 CHAPTER 32 AN UNLOOKED FOR RETURN In spite of her troubles as she sat by the fire looking out through the window, fatigue overcame Mildred. And she nodded. But her brain being troubled in her attitude uneasy, she awoke suddenly from a sinister dream. And, as still unconscious where she was, her eyes opened upon the same melancholy, foliage, and moonlit sky, and the dim enclosure of the yard. The scenery on which they had closed. She saw a pale face staring in upon her through the window. The fingers were tapping gently on the glass. Old Mildred blinked and shook her head to get rid of what seemed to her a painful illusion. It was Charles Fairfield who stood at the window, looking wild and miserably ill. Mildred stood up and he beckoned. She signed toward the door, which she went forthwith and opened. Commencer, she said. His saddle, by the stirrup leather, and his bridle were in his hand. Thus he entered the kitchen and dropped him on the tiled floor. She looked in his face. He looked in hers. There was a silence. It was not Mildred's business to open the disagreeable subject. Would you please like anything? No. No supper, thanks. Give me a drink of water. I'm thirsty. I'm tired and we're quite to ourselves. Yes, sir. But wouldn't you better have beer? answered she. No, water, thanks. And he drank a deep draft. Where's the horse, sir? She asked after a glance at the saddle which lay on its side on the floor. In the field, the poplar field, all right. Well? Tom told you my message, sir? She asked, averting her eyes a little. Yes, where is she, asleep? The mistress is in her bed, asleep, I suppose. Yes, yes, and quite well, Tom says. And where is the... The... You sent me word there was someone here. I know whom you mean. Where is she? In the front bedroom, the old room. It'll be over the hall door, you know. She's in bed and asleep, I'm thinking, but best not make any stir. Some folks sleep so light, you know. It's late, he said, taking out his watch, but forgetting to consult it. And I dare say she is. She came tonight, yes. And she's tired, or ought to be, a long way. He walked to the window and was looking with the instinct which leads us always in dark places, to look toward the light above the dusky trees, to the thin, luminous cloud that streaks the sky. Pretty well tired myself, Mr. Charles. You may guess the night I've put in. I was almost sleeping myself when you came to the window. Tom said you weren't a common. To his mercy, the yard door wasn't locked. Five minutes more, and I'd have locked it. It would not have mattered much, Mildred. You'd have climbed and pushed up the window may have. No, I'd have walked on. A feather would have turned me from the door as it was. He turned about and looked at her dreamily. Aware, she inquired. On anywhere, on into the glen. If you are tired, Mildred, so am I. You need a good sleep, Master Charles. Long sleep, Mildred. I'm tired. I had a mind as it was to walk on and trouble you here no more. Walk on? Hoot, nonsense, Mr. Charles. It isn't come to that. Given up your house to one like her, I wish I was dead, Mildred. I don't know whether it was a good or an evil angel that turned me in here. I'd have been easier by this time if I'd gone on and had my leap from the scour to the bottom of the glen. No, no, that nonsense man, said Mildred sternly. He have brought that poor young lady into a doubtful pass, and you must stand by her, Charles. You're come of no cowardly stock. And you shan't key her up, and you're bappy that's common poor little thing, to shame and want for a lack of a man's heart under your ribs. I say I know nought of the rites of it, but God will judge you if you leave her now. I was Mrs. Tarnley's head, and very grim she looked as with her hand on his shoulder, she shook up Master Charles from the drows of death. I won't, old Tarnley, he said at last. You're right. Or little Alice, the loving little thing. He turned suddenly again to the window and wept in silent, strange tears of agony. Old Tarnley looked at him sternly as scants. I don't think she had much pity for him. She was in no wise, given to the melting mood, and hardly knew what that sort of whimpering meant. I say, she broke out. I don't know the rites of it, how should I? But this I believe. If you thought you were truly married to that woman, that's come to-night, you'd never have found it in your heart to act such a villain's part by the poor, young, foolish creature upstairs, and make a sham wife of her. Never, never by heaven. I'm no more that wretched woman's husband than I married to you. Mildred knew better than marry anyone. There's little I see but tears and wrinkles, and oftentimes rags and hunger comes of it. But we'll be done marrying and given in marriage, says the scriptures. It is so now, twas so when Noah broke into the ark, and will be so when the day of judgment breaks over us. Yes, said Charles Fairfield abstractedly. Of course that miserable woman sticks at no assertion. Her idea is simply to bully her way to her object. It doesn't matter what she says, and it never surprised me. I always knew if she lived she'd give me trouble one day, but that's all just trouble, but no more. Not the slightest chance of succeeding, not the smallest. She knows it, I know it. The only thing that vexes me is that people who know all about it as well as I do, and people who of all others should feel for me, and feel with me, should talk as if they had doubts upon the subject now. I didn't say so, Master Charles, said Mildred. I didn't mean you. I met others. Quite a different person. I'm utterly miserable. At a more unlucky moment all this could not have happened by any possibility. Well, I'm sure I never said it. I never thought but one thing of her, the foul, tongued, wicked beast. Don't you talk that way of her, said Charles savagely. Whatever she is, she has suffered. She has been cruelly used, and I am to blame for all. I did not mean it, but it is all my fault. Mrs. Tarnley sneered, but said nothing, and a silence followed. I know, he said in a changed way. You mean kindly to me. Be kind to yourself. I hold its the best way in this bleak world, Mr. Charles. I never was thanked for kindness yet. You have always been true to me, Mildred, in your own way, in your own way mind, but always true. And I'll show you yet, if I'm spared, that I can be grateful. You know how I am now, no power to serve anyone, no power to show my regard. I don't complain to nothing, said Mildred. Has my brother been here, Mildred, he asked. Not he. No letters from me, asked he. Nothing, sir. You never get a lift when you want it. Never, said Charles, with a bitter groan. Never was a fellow driven harder to the wall. Never a fellow nearer his width ends. I'm very glad, Mildred. I have someone to talk to, one old friend. I don't know what to do. I can't make up my mind to anything. And if I hadn't you just now, I think I should go distracted. I have a great deal to ask you. That lady you say has been in her room some time. Did she talk loud? Was she angry? Was there any noise? No, sir. Who saw her? No one but myself, and the man as drove her. Thank God for that. Does she know about my—did she hear that your mistress is in the house? I said she was Master Harry's wife, and told her, Lord forgive me, that he was here continually and you hardly ever, and then only for a few hours at a time. That's very good, she believed it. Every word so far as I could see. I told a deal of lies. Well, well, and what more? And the beginning of sin is like the coming in of waters, and will soon make an oar wide gap for itself, and lay all under. Yes, and—and you really think she believed all you said? I—I do, answered she. Thank God again, said he with a deep sigh. Oh, Mildred, I wish I could think what's best to be done. There are ever so many things in my head. She felt a trembling she thought in the hand he laid upon her arm. Take a drink of beer. You're tired, sir, said she. No, no, not much, never mind. I'm better as I am. How has your mistress been? Well, Midland, pretty well. I wish she was quite well, Mildred. It's very unlucky. If the poor little thing were only quite well, it would make everything easy. But I dare not frighten her. I dare not tell her it might be her death. Oh, Mildred, isn't all this terrible? Bad enough, I can't deny. Would it be better to run that risk and tell her everything, he said? Well, it is a risk, and a great one. And it might be the same as putting a pistol to her head and killing her. It is a trying time with her, poor child, and a dangerous bed. And mind ye this, if there's any talk like that, and the cryin' and laughin' fits may have, that comes with it, don't ye think? But the old cat will hear it. And then, in the wild, talk is out in no time, and the fat in the fire. No, if she's to hear it, it can't be helped, and the will of God be done. But if I was her husband, I'd sooner die than tell her, being as she is. No, of course no. She must not be told. I'm sure you're right, Mildred. I wish Harry was here, he thinks of things sometimes that don't strike me. I wish Harry would come. He might think of something. He would, I daresay. He would, I'm certain. I wish that woman was back again where she came from, said Mildred, from whose mind the puse grossed in Naples was fading, for she had a profound distrust of her veracity. And the police looked very like a puse-colored lie. Don't, Mildred, don't, like a good creature. You won't for my sake speak harshly of that unhappy person. He said gently this time and laying his hand on her shoulder. I'm glad you are here, Mildred. I'm very glad. I remember you as long as I can remember anything. You were always kind to me, Mildred. Always the same. Truest steel. He was speaking with a friendliness of distress. It is in vain this empathy grows precious, and with the yarning for it returns something of the gentleness and affection of childhood. She's come for no good, said Mildred. She's sly and she's savage. And if you don't mind me saying so, I often thought she was a bit mad. Vocus has them fits, you know. They does get sometimes queerish. We can talk of her by and by, said he. What was in my mind was about a different thing. For a thousand reasons I should hate a fracas. I mean a row with that person at present. You know yourself how it might affect the poor little thing upstairs. Oh, my darling, my darling, what have I brought you into? Well, well, no help for spilled milk, said Mildred. What was you thinking of? Oh, yes, thank you, Mildred. I was thinking, yes, if your mistress was well enough for a journey, I'd take her away from this. I'd take her away immediately. I'd take her quite out of the reach of that, that restless person. I ought to have done so at once, but I was so miserably poor, and this place here to receive us. And who could have fancied she'd have dreamed in her state of health and with her affliction, her sight, you know, of coming down here again. But I'm the unluckiest fellow on earth. I never by any chance leave a blot that isn't hit. Don't you think, Mildred, I had better not wake your mistress tonight to talk over plans? Don't you go near her. A sight of your face would tell her all wasn't right. I had better not see her, you think? Don't see her. So as soon as you know yourself what you're going to do with her, and if you make up your mind tonight so much the better, write you to tell her what she's to do. Give me the letter and I'll give it to her as if it came by a messenger. And take you my counsel. Don't you stop here a minute longer than you can. Leave before daybreak. You're no use here. And if she finds you, twill but make bad worse. When will you lie down? You'll not be good for nothing tomorrow if you don't sleep a bit. Lie down on the sofa in the parlor and your cloak is hanging in the passage. And be out of the house by daybreak, and I'll have a bit of breakfast ready before you go. And there's Lady Windale I didn't tell you offered to take care of Alice your mistress, and she need only go there for the present. But that might be too near, and I was thinking it might not do. Best out of reach altogether, when you go about it, said Mildred. Sit here if you like it or lie down, as I said in the parlor. And if you settle your mind on any plan just knock at my door and I'll have my clothes about me and be ready at call. And Tom's in his old crib under the stair, if you want him to get the saddle on the horse. And I won't take down the fire. I'll have it handy for your breakfast. And now I can't stop talking no longer. For Mildred's wore off her feet. Will you take a candle or will you stop here? Yes, give me a candle, Mildred, thanks. Don't mind the cloak. I'll get it myself. I will lie down a little and try to sleep. I wish I could. And if you awaken, shake me up in an hour or two, something must be settled before I leave this, something shall be settled. And that poor little creature out of reach of trouble and insult. Don't forget, good night, Mildred, and God bless you, Mildred. God forever bless you. End of chapter 32, recording by John Brandon This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by John Brandon. The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheraton Lafannou. Chapter 33 Charles Fairfield Alone Charles Fairfield talked of sleeping. There was little chance of that. He placed the candle on one of the two old oak cupboards, as they were still called, which occupied corresponding niches in the wainscoted wall opposite the fireplace, and threw himself at his length on the sofa. Tired enough or sleepy was, but who can stop the mill of anxious thought into which imagination pours continually its proper grist? In his tired head its wheels were turning and its hammers beat, with monotonous pulsation and whirl, weariest and most wasting of fevers. He turned his face, like the men of old, in his anguish to the wall. Then he tried the other side, wide awake and literally staring from point to point, in the fear and fatigue of his vain ruminations. Then up he sat and flung his cloak on the floor, and then to the window he went, and opening the shutter looked out on the moonlight, and the peaceful trees that seemed bowed in slumber, and stood, hardly seeing it, hardly thinking in his confused misery. One handed his pocket, the other against the window case, to which the Stallworth Goodfellow Harry had leaned his shoulder in their unpleasant dialogue and altercation. Harry his chief stay, his confidant, and brother. Dare he trust him now? If he might, where could he find him? Better do his own work. Better do it indifferently than run the risk of treason. He did not quite know what to make of Harry. So with the sultry resolution he said to himself, now I'll think in earnest, for I've got but two hours to decide in. There was a pretty little German village, quite out of the ordinary root of tourists. He remembered its rocks and hills, its ruined castle and forest scenery, as if he had seen them but yesterday. The very place for Alice, with her simple tastes and real enjoyment of nature. On that point though, under present circumstances, by short journeys, they should affect their retreat. In three hours' time, he would himself leave the Grange. In the meantime, he must define his plans exactly. He must write to Harry. He must write to Alice. Where he was quite clear, he would not see her. And after all, he might have been making a great deal too much of this odious affair, which rightly managed might easily end in smoke. Ten ink and paper he found, and now to clear his head and fix his attention. Luckily, he had a hundred pounds in his pocketbook. Too hard that, out of his miserable pittance, scarcely five hundred pounds a year. He should have to pay two hundred pounds to that woman who never gave him an easy week, and who seemed bent on ruining him if she could. By the dull light of the mutton fat which Mildred had furnished him, he wrote this note, My darling little woman, you must make Delcibella pack up your things. Tom will have a chase here at eleven o'clock. Drive to Wickford and change horses there, and go on to Lonsdale, where I will meet you at last. Then and there your own four loving Rye will tell you all his plans and reasons for this sudden move. We must get away by easy stages and baffle possible pursuit, and then a quiet and comparatively happy interval for my poor little fluttered bird. I live upon the hope of our meeting. Out of reach of all trouble we shall soon be, and your poor Rye happy, where only he can be happy in your dear presence. I am close to ten pounds, pay nothing and nobody at the Grange. Say I told you so. You will reach Lonsdale if you leave Carwell not later than eleven before five. Don't delay to pack up any more than you actually want. Leave all in charge of old Mildred, and we can easily write in a day or two for anything we may want. Ever my idolized little woman, your own poor, adoring Rye. So this was finished, and now for Harry. My dear Harry, how you must hate the sight of my hand. I never write but to trouble you. But as you will perceive, I am myself in trouble more than enough to warrant my asking you again to aid me if it should lie in your way. You will best judge if you can and how you can. The fact is that what you apprehended turns out to be true. That person, who however, I may have been at one time to blame, has certainly no right to charge me with want of generosity or consideration seems to have made up her mind to give me all the annoyance in her power. She is at this moment here at Carwell Grange. I was absent when she arrived, and received timely notice and perhaps ought to have turned about, but I could not do that without ascertaining first exactly how matters stood at Carwell. So I am here, without anyone's being aware of it, except Old Mildred, who tells me that the person in question is under the impression that it is you, and not I, who are married, and that it is your wife who is residing in the house. As you have been no party to this deception, pray let her continue to think so. I shall leave this before daybreak, my visit not having exceeded four hours. I leave a note for poor little Alice, telling her to follow me tomorrow, I should say, this morning to Lonsdale, where I shall meet her, and thence we get on to London, and from London my present idea is to make our way to some quiet little place on the continent, where I mean to stay quite concealed, until circumstances alter for the better. What I want you, and beg of you to do for me at present, is just this. To sell everything at Carwell that is saleable, the horse, the mule, the two donkeys, the carts, plough, et cetera, et cetera, in fact everything out of doors, and let the farm to Mildred's nephew who wanted to take it last year. It is including the garden, 19 acres. I wish him to have it provided he pays a fair rent, because I think he would be kind to his aunt, Old Mildred. He must stipulate to give her her usual allowances of vegetables, milk, and all the rest from the farm, and she shall have her room and a kitchen, and her eight pounds a year as usual. Do like a good old fellow, see to this, and try to turn all you can into money for me. I shall have miserably little to begin with, and anything you can get together will be a lift to me. If you write undercover to Jay Dilk at the old place in Westminster, it will be sure to reach me. I don't know whether all this is intelligible. You may guess how distracted I am and miserable. But there is no use in describing. I ought to beg your pardon a thousand times for asking you to take all the trouble involved at this request. But, dear Harry, you will ask yourself who else on earth has the poor devil to look to in an emergency but his brother. I know my good Harry will remember how urgent the case is, and the advice you can spare me in my solitary trouble will be most welcome. I think I have said everything. At least all I can think of in this miserable hurry, I feel so helpless. But you are a clever fellow, and always were, so much cleverer than I, and know how to manage things. God bless you, dear Harry. I know you won't forget how pressed I am. You were always prompt in my behalf, and I never so needed a friend like you, or delay here might lead to the worst annoyances. Ever, dear Harry, your affectionate brother, Charles Fairfield, Carwell Grange. It was a relief to his mind when these letters were off it, and something like the rude outlines of a plan formed. Very tired was Charles Fairfield when he had folded and addressed his letters. No physical exertion exhausts like the monotonous pain of anxiety. For many nights he had had no sleep, but those wearying snatches of half consciousness, in which the same, troublesome current is still running through the brain, and the wasted nerves of endurance are still tasked. He sat now in his chair, the dim red light of the candle at his elbow, the window shutter open before him, and the cold, serene light of the moon over the outer earth and sky. Gazing on this, a weary sleep stole over his senses, and for a full hour the worn-out man slept profoundly. Into this slumber slowly wound a dream, of which he could afterwards remember only that it was somehow horrible. Dark and direful grew his slumber, thus visited, and in a way that accorded well with its terrors. He was awakened. The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Leifanu. Awake In his dream, a pale frightened face approached him slowly, and recoiling, uttered a cry. The scream was horribly prolonged as the figure receded. He thought he recognized someone, dead or living, he could not say. In the strange, grease and faced, fixed his marble that with enormous eyes had looked into his. With this sound ringing in his ears he awoke, as in the case with other over-fatigued men on whom at length slumber had seized, he was for a time in the attitude of wakefulness before his senses and his recollection were thoroughly aroused, and his dream quite dissipated. Another long shriek, and another, and another he heard. Charles recognized he fancied his wife's voice. Scared and wide awake he ran from the room to the foot of the stairs, up the stairs. A tread of feet he heard in the room, and the door violently shaken. And another long, agonized scream. Over this roof and around it is the serenest and happiest night. The brilliant moon, the dark azure and wide field of stars make it a night for holy thoughts, and lovers' vigils, so tender and beautiful. There is no moaning night wind, not even a rustle in the thick ivy. The window gives no sound, except when the gray moth floating in its shadow taps softly on the pain. You can hear the leaf that drops of itself from the treetop, and flits its way from bow to spray to the ground. Even in that gentle night their move, however, symbols of guilt and danger. While the small birds with head over wing nestle in their leafy nooks, the wide owl glides with noiseless wing, a murderous spantum, cutting the air. The demure cat creeps on and on, softly as a gray shadow, till its green eyes glare close on its prey. Nature, with her gentleness and cruelty, her sublimity and meanness, resembles that microchasm, the human heart in which lodge so many contrarities, and the shabby contents with the heroic, the diabolic, with the angelic. In this still night, Alice's heart was heavy. Who can account for those sudden, silent, but terrible changes in the spiritual vision which interpose, as it were a thin, colored medium between ourselves and the realities that surround us? How all objects, retaining their outlines, lose their rosy glow and golden lights, and on a sudden fade into dismalous gray and green. Dolce Bella, do you think he's coming? Oh, Dolce Bella, do you think he'll come tonight? He may, dear. Why shouldn't he? Lie down, my child, and don't be sitting up in your bed so. You'll never go to sleep while you're listening and watching. Nothing but fidgets and only the wider awake the longer you watch. Well, I know it. In many a long hour, I laid awake myself, expecting and listening for poor Crane coming home with the cart from market long ago. He had his failings, as who has not? Poor Crane, but an honest man and good-natured, and would not hurt a fly and never arrive word out of his mouth, except in maybe one or two, which he never meant them, when he was in liquor, as who is there, Miss Allie, will not be sometimes. But he was a kind, handsome fellow, and sore was my heart when he was taken, and Dolce Bella wiped her eyes. Seven and twenty years ago on last Stephen's Day, I buried him in Wyvern Churchyard, and I tried to keep the little business a-going, but I couldn't make it pay know-how, and when it pleased God to take my little girl six years after, I gave all up and went to live at the vicarage. But as I was saying, Miss, many a long hour, I set up a watchen for my poor Crane on his way home. He would sometimes stop a bit on the way, we a friend or two, at the cat and fiddle. Tis was the only thing I could ever say wasn't quite as I could have liked in my poor Crane. And that's how I came to serve your good mother, Miss, and your poor father, the good vicar of Wyvern. There's not been none like him since, not one no indeed. You remember Mama very well? Like yesterday, Miss, said ol' Dolce Bella, who often answered that question. Like yesterday, the pretty lady. She always looks so pleasant to, a smiling face, like the light of the sun coming into a room. I wonder, Dolce Bella, there was no picture. No picture, no miss. Well, you see, Miss Alley, dear. Them pictures, I'm told, cost a deal of money, and they were only beginning, you know. And many a little expense, and Wyvern vicarage, is a small livelihood at best, and ye must be managing if ye'd heap it, and good to the poor they was with all that, and gave what many a richer one wouldn't, and never spared trouble for them. They counted nothing trouble for no one. They loved all, and lived to one another, not a wide word ever, what one light to other loved, and all in the light, O God's blessing. I never seen such a couple, never. They doted on one another, and loved all, and they too, was like one angel. Lady Wendell has a picture of poor Mama, very small, what they call a miniature. I think it quite beautiful. It was taken when she was not more than seventeen. Lady Wendell, you know, was ever so much older than Mama. I, so she was. Ten year or more, I dare say, answered Dolce Bella. She is very fond of it. Too fond to give it to me now, but she says, kind aunt. She has left it to me in her will. And, oh, Dolce Bella, I feel so lonely. Lonely? Why should you, darling? We have find handsome gentlemen to your husband, that will be Squire O. Wyvern. Think of that, Squire O. Wyvern. And that's a greater man than many a lord in Parliament. And he's good-natured, never a hard word or a skew look. Always the same quiet way, William. Hoot, miss. You mustn't be talking that way. Think, oh, the little baby that's a coming. You won't know yourself for joy when you see his face. Please, God. And I'm along to show him to you. You good ol' Dolce Bella, said the young lady, and her eyes filled with tears as she smiled. But poor Mama died when I was born. And, oh, Dolce Bella, do you think I shall ever see the face of the poor little thing? Oh, wouldn't it be sad? You're not be talking that nonsense, darling. To sinful, we all that God has given you, a comfortable house over your head, and enough to eat, and good friends, and a find-handsome husband that's kind to you, and a blessed little child, a coming to make every minute pleasant to all that's in the house. Why, to suspend to be frightened like that, and as for this thing, or that thing, or being afeared? Why, everyone's afeared if they let themselves, and not one in a thousand, comes by any harm. And to sinful, I tell you, for ye know well, you're in the hands, oh, the good God that takes care of ye till now, and take ye out, oh, the little nursery, oh, Wyvern Vicarage, and ye warrant the length, oh, my arm, and not a friend, near, but poor, foolish old Dolce Bella that did not know where to turn, and your aunt that only went out as poor as your darling mama, brought home well again from to other end of the world, and well to do your own living kith and kin, and good friends raised up on every side, and the old squire, Hario Wyvern, although he be a bit angered for a while, he's another good friend, that will be sure to make it up whatever it is came between him and Master Charles. Hot blood's not the worst blood, better a blow in haste and to shake hands after than a smile at the lips and no good will with it. I tell you, they're not the worst, they hot-headed, hard-fisted, outspoken folk, and I'll never forget that day to him, when he brought you home that had no home, and me that was thinking, oh, not but the workhouse. So do or say what he will, God bless him for that day, say I. For to was an angel's part he did, said old Dolce Bella. So I feel, God knows, so I feel, said Alice, and I hope it may all be made up, I'm sure it will, and oh, Dolce Bella, I have been cursed of so much sorrow and bitterness. She stops suddenly, her eyes full of tears, but she restrained them. That's the way you'll always be talking, I'd like to know where they'd be without you. Every man that marries will have care, more or less, tis the will of God, and if he hadn't, he'd never think of him, and tis a short life at the longest, and a sore pilgrimage at the best. So what he pleases to lay on us, we must even bear, we a patient heart. For we can't, we a cheerful, for we his blessing till all end well. Amen, said Alice, with a cheerier smile, but a load still at her heart. I hope so, my good old Dolce Bella. What should I do without you? Wait, hush. Is that a noise outside? No, I thought I heard a horse's tread, but there's nothing. It's too late now. There's no chance of him tonight. Do you think Dolce Bella, there's any chance? Well, no my dear, it's getting on too late, a deal too late. No, no, we must even put that clean out of our heads. You'll not get a wink of sleep if you be listening for him. Well, I know them fidgets, and many a time I lay on my heart here. Now this side, now that, listening till I could count the veins, on my head beating like a watch, and myself only wider and wider awake every hour. And more full eye, and well a hearty home with them, time enough and not a minute sooner for all my watchin'. And mind ye, what I often told ye when ye were a wee thing, is ye will find it true to the end of your days. A watch pot never boils. Alice laughed gently. I believe you're right, Dolce Bella. No, he won't come tonight. It was only a chance, and I might have known. But perhaps tomorrow? Don't you think tomorrow? Very like, like enough. Tomorrow, daylight. May have to breakfast. Why not? She answered. Well, I do think he may. He said perhaps tonight, and I know I'm sure he'll think how his poor wife is watching and longing to see him, and as you advise, I'll put that quite out of my head. He has so many things to look after, and he only said perhaps. And you think in the morning? Well, I won't let myself think so. It would be too delightful. I won't think it. But it can't be many days, I'm sure, and I won't keep you up any longer, dear old Dolce Bella. I've been very selfish, so goodnight. And they kissed. As from little Allie's infancy, they had always done, before settling for the night. Goodnight. And God love it. It must be frightened, and God bless you, my darling Miss Allie. And you must get to sleep, or you'll be looking so pale and poor in the morning. He won't know you when he comes. So with another hug and a kiss they parted, and old Dolce Bella leaving her young mistress's candle burning on the table. As was her want, being nervous when she was all alone, and screamed from her eyes by the curtain, with a final goodnight, and another blessing, she closed the door. Is there ever an unreserved and complete confidence after marriage? Even to kind old Dolce Bella, she could not tell all. As she smiled a little farewell on the faithful old soul, her heart was ready to burst. She was longing for a good cry all to herself, and now, poor little thing, she had it. She cried herself, as children do, to sleep. An hour later, the old Grange was silent as the neighboring churchyard of Carwell. But there was not a household in the parish, or in the country, I suppose, many of whose tenants, at that late hour, were so oddly placed. In his chair in the oak-paneled room downstairs sat Charles Fairfield, in that slumber of a tormented and exhausted brain, which in its first profound submersion resembles the topper of apoplexy. In his forsaken room lay on the pillow the pale face of his young wife. Her eyelashes not yet dry, fallen asleep in the sad illusion of his absence, better, perhaps, than his presence would have been if she had known but all. In her crib downstairs, at last asleep, lie the frightened Lily Dodger, her head still under the coverlet, under which she had popped it in panic, as she thought on the possible return of the tall unknown, and a lobe of her ear still flaming from the discipline of her vice-like pinch. Under his slanting roof, in the recess of the staircase, with only his coat off, stretch on the board of his back, with one great horny hand, half shut under his bullet head, and the other by his side, snored honest Tom, nothing the less soundly, for his big mug of beer, and his excursion to Kressley Common. For a moment, now we visit the bedside of good ol' Dolce Bella, an easy conscience, a good digestion, and an easy place in this troublesome world, are favorable to sound slumbers, and very tranquility she slept, with a large handkerchief pinned closely about her innocent bald head, and a nightcap of many borders outside it, her thick, well-thumbed Bible, in which she read some half-dozen verses every night, lay with her spectacles upon its cover, on the table by the brass candlestick. Mildred Tarnley, a thin figure with many corners, lay her length in her clothes, her old brown stuffed gown, her cap, and broad faded ribbons, binding her busy head, and her darned black worsted stockings, still on her weary feet, ready at call to jump up, pop her feet again into her misshapen shoes, and resume her duties. In her own solitary chamber, at the deserted side of the house, the tall stranger, a ride in a white woollen nightdress, lay her length not stirring. After Mildred Tarnley had gotten herself stiffly under her kilt, she was visited with certain qualms about this person, recollections of her abhorred activity, and energy in old times, and fears that the grim white woman was not resting in her bed. This apprehension grew so intense that, tired as she was, she could not sleep. The suspicion that, barefooted, listening, that dreadful woman was possibly groping her way through the house, made her heart beat faster and faster. At last, she could not bear it no longer, and up she got, lightened her candle with a match, and in her stockings, glided softly through the passage, and by the room where Charles Fairfield was at the time at his letters. He recognized the step to which his ear was accustomed, and did not trouble himself to inquire what she was about. So, softly, softly, softly, Mildred Tarnley found herself at the door of the unwelcome to guest, and listened. You would not have supposed old Mildred capable of a nervous tremble, but she was profoundly afraid of this awful woman, before whose superior malignity and unearthly energy her own temper and activity quailed. She listened, but could hear no evidence of her presence. Was this woman there at all? Lightly, lightly, with her nail, she tapped at the door. No answer. Then very softly she tried the door. It was secured. But was the old soldier in the room still, or wandering about the house, with who could fathom what evil purpose in her head? The figure in white woolen was still there. She had been lying on her side, with her pale features turned toward the door as Mildred approached. Her blind eyes were moving in their sockets. There was a listening smile on her lips, and she had turned her neck a ride to get her ear in the direction of the door. She was just as wide awake as Mildred herself. Mildred watched for a time at the door, ill-resolute. Excuse enough, she bethought her, in the feeble state in which she had left her, had she for making her a visit. Why should she not open the door boldly and enter? But Mildred, in something worse than solitude, was growing more and more nervous. What if that tall, insane miscreant were waiting at the door in a fit of revenge for her suspected perfidy ready to clutch her by the throat as she opened it and to strangle her on the bed? And when there came from the interior of the room a weary bleeding, hey-o! She was absolutely bounced backward and for a moment froze with terror. She took a precaution as she softly withdrew. The passage, which is terminated by the old soldier's room, passes a dressing room on the left and then opens, on the other side, upon a lobby. This door is furnished with a key, and having secured it, Mrs. Tarnley, with that key in her pocket, felt that she had pretty well imprisoned that evil spirit and returned to her own bed more serenely and was soon lost in slumber. End of chapter 34 Chapter 35 of the Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon, The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Chariton-Lefonu. Chapter 35 Restless Some lean, nervous temperaments, once fairly excited, and in presence of a substantial cause of uneasiness, are very hard to reduce to composure. After she had got back again, Mildred Tarnley fidgeted and turned in her bed, and lay in the dark with her tired eyes wide open, and imagining one after another all sorts of horrors. She was still in her clothes, so she got up again and lighted a candle and stole away, angry with herself, and all the world on account of her fussy and feverish condition, and crept up the old stairs, and stealthily reached again the door of the old soldier's room. Not a sound, not a breath, could she hear from within. Gently she opened the door which no longer resisted, the fire was low in the grate, and half afraid to look at the bed she raised the candle and did look. There lay the Dutchwoman, so still that Mrs. Tarnley felt a sickening doubt as she stared at her. Lord bless us, she's never quite well. I wish she was somewhere else, said Mrs. Tarnley, frowning sharply at her from the door. Then with a little effort of resolution, she walked to the bedside, and fancied doubtfully that she saw a faint motion as of breathing in the great resting figure, and she placed her fingers upon her arm, and then passed them down to her big hand, which to her relief was warm. At the touch the woman moaned and turned a little. Far, what makes her sleep so like dead? She'd have frightened me almost if I did not know better. Some folks can't do not like no one else, and Mildred would have liked to shake her up and bit her snore like other people, and give over her unnatural ways. But she did look so pale and fixed, and altogether so unnatural, that Mrs. Tarnley's wrath was over-awed, and rather uneasily she retired and sat for a while at the kitchen fire, ruminating and grumbling. If she's gonna die, what for she come all the way to Carwell? Wasn't London good enough to die in? Mrs. Tarnley only meant to warm her feet on the fender for a few minutes. But she fell asleep, and wakened it might be a quarter of an hour later, and got up and listened. What was it that overcame all Mildred on this night with so unusual a sense of danger and panic at the presence of this woman? She could not exactly define the cause, but she was miserably afraid of her, and full of unexplainable surmises. I can't go to bed till I try again, I can't. I don't know what's come over me, it seems to me, lorby weas, as if the evil one was in the house, and I don't know what I should do, and there's not any avail I can do. But quiet I can't bide, and sleep won't stay with me while she's here, and I'll just go up again to her room, and if all's right then, I will lie down and take it easy for the rest of the night. Come what, come may, for my old bones is fairly wore out, and I can't hold my head up no longer. Thus resolved and sorely troubled, the old woman took the candle again, and sallied forth once more upon her grisly expedition. From the paneled sitting room, whereby this time Charles Fairfield sat in his chair, locked in dismal sleep, came the faint red mist of his candle's light, and here she paused to listen for a moment. Well, all was quiet there, and so on, and into the passage, and so into the great hall, as it was called, which seemed to her to have grown chill and cheerless, since she was last there, and so again cautiously, up the great stair with its clumsy banister of oak, relieved at every turn by a square oak block terminating in a ball, like the head of a gigantic nine pin. Black looked the passage through the archway, at the summit of this ascent, and for the first time Mildred was stayed by the sinking of a superstitious horror. It was by putting a kind of force upon herself that she entered this dark and silent gallery, so far away from every living being in the house, except that one of whom secretly she stood in awe, as of something not altogether of this earth. This gallery is pretty large, and about midway is placed another arch, with a door case, and a door that is held open by a hook, and as often happens in old houses, a descent of a couple of steps here brings you to a different level of the floor. There may have been a reason of some sort for the uncomfortable introduction of so many gratuitous steps in doorways and passages, but certainly it must have exercised the wits of the comparatively slow persons, who flourished at the period of this sort of architecture, and prevented the drowsiest from falling asleep on the way to their bedrooms. It happened that as she reached this doorway, her eye was caught by a cobweb hanging from the ceiling. For a sharp roll servant like Mrs. Tarnley, such festoonery has an attraction of antipathy that is irresistible. She tried to knock it with her hand, but it did not reach high enough, so she applied her fingers to loosen her apron, and sweep it down with a swoop of that weapon. She was still looking up at the dusty cord that waved in the air, and as she did so, she received a long pull by the dress from an unseen hand below, a determined tweak, tightening and relaxing as she drew a step back, and held the candle backward to enable her to see. It was not her kitten, which might have playfully followed her upstairs, it was not a prowling rat making a hungry attack. A low-titter accompanied this pluck at her dress, and she saw the wide, pale face of the Dutch woman turned up towards her with an odious smile. She was seated on the step, and her shoulder leaning against the frame of the door. You thought I was asleep under the coverlet, she drawled, or awake perhaps in the other world, dead. I never sleep long, and I don't die easily, see? And what for, i.e. out of your bed, at all, mom? You'll break your neck in this house, if you go walking about, we its cranky steps and stairs, and you blind. When you go blind, old Mildred, you'll find your memory sharper than you think, and steps and corners and doors and chimney pieces will come to mind like a picture. What was I about? Well, what was ye about? Sure I am, I don't know, mom. No, I'm sure you don't, said she, but you should be in your bed, that I know, mom. Still holding her dress, and with a lazy laugh the lady made answer. So should you, old lass, a pair of us gatters. But I had reason, I wanted you, old Mildred. Well, mom, I don't know how you'd have found me. For I sleep in the five-cornered room, two doors away from the spicery, you'd never have found me. I'd have tried, hit or miss. I would not have stayed where I was, answered the old soldier. What not in the state room, mom? The finest room in the house, so it was always opposed. So be it, I don't like it, she answered. He didn't hear no noises in its shore, demanded Mildred. Not I, said the Dutch woman. Another reason, quite girl. And what the Dal is it? It must be some at Grant, I take it, that makes you better here, sitting on a hard stare than lying your length on a good bed. Right well said, clever Mildred. What is the state room without a quiet mind? replied the old soldier, with an irracular smile. What's the matter, we mind, mom? said Mildred Testily. I am not safe there from intrusion, and to the lady, with little pauses between her words, to lend an emphasis to them. I don't know what you're feared on, mom, repeated Mrs. Tarnley, whose acquaintance with fine words was limited, and who was too proud to risk a mistake. Well, it's just this, I won't be pride upon by that young lady. What young lady, mom? asked Mrs. Tarnley, who fancies she might ironically mean Miss Lily Dogger. Harry Fairfield's wife, of course, what other? I choose to be private here, said the Dutch dame, imperiously. Field not pry, she don't pry on no one, and if she wished it she couldn't. Well, there's nothing between us, woman, but the long closet where you used to keep the linen, and the broken furniture and rattle traps. Rattle drabs, she pronounced the word. And she'll come and peep, every woman peeps and pries. Beeps and bries, she called the words. I peep and pry. She'll just pretend she never knew any one was there, and she'll walk in through the closet door and start, and beg my pardon, and say how sorry she is, and then go off and tell you next morning how many buttons are on my police, and how many pins in my pin cushion, and let all the world know everything about me. But she can't come in. Why? Why? Because, mom, the door is papered over. Fine protection paper, sneered the lady. I saw her door locked myself before it was papered over, said Mildred. Did you, though? said the lady. With my own eyes, insisted Mildred. I'd rather see it with mine, joked the blind lady. Well, see, we'll make a long story short. If I consent to stay in that room, I lock the door that opens into it. I'll have a room and not a passage, if you please. I won't be peeped on or listened to. If I can't choose my company, I'll be alone, please. And what do you want, mom? asked Mildred, as troubles were multiplying. Another room, said the lady doggedly. Mildred paused. Well, did I ever, pondered Mrs. Tarnley, reading the lady's features sharply, as she spoke. But they were sullen and for ought. She could make out meaningless. Well, it will do if you can have the key, I take it, and lock your door yourself. Not so well as another room, if you'll give me one, but better than nothing. Come along, then, mom, for another room's not to be had at no price. And I'll gie the key. And then, when you lock it fast, I may sleep easy. What's that your parson used to say? The wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. Lenty of wicked people going, Mrs. Tarnley, and weary enough am I. Side the great pale Dutchwoman. There's two on us, so, mom, said Mildred, as she led the lady back to her room. And having placed her in her armchair by the fire, Mildred Tarnley took the key from the brass-headed tack, on which it hung behind the bed post. Here it is, mom, she said, placing the key in her groping fingers. What key is it? asked the old soldier. The key of the long linen closet that was. And how do I know that, she inquired, twirling it round in her large fingers, and smiling in such a way as to nettle Mrs. Tarnley, who began, ye may know I take it, because Mildred Tarnley says so. And I never yet played a trick. I never tell lies, she concluded, pulling up on a sudden. Well, I know that. I know your truth itself, so far as human nature goes. But that has its limits, and can't fly very high off the ground. Come, get me up, we'll try the key. I lock it myself, I lock it with my own fingers. Seeing is believing, and I can't see, but feeling has no fellow. And, not doubting you, Mrs. Tarnley, I'll feel for myself. She placed her hand on Mrs. Tarnley's shoulder, and when she had reached the corner at the further side of the bed, where the covered door, as she knew, was situated, with her scissors point, where the crevice of the door was covered over with the paper, she ripped it asunder, notwithstanding the remonstrances of Mildred, who told her she was leaving it not worth a rag off the road. All round the door, which thus freed, and discovering by her fingertips, the point at which the keyhole was placed, she broke the paper through, introduced the key, turned it, and with very little resistance, pulled the door partly open. With an ugly grimace and a chuckle at Mildred, then locking it fast, she said, and now I defy madam, do all she can, and you'll clap the table against it to make more sure. And so I think I may sleep, don't you? Mildred scratched above her eyebrow with one finger for a moment, and she said, Yes, ye might have slept, I'm thinking, as sound before, if ye had a mind, mom. What the dickens does the last mean? said the blind woman, with a sleepy laugh. As if people could sleep when they like. Why, woman, if that were so, there would be no such thing as fidgets. Well, I suppose, no more there wouldn't. I may take away the tray, mom. Let it be till morning. I want rest. Good night. Are you going? Good night. Good night, mom, said Mildred, making her stiff little curtsy, although it was lost upon the lady, and a little thoughtfully she left the room. The old soldier listened, sitting up, for she had lain down on her bed, and as she heard the click-clack of Mildred's shoe-grow fainter. Yes, good night, really, Mildred. I think you need visit no more tonight. And she got up and secured the door that opened on the gallery. Good night, old Tarnley, she said, with a nod and an unpleasant smirk, and then a deep and dismal sigh. Then she threw herself again upon her bed and lay still. Old Mildred seemed also to have come to a like conclusion as to the matter of further visiting for the night. For at the door, on the step of which the Dutch woman, sitting a few minutes before, had startled her, she looked back suspiciously over her shoulder, and then shutting the door noiselessly, she locked it, leaving that restless spirit a prisoner till morning. CHAPTER 36 Alice had slept quietly for some time. The old clock at the foot of the stairs had purred and struck twice since she had ceased listening and thinking. It was for all that time an unbroken sleep, and then she wakened. She had been half-conscious for some time of a noise in the room, a fidgeting little noise that teased her sleep for a time, and finally awoke her completely. She sat up in her bed, and heard, she thought, a sigh in the room. Exactly from what point she could not be certain, nor whether it was near or far. She drew back the curtain and looked. The familiar furniture only met her view. In like manner all round the room. Encouraged by which evidence, she took heart of grace and got up, and quite to satisfy herself made a search, as timid people will, because already morally certain that there is no need of a search. Happily she was spurred the terror of any discovery to account for the sound that had excited her uneasiness. She turned again the key in her door, and thus secured listened there. Everything was perfectly still. Then into bed she got, and listened to silence, and in low tones talking to herself, for the sound of her own voice was reassuring. She reasoned with her tremors. She trimmed her light, and made some little clatter on the table, and bethought her that this sigh that had so much of frightened her might be no more than the slipping of one fold of her bed-curtain over another, an occurrence which she remembered to have startled her once before. So after a time she persuaded herself that her alarm was fanciful, and she composed herself again to sleep. Soon however her evil genius began to worry her in another shape, and something like the gnawing and nibbling of her mouse, grated on her half-sleeping ear from the woodwork of the room. So she sat up again, and said, Hish! Now toward the window, now toward the fireplace, now toward the door, and all again was quite still. Alice got up, and throwing her dressing-gown about her shoulders, opened the window-shutter, and looked out upon the serene and melancholy landscape, which this old-fashioned window with its clumsy sashes and small pains commanded. Sweet and sad these moonlit views, that so well accord with certain moods, but the cares at Alice's heart were real, and returned as she quite awoke with a renewed pang, and the cold and mournful glory of the sky, and silvered woodlands neither cheered nor soothed her. With a deep sigh she closed the shutter again, and by the dusky candle-light returned to her bed. There at last she did fall into a quiet sleep. From this she awoke suddenly and quite. Her heart was throbbing fast, but she could not tell whether she awoke of herself, or had been aroused by some external cause. Who's there? she cried, in a fright, as she started up and looked about the room. Exactly as she called, she thought she heard something fall, a heavy and muffled sound. It might have been a room or two away. It might have been nearer, but her own voice made the sound uncertain. She waited in alarm and listened, but for the present all was again quiet. Poor little Alice knew very well that she was not herself, and her reason took comfort from her consciousness of the excited state of her nerves. What a fool I am! she whispered with a sigh. What a fool! Everything frightens me now. I've grown such a coward. Oh, Charlie, Charlie, oh, right, darling, when will you come back to your poor wife? When shall this dreadful suspense be over and quiet come again? Then poor little Alice cried, after the manner of women, bitterly for a time, and then, as she used, in all trouble, she prayed and essayed to settle again to sleep. But hardly had she begun the attempt when it was terminated strangely. Again she heard the same stealthy sound as of something cutting or ripping. Again she cried, hish, hish, but with no effect. She fancied, at the far corner of the room, about as high as she could easily reach, that she saw some glittering object. It might be a little bit of looking-glass past slowly and tremulously along the wall, horizontally, and then with the same motion in a straight line down the wall, glimmering faintly in the candlelight. At the same time was a slight trembling of that part of the wall, a slight wavy motion, and, could she believe her eyes, a portion of the walls seemed to yield silently, an unsuspected door slowly opened, and a tall figure wrapped in a flannel dress came in. This figure crouched a little with its hand to its ear, and moved its head slowly round as if listening in all directions in turn. Then softly, with a large hand, it pushed back the door, which shut with a little snap, as if with a spring-lock. Alice all this time was gazing upon the visitor, actually freezing with terror, not knowing whether the apparition was that of a living person or not. The woollen clothed figure with large feet in stockings and no shoes on advanced, the fingers of one hand sliding gently along the wall, with an aspect fixed on the opposite end of the room, and the other hand a little raised in advance. It was such a fixed listening look, and groping caution of motion, as one might fancy in a person getting along a familiar room in the dark. The feeling that she was not seen made Alice instinctively silent. She was almost breathless. The intruder passed on thus until she had reached the corner of the room, when she felt about for the door-case, and having got her hand upon it, she quickly transferred it to the handle which she turned, and tried the door two or three times. Oh! what Alice would have given at this moment that she had not locked it! Believing as she now did that the stranger would have passed out quietly from the room if this obstruction had not presented itself. As if her life was concentrated in her eyes, Alice gazed still at this person, who paused for a few seconds, and lowering her head listened fixedly. Then very cautiously she, with the tips of her fingers tried, was it to turn the key in the lock or to extricate it. At all events she failed. She removed her hand, turned a little, stood still, and listened. To Alice's horror her business in the room was plainly not over yet. The woman stood erect, drawing a long breath, holding her underlip slightly in her teeth, with just a little nip. She turned her face toward the bed, and for the first time Alice now quite distinctly saw it, pale, seemed with smallpox, blind. This large face was now turned toward her, and the light of the candle screened by the curtain from Alice's eyes fell full upon its exaggerated and evil features. The woman had drawn in a long, full breath, as if coming to a resolution that needed some nerve. Whatever this woman had come into the room for, Alice thought with hope that she, at all events, as she stood pallid and lowering before her, with eyes white with cataract, and with brows contracted in malignant calculation knew nothing, as she undoubtedly saw nothing of her. Still as death sat Alice in her terror gazing into the sightless face of the woman, little more than two yards removed from her. Suddenly the short space disappeared, and with two swift steps, and an outstretched hand, she stood at the bedside, and caught Alice's nightdress, and drew her forcibly towards her. Alice has violently resisted, with a loud scream she drew back, and the nightdress tore, but the tore woman instantly grasped her nearer the shoulder, and scrambling on the bed on her knees, she dragged her down upon it, and almost instantly struck at her throat with a knife. To make this blow she was compelled to withdraw one hand, and with a desperate spring Alice evaded the stroke. The whole thing was like a dream, the room seemed all a cloud. She could see nothing, but the white figure that was still close, climbing swiftly over the bed, with one hand extended now, and the knife in the other. Not knowing how she got there, she was now standing with her back to the wall, in the further corner of the room, staring at the dreadful figure in a catalepsy of terror. There was hardly a momentary pause. She was afraid to stir lest the slightest motion should betray her to the search of this woman, had she, as she stood and listened sharply, heard her breathing. With sudden decision, long light steps, and her hand lay to the wall, she glided swiftly toward her. With a gasp Alice awoke, as it were from her nightmare, and almost wild wood terror fled round the bed to the door, hastening, jostling by the furniture, gliding on the hole, very adroitly after her, her face strained with a horrible eagerness and fear came the blind woman. Alice tried to pull open the door, she had locked it herself, but in her agitation forgot. Now she seized the key and tried to turn it, but the strong hand of the stranger, enforcing it round a second time, had twisted it so that it was caught in the lock and would not turn. Alice felt as people feel in dreams when pursuit is urgent, and some little obstruction entangles flight, and threatens to deliver the fugitive into the hands of an implacable pursuer. A frantic pull and a twist or two of the key in vane, and the hand of the pursuer was all but upon her. Again she sprang and scrambled across the bed, and it seemed enraged by the delay, and with a face sharpening and darkening with insanity, the murderous guided by the sound, flung herself after her. And now, through the room and lobbies, peeled shrieks of murder as Alice flew before the outstretched hand of the bell-dam who balked of her prey, following with reckless fury, careless now against what she struck or rushed and clawing the air as it seemed within an inch of Alice's shoulder. Unequal as it appeared in this small pen, struggle to escape could not have lasted very long. The old closet door thinly covered with paper, through which the sharp knife had glided almost without noise, was locked, and escaped through it as hopeless as through the other door. Through the windows she would have thrown herself, but it was fastened, and one moment's delay would have been death. Had a weapon been in her hand, had she thought of it in this extremity of terror, her softer instincts might have been reversed, and she might have turned on her pursuer and fought, as timmy creatures have done, with the ferocity of despair for her life. But the chance that might have so transformed her did not come. Flight was her one thought, and that ended suddenly for tripping in the upturned carpet. She fell helplessly to the floor. In a moment, with a gasp, her pursuer was kneeling by her side, with her hand in her dishevelled hair, and drawing herself close for those sure strokes of the knife with which she meant to mangle her. As the eyes of the white owl glare through the leaves on the awakening bird, and its brain swims, and its little heart bounces into a gallop, seeing its most dreadful dream accomplished, escape impossible, its last hour come, then the talons of the spectre clutch its throat, and its short, harmless life is out. So might it have been with pretty Alice. In that dreadful second of time, all things that her eyes beheld looked strange in a new reality, the room contracted, and familiar things were unlike themselves, and the certainty and nearness of that which she now knew, all her life before was but a dream to her, what an infidel, what a fool she had been, here it was, and now death. The helpless yell that burst from her lips, as this dreadful woman shuffled near on her knees, was answered by a crash from the door burst in, and a cry from a manly voice, the door flew wide, and Alice saw her husband pale as death. With a single savage blow he stretched her assailant on the floor. In another moment Alice, while with terror her fainting was in his arms, and did he strike her? Good God! he had struck her. How did she lie there, bleeding? For a moment a dreadful remorse was bursting at his heart. He would have kneeled, he could have killed himself. Oh, manhood! Gratitude! Charity! Could he, even in a moment frenzy, have struck down any creature so that had ever stood to him in the relation of that love? What a rush of remembrances and hell of compunction was there, and for a rival! She, the reckless, forlorn, guilty old love, cast off, blasted with deformity and privation, and now this last fell atrocity. Alice was clinging to him. The words, darling, darling, my rye, my saviour, my rye, were in his ears, and he felt as if he hated Alice, hated her worse even than himself. He froze with horror and agony as he beheld the ineffasible image of that white blood-stained twitching face, with sightless eyes, and on the floor those straggling locks of changed, grizzled hair that once were as black as a raven's wing, to which he used to compare them, a maddening picture of degradation and cruelty, to what had they both come at last. But an iron necessity was upon him, and with an energy of hypocrisy he said, Alice, my treasure, my darling, you're safe, aren't you? Oh, darling, yes, she gasped. Not here. You mustn't stay here. Run down. She's mad. She's a mad woman. Not here a moment. Half stunned and dreamy with horror, Alice glided down the stairs, passing honest Tom, who was stumbling up, half awake, but quite dressed, accepting his coat. Run, Tom! Help your master, for God's sake! There's something dreadful! She said as she passed him with her trembling hands raised. Where, ma'am, mate, be? said Tom, pausing with the cornice that was dreadful, she thought. There, there, in his room, my room, go, for heaven's sake! Up ran Tom, making a glorious clatter with his hobnails, and down ran Alice, and just at the foot of the old stair she met Mildred Tarnley's tall, slim figure. The old woman drew to the banister, and stood still, looking darkly and shrewdly at her. Oh, good! Mildred! Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, for God's sake, don't leave me! And what's the row, ma'am? What is it? asked Mrs. Tarnley, who with her lean arm supporting the poor trembling young lady, who clung to her. Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, take me with you. Take me out. I can't stay in the house. Take me away, into the woods, anywhere, out of the house. Well, well, come down, come along, she said, more tenderly than was her want, and watching her face hard from the corner of the eyes, she was convinced that the old soldier was the cause of these horrors. Put your arm over my shoulder, ma'am. There, that's it, and I'll put mine around you. If you don't think I'm making too bold, there now, you're more easy, I think. And as they got on through the passage, she asked, Tarnley, you that's screeched, hey? I, I dare say, did I? I, did ye, with a will, who have a screeched. You've seen some, and what may ye have seen that frightened ye like that? We'll talk by and by. I'm ill. I'm horribly ill. Come away. Come then, if you like best, ma'am, said Mildred Tarnley, leading her through the kitchen, and by the outer door into the open air. But she had hardly got a step into the yard, when the young lady, holding her fast, stopped short in renewed terrors. Oh, Mildred, if she follows us, if she overtook us out here? Who, ma'am, who ye referred on? Is it that crazy blind woman, or who? Oh, Mildred, yes, it is she. Oh, Mildred, where shall we go? Where can I hide myself? There's nowhere safe. No, you're just driving yourself distracted, you be. What for need ye fear her? She's crazy, I'll not deny, but she's blind to, and she can't follow you here, if she was so minded. Why, she couldn't cross the style, nor follow you through this benny. But see, you've now but your dressing gown over your nightclothes and your bare feet. Odds are not go, were ye. You'll come back, if ye must come abroad. You'll get your cloaks and your shun. No, no, Mildred. I'll go as I am, cried the terrified lady, at the same time hurrying onward to the yard door. Well, said the old woman following, well, for last we'll ha her away, but you'll clap this, oh, where ye shall this. As she placed her own shawl on them, and together they passed into the lonely woodlands that, spreading upwards from the Glen of Carwell, embower the deep ravine that flanks the side of the Grange, and widening and deepening into the kindred shadows of the Glen. CHAPTER 37 A MESSENGER Alice had not gone far when she was seized with a great shivering. The immediate process, by which from high hysterical tension, nature brings down the nerves again to their accustomed tone. The air was soft and still, and the faint gray of morning was already changing the darkness into its peculiar twilight. You'll be better presently, dear, said the old woman, with unaccustomed kindness. There, there, you'll be nothing the worst when a is done, and you'll have a cup of tea when you come back. Under the great old trees near the ivied wall, which screens the court, is a stone bench, and on this old Mildred was constrained to place her. There, there, there, rest a bit, rest a little bit. Hi, crying? Oh, cry if you will. But you'll hay more to thank God than to cry for, if all be as I guess. Alice cried on, with convulsive sobs, starting every now and then, with a wild glance toward the yard gate, and grasping the old woman's arm. In a very few minutes this paroxysm subsided, and she wept quietly. It was you, Mom, that cried out. I take it, hay, frightened may have. I was, yes, I—I'll wait a little and tell you by and by. Horribly, horribly. You needn't be afeard here, and me beside ye, Mom. And daylight a-coming, and I think I could be ye a sharp guess at the matter. Ye saw her ladyship, I do suppose. The old Sager, Mom. I—there's a sight might frighten a body, like a spirit almost. A great white-faced blind devil. Who is she? How did she come? She tried to kill me. Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, I'm so terrified. And with these words, Alice began to cry and tremble afresh. Hey, try to kill ye, did she? I'm glad of that. Right glad it. Twill rid us a trouble, ma'am. But, la, think of that. And did she actually raise her hand to you? Oh, yes, Mrs. Tarnley, frightful. I'm saved by a miracle. I don't know how, the mercy of God only. She was clinging to Mrs. Tarnley with a fast and trembling grasp. Zooks, the lass, is frightened. Ye has seen sights tonight, young lady, you'll remember. Young folk loves pleasure and the world and themselves, or well to trouble their heads about death or judgment. If the Lord and His mercy didn't shake them up from their dreams and their sins, awake thou that sleepest, says the word, calling loud in a drunken ear. At dead a night, we the household round a fire, as the parson says. He's a good man, though I may have seen better in old days, in Carwell pulpit. So tis all for good, and in place of crying, you should be praising God for startling ye out of your carnal sleep, and making ye think of Him, and see yourself as ye are, and not according to the flatteries of your husband, and your own vanity. Ye'll pardon me, but truth is truth, and God's truth, first of all. And who'll tell it ye, if them as within hereon won't open their lips? And I don't see that Mr. Charles troubles his head much about the matter. He is so noble, and always my guardian angel. Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, tonight I must have perished, if it had not bent for him. He is always my best friend, and so unselfish and noble. Well, that's good, said Mildred Tarnley coldly. But I'm thinking something ought to be done. We the catamounten in there, and strike while the iron's hot. And they'll never drive home that nail ye'll find. More like to go off when all's done, we hear pocketful of money. Tis a sin, while so many an honest soul wants. And I'll take that just into my own old hands, I'm thinking, and starve her out as she would better women. Isn't she mad, Mrs. Tarnley? asked Alice. And if she's mad to the madhouse, we hear. And if she's not, where's the gallows high enough for her? The dangerous harridan? For one way or another, the fiend's in her. And the sooner judgment overtakes her, and she's in her coffin, the sooner the devil's laid. And the better for honest folk. If she is mad, it accounts for everything. What I feel is if I never could enter that house again. And, oh, Mrs. Tarnley, you mustn't leave me. Oh, heavens, what's that? It was no great matter. Mrs. Tarnley had got up, for the art door had opened, and someone passed out and looked round. It was the girl, Lily Dogger, who stood there looking about her, under the canopy of tall trees. Hoot, mom! Tis only the child, Lily Dogger. And well, please I am, for I was thinking this minute, how I could get her to me quietly. Here, Lily, come here, ye goosecap. Do you see me? So, closing the door behind her, the girl approached with eyes wide open and wonderfully solemn countenance. She had been roused and scared by the sounds which had alarmed the house, huddled on her clothes, and seeing Mrs. Tarnley's figure across the window had followed in a tremor. Mrs. Tarnley walked a few steps towards her, and beckoning with her lean finger, the girl drew near. Ye'll have to go over crestly common girl to Wickford. He know Wickford? Yes, please him. Well, ye must go through the village and call up Mark Topham. He know Mark Topham's house with the green door by the bridge end? Yes, please, Mrs. Tarnley, mom, and say he'll be wanted down here at the Grange. For murder-mind, and go ye onto Mr. Rodney at other side of the river. Squire Rodney of Rydell. He know that house, too? Yes, him, said the girl, with eyes momentarily descending and face of blanker consternation. And ye'll tell Mr. Rodney there's been bad work down here, and murder all but done, and say ye've told Mark Topham the Constable. And that it is hoped he'll come over himself to make out the Ritans, and send away the prisoner as should go. We being chiefly women here, and having to keep Tom Clinton at home to mind the prisoner ye understand, and keep all safe having little other protection. Now run in lass, and clap your bonnet on, and now way, we ye, and get ye there as fast as your legs will carry ye. And take your time coming back, and ye may get a lift, for they'll not be walking, and you're like to get a bit of breakfast down at Rydell. But if ye shouldn't, here's tuppence, and buy yourself a good bit of bread in the town. Now ye understand? Yes, him, please. And ye'll not be makin' mistakes, mind? New mum. Then do as I bid ye, and off ye go, said Mrs. Tarnley, dispatching her with a peremptory gesture. So with a quaking heart not knowing what dangers might still be lurking there, Lily Dogger ran into the yard on her way to her bonnet, and peeped through the kitchen window, but saw nothing there in the pale gray light but still life. With a timid finger she lifted the latch and stole into the familiar passage, as if she were exploring a haunted house. She had quaked in her bed as thin and far away the shrill sounds of terror had penetrated through walls and passages to her bedroom. She had murmured, Lord bless us, at intervals, and listened, chilled with a sense of danger associated in her imagination with the stranger who had visited her room and frightened away her slumbers. And she had jumped out of bed and thrown on her clothes in panic, and blessed herself, and pinned and tied strings, and listened and blessed herself again, and seeing Mrs. Tarnley cross the window, accompanied by someone else, whom she did not then recognize, and fearing to remain thus deserted in the house more than the risk of being blown up by Mrs. Tarnley, she had followed that grim protectress. Now as on tiptoe she recrossed the kitchen with her straw bonnet in her hand, she heard of a sudden cries of fury, and words as doors opened and shut reached her that excited her horror and piqued her curiosity. She hastened, however, to leave the house, and again approached and passed by the lady and Mildred Tarnley, having tied her bonnet under her chin, and obeying Mildred's impatient beckon and, run, lass, run! Stir your stumps, will ye? She started at a pace that promised soon to see her cross-crestly common. Old Mildred saw this with comfort. She knew that broad-shouldered brown-eyed lass for a shrewd and accurate messenger, and seeing how dangerous and complicated things were growing, she was glad that fortune had opened so short and sharp a way of getting rid of that troubler of their peace. Come in, Mom, ye'll catch your death a cold here. All's quiet by this time, and I'll make the kitchen safe against the world. And Mr. Charles is in the house, and Tom Clinton up and all safe. And who cares a rush for that blind ol' cat? Not I for one. She'll come no-nonsense over Mildred Tarnley in her own kitchen, while there's a poker to wrap her, or the pate. Hoot! One ol' blind limer. I tackle six of her sort, old as I am, and tumble them one after another into the brawl. Never ye trouble your head about that, Mom. And I'll bolt the door on the passage, and the scullery door likewise, and lock them, if ye like. And we'll get down, old Dulcy Bella, to sit we ye, and ye'll be a deal less like to see that beast in the kitchen than here. There's Miss Crane, by which title she indicated old Dulcy Bella, looking out of her window. Hoot! Miss Crane! Will ye please, Miss Crane, come down and stay a bit we ye mistress. Thank God! Is she down there? exclaimed she. Come down, Mom, please. She's quite well, and she'll be glad to see ye. Old Dulcy Bella's head disappeared from the window promptly. Now, Mom, she'll be down, and when she comes, if ye'd like to hay someone by ye, I'll go in and make the kitchen door fast. And won't ye search it well, Mrs. Tarnley? And the inner room? That we may be certain no one is hid there? Pray do. May I rely on you. Won't you promise? There's nothing there that I promise ye. But, oh, pray do, urged Alice. I will, Mom, just to quiet ye. Ye need not fear. I leave her no chance. And she'll soon be safe enough, she shall. Safe enough when she gets on her doublet of stone. And don't ye be frightened yourself for nothing. Just keep yourself quiet. For there's nothing to fear. And if ye will keep yourself in a fever for nothing, ye'll be just making food for worms. Mock my words. As she spoke, Old Dulcy Bella appeared, and with a face of deep concern, waddled as fast as she could toward her young mistress, raising her hands and eyes from time to time as she approached. As she drew nearer she made a solemn thanksgiving, and, oh, my child, my child, thank God you're well. I was a most ready to drop in a swooned when I came into your room just now. Everything knocked topsy-turvy and a door cut in the wall, and all in a litter. I couldn't know where I was, and some want to bleedin' all across the floor, and one of the big green-handled knives on the floor lured a mercy on us, with the blade bent and blood about it. I never was so frightened. I thought my senses was leaving me, and I couldn't tell what I might see next. And I, ready to drop down on the floor with fright, my darling child, my precious, Lord love it, and hear it was barefooted, and but half-clad, and come in ye must, dear. It is enough to kill ye. I can scarcely remember anything, Dulce Bella, only one thing. Oh, I'm so terrified. Come in, darling. You'll lose your life if you stay here as you are. And what was it, dear? And who did you see? A woman, that dreadful, blind woman, who came in at the new door. I never saw her before. Well, dear. Oh, Miss Alice, darling, I couldn't have believed. And thank God you're safe after all. That she, I heard, a screechin' as strong as a dozen, and frightful words as well as I could hear, to come from any woman's lips. Lord help us. Where is she now? Somewhere in the front of the house, darling, screechin' and laughin', I thought, but heaven only knows. She's mad, Mrs. Tarnley says, and Mr. Fairfield said so too. Master Charles is come, my darling rye. Oh, Dulce Bella, how grateful I should be. What could I have done if he hadn't? So Dulce Bella persuaded her to come into the yard, and so through the scullery door, at which Mildred stood, having secured all other access to the kitchen. So in she came, awfully frightened to find herself again in the house, but was not her husband there, and help at hand, and the doors secured. LibriVox.org Recording by John Brandon The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lafano Chapter 38 Unreasonable Bertha Her husband was at hand, that is to say, under the same roof, and at that moment, in the room in which the blind woman was now sitting, bleeding from head and hand, and smiling as she talked, with the false light of a malignant irony. So husband and wife are met again, and what have you to say after so long a time? I have nothing to say, let my deed speak. I've given you year by year fully half my income. She laughed scornfully, and exclaimed merely, Magnificent man. Miserable pittance it is, but the more miserable, the harder the sacrifice for me. I don't say I've been able to do much, but I have done more than my means warrant, and I don't understand what you propose to yourself, by laying yourself out to torment and embarrass me. What the devil do you follow me about for? Do you think I'm full enough to be bullied? A fine question from Charles Verfield of Weibern to his wife, she observed with a pallid simper. Wife and husband are terms very easily pronounced, said ye. And relations very easily made, she rejoined. He was leaning with his shoulder against the high mantelpiece and looking upon her with a countenance, in which you might have seen disdain and fear mingling with something of compunction. Relations very easily made, and still more easily affected, he replied. Come, Bertha, there is no use in quarreling over points of law. Past is past, as Lenora says. If I have wronged you anything, I am sorry. I've tried to make amends, and though many a fellow would have been tired out long ago, I continue to give you proofs that I am not. That is a sort of benevolence, she said in her own language, which may as well be voluntary, or if it not be, the magistrates will compel it. The magistrates are neither fools nor tyrants. You'll make nothing of the magistrates. You have no rights, and you know it. An odd country, where a wife has no rights. Come, Bertha, there is no use in picking a quarrel. While you take me quietly, you have your share, and a good deal more. You used to be reasonable. A reasonable wife, I suppose, gives up her position, her character, her prospects, whenever it answers her husband to sacrifice these trifles for his villainous pleasures. Your English wives must be meek souls indeed, if they like it. I don't hear they are such lambs, though. I'm not going to argue law points, as they said before, lawyers are the proper persons to do that. You used to be reasonable, Bertha. Where's the good in pushing things to extremes? What a gentle creature you are, she laughed. And how persuasive. I'm a quiet fellow enough. I believe as men go, but I'm not persuasive, and I know it. I wish I were. Those whom you have persuaded once are not likely to be persuaded again. Your persuasions are not always lucky, aren't they? You want a quarrel about everything. You want to leave no possible point of agreement. Things are at a bad pass, when husband and wife are so. Charles looked at her angrily for a moment, and then, down to the floor, and he whistled a few bars of a tune. What do you whistle for? she demanded. Come, Bertha, don't be foolish. You are once a gentleman. It is a black guard who whistles in reply to a lady's words, she said, on a sudden stretching out her hand tremulously, as if in search of someone to grasp. Well, don't mind. Stick to one thing at a time. For God's sake, say what you want, and have done with it. You must acknowledge me before the world for your wife. She answered with a resolute serenity, and raising her face and shouting her mouth, she sniffed defiantly through her distented nostrils. Come, come, Bertha, what good on earth could come of that? Little to you, perhaps, and none to you. She laughed savagely. That lie won't do. Bertha, Bertha, we may hate one another if you will. But is it not as well to try whether we can agree upon anything? Let us just for the present, talk intelligibly. You try to murder me, you arch-villain. Nonsense, said he, turning pale. How can you talk so? How can you? Could I help interposing? You may well be thankful that I did. You tried to murder me, she screamed. You know that's false. I took the knife from your hand, and by doing so I saved two lives. It was you, not I, who hurt your hand. You villain, you damned villain, I wish I could kill you dead. All the worse for you, Bertha. I wish you were dead, and cold in your bed, and my hand on your face to be sure of it. Now you're growing angry again. I thought we had done with storm and hysterics for a little and could talk, and perhaps agree upon something. Or at all events not waste our few minutes in violence. Violence? You wretch, who began it? What can you mean, Bertha? You've married that woman. Oh, I know it all. I, your lawful wife living, I'll have you transported. Double-died villain? Where's the good of screaming all this at the top of your voice? He said at last growing angry. You wish you could kill me. I almost wish you could. I've been only too good to you, and allowed you to trouble me too long. You'd like to put me out of the way. You'll do that for yourself, can't you wait? Can't you listen? Can't you have common reason? Just for one moment. What do you want? What do you wish? You want every farthing I possess on earth and to leave me nothing? I'm your wife, and I'll have my rights. Now listen to me. That's a question I need not discuss, because you already know what I believe on the subject. You know what your brother Harry thinks? I know what it is his interest to think. You'd dare and say that if he were here you cowered. And I don't care a farthing what he thinks. But if it had been fifty times over, what it never was, a marriage, your own conduct long ago would have dissolved it. And you allow you have married that woman? I shan't talk to you about it. How I shall act or may act or have acted is my own affair, and rely upon it. I'll do nothing on the assumption that I ever was married to you. Up stood the tall woman with hands extended toward him, wide open, with a slightly groping motion, as if opening a curtain. Not a word did she say, but her sightless eyes, which stared full at him were quivering with that nervous tremor which is so pleasant to see. She drew breath two or three times at intervals long and deep, almost a sob, and then without speaking or moving more she sat down looking awfully white and wicked. For a time the old soldier had lost the thread of her discourse. Charles heard a step, not very far off, he thought his unreasonable bertha was about to have a fit, and opening the door he called lustily to Mildred. It was, Mrs. Tarnley. Will you get some water, or whatever she ought to have? I think she is ill, and pray be quick. With a dark, prying look Mildred glanced from one to the other. It's in a mad house, and not here the like of her should be. We them fits and frenzies, she muttered as she applied herself to the resuscitation of the Dutch woman. On her toilet was a little group of bottles labeled salvolatile, asifatida, valerian. I don't know which is the right one, but this can't be far wrong, she remarked, selecting the salvolatile and dropping some into the water. La, so it was a sort of fit. See how stiff she was. Lord bless us, I do wish she was under a mad doctor. See how her feet stuck out, and her thumbs tight shot in her fists and her teeth set, and old Mildred applied the salvolatile vial to the patient's nostrils, and gradually got her into a drowsy yawning state, in which she seemed to care and comprehend little or nothing of where she was or what had befallen her. Tell her I stayed till I saw her better, if she asks, and that I'm coming back again. She says she is hurt. So much so better, said Mildred. That will keep her from prowling about the house like a cat or a ghost, as she did all night, and no good came of it. And will you look to her wrist, she cut it last night, and it is very clumsily tied up, and I'll come again, tell her. So with a bewildered brain and a direful load at his heart he left the room. Where was Alice, he thought? He went downstairs, and up again by the back staircase to their room, and there found the wreck and disorder of the odious scene he had witnessed, still undisturbed, and looking somehow more shocking in the sober light of morning. From this sickening record of the occurrences of last night, he turned for a moment to the window, and looked out on the tranquil and silven solitudes, and then back again upon the disorder, which had so nearly marked a scene of murder. How do I keep my reason, thought he? Is there in England so miserable a man? Why should I not end it? Between the room where he stood, and the angle of that bedroom, in which at that moment was the wretch who agitated every hour of his existence with dismay, there intervened but eight and twenty feet in that polyhedric and irregular old house. If he had but one tithe of her wickedness, he had but to take up that poker, strike through, and brain her as she sat there. Why was he not a little more, or a little less wicked? If the latter he might never have been in this present fix. If the other, he might find a short way out of the thicket, cue his way out with a bloody axe, and none but those whose secrecy he might rely on be the wiser. A vaunt, horrible shadows, such beckoning phantoms from the abyss were not tempters, but simply terrors. No, he was far more likely to load a pistol, put the muzzle in his mouth, and blow his harassed brains out.