Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

MRS. GREY'S STRANGE SILENCE.

BY

RUTH LAMB

The Girl's Own Annual

VOL. XII. 1891.

[THE LEISURE HOUR OFFICE]

LONDON, 56 PATERNOSTER ROW

CONTENTS.

MRS. GREY'S STRANGE SILENCE

MRS. GREY'S STRANGE SILENCE.

   THEY were what anybody would call a most interesting old, or rather elderly, couple to look at; and they were seldom seen apart. If one was missing, it was the lady, who sometimes remained in her own room, but whenever she was visible, he was sure to be close at hand.

   It was under the roof of a Swiss mountain "pension" that we saw this couple, and they were only items in a long list of guests, but they were a centre of interest alike to young and old.

   We knew they were husband and wife by reference to the "Visitors' Book," where he had entered their names as "Mr. and Mrs. Grey, Lindham, England." They might have passed for brother and sister well enough, for they were so much alike both in face and figure, only she was much the nicer looking of the two. She was quite a study in monotint, for she had the most wonderful quantity of grey hair, iron-grey, but softening to silver, and it was alike wavy and silky without any artificial aid. She wore it in great coils round her shapely head, and disdained to cover it with the milliners' compounds of lace and flowers affected by her contemporaries.

Did I say "disdained?" That is not the word to use: my old lady's every look and act suggested good will and gentlest kindness towards all the world. Her beautiful grey eyes had a suspicion of violet left in them, and went perfectly with that exquisite hair of hers. She always wore gowns of some soft grey material, except when, on some special occasion, she donned a silk of similar colour. Even then the texture was rich and soft. A rustling garment would have been out of character, so that the old lady and her clothes made up a delightful harmony of tints.

Before we looked in the "Visitors' Book" we had given the couple the name which actually belonged to them, because the old gentleman wore a grey tweed suit, and it amused us not a little to find that even in that matter all was in harmony.

After we had spent a good deal of admiration and interest on Mr. and Mrs. Grey, we began to notice certain little peculiarities which excited our curiosity. Though they were always together, and present at meal and other social occasions, he did all the talking. We might have thought she was dumb, so silent was she in company, if we had not heard her speak to her husband at different times, but even with him, she never held anything like a sustained conversation.

The end of the long dining table went close to the wall, and Mrs. Grey sat at the extreme of the right-hand side of it. That seat had been originally allotted to Mr. Grey, but he put his wife in it and took the one at her left, so she had the wall to her right and her husband on the other side. This arrangement shut her off from all guests farther down than Mr. Grey. Her opposite neighbours did not count, for they were two stout Germans, who talked incessantly in their native tongue when they were not eating, and when they were, troubled themselves about nothing save their own wants in the way of food, which were not easily supplied. When satisfied, they withdrew to the verandah and smoked continuously, save when they took an after-dinner nap, and snored loudly instead of talking at the top of their voices.

Mrs. Grey's silence was very puzzling. She looked so delightfully intelligent that we were sure stupidity had nothing to do with it. Her face beamed with enjoyment and sympathy when the young folk were playing games, or fun of any kind was going on, so her silence was not the result of a sour temper or because she did not like to see her neighbours happy. She patted the soft cheeks of the two babies of the establishment, and bestowed chocolates and other wholesome sweeties on the youngsters who were past babyhood, accompanying the same with kind words which needed no replies.

Mr. Grey looked equally smiling and sympathetic, and added other kind words to those spoken by his wife, as if he too believed in sunshine and sweeties, and youth, and in making people, especially little people, as happy as possible. Nevertheless, he always came between Mrs. Grey and anybody who seemed inclined to open a conversation with her, to which conduct the old lady submitted without even a remonstrance.

There were several girls at the Pension Couronne, and naturally these used to chatter and talk over everything and everybody, as is the nature of girls and even older people to do. Amongst them were two sisters, Conny and Janet Leveson, and they slept in a room adjoining the one occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Grey.

We all know that even in many English houses, it is not impossible for us to hear much that is passing on the other side of an inner wall. Those of us who have stayed in a Swiss "pension" whose walls, whether outer or inner ones, are of wood, can tell that it is extremely difficult not to overhear what is said in the apartments next to our own, to say nothing of the thumping and rumbling overhead and beneath us which announce the coming and going of other travellers.

Well, when we whispered and wondered over the strange silence of our sweet old grey lady, Conny Leveson gave her head a little toss, and said, "Poor darling! I know why she does not speak to anybody. You need not tug at my gown, Janet; 'I' have no need to be afraid of speaking."

Janet was a sweet, tender-hearted little thing, who never said an unkind word of any human being, and she was evidently anxious to silence her sister, if furtive tugs at her sleeve and beseeching looks would effect her purpose.

"Conny, dear, I would not say anything. It does not seem right to repeat what it was never intended we should hear. You would call a person very mean that did such a thing by you," pleaded Janet, finding that silent efforts were useless.

"Speak for yourself, Janet. I care not who repeats any of my words, whether they are accidentally overheard or not. Old Grey is a wretch. There!" and Conny looked defiantly at her sister, and added after a momentary pause: "You know it as well as I do."

"Conny, dear, do not say so. We have no right to draw such a conclusion. We may be mistaken, we must be, for think how good and considerate old Mr. Grey is to his wife. When she is out, how he guards her as if he were terrified that harm should come to her."

"He takes care to shut her out from everything that would cheer and brighten her life, by keeping her apart in that hatefully selfish way. He goes behind her if she is riding, so that no one else can come near her. Instead of letting her hear what is said about places and things, he pokes his guide-book under her nose of makes her read the stiff, stupid accounts of them written there. But he's more horrid when he is out of sight than in it. I am telling the truth, Janet, and you know I am."

"Do not tell. Wait, Conny. I feel sure there is something behind that we do not know about. Those words can be explained, depend on it," said Janet, with tears in her kind eyes.

"Something more behind! Of course there is; but I know quite enough. Take your hand away, and don't make yourself ridiculous. I am older than you, and I know what I ought and ought not to do better than you can teach me."

"I wish mother were here, I would ask her," said Janet, with a troubled face.

"My dear child, it is a pity you ever left home under other guardianship. You will never have a bit of self-reliance, and are not fit to be a yard from mother's apron string," replied Conny, with an air of superiority which a difference of less than two years in age scarcely warranted.

The girls were travelling under the indulgent charge of an aunt, who was very good to them in her way, but having no children of her own was unaccustomed to such charges. Conny revelled in her unusual independence of act and word; Janet was constantly saying to herself, "I wish dear mother were here, I am always wanting her. Aunty gives us everything she can think of—too much indeed; but no one is so wise as mother."

She did not resent Conny's contemptuous words, but replied with rather a tearful smile, "I wish I had the dear mother's apron string within a yard of me at this moment."

It was natural that Conny's other girl hearers should feel curious to know the meaning of her words, and ply her with questions. Feeling her own importance, she held back a little, then told her story.

"Mr. Grey is an old tyrant, I am certain. You know how smooth he is, and how gently he speaks to everyone. You have seen his way of looking up in his wife's face as if he worshipped the very ground she treads on. This is before other people. Well, when they are in the room next ours, he shouts at her and uses horrid expressions. He always shouts most unpleasantly, but does not always call his wife bad names. Last night I felt ready to knock at the partition and tell him what I thought of him—the hypocrite. I heard him call Mrs. Grey 'wretch,' and say that she deserved to be kept in prison and fed on bread and water, and—"

Conny's words were drowned by exclamations of disgust and groans from all her listeners.

"What a shame!" "That sweet old lady." "I wish I could punish him as he deserves," &c., &c.

As these voices ceased, Janet's became audible.

"Conny, dear, we cannot be sure that Mr. Grey was using those words in reference to his wife."

"There was no one else to apply them to. And if not meant for Mrs. Grey, why did she sob? You and I heard her crying most distinctly. You cannot deny it," insisted Conny.

Janet could not deny it, and therefore held her peace, and, seeing she was powerless to stop her sister's tale telling, stole quietly out of hearing.

That evening and for a couple of days following, Mr. and Mrs. Grey were a good deal exercised in their minds by the conduct of the young people around them. The old lady found herself the recipient of all sorts of little attentions stealthily offered, however. Mr. Grey, instead of being frankly met and chatted with by the girls, was studiously "cut" by them all. Even some of the elder people began to answer him in monosyllables, or turn their heads in an opposite direction when he approached them. The gossip, begun amongst the girls, had got far beyond them. We know how tattle spreads from lip to lip, especially in a little world like a "pension."

Of course Mr. and Mrs. Grey were all the more confined to each other's company, and in spite of this, they did not look at all miserable. The mystery which shrouded them was not yet unravelled by the glib tongue of Conny Leveson.

One more day passed, and then a box came by parcel post addressed to "Monsieur Philip Grey, Hotel Pension Couronne, Comballaz aux Ormonts, Suisse."

The old gentleman's eyes glistened with pleasure at the sight of it, and his partner laughed like a girl at his eagerness to reach the contents of the box.

"O, Philip, how glad I am! It is here at last. The time has seemed so long," said Mrs. Grey, as she stretched out her hand to receive from her husband a silver trumpet, which she promptly applied to her ear.

"Now you dear girls, I shall be able to hear your merry voices as well as to look at your bright faces," she said, addressing some of the young people, Conny and Janet amongst the rest, who were in the salon when the box was opened. "I must have seemed dreadfully stupid and unsocial, but it was through my misfortune, not my fault. I am stone deaf in the left ear, but only dull of hearing in the right, and by the help of this—" holding out the trumpet—"I can hear perfectly. Of course, I always have it with me; but by some mischance, the little bag in which I carry it was lost on the journey. My dear husband wrote at once for a new one, but the makers had none in stock of my particular size and strength, so it had to be made. The waiting time has seemed very long, as the absence of my trumpet shut me out front social intercourse, and gave my good husband extra trouble and anxiety. When we have been out, he has kept behind me so that no danger might reach me from that direction. I could use my eyes for what was in front."

"Yes," chimed in Mr. Grey, "and this dear wife of mine is so afraid of giving trouble to her neighbours or even to me, that she preferred to pass as that unusual thing, a silent old lady, rather than allow others to try their voices by shouting. I did not like to draw attention to her infirmity by repeating what would interest her in the conversation going on around us, for this old wife of mine is as sensitive as a girl. So I tried to make up for it by bearing in mind any matters of interest, and shouting my stories in her ear when we were alone. I hope we disturbed no one, though I think any neighbour, hearing my efforts, would think me a terrible ruffian in private life."

Had Mr. Grey guessed why the girls had looked askance at him, and matrons given him the cold shoulder for three days past? At any rate, his face was turned towards Conny Leveson as he spoke, and hers became crimson with blushes before that kindly look.

"My husband says that I have gained something by the absence of my trumpet, for the loud snores of our two neighbours on the other side have robbed him of many hours' sleep," remarked Mrs. Grey. "When he congratulated me on what I had missed, he quite forgot that I do not sleep with my trumpet at my ear. He is an Irishman, my dears," and the old lady looked archly at her husband, and led the laugh which followed.

So the slanderous gossip had no foundation in truth. Dear old Mr. Grey had all along been doing everything in his power for his partner's safety and comfort. He had been her guard out of doors, and to do this had kept close by her side. He had pointed out the most interesting bits in the guide-book, so that she might know all about her surroundings. He had warded off all notice of and talk about her infirmity by the shield of his constant presence, by the change of seats at table, by anticipating her every want. He had counted the hours and watched for the arrival of the post with less of patience than the dear wife herself, and when the longed-for box brought that precious trumpet, he was as full of glee as a schoolboy let loose.

It was perfectly delightful to see the Greys, and to note how everybody shared in their pleasure, and rejoiced that the little mystery which had gathered round them had been so satisfactorily solved.

There was one unhappy person at the Pension Couronne, and it is easy to guess who that was. Everybody was displeased at Conny Leveson for having misled them and made them suspect "those two old darlings," as the Greys were now called. Everybody forgot that Conny's whispers could only do harm if others listened and passed on the slander, and did not hesitate to give her the cold shoulder now.

Conny was angry, and glad to vent her feelings to dear sympathising Janet, who, unlike many sisters, did not join in reproaching her elder one, or say,—"You know I wanted you to say nothing. I told you how it would be."

"Horrid things!" said Conny. "They were just as suspicious as could be, and they teased me to tell, and now they will scarcely speak, and are fussing after Mr. Grey—and—I wish I had not said a word."

"Never mind, dear, only if I were you, I would—" Janet paused, doubtful how the words she had meant to say would be received by her sister.

"Tell me, Janet. You were wiser than I before—and better."

It cost Conny an effort to add those last words, but she was, for the first time, thinking humbly of herself, and longing to be advised.

In her loneliness, Janet's sympathy was precious, and, moreover, it was generous in its silence.

"I would tell dear old Mr. Grey all about it," said Janet.

"How can I? You tell him for me," pleaded Conny.

"Do you think that would be quite the same thing?" asked Janet.

And Conny, after some deliberation, was forced to own that it would not.

Janet, however, asked Mr. Grey to see her sister, and once in his presence, Conny's doubts and fears vanished. She bravely told him all, and owned her fault both in listening to his words and repeating them. She did not try to gloss over anything, but, in spite of her hot cheeks and trembling lips managed to make him acquainted with the whole affair—the gossip, the wrong construction put upon his words and actions, the feeling stirred up against him by the causeless slander—in short, all that could be told.

"I am glad, very glad, you have opened your heart to me, dear child," said Mr. Grey, holding the girl's hand in his. "'Forgive you!' Of course I do, though I see you can hardly forgive yourself. 'Tell Mrs. Grey?' No, dear child, I have just one reservation in my otherwise perfect confidence towards my dear wife. It is not easy to make her acquainted with all the pleasant incidents of daily life, so I never waste precious time by repeating anything that could give her a moment's pain unless it is absolutely necessary. As to the people in the house, when they see us such friends as we mean to be from this moment, they will forget to give you a share of the cold shoulder."

"You are the dearest, kindest old gentleman," said Conny, smiling through her tears. "How I wish I could do something."

"You shall do something for yourself. You shall read over each morning for a week one verse of a psalm. Let your heart go with it, and you will not read in vain."

Conny promised, and found the words in Psalm cxli., and verse 3:

   "Set a watch, O Lord, before my mouth; keep the door of my lips."

How the girl profited by what had happened, how she and her sister were drawn more closely together, how Conny owned her fault to her companions at the "pension," and won their respect by so doing, and how Mr. and Mrs. Grey became more objects of interest and affection to all around them, may be well imagined. Moreover, the friendship begun between the old couple and the girls in a far-away land, is likely to prove a lasting one. Visits have already been exchanged between the families, and as Mrs. Grey has been extremely careful not to lose her ear trumpet a second time, there is no longer occasion to make a mystery or complain of her silence.

I had nearly forgotten to explain the words "wretch" and the allusion to confinement and bread and water diet overheard by Conny and misinterpreted. They referred to a woman who had ill-used her child and been prosecuted for it by a society in which the Greys took an active interest. The tender-hearted listener, who was ever overflowing with love towards little people, could not hear the story of a child's wrongs without being moved to tears as she listened. Hence her sobs and her husband's words had been equally misinterpreted when heard through the medium of a wooden wall.