"If Miss Grainger had my spirit," loftily replied Mrs. Digby, "she would now be a countess of the realm, Mrs. Marks; and if she had been guided by me, she would at least be the wife of the handsomest gentleman I ever saw."
"Edward Thornton! the heir-at-law! Pooh! Mrs. Digby! he has not a penny, and Mr. Thornton won't die just yet."
"He is very handsome," spiritedly returned Mrs. Digby; "but, as I said, if Miss Grainger will put herself in the hands of Mrs. Brand, why she must bear with the consequences, Mrs. Marks."
So saying, Mrs. Digby for the first time turned towards me. She was a thin, fair, faded woman, attired in a light blue dress, which, like its wearer, was rather _pass?e_. She sat by the table, with the tip of her elbow resting on the edge; drooping in a graceful willow-like attitude, she raised a tortoise-shell eye-glass to her eyes, examined me through it, then dropping it with lady-like grace, sighed forth--
"How do you feel, darling?"
I was proud, more proud than shy; I resented being left to the subordinates of my grandfather's household, and did not choose to answer.
Mrs. Marks spared me the trouble.
"You might as well talk to the cat, Mrs. Digby. Children," she added, giving me an impressive look of her dull eyes, "are, up to a certain age, little animal creatures: they have speech, sensation, but neither thought nor feeling. Mr. Marks and I would never have anything to do with them."
"Oh! Mrs. Marks! a baby?"
"Have you ever had one?"
Mrs. Digby reddened, and asked for an explanation. Mrs. Marks asked to know if there had not been a Mr. Digby? No. But there might have been a Mr. Wilkinson, two Messrs. Jones--Mr. Thompson was coming on, and Mr.
John Smith was looming in the distance, when Mrs. Marks interrupted the series by pouring out the tea. I sat between the two ladies, but I ate nothing.
"That child won't live," observed Mrs. Marks at the close of her own hearty meal; "she is a puny thing for her age; besides it is not natural in such an essentially physical creature as a child not to eat; why don't you eat, Anna?"
I looked at her and spoke for the first time: "My name is not Anna."
"What is your name, then?--your Christian name, by which I am to call you?"
I did not relish the prospect of being called by my Christian name, for, as I have already said, I was a proud child, so I did not reply.
"Unable to answer a plain question!" observed Mrs. Marks, bespeaking the attention of Mrs. Digby with her raised forefinger; "does not know its own name!"
"My name is Miss Burns," I said indignantly.
"Does not know the difference between a surname and a Christian name!"
continued Mrs. Marks, commenting on my obtuseness. "Come," she charitably added, to aid the efforts of my infant mind, "are we to call you Jane, Louisa, Mary Lucy, Alice?"
I remained silent.
"This looks like obstinacy," remarked Mrs. Marks, in a tone of discovery.
"Let us reason like rational beings," she added, forgetting I was only a little animal: "if I don't know your Christian name, how am I to call you?"
"Sarah never called me by my Christian name," I bluntly replied.
"Miss Burns," solemnly inquired Mrs. Marks, "do you mean to establish a parallel? May I know who and what you take me for?"
"You are the housekeeper," I answered.
Alas! why has the plain truth the power of offending so many people besides Mrs. Marks, and who, like her, too, scorn to attribute their wrath to its true cause?
"You have been asked for your Christian name," she said, irefully; "with unparalleled obstinacy you have refused to tell it; you shall be called Burns, and go to bed at once."
The sentence was immediately carried into effect; I was taken to the next room, undressed, and hoisted up into the tall four-posted bedstead which nightly received Mrs Marks, and left there to darkness and my reflections. But no punishment from those I did not love ever had affected me. I was soon fast asleep.
Memory is a succession of vivid pictures and sudden blanks. I remember my first evening at Thornton House more distinctly than the incidents of last week, but the days that followed it are wrapt in a dim mist. But much that then seemed mysterious on account of my ignorance, I have since learned to understand.
My grandfather was a country gentleman of good family, but of eccentric character. He had from a youth devoted himself to science, and renounced the world. I believe he knew and studied everything, but his learning led to no result, save that of diminishing a fortune which had never been very ample, and of burdening still more heavily his encumbered estate. I have often thought what a dull life my poor mother must have led with him in that gloomy old house, and I can scarcely wonder that, when a man, young, amiable, and rather good-looking than plain, was imprudently thrown in her way, she knew not how to resist the temptation of love and liberty.
Mr. Thornton never forgave them. Soon after the elopement of his daughter he went abroad on some scientific errand, leaving his property to the care of lawyers, and his house to Mrs. Marks, the widow of a scientific man, whom he had taken for his housekeeper. He returned to Leigh about the time of my father's death, unaltered in temper or feelings. Wrapt in his books and studies, he went nowhere and saw no one. Fate having chosen to burden him with two feminine guests--his niece and myself--he did his best to elude the penalty, by keeping away from us both.
Miss Grainger's sojourn at Thornton House was caused by an indiscretion, in which beautiful young ladies will sometimes indulge. She had chosen to divert from the plain daughter of an aunt, with whom she resided, the affections of her betrothed; who was also my grandfather's heir. Edward Thornton lost his intended and her ten thousand pounds, and the beautiful Edith exchanged a luxurious abode and fashionable life for Thornton House and the society of her uncle. A rose and an owl would have been as well matched. Mr. Thornton shunned his niece with all his might; and, not being able to forgive her the sin of her birth, he saw still less of his grand-daughter.
A room near that of Mrs. Marks was fitted up for me. There I spent my days, occasionally enlivened by the sound of her alarum-bell; my old books and playthings my only company. Even childish errors win their retribution. I had been an exclusive, unsociable child, caring but for one being, and contemning every other affection and companionship; no one now cared for me. Miss Murray sent me my things, and troubled herself about nothing else; my grandfather I never saw; his niece came not near me; Mrs. Digby imitated her mistress. I was left to Mrs. Marks; she might have been negligent and tyrannical with utter impunity; but though she still considered me in the light of a little animal, and persisted in calling me "Burns," she did her duty by me.
My wants were attended to; but that was all; I was left to myself, to solitude and liberty. I was again sickly and languid. To go up and down stairs, to play in the court, wander in the grounds, or walk in the wild and neglected garden behind the house, were exertions beyond my strength.
I remained in my room, a voluntary captive, satisfied with looking out of the window. It commanded the grounds below, a green and wild desert, with a bright stream gliding through, and looked beyond them over a soft and fertile tract of country bounded by a waving line of low hills, which opened to afford, as in a vision, a sudden view of some glorious world,-- a glimpse of blending sea and heaven, limited, yet giving that sense of the infinite, for which the mind ever longs and which the eye ever seeks.
I sat at that window for hours daily, and grew not wearied of gazing. The sea, glittering as glass in sunshine, of the deepest blue in shadow, dark and sullen, or white with foam in tempest; the mellow and pastoral look of the distant country; the varied beauty of the park, with its ancient trees, woodland aspect, and bounding deer; the high grass below, suddenly swept down by the strong wind, and ever rising again; the slow and stately clouds that passed on in the blue air above me, with a sense, motion, and in a region of their own, were not, however, the objects that attracted me so irresistibly.
The avenue stretching beneath my gaze, with its dark and stately trees, under which cool shadows ever lingered, and the grass-grown path lit up by gliding sunbeams, had my first and last look. Untaught by disappointment, I kept watching for Cornelius O'Reilly. My plans were laid, and I one day tested their practicability. Deceived by a strong resemblance in height and figure, I slipped down, unlocked a side-door which nobody minded, and thus admitted into Thornton House a handsome fashionable-looking man, who seemed surprised, and asked for Miss Grainger. I stole away without answering. The same evening Mrs. Marks called me to her presence. She sat down, and made me stand before her.
"Burns," she said, "was it you who let in young Mr. Thornton by the side- door?"
"Yes," I replied, unhesitatingly.
"Who told you to do so?"
"No one; I did it out of my own head."
"You did it on purpose?"
"Yes, I saw him coming, and went down."
Mrs. Marks looked astounded.
"Burns! what could be your motive?"
I remained mute, though the question was put under every variety of shape.
"Unfortunate little creature!" observed Mrs. Marks, whose dull eyes beamed compassion on me, "it does not know the nature of its own blind impulses."
Thanks to this charitable conclusion, I escaped punishment; but on the following day I found the side-door secured by a high bolt beyond my reach. I did not, however, give up the point. A wicket-gate opened from the garden on the grounds, and commanded a side view of the avenue; there, every fine day, I took my post, still vainly hoping for the coming of Cornelius.
It was thus I sometimes saw my cousin Edith. Her great loveliness and rich attire impressed me strongly. Her room was below mine. I daily heard her, like a fair lady in her bower, playing on her lute, or warbling sweet songs; she was the beauty and enchanted princess of all my fairy tales; yet, when we met, the only notice she took of me was a cold and gentle "How are you, dear?" the reply to which she never stopped to hear.
She generally walked with Mrs. Digby, who, drawing her attention to my evident admiration, never failed to observe as they passed by me, "The child can't take her eyes off you, Ma'am." "Hush! Digby," invariably replied the fair Edith, in a tone implying that she disapproved of the liberty, although the sweetness of her disposition induced her to forgive it. Mrs. Digby, however, persisted in repeating her offence, even when I was not looking, and was always checked with the same gentleness.
One day, when I came down, I found Miss Grainger no longer in the company of Mrs. Digby, but sitting in an arbour with a fair and fashionable lady of thirty, or so, whom she called Bertha, and who, after eyeing me through her gold eye-glass, impressively observed, as, without noticing them, I took my usual place: "Edith, such are the consequences of love- matches! Mr. Langton--"
"But he is so old, Bertha," interrupted Edith, pouting.