Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu, page 450
CHAPTER XXII.
CHARLES OBJECTS TO THE NEW WORSHIP.
AT length he could stand it no longer, and, said he, sitting erect and addressing the window in a clear tone, and with a rather bitter jocularity —
“Nothing ever arrests the progress of mind and the march of discovery.”
Laura looked at him with her large eyes, a little puzzled, and after a little pause, she said —
“Your allusions, I am sure, are wise, if one could only understand them.”
“I did not intend to be the least mysterious, I assure you. I’ve been away just forty-eight hours. It is very amusing — and I find a new worship established.”
“A new worship! I don’t know what you mean. What worship, pray, have you found here? Worship is a very comprehensive term — isn’t it?” said the young lady, with a colour suddenly heightened, and looking at him with brilliant eyes.
Perhaps, if she had not blushed so ambiguously, he might have kept his temper better; but the feeling that, in the very act of snubbing him, she was exhibiting this beautiful evidence of so different a feeling with respect to that miserable coxcomb! Unaided human nature could hardly be expected to stand that.
“Worship — yes, quite true — a very comprehensive term. There are all sorts of worship. The Egyptians worshipped reptiles, and some people worship monkeys, I believe; and others, perhaps more degraded still, worship themselves.”
“Still enigmatical; but I think there can be no doubt that you intend to be — I’ll only say — disagreeable; and suppose there is a worship established here. I think I may do and say pretty much, here, what I like, without being considered intrusive. And, suppose Julia Wardell — oh! I see, she’s asleep — has committed the impiety of removing Mr. Charles Mannering from her altar, and the profanity of setting up Mr. Alfred Dacre instead, is not this a land of liberty? Hasn’t she a right to practice her idolatries according to her taste? I don’t see why the good old soul should not have her plurality of Josses, or whatever she calls her idols, or why the deposed divinity should thunder his displeasure in my small habitation, and the fact is, I don’t choose it.”
“You quite mistake me.”
“So much the better.”
“I don’t, at all, affect rivalry with the new divinity. I never had the distinction of standing upon an altar and receiving incense. It must be very pleasant, and judging from the enthusiasm, and the looks of the priestesses, there must be no small happiness, too, in the mere act of devotion.”
“Come now, do speak plainly — what do you mean?” said Miss Laura Gray peremptorily.
“In the practice of idolatry everything is allegory and myth. Isn’t it rather unreasonable to ask me to speak literally?” said Charles Mannering, pleased, perhaps, to see evidence of irritation on the other side.
“I suppose you are joking,” said the young lady. “If you have no meaning it is a bad joke, and if you have a meaning it is a worse one. I wish to know, once for all, what you do mean, if meaning you have any.
“Well, I don’t mind telling you that it does strike me that an intimacy, which I suppose seems to other people quite natural, and selon les règles appears to have grown up, almost in an hour. I recognise the young gentleman as the same whom you thought so good-looking at the opera, the other night, and I suppose he has been properly introduced and all that, and that Ardenbroke, who is, I think, the only friend you have — of course I don’t include myself — with the slightest claim to offer advice on such a subject unasked, has told you all that is necessary to know — I assume that — but still, the very distinguished confidence, and, in fact, the intimacy with which I find that fortunate young gentleman received and entertained, at whatever hours it may suit him to drop in, does strike a person accustomed to see such relations grow up with a less tropical suddenness, as in the highest degree marvellous.”
“Well, thank you for some plain speaking at last, and considering you have no right, as you say, to offer advice unasked, you contrive to exercise the privilege of saying and insinuating more rude things than any other modest young gentleman I have had the good fortune to hear of.”
“You may resent it. I can’t help that,” said he, “but I think it would be neither kind nor right, if in a place like this city, I were to abandon you, with no more experience than a child, and no one but Mrs. Wardell to take care of you — Mrs. Wardell, who really knows very little more of the world than you do yourself — to the risk of being imposed on, or even compromised by your confidence in the professions of people who happen to turn up in a Babel so handsomely provided with sharks and sharpers, as London is.”
“We happen to know, not from himself, but from people who are perfectly informed, and whose authority even you would not dispute, that Mr. Dacre is a person whom there could be no possible objection to knowing. I say this, neither as admitting your right to demand explanations, nor to make offensive remarks, but simply as a matter of fact, and as showing that we do not commit such extravagances as, in your phrase, should compromise us.”
“That which we desire to believe, we do believe often upon very slender evidence,” said Charles Mannering.
“I don’t think you perceive how very offensive, I may say insulting, your little speeches have become. You can’t help making them, I dare say. I suppose people, in the main, act according to their natures, and yours is to say such pleasant things as you have entertained me with this evening. I take it for granted you must go on saying them, so I mean to go up to my room, not having Julia Wardell’s faculty of retiring into dreams and slumber; but, of course, you can waken her with one of those pretty speeches, as they wakened King Lear with music, and she has the advantage of a much better temper than I have.” And with these words the young lady left the room.
She had not blown up Charles Mannering with half the spirit she might, at another time. A sense of fear and anxiety had in some measure tamed that wayward creature, and her manner was not so fierce as her words.
When she got to her room — at every step fancying she saw the peeping face of the odious little man whom she had seen at the window, that night, and in the hall — she sat down and asked her maid all about the search that had been made.
Every nook and corner had been searched, not a sign of the slightest disturbance anywhere detected, and it was plain that the person who had entered the hall could have only stepped in, looked about him, and withdrawn.
In a minute more Miss Laura Gray heard the hall-door shut, and a step pass away upon the dry court. She knew that step. It was Charles Mannering taking his departure. She smiled faintly as she fancied his feelings, his dignity, and his huff; and then she thought uneasily whether there might not be reason at the bottom of his reclamations.
CHAPTER XXIII.
LAURA GRAY’S FORTUNE TOLD.
A SMALL letter was laid upon her dressing-table next morning, as she entered; Mrs. Wardell had, placed it there. She was relieved at the first glance. It was not from her unknown correspondent. It was addressed in an extremely pretty hand, and at the foot of the page was “A. Dacre.”
“My Dear Miss Gray,” it said, “you see how impatient I am to use my privilege. Lest your servants should omit to mention the circumstance, I have to relate, that on going downstairs, I learned from the servant that I had been honoured by an inquiry, as I conclude, from the same person who alarmed you by showing himself at the window, and who I have no doubt is implicated in the cowardly annoyance to which you have been exposed. I instantly pursued, but not a trace of him was discoverable. Any direction you may be so good as to honour me with, I shall be only too happy to obey, if you will be so good as to send, during my three days’ absence, to my address, Minivers Hotel, &c.
“Believe me, my dear Miss Gray,
“Ever Yours, &c., &c.
“P.S. — I think the bravado of last night will materially aid discovery. The one talent I really do possess, that of the detective, I devote to this enterprise. I had twice in my life to employ it before, and very quickly succeeded. Pray burn this letter. There are those whom I would not wish to know that I wrote. I entreat of you therefore to be secret for three days.”
When Miss Gray came down she questioned the servant who had opened the door to the unknown visitor of last night. When did he come? A few minutes before Mr. Dacre left. Did he knock or ring at the door; or how was it? He came with a postman’s knock. Would the servant know him again? Yes, he was a low-sized, vicious-looking little wasp of a Jew — pale and surly. And what did he say? Only to, ask if Mr. Dacre was here, and he asked the servant if he was quite sure, and seemed irresolute what to do, like a man making up his mind to mischief, but away he went again, so quick he could not tell which way he took. That was the narrative.
Now, Miss Laura Challys Gray was beginning to grow dissatisfied, and to quarrel with herself about several things. In the first place, had she done wisely in snubbing her honest cousin, Charles Mannering, whom she really wished to consult — whom, however, she found herself, by an understood obligation of secrecy, unable to consult — in whose eyes, her reason told her, she must inevitably appear so strange — possibly her conduct so equivocal, and to whom she yet could give no explanation? Had she done wisely in admitting this stranger — Mr. Dacre — to such strangely confidential relations? Had she not acted in panic — without thinking — without consulting even the instincts of caution. The intimacy which had grown in a day or two between her and this Mr. Dacre, which seemed to her like a dream, did it not affright her at times? And, then, was she quite sure that the handsome hero of this little mystery, who had taken up her quarrel so goodnaturedly, or rather so enthusiastically, of whom she thought through every hour of the day almost, for his words and looks were inseparably associated with the subject which so rivetted her thoughts — was she quite certain that she cared as little for him as in prudence she ought? Altogether, would it not have been wiser, to open this matter, the importance of which she had possibly exaggerated immensely, to Lord Ardenbroke or Charles Mannering? It was now, however, too late; she could hardly remember how these relations with Mr. Dacre had come about. But, now, she felt she could not recede. There was really nothing against him. He had been zealous, but very respectful. He was a friend of Ardenbroke’s. Whom better could she have employed? And so on, inconsistently.
She was low. Her novel did not please her, nor music, nor work; she had a headache; she did not care for a drive or a walk; her gardening wearied her; she was in a state of unavowed suspense; expecting news; none came.
In the afternoon, near the hedgerow that bounded the lawn of Guildford House, came a big drum and pandean pipes resounding shrilly, and the grave brown-faced showman set up the stage of “Punch and Judy,” and the time-honoured play began.
Here was a diversion. Miss Gray, who happened at the moment to be in the library, sent for her opera glasses, threw open the window, and amused herself with the Hogarthian picture of the motley crowd and the showman, seen pleasantly in the dappled sunlight under the trees.
When this pleasure, like all others, came to its end, she sat with her glasses in her lap at the open window. In a little while, the crowd having marched off with the show-box and big-drum, there came to the gate a slender girl whom the person in the lodge would not allow to pass.
“She’s a gipsy,” thought Miss Gray, raising her glasses, and thus distinctly confirming her first impression. She touched the bell, and told the servant to tell the people at the gate to allow the girl to come up to the house.
Up came the girl — lithe, dark, handsome, smiling, with all the servile wildness of her race, with fine eyes, and brilliant little teeth.
“Send my maid here,” said the young lady, not caring to be quite alone, though the window-stood interposed between her, and this wild child of fortune. “You can tell all that’s going to happen us, can’t you?” said the young lady, smiling with an odd mixture of curiosity, antipathy, and admiration upon her vagabond sister.
“Oh, yes, she would tell the pretty young lady her fortune, if my lady wished; she would look at her hand, and she hoped the pretty young lady would have everything she wished in the world, for, indeed, she was pretty enough to be a princess, and dress in gold and diamonds, and pearls, and marry a king,” and so forth.
“Have you told many fortunes to-day?”
“A deal of fortunes to-day, my lady. Yes, a great many pretty young ladies, but not one so pretty as you; no, no, my lady, indeed.”
“Would you like to have your fortune told? I’m going to have mine,” said Miss Gray turning to her maid, who had that moment come in. What maid could refuse such an offer. And, so, with a giggle, and a little toss of her head, she submitted.
So, Miss Mary Anne Mersey’s hand told its secrets, and promised that amiable person her heart’s content, and a rich tailor for her husband, and, finally, the sibyl added —
“And you will find, very soon, something that will make the young lady, your mistress, wonder!”
“Oh! something! Of what kind?” inquired Miss Gray.
“I can’t know that, my lady. She will find something that will give you a start; yes, indeed, my pretty lady.”
“You mean that will frighten me, do you?”
“Yes, my lady, — that will frighten you.”
“La! what can she mean?” exclaimed Miss Mary Anne.
“I suppose we shall both be frightened, Mersey; but it can’t be helped, and you have certainly got a great deal to console you, for I don’t think a single thing has gone wrong in your fortune.”
“Very nice hand, yes, very lucky,” acquiesced the smiling prophetess.
“But she’s to find, something — how soon — that is to frighten me?” persisted the young lady.
“How soon is not fixed, but very soon, my lady. That will be by the stars.”
“We shall learn time enough, Mersey, I dare say,” and putting more money in her hand, with a smile, she extended her own for the chiromancer’s examination.
“You will travel about a great deal,” began the gipsy; “you will not settle at home for a long time.”
“Hush! Mersey. You are not to say a word,” said her mistress, warningly.
“And there’s a handsome young gentleman in love with you, my lady, though you don’t know it, and he will, maybe, be wounded shortly for your sake, maybe killed, and he’ll leave you some money, for he’s very rich, though you don’t know it. He’s young, and he’s very handsome, and he loves you ever so much more than his life, and you’ll marry some one, but I don’t know whether him or no, and you saw him in a fair, or in a playhouse, maybe; some place where there was a show going on, and music, and that is all I’m sure about, my lady.”
“And how soon is this unfortunate young gentleman to be killed or wounded in my service?” she asked, laughing.
“Ah! you would not laugh, pretty lady, if you saw the poor young gentleman bleeding.”
“Oh! but you know there’s a hope, isn’t there, that he may not be hurt at all, and what I want to know is, how soon the time of danger is to come.”
“Soon, my lady, it can’t be more than a year, but it might be tomorrow morning, a letter might come; it is some time very shortly.”
“Well, thanks. Now, I think, we know everything,” said Miss Gray.
“Is there any more young ladies would like their fortunes told, in the house, pretty young lady?”
“No, no, thanks, no one, and I think we’ll say goodbye now?” said Miss Laura Gray, with a smile and a little nod.
The handsome young prophetess smiled and showed all her little white teeth and curtsied, and crossed the windows here and there, and up and down with her restless glance, and so, smiling and curtseying again, with many “thankies, my ladies,” and “good lucks,” away she went.
“A very good fortune you have got, Mersey, and much good may it do you. I’m not so lucky quite. My young gentleman is to be shot; whoever he is, on very short notice too; and I’m to be frightened by something you are to be good enough to find for me. I shan’t want you any more just now, Mersey.”
Though the young lady knew that the gipsy was an impostor, and that, probably, the same prediction was repeated at every second window where she got a piece of money and an audience, yet, in her present mood, she would rather that the man at the lodge had taken his own way, and this little folly been omitted.
CHAPTER XXIV.
WHAT MARY ANNE MERSEY FOUND.
THAT evening was unrelieved by a single incident worthy of being recorded, and Miss Gray was early weary — no note had reached her; all was silent. She went early to her room.
“I’ll leave this tiresome place, Mersey,” she said; “I’ll leave it in two or three weeks, I think; do you like it?”
“Like it — hates it — rayther, you mean, miss. I can’t think whatever bewitched you, Miss Challys, to come to such a dismal hole of a place. I’ve sat up an hour at a time, in my window, crying my eyes out. I told you the day after we came, miss, you could not bear to live here no time. ’Tisn’t a place where there’s nothing to recommend it. ‘Taint country, miss, and it aint town, no more; and when I look out of the window, them old trees, so like the churchyard at Gray Forest, and not a soul stirring, I do really, miss, I cries my eyes red again for downright lowness of spirits.”
“I’m coming to the same way of thinking myself, Mersey; I believe I made a mistake when I came here. It’s quite true, I hate what they call society, that is, balls and drums, and all that wear and tear, and racket, and fever; but then this is unnecessarily dull; and the fact is, it is so unnaturally quiet that I am growing quite nervous, and I believe a year of it would go very near making me mad.”
“La, miss,” rejoined Miss Mary Anne Mersey, who had been Laura’s maid from Miss Gray’s nursery days, and could consequently speak her mind fearlessly, “Of course it will make you mad. It is not natural, nor right, for young people to shut themselves up like that, and you so handsome, miss; a pretty thing with your fortune and all, you should go off into an old maid, with your fancies and vagaries.”
CHARLES OBJECTS TO THE NEW WORSHIP.
AT length he could stand it no longer, and, said he, sitting erect and addressing the window in a clear tone, and with a rather bitter jocularity —
“Nothing ever arrests the progress of mind and the march of discovery.”
Laura looked at him with her large eyes, a little puzzled, and after a little pause, she said —
“Your allusions, I am sure, are wise, if one could only understand them.”
“I did not intend to be the least mysterious, I assure you. I’ve been away just forty-eight hours. It is very amusing — and I find a new worship established.”
“A new worship! I don’t know what you mean. What worship, pray, have you found here? Worship is a very comprehensive term — isn’t it?” said the young lady, with a colour suddenly heightened, and looking at him with brilliant eyes.
Perhaps, if she had not blushed so ambiguously, he might have kept his temper better; but the feeling that, in the very act of snubbing him, she was exhibiting this beautiful evidence of so different a feeling with respect to that miserable coxcomb! Unaided human nature could hardly be expected to stand that.
“Worship — yes, quite true — a very comprehensive term. There are all sorts of worship. The Egyptians worshipped reptiles, and some people worship monkeys, I believe; and others, perhaps more degraded still, worship themselves.”
“Still enigmatical; but I think there can be no doubt that you intend to be — I’ll only say — disagreeable; and suppose there is a worship established here. I think I may do and say pretty much, here, what I like, without being considered intrusive. And, suppose Julia Wardell — oh! I see, she’s asleep — has committed the impiety of removing Mr. Charles Mannering from her altar, and the profanity of setting up Mr. Alfred Dacre instead, is not this a land of liberty? Hasn’t she a right to practice her idolatries according to her taste? I don’t see why the good old soul should not have her plurality of Josses, or whatever she calls her idols, or why the deposed divinity should thunder his displeasure in my small habitation, and the fact is, I don’t choose it.”
“You quite mistake me.”
“So much the better.”
“I don’t, at all, affect rivalry with the new divinity. I never had the distinction of standing upon an altar and receiving incense. It must be very pleasant, and judging from the enthusiasm, and the looks of the priestesses, there must be no small happiness, too, in the mere act of devotion.”
“Come now, do speak plainly — what do you mean?” said Miss Laura Gray peremptorily.
“In the practice of idolatry everything is allegory and myth. Isn’t it rather unreasonable to ask me to speak literally?” said Charles Mannering, pleased, perhaps, to see evidence of irritation on the other side.
“I suppose you are joking,” said the young lady. “If you have no meaning it is a bad joke, and if you have a meaning it is a worse one. I wish to know, once for all, what you do mean, if meaning you have any.
“Well, I don’t mind telling you that it does strike me that an intimacy, which I suppose seems to other people quite natural, and selon les règles appears to have grown up, almost in an hour. I recognise the young gentleman as the same whom you thought so good-looking at the opera, the other night, and I suppose he has been properly introduced and all that, and that Ardenbroke, who is, I think, the only friend you have — of course I don’t include myself — with the slightest claim to offer advice on such a subject unasked, has told you all that is necessary to know — I assume that — but still, the very distinguished confidence, and, in fact, the intimacy with which I find that fortunate young gentleman received and entertained, at whatever hours it may suit him to drop in, does strike a person accustomed to see such relations grow up with a less tropical suddenness, as in the highest degree marvellous.”
“Well, thank you for some plain speaking at last, and considering you have no right, as you say, to offer advice unasked, you contrive to exercise the privilege of saying and insinuating more rude things than any other modest young gentleman I have had the good fortune to hear of.”
“You may resent it. I can’t help that,” said he, “but I think it would be neither kind nor right, if in a place like this city, I were to abandon you, with no more experience than a child, and no one but Mrs. Wardell to take care of you — Mrs. Wardell, who really knows very little more of the world than you do yourself — to the risk of being imposed on, or even compromised by your confidence in the professions of people who happen to turn up in a Babel so handsomely provided with sharks and sharpers, as London is.”
“We happen to know, not from himself, but from people who are perfectly informed, and whose authority even you would not dispute, that Mr. Dacre is a person whom there could be no possible objection to knowing. I say this, neither as admitting your right to demand explanations, nor to make offensive remarks, but simply as a matter of fact, and as showing that we do not commit such extravagances as, in your phrase, should compromise us.”
“That which we desire to believe, we do believe often upon very slender evidence,” said Charles Mannering.
“I don’t think you perceive how very offensive, I may say insulting, your little speeches have become. You can’t help making them, I dare say. I suppose people, in the main, act according to their natures, and yours is to say such pleasant things as you have entertained me with this evening. I take it for granted you must go on saying them, so I mean to go up to my room, not having Julia Wardell’s faculty of retiring into dreams and slumber; but, of course, you can waken her with one of those pretty speeches, as they wakened King Lear with music, and she has the advantage of a much better temper than I have.” And with these words the young lady left the room.
She had not blown up Charles Mannering with half the spirit she might, at another time. A sense of fear and anxiety had in some measure tamed that wayward creature, and her manner was not so fierce as her words.
When she got to her room — at every step fancying she saw the peeping face of the odious little man whom she had seen at the window, that night, and in the hall — she sat down and asked her maid all about the search that had been made.
Every nook and corner had been searched, not a sign of the slightest disturbance anywhere detected, and it was plain that the person who had entered the hall could have only stepped in, looked about him, and withdrawn.
In a minute more Miss Laura Gray heard the hall-door shut, and a step pass away upon the dry court. She knew that step. It was Charles Mannering taking his departure. She smiled faintly as she fancied his feelings, his dignity, and his huff; and then she thought uneasily whether there might not be reason at the bottom of his reclamations.
CHAPTER XXIII.
LAURA GRAY’S FORTUNE TOLD.
A SMALL letter was laid upon her dressing-table next morning, as she entered; Mrs. Wardell had, placed it there. She was relieved at the first glance. It was not from her unknown correspondent. It was addressed in an extremely pretty hand, and at the foot of the page was “A. Dacre.”
“My Dear Miss Gray,” it said, “you see how impatient I am to use my privilege. Lest your servants should omit to mention the circumstance, I have to relate, that on going downstairs, I learned from the servant that I had been honoured by an inquiry, as I conclude, from the same person who alarmed you by showing himself at the window, and who I have no doubt is implicated in the cowardly annoyance to which you have been exposed. I instantly pursued, but not a trace of him was discoverable. Any direction you may be so good as to honour me with, I shall be only too happy to obey, if you will be so good as to send, during my three days’ absence, to my address, Minivers Hotel, &c.
“Believe me, my dear Miss Gray,
“Ever Yours, &c., &c.
“P.S. — I think the bravado of last night will materially aid discovery. The one talent I really do possess, that of the detective, I devote to this enterprise. I had twice in my life to employ it before, and very quickly succeeded. Pray burn this letter. There are those whom I would not wish to know that I wrote. I entreat of you therefore to be secret for three days.”
When Miss Gray came down she questioned the servant who had opened the door to the unknown visitor of last night. When did he come? A few minutes before Mr. Dacre left. Did he knock or ring at the door; or how was it? He came with a postman’s knock. Would the servant know him again? Yes, he was a low-sized, vicious-looking little wasp of a Jew — pale and surly. And what did he say? Only to, ask if Mr. Dacre was here, and he asked the servant if he was quite sure, and seemed irresolute what to do, like a man making up his mind to mischief, but away he went again, so quick he could not tell which way he took. That was the narrative.
Now, Miss Laura Challys Gray was beginning to grow dissatisfied, and to quarrel with herself about several things. In the first place, had she done wisely in snubbing her honest cousin, Charles Mannering, whom she really wished to consult — whom, however, she found herself, by an understood obligation of secrecy, unable to consult — in whose eyes, her reason told her, she must inevitably appear so strange — possibly her conduct so equivocal, and to whom she yet could give no explanation? Had she done wisely in admitting this stranger — Mr. Dacre — to such strangely confidential relations? Had she not acted in panic — without thinking — without consulting even the instincts of caution. The intimacy which had grown in a day or two between her and this Mr. Dacre, which seemed to her like a dream, did it not affright her at times? And, then, was she quite sure that the handsome hero of this little mystery, who had taken up her quarrel so goodnaturedly, or rather so enthusiastically, of whom she thought through every hour of the day almost, for his words and looks were inseparably associated with the subject which so rivetted her thoughts — was she quite certain that she cared as little for him as in prudence she ought? Altogether, would it not have been wiser, to open this matter, the importance of which she had possibly exaggerated immensely, to Lord Ardenbroke or Charles Mannering? It was now, however, too late; she could hardly remember how these relations with Mr. Dacre had come about. But, now, she felt she could not recede. There was really nothing against him. He had been zealous, but very respectful. He was a friend of Ardenbroke’s. Whom better could she have employed? And so on, inconsistently.
She was low. Her novel did not please her, nor music, nor work; she had a headache; she did not care for a drive or a walk; her gardening wearied her; she was in a state of unavowed suspense; expecting news; none came.
In the afternoon, near the hedgerow that bounded the lawn of Guildford House, came a big drum and pandean pipes resounding shrilly, and the grave brown-faced showman set up the stage of “Punch and Judy,” and the time-honoured play began.
Here was a diversion. Miss Gray, who happened at the moment to be in the library, sent for her opera glasses, threw open the window, and amused herself with the Hogarthian picture of the motley crowd and the showman, seen pleasantly in the dappled sunlight under the trees.
When this pleasure, like all others, came to its end, she sat with her glasses in her lap at the open window. In a little while, the crowd having marched off with the show-box and big-drum, there came to the gate a slender girl whom the person in the lodge would not allow to pass.
“She’s a gipsy,” thought Miss Gray, raising her glasses, and thus distinctly confirming her first impression. She touched the bell, and told the servant to tell the people at the gate to allow the girl to come up to the house.
Up came the girl — lithe, dark, handsome, smiling, with all the servile wildness of her race, with fine eyes, and brilliant little teeth.
“Send my maid here,” said the young lady, not caring to be quite alone, though the window-stood interposed between her, and this wild child of fortune. “You can tell all that’s going to happen us, can’t you?” said the young lady, smiling with an odd mixture of curiosity, antipathy, and admiration upon her vagabond sister.
“Oh, yes, she would tell the pretty young lady her fortune, if my lady wished; she would look at her hand, and she hoped the pretty young lady would have everything she wished in the world, for, indeed, she was pretty enough to be a princess, and dress in gold and diamonds, and pearls, and marry a king,” and so forth.
“Have you told many fortunes to-day?”
“A deal of fortunes to-day, my lady. Yes, a great many pretty young ladies, but not one so pretty as you; no, no, my lady, indeed.”
“Would you like to have your fortune told? I’m going to have mine,” said Miss Gray turning to her maid, who had that moment come in. What maid could refuse such an offer. And, so, with a giggle, and a little toss of her head, she submitted.
So, Miss Mary Anne Mersey’s hand told its secrets, and promised that amiable person her heart’s content, and a rich tailor for her husband, and, finally, the sibyl added —
“And you will find, very soon, something that will make the young lady, your mistress, wonder!”
“Oh! something! Of what kind?” inquired Miss Gray.
“I can’t know that, my lady. She will find something that will give you a start; yes, indeed, my pretty lady.”
“You mean that will frighten me, do you?”
“Yes, my lady, — that will frighten you.”
“La! what can she mean?” exclaimed Miss Mary Anne.
“I suppose we shall both be frightened, Mersey; but it can’t be helped, and you have certainly got a great deal to console you, for I don’t think a single thing has gone wrong in your fortune.”
“Very nice hand, yes, very lucky,” acquiesced the smiling prophetess.
“But she’s to find, something — how soon — that is to frighten me?” persisted the young lady.
“How soon is not fixed, but very soon, my lady. That will be by the stars.”
“We shall learn time enough, Mersey, I dare say,” and putting more money in her hand, with a smile, she extended her own for the chiromancer’s examination.
“You will travel about a great deal,” began the gipsy; “you will not settle at home for a long time.”
“Hush! Mersey. You are not to say a word,” said her mistress, warningly.
“And there’s a handsome young gentleman in love with you, my lady, though you don’t know it, and he will, maybe, be wounded shortly for your sake, maybe killed, and he’ll leave you some money, for he’s very rich, though you don’t know it. He’s young, and he’s very handsome, and he loves you ever so much more than his life, and you’ll marry some one, but I don’t know whether him or no, and you saw him in a fair, or in a playhouse, maybe; some place where there was a show going on, and music, and that is all I’m sure about, my lady.”
“And how soon is this unfortunate young gentleman to be killed or wounded in my service?” she asked, laughing.
“Ah! you would not laugh, pretty lady, if you saw the poor young gentleman bleeding.”
“Oh! but you know there’s a hope, isn’t there, that he may not be hurt at all, and what I want to know is, how soon the time of danger is to come.”
“Soon, my lady, it can’t be more than a year, but it might be tomorrow morning, a letter might come; it is some time very shortly.”
“Well, thanks. Now, I think, we know everything,” said Miss Gray.
“Is there any more young ladies would like their fortunes told, in the house, pretty young lady?”
“No, no, thanks, no one, and I think we’ll say goodbye now?” said Miss Laura Gray, with a smile and a little nod.
The handsome young prophetess smiled and showed all her little white teeth and curtsied, and crossed the windows here and there, and up and down with her restless glance, and so, smiling and curtseying again, with many “thankies, my ladies,” and “good lucks,” away she went.
“A very good fortune you have got, Mersey, and much good may it do you. I’m not so lucky quite. My young gentleman is to be shot; whoever he is, on very short notice too; and I’m to be frightened by something you are to be good enough to find for me. I shan’t want you any more just now, Mersey.”
Though the young lady knew that the gipsy was an impostor, and that, probably, the same prediction was repeated at every second window where she got a piece of money and an audience, yet, in her present mood, she would rather that the man at the lodge had taken his own way, and this little folly been omitted.
CHAPTER XXIV.
WHAT MARY ANNE MERSEY FOUND.
THAT evening was unrelieved by a single incident worthy of being recorded, and Miss Gray was early weary — no note had reached her; all was silent. She went early to her room.
“I’ll leave this tiresome place, Mersey,” she said; “I’ll leave it in two or three weeks, I think; do you like it?”
“Like it — hates it — rayther, you mean, miss. I can’t think whatever bewitched you, Miss Challys, to come to such a dismal hole of a place. I’ve sat up an hour at a time, in my window, crying my eyes out. I told you the day after we came, miss, you could not bear to live here no time. ’Tisn’t a place where there’s nothing to recommend it. ‘Taint country, miss, and it aint town, no more; and when I look out of the window, them old trees, so like the churchyard at Gray Forest, and not a soul stirring, I do really, miss, I cries my eyes red again for downright lowness of spirits.”
“I’m coming to the same way of thinking myself, Mersey; I believe I made a mistake when I came here. It’s quite true, I hate what they call society, that is, balls and drums, and all that wear and tear, and racket, and fever; but then this is unnecessarily dull; and the fact is, it is so unnaturally quiet that I am growing quite nervous, and I believe a year of it would go very near making me mad.”
“La, miss,” rejoined Miss Mary Anne Mersey, who had been Laura’s maid from Miss Gray’s nursery days, and could consequently speak her mind fearlessly, “Of course it will make you mad. It is not natural, nor right, for young people to shut themselves up like that, and you so handsome, miss; a pretty thing with your fortune and all, you should go off into an old maid, with your fancies and vagaries.”
