Mother Aegypt and Other Stories Part 11

There on the porch stood an old, old man, leaning on a stick. His hair was snow-white with age, his skin black as Annimae's pianoforte. Though it was a moonless night, he wore smoked spectacles that hid his eyes. He was dressed in a black suit of formal cut, and was just drawing off his tall silk hat. Holding it before him, he bowed. On the drive behind him was the carriage, indeed painted a deep violet, with two great black horses. .h.i.tched to it. Visible within the carriage was a tiny woman, swathed in a purple lap robe. Perhaps there was something behind her, huddled up in the shadows.

And Annimae felt a wave of summer heat blow in from the night, and it seemed the perfume of strange flowers was on that wind, and the music of insects creaking loud in the darkness.

"Good Evening, Miss. Is Mr. Devereaux Loveland at home?" the old man inquired, in a nasal voice.

"What do you want here, boy?" demanded Great-Aunt Merrion.

"I do beg your pardon, Ma'am, but my mistress is crippled with the rheumatism and hopes you will excuse her if she don't get out of the carriage to speak to you herself," said the old man. "She wishes to know if Mr. Loveland would be so kind as to call on her at Nightengale Manor, at any convenient hour tomorrow."

Annimae's father started forward, and stared past the old man at the carriage.

"You may tell her I would be delighted to do so, boy," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "What is it your mistress wishes to discuss with me?"

"Matters of mutual advantage, Sir," said the old man, and bowed again.

"Then I shall call on her at one o'clock in the afternoon," said Annimae's father.

When Annimae had closed the door, Aunt Pugh said scornfully: "A lady would have left a caking card."

But the next day Annimae's father dressed in his finest clothes, saddled his white horse and rode away down Monterey Road, well ahead of the hour so as not to be late. It was seven in the evening before he came riding back.

When he had led his horse to the stable himself (for the Mexican groom had been discharged) he returned and came straight into the house, and standing before his hearth he said to Annimae: "Daughter, I have arranged your marriage. You are to become the wife of Daniel Nightengale."

Annimae stood there stunned. Great-Aunt Merrion gasped, and Aunt Pugh sputtered, and then the pair of them raised twenty concerted objections, as her father ignored them and poured himself a gla.s.s of brandy from the parlor decanter. But Annimae felt again the strange warm wind, and a reckless joy rising in her heart.

"What d'you mean, that woman has a son?" roared Great-Aunt Merrion. "A marriageable son?"

"I am given to understand he is an invalid," said Annimae's father, with a significant look at the old women.

A certain silence fell.

"And he is the only child and heir?" said Aunt Pugh delicately.

"He is, Madam," replied Annimae's father.

"Mm-hm," said Great-Aunt Merrion. Adamant was not so hard and bright as the speculative gaze she turned on Annimae. "Well, child, you have indeed been favored by fortune."

Annimae said: "Is he handsome, Daddy?"

"I did not see him," said Annimae's father, studying the ceiling beams. Taking a drink of the brandy he went on: "The, ah, the young gentleman is unable to receive visitors. Mrs. Nightengale offered his proposal."

"But-how did he fall in love with me, then?" asked Annimae.

The two Aunts pursed their old lips tight. Annimae's father lowered his head, met his child's eves and said: "I was informed he goes out riding a'nights in the carriage, and has glimpsed you seated at the window, and was entranced by the vision of beauty and gentility you presented. And he burns for love of you, or so his dear Mamma says."

"Why then, I will surely love him!" said Annimae with firm conviction.

"That is your duty child," said Great-Aunt Merrion.

But neither Great-Aunt Merrion nor Aunt Pugh were pleased with the conditions set on the match: which were, that there was to be no grand church wedding, blazoned in the Society Pages, no pubic ceremony or indeed a church ceremony at all, but one conducted in Mrs. Nightengale's private chapel, and that within the next three days. And they were in agonies of mixed emotions about the small trunkful of twenty-dollar gold pieces Mrs. Nightengale had sent to pay for Annimae's trousseau.

"Charity? Who does she think we are? How dare she!" said Great-Aunt Merrion.

"Imagine having to buy a wedding dress ready-made! Such a shame!" said Aunt Pugh.

But they spent the gold lavishly, and as a result Annimae looked exquisite, a very magnolia in ivory lace, when she mounted into the hired carriage with her father. they set off in state, with the Aunts following in another carriage behind, and rolled away down dusty commonplace Monterey Road.

As they rode along, Annimae's father cleared his throat and said: "I expect the old ladies have explained to you your duty to your husband, Daughter?"

"Oh, yes," said Annimae, a.s.suming he meant the selection of suitable house servants and how to entertain guests.

Annimae's father was silent a moment, and at last said: "I expect any child of mine to be able to withstand adversity with courage. You may find married life a trial. Consider yourself a soldier on the battlefield, Daughter; for the fortunes of our family all depend upon this match. Do not fail us."

"Of course I won't, Daddy," said Annimae, wondering what on earth that had to do with valentine hearts and white doves.

So they came to Nightengale Manor.

Annimae had expected it would be a lofty castle on a crag, and of course this was not so, for it sat on the flat yellow orchard plain of San Jose. But it did rise like a mountain in its way. She glimpsed it out the window a long way off, and caught her breath. High turrets and spires, cupolas, gables, balconies, corbels, cornices, finials and weatherc.o.c.ks, with its walls scaled in every shape of gingerbread s.h.i.+ngle and painted all the colors of a fruit bowl! And all rising from a grand park miles long.

they drew up before the gate at last, and Annimae cried out in delight. It was a wildly lush garden, for that dry country Lawns green as emerald, formal rose beds-edged by boxwood hedges planted in circles, in stars, in crescent moons and diamonds. A double row of palms and oleanders lined the carriage drive. Annimae counted at least three fountains sending up fine sprays through the heavy air. The house itself seemed to spread out in all directions; nowhere could one look, however far out into the park, without catching a glimpse of roofline or a tower somewhere among the trees. Annimae heard the sound of hammering. It seemed far-away and m.u.f.fled, but it was continuous.

As the carriages drew up before the porch (a fretwork fantasy of spindlewood, scrolls and stained gla.s.s), the front door was already being opened by the old black man. He smiled, with fine white teeth, and bowed low.

"Welcome to Nightengale Manor, Sir and Ladies. My mistress is expecting you all in the chapel. If you'll please to follow me?"

They stepped across the threshold, and Annimae heard her aunts breathing heavily, keeping their lips tight together for fear lest they should exclaim aloud. The old man led them through a succession of the most beautiful rooms Annimae had ever seen. Fine carpets, polished paneling of rare inlaid woods, stained gla.s.s windows set with crystals that sent rainbows dancing even-where. Golden rooms, green rooms, red rooms, rooms blue with every color of the sea, and the deeper they went into the house, the more dimly lit it all was. But after they had been walking for fifteen minutes, Aunt Pugh exclaimed: "Boy, you have been leading us in circles! I declare I have walked five miles!"

"It's a long way to the chapel," said the old man, in tones of sincerest apology. "And the house is designed like a maze, you see. If I was to leave you now, I don't reckon you folks could find your way back. I do beg your pardon. We're nearly there."

And only three rooms and a staircase later they were there, too. They entered a chamber vaulted like a church, set all around with more stained gla.s.s, though a curious cold light shone through the panes that was not like daylight at all. Before a little altar of black and porphyry marble stood just three people, two of them looking ill-at-ease.

One was the Reverend Air. Stevens, clutching his Book of Common Prayer. The other was clearly a workman, middle-aged, dressed in heavy overalls. He was sweating, twisting his cap between his hands.

He smelted of sawdust and glue.

The third was the woman Annimae had glimpsed in the carriage. She was merely a plain plump middle-aged little lady, all in purple bombazine, who had been pretty once. Her eves were still remarkable, though at the moment their stare was rather fixed and hostile.

"Miss Annimae Loveland; Mr. Devereaux Loveland; the Misses Merrion and Pugh," announced the old man, with proper solemnity. The mistress of the house inclined her head in acknowledgement.

"Reverend, you may commence," she said.

"I beg your pardon, but where is the groom?" demanded Great-Aunt Merrion, whose feet were hurting her a great deal.

"Great-Aunt, hush," said Annimae's father. Airs. Nightengale merely said: "My son's condition does not permit him to venture from his room at present. The marriage will be conducted with Mr. Hansen standing proxy."

"Why, I never heard of such a thing!" squealed Aunt Pugh.

"Hold your tongue!" said Annimae's father, in a tone of such venom Aunt Pugh went pale.

Annimae scarcely knew what to think, and was further troubled when the Reverend Mr. Stevens leaned forward and said quietly: "My child, do you freely consent to this marriage?"

"Of course I do," she said, "I'd just like to meet my husband, is all."

"Then let us proceed," said Mrs. Nightengale.

The service was brief, and swiftly spoken. Bewildered and disappointed, Annimae spent most of the ceremony staring up at the inscriptions in the two stained gla.s.s windows above the altar. One read: WIDE UNCLASP THE TABLES OF THEIR THOUGHTS, and the other read, THESE SAME THOUGHTS PEOPLE THIS LITTLE WORLD.

Mr. Hansen's hands were shaking as he fitted the wedding band on Annimae's finger, and he mumbled his responses. She in her turn was puzzled at how to put the ring on his hand, for it was much too small for his big thick fingers; but she settled for putting it on the little finger, and as soon as the ceremony was concluded he slipped it oft and handed it to the old man, who received it on a velvet cus.h.i.+on and bore it away into the depths of the house.

Then he returned, and with the utmost punctiliousness and grace ushered Annimae's father and aunts away to a cold collation in a room much nearer to the front door than seemed possible, after all the distance they had traveled coming in. Immediately after a gla.s.s of champagne and a sandwich apiece, the father and aunts were escorted to their carriages, again with such courtesy that they were halfway back to the ranch before they realized they'd been thrown out.

But Annimae was shown to a splendid dining room, all crystal. Though there were no windows in any of the walls, a domed skylight let in the sun. Mirrors lined every wall and shone inlaid from most other surfaces, so that a hundred thousand Annimaes looked back at her.

Mr. Hansen and the reverend having been dismissed, she found herself seated at the far end of a table empty but for Mrs. Nightengale, who sat at the other end. The old man wheeled in a serving-cart, deftly removed the silver epergne from the middle of the table so the two women could see each other, and served them luncheon.

Annimae racked her memory, desperately trying to recall what she had been taught about Light and Gracious Conversation Appropriate to Dining. Mrs. Nightengale, however, spoke first, shaking out her napkin. The faraway pounding of hammers counterpointed her words, never ceasing once during the ensuing conversation.

"I have something of importance to tell you, girl."

Annimae nearly said "Yes, Ma'am," but recollected herself in time and replied instead: "Certainly, Mother Nightengale."

Mrs. Nightengale stared at her, and then said: "We labor under a curse. I do not use the term in a figurative sense. As you are now one of us, you will be affected. Attend carefully, Daughter-in-Law. Only in this room may we speak of it; for they are fascinated by their own reflections, and will pay us no mind."

"Yes, Mother Nightengale," Annimae replied, watching the old man as he ladled soup into her plate, but by neither wink nor smile did he indicate he was hearing anything in the least strange.

"Are you familiar with Spiritualism?" Mrs. Nightengale inquired.

"I-I don't believe so, no," Annimae replied.

"Well, it is simply founded on the discovery that it is possible to converse with the dead," said Mrs.

Nightengale in a matter-of-fact way tasting her soup. "The spirit world is quite real, and sages and ancient mystics have always been aware of it; but in these modern times its existence has at last been accepted by Science."

"I did not know that," said Annimae. "How interesting."

"The thing is," said Mrs. Nightengale, frowning, "That a great many credulous people think that those who have pa.s.sed over to the other side are just naturally in possession of great truth, and wisdom, and benevolence towards all mankind. And, as anyone who has ever experienced a commonplace haunting knows, that is a lot of fool nonsense."

"Is it really?" said Annimae, cautiously b.u.t.tering a roll.

"It is, girl. The dead in their ranks are exactly as they were in life. Some are wise and well-intentioned, but others are wicked. Wrathful. Spiteful, and inclined to remorseless persecution of the living," said Mrs. Nightengale sadly. "As I know to my cost, this many a weary year. You see, certain malignant ent.i.ties are bent upon the destruction of all whom I love."

"Goodness, what a terrible thing," said Annimae.

"They hounded my late husband to an early grave. And both I, and my dear son, have been so fenced and crossed with subtle maledictions that, were we living in an ignorant age, I think we should have perished miserably long ago," said Mrs. Nightengale. "Fortunately, I do have friends in the spirit world, who were able to advise me; and so we are able to take protective measures."

"I am very glad to hear that, Mother Nightengale," said Annimae.

"For example," said Mrs. Nightengale, "I am cursed in such a way that I will die the very moment my feet come into contact with the earth. Dust blown in on the floor of the carriage does me no harm, apparently; but were I ever to step out into the garden, you would see me wither and expire before your eyes. And there are a host of lesser evils, but the wearing of colors with strong vibrational power-purple works the best, you see- helps to ward them off."

"How fascinating," said Annimae, who was running out of pleasant and noncommittal remarks.

"Alas, poor Daniel is not as fortunate," said Mrs. Nightengale. She set her hand on a locket about her neck. "When he was a baby, I despaired of saving his life. It has been only by the most extreme measures that I have preserved him."

So saying, she opened the locket and gazed for a moment on its contents, and for the first time her expression softened.

"I-is that a portrait of Daniel?" Annimae inquired.

Mrs. Nightengale closed the locket with a snap. Then, apparently thinking better of her gesture, she removed the locket and handed it to the old man.

"Sam, please pa.s.s this to my daughter-in-law."

The old man obliged, and after fumbling a moment with the clasp Annimae got the locket open.

Within was an oval photographic portrait of a baby, perfect as a little angel, staring out at the camera with wide eves. In the concavity of the lid was a single curl of fine golden hair, enclosed behind crystal.

"How beautiful!" said Annimae.

Mrs. Nightengale held out her hand for the locket. "That was taken before our troubled times," she said, slipping it back about her throat.

"And is Daniel's health very bad?" said Annimae anxiously.

"Why, no, girl; his health is now excellent," said Mrs. Nightengale. "And he owes his survival entirely to the prescription of my spirit friends. His curse is that he must hide from all eves. To be seen by a living soul, or a dead one for that matter, would be fatal to the poor boy."

"But how does he do anything?" Annimae stammered.

"In utter darkness," said Mrs. Nightengale. "Unrelieved by any ray of light. I have had chambers built for him in the center of this house, without windows or doors, reached only by certain secret means. The wicked dead never find him, for the whole of the house is designed as a maze to confuse them. They are seduced by bright colors and ornamentation, and so they go round and round but never find the dark center."

"But... I was told he saw me, and fell in love with me," said Annimae pitifully.

"And so he did," said Mrs. Nightengale. "Did you think I could keep my boy in eternal darkness? No indeed; the good spirits told me that he might come and go by means of a ruse, though it must be only on moonless nights. He wraps himself in a black shroud, and climbs into a box made to resemble a coffin.

"When he signals, the servants carry it out to where I wait with the carriage. They load his coffin into the back; Sam drives us away; and the foolish dead never follow. Then Daniel climbs out and sits behind me, where he cannot be seen. He is greatly refreshed by the night air, and the chance to see something of the world."

"Oh! You drove past our house every night," exclaimed Annimae.

"So we did," said Mrs. Nightengale, looking grim. "And so he fell under the spell of an image glimpsed through a pane of gla.s.s, and would not rest until you became his bride. I must admit to you, Daughter-in-Law, that I was against it. Any disturbance of our domestic arrangements represents a peril to his life. But so taken was he with your beauty, that he threatened to destroy himself unless I spoke with your father. The rest you know."

And Annimae was flattered, and felt beautiful indeed, to have won a man's love at such cost. She warmed with compa.s.sion for him, too.

"I promise you, Mother Nightengale, I will be a faithful and loving wife to dear Daniel," she said.

"You will need to be more than that," said Mrs. Nightengale. "You will need to be a comrade-in-arms to me, Daughter-in-Law. We must wage a constant battle against the dead, if Daniel is to live." And she pressed her fingertips to her temples, as if in sudden pain.

"What must I do?"

"You will learn," said Mrs. Nightengale, a little distractedly. "Sam and Bridget will explain the arrangements. Oh, my migraine is returning; all these strangers in the house admitted malign influence, as I feared. Sam, I must retire to the thirteenth room. See to the girl."

So saving she rose, dropping her napkin, and walked straight to a wall. Annimae, watching in astonishment with spoon halfway to her mouth, thought her mother-in-law was about to collide with the mirrored surface; but at the last minute a panel opened and Mrs. Nightengale stepped through, to vanish as it slid smoothly into place behind her.