“Well, Mrs. Julaper, dreams I’ve dreamed like other people, old and young; but this, ma’am, has taken a fast hold of me,” said Mr. Feltram dejectedly, leaning back in his chair and looking down with his hands in his pockets. “I think, Mrs. Julaper, it is getting into me. I think it’s like possession.”
“Possession, child! what do you mean?”
“I think there is something trying to influence me. Perhaps it is the way fellows go mad; but it won’t let me alone. I’ve seen it three times, think of that!”
“Well, dear, and what have ye seen?” she asked, with an uneasy cheerfulness, smiling, with eyes fixed steadily upon him; for the idea of a madman — even gentle Philip in that state — was not quieting.
“Do you remember the picture, full-length, that had no frame — the lady in the white-satin saque — she was beautiful, funeste,” he added, talking more to himself; and then more distinctly to Mrs. Julaper again ——“in the white-satin saque; and with the little mob cap and blue ribbons to it, and a bouquet in her fingers; that was — that — you know who she was?”
“That was your great-grandmother, my dear,” said Mrs. Julaper, lowering her eyes. “It was a dreadful pity it was spoiled. The boys in the pantry had it for a year there on the table for a tray, to wash the glasses on and the like. It was a shame; that was the prettiest picture in the house, with the gentlest, rosiest face.”
“It ain’t so gentle or rosy now, I can tell you,” said Philip. “As fixed as marble; with thin lips, and a curve at the nostril. Do you remember the woman that was found dead in the clough, when I was a boy, that the gipsies murdered, it was thought,— a cruel-looking woman?”
“Agoy! Master Philip, dear! ye would not name that terrible-looking creature with the pretty, fresh, kindly face!”
“Faces change, you see; no matter what she’s like; it’s her talk that frightens me. She wants to make use of me; and, you see, it is like getting a share in my mind, and a voice in my thoughts, and a command over me gradually; and it is just one idea, as straight as a line of light across the lake — see what she’s come to. O Lord, help me!”
“Well, now, don’t you be talkin’ like that. It is just a little bit dowly and troubled, because the master says a wry word now and then; and so ye let your spirits go down, don’t ye see, and all sorts o’ fancies comes into your head.”
“There’s no fancy in my head,” he said with a quick look of suspicion; “only you asked me what I dreamed. I don’t care if all the world knew. I dreamed I went down a flight of steps under the lake, and got a message. There are no steps near Snakes Island, we all know that,” and he laughed chillily. “I’m out of spirits, as you say; and — and — O dear! I wish — Mrs. Julaper — I wish I was in my coffin, and quiet.”
“Now that’s very wrong of you, Master Philip; you should think of all the blessings you have, and not be makin’ mountains o’ molehills; and those little bits o’ temper Sir Bale shows, why, no one minds ’em-that is, to take ’em to heart like you do, don’t ye see?”
“I daresay; I suppose, Mrs. Julaper, you are right. I’m unreasonable often, I know,” said gentle Philip Feltram. “I daresay I make too much of it; I’ll try. I’m his secretary, and I know I’m not so bright as he is, and it is natural he should sometimes be a little impatient; I ought to be more reasonable, I’m sure. It is all that thing that has been disturbing me — I mean fretting, and, I think, I’m not quite well; and — and letting myself think too much of vexations. It’s my own fault, I’m sure, Mrs. Julaper; and I know I’m to blame.”
“That’s quite right, that’s spoken like a wise lad; only I don’t say you’re to blame, nor no one; for folk can’t help frettin’ sometimes, no more than they can help a headache — none but a mafflin would say that — and I’ll not deny but he has dowly ways when the fit’s on him, and he frumps us all round, if such be his humour. But who is there hasn’t his faults? We must bear and forbear, and take what we get and be cheerful. So chirp up, my lad; Philip, didn’t I often ring the a’d rhyme in your ear long ago?
“Be always as merry as ever you can,
For no one delights in a sorrowful man.
“So don’t ye be gettin’ up off your chair like that, and tramping about the room wi’ your hands in your pockets, looking out o’ this window, and staring out o’ that, and sighing and crying, and looking so black-ox-trodden, ‘twould break a body’s heart to see you. Ye must be cheery; and happen you’re hungry, and don’t know it. I’ll tell the cook to grill a hot bit for ye.”
“But I’m not hungry, Mrs. Julaper. How kind you are! dear me, Mrs. Julaper, I’m not worthy of it; I don’t deserve half your kindness. I’d have been heartbroken long ago, but for you.”
“And I’ll make a sup of something hot for you; you’ll take a rummer-glass of punch — you must.”
“But I like the tea better; I do, indeed, Mrs. Julaper.”
“Tea is no drink for a man when his heart’s down. It should be something with a leg in it, lad; something hot that will warm your courage for ye, and set your blood a-dancing, and make ye talk brave and merry; and will you have a bit of a broil first? No? Well then, you’ll have a drop o’ punch?— ye sha’n’t say no.”
And so, all resistance overpowered, the consolation of Philip Feltram proceeded.
A gentler spirit than poor Feltram, a more good-natured soul than the old housekeeper, were nowhere among the children of earth.
Philip Feltram, who was reserved enough elsewhere, used to come into her room and cry, and take her by both hands piteously, standing before her and looking down in her face, while tears ran deviously down his cheeks.
“Did you ever know such a case? was there ever a fellow like me? did you ever know such a thing? You know what I am, Mrs. Julaper, and who I am. They call me Feltram; but Sir Bale knows as well as I that my true name is not that. I’m Philip Mardykes; and another fellow would make a row about it, and claim his name and his rights, as she is always croaking in my ear I ought. But you know that is not reasonable. My grandmother was married; she was the true Lady Mardykes; think what it was to see a woman like that turned out of doors, and her children robbed of their name. O, ma’am, you can’t think it; unless you were me, you couldn’t — you couldn’t — you couldn’t!”
“Come, come, Master Philip, don’t you be taking on so; and ye mustn’t be talking like that, d’ye mind? You know he wouldn’t stand that; and it’s an old story now, and there’s naught can be proved concerning it; and what I think is this — I wouldn’t wonder the poor lady was beguiled. But anyhow she surely thought she was his lawful wife; and though the law may hev found a flaw somewhere — and I take it ’twas so — yet sure I am she was an honourable lady. But where’s the use of stirring that old sorrow? or how can ye prove aught? and the dead hold their peace, you know; dead mice, they say, feels no cold; and dead folks are past fooling. So don’t you talk like that; for stone walls have ears, and ye might say that ye couldn’t unsay; and death’s day is doom’s day. So leave all in the keeping of God; and, above all, never lift hand when ye can’t strike.”
“Lift my hand! O, Mrs. Julaper, you couldn’t think that; you little know me; I did not mean that; I never dreamed of hurting Sir Bale. Good heavens! Mrs. Julaper, you couldn’t think that! It all comes of my poor impatient temper, and complaining as I do, and my misery; but O, Mrs. Julaper, you could not think I ever meant to trouble him by law, or any other annoyance! I’d like to see a stain removed from my family, and my name restored; but to touch his property, O, no!— O, no! that never entered my mind, by heaven! that never entered my mind, Mrs. Julaper. I’m not cruel; I’m not rapacious; I don’t care for money; don’t you know that, Mrs. Julaper? O, surely you won’t think me capable of attacking the man whose bread I have eaten so long! I never dreamed of it; I should hate myself. Tell me you don’t believe it; O, Mrs. Julaper, say you don’t!”
And the gentle feeble creature burst into tears and good Mrs. Julaper comforted him with kind words; and he said,
“Thank you, ma’am; thank you. God knows I would not hurt Bale, nor give him one uneasy hour. It is only this: that I’m — I’m so miserable; and I’m only casting in my mind where to turn to, and what to do. So little a thing would be enough, and then I shall leave Mardykes. I’ll go; not in any anger, Mrs. Julaper — don’t think that; but I can’t stay, I must be gone.”
“Well, now, there’s nothing yet, Master Philip, to fret you like that. You should not be talking so wild-like. Master Bale has his sharp word and his short temper now and again; but I’m sure he likes you. If he didn’t, he’d a-said so to me long ago. I’m sure he likes you well.”
“Hollo! I say, who’s there? Where the devil’s Mr. Feltram?” called the voice of the baronet, at a fierce pitch, along the passage.
“La! Mr. Feltram, it’s him! Ye’d better run to him,” whispered Mrs. Julaper.
“Damn me! does nobody hear? Mrs. Julaper! Hollo! ho! house, there! ho! Damn me, will nobody answer?”
And Sir Bale began to slap the wainscot fast and furiously with his walking-cane with a clatter like a harlequin’s lath in a pantomime.
Mrs. Julaper, a little paler than usual, opened her door, and stood with the handle in her hand, making a little curtsey, enframed in the door-case; and Sir Bale, being in a fume, when he saw her, ceased whacking the panels of the corridor, and stamped on the floor, crying,
“Upon my soul, ma’am, I’m glad to see you! Perhaps you can tell me where Feltram is?”
“He is in my room, Sir Bale. Shall I tell him you want him, please?”
“Never mind; thanks,” said the Baronet. “I’ve a tongue in my head;” marching down the passage to the housekeeper’s room, with his cane clutched hard, glaring savagely, and with his teeth fast set, like a fellow advancing to beat a vicious horse that has chafed his temper.