by Michael Cox
I had half expected to catch up with my liberator; but I reached the southern gates, hard by the Dower House, without encountering a living soul, and the carriage-road winding its way up the Rise was deserted.
On reaching the Entrance Court, hot and breathless, I looked up at the Chapel clock. Ten minutes to two oclock. I would not be late to read to my Lady.
What did you do this morning, Alice? she asked when I entered, picking up a copy of Phoebus Daunts Epimetheus, * which had recently become a particular favourite of hers.
I spent the morning reading, my Lady.
And what were you reading?
Mr Wilkie Collinss No Name, my Lady.
She looked at me sourly.
I am not acquainted with the work of Mr Collins, she said, in her most preposterously pompous manner.
I rather wonder, Alice, she went on, that you cannot spend your leisure time more profitably. There must be many books that you have not read, of a more improving character than such trivial stuff. I am sure your Mr Thornhaugh would agree with me.
I was tempted very much to retort that fiction could be just as improving as poetry, and that my tutor was a great admirer of Mr Collins, and of such fiction in general, but prudently refrained.
Have you written to him, by the by, she then asked, to enquire whether he would care to visit you here?
Of course I said that I had written, but that he had been absent from Paris for some time, engaged on his researches.
Ah, yes. His researches, she said. But that is a pity. I find your Mr Thornhaugh quite fascinating already, and rather mysterious in his way, even though I have yet to meet him. Isnt that curious? Well then, shall we begin?
She handed me the book.
Wait
She was looking down at the hem of my skirt.
What are those? Cobwebs?
I followed her eye, alarmed to see that the hem was indeed laced with a skein of grey and dusty cobwebs, picked up from my temporary imprisonment in the Mausoleum.
I believe they are, my Lady, I replied.
But where have they come from?
I thought as quickly as I could.
I have developed a habit of exploring the house, my Lady, I told her, before I come to you in the mornings I hope you will not disapprove. History is another of my passions, and there is so much here to interest me. This morning, early, I went down to look at the Chapel under-croft, which was very dirty and dark, and I had not taken a light. I suppose the dress must have become dirtied there. I apologize, my Lady, that I did not notice it earlier.
And is that mud on the hem also, and on your shoes?
Im sorry, my Lady. I have just taken a walk in the rose-garden. I should have noticed.
Well, well, its of no consequence. No doubt you were too absorbed in Mr Wilkie Collins to pay attention to the condition of your dress. Have you enough light there? Good. I should like to hear The Song of the Captive Israelites, and then the sequence of sonnets that follows.
She leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.
Page ninety-six, she said, this woman who, only a short time before, had been on her knees, in agony of spirit, before the tomb of her dead lover. No sign remained of that pathetic lost soul; gone was that face, racked with unalloyed torment, on which her secret history had been so visibly stamped. In its place was her customary mask of haughty, unfathomable composure. But I had seen what I had seen; and so, with a curious sense of triumph, I began to read.
O who can contend
With the wrath of angels,
Or resist the righteous anger
Of the just?
ALTHOUGH THE HARD frosts of recent days had now abated, they were replaced by several more of bitter driving rain, which denied my Lady her usual habit of morning and evening exercise on the Library Terrace. Confined to her rooms, except for meal-times and the hours spent each morning with her secretary, she became crotchety and impatient, often sending me away angrily when I failed to perform some task to her satisfaction. Then, when I was called down again, she would try to make amends for her bad-temperedness perhaps by opening a new book of Paris fashion-plates and asking me what I thought of this or that gown, or bringing out for my inspection an item of jewellery from Giulianos, or some other piece of expensive frippery that had been sent up from Town.
On the day before the weather finally began to improve, as we sat before the fire, she asked me to read to her. I had hardly begun when she suddenly told me to stop, complaining that she had a headache. Then she expressed a wish to discuss some topic of current interest, but quickly became bored with the conversation and threw herself, with an irritated sigh, into the window-seat, leaving me to wait, without instruction, for nearly half an hour, while she gazed morose across the rain-lashed Park towards the dimly grey outline of the western woods.
I had picked up my needle and thread, to re-commence some work I had earlier laid aside, while carefully keeping one eye on my Lady as she sat in distracted contemplation. I wondered what she was thinking. What rough gales of guilt and fear were roaring beneath that impassive exterior? I was used to her abrupt changes of mood; but it was only too apparent that her mind was more than usually perturbed.
Towards four oclock, she suddenly rose to her feet, announcing that she wished to rest.
Please come and take out my pins, Alice, she said, walking towards the bed-chamber.
I put down my work and followed her to her dressing-table, where I began to loosen her long black hair.
Oh, Alice, she sighed. What a world of trouble it is!
I saw by her look that she did not expect a response, and so I continued with unpinning and brushing out her hair.
How long have you been here, Alice? she asked.
Three months and six days, my Lady.
Three months and six days! How like you to be so precise! No doubt you know the hours and minutes also.
No, my Lady. But I am particular about these things.
Our eyes meet in the looking-glass, and for the briefest space I think that she has seen through my disguise; but then she looks away, picks up a silver hand-mirror, and begins to examine her eye-brows with apparent nonchalance.
Well, you have been a treasure despite the occasional lapses in punctuality.
She gives a little smile, which I return demurely.
Good servants are increasingly hard to find. They are not what they once were, especially the females. I had a maid once, when I lived in the Dower House, Elizabeth Brine by name, who gave very satisfactory service for many years; but she changed for the worse, and I was obliged to let her go. Since then, Ive been disappointed with every individual who has been given the position except with you, my dear. I hope you are happy. I would not like to lose you.
Oh no, my Lady, I assured her gaily. I am very happy here, and flattered that you think so well of me. It is a daily pleasure to serve you and to do so in such a beautiful place as Evenwood. I could wish for no better position, and no other home.
That is most kindly said, Alice. If only all ones servants thought as you do, for Im sure that there can be few places so enchantingly situated as Evenwood, which must be a constant compensation for the labours of service. I hope you will stay a very long time, Alice perhaps you might even grow old here. My good and faithful servant!
I should like that, my Lady, and to be as dear to you as your old nurse, Mrs Kennedy.
As I spoke, I was reaching forward to lay one of the hair-pins on the dressing-table. At the same moment, my Lady gave a little cry, and dropped the mirror she was holding on the floor, shattering the glass. Pushing back the chair, she turned her face towards me.
Her black eyes were opened to their widest extent, as if transfixed by some sight of the utmost horror; but then, her cheeks colouring, she began to rail at me in the most intemper
ate manner.
You stupid, clumsy girl! Look what youve made me do! That mirror was my dear mammas, and now its broken because of you. And just when I thought you were different from those other stupid creatures! But youre as stupid as they were, I see. Leave me! Leave me!
By now she was walking quickly towards the great carved bed with its blood-red hangings, her loosened hair tumbled all about her. Throwing herself on to the coverlet, she pulled one of the pillows towards her, cradling it in her arms like a child.
I HAD BEEN back in my room for no more than ten minutes when the bell over the fire-place started to ring.
As I re-entered my Ladys bed-chamber, she was standing with her arms outstretched towards me, dressed in a black silk robe, with a dark-red scarf of the same material wrapped round her head, like a turban, from which her hair, still loose, flowed down over her shoulders. She was smiling but such a fixed, unintelligible smile that it put me immediately on my guard.
Dearest Alice!
Her voice was low and soft; the smile now broader inviting, conciliatory, but dangerous, like that of some wily sorceress.
Come!
Now she was beckoning to me with her still-outstretched hands, the long fingers slowly indicating her wish for me to take them in mine.
For some moments I stood spellbound, rooted to the spot by the sight she presented; then, feeling my will returning once more, I closed the door behind me and began to walk slowly towards her. This was not Circe or Medusa standing there, but a mortal woman, beset with no common cares, vain and capricious, assaulted constantly by unknown terrors, and desperate to hold back the encroachment of Time. She had wished to display strength, by appearing thus before me; but I saw only impotence and frailty.
Our fingers meet, and lock gently together.
Dear Alice, she whispers. What must you think of me? Shall we sit?
She draws me over to the window-seat, still smiling.
Can you forgive me?
Forgive you, my Lady?
For my atrocious behaviour. It was not your fault that the mirror was broken. It was inexcusable of me to blame you for it. So will you now accept my apologies?
Of course I tell her that an apology is neither required nor expected; at which she leans forward and to my astonishment kisses me tenderly on the cheek.
What a marvel you are! she says. So forbearing and tenderhearted! What must you have thought of me? I did not mean those horrid words; but there was a reason, my dear, which you must now hear.
If you wish, my Lady.
She reaches forward and lightly touches my other cheek. The sensation of her long nails on my skin sends a little shiver down my spine, and I cannot help drawing away.
Oh, Alice! she cries, removing her hand. Are you afraid of me?
No, my Lady, I assure you.
But youre still upset, I see and who could blame you? Stupid, indeed! How could I have been so cruel? But, my dear, when you mentioned the name of Mrs Kennedy, it was like a knife to my heart!
She pauses, as if she expects me to say something. When I remain silent, she rises from the window-seat and walks towards the fire-place.
I have recently received the most terrible news, she says softly, head bowed, her back still towards me. Poor dear Mrs Kennedy is dead!
Dead, my Lady?
She nods mutely.
The news, as you may imagine, was the greatest possible shock, and I fear that, when you happened to mention her name, it caused me to act in that most unkind and hurtful manner, for which I hope I am now pardoned.
I naturally express my own shock at the death of dear Mrs Kennedy, for which my Lady thanks me most effusively.
Did you read of the attack in the newspaper, my Lady? I ask.
She stiffens slightly, and turns her head away once more.
No, no. It was Mr Vyse who informed me.
There will be a funeral, I suppose, my Lady, which you will wish to attend?
Alas, she sighs, the news has taken some time to reach me. My poor old nurse was buried many weeks since.
And so, Alice dear, she says, after a period of silent reflection, now that we are friends again, theres something I must say to you.
Yes, my Lady?
The indulgent, wistful smile has gone. In its place is a look that throws me into confusion and alarm.
I no longer wish you to be my maid.
SUDDENLY, IT SEEMS that the tables have been turned on me. I have been discovered.
Have you nothing to say?
Her unflinching eye holds mine for several seconds. Then, as suddenly as it had gone, the smile returns. Taking a step towards me, she kisses me once again on the cheek, and takes my hand in hers.
Dear Alice! Did you think I meant that you were being dismissed? You silly goose! How could you think so?
I dont know, my Lady. You seemed so
No, no, I meant no such thing. Of course I have no intention of dismissing you; but I have come to a decision that affects your future here. I have been considering the matter for some time almost from the day you first came here. And so, Alice, here it is. I no longer wish you to be my maid: I wish you to be my companion. There! What do you say to that?
Her companion! I could have desired nothing more than an association of greater intimacy with her, one that would afford new opportunities to observe her, and which might admit me into parts of her life that, at present, were closed to me. It was therefore with unfeigned satisfaction that I conveyed my thanks and gratitude to her, for which I received another kiss, and many expressions of pleasure and regard.
Of course you will have a generous allowance I cannot have my companion dressed in dreary black; and new accommodation must be found for you theres a charming set of rooms on the next floor, with a snug little sitting-room, that I have in mind. Naturally, you will occupy a very superior position in the household, although for the time being things must go on as they are, until a new maid can be found
On she talked, but I hardly heard her. I was already picturing to myself the surprise and delight that Madame would feel at my news, and anticipating the commencement, in earnest, of the Great Task, once I had received my guardians third letter.
When I was eventually released from my Lady, I ran upstairs to write a note to Madame, and then went down, with a light and triumphant heart, to take my supper perhaps for the last time in the servants hall.
II
On the Threshold
IT IS THE 23rd of December. My Lady is in one of her petulant moods and sends me away curtly after I have dressed her. Having taken a walk in the gardens, I am returning to the Entrance Court when a carriage draws up, from which emerges the lanky figure of Mr Armitage Vyse the first of the Christmas guests to arrive, and, as far as I am concerned, the least welcome.
I spend the next hour in my room, expecting to be called down to my Lady; but when the bell does not ring, I go downstairs to ask Mr Pocock whether Lady Tansor is still occupied with her morning correspondence.
No, miss, he replies. Her Ladyship has driven out in the barouche with Mr Vyse. Im afraid I dont know where theyve gone, or when theyll be back.
Mystified by this secretive excursion, but glad to have more time to myself, I take a book to one of my favourite places of resort a secluded window-seat high up in one of the towers that overlooked the Entrance Court and gave an enchanting view of the Park and winding river to await my Ladys return.
MID-DAY APPROACHED. WHERE had they gone? What was afoot? Then, happening to glance out of the window towards the Evenbrook, I noticed a man standing on the bridge, staring towards the house. The distance was too great for me to discern his features; but the set of his tall, broad-shouldered figure called up a distinct memory of the man I had seen standing in the fog and looking up at my room. Now, however, ai
ded by the clear morning light, a new and most distinctive feature of the watcher could just be made out. The right-hand sleeve of his coat hung limply down by his side. I strained my eyes, to make sure I was not mistaken. No; I was now sure of it. He had only one arm.
Just then, cresting the summit of the Rise, a vehicle came into view, which I soon saw was my Ladys barouche.
The man on the bridge immediately turned at the sound of the approaching horses; then stepped to one side to allow the vehicle to pass. As it did so, my Lady looked back at him. The man stood watching the barouche as it turned in through the great iron gates and came to a halt before the front door. He continued to maintain an attitude of the most intense interest, his hand shading his eyes, as Mr Vyse helped my Lady down, and escorted her up the steps. As she reached the door, she turned to look back towards the bridge; but the man had now begun to walk, with long purposeful strides, up the Rise towards the South Gates.
Thinking that my Lady would soon wish me to attend her, I went quickly back to my room to await her summons; but the bell remained silent. Another hour went by, and still no call came. Then there was a knock at the door. It was Barrington.
This has come for you, Miss, he said, handing me a brown-paper package.
My first thought was that it must be Madames third letter arrived at last, and of course my heart leaped with eager anticipation; then I saw that it bore a London postmark, and that it was directed to me in a hand I did not recognize.
When Barrington had gone, I sat at my table and hastily ripped off the paper wrapper.
Inside were a short note; a letter, in Mr Thornhaughs hand, addressed to Miss E.A. Gorst, Private and Personal and a small-octavo book bound in dark-blue cloth.
The note was from Mrs Ridpath.
