At this point the bell rang loud and sudden, and Mrs. Tarnley bounced and blessed herself. There was no great difficulty in settling from what quarter the summons came, for, except the hall door bell, which was a deep-toned sonorous one, there was but one in the house in ringing order, and that was of the bedroom where her young mistress lay.
“Well, here’s a go! Who’d a’ thought o’ her awake at these hours, and out o’ her bed, and a-pluckin’ at her bell. I doubt it is her. The like was never before. ’Tis enough to frighten a body. The Lord help us.”
Mrs. Tarnley stood straight as a grenadier on drill with her back to the fire, the poker with which, during her homily, she had been raking the bars, still in her hand.
“This night’ll be the death o’ me. Everything’s gone cross and contrary. Here’s that young silly lass awake and out o’ her bed, that never had an eye open at these hours, since she came to the Grange, before; and there’s that other one in the stateroom, not that far from her, as wide awake as she; and here’s Master Charles a-comin’, mayhap, this minute wi’ his drummin’ and bellin’ at the hall door. ’Tis enough to make a body swear; ’t has given me the narves and the tremblins, and I don’t know how it’s to end.”
And Mrs. Tarnley unconsciously shouldered her poker as if awaiting the assault of burglars, and vaguely thought if Charles arrived as she had described, what power on earth could keep the peace?
Again the bell rang.
“Well, there’s patience for ye!”
She halted at the kitchen door, with the candle in her hand, listening, with a stern, frightened face. She was thinking whether Alice might not have been frightened by some fantastic terror in her room.
“She has that old fat fool, Dulcibella Crane, only a room off—why don’t she call up her?”
But Mrs. Tarnley at length did go on, and up the stairs, and heard Alice’s voice call along the passage, in a loud tone—
“Mrs. Tarnley! is that you, Mrs. Tarnley?”
“Me, ma’am? Yes ’m. I thought I heard your bell ring, and I had scant time to hustle my clothes on. Is there anything uncommon a-happenin’, ma’am, or what’s expected just now from an old woman like me?”
“Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, I beg your pardon, I’m so sorry, and I would not disturb you, only that I heard a noise, and I thought Mr. Charles might have arrived.”
“No, ma’am, he’s not come, nor no sign o’ him. You told me, ma’am, his letter said there was but small chance o’t.”
“So I did, Mildred—so it did. Still a chance—just a chance—and I thought, perhaps—”
“There’s no perhaps in it, ma’am; he baint come.”
“Dulcibella tells me she thought some time ago she heard someone arrive.”
“So she did, mayhap, for there did come a message for Master Harry from the farmer beyond Gryce’s mill; but he went his way again.”
Mildred was fibbing with a fluency that almost surprised herself.
“I dessay you’ve done wi’ me now, ma’am?” said Mildred. “Lugged out o’ my bed, ma’am, at these hours—my achin’ old bones—’taint what I’m used to, asking your pardon for making so free.”
“I’m really very sorry—you won’t be vexed with me. Good night, Mildred.”
“Your servant, ma’am.”
And Mrs. Tarnley withdrew from the door where Alice stood before her with her dressing-gown about her shoulders, looking so pale and deprecatory and anxious, that I wonder even Mildred Tarnley did not pity her.
“I’m tellin’ lies enough to break a bridge, and me that’s vowed against lying so stiff and strong over again only Monday last.”
She shook her head slowly, and with a sudden qualm of conscience.
“Well, in for a penny in for a pound. It’s only for tonight; mayhap, and I can’t help it, and if that old witch was once over the door-stone I’d speak truth the rest o’ my days, as I ha’ done, by the grace o’ God, for more than a month, and here’s a nice merry-go-round for my poor old head. Who’s to keep all straight and smooth wi’ them that’s in the house, and, mayhap comin’? And that ghost upstairs—she’ll be gropin’ and screechin’ through the house, and then there’ll be the devil to pay wi’ her and the poor lass up there—if I don’t gi’e her her supper quick. Come, bustle, bustle, be alive,” she muttered, as this thought struck her with new force; and so to the little “safe” which served that miniature household for larder she repaired. Plates clattered, and knives and forks, and the dishes in the safe slid forth, and how near she was forgetting the salt! and “the bread, all right,” so here was a tray very comfortably furnished, and setting the candlestick upon it also, she contemplated the supper, with a fierce sneer, and a wag of her head.
“How sick and weak we be! Tea and toast and eggs down here, and this little bit in her bedroom—heaven bless her—la’ love it, poor little darling, don’t I hope it may do her good?—I wish the first mouthful may choke her—keeping me on the trot to these hours, old beast.”
Passing the stairs, Mrs. Tarnley crept softly, and took pains to prevent her burden from rattling on the tray, while there rose in her brain the furious reflection—
“Pretty rubbish that I should be this way among ’em!”
And she would have liked to dash the tray on the floor at the foot of the stairs, and to leave the startled inhabitants to their own courses.
This, of course, was but an emotion. The old woman completed her long march cautiously, and knocked at the Vrau’s door.
“Come in, dear,” said the inmate, and Mildred Tarnley, with her tray in her hands, marched into the room, and looked round peevishly for a
