 |
|
A Miss Mary's Gazette Feature for December 2004 |
|
NOTE: This is a full-length story on one page for easier printing--it may take a few moments to download into your browser. This tale was published in Lett's Household Magazine, 1884 THE MISTRESS OF BURNLEY HALL.A CHRISTMAS TALEBy MAGGIE SYMINGTON Author of "My Wife's Bargains," "Marion Scatterhwaite," "Working to Win," &c., &c. PROLOGUE. THE MS of the following story , almost in its present form, was given to me. Whatever there is of merit in it, therefore, I cannot claim; but, as it will pass under my pen, its demerits may freely be laid to my charge. Acknowledging the gift gratefully, I present the story to the reader with the confident assurance that it will both amuse and occupy with interest, one, if not more, of his leisure Christmas hours. CHAPTER I. My Uncle Jim, in spite of many eccentricities, was one of the good old English squires who are growing fewer and fewer every day; and, speaking for myself, I had always found in him the qualities of an ideal uncle. He was a rich old bachelor, and the story of my life, as far as I knew it, was, that I had been born an orphan-no, not exactly that, but I had had next to no parents, so soon did they leave me orphaned. I was the only child of dear Uncle Jim's favourite sister, and he had done his best to become mother and father, and everything else that was good to me, in his own peculiar fashion. He sent me to a public school where I was duly birched, and that pretty frequently; I mention this small fact lest you should marvel at the splendid qualities I afterwards manifested, and not ascribe them to their right source-the rod. From school I was sent to Cambridge , where, with the connivance of the Don, and the assistance of the tradesmen, I wasted a good deal of time and spent a good deal of money, without doing myself, or anybody else, an overburdensome amount of good. After this he sent me to loaf about on the Continent, which he called seeing the world and improving my mind, and fondly hoped I was accomplishing both objects, dear old fellow! During the intervals which occurred between these several interesting stages of my existence, my home was at Burnley Hall, Uncle Jim's residence. He was very regular in his habits and simple in his ways; nevertheless, he kept the best of cooks, and never drank any but the best of wines. He saw little or no company, and lived all the year round at Burnley Hall, a quaint old place at Greenwich . It stood on a kind of pier, at the water's edge, so that the windows of the river-front looked directly over the water. And it had a history, this large rambling old place. The great hall was as big as a tennis-court-that is supposing all tennis-courts to be of one size; and it had long wide passages, filled with eerie sounds at night, especially when the storm winds were rattling the ivy-leaves about the casements. It was a lonely place, too, for Greenwich in those days was really a village, and there were no railways, nor telegraphs, nor bicycles, nor any such modern abominations. My uncle had two staunch friends and servants, who shared his solitude-his butler and his housekeeper; both had been born and bred on the estate, and had never served any other master. There were other servants, of course; but no one ever saw them. I believe it was a matter of pride with Mrs. Primly that the housework should appear to be done by magic; and with Simpson that no one but himself should, under any circumstances, answer the bell. It was altogether one of those establishments wherein everything seemed to move on wheels, so noiselessly, yet so perfectly did the household machinery work in harmony. After the process of seeing the world and improving my mind had been duly got through, as I have already mentioned, staying at Burnley Hall, as usual, I one day ventured to broach a very delicate subject to Uncle Jim. The common fate which overtakes most young men had befallen me, namely, I had fallen in love, become engaged, and conceived a natural desire to be married. As Uncle Jim had remained a bachelor, I was doubtful, and at the same time very anxious as to how he would receive the intelligence that I wanted to order my own life differently. I did not suppose for one moment that he would entertain the idea of these sacred bachelor precincts being invaded by a woman, nor did I dream of asking such a thing; but, after a while I did screw up my courage sufficiently to tell him of my engagement, and of my wish that it should be fulfilled. He had never in my life let me know the want of money. He had been too kind to me, if anything; but he had brought me up to do nothing for my living, and I was entirely dependent upon him. There was no good to be got by beating about the bush, however, so I made one desperate plunge. "Uncle Jim," I said, "I'm engaged, and I want to get married as soon as possible." He smiled, sipped a glass of port, and said- " Very well, my boy, when is it to be?" " That depends upon you, uncle." "Not a bit of it, not a bit," said the old gentleman placidly, arrange your own affairs. I'll make whatever settlement you think necessary, and only impose one condition-that when you are married you bring your wife here, but that until then you never mention the subject to me. Now, my boy, name the figure and say no more." "But, uncle --" "Not one word. Name the figure.'' I knew him too well to trifle with him, and blurted out," Five thousand pounds." "Tut, nonsense. That is of no use to you." He drew a sheet of paper from his desk and wrote- "I agree to accept a bill of £20,000, to be drawn upon me by my nephew James at three months, the money to be held in strict settlement by the trustees of his marriage settlement. "(Signed) James Ady." My astonished eyes followed his pen, and, as he came to the dash under his signature, I was about to tender profuse thanks, when again he stopped me. "That settles the matter; no more, please." And he returned to his port wine and began to talk politics. All this was done as quietly as if he had been giving Simpson a cheque for the week's bills. Ten o'clock came, and with it Simpson and a bedroom candle. My uncle rose, as usual, wished me "Good night," and went to bed. Simpson returned in due course, asked me whether I wanted anything else, and what time I wished to be called in the morning. I answered him exactly as I had answered him every night for the last fifteen years, "Nothing, thank you," to the first question; and "Half-past seven" to the second, and he went away. I was left to my reflections. I am an old man now, I was a young one then, and I did not know that the too ready gratification of our wishes is sometimes disappointing. My uncle had been more than kind-he had been overwhelmingly generous; with one dash of his pen he had swept away the last obstacle to my marriage, and yet I was conscious of a feeling of dissatisfaction. He was one of those rare men who never ask questions. As far as my experience went, I never remember to have heard him ask even such simple ones as, "Where were you yesterday?" "Where are you going tomorrow?" His want of curiosity on this occasion was positively aggressive. I should have liked to have talked to him about Enid , but he would hear nothing. He just accepted my statement, and gave me the money to carry out my wishes, and there the matter was to end, for the present. I was disappointed-I was hurt. CHAPTER II. The next morning my uncle was provokingly as usual. We breakfasted together, but he made no allusion in any way to my confidence of the preceding night. Breakfast over, I drove to town, to the office of my future father-in-law, and showed him my uncle's paper. He both looked upon and treated it in a business-like manner. He said the paper ought to be stamped, but that this formality might be dispensed with. He then ordered a clerk to write out a bill, directed me to sign it, enclosed it with a letter to his solicitor, naming the trustees of the settlement, and instructing them to draw the deeds; told me he declined to make any settlement, as he needed all his money in the business, and added- "I am sorry Enid is marrying an idle man, but as you are in a position to maintain her I offer no opposition. Good morning." Again I was hurt and disappointed. Had Enid been a bale of goods he could not have been more unconcerned in making over the possession of her to me. I drove to his private residence, sent away the carriage, and went in. Enid met me just beyond the threshold. Ere my lover-like greeting was half over , she whispered breathlessly- "What does your uncle say?" I was in a dilemma. The actual bare truth stuck in my throat. I could not say "He is very pleased, darling, and longs to see you." That is what I longed to be able to say, but my regard for truth, or for the possible consequences of such a falsehood, deprived me of all utterance. At last I stammered- "Well, darling, he says he will settle twenty thousand pounds upon you. That is most generous." " Never mind about the money, " says Enid ,-it is singular how girls differ from married women in this respect-"What did he say about me?" The real truth was, "Nothing, he does not know who you are, and doesn't care." But I hadn't the pluck to give her that answer; what is a man to do when a girl has her arms round his neck? "My uncle says it's all right," I managed to get out, "you see he knows me, dear, and can trust to my taste." This, as may be expected, did not satisfy Enid . "But when is he coming to see me? When shall you take me to Burnley , to be introduced, you know?" I cleared my throat, and led her to a seat. " You see, my darling. Uncle Jim is an old bachelor, he knows nothing about love-making and that kind of thing. When we are married, we shall go there." The murder was out! I read the look of blank disappointment on Enid 's face, and with a nervous attempt to change the conversation, I said, "I have seen your father this morning." "And what did he say?" she cried, catching, like the proverbial drowning man, at this straw of comfort. Now, it was, of course, my cue to make him out to be at least as great a monster as Uncle Jim, so I drew just a little upon my imagination, and replied in a hard voice- "He says that he dislikes idle men, but that he will tolerate me on account of my money." She looked at me incredulously. That my uncle should not care to see her, as it were on approval, had nettled her considerably; but that her own father should have been quite as coolly indifferent towards me was more than she could bear. A bright crimson rushed over her face, submerging the kisses I had left there; she burst into tears, and, before I could stay her, she was gone. The next few minutes were a blank, then the door opened, and, like a frigate in full sail, in came Mrs. Weatherley. She did not say "Good morning" but, with a fair dash of vinegar in her tones, assailed me at once with the question- " What have you been doing to Enid ? The poor child is crying her eyes out upstairs, and will tell me nothing." I told my story, ending with regret that I could neither understand nor over-rule my uncle's decision, and the comment that I thought Enid rather foolish to make such a fuss about an old man's fancies. " She is a sensitive girl," said her mother, "but not an unreasonable one. A little reflection will soon show her that she is mistaken in supposing your uncle to have any unkind feeling towards her." I hastened to assure her that he had given the greatest proof of kindly feeling towards her in the abstract, and that it was only a strange and incomprehensible whim which made him object to know her personally until she was my wife. She softened towards me, and we went in to luncheon. Enid did not appear. A tray was sent up to her. The mother and I went through the ceremony of eating with a solemnity that was appalling. I am sure that my countenance would have been a fortune to a mute; and hers was full of mystery and importance. Luncheon over, and the servants withdrawn, we renewed the discussion. By degrees Mrs. Weatherley worked herself into a state of excitement over the supposition that a slight could be in any way intended to her daughter, either by my uncle or me, which had not reached its climax when in walked Mr. Weatherley, leisurely drawing off his gloves. After him came Enid , the traces of tears still visible on her cheeks. Mr. Weatherley looked from one to the other of us. "What is the matter now?" he asked in his business-like tone." Calm yourself, my love. Sit down, Enid . You, sir, seem the only sensible member of this strange trio, perhaps you can tell me the meaning of this excitement?" " I can only account for it, sir, by saying that I fear your daughter is not pleased at my uncle's behaviour with regard to our engagement." "Not pleased! Why, his generosity is altogether exceptional. Do you want the old man to make love to you as well as the young one?" "No, papa; I --, I--" "Ridiculous! You are engaged to the young man, Enid, and not to the uncle. Be satisfied to have him at your feet. And, understand me, I will have no shilly-shallying, you must make up your mind once and for all. My dear, I think we had better leave the young folks together." He gave his arm to his spouse, and the two discreetly retired. Enid and I were left alone-and Enid did make up her mind. CHAPTER III. Our honey-moon had lasted a little more than a month, it was time to go home; and, above all, it was time that Enid should make my uncle's acquaintance. She knew, from my description, every room in his old house, every window that looked out on to the river, every nook and corner of the garden; and though she had a most unbounded respect for him, there was always a little cloud in her mind between him and herself, a cloud which I knew his kind face, and gentle, jovial ways would soon dissipate. I think it was on account of this that she conceived the odd desire to make acquaintance with the house first; she wanted to become familiar with it, at home in her new home before the ordeal of presentation to him had to be undergone. She wished this all the more for the somewhat genuine reason that she believed it impossible to accomplish. My uncle never left home, and was as sure to be found in certain regular places at fixed times as the man in the moon, or the beadle of the Bank of England. In those days it was a real pain to me to refuse to gratify any of my young wife's whimsical fancies, and as I was conning the matter over, wishing that it were possible to gratify her in this, it suddenly occurred to me that there was just one day in the year upon which my uncle made it his invariable practice to dine and sleep in London-and that day was Christmas Day. Whatever was the motive that induced him to except this one particular day, I had no doubt that he would not depart from his usual practice this year. I therefore proposed that we should defer our return until that day, going to Burnley on Christmas Morning, which would give us twenty-four hours in the old place before he arrived upon the scene. Enid jumped at the proposition. Simpson and Mrs. Primly had known me from my birth; indeed, the latter had brought me up and taught me my letters, so I was sure that Enid would receive a hearty welcome from both. Complying with my uncle's stipulation to the letter, I gave him no inkling of our intention; and on the 25th Enid and I went quietly down to Burnley together. Sure enough he was away, expected back to-morrow they told us, so Enid and I took possession. The tears rolled down Mrs. Primly's checks as she helped Enid to alight from the carriage. "God bless you, ma'am. It's many a year since there was a mistress in Burnley Hall. Thank God, I've lived to see this day." Now, Enid had never contemplated being Mistress of Burnley Hall. She had hoped to be a welcome and honoured guest of my uncle from time to time; but more than this she had not expected. She turned an inquiring look upon me, to which I replied with a dull stare. Simpson read the expression of our faces, and explained- "Yes, sir; your uncle has said that he, and not you, is to be the visitor here in future. God bless him! He hopes you will take care of him in his old age." Enid turned to Mrs. Primly. " And now you must take me all over the house, into every room. We came here to-day expecting to find uncle away, purposely that I might explore every quaint corner of this dear old place." Is it not strange what a passion women have for going over houses? I suppose it is another phase of their proverbial curiosity. I had lived all my life at Burnley , and I do not think I had been into what is called the state room more than half a dozen times. I followed Enid and Mrs. Primly patiently through the downstairs apartments, and heard the old lady tell the young one all about the pictures, and detail the old legends which cluster round every nook of an Elizabethan mansion. We arrived at last at the state bedroom-a vast chamber, with a huge four-poster so high that none but an acrobat could get into it unaided. The walls were hung with ancient tapestry, the furniture was of oak, and matched the massive fire-place, which, more like a family tomb than anything else, filled up about half the side of the upper end of the room. Above the fire-place hung the portrait of a lady-and a very striking and beautiful portrait it was. Mrs. Primly, loquacious before, waxed more eloquent still upon entering this room. Queen Elizabeth had slept here on her way to Tilbury Fort. Dudley, Earl of Leicester, had darkened its doors. Sir Walter Raleigh had gazed upon his ships from its windows. The maids of honour had admired the tapestry, bright and new then, but now some two hundred and fifty years had taken the shine out of it. Having delivered herself of all these interesting particulars, Mrs. Primly held the door open, impatient for us to pass on. But Enid was not going to be hurried away. This state room was the very kernel of the nut she had so desired to crack, and its ghostly flavour had especial attractions for her. She must know how, when, and where the tapestry was made and designed; who was the hero of the hunting scene on the north wall; who was the lover that was climbing into the window on the southern panel; who was the lady in tears at the bottom of the room, and what was the romance of which she was the central figure? Then turning to me, and pointing to the picture over the mantel-piece, she asked- "Whose portrait is that?" " It is a funny thing, darling," I replied, "but I never remember seeing that portrait before. No doubt Mrs. Primly can tell you all about it." Mrs. Primly hesitated and stammered. It was very evident that the longer we lingered, the more uncomfortable the dear old soul grew. At last, being pressed by Enid , she said reluctantly- "That is the portrait of master's mother, the last Mistress of Burnley Hall." "Dear me!" said I, "how very odd! I have never heard my uncle mention his mother, and I am quite sure I never saw her picture before." "Very likely not, sir," said Mrs. Primly. "That curtain hangs over it all the year round, except on Christmas Day, and you have never in your life spent Christmas Day in this house." It was quite true, I never had; and yet this fact had never struck me until now. My uncle had always made rather an occasion of taking me to spend Christmas Day with him in London , and I had never suspected him of any ulterior motive in doing so. I was twenty-eight; I could look back upon some twenty or more Christmas Days, not one of which had been spent in this gloomy old house. This was the first, and I remembered that my presence here on this day was due to my own and Enid 's willfulness. I awoke from my little reverie to find Mrs. Primly still standing with the door in her hand. Enid made no move to follow her. There seemed to be an uncomfortable silence, which was broken by Enid 's young voice penetrating the shadows. "Mrs. Primly," she said, "I think this is the most beautiful room I ever was in, and I want to have it prepared for my own use." Mrs. Primly's "front" fairly stood on end. Firmly, but politely, she said it was quite impossible; the room had not been slept in for fifty years, she had no sheets big enough for that great bed, and the east room, which was much nicer, had been got ready for us. If Enid really wished for the state room, she could perhaps have it when master returned, but now it was not possible. The opposition of the worthy old dame only added fuel to the fire of Enid 's wish, and at last I was obliged to interpose and tell Mrs. Primly that, if my wife really desired to have the room, have it she must. The housekeeper, for the first time in her life, spoke rudely to me. "Remember, it is none of my doing, and you must be prepared to take the consequences. I wish we had never entered it, and upon this day of all others." The dear old lady was greatly upset as she went about her preparations. Enid and I, feeling very much like naughty children, strolled out into the garden. CHAPTER IV. A little garden goes a long way at Christmas time. Enid and I soon got tired of it, and three o'clock found us in uncle's sanctum with our toes on the fender. When we were thoroughly warmed, Enid decided upon an expedition to her room, and left me alone. Presently there is a knock at the door and Mrs. Primly appears. Her mauvaise humeur has departed, but she is pitiably distressed. She comes close up to me and entreats me to dissuade Enid from sleeping in the state room. She tells me how her grandmother caught a chill that caused her death, from sleeping in a room under similar circumstances. She goes on to say that my uncle had never allowed the room to be used since the day when his mother, in articulé mortis, had insisted upon being carried into it to die; and she continues through a maze of coughs and hints, by which she means to convey to me that some awful calamity will surely fall upon me, and my children after me, if Enid's unholy design be persisted in of violating the sanctity of the state room. I knew of old that it was quite useless to argue with Mrs. Primly. I had learnt (even in six weeks) the utter futility of arguing with one's wife. I was endeavouring to smooth matters between the contending parties, when in comes Enid, who embraces the astonished old housekeeper and exclaims- "You dear, stupid old thing, why did you put all that modern china into the state room? I have turned it all out, every bit of it, and put the old things back in their places. Only fancy, Jim, I found all the old china belonging to the room stuffed away in drawers and closets; and a lovely embroidered quilt, with a legend all round it in old English letters, and such funny spelling:-- "Sleepe 'neath my sylkenne folds this lyvelongue nyte, It is too delicious," she cries, clapping her hands. "The room looks exactly as it must have done fifty years ago-with its wood fire flickering on all the jolly old things. Come and see it." She seized us both in her enthusiastic delight, and whirled us away. The oak staircase creaked under our weight as if its massive timbers were going to mutiny. Speedily we found ourselves in the state room. It really did look charming, and not more uncomfortable than could be reasonably expected. Enid was enraptured with everything, and her delight would have made me assent to far more incongruous things than this. Mrs. Primly could not speak for emotion. To her eyes the room looked just as it had done fifty years ago. The evening passed, how I can scarcely remember. Bedtime arrived. Enid , faithful in her persistence, had retired to the state room. Simpson had asked his two questions, and received his two answers; then came a divergence from his usual habit, he paused at the door to ask- "Are you really going to sleep in the state room, sir?" " Yes, Simpson; indeed I am. My wife has set her heart upon it, and, of course, I don't care." He came a step or two forward. " Pray don't, sir; let me entreat you not. I know that you ought not, and so does Mrs. Primly; but it is as much as our place is worth to say more." " It's too late now, Simpson." "No, sir; not a minute too late," he said, eagerly, "the east room is quite ready." My masculine readers will sympathise with me when I say that nothing short of authority would induce Enid to relinquish her determination, and I shrank from exercising that, all the more that I knew it would be useless. I thought myself that this one night would be enough for her, and to-morrow we should soberly and contentedly take possession of the east room, and Uncle Jim need never be told of this invasion of the state chamber. Simpson did not appear in the least satisfied with this assurance; but, finding me bent upon gratifying my wife's whim, he retired. I heard the sigh of resignation with which he closed the door, and cowered more closely over the fire. In a few minutes the door opened again and Enid came in; she had her dressing' gown on, and her hair was unbound. She looked a little wild and excited. "Whatever is the matter?" I cried. "Nothing, oh nothing; only I could not stay by myself in that big room. I suppose it was the intense quiet that frightened me, I looked out at the river rolling past, till I felt quite scared. But I'm all right now. Come up with me, darling." " Would you like to go to the east room?" "Oh no, I could not think of such a thing." We went back together. The room was brilliantly lighted by fire and candles, and Enid was ready enough now to laugh at her former fears. Before lying down she asked me to draw the curtain over the picture above the mantel- "I cannot bear it. It looks at me so." It was one of those portraits painted with the eyes of the sitter fixed upon the artist; one of those "pictures that walks," as the old superstition has it. With some trouble I drew the curtain over it, then put out the lights and got into bed. Through the semi-darkness that filled the room the dead silence seemed almost audible. Hardly had I begun to realize its depth than it was broken by a sound, which I strained my ears to catch, the sound of the curtain rings over the picture being drawn back. I lifted myself quietly, hoping that Enid was already asleep. The flickering light from the wood fire showed me the rings moving back along the iron rod, with a grating sound, moved by no visible hand. The curtain was falling aside; in another second the picture would be uncovered! A chilly sensation lifted the hair on my scalp, and yet even now I will not own to the ghost of a fear. Suddenly Enid started up and seized me by the arm. Speechless with terror she pointed to the picture. I tried to persuade myself and her that the curtain was merely obeying the law of gravity, the rod being out of the horizontal; but as I spoke the slow creeping movement of the rings ceased, and the curtain, which now only hung over half of the picture, was dashed aside with a whirr. I jumped out of bed, and ran forward to the fireplace. The next instant I became conscious of a figure standing before me, between the fireplace and the bed; the figure of a tall, handsome, middle-aged woman, clad in a travelling-gown of russet brown, well and even elegantly made, after a by-gone fashion, however. Her hair hung down about her shoulders. And now I saw that hers was the hand which had drawn back the curtain, for she still held it aside. My eyes travelled further, and saw, to their amazement, that the frame of the uncovered picture was empty. I glanced again at the woman. Hers was the face with the haunting eyes, which had stared at us from the canvas. While I still gazed spell-bound, she turned to Enid and said, distinctly and firmly- "Your uncle knows, and Mrs. Primly knows, that on this one night of all the year the house is mine; they should have warned you against intruding upon me. I alone am mistress of Burnley Hall to-night. Christmas Day speaks to you love, peace, and goodwill. To me it tells another story, a story of hatred, revenge, murder! She paused, then moved towards the bed. With one bound Enid sprang out, and, rushing forward, clung to me in terror. I threw her dressing-gown about her, and held her within my arms. She was too frightened to scream; she stood there as I did, with her eyes fixed upon the strange apparition, which now stood between us and the door. Keeping her eyes on the bed, the figure approached gradually the end wall. When it was reached she turned back the old tapestry, and opened a small door in the panel behind it. Through this door came a male figure, of a distinguished mien, and handsomely clad. He cast his eyes towards the bed, and whispered to the woman- "He is fast asleep, he will never waken in this world. There was opium enough in that port to kill a dozen men." "Is he sure to die?" she asked. "If so, let us leave him where he is." "No," returned he, "it must be supposed that he committed suicide. Open the window." She did so. The river flowed darkly past in the stillness of the night. The man advanced to the bed. The curtains hid him for a moment from our view, then he emerged bearing the body of a man about sixty, in a deep sleep, whose white hair hung down from his drooping head. The murderer shuddered as he gave a violent hoist to his victim. There was a loud splash in the water below, and the Mistress of Burnley Hall sank down to the floor insensible. Her accomplice made an effort to bring her round, she opened her eyes and gave vent to a piercing shriek. There was a loud knocking at the door. "Tell them he had taken too much wine, and that he has fallen out of the window," said the man. Then he pushed back the tapestry and disappeared. She cried after him, "Don't leave me," and rushed towards the door of the room. She vanished; but, on the threshold, white with terror, and trembling in every limb, stood Mrs. Primly. "What does it all mean?" I gasped, breathless with the rapid succession of events, real or ghostly. Enid darted from my side. "He is there-in there, behind the tapestry," she cried; "but where is the woman-gone? Oh, why did you not stop her! We saw them do it-saw them take the old man out of his bed and throw him into the river. Where is she, Mrs. Primly? surely you saw her pass!" She walked to and fro, wringing her hands, her eyes flashing wildly, and unceasingly repeating- "I saw them do it. They murdered him before our eyes. I am not afraid now; draw back the tapestry, we can find him yet." She seized Mrs. Primly's candle, and clutched hold of the arras. Getting in behind it, in nervous haste, she kept it off her with her right hand, in which was the lighted candle, as she searched high and low for the door which she had seen opened in the panel. We could see the candlelight clearly through the meshes of the threadbare canvas, and, in another moment a sheet of flame burst from the tapestry. The fire caught instantaneously on the woollen ends at the back, and ran up them as if they had been tinder. The whole wall was afire in a moment. To seize Enid . and drag her forth, was my only thought. She resisted violently. She seemed to be, indeed she was for the time being-mad. By main force I carried her from the burning room, and then from the house to the lodge at the gate. Mrs. Primly had in the meantime given the alarm and roused all the other servants. The old house lent itself but too readily to the devouring clement, and it was plain that nothing could be done to save a single timber from destruction. In the grey morning's light, all that remained of it was a smoking and blackened mass. My mind was too full of anxiety on Enid 's behalf to feel the calamity as I otherwise should have done; and while listening to her ravings, and eagerly questioning the doctor in attendance, I actually forgot all about Uncle Jim until his hand grasped mine, and I saw his jovial face drawn out with the anxiety of sympathy. "She'll be all right, give her time, and don't be more anxious than you can help, my boy." Then it occurred to me what culprits Enid and I had been, entering his home secretly, and actually burning it to the ground, during his absence. He had a right to be angry, and to cast us out from his favour for ever. "Uncle Jim," I faltered, "can you forgive us-" He stopped me at once, nor would he listen to one word. The very crown of all his eccentricities seemed to be that he was actually relieved that Burnley Hall was no more, and acted towards us as though we had freed him from an incubus. I am willing to believe that it was so after the experience of that dreadful Christmas night, concerning some of the events of which I am as much in the dark as ever. Some to whom I have mentioned them say that they must have been due to a hideous dream. I am willing to believe that it was so, and yet I am more of the opinion of Mrs. Primly, who shook her head sententiously and said- "None of us can't see farther than the length of our nose, and there aint any of us can tell what takes place beyond." I do believe myself that our natural vision is by no means the limit of existence, nor of action. But here I must stop, for I feel myself to be treading upon, delicate ground, and let the reader account for my narrative as ho will. Enid 's mind righted itself by degrees, but so confused ever after was her memory of that strange Christmas night that she regarded it as an ugly dream; an opinion I encouraged. We found another home, not so much to her taste, but far more to mine and Uncle Jim's, than Burnley Hall. In the new mansion Uncle Jim had his own rooms, and was duly waited upon to the last day of his life by Simpson and Mrs. Primly. The site of the old hall is now occupied by a part of the busy suburb of Greenwich , and I can hardly think that any of its present work-a-day inhabitants have even heard of the last Mistress of Burnley.
|
|
