Chapter XIX

Amy watched them from the window. If she had leaned out she might almost have heard their words, though they appeared, indeed, to be speaking but little as they wandered among the flower-beds, now standing still before some beautiful branch of roses, and again moving on, slowly, idly, as if in an enchanted land. She wondered if they were really in love, for as she saw them now they had all the appearance of lovers, and a deep bitterness of disappointment grew strong and stronger within her, till she could no longer bear to watch them, and turned away.

No matter in how questionable a form her love might show itself, she loved him really, according to her temperament, with an all-absorbing passion, selfish as such passions must be, and alternating between a desire to make him suffer, and a swiftly-following remorse for ever having tried to hurt him. She had not a nature to which resignation comes easily. Certainly she was far from being resigned just now. There was no tenderness, no softening sentiment of any kind, left by her wasted passion. Its trace was arid and bare; it had been like some burning, withering acid, that had destroyed and blasted, leaving behind it an ugly, ineffaceable scar. This afternoon, as she turned from the window, her sense of helplessness and loss seemed to have become more unendurable than ever, and, not being able to rest, she again went out, though she avoided going near Denis and her mother. She wandered off by herself, where she could see neither Rusk nor May, and where no one would bother her with questions about her health.

She walked along a narrow path that led her past the kitchens and the stables and on down towards the road. Presently she came in sight of the back lodge and saw Rebecca hobbling in at the gate. The sight of the old woman awoke strange and unpleasant thoughts in Amy’s sickened mind, and these thoughts took on alluring, yet half-fearful, shapes, as they seemed to stream into her brain like phantoms flying at nightfall to a haunted house. For a moment or two she hesitated; then she gathered up her courage and continued on her way.

Rebecca had already seen her and was waiting at the door, a smile upon her face. Her appearance was neither more nor less prepossessing than usual, but, to Amy’s present sense, she stood there like the very personification of evil. She fixed the approaching girl with dark, shining eyes, and she maybe read something in her countenance that induced her to ask her to step inside. The younger Miss Bracknel was indeed the only member of the family who ever did her that honour, and Amy, in the past, had rather prided herself on the fact. This afternoon she felt she would have done better to have refused, but she entered nevertheless, and sat down on a painted wooden chair beside the fire, casting a languid glance on the grey parrot, who returned her gaze with ancient and cynical eyes.

“You’re not looking yourself at all, Miss Amy,” the old woman began. “I’ve noticed it this long time. You that used to be so gay and bright!”

“Oh please don’t start all that,” the girl answered wearily. “I’m getting tired of it. It’s because nobody ever says anything else that I came in here now.”

Rebecca smiled her false, ingratiating smile. “Perhaps it’s something I could give you a cure for, Miss Amy. I remember me curing John Maloney’s wife for the rheumatism, when she had tried every doctor in the land, and not one of them any use. And Jane Stevenson, when she was dying of love, it was me that got her her man--it was indeed.”

Amy looked out of the window. “But you can’t really do such things,” she murmured after a minute or two, feigning indifference, though a tell-tale wave of colour had swept across her face. “What’s the use in pretending to be able to work charms and magic at this time of day? Nobody believes in such things, and if they were true you know you’d be afraid to talk about them.”

“Well, if they’re not true they’re not,” said the old woman, suddenly and unexpectedly nettled, “and I beg you to excuse me, for I’ve got some redding-up to do and it’s getting on.” She lifted a pail from beside the dresser and hobbled off with it to the door.

“Come back,” cried Amy petulantly, “I didn’t mean to offend you. Tell me about this--this woman, Jane Stevenson. I like hearing all these strange things, though I mayn’t believe in them.”

Rebecca returned to the fire. She sat down on a chair and held out her withered hands to the glowing coals, at the same time casting a sidelong glance at the pale, listless, red-haired girl, whose face was turned to the window. The sight seemed to mollify her wounded feelings, for it was in her usual fawning tone that she began:

“Jane Stevenson was in love with a fine young man, but he wouldn’t look at her. When she’d meet him on the road he’d take no more notice than if she’d been a tree or a sheep. Yet she couldn’t rest nor take her food for thinking of him, and everyone said she was going into a decline. One day, when I was alone in the house, I saw her come in, and I knew what she wanted. She offered me all the money she had if I’d tell her a charm! ‘Come back in a week,’ I said. At the end of a week she came back and I gave her what she was needing. ‘You can take it with you,’ I said, ‘and give it him some day in his drink.’”

“What a horrid idea!” cried Amy, drawing back instinctively. “Besides, it’s silly.”

She sat silent, and Rebecca watched her with an expression of senile depravity and greed. Then the old woman bent down over the fire and began to mumble to herself. Amy was suddenly conscious that there was something peculiarly unpleasant about her. She felt ashamed to be sitting there, but a kind of morbid curiosity held her, and presently she asked:

“If there is another person: I mean, if he had loved somebody else, would it have been just the same--would it have acted?”

“It would have acted,” said Rebecca.

“And it doesn’t do the person you give it to any harm?”

“No more than a glass of new milk.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” asked Amy, with a sudden intentness. “You would swear it--on the Bible?”

“It will do him no harm at all.”

There was a pause. The girl’s languor had completely disappeared.

“And if I were to want you to get me this charm, how much would I have to give for it?”

“Oh, that would be for yourself to say, Miss.”

“I haven’t much money, you know. Papa doesn’t give me much.”

“Oh, there’d be no trouble about that.”

“Of course I should only want it as a curiosity. I mean, I have been making a collection of queer, out-of-the-way things for some time, and I would like to have one of these just to show people.”

“I would never ask what you wanted it for, Miss Amy.”

“But that _is_ what I want it for,” cried Amy haughtily. “What do you mean by doubting my word?”

“I don’t doubt your word, Miss Amy. What would a young lady like you want with any other charm than her own lovely face?”

“Of course it would have to be a real charm for all that,” Amy added hastily, “a real love-philtre, or whatever you call it. You would have to promise that it would be real or I shouldn’t want it--like the one you got for Jane Stevenson.”

“Yes, Miss Amy. You can trust me; you can trust old Rebecca.”

“You had a good many lovers yourself, hadn’t you, Rebecca, when you were young?” asked Amy, suddenly smiling.

“I didn’t need no charms for them,” said Rebecca tartly. “I could have had my pick of any young men ever _I_ fancied.”

Amy laughed. She got up from her chair, but still stood there, hesitating. “Well, you know what I want,” she said at length, “and you’ll promise not to breathe a word to a soul about it, won’t you?”

“You needn’t be afraid, Miss. It would be worse for me than for you if anyone was to get word of it.”

“When will it be ready?”

“Well, it’ll take a deal of time and trouble.” A cunning look came into her face, and she put out her hand and stroked the soft stuff of the girl’s dress. “As soon as I can, Miss Amy, I’ll try to have it for you.”

“I’ll come for it then, in a few days,” said Amy, drawing back quickly from her touch. “And mind you don’t say a word to anybody--even about my having been here.”