His absence made me feel very lonely. We were a strange household, and led a strange life. My grandfather did not think it necessary to trouble himself about his uninvited guests. He never sought our society, or appeared at our table. Mrs. Marks tacitly resented our intrusion by retiring to the stronghold of her high room, whence she occasionally amused herself with ringing her alarum-bell, and now and then emerged to make a descent upon Charlotte below. She saw that Mr. Thornton wanted for nothing, and allowed us to shift as we liked. We went on very well. Mrs. Brand's servant daily foraged for our support, and Mrs. Langton's French maid, with Charlotte as a subordinate, condescended to cook us the exquisite soups and ragouts of her country. Thus we lived most luxuriously in that old wainscotted parlour, where there were scarcely three chairs fit to sit upon.
Mrs. Brand and Mrs. Langton did not feel the inconvenience; both before and after the departure of Edward Thornton, they lived in a round of visits and country gaieties. People, I believe, must not have known that I existed, for I was never included in the invitations they received; and the peculiar life my grandfather led, had so thoroughly estranged him from his neighbours, that not one of them ever crossed the threshold of his dwelling. What kept two such gay ladies in so gloomy an abode, was, for some time, more than I could tell, or find out, spite of the mysterious hints which Mrs. Brand dropped now and then.
My cousin had been gone a week, when Mr. Thornton was suddenly called away on business. He placed his study under my care, with the strict, but, as it seemed to me, unnecessary prohibition of allowing any one to enter this sacred place. He still employed me as reader and amanuensis, and had left me plenty of manuscripts to transcribe. I sat writing by the open window, when the sound of the opening door made me look up. I saw Mrs. Brand. She came in with a mysterious air, and locked the door after her. I rose, and with some embarrassment, informed her of my grandfather's orders.
"I am not at all astonished," she replied, calmly.
"I am sorry to be the bearer of such a message," I said, with some emphasis.
"True," she sighed, sitting down as she spoke, and her eye wandering keenly over the whole room. I reminded her that Mr. Thornton's orders admitted of no exception. She shook her head, raised her handkerchief to her eyes, withdrew it after a decent pause, and observed, mournfully:—
"Bound as I am to Mr. Thornton by the ties of blood—bound, I may say, by the ties of affection—it is melancholy—My dear, is he to be long out?"
"I don't know, ma'am; but he said—"
"Yes, dear, I know. Bound by the ties of affection, it is melancholy even to allude to the mysterious calamity which has befallen him. I have with pleasure noticed your reserve."
"Indeed, Ma'am, I am ignorant—"