Curious, if True Read online

  Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  CURIOUS, IF TRUE

  STRANGE TALES

  Mrs Gaskell

  Contents

  The Old Nurse's Story 1

  The Poor Clare 26

  Lois the Witch 88

  The Grey Woman 187

  Curious, if True 249

  THE OLD NURSE'S STORY

  You know, my dears, that your mother was an orphan, and an only child;and I daresay you have heard that your grandfather was a clergyman upin Westmoreland, where I come from. I was just a girl in the villageschool, when, one day, your grandmother came in to ask the mistress ifthere was any scholar there who would do for a nurse-maid; and mightyproud I was, I can tell ye, when the mistress called me up, and spokeof me being a good girl at my needle, and a steady, honest girl, andone whose parents were very respectable, though they might be poor. Ithought I should like nothing better than to serve the pretty younglady, who was blushing as deep as I was, as she spoke of the comingbaby, and what I should have to do with it. However, I see you don'tcare so much for this part of my story, as for what you think is tocome, so I'll tell you at once. I was engaged and settled at theparsonage before Miss Rosamond (that was the baby, who is now yourmother) was born. To be sure, I had little enough to do with her whenshe came, for she was never out of her mother's arms, and slept by herall night long; and proud enough was I sometimes when missis trustedher to me. There never was such a baby before or since, though you'veall of you been fine enough in your turns; but for sweet, winning ways,you've none of you come up to your mother. She took after her mother,who was a real lady born; a Miss Furnivall, a grand-daughter of LordFurnivall's, in Northumberland. I believe she had neither brother norsister, and had been brought up in my lord's family till she hadmarried your grandfather, who was just a curate, son to a shopkeeper inCarlisle--but a clever, fine gentleman as ever was--and one who was aright-down hard worker in his parish, which was very wide, andscattered all abroad over the Westmoreland Fells. When your mother,little Miss Rosamond, was about four or five years old, both herparents died in a fortnight--one after the other. Ah! that was a sadtime. My pretty young mistress and me was looking for another baby,when my master came home from one of his long rides, wet and tired, andtook the fever he died of; and then she never held up her head again,but just lived to see her dead baby, and have it laid on her breast,before she sighed away her life. My mistress had asked me, on herdeath-bed, never to leave Miss Rosamond; but if she had never spoken aword, I would have gone with the little child to the end of the world.

  The next thing, and before we had well stilled our sobs, the executorsand guardians came to settle the affairs. They were my poor youngmistress's own cousin, Lord Furnivall, and Mr. Esthwaite, my master'sbrother, a shopkeeper in Manchester; not so well to do then as he wasafterwards, and with a large family rising about him. Well! I don'tknow if it were their settling, or because of a letter my mistresswrote on her death-bed to her cousin, my lord; but somehow it wassettled that Miss Rosamond and me were to go to Furnivall Manor House,in Northumberland, and my lord spoke as if it had been her mother'swish that she should live with his family, and as if he had noobjections, for that one or two more or less could make no differencein so grand a household. So, though that was not the way in which Ishould have wished the coming of my bright and pretty pet to have beenlooked at--who was like a sunbeam in any family, be it never sogrand--I was well pleased that all the folks in the Dale should stareand admire, when they heard I was going to be young lady's maid at myLord Furnivall's at Furnivall Manor.

  But I made a mistake in thinking we were to go and live where my lorddid. It turned out that the family had left Furnivall Manor House fiftyyears or more. I could not hear that my poor young mistress had neverbeen there, though she had been brought up in the family; and I wassorry for that, for I should have liked Miss Rosamond's youth to havepassed where her mother's had been.

  My lord's gentleman, from whom I asked as many questions as I durst,said that the Manor House was at the foot of the Cumberland Fells, anda very grand place; that an old Miss Furnivall, a great-aunt of mylord's, lived there, with only a few servants; but that it was a veryhealthy place, and my lord had thought that it would suit Miss Rosamondvery well for a few years, and that her being there might perhaps amusehis old aunt.

  I was bidden by my lord to have Miss Rosamond's things ready by acertain day. He was a stern, proud man, as they say all the LordsFurnivall were; and he never spoke a word more than was necessary. Folkdid say he had loved my young mistress; but that, because she knew thathis father would object, she would never listen to him, and married Mr.Esthwaite; but I don't know. He never married, at any rate. But henever took much notice of Miss Rosamond; which I thought he might havedone if he had cared for her dead mother. He sent his gentleman with usto the Manor House, telling him to join him at Newcastle that sameevening; so there was no great length of time for him to make us knownto all the strangers before he, too, shook us off; and we were left,two lonely young things (I was not eighteen) in the great old ManorHouse. It seems like yesterday that we drove there. We had left our owndear parsonage very early, and we had both cried as if our hearts wouldbreak, though we were travelling in my lord's carriage, which I thoughtso much of once. And now it was long past noon on a September day, andwe stopped to change horses for the last time at a little smoky town,all full of colliers and miners. Miss Rosamond had fallen asleep, butMr. Henry told me to waken her, that she might see the park and theManor House as we drove up. I thought it rather a pity; but I did whathe bade me, for fear he should complain of me to my lord. We had leftall signs of a town, or even a village, and were then inside the gatesof a large wild park--not like the parks here in the south, but withrocks, and the noise of running water, and gnarled thorn-trees, and oldoaks, all white and peeled with age.

  The road went up about two miles, and then we saw a great and statelyhouse, with many trees close around it, so close that in some placestheir branches dragged against the walls when the wind blew; and somehung broken down; for no one seemed to take much charge of theplace;--to lop the wood, or to keep the moss-covered carriage-way inorder. Only in front of the house all was clear. The great oval drivewas without a weed; and neither tree nor creeper was allowed to growover the long, many-windowed front; at both sides of which a wingprotected, which were each the ends of other side fronts; for thehouse, although it was so desolate, was even grander than I expected.Behind it rose the Fells; which seemed unenclosed and bare enough; andon the left hand of the house, as you stood facing it, was a little,old-fashioned flower-garden, as I found out afterwards. A door openedout upon it from the west front; it had been scooped out of the thick,dark wood for some old Lady Furnivall; but the branches of the greatforest-trees had grown and overshadowed it again, and there were veryfew flowers that would live there at that time.

  When we drove up to the great front entrance, and went into the hall, Ithought we would be lost--it was so large, and vast and grand. Therewas a chandelier all of bronze, hung down from the middle of theceiling; and I had never seen one before, and looked at it all inamaze. Then, at one end of the hall, was a great fire-place, as largeas the sides of the houses in my country, with massy andirons and dogsto hold the wood; and by it were heavy, old-fashioned sofas. At theopposite end of the hall, to the left as you went in--on the westernside--was an organ built into the wall, and so large that it filled upthe best part of that end. Beyond it, on the same side, was a door; andopposite, on each side of the fire-place, were also doors leading tothe east front; but those I never went through as long as I stayed inthe house, so I can't tell you what lay beyond
.

  The afternoon was closing in, and the hall, which had no fire lightedin it, looked dark and gloomy, but we did not stay there a moment. Theold servant, who had opened the door for us, bowed to Mr. Henry, andtook us in through the door at the further side of the great organ, andled us through several smaller halls and passages into the westdrawing-room, where he said that Miss Furnivall was sitting. Poorlittle Miss Rosamond held very tight to me, as if she were scared andlost in that great place; and as for myself, I was not much better. Thewest drawing-room was very cheerful-looking, with a warm fire in it,and plenty of good, comfortable furniture about. Miss Furnivall was anold lady not far from eighty, I should think, but I do not know. Shewas thin and tall, and had a face as full of fine wrinkles as if theyhad been drawn all over it with a needle's point. Her eyes were verywatchful, to make up, I suppose, for her being so deaf as to be obligedto use a trumpet. Sitting with her, working at the same great piece oftapestry, was Mrs. Stark, her maid and companion, and almost as old asshe was. She had lived with Miss Furnivall ever since they both wereyoung, and now she seemed more like a friend than a servant; she lookedso cold, and grey, and stony, as if she had never loved or cared forany one; and I don't suppose she did care for any one, except hermistress; and, owing to the great deafness of the latter, Mrs. Starktreated her very much as if she were a child. Mr. Henry gave somemessage from my lord, and then he bowed good-by to us all,--taking nonotice of my sweet little Miss Rosamond's outstretched hand--and leftus standing there, being looked at by the two old ladies through theirspectacles.

  I was right glad when they rung for the old footman who had shown us inat first, and told him to take us to our rooms. So we went out of thatgreat drawing-room and into another sitting-room, and out of that, andthen up a great flight of stairs, and along a broad gallery--which wassomething like a library, having books all down one side, and windowsand writing-tables all down the other--till we came to our rooms, whichI was not sorry to hear were just over the kitchens; for I began tothink I should be lost in that wilderness of a house. There was an oldnursery, that had been used for all the little lords and ladies longago, with a pleasant fire burning in the grate, and the kettle boilingon the hob, and tea-things spread out on the table; and out of thatroom was the night-nursery, with a little crib for Miss Rosamond closeto my bed. And old James called up Dorothy, his wife, to bid uswelcome; and both he and she were so hospitable and kind, thatby-and-by Miss Rosamond and me felt quite at home; and by the time teawas over, she was sitting on Dorothy's knee, and chattering away asfast as her little tongue could go. I soon found out that Dorothy wasfrom Westmoreland, and that bound her and me together, as it were; andI would never wish to meet with kinder people than were old James andhis wife. James had lived pretty nearly all his life in my lord'sfamily, and thought there was no one so grand as they. He even lookeddown a little on his wife; because, till he had married her, she hadnever lived in any but a farmer's household. But he was very fond ofher, as well he might be. They had one servant under them, to do allthe rough work. Agnes they called her; and she and me, and James andDorothy, with Miss Furnivall and Mrs. Stark, made up the family; alwaysremembering my sweet little Miss Rosamond! I used to wonder what theyhad done before she came, they thought so much of her now. Kitchen anddrawing-room, it was all the same. The hard, sad Miss Furnivall, andthe cold Mrs. Stark, looked pleased when she came fluttering in like abird, playing and pranking hither and thither, with a continual murmur,and pretty prattle of gladness. I am sure, they were sorry many a timewhen she flitted away into the kitchen, though they were too proud toask her to stay with them, and were a little surprised at her taste;though to be sure, as Mrs. Stark said, it was not to be wondered at,remembering what stock her father had come of. The great, old ramblinghouse was a famous place for little Miss Rosamond. She made expeditionsall over it, with me at her heels; all, except the east wing, which wasnever opened, and whither we never thought of going. But in the westernand northern part was many a pleasant room; full of things that werecuriosities to us, though they might not have been to people who hadseen more. The windows were darkened by the sweeping boughs of thetrees, and the ivy which had overgrown them; but, in the green gloom,we could manage to see old china jars and carved ivory boxes, and greatheavy books, and, above all, the old pictures!

  Once, I remember, my darling would have Dorothy go with us to tell uswho they all were; for they were all portraits of some of my lord'sfamily, though Dorothy could not tell us the names of every one. We hadgone through most of the rooms, when we came to the old statedrawing-room over the hall, and there was a picture of Miss Furnivall;or, as she was called in those days, Miss Grace, for she was theyounger sister. Such a beauty she must have been! but with such a set,proud look, and such scorn looking out of her handsome eyes, with hereyebrows just a little raised, as if she wondered how anyone could havethe impertinence to look at her, and her lip curled at us, as we stoodthere gazing. She had a dress on, the like of which I had never seenbefore, but it was all the fashion when she was young; a hat of somesoft white stuff like beaver, pulled a little over her brows, and abeautiful plume of feathers sweeping round it on one side; and her gownof blue satin was open in front to a quilted white stomacher.

  'Well, to be sure!' said I, when I had gazed my fill. 'Flesh is grass,they do say; but who would have thought that Miss Furnivall had beensuch an out-and-out beauty, to see her now.'

  'Yes,' said Dorothy. 'Folks change sadly. But if what my master'sfather used to say was true, Miss Furnivall, the elder sister, washandsomer than Miss Grace. Her picture is here somewhere; but, if Ishow it you, you must never let on, even to James, that you have seenit. Can the little lady hold her tongue, think you?' asked she.

  I was not so sure, for she was such a little sweet, bold, open-spokenchild, so I set her to hide herself; and then I helped Dorothy to turna great picture, that leaned with its face towards the wall, and wasnot hung up as the others were. To be sure, it beat Miss Grace forbeauty; and, I think, for scornful pride, too, though in that matter itmight be hard to choose. I could have looked at it an hour, but Dorothyseemed half frightened at having shown it to me, and hurried it backagain, and bade me run and find Miss Rosamond, for that there were someugly places about the house, where she should like ill for the child togo. I was a brave, high-spirited girl, and thought little of what theold woman said, for I liked hide-and-seek as well as any child in theparish; so off I ran to find my little one.

  As winter drew on, and the days grew shorter, I was sometimes almostcertain that I heard a noise as if someone was playing on the greatorgan in the hall. I did not hear it every evening; but, certainly, Idid very often, usually when I was sitting with Miss Rosamond, after Ihad put her to bed, and keeping quite still and silent in the bedroom.Then I used to hear it booming and swelling away in the distance. Thefirst night, when I went down to my supper, I asked Dorothy who hadbeen playing music, and James said very shortly that I was a gowk totake the wind soughing among the trees for music; but I saw Dorothylook at him very fearfully, and Bessy, the kitchen-maid, said somethingbeneath her breath, and went quite white. I saw they did not like myquestion, so I held my peace till I was with Dorothy alone, when I knewI could get a good deal out of her. So, the next day, I watched mytime, and I coaxed and asked her who it was that played the organ; forI knew that it was the organ and not the wind well enough, for all Ihad kept silence before James. But Dorothy had had her lesson, I'llwarrant, and never a word could I get from her. So then I tried Bessy,though I had always held my head rather above her, as I was evened toJames and Dorothy, and she was little better than their servant. So shesaid I must never, never tell; and if ever I told, I was never to say_she_ had told me; but it was a very strange noise, and she had heardit many a time, but most of all on winter nights, and before storms;and folks did say it was the old lord playing on the great organ in thehall, just as he used to do when he was alive; but who the old lordwas, or why he played, and why he played on stormy winter evenings inparticu
lar, she either could not or would not tell me. Well! I told youI had a brave heart; and I thought it was rather pleasant to have thatgrand music rolling about the house, let who would be the player; fornow it rose above the great gusts of wind, and wailed and triumphedjust like a living creature, and then it fell to a softness mostcomplete, only it was always music, and tunes, so it was nonsense tocall it the wind. I thought at first, that it might be Miss Furnivallwho played, unknown to Bessy; but one day, when I was in the hall bymyself, I opened the organ and peeped all about it and around it, as Ihad done to the organ in Crosthwaite church once before, and I saw itwas all broken and destroyed inside, though it looked so brave andfine; and then, though it was noon-day, my flesh began to creep alittle, and I shut it up, and run away pretty quickly to my own brightnursery; and I did not like hearing the music for some time after that,any more than James and Dorothy did. All this time Miss Rosamond wasmaking herself more and more beloved. The old ladies liked her to dinewith them at their early dinner. James stood behind Miss Furnivall'schair, and I behind Miss Rosamond's all in state; and after dinner, shewould play about in a corner of the great drawing-room as still as anymouse, while Miss Furnivall slept, and I had my dinner in the kitchen.But she was glad enough to come to me in the nursery afterwards; for,as she said, Miss Furnivall was so sad, and Mrs. Stark so dull; but sheand I were merry enough; and by-and-by, I got not to care for thatweird rolling music, which did one no harm, if we did not know where itcame from.

  That winter was very cold. In the middle of October the frosts began,and lasted many, many weeks. I remember one day, at dinner, MissFurnivall lifted up her sad, heavy eyes, and said to Mrs. Stark, 'I amafraid we shall have a terrible winter,' in a strange kind of meaningway. But Mrs. Stark pretended not to hear, and talked very loud ofsomething else. My little lady and I did not care for the frost; notwe! As long as it was dry, we climbed up the steep brows behind thehouse, and went up on the Fells, which were bleak and bare enough, andthere we ran races in the fresh, sharp air; and once we came down by anew path, that took us past the two old gnarled holly-trees, which grewabout half-way down by the east side of the house. But the days grewshorter and shorter, and the old lord, if it was he, played away, moreand more stormily and sadly, on the great organ. One Sundayafternoon--it must have been towards the end of November--I askedDorothy to take charge of little missy when she came out of thedrawing-room, after Miss Furnivall had had her nap; for it was too coldto take her with me to church, and yet I wanted to go. And Dorothy wasglad enough to promise, and was so fond of the child, that all seemedwell; and Bessy and I set off very briskly, though the sky hung heavyand black over the white earth, as if the night had never fully goneaway, and the air, though still, was very biting and keen.

  'We shall have a fall of snow,' said Bessy to me. And sure enough, evenwhile we were in church, it came down thick, in great large flakes,--sothick, it almost darkened the windows. It had stopped snowing before wecame out, but it lay soft, thick and deep beneath our feet, as wetramped home. Before we got to the hall, the moon rose, and I think itwas lighter then--what with the moon, and what with the white dazzlingsnow--than it had been when we went to church, between two and threeo'clock. I have not told you that Miss Furnivall and Mrs. Stark neverwent to church; they used to read the prayers together, in their quiet,gloomy way; they seemed to feel the Sunday very long without theirtapestry-work to be busy at. So when I went to Dorothy in the kitchen,to fetch Miss Rosamond and take her upstairs with me, I did not muchwonder when the old woman told me that the ladies had kept the childwith them, and that she had never come to the kitchen, as I had biddenher, when she was tired of behaving pretty in the drawing-room. So Itook off my things and went to find her, and bring her to her supper inthe nursery. But when I went into the best drawing-room, there sat thetwo old ladies, very still and quiet, dropping out a word now and then,but looking as if nothing so bright and merry as Miss Rosamond had everbeen near them. Still I thought she might be hiding from me; it was oneof her pretty ways,--and that she had persuaded them to look as if theyknew nothing about her; so I went softly peeping under this sofa, andbehind that chair, making believe I was sadly frightened at not findingher.

  'What's the matter, Hester?' said Mrs. Stark, sharply. I don't know ifMiss Furnivall had seen me, for, as I told you, she was very deaf, andshe sat quite still, idly staring into the fire, with her hopelessface. 'I'm only looking for my little Rosy Posy,' replied I, stillthinking that the child was there, and near me, though I could not seeher.

  'Miss Rosamond is not here,' said Mrs. Stark. 'She went away, more thanan hour ago, to find Dorothy.' And she, too, turned and went on lookinginto the fire.

  My heart sank at this, and I began to wish I had never left my darling.I went back to Dorothy and told her. James was gone out for the day,but she, and me, and Bessy took lights, and went up into the nurseryfirst; and then we roamed over the great, large house, calling andentreating Miss Rosamond to come out of her hiding-place, and notfrighten us to death in that way. But there was no answer; no sound.

  'Oh!' said I, at last, 'can she have got into the east wing and hiddenthere?'

  But Dorothy said it was not possible, for that she herself had neverbeen in there; that the doors were always locked, and my lord's stewardhad the keys, she believed; at any rate, neither she nor James had everseen them: so I said I would go back, and see if, after all, she wasnot hidden in the drawing-room, unknown to the old ladies; and if Ifound her there, I said, I would whip her well for the fright she hadgiven me; but I never meant to do it. Well, I went back to the westdrawing-room, and I told Mrs. Stark we could not find her anywhere, andasked for leave to look all about the furniture there, for I thoughtnow that she might have fallen asleep in some warm, hidden corner; butno! we looked--Miss Furnivall got up and looked, trembling allover--and she was nowhere there; then we set off again, every one inthe house, and looked in all the places we had searched before, but wecould not find her. Miss Furnivall shivered and shook so much, thatMrs. Stark took her back into the warm drawing-room; but not beforethey had made me promise to bring her to them when she was found.Well-a-day! I began to think she never would be found, when I bethoughtme to look into the great front court, all covered with snow. I wasupstairs when I looked out; but, it was such clear moonlight, I couldsee, quite plain, two little footprints, which might be traced from thehall-door and round the corner of the east wing. I don't know how I gotdown, but I tugged open the great stiff hall-door, and, throwing theskirt of my gown over my head for a cloak, I ran out. I turned the eastcorner, and there a black shadow fell on the snow; but when I cameagain into the moonlight, there were the little foot-marks going up--upto the Fells. It was bitter cold; so cold, that the air almost took theskin off my face as I ran; but I ran on crying to think how my poorlittle darling must be perished and frightened. I was within sight ofthe holly-trees, when I saw a shepherd coming down the hill, bearingsomething in his arms wrapped in his maud. He shouted to me, and askedme if I had lost a bairn; and, when I could not speak for crying, hebore towards me, and I saw my wee bairnie, lying still, and white, andstiff in his arms, as if she had been dead. He told me he had been upthe Fells to gather in his sheep, before the deep cold of night cameon, and that under the holly-trees (black marks on the hill-side, whereno other bush was for miles around) he had found my little lady--mylamb--my queen--my darling--stiff and cold in the terrible sleep whichis frost-begotten. Oh! the joy and the tears of having her in my armsonce again! for I would not let him carry her; but took her, maud andall, into my own arms, and held her near my own warm neck and heart,and felt the life stealing slowly back again into her little gentlelimbs. But she was still insensible when we reached the hall, and I hadno breath for speech. We went in by the kitchen-door.

  'Bring me the warming-pan,' said I; and I carried her upstairs andbegan undressing her by the nursery fire, which Bessy had kept up. Icalled my little lammie all the sweet and playful names I could thinkof,--even while my eyes were blinded by
my tears; and at last, oh! atlength she opened her large blue eyes. Then I put her into her warmbed, and sent Dorothy down to tell Miss Furnivall that all was well;and I made up my mind to sit by my darling's bedside the live-longnight. She fell away into a soft sleep as soon as her pretty head hadtouched the pillow, and I watched by her till morning light; when shewakened up bright and clear--or so I thought at first--and, my dears,so I think now.

  She said, that she had fancied that she should like to go to Dorothy,for that both the old ladies were asleep, and it was very dull in thedrawing-room; and that, as she was going through the west lobby, shesaw the snow through the high window falling--falling--soft and steady;but she wanted to see it lying pretty and white on the ground; so shemade her way into the great hall; and then, going to the window, shesaw it bright and soft upon the drive; but while she stood there, shesaw a little girl, not so old as she was, 'but so pretty,' said mydarling, 'and this little girl beckoned to me to come out; and oh, shewas so pretty and so sweet, I could not choose but go.' And then thisother little girl had taken her by the hand, and side by side the twohad gone round the east corner.

  'Now you are a naughty little girl, and telling stories,' said I. 'Whatwould your good mamma, that is in heaven, and never told a story in herlife, say to her little Rosamond, if she heard her--and I daresay shedoes--telling stories!'

  'Indeed, Hester,' sobbed out my child, 'I'm telling you true. Indeed Iam.'

  'Don't tell me!' said I, very stern. 'I tracked you by your foot-marksthrough the snow; there were only yours to be seen: and if you had hada little girl to go hand-in-hand with you up the hill, don't you thinkthe footprints would have gone along with yours?'

  'I can't help it, dear, dear Hester,' said she, crying, 'if they didnot; I never looked at her feet, but she held my hand fast and tight inher little one, and it was very, very cold. She took me up theFell-path, up to the holly-trees; and there I saw a lady weeping andcrying; but when she saw me, she hushed her weeping, and smiled veryproud and grand, and took me on her knee, and began to lull me tosleep; and that's all, Hester--but that is true; and my dear mammaknows it is,' said she, crying. So I thought the child was in a fever,and pretended to believe her, as she went over her story--over and overagain, and always the same. At last Dorothy knocked at the door withMiss Rosamond's breakfast; and she told me the old ladies were down inthe eating parlour, and that they wanted to speak to me. They had bothbeen into the night-nursery the evening before, but it was after MissRosamond was asleep; so they had only looked at her--not asked me anyquestions.

  'I shall catch it,' thought I to myself, as I went along the northgallery. 'And yet,' I thought, taking courage, 'it was in their chargeI left her; and it's they that's to blame for letting her steal awayunknown and unwatched.' So I went in boldly, and told my story. I toldit all to Miss Furnivall, shouting it close to her ear; but when I cameto the mention of the other little girl out in the snow, coaxing andtempting her out, and willing her up to the grand and beautiful lady bythe holly-tree, she threw her arms up--her old and withered arms--andcried aloud, 'Oh! Heaven forgive! Have mercy!'

  Mrs. Stark took hold of her; roughly enough, I thought; but she waspast Mrs. Stark's management, and spoke to me, in a kind of wildwarning and authority.

  'Hester! keep her from that child! It will lure her to her death! Thatevil child! Tell her it is a wicked, naughty child.' Then, Mrs. Starkhurried me out of the room; where, indeed, I was glad enough to go; butMiss Furnivall kept shrieking out, 'Oh, have mercy! Wilt Thou neverforgive! It is many a long year ago----'

  I was very uneasy in my mind after that. I durst never leave MissRosamond, night or day, for fear lest she might slip off again, aftersome fancy or other; and all the more, because I thought I could makeout that Miss Furnivall was crazy, from their odd ways about her; and Iwas afraid lest something of the same kind (which might be in thefamily, you know) hung over my darling. And the great frost neverceased all this time; and, whenever it was a more stormy night thanusual, between the gusts, and through the wind, we heard the old lordplaying on the great organ. But, old lord, or not, wherever MissRosamond went, there I followed; for my love for her, pretty, helplessorphan, was stronger than my fear for the grand and terrible sound.Besides, it rested with me to keep her cheerful and merry, as beseemedher age. So we played together, and wandered together, here and there,and everywhere; for I never dared to lose sight of her again in thatlarge and rambling house. And so it happened, that one afternoon, notlong before Christmas-day, we were playing together on thebilliard-table in the great hall (not that we knew the right way ofplaying, but she liked to roll the smooth ivory balls with her prettyhands, and I liked to do whatever she did); and, by-and-by, without ournoticing it, it grew dusk indoors, though it was still light in theopen air, and I was thinking of taking her back into the nursery, when,all of a sudden, she cried out,

  'Look, Hester! look! there is my poor little girl out in the snow!'

  I turned towards the long narrow windows, and there, sure enough, I sawa little girl, less than my Miss Rosamond--dressed all unfit to beout-of-doors such a bitter night--crying, and beating against thewindow-panes, as if she wanted to be let in. She seemed to sob andwail, till Miss Rosamond could bear it no longer, and was flying to thedoor to open it, when, all of a sudden, and close upon us, the greatorgan pealed out so loud and thundering, it fairly made me tremble; andall the more, when I remembered me that, even in the stillness of thatdead-cold weather, I had heard no sound of little battering hands uponthe windowglass, although the phantom child had seemed to put forth allits force; and, although I had seen it wail and cry, no faintest touchof sound had fallen upon my ears. Whether I remembered all this at thevery moment, I do not know; the great organ sound had so stunned meinto terror; but this I know, I caught up Miss Rosamond before she gotthe hall-door opened, and clutched her, and carried her away, kickingand screaming, into the large, bright kitchen, where Dorothy and Agneswere busy with their mince-pies.

  'What is the matter with my sweet one?' cried Dorothy, as I bore inMiss Rosamond, who was sobbing as if her heart would break.

  'She won't let me open the door for my little girl to come in; andshe'll die if she is out on the Fells all night. Cruel, naughtyHester,' she said, slapping me; but she might have struck harder, for Ihad seen a look of ghastly terror on Dorothy's face, which made my veryblood run cold.

  'Shut the back-kitchen door fast, and bolt it well,' said she to Agnes.She said no more; she gave me raisins and almonds to quiet MissRosamond; but she sobbed about the little girl in the snow, and wouldnot touch any of the good things. I was thankful when she cried herselfto sleep in bed. Then I stole down to the kitchen, and told Dorothy Ihad made up my mind. I would carry my darling back to my father's housein Applethwaite; where, if we lived humbly, we lived at peace. I said Ihad been frightened enough with the old lord's organ-playing; but nowthat I had seen for myself this little moaning child, all decked out asno child in the neighbourhood could be, beating and battering to getin, yet always without any sound or noise--with the dark wound on itsright shoulder; and that Miss Rosamond had known it again for thephantom that had nearly lured her to her death (which Dorothy knew wastrue); I would stand it no longer.

  I saw Dorothy change colour once or twice. When I had done, she told meshe did not think I could take Miss Rosamond with me, for that she wasmy lord's ward, and I had no right over her; and she asked me would Ileave the child that I was so fond of just for sounds and sights thatcould do me no harm; and that they had all had to get used to in theirturns? I was all in a hot, trembling passion; and I said it was verywell for her to talk; that knew what these sights and noises betokened,and that had, perhaps, had something to do with the spectre child whileit was alive. And I taunted her so, that she told me all she knew atlast; and then I wished I had never been told, for it only made me moreafraid than ever.

  She said she had heard the tale from old neighbours that were alivewhen she was first married; when folks used to come to the
hallsometimes, before it had got such a bad name on the country side: itmight not be true, or it might, what she had been told.

  The old lord was Miss Furnivall's father--Miss Grace, as Dorothy calledher, for Miss Maude was the elder, and Miss Furnivall by rights. Theold lord was eaten up with pride. Such a proud man was never seen orheard of; and his daughters were like him. No one was good enough towed them, although they had choice enough; for they were the greatbeauties of their day, as I had seen by their portraits, where theyhung in the state drawing-room. But, as the old saying is, 'Pride willhave a fall;' and these two haughty beauties fell in love with the sameman, and he no better than a foreign musician, whom their father haddown from London to play music with him at the Manor House. For, aboveall things, next to his pride, the old lord loved music. He could playon nearly every instrument that ever was heard of, and it was a strangething it did not soften him; but he was a fierce dour old man, and hadbroken his poor wife's heart with his cruelty, they said. He was madafter music, and would pay any money for it. So he got this foreignerto come; who made such beautiful music, that they said the very birdson the trees stopped their singing to listen. And, by degrees, thisforeign gentleman got such a hold over the old lord, that nothing wouldserve him but that he must come every year; and it was he that had thegreat organ brought from Holland, and built up in the hall, where itstood now. He taught the old lord to play on it; but many and many atime, when Lord Furnivall was thinking of nothing but his fine organ,and his finer music, the dark foreigner was walking abroad in the woodswith one of the young ladies; now Miss Maude, and then Miss Grace.

  Miss Maude won the day and carried off the prize, such as it was; andhe and she were married, all unknown to any one; and before he made hisnext yearly visit, she had been confined of a little girl at afarm-house on the Moors, while her father and Miss Grace thought shewas away at Doncaster Races. But though she was a wife and a mother,she was not a bit softened, but as haughty and as passionate as ever;and perhaps more so, for she was jealous of Miss Grace, to whom herforeign husband paid a deal of court--by way of blinding her--as hetold his wife. But Miss Grace triumphed over Miss Maude, and Miss Maudegrew fiercer and fiercer, both with her husband and with her sister;and the former--who could easily shake off what was disagreeable, andhide himself in foreign countries--went away a month before his usualtime that summer, and half-threatened that he would never come backagain. Meanwhile, the little girl was left at the farm-house, and hermother used to have her horse saddled and gallop wildly over the hillsto see her once every week, at the very least; for where she loved sheloved, and where she hated she hated. And the old lord went onplaying--playing on his organ; and the servants thought the sweet musiche made had soothed down his awful temper, of which (Dorothy said) someterrible tales could be told. He grew infirm too, and had to walk witha crutch; and his son--that was the present Lord Furnivall'sfather--was with the army in America, and the other son at sea; so MissMaude had it pretty much her own way, and she and Miss Grace grewcolder and bitterer to each other every day; till at last they hardlyever spoke, except when the old lord was by. The foreign musician cameagain the next summer, but it was for the last time; for they led himsuch a life with their jealousy and their passions, that he grew weary,and went away, and never was heard of again. And Miss Maude, who hadalways meant to have her marriage acknowledged when her father shouldbe dead, was left now a deserted wife, whom nobody knew to have beenmarried, with a child that she dared not own, although she loved it todistraction; living with a father whom she feared, and a sister whomshe hated. When the next summer passed over, and the dark foreignernever came, both Miss Maude and Miss Grace grew gloomy and sad; theyhad a haggard look about them, though they looked handsome as ever.But, by-and-by, Maude brightened; for her father grew more and moreinfirm, and more than ever carried away by his music; and she and MissGrace lived almost entirely apart, having separate rooms, the one onthe west side, Miss Maude on the east--those very rooms which were nowshut up. So she thought she might have her little girl with her, and noone need ever know except those who dared not speak about it, and werebound to believe that it was, as she said, a cottager's child she hadtaken a fancy to. All this, Dorothy said, was pretty well known; butwhat came afterwards no one knew, except Miss Grace and Mrs. Stark, whowas even then her maid, and much more of a friend to her than ever hersister had been. But the servants supposed, from words that weredropped, that Miss Maude had triumphed over Miss Grace, and told herthat all the time the dark foreigner had been mocking her withpretended love--he was her own husband. The colour left Miss Grace'scheek and lips that very day for ever, and she was heard to say many atime that sooner or later she would have her revenge; and Mrs. Starkwas for ever spying about the east rooms.

  One fearful night, just after the New Year had come in, when the snowwas lying thick and deep; and the flakes were still falling--fastenough to blind any one who might be out and abroad--there was a greatand violent noise heard, and the old lord's voice above all, cursingand swearing awfully, and the cries of a little child, and the prouddefiance of a fierce woman, and the sound of a blow, and a deadstillness, and moans and wailings dying away on the hill-side! Then theold lord summoned all his servants, and told them, with terrible oaths,and words more terrible, that his daughter had disgraced herself, andthat he had turned her out of doors--her, and her child--and that ifever they gave her help, or food, or shelter, he prayed that they mightnever enter heaven. And, all the while, Miss Grace stood by him, whiteand still as any stone; and, when he had ended, she heaved a greatsigh, as much as to say her work was done, and her end wasaccomplished. But the old lord never touched his organ again, and diedwithin the year; and no wonder! for, on the morrow of that wild andfearful night, the shepherds, coming down the Fell side, found MissMaude sitting, all crazy and smiling, under the holly-trees, nursing adead child, with a terrible mark on its right shoulder. 'But that wasnot what killed it,' said Dorothy: 'it was the frost and the cold.Every wild creature was in its hole, and every beast in its fold, whilethe child and its mother were turned out to wander on the Fells! Andnow you know all! and I wonder if you are less frightened now?'

  I was more frightened than ever; but I said I was not. I wished MissRosamond and myself well out of that dreadful house for ever; but Iwould not leave her, and I dared not take her away. But oh, how Iwatched her, and guarded her! We bolted the doors, and shut thewindow-shutters fast, an hour or more before dark, rather than leavethem open five minutes too late. But my little lady still heard theweird child crying and mourning; and not all we could do or say couldkeep her from wanting to go to her, and let her in from the cruel windand the snow. All this time I kept away from Miss Furnivall and Mrs.Stark, as much as ever I could; for I feared them--I knew no good couldbe about them, with their grey, hard faces, and their dreamy eyes,looking back into the ghastly years that were gone. But, even in myfear, I had a kind of pity for Miss Furnivall, at least. Those gonedown to the pit can hardly have a more hopeless look than that whichwas ever on her face. At last I even got so sorry for her--who neversaid a word but what was quite forced from her--that I prayed for her;and I taught Miss Rosamond to pray for one who had done a deadly sin;but often when she came to those words, she would listen, and start upfrom her knees, and say, 'I hear my little girl plaining and cryingvery sad--oh, let her in, or she will die!'

  One night--just after New Year's Day had come at last, and the longwinter had taken a turn, as I hoped--I heard the west drawing-room bellring three times, which was the signal for me. I would not leave MissRosamond alone, for all she was asleep--for the old lord had beenplaying wilder than ever--and I feared lest my darling should waken tohear the spectre child; see her, I knew she could not. I had fastenedthe windows too well for that. So I took her out of her bed, andwrapped her up in such outer clothes as were most handy, and carriedher down to the drawing-room, where the old ladies sat at theirtapestry-work as usual. They looked up when I came in, and Mrs. Starkasked, quite astounded, 'Why di
d I bring Miss Rosamond there, out ofher warm bed?' I had begun to whisper, 'Because I was afraid of herbeing tempted out while I was away, by the wild child in the snow,'when she stopped me short (with a glance at Miss Furnivall), and saidMiss Furnivall wanted me to undo some work she had done wrong, andwhich neither of them could see to unpick. So I laid my pretty dear onthe sofa, and sat down on a stool by them, and hardened my heartagainst them, as I heard the wind rising and howling.

  Miss Rosamond slept on sound, for all the wind blew so Miss Furnivallsaid never a word, nor looked round when the gusts shook the windows.All at once she started up to her full height, and put up one hand, asif to bid us to listen.

  'I hear voices!' said she. 'I hear terrible screams--I hear my father'svoice!'

  Just at that moment my darling wakened with a sudden start: 'My littlegirl is crying, oh, how she is crying!' and she tried to get up and goto her, but she got her feet entangled in the blanket, and I caught herup; for my flesh had begun to creep at these noises, which they heardwhile we could catch no sound. In a minute or two the noises came, andgathered fast, and filled our ears; we, too, heard voices and screams,and no longer heard the winter's wind that raged abroad. Mrs. Starklooked at me, and I at her, but we dared not speak. Suddenly MissFurnivall went towards the door, out into the ante-room, through thewest lobby, and opened the door into the great hall. Mrs. Starkfollowed, and I durst not be left, though my heart almost stoppedbeating for fear. I wrapped my darling tight in my arms, and went outwith them. In the hall the screams were louder than ever; they seemedto come from the east wing--nearer and nearer--close on the other sideof the locked-up doors--close behind them. Then I noticed that thegreat bronze chandelier seemed all alight, though the hall was dim, andthat a fire was blazing in the vast hearth-place, though it gave noheat; and I shuddered up with terror, and folded my darling closer tome. But as I did so the east door shook, and she, suddenly strugglingto get free from me, cried, 'Hester! I must go. My little girl isthere! I hear her; she is coming! Hester, I must go!'

  I held her tight with all my strength; with a set will, I held her. IfI had died, my hands would have grasped her still, I was so resolved inmy mind. Miss Furnivall stood listening, and paid no regard to mydarling, who had got down to the ground, and whom I, upon my knees now,was holding with both my arms clasped round her neck; she stillstriving and crying to get free.

  All at once, the east door gave way with a thundering crash, as if tornopen in a violent passion, and there came into that broad andmysterious light, the figure of a tall old man, with grey hair andgleaming eyes. He drove before him, with many a relentless gesture ofabhorrence, a stern and beautiful woman, with a little child clingingto her dress.

  'Oh, Hester! Hester!' cried Miss Rosamond; 'it's the lady! the ladybelow the holly-trees; and my little girl is with her. Hester! Hester!let me go to her; they are drawing me to them. I feel them--I feelthem. I must go!'

  Again she was almost convulsed by her efforts to get away; but I heldher tighter and tighter, till I feared I should do her a hurt; butrather that than let her go towards those terrible phantoms. Theypassed along towards the great hall-door, where the winds howled andravened for their prey; but before they reached that, the lady turned;and I could see that she defied the old man with a fierce and prouddefiance; but then she quailed--and then she threw up her arms wildlyand piteously to save her child--her little child--from a blow from hisuplifted crutch.

  And Miss Rosamond was torn as by a power stronger than mine and writhedin my arms, and sobbed (for by this time the poor darling was growingfaint).

  'They want me to go with them on to the Fells--they are drawing me tothem. Oh, my little girl! I would come, but cruel, wicked Hester holdsme very tight.' But when she saw the uplifted crutch, she swooned away,and I thanked God for it. Just at this moment--when the tall old man,his hair streaming as in the blast of a furnace, was going to strikethe little shrinking child--Miss Furnivall, the old woman by my side,cried out, 'Oh father! father! spare the little innocent child!' Butjust then I saw--we all saw--another phantom shape itself, and growclear out of the blue and misty light that filled the hall; we had notseen her till now, for it was another lady who stood by the old man,with a look of relentless hate and triumphant scorn. That figure wasvery beautiful to look upon, with a soft, white hat drawn down over theproud brows, and a red and curling lip. It was dressed in an open robeof blue satin. I had seen that figure before. It was the likeness ofMiss Furnivall in her youth; and the terrible phantoms moved on,regardless of old Miss Furnivall's wild entreaty,--and the upliftedcrutch fell on the right shoulder of the little child, and the youngersister looked on, stony, and deadly serene. But at that moment, the dimlights, and the fire that gave no heat, went out of themselves, andMiss Furnivall lay at our feet stricken down by the palsy--death-stricken.

  Yes! she was carried to her bed that night never to rise again. She laywith her face to the wall, muttering low, but muttering always: 'Alas!alas! what is done in youth can never be undone in age! What is done inyouth can never be undone in age!'