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I put my arms round her and lifted her up to give her relief; and when I laid her down again, I whispered in her ear, “I know now, my dear. I’ll do all I can for you.” She caught hold of my hand and held it to her lips, and then to her bosom, and cried again, but more quietly, and all was right between us once more. It was well for her, poor thing, that she could go to her bed. And I said to myself, “Nobody need ever know about it; and nobody ever shall if I can help it.” To tell the truth, my hope was that she would die before there was any need for further concealment. “But people in that condition seldom die, they say, till all is over; and so she lived on and on, though plainly getting weaker and weaker.—At the captain’s next visit, the wedding-day was fixed. And after that a circumstance came about that made me uneasy. A Hindoo servant—the captain called him his NIGGER always—had been constantly in attendance upon him. I never could abide the snake-look of the fellow, nor the noiseless way he went about the house. But this time the captain had a Hindoo woman with him as well. He said that his man had fallen in with her in London; that he had known her before; that she had come home as nurse with an English family, and it would be very nice for his wife to take her back with her to India, if she could only give her house room, and make her useful till after the wedding. This was easily arranged, and he went away to return in three weeks, when the wedding was to take place. Meantime poor Emily grew fast worse, and how she held out with that terrible cough of hers I never could understand—and spitting blood, too, every other hour or so, though not very much. And now, to my great trouble, with the preparations for the wedding, I could see yet less of her than before; and when Miss Oldcastle sent the Hindoo to ask me if she might not sit in the room with the poor girl, I did not know how to object, though I did not at all like her being there. I felt a great mistrust of the woman somehow or other. I never did like blacks, and I never shall. So she went, and sat by her, and waited on her very kindly—at least poor Emily said so. I called her Emily because she had begged me, that she might feel as if her mother were with her, and she was a child again. I had tried before to find out from her when greater care would be necessary, but she couldn’t tell me anything. I doubted even if she understood me. I longed to have the wedding over that I might get rid of the black woman, and have time to take her place, and get everything prepared. The captain arrived, and his man with him. And twice I came upon the two blacks in close conversation.—Well, the wedding-day came. The people went to church; and while they were there a terrible storm of wind and snow came on, such that the horses would hardly face it. The captain was going to take his bride home to his father, Sir Giles’s; but, short as the distance was, before the time came the storm got so dreadful that no one could think of leaving the house that night. The wind blew for all the world just as it blows this night, only it was snow in its mouth, and not rain. Carriage and horses and all would have been blown off the road for certain. It did blow, to be sure! After dinner was over and the ladies were gone to the drawing-room, and the gentlemen had been sitting over their wine for some time, the butler, William Weir—an honest man, whose wife lived at the lodge—came to my room looking scared. “Lawks, William!” says I,’ said my aunt, sir, ‘“whatever is the matter with you?”—“Well, Mrs Prendergast!” says he, and said no more. “Lawks, William,” says I, “speak out.”—“Well,” says he, “Mrs Prendergast, it’s a strange wedding, it is! There’s the ladies all alone in the withdrawing-room, and there’s the gentlemen calling for more wine, and cursing and swearing that it’s awful to hear. It’s my belief that swords will be drawn afore long.”—“Tut!” says I, “William, it will come the sooner if you don’t give them what they want. Go and get it as fast as you can.”—“I don’t a’most like goin’ down them stairs alone, in sich a night, ma’am,” says he. “Would you mind coming with me?”—“Dear me, William,” says I, “a pretty story to tell your wife”—she was my own half-sister, and younger than me—“a pretty story to tell your wife, that you wanted an old body like me to go and take care of you in your own cellar,” says I. “But I’ll go with you, if you like; for, to tell the truth, it’s a terrible night.” And so down we went, and brought up six bottles more of the best port. And I really didn’t wonder, when I was down there, and heard the dull roar of the wind against the rock below, that William didn’t much like to go alone.—When he went back with the wine, the captain said, “William, what kept you so long? Mr Centlivre says that you were afraid to go down into the cellar.” Now, wasn’t that odd, for it was a real fact? Before William could reply, Sir Giles said, “A man might well be afraid to go anywhere alone in a night like this.” Whereupon the captain cried, with an oath, that he would go down the underground stair, and into every vault on the way, for the wager of a guinea. And there the matter, according to William, dropped, for the fresh wine was put on the table. But after they had drunk the most of it—the captain, according to William, drinking less than usual—it was brought up again, he couldn’t tell by which of them. And in five minutes after, they were all at my door, demanding the key of the room at the top of the stair. I was just going up to see poor Emily when I heard the noise of their unsteady feet coming along the passage to my door; and I gave the captain the key at once, wishing with all my heart he might get a good fright for his pains. He took a jug with him, too, to bring some water up from the well, as a proof he had been down. The rest of the gentlemen went with him into the little cellar-room; but they wouldn’t stop there till he came up again, they said it was so cold. They all came into my room, where they talked as gentlemen wouldn’t do if the wine hadn’t got uppermost. It was some time before the captain returned. It’s a good way down and back. When he came in at last, he looked as if he had got the fright I wished him, he had such a scared look. The candle in his lantern was out, and there was no water in the jug. “There’s your guinea, Centlivre,” says he, throwing it on the table. “You needn’t ask me any questions, for I won’t answer one of them.”—“Captain,” says I, as he turned to leave the room, and the other gentlemen rose to follow him, “I’ll just hang up the key again.”—” By all means,” says he. “Where is it, then?” says I. He started and made as if he searched his pockets all over for it. “I must have dropped it,” says he; “but it’s of no consequence; you can send William to look for it in the morning. It can’t be lost, you know.”—“Very well, captain,” said I. But I didn’t like being without the key, because of course he hadn’t locked the door, and that part of the house has a bad name, and no wonder. It wasn’t exactly pleasant to have the door left open. All this time I couldn’t get to see how Emily was. As often as I looked from my window, I saw her light in the old west turret out there, Samuel. You know the room where the bed is still. The rain and the wind will be blowing right through it to-night. That’s the bed you was born upon, Samuel.’—It’s all gone now, sir, turret and all, like a good deal more about the old place; but there’s a story about that turret afterwards, only I mustn’t try to tell you two things at once.—‘Now I had told the Indian woman that if anything happened, if she was worse, or wanted to see me, she must put the candle on the right side of the window, and I should always be looking out, and would come directly, whoever might wait. For I was expecting you some time soon, and nobody knew anything about when you might come. But there the blind continued drawn down as before. So I thought all was going on right. And what with the storm keeping Sir Giles and so many more that would have gone home that night, there was no end of work, and some contrivance necessary, I can tell you, to get them all bedded for the night, for we were nothing too well provided with blankets and linen in the house. There was always more room than money in it. So it was past twelve o’clock before I had a minute to myself, and that was only after they had all gone to bed—the bride and bridegroom in the crimson chamber, of course. Well, at last I crept quietly into Emily’s room. I ought to have told you that I had not let her know anything about the wedding being that day, and had enjoined the heathen woman not to say a word; for I thought she might as well die without hearing about it. But I believe the vile wretch did tell her. When I opened the room-door, there was no light there. I spoke, but no one answered. I had my own candle in my hand, but it had been blown out as I came up the stair. I turned and ran along the corridor to reach the main stair, which was the nearest way to my room, when all at once I heard such a shriek from the crimson chamber as I never heard in my life. It made me all creep like worms. And in a moment doors and doors were opened, and lights came out, everybody looking terrified; and what with drink, and horror, and sleep, some of the gentlemen were awful to look upon. And the door of the crimson chamber opened too, and the captain appeared
