Green Willows. V. J. Banis
and hair, to make of his model a creature not only human, but a thing of gossamer and light and dreams—truly an angel, with that heavenly smile and those gentle, loving eyes.
I could hardly imagine her the wife of the man I had met on the path, who seemed so rough, so inelegant.
The portrait, however, had put me at ease on one point. I need not worry about the nature of the girl I was going to be teaching. With such a mother, could the child be anything but an angel herself?
I said as much to Mrs. Duffy as we continued on our way, and she smiled and said, “Little Elizabeth, aye, she’s an angel all right, never you worry about her, Miss.”
“Is her mother deceased, then?”
“Yes, some years ago, they say. But folks around here can’t talk nice enough about her.”
“Did you know her?” We had reached the upper corridor and I was led quickly toward the rear of the house.
“Me? Oh, no, Miss, I’ve only been here a few months. And it’s lonesome, I don’t mind saying. I’ll be glad for your company.”
“And I for yours, I’m sure,” I said. We had reached a closed door, which she swung open for me. “This is my first employment, you know.”
“Is it now? And you’ve come all the way here to Green Willows. There, I think you’ll like this room, Miss. I’ve lighted the fires and there’s a warming pan for you.”
It was a small but cozy room, with a four poster bed, a dressing table, a small wooden chair by the fire, and bright curtains at the windows.
“It’s lovely,” I said, not daring to tell her how it compared to the shabby cubbyhole I’d had at Mrs. White’s. “You certainly do seem to do everything, though.”
“I do what has to be done, Miss,” she said with an odd note of pique in her voice.
“Are there no other servants, then?” I put my shawl on the back of the chair. My bag, I saw, had been brought up.
“Not just now.” She took the pillows from the bed and began to fluff them.
The change in her manner struck an uneasy chord within me, and I began to think again of the strange warnings I’d gotten from the coach driver and woman at the inn. I was tired and susceptible, and suddenly I began to worry again.
Trying to still the worrisome voice within me, I said, “I suppose it’s a long walk from the village.”
“Oh, that. I walk it myself twice a week. No, we’ve got no shortage of help during the days.” She paused, pounding the pillow with such ferocity that I half expected it to burst and scatter a flurry of feathers about the room.
She added quickly, “They won’t stay nights. There, I think that’ll be comfortable for you.”
“Mrs. Duffy,” I said on a rising note, “is there anything wrong with Green Willows, or with the Tremaynes?”
“Wrong?” She looked flustered and I could see that she was embarrassed by my question, even though she had perhaps prompted it. She was a well-trained servant and as such knew the importance of loyalty to her employers. “Why, what on earth could have given you that idea, Miss? They’re very fine people, I’m sure, and as for Green Willows, why, it’s a lovely home, if it is a bit lonely.”
“Is it so isolated, then?” I asked, my anxiety hardly laid to rest. “Are there no visitors?”
“Visitors, Miss? To Green Willows?” Her expression made this seem so incongruous that my fears were again fanned into flame. But she would not let me voice them.
“Now, Miss,” she said in a soothing tone, “you’re tired, I expect, and you’re letting your imagination run away with you. What you want is a good night’s sleep.”
“But, I—”
“If you need anything, all you’ve got to do is pull that cord there,” she said, effectively silencing any further questions I might have. “Good night, Miss. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
With that she left, but not before pausing in the doorway to say again, “I’m that glad you’re here, Miss.”
I was left alone in my room. The fire crackled on the grate and the wind rattled the shutters in reply. I went to the window and looked out, but I could see little. Apparently we were right on the headland, as the earth seemed simply to drop away a hundred yards of so from the house. Although the grounds in front were beautifully landscaped, here it appeared that the darkness lay upon a barren hillside except for one old, gnarled tree that stood at the cliff’s very edge, its branches twisted into a grotesque parody of beseeching.
For all my worries, Mrs. Duffy was right. I was tired, and having thrown the bolt on my door, a perhaps unnecessary gesture that nonetheless gave me a greater peace of mind, I was soon in my bed and, grateful for the warming pan, asleep in no more than a few minutes.
* * * * * * *
I do not know how long I slept before I was awakened. The fire had burned down to a few glowing coals and the room was cold. Outside, the wind still rattled the shutters and thrust one icy draft across the floor of my room.
For a moment, I lay still muffled in sleep, trying to recall first where I was and then why I had awakened. Then I heard it again—a distant sound of sobbing.
I thought at once of my new pupil, Elizabeth. Was she crying in her bed, perhaps even because I was here? Some girls did so resent education, I knew. Perhaps to her I represented a loss of freedom, or a loss of the time she might otherwise spend with her father or her aunt, although I could not imagine Eleanor Tremayne truly comfortable in the presence of a child.
Hardly thinking, I slipped from my room and went to the door. I could hear the crying more clearly here. Yes, it was a girl’s voice, and not far away, I thought. I slid back the bolt and opened the door, stepping into the hallway. A distant candle or a lamp burned around a corner, giving the faintest of glows to the hall, which was empty.
I went back for my dressing gown, slipping quickly into it, and came into the hall again. I turned in the direction of the crying, and gave a little startled cry as someone moved just a few feet from me.
“Mr. Tremayne,” I breathed, so relieved to find it was only him that I forgot to be embarrassed at being found in the dark hall, in my dressing gown. “You startled me.”
“I shouldn’t wonder.” He came closer, those hard eyes staring down at me. “Is something wrong, Miss Kirkpatrick?”
“It was that sobbing,” I said. “It woke me and I came to see what was wrong.”
For a long moment he continued to stare at me. I cannot say that his face was expressionless. Indeed, it seemed full of expression, but of what I could not read.
“What sobbing?” he asked finally.
“Why, the sound of crying....” I stopped. Except for our whispering voices, the house lay still about us. “But, it...I heard it. You must have heard it too.” I felt as if that icy draft of air were moving up my spine.
“I heard nothing but your door open. I came to see what was wrong.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I could not think of a reply, nor could I meet his unwavering gaze. I looked down, suddenly conscious of my dishabille, of the lateness of the hour, and of how foolish I must look.
“This is an oddly constructed house, Miss Kirkpatrick,” he said, speaking as one might speak to a child. “And the wind comes straight in from the sea. Sometimes it makes strange noises. You’ll get used to them.”
“No doubt I will,” I said, backing into my room. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“It was no bother,” he said, not moving. “Good night. Are you comfortable in this room?”
“Very,