Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood

“Put on your bonnet, then, and a warm cloak, and we will settle all about it as we go.”

She had scarcely left the room when Mrs Oldcastle came to the door.

“No lights here!” she said. “Sarah, bring candles, and tell Captain Everard, when he will join us, to come to the octagon room. Where can that little Judy be? The child gets more and more troublesome, I do think. I must take her in hand.”

I had been in great perplexity how to let her know that I was there; for to announce yourself to a lady by a voice out of the darkness of her boudoir, or to wait for candles to discover you where she thought she was quite alone—neither is a pleasant way of presenting yourself to her consciousness. But I was helped out of the beginning into the middle of my difficulties, once more by that blessed little Judy. I did not know she was in the room till I heard her voice. Nor do I yet know how much she had heard of the conversation between her aunt and myself; for although I sometimes see her look roguish even now that she is a middle-aged woman with many children, when anything is said which might be supposed to have a possible reference to that night, I have never cared to ask her.

“Here I am, grannie,” said her voice. “But I won’t be taken in hand by you or any one else. I tell you that. So mind. And Mr Walton is here, too, and Aunt Ethelwyn is going out with him for a long walk.”

“What do you mean, you silly child?”

“I mean what I say,” and “Miss Judy speaks the truth,” fell together from her lips and mine.

“Mr Walton,” began Mrs Oldcastle, indignantly, “it is scarcely like a gentleman to come where you are not wanted–”

Here Judy interrupted her.

“I beg your pardon, grannie, Mr Walton WAS wanted—very much wanted. I went and fetched him.”

But Mrs Oldcastle went on unheeding.

“–and to be sitting in my room in the dark too!”

“That couldn’t be helped, grannie. Here comes Sarah with candles.”

“Sarah,” said Mrs Oldcastle, “ask Captain Everard to be kind enough to step this way.”

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Sarah, with an untranslatable look at me as she set down the candles.

We could now see each other. Knowing words to be but idle breath, I would not complicate matters by speech, but stood silent, regarding Mrs Oldcastle. She on her part did not flinch, but returned my look with one both haughty and contemptuous. In a few moments, Captain Everard entered, bowed slightly, and looked to Mrs Oldcastle as if for an explanation. Whereupon she spoke, but to me.

“Mr Walton,” she said, “will you explain to Captain Everard to what we owe the UNEXPECTED pleasure of a visit from you?”

“Captain Everard has no claim to any explanation from me. To you, Mrs Oldcastle, I would have answered, had you asked me, that I was waiting for Miss Oldcastle.”

“Pray inform Miss Oldcastle, Judy, that Mr Walton insists upon seeing her at once.”

“That is quite unnecessary. Miss Oldcastle will be here presently,” I said.

Mrs Oldcastle turned slightly livid with wrath. She was always white, as I have said: the change I can describe only by the word I have used, indicating a bluish darkening of the whiteness. She walked towards the door beside me. I stepped between her and it.

“Pardon me, Mrs Oldcastle. That is the way to Miss Oldcastle’s room. I am here to protect her.”

Without saying a word she turned and looked at Captain Everard. He advanced with a long stride of determination. But ere he reached me, the door behind me opened, and Miss Oldcastle appeared in her bonnet and shawl, catrying a small bag in her hand. Seeing how things were, the moment she entered, she put her hand on my arm, and stood fronting the enemy with me. Judy was on my right, her eyes flashing, and her cheek as red as a peony, evidently prepared to do battle a toute outrance for her friends.

“Miss Oldcastle, go to your room instantly, I COMMAND you,” said her mother; and she approached as if to remove her hand from my arm. I put my other arm between her and her daughter.

“No, Mrs Oldcastle,” I said. “You have lost all a mother’s rights by ceasing to behave like a mother, Miss Oldcastle will never more do anything in obedience to your commands, whatever she may do in compliance with your wishes.”

“Allow me to remark,” said Captain Everard, with attempted nonchalance, “that that is strange doctrine for your cloth.”

“So much the worse for my cloth, then,” I answered, “and the better for yours if it leads you to act more honourably.”

Still keeping himself entrenched in the affectation of a supercilious indifference, he smiled haughtily, and gave a look of dramatic appeal to Mrs Oldcastle.

“At least,” said that lady, “do not disgrace yourself, Ethelwyn, by leaving the house in this unaccountable manner at night and on foot. If you WILL leave the protection of your mother’s roof, wait at least till tomorrow.”

“I would rather spend the night in the open air than pass another under your roof, mother. You have been a strange mother to me—and Dorothy too!”

“At least do not put your character in question by going in this unmaidenly fashion. People will talk to your prejudice—and Mr Walton’s too.”

Ethelwyn smiled.—She was now as collected as I was, seeming to have cast off all her weakness. My heart was uplifted more than I can say.—She knew her mother too well to be caught by the change in her tone.

I had not hitherto interrupted her once when she took the answer upon herself, for she was not one to be checked when she chose to speak. But now she answered nothing, only looked at me, and I understood her, of course.

“They will hardly have time to do so, I trust, before it will be out of their power. It rests with Miss Oldcastle herself to say when that shall be.”

As if she had never suspected that such was the result of her scheming, Mrs Oldcastle’s demeanour changed utterly. The form of her visage was altered. She made a spring at her daughter, and seized her by the arm.

“Then I forbid it,” she screamed; “and I WILL be obeyed. I stand on my rights. Go to your room, you minx.”

“There is no law human or divine to prevent her from marrying whom she will. How old are you, Ethelwyn?”

I thought it better to seem even cooler than I was.

“Twenty-seven,” answered Miss Oldcastle.

“Is it possible you can be so foolish, Mrs Oldcastle, as to think you have the slightest hold on your daughter’s freedom? Let her arm go.”

But she kept her grasp.

“You hurt me, mother,” said Miss Oldcastle.

“Hurt you? you smooth-faced hypocrite! I will hurt you then!”

But I took Mrs Oldcastle’s arm in my hand, and she let go her hold.

“How dare you touch a woman?” she said.

“Because she has so far ceased to be a woman as to torture her own daughter.”

Here Captain Everard stepped forward, saying,—

“The riot-act ought to be read, I think. It is time for the military to interfere.”

“Well put, Captain Everard,” I said. “Our side will disperse if you will only leave room for us to go.”

“Possibly I may have something to say in the matter.”