The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories
surrounded him, all the miserable years he had spent in that once
desolate mansion.
I do not suppose a happier nor more peaceful family existed than we
were. No jars nor bickering ever disturbed the quiet of the household;
everything seemed to go as smoothly as though it had been oiled. We
were like the crew of some ship, safely moored within a sunny harbour,
never giving a thought to what tempests might be raging outside the
bar.
Every Saturday when I rode home on my pony, I found my father either
working out of doors if it were summer, or indoors if it were winter,
but always with the same satisfied easy smile upon his countenance, as
though he had no trouble in the world, as indeed he had not; for my
mother warded off the most trifling annoyance from him as though he
were a sick child, that must not be upset; whilst she threaded her
quiet way through the kitchen and bedrooms, with little Violet
clinging to her gown, regulating the household machinery by her own
supervision, that no accident might occur to ruffle her husband’s
temper.
I believed her in those days--I believe her still to be the noblest
woman ever planned. One thing alone puzzled me--or rather, I should
say, seemed strange to me, for I did not allow it to go the length of
puzzlement--and that was why we had so few visitors at Lilyfields.
True, my father had made himself so unsociable in the old days that
strangers might well have been shy of intruding themselves upon him
now; but my mother was so sweet and gentle, I felt it must be their
loss rather than hers, that so few people knew her. When, as a lad of
fifteen, I mentioned this circumstance to her, she put it aside as a
matter of course.
“When I made up my mind, Charlie, to try as far as in me lay, to
render the remainder of your father’s life happy, I was perfectly
aware that I should have to depend for companionship upon him alone.
We have each other, and we have you and Violet. We want no other
society but yours.”
Still, I thought the clergyman and his wife might sometimes have come
to see us, as they did the rest of their parishioners, and I should
have liked an occasional game of play with the sons of Squire Roberts
up at the Hall. But, with the exception of the doctor, who sometimes
came in for a chat with my father, no one but ourselves ever took a
meal at Lilyfields.
As I grew still older, and others remarked on the circumstance in my
hearing, I came to the conclusion that my father must have offended
his own friends by marrying my mother, whose connections might be
inferior to his own. This idea was confirmed in my mind by observing
that she occasionally received letters she was anxious to conceal,
which, knowing the frankness of her disposition, and her great love
for him, appeared very strange to me. One day, indeed, my suspicions
became certainties. It so happened that my mother had appeared very
fidgety and unlike herself at the breakfast-table, and more than once
had spoken to Violet and me in a voice hardly to be recognised as her
own. We felt instinctively that something was the matter, and were
silent, but my father, who was not well, seemed irritated by the
unusual annoyance. He wished to remain quietly at home that morning,
but my mother found a dozen reasons why he should ride to the
neighbouring town and take me with him. He combatted her wish for some
time, till, finding that her arguments were revolving themselves into
entreaty, his affection conquered his irresolution, and we set off
together. It was not a genial day for a ride, and the trifling
commissions my mother had given us to execute were not of sufficient
consequence to turn the duty into a pleasure. I was rather pleased
than otherwise, therefore, when we had left Lilyfields some miles
behind us, to find that my pony had cast a shoe, and to be able,
according to my father’s direction, to turn back and walk it gently
home again, whilst he went forward to do my mother’s bidding.
When I reached Lilyfields I left the animal in the stables, and,
walking up to the house, gained the hall before anyone was sensible of
my approach. What was my surprise to hear a loud altercation going on
within the parlour. My first impulse was to open the door; but as my
mother turned and saw me standing on the threshold, she came forward
and pushed me back into the hall.
“Go away!” she whispered hurriedly; “go upstairs; hide yourself
somewhere, and do not come down until I call you!”
Her eyes were bright as though with fever, and a scarlet spot burned
on either cheek. I saw she was labouring under the influence of some
strong excitement, and I became intensely curious to learn the reason.
“Whom have you in there?” I demanded, for I had caught sight of
another figure in the drawing-room.
“Oh! you wish to know who I am, young man, do you?” exclaimed a
coarse, uncertain voice from the other side the half-opened door.
“Well, I’m not ashamed of myself, as _some_ people ought to be, and
you’re quite welcome to a sight of me if it’ll give you any pleasure.”
The door was simultaneously pulled open, and a woman stood before me.
How shall I describe her.
She may have been beautiful, perhaps, in the days long past, but all
trace of beauty was lost in the red, blotchy, inflamed countenance she
presented to my gaze. Her eyes were bloodshot; her hair dishevelled;
her dress tawdry and untidy, and if she had even been a gentlewoman,
which I doubted, she had parted with every sign of her breeding. As
she pushed her way up behind my mother--looking so sad and sweet and
ladylike beside her--she inspired me with nothing but abhorrence.
“Who is this person?” I repeated, with an intimation of disgust that
apparently offended the stranger, for in a shrill voice she commenced
some explanation which my mother was evidently most anxious I should
not hear.
“Oh, Charlie! do you love me?” she whispered.
“Mother! yes!”
“Then go up to your room, now, _at once_, and wait there till I come
to you! I will speak to you afterwards--I will tell you _all_--only go
now!”
She spoke so earnestly that I could not refuse her request, but did as
she desired me at once, the woman I had seen, screaming some
unintelligible sentence after me as I ascended the stairs. But when I
found myself alone, the scene I had witnessed recurred rather
unpleasantly to my memory. It was an extraordinary circumstance to see
a stranger at all within our walls; still more so a woman, and one who
dared to address my mother in loud and reproachful tones. And I was
now sixteen, able and willing to defend her against insult, why,
therefore, had she not claimed my services to turn this woman from the
house, instead of sending me upstairs, as she might have done little
Violet, until she had settled the matter for herself? But then I
remembered the trouble my mother had taken to get my father and me
away from Lilyfields that morning, and could not believe but that she
had foreseen this visitation and prepared against it. It was then as I
had often supposed. She had relations of whom she was ashamed, with
whom she did not wish my father to come in contact. Poor mother! If
this was one of them, I pitied her! I believed the story I had created
myself so much, that I accepted it without further proof, and when my
mother entered the room, and laying her head against my shoulder,
sobbed as if her heart would break, I soothed her as well as I was
able, without another inquiry as to the identity of the person with
whom I had found her.
“Don’t tell your father, Charlie!” she said, in parting. “Don’t
mention a word to anyone of what you have seen to-day. Promise me,
darling! I shall not be happy till I have your word for it!”
And I gave her my word, and thought none the less of her for the
secrecy, although I regretted it need be.
Not long after this my father articled me, at my own request, to an
architect in London, and my visits to the happy home at Lilyfields
became few and far between. But I had the consolation of knowing that
all went well there, and that I was taking my place in the world as a
man should do.
I had worked steadily at my profession for two years, and was just
considering whether I had not earned the right to take a real good
long holiday at Lilyfields (where Violet, now a fine girl of seven
years old, was still my favourite plaything), when I received a letter
from the doctor of the village--desiring me to come home at once as my
father was ill, beyond hope of recovery. I knew what that meant--that
he was already gone; and when I arrived at Lilyfields I found it to be
true; he had died of an attack of the heart after a couple of hours’
illness. The shock to me was very great. I had never loved my father
as I did my mother; the old childish recollections had been too strong
for that, but the last few years he had permitted me to be very happy,
and I knew that to _her_ his loss must be irreparable. Not that she
exhibited any violent demonstration of grief. When I first saw her, I
was surprised at her calmness. She sat beside my father’s body, day
and night, without shedding a tear; and she spoke of his departure as
quietly as though he had only gone on a journey from which she fully
expected him to return. But though her eyes were dry, they never
closed in sleep, and every morsel of colour seemed to have been
blanched out of her face and hands. So the first day passed, and when
the second dawned, I, having attained the dignity of eighteen years,
thought it behoved me to speak of my late father’s affairs and my
mother’s future.
“Where is father’s will, mother?”
“He never made one, dear!”
“Never made a will! That was awfully careless.”
“Hush, Charlie!”
She would not brook the slightest censure cast on her dead love.
“But there _must_ be a will, mother.”
“Darling, there is none! It was the one thought that disturbed his
last moments. But I am content to let things be settled as they may.”
“Lilyfields will be yours of course, and everything in it,” I answered
decidedly. “No one has a better right to them than you have. And you
and Violet will live here to your lives’ end, won’t you?”
“Don’t ask me, dear Charlie, don’t think of it--not just yet at least!
Let us wait until--until--it is all over, and then decide what is best
to be done!”
Before it was all over; matters were decided for us.
It was the day before the funeral. I had just gone through the
mournful ceremony of seeing my father’s coffin soldered down, and, sad
and dispirited, had retired to my own room for a little rest, when I
heard the sound of carriage wheels up on the gravel drive. I peered
over the window blind curiously, for I had never heard of my father’s
relations, and had been unable in consequence to communicate with any
of them. A lumbering hired fly, laden with luggage, stopped before the
door, and from it descended, to my astonishment, the same woman with
the fiery red face whom I had discovered in my mother’s company two
years before. I decided at once that, whatever the claims of this
stranger might be, she could not be suffered to disturb the widow in
the first agony of her crushing grief, and, quick, as thought, I ran
down into the hall and confronted her before she had entered the
house.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” I commenced, “but Mrs. Vere is unable to
see anyone at present. There has been a great calamity in the family,
and--”
“I know all about your calamity,” she interrupted me rudely, “if it
were not for that I shouldn’t be here.”
“But you cannot see Mrs. Vere!” I repeated.
“And pray who _is_ Mrs. Vere?” said the woman.
“My mother,” I replied proudly, “and I will not allow her to be
annoyed or disturbed.”
“Oh! indeed, young man. It strikes me you take a great deal of