A Wonderful Likeness
It rained all the next day, so Carmilla and I closeted ourselves in the hidden recesses of Orchard Slope. Wind howled and droplets drummed against the roof, but we were safe and snug in the garret, where we picked over the detritus of several generations of Barrys. Carmilla was particularly delighted with an old paisley piano scarf in shades of turquoise and amethyst, which she wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl as she reclined languidly against a pile of dusty cushions.
For my own part, I became interested in a cache of old pictures, most of which I had never seen before. Their frames were old and musty, stacked one next to the other like books so that each one had to be extracted individually and held up to the light before its subject could be divined.
I shuffled through this catalogue, discovering a sampler worked by my great-aunt Josephine in her girlhood, a lithograph of the Duke of Wellington, and a soot-dark landscape that showed old Green Gables in its better days.
"My mother is distantly related to the Cuthberts," I explained for Carmilla's benefit. "The family is extinct, you understand, but her mother's mother was a cousin of theirs, and since they had no nearer relations, she inherited some of their possessions over the years."
Carmilla frowned at the landscape. "The trees are all wrong," she complained.
"They are?"
"Yes. Haven't you seen Green Gables? You must have noticed the stump of the enormous cherry tree on the east side of the house. That picture is a springtime scene; it should have a lovely cherry tree all cloaked in white."
I shrugged, nonplussed. "Perhaps it was painted after the cherry tree was destroyed."
"Perhaps."
I continued to rummage, holding up this picture or that for Carmilla's inspection. I don't know that the pictures were very good, but they were, undoubtedly, very old, and some of them very curious also. Many of them were portraits of men and women in old-fashioned garb, with funny lace collars and hats that defied description. I supposed that some of them must have come over from Scotland in the old days, being so ancient, but others evidently depicted residents of Avonlea, all long dead.
As I neared the end of the hoarde, I found a small picture, about a foot and a half high, and nearly square, without a frame; but it was so blackened by age that I could not make it out. I brought it to the window and dusted it gently with the corner of my apron until the figure emerged, as if surfacing from the gloomy depths of the Lake of Shining Waters.
It was quite beautiful; it was startling; it seemed to live. It was the effigy of Carmilla!
"Carmilla, dear, here is an absolute miracle. Here you are, living, smiling, ready to speak, in this picture. Isn't it beautiful? And see, even the little freckles across your nose."
"Do you think so?" she asked, coming to look over my shoulder.
"Yes!" I exclaimed. "It is the most extraordinary thing! Come! We must clean it better."
Without waiting for her approbation, I hurtled down the stairs. Carmilla followed after me, her shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders, although the day was not cold.
"Father!" I called. "See what I have found in the garrett!"
Father and Mother both came to the kitchen, where I had found some clean rags and was industriously cleaning the portrait. Under the layer of dust, my friend's hair was as vivid as a flame, her eyes as lustrous as pearls. With every stroke, Carmilla's dear face and form were revealed with increasing clarity, until I thought that I could hardly tell the difference between the painting and the living, breathing girl at my elbow.
My father laughed, and said "Certainly it is a wonderful likeness," but he looked away, and to my surprise seemed but little struck by it, while I was more and more lost in wonder the more I looked at the picture.
"Will you let me hang this picture in my room, Father?" I asked.
"Certainly, dear," said he, smiling.
I looked to Carmilla and found her fine eyes under their long lashes gazing on me in contemplation, and she smiled in a kind of rapture.
"Look," said Mother. "Now you can read quite plainly the name that is written in the corner. The name is Marilla C., for Marilla Cuthbert, this is a little coronet over and underneath A.D. 1781. I am descended from the Cuthberts; that is, mamma was. None bear the name now, I believe. The family were ruined long ago, but the ruins of Green Gables are only about half a mile away."
"I have seen them," said Carmilla with one of her secret smiles.
When Father and Mother had returned to their own pursuits, Carmilla and I climbed the steps to my chamber to find a suitable spot for the portrait. With nails and wire, we attached it to the wall across from my bed, where it would be the first object I would behold every morning and the last to hold my gaze at night. We stood, each with her arm about the other's waist, admiring the effect.
"Diana, are you glad I came?" she almost whispered.
"Delighted, dear Carmilla," I answered.
"And you asked for the picture you think like me, to hang in your room," she murmured with a sigh, as she drew her arm closer about my waist, and let her pretty head sink upon my shoulder.
"How romantic you are, Carmilla," I said. "Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up chiefly of some one great romance."
She kissed me silently.
"I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on."
"I have been in love with no one, and never shall," she whispered, "unless it should be with you."
How beautiful she looked! Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled.
Her soft cheek was glowing against mine. "Darling, darling," she murmured, "I live in you, and you would die for me, I love you so."
I started from her. Certainly I was well used to Carmilla's passionate declarations by now, but I had never before entertained the idea that I should be prepared to die for her.
She felt my startlement and laughed. "Come now, Diana," she said, smiling prettily. "No one need really die. You know how my imagination can run away with me."
I relaxed in her arms, pressing my cheek back to hers. "Of course, darling. Forgive me. I suppose all this talk of Ruby and Josie and their spectral visitations has made me skittish."
At mention of my schoolmates, Carmilla seemed to go ever paler than usual and pulled away from me, dropping her arms to her sides.
"You need not fear," Carmilla assured me. "You appear to be in the very bloom of health."
"I cannot say the same for you, dearest," I replied, caressing her face. "Your cheek has gone all cold and you look a little faint. Are you sure you feel quite alright? You must come downstairs and take some tea."
"Yes. I will. I shall be quite well in a few minutes. Yes, do give me a little tea," answered Carmilla, as we approached the door.
We sat down to tea in the sitting room, but the ghastly pallor of her face did not improve as much as I would have liked.
"How do you feel now, dear Carmilla? Are you really better?" I asked.
I was beginning to take alarm, lest she should have been stricken with the strange epidemic that they said had invaded the country about us.
"I am quite well," she said. "Only tired. I do have spells when I am quite exhausted, but I assure you, Diana, that I am as hale now as I have been in many years, thanks to the hospitality and kind indulgence of your family."
"Father would be grieved beyond measure," I added, "if he thought you were ever so little ill, without immediately letting us know. Please let us send for Dr. Blair if you are unwell. He is an excellent physician."
"I'm sure he is. I know how kind you all are; but, dear child, I am quite well again. There is nothing ever wrong with me, but a little weakness."
With that, I let the matter drop, and soon we were chatting and laughing with such animated delight that no one who had not witnessed it could have told that she had suffered a momentary lapse in vivacity. And so we passed a rainy afternoon and thought no more of Ruby Gillis or Josie Pye.
That night, after I had bid Carmilla goodnight and heard her lock the spare room door behind me, I heard faint voices coming from my father's office. Something about the urgency of their tone alerted me to the pressing import of the discussion, so I extinguished my candle and crept to the door, peeping in at the keyhole.
Mother and Father stood by the fire, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames.
"I'm worried, George," Mother said, her dark eyes flashing in the firelight.
"Dr. Blair assures me that there is nothing to worry about," Father said. "Ruby Gillis was very ill for a long time and the others are only coincidence. Dr. Blair confirms that none of the other Andrewses have so much as a sniffle and that Gertie Pye Is not so ill as Josie. Still, we'll keep Diana and Anne at home until we're very sure the danger has passed."
Mother frowned. "It's not just that," she said. "I worry that the girls' imaginations are running away with them. You know Diana, always straining her eyes over a book. She reads entirely too much . . ."
Father took Mother in his arms, patting her hair to soothe her. "Now, now, Elizabeth. That's my fault. Diana has been lonely for so long, I never could begrudge her the company of stories."
"But Anne goads her," Mother answered. "The other day, I heard them telling stories on the veranda, and such stories! All murder and gore and doomed love! I told Rachel about it and she was positively scandalized."
A gentle laugh indicated what Father thought of Mrs. Lynde's opinion on the matter.
"Don't laugh, George! With all this talk of ghosts and fiends, I'm worried that the girls will work themselves into hysterics."
"Let's not go borrowing trouble," Father said gently. "There's no harm in stories."
Perceiving that they would soon retire, I stole away from the door and crept up the shadowed stairs to my own solitary bed. Once, I would have said my prayers in the dark and crept into bed without bothering to relight my taper. Now, longing for one last glimpse of Carmilla, I rummaged in my bedside table for a match. Holding my candle before the portrait on my wall, I traced the curve of her rose-petal lips with the tip of my finger. Perhaps it was only the dancing candlelight or the over-active imagination my mother so feared, but I was quite sure that she smiled.