bad health? She looks so delicate!”
“She always had an uncommon look. But what she looks like now, I don’t know. I hear no complaints; but she has never crossed this door since we got her set up in that shop. She never conies near her father or her sister, though she lets them, leastways her sister, go and see her. I’m afraid Tom has been rayther unmerciful, with her. And if ever he put a bad name upon her in her hearing, I know, from what that lass used to be as a young one, that she wouldn’t be likely to forget it, and as little likely to get over it herself, or pass it over to another, even her own father. I don’t believe they do more nor nod to one another when they meet in the village. It’s well even if they do that much. It’s my belief there’s some people made so hard that they never can forgive anythink.”
“How did she get into the trouble? Who is the father of her child?”
“Nay, that no one knows for certain; though there be suspicions, and one of them, no doubt, correct. But, I believe, fire wouldn’t drive his name out at her mouth. I know my lass. When she says a thing, she ‘ll stick to it.”
I asked no more questions. But, after a short pause, the old man went on.
“I shan’t soon forget the night I first heard about my father and mother. That was a night! The wind was roaring like a mad beast about the house;—not this house, sir, but the great house over the way.”
“You don’t mean Oldcastle Hall?” I said.
“‘Deed I do, sir,” returned the old man, “This house here belonged to the same family at one time; though when I was born it was another branch of the family, second cousins or something, that lived in it. But even then it was something on to the downhill road, I believe.”
“But,” I said, fearing my question might have turned the old man aside from a story worth hearing, “never mind all that now, if you please. I am anxious to hear all about that night. Do go on. You were saying the wind was blowing about the old house.”
“Eh, sir, it was roaring!-roaring as if it was mad with rage! And every now and then it would come down the chimley like out of a gun, and blow the smoke and a’most the fire into the middle of the housekeeper’s room. For the housekeeper had been giving me my supper. I called her auntie, then; and didn’t know a bit that she wasn’t my aunt really. I was at that time a kind of a under-gamekeeper upon the place, and slept over the stable. But I fared of the best, for I was a favourite with the old woman—I suppose because I had given her plenty of trouble in my time. That’s always the way, sir.—Well, as I was a-saying, when the wind stopped for a moment, down came the rain with a noise that sounded like a regiment of cavalry on the turnpike road t’other side of the hill. And then up the wind got again, and swept the rain away, and took it all in its own hand again, and went on roaring worse than ever. ‘You ‘ll be wet afore you get across the yard, Samuel,’ said auntie, looking very prim in her long white apron, as she sat on the other side of the little round table before the fire, sipping a drop of hot rum and water, which she always had before she went to bed. ‘You’ll be wet to the skin, Samuel,’ she said. ‘Never mind,’ says I. ‘I’m not salt, nor yet sugar; and I’ll be going, auntie, for you’ll be wanting your bed.’-’Sit ye still,’ said she. ‘I don’t want my bed yet.’ And there she sat, sipping at her rum and water; and there I sat, o’ the other side, drinking the last of a pint of October, she had gotten me from the cellar—for I had been out in the wind all day. ‘It was just such a night as this,’ said she, and then stopped again.—But I’m wearying you, sir, with my long story.”
“Not in the least,” I answered. “Quite the contrary. Pray tell it out your own way. You won’t tire me, I assure you.”
So the old man went on.
“’ It was just such a night as this,’ she began again—‘leastways it was snow and not rain that was coming down, as if the Almighty was a-going to spend all His winter-stock at oncet.’—‘What happened such a night, auntie?’ I said. ‘Ah, my lad!’ said she, ‘ye may well ask what happened. None has a better right. You happened. That’s all.’—‘Oh, that’s all, is it, auntie?’ I said, and laughed. ‘Nay, nay, Samuel,’ said she, quite solemn, ‘what is there to laugh at, then? I assure you, you was anything but welcome.’—‘And why wasn’t I welcome?’ I said. ‘I couldn’t help it, you know. I’m very sorry to hear I intruded,’ I said, still making game of it, you see; for I always did like a joke. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you certainly wasn’t wanted. But I don’t blame you, Samuel, and I hope you won’t blame me.’—‘What do you mean, auntie ?’ I mean this, that it’s my fault, if so be that fault it is, that you’re sitting there now, and not lying, in less bulk by a good deal, at the bottom of the Bishop’s Basin.’ That’s what they call a deep pond at the foot of the old house, sir; though why or wherefore, I’m sure I don’t know. ‘Most extraordinary, auntie!’ I said, feeling very queer, and as if I really had no business to be there. ‘Never you mind, my dear,’ says she; ‘there you are, and you can take care of yourself now as well as anybody.’—‘But who wanted to drown me?’ ‘Are you sure you can forgive him, if I tell you?’—‘Sure enough, suppose he was sitting where you be now,’ I answered. ‘It was, I make no doubt, though I can’t prove it,—I am morally certain it was your own father.’ I felt the skin go creepin’ together upon my head, and I couldn’t speak. ‘Yes, it was, child; and it’s time you knew all about it. Why, you don’t know who your own father was!’—‘No more I do,’ I said; ‘and I never cared to ask, somehow. I thought it was all right, I suppose. But I wonder now that I never did.’—‘Indeed you did many a time, when you was a mere boy, like; but I suppose, as you never was answered, you give it up for a bad job, and forgot all about it, like a wise man. You always was a wise child, Samuel.’ So the old lady always said, sir. And I was willing to believe she was right, if I could. ‘But now,’ said she, ‘it’s time you knew all about it.—Poor Miss Wallis!—I’m no aunt of yours, my boy, though I love you nearly as well, I think, as if I was; for dearly did I love your mother. She was a beauty, and better than she was beautiful, whatever folks may say. The only wrong thing, I’m certain, that she ever did, was to trust your father too much. But I must see and give you the story right through from beginning to end.—Miss Wallis, as I came to know from her own lips, was the daughter of a country attorney, who had a good practice, and was likely to leave her well off. Her mother died when she was a little girl. It’s not easy getting on without a mother, my boy. So she wasn’t taught much of the best sort, I reckon. When her father died early, and she was left atone, the only thing she could do was to take a governess’s place, and she came to us. She never got on well with the children, for they were young and self willed and rude, and would not learn to do as they were bid. I never knew one o’ them shut the door when they went out of this room. And, from having had all her own way at home, with plenty of servants, and money to spend, it was a sore change to her. But she was a sweet creature, that she was. She did look sorely tried when Master Freddy would get on the back of her chair, and Miss Gusta would lie down on the rug, and never stir for all she could say to them, but only laugh at her.—To be sure!’ And then auntie would take a sip at her rum and water, and sit considering old times like a static. And I sat as if all my head was one great ear, and I never spoke a word. And auntie began again. ‘The way I came to know so much about her was this. Nobody, you see, took any notice or care of her. For the children were kept away with her in the old house, and my lady wasn’t one to take trouble about anybody till once she stood in her way, and then she would just shove her aside or crush her like a spider, and ha’ done with her.’—They have always been a proud and a fierce race, the Oldcastles, sir,” said Weir, taking up the speech in his own person, “and there’s been a deal o’ breedin in-and-in amongst them, and that has kept up the worst of them. The men took to the women of their own sort somehow, you see. The lady up at the old Hall now is a Crowfoot. I’ll just tell you one thing the gardener told me about her years ago, sir. She had a fancy for hyacinths in her rooms in the spring, and she Had some particular fine ones;
