"Oh dear no, Ma'am! rather idiotic; always thought so from her dreadful stubbornness."
"Sad," sighed Miss Murray, "but quiet at least. Good evening, Sarah.
Abby, pray keep a look-out for that dreadful boy: my nerves are unusually weak."
The two servants left on tiptoe, and softly closed the door. I remained alone with Miss Murray.
"My dear," she began, "I hope you are not going to fret; it would be so unchristian. I have lost a kind father, an invaluable mother, an affectionate aunt, the dearest of brothers--" The list was interrupted by the door which opened very gently, to admit a lad of eleven or twelve, tall, strong, fair-headed, rather handsome, but looking as rough and rude as a young bear. This was her nephew William. His father had died some six months before bequeathing him to the guardianship of his aunt, who immediately committed him to school for bad behaviour, and to whom his periodical visits, during the holidays, were a source of acute distress.
On seeing him enter, Miss Murray turned up her eyes like one prepared for anything, and faintly observed, "William, have you seen Abby?"
"Yes," was his sulky reply.
"Then let me beseech you," she pathetically rejoined, "to respect my feelings and those of this dear child."
He looked at me, but never answered. She continued, "Don't behave like a young savage,--if you can help it," she kindly added.
William scowled at his aunt, and thrust his hands into his pockets by way of reply.
"You have passed through the same trial," pursued Miss Murray, "and, though I cannot say that your language has always been sufficiently respectful towards the memory of my lamented brother--"
"Why did he leave me to petticoat government?" angrily interrupted William; "you don't think I am going to be trodden down by a lot of women. I come in singing, not knowing anything, and Abby calls me a laughing hyena; and I am scarcely in the room before you set me down as a savage! I won't--there!"
This must have meant something, for Miss Murray bewailed her unhappy fate, whilst William doggedly sat down by the table, across which he darted surly glances at me.
"I do not mean to reproach the memory of my dearest brother," feelingly began Miss Murray, "but really if he had had any consideration for me, and my weak state, he ought to have taken more care of himself, and tried to live longer. William, what do you mean by those atrocious grimaces?"
"I wish she wouldn't;" said William, whose features worked in a very extraordinary manner; "I wish she wouldn't."
Miss Murray followed the direction of his glance, and looked round to where I sat a little behind her.
"I declare the unfortunate child is crying," she exclaimed, in a tone of distress,--"sobbing too! William, ring the bell,--call Abby. My dear, how can you? Oh! Abby, Abby," she added, as the door opened, and Abby entered, "look--is there no way of stopping that?"
"Doesn't she cry though?" observed Abby, astonished.
I had bowed my head on my knees, and I wept and sobbed passionately. Miss Murray, after vainly asking for the means "of stopping that," declared I should go to bed. I made no resistance; Abby took my hand to lead me away; when William, exclaiming, "It's a burning shame, that's what it is," flew at her and attempted a rescue. A scuffle followed, short but decisive. William was ignominiously conquered; he retreated behind the table, his hair in great disorder, his face crimson with shame.
"Oh! the young tiger!" cried Abby, still out of breath with her victory; "that boy will end badly, Ma'am!"
William gave her a look of scorn. Miss Murray, who had wheeled back her chair, from the commencement of the conflict, observed, with feeling reproach, "William, you shall go back to school to-morrow. Abby, put that child to bed; allow me to suggest the passage for your next battle."
Abby slammed the door indignantly, and muttering she would not fight in a passage for any one, she took me to her room, undressed me, and put me to bed. My weeping had not ceased.
"Come, Miss," she said, a little roughly, "crying is no use, you know."
She stooped to give me a kiss; I turned away with passionate sorrow. What was to me the caress of a stranger on the night that had deprived me for ever of my father's embrace?
"Proud little hussy!" she exclaimed, half angrily.
With this she left me. Ere long she returned, and lay down by my side; she was soon breathing hard and loud. I silently cried myself to sleep.
I awoke the next morning, subdued by grief into a mute apathy that delighted Miss Murray when I went down to breakfast, and made her hold me up as a model to her nephew.
He replied with great disgust, "He was not going to make a girl of himself, to please her and Abby."
"But you could respect the child's feelings by remaining silent,"
remonstrated his aunt, gently sipping her tea.
"Why don't you eat?" asked William, addressing me.
"I am not hungry."
"All children are not voracious, like you, William," said Miss Murray.
"Have you got an aunt?" he inquired, ignoring her remark.
"No!" I answered laconically, for his questions wearied me.
"Lucky!" he replied, with a look and sigh of envy.
"Dreadful!" murmured Miss Murray, putting down her cup,--"not twelve yet; dreadful!"
"Who is to take care of you?" continued William.
Miss Murray was one of the many good-natured persons who dislike uncomfortable facts and questions. She nervously exclaimed, "Do not mind him, my dear!"
"Don't you like them?" pursued William.
I gave him no reply.
"Quite right," approvingly observed Miss Murray; "take example of that child, William."
"She is a sulky little monkey!" he indignantly exclaimed, and, until his departure, which took place in the course of the day, he spoke no more to me.
A week passed; the only incident it produced was that I was clad in mourning from head to foot. I continued to charm Miss Murray by a listless apathy, which increased every day. I either sat in the parlour looking at her sewing, or in a little back garden, on a low wooden bench near the door. Once there, I moved no more until called in by Abby. Thus she and Sarah found me late one afternoon, at the close of the week. I took no notice of their approach. They looked at me, and sagaciously nodded their heads at one another. A mysterious dialogue followed.
"Eh?" inquiringly said Sarah.
"Yes!" emphatically replied Abby.
"Never!" exclaimed Sarah.
"Oh dear, no!" was the decisive answer.
Sarah sighed, sat down by me, asked me how I was; if I knew her; and other questions of the sort. I neither looked at her nor replied. She rose, held herself up as a warning to Abby "not to place her affections on Master William;" to which Abby indignantly replied "there was no fear;" then solemnly forgave me my ingratitude.
As they re-entered the house, I thought I heard the voice of Cornelius O'Reilly in the passage. My apathy vanished as if by magic. I was roused and rebellious. Cornelius O'Reilly had not come near me since my father's death: at once I guessed his errand was to take me away with him. I looked around me: a back door afforded means of escape; I opened it, slipped out unperceived, then glided along a lonely lane. In a few minutes I had reached Rock Cottage, unseen and unmissed.
The home is an instinct of the heart, and as the wounded bird flies to its nest, I fled for refuge to the dwelling which had sheltered me so long.
The garden-gate stood open, but the front door and windows were shut. I went round to the back of the house; my heart sank to find that there too all was closed and silent. I sat down on the last of the stone steps, vaguely hoping that some one would open and let me in. I listened for the coming of a foot, for the tones of a voice; but sounds of life there were none. Above me bent a lowering sky, sullen and dark; the wind had risen; the pine-trees at the end of the garden bent before the blast, then rose again, seeming to send forth a low and wild lament; the tide was coming in, and the broken dash of the waves against the base of the cliff was followed by their receding murmur, full and deep.