Part 12 (2/2)
”No--not unwell--but I am absolutely miserable, and cannot imagine why.”
”Then you have not had bad news?” was the next remark. ”I feared you must have had, seeing you so silent and not able to eat anything.”
In answer to this I said that I had not even the excuse of hearing of other people's misfortunes, for a young lady had been calling upon me that afternoon, who was about to make what the world calls a very successful marriage. I did not, however, mention her name, as Mrs Peters knew none of my friends.
Dinner over, I felt still so unaccountably wretched that I determined to give up the evening party, and write my excuses. Mrs Peters did her best to combat this decision, fearing that her kind benefactress might be disappointed, and also urging that the evening's enjoyment would cheer me up. But finding me inexorable, she then said: ”Well, if you have quite determined not to go, shall I come into your sitting-room and see if we can get any explanation of your curious feeling of depression?”
I closed with this suggestion, knowing Mrs Peters to be a really remarkable sensitive.
So we sat in the dark for a few minutes; and then I heard a soft _frou-frou_ on Mrs Peters' silk gown, and knew she was tracing out words with her hand in a fas.h.i.+on of her own.
”It is a spirit that young lady brought with her,” she announced at length. ”The spirit has remained here with _you_, and is worried about this marriage you spoke of. She wants you to try and break it off. She seems to have been nearly related to the lady, or perhaps a G.o.dmother; anyway, she takes great interest in her.”
”Will she give a name?” I asked.
”ELIZA is all I get,” Mrs Peters replied.
It then occurred to me that my young friend's name _was_ Eliza, and that she had been so named after a great-aunt, to the best of my recollection; but as she was invariably called Elsa, by friends and relations alike, it was only by chance that I remembered hearing her teased about her far less romantic baptismal name.
I asked if no surname could be given, thinking at the moment that it would be Waverly--the family name; but my thought was evidently not transferred to Mrs Peters, who said she could not get the name accurately, but that it was certainly _not_ Waverly. I found later that the Great-Aunt Eliza had a name entirely different from that of her descendants.
Nothing further happened on this occasion, except that I sent a message to ”Great-Aunt Eliza” to say that nothing would induce me to take the responsibility of trying to break off any marriage, either by the advice of people in this sphere or in any other sphere. In this case I should have had neither the authority nor the influence to make any such unwise attempt.
Sunday came round in due course, and brought the bride's younger sister, then a girl of twenty-four or twenty-five. We discussed the usual midday Sunday dinner of roast beef and Yorks.h.i.+re pudding, Mrs Peters sitting at the head of the table, I on her right hand, and Carrie Waverly next to me.
Suddenly realising that my remarks to the latter were receiving very scant attention, I looked up, and found the girl's black eyes fixed in a basilisk stare upon our unfortunate hostess, whose own eyes were cast down, but who appeared uneasy and troubled by the determined gaze of my guest. At length the poor woman threw down her knife and fork, rose hastily from the dining-table, and made her way eagerly to the sofa at the other end of the room, where she lay down at full length, murmuring: ”_I can't stand it any longer!_”
Carrie Waverly was at length induced to come away to my sitting-room and leave the poor woman in peace, which she did, a.s.serting her complete innocence, and a.s.suring me she ”_only wanted to see if she could make Mrs Peters look up at her!_”
I explained to her that ”sensitives” may be as much upset by this sort of thing as another person would be by a blow on the back. She looked incredulous, and then said cheerfully: ”Well, if it is as bad as that, don't you think you ought to go and see how she is?”
”Two for yourself and your own curiosity and one for her!” I thought; but I took the hint, and found Mrs Peters still prostrate on the sofa, but full of apologies for her sudden collapse:
”You must have thought me so very rude,” etc., etc.
I rea.s.sured her on this point, and expressed regret that my visitor should have upset her so much by looking so fixedly at her.
”It was not her fault,” said Mrs Peters eagerly. ”_It was the man standing over her._ He had his hands upon her shoulders, and was trying so hard to influence her, and she was resisting it all the time, and the whole conflict of their wills was thrown upon _me_, and I could not stand it at last--that was why I left the table,” she gasped out.
”Could you describe the man at all?”
”Quite clearly,” she said. ”I shall never forget his face--I saw him so distinctly.” She then proceeded to describe in detail the very clear-cut features and bushy eyebrows of Carrie Waverly's father, giving also his colouring, which was very distinctive. I suggested trying to find out what he wanted to say to his daughter, but this distressed Mrs Peters so much that I was sorry to have made the suggestion.
”No! no! dear Miss Bates!--don't ask me to do that--dear Henry never likes my taking messages from strangers--I have promised him that I would never do it without his permission. It upsets me so much, and I feel so weak already.”
So I came away, promising to look in later and see if I could do anything for her.
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