Chapter XIII: In the Old Orangery

Alone!--how often our angry wishes to be left “alone” are literally and direfully realized. At this moment Cunigunda felt almost for the first time in her life a sensation of utter loneliness. Her husband seemed completely estranged from her; and Carlo, whose agreeability and evident admiration for her had served for a time to distract and amuse, seemed to have lost his charm. She was tired of everything and everybody, yet she dreaded, above all things, to be alone.

The interview with the old housekeeper had taken place in the blue drawing-room, which, from being upstairs, was not used in the mornings; and as she sat leaning back listlessly in an easy-chair, she happened to be just opposite Vandyck’s beautiful picture of Baroness Clotilda-Jane.

The eyes of the portrait seemed to gaze down upon her with a melancholy earnestness that was quite distressing, and she hastily rose and went towards a curious cabinet at the farther end, as if to escape from their searching expression. But there was a fascination in the picture that seemed to prevent her from removing her gaze from it; and she saw that the eyes followed her about the room with the same melancholy and reproachful look.

“It must be her spirit,” she thought. “Her life was unhappy, they say; and she came to some untimely end. Oh! why did I come into this room?” she suddenly thought. “I cannot stand that living look!” And she ran wildly out into the outer gallery, as if she felt some evil spirit were pursuing her, and never stopped till she reached the billiard-room downstairs, where she found Carlo and some other gentlemen lounging over a game.

A few minutes after the Countess had left the blue drawing-room, it was entered by the Count, who walked up to the picture which had so strangely excited his wife. He moved towards it with an air of reverence and awe; while his handsome features expressed a passionate love, mingled with respectful admiration. His thoughts, while he gazed at the picture, assumed the form of some such words as these:

“Yes, it is her living self--the same soft loving eyes of heavenly blue; the smiling dimples in her glowing cheek. She seems to smile down upon me as Dorina did; and yet those arched brows could knit in holy anger, too, at all that was base or mean. What a likeness to that perfect angel! But I outraged her memory, and could fall into the snares--It is too horrible!” he thought, as he covered his face with his hands. “I am not worthy to look upon her likeness. But, oh! forgive me, dear saint! Look down from thy heavenly state with pity on one who adores you more than ever. Ha! what sound was that? It was like her voice--the cry of agony that seemed to reach my ears when--” He turned round suddenly, for the sound seemed to proceed from the farther end of the room. There seemed to be no door, but on feeling along the blue damask hangings, his hand came upon a hard projection, as of the handle of a lock; feeling round it, he found what seemed to be the frame of a door.

Then he listened with breathless anxiety, for the voice seemed to have come from that spot; and now he fancied he heard a gentle breathing, and rustling, as of a dress.

“Who is there?” he inquired. No answer came, but he thought he heard light footsteps receding gradually into the distance.

He then determined to inquire of the old housekeeper whether there was formerly any passage through the seeming doorway, and to what it could have led. He rang the bell in haste, but it was some time before it was answered, for the servants had been summoned into the upper housekeeper’s room, and she was at that moment endeavouring to carry out the Countess’s wishes, and trying to make the best terms she could to induce them to remain till after the masquerade. The Count rang again, and he was answered by the solemn butler, who looked much less grave than usual, for he had just succeeded in making a profitable bargain for himself with Mrs. Lacy.

“I want to see the housekeeper. Beg Mrs. Lacy to come to me here.”

“Yes, sir; but she’s a-talking to the females now, as she’s just settled with the gentle--the men-servants.”

“What do you mean? Settled what?”

“Didn’t you know, my Lord Count, that we was all a-going to leave--couldn’t stand it no longer?”

“Stand what any longer?”

“The ghost, my lord.”

“The ghost! Are you mad?”

“The White Lady, sir--my Lord Count--what frightened the Countess herself out of her senses in the old chapel.”

“She said afterwards it was mere fancy, or an owl, or something.”

“Ah! but we all a-seen it since.”

“Seen what? How can you be such fools? Send Mrs. Lacy at once, that I may inquire from her the reason of all this.”

“Yes, sir; but, please, my Lord, _she_ don’t believe in the ghost at all.”

“I should think not. Go, then, and ask her to come to me here immediately.”

The butler retired rather crestfallen, and somewhat ashamed of having showed that he was afraid of a ghost in which his master evidently did not believe.

Mrs. Lacy soon appeared, making her very best curtsey, while a most benign and reverential expression gradually banished the angry frown of injured dignity which had been so excited by the rebellious domestics. For she honoured the Count, and although she had never seen him till six weeks ago, she already began to love him, and to feel the greatest interest for him.

“What would you please to want?” she inquired, after a few moments, for she found him gazing so intently on Baroness Clotilda’s portrait that she began to think he had not seen her enter.

He turned round suddenly, and then looked at her with a kind of searching expression, mingled with an interest and kindness which she had never before remarked. In fact, he had always appeared so pre-occupied and indifferent that she fancied he had never remarked her at all before.

“You have been many years in this family, I suppose?” he said.

“Seventy-two years come next Christmas. I came into the service of her Ladyship’s great-grandmother.”

“Then you remember the Lady Alice, who married Count Hohenstein?”

“That I do indeed, for she married the very next Spring; and a fine wedding we had, and she the most beautiful and, more, the very best and kindest of ladies.”

“And was she like that portrait?” he inquired, pointing to the Vandyck.

“As like as if it was painted for her, only her hair was lighter. ’Twas a most lovely auburn, that looked as if it was full of sunshine. Indeed, we used often to say ’twould light up a room in the dark, it was so bright and gay, and fell in such loving, waving curls that seemed to twine round our very hearts; and, indeed, there was not a dry eye for miles round the day she left us. And I did use to think the family wasn’t quite---- The old earl, her ladyship’s father, took it so to heart that he never seemed the same man afterwards; and as to my lady, she---- But it ill beseems me to say anything against them, only somehow ’twas a different house afterwards, and my mother was sorry she’d let me come here so young.”

“The Lady Alice had exerted a great influence over all her family. I suppose she was a sort of guardian angel?”

“That’s just the word, my lord, for nobody could look on her beautiful face without feeling better--indeed, one felt quite ashamed of not being more worthy, or, as poor Lady Jane used to say, ‘more in harmony with its sweet look.’”

“Just like her!” said the Count, half to himself; “and she never came back from Italy to see her parents?”

“Alack-a-day! none of us ever set eyes on her saint-like face again, more’s the pity; for if she had, then I don’t think her sister, Lady Matilda, would have married contrary to my lord’s wishes. I suppose you heard, my lord, that she ran away with a gentleman that was not worthy of her? And Lord Castleglen, he went contrairy too, and took to play, and lost no end of money; but, as I said before, it ill becomes me to go against the family; and then, to be sure, the old Earl’s grandson, he married a dear, good lady, though she’d no fortune, and we had nothing to keep up the place, for, my lord, he entertained all the quality and the Royal Family, when they came to Weyford; and the King and Queen, and the fair young Princesses, used to come sometimes unexpected-like, and we had used to get banquets ready, and to send---- But then Lord Castleglen, the eldest son, married a great heiress, so they came round again, only the lady herself was not so--But, my lord, I’m tiring your lordship with all this?”

“No--on the contrary, I like to hear about them all; pray go on.”

“Well, there is not much more to tell, for you know that the last Earl, my lord, son and daughter, died and left no children; and so there was a long minority, and we lived in expectation of---- But, my lord, you know all this far better than I do; only we did long for--excuse me, I ought not to remind you of what----”

She stopped short, for the look of agony which passed over the Count’s expressive face excited the old lady’s honest sympathy, and she thought to herself--“How deeply he must have loved the Lady Dorina!”

“I like to think--I like to talk of her to you, who remember her great-grandmother so well, for all you said of Lady Alice, and more--much more might be said of my betrothed wife; and how I ever could---- But stay,” he said, restraining himself with a sudden violent effort--“stay--I want to ask you whether there was ever a door there at that further end, to the right of Baron Hugh’s picture?”

The housekeeper started, and a puzzled, anxious, and embarrassed look was visible on her face.

“There is some mystery attached to that door, I suppose,” he said, surprised at her evident embarrassment.

Mrs. Lacy seemed to ponder deeply for a few moments, and then she said, with a candid and decided air:

“Yes, my lord, there is a mystery; and I would rather, if you would forgive me--I would rather not speak about it; in fact, I have given a solemn promise not to do so, and----”

“I will ask no more,” he said, “for I am sure you will not keep back anything that I ought to know.”

“Perhaps I have been wrong, my lord; but I did it for the best, and a promise is a promise.”

“Yes,” said the Count, who read plainly in her honest face that she was only doing what she thought right.

“But I will tell you why I ask the question, and why I asked you to come here. I fancied I heard a voice or moan, as if some person were suffering at that end of the room, and on approaching it I distinctly heard light footsteps receding in the distance; so light, so--but never mind, I felt along this damask hanging, and see, here is plainly the handle and lock of a door.”

Mrs. Lacy felt the spot, but her hand trembled with agitation, and she could scarcely speak or even stand.

“Sit down,” said the Count, as he placed her in one of the large old-fashioned chairs which were said to have come from the Doge’s Palace at Venice. “And do not speak, do not think it necessary to give any explanation of them, or the slightest reason against it.”

“You are most kind; I never can be grateful enough. Oh, sir, if I could but speak, how glad I should be! Perhaps some day I may be able,” she continued after a pause, while her countenance brightened with sudden hope as she got up and walked towards the window. “But there are things which--if your lordship did but know what people say----”

“What--what do you mean?”

“Perhaps I can show you, and may God forgive me if I am doing wrong! Please to come this way, my lord,” she said, as she went to the other end of the room, and touching a spring in the top of the dedo under the damask hanging, a door opened. Stooping under the old blue damask, they found themselves in a large old-fashioned bedroom. A high oriel window opened into one of the back courtyards, but the old dame, motioning him to be silent, led him to another smaller window which looked into the old orangery. It was entirely covered on the outside with flowery creepers, so that it was not visible from the other side.