The Shuttle & The Making of a Marchioness. Frances Hodgson Burnett

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СКАЧАТЬ house at Palstrey, despite its age, was in a wonderful state of preservation, the carved oak balustrades of the stairways being considered particularly fine.

      “What but Providence,” said Jane piously, in speaking to her mother the next morning, “made me look down the staircase as I passed through the upper landing just before my lady was going down to dinner. What but Providence I couldn’t say. It certainly wasn’t because I’ve done it before that I remember. But just that one evening I was obliged to cross the landing for something, and my eye just lowered itself by accident, and there it was!”

      “Just where it would have tripped her up. Good Lord! it makes my heart turn over to hear you tell it. How big a bit of carving was it?” Mrs. Cupp’s opulent chest trimmings heaved.

      “Only a small piece that had broken off from old age and worm-eatenness, I suppose, but it had dropped just where she wouldn’t have caught sight of it, and ten to one would have stepped on it and turned her ankle and been thrown from the top to the bottom of the whole flight. Suppose I hadn’t seen it in time to pick it up before she went down. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Mother!”

      “I should say so!” Mrs. Cupp’s manner approached the devout. This incident it was which probably added to Jane’s nervous sense of responsibility. She began to watch her mistress’s movements with hypersensitive anxiety. She fell into the habit of going over her bedroom two or three times a day, giving a sort of examination to its contents.

      “Perhaps I’m so fond of her that it’s making me downright silly,” she said to her mother; “but it seems as if I can’t help it. I feel as if I’d like to know everything she does, and go over the ground to make sure of it before she goes anywhere. I’m so proud of her, mother; I’m just as proud as if I was some connection of the family, instead of just her maid. It’ll be such a splendid thing if she keeps well and everything goes as it should. Even people like us can see what it means to a gentleman that can go back nine hundred years. If I was Lady Maria Bayne, I’d be here and never leave her. I tell you nothing could drive me from her.”

      “You are well taken care of,” Hester had said. “That girl is devoted to you. In her lady’s maid’s way she’d fight for your life.”

      “I think she is as faithful to me as Ameerah is to you,” Emily answered. “I feel sure Ameerah would fight for you.”

      Ameerah’s devotion in these days took the form of a deep-seated hatred of the woman whom she regarded as her mistress’s enemy.

      “It is an evil thing that she should take this place,” she said. “She is an old woman. What right hath she to think she may bear a son. Ill luck will come of it. She deserves any ill fortune which may befall her.”

      “Sometimes,” Lady Walderhurst once said to Osborn, “I feel as if Ameerah disliked me. She looks at me in such a curious, stealthy way.”

      “She is admiring you,” was his answer. “She thinks you are something a little supernatural, because you are so tall and have such a fresh colour.”

      There was in the park at Palstrey Manor a large ornamental pool of water, deep and dark and beautiful because of the age and hugeness of the trees which closed around it, and the water plants which encircled and floated upon it. White and yellow flags and brown velvet rushes grew thick about its edge, and water-lilies opened and shut upon its surface. An avenue of wonderful limes led down to a flight of mossy steps, by which in times gone by people had descended to the boat which rocked idly in the soft green gloom. There was an island on it, on which roses had been planted and left to run wild; early in the year daffodils and other spring flowers burst up through the grass and waved scented heads. Lady Walderhurst had discovered the place during her honeymoon, and had loved it fondly ever since. The avenue leading to it was her favourite walk; a certain seat under a tree on the island her favourite resting-place.

      “It is so still there,” she had said to the Osborns. “No one ever goes there but myself. When I have crossed the little old bridge and sit down among the greenness with my book or work, I feel as if there was no world at all. There is no sound but the rustle of the leaves and the splash of the moor-hens who come to swim about. They don’t seem to be afraid of me, neither do the thrushes and robins. They know I shall only sit still and watch them. Sometimes they come quite near.”

      She used, in fact, to take her letter-writing and sewing to the sweet, secluded place and spend hours of pure, restful bliss. It seemed to her that her life became more lovely day by day.

      [Illustration: Hester Osborn]

      Hester did not like the pool. She thought it too lonely and silent. She preferred her beflowered boudoir or the sunny garden. Sometimes in these days she feared to follow her own thoughts. She was being pushed—pushed towards the edge of her precipice, and it was only the working of Nature that she should lose her breath and snatch at strange things to stay herself. Between herself and her husband a sort of silence had grown. There were subjects of which they never spoke, and yet each knew that the other’s mind was given up to thought of them day and night. There were black midnight hours when Hester, lying awake in her bed, knew that Alec lay awake in his also. She had heard him many a time turn over with a caught breath and a smothered curse. She did not ask herself what he was thinking of. She knew. She knew because she was thinking of the same things herself. Of big, fresh, kind Emily Walderhurst lost in her dreams of exultant happiness which never ceased to be amazed and grateful to prayerfulness; of the broad lands and great, comfortable houses; of all it implied to be the Marquis of Walderhurst or his son; of the long, sickening voyage back to India; of the hopeless muddle of life in an ill-kept bungalow; of wretched native servants, at once servile and stubborn and given to lies and thefts. More than once she was forced to turn on her face that she might smother her frenzied sobs in her pillow.

      It was on such a night—she had awakened from her sleep to notice such stillness in Osborn’s adjoining room, that she thought him profoundly asleep—that she arose from her bed to go and sit at her open window.

      She had not been seated there many minutes before she became singularly conscious, she did not know how, of some presence near her among the bushes in the garden below. It had indeed scarcely seemed to be sound or movement which had attracted her attention, and yet it must have been one or both, for she involuntarily turned to a particular spot.

      Yes, something, someone, was standing in a corner, hidden by shrubbery. It was the middle of the night, and people were meeting. She sat still and almost breathless. She could hear nothing and saw nothing but, between the leafage, a dim gleam of white. Only Ameerah wore white. After a few seconds’ waiting she began to think a strange thing, though she presently realised that, taking all things into consideration, it was not strange at all. She got up very noiselessly and stole into her husband’s room. He was not there; the bed was empty, though he had slept there earlier in the night.

      She went back to her own bed and got into it again. In ten minutes’ time Captain Osborn crept upstairs and returned to bed also. Hester made no sign and did not ask any questions. She knew he would have told her nothing, and also she did not wish to hear. She had seen him speaking to Ameerah in the lane a few days before, and now that he was meeting her in the night she knew that she need not ask herself what the subject of their consultation might be. But she looked haggard in the morning.

      Lady Walderhurst herself did not look well, For the last two or three nights she had been starting from her sleep again with that eerie feeling of being wakened by someone at her bedside, though she had found no one when she had examined the room on getting up.

      “I am sorry to say I am afraid I am getting a little nervous,” she had said to Jane Cupp. “I will begin to take valerian, though it is really СКАЧАТЬ