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                            THE SORCERESS.




                            THE SORCERESS.

                               A Novel.

                                  BY

                            MRS. OLIPHANT,

                               AUTHOR OF

                   “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,”
                       “THE CUCKOO IN THE NEST,”
                              ETC., ETC.

                          _IN THREE VOLUMES._

                               VOL. II.

                                LONDON:

                          F. V. WHITE & Co.,
                 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.

                                 1893.

                        [_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_]

                              PRINTED BY
                      TILLOTSON AND SON, BOLTON,
                     LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BERLIN.




                            THE SORCERESS.




CHAPTER I.


IT was perhaps a very good thing for Bee at this distracting and
distracted moment of her life, that her mother’s illness came in to fill
up every thought. Her own little fabric of happiness crumbled down about
her ears like a house of cards, only as it was far more deeply founded
and strongly built, the downfall was with a rumbling that shook the
earth and a dust that rose up to the skies. Heaven was blurred out to
her by the rising clouds, and all the earth was full of the noise, like
an earthquake, of the falling walls. She could not get that sound out of
her ears even in Mrs. Kingsward’s sick room, where the quiet was
preternatural, and everybody spoke in the lowest tone, and every step
was hushed. Even then it went on roaring, the stones and the rafters
flying, the storms of dust and ruin blackening the air, so that Bee
could not but wonder that nobody saw them, that the atmosphere was not
thick and stifling with those _debris_ that were continually falling
about her own ears. For everything was coming down; not only the idol
and the shrine he abode in, but heaven and earth, in which she felt that
no truth, no faith, could dwell any longer. Who was there to believe in?
Not any man if not Aubrey; not any goodness, any truth, if not his--not
anything! For it was without object, without warning, for nothing at
all, that he had deserted her, as if it had been of no importance: with
the ink not dry on his letter, with her name still upon his lips. A
great infidelity, like a great faith, is always something. It is tragic,
one of the awful events of life in which there is, or may be, fate; an
evil destiny, a terrible chastisement prepared beforehand. In such a
case one can at least feel one’s self only a great victim, injured by
God himself and the laws of the universe, though that was not the common
fashion of thought then, as it is now-a-days. But Bee’s downfall did not
mean so much as that it was not intended by anyone--not even by the
chief worker in it. He had meant to hold Bee fast with one hand while he
amused himself with the other. Amused himself--oh, heaven! Bee’s heart
seemed to contract with a speechless spasm of anguish and rage. That she
should be of no more account than that! Played with as if she were
nobody--the slight creature of a moment. She, Bee! She, Colonel
Kingsward’s daughter!

At first the poor girl went on in a mist of self-absorption, through
which everything else pierced but dully, wrapped up and hidden in it as
in the storm which would have arisen had the house actually fallen about
her ears, perceiving her mother through it, and the doctor, and all the
accessories of the scene--but dimly, not as if they were real. When,
however, there began to penetrate through this, strange words, with
strange meanings in them: “Danger”--danger to whom?--“Strength
failing”--but whose strength?--a dull wonder came in, bringing her back
to other thoughts. By-and-by, Bee began to understand a little that it
was of her mother of whom these things were being said. Her mother? But
it was not her mother’s house that had fallen; what did it mean? The
doctor talked apart with Moulsey, and Moulsey turned her back, and her
shoulders heaved, and her apron seemed to be put to her eyes. Bee, in
her dream said, half aloud, “Danger?” and both the doctor and Moulsey
turned upon her as if they would have killed her. Then she was beckoned
out of the room, and found herself standing face to face with that grave
yet kindly countenance which she had known all her life, in which she
believed as in the greatest authority. She heard his voice speaking to
her through all the rumbling and downfall.

“You must be very courageous,” it said, “You are the eldest, and till
your father comes home----”

What did it matter about her father coming home, or about her being the
eldest? What had all these things to do with the earthquake, with the
failure of truth, and meaning, and everything in life? She looked at him
blankly, wondering if it were possible that he did not hear the sound of
the great falling, the rending of the walls, and the tearing of the
roof, and the choking dust that filled all earth and heaven.

“My dear Beatrice,” he said, for he had known her all his life, “you
don’t understand me, do you, my poor child?”

Bee shook her head, looking at him wistfully. Could he know anything
more about it, she wondered--anything that had still to be said?

He took her hand, and her poor little hand was very cold with emotion
and trouble. The good doctor, who knew nothing about any individual
cause little Bee could have for agitation, thought he saw that her very
being was arrested by a terror which as yet her intelligence had not
grasped; something dreadful in the air which she did not understand. He
drew her into the dining-room, the door of which stood open, and poured
out a little wine for her. “Now, Bee,” he said, “no fainting, no
weakness. You must prove what is in you now. It is a dreadful trial for
you, my dear, but you can do a great deal for your dear mother’s sake,
as she would for yours.”

“I have never said it was a trial,” cried Bee, with a gasp. “Why do you
speak to me so? Has mamma told you? No one has anything to do with it
but me.”

He looked at her with great surprise, but the doctor was a man of too
much experience not to see that here was something into which it was
better not to inquire. He said, very quietly, “You, as the eldest, have
no doubt the chief part to play; but the little ones will all depend
upon your strength and courage. Your mother does not herself know. She
is very ill. It will require all that we can do--to pull her through.”

Bee repeated the last words after him with a scared look, but scarcely
any understanding in her face--“To pull her--through?”

“Don’t you understand me now? Your mother--has been ill for a long time.
Your father is aware of it. I suppose he thought you were too young to
be told. But now that he is absent, and your brother, I have no
alternative. Your mother is in great danger. I have telegraphed for
Colonel Kingsward, but in the meantime, Bee--child, don’t lose your
head! Do you understand me? She may be dying, and you are the only one
to stand by her, to give her courage.”

Bee did not look as if she had courage for anyone at that dreadful
moment. She fell a-trembling from head to foot and fell back against the
wall where she was standing. Her eyes grew large, staring at him yet
veiled as if they did not see--and she stammered forth at length,
“Mother, mother!” with almost no meaning, in the excess of misery and
surprise.

“Yes, your mother; whatever else you may have to think of, she is the
first consideration now.”

He went on speaking, but Bee did not hear him; everything floated around
her in a mist. The scenes at the Bath, the agitations, Mrs. Kingsward’s
sudden pallors and flushings, her pretence, which they all laughed at,
of not being able to walk; her laziness, lying on the sofa, the
giddiness when she made that one turn with Charlie, she who had always
been so fond of dancing; the hurry of bringing her to Kingswarden when
Bee had felt they would have been so much better in London, and her
strange, strange new fancy, mutely condemned by Bee, of finding the
children too much for her. Half of these things had been silently
remarked and disapproved of by the daughters. Mamma getting so
idle--self-indulgent almost, so unlike herself! Had they not been too
busily engaged in their own affairs, Bee and Betty would both have been
angry with mamma. All these things seem to float about Bee in a mist
while she leaned against the wall and the doctor stood opposite to her
talking. It was only perhaps about a minute after all, but she saw
waving round her, passing before her eyes, one scene melting into
another, or rather all visible at once, innumerable episodes--the whole
course of the three months past which had contained so much. She came
out of this strange whirl very miserable but very quiet.

“I think it is chiefly my fault,” she said, faltering, interrupting the
doctor who was talking, always talking; “but how could I know, for
nobody told me? Doctor, tell me what to do now? You said we should--pull
her through.”

She gave him a faint, eager, conciliatory smile, appealing to him to do
it. Of course he could do it! “Tell me--tell me only what to do.”

He patted her kindly upon the shoulder. “That is right,” he said. “Now
you understand me, and I know I can trust you. There is not much to do.
Only to be quiet and steady--no crying or agitation. Moulsey knows
everything. But you must be ready and steady, my dear. Sit by her and
look happy and keep up her courage--that’s the chief thing. If she gives
in it is all over. She must not see that you are frightened or
miserable. Come, it’s a great thing to do for a little girl that has
never known any trouble. But you are of a good sort, and you must rise
to it for your mother’s sake.”

Look happy! That was all she had to do. “Can’t I help Moulsey,” she
asked. “I could fetch her what she wants. I could--go errands for her.
Oh, doctor, something a little easier,” cried Bee, clasping her hands,
“just at first!”

“All that’s arranged,” he said, hastily, “Come, we must go back to our
patient. She will be wondering what I am talking to you about. She will
perhaps take fright. No, nothing easier, my poor child--if you can do
that you may help me a great deal; if you can’t, go to bed, my dear,
that will be best.”

She gave him a look of great scorn, and moved towards her mother’s room,
leading the way.

Mrs. Kingsward was lying with her face towards the door, watching, in a
blaze of excitement and fever. Her eyes had never been so bright nor her
colour so brilliant. She was breathing quickly, panting, with her heart
very audible to herself, pumping in her ears, and almost audible in the
room, so evident was it that every pulse was at fever speed. “What have
you been telling Bee, doctor? What have you been telling Bee? What----”
When she had begun this phrase it did not seem as if she could stop
repeating it again and again.

“I have been telling her that she may sit with you, my dear lady, on
condition of being very quiet, very quiet,” said the doctor. “It’s a
great promotion at her age. She has promised to sit very still, and talk
very little, and hush her mamma to sleep. It is you who must be the baby
to-night. If you can get a good long quiet sleep, it will do you all the
good in the world. Yes, you may hold her hand if you like, my dear, and
pat it, and smooth it--a little gentle mesmerism will do no harm. That,
my dear lady, is what I have been telling Miss Bee.”

“Oh, doctor,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “don’t you know she has had great
trouble herself, poor child? Poor little Bee! At her age I was married
and happy; and here is she, poor thing, plunged into trouble. Doctor,
you know, there is a--gentleman----”

Mrs. Kingsward had raised herself upon her elbow, and the panting of her
breath filled all the room.

“Another time--another time you shall tell me all about it. But I shall
take Miss Bee away, and consign you to a dark room, and silence, if you
say another word----”

“Oh, don’t make my room dark! I like the light. I want my child. Let me
keep her, let me keep her! Who should--comfort her--but her mother?”

“Yes, so long as you keep quiet. If you talk I will take her away. Not a
word--not a word--till to-morrow.” In spite of himself there was a
change in the doctor’s voice as he said that word--or Bee thought so--as
if there might never be any to-morrow. The girl felt as if she must cry
out, shriek aloud, to relieve her bursting brain, but did not, overborne
by his presence and by the new sense of duty and self-restraint. “Come
now,” he went on, “I am very kind to let you have your little girl by
you, holding your hand--don’t you think so? Go to sleep, both of you. If
you’re quite, quite, quiet you’ll both doze, and towards the morning
I’ll look in upon you again. Now, not another word. Good-night,
good-night.”

Bee, whose heart was beating almost as strongly as her mother’s, heard
his measured step withdraw on the soft carpets with a sense of wild
despair, as if the last hope was going from her. Her inexperienced
imagination had leaped from complete ignorance and calm to the last
possibilities of calamity. She had never seen death, and what if that
awful presence were to come while she was alone, incapable of any
struggle, of giving any help. She listened to the steps getting fainter
in the distance with anguish and terror unspeakable. She clasped her
mother’s hand tightly without knowing it. That only aid, the only man
who could do anything, was going away--deserting them--leaving her alone
in her ignorance to stand between her mother and death. Death! Every
pulse sprang up and fluttered in mortal terror. And she was put there to
be quiet--ready and steady, he had said--to look happy! Bee kept silent;
kept sitting upon her chair; kept down her shriek after him with a
superhuman effort. She could do no more.

“Listen--he’s talking to Moulsey now,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “about me;
they’re always--whispering, about me--telling the symptoms--and how I
am. That is the worst of nurses----”

“Mamma! Oh, don’t talk, don’t talk!” cried Bee; though she was more
comforted than words can tell by the sound of her mother’s voice.

“Whispering: can’t you hear them? About temperature--and things.
I can bear talking--but whispering. Bee--don’t you hear
’em--whis--whispering----”

“Oh, mamma,” cried Bee, “I love to hear you speak! But don’t, don’t,
don’t, or they’ll make me go away.”

“My baby,” said the mother, diverted in her wandering and weakness to a
new subject, “my little thing! He said we were to go to sleep. Put your
head there--and I’ll sing you--I’ll sing you--to sleep--little Bee,
little Bee, poor little Bee!”




CHAPTER II.


THIS night was the strangest in Bee Kingsward’s life. She had never
known what it was to remain silent and awake in the darkness and warmth
of a sick room, which of itself is a strange experience for a girl, and
shows the young spirit its own weakness, its craving for rest and
comfort, the difficulty of overcoming the instincts of nature--with such
a sense of humiliation as nothing else could give. Could you not watch
with me one hour? She believed that she had lain awake crying all night
when her dream of happiness had so suddenly been broken in upon at
Cologne; but now, while she sat by her mother’s side, and the little
soft crooning of the song, which Mrs. Kingsward supposed herself to be
singing to put her child to sleep, sank into a soft murmur, and the poor
lady succeeded in hushing herself into a doze by this characteristic
method. Bee’s head dropped too, and her eyelids closed. Then she woke,
with a little shiver, to see the large figure of Moulsey like a ghost by
the bed, and struggled dumbly back to her senses, only remembering that
she must not start nor cry to disturb Mrs. Kingsward, whose quick
breathing filled the room with a sensation of danger and dismay to which
the girl was sensible as soon as the film of sleep that had enveloped
her was broken. Mrs. Kingsward’s head was thrown back on the pillow; now
and then a faint note of the lullaby which she had been singing came
from the parted lips, through which the hot, quick breath came so
audibly. Now and then she stirred in her feverish sleep. Moulsey stood
indistinguishable with her back to the light, a mass of solid shadow by
the bedside. She shook her head. “Sleep’s