The Shuttle & The Making of a Marchioness. Frances Hodgson BurnettЧитать онлайн книгу.
But Hester was not inclined to avail herself of the invitation. She made obstacles and delayed acceptance for one reason and another. She was, in fact, all the more reluctant because her husband wished her to make the visit. Their opposed opinions had resulted in one of their scenes.
“I won’t go,” she had said at first. “I tell you I won’t.”
“You will,” he answered. “It will be better for you.”
“Will it be worse for me if I don’t?” she laughed feverishly. “And how will it be better for you if I do? I know you are in it.”
He lost his temper and was indiscreet, as his temper continually betrayed him into being.
“Yes, I am in it,” he said through his teeth, “as you might have the sense to see. Everything is the better for us that throws us with them, and makes them familiar with the thought of us and our rights.”
“Our rights,” the words were a shrill taunt.
“What rights have you, likely to be recognised, unless you kill her. Are you going to kill her?”
He had a moment of insanity.
“I’d kill her and you too if it was safe to do it. You both deserve it!”
He flung across the room, having lost his wits as well as his temper. But a second later both came back to him as in a revulsion of feeling.
“I talk like a melodramatic fool,” he cried. “Oh, Hester, forgive me!” He knelt on the floor by her side, caressing her imploringly. “We both take fire in the same way. We are both driven crazy by this damned blow. We’re beaten; we may as well own it and take what we can get. She’s a fool, but she’s better than that pompous, stiff brute Walderhurst, and she has a lot of pull over him he knows nothing about. The smug animal is falling in love with her in his way. She can make him do the decent thing. Let us keep friends with her.”
“The decent thing would be a thousand a year,” wailed Hester, giving in to his contrition in spite of herself, because she had once been in love with him, and because she was utterly helpless. “Five hundred a year wouldn’t be indecent.”
“Let us keep on her good side,” he said, fondling her, with a relieved countenance. “Tell her you will come and that she is an angel, and that you are sure a visit to the Manor will save your life.”
They went to Palstrey a few days later. Ameerah accompanied them in attendance upon her mistress, and the three settled down into a life so regular that it scarcely seemed to wear the aspect of a visit. The Osborns were given some of the most beautiful and convenient rooms in the house. No other visitors were impending and the whole big place was at their disposal. Hester’s boudoir overlooked the most perfect nooks of garden, and its sweet chintz draperies and cushions and books and flowers made it a luxurious abode of peace.
“What shall I do,” she said on the first evening in it as she sat in a soft chair by the window, looking out at the twilight and talking to Emily. “What shall I do when I must go away?”
“I don’t mean only from here,—I mean away from England, to loathly India.”
“Do you dislike it so?” Emily asked, roused to a new conception of her feeling by her tone.
“I could never describe to you how much,” fiercely. “It is like going to the place which is the opposite of Heaven.”
“I did not know that,” pityingly. “Perhaps—I wonder if something might not be done: I must talk to my husband.”
Ameerah seemed to develop an odd fancy for the society of Jane Cupp, which Jane was obliged to confess to her mistress had a tendency to produce in her system “the creeps.”
“You must try to overcome it, Jane,” Lady Walderhurst said. “I’m afraid it’s because of her colour. I’ve felt a little silly and shy about her myself, but it isn’t nice of us. You ought to read ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ and all about that poor religious Uncle Tom, and Legree, and Eliza crossing the river on the blocks of ice.”
“I have read it twice, your ladyship,” was Jane’s earnestly regretful response, “and most awful it is, and made me and mother cry beyond words. And I suppose it is the poor creature’s colour that’s against her, and I’m trying to be kind to her, but I must own that she makes me nervous. She asks me such a lot of questions in her queer way, and stares at me so quiet. She actually asked me quite sudden the other day if I loved the big Mem Sahib. I didn’t know what she could mean at first, but after a while I found out it was her Indian way of meaning your ladyship, and she didn’t intend disrespect, because she spoke of you most humble afterwards, and called his lordship the Heaven born.”
“Be as kind as you can to her, Jane,” instructed her mistress. “And take her a nice walk occasionally. I daresay she feels very homesick here.”
What Ameerah said to her mistress was that these English servant women were pigs and devils, and could conceal nothing from those who chose to find out things from them. If Jane had known that the Ayah could have told her of every movement she made during the day or night, of her up-gettings and down-lyings, of the hour and moment of every service done for the big Mem Sahib, of why and how and when and where each thing was done, she would have been frightened indeed.
One day, it is true, she came into Lady Walderhurst’s sleeping apartment to find Ameerah standing in the middle of it looking round its contents with restless, timid, bewildered eyes. She wore, indeed, the manner of an alarmed creature who did not know how she had got there.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Jane. “You have no right in this part of the house. You’re taking a great liberty, and your mistress will be angry.”
“My Mem Sahib asked for a book,” the Ayah quite shivered in her alarmed confusion. “Your Mem Sahib said it was here. They did not order me, but I thought I would come to you. I did not know it was forbidden.”
“What was the book?” inquired Jane severely. “I will take it to her ladyship.”
But Ameerah was so frightened that she had forgotten the name, and when Jane knocked at the door of Mrs. Osborn’s boudoir, it was empty, both the ladies having gone into the garden.
But Ameerah’s story was quite true, Lady Walderhurst said in the evening when Jane spoke of the matter as she dressed her for dinner. They had been speaking of a book containing records of certain historical Walderhursts. It was one Emily had taken from the library to read in her bedroom.
“We did not ask her to go for it. In fact I did not know the woman was within hearing. She moves about so noiselessly one frequently does not know when she is near. Of course she meant very well, but she does not know our English ways.”
“No, my lady, she does not,” said Jane, respectfully but firmly. “I took the liberty of telling her she must keep to her own part of the house unless required by your ladyship.”
“You mustn’t frighten the poor creature,” laughed her mistress. She was rather touched indeed by the slavish desire to please and do service swiftly which the Ayah’s blunder seemed to indicate. She had wished to save her mistress even the trouble of giving the order. That was her Oriental way, Emily thought, and it was very affectionate and childlike.
Being reminded of the book again, she carried it down herself into the drawing-room. It was a volume she was fond of because it recorded romantic stories of certain noble dames of Walderhurst lineage.
Her special predilection was a Dame Ellena, who, being left with but few servitors in attendance during her lord’s absence from his castle on a foraging journey into an enemy’s country, had defended the stronghold boldly against the attack of a second enemy who had adroitly seized the opportunity to forage for himself. In the cellars had been hidden treasure recently acquired by the usual means, and knowing this, Dame Ellena had done splendid deeds, marshalling her small forces in such way as deceived the attacking party and showing herself in scorn upon the