“She’s come for no good,” said Mildred, “she’s sly, and she’s savage, and if you don’t mind me saying so, I often thought she was a bit mad—folk as has them fits, ye know, they does get sometimes queerish.”
“We can talk of her by-and-by,” said he; “what was in my mind was about a different thing. For a thousand reasons I should hate a fracas—I mean a row with that person at present; you know yourself how it might affect the poor little thing upstairs. Oh, my darling, my darling, what have I brought you into?”
“Well, well, no help for spilled milk,” said Mildred. “What was you a-thinking of?”
“Oh, yes, thank you, Mildred—I was thinking—yes—if your mistress was well enough for a journey, I’d take her away from this—I’d take her away immediately—I’d take her quite out of the reach of that—that restless person. I ought to have done so at once, but I was so miserably poor, and this place here to receive us, and who could have fancied she’d have dreamed, in her state of health, and with her affliction—her sight, you know—of coming down here again; but I’m the unluckiest fellow on earth; I never, by any chance, leave a blot that isn’t hit. Don’t you think, Mildred, I had better not wake your mistress tonight to talk over plans?”
“Don’t you go near her; a sight of your face would tell her all wasn’t right.”
“I had better not see her, you think?”
“Don’t see her. So soon as you know yourself what you’re going to do with her, and if you make up your mind tonight so much the better—write you to tell her what she’s to do, and give me the letter and I’ll give it to her as if it came by a messenger; and take you my counsel—don’t you stop here a minute longer than you can. Leave before daybreak, you’re no use here, and if she finds you ’twill but make bad worse. When will ye lie down—you’ll not be good for nothin’ tomorrow if ye don’t sleep a bit—lie down on the sofa in the parlour, and your cloak is hangin’ in the passage, and be you out o’ the house by daybreak, and I’ll have a bit o’ breakfast ready before ye go.”
“And there’s Lady Wyndale, I didn’t tell you, offered to take care of Alice, your mistress, and she need only go there for the present; but that might be too near, and I was thinking it might not do.”
“Best out o’ reach altogether when ye go about it,” said Mildred. “Sit here if you like it, or lie down, as I said, in the parlour, and if you settle your mind on any plan just knock at my door, and I’ll have my clothes about me and be ready at call, and Tom’s in his old crib under the stair, if you want him to get the saddle on the horse, and I won’t take down the fire, I’ll have it handy for your breakfast, and now I can’t stop talkin’ no longer, for Mildred’s wore off her feet—will ye take a candle, or will ye stop here?”
“Yes, give me a candle, Mildred—thanks—and don’t mind the cloak, I’ll get it myself, I will lie down a little, and try to sleep—I wish I could—and if you waken shake me up in an hour or two, something must be settled before I leave this, something shall be settled, and that poor little creature out of reach of trouble and insult. Don’t forget. Good night, Mildred, and God bless you, Mildred, God forever bless you.”
XXXIII
Charles Fairfield Alone
Charles Fairfield talked of sleeping. There was little chance of that. He placed the candle on one of the two old oak cupboards, as they were still called, which occupied corresponding niches in the wainscoted wall, opposite the fireplace, and he threw himself at his length on the sofa.
Tired enough for sleep he was; but who can stop the mill of anxious thought into which imagination pours continually its proper grist? In his tired head its wheels went turning, and its hammers beat with monotonous pulsation and whirl—weariest and most wasting of fevers!
He turned his face, like the men of old, in his anguish, to the wall. Then he tried the other side, wide awake, and literally staring, from point to point, in the fear and fatigue of his vain ruminations. Then up he sat, and flung his cloak on the floor, and then to the window he went, and, opening the shutter, looked out on the moonlight, and the peaceful trees that seemed bowed in slumber, and stood, hardly seeing it—hardly thinking in his confused misery.
One hand in his pocket, the other against the window-case, to which the stalworth good fellow, Harry, had leaned his shoulder in their unpleasant dialogue and altercation. Harry, his chief stay, his confidant and brother—dare he trust him now? If he might, where could he find him? Better do his own work—better do it indifferently than run a risk of treason. He did not quite know what to make of Harry.
So with desultory resolution he said to himself, “Now I’ll think in earnest, for I’ve got but two hours to decide in.” There was a pretty little German village, quite out of the ordinary route of tourists. He remembered its rocks and hills, its ruined castle and forest scenery, as if he had seen them but yesterday—the very place for Alice, with her simple tastes and real enjoyment of nature. On that point, though under present circumstances by short journeys, they should effect their retreat.
In three hours’ time he would himself leave the Grange. In the meantime he must define his plans exactly. He must write to Harry—he must write to Alice, for he was quite clear he would
