My mind was in such a confusion that I did not know what I was doing. She might be only a tramp, a thief, a vagabond. As for what she had said of being Mr. Reinhardt’s wife—my head swam, I could neither understand nor explain to myself how this had come about. But, whether she was good or bad, I could not help myself; I was committed to it. Every house on the Green was closed and silent. The shutters were all put up at the ‘Barleymow,’ and silence reigned. No, thank Heaven! in the Admiral’s window there were still lights, so that if anything happened I could call him to my aid. He was my nearest neighbour, and the sight of his lighted window gave me confidence.
My maid gave a little shriek when she opened the door, and this too roused me. I said, ‘Mary, this—lady is ill; she will lie down on the sofa in the drawing-room while we get ready the west room. You will not mind the trouble, I am sure, when you see how ill she is.’
This I said to smooth matters, for it is not to be supposed that Mary, who was already yawning at my late return, should be quite pleased at being sent off to make up a bed and prepare a room unexpectedly as it were in the middle of the night. And I was glad also to send her away, for I saw her give a wondering look at the poor creature’s clothes, which were dusty and soiled. She had been sitting on the dusty earth by Mr. Reinhardt’s cottage, and it was not wonderful if her clothes showed marks of it. I made her lie down on the sofa, and got her some wine. Poor forlorn creature! The rest seemed to be life however to her. She sank back upon the soft cushions, and her heavy breathing softened almost immediately. I left her there (though, I confess, not without a slight sensation of fear), and went to the west room to help Mary. It was a room we seldom used, at the end of a long passage, and therefore the one best fitted to put a stranger, about whom I knew nothing, in. Mary did not say anything, but I could feel that she disapproved of me in every pat she gave to the fresh sheets and pillows. And I was conciliatory, as one so often is to one’s servants. I drew a little picture of how I had found the ‘poor lady’ panting for breath and unable to walk—of how weak and how thin she was—and what a terrible thing to have heart-disease, which came on with any exertion—and how anxious her friends must be.
All this Mary listened to in grim silence, patting now and then the bedclothes with her hand, as if making a protest against all I said. At length, when I had exhausted my eloquence, and began to grow a little angry, Mary cleared her throat and replied,
‘Please, ma’am, I know it ain’t my place to speak——’
‘Oh! you can say what you please, Mary, so long as it is not unkind to your neighbours,’ said I.
‘I never set eyes on the—lady—before, so she can’t be a neighbour of mine,’ said Mary; ‘but she’s been seen about the Green days and days. I’ve seen her myself a-haunting East Cottage, where that poor gentleman lives.’
‘You said this moment that you never set eyes on her before.’
‘Not to know her, ma’am,’ said Mary; ‘it’s different. I saw her to-day walking up and down like a ghost, and I wouldn’t have given sixpence for all she had on her. It ain’t my place to speak, but one as you don’t know, and as may have a gang ready to murder us all in our beds—— Mother was in service in London when she was young, and oh! to hear the tales she knows. Pretending to be ill is the commonest trick of all, mother says, and then they get took in, and then, when all’s still——’
‘It is very kind of you, I am sure, to instruct me by your mother’s experiences,’ said I, feeling very angry. ‘Now you can go to bed if you please, and lock your door, and then you will be safe. I shall not want you any more to-night.’