CHAPTER X.
LOOKING BACKWARD.
But in the twilight came Margaret's hour of comfort. Then Peggy had herdancing-lesson from Rita, and while the two were whirling and stumpingabout the hall, she would steal away through the little door and downthe three steps to the white rooms, where peace and quiet, gentle wordsand kind affection were always awaiting her. Aunt Faith alwaysunderstood the little troubles, and had the right word to say, ofsympathy or counsel. The two had grown very near to each other.
"How is it," Margaret asked one evening, "I seem so much nearer yourage, Aunt Faith, than the girls'? Do you suppose I really belong to yourgeneration, and got left behind by accident?"
Aunt Faith laughed. "My dear, you ought to have had half a dozenbrothers and sisters!" she said. "An only child grows up too fast,especially where, as in your case, the companionship with father ormother is close and intimate. No doubt your dear father did his best togrow down to your age, when you were little; but he did not succeed, Ifear, so you had to grow up to his. Was not that the way?"
Margaret nodded thoughtfully. "I remember his playing horse with me!"she said. "Poor dear Papa! I asked him to play, and he said in his deep,slow way, 'Surely! surely! the child must have play. Play is necessaryfor development.' And then he sat and looked at me, with his Greek bookin his hand, as if I were a word that he could not find the meaning of.Oh! I remember it so well, though I must have been a little tot. Then hegot up and said, 'I will be a horse, Margaret! Consider me a horse!' andhe gave me the tassels of his dressing-gown, and began to amble aboutthe room slowly, among the piles of books. Oh, dear! I can see him now,dear Papa! He made a _very_ slow horse, Aunt Faith, and I felt, in ababy way, that there was something awful about it, and that he was notmeant to play. I think I must have dropped the tassels pretty soon, forhe came to a great book lying open on a chair, and forgot everythingelse, and stood there for an hour reading it. I never asked him to playagain, but we used to laugh over it when we were big--I mean when I wasbig, and had grown up to him a little bit."
Mrs. Cheriton laid her hand on the girl's head, and smoothed her hairtenderly.
"You must have been lonely sometimes, dear?" she said.
"Oh, no; never, I think. You see, I learned so many things that I couldplay by myself, and it never troubled Papa to have me in the room wherehe was writing; I think he rather liked it. I had the waste-paperbasket; that was one of my chief delights. I might do what I wanted withthe papers, if I only put them back. So I carpeted the room with them,and I laid out streets and squares, and had the pamphlets for walls andhouses. Or I was a queen, with a great correspondence, and all theletters were brought to me by pages in green and gold, and when I readthem (this was before I could really read, of course), they were allfrom my baby sister, and they told of all the lovely things she wasseeing, and the wonderful countries she and Mamma were travelling in.Aunt Faith, I never see a waste-paper basket now, without feeling as ifthere must be a letter for me in it."
"Was there really a baby sister, dear?"
"Yes, oh, yes! she died with Mamma, only a few days after herbirth,--little Penelope! It seems such a great name for a tiny baby,doesn't it, Aunt Faith? But it is a family name, Papa told me."
"Yes, indeed, many of the Montforts have been named Penelope. Youremember the poor Aunt Penelope I told you about, who made the unhappymarriage; and there were many others."
"Oh, that reminds me!" said Margaret. "Aunt Faith, you promised to tellme some day about Aunt Phoebe. Don't you remember? We were speaking ofthese white rooms, and you said it was a fancy of Uncle John's to havethem so, and you thought he remembered his Great-aunt Phoebe; and thenyou said you would tell me some time, and this is some time, isn't it,Auntie dear?"
"I cannot deny that, Margaret, certainly. And I don't know why this isnot a very good time; the twilight is soft and dusky, and Aunt Phoebe'sstory ought not to be told in broad daylight."
She was silent a moment, as if looking back into the past. "It is thesequel, rather than the story itself, that is singular," she said. "Thefirst part is like only too many other stories, alas! Your Great-auntPhoebe--your Great-great-aunt, I should say--was betrothed to a braveyoung officer, Lieutenant Hetherington. It was just at the breaking outof the War of 1812, and the engagement was made just as he was goinginto active service. She was a beautiful girl, with large dark eyes, andsuperb fair hair,--none of you three girls have this combination, but itis not uncommon among the Montforts; I myself had fair hair and darkeyes. Phoebe was highly romantic, and when her lover went to war, shegave him a sword-belt plaited of her own hair."
"Oh," cried Margaret, "like Sir Percival's sister!"
"Exactly! Very likely it was from that story that she took the idea,for she was a great reader. However it might be, her mother was greatlydistressed at her cutting off so much of her fine hair, and did her bestto prevent it, but to no purpose, as you may imagine. Giles Hetheringtonjoined the army, carrying the braided belt with him, and they say henever parted with it, night or day, but slept with it beside him on thepillow. Poor fellow! He was killed in a night attack by the Indians, seton by the British. He was in a hut with some other officers, and thesentry must have slept at his post, they supposed. They were surrounded,the house set on fire, and the officers all killed. One private escapedto tell the dreadful story, and he told of the gallant fight they made,and how Giles Hetherington fought for the life that was so dear toothers. He defended the door while two of his comrades forced the windowopen, hoping to steal around and take the savages in the rear; but thewindow was watched, too, and these officers were shot down, and then anIndian sprang in at the window, and stabbed Hetherington in the back.Ah, me! It is a terrible story, dear child! He staggered back to thebed, the soldier said, and caught up the belt, that was lying therewhile he slept. He was past speech, but he gave it to this soldier, whowas a lad from this place, and motioned him to the window; then he fellback dead, and the man crept out of the window,--the Indians having runaround to the front,--and crawled off, lying flat in the grass, and soescaped with his life. He brought the belt, all dabbled with blood, backto Fernley, meaning to give it to Madam Montfort quietly, that she mightbreak the news to her daughter, but poor Phoebe chanced to come throughthe garden just as he was standing on the steps with the belt in hishand, and she saw it."
"Oh! oh, dear!" cried Margaret, clasping her hands. "Aunt Faith, it istoo dreadful! How could she bear it?"
"My dear, she could not bear it. She had not the strength. She did notlose her mind, like poor Aunt Penelope, but really, it might almost havebeen as well if she had, poor soul. When she woke from the long swooninto which she had fallen at sight of the belt, she heard all the storythrough without a word, and then she came here, and left the world."
"Came here?" repeated Margaret.
"Here, to these rooms; but what different rooms! She sent for a painter,and had the walls painted black. She had everything with an atom ofcolour in it taken away; and in these black rooms she lived, and in themshe died. She wept so much--partly that, and partly the want oflight--that her eyes became abnormally sensitive, and she could not beareven to see anything white. As time went on--Margaret, you will hardlybelieve this, but it is literally true--she would not even have whitechina on her table. She declared it hurt her eyes. So her father, whocould refuse her nothing, sent for a set of dark brown china, and sheate brown bread on it,--would not look at white bread,--and was servedby a mulatto woman, an old nurse who had been in the family from herchildhood."
"Aunt Faith, can it be--you say it really is true! but--how could theylet her? Why did they not have an oculist?"
"My dear child, oculists did not exist in those days. If she were livingto-day, it would be pronounced a case of nervous exhaustion, and shewould be taken for a sea voyage, or sent to a rest-cure, or treated inone of the hundred different ways that we know of nowadays. But then,nobody knew what to do for her, poor lady. To be 'crossed in love,' asit was called, was a thing that admitted o
f no cure, unless the patientwere willing to be cured. People spoke of Phoebe Montfort under theirbreath, and called her 'a blight,' meaning a person whose life has beenblighted. The world has gone on a good deal in the two generations sincethen, my dear Margaret."
"I should think so," said Margaret; "poor soul! And did she have to livevery long, Aunt Faith? I hope not!"
"A good many years, my dear. She must have been an elderly woman whenshe died; not old, as I count age, but perhaps seventy-five, orthereabouts. I lived far away at that time, but John Montfort has oftentold me of the time of her death. He was a little lad, and he regardedthe Black Rooms and their tenant with the utmost terror. He used to runpast the door, he says, for fear the Black Aunt should come out andseize him, and take him into her dreary dwelling. Poor Aunt Phoebe wasthe mildest creature in the world, and would not have hurt a fly, but tohim she was something awful,--out of nature. He was taken in to see heronce or twice a year, and he always had nightmare after it, being anervous child. Well, one day he was running through the Green Parlourhere, and looking back at the windows of the Black Rooms, as he nevercould help doing; and he saw Rosalie, the coloured woman, come to thewindow and throw it wide open, letting in the full light of day. Thenshe went to the next, and so on; and the child knew what had happenedbefore she spoke. I remember her words:
"'She's gone, honey! Her sperit's gone. It went out'n dis window,straight by whar you's standin', and into the cedar bush. De Lord habmercy!'
"And poor little John took to his heels, and ran, and never stoppedrunning till he was in his own bed upstairs.
"That is the story, Margaret; but I ought to add that the belt of hairwas laid in the grave with her, at her special request."
"What a sad, sad story! Poor soul! Poor, forlorn, tortured soul! Howglad she must have been to go! Aunt Faith--"
"Yes, dear Margaret!"
"Oh, nothing,--only--it seems dreadful sometimes, to feel that terriblethings may be coming, coming toward one, and that one never can lookforward, never know when they may come! I sometimes think, if I couldsee a year ahead, or even a week,--but one never knows. I suppose it isbest, or it would not be!"
"Assuredly, dear child! When you think a little more, you will see thewisdom and the mercy of it. How could we go steadfastly along our pathof every day, if some day we saw a pit at the farther end? Life would beimpossible, Margaret."
"Yes, I--I suppose so!" said Margaret thoughtfully.
"And all the time," Mrs. Cheriton went on, "all the time, during theclear, calm days and years, my child, we are, or we ought to be, layingby, as it were; storing up light and strength and happiness for the darkdays when we may so deeply need them. Think a moment! Think of all thehappy days and years with your father! They are blessed memories, arethey not, Margaret? every day is like a jewel that you take out and lookat, and then put back in its case; you never lose these precious thingsthat are all your own!"
"Oh, never! oh, how well you know, Aunt Faith! how you must have felt itall!" The girl raised her head, and saw the face of the aged womantransfigured with light and beauty. She also was looking back throughthe years,--who could tell how long!
"But suppose,"--it was still she who spoke,--"suppose now, Margaret,that these memories were other than they are! Suppose that instead ofthe blessed golden days, you had days of storm and anger anddisagreement to look back on; that there had been unkindness on oneside, unfaithfulness on the other; suppose it had been with you and yourfather as it has been with some parents and children that I haveknown,--how then?"
"Oh!" murmured Margaret, her eyes filling with tears, that yet had nobitterness in them; "but it could not have been so, Aunt Faith. Papawas an angel, you know; an angel of goodness and love."
"Now you see what I mean by storing up light against the dark days,"said Mrs. Cheriton. "If he had not been loving and good,--and if you,too, had not been a good and dear daughter,--think what your possessionswould be to-day. As it is, you have what can never be taken from you;and so if we go on steadfastly, as I said, content not to see before us,but cherishing and making the best of what we have to-day, the best ofwhat to-day holds will be ours forever, till death comes to end all thepartings and all the sorrow."
The last words were spoken rather to herself than to Margaret. Thelatter sat still, not daring to speak; for it seemed as if somebeautiful vision were passing before the eyes of the old woman. She satlooking a little upward, with her lips slightly parted, the breathcoming and going so softly that one could not perceive it, her handsclasped in her lap. Now the lips moved, and Margaret heard the low wordsof a prayer, rather breathed than whispered. Another moment, and thebrown eyes grew bright and smiling once more, and the kindly gaze fellon the girl, who sat awestruck, half afraid to breathe.
"My poor Margaret!" said Mrs. Cheriton quickly. "My poor little girl, Ihave frightened you. Dear, when one is so old as I am the veil seemsvery thin, and I often look half through it and feel the air from theother side. But you--you must not stay here too long, you must not besaddened by an old woman's moods. You love to stay, and I love to haveyou, but it must not be too long. I will just tell you about the changein the rooms, and then--well, the Black Rooms remained shut up for many,many years after Aunt Phoebe's death. Indeed, I fancy they were neverused until after your grandfather's death, when the property wasdivided, and your Uncle John took Fernley as his share. Then one of thefirst things he did was to throw open these rooms, send for a painter,and have them painted white from floor to ceiling, as you see. He had nouse for them at that time, but he has told me that he did not like to bein the same house with anything black. Everything burnable wasburned,--for your grandfather, as long as he lived, kept Aunt Phoebe'sbelongings just as she left them,--the brown crockery was smashed--"
"Oh, that was a pity!" cried Margaret. "Just for the curiosity--"
"I have a piece, my dear!" said Mrs. Cheriton. "Elizabeth Wilson--goodElizabeth--saved a piece for me; and she kept one of the black silkgowns (she has been in the house ever since she was a child), to put inthe family chest. So there, Margaret, you have the story of Aunt Phoebefrom beginning to end. And now you must go out and play."
"Oh, just a moment!" pleaded Margaret. "Aunt Faith,--Uncle John must be_very_ nice."
"My dear, he is the best man in the world. There is not a doubt aboutit."
"Shall we see him at all, Aunt Faith?"
"You shall see him. I cannot say exactly when, but you shall see him,Margaret; that I promise you on the word of a centenarian. Now will yougo, or shall Janet--"
"Oh, I will go! I will go! Good-bye, dear Aunt Faith. I have had themost delightful hour," and Janet came and closed the white door softlyafter her.