CHAPTER XVII.
STRANGE GUESTS.
SEPTEMBER 29, 1791.
Two excitements to-day. First, the appearance at my doors of the personof whose coming I was advised by Mr. Tamworth. He came in his owncarriage, and is a meager, hatchet-faced man, whose eye makes merestless, but has not succeeded in making me lose my self-possession. Hestayed three hours, all of which he made me spend with him in the oakparlor, and when he had finished with me and got my signature to a longand complicated affidavit, I felt that I would rather sell my house andflee the place than go through such another experience. Happily it islikely to be a long time before I shall be called upon to do so. Avoyage to France and back is no light matter; and what withcomplications and delays, a year or more is likely to elapse before thesubject need be opened again in my hearing. I thank God for this. Fornot only shall I thus have the opportunity of regaining my equanimity,which has been sorely shaken by these late events, but I shall have thechance of adding a few more dollars to my store, against the time whenscandal will be busy with this spot, and public reprobation ruin itsexcellent character and custom.
The oak parlor I have shut and locked. It will not be soon entered againby me.
The other excitement to which I referred was the coming of two newguests from New York, elegant ladies, whose appearance and manners quiteoverpowered me in the few minutes of conversation I held with them whenthey first entered my house.
. . . . .
Good God! what is that? I thought I felt something brush my sleeve. Yetthere is no one near me, and nothing astir in the room! And why shouldsuch a sudden vision of the old oak parlor rise before my eyes? And why,if I must see it, should it be the room as it looked to me on thatnight when the two Urquharts sat within it, and not the room as I saw itto-day!
Positively I must throw away the key of that room; its very presence inmy desk makes me the victim of visions.
* * * * *
OCTOBER 5, 1791.
Why is it that we promise ourselves certain things, even swear that wewill perform such and such acts, and yet never keep our promises or holdto our oaths? Sixteen years ago I expressed a determination to refit theoak parlor and make it look more attractive to the eye; I never did it.A year since I declared in language as strong as I knew how to employ,not that I would refit the oak parlor, but that I would tear it from thehouse, even at the cost of demolishing the whole structure.
And now, only a week since, I promised myself, as my diary will testify,that I would throw away the key of this place, if only to rid myself ofunpleasant reminders. But the key is still with me, and the room intact.I have neither the power nor the inclination to touch it. The ghost ofthe woman who perished there restrains me. Why? Because we are not donewith that room. The end of its story is not yet. This I feel; and I feelsomething further; I feel that it will be entered soon, and that theperson who is to enter it is already in my house.
I have spoken of two ladies--God knows with but little realization ofthe fatal interest they would soon possess for me. They came withoutservants some four days ago, and saying they wished to remain for ashort time in this beautiful spot, at once accepted the cheerful southroom which I reserve for such guests as these. As they are very handsomeand distinguished-looking, I felt highly gratified at their patronage,and was settling down to a state of complacency over the prospects of aprofitable week, when something, I cannot tell what, roused in me aspirit of suspicion, and I began to notice that the elder lady was of avery uneasy disposition, exhibiting a proneness to wander about thehouse and glide through its passages, especially those on the groundfloor, which at first made me question her sanity, and then led me towonder if through some means unknown to me she had not received a hintas to our secret chamber. I watch, but cannot yet make out. Meanwhile adescription of these women may not come amiss.
They are both beautiful, the younger especially. When I first saw themseated in my humble parlor, I thought them the wife and daughter of oneof our great generals, they looked so handsome and carried themselves soproudly. But I was presently undeceived, for the name they gave was aforeign one, which my English tongue finds it very hard even yet topronounce. It is written Letellier, with a simple Madame before it forthe mother, and Mademoiselle for the daughter, but how to speakit--well, that is a small matter. I do speak it and they never smile,though the daughter's eye lights up at times with a spark of what Ishould call mirth, if her lips were not so grave and her brow sotroubled.
Yes; troubled is the word, though she is so young. I find it difficultto regard her in any other light than that of a child. Though sheendeavors to appear indifferent and has a way of carrying herself thatis almost noble, there is certainly grief in her eye and care on herbrow. I see it when she is alone, or rather before she becomes aware ofanother's presence; I see it when she is with her mother; but whenstrangers come in or she assembles with the rest of the household in theparlor or at the table, then it vanishes, and a sweet charm comes thatreminds me--
But this is folly, sheer folly. How could she look like Mrs. Urquhart?Imagination carries me too far. Equal innocence and a like gentle temperhave produced a like result in sweetening the expression. That is all,and yet I remember the one woman when I look at the other, and shudder;for the woman who calls this child daughter has her eye on the oakparlor, and may meditate evil--must, if she knows its secret and yetwishes to enter it. But my imagination is carrying me too far again.This woman, whatever her faults, loves her daughter, and where love isthere cannot be danger. Yet I shudder.
Madame Letellier merits the description of an abler pen than mine. Ilike her, and I hate her. I admire her, and I fear her. I obey her, andyet hold myself in readiness for rebellion, if only to prove to myselfthat I will be strong when the time comes; that no influence, howeverexerted, or however hidden under winning smiles or quietly controllingglances, shall have power to move me from what I may consider my duty,or from the exercise of such vigilance as my secret fears seem todemand. I hate her; let me remember that. And I distrust her. She ishere for evil, and her eye is on the oak parlor. Though it is locked andthe key hidden on my person, she will find means to possess herself ofthat key and open that door. How? We will see. Meantime all this is nota description of Madame Letellier.
She is finely formed; she is graceful; she is youthful. She dresses witha taste that must always make her conspicuous wherever she may be. Youcould not enter a room in which she was without seeing her, for herglance has a strange power that irresistibly draws your glance to it,though her eyes are lambent rather than brilliant, and if large, rarelyopened to their full extent. Her complexion is dark; that is, incomparison with her daughter's, which is of a marble-like purity. But ithas strange flushes in it, and at times seems almost to sparkle. Herhair is brown, and worn high, with a great comb in it, setting off thecontour of her face, which is almost perfect. But it is in theexpression of her mouth that her fascination lies. Without sweetness,except when it smiles upon her daughter, without mirth, without anyexpression speaking of good-will or tenderness, there is yet a turn tothe lips that moves the gazer peculiarly, making it dangerous to watchher long unless you are hardened by doubts, as I am. Her hands areexquisite, and her form beauty itself.
The daughter is statuesque; not in the sense of coldness or immobility,but in the regularity of her features and the absence of any coloring inher cheeks. She is lovely, and there breathes through every trait agentle soul that robs my admiration of all awe and makes my old andempty heart long to serve her. Her eyes are gray and her hair a reddishbrown, with kinks and curls in it like-- But, pshaw! there comes thatdream again! Was Honora Urquhart's hair so very unique that a head ofwavy brown hair should bring her up so startlingly to my mind?
They are stopping here on their way to Albany--so the elder lady says.They came from New York. So they did, but if my intuitions are notgreatly at fault, the place they started from was France. The fact thatthe marks and labels have all
been effaced from their baggage issuspicious in itself. Can they be friends of the two miserable wretcheswho dishonored my house with a ghastly crime? Is it from them thatmadame's knowledge comes, if she has any knowledge? The thought awakensmy profoundest distrust. Would that Mr. Tamworth were within reach! Ithink I will write him. But what could I write that would not lookfoolish on paper? I had better wait a while till I see something or hearsomething more definite.