“Maule’s well!” answered Phœbe. “Is that it with the rim of mossy stones?I have no thought of drinking there,—but why not?”
“Oh,” rejoined the daguerreotypist, “because,like an old lady’s cup of tea, it is water bewitched!”
He vanished; and Phœbe, lingering a moment,saw a glimmering light,and then the steady beam of a lamp,in a chamber of the gable.On returning into Hepzibah’s apartment of the house,she found the low-studded parlor so dim and dusky that her eyes could not penetrate the interior. She was indistinctly aware, however, that the gaunt figure of the old gentlewoman was sitting in one of the straight-backed chairs, a little withdrawn from the window, the faint gleam of which showed the blanched paleness of her cheek, turned sideways towards a corner.
“Shall I light a lamp, Cousin Hepzibah?” she asked.
“Do, if you please, my dear child,” answered Hepzibah.“But put it on the table in the corner of the passage.My eyes are weak; and I can seldom bear the lamplight on them. ”
What an instrument is the human voice!How wonderfully responsive to every emotion of the human soul!In Hepzibah’s tone, at that moment,there was a certain rich depth and moisture,as if the words, commonplace as they were,had been steeped in the warmth of her heart. Again,while lighting the lamp in the kitchen,Phœbe fancied that her cousin spoke to her.
“In a moment, cousin!” answered the girl. “These matches just glimmer, and go out.”
But, instead of a response from Hepzibah,she seemed to hear the murmur of an unknown voice.It was strangely indistinct, however,and less like articulate words than an unshaped sound,such as would be the utterance of feeling and sympathy,rather than of the intellect. So vague was it,that its impression or echo in Phœbe’s mind was that of unreality.She concluded that she must have mistaken some other sound for that of the human voice; or else that it was altogether in her fancy.
She set the lighted lamp in the passage,and again entered the parlor. Hepzibah’s form,though its sable outline mingled with the dusk,was now less imperfectly visible.In the remoter parts of the room, however,its walls being so ill adapted to reflect light,there was nearly the same obscurity as before.
“Cousin,” said Phœbe, “did you speak to me just now?”
“No, child!” replied Hepzibah.
Fewer words than before,but with the same mysterious music in them!Mellow, melancholy, yet not mournful,the tone seemed to gush up out of the deep well of Hepzibah’s heart,all steeped in its profoundest emotion.There was a tremor in it, too,that—as all strong feeling is electric—partly communicated itself to Phœbe.The girl sat silently for a moment. But soon,her senses being very acute,she became conscious of an irregular respiration in an obscure corner of the room. Her physical organization, moreover, being at once delicate and healthy, gave her a perception, operating with almost the effect of a spiritual medium, that somebody was near at hand.
“My dear cousin,” asked she,overcoming an indefinable reluctance,“is there not some one in the room with us?”
“Phœbe, my dear little girl,” said Hepzibah,after a moment’s pause, “you were up betimes,and have been busy all day. Pray go to bed;for I am sure you must need rest.I will sit in the parlor awhile,and collect my thoughts.It has been my custom for more years, child,than you have lived!” While thus dismissing her,the maiden lady stept forward, kissed Phœbe,and pressed her to her heart,which beat against the girl’s bosom with a strong,high, and tumultuous swell.How came there to be so much love in this desolate old heart,that it could afford to well over thus abundantly?
“Goodnight, cousin,” said Phœbe,strangely affected by Hepzibah’s manner.“If you begin to love me, I am glad!”
She retired to her chamber,but did not soon fall asleep, nor then very profoundly.At some uncertain period in the depths of night, and,as it were, through the thin veil of a dream,she was conscious of a footstep mounting the stairs heavily,but not with force and decision. The voice of Hepzibah,with a hush through it,was going up along with the footsteps; and, again,responsive to her cousin’s voice,Phœbe heard that strange, vague murmur,which might be likened to an indistinct shadow of human utterance.
VII. The Guest
When Phœbe awoke,—which she did with the early twittering of the conjugal couple of robins in the pear-tree,—she heard movements below stairs, and, hastening down, found Hepzibah already in the kitchen. She stood by a window, holding a book in close contiguity to her nose, as if with the hope of gaining an olfactory acquaintance with its contents, since her imperfect vision made it not very easy to read them. If any volume could have manifested its essential wisdom in the mode suggested, it would certainly have been the one now in Hepzibah’s hand; and the kitchen, in such an event, would forthwith have streamed with the fragrance of venison, turkeys, capons, larded partridges, puddings, cakes, and Christmas pies, in all manner of elaborate mixture and concoction. It was a cookery book, full of innumerable old fashions of English dishes, and illustrated with engravings, which represented the arrangements of the table at such banquets as it might have befitted a nobleman to give in the great hall of his castle. And, amid these rich and potent devices of the culinary art (not one of which, probably, had been tested, within the memory of any man’s grandfather), poor Hepzibah was seeking for some nimble little titbit, which, with what skill she had, and such materials as were at hand, she might toss up for breakfast.
Soon, with a deep sigh, she put aside the savory volume,and inquired of Phœbe whether old Speckle,as she called one of the hens,had laid an egg the preceding day. Phœbe ran to see,but returned without the expected treasure in her hand.At that instant, however,the blast of a fish-dealer’s conch was heard,announcing his approach along the street.With energetic raps at the shop-window,Hepzibah summoned the man in,and made purchase of what he warranted as the finest mackerel in his cart,and as fat a one as ever he felt with his finger so early in the season.Requesting Phœbe to roast some coffee,—which she casually observed was the real Mocha,and so long kept that each of the small berries ought to be worth its weight in gold,—the maiden lady heaped fuel into the vast receptacle of the ancient fireplace in such quantity as soon to drive the lingering dusk out of the kitchen. The country-girl, willing to give her utmost assistance, proposed to make an Indian cake, after her mother’s peculiar method, of easy manufacture, and which she could vouch for as possessing a richness, and, if rightly prepared, a delicacy, unequalled by any other mode of breakfast-cake. Hepzibah gladly assenting, the kitchen was soon the scene of savory preparation. Perchance, amid their proper element of smoke, which eddied forth from the ill-constructed chimney, the ghosts of departed cook-maids looked wonderingly on, or peeped down the great breadth of the flue, despising the simplicity of the projected meal, yet ineffectually pining to thrust their shadowy hands into each inchoate dish. The half-starved rats, at any rate, stole visibly out of their hiding-places, and sat on their hind-legs, snuffing the fumy atmosphere, and wistfully awaiting an opportunity to nibble.