Stories in Light and Shadow by Bret Harte (classic books for 10 year olds txt) 📕

“Not a word more,” said Miss Desborough; “except,” she added,— checking her smile with a weary gesture,—“except that I want to leave this dreadful place at once! There! don’t ask me any more!”

There could be no doubt of the girl’s sincerity. Nor was it the extravagant caprice of a petted idol. What had happened? He might have believed in a lovers’ quarrel, but he knew that she and Lord Algernon could have had no private interview that evening. He must perforce accept her silence, yet he could not help saying:—

“You seemed to like the place so much last night. I say, you haven’t seen the Priory ghost, have you?”

“The Priory ghost,” she said quickly. “What’s that?”

“The old monk who passes through the cloisters with the sacred oil, the bell, and the smell of incense whenever any one is to die here. By Jove! it would have been a good story to tell instead of this cock-and-bull one about your property. And there WAS a death here to-day. You’d have added the sibyl’s gifts to your other charms.”

“Tell me about that old man,” she said, looking past him out of the window. “I was at his cottage this morning. But, no! first let us go out. You can take me for a walk, if you like. You see I am all ready, and I’m just stifling here.”

They descended to the terrace together. “Where would you like to go?” he asked.

“To the village. I may want to telegraph, you know.”

They turned into the avenue, but Miss Desborough stopped.

“Is there not a shorter cut across the fields,” she asked, “over there?”

“There is,” said the consul.

They both turned into the footpath which led to the farm and stile. After a pause she said, “Did you ever talk with that poor old man?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know if he really was crazy, as they think.”

“No. But they may have thought an old man’s forgetfulness of present things and his habit of communing with the past was insanity. For all that he was a plucky, independent old fellow, with a grim purpose that was certainly rational.”

“I suppose in his independence he would not have taken favors from these people, or anybody?”

“I should think not.”

“Don’t you think it was just horrid—their leaving him alone in the rain, when he might have been only in a fit?”

“The doctor says he died suddenly of heart disease,” said the consul. “It might have happened at any moment and without warning.”

“Ah, that was the coroner’s verdict, then,” said Miss Desborough quickly.

“The coroner did not think it necessary to have any inquest after Lord Beverdale’s statement. It wouldn’t have been very joyous for the Priory party. And I dare say he thought it might not be very cheerful for YOU.”

“How very kind!” said the young girl, with a quick laugh. “But do you know that it’s about the only thing human, original, and striking that has happened in this place since I’ve been here! And so unexpected, considering how comfortably everything is ordered here beforehand.”

“Yet you seemed to like that kind of thing very well, last evening,” said the consul mischievously.

“That was last night,” retorted Miss Desborough; “and you know the line, ‘Colors seen by candlelight do not look the same by day.’ But I’m going to be very consistent to-day, for I intend to go over to that poor man’s cottage again, and see if I can be of any service. Will you go with me?”

“Certainly,” said the consul, mystified by his companion’s extraordinary conduct, yet apparent coolness of purpose, and hoping for some further explanation. Was she only an inexperienced flirt who had found herself on the point of a serious entanglement she had not contemplated? Yet even then he knew she was clever enough to extricate herself in some other way than this abrupt and brutal tearing through the meshes. Or was it possible that she really had any intelligence affecting her property? He reflected that he knew very little of the Desboroughs, but on the other hand he knew that Beverdale knew them much better, and was a prudent man. He had no right to demand her confidence as a reward for his secrecy; he must wait her pleasure. Perhaps she would still explain; women seldom could resist the triumph of telling the secret that puzzled others.

When they reached the village she halted before the low roof of Debs’s cottage. “I had better go in first,” she said; “you can come in later, and in the meantime you might go to the station for me and find out the exact time that the express train leaves for the north.”

“But,” said the astonished consul, “I thought you were going to London?”

“No,” said Miss Desborough quietly, “I am going to join some friends at Harrogate.”

“But that train goes much earlier than the train south, and—and I’m afraid Lord Beverdale will not have returned so soon.”

“How sad!” said Miss Desborough, with a faint smile, “but we must bear up under it, and—I’ll write him. I will be here until you return.”

She turned away and entered the cottage. The granddaughter she had already seen and her sister, the servant at the Priory, were both chatting comfortably, but ceased as she entered, and both rose with awkward respect. There was little to suggest that the body of their grandfather, already in a rough oak shell, was lying upon trestles beside them.

“You have carried out my orders, I see,” said Miss Desborough, laying down her parasol.

“Ay, miss; but it was main haard gettin’ et dooan so soon, and et cooast”—

“Never mind the cost. I’ve given you money enough, I think, and if I haven’t, I guess I can give you more.”

“Ay, miss! Abbut the pa’son ‘ead gi’ un a funeral for nowt.”

“But I understood you to say,” said Miss Desborough, with an impatient flash of eye, “that your grandfather wished to be buried with his kindred in the north?”

“Ay, miss,” said the girl apologetically, “an naw ‘ees savit th’ munny. Abbut e’d bean tickled ‘ad ‘ee knowed it! Dear! dear! ‘ee niver thowt et ‘ud be gi’en by stranger an’ not ‘es ownt fammaly.”

“For all that, you needn’t tell anybody it was given by ME,” said Miss Desborough. “And you’ll be sure to be ready to take the train this afternoon—without delay.” There was a certain peremptoriness in her voice very unlike Miss Amelyn’s, yet apparently much more effective with the granddaughter.

“Ay, miss. Then, if tha’ll excoose mea, I’ll go streight to ‘oory oop sexten.”

She bustled away. “Now,” said Miss Desborough, turning to the other girl, “I shall take the same train, and will probably see you on the platform at York to give my final directions. That’s all. Go and see if the gentleman who came with me has returned from the station.”

The girl obeyed. Left entirely alone, Miss Desborough glanced around the room, and then went quietly up to the unlidded coffin. The repose of death had softened the hard lines of the old man’s mouth and brow into a resemblance she now more than ever understood. She had stood thus only a few years before, looking at the same face in a gorgeously inlaid mahogany casket, smothered amidst costly flowers, and surrounded by friends attired in all the luxurious trappings of woe; yet it was the same face that was now rigidly upturned to the bare thatch and rafters of that crumbling cottage, herself its only companion. She lifted her delicate veil with both hands, and, stooping down, kissed the hard, cold forehead, without a tremor. Then she dropped her veil again over her dry eyes, readjusted it in the little, cheap, black-framed mirror that hung against the wall, and opened the door as the granddaughter returned. The gentleman was just coming from the station.

“Remember to look out for me at York,” said Miss Desborough, extending her gloved hand. “Good-by till then.” The young girl respectfully touched the ends of Miss Desborough’s fingers, dropped a curtsy, and Miss Desborough rejoined the consul.

“You have barely time to return to the Priory and see to your luggage,” said the consul, “if you must go. But let me hope that you have changed your mind.”

“I have not changed my mind,” said Miss Desborough quietly, “and my baggage is already packed.” After a pause, she said thoughtfully, “I’ve been wondering”—

“What?” said the consul eagerly.

“I’ve been wondering if people brought up to speak in a certain dialect, where certain words have their own significance and color, and are part of their own lives and experience—if, even when they understand another dialect, they really feel any sympathy with it, or the person who speaks it?”

“Apropos of”—asked the consul.

“These people I’ve just left! I don’t think I quite felt with them, and I guess they didn’t feel with me.”

“But,” said the consul laughingly, “you know that we Americans speak with a decided dialect of our own, and attach the same occult meaning to it. Yet, upon my word, I think that Lord Beverdale—or shall I say Lord Algernon?—would not only understand that American word ‘guess’ as you mean it, but would perfectly sympathize with you.”

Miss Desborough’s eyes sparkled even through her veil as she glanced at her companion and said, “I GUESS NOT.”

As the “tea” party had not yet returned, it fell to the consul to accompany Miss Desborough and her maid to the station. But here he was startled to find a collection of villagers upon the platform, gathered round two young women in mourning, and an ominous-looking box. He mingled for a moment with the crowd, and then returned to Miss Desborough’s side.

“Really,” he said, with a concern that was scarcely assumed, “I ought not to let you go. The omens are most disastrous! You came here to a death; you are going away with a funeral!”

“Then it’s high time I took myself off!” said the lady lightly.

“Unless, like the ghostly monk, you came here on a mission, and have fulfilled it.”

“Perhaps I have. Good-by!”

… …

In spite of the bright and characteristic letter which Miss Desborough left for her host,—a letter which mingled her peculiar shrewd sense with her humorous extravagance of expression,—the consul spent a somewhat uneasy evening under the fire of questions that assailed him in reference to the fair deserter. But he kept loyal faith with her, adhering even to the letter of her instructions, and only once was goaded into more active mendacity. The conversation had turned upon “Debs,” and the consul had remarked on the singularity of the name. A guest from the north observed, however, that the name was undoubtedly a contraction. “Possibly it might have been ‘Debborough,’ or even the same name as our fair friend.”

“But didn’t Miss Desborough tell you last night that she had been hunting up her people, with a family tree, or something like that?” said Lord Algernon eagerly. “I just caught a word here and there, for you were both laughing.”

The consul smiled blandly. “You may well say so, for it was all the most delightful piece of pure invention and utter extravagance. It would have amused her still more if she had thought you were listening and took it seriously!”

“Of course; I see!” said the young fellow, with a laugh and a slight rise of color. “I knew she was taking some kind of a rise out of YOU, and that remark reminded me of it.”

Nevertheless, within a