Читать книгу A Mad Marriage - May Agnes Fleming - Страница 4

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t lay down in a sort of hollow, the hillside sloping up behind, crowned with dark pine woods, shut in by four grim wooden walls, two dark windows, like scowling eyes, to be seen from the path, and was known to all as "the house that wouldn't let."

It stood neither on street nor high road. You left the town behind you—the queer, fortified, Frenchified town of Quebec; you passed through St. John's Gate, through St. John's street-outside-the-gate, to the open country, and, a mile on, you came upon a narrow, winding path, that seemed straggling out of sight, and trying to hide itself among the dwarf cedars and spruces. Following this for a quarter of a mile, passing one or two small stone cabins, you came full upon Saltmarsh—this house that wouldn't let.

It was an ugly place—a ramshackle place, the lonesomest place you could see, but still why it wouldn't let was not so clear.

The rent was merely nominal. Mr. Barteaux, its owner, kept it in very good repair. There was a large vegetable garden attached, where, if you were of an agricultural turn, you might have made your rent twice over. There was game in the woods; trout in the ice-cold brooks; but no venturous sportsman took up his abode at Saltmarsh. It wasn't even haunted; it looked rather like that sort of thing, but nobody ever went exactly so far as to affirm that it was. No ghastly corpse-lights ever glimmered from those dull upper windows, no piercing shrieks ever rent the midnight silence, no spectre lady, white and tall, ever flitted through the desolate rooms of Saltmarsh. No murder had ever been done there; no legend of any kind was connected with the place, its history was prosy and commonplace to a degree. Yet still, year in, year out, the inscription remained up over the dingy wooden gateway, this house to be let; and no tenant ever came.

"Tom Grimshaw must have been mad when he built the beastly old barn," the present proprietor would growl; "what with taxes, and repairs, and insurance, there it stands, eating its own head off, and there it may stand, for what I see, to the crack of doom. One would think the very trees that surround it say, in their warning dreariness, as the sentinels of Helheim used in Northern mythology:

"'Who passes here is damned.'"

If this strong language rouses your curiosity, and you asked the proprietor the history of the house, you got it terse and lucid, thus:

"Old Tom Grimshaw built it, sir. Old Tom Grimshaw was my maternal uncle, rest his soul; it is to be hoped he has more sense in the other world than he ever had in this. He was a misogynist, sir, of the rabidest sort, hating a petticoat as you and I hate the devil. Don't know what infernal mischief the women had ever done him—plenty, no doubt; it is what they were created for. The fact remains—the sight of one had much the same effect upon him as a red scarf on a mad bull. He bought this marshy spot for a song, built that disgustingly ugly house, barricaded himself with that timber wall, and lived and died there, like Diogenes, or Robinson Crusoe, or any other old bloke you like. As heir-at-law, the old rattle-trap fell to me, and a precious legacy it has been, I can tell you. It won't rent, and it has to be kept in repair, and I wish to Heaven old Tom Grimshaw had taken it with him, wherever he is!"

That was the history of Saltmarsh. For eight years it was to be let, and hadn't let, and that is where the matter began and ended.

Gray, lonely, weather-beaten, so I had seen the forlorn house any time these twenty years; so this evening of which I am to write I saw it again, with the mysterious shadow of desolation brooding over it, those two upper windows frowning down—sullen eyes set in its sullen, silent face. From childhood it had had its fascination for me—it had been my Bluebeard's castle, my dread, my delight. As I grew older, this fascinating horror grew with my growth, and at seven-and-twenty it held me with as powerful a spell as it had done at seven.

It was a cold and overcast February afternoon. An icy blast swept up from the great frozen gulf, over the heights of Quebec, over the bleak, treeless road, along which I hurried in the teeth of the wind. In the west a stormy and lurid sunset was fading out—fierce reds and brazen yellows paling into sullen gray. One long fiery lance of that wrathful sunset, slanting down the pines, struck those upper windows of Saltmarsh, and lit them into sheets of copper gold.

I was in a hurry—I was the bearer of ill news—and ill news travels apace. It was bitterly cold, as I have said, and snow was falling. I had still half a mile of lonesome high road to travel, and night was at hand; but the spell of Saltmarsh, that had never failed to hold me yet, held me again. I stood still and looked at it; at those two red cyclopean eyes, those black stacks of chimneys, its whole forbidding, scowling front.

"It is like a house under a curse," I thought; "a dozen murders might be done inside those wooden walls, and no one be the wiser. Will any human being ever call Saltmarsh home again, I wonder?"

"This house is to let?"

I am not nervous as a rule, but as a soft voice spoke these words at my elbow, I jumped. I had heard no sound, yet now a woman stood at my side, on the snow-beaten path.

"I beg your pardon; I have startled you, I am afraid. I have been here for some time looking at this house. I see it is to let."

I stepped back and looked at her, too much surprised for a moment to speak. To meet a stranger at Saltmarsh, in the twilight of a bitter February day, was a marvel indeed.

I stood and looked at her; and I thought then, as I think now, as I will think to the last day of my life, that I saw one of the most beautiful faces on which the sun ever shone.

I have said she was a woman—a girl would have been the fitter word; whatever her age might have been, she did not look a day over seventeen. She was not tall, and she was very slender; that may have given her that peculiarly childish look—I am a tall young woman, and she would not have reached my shoulder. A dress of black silk trailed the ground, a short jacket of finest seal wrapped her, a muff of seal held her hands. A hood of black velvet was on her head, and out of this rich hood her richer beauty shone upon me, a new revelation of how lovely it is possible for a woman to be. Years have come and gone since that evening, but the wonderful face that looked at me that February twilight, for the first time, is before me at this moment, as vividly as then. Two great, tawny eyes, with a certain wildness in their light, a skin of pearl, a red mouth like a child's, a low forehead, a straight nose, a cleft chin, the gleam of small, white teeth, rise before me like a vision, and I understand how men, from the days of Samson the Strong, have lain down life and honor, and their soul's salvation, for just such women as this. Surely a strange visitant to the house that wouldn't let, and in the last hour of the day.

All this in a moment of time, while we stand and face each other. Then the soft voice speaks again, with a touch of impatient annoyance in its tone:

"I beg your pardon. You heard me? This house is to let?"

I point to the sign, to the legend and inscription affixed to the gate, and read it stoically aloud: "This house to be let."

"Evidently my lady is not used to being kept waiting," I think, "whoever she is."

"Yes, yes, I see that," she says, still impatiently; "there is no one living in it at present, is there?"

"Madame," I say, briefly, "no one has lived there for eight years."

The wonderful tawny black eyes, almost orange in some lights, and whose like I have never seen but in one other face, dilate a little as they turn from me to the dead, silent house.

"Why?" she asks.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Need one ask that question, madame, after looking at the house? Who would care to live in so lonely, so lost a place as that?"

"I would. No one would ever think of coming here."

She made the answer almost under her breath, more to herself than to me, her pale face turned toward the house.

Its pallor struck me now, not the pallor of ill health, or of natural complexion, but such fixed whiteness, as some extraordinary terror may once in a lifetime blanch a human face.

"No one would ever think of coming here," I repeated, inwardly. "I should think not indeed. Are you in hiding then, my beautiful young lady, and afraid of being found out? You are lovelier than anything out of a frame. You are one of the rich and elect of the earth, or you would not be dressed like that, but who are you, and what are you doing here alone and at this hour?"

The last red light of the sunset had entirely faded away. Cold, gray, and overcast the wintry sky spread above us like a pall, and over Cape Diamond, with its citadel crown, swept the icy wind from the frozen St. Lawrence. One or two white flakes came sifting down from the fast drifting sky—night and storm were falling together, and it was still half a mile to my home.

"If you desire any information about this place, madame," I said, "you had better apply to Mr. Barteaux, No. — St. Louis Street, Quebec; he is the present owner. It is to let, and he will be very glad of a tenant. Good-evening."

She made no reply, she did not even seem to have heard. She stood, her hands in her muff, her eyes fixed with a strangely sombre intensity on the blank wooden wall, her profile gleaming cold and white in the steely twilight. I know little of passion or despair, but surely it was most passionate despair I read in those fixed, sightless eyes.

I turned and left her. I was interested of course, but it would not do, to stand mooning here and let night overtake me. Once, as I hurried along the deserted road, I looked back. The small lonely figure still stood as I had left it, motionless, a black speck against the chill darkness of the wintry sky.

"Something wrong there," I thought; "I wonder who she is and what has brought her here. None of the officers' wives or daughters—I have seen all of them at the major's. One thing is certain, Mr. Barteaux will never rent Saltmarsh to a slip of a girl like that."

And then the mysterious young lady and all connected with her slipped from my mind, for the red light from my mother's cottage streamed far afield, and the ill tidings I was bringing home filled my whole thoughts.

In this strange record which it becomes my duty to write, a few words of myself must be said, and may as well be said here and done with. I was Joan Kennedy then, and am Joan Kennedy still. I was seven-and-twenty years of age, and the sole support of a feeble old mother and a sister of twelve. My mother who had been a governess in her youth, and in her native city of Glasgow, had educated me considerably above the station I filled, giving me a very thorough English education, and teaching me to speak French with a fine Scottish accent. At my father's death, ten years before, I went out to service, and in service I had remained ever since. This night, as I hastened homeward through the snowy darkness, my errand was to tell my mother and sister that I had lost my place, and had no present prospect of being able to get another. That is Joan Kennedy's whole past and present history, so far as you need know it.

The darkness was all white with whirling snow as I opened the cottage door and entered. All was bright and cosy here. A large red fire burned on the hearth, the tea table was spread, a little snub-nosed teapot wafted its incense alow and aloft, my mother sat knitting in the ingle nook, and my pretty sister Jessie sang, as she stitched away, at the table. At sight of their snow-powdered visitor both dropped their work in amaze.

"Joan!" Then Jessie's arms were around my neck, and my mother's poor old face lit up with delight; "Joan! in this storm, and at this time of night and alone! Are you alone, Joan?"

"Who is likely to be with me, little Jess? Yes, I am alone; and you are likely to have more of my delectable society than perhaps may prove pleasant or profitable. Mother dear, I have lost my place."

"Joan!"

"I am not to blame, mother, believe that. Only (it is not a pleasant thing to tell) Mrs. Englehart has taken it into that supremely foolish head of hers to be jealous of me—of poor, plain Joan Kennedy! The major, a kind old soul, has spoken a friendly word or two in passing and—behold the result! Don't let us talk about it. I'll start out to-morrow morning and search all Quebec, and get a situation or perish in the attempt. And now, Mistress Jessie, I'll take a cup of tea."

I threw off my shawl and bonnet, laughing for fear I should break down and cry, and took my seat. As I did so, there came a loud knock at the door. So loud, that Jessie nearly dropped the snub-nosed teapot.

"Good gracious, Joan! who is this?"

I walked to the door and opened it—then fell back aghast. For firelight and candlelight streamed full across the face of the lady I had seen at the House to Let.

"May I come in?"

She did not wait for permission. She walked in past me, straight to the fire, and stood before it. Furs and silks were coated with the fast-falling snow. She drew her hands out of her muff, tossed it aside, drew off her gloves, and held to the blaze two small white hands, all twinkling with rings. Mother sat speechlessly gazing at this dazzling apparition. Jessie stood with eyes and mouth agape, and my own heart, I must confess, fluttered nervously as I looked. Who was she, and what did she want? For fully a minute she stood staring at the fire, then feeling that some one must say something, I took heart of grace, and said it.

"You have been caught in the snow-storm," I ventured, drawing near. "I was afraid you would. Will you please to sit down?"

She took no notice of the proffered politeness. The tawny eyes turned from the fire to my face.

"Will you tell me your name?" was the strange young lady's abrupt question.

"Joan Kennedy."

"You are a single woman?"

"I am, madame."

"You live here—in this house, with——" a pause and a stare at mother and Jessie.

"With my mother and sister—yes, at present. As a rule I live at service in Quebec."

"In service?" Another pause and a stare at me. "Joan Kennedy, would you live with me?"

This was a leading question with a vengeance. "With you, madame?" I gasped.

"With me. I want a maid, a companion, what you will. Wages are no object—to a trustworthy person. I will give anything she asks. I am all alone—all alone—" her lips trembled, her voice died away; "all alone in the world. I have had great trouble and I want some quiet place to live—some quiet person to live with me, for awhile. I am going to take that house to let. I was overtaken by the storm, just now, and followed you here, instead of going back to the hotel. I like your face—you look as though you may have had trouble yourself, and so could feel for others. I wish you would come and live with me. I have told you I am in dreadful trouble—" she paused, a sort of anguish coming over her face: "I have lost my husband," she said with a great gasp, and covering her face with both hands broke out into such a dreadful crying as I never heard or saw before.

"Oh, poor dear!" said my mother. For me, I stood still and looked at her. What could I say—what could I do? Great sobs shook her from head to foot. A widow! I glanced at her left hand. Yes, there among the diamonds gleamed that plain band of gold that has brought infinite bliss or misery to millions of women—a wedding ring. It lasted not two minutes. Almost fiercely she dashed away her tears and looked up.

"My name is Mrs. Gordon," she said; "as I tell you, I am all alone. I came to Quebec yesterday, I saw that house advertised, and so came to see it. It suits me, and I will take it for the next six months at least. Some one must live with me there. I like your looks. Will you come?"

Would I come? would I live in the House to Let? I stood gasping—the proposal was like a cold douche—it took my breath away.

"I will pay any wages to a suitable person—any wages," emphatically this; "and in advance. It is a lonely place, it suits me the better for that, and you don't look like a young woman afraid of bogies. If you won't come," haughtily, "of course I shall find some one else."

"I—I have not refused," I gasped; "—it's all so sudden. You must let me think it over. I will tell you to-morrow."

Her mood changed—she lifted a face to mine that was like the helpless, appealing face of a child—she held up two clasped hands.

"Do come," she said piteously; "I will pay you anything—anything! I only want to be quiet for awhile, and away from everybody. I am all alone in the world. I have lost my husband—lost him—lost him—"

"The lady is going to faint!" screamed Jessie.

Sure enough! whether the heat of the fire had overcome her, or the "dreadful trouble" of which she spoke had broken her down, she swayed unsteadily to and fro, the words dying on her lips, and I caught her as she fell.

So it was that the first tenant of the House to Let came into my home, and into my life, to change it utterly from that hour.