Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (39 page)

 
          
"General
Snowdon was my father's friend; he pitied me; he saw my desolate, destitute
state, my despair and helplessness. He comforted, sustained, and saved me. I
was grateful; and when he offered me his heart and home, I accepted them. He
knew I had no love to give; but as a friend, a daughter, I would gladly serve
him, and make his declining years as happy as I could. It was all over, when I
heard that you were alive, afflicted, and poor. I longed to come and live for
you. My new bonds became heavy fetters then, my wealth oppressed me, and I was
doubly wretched—for I dared not tell my trouble, and it nearly drove me mad. I
have seen you now; I know that you are happy; I read your cousin's love and see
a peaceful life in store for you. This must content me, and I must learn to
bear it as I can."

 
          
She
paused, breathless and pale, and walked rapidly along the terrace, as if to
hide or control the agitation that possessed her.

 
          
Treherne
still sat silent, but his heart leaped within him, as he thought, "She
sees that Octavia loves me! A woman's eye is quick to detect love in another,
and she asserts what I begin to hope. My cousin's manner just now, her dislike
of Annon, her new shyness with me; it may be true, and if it is—Heaven help
me—what am I saying! I must not hope, nor wish, nor dream; I must renounce and
forget."

 
          
He
leaned his head upon his hand, and sat so still Mrs. Snowdon rejoined him,
pale, but calm and self-possessed. As she drew near, she marked his attitude,
the bitter sadness of his face, and hope sprang up within her. Perhaps she was
mistaken; perhaps he did not love his cousin; perhaps he still remembered the
past, and still regretted the loss of the heart she had just laid bare before
him. Her husband was failing, and might die any day. And then, free, rich,
beautiful, and young, what might she not become to Treherne, helpless, poor,
and ambitious? With all her faults, she was generous, and this picture charmed
her fancy, warmed her heart, and comforted her pain.

           
"Maurice," she said
softly, pausing again beside him, "if I mistake you and your hopes, it is
because I dare ask nothing for myself; but if ever a time shall come when I
have liberty to give or help, ask of me
anything
, and it is gladly
yours."

 
          
He
understood her, pitied her, and, seeing that she found consolation in a distant
hope, he let her enjoy it while she might. Gravely, yet gratefully, he spoke,
and pressed the hand extended to him with an impulsive gesture.

 
          
"Generous as ever, Edith, and impetuously frank.
Thank
you for your sincerity, your kindness, and the affection you once gave me. I
say 'once,' for now duty, truth, and honor bar us from each other. My life must
be solitary, yet I shall find work to do, and learn to be content. You owe all
devotion to the good old man who loves you, and will not fail him, I am sure.
Leave the future and the past, but let us make the present what it may be—a
time to forgive and forget, to take heart and begin anew. Christmas is a
fitting time for such resolves, and the birth of friendship such as ours may
be."

 
          
Something
in his tone and manner struck her, and, eyeing him with soft wonder, she
exclaimed, "How changed you are!"

 
          
"Need
you tell me that?" And he glanced at his helpless limbs with a bitter yet
pathetic look of patience.

 
          
"No,
no—not so! I mean in mind, not body. Once you were gay and careless, eager and
fiery, like Jasper; now you are grave and quiet, or cheerful, and so very kind.
Yet, in spite of illness and loss, you seem twice the man you were, and
something wins respect, as well as admiration—and love."

 
          
Her
dark eyes filled as the last word left her lips, and the beauty of a touched
heart shone in her face. Maurice looked up quickly, asking with sudden
earnestness, "Do you see it? Then it is true. Yes, I
am
changed,
thank God! And she has done it."

 
          
"Who?"
demanded his companion
jealously.

 
          
"Octavia.
Unconsciously, yet surely, she has done much
for me, and this year of seeming loss and misery has been the happiest, most
profitable of my life. I have often heard that afflictions were the best
teachers, and I believe it now."

 
          
Mrs.
Snowdon shook her head sadly.

 
          
"Not
always; they are tormentors to some. But don't preach, Maurice. I am still a
sinner, though you incline to sainthood, and I have one question more to ask.
What was it that took you and Jasper so suddenly away from
Paris
?"

 
          
"That I can never tell you."

 
          
"I
shall discover it for myself, then."

 
          
"It
is impossible."

 
          
"Nothing
is impossible to a determined woman."

 
          
"You
can neither wring, surprise, nor bribe this secret from the two persons who
hold it. I beg of you to let it rest," said Treherne earnestly.

 
          
"I
have a clue, and I shall follow it; for I am convinced that something is wrong,
and you are—"

 
          
"Dear
Mrs. Snowdon,
are
you so charmed with the birds that
you forget your fellow-beings, or so charmed with one fellow-being that you
forget the birds?"

 
          
As
the sudden question startled both, Rose Talbot came along the terrace, with
hands full of holly and a face full of merry mischief, adding as she vanished,
"I shall tell Tavie that feeding the peacocks is such congenial amusement
for lovers, she and Mr. Annon had better try it."

 
          
"Saucy
gypsy!" muttered Treherne.

 
          
But
Mrs. Snowdon said, with a smile of double meaning, "Many a true word is
spoken in jest."

 
          
Unusually
gay and charming the three young friends looked, dressed alike in fleecy white
with holly wreaths in their hair, as they slowly descended the wide oaken
stairway arm in arm. A footman was lighting the hall lamps, for the winter dusk
gathered early, and the girls were merrily chatting about the evening's
festivity when suddenly a loud, long shriek echoed through the hall. A heavy
glass shade fell from the man's hand with a crash, and the young ladies clung
to one another aghast, for mortal terror was in the cry, and a dead silence
followed it.

 
          
"What
was it, John?" demanded Octavia, very pale, but steady in a moment.

 
          
"I'll
go and see, miss." And the man hurried away.

 
          
"Where
did the dreadful scream come from?" asked Rose, collecting her wits as
rapidly as possible.

 
          
"Above us somewhere.
Oh, let us go down among people; I
am frightened to death," whispered Blanche, trembling and faint.

 
          
Hurrying
into the parlor, they found only Annon and the major, both looking startled,
and both staring out of the windows.

 
          
"Did
you hear it? What could it be? Don't go and leave us!" cried the girls in
a breath, as they rushed in.

 
          
The
gentlemen had heard, couldn't explain the cry, and were quite ready to protect
the pretty creatures
who
clustered about them like
frightened fawns. John speedily appeared, looking rather wild, and as eager to
tell his tale as they to listen.

 
          
"It's
Patty, one of the maids, miss, in a fit. She went up to the north gallery to
see that the fires was right, for it takes a power of wood to warm the gallery
even enough for dancing, as you know, miss. Well, it was dark, for the fires
was low and her candle went out as she whisked open the door, being flurried,
as the maids always is when they go in there. Halfway down the gallery she says
she heard a rustling, and stopped. She's the pluckiest of 'em all, and she
called out, 'I see you!' thinking it was some of us trying to fright her.
Nothing answered, and she went on a bit, when suddenly the fire flared up one
flash, and there right before her was the ghost."

 
          
"Don't
be foolish, John. Tell us what it was," said Octavia sharply, though her
face whitened and her heart sank as the last word passed the man's lips.

 
          
"It
was a tall, black figger, miss, with a dead-white face and a black hood. She
see it plain, and turned to go away, but she hadn't gone a dozen steps when
there it was again before her, the same tall, dark thing with the dead-white
face looking out from the black hood. It lifted its arm as if to hold her, but
she gave a spring and dreadful screech, and ran to Mrs. Benson's room, where
she dropped in a fit."

 
          
"How
absurd to be frightened by the shadows of the figures in armor that stand along
the gallery!" said Rose, boldly enough, though she would have declined
entering the gallery without a
light.

 
          
"Nay,
I don't wonder, it's a ghostly place at night. How is the poor thing?"
asked Blanche, still hanging on the major's arm in her best attitude.

 
          
"If
Mamma knows nothing of it, tell Mrs. Benson to keep it from her, please. She is
not well, and such things annoy her very much," said Octavia, adding as
the man turned away, "Did anyone look in the gallery after Patty told her
tale?"

 
          
"No,
miss. I'll go and do it myself; I'm not afraid of man, ghost, or devil, saving
your presence, ladies," replied John.

 
          
"Where
is Sir Jasper?" suddenly asked the major.

 
          
"Here
I am. What a deuce of a noise someone has been making. It disturbed a capital
dream.
Why, Tavie, what is it?"
And Sir Jasper
came out of the library with a sleepy face and tumbled hair.

 
          
They
told him the story, whereat he laughed heartily, and said the maids were a
foolish set to be scared by a shadow. While he still laughed and joked, Mrs.
Snowdon entered, looking alarmed, and anxious to know the cause of the
confusion.

 
          
"How interesting!
I never knew you kept a ghost. Tell
me all about it,
 
Sir Jasper, and soothe our nerves by
satisfying our curiosity," she said
 
in her half-persuasive, half-commanding
way, as she seated herself on
 
Lady Treherne's sacred sofa.

 
          
"There's
not much to tell, except that this place used to be an abbey, in fact as well
as in name. An ancestor founded it, and for years the monks led a jolly life
here, as one may see, for the cellar is twice as large as the chapel, and much
better preserved. But another ancestor, a gay and gallant baron, took a fancy
to the site for his castle, and, in spite of prayers, anathemas, and
excommunication, he turned the poor fellows out, pulled down the abbey, and
built this fine old place. Abbot Boniface, as he left his abbey, uttered a
heavy curse on all who should live here, and vowed to haunt us till the last
Treherne vanished from the face of the earth. With this amiable threat the old
party left Baron Roland to his doom, and died as soon as he could in order to
begin his cheerful mission."

 
          
"Did
he haunt the place?" asked Blanche eagerly.

 
          
"Yes,
most faithfully from that time to this. Some say many of the monks still glide
about the older parts of the abbey, for Roland spared the chapel and the north
gallery which joined it to the modern building. Poor fellows, they are welcome,
and once a year they shall have a chance to warm their ghostly selves by the
great fires always kindled at Christmas in the gallery."

 
          
"Mrs.
Benson once told me that when the ghost walked, it was a sure sign of a coming
death in the family. Is that true?" asked Rose, whose curiosity was
excited by the expression of Octavia's face, and a certain uneasiness in Sir
Jasper's manner in spite of his merry mood.

 
          
"There
is a stupid superstition of that sort in the family, but no one except the
servants believes it, of course. In times of illness some silly maid or
croaking old woman can easily fancy they see a phantom, and, if death comes,
they are sure of the ghostly warning. Benson saw it before my father died, and
old Roger, the night my uncle was seized with apoplexy. Patty will never be
made to believe that this warning does not forebode the death of Maurice or
myself
, for the gallant spirit leaves the ladies of our
house to depart in peace. How does it strike you, Cousin?"

 
          
Turning
as he spoke, Sir Jasper glanced at Treherne, who had entered while he spoke.

 
          
"I
am quite skeptical and indifferent to the whole affair, but I agree with
Octavia that it is best to say nothing to my aunt if she is ignorant of the
matter. Her rooms are a long way off, and perhaps she did not hear the
confusion."

 
          
"You
seem to hear everything; you were not with us when I said that."
 
And Octavia looked up with an air of
surprise.

 
          
Smiling
significantly, Treherne answered, "I hear, see, and understand many things
that escape others. Jasper, allow me to advise you to smooth the hair which
your sleep has disarranged. Mrs. Snowdon, permit me. This rich velvet catches
the least speck." And with his handkerchief he delicately brushed away
several streaks of white dust which clung to the lady's skirt.

 
          
Sir
Jasper turned hastily on his heel and went to remake his toilet; Mrs. Snowdon
bit her lip, but thanked Treherne sweetly and begged him to fasten her glove.
As he did so, she said softly, "Be more careful next time. Octavia has
keen eyes, and the major may prove inconvenient."

 
          
"I
have no fear that
you
will," he whispered back, with a malicious
glance.

 
          
Here
the entrance of my lady put an end to the ghostly episode, for it was evident
that she knew nothing of it. Octavia slipped away to question John, and learn
that no sign of a phantom was to be seen. Treherne devoted himself to Mrs.
Snowdon, and the major entertained my lady, while Sir Jasper and the girls
chatted apart.

 
          
It
was Christmas Eve, and a dance in the great gallery was the yearly festival at
the abbey. All had been eager for it, but the maid's story seemed to have
lessened their enthusiasm, though no one would own it. This annoyed Sir Jasper,
and he exerted himself to clear the atmosphere by affecting gaiety he did not
feel. The moment the gentlemen came in after dinner he whispered to his mother,
who rose, asked the general for his arm, and led the way to the north gallery,
whence the sound of music now proceeded. The rest followed in a merry
procession, even Treherne, for two footmen carried him up the great stairway,
chair and all.

 
          
Nothing
could look less ghostly now than the haunted gallery. Fires roared up a wide
chimney at either end, long rows of figures clad in armor stood on each side,
one mailed hand grasping a lance, the other bearing a lighted candle, a device
of Sir Jasper's. Narrow windows pierced in the thick walls let in gleams of
wintry moonlight; ivy, holly, and evergreen glistened in the ruddy glow of
mingled firelight and candle shine. From the arched stone roof hung tattered
banners, and in the midst depended a great bunch of mistletoe. Red-cushioned
seats stood in recessed window nooks, and from behind a high-covered screen of
oak sounded the blithe air of Sir Roger de Coverley.

 
          
With
the utmost gravity and stateliness my lady and the general led off the dance,
for, according to the good old fashion, the men and maids in their best array
joined the gentlefolk and danced with their betters in a high state of pride
and bashfulness. Sir Jasper twirled the old housekeeper till her head spun
around and around and her decorous skirts rustled stormily; Mrs. Snowdon captivated
the gray-haired butler by her condescension; and John was made a proud man by
the hand of his young mistress. The major came out strong among the pretty
maids, and Rose danced the footmen out of breath long before the music paused.

 
          
The
merriment increased from that moment, and when the general surprised my lady by
gallantly saluting her as she unconsciously stood under the mistletoe, the
applause was immense. Everyone followed the old gentleman's example as fast as
opportunities occurred, and the young ladies soon had as fine a color as the
housemaids. More dancing, games, songs, and all manner of festival devices
filled the evening, yet under cover of the gaiety more than one little scene
was
enacted that night, and in an hour of seeming frivolity
the current of several lives was changed.

 
          
By
a skillful maneuver Annon led Octavia to an isolated recess, as if to rest
after a brisk game, and, taking advantage of the auspicious hour, pleaded his
suit. She heard him patiently and, when he paused, said slowly, yet decidedly,
and with no sign of maiden hesitation, "Thanks for the honor you do me,
but I cannot accept it, for I do not love you. I think I never can."

 
          
"Have
you tried?" he asked eagerly.

 
          
"Yes,
indeed I have. I like you as a friend, but no more. I know Mamma desires it,
that Jasper hopes for it, and I try to please them, but love will not be
forced, so what can I do?" And she smiled in spite of herself at her own
blunt simplicity.

 
          
"No,
but it can be cherished, strengthened, and in time won, with patience and
devotion. Let me try, Octavia; it is but fair, unless you have already learned
from another the lesson I hope to teach. Is it so?"

 
          
"No,
I think not. I do not understand myself as yet, I am so young, and this so
sudden. Give me time, Frank."