the ghost-chamber, my lady? Oddly enough, that’s the first room that American ladies ask to see!... But maybe your ladyship doesn’t believe in ghosts, or the fact of its being late and getting dark——�
Lady Wroth laughed quietly and sweetly. “Do you believe that the spirits of those who have passed on can only appear in the dark, dear Mrs. Ansdey?�
The housekeeper rustled her stiff silken skirts as she followed her new mistress up the broad staircase with its carven balusters and mossy carpets.
“I don’t believe in ghosts at all, my lady!�
“Not in ghosts as they are commonly imagined; those shadowy white things that point and scare and hover,� came floating back in the thin, sweet tones; “but in the spirits of the departed—it may be long-dead, or newly called from earth—who borrow for a little while the semblance in which they lived and loved, and return for one last look at a beloved home, or come for one dear glimpse of what might, but for the Infinite Eternal Will, have been a home. You believe in them, do you not? Or, if you do not now, you will! Ah, yes! you will, dear Mrs. Ansdey!�
Looking upward from the hall, the butler saw the slight figure of Sir Vivian’s bride traverse the first landing and pass out of view, followed by the portly figure of the housekeeper; and in that moment came the grind of wheels upon the avenue, a loud knock at the hall-door, and a sharp peal at the bell. Two liveried servants, appearing in haste, admitted the master of the house, and at the first glimpse of Sir Vivian’s ghastly face and torn and disordered garments, Cradell cried out in alarm.
“Sir Vivian—sir! It’s worse than what my lady said!... You’ve been hurt! Shall I send for the doctor?�
“He is with us!� came the hoarse reply, and Cradell, peering out into the chill, gathering darkness, saw a strange carriage drawn up before the door, whose lamps threw a yellow reflection on the clouds of steam rising from the flanks of a pair of jaded horses. They were busy about the door; something was being lifted out? What? asked the old servant’s shaking lips dumbly.
“Drove in from Greystoke ... hospital carriage.... Send the men to help.... Get me some brandy,� came from Sir Vivian in hoarse shaking tones. “I can’t ... my arm ... dislocated, that’s all. I wish to Heaven——� His face expressed the nature of the wish, and the old butler cried with spirit, as he brought the brandy from the dining-room. “You should be thankful, sir, that you’ve been spared to her!�
“Spared to—her?�
The decanter clinked against the glass. Sir Vivian set it down upon the tray, and turned a white, seamed face and haggard eyes upon Cradell.
“Spared to my lady, sir, God bless her!� the old servant said. “Your hand shakes sadly; let me pour the brandy out.�
Sir Vivian laughed, or made a grimace of laughter, showing his teeth and stretching his pale lips.
“Lord, sir! don’t look like that!� Cradell begged. “Think if her ladyship were to see you! She——�
“If her ladyship were to see me!� repeated Sir Vivian. He drank off a glass of brandy and laughed again. “Cradell—are you mad, or am I?�
“Neither of us, sir, I hope!� said Cradell. Then a light broke upon him, and he cried, “Good gracious, Sir Vivian, is it possible that you don’t know ... my lady is here?�
“I know it.� An awful agony was expressed in Sir Vivian’s face. “I know it too well!� Great drops stood upon his forehead; he turned aside, clenching his hand, and fighting for self-command.
“She came half an hour ago,� began the butler. “Me and Mrs. Ansdey were quite took aback. Mrs. Ansdey is upstairs with her ladyship now....�
“Man—man!� cried Sir Vivian, “do you know what you are saying?�
He turned his streaming face upon the frightened butler and gripped him by the arm, fiercely.
“Lady Wroth—my wife, she is dead! There was an accident—she was killed instantaneously, with little pain, thank God! They said so at the Greystoke Hospital.... She is outside—there!� He pointed a shaking hand toward the partly open hall-door, through which a pale line of moonlight came stealing as the careful, measured tread of men carrying a precious burden sounded on the stone. “Yet you say to me—she arrived half an hour ago! You are raving—or I am delirious!�
For answer the butler pointed to the velvet mantle trimmed with costly sables that lay upon the floor.
“It’s heaven’s truth, Sir Vivian! And there lies the proof! ... and here is Mrs. Ansdey to confirm it.�
Both men looked up as the portly figure in its rustling black silken robes hurried down the great staircase.
“Sir Vivian! Oh, welcome home, Sir Vivian, a thousand times!� The housekeeper’s face was very pale, her hands worked nervously, crumpling her fine lace apron. “But something dreadful has happened! it’s written in your face!� she cried, “and God forgive a sinful woman, but I am beginning to believe that I have spoken with a spirit!�
“Cradell tells me that——� Sir Vivian made an upward gesture.
“It’s true,� cried Mrs. Ansdey. “Her ladyship—if ’twas her ladyship—explained that you were delayed. Someone was killed in the railway accident——�
“Someone was killed!�
“And you were coming on after you had seen to the wounded.... She—she would not eat, or drink, or rest; she wished—all she wished was to see the house, and I obeyed, and we went through room after room until—there was a ring at the hall-door bell, and a knocking, and I turned to speak to my lady as we stood together in the painted chamber—and she was gone! Oh, Sir Vivian, what does it all mean?� cried Mrs. Ansdey.
“It means—that!�
As the hall-door opened to admit the bearers with their precious burden, and as the men laid that cold, lovely, smiling image of Death reverently on the settle, the bloodhound wakened from his slumber and rising, uttered a long plaintive howl.
“Welcome home, my wife!� said Sir Vivian. “Now please to leave us here together!�
So the servants and the bearers withdrew.
“It was the same face!� Mrs. Ansdey whispered, as her faithful old comrade led her away. “Why did she come?�
Cradell said: “Because she’d made up her mind to—and she was a woman! There’s two answers in one!�
He stooped mechanically to pick up the sable-trimmed mantle that had lain upon the floor. No hand had touched it, but it was no longer there.