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diff --git a/old/8wilf10.zip b/old/8wilf10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..94407a3 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8wilf10.zip diff --git a/old/9183-h.htm.2021-01-28 b/old/9183-h.htm.2021-01-28 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d736be4 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/9183-h.htm.2021-01-28 @@ -0,0 +1,23206 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Wilfrid Cumbermede, by George Macdonald + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Wilfrid Cumbermede, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Wilfrid Cumbermede + +Author: George MacDonald + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9183] +This file was first posted on September 12, 2003 +Last Updated: October 10, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILFRID CUMBERMEDE *** + + + + +Text file produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charlie Kirschner and Online +Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + WILFRID CUMBERMEDE + </h1> + <h2> + By George Macdonald + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h5> + <i>With 14 Full Page Black-And-White<br /> Illustrations By F.A. Fraser.</i><br /> + (not included in this file) + </h5> + <p> + {Illustration: One Day, As We Were Walking Over The Fields, I Told Him The + Whole Story Of The Loss Of The Weapon At Moldwarp Hall.} + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>WILFRID CUMBERMEDE.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. WHERE I FIND MYSELF. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. MY UNCLE AND AUNT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. AT THE TOP OF THE CHIMNEY-STAIR. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. THE PENDULUM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. I HAVE LESSONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. I COBBLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. THE SWORD ON THE WALL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. I GO TO SCHOOL, AND GRANNIE LEAVES + IT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. I SIN AND REPENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. I BUILD CASTLES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. A TALK WITH MY UNCLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. THE HOUSE-STEWARD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. THE LEADS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. THE GHOST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. AWAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. THE ICE-CAVE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. AGAIN THE ICE-CAVE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. CHARLEY NURSES ME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. A DREAM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. THE FROZEN STREAM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. AN EXPLOSION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. ONLY A LINK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. CHARLEY AT OXFORD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. MY WHITE MARE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. A RIDING LESSON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. A DISAPPOINTMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. IN LONDON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. CHANGES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. PROPOSALS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. ARRANGEMENTS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. PREPARATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. ASSISTANCE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. AN EXPOSTULATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. A TALK WITH CHARLEY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. TAPESTRY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII. THE OLD CHEST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. MARY OSBORNE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX. A STORM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL. A DREAM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI. A WAKING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII. A TALK ABOUT SUICIDE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII. THE SWORD IN THE SCALE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. I PART WITH MY SWORD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV. UMBERDEN CHURCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI. MY FOLIO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII. THE LETTERS AND THEIR STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII. ONLY A LINK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX. A DISCLOSURE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER L. THE DATES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER LI. CHARLEY AND CLARA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER LII. LILITH MEETS WITH A MISFORTUNE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER LIII. TOO LATE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER LIV. ISOLATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER LV. ATTEMPTS AND COINCIDENCES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER LVI. THE LAST VISION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER LVII. ANOTHER DREAM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER LVIII. THE DARKEST HOUR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER LIX. THE DAWN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER LX. MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER LXI. THE PARISH REGISTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0062"> CHAPTER LXII. A FOOLISH TRIUMPH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0063"> CHAPTER LXIII. A COLLISION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0064"> CHAPTER LXIV. YET ONCE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0065"> CHAPTER LXV. CONCLUSION. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + WILFRID CUMBERMEDE. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION. + </h2> + <p> + I am—I will not say how old, but well past middle age. This much I + feel compelled to mention, because it has long been my opinion that no man + should attempt a history of himself until he has set foot upon the border + land where the past and the future begin to blend in a consciousness + somewhat independent of both, and hence interpreting both. Looking + westward, from this vantage-ground, the setting sun is not the less lovely + to him that he recalls a merrier time when the shadows fell the other way. + Then they sped westward before him, as if to vanish, chased by his + advancing footsteps, over the verge of the world. Now they come creeping + towards him, lengthening as they come. And they are welcome. Can it be + that he would ever have chosen a world without shadows? Was not the + trouble of the shadowless noon the dreariest of all? Did he not then long + for the curtained queen—the all-shadowy night? And shall he now + regard with dismay the setting sun of his earthly life? When he looks + back, he sees the farthest cloud of the sun-deserted east alive with a + rosy hue. It is the prophecy of the sunset concerning the dawn. For the + sun itself is ever a rising sun, and the morning will come though the + night should be dark. + </p> + <p> + In this ‘season of calm weather,’ when the past has receded so far that he + can behold it as in a picture, and his share in it as the history of a man + who had lived and would soon die; when he can confess his faults without + the bitterness of shame, both because he is humble, and because the faults + themselves have dropped from him; when his good deeds look + poverty-stricken in his eyes, and he would no more claim consideration for + them than expect knighthood because he was no thief; when he cares little + for his reputation, but much for his character—little for what has + gone beyond his control, but endlessly much for what yet remains in his + will to determine; then, I think, a man may do well to write his own life. + </p> + <p> + ‘So,’ I imagine my reader interposing, ‘you profess to have arrived at + this high degree of perfection yourself?’ + </p> + <p> + I reply that the man who has attained this kind of indifference to the + past, this kind of hope in the future, will be far enough from considering + it a high degree of perfection. The very idea is to such a man ludicrous. + One may eat bread without claiming the honours of an athlete; one may + desire to be honest and not count himself a saint. My object in thus + shadowing out what seems to me my present condition of mind, is merely to + render it intelligible to my reader how an autobiography might come to be + written without rendering the writer justly liable to the charge of that + overweening, or self-conceit, which might be involved in the mere + conception of the idea. + </p> + <p> + In listening to similar recitals from the mouths of elderly people, I have + observed that many things which seemed to the persons principally + concerned ordinary enough, had to me a wonder and a significance they did + not perceive. Let me hope that some of the things I am about to relate may + fare similarly, although, to be honest, I must confess I could not have + undertaken the task, for a task it is, upon this chance alone: I do think + some of my history worthy of being told, just for the facts’ sake. God + knows I have had small share of that worthiness. The weakness of my life + has been that I would ever do some great thing; the saving of my life has + been my utter failure. I have never done a great deed. If I had, I know + that one of my temperament could not have escaped serious consequences. I + have had more pleasure when a grown man in a certain discovery concerning + the ownership of an apple of which I had taken the ancestral bite when a + boy, than I can remember to have resulted from any action of my own during + my whole existence. But I detest the notion of puzzling my reader in order + to enjoy her fancied surprise, or her possible praise of a worthless + ingenuity of concealment. If I ever appear to behave thus, it is merely + that I follow the course of my own knowledge of myself and my affairs, + without any desire to give either the pain or the pleasure of suspense, if + indeed I may flatter myself with the hope of interesting her to such a + degree that suspense should become possible. + </p> + <p> + When I look over what I have written, I find the tone so sombre—let + me see: what sort of an evening is it on which I commence this book? Ah! I + thought so: a sombre evening. The sun is going down behind a low bank of + grey cloud, the upper edge of which he tinges with a faded yellow. There + will be rain before morning. It is late Autumn, and most of the crops are + gathered in. A bluish fog is rising from the lower meadows. As I look I + grow cold. It is not, somehow, an interesting evening. Yet if I found just + this evening well described in a novel, I should enjoy it heartily. The + poorest, weakest drizzle upon the window-panes of a dreary roadside inn in + a country of slate-quarries, possesses an interest to him who enters it by + the door of a book, hardly less than the pouring rain which threatens to + swell every brook to a torrent. How is this? I think it is because your + troubles do not enter into the book and its troubles do not enter into + you, and therefore nature operates upon you unthwarted by the personal + conditions which so often counteract her present influences. But I will + rather shut out the fading west, the gathering mists, and the troubled + consciousness of nature altogether, light my fire and my pipe, and then + try whether in my first chapter I cannot be a boy again in such fashion + that my companion, that is, my reader, will not be too impatient to linger + a little in the meadows of childhood ere we pass to the corn-fields of + riper years. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. WHERE I FIND MYSELF. + </h2> + <p> + No wisest chicken, I presume, can recall the first moment when the + chalk-oval surrounding it gave way, and instead of the cavern of limestone + which its experience might have led it to expect, it found a world of air + and movement and freedom and blue sky—with kites in it. For my own + part, I often wished, when a child, that I had watched while God was + making me, so that I might have remembered how he did it. Now my wonder is + whether, when I creep forth into ‘that new world which is the old,’ I + shall be conscious of the birth, and enjoy the whole mighty surprise, or + whether I shall become gradually aware that things are changed and stare + about me like the new-born baby. What will be the candle-flame that shall + first attract my new-born sight? But I forget that speculation about the + new life is not writing the history of the old. + </p> + <p> + I have often tried how far back my memory could go. I suspect there are + awfully ancient shadows mingling with our memories; but, as far as I can + judge, the earliest definite memory I have is the discovery of how the + wind is made; for I saw the process going on before my very eyes, and + there could be, and there was, no doubt of the relation of cause and + effect in the matter. There were the trees swaying themselves about after + the wildest fashion, and there was the wind in consequence visiting my + person somewhat too roughly. The trees were blowing in my face. They made + the wind, and threw it at me. I used my natural senses, and this was what + they told me. The discovery impressed me so deeply that even now I cannot + look upon trees without a certain indescribable and, but for this + remembrance, unaccountable awe. A grove was to me for many years a + fountain of winds, and, in the stillest day, to look into a depth of + gathered stems filled me with dismay; for the whole awful assembly might, + writhing together in earnest and effectual contortion, at any moment begin + their fearful task of churning the wind. + </p> + <p> + There were no trees in the neighbourhood of the house where I was born. It + stood in the midst of grass, and nothing but grass was to be seen for a + long way on every side of it. There was not a gravel path or a road near + it. Its walls, old and rusty, rose immediately from the grass. Green + blades and a few heads of daisies leaned trustingly against the brown + stone, all the sharpness of whose fractures had long since vanished, worn + away by the sun and the rain, or filled up by the slow lichens, which I + used to think were young stones growing out of the wall. The ground was + part of a very old dairy-farm, and my uncle, to whom it belonged, would + not have a path about the place. But then the grass was well subdued by + the cows, and, indeed, I think, would never have grown very long, for it + was of that delicate sort which we see only on downs and in parks and on + old grazing farms. All about the house—as far, at least, as my lowly + eyes could see—the ground was perfectly level, and this lake of + greenery, out of which it rose like a solitary rock, was to me an + unfailing mystery and delight. This will sound strange in the ears of + those who consider a mountainous, or at least an undulating, surface + essential to beauty; but nature is altogether independent of what is + called fine scenery. There are other organs than the eyes, even if grass + and water and sky were not of the best and loveliest of nature’s shows. + </p> + <p> + The house, I have said, was of an ancient-looking stone, grey and green + and yellow and brown. It looked very hard; yet there were some attempts at + carving about the heads of the narrow windows. The carving had, however, + become so dull and shadowy that I could not distinguish a single form or + separable portion of design: still some ancient thought seemed ever + flickering across them. The house, which was two stories in height, had a + certain air of defence about it, ill to explain. It had no eaves, for the + walls rose above the edge of the roof; but the hints at battlements were + of the merest. The roof, covered with grey slates, rose very steep, and + had narrow, tall dormer windows in it. The edges of the gables rose, not + in a slope, but in a succession of notches, like stairs. Altogether, the + shell to which, considered as a crustaceous animal, I belonged—for + man is every animal according as you choose to contemplate him—had + an old-world look about it—a look of the time when men had to fight + in order to have peace, to kill in order to live. Being, however, a + crustaceous animal, I, the heir of all the new impulses of the age, was + born and reared in closest neighbourhood with strange relics of a vanished + time. Humanity so far retains its chief characteristics that the new + generations can always flourish in the old shell. + </p> + <p> + The dairy was at some distance, so deep in a hollow that a careless glance + would not have discovered it. I well remember my astonishment when my aunt + first took me there; for I had not even observed the depression of + surface: all had been a level green to my eyes. Beyond this hollow were + fields divided by hedges, and lanes, and the various goings to and fro of + a not unpeopled although quiet neighbourhood. Until I left home for + school, however, I do not remember to have seen a carriage of any kind + approach our solitary dwelling. My uncle would have regarded it as little + short of an insult for any one to drive wheels over the smooth lawny + surface in which our house dwelt like a solitary island in the sea. + </p> + <p> + Before the threshold lay a brown patch, worn bare of grass, and beaten + hard by the descending feet of many generations. The stone threshold + itself was worn almost to a level with it. A visitor’s first step was into + what would, in some parts, be called the house-place, a room which served + all the purposes of a kitchen, and yet partook of the character of an old + hall. It rose to a fair height, with smoke-stained beams above; and was + floored with a kind of cement, hard enough, and yet so worn that it + required a good deal of local knowledge to avoid certain jars of the spine + from sudden changes of level. All the furniture was dark and shining, + especially the round table, which, with its bewildering, spider-like + accumulation of legs, waited under the mullioned, lozenged window until + meal-times, when, like an animal roused from its lair, it stretched out + those legs, and assumed expanded and symmetrical shape in front of the + fire in Winter, and nearer the door in Summer. It recalls the vision of my + aunt, with a hand at each end of it, searching empirically for the level—feeling + for it, that is, with the creature’s own legs—before lifting the + hanging-leaves, and drawing out the hitherto supernumerary legs to support + them; after which would come a fresh adjustment of level, another hustling + to and fro, that the new feet likewise might settle on elevations of equal + height; and then came the snowy cloth or the tea-tray, deposited + cautiously upon its shining surface. + </p> + <p> + The walls of this room were always whitewashed in the Spring, occasioning + ever a sharpened contrast with the dark-brown ceiling. Whether that was + even swept I do not know; I do not remember ever seeing it done. At all + events, its colour remained unimpaired by paint or whitewash. On the walls + hung various articles, some of them high above my head, and attractive for + that reason if for no other. I never saw one of them moved from its place—not + even the fishing-rod, which required the whole length betwixt the two + windows: three rusty hooks hung from it, and waved about when a wind + entered ruder than common. Over the fishing-rod hung a piece of tapestry, + about a yard in width, and longer than that. It would have required a very + capable constructiveness indeed to supply the design from what remained, + so fragmentary were the forms, and so dim and faded were the once bright + colours. It was there as an ornament; for that which is a mere complement + of higher modes of life, becomes, when useless, the ornament of lower + conditions: what we call great virtues are little regarded by the saints. + It was long before I began to think how the tapestry could have come + there, or to what it owed the honour given it in the house. + </p> + <p> + On the opposite wall hung another object, which may well have been the + cause of my carelessness about the former—attracting to itself all + my interest. It was a sword, in a leather sheath. From the point, half way + to the hilt, the sheath was split all along the edge of the weapon. The + sides of the wound gaped, and the blade was visible to my prying eyes. It + was with rust almost as dark a brown as the scabbard that infolded it. But + the under parts of the hilt, where dust could not settle, gleamed with a + faint golden shine. That sword was to my childish eyes the type of all + mystery, a clouded glory, which for many long years I never dreamed of + attempting to unveil. Not the sword Excalibur, had it been ‘stored in some + treasure-house of mighty kings,’ could have radiated more marvel into the + hearts of young knights than that sword radiated into mine. Night after + night I would dream of danger drawing nigh—crowds of men of evil + purpose—enemies to me or to my country; and ever in the beginning of + my dream, I stood ready, foreknowing and waiting; for I had climbed and + had taken the ancient power from the wall, and had girded it about my + waist—always with a straw rope, the sole band within my reach; but + as it went on, the power departed from the dream: I stood waiting for foes + who would not come; or they drew near in fury, and when I would have drawn + my weapon, old blood and rust held it fast in its sheath, and I tugged at + it in helpless agony; and fear invaded my heart, and I turned and fled, + pursued by my foes until I left the dream itself behind, whence the terror + still pursued me. + </p> + <p> + There were many things more on those walls. A pair of spurs, of make + modern enough, hung between two pewter dish-covers. Hanging book-shelves + came next; for although most of my uncle’s books were in his bed-room, + some of the commoner were here on the wall, next to an old fowling-piece, + of which both lock and barrel were devoured with rust. Then came a great + pair of shears, though how they should have been there I cannot yet think, + for there was no garden to the house, no hedges or trees to clip. I need + not linger over these things. Their proper place is in the picture with + which I would save words and help understanding if I could. + </p> + <p> + Of course there was a great chimney in the place; chiefly to be mentioned + from the singular fact that just round its corner was a little door + opening on a rude winding stair of stone. This appeared to be constructed + within the chimney; but on the outside of the wall, was a half-rounded + projection, revealing that the stair was not indebted to it for the whole + of its accommodation. Whither the stair led, I shall have to disclose in + my next chapter. From the opposite end of the kitchen, an ordinary wooden + staircase, with clumsy balustrade, led up to the two bed-rooms occupied by + my uncle and my aunt; to a large lumber-room, whose desertion and almost + emptiness was a source of uneasiness in certain moods; and to a spare + bed-room, which was better furnished than any of ours, and indeed to my + mind a very grand and spacious apartment. This last was never occupied + during my childhood; consequently it smelt musty notwithstanding my aunt’s + exemplary housekeeping. Its bedsteads must have been hundreds of years + old. Above these rooms again were those to which the dormer windows + belonged, and in one of them I slept. It had a deep closet in which I kept + my few treasures, and into which I used to retire when out of temper or + troubled, conditions not occurring frequently, for nobody quarrelled with + me, and I had nobody with whom I might have quarrelled. + </p> + <p> + When I climbed upon a chair, I could seat myself on the broad sill of the + dormer window. This was the watch-tower whence I viewed the world. Thence + I could see trees in the distance—too far off for me to tell whether + they were churning wind or not. On that side those trees alone were + between me and the sky. + </p> + <p> + One day when my aunt took me with her into the lumber-room, I found there, + in a corner, a piece of strange mechanism. It had a kind of pendulum; but + I cannot describe it because I had lost sight of it long before I was + capable of discovering its use, and my recollection of it is therefore + very vague—far too vague to admit of even a conjecture now as to + what it could have been intended for. But I remember well enough my fancy + concerning it, though when or how that fancy awoke I cannot tell either. + It seems to me as old as the finding of the instrument. The fancy was that + if I could keep that pendulum wagging long enough, it would set all those + trees going too; and if I still kept it swinging, we should have such a + storm of wind as no living man had ever felt or heard of. That I more than + half believed it, will be evident from the fact that, although I + frequently carried the pendulum, as I shall call it, to the window sill, + and set it in motion by way of experiment, I had not, up to the time of a + certain incident which I shall very soon have to relate, had the courage + to keep up the oscillation beyond ten or a dozen strokes; partly from fear + of the trees, partly from a dim dread of exercising power whose source and + extent were not within my knowledge. I kept the pendulum in the closet I + have mentioned, and never spoke to any one of it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. MY UNCLE AND AUNT. + </h2> + <p> + We were a curious household. I remembered neither father nor mother; and + the woman I had been taught to call <i>auntie</i> was no such near + relation. My uncle was my father’s brother, and my aunt was his cousin, by + the mother’s side. She was a tall, gaunt woman, with a sharp nose and + eager eyes, yet sparing of speech. Indeed, there was very little speech to + be heard in the house. My aunt, however, looked as if she could have + spoken. I think it was the spirit of the place that kept her silent, for + there were those eager eyes. She might have been expected also to show a + bad temper, but I never saw a sign of such. To me she was always kind; + chiefly, I allow, in a negative way, leaving me to do very much as I + pleased. I doubt if she felt any great tenderness for me, although I had + been dependent upon her care from infancy. In after-years I came to the + conclusion that she was in love with my uncle; and perhaps the sense that + he was indifferent to her save after a brotherly fashion, combined with + the fear of betraying herself and the consciousness of her unattractive + appearance, to produce the contradiction between her looks and her + behaviour. + </p> + <p> + Every morning, after our early breakfast, my uncle walked away to the + farm, where he remained until dinner-time. Often, when busy at my own + invented games in the grass, I have caught sight of my aunt, standing + motionless with her hand over her eyes, watching for the first glimpse of + my uncle ascending from the hollow where the farm-buildings lay; and + occasionally, when something had led her thither as well, I would watch + them returning together over the grass, when she would keep glancing up in + his face at almost regular intervals, although it was evident they were + not talking, but he never turned his face or lifted his eyes from the + ground a few yards in front of him. + </p> + <p> + He was a tall man of nearly fifty, with grey hair, and quiet meditative + blue eyes. He always looked as if he were thinking. He had been intended + for the Church, but the means for the prosecution of his studies failing, + he had turned his knowledge of rustic affairs to account, and taken a + subordinate position on a nobleman’s estate, where he rose to be bailiff. + When my father was seized with his last illness, he returned to take the + management of the farm. It had been in the family for many generations. + Indeed that portion of it upon which the house stood, was our own + property. When my mother followed my father, my uncle asked his cousin to + keep house for him. Perhaps she had expected a further request, but more + had not come of it. + </p> + <p> + When he came in, my uncle always went straight to his room; and having + washed his hands and face, took a book and sat down in the window. If I + were sent to tell him that the meal was ready, I was sure to find him + reading. He would look up, smile, and look down at his book again; nor, + until I had formally delivered my message, would he take further notice of + me. Then he would rise, lay his book carefully aside, take my hand, and + lead me down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + To my childish eyes there was something very grand about my uncle. His + face was large-featured and handsome; he was tall, and stooped + meditatively. I think my respect for him was founded a good deal upon the + reverential way in which my aunt regarded him. And there was great wisdom, + I came to know, behind that countenance, a golden speech behind that + silence. + </p> + <p> + My reader must not imagine that the prevailing silence of the house + oppressed me. I had been brought up in it, and never felt it. My own + thoughts, if thoughts those conditions of mind could be called, which were + chiefly passive results of external influences—whatever they were—thoughts + or feelings, sensations, or dim, slow movements of mind—they filled + the great pauses of speech; and besides, I could read the faces of both my + uncle and aunt like the pages of a well-known book. Every shade of + alteration in them I was familiar with, for their changes were not many. + </p> + <p> + Although my uncle’s habit was silence, however, he would now and then take + a fit of talking to me. I remember many such talks; the better, perhaps, + that they were divided by long intervals. I had perfect confidence in his + wisdom, and submission to his will. I did not much mind my aunt. Perhaps + her deference to my uncle made me feel as if she and I were more on a + level. She must have been really kind, for she never resented any + petulance or carelessness. Possibly she sacrificed her own feeling to the + love my uncle bore me; but I think it was rather that, because he cared + for me, she cared for me too. + </p> + <p> + Twice during every meal she would rise from the table with some dish in + her hand, open the door behind the chimney, and ascend the winding stair. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. AT THE TOP OF THE CHIMNEY-STAIR. + </h2> + <p> + I fear my reader may have thought me too long occupied with the + explanatory foundations of my structure: I shall at once proceed to raise + its walls of narrative. Whatever further explanations may be necessary, + can be applied as buttresses in lieu of a broader base. + </p> + <p> + One Sunday—it was his custom of a Sunday—I fancy I was then + somewhere about six years of age—my uncle rose from the table after + our homely dinner, took me by the hand, and led me to the dark door with + the long arrow-headed hinges, and up the winding stone stair which I never + ascended except with him or my aunt. At the top was another rugged door, + and within that, one covered with green baize. The last opened on what had + always seemed to me a very paradise of a room. It was old-fashioned + enough; but childhood is of any and every age, and it was not + old-fashioned to me—only intensely cosy and comfortable. The first + thing my eyes generally rested upon was an old bureau, with a book-case on + the top of it, the glass-doors of which were lined with faded red silk. + The next thing I would see was a small tent-bed, with the whitest of + curtains, and enchanting fringes of white ball-tassels. The bed was + covered with an equally charming counterpane of silk patchwork. The next + object was the genius of the place, in a high, close, easy-chair, covered + with some dark stuff, against which her face, surrounded with its widow’s + cap, of ancient form, but dazzling whiteness, was strongly relieved. How + shall I describe the shrunken, yet delicate, the gracious, if not graceful + form, and the face from which extreme old age had not wasted half the + loveliness? Yet I always beheld it with an indescribable sensation, one of + whose elements I can isolate and identify as a faint fear. Perhaps this + arose partly from the fact that, in going up the stair, more than once my + uncle had said to me, ‘You must not mind what grannie says, Willie, for + old people will often speak strange things that young people cannot + understand. But you must love grannie, for she is a very good old lady.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, grannie, how are you to-day?’ said my uncle, as we entered, this + particular Sunday. + </p> + <p> + I may as well mention at once that my uncle called her <i>grannie</i> in + his own right and not in mine, for she was in truth my great-grandmother. + </p> + <p> + ‘Pretty well, David, I thank you; but much too long out of my grave,’ + answered grannie; in no sepulchral tones, however, for her voice, although + weak and uneven, had a sound in it like that of one of the upper strings + of a violin. The plaintiveness of it touched me, and I crept near her—nearer + than, I believe, I had ever yet gone of my own will—and laid my hand + upon hers. I withdrew it instantly, for there was something in the touch + that made me—not shudder, exactly—but creep. Her hand was + smooth and soft, and warm too, only somehow the skin of it seemed dead. + With a quicker movement than belonged to her years, she caught hold of + mine, which she kept in one of her hands, while she stroked it with the + other. My slight repugnance vanished for the time, and I looked up in her + face, grateful for a tenderness which was altogether new to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘What makes you so long out of your grave, grannie?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘They won’t let me into it, my dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who won’t let you, grannie?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My own grandson there, and the woman down the stair.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you don’t really want to go—do you, grannie?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do want to go, Willie. I ought to have been there long ago. I am very + old; so old that I’ve forgotten how old I am. How old am I?’ she asked, + looking up at my uncle. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nearly ninety-five, grannie; and the older you get before you go the + better we shall be pleased, as you know very well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There! I told you,’ she said with a smile, not all of pleasure, as she + turned her head towards me. ‘They won’t let me go. I want to go to my + grave, and they won’t let me! Is that an age at which to keep a poor woman + from her grave?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But it’s not a nice place, is it, grannie?’ I asked, with the vaguest + ideas of what <i>the grave</i> meant. ‘I think somebody told me it was in + the churchyard.’ + </p> + <p> + But neither did I know with any clearness what the church itself meant, + for we were a long way from church, and I had never been there yet. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it is in the churchyard, my dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it a house?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, a little house; just big enough for one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shouldn’t like that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes, you would.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it a nice place, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, the nicest place in the world, when you get to be so old as I am. If + they would only let me die!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Die, grannie!’ I exclaimed. My notions of death as yet were derived only + from the fowls brought from the farm, with their necks hanging down long + and limp, and their heads wagging hither and thither. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come, grannie, you mustn’t frighten our little man,’ interposed my uncle, + looking kindly at us both. + </p> + <p> + ‘David!’ said grannie, with a reproachful dignity, ‘<i>you</i> know what I + mean well enough. You know that until I have done what I have to do, the + grave that is waiting for me will not open its mouth to receive me. If you + will only allow me to do what I have to do, I shall not trouble you long. + Oh dear! oh dear!’ she broke out, moaning and rocking herself to and fro, + ‘I am too old to weep, and they will not let me to my bed. I want to go to + bed. I want to go to sleep.’ + </p> + <p> + She moaned and complained like a child. My uncle went near and took her + hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come, come, dear grannie!’ he said, ‘you must not behave like this. You + know all things are for the best.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To keep a corpse out of its grave!’ retorted the old lady, almost + fiercely, only she was too old and weak to be fierce. ‘Why should you keep + a soul that’s longing to depart and go to its own people, lingering on in + the coffin? What better than a coffin is this withered body? The child is + old enough to understand me. Leave him with me for half an hour, and I + shall trouble you no longer. I shall at least wait my end in peace. But I + think I should die before the morning.’ + </p> + <p> + Ere grannie had finished this sentence, I had shrunk from her again and + retreated behind my uncle. + </p> + <p> + ‘There!’ she went on, ‘you make my own child fear me. Don’t be frightened, + Willie dear; your old mother is not a wild beast; she loves you dearly. + Only my grand-children are so undutiful! They will not let my own son come + near me.’ + </p> + <p> + How I recall this I do not know, for I could not have understood it at the + time. The fact is that during the last few years I have found pictures of + the past returning upon me in the most vivid and unaccountable manner, so + much so as almost to alarm me. Things I had utterly forgotten—or so + far at least that when they return, they must appear only as vivid + imaginations, were it not for a certain conviction of fact which + accompanies them—are constantly dawning out of the past. Can it be + that the decay of the observant faculties allows the memory to revive and + gather force? But I must refrain, for my business is to narrate, not to + speculate. + </p> + <p> + My uncle took me by the hand, and turned to leave the room. I cast one + look at grannie as he led me away. She had thrown her head back on her + chair, and her eyes were closed; but her face looked offended, almost + angry. She looked to my fancy as if she were trying but unable to lie + down. My uncle closed the doors very gently. In the middle of the stair he + stopped, and said in a low voice, + </p> + <p> + ‘Willie, do you know that when people grow very old they are not quite + like other people?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. They want to go to the churchyard,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘They fancy things,’ said my uncle. ‘Grannie thinks you are her own son.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And ain’t I?’ I asked innocently. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not exactly,’ he answered. ‘Your father was her son’s son. She forgets + that, and wants to talk to you as if you were your grandfather. Poor old + grannie! I don’t wish you to go and see her without your aunt or me: mind + that.’ + </p> + <p> + Whether I made any promise I do not remember; but I know that a new + something was mingled with my life from that moment. An air as it were of + the tomb mingled henceforth with the homely delights of my life. Grannie + wanted to die, and uncle would not let her. She longed for her grave, and + they would keep her above-ground. And from the feeling that grannie ought + to be buried, grew an awful sense that she was not alive—not alive, + that is, as other people are alive, and a gulf was fixed between her and + me which for a long time I never attempted to pass, avoiding as much as I + could all communication with her, even when my uncle or aunt wished to + take me to her room. They did not seem displeased, however, when I + objected, and not always insisted on obedience. Thus affairs went on in + our quiet household for what seemed to me a very long time. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. THE PENDULUM. + </h2> + <p> + It may have been a year after this, it may have been two, I cannot tell, + when the next great event in my life occurred. I think it was towards the + close of an Autumn, but there was not so much about our house as elsewhere + to mark the changes of the seasons, for the grass was always green. I + remember it was a sultry afternoon. I had been out almost the whole day, + wandering hither and thither over the grass, and I felt hot and oppressed. + Not an air was stirring. I longed for a breath of wind, for I was not + afraid of the wind itself, only of the trees that made it. Indeed, I + delighted in the wind, and would run against it with exuberant pleasure, + even rejoicing in the fancy that I, as well as the trees, could make the + wind by shaking my hair about as I ran. I must run, however; whereas the + trees, whose prime business it was, could do it without stirring from the + spot. But this was much too hot an afternoon for me, whose mood was always + more inclined to the passive than the active, to run about and toss my + hair, even for the sake of the breeze that would result therefrom. I + bethought myself. I was nearly a man now; I would be afraid of things no + more; I would get out my pendulum, and see whether that would not help me. + Not this time would I flinch from what consequences might follow. Let them + be what they might, the pendulum should wag, and have a fair chance of + doing its best. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “I SAT AND WATCHED IT WITH GROWING AWE."} + </p> + <p> + I went up to my room, a sense of high emprise filling my little heart. + Composedly, yea solemnly, I set to work, even as some enchanter of old + might have drawn his circle, and chosen his spell out of his iron-clasped + volume. I strode to the closet in which the awful instrument dwelt. It + stood in the furthest corner. As I lifted it, something like a groan + invaded my ear. My notions of locality were not then sufficiently + developed to let me know that grannie’s room was on the other side of that + closet. I almost let the creature, for as such I regarded it, drop. I was + not to be deterred, however. I bore it carefully to the light, and set it + gently on the window sill, full in view of the distant trees towards the + west. I left it then for a moment, as if that it might gather its strength + for its unwonted labours, while I closed the door, and, with what fancy I + can scarcely imagine now, the curtains of my bed as well. Possibly it was + with some notion of having one place to which, if the worst came to the + worst, I might retreat for safety. Again I approached the window, and + after standing for some time in contemplation of the pendulum, I set it in + motion, and stood watching it. + </p> + <p> + It swung slower and slower. It wanted to stop. It should not stop. I gave + it another swing. On it went, at first somewhat distractedly, next more + regularly, then with slowly retarding movement. But it should not stop. + </p> + <p> + I turned in haste and got from the side of my bed the only chair in the + room, placed it in the window, sat down before the reluctant instrument, + and gave it a third swing. Then, my elbows on the sill, I sat and watched + it with growing awe, but growing determination as well. Once more it + showed signs of refusal; once more the forefinger of my right hand + administered impulse. + </p> + <p> + Something gave a crack inside the creature: away went the pendulum, + swinging with a will. I sat and gazed, almost horror-stricken. Ere many + moments had passed, the feeling of terror had risen to such a height that, + but for the very terror, I would have seized the pendulum in a frantic + grasp. I did not. On it went, and I sat looking. My dismay was gradually + subsiding. + </p> + <p> + I have learned since that a certain ancestor—or was he only a + great-uncle?—I forget—had a taste for mechanics, even to the + craze of the perpetual motion, and could work well in brass and iron. The + creature was probably some invention of his. It was a real marvel how, + after so many years of idleness, it could now go as it did. I confess, as + I contemplate the thing, I am in a puzzle, and almost fancy the whole a + dream. But let it pass. At worst, something of which this is the sole + representative residuum, wrought an effect on me which embodies its cause + thus, as I search for it in the past. And why should not the individual + life have its misty legends as well as that of nations? From them, as from + the golden and rosy clouds of morning, dawns at last the true sun of its + unquestionable history. Every boy has his own fables, just as the Romes + and the Englands of the world have their Romuli and their Arthurs, their + suckling wolves and their granite-sheathed swords. Do they not reflect + each other? I tell the tale as ‘tis left in me. + </p> + <p> + How long I sat thus gazing at the now self-impelled instrument, I cannot + say. The next point in the progress of the legend, is a gust of wind + rattling the window in whose recess I was seated. I jumped from my chair + in terror. While I had been absorbed in the pendulum, the evening had + closed in; clouds had gathered over the sky, and all was gloomy about the + house. It was much too dark to see the distant trees, but there could be + no doubt they were at work. The pendulum had roused them. Another, a + third, and a fourth gust rattled and shook the rickety frame. I had done + it at last! The trees were busy away there in the darkness. I and my + pendulum could make the wind. + </p> + <p> + The gusts came faster and faster, and grew into blasts which settled into + a steady gale. The pendulum went on swinging to and fro, and the gale went + on increasing in violence. I sat half in terror, half in delight, at the + awful success of my experiment. I would have opened the window to let in + the coveted air, but that was beyond my knowledge and strength. I could + make the wind blow, but, like other magicians, I could not share in its + benefits. I would go out and meet it on the open plain. I crept down the + stair like a thief—not that I feared detention, but that I felt such + a sense of the important, even the dread, about myself and my instrument, + that I was not in harmony with souls reflecting only the common affairs of + life. In a moment I was in the middle of a storm—for storm it very + nearly was and soon became. I rushed to and fro in the midst of it, lay + down and rolled in it, and laughed and shouted as I looked up to the + window where the pendulum was swinging, and thought of the trees at work + away in the dark. The wind grew stronger and stronger. What if the + pendulum should not stop at all, and the wind went on and on, growing + louder and fiercer, till it grew mad and blew away the house? Ah, then, + poor grannie would have a chance of being buried at last! Seriously, the + affair might grow serious. + </p> + <p> + Such thoughts were passing in my mind, when all at once the wind gave a + roar which made me spring to my feet and rush for the house. I must stop + the pendulum. There was a strange sound in that blast. The trees + themselves had had enough of it, and were protesting against the + creature’s tyranny. Their master was working them too hard. I ran up the + stair on all fours: it was my way when I was in a hurry. Swinging went the + pendulum in the window, and the wind roared in the chimney. I seized hold + of the oscillating thing, and stopped it; but to my amaze and + consternation, the moment I released it, on it went again. I must sit and + hold it. But the voice of my aunt called me from below, and as I dared not + explain why I would rather not appear, I was forced to obey. I lingered on + the stair, half minded to return. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a rough night it is!’ I heard my aunt say, with rare remark. + </p> + <p> + ‘It gets worse and worse,’ responded my uncle. ‘I hope it won’t disturb + grannie; but the wind must roar fearfully in her chimney.’ + </p> + <p> + I stood like a culprit. What if they should find out that I was at the + root of the mischief, at the heart of the storm! + </p> + <p> + ‘If I could believe all that I have been reading to-night about the Prince + of the Power of the Air, I should not like this storm at all,’ continued + my uncle, with a smile. ‘But books are not always to be trusted because + they are old,’ he added with another smile. ‘From the glass, I expected + rain and not wind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Whatever wind there is, we get it all,’ said my aunt. ‘I wonder what + Willie is about. I thought I heard him coming down. Isn’t it time, David, + we did something about his schooling? It won’t do to have him idling about + this way all day long.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s a mere child,’ returned my uncle. ‘I’m not forgetting him. But I + can’t send him away yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know best,’ returned my aunt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Send me away!</i> What could it mean? Why should I—where should I + go? Was not the old place a part of me, just like my own clothes on my own + body? This was the kind of feeling that woke in me at the words. But + hearing my aunt push back her chair, evidently with the purpose of finding + me, I descended into the room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come along, Willie,’ said my uncle. ‘Hear the wind how it roars!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, uncle; it does roar,’ I said, feeling a hypocrite for the first time + in my life. Knowing far more about the roaring than he did, I yet spoke + like an innocent! + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know who makes the wind, Willie?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. The trees,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + My uncle opened his blue eyes very wide, and looked at my aunt. He had had + no idea what a little heathen I was. The more a man has wrought out his + own mental condition, the readier he is to suppose that children must be + able to work out theirs, and to forget that he did not work out his + information, but only his conclusions. My uncle began to think it was time + to take me in hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Willie,’ he said. ‘I must teach you better than that.’ + </p> + <p> + I expected him to begin by telling me that God made the wind; but, whether + it was that what the old book said about the Prince of the Power of the + Air returned upon him, or that he thought it an unfitting occasion for + such a lesson when the wind was roaring so as might render its divine + origin questionable, he said no more. Bewildered, I fancy, with my + ignorance, he turned, after a pause, to my aunt. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you think it’s time for him to go to bed, Jane?’ he suggested. + </p> + <p> + My aunt replied by getting from the cupboard my usual supper—a basin + of milk and a slice of bread; which I ate with less circumspection than + usual, for I was eager to return to my room. As soon as I had finished, + Nannie was called, and I bade them good-night. + </p> + <p> + ‘Make haste, Nannie,’ I said. ‘Don’t you hear how the wind is roaring?’ + </p> + <p> + It was roaring louder than ever, and there was the pendulum swinging away + in the window. Nannie took no notice of it, and, I presume, only thought I + wanted to get my head under the bed-clothes, and so escape the sound of + it. Anyhow, she did make haste, and in a very few minutes I was, as she + supposed, snugly settled for the night. But the moment she shut the door I + was out of bed, and at the window. The instant I reached it, a great dash + of rain swept against the panes, and the wind howled more fiercely than + ever. Believing I had the key of the position, inasmuch as, if I pleased, + I could take the pendulum to bed with me, and stifle its motions with the + bed-clothes—for this happy idea had dawned upon me while Nannie was + undressing me—I was composed enough now to press my face to a pane, + and look out. There was a small space amidst the storm dimly illuminated + from the windows below, and the moment I looked—out of the darkness + into this dim space, as if blown thither by the wind, rushed a figure on + horseback, his large cloak flying out before him, and the mane of the + animal he rode streaming out over his ears in the fierceness of the blast. + He pulled up right under my window, and I thought he looked up, and made + threatening gestures at me; but I believe now that horse and man pulled up + in sudden danger of dashing against the wall of the house. I shrank back, + and when I peeped out again he was gone. The same moment the pendulum gave + a click and stopped; one more rattle of rain against the windows, and then + the wind stopped also. I crept back to my bed in a new terror, for might + not this be the Prince of the Power of the Air, come to see who was + meddling with his affairs? Had he not come right out of the storm, and + straight from the trees? He must have something to do with it all! Before + I had settled the probabilities of the question, however, I was fast + asleep. + </p> + <p> + I awoke—how long after, I cannot tell—with the sound of voices + in my ears. It was still dark. The voices came from below. I had been + dreaming of the strange horseman, who had turned out to be the awful being + concerning whom Nannie had enlightened me as going about at night to buy + little children from their nurses, and make bagpipes of their skins. + Awaked from such a dream, it was impossible to lie still without knowing + what those voices down below were talking about. The strange one must + belong to the being, whatever he was, whom I had seen come out of the + storm; and of whom could they be talking but me? I was right in both + conclusions. + </p> + <p> + With a fearful resolution I slipped out of bed, opened the door as + noiselessly as I might, and crept on my bare, silent feet down the + creaking stair, which led, with open balustrade, right into the kitchen, + at the end furthest from the chimney. The one candle at the other end + could not illuminate its darkness, and I sat unseen, a few steps from the + bottom of the stair, listening with all my ears, and staring with all my + eyes. The stranger’s huge cloak hung drying before the fire, and he was + drinking something out of a tumbler. The light fell full upon his face. It + was a curious, and certainly not to me an attractive face. The forehead + was very projecting, and the eyes were very small, deep set, and + sparkling. The mouth—I had almost said muzzle—was very + projecting likewise, and the lower jaw shot in front of the upper. When + the man smiled the light was reflected from what seemed to my eyes an + inordinate multitude of white teeth. His ears were narrow and long, and + set very high upon his head. The hand which he every now and then + displayed in the exigencies of his persuasion, was white, but very large, + and the thumb was exceedingly long. I had weighty reasons for both + suspecting and fearing the man; and, leaving my prejudices out of the + question, there was in the conversation itself enough besides to make me + take note of dangerous points in his appearance. I never could lay much + claim to physical courage, and I attribute my behaviour on this occasion + rather to the fascination of terror than to any impulse of + self-preservation: I sat there in utter silence, listening like an + ear-trumpet. The first words I could distinguish were to this effect:— + </p> + <p> + ‘You do not mean,’ said the enemy, ‘to tell me, Mr Cumbermede, that you + intend to bring up the young fellow in absolute ignorance of the decrees + of fate?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I pledge myself to nothing in the matter,’ returned my uncle, calmly, but + with something in his tone which was new to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed the other. ‘Excuse me, sir, but what right can + you have to interfere after such a serious fashion with the young + gentleman’s future?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems to me,’ said my uncle, ‘that you wish to interfere with it after + a much more serious fashion. There are things in which ignorance may be + preferable to knowledge.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what harm could the knowledge of such a fact do him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Upset all his notions, render him incapable of thinking about anything of + importance, occasion an utter—’ + </p> + <p> + But <i>can</i> anything be more important?’ interrupted the visitor. + </p> + <p> + My uncle went on without heeding him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Plunge him over head and ears in—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hot water, I grant you,’ again interrupted the enemy, to my horror; ‘but + it wouldn’t be for long. Only give me your sanction, and I promise you to + have the case as tight as a drum before I ask you to move a step in it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why should you take so much interest in what is purely our affair?’ + asked my uncle. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, of course you would have to pay the piper,’ said the man. + </p> + <p> + This was too much! <i>Pay</i> the man that played upon me after I was made + into bagpipes! The idea was too frightful. + </p> + <p> + ‘I must look out for business, you know; and, by Jove! I shall never have + such a chance, if I live to the age of Methuselah.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, you shall not have it from me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then,’ said the man, rising, ‘you are more of a fool than I took you + for.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Sir!’ said my uncle. + </p> + <p> + ‘No offence; no offence, I assure you. But it is provoking to find people + so blind—so wilfully blind—to their own interest. You may say + I have nothing to lose. Give me the boy, and I’ll bring him up like my own + son; send him to school and college, too—all on the chance of being + repaid twice over by—’ + </p> + <p> + I knew this was all a trick to get hold of my skin. The man said it on his + way to the door, his ape-face shining dim as he turned it a little back in + the direction of my uncle, who followed with the candle. I lost the last + part of the sentence in the terror which sent me bounding up the stair in + my usual four-footed fashion. I leaped into my bed, shaking with cold and + agony combined. But I had the satisfaction presently of hearing the <i>thud</i> + of the horse’s hoofs upon the sward, dying away in the direction whence + they had come. After that I soon fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + I need hardly say that I never set the pendulum swinging again. Many years + after, I came upon it when searching for a key, and the thrill which + vibrated through my whole frame announced a strange and unwelcome presence + long before my memory could recall its origin. + </p> + <p> + It must not be supposed that I pretend to remember all the conversation I + have just set down. The words are but the forms in which, enlightened by + facts which have since come to my knowledge, I clothe certain vague + memories and impressions of such an interview as certainly took place. + </p> + <p> + In the morning, at breakfast, my aunt asked my uncle who it was that paid + such an untimely visit the preceding night. + </p> + <p> + ‘A fellow from Minstercombe’ (the county town), ‘an attorney—what + did he say his name was? Yes, I remember. It was the same as the steward’s + over the way. Coningham, it was.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Coningham has a son there—an attorney too, I think,’ said my + aunt. + </p> + <p> + My uncle seemed struck by the reminder, and became meditative. + </p> + <p> + ‘That explains his choosing such a night to come in. His father is getting + an old man now. Yes, it must be the same.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s a sharp one, folk say,’ said my aunt, with a pointedness in the + remark which showed some anxiety. + </p> + <p> + ‘That he cannot conceal, sharp as he is,’ said my uncle, and there the + conversation stopped. + </p> + <p> + The very next evening my uncle began to teach me. I had a vague notion + that this had something to do with my protection against the machinations + of the man Coningham, the idea of whom was inextricably associated in my + mind with that of the Prince of the Power of the Air, darting from the + midst of the churning trees, on a horse whose streaming mane and flashing + eyes indicated no true equine origin. I gave myself with diligence to the + work my uncle set me. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. I HAVE LESSONS. + </h2> + <p> + It is a simple fact that up to this time I did not know my letters. It + was, I believe, part of my uncle’s theory of education that as little pain + as possible should be associated with merely intellectual effort: he would + not allow me, therefore, to commence my studies until the task of learning + should be an easy one. Henceforth, every evening, after tea, he took me to + his own room, the walls of which were nearly covered with books, and there + taught me. + </p> + <p> + One peculiar instance of his mode I will give, and let it stand rather as + a pledge for the rest of his system than an index to it. It was only the + other day it came back to me. Like Jean Paul, he would utter the name of + God to a child only at grand moments; but there was a great difference in + the moments the two men would have chosen. Jean Paul would choose a + thunder-storm, for instance; the following will show the kind of my + uncle’s choice. One Sunday evening he took me for a longer walk than + usual. We had climbed a little hill: I believe it was the first time I + ever had a wide view of the earth. The horses were all loose in the + fields; the cattle were gathering their supper as the sun went down; there + was an indescribable hush in the air, as if Nature herself knew the + seventh day; there was no sound even of water, for here the water crept + slowly to the far-off sea, and the slant sunlight shone back from just one + bend of a canal-like river; the hay-stacks and ricks of the last year + gleamed golden in the farmyards; great fields of wheat stood up stately + around us, the glow in their yellow brought out by the red poppies that + sheltered in the forest of their stems; the odour of the grass and clover + came in pulses; and the soft blue sky was flecked with white clouds tinged + with pink, which deepened until it gathered into a flaming rose in the + west, where the sun was welling out oceans of liquid red. + </p> + <p> + I looked up in my uncle’s face. It shone in a calm glow, like an answering + rosy moon. The eyes of my mind were opened: I saw that he felt something, + and then I felt it too, His soul, with the glory for an interpreter, + kindled mine. + </p> + <p> + He, in turn, caught the sight of my face, and his soul broke forth in one + word:— + </p> + <p> + God! Willie; God!’ was all he said; and surely it was enough. + </p> + <p> + It was only then in moments of strong repose that my uncle spoke to me of + God. + </p> + <p> + Although he never petted me, that is, never showed me any animal + affection, my uncle was like a father to me in this, that he was about and + above me, a pure benevolence. It is no wonder that I should learn rapidly + under his teaching, for I was quick enough, and possessed the more energy + that it had not been wasted on unpleasant tasks. + </p> + <p> + Whether from indifference or intent I cannot tell, but he never forbade me + to touch any of his books. Upon more occasions than one he found me on the + floor with a folio between my knees; but he only smiled and said— + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, Willie! mind you don’t crumple the leaves.’ + </p> + <p> + About this time also I had a new experience of another kind, which + impressed me almost with the force of a revelation. + </p> + <p> + I had not yet explored the boundaries of the prairie-like level on which I + found myself. As soon as I got about a certain distance from home, I + always turned and ran back. Fear is sometimes the first recognition of + freedom. Delighting in liberty, I yet shrunk from the unknown spaces + around me, and rushed back to the shelter of the home-walls. But as I grew + older I became more adventurous; and one evening, although the shadows + were beginning to lengthen, I went on and on until I made a discovery. I + found a half-spherical hollow in the grassy surface. I rushed into its + depth as if it had been a mine of marvels, threw myself on the ground, and + gazed into the sky as if I had now for the first time discovered its true + relation to the earth. The earth was a cup, and the sky its cover. + </p> + <p> + There were lovely daisies in this hollow—not too many to spoil the + grass—and they were red-tipped daisies. There was besides, in the + very heart of it, one plant of the finest pimpernels I have ever seen, and + this was my introduction to the flower. Nor were these all the treasures + of the spot. A late primrose, a tiny child, born out of due time, opened + its timid petals in the same hollow. Here then we regathered red-tipped + daisies, large pimpernels, and one tiny primrose. I lay and looked at them + in delight—not at all inclined to pull them, for they were where I + loved to see them. I never had much inclination to gather flowers. I see + them as a part of a whole, and rejoice in them in their own place without + any desire to appropriate them. I lay and looked at these for a long time. + Perhaps I fell asleep. I do not know. I have often waked in the open air. + All at once I looked up and saw a vision. + </p> + <p> + My reader will please to remember that up to this hour I had never seen a + lady. I cannot by any stretch call my worthy aunt a lady; and my + grandmother was too old, and too much an object of mysterious anxiety, to + produce the impression, of a lady upon me. Suddenly I became aware that a + lady was looking down on me. Over the edge of my horizon, the circle of + the hollow that touched the sky, her face shone like a rising moon. Sweet + eyes looked on me, and a sweet mouth was tremulous with a smile. I will + not attempt to describe her. To my childish eyes she was much what a + descended angel must have been to eyes of old, in the days when angels did + descend, and there were Arabs or Jews on the earth who could see them. A + new knowledge dawned in me. I lay motionless, looking up with worship in + my heart. As suddenly she vanished. I lay far into the twilight, and then + rose and went home, half bewildered, with a sense of heaven about me which + settled into the fancy that my mother had come to see me. I wondered + afterwards that I had not followed her; but I never forgot her, and, + morning, midday, or evening, whenever the fit seized me, I would wander + away and lie down in the hollow, gazing at the spot where the lovely face + had arisen, in the fancy, hardly in the hope, that my moon might once more + arise and bless me with her vision. + </p> + <p> + Hence I suppose came another habit of mine, that of watching in the same + hollow, and in the same posture, now for the sun, now for the moon, but + generally for the sun. You might have taken me for a fire-worshipper, so + eagerly would I rise when the desire came upon me, so hastily in the clear + grey of the morning would I dress myself, lest the sun should be up before + me, and I fail to catch his first lance-like rays dazzling through the + forest of grass on the edge of my hollow world. Bare-footed I would scud + like a hare through the dew, heedless of the sweet air of the morning, + heedless of the few bird-songs about me, heedless even of the east, whose + saffron might just be burning into gold, as I ran to gain the green hollow + whence alone I would greet the morning. Arrived there, I shot into its + shelter, and threw myself panting on the grass, to gaze on the spot at + which I expected the rising glory to appear. Ever when I recall the + custom, that one lark is wildly praising over my head, for he sees the sun + for which I am waiting. He has his nest in the hollow beside me. I would + sooner have turned my back on the sun than disturbed the home of his + high-priest, the lark. And now the edge of my horizon begins to burn; the + green blades glow in their tops; they are melted through with light; the + flashes invade my eyes; they gather; they grow, until I hide my face in my + hands. The sun is up. But on my hands and my knees I rush after the + retreating shadow, and, like a child at play with its nurse, hide in its + curtain. Up and up comes the peering sun; he will find me; I cannot hide + from him; there is in the wide field no shelter from his gaze. No matter + then. Let him shine into the deepest corners of my heart, and shake the + cowardice and the meanness out of it. + </p> + <p> + I thus made friends with Nature. I had no great variety even in her, but + the better did I understand what I had. The next Summer I began to hunt + for glow-worms, and carry them carefully to my hollow, that in the warm, + soft, moonless nights they might illumine it with a strange light. When I + had been very successful, I would call my uncle and aunt to see. My aunt + tried me by always having something to do first. My uncle, on the other + hand, would lay down his book at once, and follow me submissively. He + could not generate amusement for me, but he sympathized with what I could + find for myself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come and see my cows,’ I would say to him. + </p> + <p> + I well remember the first time I took him to see them. When we reached the + hollow, he stood for a moment silent. Then he said, laying his hand on my + shoulder, + </p> + <p> + ‘Very pretty, Willie! But why do you call them cows?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You told me last night,’ I answered, ‘that the road the angels go across + the sky is called the milky way—didn’t you, uncle?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never told you the angels went that way, my boy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! didn’t you? I thought you did.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I didn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I remember now: I thought if it was a way, and nobody but the angels + could go in it, that must be the way the angels did go.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes, I see! But what has that to do with the glow-worms?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you see, uncle? If it be the milky way, the stars must be the cows. + Look at my cows, uncle. Their milk is very pretty milk, isn’t it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very pretty, indeed, my dear—rather green.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I suppose if you could put it in auntie’s pan, you might make + another moon of it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s being silly now,’ said my uncle; and I ceased, abashed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look, look, uncle!’ I exclaimed, a moment after; ‘they don’t like being + talked about, my cows.’ + </p> + <p> + For as if a cold gust of wind had passed over them, they all dwindled and + paled. I thought they were going out. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ I cried, and began dancing about with dismay. The next + instant the glow returned, and the hollow was radiant. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, the dear light!’ I cried again. ‘Look at it, uncle! Isn’t it lovely?’ + </p> + <p> + He took me by the hand. His actions were always so much more tender than + his words! + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know who is the light of the world, Willie?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, well enough. I saw him get out of bed this morning.’ + </p> + <p> + My uncle led me home without a word more. But next night he began to teach + me about the light of the world, and about walking in the light. I do not + care to repeat much of what he taught me in this kind, for like my + glow-worms it does not like to be talked about. Somehow it loses colour + and shine when one talks. + </p> + <p> + I have now shown sufficiently how my uncle would seize opportunities for + beginning things. He thought more of the beginning than of any other part + of a process. + </p> + <p> + ‘All’s well that begins well,’ he would say. I did not know what his smile + meant as he said so. + </p> + <p> + I sometimes wonder how I managed to get through the days without being + weary. No one ever thought of giving me toys. I had a turn for using my + hands; but I was too young to be trusted with a knife. I had never seen a + kite, except far away in the sky: I took it for a bird. There were no + rushes to make water-wheels of, and no brooks to set them turning in. I + had neither top nor marbles. I had no dog to play with. And yet I do not + remember once feeling weary. I knew all the creatures that went creeping + about in the grass, and although I did not know the proper name for one of + them, I had names of my own for them all, and was so familiar with their + looks and their habits, that I am confident I could in some degree + interpret some of the people I met afterwards by their resemblances to + these insects. I have a man in my mind now who has exactly the head and + face, if face it can be called, of an ant. It is not a head, but a helmet. + I knew all the butterflies—they were mostly small ones, but of + lovely varieties. A stray dragon-fly would now and then delight me; and + there were hunting-spiders and wood-lice, and queerer creatures of which I + do not yet know the names. Then there were grasshoppers, which for some + time I took to be made of green leaves, and I thought they grew like fruit + on the trees till they were ripe, when they jumped down, and jumped for + ever after. Another child might have caught and caged them; for me, I + followed them about, and watched their ways. + </p> + <p> + In the Winter, things had not hitherto gone quite so well with me. Then I + had been a good deal dependent upon Nannie and her stories, which were + neither very varied nor very well told. But now that I had begun to read, + things went better. To be sure, there were not in my uncle’s library many + books such as children have now-a-days; but there were old histories, and + some voyages and travels, and in them I revelled. I am perplexed sometimes + when I look into one of these books—for I have them all about me now—to + find how dry they are. The shine seems to have gone out of them. Or is it + that the shine has gone out of the eyes that used to read them? If so, it + will come again some day. I do not find that the shine has gone out of a + beetle’s back; and I can read <i>The Pilgrim’s Progress</i> still. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. I COBBLE. + </h2> + <p> + All this has led me, after a roundabout fashion, to what became for some + time the chief delight of my Winters—an employment, moreover, which + I have taken up afresh at odd times during my life. It came about thus. My + uncle had made me a present of an old book with pictures in it. It was + called <i>The Preceptor</i>—one of Dodsley’s publications. There + were wonderful folding plates of all sorts in it. Those which represented + animals were of course my favourites. But these especially were in a very + dilapidated condition, for there had been children before me somewhere; + and I proceeded, at my uncle’s suggestion, to try to mend them by pasting + them on another piece of paper. I made bad work of it at first, and was so + dissatisfied with the results, that I set myself in earnest to find out by + what laws of paste and paper success might be secured. Before the Winter + was over, my uncle found me grown so skilful in this manipulation of + broken leaves—for as yet I had not ventured further in any of the + branches of repair—that he gave me plenty of little jobs of the + sort, for amongst his books there were many old ones. This was a source of + great pleasure. Before the following Winter was over, I came to try my + hand at repairing bindings, and my uncle was again so much pleased with my + success that one day he brought me from the county town some sheets of + parchment with which to attempt the fortification of certain vellum-bound + volumes which were considerably the worse for age and use. I well remember + how troublesome the parchment was for a long time; but at last I conquered + it, and succeeded very fairly in my endeavours to restore to tidiness the + garments of ancient thought. + </p> + <p> + But there was another consequence of this pursuit which may be considered + of weight in my history. This was the discovery of a copy of the Countess + of Pembroke’s <i>Arcadia</i>—much in want of skilful patching, from + the title-page, with its boar smelling at the rose-bush, to the graduated + lines and the <i>Finis</i>. This book I read through from boar to finis—no + small undertaking, and partly, no doubt, under its influences, I became + about this time conscious of a desire after honour, as yet a notion of the + vaguest. I hardly know how I escaped the taking for granted that there + were yet knights riding about on war-horses, with couched lances and + fierce spurs, everywhere as in days of old. They might have been roaming + the world in all directions, without my seeing one of them. But somehow I + did not fall into the mistake. Only with the thought of my future career, + when I should be a man and go out into the world, came always the thought + of the sword which hung on the wall. A longing to handle it began to + possess me, and my old dream returned. I dared not, however, say a word to + my uncle on the subject. I felt certain that he would slight the desire, + and perhaps tell me I should hurt myself with the weapon; and one whose + heart glowed at the story of the battle between him on the white horse + with carnation mane and tail, in his armour of blue radiated with gold, + and him on the black-spotted brown, in his dusky armour of despair, could + not expose himself to such an indignity. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. THE SWORD ON THE WALL. + </h2> + <p> + Where possession was impossible, knowledge might yet be reached: could I + not learn the story of the ancient weapon? How came that which had more + fitly hung in the hall of a great castle, here upon the wall of a kitchen? + My uncle, however, I felt, was not the source whence I might hope for + help. No better was my aunt. Indeed I had the conviction that she neither + knew nor cared anything about the useless thing. It was her tea-table that + must be kept bright for honour’s sake. But there was grannie! + </p> + <p> + My relations with her had continued much the same. The old fear of her + lingered, and as yet I had had no inclination to visit her room by myself. + I saw that my uncle and aunt always behaved to her with the greatest + kindness and much deference, but could not help observing also that she + cherished some secret offence, receiving their ministrations with a + certain condescension which clearly enough manifested its origin as hidden + cause of complaint and not pride. I wondered that my uncle and aunt took + no notice of it, always addressing her as if they were on the best + possible terms; and I knew that my uncle never went to his work without + visiting her, and never went to bed without reading a prayer by her + bedside first. I think Nannie told me this. + </p> + <p> + She could still read a little, for her sight had been short, and had held + out better even than usual with such. But she cared nothing for the news + of the hour. My uncle had a weekly newspaper, though not by any means + regularly, from a friend in London, but I never saw it in my grandmother’s + hands. Her reading was mostly in the <i>Spectator</i>, or in one of De + Foe’s works. I have seen her reading Pope. + </p> + <p> + The sword was in my bones, and as I judged that only from grannie could I + get any information respecting it, I found myself beginning to inquire why + I was afraid to go to her. I was unable to account for it, still less to + justify it. As I reflected, the kindness of her words and expressions + dawned upon me, and I even got so far as to believe that I had been guilty + of neglect in not visiting her oftener and doing something for her. True, + I recalled likewise that my uncle had desired me not to visit her except + with him or my aunt, but that was ages ago, when I was a very little boy + and might have been troublesome. I could even read to her now if she + wished it. In short, I felt myself perfectly capable of entering into + social relations with her generally. But if there was any flow of + affection towards her, it was the sword that had broken the seal of its + fountain. + </p> + <p> + One morning at breakfast I had been sitting gazing at the sword on the + wall opposite me. My aunt had observed the steadiness of my look. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you staring at, Willie?’ she said. ‘Your eyes are fixed in your + head. Are you choking?’ + </p> + <p> + The words offended me. I got up and walked out of the room. As I went + round the table I saw that my uncle and aunt were staring at each other + very much as I had been staring at the sword. I soon felt ashamed of + myself, and returned, hoping that my behaviour might be attributed to some + passing indisposition. Mechanically I raised my eyes to the wall. Could I + believe them? The sword was gone—absolutely gone! My heart seemed to + swell up into my throat; I felt my cheeks burning. The passion grew within + me, and might have broken out in some form or other, had I not felt that + would at once betray my secret. I sat still with a fierce effort, + consoling and strengthening myself with the resolution that I would + hesitate no longer, but take the first chance of a private interview with + grannie. I tried hard to look as if nothing had happened, and when + breakfast was over, went to my own room. It was there I carried on my + pasting operations. There also at this time I drank deep in the ‘Pilgrim’s + Progress;’ there were swords, and armour, and giants, and demons there: + but I had no inclination for either employment now. + </p> + <p> + My uncle left for the farm as usual, and to my delight I soon discovered + that my aunt had gone with him. The ways of the house were as regular as + those of a bee-hive. Sitting in my own room I knew precisely where any one + must be at any given moment; for although the only clock we had was + oftener standing than going, a perfect instinct of time was common to the + household, Nannie included. At that moment she was sweeping up the hearth + and putting on the kettle. In half an hour she would have tidied up the + kitchen, and would have gone to prepare the vegetables for cooking: I must + wait. But the sudden fear struck me that my aunt might have taken the + sword with her—might be going to make away with it altogether. I + started up, and rushed about the room in an agony. What could I do? At + length I heard Nannie’s pattens clatter out of the kitchen to a small + outhouse where she pared the potatoes. I instantly descended, crossed the + kitchen, and went up the winding stone stair. I opened grannie’s door, and + went in. + </p> + <p> + She was seated in her usual place. Never till now had I felt how old she + was. She looked up when I entered, for although she had grown very deaf, + she could feel the floor shake. I saw by her eyes, which looked higher + than my head, that she had expected a taller figure to follow me. When I + turned from shutting the door, I saw her arms extended with an eager look, + and could see her hands trembling ere she folded them about me, and + pressed my head to her bosom. + </p> + <p> + ‘O Lord!’ she said, ‘I thank thee. I will try to be good now. O Lord, I + have waited, and thou hast heard me. I will believe in thee again!’ + </p> + <p> + From that moment I loved my grannie, and felt I owed her something as well + as my uncle. I had never had this feeling about my aunt. + </p> + <p> + ‘Grannie!’ I said, trembling from a conflict of emotions; but before I + could utter my complaint, I had burst out crying. + </p> + <p> + ‘What have they been doing to you, child?’ she asked, almost fiercely, and + sat up straight in her chair. Her voice, although feeble and quavering, + was determined in tone. She pushed me back from her and sought the face I + was ashamed to show. ‘What have they done to you, my boy?’ she repeated, + ere I could conquer my sobs sufficiently to speak. + </p> + <p> + ‘They have taken away the sword that—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What sword?’ she asked quickly. ‘Not the sword that your + great-grandfather wore when he followed Sir Marmaduke?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know, grannie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t know, boy? The only thing your father took when he—. Not the + sword with the broken sheath? Never! They daren’t do it! I will go down + myself. I must see about it at once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, grannie, don’t!’ I cried in terror, as she rose from her chair. + ‘They’ll not let me ever come near you again, if you do.’ + </p> + <p> + She sat down again. After seeming to ponder for a while in silence, she + said:— + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Willie, my dear, you’re more to me than the old sword. But I + wouldn’t have had it handled with disrespect for all that the place is + worth. However, I don’t suppose they can—. What made them do it, + child? They’ve not taken it down from the wall?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, grannie. I think it was because I was staring at it too much, + grannie. Perhaps they were afraid I would take it down and hurt myself + with it. But I was only going to ask you about it. Tell me a story about + it, grannie.’ + </p> + <p> + All my notion was some story, I did not think whether true or false, like + one of Nannie’s stories. + </p> + <p> + ‘That I will, my child—all about it—all about it. Let me see.’ + </p> + <p> + Her eyes went wandering a little, and she looked perplexed. + </p> + <p> + ‘And they took it from you, did they? Poor child! Poor child!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They didn’t take it from me, grannie. I never had it in my hands.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wouldn’t give it you then? Oh dear! Oh dear!’ + </p> + <p> + I began to feel uncomfortable—grannie looked so strange and lost. + The old feeling that she ought to be buried because she was dead returned + upon me; but I overcame it so far as to be able to say: + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t you tell me about it then, grannie? I want so much to hear about + the battle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What battle, child? Oh yes! I’ll tell you all about it some day, but I’ve + forgot now, I’ve forgot it all now.’ + </p> + <p> + She pressed her hand to her forehead, and sat thus for some time, while I + grew very frightened. I would gladly have left the room and crept + down-stairs, but I stood fascinated, gazing at the withered face + half-hidden by the withered hand. I longed to be anywhere else, but my + will had deserted me, and there I must remain. At length grannie took her + hand from her eyes, and seeing me, started. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, my dear!’ she said,’ I had forgotten you. You wanted me to do + something for you: what was it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wanted you to tell me about the sword, grannie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes, the sword!’ she returned, putting her hand again to her forehead. + ‘They took it away from you, did they? Well, never mind. I will give you + something else—though I don’t say it’s as good as the sword.’ + </p> + <p> + She rose, and taking an ivory-headed stick which leaned against the side + of the chimney-piece, walked with tottering steps towards the bureau. + There she took from her pocket a small bunch of keys, and having, with + some difficulty from the trembling of her hands, chosen one and unlocked + the sloping cover, she opened a little drawer inside, and took out a gold + watch with a bunch of seals hanging from it. Never shall I forget the + thrill that went through my frame. Did she mean to let me hold it in my + own hand? Might I have it as often as I came to see her? Imagine my + ecstasy when she put it carefully in the two hands I held up to receive + it, and said: + </p> + <p> + ‘There, my dear! You must take good care of it, and never give it away for + love or money. Don’t you open it—there’s a good boy, till you’re a + man like your father. He <i>was</i> a man! He gave it to me the day we + were married, for he had nothing else, he said, to offer me. But I would + not take it, my dear. I liked better to see him with it than have it + myself. And when he left me, I kept it for you. But you must take care of + it, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, thank you, grannie!’ I cried, in an agony of pleasure. ‘I <i>will</i> + take care of it—indeed I will. Is it a real watch, grannie—as + real as uncle’s?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s worth ten of your uncle’s, my dear. Don’t you show it him, though. + He might take that away too. Your uncle’s a very good man, my dear, but + you mustn’t mind everything he says to you. He forgets things. I never + forget anything. I have plenty of time to think about things. I never + forget.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will it go, grannie?’ I asked, for my uncle was a much less interesting + subject than the watch. + </p> + <p> + ‘It won’t go without being wound up; but you might break it. Besides, it + may want cleaning. It’s several years since it was cleaned last. Where + will you put it now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I know where to hide it safe enough, grannie,’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ll + take care of it. You needn’t be afraid, grannie.’ + </p> + <p> + The old lady turned, and with difficulty tottered to her seat. I remained + where I was, fixed in contemplation of my treasure. She called me. I went + and stood by her knee. + </p> + <p> + ‘My child, there is something I want very much to tell you, but you know + old people forget things—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you said just now that you never forgot anything, grannie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No more I do, my dear; only I can’t always lay my hands upon a thing when + I want it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was about the sword, grannie,’ I said, thinking to refresh her memory. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, my dear; I don’t think it was about the sword exactly—though + that had something to do with it. I shall remember it all by-and-by. It + will come again. And so must you, my dear. Don’t leave your old mother so + long alone. It’s weary, weary work, waiting.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed I won’t, grannie,’ I said. ‘I will come the very first time I can. + Only I mustn’t let auntie see me, you know.—You don’t want to be + buried now, do you, grannie?’ I added; for I had begun to love her, and + the love had cast out the fear, and I did not want her to wish to be + buried. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am very, very old; much too old to live, my dear. But I must do you + justice before I can go to my grave. <i>Now</i> I know what I wanted to + say. It’s gone again. Oh dear! Oh dear! If I had you in the middle of the + night, when everything comes back as if it had been only yesterday, I + could tell you all about it from beginning to end, with all the ins and + outs of it. But I can’t now—I can’t now.’ + </p> + <p> + She moaned and rocked herself to and fro. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind, grannie,’ I said cheerfully, for I was happy enough for all + eternity with my gold watch; ‘I will come and see you again as soon as + ever I can.’ And I kissed her on the white cheek. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you, my dear. I think you had better go now. They may miss you, and + then I should never see you again—to talk to, I mean.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why won’t they let me come, and see you, grannie?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you, if I could only see a little better,’ + she answered, once more putting her hand to her forehead. ‘Perhaps I shall + be able to tell you next time. Go now, my dear.’ + </p> + <p> + I left the room, nothing loth, for I longed to be alone with my treasure. + I could not get enough of it in grannie’s presence even. Noiseless as a + bat I crept down the stair. When I reached the door at the foot I stood + and listened. The kitchen was quite silent. I stepped out. There was no + one there. I scudded across and up the other stair to my own room, + carefully shutting the door behind me. Then I sat down on the floor on the + other side of the bed, so that it was between me and the door, and I could + run into the closet with my treasure before any one entering should see + me. + </p> + <p> + The watch was a very thick round one. The back of it was crowded with + raised figures in the kind of work called <i>repoussée</i>. I pored over + these for a long time, and then turned to the face. It was set all round + with shining stones—diamonds, though I knew nothing of diamonds + then. The enamel was cracked, and I followed every crack as well as every + figure of the hours. Then I began to wonder what I could do with it next. + I was not satisfied. Possession I found was not bliss: it had not rendered + me content. But it was as yet imperfect: I had not seen the inside. + Grannie had told me not to open it: I began to think it hard that I should + be denied thorough possession of what had been given to me, I believed I + should be quite satisfied if I once saw what made it go. I turned it over + and over, thinking I might at least find how it was opened. I have little + doubt if I had discovered the secret of it, my virtue would have failed + me. All I did find, however, was the head of a curious animal engraved on + the handle. This was something. I examined it as carefully as the rest, + and then finding I had for the time exhausted the pleasures of the watch, + I turned to the seals. On one of them was engraved what looked like + letters, but I could not read them. I did not know that they were turned + the wrong way. One of them was like a W. On the other seal—there + were but two and a curiously-contrived key—I found the same head as + was engraved on the handle—turned the other way of course. Wearied + at length, I took the precious thing into the dark closet, and laid it in + a little box which formed one of my few possessions. I then wandered out + into the field, and went straying about until dinner-time, during which I + believe I never once lifted my eyes to the place where the sword had hung, + lest even that action should betray the watch. + </p> + <p> + From that day my head, and as much of my heart as might be, were filled + with the watch. And, alas! I soon found that my bookmending had grown + distasteful to me, and for the satisfaction of employment, possession was + a poor substitute. As often as I made the attempt to resume it, I got + weary, and wandered almost involuntarily to the closet to feel for my + treasure in the dark, handle it once more, and bring it out into the + light. Already I began to dree the doom of riches, in the vain attempt to + live by that which was not bread. Nor was this all. A certain weight began + to gather over my spirit—a sense almost of wrong. For although the + watch had been given me by my grandmother, and I never doubted either her + right to dispose of it or my right to possess it, I could not look my + uncle in the face, partly from a vague fear lest he should read my secret + in my eyes, partly from a sense of something out of joint between him and + me. I began to fancy, and I believe I was right, that he looked at me + sometimes with a wistfulness I had never seen in his face before. This + made me so uncomfortable that I began to avoid his presence as much as + possible. And although I tried to please him with my lessons, I could not + learn them as hitherto. + </p> + <p> + One day he asked me to bring him the book I had been repairing. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s not finished yet, uncle,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you bring it me just as it is. I want to look for something in it.’ + </p> + <p> + I went and brought it with shame. He took it, and having found the passage + he wanted, turned the volume once over in his hands, and gave it me back + without a word. + </p> + <p> + Next day I restored it to him finished and tidy. He thanked me, looked it + over again, and put it in its place. But I fairly encountered an inquiring + and somewhat anxious gaze. I believe he had a talk with my aunt about me + that night. + </p> + <p> + The next morning, I was seated by the bedside, with my secret in my hand, + when I thought I heard the sound of the door-handle, and glided at once + into the closet. When I came out in a flutter of anxiety, there was no one + there. But I had been too much startled to return to what I had grown to + feel almost a guilty pleasure. + </p> + <p> + The next morning after breakfast, I crept into the closet, put my hand + unerringly into the one corner of the box, found no watch, and after an + unavailing search, sat down in the dark on a bundle of rags, with the + sensations of a ruined man. My world was withered up and gone. How the day + passed, I cannot tell. How I got through my meals, I cannot even imagine. + When I look back and attempt to recall the time, I see but a cloudy waste + of misery crossed by the lightning-streaks of a sense of injury. All that + was left me now was a cat-like watching for the chance of going to my + grandmother. Into her ear I would pour the tale of my wrong. She who had + been as a haunting discomfort to me, had grown to be my one consolation. + </p> + <p> + My lessons went on as usual. A certain pride enabled me to learn them + tolerably for a day or two; but when that faded, my whole being began to + flag. For some time my existence was a kind of life in death. At length + one evening my uncle said to me, as we finished my lessons far from + satisfactorily— + </p> + <p> + ‘Willie, your aunt and I think it better you should go to school. We shall + be very sorry to part with you, but it will be better. You will then have + companions of your own age. You have not enough to amuse you at home.’ + </p> + <p> + He did not allude by a single word to the affair of the watch. Could my + aunt have taken it, and never told him? It was not likely. + </p> + <p> + I was delighted at the idea of any change, for my life had grown irksome + to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, thank you, uncle!’ I cried, with genuine expression. + </p> + <p> + I think he looked a little sad; but he uttered no reproach. + </p> + <p> + My aunt and he had already arranged everything. The next day but one, I + saw, for the first time, a carriage drive up to the door of the house. I + was waiting for it impatiently. My new clothes had all been packed in a + little box. I had not put in a single toy: I cared for nothing I had now. + The box was put up beside the driver. My aunt came to the door where I was + waiting for my uncle. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mayn’t I go and say good-bye to grannie?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s not very well to-day,’ said my aunt. ‘I think you had better not. + You will be back at Christmas, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + I was not so much grieved as I ought to have been. The loss of my watch + had made the thought of grannie painful again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your uncle will meet you at the road,’ continued my aunt, seeing me still + hesitate. ‘Good-bye.’ + </p> + <p> + I received her cold embrace without emotion, clambered into the chaise, + and looking out as the driver shut the door, wondered what my aunt was + holding her apron to her eyes for, as she turned away into the house. My + uncle met us and got in, and away the chaise rattled, bearing me towards + an utterly new experience; for hardly could the strangest region in + foreign lands be more unknown to the wandering mariner than the faces and + ways of even my own kind were to me. I had never played for one half-hour + with boy or girl. I knew nothing of their play-things or their games. I + hardly knew what boys were like, except, outwardly, from the dim reflex of + myself in the broken mirror in my bed-room, whose lustre was more of the + ice than the pool, and, inwardly, from the partly exceptional experiences + of my own nature, with which even I was poorly enough acquainted. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. I GO TO SCHOOL, AND GRANNIE LEAVES IT. + </h2> + <p> + It is an evil thing to break up a family before the natural period of its + dissolution. In the course of things, marriage, the necessities of + maintenance, or the energies of labour guiding ‘to fresh woods and + pastures new,’ are the ordered causes of separation. + </p> + <p> + Where the home is happy, much injury is done the children in sending them + to school, except it be a day-school, whither they go in the morning as to + the labours of the world, but whence they return at night as to the heaven + of repose. Conflict through the day, rest at night, is the ideal. A + day-school will suffice for the cultivation of the necessary public or + national spirit, without which the love of the family may degenerate into + a merely extended selfishness, but which is itself founded upon those + family affections. At the same time, it must be confessed that + boarding-schools are, in many cases, an antidote to some of the evil + conditions which exist at home. + </p> + <p> + To children whose home is a happy one, the exile to a school must be + bitter. Mine, however, was an unusual experience. Leaving aside the + specially troubled state in which I was when thus carried to the village + of Aldwick, I had few of the finer elements of the ideal home in mine. The + love of my childish heart had never been drawn out. My grandmother had + begun to do so, but her influence had been speedily arrested. I was, as + they say of cats, more attached to the place than the people, and no + regrets whatever interfered to quell the excitement of expectation, + wonder, and curiosity which filled me on the journey. The motion of the + vehicle, the sound of the horses’ hoofs, the travellers we passed on the + road—all seemed to partake of the exuberant life which swelled and + overflowed in me. Everything was as happy, as excited, as I was. + </p> + <p> + When we entered the village, behold it was a region of glad tumult! Were + there not three dogs, two carts, a maid carrying pails of water, and + several groups of frolicking children in the street—not to mention + live ducks, and a glimpse of grazing geese on the common? There were also + two mothers at their cottage-doors, each with a baby in her arms. I knew + they were babies, although I had never seen a baby before. And when we + drove through the big wooden gate, and stopped at the door of what had + been the manor-house but was now Mr Elder’s school, the aspect of the + building, half-covered with ivy, bore to me a most friendly look. Still + more friendly was the face of the master’s wife, who received us in a low + dark parlour, with a thick soft carpet and rich red curtains. It was a + perfect paradise to my imagination. Nor did the appearance of Mr Elder at + all jar with the vision of coming happiness. His round, rosy, spectacled + face bore in it no premonitory suggestion of birch or rod, and although I + continued at his school for six years, I never saw him use either. If a + boy required that kind of treatment, he sent him home. When my uncle left + me, it was in more than contentment with my lot. Nor did anything occur to + alter my feeling with regard to it. I soon became much attached to Mrs + Elder. She was just the woman for a schoolmaster’s wife—as full of + maternity as she could hold, but childless. By the end of the first day I + thought I loved her far more than my aunt. My aunt had done her duty + towards me; but how was a child to weigh that? She had taken no trouble to + make me love her; she had shown me none of the signs of affection, and I + could not appreciate the proofs of it yet. + </p> + <p> + I soon perceived a great difference between my uncle’s way of teaching and + that of Mr Elder. My uncle always appeared aware of something behind which + pressed upon, perhaps hurried, the fact he was making me understand. He + made me feel, perhaps too much, that it was a mere step towards something + beyond. Mr Elder, on the other hand, placed every point in such a strong + light that it seemed in itself of primary consequence. Both were, if my + judgment after so many years be correct, admirable teachers—my uncle + the greater, my school-master the more immediately efficient. As I was a + manageable boy to the very verge of weakness, the relations between us + were entirely pleasant. + </p> + <p> + There were only six more pupils, all of them sufficiently older than + myself to be ready to pet and indulge me. No one who saw me mounted on the + back of the eldest, a lad of fifteen, and driving four of them in hand, + while the sixth ran alongside as an outrider—could have wondered + that I should find school better than home. Before the first day was over, + the sorrows of the lost watch and sword had vanished utterly. For what was + possession to being possessed? What was a watch, even had it been going, + to the movements of life? To peep from the wicket in the great gate out + upon the village street, with the well in the middle of it, and a girl in + the sunshine winding up the green dripping bucket from the unknown depths + of coolness, was more than a thousand watches. But this was by no means + the extent of my new survey of things. One of the causes of Mr Elder’s + keeping no boy who required chastisement was his own love of freedom, and + his consequent desire to give the boys as much liberty out of school hours + as possible. He believed in freedom. ‘The great end of training,’ he said + to me many years after, when he was quite an old man, ‘is liberty; and the + sooner you can get a boy to be a law to himself, the sooner you make a man + of him. This end is impossible without freedom. Let those who have no + choice, or who have not the same end in view, do the best they can with + such boys as they find: I chose only such as could bear liberty. I never + set up as a reformer—only as an educator. For that kind of work + others were more fit than I. It was not my calling.’ Hence Mr Elder no + more allowed labour to intrude upon play, than play to intrude upon + labour. As soon as lessons were over, we were free to go where we would + and do what we would, under certain general restrictions, which had more + to do with social proprieties than with school regulations. We roamed the + country from tea-time till sun-down; sometimes in the Summer long after + that. Sometimes also on moonlit nights in Winter, occasionally even when + the stars and the snow gave the only light, we were allowed the same + liberty until nearly bedtime. Before Christmas came, variety, exercise, + and social blessedness had wrought upon me so that when I returned home, + my uncle and aunt were astonished at the change in me. I had grown half a + head, and the paleness, which they had considered a peculiar accident of + my appearance, had given place to a rosy glow. My flitting step too had + vanished: I soon became aware that I made more noise than my aunt liked, + for in the old house silence was in its very temple. My uncle, however, + would only smile and say— + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t bring the place about our ears, Willie, my boy. I should like it to + last my time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid,’ my aunt would interpose, ‘Mr Elder doesn’t keep very good + order in his school.’ + </p> + <p> + Then I would fire up in defence of the master, and my uncle would sit and + listen, looking both pleased and amused. + </p> + <p> + I had not been many moments in the house before I said— + </p> + <p> + ‘Mayn’t I run up and see grannie, uncle?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will go and see how she is,’ my aunt said, rising. + </p> + <p> + She went, and presently returning, said + </p> + <p> + ‘Grannie seems a little better. You may come. She wants to see you.’ + </p> + <p> + I followed her. When I entered the room and looked expectantly towards her + usual place, I found her chair empty. I turned to the bed. There she was, + and I thought she looked much the same; but when I came nearer, I + perceived a change in her countenance. She welcomed me feebly, stroked my + hair and my cheeks, smiled sweetly, and closed her eyes. My aunt led me + away. + </p> + <p> + When bedtime came, I went to my own room, and was soon fast asleep. What + roused me I do not know, but I awoke in the midst of the darkness, and the + next moment I heard a groan. It thrilled me with horror. I sat up in bed + and listened, but heard no more. As I sat listening, heedless of the cold, + the explanation dawned upon me, for my powers of reflection and + combination had been developed by my enlarged experience of life. In our + many wanderings, I had learned to choose between roads and to make + conjectures from the <i>lie</i> of the country. I had likewise lived in a + far larger house than my home. Hence it now dawned upon me, for the first + time, that grannie’s room must be next to mine, although approached from + the other side, and that the groan must have been hers. She might be in + need of help. I remembered at the same time how she had wished to have me + by her in the middle of the night, that she might be able to tell me what + she could not recall in the day. I got up at once, dressed myself, and + stole down the one stair, across the kitchen, and up the other. I gently + opened grannie’s door and peeped in. A fire was burning in the room. I + entered and approached the bed. I wondered how I had the courage; but + children more than grown people are moved by unlikely impulses. Grannie + lay breathing heavily. I stood for a moment. The faint light flickered + over her white face. It was the middle of the night, and the tide of fear + inseparable from the night began to rise. My old fear of her began to + return with it. But she lifted her lids, and the terror ebbed away. She + looked at me, but did not seem to know me. I went nearer. + </p> + <p> + ‘Grannie,’ I said, close to her ear, and speaking low; ‘you wanted to see + me at night—that was before I went to school. I’m here, grannie.’ + </p> + <p> + The sheet was folded back so smooth that she could hardly have turned over + since it had been arranged for the night. Her hand was lying upon it. She + lifted it feebly and stroked my cheek once more. Her lips murmured + something which I could not hear, and then came a deep sigh, almost a + groan. The terror returned when I found she could not speak to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall I go and fetch auntie?’ I whispered. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head feebly, and looked wistfully at me. Her lips moved + again. I guessed that she wanted me to sit beside her. I got a chair, + placed it by the bedside, and sat down. She put out her hand, as if + searching for something. I laid mine in it. She closed her fingers upon it + and seemed satisfied. When I looked again, she was asleep and breathing + quietly. I was afraid to take my hand from hers lest I should wake her. I + laid my head on the side of the bed, and was soon fast asleep also. + </p> + <p> + I was awaked by a noise in the room. It was Nannie laying the fire. When + she saw me she gave a cry of terror. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hush, Nannie!’ I said; ‘you will wake grannie:’ and as I spoke I rose, + for I found my hand was free. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Master Willie!’ said Nannie, in a low voice; ‘how did you come here? + You sent my heart into my mouth.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Swallow it again, Nannie,’ I answered, ‘and don’t tell auntie. I came to + see grannie, and fell asleep. I’m rather cold. I’ll go to bed now. + Auntie’s not up, is she? + </p> + <p> + ‘No. It’s not time for anybody to be up yet.’ + </p> + <p> + Nannie ought to have spent the night in grannie’s room, for it was her + turn to watch; but finding her nicely asleep as she thought, she had + slipped away for just an hour of comfort in bed. The hour had grown to + three. When she returned the fire was out. + </p> + <p> + When I came down to breakfast the solemn look upon my uncle’s face caused + me a foreboding of change. + </p> + <p> + ‘God has taken grannie away in the night, Willie,’ said he, holding the + hand I had placed in his. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is she dead?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, then, you will let her go to her grave now, won’t you?’ I said—the + recollection of her old grievance coming first in association with her + death, and occasioning a more childish speech than belonged to my years. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. She’ll get to her grave now,’ said my aunt, with a trembling in her + voice I had never heard before. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ objected my uncle. ‘Her body will go to the grave, but her soul will + go to heaven.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Her soul!’ I said. ‘What’s that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dear me, Willie! don’t you know that?’ said my aunt. ‘Don’t you know + you’ve got a soul as well as a body?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure <i>I</i> haven’t,’ I returned. ‘What was grannie’s like?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That I can’t tell you,’ she answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you got one, auntie?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is yours like then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But,’ I said, turning to my uncle, ‘if her body goes to the grave, and + her soul to heaven, what’s to become of poor grannie—without either + of them, you see?’ + </p> + <p> + My uncle had been thinking while we talked. + </p> + <p> + ‘That can’t be the way to represent the thing, Jane; it puzzles the child. + No, Willie; grannie’s body goes to the grave, but grannie herself is gone + to heaven. What people call her soul is just grannie herself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t they say so, then?’ + </p> + <p> + My uncle fell a-thinking again. He did not, however, answer this last + question, for I suspect he found that it would not be good for me to know + the real cause—namely, that people hardly believed it, and therefore + did not say it. Most people believe far more in their bodies than in their + souls. What my uncle did say was— + </p> + <p> + ‘I hardly know. But grannie’s gone to heaven anyhow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m so glad!’ I said. ‘She will be more comfortable there. She was too + old, you know, uncle.’ + </p> + <p> + He made no reply. My aunt’s apron was covering her face, and when she took + it away, I observed that those eager almost angry eyes were red with + weeping. I began to feel a movement at my heart, the first fluttering + physical sign of a waking love towards her. ‘Don’t cry, auntie,’ I said. + ‘I don’t see anything to cry about. Grannie has got what she wanted.’ + </p> + <p> + She made me no answer, and I sat down to my breakfast. I don’t know how it + was, but I could not eat it. I rose and took my way to the hollow in the + field. I felt a strange excitement, not sorrow. Grannie was actually dead + at last. I did not quite know what it meant. I had never seen a dead body. + Neither did I know that she had died while I slept with my hand in hers. + Nannie, seeing something peculiar, had gone to her the moment I left the + room, and had found her quite cold. Had we been a talking family, I might + have been uneasy until I had told the story of my last interview with her; + but I never thought of saying a word about it. I cannot help thinking now + that I was waked up and sent to the old woman, my great-grandmother, in + the middle of the night, to help her to die in comfort. Who knows? What we + can neither prove nor comprehend forms, I suspect, the infinitely larger + part of our being. + </p> + <p> + When I was taken to see what remained of grannie, I experienced nothing of + the dismay which some children feel at the sight of death. It was as if + she had seen something just in time to leave the look of it behind her + there, and so the final expression was a revelation. For a while there + seems to remain this one link between some dead bodies and their living + spirits. But my aunt, with a common superstition, would have me touch the + face. That, I confess, made me shudder: the cold of death is so unlike any + other cold! I seemed to feel it in my hand all the rest of the day. + </p> + <p> + I saw what seemed grannie—I am too near death myself to consent to + call a dead body the man or the woman—laid in the grave for which + she had longed, and returned home with a sense that somehow there was a + barrier broken down between me and my uncle and aunt. I felt as near my + uncle now as I had ever been. That evening he did not go to his own room, + but sat with my aunt and me in the kitchen-hall. We pulled the great + high-backed oaken settle before the fire, and my aunt made a great blaze, + for it was very cold. They sat one in each corner, and I sat between them, + and told them many things concerning the school. They asked me questions + and encouraged my prattle, seeming well pleased that the old silence + should be broken. I fancy I brought them a little nearer to each other + that night. It was after a funeral, and yet they both looked happier than + I had ever seen them before. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. I SIN AND REPENT. + </h2> + <p> + The Christmas holidays went by more rapidly than I had expected. I betook + myself with enlarged faculty to my book-mending, and more than ever + enjoyed making my uncle’s old volumes tidy. When I returned to school, it + was with real sorrow at parting from my uncle; and even towards my aunt I + now felt a growing attraction. + </p> + <p> + I shall not dwell upon my school history. That would be to spin out my + narrative unnecessarily. I shall only relate such occurrences as are + guide-posts in the direction of those main events which properly + constitute my history. + </p> + <p> + I had been about two years with Mr Elder. The usual holidays had + intervened, upon which occasions I found the pleasures of home so + multiplied by increase of liberty and the enlarged confidence of my uncle, + who took me about with him everywhere, that they were now almost capable + of rivalling those of school. But before I relate an incident which + occurred in the second Autumn, I must say a few words about my character + at this time. + </p> + <p> + My reader will please to remember that I had never been driven, or + oppressed in any way. The affair of the watch was quite an isolated + instance, and so immediately followed by the change and fresh life of + school that it had not left a mark behind. Nothing had yet occurred to + generate in me any fear before the face of man. I had been vaguely uneasy + in relation to my grandmother, but that uneasiness had almost vanished + before her death. Hence the faith natural to childhood had received no + check. My aunt was at worst cold; she had never been harsh; while over + Nannie I was absolute ruler. The only time that evil had threatened me, I + had been faithfully defended by my guardian uncle. At school, while I + found myself more under law, I yet found myself possessed of greater + freedom. Every one was friendly and more than kind. From all this the + result was that my nature was unusually trusting. + </p> + <p> + We had a whole holiday, and, all seven, set out to enjoy ourselves. It was + a delicious morning in Autumn, clear and cool, with a great light in the + east, and the west nowhere. Neither the autumnal tints nor the sharpening + wind had any sadness in those young years which we call the old years + afterwards. How strange it seems to have—all of us—to say with + the Jewish poet: I have been young, and now am old! A wood in the + distance, rising up the slope of a hill, was our goal, for we were after + hazel-nuts. Frolicking, scampering, leaping over stiles, we felt the road + vanish under our feet. When we gained the wood, although we failed in our + quest we found plenty of amusement; that grew everywhere. At length it was + time to return, and we resolved on going home by another road—one we + did not know. + </p> + <p> + After walking a good distance, we arrived at a gate and lodge, where we + stopped to inquire the way. A kind-faced woman informed us that we should + shorten it much by going through the park, which, as we seemed respectable + boys, she would allow us to do. We thanked her, entered, and went walking + along a smooth road, through open sward, clumps of trees and an occasional + piece of artful neglect in the shape of rough hillocks covered with wild + shrubs, such as brier and broom. It was very delightful, and we walked + along merrily. I can yet recall the individual shapes of certain hawthorn + trees we passed, whose extreme age had found expression in a wild + grotesqueness which would have been ridiculous but for a dim, painful + resemblance to the distortion of old age in the human family. + </p> + <p> + After walking some distance, we began to doubt whether we might not have + missed the way to the gate of which the woman had spoken. For a wall + appeared, which, to judge from the tree-tops visible over it, must + surround a kitchen garden or orchard; and from this we feared we had come + too nigh the house. We had not gone much further before a branch, + projecting over the wall, from whose tip, as if the tempter had gone back + to his old tricks, hung a rosy-cheeked apple, drew our eyes and arrested + our steps. There are grown people who cannot, without an effort of the + imagination, figure to themselves the attraction between a boy and an + apple; but I suspect there are others the memories of whose boyish freaks + will render it yet more difficult for them to understand a single moment’s + contemplation of such an object without the endeavour to appropriate it. + To them the boy seems made for the apple, and the apple for the boy. Rosy, + round-faced, spectacled Mr Elder, however, had such a fine sense of honour + in himself that he had been to a rare degree successful in developing a + similar sense in his boys, and I do believe that not one of us would, + under any circumstances, except possibly those of terrifying compulsion, + have pulled that apple. We stood in rapt contemplation for a few moments, + and then walked away. But although there are no degrees in Virtue, who + will still demand her uttermost farthing, there are degrees in the + virtuousness of human beings. + </p> + <p> + As we walked away, I was the last, and was just passing from under the + branch when something struck the ground at my heel. I turned. An apple + must fall some time, and for this apple that some time was then. It lay at + my feet. I lifted it and stood gazing at it—I need not say with + admiration. My mind fell a-working. The adversary was there, and the angel + too. The apple had dropped at my feet; I had not pulled it. There it would + lie wasting, if some one with less right than I—said the prince of + special pleaders—was not the second to find it. Besides, what fell + in the road was public property. Only this was not a public road, the + angel reminded me. My will fluttered from side to side, now turning its + ear to my conscience, now turning away and hearkening to my impulse. At + last, weary of the strife, I determined to settle it by a just contempt of + trifles—and, half in desperation, bit into the ruddy cheek. + </p> + <p> + The moment I saw the wound my teeth had made, I knew what I had done, and + my heart died within me. I was self-condemned. It was a new and an awful + sensation—a sensation that could not be for a moment endured. The + misery was too intense to leave room for repentance even. With a sudden + resolve born of despair, I shoved the type of the broken law into my + pocket and followed my companions. But I kept at some distance behind + them, for as yet I dared not hold further communication with respectable + people. I did not, and do not now, believe that there was one amongst them + who would have done as I had done. Probably also not one of them would + have thought of my way of deliverance from unendurable self-contempt. The + curse had passed upon me, but I saw a way of escape. + </p> + <p> + A few yards further, they found the road we thought we had missed. It + struck off into a hollow, the sides of which were covered with trees. As + they turned into it they looked back and called me to come on. I ran as if + I wanted to overtake them, but the moment they were out of sight, left the + road for the grass, and set off at full speed in the same direction as + before. I had not gone far before I was in the midst of trees, overflowing + the hollow in which my companions had disappeared, and spreading + themselves over the level above. As I entered their shadow, my old awe of + the trees returned upon me—an awe I had nearly forgotten, but + revived by my crime. I pressed along, however, for to turn back would have + been more dreadful than any fear. At length, with a sudden turn, the road + left the trees behind, and what a scene opened before me! I stood on the + verge of a large space of greensward, smooth and well-kept as a lawn, but + somewhat irregular in surface. From all sides it rose towards the centre. + There a broad, low rock seemed to grow out of it, and upon the rock stood + the lordliest house my childish eyes had ever beheld. Take situation and + all, and I have scarcely yet beheld one to equal it. Half castle, half old + English country seat, it covered the rock with a huge square of building, + from various parts of which rose towers, mostly square also, of different + heights. I stood for one brief moment entranced with awful delight. A + building which has grown for ages, the outcome of the life of powerful + generations, has about it a majesty which, in certain moods, is + overpowering. For one brief moment I forgot my sin and its sorrow. But + memory awoke with a fresh pang. To this lordly place I, poor miserable + sinner, was a debtor by wrong and shame. Let no one laugh at me because my + sin was small: it was enough for me, being that of one who had stolen for + the first time, and that without previous declension, and searing of the + conscience. I hurried towards the building, anxiously looking for some + entrance. + </p> + <p> + I had approached so near that, seated on its rock, it seemed to shoot its + towers into the zenith, when, rounding a corner, I came to a part where + the height sank from the foundation of the house to the level by a grassy + slope, and at the foot of the slope espied an elderly gentleman, in a + white hat, who stood with his hands in his breeches-pockets, looking about + him. He was tall and stout, and carried himself in what seemed to me a + stately manner. As I drew near him I felt somewhat encouraged by a glimpse + of his face, which was rubicund and, I thought, good-natured; but, + approaching him rather from behind, I could not see it well. When I + addressed him he started, + </p> + <p> + ‘Please, sir,’ I said, ‘is this your house?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, my man; it is my house,’ he answered, looking down on me with bent + neck, his hands still in his pockets. + </p> + <p> + ‘Please, sir,’ I said, but here my voice began to tremble, and he grew dim + and large through the veil of my gathering tears. I hesitated. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, what do you want?’ he asked, in a tone half jocular, half kind. + </p> + <p> + I made a great effort and recovered my self-possession. + </p> + <p> + ‘Please, sir,’ I repeated, ‘I want you to box my ears.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, you are a funny fellow! What should I box your ears for, pray?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I’ve been very wicked,’ I answered; and, putting my hand into my + pocket, I extracted the bitten apple, and held it up to him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ho! ho!’ he said, beginning to guess what I must mean, but hardly the + less bewildered for that; ‘is that one of my apples?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, sir. It fell down from a branch that hung over the wall. I took it + up, and—and—I took a bite of it, and—and—I’m so + sorry!’ + </p> + <p> + Here I burst into a fit of crying which I choked as much as I could. I + remember quite well how, as I stood holding out the apple, my arm would + shake with the violence of my sobs. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not fond of bitten apples,’ he said. ‘You had better eat it up now.’ + </p> + <p> + This brought me to myself. If he had shown me sympathy, I should have gone + on crying. + </p> + <p> + ‘I would rather not. Please box my ears.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t want to box your ears. You’re welcome to the apple. Only don’t + take what’s not your own another time.’ ‘But, please, sir, I’m so + miserable!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Home with you! and eat your apple as you go,’ was his unconsoling + response. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t eat it; I’m so ashamed of myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘When people do wrong, I suppose they must be ashamed of themselves. + That’s all right, isn’t it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why won’t you box my ears, then?’ I persisted. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + {Illustration: “HERE IS A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, MRS. WILSON, WHO SEEMS TO +HAVE LOST HIS WAY."} +</pre> + <p> + It was my sole but unavailing prayer. He turned away towards the house. My + trouble rose to agony. I made some wild motion of despair, and threw + myself on the grass. He turned, looked at me for a moment in silence, and + then said in a changed tone— + </p> + <p> + ‘My boy, I am sorry for you. I beg you will not trouble yourself any more. + The affair is not worth it. Such a trifle! What can I do for you?’ + </p> + <p> + I got up. A new thought of possible relief had crossed my mind. + </p> + <p> + ‘Please, sir, if you won’t box my ears, will you shake hands with me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To be sure I will,’ he answered, holding out his hand, and giving mine a + very kindly shake. ‘Where do you live?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am at school at Aldwick, at Mr Elder’s.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re a long way from home!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Am I, sir? Will you tell me how to go? But it’s of no consequence. I + don’t mind anything now you’ve forgiven me. I shall soon run home.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come with me first. You must have something to eat.’ + </p> + <p> + I wanted nothing to eat, but how could I oppose anything he said? I + followed him at once, drying my eyes as I went. He led me to a great gate + which I had passed before, and opening a wicket, took me across a court, + and through another building where I saw many servants going about; then + across a second court, which was paved with large flags, and so to a door + which he opened, calling— + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs Wilson! Mrs Wilson! I want you a moment.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Sir Giles,’ answered a tall, stiff-looking elderly woman who + presently appeared descending, with upright spine, a corkscrew staircase + of stone. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here is a young gentleman, Mrs Wilson, who seems to have lost his way. He + is one of Mr Elder’s pupils at Aldwick. Will you get him something to eat + and drink, and then send him home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will, Sir Giles.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-bye, my man,’ said Sir Giles, again shaking hands with me. Then + turning anew to the housekeeper, for such I found she was, he added: + </p> + <p> + ‘Couldn’t you find a bag for him, and fill it with some of those brown + pippins? They’re good eating, ain’t they?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘With pleasure, Sir Giles.’ + </p> + <p> + Thereupon Sir Giles withdrew, closing the door behind him, and leaving me + with the sense of life from the dead. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s your name, young gentleman?’ asked Mrs Wilson, with, I thought, + some degree of sternness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wilfrid Cumbermede,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + She stared at me a little, with a stare which would have been a start in + most women. I was by this time calm enough to take a quiet look at her. + She was dressed in black silk, with a white neckerchief crossing in front, + and black mittens on her hands. After gazing at me fixedly for a moment or + two, she turned away and ascended the stair, which went up straight from + the door, saying— + </p> + <p> + ‘Come with me, Master Cumbermede. You must have some tea before you go.’ + </p> + <p> + I obeyed, and followed her into a long, low-ceiled room, wainscotted all + over in panels, with a square moulding at the top, which served for a + cornice. The ceiling was ornamented with plaster reliefs. The windows + looked out, on one side into the court, on the other upon the park. The + floor was black and polished like a mirror, with bits of carpet here and + there, and a rug before the curious, old-fashioned grate, where a little + fire was burning and a small kettle boiling fiercely on the top of it. The + tea-tray was already on the table. She got another cup and saucer, added a + pot of jam to the preparations, and said: + </p> + <p> + ‘Sit down and have some bread and butter, while I make the tea.’ + </p> + <p> + She cut me a great piece of bread, and then a great piece of butter, and I + lost no time in discovering that the quality was worthy of the quantity. + Mrs Wilson kept a grave silence for a good while. At last, as she was + pouring out the second cup, she looked at me over the teapot, and said— + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t remember your mother, I suppose, Master Cumbermede?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, ma’am. I never saw my mother.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Within your recollection, you mean. But you must have seen her, for you + were two years old when she died.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you know my mother, then, ma’am?’ I asked, but without any great + surprise, for the events of the day had been so much out of the ordinary + that I had for the time almost lost the faculty of wonder. + </p> + <p> + She compressed her thin lips, and a perpendicular wrinkle appeared in the + middle of her forehead, as she answered— + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; I knew your mother.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She was very good, wasn’t she, ma’am?’ I said, with my mouth full of + bread and butter. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Who told you that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was sure of it. Nobody ever told me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did they never talk to you about her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, ma’am.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So you are at Mr Elder’s, are you?’ she said, after another long pause, + during which I was not idle, for my trouble being gone I could now be + hungry. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, ma’am.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How did you come here, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I walked with the rest of the boys; but they are gone home without me.’ + </p> + <p> + Thanks to the kindness of Sir Giles, my fault had already withdrawn so far + into the past, that I wished to turn my back upon it altogether. I saw no + need for confessing it to Mrs Wilson; and there was none. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you lose your way?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, ma’am.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What brought you here, then? I suppose you wanted to see the place.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The woman at the lodge told us the nearest way was through the park.’ + </p> + <p> + I quite expected she would go on cross-questioning me, and then all the + truth would have had to come out. But to my great relief, she went no + further, only kept eyeing me in a manner so oppressive as to compel me to + eat bread and butter and strawberry jam with self-defensive eagerness. I + presume she trusted to find out the truth by-and-by. She contented herself + in the mean time with asking questions about my uncle and aunt, the farm, + the school, and Mr and Mrs Elder, all in a cold, stately, refraining + manner, with two spots of red in her face—one on each cheek-bone, + and a thin rather peevish nose dividing them. But her forehead was good, + and when she smiled, which was not often, her eyes shone. Still, even I, + with my small knowledge of womankind, was dimly aware that she was feeling + her way with me, and I did not like her much. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you nearly done?’ she asked at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, quite, thank you,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going back to school to-night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, ma’am; of course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How are you going?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you will tell me the way—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know how far you are from Aldwick?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, ma’am.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Eight miles,’ she answered; ‘and it’s getting rather late.’ + </p> + <p> + I was seated opposite the windows to the park, and, looking up, saw with + some dismay that the air was getting dusky. I rose at once, saying— + </p> + <p> + ‘I must make haste. They will think I am lost.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you can never walk so far, Master Cumbermede.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but I must! I can’t help it. I must get back as fast as possible.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You never can walk such a distance. Take another bit of cake while I go + and see what can be done.’ + </p> + <p> + Another piece of cake being within the bounds of possibility, I might at + least wait and see what Mrs Wilson’s design was. She left the room, and I + turned to the cake. In a little while she came back, sat down, and went on + talking. I was beginning to get quite uneasy, when a maid put her head in + at the door, and said— + </p> + <p> + ‘Please, Mrs Wilson, the dog-cart’s ready, ma’am.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well,’ replied Mrs Wilson, and turning to me, said—more kindly + than she had yet spoken— + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, Master Cumbermede, you must come and see me again. I’m too busy to + spare much time when the family is at home; but they are all going away + the week after next, and if you will come and see me then, I shall be glad + to show you over the house.’ + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she rose and led the way from the room, and out of the court + by another gate from that by which I had entered. At the bottom of a steep + descent, a groom was waiting with the dog-cart. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here, James,’ said Mrs Wilson, ‘take good care of the young gentleman, + and put him down safe at Mr Elder’s. Master Wilfrid, you’ll find a hamper + of apples underneath. You had better not eat them all yourself, you know. + Here are two or three for you to eat by the way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilson. No; I’m not quite so greedy as that,’ I answered + gaily, for my spirits were high at the notion of a ride in the dog-cart + instead of a long and dreary walk. + </p> + <p> + When I was fairly in, she shook hands with me, reminding me that I was to + visit her soon, and away went the dog-cart behind a high-stepping horse. I + had never before been in an open vehicle of any higher description than a + cart, and the ride was a great delight. We went a different road from that + which my companions had taken. It lay through trees all the way till we + were out of the park. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s the land-steward’s house,’ said James. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, is it?’ I returned, not much interested. ‘What great trees those are + all about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; they’re the finest elms in all the county those,’ he answered. ‘Old + Coningham knew what he was about when he got the last baronet to let him + build his nest there. Here we are at the gate!’ + </p> + <p> + We came out upon a country road, which ran between the wall of the park + and a wooden fence along a field of grass. I offered James one of my + apples, which he accepted. + </p> + <p> + ‘There, now!’ he said, ‘there’s a field!—A right good bit o’ grass + that! Our people has wanted to throw it into the park for hundreds of + years. But they won’t part with it for love or money. It ought by rights + to be ours, you see, by the lie of the country. It’s all one grass with + the park. But I suppose them as owns it ain’t of the same mind.—Cur’ous + old box!’ he added, pointing with his whip a long way off. ‘You can just + see the roof of it.’ + </p> + <p> + I looked in the direction he pointed. A rise in the ground hid all but an + ancient, high-peaked roof. What was my astonishment to discover in it the + roof of my own home! I was certain it could be no other. It caused a + strange sensation, to come upon it thus from the outside, as it were, when + I thought myself miles and miles away from it, I fell a-pondering over the + matter; and as I reflected, I became convinced that the trees from which + we had just emerged were the same which used to churn the wind for my + childish fancies. I did not feel inclined to share my feelings with my new + acquaintance; but presently he put his whip in the socket and fell to + eating his apple. There was nothing more in the conversation he afterwards + resumed deserving of record. He pulled up at the gate of the school, where + I bade him good-night and rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + There was great rejoicing over me when I entered, for the boys had arrived + without me a little while before, having searched all about the place + where we had parted company, and come at length to the conclusion that I + had played them a trick in order to get home without them, there having + been some fun on the road concerning my local stupidity. Mr Elder, + however, took me to his own room, and read me a lecture on the necessity + of not abusing my privileges. I told him the whole affair from beginning + to end, and thought he behaved very oddly. He turned away every now and + then, blew his nose, took off his spectacles, wiped them carefully, and + replaced them before turning again to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go on, go on, my boy. I’m listening,’ he would say. + </p> + <p> + I cannot tell whether he was laughing or crying. I suspect both. When I + had finished, he said, very solemnly— + </p> + <p> + ‘Wilfrid, you have had a narrow escape. I need not tell you how wrong you + were about the apple, for you know that as well as I do. But you did the + right thing when your eyes were opened. I am greatly pleased with you, and + greatly obliged to Sir Giles. I will write and thank him this very night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Please, sir, ought I to tell the boys? I would rather not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I do not think it necessary.’ + </p> + <p> + He rose and rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ask Master Fox to step this way.’ + </p> + <p> + Fox was the oldest boy, and was on the point of leaving. + </p> + <p> + ‘Fox,’ said Mr Elder, ‘Cumbermede has quite satisfied me. Will you oblige + me by asking him no questions. I am quite aware such a request must seem + strange, but I have good reasons for making it,’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, sir,’ said Fox, glancing at me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Take him with you, then, and tell the rest. It is as a favour to myself + that I put it, Fox.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is quite enough, sir.’ + </p> + <p> + Fox took me to Mrs Elder, and had a talk with the rest before I saw them. + Some twenty years after, Fox and I had it out. I gave him a full + explanation, for by that time I could smile over the affair. But what does + the object matter?—an apple, or a thousand pounds? It is but the peg + on which the act hangs. The act is everything. + </p> + <p> + To the honour of my school-fellows I record that not one of them ever let + fall a hint in the direction of the mystery. Neither did Mr or Mrs Elder + once allude to it. If possible they were kinder than before. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. I BUILD CASTLES. + </h2> + <p> + My companions had soon found out, and I think the discovery had something + to do with the kindness they always showed me, that I was a good hand at + spinning a yarn: the nautical phrase had got naturalized in the school. We + had no chance, if we would have taken it, of spending any part of + school-hours in such a pastime; but it formed an unfailing amusement when + weather or humour interfered with bodily exercises. Nor were we debarred + from the pleasure after we had retired for the night,—only, as we + were parted in three rooms, I could not have a large audience then. I well + remember, however, one occasion on which it was otherwise. The report of a + super-excellent invention having gone abroad, one by one they came + creeping into my room, after I and my companion were in bed, until we lay + three in each bed, all being present but Fox. At the very heart of the + climax, when a spectre was appearing and disappearing momently with the + drawing in and sending out of his breath, so that you could not tell the + one moment where he might show himself the next, Mr Elder walked into the + room with his chamber-candle in his hand, straightway illuminating six + countenances pale with terror—for I took my full share of whatever + emotion I roused in the rest. But instead of laying a general interdict on + the custom, he only said, + </p> + <p> + ‘Come, come, boys! it’s time you were asleep. Go to your rooms directly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Please, sir,’ faltered one—Moberly by name—the dullest and + most honourable boy, to my thinking, amongst us, ‘mayn’t I stay where I + am? Cumbermede has put me all in a shiver.’ + </p> + <p> + Mr Elder laughed, and turning to me, asked with his usual good-humour, + </p> + <p> + ‘How long will your story take, Cumbermede?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As long as you please, sir,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t let you keep them awake all night, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no fear of that, sir,’ I replied. ‘Moberly would have been asleep + long ago if it hadn’t been a ghost. Nothing keeps him awake but ghosts.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, is the ghost nearly done with?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not quite, sir. The worst is to come yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Please, sir,’ interposed Moberly, ‘if you’ll let me stay where I am, I’ll + turn round on my deaf ear, and won’t listen to a word more of it. It’s + awful, I do assure you, sir.’ Mr Elder laughed again. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Make haste and finish your story, Cumbermede, and let + them go to sleep. You, Moberly, may stay where you are for the night, but + I can’t have this made a practice of.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no, sir,’ said several at once. + </p> + <p> + ‘But why don’t you tell your stories by daylight, Cumbermede? I’m sure you + have time enough for them then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but he’s got one going for the day and another for the night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then do you often lie three in a bed?’ asked Mr Elder with some concern. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no, sir. Only this is an extra good one, you see.’ + </p> + <p> + Mr Elder laughed again, bade us good-night, and left us. The horror, + however, was broken. I could not call up one ‘shiver more, and in a few + minutes Moberly, as well as his two companions, had slipped away to + roomier quarters. + </p> + <p> + The material of the tales I told my companions was in part supplied from + some of my uncle’s old books, for in his little library there were more + than the <i>Arcadia</i> of the same sort. But these had not merely + afforded me the stuff to remodel and imitate; their spirit had wrought + upon my spirit, and armour and war-horses and mighty swords were only the + instruments with which faithful knights wrought honourable deeds. + </p> + <p> + I had a tolerably clear perception that such deeds could not be done in + our days; that there were no more dragons lying in the woods: and that + ladies did not now fall into the hands of giants. But I had the witness of + an eternal impulse in myself that noble deeds had yet to be done, and + therefore might be done, although I knew not how. Hence a feeling of the + dignity of ancient descent, as involving association with great men and + great actions of old, and therefore rendering such more attainable in the + future, took deep root in my mind. Aware of the humbleness of my birth, + and unrestrained by pride in my parents—I had lost them so early—I + would indulge in many a day-dream of what I would gladly have been. I + would ponder over the delights of having a history, and how grand it would + be to find I was descended from some far-away knight who had done deeds of + high emprise. In such moods the recollection of the old sword that had + vanished from the wall would return: indeed the impression it had made + upon me may have been at the root of it all. How I longed to know the + story of it! But it had gone to the grave with grannie. If my uncle or + aunt knew it, I had no hope of getting it from either of them; for I was + certain they had no sympathy with any such fancies as mine. My favourite + invention, one for which my audience was sure to call when I professed + incompetence, and which I enlarged and varied every time I returned to it, + was of a youth in humble life who found at length he was of far other + origin then he had supposed. I did not know then, that the fancy, not + uncommon with boys, has its roots in the deepest instincts of our human + nature. I need not add that I had not yet read Jean Paul’s <i>Titan, or + Hesperus, or Comet</i>. + </p> + <p> + This tendency of thought-received a fresh impulse from my visit to + Moldwarp Hall, as I choose to name the great house whither my repentance + had led me. It was the first I had ever seen to wake the sense of the + mighty antique. My home was, no doubt, older than some parts of the hall; + but the house we are born in never looks older than the last generation + until we begin to compare it with others. By this time, what I had learned + of the history of my country, and the general growth of the allied forces + of my intellect, had rendered me capable of feeling the hoary eld of the + great Hall. Henceforth it had a part in every invention of my boyish + imagination. + </p> + <p> + I was therefore not undesirous of keeping the half-engagement I had made + with Mrs Wilson, but it was not she that drew me. With all her kindness, + she had not attracted me, for cupboard-love is not the sole, or always the + most powerful, operant on the childish mind: it is in general stronger in + men than in either children or women. I would rather not see Mrs Wilson + again—she had fed my body, she had not warmed my heart. It was the + grand old house that attracted me. True, it was associated with shame, but + rather with the recovery from it than with the fall itself; and what + memorials of ancient grandeur and knightly ways must lie within those + walls, to harmonize with my many dreams! + </p> + <p> + On the next holiday, Mr Elder gave me a ready permission to revisit + Moldwarp Hall. I had made myself acquainted with the nearest way by + crossroads and footpaths, and full of expectation, set out with my + companions. They accompanied me the greater part of the distance, and left + me at a certain gate, the same by which they had come out of the park on + the day of my first visit. I was glad when they were gone, for I could + then indulge my excited fancy at will. I heard their voices draw away into + the distance. I was alone on a little footpath which led through a wood. + All about me were strangely tall and slender oaks; but as I advanced into + the wood, the trees grew more various, and in some of the opener spaces + great old oaks, short and big-headed, stretched out their huge + shadow-filled arms in true oak-fashion. The ground was uneven, and the + path led up and down over hollow and hillock, now crossing a swampy + bottom, now climbing the ridge of a rocky eminence. It was a lovely + forenoon, with grey-blue sky and white clouds. The sun shone plentifully + into the wood, for the leaves were thin. They hung like clouds of gold and + royal purple above my head, layer over layer, with the blue sky and the + snowy clouds shining through. On the ground it was a world of shadows and + sunny streaks, kept ever in interfluent motion by such a wind as John + Skelton describes: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘There blew in that gardynge a soft piplyng cold + Enbrethyng of Zepherus with his pleasant wynde.’ +</pre> + <p> + I went merrily along. The birds were not singing, but my heart did not + need them. It was Spring-time there, whatever it might be in the world. + The heaven of my childhood wanted no lark to make it gay. Had the trees + been bare, and the frost shining on the ground, it would have been all the + same. The sunlight was enough. + </p> + <p> + I was standing on the root of a great beech-tree, gazing up into the gulf + of its foliage, and watching the broken lights playing about in the leaves + and leaping from twig to branch, like birds yet more golden than the + leaves, when a voice startled me. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re not looking for apples in a beech-tree, hey? it said. + </p> + <p> + I turned instantly, with my heart in a flutter. To my great relief I saw + that the speaker was not Sir Giles, and that probably no allusion was + intended. But my first apprehension made way only for another pang, for, + although I did not know the man, a strange dismay shot through me at sight + of him. His countenance was associated with an undefined but painful fact + that lay crouching in a dusky hollow of my memory. I had no time now to + entice it into the light of recollection. I took heart and spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I answered; ‘I was only watching the sun on the leaves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very pretty, ain’t it? Ah, it’s lovely! It’s quite beautiful—ain’t + it now? You like good timber, don’t you? Trees, I mean?’ he explained, + aware, I suppose, of some perplexity on my countenance. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I like big old ones best.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes,’ he returned, with an energy that sounded strange and jarring + to my mood; ‘big old ones, that have stood for ages—the monarchs of + the forest. Saplings ain’t bad things either, though. But old ones are + best. Just come here, and I’ll show you one worth looking at. <i>It</i> + wasn’t planted yesterday, <i>I</i> can tell you.’ + </p> + <p> + I followed him along the path, until we came out of the wood. Beyond us + the ground rose steep and high, and was covered with trees; but here in + the hollow it was open. A stream ran along between us and the height. On + this side of the stream stood a mighty tree, towards which my companion + led me. It was an oak, with such a bushy head and such great roots rising + in serpent rolls and heaves above the ground, that the stem looked stunted + between them. + </p> + <p> + ‘There!’ said my companion; ‘there’s a tree! there’s something like a + tree! How a man must feel to call a tree like that his own! That’s Queen + Elizabeth’s oak. It is indeed. England is dotted with would-be Queen + Elizabeth’s oaks; but there is the very oak which she admired so much that + she ordered luncheon to be served under it.... Ah! she knew the value of + timber—did good Queen Bess. <i>That’s</i> now—now—let me + see—the year after the Armada—nine from fifteen—ah well, + somewhere about two hundred and thirty years ago.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How lumpy and hard it looks!’ I remarked. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s the breed and the age of it,’ he returned. ‘The wonder to me is + they don’t turn to stone and last for ever, those trees. Ah! there’s + something to live for now!’ + </p> + <p> + He had turned away to resume his walk, but as he finished the sentence, he + turned again towards the tree, and shook his finger at it, as if + reproaching it for belonging to somebody else than himself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where are you going now?’ he asked, wheeling round upon me sharply, with + a keen look in his magpie-eyes, as the French would call them, which + hardly corresponded with the bluntness of his address. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m going to the Hall,’ I answered, turning away. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll never get there that way. How are you to cross the river?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been this way before.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve been to the Hall before, then? Whom do you know there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs Wilson,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘H’m! Ah! You know Mrs Wilson, do you? Nice woman, Mrs Wilson!’ + </p> + <p> + He said this as if he meant the opposite. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here,’ he went on—‘come with me. I’ll show you the way.’ + </p> + <p> + I obeyed, and followed him along the bank of the stream. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a curious bridge!’ I exclaimed, as we came in sight of an ancient + structure lifted high in the middle on the point of a Gothic arch. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, ain’t it? he said. ‘Curious? I should think so! And well it may be! + It’s as old as the oak there at least. There’s a bridge now for a man like + Sir Giles to call his own!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He can’t keep it though,’ I said, moralizing; for, in carrying on the + threads of my stories, I had come to see that no climax could last for + ever. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can’t keep it! He could carry off every stone of it if he liked.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then it wouldn’t be the bridge any longer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re a sharp one,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know,’ I answered, truly enough. I seemed to myself to be talking + sense, that was all. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I do. What do you mean by saying he couldn’t keep it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s been a good many people’s already, and it’ll be somebody else’s some + day,’ I replied. + </p> + <p> + He did not seem to relish the suggestion, for he gave a kind of grunt, + which gradually broke into a laugh as he answered, + </p> + <p> + ‘Likely enough! likely enough!’ + </p> + <p> + We had now come round to the end of the bridge, and I saw that it was far + more curious than I had perceived before. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why is it so narrow?’ I asked, wonderingly, for it was not three feet + wide, and had a parapet of stone about three feet high on each side of it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ he replied, ‘that’s it, you see. As old as the hills. It was built, + <i>this</i> bridge was, before ever a carriage was made—yes, before + ever a carrier’s cart went along a road. They carried everything then upon + horses’ backs. They call this the pack-horse bridge. You see there’s room + for the horses’ legs, and their loads could stick out over the parapets. + That’s the way they carried everything to the Hall then. That was a few + years before <i>you</i> were born, young gentleman.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But they couldn’t get their legs—the horses, I mean—couldn’t + get their legs through this narrow opening,’ I objected; for a flat stone + almost blocked up each end. + </p> + <p> + ‘No; that’s true enough. But those stones have been up only a hundred + years or so. They didn’t want it for pack-horses any more then, and the + stones were put up to keep the cattle, with which at some time or other I + suppose some thrifty owner had stocked the park, from crossing to this + meadow. That would be before those trees were planted up there.’ + </p> + <p> + When we had crossed the stream, he stopped at the other end of the bridge + and said, + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, you go that way—up the hill. There’s a kind of path, if you + can find it, but it doesn’t much matter. Good morning.’ + </p> + <p> + He walked away down the bank of the stream, while I struck into the wood. + </p> + <p> + When I reached the top, and emerged from the trees that skirted the ridge, + there stood the lordly Hall before me, shining in autumnal sunlight, with + gilded vanes and diamond-paned windows, as if it were a rock against which + the gentle waves of the sea of light rippled and broke in flashes. When + you looked at its foundation, which seemed to have torn its way up through + the clinging sward, you could not tell where the building began and the + rock ended. In some parts indeed the rock was wrought into the walls of + the house; while in others it was faced up with stone and mortar. My heart + beat high with vague rejoicing. Grand as the aged oak had looked, here was + a grander growth—a growth older too than the oak, and inclosing + within it a thousand histories. + </p> + <p> + I approached the gate by which Mrs Wilson had dismissed me. A flight of + rude steps cut in the rock led to the portcullis, which still hung, now + fixed in its place in front of the gate; for though the Hall had no + external defences, it had been well fitted for the half-sieges of + troublous times. A modern mansion stands, with its broad sweep up to the + wide door, like its hospitable owner in full dress and broad-bosomed shirt + on his own hearth-rug: this ancient house stood with its back to the + world, like one of its ancient owners, ready to ride, in morion, + breast-plate, and jack-boots—yet not armed <i>cap-à-pie</i>, not + like a walled castle, that is. + </p> + <p> + I ascended the steps, and stood before the arch—filled with a great + iron-studded oaken gate—which led through a square tower into the + court. I stood gazing for some minutes before I rang the bell. Two things + in particular I noticed. The first was—over the arch of the doorway, + amongst others—one device very like the animal’s head upon the watch + and the seal which my great-grandmother had given me. I could not be sure + it was the same, for the shape—both in the stone and in my memory—was + considerably worn. The other interested me far more. In the great gate was + a small wicket, so small that there was hardly room for me to pass without + stooping. A thick stone threshold lay before it. The spot where the right + foot must fall in stepping out of the wicket was worn into the shape of a + shoe, to the depth of between three and four inches I should judge, + vertically into the stone. The deep foot-mould conveyed to me a sense of + the coming and going of generations, such as I could not gather from the + age-worn walls of the building. + </p> + <p> + A great bell-handle at the end of a jointed iron-rod hung down by the side + of the wicket. I rang. An old woman opened the wicket, and allowed me to + enter. I thought I remembered the way to Mrs Wilson’s door well enough, + but when I ascended the few broad steps, curved to the shape of the corner + in which the entrance stood, and found myself in the flagged court, I was + bewildered, and had to follow the retreating portress for directions. A + word set me right, and I was soon in Mrs Wilson’s presence. She received + me kindly, and expressed her satisfaction that I had kept what she was + pleased to consider my engagement. + </p> + <p> + After some refreshment and a little talk, Mrs Wilson said, + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, Master Cumbermede, would you like to go and see the gardens, or take + a walk in the park and look at the deer?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Please, Mrs Wilson,’ I returned, ‘you promised to show me the house.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You would like that, would you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I answered,—‘better than anything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come, then,’ she said, and took a bunch of keys from the wall. ‘Some of + the rooms I lock up when the family’s away.’ + </p> + <p> + It was a vast place. Roughly it may be described as a large oblong which + the great hall, with the kitchen and its offices, divided into two square + courts—the one flagged, the other gravelled. A passage dividing the + hall from the kitchen led through from the one court to the other. We + entered this central portion through a small tower; and, after a peep at + the hall, ascended to a room above the entrance, accessible from an open + gallery which ran along two sides of the hall. The room was square, + occupying the area-space of the little entrance tower. To my joyous + amazement, its walls were crowded with swords, daggers—weapons in + endless variety, mingled with guns and pistols, for which I cared less. + Some which had hilts curiously carved and even jewelled, seemed of foreign + make. Their character was different from that of the rest; but most were + evidently of the same family with the one sword I knew. Mrs Wilson could + tell me nothing about them. All she knew was that this was the armoury, + and that Sir Giles had a book with something written in it about every one + of the weapons. They were no chance collection: each had a history. I + gazed in wonder and delight. Above the weapons hung many pieces of armour—no + entire suits, however; of those there were several in the hall below. + Finding that Mrs Wilson did not object to my handling the weapons within + my reach, I was soon so much absorbed in the examination of them that I + started when she spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘You shall come again, Master Cumbermede,’ she said. ‘We must go now.’ I + replaced a Highland broadsword, and turned to follow her. She was + evidently pleased with the alacrity of my obedience, and for the first + time bestowed on me a smile as she led the way from the armoury by another + door. To my enhanced delight this door led into the library. Gladly would + I have lingered, but Mrs Wilson walked on, and I followed through rooms + and rooms, low-pitched, and hung with tapestry, some carpeted, some + floored with black polished oak, others with some kind of cement or + concrete, all filled with ancient furniture whose very aspect was a + speechless marvel. Out of one into another, along endless passages, up and + down winding stairs, now looking from the summit of a lofty tower upon + terraces and gardens below—now lost in gloomy arches, again out upon + acres of leads, and now bathed in the sweet gloom of the ancient chapel + with its stained windows of that old glass which seems nothing at first, + it is so modest and harmonious, but which for that very reason grows into + a poem in the brain: you see it last and love it best—I followed + with unabating delight. + </p> + <p> + When at length Mrs Wilson said I had seen the whole, I begged her to let + me go again into the library, for she had not given me a moment to look at + it. She consented. + </p> + <p> + It was a part of the house not best suited for the purpose, connected with + the armoury by a descent of a few steps. It lay over some of the + housekeeping department, was too near the great hall, and looked into the + flagged court. A library should be on the ground-floor in a quiet wing, + with an outlook on grass, and the possibility of gaining it at once + without going through long passages. Nor was the library itself, + architecturally considered, at all superior to its position. The books had + greatly outgrown the space allotted to them, and several of the + neighbouring rooms had been annexed as occasion required; hence it + consisted of half-a-dozen rooms, some of them merely closets intended for + dressing-rooms, and all very ill lighted. I entered it however in no + critical spirit, but with a feeling of reverential delight. My uncle’s + books had taught me to love books. I had been accustomed to consider his + five hundred volumes a wonderful library; but here were thousands—as + old, as musty, as neglected, as dilapidated, therefore as certainly full + of wonder and discovery, as man or boy could wish.—Oh the treasures + of a house that has been growing for ages! I leave a whole roomful of + lethal weapons, to descend three steps into six roomfuls of books—each + ‘the precious life-blood of a master-spirit’—for as yet in my eyes + all books were worthy! Which did I love best? Old swords or old books? I + could not tell! I had only the grace to know which I <i>ought</i> to love + best. + </p> + <p> + As we passed from the first room into the second, up rose a white thing + from the corner of the window-seat, and came towards us. I started. Mrs + Wilson exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + ‘La! Miss Clara! how ever—? + </p> + <p> + The rest was lost in the abyss of possibility. + </p> + <p> + ‘They told me you were somewhere about, Mrs Wilson, and I thought I had + better wait here. How do you do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘La, child, you’ve given me such a turn!’ said Mrs Wilson. ‘You might have + been a ghost if it had been in the middle of the night.’ + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: SHE WAS A YEAR OR TWO OLDER THAN MYSELF, I THOUGHT, AND THE + LOVLIEST CREATURE I HAD EVER SEEN.} + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Wilson,’ said the girl merrily. ‘Only you see if it + had been a ghost it couldn’t have been me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How’s your papa, Miss Clara?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! he’s always quite well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘When did you see him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To-day. He’s at home with grandpapa now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you ran away and left him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not quite that. He and grandpapa went out about some business—to + the copse at Deadman’s Hollow, I think. They didn’t want my advice—they + never do; so I came to see you, Mrs Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + By this time I had been able to look at the girl. She was a year or two + older than myself, I thought, and the loveliest creature I had ever seen. + She had large blue eyes of the rare shade called violet, a little round + perhaps, but the long lashes did something to rectify that fault; and a + delicate nose—turned up a little of course, else at her age she + could not have been so pretty. Her mouth was well curved, expressing a + full share of Paley’s happiness; her chin was something large and + projecting, but the lines were fine. Her hair was a light brown, but dark + for her eyes, and her complexion would have been enchanting to any one + fond of the ‘sweet mixture, red and white.’ Her figure was that of a girl + of thirteen, undetermined—but therein I was not critical. ‘An + exceeding fair forehead,’ to quote Sir Philip Sidney, and plump, white, + dimple-knuckled hands complete the picture sufficiently for the present. + Indeed it would have been better to say only that I was taken with her, + and then the reader might fancy her such as he would have been taken with + himself. But I was not fascinated. It was only that I was a boy and she + was a girl, and there being no element of decided repulsion, I felt kindly + disposed towards her. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Wilson turned to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Master Cumbermede, you see I am able to give you more than I + promised.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I returned; ‘you promised to show me the old house—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And here,’ she interposed, ‘I show you a young lady as well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said simply. But I had a feeling that Mrs Wilson was + not absolutely well-pleased. + </p> + <p> + I was rather shy of Miss Clara—not that I was afraid of her, but + that I did not exactly know what was expected of me, and Mrs Wilson gave + us no further introduction to each other. I was not so shy, however, as + not to wish Mrs Wilson would leave us together, for then, I thought, we + should get on well enough; but such was not her intent. Desirous of being + agreeable, however—as far as I knew how, and remembering that Mrs + Wilson had given me the choice before, I said to her— + </p> + <p> + ‘Mightn’t we go and look at the deer, Mrs Wilson?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You had better not,’ she answered. ‘They are rather ill-tempered just + now. They might run at you. I heard them fighting last night, and knocking + their horns together dreadfully.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then we’d better not,’ said Clara. ‘They frightened me very much + yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + We were following Mrs Wilson from the room. As we passed the hall-door, we + peeped in. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you like such great high places?’ asked Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I do,’ I answered. ‘I like great high places. It makes you gasp + somehow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you fond of gasping? Does it do you good?’ she asked, with a + mock-simplicity which might be humour or something not so pleasant. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I think it does,’ I answered. ‘It pleases me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t like it. I like a quiet snug place like the library—not a + great wide place like this, that looks as if it had swallowed you and + didn’t know it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What a clever creature she is!’ I thought. We turned away and followed + Mrs Wilson again. + </p> + <p> + I had expected to spend the rest of the day with her, but the moment we + reached her apartment, she got out a bottle of her home-made wine and some + cake, saying it was time for me to go home. I was much disappointed—the + more that the pretty Clara remained behind; but what could I do? I + strolled back to Aldwick with my head fuller than ever of fancies new and + old. But Mrs Wilson had said nothing of going to see her again, and + without an invitation I could not venture to revisit the Hall. + </p> + <p> + In pondering over the events of the day, I gave the man I had met in the + wood a full share in my meditations. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. A TALK WITH MY UNCLE. + </h2> + <p> + When I returned home for the Christmas holidays, I told my uncle, amongst + other things, all that I have just recorded; for although the affair + seemed far away from me now, I felt that he ought to know it. He was + greatly pleased with my behaviour in regard to the apple. He did not + identify the place, however, until he heard the name of the housekeeper: + then I saw a cloud pass over his face. It grew deeper when I told him of + my second visit, especially while I described the man I had met in the + wood. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have a strange fancy about him, uncle,’ I said. ‘I think he must be the + same man that came here one very stormy night—long ago—and + wanted to take me away.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who told you of that?’ asked my uncle startled. + </p> + <p> + I explained that I had been a listener. + </p> + <p> + ‘You ought not to have listened.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know that now; but I did not know then. I woke frightened, and heard + the voices.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What makes you think he was the same man?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t be sure, you know. But as often as I think of the man I met in + the wood, the recollection of that night comes back to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare say. What was he like?’ + </p> + <p> + I described him as well as I could. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said my uncle, ‘I dare say. He is a dangerous man.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did he want with me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He wanted to have something to do with your education. He is an old + friend—acquaintance I ought to say—of your father’s. I should + be sorry you had any intercourse with him. He is a very worldly kind of + man. He believes in money and rank and getting on. He believes in nothing + else that, I know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I am sure I shouldn’t like him,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am pretty sure you wouldn’t,’ returned my uncle. + </p> + <p> + I had never before heard him speak so severely of any one. But from this + time he began to talk to me more as if I had been a grown man. There was a + simplicity in his way of looking at things, however, which made him quite + intelligible to a boy as yet uncorrupted by false aims or judgments. He + took me about with him constantly, and I began to see him as he was, and + to honour and love him more than ever. + </p> + <p> + Christmas-day this year fell on a Sunday. It was a model Christmas-day. My + uncle and I walked to church in the morning. When we started, the grass + was shining with frost, and the air was cold; a fog hung about the + horizon, and the sun shone through it with red rayless countenance. But + before we reached the church, which was some three miles from home, the + fog was gone, and the frost had taken shelter with the shadows; the sun + was dazzling without being clear, and the golden cock on the spire was + glittering keen in the moveless air. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do they put a cock on the spire for, uncle?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘To end off with an ornament, perhaps,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought it had been to show how the wind blew.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time great things—I mean the spire, + not the cock—had been put to little uses.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why should it be a cock,’ I asked, ‘more than any other bird?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Some people—those to whom the church is chiefly historical—would + tell you it is the cock that rebuked St Peter. Whether it be so or not, I + think a better reason for putting it there would be that the cock is the + first creature to welcome the light, and tell people that it is coming. + Hence it is a symbol of the clergyman.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But our clergyman doesn’t wake the people, uncle. I’ve seen him send <i>you</i> + to sleep sometimes.’ + </p> + <p> + My uncle laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare say there are some dull cocks too,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s one at the farm,’ I said, ‘which goes on crowing every now and + then all night—in his sleep—Janet says. But it never wakes + till all the rest are out in the yard.’ + </p> + <p> + My uncle laughed again. We had reached the churchyard, and by the time we + had visited grannie’s grave—that was the only one I thought of in + the group of family mounds—the bells had ceased, and we entered. + </p> + <p> + I at least did not sleep this morning; not however because of the + anti-somnolence of the clergyman—but that, in a pew not far off from + me, sat Clara. I could see her as often as I pleased to turn my head + half-way round. Church is a very favourable place for falling in love. It + is all very well for the older people to shake their heads and say you + ought to be minding the service—that does not affect the fact stated—especially + when the clergyman is of the half-awake order who take to the church as a + gentleman-like profession. Having to sit so still, with the pretty face so + near, with no obligation to pay it attention, but with perfect liberty to + look at it, a boy in the habit of inventing stories could hardly help + fancying himself in love with it. Whether she saw me or not, I cannot + tell. Although she passed me close as we came out, she did not look my + way, and I had not the hardihood to address her. + </p> + <p> + As we were walking home, my uncle broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘You would like to be an honourable man, wouldn’t you, Willie?’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, that I should, uncle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Could you keep a secret now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, uncle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But there are two ways of keeping a secret.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know more than one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not to tell it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never to show that you knew it, would be better still.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it would—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, suppose a thing:—suppose you knew that there was a secret; + suppose you wanted very much to find it out, and yet would not try to find + it out: wouldn’t that be another way of keeping it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it would. If I knew there was a secret, I should like to find it + out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I am going to try you. There is a secret. I know it; you do not. + You have a right to know it some day, but not yet. I mean to tell it you, + but I want you to learn a great deal first. I want to keep the secret from + hurting you. Just as you would keep things from a baby which would hurt + him, I have kept some things from you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is the sword one of them, uncle?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘You could not do anything with the secret if you did know it,’ my uncle + went on, without heeding my question; ‘but there may be designing people + who would make a tool of you for their own ends. It is far better you + should be ignorant. Now will you keep my secret?—or, in other words, + will you trust me?’ I felt a little frightened. My imagination was at work + on the formless thing. But I was chiefly afraid of the promise—lest + I should anyway break it. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will try to keep the secret—keep it from myself, that is—ain’t + it, uncle?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. That is just what I mean.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how long will it be for, uncle?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am not quite sure. It will depend on how wise and sensible you grow. + Some boys are men at eighteen—some not at forty. The more reasonable + and well-behaved you are, the sooner shall I feel at liberty to tell it + you.’ + </p> + <p> + He ceased, and I remained silent. I was not astonished. The vague news + fell in with all my fancies. The possibility of something pleasant, nay + even wonderful and romantic, of course suggested itself, and the hope + which thence gilded the delay tended to reconcile me to my ignorance. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think it better you should not go back to Mr Elder’s, Willie,’ said my + uncle. + </p> + <p> + I was stunned at the words. Where could a place be found to compare for + blessedness with Mr Elder’s school? Not even the great Hall, with its + acres of rooms and its age-long history, could rival it. + </p> + <p> + Some moments passed before I could utter a faltering ‘Why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is part of my secret, Willie,’ answered my uncle. ‘I know it will be + a disappointment to you, for you have been very happy with Mr Elder.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, indeed,’ I answered. It was all I could say, for the tears were + rolling down my cheeks, and there was a great lump in my throat. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am very sorry indeed to give you pain, Willie,’ he said kindly. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s not my blame, is it, uncle?’ I sobbed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not in the least, my boy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! then, I don’t mind it so much.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s a brave boy! Now the question is, what to do with you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can’t I stop at home, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, that won’t do either, Willie. I must have you taught, and I haven’t + time to teach you myself. Neither am I scholar enough for it now; my + learning has got rusty. I know your father would have wished to send you + to college, and although I do not very well see how I can manage it, I + must do the best I can. I’m not a rich man, you see, Willie, though I have + a little laid by. I never could do much at making money, and I must not + leave your aunt unprovided for.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, uncle. Besides, I shall soon be able to work for myself and you too.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not for a long time if you go to college, Willie. But we need not talk + about that yet.’ + </p> + <p> + In the evening I went to my uncle’s room. He was sitting by his fire + reading the New Testament. + </p> + <p> + ‘Please, uncle,’ I said, ‘will you tell me something about my father and + mother?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘With pleasure, my boy,’ he answered, and after a moment’s thought began + to give me a sketch of my father’s life, with as many touches of the man + himself as he could at the moment recall. I will not detain my reader with + the narrative. It is sufficient to say that my father was a simple + honourable man, without much education, but a great lover of plain books. + His health had always been delicate; and before he died he had been so + long an invalid that my mother’s health had given way in nursing him, so + that she very soon followed him. As his narrative closed my uncle said: + ‘Now, Willie, you see, with a good man like that for your father, you are + bound to be good and honourable! Never mind whether people praise you or + not; you do what you ought to do. And don’t be always thinking of your + rights. There are people who consider themselves very grand because they + can’t bear to be interfered with. They think themselves lovers of justice, + when it is only justice to themselves they care about. The true lover of + justice is one who would rather die a slave than interfere with the rights + of others. To wrong any one is the most terrible thing in the world. + Injustice <i>to</i> you is not an awful thing like injustice <i>in</i> + you. I should like to see you a great man, Willie. Do you know what I mean + by a great man?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Something else than I know, I’m afraid, uncle,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘A great man is one who will try to do right against the devil himself: + one who will not do wrong to please anybody or to save his life.’ + </p> + <p> + I listened, but I thought with myself a man might do all that, and be no + great man. I would do something better—some fine deed or other—I + did not know what now, but I should find out by-and-by. My uncle was too + easily pleased: I should demand more of a great man. Not so did the + knights of old gain their renown. I was silent. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t want you to take my opinions as yours, you know, Willie,’ my + uncle resumed. ‘But I want you to remember what my opinion is.’ + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he went to a drawer in the room, and brought out something + which he put in my hands. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was the watch + grannie had given me. + </p> + <p> + ‘There,’ he said, ‘is your father’s watch. Let it keep you in mind that to + be good is to be great.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, thank you, uncle!’ I said, heeding only my recovered treasure. ‘But + didn’t it belong to somebody before my father? Grannie gave it me as if it + had been hers.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your grandfather gave it to your father; but when he died, your + great-grandmother took it. Did she tell you anything about it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing particular. She said it was her husband’s.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So it was, I believe.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She used to call him my father.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, you remember that!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve had so much time to think about things, uncle!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Well—I hope you will think more about things yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, uncle. But there’s something else I should like to ask you about.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The old sword.’ + </p> + <p> + My uncle smiled, and rose again, saying, ‘Ah! I thought as much. Is that + anything like it?’ he added, bringing it from the bottom of a cupboard. + </p> + <p> + I took it from his hands with awe. It was the same. If I could have + mistaken the hilt, I could not mistake the split sheath. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, uncle!’ I exclaimed, breathless with delight. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s it—isn’t it?’ he said, enjoying my enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, that it is! Now tell me all about it, please.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed I can tell you very little. Some ancestor of ours fought with it + somewhere. There was a story about it, but I have forgot it. You may have + it if you like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, uncle! May I? To take away with me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I think you are old enough now not to do any mischief with it.’ + </p> + <p> + I do not believe there was a happier boy in England that night. I did not + mind where I went now. I thought I could even bear to bid Mrs Elder + farewell. Whether therefore possession had done me good, I leave my reader + to judge. But happily for our blessedness, the joy of possession soon + palls, and not many days had gone by before I found I had a heart yet. + Strange to say, it was my aunt who touched it. + </p> + <p> + I do not yet know all the reasons which brought my uncle to the resolution + of sending me abroad: it was certainly an unusual mode of preparing one + for the university; but the next day he disclosed the plan to me. I was + pleased with the notion. But my aunt’s apron went up to her eyes. It was a + very hard apron, and I pitied those eyes although they were fierce. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, auntie!’ I said, ‘what are you crying for? Don’t you like me to go?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s too far off, child. How am I to get to you if you should be taken + ill?’ + </p> + <p> + Moved both by my own pleasure and her grief, I got up and threw my arms + round her neck. I had never done so before. She returned my embrace and + wept freely. + </p> + <p> + As it was not a fit season for travelling, and as my uncle had not yet + learned whither it would be well to send me, it was after all resolved + that I should return to Mr Elder’s for another half-year. This gave me + unspeakable pleasure; and I set out for school again in such a blissful + mood as must be rare in the experience of any life. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. THE HOUSE-STEWARD. + </h2> + <p> + My uncle had had the watch cleaned and repaired for me, so that, + notwithstanding its great age, it was yet capable of a doubtful sort of + service. Its caprices were almost human, but they never impaired the + credit of its possession in the eyes of my school-fellows; rather they + added to the interest of the little machine, inasmuch as no one could + foretell its behaviour under any circumstances. We were far oftener late + now, when we went out for a ramble. Heretofore we had used our faculties + and consulted the sky—now we trusted to the watch, and indeed acted + as if it could regulate the time to our convenience, and carry us home + afterwards. We regarded it, in respect Of time, very much as some people + regard the Bible in respect of eternity. And the consequences were + similar. We made an idol of it, and the idol played us the usual + idol-pranks. + </p> + <p> + But I think the possession of the sword, in my own eyes too a far grander + thing than the watch, raised me yet higher in the regard of my companions. + We could not be on such intimate terms with the sword, for one thing, as + with the watch. It was in more senses than one beyond our sphere—a + thing to be regarded with awe and reverence. Mr Elder had most wisely made + no objection to my having it in our bed-room; but he drove two nails into + the wall and hung it high above my reach, saying the time had not come for + my handling it. I believe the good man respected the ancient weapon, and + wished to preserve it from such usage as it might have met with from boys. + It was the more a constant stimulus to my imagination, and I believe + insensibly to my moral nature as well, connecting me in a kind of dim + consciousness with foregone ancestors who had, I took it for granted, done + well on the battle-field. I had the sense of an inherited character to + sustain in the new order of things. But there was more in its influence + which I can hardly define—the inheritance of it even gave birth to a + certain sense of personal dignity. + </p> + <p> + Although I never thought of visiting Moldwarp Hall again without an + invitation, I took my companions more than once into the woods which lay + about it: thus far I used the right of my acquaintance with the + housekeeper. One day in Spring, I had gone with them to the old narrow + bridge. I was particularly fond of visiting it. We lingered a long time + about Queen Elizabeth’s oak; and by climbing up on each other’s shoulders, + and so gaining some stumps of vanished boughs, had succeeded in + clambering, one after another, into the wilderness of its branches, where + the young buds were now pushing away the withered leaves before them, as + the young generations of men push the older into the grave. When my turn + came, I climbed and climbed until I had reached a great height in its top. + </p> + <p> + Then I sat down, holding by the branch over my head, and began to look + about me. Below was an entangled net, as it seemed—a labyrinth of + boughs, branches, twigs, and shoots. If I had fallen I could hardly have + reached the earth. Through this environing mass of lines, I caught + glimpses of the country around—green fields, swelling into hills, + where the fresh foliage was bursting from the trees; and below, the little + stream was pursuing its busy way by a devious but certain path to its + unknown future. Then my eyes turned to the tree-clad ascent on the + opposite side: through the topmost of its trees, shone a golden spark, a + glimmer of yellow fire. It was the vane on the highest tower of the Hall. + A great desire seized me to look on the lordly pile once more. I descended + in haste, and proposed to my companions that we should climb through the + woods, and have a peep at the house. The eldest, who was in a measure in + charge of us—his name was Bardsley, for Fox was gone—proposed + to consult my watch first. Had we known that the faithless thing had + stopped for an hour and a half, and then resumed its onward course as if + nothing had happened, we should not have delayed our return. As it was, + off we scampered for the pack-horse bridge, which we left behind us only + after many frog-leaps over the obstructing stones at the ends. Then up + through the wood we went like wild creatures, abstaining however from all + shouting and mischief, aware that we were on sufferance only. At length we + stood on the verge of the descent, when to our surprise we saw the sun + getting low in the horizon. Clouds were gathering overhead, and a wailful + wind made one moaning sweep through the trees behind us in the hollow. The + sun had hidden his shape, but not his splendour, in the skirts of the + white clouds which were closing in around him. Spring as it was, I thought + I smelled snow in the air. But the vane which had drawn me shone brilliant + against a darkening cloud, like a golden bird in the sky. We looked at + each other, not in dismay exactly, but with a common feeling that the + elements were gathering against us. The wise way would of course have been + to turn at once and make for home; but the watch had to be considered. Was + the watch right, or was the watch wrong? Its health and conduct were of + the greatest interest to the commonweal. That question must be answered. + We looked from the watch to the sun, and back from the sun to the watch. + Steady to all appearance as the descending sun itself, the hands were + trotting and crawling along their appointed way, with a look of + unconscious innocence, in the midst of their diamond coronet. I + volunteered to settle the question: I would run to the Hall, ring the + bell, and ask leave to go as far into the court as to see the clock on the + central tower. The proposition was applauded. I ran, rang, and being + recognized by the portress, was at once admitted. In a moment I had + satisfied myself of the treachery of my bosom-friend, and was turning to + leave the court, when a lattice opened, and I heard a voice calling my + name. It was Mrs Wilson’s. She beckoned me. I went up under the window. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t you come and see me, Master Cumbermede?’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘You didn’t ask me, Mrs Wilson. I should have liked to come very much.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come in, then, and have tea with me now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, thank you,’ I answered. ‘My schoolfellows are waiting for me, and we + are too late already. I only came to see the clock.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, you must come soon, then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will, Mrs Wilson. Good-night,’ I answered, and away I ran, opened the + wicket for myself, set my foot in the deep shoe-mould, then rushed down + the rough steps and across the grass to my companions. + </p> + <p> + When they heard what time it was, they turned without a word, and in less + than a minute we were at the bottom of the hill and over the bridge. The + wood followed us with a moan which was gathering to a roar. Down in the + meadow it was growing dark. Before we reached the lodge, it had begun to + rain, and the wind, when we got out upon the road, was blowing a gale. We + were seven miles from home. Happily the wind was in our back, and, wet to + the skin, but not so weary because of the aid of the wind, we at length + reached Aldwick. The sole punishment we had for being so late—and + that was more a precaution than a punishment—was that we had to go + to bed immediately after a hurried tea. To face and fight the elements is, + however, an invaluable lesson in childhood, and I do not think those + parents do well who are over-careful to preserve all their children from + all inclemencies of weather or season. + </p> + <p> + When the next holiday drew near, I once more requested and obtained + permission to visit Moldwarp Hall. I am now puzzled to understand why my + uncle had not interdicted it, but certainly he had laid no injunctions + upon me in regard thereto. Possibly he had communicated with Mrs Wilson: I + do not know. If he had requested Mr. Elder to prevent me, I could not have + gone. So far, however, must this have been from being the case that, on + the eve of the holiday, Mr Elder said to me: + </p> + <p> + ‘If Mrs Wilson should ask you to stay all night, you may.’ + </p> + <p> + I suspect he knew more about some things than I did. The notion of staying + all night seemed to me, however, out of the question. Mrs Wilson could not + be expected to entertain me to that extent. I fancy, though, that she had + written to make the request. My schoolfellows accompanied me as far as the + bridge, and there left me. Mrs Wilson received me with notable warmth, and + did propose that I should stay all night, to which I gladly agreed, more, + it must be confessed, from the attraction of the old house than the love I + bore to Mrs Wilson. + </p> + <p> + ‘But what is that you are carrying?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + It was my sword. This requires a little explanation. + </p> + <p> + It was natural enough that on the eve of a second visit, as I hoped, to + the armoury, I should, on going up to bed, lift my eyes with longing look + to my own sword. The thought followed—what a pleasure it would be to + compare it with the other swords in the armoury. If I could only get it + down and smuggle it away with me! It was my own. I believed Mr Elder would + not approve of this, but at the same time he had never told me not to take + it down: he had only hung it too high for any of us to reach it—almost + close to the ceiling, in fact. But a want of enterprise was not then a + fault of mine, and the temptation was great. So, when my chum was asleep, + I rose, and by the remnant of a fading moon got together the furniture—no + easy undertaking when the least noise would have betrayed me. Fortunately + there was a chest of drawers not far from under the object of my ambition, + and I managed by half inches to move it the few feet necessary. On the top + of this I hoisted the small dressing-table, which, being only of deal, was + very light. The chest of drawers was large enough to hold my small box + beside the table. I got on the drawers by means of a chair, then by means + of the box I got on the table, and so succeeded in getting down the sword. + Having replaced the furniture, I laid the weapon under my bolster, and was + soon fast asleep. The moment I woke I got up, and before the house was + stirring had deposited the sword in an outbuilding whence I could easily + get it off the premises. Of course my companions knew, and I told them all + my design. Moberly hinted that I ought to have asked Mr Elder, but his was + the sole remark in that direction. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is my sword, Mrs Wilson,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you come to have a sword?’ she asked. ‘It is hardly a fit + plaything for you.’ + </p> + <p> + I told her how it had been in the house since long before I was born, and + that I had brought it to compare with some of the swords in the armoury. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well,’ she answered. ‘I dare say we can manage it; but when Mr Close + is at home it is not very easy to get into the armoury. He’s so jealous of + any one touching his swords and guns!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is Mr Close, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Close is the house-steward.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But they’re not his, then, are they?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s quite enough that he thinks so. He has a fancy for that sort of + thing. I’m sure I don’t see anything so precious in the rusty old + rubbish.’ + </p> + <p> + I suspected that, as the saying is, there was no love lost between Mrs + Wilson and Mr Close. I learned afterwards that he had been chaplain to a + regiment of foot, which, according to rumour, he had had to leave for some + misconduct. This was in the time of the previous owner of Moldwarp Hall, + and nobody now knew the circumstances under which he had become + house-steward—a position in which Sir Giles, when he came to the + property, had retained his services. + </p> + <p> + ‘We are going to have company, and a dance, this evening,’ continued Mrs + Wilson. ‘I hardly know what to do with you, my hands are so full.’ + </p> + <p> + This was not very consistent with her inviting me to stay all night, and + confirms my suspicion that she had made a request to that purport of Mr. + Elder, for otherwise, surely, she would have sent me home. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! never mind me, Mrs Wilson,’ I said. ‘If you will let me wander about + the place, I shall be perfectly comfortable.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; but you might get in the way of the family, or the visitors,’ she + said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll take good care of that,’ I returned. ‘Surely there is room in this + huge place without running against any one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There ought to be,’ she answered. + </p> + <p> + After a few minutes’ silence, she resumed. + </p> + <p> + ‘We shall have a good many of them staying all night’, but there will be + room for you, I dare say. What would you like to do with yourself till + they begin to come?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like to go to the library,’ I answered, thinking, I confess, of + the adjacent armoury as well. ‘Should I be in the way there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; I don’t think you would,’ she replied, thoughtfully. ‘It’s not often + any one goes there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who takes charge of the books?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! books don’t want much taking care of,’ she replied. ‘I have thought + of having them down and dusting the place out, but it would be such a job! + and the dust don’t signify upon old books. They ain’t of much count in + this house. Nobody heeds them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish Sir Giles would let me come and put them in order in the + holidays,’ I said, little knowing how altogether unfit I yet was for such + an undertaking. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah well! we’ll see. Who knows?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t think he would!’ I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he might. But I thought you were going abroad + soon.’ + </p> + <p> + I had not said anything to her on the subject. I had never had an + opportunity. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who told you that, Mrs Wilson?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never you mind. A little bird. Now you had better go to the library. I + dare say you won’t hurt anything, for Sir Giles, although he never looks + at the books, would be dreadfully angry if he thought anything were + happening to them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll take as good care of them as if they were my uncle’s. He used to let + me handle his as much as I liked. I used to mend them up for him. I’m + quite accustomed to books, I assure you, Mrs Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come, then; I will show you the way,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think I know the way,’ I answered. For I had pondered so much over the + place, and had, I presume, filled so many gaps of recollection with + creations of fancy, that I quite believed I knew my way all about the + house. + </p> + <p> + ‘We shall see,’ she returned with a smile. ‘I will take you the nearest + way, and you shall tell me on your honour if you remember it.’ + </p> + <p> + She led the way, and I followed. Passing down the stone stair and through + several rooms, mostly plain bedrooms, we arrived at a wooden staircase, of + which there were few in the place. We ascended a little way, crossed one + or two rooms more, came out on a small gallery open to the air, a sort of + covered bridge across a gulf in the building, re-entered, and after + crossing other rooms, tapestried, and to my eyes richly furnished, arrived + at the first of those occupied by the library. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now did you know the way, Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not in the least,’ I answered. ‘I cannot think how I could have forgotten + it so entirely. I am ashamed of myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have no occasion,’ she returned. ‘You never went that way at all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, dear me!’ I said; ‘what a place it is! I might lose myself in it for + a week.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You would come out somewhere, if you went on long enough, I dare say. But + you must not leave the library till I come and fetch you. You will want + some dinner before long.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What time do you dine?’ I asked, putting my hand to my watch-pocket. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! you’ve got a watch—have you? But indeed, on a day like this, I + dine when I can. You needn’t fear. I will take care of you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mayn’t I go into the armoury?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you don’t mind the risk of meeting Mr Close. But he’s not likely to be + there to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + She left me with fresh injunctions not to stir till she came for me. But I + now felt the place to be so like a rabbit-warren, that I dared not leave + the library, if not for the fear of being lost, then for the fear of + intruding upon some of the family. I soon nestled in a corner, with books + behind, books before, and books all around me. After trying several spots, + like a miner searching for live lodes, and finding nothing auriferous to + my limited capacities and tastes, I at length struck upon a rich vein, + instantly dropped on the floor, and, with my back against the shelves, was + now immersed in ‘The Seven Champions of Christendom.’ As I read, a ray of + light, which had been creeping along the shelves behind me, leaped upon my + page. I looked up. I had not yet seen the room so light. Nor had I + perceived before in what confusion and with what disrespect the books were + heaped upon the shelves. A dim feeling awoke in me that to restore such a + world to order would be like a work of creation; but I sank again + forthwith in the delights of a feast provided for an imagination which had + in general to feed itself. I had here all the delight of invention without + any of its effort. + </p> + <p> + At length I became aware of some weariness. The sunbeam had vanished, not + only from the page, but from the room. I began to stretch my arms. As the + tension of their muscles relaxed, my hand fell upon the sword which I had + carried with me and laid on the floor by my side. It awoke another mental + nerve. I would go and see the armoury. + </p> + <p> + I rose, and wandered slowly through room after room of the library, + dragging my sword after me. When I reached the last, there, in the corner + next the outer wall of the house, rose the three stone steps leading to + the little door that communicated with the treasury of ancient strife. I + stood at the foot of the steps irresolute for a moment, fearful lest my + black man, Mr Close, should be within, polishing his weapons perhaps, and + fearful in his wrath. I ascended the steps, listened at the door, heard + nothing, lifted the old, quaintly-formed latch, peeped in, and entered. + There was the whole collection, abandoned to my eager gaze and eager + hands! How long I stood, taking down weapon after weapon, examining each + like an old book, speculating upon modes of use, and intention of + varieties in form, poring over adornment and mounting, I cannot tell. + Historically the whole was a sealed book; individually I made a thorough + acquaintance with not a few, noting the differences and resemblances + between them and my own, and instead of losing conceit of the latter, + finding more and more reasons for holding it dear and honourable. I was + poising in one hand, with the blade upright in the air—for otherwise + I could scarcely have held it in both—a huge two-handed, + double-hilted sword with serrated double edge, when I heard a step + approaching, and before I had well replaced the sword, a little door in a + corner which-I had scarcely noticed—the third door to the room—opened, + and down the last steps of the narrowest of winding stairs a little man in + black screwed himself into the armoury. I was startled, but not altogether + frightened. I felt myself grasping my own sword somewhat nervously in my + left hand, as I abandoned the great one, and let it fall back with a clang + into its corner. + </p> + <p> + ‘By the powers!’ exclaimed Mr Close, revealing himself an Irishman at once + in the surprise of my presence, ‘and whom have we here?’ + </p> + <p> + I felt my voice tremble a little as I replied, + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs Wilson allowed me to come, sir. I assure you I have not been hurting + anything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who’s to tell that? Mrs Wilson has no business to let any one come here. + This is my quarters. There—you’ve got one in your hand now! You’ve + left finger-marks on the blade, I’ll be bound. Give it me.’ + </p> + <p> + He stretched out his hand. I drew back. + </p> + <p> + ‘This one is mine,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ho, ho, young gentleman! So you’re a collector—are you? Already + too! Nothing like beginning in time. Let me look at the thing, though.’ + </p> + <p> + He was a little man, as I have said, dressed in black, with a frock coat + and a deep white neckcloth. His face would have been vulgar, especially as + his nose was a traitor to his mouth, revealing in its hue the proclivities + of its owner, but for a certain look of the connoisseur which went far to + redeem it. The hand which he stretched out to take my weapon, was small + and delicate—like a woman’s indeed. His speech was that of a + gentleman. I handed him the sword at once. + </p> + <p> + He had scarcely glanced at it when a strange look passed over his + countenance. He tried to draw it, failed, and looking all along the + sheath, saw its condition. Then his eyes flashed. He turned from me + abruptly, and went up the stair he had descended. I waited anxiously for + what seemed to me half an hour: I dare say it was not more than ten + minutes. At last I heard him revolving on his axis down the corkscrew + staircase. He entered and handed me my sword, saying— + </p> + <p> + ‘There! I can’t get it out of the sheath. It’s in a horrid state of rust. + Where did you fall in with it?’ + </p> + <p> + I told him all I knew about it. If he did not seem exactly interested, he + certainly behaved with some oddity. When I told him what my grandmother + had said about some battle in which an ancestor had worn it, his arm rose + with a jerk, and the motions of his face, especially of his mouth, which + appeared to be eating its own teeth, were for a moment grotesque. When I + had finished, he said, with indifferent tone, but eager face— + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, it’s a rusty old thing, but I like old weapons. I’ll give you a + bran new officer’s sword, as bright as a mirror, for it—I will. + There now! Is it a bargain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I could not part with it, sir—not for the best sword in the + country,’ I answered. ‘You see it has been so long in our family.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hm! hm! you’re quite right, my boy. I wouldn’t if I were you. But as I + see you know how to set a right value on such a weapon, you may stay and + look at mine as long as you like. Only if you take any of them from their + sheaths, you must be very careful how you put them in again. Don’t use any + force. If there is any one you can’t manage easily, just lay it on the + window-sill, and I will attend to it. Mind you don’t handle—I mean + touch—the blades at all. There would be no end of rust-spots before + morning.’ + </p> + <p> + I was full of gratitude for the confidence he placed in me. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t stop now to tell you about them all, but I will—some day.’ + </p> + <p> + So saying he disappeared once more up the little staircase, leaving me + like Aladdin in the jewel-forest. I had not been alone more than half an + hour or so, however, when he returned, and taking down a dagger, said + abruptly, + </p> + <p> + ‘There, that is the dagger with which Lord Harry Rolleston’—I think + that was the name, but knowing nothing of the family or its history, I + could not keep the names separate—‘stabbed his brother Gilbert. And + there is—’ + </p> + <p> + He took down one after another, and with every one he associated some fact—or + fancy perhaps, for I suspect now that he invented not a few of his + incidents. + </p> + <p> + ‘They have always been fond of weapons in this house,’ he said. ‘There now + is one with the strangest story! It’s in print—I can show it you in + print in the library there. It had the reputation of being a magic sword—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Like King Arthur’s Excalibur?’ I asked, for I had read a good deal of the + history of Prince Arthur. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just so,’ said Mr Close. ‘Well, that sword had been in the family for + many years—I may say centuries. One day it disappeared, and there + was a great outcry. A lackey had been discharged for some cause or other, + and it was believed he had taken it. But before they found him, the sword + was in its place upon the wall. Afterwards the man confessed that he had + taken it, out of revenge, for he knew how it was prized. But in the middle + of the next night, as he slept in a roadside inn, a figure dressed in + ancient armour had entered the room, taken up the sword, and gone away + with it. I dare say it was all nonsense. His heart had failed him when he + found he was followed, and he had contrived by the help of some + fellow-servant to restore it. But there are very queer stories about old + weapons—swords in particular. I must go now,’ he concluded, ‘for we + have company to-night, and I have a good many things to see to.’ + </p> + <p> + So saying he left me. I remained a long time in the armoury, and then + returned to the library, where I seated myself in the same corner as + before, and went on with my reading—lost in pleasure. + </p> + <p> + All at once I became aware that the light was thickening, and that I was + very hungry. At the same moment I heard a slight rustle in the room, and + looked round, expecting to see Mrs Wilson come to fetch me. But there + stood Miss Clara—not now in white, however, but in a black silk + frock. She had grown since I saw her last, and was prettier than ever. She + started when she saw me. + </p> + <p> + ‘You here!’ she exclaimed, as if we had known each other all our lives. + ‘What are you doing here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Reading,’ I answered, and rose from the floor, replacing the book as I + rose. ‘I thought you were Mrs Wilson come to fetch me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is she coming here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. She told me not to leave the library till she came for me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I must get out of the way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why so, Miss Clara?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t mean her to know I am here. If you tell, I shall think you the + meanest—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t trouble yourself to find your punishment before you’ve found your + crime,’ I said, thinking of my own processes of invention. What a little + prig I must have been! + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, I will trust you,’ she returned, holding out her hand.—‘I + didn’t give it you to keep, though,’ she added, finding that, with more of + country manners than tenderness, I fear, I retained it in my boyish grasp. + </p> + <p> + I felt awkward at once, and let it go. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now, when do you expect Mrs. Wilson?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know at all. She said she would fetch me for dinner. There she + comes, I do believe.’ + </p> + <p> + Clara turned her head like a startled forest creature that wants to + listen, but does not know in what direction, and moved her feet as if she + were about to fly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come back after dinner,’ she said: ‘you had better!’ and darting to the + other side of the room, lifted a piece of hanging tapestry, and vanished + just in time, for Mrs Wilson’s first words crossed her last. + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear boy—Master Cumbermede, I should say, I am sorry I have not + been able to get to you sooner. One thing after another has kept me on my + legs till I’m ready to drop. The cook is as tiresome as cooks only can be. + But come along; I’ve got a mouthful of dinner for you at last, and a few + minutes to eat my share of it with you, I hope.’ + </p> + <p> + I followed without a word, feeling a little guilty, but only towards Mrs + Wilson, not towards myself, if my reader will acknowledge the difference—for + I did not feel that I ought to betray Miss Clara. We returned as we came; + and certainly whatever temper the cook might be in, there was nothing + amiss with the dinner. Had there been, however, I was far too hungry to + find fault with it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, how have you enjoyed yourself, Master Wilfrid? Not very much, I am + afraid. But really I could not help it,’ said Mrs Wilson. + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t have enjoyed myself more,’ I answered. ‘If you will allow me, + I’ll go back to the library as soon as I’ve done my dinner.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But it’s almost dark there now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You wouldn’t mind letting me have a candle, Mrs Wilson?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A candle, child! It would be of no use. The place wouldn’t light up with + twenty candles.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I don’t want it lighted up. I could read by one candle as well as by + twenty.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well. You shall do as you like. Only be careful, for the old house + is as dry as tinder, and if you were to set fire to anything, we should be + all in a blaze in a moment.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will be careful, Mrs Wilson. You may trust me. Indeed you may.’ + </p> + <p> + She hurried me a little over my dinner. The bell in the court rang loudly. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s some of them already! That must be the Simmonses. They’re always + early, and they always come to that gate—I suppose because they + haven’t a carriage of their own, and don’t like to drive into the high + court in a chaise from the George and Pudding.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve quite done, ma’am: may I go now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wait till I get you a candle.’ + </p> + <p> + She took one from a press in the room, lighted it, led me once more to the + library, and there left me with a fresh injunction not to be peeping out + and getting in the way of the visitors. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. THE LEADS. + </h2> + <p> + The moment Mrs Wilson was gone, I expected to see Clara peep out from + behind the tapestry in the corner; but as she did not appear, I lifted it, + and looked in. There was nothing behind but a closet almost filled with + books, not upon shelves, but heaped up from floor to ceiling. There had + been just room, and no more, for Clara to stand between the tapestry and + the books. It was of no use attempting to look for her—at least I + said so to myself, for as yet the attraction of an old book was equal to + that of a young girl. Besides, I always enjoyed waiting—up to a + certain point. Therefore I resumed my place on the floor, with the <i>Seven + Champions</i> in one hand, and my chamber-candlestick in the other. + </p> + <p> + I had for the moment forgotten Clara in the adventures of St. Andrew of + Scotland, when the <i>silking</i> of her frock aroused me. She was at my + side. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, you’ve had your dinner? Did she give you any dessert?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This is my dessert,’ I said, holding up the book. ‘It’s far more than—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Far more than your desert,’ she pursued, ‘if you prefer it to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I looked for you first,’ I said defensively. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In the closet there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You didn’t think I was going to wait there, did you? Why the very spiders + are hanging dead in their own webs in there. But here’s some dessert for + you—if you’re as fond of apples as most boys,’ she added, taking a + small rosy-cheeked beauty from her pocket. + </p> + <p> + I accepted it, but somehow did not quite relish being lumped with boys in + that fashion. As I ate it, which I should have felt bound to do even had + it been less acceptable in itself, she resumed— + </p> + <p> + ‘Wouldn’t you like to see the company arrive? That’s what I came for. I + wasn’t going to ask Goody Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I should,’ I answered; ‘but Mrs Wilson told me to keep here, and not + get in their way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I’ll take care of that. We shan’t go near them. I know every corner + of the place—a good deal better than Mrs Wilson. Come along, Wilfrid—that’s + your name, isn’t it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it is. Am I to call you Clara?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, if you are good—that is, if you like. I don’t care what you + call me. Come along.’ + </p> + <p> + I followed. She led me into the armoury. A great clang of the bell in the + paved court fell upon our ears. + </p> + <p> + ‘Make haste,’ she said, and darted to the door at the foot of the little + stair. ‘Mind how you go,’ she went on. ‘The steps are very much worn. Keep + your right shoulder foremost.’ + </p> + <p> + I obeyed her directions, and followed her up the stair. We passed the door + of a room over the armoury, and ascended still, to creep out at last + through a very low door on to the leads of the little square tower. Here + we could on the one side look into every corner of the paved court, and on + the other, across the roof of the hall, could see about half of the high + court, as they called it, into which the carriages drove; and from this + post of vantage, we watched the arrival of a good many parties. I thought + the ladies tripping across the paved court, with their gay dresses + lighting up the Spring twilight, and their sweet voices rippling its + almost pensive silence, suited the time and the place much better than the + carriages dashing into the other court, fine as they looked with their + well-kept horses and their servants in gay liveries. The sun was down, and + the moon was rising—near the full, but there was too much light in + the sky to let her make much of herself yet. It was one of those Spring + evenings which you could not tell from an Autumn one except for a certain + something in the air appealing to an undefined sense—rather that of + smell than any other. There were green buds and not withering leaves in it—life + and not death; and the voices of the gathering guests were of the season, + and pleasant to the soul. Of course Nature did not then affect me so + definitely as to make me give forms of thought to her influences. It is + now first that I turn them into shapes and words. + </p> + <p> + As we stood, I discovered that I had been a little mistaken about the + position of the Hall. I saw that, although from some points in front it + seemed to stand on an isolated rock, the ground rose behind it, terrace + upon terrace, the uppermost of which terraces were crowned with rows of + trees. Over them, the moon was now gathering her strength. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is rather cold; I think we had better go in,’ said Clara, after we had + remained there for some minutes without seeing any fresh arrivals. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well,’ I answered. ‘What shall we do? Shall you go home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, certainly not. We must see a good deal more of the fun first.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How will you manage that? You will go to the ball-room, I suppose. You + can go where you please, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no! I’m not grand enough to be invited. Oh, dear no! At least I am not + old enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you will be some day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. Perhaps. We’ll see. Meantime we must make the best of it. + What are <i>you</i> going to do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall go back to the library.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I’ll go with you—till the music begins; and then I’ll take you + where you can see a little of the dancing. It’s great fun.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how will you manage that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You leave that to me.’ + </p> + <p> + We descended at once to the armoury, where I had left my candle; and + thence we returned to the library. + </p> + <p> + ‘Would you like me to read to you?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t mind—if it’s anything worth hearing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I’ll read you a bit of the book I was reading when you came in.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What! that musty old book! No, thank you. It’s enough to give one the + horrors—the very sight of it is enough. How can you like such frumpy + old things?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! you mustn’t mind the look of it,’ I said. ‘It’s <i>very</i> nice + inside!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know where there is a nice one,’ she returned. ‘Give me the candle.’ + </p> + <p> + I followed her to another of the rooms, where she searched for some time. + At length—‘There it is!’ she said, and put into my hand <i>The + Castle of Otranto</i>. The name promised well. She next led the way to a + lovely little bay window, forming almost a closet, which looked out upon + the park, whence, without seeing the moon, we could see her light on the + landscape, and the great deep shadows cast over the park from the towers + of the Hall. There we sat on the broad window-sill, and I began to read. + It was delightful. Does it indicate loss of power, that the grown man + cannot enjoy the book in which the boy delighted? Or is it that the + realities of the book, as perceived by his keener eyes, refuse to blend + with what imagination would supply if it might? + </p> + <p> + No sooner however did the first notes of the distant violins enter the ear + of my companion than she started to her feet. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, looking up from the book. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you hear the music?’ she said, half-indignantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hear it now,’ I answered; ‘but why—?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come along,’ she interrupted, eagerly. ‘We shall just be in time to see + them go across from the drawing-room to the ball-room. Come, come. Leave + your candle.’ + </p> + <p> + I put down my book with some reluctance. She led me into the armoury, and + from the armoury out on the gallery half-encompassing the great hall, + which was lighted up, and full of servants. Opening another door in the + gallery, she conducted me down a stair which led almost into the hall, + but, ascending again behind it, landed us in a little lobby, on one side + of which was the drawing-room, and on the other the ball-room, on another + level, reached by a few high, semi-circular steps. + </p> + <p> + ‘Quick! quick!’ said Clara, and turning sharply round, she opened another + door, disclosing a square-built stone staircase. She pushed the door + carefully against the wall, ran up a few steps, I following in some + trepidation, turned abruptly, and sat down. I did as she did, questioning + nothing: I had committed myself to her superior knowledge. + </p> + <p> + The quick ear of my companion had caught the first sounds of the tuning of + the instruments, and here we were, before the invitation to dance, a + customed observance at Moldwarp Hall, had begun to play. In a few minutes + thereafter, the door of the drawing-room opened; when, pair after pair, + the company, to the number of over a hundred and fifty, I should guess, + walked past the foot of the stair on which we were seated, and ascended + the steps into the ball-room. The lobby was dimly lighted, except from the + two open doors, and there was little danger of our being seen. + </p> + <p> + I interrupt my narrative to mention the odd fact that so fully was my mind + possessed with the antiquity of the place, which it had been the pride of + generation after generation to keep up, that now, when I recall the scene, + the guests always appear dressed not as they were then, but in a far more + antique style with which after knowledge supplied my inner vision. + </p> + <p> + Last of all came Lady Brotherton, Sir Giles’s wife, a pale, + delicate-looking woman, leaning on the arm of a tall, long-necked, + would-be-stately, yet insignificant-looking man. She gave a shiver as, up + the steps from the warm drawing-room, she came at once opposite our open + door. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a draught there is here!’ she said, adjusting her rose-coloured + scarf about her shoulders. ‘It feels quite wintry. Will you oblige me, Mr + Mellon, by shutting that door? Sir Giles will not allow me to have it + built up. I am sure there are plenty of ways to the leads besides that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This door, my lady?’ asked Mr Mellon. + </p> + <p> + I trembled lest he should see us. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Just throw it to. There’s a spring lock on it. I can’t think—’ + </p> + <p> + The slam and echoing bang of the closing door cut off the end of the + sentence. Even Clara was a little frightened, for her hand stole into mine + for a moment before she burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hush! hush!’ I said. ‘They will hear you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I almost wish they would,’ she said. ‘What a goose I was to be + frightened, and not speak! Do you know where we are?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I answered; ‘how should I? Where are we?’ + </p> + <p> + My fancy of knowing the place had vanished utterly by this time. All my + mental charts of it had got thoroughly confused, and I do not believe I + could have even found my way back to the library. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shut out on the leads,’ she answered. ‘Come along. We may as well go to + meet our fate.’ + </p> + <p> + I confess to a little palpitation of the heart as she spoke, for I was not + yet old enough to feel that Clara’s companionship made the doom a light + one. Up the stairs we went—here no twisting corkscrew, but a broad + flight enough, with square turnings. At the top was a door, fastened only + with a bolt inside—against no worse housebreakers than the winds and + rains. When we emerged, we found ourselves in the open night. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here we are in the moon’s drawing-room!’ said Clara. + </p> + <p> + The scene was lovely. The sky was all now—the earth only a + background or pedestal for the heavens. The river, far below, shone here + and there in answer to the moon, while the meadows and fields lay as in + the oblivion of sleep, and the wooded hills were only dark formless + masses. But the sky was the dwelling-place of the moon, before whose + radiance, penetratingly still, the stars shrunk as if they would hide in + the flowing skirts of her garments. There was scarce a cloud to be seen, + and the whiteness of the moon made the blue thin. I could hardly believe + in what I saw. It was as if I had come awake without getting out of the + dream. + </p> + <p> + We were on the roof of the ball-room. We felt the rhythmic motion of the + dancing feet shake the building in time to the music. ‘A low melodious + thunder’ buried beneath—above, the eternal silence of the white + moon! + </p> + <p> + We passed to the roof of the drawing-room. From it, upon one side, we + could peep into the great gothic window of the hall, which rose high above + it. We could see the servants passing and repassing, with dishes for the + supper which was being laid in the dining-room under the drawing-room, for + the hall was never used for entertainment now, except on such great + occasions as a coming of age, or an election-feast, when all classes met. + </p> + <p> + ‘We mustn’t stop here,’ said Clara. ‘We shall get our deaths of cold.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What shall we do, then?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘There are plenty of doors,’ she answered—‘only Mrs Wilson has a + foolish fancy for keeping them all bolted. We must try, though.’ + </p> + <p> + Over roof after roof we went; now descending, now ascending a few steps; + now walking along narrow gutters, between battlement and sloping roof; now + crossing awkward junctions—trying doors many in tower and turret—all + in vain! Every one was bolted on the inside. We had grown quite silent, + for the case looked serious. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is the last door,’ said Clara—‘the last we can reach. There + are more in the towers, but they are higher up. What <i>shall</i> we do? + Unless we go down a chimney, I don’t know what’s to be done.’ Still her + voice did not falter, and my courage did not give way. She stood for a few + moments, silent. I stood regarding her, as one might listen for a doubtful + oracle. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I’ve got it!’ she said at length. ‘Have you a good head, Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t quite know what you mean,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you mind being on a narrow place, without much to hold by?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘High up?’ I asked with a shiver. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + For a moment I did not answer. It was a special weakness of my physical + nature, one which my imagination had increased tenfold—the absolute + horror I had of such a transit as she was evidently about to propose. My + worst dreams—from which I would wake with my heart going like a + fire-engine—were of adventures of the kind. But before a woman, how + could I draw back? I would rather lie broken at the bottom of the wall. + And if the fear should come to the worst, I could at least throw myself + down and end it so. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well?’ I said, as if I had only been waiting for her exposition of the + case. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well!’ she returned.—‘Come along then.’ + </p> + <p> + I did go along—like a man to the gallows; only I would not have + turned back to save my life. But I should have hailed the slightest change + of purpose in her, with such pleasure as Daniel must have felt when he + found the lions would rather not eat him. She retraced our steps a long + way—until we reached the middle of the line of building which + divided the two courts. + </p> + <p> + ‘There!’ she said, pointing to the top of the square tower over the + entrance to the hall, from which we had watched the arrival of the guests: + it rose about nine feet only above where we now stood in the gutter—‘I + <i>know</i> I left the door open when we came down. I did it on purpose. I + hate Goody Wilson. Lucky, you see!—that is if you have a head. And + if you haven’t, it’s all the same: I have.’ + </p> + <p> + So saying, she pointed to a sort of flying buttress which sprung sideways, + with a wide span, across the angle the tower made with the hall, from an + embrasure of the battlement of the hall to the outer corner of the tower, + itself more solidly buttressed. I think it must have been made to resist + the outward pressure of the roof of the hall; but it was one of those + puzzling points which often occur—and oftenest in domestic + architecture—where additions and consequent alterations have been + made from time to time. Such will occasion sometimes as much conjecture + towards their explanation as a disputed passage in Shakspere or Aeschylus. + </p> + <p> + Could she mean me to cross that hair-like bridge? The mere thought was a + terror. But I would not blench. Fear I confess—cowardice if you + will:—poltroonery, not. + </p> + <p> + ‘I see,’ I answered. ‘I will try. If I fall, don’t blame me. I will do my + best.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t think,’ she returned, ‘I’m going to let you go alone! I should + have to wait hours before you found a door to let me down—unless + indeed you went and told Goody Wilson, and I had rather die where I am. + No, no. Come along. I’ll show you how.’ + </p> + <p> + With a rush and a scramble, she was up over the round back of the buttress + before I had time to understand that she meant as usual to take the lead. + If she could but have sent me back a portion of her skill, or lightness, + or nerve, or whatever it was, just to set me off with a rush like that! + But I stood preparing at once and hesitating. She turned and looked over + the battlements of the tower. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind, Wilfrid,’ she said; ‘I’ll fetch you presently.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no,’ I cried. ‘Wait for me. I’m coming.’ + </p> + <p> + I got astride of the buttress, and painfully forced my way up. It was like + a dream of leap-frog, prolonged under painfully recurring difficulties. I + shut my eyes, and persuaded myself that all I had to do was to go on + leap-frogging. At length, after more trepidation and brain-turning than I + care to dwell upon, lest even now it should bring back a too keen + realization of itself, I reached the battlement, seizing which with one + shaking hand, and finding the other grasped by Clara, I tumbled on the + leads of the tower. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come along!’ she said. ‘You see, when the girls like, they can beat the + boys—even at their own games. We’re all right now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I did my best,’ I returned, mightily relieved. ‘<i>I’m</i> not an angel, + you know. I can’t fly like you.’ + </p> + <p> + She seemed to appreciate the compliment. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind. I’ve done it before. It was game of you to follow.’ + </p> + <p> + Her praise elated me. And it was well. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come along,’ she added. + </p> + <p> + She seemed to be always saying <i>Come along</i>. + </p> + <p> + I obeyed, full of gratitude and relief. She skipped to the tiny turret + which rose above our heads, and lifted the door-latch. But, instead of + disappearing within, she turned and looked at me in white dismay. The door + was bolted. Her look roused what there was of manhood in me. I felt that, + as it had now come to the last gasp, it was mine to comfort her. + </p> + <p> + ‘We are no worse than we were,’ I said. ‘Never mind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know that,’ she answered mysteriously.—‘Can <i>you</i> go + back as you came? <i>I</i> can’t.’ + </p> + <p> + I looked over the edge of the battlement where I stood. There was the + buttress crossing the angle of moonlight, with its shadow lying far down + on the wall. I shuddered at the thought of renewing my unspeakable dismay. + But what must be must. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: SHE BENT OVER THE BATTLEMENT, STOOPED HER FACE TOWARD ME, + AND KISSED ME.} + </p> + <p> + Besides, Clara had praised me for creeping where she could fly: now I + might show her that I could creep where she could not fly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will try,’ I returned, putting one leg through an embrasure, and + holding on by the adjoining battlement. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do take care, Wilfrid,’ she cried, stretching out her hands, as if to + keep me from falling. + </p> + <p> + A sudden pulse of life rushed through me. All at once I became not only + bold, but ambitious. + </p> + <p> + ‘Give me a kiss,’ I said, ‘before I go.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you make so much of it?’ she returned, stepping back a pace.—How + much a woman she was even then! + </p> + <p> + Her words roused something in me which to this day I have not been able + quite to understand. A sense of wrong had its share in the feeling; but + what else I can hardly venture to say. At all events, an inroad of + careless courage was the consequence. I stepped at once upon the buttress, + and stood for a moment looking at her—no doubt with reproach. She + sprang towards me. + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + The end of the buttress was a foot or two below the level of the leads, + where Clara stood. She bent over the battlement, stooped her face towards + me, and kissed me on the mouth. My only answer was to turn and walk down + the buttress, erect; a walk which, as the arch of the buttress became + steeper, ended in a run and a leap on to the gutter of the hall. There I + turned, and saw her stand like a lady in a ballad leaning after me in the + moonlight. I lifted my cap and sped away, not knowing whither, but + fancying that out of her sight I could make up my mind better. Nor was I + mistaken. The moment I sat down, my brains began to go about, and in + another moment I saw what might be attempted. + </p> + <p> + In going from roof to roof, I had seen the little gallery along which I + had passed with Mrs Wilson on my way to the library. It crossed what might + be called an open shaft in the building. I thought I could manage, roofed + as it was, to get in by the open side. It was some time before I could + find it again; but when I did come upon it at last, I saw that it might be + done. By the help of a projecting gargoyle, curiously carved in the days + when the wall to which it clung had formed part of the front of the + building, I got my feet upon the wooden rail of the gallery, caught hold + of one of the small pillars which supported the roof, and <i>slewed</i> + myself in. I was almost as glad as when I had crossed the buttress, for + below me was a paved bottom, between high walls, without any door, like a + dry well in the midst of the building. + </p> + <p> + My recollection of the way to the armoury, I found, however, almost + obliterated. I knew that I must pass through a bedroom at the end of the + gallery, and that was all I remembered. I opened the door, and found + myself face to face with a young girl with wide eyes. She stood staring + and astonished, but not frightened. She was younger than Clara, and not so + pretty. Her eyes looked dark, and also the hair she had been brushing. Her + face would have been quite pale, but for the rosy tinge of surprise. She + made no exclamation, only stared with her brush in her hand, and questions + in her eyes. I felt far enough from comfortable; but with a great effort I + spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon. I had to get off the roof, and this was the only way. + Please do not tell Mrs Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ she said at once, very quietly; ‘but you must go away.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I could only find the library!’ I said. ‘I am so afraid of going into + more rooms where I have no business.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will show you the way,’ she returned with a smile; and laying down her + brush, took up a candle, and led me from the room. + </p> + <p> + In a few moments I was safe. My conductor vanished at once. The glimmer of + my own candle in a further room guided me, and I was soon at the top of + the corkscrew staircase. I found the door very slightly fastened: Clara + must herself have unwittingly moved the bolt when she shut it. I found her + standing, all eagerness, waiting me. We hurried back to the library, and + there I told her how I had effected an entrance, and met with a guide. + </p> + <p> + ‘It must have been little Polly Osborne,’ she said. ‘Her mother is going + to stay all night, I suppose. She’s a good-natured little goose, and won’t + tell.—Now come along. We’ll have a peep from the picture-gallery + into the ball-room. That door is sure to be open.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you don’t mind, Clara, I would rather stay where I am. I oughtn’t to + be wandering over the house when Mrs Wilson thinks I am here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you little coward!’ said Clara. + </p> + <p> + I thought I hardly deserved the word, and it did not make me more inclined + to accompany her. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can go alone,’ I said. ‘You did not expect to find me when you came.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I can. Of course not. It’s quite as well too. You won’t get me + into any more scrapes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Did</i> I get you into the scrape, Clara?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, you did,’ she answered laughing, and walked away. + </p> + <p> + I felt a good deal hurt, but comforted myself by saying she could not mean + it, and sat down again to the <i>Seven Champions</i>. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. THE GHOST. + </h2> + <p> + I saw no more of Clara, but sat and read until I grew cold and tired, and + wished very much that Mrs. Wilson would come. I thought she might have + forgot me in the hurry, and there I should have to stay all night. After + my recent escape, however, from a danger so much worse, I could regard the + prospect with some composure. A full hour more must have passed; I was + getting sleepy, and my candle had burned low, when at length Mrs Wilson + did make her appearance, and I accompanied her gladly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am sure you want your tea, poor boy!’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tea! Mrs. Wilson,’ I rejoined. ‘It’s bed I want. But when I think of it, + I <i>am</i> rather hungry.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You shall have tea and bed both,’ she answered kindly. ‘I’m sorry you’ve + had such a dull evening, but I could <i>not</i> help it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed, I’ve not been dull at all,’ I answered—‘till just the last + hour or so.’ + </p> + <p> + I longed to tell her all I had been about, for I felt guilty; but I would + not betray Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, here we are!’ she said, opening the door of her own room. ‘I hope I + shall have peace enough to see you make a good meal.’ + </p> + <p> + I did make a good meal. When I had done, Mrs Wilson took a rushlight and + led the way. I took my sword and followed her. Into what quarter of the + house she conducted me I could not tell. There was a nice fire burning in + the room, and my night-apparel was airing before it. She set the light on + the floor, and left me with a kind good-night. I was soon undressed and in + bed, with my sword beside me on the coverlet of silk patchwork. + </p> + <p> + But, from whatever cause, sleepy as I had been a little while before, I + lay wide awake now, staring about the room. Like many others in the house, + it was hung with tapestry, which was a good deal worn and patched—notably + in one place, where limbs of warriors and horses came to an untimely end, + on all sides of a certain oblong piece quite different from the rest in + colour and design. I know now that it was a piece of <i>Gobelins,</i> in + the midst of ancient needlework. It looked the brighter of the two, but + its colours were about three, with a good deal of white; whereas that + which surrounded it had had many and brilliant colours, which, faded and + dull and sombre, yet kept their harmony. The guard of the rushlight cast + deeper and queerer shadows, as the fire sank lower. Its holes gave eyes of + light to some of the figures in the tapestry, and as the light wavered, + the eyes wandered about in a ghostly manner, and the shadows changed and + flickered and heaved uncomfortably. + </p> + <p> + How long I had lain thus I do not know; but at last I found myself + watching the rectangular patch of newer tapestry. Could it be that it + moved? It <i>could</i> be only the effect of the wavering shadows. And yet + I could not convince myself that it did not move. It <i>did</i> move. It + came forward. One side of it did certainly come forward. A kind of + universal cramp seized me—a contraction of every fibre of my body. + The patch opened like a door—wider and wider; and from behind came a + great helmet peeping. I was all one terror, but my nerves held out so far + that I lay like a watching dog—watching for what horror would come + next. The door opened wider, a mailed hand and arm appeared, and at length + a figure, armed cap-à-pie, stepped slowly down, stood for a moment peering + about, and then began to walk through the room, as if searching for + something. It came nearer and nearer to the bed. I wonder now, when I + think of it, that the cold horror did not reach my heart. I cannot have + been so much a coward, surely, after all! But I suspect it was only that + general paralysis prevented the extreme of terror, just as a man in the + clutch of a wild beast is hardly aware of suffering. At last the figure + stooped over my bed, and stretched out a long arm. I remember nothing + more. + </p> + <p> + I woke in the grey of the morning. Could a faint have passed into a sleep? + or was it all a dream? I lay for some time before I could recall what made + me so miserable. At length my memory awoke, and I gazed fearful about the + room. The white ashes of the burnt-out fire were lying in the grate; the + stand of the rushlight was on the floor; the wall with its tapestry was + just as it had been; the cold grey light had annihilated the fancied + visions: I had been dreaming and was now awake. But I could not lie longer + in bed. I must go out. The morning air would give me life; I felt worn and + weak. Vision or dream, the room was hateful to me. With a great effort I + sat up, for I still feared to move, lest I should catch a glimpse of the + armed figure. Terrible as it had been in the night, it would be more + terrible now. I peered into every corner. Each was vacant. Then first I + remembered that I had been reading the <i>Castile of Otranto</i> and the + <i>Seven Champions of Christendom</i> the night before. I jumped out of + bed and dressed myself, growing braver and braver as the light of the + lovely Spring morning swelled in the room. Having dipped my head in cold + water, I was myself again. I opened the lattice and looked out. The first + breath of air was a denial to the whole thing. I laughed at myself. Earth + and sky were alive with Spring. The wind was the breath of the coming + Summer: there were flakes of sunshine and shadow in it. Before me lay a + green bank with a few trees on its top. It was crowded with primroses + growing through the grass. The dew was lying all about, shining and + sparkling in the first rays of the level sun, which itself I could not + see. The tide of life rose in my heart and rushed through my limbs. I + would take my sword and go for a ramble through the park. I went to my + bedside, and stretched across to find it by the wall. It must have slipped + down at the back of the bed. No. Where could it be? In a word, I searched + everywhere, but my loved weapon had vanished. The visions of the night + returned, and for a moment I believed them all. The night once again + closed around me, darkened yet more with the despair of an irreparable + loss. I rushed from the room and through a long passage, with the blind + desire to get out. The stare of an unwashed maid, already busy with her + pail and brush, brought me to my senses. + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said; ‘I want to get out.’ + </p> + <p> + She left her implements, led me down a stair close at hand, opened a door + at its foot, and let me out into the high court. I gazed about me. It was + as if I had escaped from a prison-cell into the chamber of torture: I + stood the centre of a multitude of windows—the eyes of the house all + fixed upon me. On one side was the great gate, through which, from the + roof, I had seen the carriages drive the night before; but it was closed. + I remembered, however, that Sir Giles had brought me in by a wicket in + that gate. I hastened to it. There was but a bolt to withdraw, and I was + free. + </p> + <p> + But all was gloomy within, and genial nature could no longer enter. + Glittering jewels of sunlight and dew were nothing but drops of water upon + blades of grass. Fresh-bursting trees were no more than the deadest of + winter-bitten branches. The great eastern window of the universe, gorgeous + with gold and roses, was but the weary sun making a fuss about nothing. My + sole relief lay in motion. I roamed I knew not whither, nor how long. + </p> + <p> + At length I found myself on a height eastward of the Hall, overlooking its + gardens, which lay in deep terraces beneath. Inside a low wall was the + first of them, dark with an avenue of ancient trees, and below was the + large oriel window in the end of the ball-room. I climbed over the wall, + which was built of cunningly fitted stones, with mortar only in the top + row; and drawn by the gloom, strolled up and down the avenue for a long + time. At length I became aware of a voice I had heard before. I could see + no one; but, hearkening about, I found it must come from the next terrace. + Descending by a deep flight of old mossy steps, I came upon a strip of + smooth sward, with yew trees, dark and trim, on each side of it. At the + end of the walk was an arbour, in which I could see the glimmer of + something white. Too miserable to be shy, I advanced and peeped in. The + girl who had shown me the way to the library was talking to her mother. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mamma!’ she said, without showing any surprise, ‘here is the boy who came + into our room last night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you do?’ said the lady kindly, making room for me on the bench + beside her. + </p> + <p> + I answered as politely as I could, and felt a strange comfort glide from + the sweetness of her countenance. + </p> + <p> + ‘What an adventure you had last night!’ she said. ‘It was well you did not + fall.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That wouldn’t have been much worse than having to stop where we were,’ I + answered. + </p> + <p> + The conversation thus commenced went on until I had told them all my + history, including my last adventure. + </p> + <p> + ‘You must have dreamed it,’ said the lady. + </p> + <p> + ‘So I thought, ma’am,’ I answered, ‘until I found that my sword was gone.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you sure you looked everywhere?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed, I did.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It does not follow however that the ghost took it. It is more likely Mrs + Wilson came in to see you after you were asleep, and carried it off.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes!’ I cried, rejoiced at the suggestion; ‘that must be it. I shall + ask her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am sure you will find it so. Are you going home soon?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—as soon as I’ve had my breakfast. It’s a good walk from here to + Aldwick.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So it is.—We are going that way too?’ she added thinkingly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr. Elder is a great friend of papa’s—isn’t he, mamma?’ said the + girl. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, my dear. They were friends at college.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have heard Mr Elder speak of Mr Osborne,’ I said. ‘Do you live near + us?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not very far off—in the next parish, where my husband is rector,’ + she answered. ‘If you could wait till the afternoon, we should be happy to + take you there. The pony-carriage is coming for us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ I answered; ‘but I ought to go immediately after + breakfast. You won’t mention about the roof, will you? I oughtn’t to get + Clara into trouble.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She is a wild girl,’ said Mrs Osborne; ‘but I think you are quite right.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How lucky it was I knew the library!’ said Mary, who had become quite + friendly, from under her mother’s wing. + </p> + <p> + ‘That it was! But I dare say you know all about the place,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, indeed!’ she returned. ‘I know nothing about it. As we went to our + room, mamma opened the door and showed me the library, else I shouldn’t + have been able to help you at all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you haven’t been here often?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; and I never shall be again.—I’m going away to school,’ she + added; and her voice trembled. + </p> + <p> + ‘So am I,’ I said. ‘I’m going to Switzerland in a month or two. But then I + haven’t a mamma to leave behind me.’ She broke down at that, and hid her + head on her mother’s bosom. I had unawares added to her grief, for her + brother Charley was going to Switzerland too. + </p> + <p> + I found afterwards that Mr Elder, having been consulted by Mr Osborne, had + arranged with my uncle that Charley Osborne and I should go together. + </p> + <p> + Mary Osborne—I never called her Polly as Clara did—continued + so overcome by her grief, that her mother turned to me and said, + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you had better go, Master Cumbermede.’ + </p> + <p> + I bade her good morning, and made my way to Mrs Wilson’s apartment. I + found she had been to my room, and was expecting me with some anxiety, + fearing I had set off without my breakfast. Alas! she knew nothing about + the sword, looked annoyed, and, I thought, rather mysterious; said she + would have a search, make inquiries, do what she could, and such like, but + begged I would say nothing about it in the house. I left her with a + suspicion that she believed the ghost had carried it away, and that it was + of no use to go searching for it. + </p> + <p> + Two days after, a parcel arrived for me. I concluded it was my sword; but, + to my grievous disappointment, found it was only a large hamper of apples + and cakes, very acceptable in themselves, but too plainly indicating Mrs + Wilson’s desire to console me for what could not be helped. Mr Elder never + missed the sword. I rose high in the estimation of my schoolfellows + because of the adventure, especially in that of Moberly, who did not + believe in the ghost, but ineffectually tasked his poor brains to account + for the disappearance of the weapon. The best light was thrown upon it by + a merry boy of the name of Fisher, who declared his conviction that the + steward had carried it off to add to his collection. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. AWAY. + </h2> + <p> + Will not linger longer over this part of my history—already, I fear, + much too extended for the patience of my readers. My excuse is that, in + looking back, the events I have recorded appear large and prominent, and + that certainly they have a close relation with my after-history. + </p> + <p> + The time arrived when I had to leave England for Switzerland. I will say + nothing of my leave-taking. It was not a bitter one. Hope was strong, and + rooted in present pleasure. I was capable of much happiness—keenly + responsive to the smallest agreeable impulse from without or from within. + I had good health, and life was happiness in itself. The blowing of the + wind, the shining of the sun, or the glitter of water, was sufficient to + make me glad; and I had self-consciousness enough to increase the delight + by the knowledge that I was glad. + </p> + <p> + The fact is I was coming in for my share in the spiritual influences of + Nature, so largely poured on the heart and mind of my generation. The + prophets of the new blessing, Wordsworth and Coleridge, I knew nothing of. + Keats was only beginning to write. I had read a little of Cowper, but did + not care for him. Yet I was under the same spell as they all. Nature was a + power upon me. I was filled with the vague recognition of a present soul + in Nature—with a sense of the humanity everywhere diffused through + her and operating upon ours. I was but fourteen, and had only feelings, + but something lay at the heart of the feelings, which would one day + blossom into thoughts. + </p> + <p> + At the coach-office in the county-town, I first met my future companion, + with his father, who was to see us to our destination. My uncle + accompanied me no further, and I soon found myself on the top of a coach, + with only one thing to do—make the acquaintance of Charles Osborne. + His father was on the box-seat, and we two sat behind; but we were both + shy, and for some time neither spoke. Charles was about my own age, rather + like his sister, only that his eyes were blue, and his hair a lightish + brown. A tremulousness about the mouth betrayed a nervous temperament. His + skin was very fair and thin, showing the blue veins. As he did not speak, + I sat for a little while watching him, without, however, the least + speculation concerning him, or any effort to discover his character. I had + not even yet reached the point of trying to find people out. I take what + time and acquaintance disclose, but never attempt to forestall, which may + come partly from trust, partly from want of curiosity, partly from a + disinclination to unnecessary mental effort. But as I watched his face, + half-unconsciously, I could not help observing that now and then it would + light up suddenly and darken again almost instantly. At last his father + turned round, and with some severity, said: + </p> + <p> + ‘You do not seem to be making any approaches to mutual acquaintance. + Charles, why don’t you address your companion?’ + </p> + <p> + The words were uttered in the slow tone of one used to matters too serious + for common speech. The boy cast a hurried glance at me, smiled + uncertainly, and moved uneasily on his seat. His father turned away and + made a remark to the coachman. + </p> + <p> + Mr Osborne was a very tall, thin, yet square-shouldered man, with a pale + face, and large features of delicate form. He looked severe, pure, and + irritable. The tone of his voice, although the words were measured and + rather stilted, led me to this last conclusion quite as much as the + expression of his face; for it was thin and a little acrid. I soon + observed that Charley started slightly, as often as his father addressed + him; but this might be because his father always did so with more or less + of abruptness. At times there was great kindness in his manner, seeming, + however, less the outcome of natural tenderness than a sense of duty. His + being was evidently a weight upon his son’s, and kept down the natural + movements of his spirit. A number of small circumstances only led me to + these conclusions; for nothing remarkable occurred to set in any strong + light their mutual relation. For his side Charles was always attentive and + ready, although with a promptitude that had more in it of the mechanical + impulse of habit than of pleased obedience. Mr Osborne spoke kindly to me—I + think the more kindly that I was not his son, and he was therefore not so + responsible for me. But he looked as if the care of the whole world lay on + his shoulders; as if an awful destruction were the most likely thing to + happen to every one, and to him were committed the toilsome chance of + saving some. Doubtless he would not have trusted his boy so far from home, + but that the clergyman to whom he was about to hand him over was an old + friend, of the same religious opinions as himself. + </p> + <p> + I could well, but must not, linger over the details of our journey, full + to me of most varied pleasure. The constant change, not so rapid as to + prevent the mind from reposing a little upon the scenes which presented + themselves; the passing vision of countries and peoples, manners and modes + of life, so different from our own, did much to arouse and develop my + nature. Those flashes of pleasure came upon Charles’s pale face more and + more frequently; and ere the close of the first day we had begun to talk + with some degree of friendliness. But it became clear to me that with his + father ever blocking up our horizon, whether he sat with his broad back in + front of us on the coach-box, or paced the deck of a vessel, or perched + with us under the hood on the top of a diligence, we should never arrive + at any freedom of speech. I sometimes wondered, long after, whether Mr + Osborne had begun to discover that he was overlaying and smothering the + young life of his boy, and had therefore adopted the plan, so little to + have been expected from him, of sending his son to foreign parts to + continue his education. + </p> + <p> + I have no distinct recollection of dates, or even of the exact season of + the year. I believe it was the early Summer, but in my memory the whole + journey is now a mass of confused loveliness and pleasure. Not that we had + the best of weather all the way. I well recollect pouring rains, and from + the fact that I distinctly remember my first view of an Alpine height, I + am certain we must have had days of mist and rain immediately before. That + sight, however, to me more like an individual revelation or vision than + the impact of an object upon the brain, stands in my mind altogether + isolated from preceding and following impressions—alone, a thing to + praise God for, if there be a God to praise. If there be not, then was the + whole thing a grand and lovely illusion, worthy, for grandeur and + loveliness, of a world with a God at the heart of it. But the grandeur and + the loveliness spring from the operation of natural laws; the laws + themselves are real and true—how could the false result from them? I + hope yet, and will hope, that I am not a bubble filled with the mocking + breath of a Mephistopheles, but a child whom his infinite Father will not + hardly judge because he could not believe in him so much as he would. I + will tell how the vision came. + </p> + <p> + Although comparatively few people visited Switzerland in those days, Mr + Osborne had been there before, and for some reason or other had determined + on going round by Interlachen. At Thun we found a sail-boat, which we + hired to take us and our luggage. At starting, an incident happened which + would not be worth mentioning, but for the impression it made upon me. A + French lady accompanied by a young girl approached Mr Osborne—doubtless + perceiving he was a clergyman, for, being an <i>Evangelical</i> of the + most pure, honest, and narrow type, he was in every point and line of his + countenance marked a priest and apart from his fellow-men—and asked + him to allow her and her daughter to go in the boat with us to + Interlachen. A glow of pleasure awoke in me at sight of his courtly + behaviour, with lifted hat and bowed head; for I had never been in the + company of such a gentleman before. But the wish instantly followed that + his son might have shared in his courtesy. We partook freely of his + justice and benevolence, but he showed us no such grace as he showed the + lady. I have since observed that sons are endlessly grateful for courtesy + from their fathers. + </p> + <p> + The lady and her daughter sat down in the stern of the boat; and therefore + Charley and I, not certainly to our discomfiture, had to go before the + mast. The men rowed out into the lake, and then hoisted the sail. Away we + went careering before a pleasant breeze. As yet it blew fog and mist, but + the hope was that it would soon blow it away. + </p> + <p> + An unspoken friendship by this time bound Charley and me together, silent + in its beginnings and slow in its growth—not the worst pledges of + endurance. And now for the first time in our journey, Charley was hidden + from his father: the sail came between them. He glanced at me with a + slight sigh, which even then I took for an involuntary sigh of relief. We + lay leaning over the bows, now looking up at the mist blown in + never-ending volumed sheets, now at the sail swelling in the wind before + which it fled, and again down at the water through which our boat was + ploughing its evanescent furrow. We could see very little. Portions of the + shore would now and then appear, dim like reflections from a tarnished + mirror, and then fade back into the depths of cloudy dissolution. Still it + was growing lighter, and the man who was on the outlook became less + anxious in his forward gaze, and less frequent in his calls to the + helmsman. I was lying half over the gunwale, looking into the + strange-coloured water, blue dimmed with undissolved white, when a cry + from Charles made me start and look up. It was indeed a God-like vision. + The mist yet rolled thick below, but away up, far away and far up, yet as + if close at hand, the clouds were broken into a mighty window, through + which looked in upon us a huge mountain peak swathed in snow. One great + level band of darker cloud crossed its breast, above which rose the peak, + triumphant in calmness, and stood unutterably solemn and grand, in clouds + as white as its own whiteness. It had been there all the time! I sunk on + my knees in the boat and gazed up. With a sudden sweep the clouds + curtained the mighty window, and the Jungfrau withdrew into its Holy of + Holies. I am painfully conscious of the helplessness of my speech. The + vision vanishes from the words as it vanished from the bewildered eyes. + But from the mind it glorified it has never vanished. I have <i>been</i> + more ever since that sight. To have beheld a truth is an apotheosis. What + the truth was I could not tell; but I had seen something which raised me + above my former self and made me long to rise higher yet. It awoke + worship, and a belief in the incomprehensible divine; but admitted of + being analysed no more than, in that transient vision, my intellect could—ere + dawning it vanished—analyse it into the deserts of rock, the gulfs + of green ice and flowing water, the savage solitudes of snow, the + mysterious miles of draperied mist, that went to make up the vision, each + and all essential thereto. + </p> + <p> + I had been too much given to the attempted production in myself of effects + to justify the vague theories towards which my inborn prepossessions + carried me. I had felt enough to believe there was more to be felt; and + such stray scraps of verse of the new order as, floating about, had + reached me, had set me questioning and testing my own life and perceptions + and sympathies by what these awoke in me at second-hand. I had often + doubted, oppressed by the power of these, whether I could myself see, or + whether my sympathy with Nature was not merely inspired by the vision of + others. Ever after this, if such a doubt returned, with it arose the + Jungfrau, looking into my very soul. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh Charley!’ was all I could say. Our hands met blindly, and clasped each + other. I burst into silent tears. + </p> + <p> + When I looked up, Charley was staring into the mist again. His eyes, too, + were full of tears, but some troubling contradiction prevented their + flowing: I saw it by the expression of that mobile but now firmly-closed + mouth. + </p> + <p> + Often ere we left Switzerland I saw similar glories: this vision remains + alone, for it was the first. + </p> + <p> + I will not linger over the tempting delight of the village near which we + landed, its houses covered with quaintly-notched wooden scales like those + of a fish, and its river full to the brim of white-blue water, rushing + from the far-off bosom of the glaciers. I had never had such a sense of + exuberance and plenty as this river gave me—especially where it + filled the planks and piles of wood that hemmed it in like a trough. I + might agonize in words for a day and I should not express the delight. + And, lest my readers should apprehend a diary of a tour, I shall say + nothing more of our journey, remarking only that if Switzerland were to + become as common to the mere tourist mind as Cheapside is to a Londoner, + the meanest of its glories would be no whit impaired thereby. Sometimes, I + confess, in these days of overcrowded cities, when, in periodical floods, + the lonely places of the earth are from them inundated, I do look up to + the heavens and say to myself that there at least, between the stars, even + in thickest of nebulous constellations, there is yet plenty of pure, + unadulterated room—not even a vapour to hang a colour upon; but + presently I return to my better mind and say that any man who loves his + fellow will yet find he has room enough and to spare. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. THE ICE-CAVE. + </h2> + <p> + During our journey, Mr Osborne had seldom talked to us, and far more + seldom in speech sympathetic. If by chance I came out with anything I + thought or felt, even if he did not disapprove altogether, he would yet + first lay hold of something to which he could object, coming round only by + degrees, and with differences, to express consent. Evidently with him + objection was the first step in instruction. It was better in his eyes to + say you were wrong than to say you were right, even if you should be much + more right than wrong. He had not the smallest idea of siding with the + truth in you, of digging about it and watering it until it grew a great + tree in which all your thought-birds might nestle and sing their songs; + but he must be ever against the error—forgetting that the only + antagonist of the false is the true. ‘What,’ I used to think in + after-years, ‘is the use of battering the walls to get at the error, when + the kindly truth is holding the postern open for you to enter, and pitch + it out of window.’ + </p> + <p> + The evening before we parted, he gave us a solemn admonishment on the + danger of being led astray by what men called the beauties of Nature—for + the heart was so desperately wicked that, even of the things God had made + <i>to show his power</i>, it would make snares for our destruction. I will + not go on with his homily, out of respect for the man; for there was much + earnestness in him, and it would utterly shame me if I were supposed to + hold that up to the contempt which the forms it took must bring upon it. + Besides, he made such a free use of the most sacred of names, that I + shrink from representing his utterance. A good man I do not doubt he was; + but he did the hard parts of his duty to the neglect of the genial parts, + and therefore was not a man to help others to be good. His own son revived + the moment he took his leave of us—began to open up as the little + red flower called the Shepherd’s Hour-Glass opens when the cloud + withdraws. It is a terrible thing when the father is the cloud, and not + the sun, of his child’s life. If Charley had been like the greater number + of boys I have known, all this would only have hardened his mental and + moral skin by the natural process of accommodation. But his skin would not + harden, and the evil wrought the deeper. From his father he had inherited + a conscience of abnormal sensibility; but he could not inherit the + religious dogmas by means of which his father had partly deadened, partly + distorted his; and constant pressure and irritation had already generated + a great soreness of surface. + </p> + <p> + When he began to open up, it was after a sad fashion at first. To resume + my simile of the pimpernel—it was to disclose a heart in which the + glowing purple was blanched to a sickly violet. What happiness he had, + came in fits and bursts, and passed as quickly, leaving him depressed and + miserable. He was always either wishing to be happy, or trying to be sure + of the grounds of the brief happiness he had. He allowed the natural + blessedness of his years hardly a chance: the moment its lobes appeared + above ground, he was handling them, examining them, and trying to pull + them open. No wonder they crept underground again! It may seem hardly + credible that such should be the case with a boy of fifteen, but I am not + mistaken in my diagnosis. I will go a little further. Gifted with the + keenest perceptions, and a nature unusually responsive to the feelings of + others, he was born to be an artist. But he was content neither with his + own suggestions, nor with understanding those of another; he must, by the + force of his own will, generate his friend’s feeling in himself, not + perceiving the thing impossible. This was one point at which we touched, + and which went far to enable me to understand him. The original in him was + thus constantly repressed, and he suffered from the natural consequences + of repression. He suffered also on the physical side from a tendency to + disease of the lungs inherited from his mother. + </p> + <p> + Mr Forest’s house stood high on the Grindelwald side of the Wengern Alp, + under a bare grassy height full of pasture both Summer and Winter. In + front was a great space, half meadow, half common, rather poorly covered + with hill-grasses. The rock was near the surface, and in places came + through, when the grass was changed for lichens and mosses. Through this + rocky meadow now roamed, now rushed, now tumbled one of those Alpine + streams the very thought of whose ice-born plenitude makes me happy yet. + Its banks were not abrupt, but rounded gently in, and grassy down to the + water’s brink. The larger torrents of Winter wore the channel wide, and + the sinking of the water in Summer let the grass grow within it. But + peaceful as the place was, and merry with the constant rush of this busy + stream, it had, even in the hottest Summer day, a memory of the Winter + about it, a look of suppressed desolation; for the only trees upon it were + a score of straggling pines—all dead, as if blasted by lightning, or + smothered by snow. Perhaps they were the last of the forest in that part, + and their roots had reached a stratum where they could not live. All I + know is that there they stood, blasted and dead every one of them. + </p> + <p> + Charley could never bear them, and even disliked the place because of + them. His father was one whom a mote in his brother’s eye repelled. The + son suffered for this in twenty ways—one of which was that a single + spot in the landscape was to him enough to destroy the loveliness of + exquisite surroundings. + </p> + <p> + A good way below lay the valley of the Grindelwald. The Eiger and the + Matterhorn were both within sight. If a man has any sense of the infinite, + he cannot fail to be rendered capable of higher things by such embodiments + of the high. Otherwise, they are heaps of dirt, to be scrambled up and + conquered, for scrambling and conquering’s sake. They are but warts, + Pelion and Ossa and all of them. They seemed to oppress Charley at first. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Willie,’ he said to me one day, ‘if I could but believe in those + mountains, how happy I should be! But I doubt, I doubt they are but rocks + and snow.’ + </p> + <p> + I only half understood him. I am afraid I never did understand him more + than half. Later I came to the conclusion that this was not the fit place + for him, and that if his father had understood him, he would never have + sent him there. + </p> + <p> + It was some time before Mr Forest would take us any mountain ramble. He + said we must first get accustomed to the air of the place, else the + precipices would turn our brains. He allowed us, however, to range within + certain bounds. + </p> + <p> + One day soon after our arrival, we accompanied one of our schoolfellows + down to the valley of the Grindelwald, specially to see the head of the + snake-glacier, which having crept thither can creep no further. Somebody + had even then hollowed out a cave in it. We crossed a little brook which + issued from it constantly, and entered. Charley uttered a cry of dismay, + but I was too much delighted at the moment to heed him. For the whole of + the white cavern was filled with blue air, so blue that I saw the air + which filled it. Perfectly transparent, it had no substance, only + blueness, which deepened and deepened as I went further in. All down the + smooth white walls evermore was stealing a thin veil of dissolution; while + here and there little runnels of the purest water were tumbling in tiny + cataracts from top to bottom. It was one of the thousand birthplaces of + streams, ever creeping into the day of vision from the unlike and the + unknown, unrolling themselves like the fronds of a fern out of the + infinite of God. Ice was all around, hard and cold and dead and white; but + out of it and away went the water babbling and singing in the sunlight. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Charley!’ I exclaimed, looking round in my transport for sympathy. It + was now my turn to cry out, for Charley’s face was that of a corpse. The + brilliant blue of the cave made us look to each other most ghastly and + fearful. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do come out, Wilfrid,’ he said; ‘I cannot bear it.’ + </p> + <p> + I put my arm in his, and we walked into the sunlight. He drew a deep + breath of relief, and turned to me with an attempt at a smile, but his lip + quivered. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s an awful place, Wilfrid. I don’t like it. Don’t go in again. I + should stand waiting to see you come out in a winding-sheet. I think + there’s something wrong with my brain. That blue seems to have got into + it. I see everything horribly dead.’ + </p> + <p> + On the way back he started several times, and looked, round as if with + involuntary apprehension, but mastered himself with an effort, and joined + again in the conversation. Before we reached home he was much fatigued, + and complaining of head-ache, went to bed immediately on our arrival. + </p> + <p> + We slept in the same room. When I went up at the usual hour, he was awake. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can’t you sleep, Charley?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve been asleep several times,’ he answered, ‘but I’ve had such a + horrible dream every time! We were all corpses that couldn’t get to sleep, + and went about pawing the slimy walls of our marble sepulchre—so + cold and wet! It was that horrible ice-cave, I suppose. But then you know + that’s just what it is, Wilfrid.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, instinctively turning from the + subject, for the glitter of his blue eyes looked bodeful. I did not know + then how like he and I were, or how like my fate might have been to his, + if, instead of finding at once a fit food for my fancy, and a safety-valve + for its excess, in those old romances, I had had my regards turned inwards + upon myself, before I could understand the phenomena there exhibited. + Certainly I too should have been thus rendered miserable, and body and + soul would have mutually preyed on each other. + </p> + <p> + I sought to change the subject. I could never talk to him about his + father, but he had always been ready to speak of his mother and his + sister. Now, however, I could not rouse him. ‘Poor mamma!’ was all the + response he made to some admiring remark; and when I mentioned his sister + Mary, he only said, ‘She’s a good girl, our Mary,’ and turned uneasily + towards the wall. I went to bed. He lay quiet, and I fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + When I woke in the morning, I found him very unwell. I suppose the illness + had been coming on for some time. He was in a low fever. As the doctor + declared it not infectious, I was allowed to nurse him. He was often + delirious, and spoke the wildest things. Especially, he would converse + with the Saviour after the strangest fashion. + </p> + <p> + He lay ill for some weeks. Mr Forest would not allow me to sit up with him + at night, but I was always by his bedside early in the morning, and did + what I could to amuse and comfort him through the day. When at length he + began to grow better, he was more cheerful than I had known him hitherto; + but he remained very weak for some time. He had grown a good deal during + his illness, and indeed never looked a boy again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. + </h2> + <p> + One summer morning we all got up very early, except Charley, who was unfit + for the exertion, to have a ramble in the mountains, and see the sun rise. + The fresh friendly air, full of promise, greeting us the moment we crossed + the threshold; the calm light which, without visible source, lay + dream-like on the hills; the brighter space in the sky whence ere long the + spring of glory would burst forth triumphant; the dull white of the + snow-peaks, dwelling so awful and lonely in the mid heavens, as if nothing + should ever comfort them or make them acknowledge the valleys below; the + sense of adventure with which we climbed the nearer heights as familiar to + our feet on ordinary days as the stairs to our bedrooms; the gradual + disappearance of the known regions behind us, and the dawning sense of the + illimitable and awful, folding in its bosom the homely and familiar—combined + to produce an impression which has never faded. The sun rose in splendour, + as if nothing more should hide in the darkness for ever; and yet with the + light came a fresh sense of mystery, for now that which had appeared + smooth was all broken and mottled with shadows innumerable. Again and + again I found myself standing still to gaze in a rapture of delight which + I can only recall, not express; again and again was I roused by the voice + of the master in front, shouting to me to come on, and warning me of the + danger of losing sight of the rest of the company; and again and again I + obeyed, but without any perception of the peril. + </p> + <p> + The intention was to cross the hills into the valley of the Lauterbrunnen, + not, however, by the path now so well known, but by another way, hardly a + path, with which the master and some of the boys were familiar enough. It + was my first experience of anything like real climbing. As we passed + rapidly over a moorland space, broken with huge knolls and solitary rocks, + something hurt my foot, and taking off my shoe, I found that a small + chiropodical operation was necessary, which involved the use of my knife. + It slipped, and cut my foot, and I bound the wound with a strip from my + pocket-handkerchief. When I got up, I found that my companions had + disappeared. This gave me little trouble at the moment, for I had no doubt + of speedily overtaking them; and I set out briskly in the direction, as I + supposed, in which we had been going. But I presume that, instead of + following them, I began at once to increase the distance between us. At + all events, I had not got far before a pang of fear shot through me—the + first awaking doubt. I called—louder—and louder yet; but there + was no response, and I knew I was alone. + </p> + <p> + Invaded by sudden despair, I sat down, and for a moment did not even + think. All at once I became aware of the abysses which surrounded the + throne of my isolation. Behind me the broken ground rose to an unseen + height, and before me it sloped gently downwards, without a break to the + eye, yet I felt as if, should I make one wavering movement, I must fall + down one of the frightful precipices which Mr Forest had told me as a + warning lay all about us. I actually clung to the stone upon which I sat, + although I could not have been in more absolute safety for the moment had + I been dreaming in bed. The old fear had returned upon me with a tenfold + feeling of reality behind it. I presume it is so all through life: it is + not what is, but what may be, that oftenest blanches the cheek and + paralyzes the limbs; and oftenest gives rise to that sense of the need of + a God which we are told nowadays is a superstition, and which he whom we + call the Saviour acknowledged and justified in telling us to take no + thought for the morrow, inasmuch as God took thought for it. I strove to + master my dismay, and forced myself to get up and run about; and in a few + minutes the fear had withdrawn into the background, and I felt no longer + an unseen force dragging me towards a frightful gulf. But it was replaced + by a more spiritual horror. The sense of loneliness seized upon me, and + the first sense of absolute loneliness is awful. Independent as a man may + fancy himself in the heart of a world of men, he is only to be convinced + that there is neither voice nor hearing, to know that the face from which + he most recoils is of a kind essential to his very soul. Space is not + room; and when we complain of the over-crowding of our fellows, we are + thankless for that which comforts us the most, and desire its absence in + ignorance of our deepest nature. + </p> + <p> + Not even a bird broke the silence. It lay upon my soul as the sky and the + sea lay upon the weary eye of the ancient mariner. It is useless to + attempt to convey the impression of my misery. It was not yet the fear of + death, or of hunger or thirst, for I had as yet no adequate idea of the + vast lonelinesses that lie in a mountain land: it was simply the being + alone, with no ear to hear and no voice to answer me—a torture to + which the soul is liable in virtue of the fact that it was not made to be + alone, yea, I think, I hope, never <i>can</i> be alone; for that which + could be fact could not be such horror. Essential horror springs from an + idea repugnant to the <i>nature</i> of the thinker, and which therefore in + reality could not be. + </p> + <p> + My agony rose and rose with every moment of silence. But when it reached + its height, and when, to save myself from bursting into tears, I threw + myself on the ground, and began gnawing at the plants about me—then + first came help: I had a certain <i>experience</i>, as the Puritans might + have called it. I fear to build any definite conclusions upon it, from the + dread of fanaticism and the danger of attributing a merely physical effect + to a spiritual cause. But are matter and spirit so far asunder? It is my + will moves my arm, whatever first moves my will. Besides, I do not + understand how, unless another influence came into operation, the extreme + of misery and depression should work round into such a change as I have to + record. + </p> + <p> + But I do not know how to describe the change. The silence was crushing or + rather sucking my life out of me—up into its own empty gulfs. The + horror of the great stillness was growing deathly, when all at once I rose + to my feet, with a sense of power and confidence I had never had before. + It was as if something divine within me awoke to outface the desolation. I + felt that it was time to act, and that I could act. There is no cure for + terror like action: in a few moments I could have approached the verge of + any precipice—at least without abject fear. The silence—no + longer a horrible vacancy—appeared to tremble with unuttered + thinkings. The manhood within me was alive and awake. I could not + recognize a single landmark, or discover the least vestige of a path. I + knew upon which hand the sun was when we started; and took my way with the + sun on the other side. But a cloud had already come over him. + </p> + <p> + I had not gone far before I saw in front of me, on the other side of a + little hillock, something like the pale blue grey fog that broods over a + mountain lake. I ascended the hillock, and started back with a cry of + dismay: I was on the very verge of an awful gulf. When I think of it, I + marvel yet that I did not lose my self-possession altogether. I only + turned and strode in the other direction—the faster for the fear. + But I dared not run, for I was haunted by precipices. Over every height, + every mound, one might be lying—a trap for my destruction. I no + longer looked out in the hope of recognizing some feature of the country; + I could only regard the ground before me, lest at any step I might come + upon an abyss. + </p> + <p> + I had not walked far before the air began to grow dark. I glanced again at + the sun. The clouds had gathered thick about him. Suddenly a mountain wind + blew cold in my face. I never yet can read that sonnet of Shakspere’s, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Full many a glorious morning I have seen + Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, + Kissing with golden face the meadows green, + Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; + Anon permit the basest clouds to ride + With ugly rack on his celestial face, + And from the forlorn world his visage hide, + Stealing unseen to west with his disgrace,— +</pre> + <p> + without recalling the gladness when I started from home and the misery + that so soon followed. But my new spirits did not yet give way. I trudged + on. The wind increased, and in it came by-and-by the trailing skirts of a + cloud. In a few moments more I was wrapped in mist. It was as if the gulf + from which I had just escaped had sent up its indwelling demon of fog to + follow and overtake me. I dared hardly go on even with the greatest + circumspection. As I grew colder, my courage declined. The mist wetted my + face and sank through my clothes, and I began to feel very wretched, I sat + down, not merely from dread of the precipices, but to reserve my walking + powers when the mist should withdraw. I began to shiver, and was getting + utterly hopeless and miserable when the fog lifted a little, and I saw + what seemed a great rock near me. I crept towards it. Almost suddenly it + dwindled, and I found but a stone, yet one large enough to afford me some + shelter. I went to the leeward side of it, and nestled at its foot. The + mist again sank, and the wind blew stronger, but I was in comparative + comfort, partly because my imagination was wearied. I fell fast asleep. + </p> + <p> + I awoke stiff with cold. Rain was falling in torrents, and I was wet to + the skin; but the mist was much thinner, and I could see a good way. For + awhile I was very heartless, what with the stiffness, and the fear of + having to spend the night on the mountains. I was hungry too, not with the + appetite of desire but of need. The worst was that I had no idea in what + direction I ought to go. Downwards lay precipices—upwards lay the + surer loneliness. I knelt, and prayed the God who dwelt in the silence to + help me; then strode away I knew not whither—up the hill in the + faint hope of discovering some sign to direct me. As I climbed the hill + rose. When I surmounted what had seemed the highest point, away beyond + rose another. But the slopes were not over-steep, and I was able to get on + pretty fast. The wind being behind me, I hoped for some shelter over the + highest brow, but that, for anything I knew, might be miles away in the + regions of ice and snow. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: I FELL FAST ASLEEP.} + </p> + <p> + I had been walking I should think about an hour, when the mist broke away + from around me, and the sun, in the midst of clouds of dull orange and + gold, shone out upon the wet hill. It was like a promise of safety, and + woke in me courage to climb the steep and crumbling slope which now lay + before me. But the fear returned. People had died in the mountains of + hunger, and I began to make up my mind to meet the worst. I had not + learned that the approach of any fate is just the preparation for that + fate. I troubled myself with the care of that which was not impending over + me. I tried to contemplate the death-struggle with equanimity, but could + not. Had I been wearier and fainter, it would have appeared less dreadful. + Then, in the horror of the slow death of hunger, strange as it may appear, + that which had been the special horror of my childish dreams returned upon + me changed into a thought of comfort: I could, ere my strength failed me + utterly, seek the verge of a precipice, lie down there, and when the + suffering grew strong enough to give me courage, roll myself over the + edge, and cut short the agony. + </p> + <p> + At length I gained the brow of the height, and at last the ground sank + beyond. There was no precipice to terrify, only a somewhat steep descent + into a valley large and wide. But what a vision arose on the opposite side + of that valley!—an upright wilderness of rocks, slopes, precipices, + snow, glaciers, avalanches! Weary and faint as I was, I was filled with a + glorious awe, the terror of which was the opposite of fear, for it lifted + instead of debasing the soul. Not a pine-tree softened the haggard waste; + not a single stray sheep of the wind’s flock drew one trail of its + thin-drawn wool behind it; all was hard and bare. The glaciers lay like + the skins of cruel beasts, with the green veins yet visible, nailed to the + rocks to harden in the sun; and the little streams which ran down from + their claws looked like the knife-blades they are, keen and hard and + shining, sawing away at the bones of the old mountain. But although the + mountain looked so silent, there came from it every now and then a + thunderous sound. At first I could not think what it was, but gazing at + its surface more steadily, upon the face of a slope I caught sight of what + seemed a larger stream than any of the rest; but it soon ceased to flow, + and after came the thunder of its fall: it <i>was</i> a stream, but a + solid one—an avalanche. Away up in the air the huge snow-summit + glittered in the light of the Afternoon sun. I was gazing on the Maiden in + one of her most savage moods—or to speak prose—I was regarding + one of the wildest aspects of the many-sided Jungfrau. + </p> + <p> + Half way down the hill, almost right under my feet, rose a slender column + of smoke, I could not see whence. I hastened towards it, feeling as strong + as when I started in the morning. I zig-zagged down the slope, for it was + steep and slippery with grass, and arrived at length at a good-sized + cottage, which faced the Jungfrau. It was built of great logs laid + horizontally one above the other, all with notches half through near the + end, by which notches, lying into each other, the sides of the house were + held together at the corners. I soon saw it must be a sort of roadside + inn. There was no one about the place, but passing through a dark + vestibule, in which were stores of fodder and various utensils, I came to + a room in which sat a mother and her daughter, the former spinning, the + latter making lace on a pillow. In at the windows looked the great + Jungfrau. The room was lined with planks; the floor was boarded; the + ceiling, too, was of boards—pine-wood all around. + </p> + <p> + The women rose when I entered. I knew enough of German to make them + understand my story, and had learned enough of their <i>patois</i> to + understand them a little in return. They looked concerned, and the older + woman passing her hands over my jacket, turned to her daughter and + commenced a talk much too rapid and no doubt idiomatic for me to follow. + It was in the end mingled with much laughter, evidently at some proposal + of the mother. Then the daughter left the room, and the mother began to + heap wood on the fire. In a few minutes the daughter returned, still + laughing, with some garments, which the mother took from her. I was + watching everything from a corner of the hearth, where I had seated myself + wearily. The mother came up to me, and, without speaking, put something + over my head, which I found to be a short petticoat such as the women + wore; then told me I must take off my clothes, and have them dried at the + fire. She laid other garments on a chair beside me. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know how to put them on,’ I objected. + </p> + <p> + ‘Put on as many as you can,’ she said laughing, ‘and I will help you with + the rest.’ + </p> + <p> + I looked about. There was a great press in the room. I went behind it and + pulled off my clothes; and having managed to put on some of the girl’s + garments, issued from my concealment. The kindly laughter was renewed, and + mother and daughter busied themselves in arranging my apparel, evidently + seeking to make the best of me as a girl, an attempt favoured by my pale + face. When I seemed to myself completely arrayed, the girl said to her + mother what I took to mean, ‘Let us finish what we have begun;’ and + leaving the room, returned presently with the velvet collar embroidered + with silver and the pendent chains which the women of most of the cantons + wear, and put it on me, hooking the chains and leaving them festooned + under my arms. The mother was spreading out my clothes before the fire to + dry. + </p> + <p> + Neither was pretty, but both looked womanly and good. The daughter had the + attraction of youth and bright eyes; the mother of goodwill and + experience; but both were sallow, and the mother very wrinkled for what + seemed her years. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now,’ I said, summoning my German, ‘you’ve almost finished your work. + Make my short hair as like your long hair as you can, and then I shall be + a Swiss girl.’ + </p> + <p> + I was but a boy, and had no scruple concerning a bit of fun of which I + might have been ashamed a few years later. The girl took a comb from her + own hair and arranged mine. When she had finished, ‘One girl may kiss + another,’ I said; and doubtless she understood me, for she returned my + kiss with a fresh laugh. I sat down by the fire, and as its warmth crept + into my limbs, I rejoiced over comforts which yesterday had been a matter + of course. + </p> + <p> + Meantime they were busy getting me something to eat. Just as they were + setting it on the table, however, a loud call outside took them both away. + In a few moments two other guests entered, and then first I found myself + ashamed of my costume. With them the mother re-entered, calling behind + her, ‘There’s nobody at home; you must put the horses up yourself, Annel.’ + Then she moved the little table towards me, and proceeded to set out the + meal. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! I see you have got something to eat,’ said one of the strangers, in a + voice I fancied I had heard before. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you please to share it?’ returned the woman, moving the table again + towards the middle of the room. + </p> + <p> + I thought with myself that, if I kept silent, no one could tell I was not + a girl; and, the table being finally adjusted, I moved my seat towards it. + Meantime the man was helping his companion to take off her outer garments, + and put them before the fire. I saw the face of neither until they + approached the table and sat down. Great was my surprise to discover that + the man was the same I had met in the wood on my way to Moldwarp Hall, and + that the girl was Clara—a good deal grown—in fact, looking + almost a woman. From after facts, the meeting became less marvellous in my + eyes than it then appeared. + </p> + <p> + I felt myself in an awkward position—indeed, I felt almost guilty, + although any notion of having the advantage of them never entered my head. + I was more than half inclined to run out and help Annel with the horses, + but I was very hungry, and not at all willing to postpone my meal, simple + as it was—bread and butter, eggs, cheese, milk, and a bottle of the + stronger wine of the country, tasting like a coarse sherry. The two—father + and daughter evidently—talked about their journey, and hoped they + should reach the Grindelwald without more rain. + </p> + <p> + ‘By the way,’ said the gentleman, ‘it’s somewhere not far from here young + Cumbermede is at school. I know Mr Forest well enough—used to know + him, at least. We may as well call upon him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Cumbermede,’ said Clara; ‘who is he?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A nephew of Mrs Wilson’s—no, not nephew—second or third + cousin—or something of the sort, I believe.—Didn’t somebody + tell me you met him at the Hall one day?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that boy—Wilfrid. Yes; I told you myself. Don’t you remember + what a bit of fun we had the night of the ball? We were shut out on the + leads, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, to be sure, you did tell me. What sort of a boy is he?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I don’t know. Much like other boys. I did think he was a coward at + first, but he showed some pluck at last. I shouldn’t wonder if he turns + out a good sort of fellow! We <i>were</i> in a fix!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re a terrible madcap, Clara! If you don’t settle down as you grow, + you’ll be getting yourself into worse scrapes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not with you to look after me, papa dear,’ answered Clara, smiling. ‘It + was the fun of cheating old Goody Wilson, you know!’ + </p> + <p> + Her father grinned with his whole mouthful of teeth, and looked at her + with amusement—almost sympathetic roguery, which she evidently + appreciated, for she laughed heartily. + </p> + <p> + Meantime I was feeling very uncomfortable. Something within told me I had + no right to overhear remarks about myself; and, in my slow way, I was + meditating how to get out of the scrape. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a nice-looking girl that is!’ said Clara, without lifting her eyes + from her plate—‘I mean for a Swiss, you know. But I do like the + dress. I wish you would buy me a collar and chains like those, papa.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Always wanting to get something out of your old dad, Clara! Just like the + rest of you, always wanting something—eh?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, papa; it’s you gentlemen always want to keep everything for + yourselves. We only want you to share.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, you shall have the collar, and I shall have the chains.—Will + that do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, thank you, papa,’ she returned, nodding her head. ‘Meantime, hadn’t + you better give me your diamond pin? It would fasten this troublesome + collar so nicely!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There, child!’ he answered, proceeding to take it from his shirt. + ‘Anything else?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no, papa dear. I didn’t want it. I expected you, like everybody else, + to decline carrying out your professed principles.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What a nice girl she is,’ I thought, ‘after all!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My love,’ said her father, ‘you will know some day that I would do more + for you even than give you my pet diamond. If you are a good girl, and do + as I tell you, there will be grander things than diamond pins in store for + you. But you may have this if you like.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked fondly at her as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no, papa!—not now at least. I should not know what to do with + it. I should be sure to lose it.’ + </p> + <p> + If my clothes had been dry, I would have slipped away, put them on, and + appeared in my proper guise. As it was, I was getting more and more + miserable—ashamed of revealing who I was, and ashamed of hearing + what the speakers supposed I did not understand. I sat on irresolute. In a + little while, however, either the wine having got into my head, or the + food and warmth having restored my courage, I began to contemplate the + bolder stroke of suddenly revealing myself by some unexpected remark. They + went on talking about the country, and the road they had come. + </p> + <p> + ‘But we have hardly seen anything worth calling a precipice,’ said Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll see hundreds of them if you look out of the window,’ said her + father. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! but I don’t mean that,’ she returned. ‘It’s nothing to look at them + like that. I mean from the top of them—to look down, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Like from the flying buttress at Moldwarp Hall, Clara?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + The moment I began to speak, they began to stare. Clara’s hand was + arrested on its way towards the bread, and her father’s wine-glass hung + suspended between the table and his lips. I laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘By Jove!’ said Mr Coningham—and added nothing, for amazement, but + looked uneasily at his daughter, as if asking whether they had not said + something awkward about me. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s Wilfrid!’ exclaimed Clara, in the tone of one talking in her sleep. + Then she laid down her knife, and laughed aloud. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a guy you are!’ she exclaimed. ‘Who would have thought of finding + you in a Swiss girl? Really it was too bad of you to sit there and let us + go on as we did. I do believe we were talking about your precious self! At + least papa was.’ + </p> + <p> + Again her merry laugh rang out. She could not have taken a better way of + relieving us. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said; ‘but I felt so awkward in this costume that I + couldn’t bring myself to speak before. I tried very hard.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Poor boy!’ she returned, rather more mockingly than I liked, her violets + swimming in the dews of laughter. + </p> + <p> + By this time Mr Coningham had apparently recovered his self-possession. I + say <i>apparently</i>, for I doubt if he had ever lost it. He had only, I + think, been running over their talk in his mind to see if he had said + anything unpleasant, and now, re-assured, I think, he stretched his hand + across the table. + </p> + <p> + ‘At all events, Mr Cumbermede,’ he said, ‘<i>we</i> owe <i>you</i> an + apology. I am sure we can’t have said anything we should mind you hearing; + but—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh!’ I interrupted, ‘you have told me nothing I did not know already, + except that Mrs Wilson was a relation, of which I was quite ignorant.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is true enough, though.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What relation is she, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think, when I gather my recollections of the matter—I think she + was first cousin to your mother—perhaps it was only second cousin.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why shouldn’t she have told me so, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She must explain that herself. <i>I</i> cannot account for that. It is + very extraordinary.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how do you know so well about me, sir—if you don’t mind + saying?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I am an old friend of the family. I knew your father better than your + uncle, though. Your uncle is not over-friendly, you see.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am sorry for that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No occasion at all. I suppose he doesn’t like me. I fancy, being a + Methodist—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My uncle is not a Methodist, I assure you. He goes to the parish church + regularly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! it’s all one. I only meant to say that, being a man of somewhat + peculiar notions, I supposed he did not approve of my profession. Your + good people are just as ready as others, however, to call in the lawyer + when they fancy their rights invaded. Ha! ha! But no one has a right to + complain of another because he doesn’t choose to like him. Besides, it + brings grist to the mill. If everybody liked everybody, what would become + of the lawsuits? And that would unsuit us—wouldn’t it, Clara?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know, papa dear, what mamma would say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But she ain’t here, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But <i>I</i> am, papa; and I don’t like to hear you talk shop,’ said + Clara coaxingly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well; we won’t then. But I was only explaining to Mr Cumbermede how + I supposed it was that his uncle did not like me. There was no offence in + that, I hope, Mr Cumbermede?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly not,’ I answered. ‘I am the only offender. But I was innocent + enough as far as intention goes. I came in drenched and cold, and the good + people here amused themselves dressing me like a girl. It is quite time I + were getting home now. Mr Forest will be in a way about me. So will + Charley Osborne.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Coningham, ‘I remember hearing you were at school + together somewhere in this quarter. But tell us all about it. Did you lose + your way?’ + </p> + <p> + I told them my story. Even Clara looked grave when I came to the incident + of finding myself on the verge of the precipice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank God, my boy!’ said Mr Coningham kindly. ‘You have had a narrow + escape. I lost myself once in the Cumberland hills, and hardly got off + with my life. Here it is a chance you were ever seen again, alive or dead. + I wonder you’re not knocked up.’ + </p> + <p> + I was, however, more so than I knew. + </p> + <p> + ‘How are you going to get home?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know any way but walking,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you far from home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. I dare say the people here will be able to tell me. But I + think you said you were going down into the Grindelwald. I shall know + where I am there. Perhaps you will let me walk with you. Horses can’t go + very fast along these roads.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You shall have my horse, my boy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I couldn’t think of that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You must. I haven’t been wandering all day like you. You can ride, I + suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, pretty well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you shall ride with Clara, and I’ll walk with the guide. I shall go + and see after the horses presently.’ + </p> + <p> + It was indeed a delightful close to a dreadful day. We sat and chatted a + while, and then Clara and I went out to look at the Jungfrau. She told me + they had left her mother at Interlaken, and had been wandering about the + Bernese Alps for nearly a week. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t think what should have put it in papa’s head,’ she added; ‘for he + does not care much for scenery. I fancy he wants to make the most of poor + me, and so takes me the grand tour. He wanted to come without mamma, but + she said we were not to be trusted alone. She had to give in when we took + to horseback, though.’ + </p> + <p> + It was getting late, and Mr Coningham came out to find us. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is quite time we were going,’ he said. ‘In fact we are too late now. + The horses are ready, and your clothes are dry, Mr Cumbermede. I have felt + them all over.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How kind of you, sir!’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense! Why should any one want another to get his death of cold? If + you are to keep alive, it’s better to keep well as long as ever you can. + Make haste, though, and change your clothes.’ + </p> + <p> + I hurried away, followed by Clara’s merry laugh at my clumsy gait. In a + few moments I was ready. Mr Coningham had settled my bill for me. Mother + and daughter gave me a kind farewell, and I exhausted my German in vain + attempts to let them know how grateful I was for their goodness. There was + not much time, however, to spend even on gratitude. The sun was nearly + down, and I could see Clara mounted and waiting for me before the window. + I found Mr Coningham rather impatient. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come along, Mr Cumbermede; we must be off,’ he said. ‘Get up there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You <i>have</i> grown, though, after all,’ said Clara. ‘I thought it + might be only the petticoats that made you look so tall.’ + </p> + <p> + I got on the horse which the guide, a half-witted fellow from the next + valley, was holding for me, and we set out. The guide walked beside my + horse, and Mr Coningham beside Clara’s. The road was level for a little + way, but it soon turned up on the hill where I had been wandering, and + went along the steep side of it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will this do for a precipice, Clara?’ said her father. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! dear no,’ she answered; ‘it’s not worth the name. It actually slopes + outward.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Before we got down to the next level stretch it began again to rain. A + mist came on, and we could see but a little way before us. Through the + mist came the sound of the bells of the cattle upon the hill. Our guide + trudged carefully but boldly on. He seemed to know every step of the way. + Clara was very cool, her father a little anxious, and very attentive to + his daughter, who received his help with a never-failing merry gratitude, + making light of all annoyances. At length we came down upon the better + road, and travelled on with more comfort. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look, Clara!’ I said, ‘will that do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it?’ she asked, turning her head in the direction in which I + pointed. + </p> + <p> + On our right, through the veil, half of rain, half of gauzy mist, which + filled the air, arose a precipice indeed—the whole bulk it was of + the Eiger mountain, which the mist brought so near that it seemed + literally to overhang the road. Clara looked up for a moment, but betrayed + no sign of awe. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I think that will do,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Though you are only at the foot of it?’ I suggested. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, though I am only at the foot of it,’ she repeated. + </p> + <p> + ‘What does it remind you of?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing. I never saw anything it could remind me of,’ she answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nor read anything?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not that I remember.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It reminds me of Mount Sinai in the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>. You + remember Christian was afraid because the side of it which was next the + wayside did hang so much over that he thought it would fall on his head.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never read the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>,’ she returned, in a careless + if not contemptuous tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘Didn’t you? Oh, you would like it so much!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think I should. I don’t like religious books.’ ‘But that is such + a good story!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! it’s all a trap—sugar on the outside of a pill! The sting’s in + the tail of it. They’re all like that. <i>I</i> know them.’ + </p> + <p> + This silenced me, and for a while we went on without speaking. + </p> + <p> + The rain ceased; the mist cleared a little; and I began to think I saw + some landmarks I knew. A moment more, and I perfectly understood where we + were. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m all right now, sir,’ I said to Mr Coningham. ‘I can find my way from + here.’ + </p> + <p> + As I spoke I pulled up and proceeded to dismount. + </p> + <p> + ‘Sit still,’ he said. ‘We cannot do better than ride on to Mr Forest’s. I + don’t know him much, but I have met him, and in a strange country all are + friends, I dare say he will take us in for the night. Do you think he + could house us?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no doubt of it. For that matter, the boys could crowd a little.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it far from here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not above two miles, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you sure you know the way?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite sure.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you take the lead.’ + </p> + <p> + I did so. He spoke to the guide, and Clara and I rode on in front. + </p> + <p> + ‘You and I seem destined to have adventures together, Clara,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems so. But this is not so much of an adventure as that night on the + leads,’ she answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘You would not have thought so if you had been with me in the morning.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Were you very much frightened?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was. And then to think of finding you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was funny, certainly.’ + </p> + <p> + When we reached the house, there was great jubilation over me, but Mr + Forest himself was very serious. He had not been back more than half an + hour, and was just getting ready to set out again, accompanied by men from + the village below. Most of the boys were quite knocked up, for they had + been looking for me ever since they missed me. Charley was in a dreadful + way. When he saw me he burst into tears, and declared he would never let + me go out of his sight again. But if he had been with me, it would have + been death to both of us: I could never have got him over the ground. + </p> + <p> + Mr and Mrs Forest received their visitors with the greatest cordiality, + and invited them to spend a day or two with them, to which, after some + deliberation, Mr Coningham agreed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. AGAIN THE ICE-CAVE. + </h2> + <p> + The next morning he begged a holiday for me and Charley, of whose family + he knew something, although he was not acquainted with them. I was a + little disappointed at Charley’s being included in the request, not in the + least from jealousy, but because I had set my heart on taking Clara to the + cave in the ice, which I knew Charley would not like. But I thought we + could easily arrange to leave him somewhere near until we returned. I + spoke to Mr Coningham about it, who entered into my small scheme with the + greatest kindness. Charley confided to me afterwards that he did not take + to him—he was too like an ape, he said. But the impression of his + ugliness had with me quite worn off; and for his part, if I had been a + favourite nephew, he could not have been more complaisant and hearty. + </p> + <p> + I felt very stiff when we set out, and altogether not quite myself; but + the discomfort wore off as we went. Charley had Mr Coningham’s horse, and + I walked by the side of Clara’s, eager after any occasion, if but a + pretence, of being useful to her. She was quite familiar with me, but + seemed shy of Charley. He looked much more of a man than I; for not only, + as I have said, had he grown much during his illness, but there was an air + of troubled thoughtfulness about him which made him look considerably + older than he really was; while his delicate complexion and large blue + eyes had a kind of mystery about them that must have been very attractive. + </p> + <p> + When we reached the village, I told Charley that we wanted to go on foot + to the cave, and hoped he would not mind waiting our return. But he + refused to be left, declaring he should not mind going in the least; that + he was quite well now, and ashamed of his behaviour on the former + occasion; that, in fact, it must have been his approaching illness that + caused it. I could not insist, and we set out. The footpath led us through + fields of corn, with a bright sun overhead, and a sweet wind blowing. It + was a glorious day of golden corn, gentle wind, and blue sky—with + great masses of white snow, whiter than any cloud, held up in it. + </p> + <p> + We descended the steep bank; we crossed the wooden bridge over the little + river; we crunched under our feet the hail-like crystals lying rough on + the surface of the glacier; we reached the cave, and entered its blue + abyss. I went first into the delicious, yet dangerous-looking blue. The + cave had several sharp angles in it. When I reached the furthest corner I + turned to look behind me. I was alone. I walked back and peeped round the + last corner. Between that and the one beyond it stood Clara and Charley—staring + at each other with faces of ghastly horror. + </p> + <p> + Clara’s look certainly could not have been the result of any excess of + imagination. But many women respond easily to influences they could not + have originated. My conjecture is that the same horror had again seized + upon Charley when he saw Clara; that it made his face, already deathlike, + tenfold more fearful; that Clara took fright at his fear, her imagination + opening like a crystal to the polarized light of reflected feeling; and + thus they stood in the paralysis of a dismay which ever multiplied itself + in the opposed mirrors of their countenances. + </p> + <p> + I too was in terror—for Charley, and certainly wasted no time in + speculation. I went forward instantly, and put an arm round each. They + woke up, as it were, and tried to laugh. But the laugh was worse than the + stare. I hurried them out of the place. + </p> + <p> + We came upon Mr Coningham round the next corner, amusing himself with the + talk of the half-silly guide. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where are you going?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Out again,’ I answered. ‘The air is oppressive.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense!’ he said merrily. ‘The air is as pure as it is cold. Come, + Clara; I want to explore the penetralia of this temple of Isis.’ + </p> + <p> + I believe he intended a pun. + </p> + <p> + Clara turned with him; Charley and I went out into the sunshine. + </p> + <p> + ‘You should not have gone, Charley. You have caught a chill again,’ I + said. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, nothing of the sort,’ he answered. ‘Only it was too dreadful. That + lovely face! To see it like that—and know that is what it is coming + to!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You looked as horrid yourself,’ I returned. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t doubt it. We all did. But why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, just because of the blueness,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—the blueness, no doubt. That was all. But there it was, you + know.’ + </p> + <p> + Clara came out smiling. All her horror had vanished. I was looking into + the hole as she turned the last corner. When she first appeared, her face + was ‘like one that hath been seven days drowned;’ but as she advanced, the + decay thinned, and the life grew, until at last she stepped from the mouth + of the sepulchre in all the glow of her merry youth. It was a dumb show of + the resurrection. + </p> + <p> + As we went back to the inn, Clara, who was walking in front with her + father, turned her head and addressed me suddenly. + </p> + <p> + ‘You see it was all a sham, Wilfrid!’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘What was a sham? I don’t know what you mean,’ I rejoined. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why that,’ she returned, pointing with her hand. Then addressing her + father, ‘Isn’t that the Eiger,’ she asked—‘the same we rode under + yesterday?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To be sure it is,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + She turned again to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘You see it is all a sham! Last night it pretended to be on the very edge + of the road and hanging over our heads at an awful height. Now it has gone + a long way back, is not so very high, and certainly does not hang over. I + ought not to have been satisfied with that precipice. It took me in.’ + </p> + <p> + I did not reply at once. Clara’s words appeared to me quite irreverent, + and I recoiled from the very thought that there could be any sham in + nature; but what to answer her I did not know. I almost began to dislike + her; for it is often incapacity for defending the faith they love which + turns men into persecutors. + </p> + <p> + Seeing me foiled, Charley advanced with the doubtful aid of a sophism to + help me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Which is the sham, Miss Clara?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘That Eiger mountain there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! so I thought.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you are of my opinion, Mr Osborne?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean the mountain is shamming, don’t you—looking far off when + really it is near?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all. When it looked last night as if it hung right over our heads, + it was shamming. See it now—far away there!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But which, then, is the sham, and which is the true? It <i>looked</i> + near yesterday, and now it <i>looks</i> far away. Which is which?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It must have been a sham yesterday; for although it looked near, it was + very dull and dim, and you could only see the sharp outline of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just so I argue on the other side. The mountain must be shamming now, for + although it looks so far off, it yet shows a most contradictory clearness—not + only of outline but of surface.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Aha!’ thought I, ‘Miss Clara has found her match. They both know he is + talking nonsense, yet she can’t answer him. What she was saying was + nonsense too, but I can’t answer it either—not yet.’ + </p> + <p> + I felt proud of both of them, but of Charley especially, for I had had no + idea he could be so quick. + </p> + <p> + ‘What ever put such an answer into your head, Charley?’ I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! it’s not quite original,’ he returned. ‘I believe it was suggested by + two or three lines I read in a review just before we left home. They took + hold of me rather.’ + </p> + <p> + He repeated half of the now well-known little poem of Shelley, headed <i>Passage + of the Apennines</i>. He had forgotten the name of the writer, and it was + many years before I fell in with the lines myself. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘The Apennine in the light of day + Is a mighty mountain dim and gray, + Which between the earth and sky doth lay; + But when night comes, a chaos dread + On the dim starlight then is spread, + And the Apennine walks abroad with the storm.’ +</pre> + <p> + In the middle of it I saw Clara begin to titter, but she did not interrupt + him. When he had finished, she said with a grave face, too grave for + seriousness: + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you repeat the third line—I think it was, Mr Osborne?’ + </p> + <p> + He did so. + </p> + <p> + ‘What kind of eggs did the Apennine lay, Mr Osborne?’ she asked, still + perfectly serious. + </p> + <p> + Charley was abashed to find she could take advantage of probably a + provincialism to turn into ridicule such fine verses. Before he could + recover himself, she had planted another blow’ or two. + </p> + <p> + ‘And where is its nest?’ Between the earth and the sky is vague. But then + to be sure it must want a good deal of room. And after all, a mountain is + a strange fowl, and who knows where it might lay? Between earth and sky is + quite definite enough? Besides, the bird-nesting boys might be dangerous + if they knew where it was. It would be such a find for them!’ + </p> + <p> + My champion was defeated. Without attempting a word in reply, he hung back + and dropped behind. Mr Coningham must have heard the whole, but he offered + no remark. I saw that Charley’s sensitive nature was hurt, and my heart + was sore for him. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s too bad of you, Clara,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s too bad of me, Wilfrid?’ she returned. + </p> + <p> + I hesitated a moment, then answered— + </p> + <p> + ‘To make game of such verses. Any one with half a soul must see they were + fine.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very wrong of you, indeed, my dear,’ said Mr Coningham from behind, in a + voice that sounded as if he were smothering a laugh; but when I looked + round, his face was grave. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I suppose that half soul I haven’t got,’ returned Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I didn’t mean that,’ I said, lamely enough. ‘But there’s no logic in + that kind of thing, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You see, papa,’ said Clara, ‘what you are accountable for. Why didn’t you + make them teach me logic?’ + </p> + <p> + Her father smiled a pleased smile. His daughter’s naiveté would in his + eyes make up for any lack of logic. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Osborne,’ continued Clara, turning back, ‘I beg your pardon. I am a + woman, and you men don’t allow us to learn logic. But at the same time you + must confess you were making a bad use of yours. You know it was all + nonsense you were trying to pass off on me for wisdom.’ + </p> + <p> + He was by her side the instant she spoke to him. A smile grew upon his + face; I could see it growing, just as you see the sun growing behind a + cloud. In a moment it broke out in radiance. + </p> + <p> + ‘I confess,’ he said. ‘I thought you were too hard on Wilfrid; and he + hadn’t anything at hand to say for himself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you were too hard upon me, weren’t you? Two to one is not fair play—is + it now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; certainly not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And that justified a little false play on my part?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, it did <i>not</i>,’ said Charley, almost fiercely. ‘Nothing justifies + false play.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not even yours, Mr Osborne?’ replied Clara, with a stately coldness quite + marvellous in one so young; and leaving him, she came again to my side. I + peeped at Mr Coningham, curious to see how he regarded all this wrangling + with his daughter. He appeared at once amused and satisfied. Clara’s face + was in a glow, clearly of anger at the discourteous manner in which + Charley had spoken. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t be angry with Charley, Clara,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘He is very rude,’ she replied indignantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘What he said was rude, I allow, but Charley himself is anything but rude. + I haven’t looked at him, but I am certain he is miserable about it + already.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So he ought to be. To speak like that to a lady, when her very + friendliness put her off her guard! I never was treated so in all my + life.’ + </p> + <p> + She spoke so loud that she must have meant Charley to hear her. But when I + looked back, I saw that he had fallen a long way behind, and was coming on + very slowly, with dejected look and his eyes on the ground. Mr Coningham + did not interfere by word or sign. + </p> + <p> + When we reached the inn he ordered some refreshment, and behaved to us + both as if we were grown men. Just a touch of familiarity was the sole + indication that we were not grown men. Boys are especially grateful for + respect from their superiors, for it helps them to respect themselves; but + Charley sat silent and gloomy. As he would not ride back, and Mr Coningham + preferred walking too, I got into the saddle and rode by Clara’s side. + </p> + <p> + As we approached the house, Charley crept up the other side of Clara’s + horse, and laid his hand on his mane. When he spoke Clara started, for she + was looking the other way and had not observed his approach. + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss Clara,’ he said, ‘I am very sorry I was so rude. Will you forgive + me?’ + </p> + <p> + Instead of being hard to reconcile, as I had feared from her outburst of + indignation, she leaned forward and laid her hand on his. He looked up in + her face, his own suffused with a colour I had never seen in it before. + His great blue eyes lightened with thankfulness, and began to fill with + tears. How she looked, I could not see. She withdrew her hand, and Charley + dropped behind again. In a little while he came up to my side, and began + talking. He soon got quite merry, but Clara in her turn was silent. + </p> + <p> + I doubt if anything would be worth telling but for what comes after. + History itself would be worthless but for what it cannot tell, namely, its + own future. Upon this ground my reader must excuse the apparent triviality + of the things I am now relating. + </p> + <p> + When we were alone in our room that night—for ever since Charley’s + illness we two had had a room to ourselves—Charley said, + </p> + <p> + ‘I behaved like a brute this morning, Wilfrid.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Charley; you were only a little rude from being over-eager. If she + had been seriously advocating dishonesty, you would have been quite right + to take it up so; and you thought she was.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; but it was very silly of me. I dare say it was because I had been so + dishonest myself just before. How dreadful it is that I am always taking + my own side, even when I do what I am ashamed of in another! I suppose I + think I have got my horse by the head, and the other has not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. That may be it,’ I answered. ‘I’m afraid I can’t think + about it to-night, for I don’t feel well. What if it should be your turn + to nurse me now, Charley?’ + </p> + <p> + He turned quite pale, his eyes opened wide, and he looked at me anxiously. + </p> + <p> + Before morning I was aching all over: I had rheumatic fever. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. CHARLEY NURSES ME. + </h2> + <p> + I saw no more of Clara. Mr Coningham came to bid me good-bye, and spoke + very kindly. Mr Forest would have got a nurse for me, but Charley begged + so earnestly to be allowed to return the service I had done for him that + he yielded. + </p> + <p> + I was in great pain for more than a week. Charley’s attentions were + unremitting. In fact he nursed me more like a woman than a boy; and made + me think with some contrition how poor my ministrations had been. Even + after the worst was over, if I but moved, he was at my bedside in a + moment. Certainly no nurse could have surpassed him. I could bear no one + to touch me but him: from any one else I dreaded torture; and my medicine + was administered to the very moment by my own old watch, which had been + brought to do its duty at least respectably. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon, finding me tolerably comfortable, he said, ‘Shall I read + something to you, Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + He never called me Willie, as most of my friends did. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like it,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘What shall I read?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hadn’t you something in your head,’ I rejoined, ‘when you proposed it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I had; but I don’t know if you would like it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you think of, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought of a chapter in the New Testament.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How could you think I should not like that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I never saw you say your prayers.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is quite true. But you don’t think I never say my prayers, although + you never see me do it?’ + </p> + <p> + The fact was, my uncle, amongst his other peculiarities, did not approve + of teaching children to say their prayers. But he did not therefore leave + me without instruction in the matter of praying—either the idlest or + the most availing of human actions. He would say, ‘When you want anything, + ask for it, Willie; and if it is worth your having, you will have it. But + don’t fancy you are doing God any service by praying to him. He likes you + to pray to him because he loves you, and wants you to love him. And + whatever you do, don’t go saying a lot of words you don’t mean. If you + think you ought to pray, say your Lord’s Prayer, and have done with it.’ I + had no theory myself on the matter; but when I was in misery on the wild + mountains, I had indeed prayed to God; and had even gone so far as to + hope, when I got what I prayed for, that he had heard my prayer. + </p> + <p> + Charley made no reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems to me better that sort of thing shouldn’t be seen, Charley,’ I + persisted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps, Wilfrid; but I was taught to say my prayers regularly.’ ‘I don’t + think much of that either,’ I answered. ‘But I’ve said a good many prayers + since I’ve been here, Charley. I can’t say I’m sure it’s of any use, but I + can’t help trying after something—I don’t know what—something + I want, and don’t know how to get.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But it’s only the prayer of faith that’s heard—do you believe, + Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. I daren’t say I don’t. I wish I could say I do. But I dare + say things will be considered.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wouldn’t it be grand if it was true, Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What, Charley?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That God actually let his creatures see him—and—all that came + of it, you know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be grand indeed! But supposing it true, how could we be expected + to believe it like them that saw him with their own eyes? <i>I</i> + couldn’t be required to believe just as if I could have no doubt about it. + It wouldn’t be fair. Only—perhaps we haven’t got the clew by the + right end.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps not. But sometimes I hate the whole thing. And then again I feel + as if I <i>must</i> read all about it; not that I care for it exactly, but + because a body must do something—because—I don’t know how to + say it—because of the misery, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know that I do know—quite. But now you have started the + subject, I thought that was great nonsense Mr Forest was talking about the + authority of the Church the other day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, <i>I</i> thought so, too. I don’t see what right they have to say + so and so, if they didn’t hear him speak. As to what he meant, they may be + right or they may be wrong. If they <i>have</i> the gift of the Spirit, as + they say—how am I to tell they have? All impostors claim it as well + as the true men. If I had ever so little of the same gift myself, I + suppose I could tell; but they say no one has till he believes—so + they may be all humbugs for anything I can possibly tell; or they may be + all true men, and yet I may fancy them all humbugs, and can’t help it.’ + </p> + <p> + I was quite as much astonished to hear Charley talk in this style as some + readers will be doubtful whether a boy could have talked such good sense. + I said nothing, and a silence followed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Would you like me to read to you, then?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I should; for, do you know, after all, I don’t think there’s + anything like the New Testament.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Anything like it!’ he repeated. ‘I should think not! Only I wish I did + know what it all meant. I wish I could talk to my father as I would to + Jesus Christ if I saw <i>him</i>. But if I could talk to my father, he + wouldn’t understand me. He would speak to me as if I were the very scum of + the universe for daring to have a doubt of what <i>he</i> told me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But he doesn’t mean <i>himself</i>,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, who told him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The Bible.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And who told the Bible?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘God, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how am I to know that? I only know that they say so. Do you know, + Wilfrid—I <i>don’t</i> believe my father is quite sure himself, and + that is what makes him in such a rage with anybody who doesn’t think as he + does. He’s afraid it mayn’t be true after all.’ + </p> + <p> + I had never had a father to talk to, but I thought something must be wrong + when a boy <i>couldn’t</i> talk to his father. My uncle was a better + father than that came to. + </p> + <p> + Another pause followed, during which Charley searched for a chapter to fit + the mood. I will not say what chapter he found, for, after all, I doubt if + we had any real notion of what it meant. I know, however, that there were + words in it which found their way to my conscience; and, let men of + science or philosophy say what they will, the rousing of a man’s + conscience is the greatest event in his existence. In such a matter, the + consciousness of the man himself is the sole witness. A Chinese can expose + many of the absurdities and inconsistencies of the English: it is their + own Shakspere who must bear witness to their sins and faults, as well as + their truths and characteristics. + </p> + <p> + After this we had many conversations about such things, one of which I + shall attempt to report by-and-by. Of course, in any such attempt all that + can be done is to put the effect into fresh conversational form. What I + have just written must at least be more orderly than what passed between + us; but the spirit is much the same, and mere fact is of consequence only + as it affects truth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. A DREAM. + </h2> + <p> + The best immediate result of my illness was that I learned to love Charley + Osborne dearly. We renewed an affection resembling from afar that of + Shakspere for his nameless friend; we anticipated that informing <i>In + Memoriam</i>. Lest I be accused of infinite arrogance, let me remind my + reader that the sun is reflected in a dewdrop as in the ocean. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +One night I had a strange dream, which is perhaps worth telling for the +involution of its consciousness. + + I thought I was awake in my bed, and Charley asleep in his. I lay +looking into the room. It began to waver and change. The night-light +enlarged and receded; and the walls trembled and waved. The light had +got behind them, and shone through them. +</pre> + <p> + ‘Charley! Charley!’ I cried; for I was frightened. + </p> + <p> + ‘I heard him move: but before he reached me, I was lying on a lawn, + surrounded by trees, with the moon shining through them from behind. The + next moment Charley was by my side. + </p> + <p> + ‘Isn’t it prime?’ he said. ‘It’s all over.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean, Charley?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean that we’re both dead now. It’s not so very bad—is it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense, Charley!’ I returned; ‘<i>I</i>’m not dead. I’m as wide alive + as ever I was. Look here.’ + </p> + <p> + So saying, I sprung to my feet, and drew myself up before him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where’s your worst pain?’ said Charley, with a curious expression in his + tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here,’ I answered. ‘No; it’s not; it’s in my back. No, it isn’t. It’s + nowhere. I haven’t got any pain.’ + </p> + <p> + Charley laughed a low laugh, which sounded as sweet as strange. It was to + the laughter of the world ‘as moonlight is to sunlight,’ but not ‘as water + is to wine,’ for what it had lost in sound it had gained in smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell me now you’re not dead!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘But,’ I insisted, ‘don’t you see I’m alive? <i>You</i> may be dead for + anything I know—but I <i>am not</i>—I know that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re just as dead as I am,’ he said. ‘Look here.’ + </p> + <p> + A little way off, in an open plot by itself, stood a little white rose + tree, half mingled with the moonlight. Charley went up to it, stepped on + the topmost twig, and stood: the bush did not even bend under him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well,’ I answered. ‘You are dead, I confess. But now, look you + here.’ + </p> + <p> + I went to a red rose-bush which stood at some distance, blanched in the + moon, set my foot on the top of it, and made as if I would ascend, + expecting to crush it, roses and all, to the ground. But behold! I was + standing on my red rose opposite Charley on his white. + </p> + <p> + ‘I told you so,’ he cried, across the moonlight, and his voice sounded as + if it came from the moon far away. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh Charley!’ I cried, ‘I’m so frightened!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you frightened at?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At you. You’re dead, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is a good thing, Wilfrid,’ he rejoined, in a tone of some reproach, + ‘that I am not frightened at you for the same reason; for what would + happen then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. I suppose you would go away and leave me alone in this + ghostly light.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I were frightened at you as you are at me, we should not be able to + see each other at all. If you take courage the light will grow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t leave me, Charley,’ I cried, and flung myself from my tree towards + his. I found myself floating, half reclined on the air. We met midway each + in the other’s arms. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know where I am, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is my father’s rectory.’ + </p> + <p> + He pointed to the house, which I had not yet observed. It lay quite dark + in the moonlight, for not a window shone from within. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t leave me, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Leave you! I should think not, Wilfrid. I have been long enough without + you already.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you been long dead, then, Charley?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not very long. Yes, a long time. But, indeed, I don’t know. We don’t + count time as we used to count it.—I want to go and see my father. + It is long since I saw <i>him</i>, anyhow. Will you come?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you think I might—if you wish it,’ I said, for I had no great + desire to see Mr Osborne. ‘Perhaps he won’t care to see me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps not,’ said Charley, with another low silvery laugh. ‘Come along.’ + </p> + <p> + We glided over the grass. A window stood a little open on the second + floor. We floated up, entered, and stood by the bedside of Charley’s + father. He lay in a sound sleep. + </p> + <p> + ‘Father! father!’ said Charley, whispering in his ear as he lay—‘it’s + all right. You need not be troubled about me any more.’ + </p> + <p> + Mr Osborne turned on his pillow. + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s dreaming about us now,’ said Charley. ‘He sees us both standing by + his bed.’ + </p> + <p> + But the next moment Mr Osborne sat up, stretched out his arms towards us + with the open palms outwards, as if pushing us away from him, and cried, + </p> + <p> + ‘Depart from me, all evil-doers. O Lord! do I not hate them that hate + thee?’ + </p> + <p> + He followed with other yet more awful words which I never could recall. I + only remember the feeling of horror and amazement they left behind. I + turned to Charley. He had disappeared, and I found myself lying in the bed + beside Mr Osborne. I gave a great cry of dismay—when there was + Charley again beside me, saying, + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the matter, Wilfrid? Wake up. My father’s not here.’ + </p> + <p> + I did wake, but until I had felt in the bed I could not satisfy myself + that Mr Osborne was indeed not there. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve been talking in your sleep. I could hardly get you waked,’ said + Charley, who stood there in his shirt. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh Charley!’ I cried, ‘I’ve had such a dream!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What was it, Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I can’t talk about it yet,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + I never did tell him that dream; for even then I was often uneasy about + him—he was so sensitive. The affections of my friend were as hoops + of steel; his feelings a breath would ripple. Oh, my Charley! if ever we + meet in that land so vaguely shadowed in my dream, will you not know that + I loved you heartily well? Shall I not hasten’ to lay bare my heart before + you—the priest of its confessional? Oh, Charley! when the truth is + known, the false will fly asunder as the Autumn leaves in the wind; but + the true, whatever their faults, will only draw together the more tenderly + that they have sinned against each other. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. THE FROZEN STREAM. + </h2> + <p> + Before the Winter arrived, I was well, and Charley had recovered from the + fatigue of watching me. One holiday, he and I set out alone to accomplish + a scheme we had cherished from the first appearance of the frost. How it + arose I hardly remember; I think it came of some remark Mr Forest had made + concerning the difference between the streams of Switzerland and England—those + in the former country being emptiest, those in the latter fullest in the + Winter. It was—when the frost should have bound up the sources of + the beck which ran almost by our door, and it was no longer a stream, but + a rope of ice—to take that rope for our guide, and follow it as far + as we could towards the secret recesses of its Summer birth. + </p> + <p> + Along the banks of the stream, we followed it up and up, meeting a varied + loveliness which it would take the soul of a Wordsworth or a Ruskin to + comprehend or express. To my poor faculty the splendour of the + ice-crystals remains the one memorial thing. In those lonely water-courses + the sun was gloriously busy, with none to praise him except Charley and + me. + </p> + <p> + Where the banks were difficult we went down into the frozen bed, and there + had story above story of piled-up loveliness, with opal and diamond + cellars below. Spikes and stars crystalline radiated and refracted and + reflected marvellously. But we did not reach the primary source of the + stream by miles; we were stopped by a precipitous rock, down the face of + which one half of the stream fell, while the other crept out of its foot, + from a little cavernous opening about four feet high. Charley was a few + yards ahead of me, and ran stooping into the cavern. I followed. But when + I had gone as far as I dared for the darkness and the down-sloping roof, + and saw nothing of him, I grew dismayed, and called him. There was no + answer. With a thrill of horror my dream returned upon me. I got on my + hands and knees and crept forward. A short way further the floor sank—only + a little, I believe, but from the darkness I took the descent for an abyss + into which Charley had fallen. I gave a shriek of despair, and scrambled + out of the cave howling. In a moment he was by my side. He had only crept + behind a projection for a trick. His remorse was extreme. He begged my + pardon in the most agonized manner. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind, Charley,’ I said; ‘you didn’t mean it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I did mean it,’ he returned. ‘The temptation came, and I yielded; + only I did not know how dreadful it would be to you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course not. You wouldn’t have done it if you had.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How am I to know that, Wilfrid? I might have done it. Isn’t it frightful + that a body may go on and on till a thing is done, and then wish he hadn’t + done it? I am a despicable creature. Do you know, Wilfrid, I once shot a + little bird—for no good, but just to shoot at something. It wasn’t + that I didn’t think of it—don’t say that. I did think of it. I knew + it was wrong. When I had levelled my gun, I thought of it quite plainly, + and yet drew the trigger. It dropped, a heap of ruffled feathers. I shall + never get that little bird out of my head. And the worst of it is that to + all eternity I can never make any atonement.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But God will forgive you, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do I care for that,’ he rejoined, almost fiercely, ‘when the little + bird cannot forgive me?—I would go on my knees to the little bird, + if I could, to beg its pardon and tell it-what a brute I was, and it might + shoot me if it would, and I should say “Thank you.”’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed almost hysterically, and the tears ran down his face. + </p> + <p> + I have said little about my uncle’s teaching, lest I should bore my + readers. But there it came in, and therefore here it must come in. My + uncle had, by no positive instruction, but by occasional observations, not + one of which I can recall, generated in me a strong hope that the life of + the lower animals was terminated at their death no more than our own. The + man who believes that thought is the result of brain, and not the growth + of an unknown seed whose soil is the brain, may well sneer at this, for he + is to himself but a peck of dust that has to be eaten by the devouring + jaws of Time; but I cannot see how the man who believes in soul at all, + can say that the spirit of a man lives, and that the spirit of his horse + dies. I do not profess to believe anything for <i>certain sure</i> myself, + but I do think that he who, if from merely philosophical considerations, + believes the one, ought to believe the other as well. Much more must the + theosophist believe it. But I had never felt the need of the doctrine + until I beheld the misery of Charley over the memory of the dead sparrow. + Surely that sparrow fell not to the ground without the Father’s knowledge. + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley! how do you know,’ I said, ‘that you can never beg the bird’s + pardon? If God made the bird, do you fancy with your gun you could destroy + the making of his hand? If he said, “Let there be,” do you suppose you + could say, “There shall not be”?’ (Mr Forest had read that chapter of + first things at morning prayers.) ‘I fancy myself that for God to put a + bird all in the power of a silly thoughtless boy—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not thoughtless! not thoughtless! There is the misery!’ said Charley. + </p> + <p> + But I went on— + </p> + <p> + ‘—would be worse than for you to shoot it.’ + </p> + <p> + A great glow of something I dare not attempt to define grew upon Charley’s + face. It was like what I saw on it when Clara laid her hand on his. But + presently it died out again, and he sighed— + </p> + <p> + ‘If there <i>were</i> a God—that is, if I were sure there was a God, + Wilfrid!’ + </p> + <p> + I could not answer. How could I? <i>I</i> had never seen God, as the old + story says Moses did on the clouded mountain. All I could return was, + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose there should be a God, Charley!—Mightn’t there be a God!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know,’ he returned. ‘How should <i>I</i> know whether there <i>might</i> + be a God?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But <i>may</i> there not be a <i>might be?</i>’ I rejoined. + </p> + <p> + ‘There may be. How should I say the other thing?’ said Charley. + </p> + <p> + I do not mean this was exactly what he or I said. Unable to recall the + words themselves, I put the sense of the thing in as clear a shape as I + can. + </p> + <p> + We were seated upon a stone in the bed of the stream, off which the sun + had melted the ice. The bank rose above us, but not far. I thought I heard + a footstep. I jumped up, but saw no one. I ran a good way up the stream to + a place where I could climb the bank; but then saw no one. The footstep, + real or imagined, broke our conversation at that point, and we did not + resume it. All that followed was— + </p> + <p> + ‘If I were the sparrow, Charley, I would not only forgive you, but haunt + you for ever out of gratitude that you were sorry you had killed me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you <i>do</i> forgive me for frightening you?’ he said eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Very likely Charley and I resembled each other too much to be the best + possible companions for each other. There was, however, this difference + between us—that he had been bored with religion and I had not. In + other words, food had been forced upon him, which had only been laid + before me. + </p> + <p> + We rose and went home. A few minutes after our entrance, Mr Forest came in—looking + strange, I thought. The conviction crossed my mind that it was his + footstep we had heard over our heads as we sat in the channel of the + frozen stream. I have reason to think that he followed us for a chance of + listening. Something had set him on the watch—most likely the fact + that we were so much together, and did not care for the society of the + rest of our schoolfellows. From that time, certainly, he regarded Charley + and myself with a suspicious gloom. We felt it, but beyond talking to each + other about it, and conjecturing its cause, we could do nothing. It made + Charley very unhappy at times, deepening the shadow which brooded over his + mind; for his moral skin was as sensitive to changes in the moral + atmosphere as the most sensitive of plants to those in the physical. But + unhealthy conditions in the smallest communities cannot last long without + generating vapours which result in some kind of outburst. + </p> + <p> + The other boys, naturally enough, were displeased with us for holding so + much together. They attributed it to some fancy of superiority, whereas + there was nothing in it beyond the simplest preference for each other’s + society. We were alike enough to understand each other, and unlike enough + to interest and aid each other. Besides, we did not care much for the + sports in which boys usually explode their superfluous energy. I preferred + a walk and a talk with Charley to anything else. + </p> + <p> + I may here mention that these talks had nearly cured me of + castle-building. To spin yarns for Charley’s delectation would have been + absurd. He cared for nothing but the truth. And yet he could never assure + himself that anything was true. The more likely a thing looked to be true, + the more anxious was he that it should be unassailable; and his fertile + mind would in as many moments throw a score of objections at it, looking + after each with eager eyes as if pleading for a refutation. It was the + very love of what was good that generated in him doubt and anxiety. + </p> + <p> + When our schoolfellows perceived that Mr Forest also was dissatisfied with + us, their displeasure grew to indignation; and we did not endure its + manifestations without a feeling of reflex defiance. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. AN EXPLOSION. + </h2> + <p> + One Spring morning we had got up early and sauntered out together. I + remember perfectly what our talk was about. Charley had started the + question: ‘How could it be just to harden Pharaoh’s heart and then punish + him for what came of it?’ I who had been brought up without any + superstitious reverence for the Bible, suggested that the narrator of the + story might be accountable for the contradiction, and simply that it was + not true that God hardened Pharaoh’s heart. Strange to say, Charley was + rather shocked at this. He had as yet received the dogma of the + infallibility of the Bible without thinking enough about it to question + it. Nor did it now occur to him what a small affair it was to find a book + fallible, compared with finding the God of whom the book spoke fallible + upon its testimony—for such was surely the dilemma. Men have been + able to exist without a Bible: if there be a God it must be in and through + Him that all men live; only if he be not true, then in Him, and not in the + first Adam, all men die. + </p> + <p> + We were talking away about this, no doubt after a sufficiently crude + manner, as we approached the house, unaware that we had lingered too long. + The boys were coming out from breakfast for a game before school. + </p> + <p> + Amongst them was one of the name of Home, who considered himself superior, + from his connection with the Scotch Homes. He was a big, strong, + pale-faced, handsome boy, with the least bit of a sneer always hovering + upon his upper lip. Charley was half a head shorter than he, and I was + half a head shorter than Charley. As we passed him, he said aloud, + addressing the boy next him— + </p> + <p> + ‘There they go—a pair of sneaks!’ + </p> + <p> + Charley turned upon him at once, his face in a glow. + </p> + <p> + ‘Home,’ he said, ‘no gentleman would say so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And why not?’ said Home, turning and striding up to Charley in a + magnificent manner. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because there is no ground for the assertion,’ said Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you mean to say I am a liar?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean to say,’ returned Charley, with more promptitude than I could have + expected of him, ‘that if you are a gentleman, you will be sorry for it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There is my apology, then!’ said Home, and struck Charley a blow on the + head which laid him on the ground. I believe he repented it the moment he + had done it. + </p> + <p> + I caught one glimpse of the blood pouring over the transparent blue-veined + skin, and rushed at Home in a transport of fury. + </p> + <p> + I never was brave one step beyond being able to do what must be done and + bear what must be borne; and now it was not courage that inspired me, but + a righteous wrath. + </p> + <p> + I did my best, got a good many hard blows, and planted not one in return, + for I had never fought in my life. I do believe Home spared me, conscious + of wrong. Meantime some of them had lifted Charley and carried him into + the house. + </p> + <p> + Before I was thoroughly mauled, which must have been the final result, for + I would not give in, the master appeared, and in a voice such as I had + never heard from him before, ordered us all into the school-room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Fighting like bullies!’ he said. ‘I thought my pupils were gentlemen at + least!’ + </p> + <p> + Perhaps dimly aware that he had himself given some occasion to this + outbreak, and imagining in his heart a show of justice, he seized Home by + the collar, and gave him a terrible cut with the riding-whip which he had + caught up in his anger. Home cried out, and the same moment Charley + appeared, pale as death. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, sir!’ he said, laying his hand on the master’s arm appealingly, ‘I + was to blame too.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t doubt it,’ returned Mr Forest. ‘I shall settle with you + presently. Get away!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, sir,’ he continued, turning to me—and held the whip suspended, + as if waiting a word from me to goad him on. He looked something else than + a gentleman himself just then. It was a sudden outbreak of the beast in + him. ‘Will you tell me why you punish me, sir, if you please? What have I + done?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + His answer was such a stinging blow that for a moment I was bewildered, + and everything reeled about me. But I did not cry out—I know that, + for I asked two of the fellows after. + </p> + <p> + ‘You prate about justice!’ he said. ‘I will let you know what justice + means—to you at least.’ + </p> + <p> + And down came a second cut as bad as the first. My blood was up. + </p> + <p> + ‘If this is justice, then there <i>is</i> no God,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + He stood aghast. I went on. + </p> + <p> + ‘If there be a God—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>If</i> there be a God!’ he shrieked, and sprang towards me. + </p> + <p> + I did not move a step. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope there is,’ I said, as he seized me again; ‘for you are unjust.’ + </p> + <p> + I remember only a fierce succession of blows. With Voltaire and the French + revolution present to his mind in all their horror, he had been nourishing + in his house a toad of the same spawn! He had been remiss, but would now + compel those whom his neglect had injured to pay off his arrears! A most + orthodox conclusion! but it did me little harm: it did not make me think + that God was unjust, for my uncle, not Mr Forest, was my type of + Christian. The harm it did was of another sort—and to Charley, not + to me. + </p> + <p> + Of course, while under the hands of the executioner, I could not observe + what was going on around me. When I began to awake from the absorption of + my pain and indignation, I found myself in my room. I had been ordered + thither, and had mechanically obeyed. I was on my bed, staring at the + door, at which I had become aware of a gentle tapping. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come in,’ I said; and Charley—who, although it was his room as much + as mine, never entered when he thought I was there without knocking at the + door—appeared, with the face of a dead man. Sore as I was, I jumped + up. + </p> + <p> + ‘The brute has not been thrashing <i>you</i>, Charley!’ I cried, in a + wrath that gave me the strength of a giant. With that terrible bruise + above his temple from Home’s fist, none but a devil could have dared to + lay hands upon him! + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Wilfrid,’ he answered; ‘no such honour for me! I am disgraced for + ever!’ + </p> + <p> + He hid his wan face in his thin hands. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean, Charley?’ I said. ‘You cannot have told a lie!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Wilfrid. But it doesn’t matter now. I don’t care for myself any + more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then, Charley, what <i>have</i> you done?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are always so kind, Wilfrid!’ he returned, with a hopelessness which + seemed almost coldness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley,’ I said, ‘if you don’t tell me what has happened—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Happened!’ he cried. ‘Hasn’t that man been lashing at you like a dog, and + I <i>didn’t</i> rush at him, and if I couldn’t fight, being a milksop, + then bite and kick and scratch, and take my share of it? O God!’ he cried, + in agony, ‘if I had but a chance again! But nobody ever has more than one + chance in this world. He may damn me now when he likes: I don’t care!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley! Charley!’ I cried; ‘you’re as bad as Mr Forest. Are you to say + such things about God, when you know nothing of him? He may be as good a + God, after all, as even we should like him to be.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But Mr Forest is a clergyman.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And God was the God of Abraham before ever there was a clergyman to take + his name in vain,’ I cried; for I was half mad with the man who had thus + wounded my Charley. ‘<i>I</i> am content with you, Charley. You are my + best and only friend. That is all nonsense about attacking Forest. What + could you have done, you know? Don’t talk such rubbish.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I might have taken my share with you,’ said Charley, and again buried his + face in his hands. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come, Charley,’ I said, and at the moment a fresh wave of manhood swept + through my soul; ‘you and I will take our share together a hundred times + yet. I have done my part now; yours will come next.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But to think of not sharing your disgrace, Wilfrid!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Disgrace!’ I said, drawing myself up, ‘where was that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve been beaten,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Every stripe was a badge of honour,’ I said, ‘for I neither deserved it + nor cried out against it. I feel no disgrace.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I’ve missed the honour,’ said Charley; ‘but that’s nothing, so you + have it. But not to share your disgrace would have been mean. And it’s all + one; for I thought it was disgrace, and I did not share it. I am a coward + for ever, Wilfrid.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense! He never gave you a chance. <i>I</i> never thought of striking + back: how should <i>you?</i>’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will be your slave, Wilfrid! You are <i>so</i> good, and I am <i>so</i> + unworthy.’ + </p> + <p> + He put his arms round me, laid his head on my shoulder, and sobbed. I did + what more I could to comfort him, and gradually he grew calm. At length he + whispered in my ear— + </p> + <p> + ‘After all, Wilfrid, I do believe I was horror-struck, and it <i>wasn’t</i> + cowardice pure and simple.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t a doubt of it,’ I said. ‘I love you more than ever.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Wilfrid! I should have gone mad by this time but for you. Will you be + my friend whatever happens?—Even if I should be a coward after all?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed I will, Charley.—What do you think Forest will do next?’ + </p> + <p> + We resolved not to go down until we were sent for; and then to be + perfectly quiet, not speaking to any one unless we were spoken to; and at + dinner we carried out our resolution. + </p> + <p> + When bed-time came, we went as usual to make our bow to Mr Forest. + </p> + <p> + ‘Cumbermede,’ he said sternly, ‘you sleep in No. 5 until further orders.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, sir,’ I said, and went, but lingered long enough to hear the + fate of Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘Home,’ said Mr Forest, ‘you go to No. 3.’ + </p> + <p> + That was our room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Home,’ I said, having lingered on the stairs until he appeared, ‘you + don’t bear me a grudge, do you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was my fault,’ said Home. ‘I had no right to pitch into you. Only + you’re such a cool beggar! But, by Jove! I didn’t think Forest would have + been so unfair. If you forgive me, I’ll forgive you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I hadn’t stood up to you, I couldn’t,’ I returned. ‘I knew I hadn’t a + chance. Besides, I hadn’t any breakfast.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was a brute,’ said Home. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I don’t mind for myself; but there’s Osborne! I wonder you could hit + <i>him</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He shouldn’t have jawed me,’ said Home. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you did first.’ + </p> + <p> + We had reached the door of the room which had been Home’s and was now to + be mine, and went in together. + </p> + <p> + ‘Didn’t you now?’ I insisted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I did; I confess I did. And it was very plucky of him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell him that, Home,’ I said. ‘For God’s sake tell him that. It will + comfort him. You must be kind to him, Home. We’re not so bad as Forest + takes us for.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will,’ said Home. + </p> + <p> + And he kept his word. + </p> + <p> + We were never allowed to share the same room again, and school was not + what it had been to either of us. + </p> + <p> + Within a few weeks Charley’s father, to our common dismay, suddenly + appeared, and the next morning took him away. What he said to Charley I do + not know. He did not take the least notice of me, and I believe would have + prevented Charley from saying good-bye to me. But just as they were going + Charley left his father’s side, and came up to me with a flush on his face + and a flash in his eye that made him look more manly and handsome than I + had ever seen him, and shook hands with me, saying— + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all right—isn’t it, Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It <i>is</i> all right, Charley, come what will,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-bye then, Wilfrid.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-bye, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + And so we parted. + </p> + <p> + I do not care to say one word more about the school. I continued there for + another year and a half. Partly in misery, partly in growing eagerness + after knowledge, I gave myself to my studies with more diligence. Mr + Forest began to be pleased with me, and I have no doubt plumed himself on + the vigorous measures by which he had nipped the bud of my infidelity. For + my part I drew no nearer to him, for I could not respect or trust him + after his injustice. I did my work for its own sake, uninfluenced by any + desire to please him. There was, in fact, no true relation between us any + more. + </p> + <p> + I communicated nothing of what had happened to my uncle, because Mr + Forest’s custom was to read every letter before it left the house. But I + longed for the day when I could tell the whole story to the great, + simple-hearted man. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. ONLY A LINK. + </h2> + <p> + Before my return to England, I found that familiarity with the sights and + sounds of a more magnificent nature had removed my past life to a great + distance. What had interested my childhood had strangely dwindled, yet + gathered a new interest from its far-off and forsaken look. So much did my + past wear to me now the look of something read in a story, that I am + haunted with a doubt whether I may not have communicated too much of this + appearance to my description of it, although I have kept as true as my + recollections would enable me. The outlines must be correct: if the + colouring be unreal, it is because of the haze which hangs about the + memories of the time. + </p> + <p> + The revisiting of old scenes is like walking into a mausoleum. Everything + is a monument of something dead and gone. For we die daily. Happy those + who daily come to life as well! + </p> + <p> + I returned with a clear conscience, for not only had I as yet escaped + corruption, but for the greater part of the time at least I had worked + well. If Mr Forest’s letter which I carried to my uncle contained any hint + intended to my disadvantage, it certainly fell dead on his mind; for he + treated me with a consideration and respect which at once charmed and + humbled me. + </p> + <p> + One day as we were walking together over the fields, I told him the whole + story of the loss of the weapon at Moldwarp Hall. Up to the time of my + leaving for Switzerland I had shrunk from any reference to the subject, so + painful was it to me, and so convinced was I that his sympathy would be + confined to a compassionate smile and a few words of condolence. + </p> + <p> + But glancing at his face now and then as I told the tale, I discovered + more of interest in the play of his features than I had expected; and when + he learned that it was absolutely gone from me, his face flushed with what + seemed anger. For some moments after I had finished he was silent. At + length he said, + </p> + <p> + ‘It is a strange story, Wilfrid, my boy. There must be some explanation of + it, however.’ + </p> + <p> + He then questioned me about Mr Close, for suspicion pointed in his + direction. I was in great hopes he would follow my narrative with what he + knew of the sword, but he was still silent, and I could not question him, + for I had long suspected that its history had to do with the secret which + he wanted me to keep from myself. + </p> + <p> + The very day of my arrival I went up to my grandmother’s room, which I + found just as she had left it. There stood her easy-chair, there her bed, + there the old bureau. The room looked far less mysterious now that she was + not there; but it looked painfully deserted. One thing alone was still as + it were enveloped in its ancient atmosphere—the bureau. I tried to + open it—with some trembling, I confess; but only the drawers below + were unlocked, and in them I found nothing but garments of old-fashioned + stuffs, which I dared not touch. + </p> + <p> + But the day of childish romance was over, and life itself was too strong + and fresh to allow me to brood on the past for more than an occasional + half-hour. My thoughts were full of Oxford, whither my uncle had resolved + I should go; and I worked hard in preparation. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have not much money to spare, my boy,’ he said; ‘but I have insured my + life for a sum sufficient to provide for your aunt, if she should survive + me; and after her death it will come to you. Of course the old house and + the park, which have been in the family for more years than I can tell, + will be yours at my death. A good part of the farm was once ours too, but + not for these many years. I could not recommend you to keep on the farm; + but I confess I should be sorry if you were to part with our own little + place, although I do not doubt you might get a good sum for it from Sir + Giles, to whose park it would be a desirable addition. I believe at one + time, the refusal to part with our poor little vineyard of Naboth was + cause of great offence, even of open feud between the great family at the + Hall and the yeomen who were your ancestors; but poor men may be as + unwilling as rich to break one strand of the cord that binds them to the + past. But of course when you come into the property, you will do as you + see fit with your own.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t think, uncle, I would sell this house, or the field it stands + in, for all the Moldwarp estate? I too have my share of pride in the + family, although as yet I know nothing of its history.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely, Wilfrid, the feeling for one’s own people who have gone before is + not necessarily pride!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It doesn’t much matter what you call it, uncle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it does, my boy. Either you call it by the right name or by the + wrong name. If your feeling <i>is</i> pride, then I am not objecting to + the name, but the thing. If your feeling is not pride, why call a good + thing by a bad name? But to return to our subject: my hope is that, if I + give you a good education, you will make your own way. You might, you + know, let the park, as we call it, for a term of years.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shouldn’t mind letting the park,’ I answered, ‘for a little while; but + nothing should ever make me let the dear old house. What should I do if I + wanted it to die in?’ + </p> + <p> + The old man smiled, evidently not ill-pleased. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you say to the bar?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I would rather not,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Would you prefer the Church?’ he asked, eyeing me a little doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, certainly, uncle,’ I answered. ‘I should want to be surer of a good + many things before I dared teach them to other people.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am glad of that, my boy. The fear did cross my mind for a moment that + you might be inclined to take to the Church as a profession, which seems + to me the worst kind of infidelity. A thousand times rather would I have + you doubtful about what is to me the highest truth, than regarding it with + the indifference of those who see in it only the prospect of a social + position and livelihood. Have you any plan of your own?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have heard,’ I answered, circuitously, ‘that many barristers have to + support themselves by literary work, for years before their own profession + begin to show them favour. I should prefer going in for the writing at + once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It must be a hard struggle either way,’ he replied; ‘but I should not + leave you without something to fall back upon. Tell me what makes you + think you could be an author?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am afraid it is presumptuous,’ I answered, ‘but as often as I think of + what I am to do, that is the first thing that occurs to me. I suppose,’ I + added, laughing, ‘that the favour with which my school-fellows at Mr + Elder’s used to receive my stories is to blame for it. I used to tell them + by the hour together.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ said my uncle, ‘that proves, at least, that, if you had anything + to say, you might be able to say it; but I am afraid it proves nothing + more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing more, I admit. I only mentioned it to account for the notion.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I quite understand you, my boy. Meantime, the best thing in any case will + be Oxford. I will do what I can to make it an easier life for you than I + found it.’ + </p> + <p> + Having heard nothing of Charley Osborne since he left Mr Forest’s, I went + one day, very soon after my return, to call on Mr Elder, partly in the + hope of learning something about him. I found Mrs Elder unchanged, but + could not help fancying a difference in Mr Elder’s behaviour, which, after + finding I could draw nothing from him concerning Charley, I attributed to + Mr Osborne’s evil report, and returned foiled and vexed. I told my uncle, + with some circumstance, the whole story: explaining how, although unable + to combat the doubts which occasioned Charley’s unhappiness, I had yet + always hung to the side of believing. + </p> + <p> + ‘You did right to do no more, my boy,’ said my uncle; ‘and it is clear you + have been misunderstood—and ill-used besides. But every wrong will + be set right some day.’ + </p> + <p> + My aunt showed me now far more consideration—I do not say—than + she had <i>felt</i> before. A curious kind of respect mingled with her + kindness, which seemed a slighter form of the observance with which she + constantly regarded my uncle. + </p> + <p> + My study was pretty hard and continuous. I had no tutor to direct me or + take any of the responsibility off me. + </p> + <p> + I walked to the Hall one morning to see Mrs Wilson. She was kind, but more + stiff even than before. From her I learned two things of interest. The + first, which beyond measure delighted me, was, that Charley was at Oxford—had + been there for a year. The second was that Clara was at school in London. + Mrs Wilson shut her mouth very primly after answering my question + concerning her; and I went no further in that direction. I took no trouble + to ask her concerning the relationship of which Mr Coningham had spoken. I + knew already from my uncle that it was a fact, but Mrs Wilson did not + behave in such a manner as to render me inclined to broach the subject. If + she wished it to remain a secret from me, she should be allowed to imagine + it such. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. CHARLEY AT OXFORD. + </h2> + <p> + I have no time in this selection and combination of the parts of my story + which are more especially my history, to dwell upon that portion of it + which refers to my own life at Oxford. I was so much of a student of books + while there, and had so little to do with any of the men except Charley, + that, save as it bore upon my intellect, Oxford had little special share + in what life has made of me, and may in the press of other matter be left + out. Had I time, however, to set forth what I know of my own development + more particularly, I could not pass over the influence of external Oxford, + the architecture and general surroundings of which I recognized as + affecting me more than anything I had yet met, with the exception of the + Swiss mountains, pine-woods, and rivers. It is, however, imperative to set + forth the peculiar character of my relation to and intercourse with + Charley, in order that what follows may be properly understood. + </p> + <p> + For no other reason than that my uncle had been there before me, I went to + Corpus Christi, while Charley was at Exeter. It was some days before we + met, for I had twice failed in my attempts to find him. At length, one + afternoon, as I entered the quadrangle to make a third essay, there he was + coming towards the gate with a companion. + </p> + <p> + When he caught sight of me, he advanced with a quick yet hesitating step—a + step with a question in it: he was not quite sure of me. He was now + approaching six feet in height, and of a graceful though not exactly + dignified carriage. His complexion remained as pale and his eyes as blue + as before. The pallor flushed and the blue sparkled as he made a few final + and long strides towards me. The grasp of the hand he gave me was + powerful, but broken into sudden almost quivering relaxations and + compressions. I could not help fancying also that he was using some little + effort to keep his eyes steady upon mine. Altogether, I was not quite + satisfied with our first meeting, and had a strong impression that, if our + friendship was to be resumed, it was about to begin a new course, not + building itself exactly on the old foundations, but starting afresh. He + looked almost on the way to become a man of the world. Perhaps, however, + the companionship he was in had something to do with this, for he was so + nervously responsive, that he would unconsciously take on, for the moment, + any appearance characterizing those about him. + </p> + <p> + His companion was a little taller and stouter-built than he; with a + bearing and gait of conscious importance, not so marked as to be at once + offensive. The upper part of his face was fine, the nose remarkably so, + while the lower part was decidedly coarse, the chin too large, and the + mouth having little form, except in the first movement of utterance, when + an unpleasant curl took possession of the upper lip, which I afterwards + interpreted as a doubt disguising itself in a sneer. There was also in his + manner a degree of self-assertion which favoured the same conclusion. His + hands were very large, a pair of merely blanched plebeian fists, with + thumbs much turned back—and altogether ungainly. He wore very tight + gloves, and never shook hands when he could help it. His feet were + scarcely so bad in form: still by no pretence could they be held to + indicate breeding. His manner, where he wished to conciliate, was + pleasing; but to me it was overbearing and unpleasant. He Was the only son + of Sir Giles Brotherton of Moldwarp Hall. Charley and he did not belong to + the same college, but, unlike as they were, they had somehow taken to each + other. I presume it was the decision of his manner that attracted the + wavering nature of Charley, who, with generally active impulses, was yet + always in doubt when a moment requiring action arrived. + </p> + <p> + Charley, having spoken to me, turned and introduced me to his friend. + Geoffrey Brotherton merely nodded. + </p> + <p> + ‘We were at school together in Switzerland,’ said Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, in a half-interrogatory, half-assenting tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘Till I found your card in my box, I never heard of your coming,’ said + Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was not my fault,’ I answered. ‘I did what I could to find out + something about you, but all in vain.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Paternal precaution, I believe,’ he said, with something that approached + a grimace. + </p> + <p> + Now, although I had little special reason to love Mr Osborne, and knew him + to be a tyrant, I knew also that my old Charley could not have thus coolly + uttered a disrespectful word of him, and I had therefore a painful though + at the same time an undefined conviction that some degree of moral + degeneracy must have taken place before he could express himself as now. + To many, such a remark will appear absurd, but I am confident that + disrespect for the preceding generation, and especially for those in it + nearest to ourselves, is a sure sign of relaxing dignity, and, in any + extended manifestation, an equally sure symptom of national and political + decadence. My reader knows, however, that there was much to be said in + excuse of Charley. + </p> + <p> + His friend sauntered away, and we went on talking. My heart longed to rest + with his for a moment on the past. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had a dreary time of it after you left, Charley,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not so dreary as I had, Wilfrid, I am certain. You had at least the + mountains to comfort you. Anywhere is better than at home, with a meal of + Bible oil and vinegar twice a day for certain, and a wine-glassful of it + now and then in between. Damnation’s better than a spoony heaven. To be + away from home is heaven enough for me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But your mother, Charley!’ I ventured to say. + </p> + <p> + ‘My mother is an angel. I could almost be good for her sake. But I never + could, I never can get near her. My father reads every letter she writes + before it comes to me—I know that by the style of it; and I’m + equally certain he reads every letter of mine before it reaches her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is your sister at home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. She’s at school at Clapham—being sand-papered into a saint, I + suppose.’ + </p> + <p> + His mouth twitched and quivered. He was not pleased with himself for + talking as he did. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your father means it for the best,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know that. He means <i>his</i> best. If I thought it <i>was</i> the + best, I should cut my throat and have done with it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, Charley, couldn’t we do something to find out, after all?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Find out what, Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The best thing, you know; what we are here for.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sick of it all, Wilfrid. I’ve tried till I am sick of it. If you + should find out anything, you can let me know. I am busy trying not to + think. I find that quite enough. If I were to think, I should go mad.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Charley! I can’t bear to hear you talk like that,’ I exclaimed; but + there was a glitter in his eye which I did not like, and which made me + anxious to change the subject.—‘Don’t you like being here?’ I asked, + in sore want of something to say. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, well enough,’ he replied. ‘But I don’t see what’s to come of it, for + I can’t work. Even if my father were a millionnaire, I couldn’t go on + living on him. The sooner that is over, the better!’ + </p> + <p> + He was looking down, and gnawing at that tremulous upper lip. I felt + miserable. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish we were at the same college, Charley!’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s better as it is,’ he rejoined. ‘I should do you no good. You go in + for reading, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I do. I mean my uncle to have the worth of his money.’ + </p> + <p> + Charley looked no less miserable than I felt. I saw that his conscience + was speaking, and I knew he was the last in the world to succeed in + excusing himself. But I understood him better than he understood himself, + and believed that his idleness arose from the old unrest, the weariness of + that never satisfied questioning which the least attempt at thought was + sure to awaken. Once invaded by a question, Charley <i>must</i> answer it, + or fail and fall into a stupor. Not an ode of Horace could he read without + finding himself plunged into metaphysics. Enamoured of repose above all + things, he was from every side stung to inquiry which seldom indeed + afforded what seemed solution. Hence, in part at least, it came that he + had begun to study not merely how to avoid awakening the Sphinx, but by + what opiates to keep her stretched supine with her lovely woman face + betwixt her fierce lion-paws. This also, no doubt, had a share in his + becoming the associate of Geoffrey Brotherton, from whose company, if he + had been at peace with himself, he would have recoiled upon the slightest + acquaintance. I am at some loss to imagine what could have made Geoffrey + take such a liking to Charley; but I presume it was the confiding air + characterizing all Charley’s behaviour that chiefly pleased him. He seemed + to look upon him with something of the tenderness a coarse man may show + for a delicate Italian greyhound, fitted to be petted by a lady. + </p> + <p> + That same evening Charley came to my rooms. His manner was constrained, + and yet suggested a whole tide of pent-up friendship which, but for some + undeclared barrier, would have broken out and overflowed our intercourse. + After this one evening, however, it was some time before I saw him again. + When I called upon him next he was not at home, nor did he come to see me. + Again I sought him, but with like failure. After a third attempt I + desisted, not a little hurt, I confess, but not in the least inclined to + quarrel with him. I gave myself the more diligently to my work. + </p> + <p> + And now Oxford began to do me harm. I saw so much idleness, and so much + wrong of all kinds about me, that I began to consider myself a fine + exception. Because I did my poor duty—no better than any honest lad + must do it—I became conceited; and the manner in which Charley’s new + friend treated me not only increased the fault, but aided in the + development of certain other stems from the same root of self-partiality. + He never saluted me with other than what I regarded as a supercilious nod + of the head. When I met him in company with Charley, and the latter + stopped to speak to me, he would walk on without the least change of step. + The indignation which this conduct aroused drove me to think as I had + never thought before concerning my social position. I found it impossible + to define. As I pondered, however, a certainty dawned upon me, rather than + was arrived at by me, that there was some secret connected with my + descent, upon which bore the history of the watch I carried, and of the + sword I had lost. On the mere possibility of something, utterly forgetful + that, if the secret existed at all, it might be of a very different nature + from my hopes, I began to build castles innumerable. Perceiving, of + course, that one of a decayed yeoman family could stand no social + comparison with the heir to a rich baronetcy, I fell back upon absurd + imaginings; and what with the self-satisfaction of doing my duty, what + with the vanity of my baby manhood, and what with the mystery I chose to + believe in and interpret according to my desires, I was fast sliding into + a moral condition contemptible indeed. + </p> + <p> + But still my heart was true to Charley. When, after late hours of hard + reading, I retired at last to my bed, and allowed my thoughts to wander + where they would, seldom was there a night on which they did not turn as + of themselves towards the memory of our past happiness. I vowed, although + Charley had forsaken me, to keep his chamber in my heart ever empty, and + closed against the entrance of another. If ever he pleased to return, he + should find he had been waited for. I believe there was much of self-pity, + and of self-approval as well, mingling with my regard for him; but the + constancy was there notwithstanding, and I regarded the love I thus + cherished for Charley as the chief saving element in my condition at the + time. + </p> + <p> + One night—I cannot now recall with certainty the time or season—I + only know it was night, and I was reading alone in my room—a knock + came to the door, and Charley entered. I sprang from my seat and bounded + to meet him. + </p> + <p> + ‘At last, Charley!’ I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + But he almost pushed me aside, left me to shut the door he had opened, sat + down in a chair by the fire, and began gnawing the head of his cane. I + resumed my seat, moved the lamp so that I could see him, and waited for + him to speak. Then first I saw that his face was unnaturally pale and + worn, almost even haggard. His eyes were weary, and his whole manner as of + one haunted by an evil presence of which he is ever aware. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are an enviable fellow, Wilfrid,’ he said at length, with something + between a groan and a laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you say that, Charley?’ I returned. ‘Why am I enviable?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because you can work. I hate the very sight of a book. I am afraid I + shall be plucked. I see nothing else for it. And what will the old man + say? I have grace enough left to be sorry for him. But he will take it out + in sour looks and silences.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s time enough yet. I wish you were not so far ahead of me: we might + have worked together.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t work, I tell you. I hate it. It will console my father, I hope, + to find his prophecies concerning me come true. I’ve heard him abuse me to + my mother.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk so of your father, Charley. It’s not like you. I + can’t bear to hear it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s not like what I used to be, Wilfrid. But there’s none of that left. + What do you take me for—honestly now?’ + </p> + <p> + He hung his head low, his eyes fixed on the hearth-rug, not on the fire, + and kept gnawing at the head of his cane. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t like some of your companions,’ I said. ‘To be sure I don’t know + much of them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The less you know, the better! If there be a devil, that fellow. + Brotherton will hand me over to him—bodily, before long.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t you give him up?’ said I. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s no use trying. He’s got such a hold of me. Never let a man you don’t + know to the marrow pay even a toll-gate for you, Wilfrid.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am in no danger, Charley. Such people don’t take to me,’ I said, + self-righteously. ‘But it can’t be too late to break with him. I know my + uncle would—I could manage a five-pound note now, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear boy, if I had borrowed—. But I have let him pay for me + again and again, and I don’t know how to rid the obligation. But it don’t + signify. It’s too late anyhow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What have you done, Charley? Nothing very wrong, I trust.’ + </p> + <p> + The lost look deepened. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all over, Wilfrid,’ he said. ‘But it don’t matter. I can take to the + river when I please.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But then you know you might happen to go right through the river, + Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know what you mean,’ he said, with a defiant sound like nothing I had + ever heard. + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley!’ I cried, ‘I can’t bear to hear you. You can’t have changed so + much already as not to trust me. I will do all I can to help you. What + have you done?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, nothing!’ he rejoined, and tried to laugh: it was a dreadful failure. + ‘But I can’t bear to think of that mother of mine! I wish I could tell you + all; but I can’t. How Brotherton would laugh at me now! I can’t be made + quite like other people, Wilfrid! <i>You</i> would never have been such a + fool.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are more delicately made than most people, Charley—“touched to + finer issues,” as Shakspere says.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who told you that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think a great deal about you. That is all you have left me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve been a brute, Wilfrid. But you’ll forgive me, I know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘With all my heart, if you’ll only put it in my power to serve you. Come, + trust me, Charley, and tell me all about it. I shall not betray you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not afraid of that,’ he answered, and sunk into silence once more. + </p> + <p> + I look to myself presumptuous and priggish in the memory. But I did mean + truly by him. I began to question him, and by slow degrees, in broken + hints, and in jets of reply, drew from him the facts. When at length he + saw that I understood, he burst into tears, hid his face in his hands, and + rocked himself to and fro. + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley! Charley! don’t give in like that,’ I cried. ‘Be as sorry as you + like; but don’t go on as if there was no help. Who has not failed and been + forgiven—in one way if not in another?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is there to forgive me? My father would not. And if he would, what + difference would it make? I have done it all the same.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But God, Charley—’ I suggested, hesitating. + </p> + <p> + ‘What of him? If he should choose to pass a thing by and say nothing about + it, that doesn’t undo it. It’s all nonsense. God himself can’t make it + that I didn’t do what I did do.’ + </p> + <p> + But with what truthful yet reticent words can I convey the facts of + Charley’s case? I am perfectly aware it would be to expose both myself and + him to the laughter of men of low development who behave as if no more <i>self-possession</i> + were demanded of a man than of one of the lower animals. Such might + perhaps feel a certain involuntary movement of pitifulness at the fate of + a woman first awaking to the consciousness that she can no more hold up + her head amongst her kind: but that a youth should experience a similar + sense of degradation and loss, they would regard as a degree of silliness + and effeminacy below contempt, if not beyond belief. But there is a sense + of personal purity belonging to the man as well as to the woman; and + although I dare not say that in the most refined of masculine natures it + asserts itself with the awful majesty with which it makes its presence + known in the heart of a woman, the man in whom it speaks with most + authority is to be found amongst the worthiest; and to a youth like + Charley the result of actual offence against it might be utter ruin. In + his case, however, it was not merely a consciousness of personal + defilement which followed; for, whether his companions had so schemed it + or not, he supposed himself more than ordinarily guilty. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose I must marry the girl,’ said poor Charley with a groan. + </p> + <p> + Happily I saw at once that there might be two sides to the question, and + that it was desirable to know more ere I ventured a definite reply. + </p> + <p> + I had grown up, thanks to many things, with a most real although vague + adoration of women; but I was not so ignorant as to be unable to fancy it + possible that Charley had been the victim. Therefore, after having managed + to comfort him a little, and taken him home to his rooms, I set about + endeavouring to get further information. + </p> + <p> + I will not linger over the affair—as unpleasant to myself as it can + be to any of my readers. It had to be mentioned, however, not merely as + explaining how I got hold of Charley again, but as affording a clue to his + character, and so to his history. Not even yet can I think without a gush + of anger and shame of my visit to Brotherton. With what stammering + confusion I succeeded at last in making him understand the nature of the + information I wanted, I will not attempt to describe; nor the roar of + laughter which at length burst bellowing—not from himself only, but + from three or four companions as well to whom he turned and communicated + the joke. The fire of jests, and proposals, and interpretations of motive + which I had then to endure, seems yet to scorch my very brain at the mere + recollection. From their manner and speech, I was almost convinced that + they had laid a trap for Charley, whom they regarded as a simpleton, to + enjoy his consequent confusion. With what I managed to find out elsewhere, + I was at length satisfied, and happily succeeded in convincing Charley, + that he had been the butt of his companions, and that he was far the more + injured person in any possible aspect of the affair. + </p> + <p> + I shall never forget the look or the sigh of relief which proved that at + last his mind had opened to the facts of the case. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wilfrid,’ he said, ‘you have saved me. We shall never be parted more. See + if I am ever false to you again!’ + </p> + <p> + And yet it never was as it had been. I am sure of that now. Henceforth, + however, he entirely avoided his former companions. Our old friendship was + renewed. Our old talks arose again, And now that he was not alone in them, + the perplexities under which he had broken down when left to encounter + them by himself were not so overwhelming as to render him helpless. We + read a good deal together, and Charley helped me much in the finer affairs + of the classics, for his perceptions were as delicate as his feelings. He + would brood over an Horatian phrase as Keats would brood over a sweet pea + or a violet; the very tone in which he would repeat it would waft me from + it an aroma unperceived before. When it was his turn to come to my rooms, + I would watch for his arrival almost as a lover for his mistress. + </p> + <p> + For two years more our friendship grew; in which time Charley had + recovered habits of diligence. I presume he said nothing at home of the + renewal of his intimacy with me: I shrunk from questioning him. As if he + had been an angel who who had hurt his wing and was compelled to sojourn + with me for a time, I feared to bring the least shadow over his face, and + indeed fell into a restless observance of his moods. I remember we read <i>Comus</i> + together. How his face would glow at the impassioned praises of virtue! + and how the glow would die into a grey sadness at the recollection of the + near past! I could read his face like a book. + </p> + <p> + At length the time arrived when we had to part, he to study for the Bar, I + to remain at Oxford another year, still looking forward to a literary + life. + </p> + <p> + When I commenced writing my story, I fancied myself so far removed from it + that I could regard it as the story of another, capable of being viewed on + all sides, and conjectured and speculated upon. And so I found it as long + as the regions of childhood and youth detained me. But as I approach the + middle scenes, I begin to fear the revival of the old torture; that, from + the dispassionate reviewer, I may become once again the suffering actor. + Long ago I read a strange story of a man condemned at periods unforeseen + to act again, and yet again, in absolute verisimilitude each of the scenes + of his former life: I have a feeling as if I too might glide from the + present into the past without a sign to warn me of the coming transition. + </p> + <p> + One word more ere I pass to the middle events, those for the sake of which + the beginning is and the end shall be recorded. It is this—that I am + under endless obligations to Charley for opening my eyes at this time to + my overweening estimate of myself. Not that he spoke—Charley could + never have reproved even a child. But I could tell almost any sudden + feeling that passed through him. His face betrayed it. What he felt about + me I saw at once. From the signs of his mind, I often recognized the + character of what was in my own; and thus seeing myself through him, I + gathered reason to be ashamed; while the refinement of his criticism, the + quickness of his perception, and the novelty and force of his remarks, + convinced me that I could not for a moment compare with him in mental + gifts. The upper hand of influence I had over him I attribute to the + greater freedom of my training, and the enlarged ideas which had led my + uncle to avoid enthralling me to his notions. He believed the truth could + afford to wait until I was capable of seeing it for myself; and that the + best embodiments of truth are but bonds and fetters to him who cannot + accept them as such. When I could not agree with him, he would say with + one of his fine smiles, ‘We’ll drop it, then, Willie. I don’t believe you + have caught my meaning. If I am right, you will see it some day, and + there’s no hurry.’ How could it be but Charlie and I should be different, + seeing we had fared so differently! But, alas! my knowledge of his + character is chiefly the result of after-thought. + </p> + <p> + I do not mean this manuscript to be read until after my death; and even + then—although partly from habit, partly that I dare not trust myself + to any other form of utterance, I write as if for publication—even + then, I say, only by one. I am about to write what I should not die in + peace if I thought she would never know; but which I dare not seek to tell + her now for the risk of being misunderstood. I thank God for that blessed + invention, Death, which of itself must set many things right, and gives a + man a chance of justifying himself where he would not have been heard + while alive. Lest my manuscript should fall into other hands, I have taken + care that not a single name in it should contain even a side-look or hint + at the true one; but she will be able to understand the real person in + every case. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. MY WHITE MARE. + </h2> + <p> + I passed my final examinations with credit, if not with honour. It was not + yet clearly determined what I should do next. My goal was London, but I + was unwilling to go thither empty-handed. I had been thinking as well as + reading a good deal; a late experience had stimulated my imagination; and + at spare moments I had been writing a tale. It had grown to be a + considerable mass of manuscript, and I was anxious, before going, to + finish it. Hence, therefore, I returned home with the intention of + remaining there quietly for a few months before setting-out to seek my + fortune. + </p> + <p> + Whether my uncle in his heart quite favoured the plan, I have my doubts, + but it would have been quite inconsistent with his usual grand treatment + of me to oppose anything not wrong on which I had set my heart. Finding + now that I took less exercise than he thought desirable, and kept myself + too much to my room, he gave me a fresh proof of his unvarying kindness, + He bought me a small grey mare of strength and speed. Her lineage was + unknown; but her small head, broad fine chest, and clean limbs indicated + Arab blood at no great remove. Upon her I used to gallop over the fields, + or saunter along the lanes, dreaming and inventing. + </p> + <p> + And now certain feelings, too deeply rooted in my nature for my memory to + recognize their beginnings, began to assume colour and condensed form, as + if about to burst into some kind of blossom. Thanks to my education and + love of study, also to a self-respect undefined yet restraining, nothing + had occurred to wrong them. In my heart of hearts I worshipped the idea of + womanhood. I thank Heaven, if ever I do thank for anything, that I still + worship thus. Alas! how many have put on the acolyte’s robe in the same + temple, who have ere long cast dirt upon the statue of their divinity, <i>then</i> + dragged her as defiled from her lofty pedestal, and left her lying + dishonoured at its foot! Instead of feeding with holy oil the lamp of the + higher instinct, which would glorify and purify the lower, they feed the + fire of the lower with vile fuel, which sends up its stinging smoke to + becloud and blot the higher. + </p> + <p> + One lovely Spring morning, the buds half out, and the wind blowing fresh + and strong, the white clouds scudding across a blue gulf of sky, and the + tall trees far away swinging as of old, when they churned the wind for my + childish fancy, I looked up from my book and saw it all. The gladness of + nature entered into me, and my heart swelled so in my bosom that I turned + with distaste from all further labour. I pushed my papers from me, and + went to the window. The short grass all about was leaning away from the + wind, shivering and showing its enamel. Still, as in childhood, the wind + had a special power over me. In another moment I was out of the house and + hastening to the farm for my mare. She neighed at the sound of my step. I + saddled and bridled her, sprung on her back, and galloped across the grass + in the direction of the trees. + </p> + <p> + In a few moments I was within the lodge gates, walking my mare along the + gravelled drive, and with the reins on the white curved neck before me, + looking up at those lofty pines, whose lonely heads were swinging in the + air like floating but fettered islands. My head had begun to feel dizzy + with the ever-iterated, slow, half-circular sweep, when, just opposite the + lawn stretching from a low wire fence up to the door of the steward’s + house, my mare shied, darted to the other side of the road, and flew + across the grass. Caught thus lounging on my saddle, I was almost + unseated. As soon as I had pulled her up, I turned to see what had + startled her, for the impression of a white flash remained upon my mental + sensorium. There, leaning on the little gate, looking much diverted, stood + the loveliest creature, in a morning dress of white, which the wind was + blowing about her like a cloud. She had no hat on, and her hair, as if + eager to join in the merriment of the day, was flying like the ribbons of + a tattered sail. A humanized Dryad!—one that had been caught young, + but in whom the forest-sap still asserted itself in wild affinities with + the wind and the swaying branches, and the white clouds careering across! + Could it be Clara? How could it be any other than Clara? I rode back. + </p> + <p> + I was a little short-sighted, and had to get pretty near before I could be + certain; but she knew me, and waited my approach. When I came near enough + to see them, I could not mistake those violet eyes. + </p> + <p> + I was now in my twentieth year, and had never been in love. Whether I now + fell in love or not, I leave to my reader. + </p> + <p> + Clara was even more beautiful than her girlish loveliness had promised. + ‘An exceeding fair forehead,’ to quote Sir Philip Sidney; eyes of which I + have said enough; a nose more delicate than symmetrical; a mouth rather + thin-lipped, but well curved; a chin rather small, I confess;—but + did any one ever from the most elaborated description acquire even an + approximate idea of the face intended? Her person was lithe and graceful; + she had good hands and feet; and the fairness of her skin gave her brown + hair a duskier look than belonged to itself. + </p> + <p> + Before I was yet near enough to be certain of her, I lifted my hat, and + she returned the salutation with an almost familiar nod and smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am very sorry,’ she said, speaking first—in her old half-mocking + way, ‘that I so nearly cost you your seat.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was my own carelessness,’ I returned. ‘Surely I am right in taking you + for the lady who allowed me, in old times, to call her Clara? How I could + ever have had the presumption I cannot imagine.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course that is a familiarity not to be thought of between full-grown + people like us, Mr Cumbermede,’ she rejoined, and her smile became a + laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, you do recognize me, then?’ I said, thinking her cool, but forgetting + the thought the next moment. + </p> + <p> + ‘I guess at you. If you had been dressed as on one occasion, I should not + have got so far as that.’ + </p> + <p> + Pleased at this merry reference to our meeting on the Wengern Alp, I was + yet embarrassed to find that nothing more suggested itself to be said. But + while I was quieting my mare, which happily afforded me some pretext at + the moment, another voice fell on my ear—hoarse, but breezy and + pleasant. + </p> + <p> + ‘So, Clara, you are no sooner back to old quarters than you give a + rendezvous at the garden-gate—eh, girl?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Rather an ill-chosen spot for the purpose, papa,’ she returned, laughing, + ‘especially as the gentleman has too much to do with his horse to get off + and talk to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! our old friend Mr Cumbermede, I declare! Only rather more of him!’ he + added, laughing, as he opened the little gate in the wire fence, and + coming up to me, shook hands heartily. ‘Delighted to see you, Mr + Cumbermede. Have you left Oxford for good?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I answered—‘some time ago.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And may I ask what you’re turning your attention to now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I hardly like to confess it, but I mean to have a try at—something + in the literary way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Plucky enough! The paths of literature are not certainly the paths of + pleasantness or of peace even—so far as ever I heard. Somebody said + you were going in for the law.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought there were too many lawyers already. One so often hears of + barristers with nothing to do, and glad to take to the pen, that I thought + it might be better to begin with what I should most probably come to at + last.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! but, Mr Cumbermede, there are other departments of the law which + bring quicker returns than the bar. If you would put yourself in my hands + now, you should be earning your bread at least within a couple of years or + so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are very kind,’ I returned, heartily, for he spoke as if he meant + what he said; ‘but you see I have a leaning to the one and not to the + other. I should like to have a try first, at all events.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, perhaps it’s better to begin by following your bent. You may find + the road take a turn, though.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps. I will go on till it does, though.’ + </p> + <p> + While we talked, Clara had followed her father, and was now patting my + mare’s neck with a nice, plump, fair-fingered hand. The creature stood + with her arched neck and small head turned lovingly towards her. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a nice white thing you have got to ride!’ she said. ‘I hope it is + your own.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you hope that?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because it’s best to ride your own horse, isn’t it?’ she answered, + looking up naïvely. + </p> + <p> + ‘Would <i>you</i> like to ride her? I believe she has carried a lady, + though not since she came into my possession.’ + </p> + <p> + Instead of answering me, she looked round at her father, who stood by + smiling benignantly. Her look said— + </p> + <p> + ‘If papa would let me.’ + </p> + <p> + He did not reply, but seemed waiting. I resumed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you a good horsewoman, Miss—Clara?’ I said, with a feel after + the recovery of old privileges. + </p> + <p> + ‘I must not sing my own praises, Mr—Wilfrid,’ she rejoined, ‘but I + <i>have</i> ridden in Rotten Row, and I believe without any signal + disgrace.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you got a side-saddle?’ I asked, dismounting. + </p> + <p> + Mr Coningham spoke now. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you think Mr Cumbermede’s horse a little too frisky for you, Clara? + I know so little about you, I can’t tell what you’re fit for.—She + used to ride pretty well as a girl,’ he added, turning to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve not forgotten that,’ I said. ‘I shall walk by her side, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall you?’ she said, with a sly look. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps,’ I suggested, ‘your grandfather would let me have his horse, and + then we might have a gallop across the park.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The best way,’ said Mr Coningham, ‘will be to let the gardener take your + horse, while you come in and have some luncheon. We’ll see about the mount + after that. My horse has to carry me back in the evening, else I should be + happy to join you. She’s a fine creature, that of yours.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s the handiest creature!’ I said—‘a little skittish, but very + affectionate, and has a fine mouth. Perhaps she ought to have a curb-bit + for you, though, Miss Clara.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll manage with a snaffle,’ she answered, with, I thought, another sly + glance at me, out of eyes sparkling with suppressed merriment and + expectation! Her father had gone to find the gardener, and as we stood + waiting for him she still stroked the mare’s neck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you not afraid of taking cold,’ I said, ‘without your bonnet?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never had a cold in my life,’ she returned. + </p> + <p> + ‘That is saying much. You would have me believe you are not made of the + same clay as other people.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Believe anything you like,’ she answered carelessly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I do believe it,’ I rejoined. + </p> + <p> + She looked me in the face, took her hand from the mare’s neck, stepped + back half-a-foot and looked round, saying— + </p> + <p> + ‘I wonder where that man can have got to. Oh, here he comes, and papa with + him!’ + </p> + <p> + We went across the trim little lawn, which lay waiting for the warmer + weather to burst into a profusion of roses, and through a trellised porch + entered a shadowy little hall, with heads of stags and foxes, an + old-fashioned glass-doored bookcase, and hunting and riding whips, whence + we passed into a low-pitched drawing-room, redolent of dried rose-leaves + and fresh hyacinths. A little pug-dog, which seemed to have failed in + swallowing some big dog’s tongue, jumped up barking from the sheep-skin + mat, where he lay before the fire. + </p> + <p> + ‘Stupid pug!’ said Clara. ‘You never know friends from foes! I wonder + where my aunt is.’ + </p> + <p> + She left the room. Her father had not followed us. I sat down on the sofa, + and began turning over a pretty book bound in red silk, one of the first + of the <i>annual</i> tribe, which lay on the table. I was deep in one of + its eastern stories when, hearing a slight movement, I looked up, and + there sat Clara in a low chair by the window, working at a delicate bit of + lace with a needle. She looked somehow as if she had been there an hour at + least. I laid down the book with some exclamation. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is the matter, Mr Cumbermede?’ she asked, with the slightest + possible glance up from the fine meshes of her work. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had not the slightest idea you were in the room.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course not. How could a literary man, with a <i>Forget-me-not</i> in + his hand, be expected to know that a girl had come into the room?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you been at school all this time?’ I asked, for the sake of avoiding + a silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘All what time?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Say, since we parted in Switzerland.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not quite. I have been staying with an aunt for nearly a year. Have you + been at college all this time?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At school and college. When did you come home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This is not my home, but I came here yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you find the country dull after London?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t had time yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did they give you riding lessons at school?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. But my aunt took care of my morals in that respect. A girl might as + well not be able to dance as ride now-a-days.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who rode with you in the park? Not the riding-master?’ + </p> + <p> + With a slight flush on her face she retorted, + </p> + <p> + ‘How many more questions are you going to ask me? I should like to know, + that I may make up my mind how many of them to answer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose we say six.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘Now I shall answer your last question and count + that the first. About nine o’clock, one—day—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Morning or evening?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Morning of course—I walked out of—the house—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your aunt’s house?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, of course, my aunt’s house. Do let me go on with my story. It was + getting a little dark—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Getting dark at nine in the morning?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In the evening, I said.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon, I thought you said the morning.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no, the evening; and of course I was a little frightened, for I was + not accustomed—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you were never out alone at that hour,—in London?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I was quite alone. I had promised to meet—a friend at the + corner of——You know that part, do you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon. What part?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh—Mayfair. You know Mayfair, don’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You were going to meet a gentleman at the corner of Mayfair—were + you?’ I said, getting quite bewildered. + </p> + <p> + She jumped up, clapping her hands as gracefully as merrily, and crying— + </p> + <p> + ‘I wasn’t going to meet any gentleman. There! Your six questions are + answered. I won’t answer a single other you choose to ask, unless I + please, which is not in the least likely.’ + </p> + <p> + She made me a low half merry, half mocking courtesy and left the room. + </p> + <p> + The same moment her father came in, following old Mr Coningham, who gave + me a kindly welcome, and said his horse was at my service, but he hoped I + would lunch with him first. I gratefully consented, and soon luncheon was + announced. Miss Coningham, Clara’s aunt, was in the dining-room before us. + A dry, antiquated woman, she greeted me with unexpected frankness. Lunch + was half over before Clara entered—in a perfectly fitting habit, her + hat on, and her skirt thrown over her arm. + </p> + <p> + ‘Soho, Clara!’ cried her father; ‘you want to take us by surprise—coming + out all at once a town-bred lady, eh?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, where ever did you get that riding-habit, Clara?’ said her aunt. + </p> + <p> + ‘In my box, aunt,’ said Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘My word, child, but your father has kept you in pocket-money!’ returned + Miss Coningham. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve got a town aunt as well as a country one,’ rejoined Clara, with an + expression I could not quite understand, but out of which her laugh took + only half the sting. + </p> + <p> + Miss Coningham reddened a little. I judged afterwards that Clara had been + diplomatically allowing her just to feel what sharp claws she had for use + if required. + </p> + <p> + But the effect of the change from loose white muslin to tight dark cloth + was marvellous, and I was bewitched by it. So slight, yet so round, so + trim, yet so pliant—she was grace itself. It seemed as if the former + object of my admiration had vanished, and I had found another with such + surpassing charms that the loss could not be regretted. I may just mention + that the change appeared also to bring out a certain look of determination + which I now recalled as having belonged to her when a child. + </p> + <p> + ‘Clara!’ said her father, in a very marked tone; whereupon it was Clara’s + turn to blush and be silent. + </p> + <p> + I started some new subject, in the airiest manner I could command. Clara + recovered her composure, and I flattered myself she looked a little + grateful when our eyes met. But I caught her father’s eyes twinkling now + and then as if from some secret source of merriment, and could not help + fancying he was more amused than displeased with his daughter. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. A RIDING LESSON. + </h2> + <p> + By the time luncheon was over, the horses had been standing some minutes + at the lawn-gate, my mare with a side-saddle. We hastened to mount, + Clara’s eyes full of expectant frolic. I managed, as I thought, to get + before her father, and had the pleasure of lifting her to the saddle. She + was up ere I could feel her weight on my arm. When I gathered her again + with my eyes, she was seated as calmly as if at her lace-needlework, only + her eyes were sparkling. With the slightest help, she had her foot in the + stirrup, and with a single movement had her skirt comfortable. I left her, + to mount the horse they had brought me, and when I looked from his back, + the white mare was already flashing across the boles of the trees, and + Clara’s dark skirt flying out behind like the drapery of a descending + goddess in an allegorical picture. With a pang of terror I fancied the + mare had run away with her, and sat for a moment afraid to follow, lest + the sound of my horse’s feet on the turf should make her gallop the + faster. But the next moment she turned in her saddle, and I saw a face + alive with pleasure and confidence. As she recovered her seat, she waved + her hand to me, and I put my horse to his speed. I had not gone far, + however, before I perceived a fresh cause of anxiety. She was making + straight for a wire fence. I had heard that horses could not see such a + fence, and if Clara did not see it, or should be careless, the result + would be frightful. I shouted after her, but she took no heed. + Fortunately, however, there was right in front of them a gate, which I had + not at first observed, into the bars of which had been wattled some + brushwood. ‘The mare will see that,’ I said to myself. But the words were + hardly through my mind, before I saw them fly over it like a bird. + </p> + <p> + On the other side, she pulled up, and waited for me. + </p> + <p> + Now I had never jumped a fence in my life. I did not know that my mare + could do such a thing, for I had never given her the chance. I was not, + and never have become, what would be considered an accomplished horseman. + I scarcely know a word of stable-slang. I have never followed the hounds + more than twice or three times in the course of my life. Not the less am I + a true lover of horses—but I have been their companion more in work + than in play. I have slept for miles on horseback, but even now I have not + a sure seat over a fence. + </p> + <p> + I knew nothing of the animal I rode, but I was bound, at least, to make + the attempt to follow my leader. I was too inexperienced not to put him to + his speed instead of going gently up to the gate; and I had a bad habit of + leaning forward in my saddle, besides knowing nothing of how to incline + myself backwards as the horse alighted. Hence when I found myself on the + other side, it was not on my horse’s back, but on my own face. I rose + uninjured, except in my self-esteem. I fear I was for the moment as much + disconcerted as if I had been guilty of some moral fault. Nor did it help + me much towards regaining my composure that Clara was shaking with + suppressed laughter. Utterly stupid from mortification, I laid hold of my + horse, which stood waiting for me beside the mare, and scrambled upon his + back. But Clara, who, with all her fun, was far from being ill-natured, + fancied from my silence that I was hurt. Her merriment vanished. With + quite an anxious expression on her face, she drew to my side, saying— + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope you are not hurt?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only my pride,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind that,’ she returned gaily. ‘That will soon be itself again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not so sure,’ I rejoined. ‘To make such a fool of myself before <i>you</i>!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Am I such a formidable person?’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘But I never jumped a fence in my life before.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you had been afraid,’ she said, ‘and had pulled up, I might have + despised you. As it was, I only laughed at you. Where was the harm? You + shirked nothing. You followed your leader. Come along, I will give you a + lesson or two before we get back.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you,’ I said, beginning to recover my spirits a little; ‘I shall be + a most obedient pupil. But how did you get so clever, Clara?’ + </p> + <p> + I ventured the unprotected name, and she took no notice of the liberty. + </p> + <p> + ‘I told you I had had a riding-master. If you are not afraid, and mind + what you are told, you will always come right somehow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suspect that is good advice for more than horsemanship.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I had not the slightest intention of moralizing. I am incapable of it,’ + she answered, in a tone of serious self-defence. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had as little intention of making the accusation,’ I rejoined. ‘But + will you really teach me a little?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Most willingly. To begin, you must sit erect. You lean forward.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you. Is this better?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, better. A little more yet. You ought to have your stirrups shorter. + It is a poor affectation to ride like a trooper. Their own officers don’t. + You can tell any novice by his long leathers, his heels down and his toes + in his stirrups. Ride home, if you want to ride comfortably.’ + </p> + <p> + The phrase was new to me, but I guessed what she meant; and without + dismounting, pulled my stirrup-leathers a couple of holes shorter, and + thrust my feet through to the instep. She watched the whole proceeding. + </p> + <p> + ‘There! you look more like riding now,’ she said. ‘Let us have another + canter. I will promise not to lead you over any more fences without due + warning.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And due admonition as well, I trust, Clara.’ + </p> + <p> + She nodded, and away we went. I had never been so proud of my mare. She + showed to much advantage, with the graceful figure on her back, which she + carried like a feather. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now there’s a little fence,’ she said, pointing where a rail or two + protected a clump of plantation. ‘You must mind the young wood though, or + we shall get into trouble. Mind you throw yourself back a little—as + you see me do.’ + </p> + <p> + I watched her, and following her directions, did better this time, for I + got over somehow and recovered my seat. + </p> + <p> + ‘There! You improve,’ said Clara. ‘Now we’re pounded, unless you can jump + again, and it is not quite so easy from this side.’ + </p> + <p> + When we alighted, I found my saddle in the proper place. + </p> + <p> + ‘Bravo!’ she cried. ‘I entirely forgive your first misadventure. You do + splendidly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I would rather you forgot it, Clara,’ I cried, ungallantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I will be generous,’ she returned. ‘Besides, I owe you something + for such a charming ride. I <i>will</i> forget it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you,’ I said, and drawing closer would have laid my left hand on + her right. + </p> + <p> + Whether she foresaw my intention, I do not know; but in a moment she was + yards away, scampering over the grass. My horse could never have overtaken + hers. + </p> + <p> + By the time she drew rein and allowed me to get alongside of her once + more, we were in sight: of Moldwarp Hall. It stood with one corner towards + us, giving the perspective of two sides at once. She stopped her mare, and + said, + </p> + <p> + ‘There, Wilfrid! What would you give to call a place like that your own? + What a thing to have a house like that to live in!’ + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “NOW THERE’S A LITTLE FENCE,” SHE SAID.} + </p> + <p> + ‘I know something I should like better,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + I assure my reader I was not so silly as to be on the point of making her + an offer already. Neither did she so misunderstand me. She was very near + the mark of my meaning when she rejoined— + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you? I don’t. I suppose you would prefer being called a fine poet, or + something of the sort.’ + </p> + <p> + I was glad she did not give me time to reply, for I had not intended to + expose myself to her ridicule. She was off again at a gallop towards the + Hall, straight for the less accessible of the two gates, and had scrambled + the mare up to the very bell-pull and rung it before I could get near her. + When the porter appeared in the wicket— + </p> + <p> + ‘Open the gate, Jansen,’ she said. ‘I want to see Mrs Wilson, and I don’t + want to get down.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But horses never come in here, Miss,’ said the man. + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean to make an exception in favour of this mare,’ she answered. + </p> + <p> + The man hesitated a moment, then retreated—but only to obey, as we + understood at once by the creaking of the dry hinges, which were seldom + required to move. + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t mind holding her for me, will you?’ she said, turning to me. + </p> + <p> + I had been sitting mute with surprise both at the way in which she ordered + the man, and at his obedience. But now I found my tongue. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you think, Miss Coningham,’ I said—for the man was within + hearing, ‘we had better leave them both with the porter, and then we could + go in together? I’m not sure that those flags, not to mention the steps, + are good footing for that mare.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! you’re afraid of your animal, are you?’ she rejoined. ‘Very well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall I hold your stirrup for you?’ + </p> + <p> + Before I could dismount, she had slipped off, and begun gathering up her + skirt. The man came and took the horses. We entered by the open gate + together. + </p> + <p> + ‘How can you be so cruel, Clara?’ I said. ‘You <i>will</i> always + misinterpret me! I was quite right about the flags. Don’t you see how hard + they are, and how slippery therefore for iron shoes?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You might have seen by this time that I know quite as much about horses + as you do,’ she returned, a little cross, I thought. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can ride ever so much better,’ I answered; ‘but it does not follow + you know more about horses than I do. I once saw a horse have a frightful + fall on just such a pavement. Besides, does one think <i>only</i> of the + horse when there’s an angel on his back?’ + </p> + <p> + It was a silly speech, and deserved rebuke. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not in the least fond of <i>such</i> compliments,’ she answered. + </p> + <p> + By this time we had reached the door of Mrs Wilson’s apartment. She + received us rather stiffly, even for her. After some commonplace talk, in + which, without departing from facts, Clara made it appear that she had set + out for the express purpose of paying Mrs Wilson a visit, I asked if the + family was at home, and finding they were not, begged leave to walk into + the library. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll go together,’ she said, apparently not caring about a tête-à-tête + with Clara. Evidently the old lady liked her as little as ever. + </p> + <p> + We left the house, and entering again by a side door, passed on our way + through the little gallery, into which I had dropped from the roof. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look, Clara, that is where I came down,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + She merely nodded. But Mrs Wilson looked very sharply, first at the one, + then at the other of us. When we reached the library, I found it in the + same miserable condition as before, and could not help exclaiming with + some indignation, + </p> + <p> + ‘It <i>is</i> a shame to see such treasures mouldering there! I am + confident there are many valuable books among them, getting ruined from + pure neglect. I wish I knew Sir Giles. I would ask him to let me come and + set them right.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You would be choked with dust and cobwebs in an hour’s time,’ said Clara. + ‘Besides, I don’t think Mrs Wilson would like the proceeding.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you ground that remark upon, Miss Clara?’ said the housekeeper in + a dry tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought you used them for firewood occasionally,’ answered Clara, with + an innocent expression both of manner and voice. + </p> + <p> + The most prudent answer to such an absurd charge would have been a laugh; + but Mrs Wilson vouchsafed no reply at all, and I pretended to be too much + occupied with its subject to have heard it. + </p> + <p> + After lingering a little while, during which I paid attention chiefly to + Mrs Wilson, drawing her notice to the state of several of the books, I + proposed we should have a peep at the armoury. We went in, and, glancing + over the walls I knew so well, I scarcely repressed an exclamation: I + could not be mistaken in my own sword! There it hung, in the centre of the + principal space—in the same old sheath, split half-way up from the + point! To the hilt hung an ivory label with a number upon it. I suppose I + made some inarticulate sound, for Clara fixed her eyes upon me. I busied + myself at once with a gorgeously hiked scimitar, which hung near, for I + did not wish to talk about it then, and so escaped further remark. From + the armoury we went to the picture-gallery, where I found a good many + pictures had been added to the collection. They were all new and mostly + brilliant in colour. I was no judge, but I could not help feeling how + crude and harsh they looked beside the mellowed tints of the paintings, + chiefly portraits, among which they had been introduced. + </p> + <p> + ‘Horrid!—aren’t they?’ said Clara, as if she divined my thoughts; + but I made no direct reply, unwilling to offend Mrs Wilson. + </p> + <p> + When we were once more on horseback, and walking across the grass, my + companion was the first to speak. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you ever see such daubs!’ she said, making a wry face as at something + sour enough to untune her nerves. ‘Those new pictures are simply + frightful. Any one of them would give me the jaundice in a week, if it + were hung in our drawing-room.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t say I admire them,’ I returned. ‘And at all events they ought not + to be on the same walls with those stately old ladies and gentlemen.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Parvenus,’ said Clara. ‘Quite in their place. Pure Manchester taste—educated + on calico-prints.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If that is your opinion of the family, how do you account for their + keeping everything so much in the old style? They don’t seem to change + anything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All for their own honour and glory! The place is a testimony to the + antiquity of the family of which they are a shoot run to seed—and + very ugly seed too! It’s enough to break one’s heart to think of such a + glorious old place in such hands. Did you ever see young Brotherton?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I knew him a little at college. He’s a good-looking fellow!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Would be if it weren’t for the bad blood in him. That comes out + unmistakeably. He’s vulgar.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you seen much of him, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite enough. I never heard him say anything vulgar, or saw him do + anything vulgar, but vulgar he is, and vulgar is every one of the family. + A man who is always aware of how rich he will be, and how good-looking he + is, and what a fine match he would make, would look vulgar lying in his + coffin.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are positively caustic, Miss Coningham.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you saw their house in Cheshire! But blessings be on the place!—it’s + the safety-valve for Moldwarp Hall. The natural Manchester passion for + novelty and luxury finds a vent there, otherwise they could not keep their + hands off it; and what was best would be sure to go first. Corchester + House ought to be secured to the family by Act of Parliament.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you been to Corchester, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was there for a week once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And how did you like it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all. I was not comfortable. I was always feeling too well-bred. + You never saw such colours in your life. Their drawing-rooms are quite a + happy family of the most quarrelsome tints.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How ever did they come into this property?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They’re of the breed somehow—a long way off though. Shouldn’t I + like to see a new claimant come up and oust them after all! They haven’t + had it above five-and-twenty years or so. Wouldn’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The old man was kind to me once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How was that? I thought it was only through Mrs Wilson you knew anything + of them.’ + </p> + <p> + I told her the story of the apple. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I do rather like old Sir Giles,’ she said, when I had done. + ‘There’s a good deal of the rough country gentleman about him. He’s a + better man than his son anyhow. Sons will succeed their fathers, though, + unfortunately.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t care who may succeed him, if only I could get back my sword. It’s + too bad, with an armoury like that, to take my one little ewe-lamb from + me.’ + </p> + <p> + Here I had another story to tell. After many interruptions in the way of + questions from my listener, I ended it with these words— + </p> + <p> + ‘And—will you believe me?—I saw the sword hanging in that + armoury this afternoon—close by that splendid hilt I pointed out to + you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How could you tell it among so many?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just as you could tell that white creature from this brown one. I know + it, hilt and scabbard, as well as a human face.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As well as mine, for instance?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am surer of it than I was of you this morning. It hasn’t changed like + you.’ + </p> + <p> + Our talk was interrupted by the appearance of a gentleman on horseback + approaching us. I thought at first it was Clara’s father, setting out for + home, and coming to bid us good-bye; but I soon saw I was mistaken. Not, + however, until he came quite close, did I recognize Geoffrey Brotherton. + He took off his hat to my companion, and reined in his horse. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going to give us in charge for trespassing, Mr Brotherton?’ said + Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should be happy to <i>take</i> you in charge on any pretence, Miss + Coningham. This is indeed an unexpected pleasure.’ + </p> + <p> + Here he looked in my direction. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ he said, lifting his eyebrows, ‘I thought I knew the old horse! What + a nice cob <i>you</i>’ve got, Miss Coningham.’ + </p> + <p> + He had not chosen to recognize me, of which I was glad, for I hardly knew + how to order my behaviour to him. I had forgotten nothing. But, ill as I + liked him, I was forced to confess that he had greatly improved in + appearance—and manners too, notwithstanding his behaviour was as + supercilious as ever to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you call her a cob, then?’ said Clara. ‘I should never have thought of + calling her a cob.—She belongs to Mr Cumbermede.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ he said again, arching his eyebrows as before, and looking straight + at me as if he had never seen me in his life. + </p> + <p> + I think I succeeded in looking almost unaware of his presence. At least so + I tried to look, feeling quite thankful to Clara for defending my mare: to + hear her called a cob was hateful to me. + </p> + <p> + After listening to a few more of his remarks upon her, made without the + slightest reference to her owner, who was not three yards from her side, + Clara asked him, in the easiest manner— + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall you be at the county ball?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘When is that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Next Thursday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then will you dance the first waltz with me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Mr Brotherton.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I am sorry to say I shall be in London.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘When do you rejoin your regiment?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I’ve got a month’s leave.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then why won’t you be at the ball?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because you won’t promise me the first waltz.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well—rather than the belles of Minstercombe should—ring their + sweet changes in vain, I suppose I must indulge you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A thousand thanks,’ he said, lifted his hat, and rode on. + </p> + <p> + My blood was in a cold boil—if the phrase can convey an idea. Clara + rode on homewards without looking round, and I followed, keeping a few + yards behind her, hardly thinking at all, my very brain seeming cold + inside my skull. + </p> + <p> + There was small occasion as yet, some of my readers may think. I cannot + help it—so it was. When we had gone in silence a couple of hundred + yards or so, she glanced round at me with a quick sly half-look, and burst + out laughing. I was by her side in an instant: her laugh had dissolved the + spell that bound me. But she spoke first. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Mr Cumbermede?’ she said, with a slow interrogation. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Miss Coningham?’ I rejoined, but bitterly, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the matter?’ she retorted sharply, looking up at me, full in the + face, whether in real or feigned anger I could not tell. + </p> + <p> + ‘How could you talk <i>of</i> that fellow as you did, and then talk so <i>to</i> + him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What right have you to put such questions to me? I am not aware of any + intimacy to justify it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I beg your pardon. But my surprise remains the same.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, you silly boy!’ she returned, laughing aloud, ‘don’t you know he is, + or will be, my feudal lord. I am bound to be polite to him. What would + become of poor grandpapa if I were to give him offence? Besides, I have + been in the house with him for a week. He’s not a Crichton; but he dances + well. Are <i>you</i> going to the ball?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never heard of it. I have not for weeks thought of anything but—but—my + writing, till this morning. Now I fear I shall find it difficult to return + to it. It looks ages since I saddled the mare!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But if you’re ever to be an author, it won’t do to shut yourself up. You + ought to see as much of the world as you can. I should strongly advise you + to go to the ball.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I would willingly obey you—but—but—I don’t know how to + get a ticket.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! if you would like to go, papa will have much pleasure in managing + that. I will ask him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m much obliged to you,’ I returned. ‘I should enjoy seeing Mr + Brotherton dance.’ + </p> + <p> + She laughed again, but it was an oddly constrained laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s quite time I were at home,’ she said, and gave the mare the rein, + increasing her speed as we approached the house. Before I reached the + little gate she had given her up to the gardener, who had been on the + look-out for us. + </p> + <p> + ‘Put on her own saddle, and bring the mare round at once, please,’ I + called to the man, as he led her and the horse away together. + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t you come in, Wilfrid?’ said Clara, kindly and seriously. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, thank you,’ I returned; for I was full of rage and jealousy. To do + myself justice, however, mingled with these was pity that such a girl + should be so easy with such a man. But I could not tell her what I knew of + him. Even if I <i>could</i> have done so, I dared not; for the man who + shows himself jealous must be readily believed capable of lying, or at + least misrepresenting. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I must bid you good-evening,’ she said, as quietly as if we had been + together only five minutes. ‘I am <i>so</i> much obliged to you for + letting me ride your mare!’ + </p> + <p> + She gave me a half-friendly, half-stately little bow, and walked into the + house. In a few moments the gardener returned with the mare, and I mounted + and rode home in anything but a pleasant mood. Having stabled her, I + roamed about the fields till it was dark, thinking for the first time in + my life I preferred woods to open grass. When I went in at length I did my + best to behave as if nothing had happened. My uncle must, however, have + seen that something was amiss, but he took no notice, for he never forced + or even led up to confidences. I retired early to bed, and passed an hour + or two of wretchedness, thinking over everything that had happened—-the + one moment calling her a coquette, and the next ransacking a fresh corner + of my brain to find fresh excuse for her. At length I was able to arrive + at the conclusion that I did not understand her, and having given in so + far, I soon fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. A DISAPPOINTMENT. + </h2> + <p> + I trust it will not be regarded as a sign of shallowness of nature that I + rose in the morning comparatively calm. Clara was to me as yet only the + type of general womanhood, around which the amorphous loves of my manhood + had begun to gather, not the one woman whom the individual man in me had + chosen and loved. How could I <i>love</i> that which I did not yet know: + she was but the heroine of my objective life, as projected from me by my + imagination—not the love of my being. Therefore, when the wings of + sleep had fanned the motes from my brain, I was cool enough, + notwithstanding an occasional tongue of indignant flame from the ashes of + last night’s fire, to sit down to my books, and read with tolerable + attention my morning portion of Plato. But when I turned to my novel, I + found I was not master of the situation. My hero too was in love and in + trouble; and after I had written a sentence and a half, I found myself + experiencing the fate of Heine when he roused the Sphinx of past love by + reading his own old verses:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lebendig ward das Marmorbild, + Der Stein begann zu ächzen. +</pre> + <p> + In a few moments I was pacing up and down the room, eager to burn my + moth-wings yet again in the old fire. And by the way, I cannot help + thinking that the moths enjoy their fate, and die in ecstasies. I was, + however, too shy to venture on a call that very morning: I should both + feel and look foolish. But there was no more work to be done then. I + hurried to the stable, saddled my mare, and set out for a gallop across + the farm, but towards the high road leading to Minstercombe, in the + opposite direction, that is, from the Hall, which I flattered myself was + to act in a strong-minded manner. There were several fences and hedges + between, but I cleared them all without discomfiture. The last jump was + into a lane. We, that is my mare and I, had scarcely alighted, when my + ears were invaded by a shout. The voice was the least welcome I could have + heard, that of Brotherton. I turned and saw him riding up the hill, with a + lady by his side. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hillo!’ he cried, almost angrily, ‘you don’t deserve to have such a cob.’ + (He <i>would</i> call her a cob.) ‘You don’t know-how to use her. To jump + her on to the hard like that!’ + </p> + <p> + It was Clara with him!—on the steady stiff old brown horse! My first + impulse was to jump my mare over the opposite fence, and take no heed, of + them, but clearly it was not to be attempted, for the ground fell + considerably on the other side. My next thought was to ride away and leave + them. My third was one which some of my readers will judge Quixotic, but I + have a profound reverence for the Don—and that not merely because I + have so often acted as foolishly as he. This last I proceeded to carry + out, and lifting-my hat, rode to meet them. Taking no notice whatever of + Brotherton, I addressed Clara—in what I fancied a distant and + dignified manner, which she might, if she pleased, attribute to the + presence of her companion. + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss Coningham,’ I said, ‘will you allow me the honour of offering you my + mare? She will carry you better.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are very kind, Mr Cumbermede,’ she returned in a similar tone, but + with a sparkle in her eyes. ‘I am greatly obliged to you. I cannot pretend + to prefer old crossbones to the beautiful creature which gave me so much + pleasure yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + I was off and by her side in a moment, helping her to dismount. I did not + even look at Brotherton, though I felt he was staring like an equestrian + statue. While I shifted the saddles Clara broke the silence, which I was + in too great an inward commotion to heed, by asking— + </p> + <p> + ‘What is the name of your beauty, Mr Cumbermede?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Lilith,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a pretty name! I never heard it before. Is it after any one—any + public character, I mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite a public character,’ I returned—‘Adam’s first wife.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never heard he had two,’ she rejoined, laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Jews say he had. She is a demon now, and the pest of married women + and their babies.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What a horrible name to give your mare!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The name is pretty enough. And what does it matter what the woman was, so + long as she was beautiful.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t quite agree with you there,’ she returned, with what I chose to + consider a forced laugh. + </p> + <p> + By this time her saddle was firm on Lilith, and in an instant she was + mounted. Brotherton moved to ride on, and the mare followed him. Clara + looked back. + </p> + <p> + ‘You will catch us up in a moment,’ she said, possibly a little puzzled + between us. + </p> + <p> + I was busy tightening my girths, and fumbled over the job more than was + necessary. Brotherton was several yards ahead, and she was walking the + mare slowly after him. I made her no answer, but mounted, and rode in the + opposite direction; It was rude of course, but I did it. I could not have + gone with them, and was afraid, if I told her so, she would dismount and + refuse the mare. + </p> + <p> + In a tumult of feeling I rode on without looking behind me, careless + whither—how long I cannot tell, before I woke up to find I did not + know where I was. I must ride on till I came to some place I knew, or met + some one who could tell me. Lane led into lane, buried betwixt deep banks + and lofty hedges, or passing through small woods, until I ascended a + rising ground, whence I got a view of the country. At once its features + began to dawn upon me: I was close to the village of Aldwick, where I had + been at school, and in a few minutes I rode into its wide straggling + street. Not a mark of change had passed upon it. There were the same dogs + about the doors, and the same cats in the windows. The very ferns in the + chinks of the old draw-well appeared the same; and the children had not + grown an inch since first I drove into the place marvelling at its + wondrous activity. + </p> + <p> + The sun was hot, and my horse seemed rather tired. I was in no mood to see + any one, and besides had no pleasant recollections of my last visit to Mr + Elder, so I drew up at the door of the little inn, and having sent my + horse to the stable for an hour’s rest and a feed of oats, went into the + sanded parlour, ordered a glass of ale, and sat staring at the china + shepherdesses on the chimney-piece. I see them now, the ugly things, as + plainly as if that had been an hour of the happiest reflections. I thought + I was miserable, but I know now that, although I was much disappointed, + and everything looked dreary and uninteresting about me, I was a long way + off misery. Indeed, the passing vision of a neat unbonneted village girl + on her way to the well was attractive enough still to make me rise and go + to the window. While watching, as she wound up the long chain, for the + appearance of the familiar mossy bucket, dripping diamonds, as it gleamed + out of the dark well into the sudden sunlight, I heard the sound of + horse’s hoofs, and turned to see what kind of apparition would come. + Presently it appeared, and made straight for the inn. The rider was Mr + Coningham! I drew back to escape his notice, but his quick eye had caught + sight of me, for he came into the room with outstretched hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘We are fated to meet, Mr Cumbermede,’ he said. ‘I only stopped to give my + horse some meal and water, and had no intention of dismounting. Ale? I’ll + have a glass of ale too,’ he added, ringing the bell. ‘I think I’ll let + him have a feed, and have a mouthful of bread and cheese myself.’ + </p> + <p> + He went out, and had I suppose gone to see that his horse had his proper + allowance of oats, for when he returned he said merrily: + </p> + <p> + ‘What have you done with my daughter, Mr Cumbermede?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should you think me responsible for her, Mr Conningham?’ I asked, + attempting a smile. + </p> + <p> + No doubt he detected the attempt in the smile, for he looked at me with a + sharpened expression of the eyes, as he answered—still in a merry + tone— + </p> + <p> + ‘When I saw her last, she was mounted on your horse, and you were on my + father’s. I find you still on my father’s horse, and your own—with + the lady—nowhere. Have I made out a case of suspicion?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is I who have cause of complaint,’ I returned—‘who have neither + lady nor mare—unless indeed you imagine I have in the case of the + latter made a good exchange.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hardly that, I imagine, if yours is half so good as she looks. But, + seriously, have you seen Clara to-day?’ + </p> + <p> + I told him the facts as lightly as I could. When I had finished, he stared + at me with an expression which for the moment I avoided attempting to + interpret. + </p> + <p> + ‘On horseback with Mr Brotherton?’ he said, uttering the words as if every + syllable had been separately italicized. + </p> + <p> + ‘You will find it as I say,’ I replied, feeling offended. + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear boy—excuse my freedom,’ he returned—‘I am nearly + three times your age—you do not imagine I doubt a hair’s breadth of + your statement! But—the giddy goose!—how could you be so + silly? Pardon me again. Your unselfishness is positively amusing! To hand + over your horse to her, and then ride away all by yourself on that—respectable + stager!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t abuse the old horse,’ I returned. ‘He <i>is</i> respectable, and + has been more in his day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes. But for the life of me I cannot understand it. Mr Cumbermede, I + am sorry for you. I should not advise you to choose the law for a + profession. The man who does not regard his own rights will hardly do for + an adviser in the affairs of others. + </p> + <p> + ‘You were not going to consult me, Mr Coningham, were you?’ I said, now + able at length to laugh without effort. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not quite that,’ he returned, also laughing. ‘But a right, you know, is + one of the most serious things in the world.’ + </p> + <p> + It seemed irrelevant to the trifling character of the case. I could not + understand why he should regard the affair as of such importance. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been in the way of thinking,’ I said, ‘that one of the advantages + of having rights was that you could part with them when you pleased. + You’re not bound to insist on your rights, are you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly you would not subject yourself to a criminal action by + foregoing them, but you might suggest to your friends a commission of + lunacy. I see how it is. That is your uncle all over! <i>He</i> was never + a man of the world.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are right there, Mr Coningham. It is the last epithet any one would + give my uncle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And the first any one would give <i>me</i>, you imply, Mr Cumbermede.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I had no such intention,’ I answered. ‘That would have been rude.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not in the least. <i>I</i> should have taken it as a compliment. The man + who does not care about his rights, depend upon it, will be made a tool of + by those that do. If he is not a spoon already, he will become one. I + shouldn’t have <i>iffed</i> it at all if I hadn’t known you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you don’t want to be rude to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t. A little experience will set <i>you</i> all right; and that you + are in a fair chance of getting if you push your fortune as a literary + man. But I must be off. I hope we may have another chat before long.’ + </p> + <p> + He finished his ale, rose, bade me good-bye, and went to the stable. As + soon as he was out of sight, I also mounted and rode homewards. + </p> + <p> + By the time I reached the gate of the park, my depression had nearly + vanished. The comforting power of sun and shadow, of sky and field, of + wind and motion, had restored me to myself. With a side glance at the + windows of the cottage as I passed, and the glimpse of a bright figure + seated in the drawing-room window, I made for the stable, and found my + Lilith waiting me. Once more I shifted my saddle, and rode home, without + even another glance at the window as I passed. + </p> + <p> + A day or two after, I received from Mr Coningham a ticket for the county + ball, accompanied by a kind note. I returned it at once with the excuse + that I feared incapacitating myself for work by dissipation. + </p> + <p> + Henceforward I avoided the park, and did not again see Clara before + leaving for London. I had a note from her, thanking me for Lilith, and + reproaching me for having left her to the company of Mr Brotherton, which + I thought cool enough, seeing they had set out together without the + slightest expectation of meeting me. I returned a civil answer, and there + was an end of it. + </p> + <p> + I must again say for myself that it was not mere jealousy of Brotherton + that led me to act as I did. I could not and would not get over the + contradiction between the way in which she had spoken <i>of</i> him, and + the way in which she spoke <i>to</i> him, followed by her accompanying him + in the long ride to which the state of my mare bore witness. I concluded + that, although she might mean no harm, she was not truthful. To talk of a + man with such contempt, and then behave to him with such frankness, + appeared to me altogether unjustifiable. At the same time their mutual + familiarity pointed to some foregone intimacy, in which, had I been so + inclined, I might have found some excuse for her, seeing she might have + altered her opinion of him, and might yet find it very difficult to alter + the tone of their intercourse. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. IN LONDON. + </h2> + <p> + My real object being my personal history in relation to certain facts and + events, I must, in order to restrain myself from that discursiveness the + impulse to which is an urging of the historical as well as the artistic + Satan, even run the risk of appearing to have been blind to many things + going on around me which must have claimed a large place had I been + writing an autobiography instead of a distinct portion of one. + </p> + <p> + I set out with my manuscript in my portmanteau, and a few pounds in my + pocket, determined to cost my uncle as little as I could. + </p> + <p> + I well remember the dreariness of London, as I entered it on the top of a + coach, in the closing darkness of a late Autumn afternoon. The shops were + not yet all lighted, and a drizzly rain was falling. But these outer + influences hardly got beyond my mental skin, for I had written to Charley, + and hoped to find him waiting for me at the coach-office. Nor was I + disappointed, and in a moment all discomfort was forgotten. He took me to + his chambers in the New Inn. + </p> + <p> + I found him looking better, and apparently, for him, in good spirits. It + was soon arranged, at his entreaty, that for the present I should share + his sitting-room, and have a bed put up for me in a closet he did not + want. The next day I called upon certain publishers and left with them my + manuscript. Its fate is of no consequence here, and I did not then wait to + know it, but at once began to fly my feather at lower game, writing short + papers and tales for the magazines. I had a little success from the first; + and although the surroundings of my new abode were dreary enough, + although, now and then, especially when the Winter sun shone bright into + the court, I longed for one peep into space across the field that now + itself lay far in the distance, I soon settled to my work, and found the + life an enjoyable one. To work beside Charley the most of the day, and go + with him in the evening to some place of amusement, or to visit some of + the men in chambers about us, was for the time a satisfactory mode of + existence. + </p> + <p> + I soon told him the story of my little passage with Clara. During the + narrative he looked uncomfortable, and indeed troubled, but as soon as he + found I had given up the affair, his countenance brightened. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very glad you’ve got over it so well,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think I’ve had a good deliverance,’ I returned. + </p> + <p> + He made no reply. Neither did his face reveal his thoughts, for I could + not read the confused expression it bore. + </p> + <p> + That he should not fall in with my judgment would never have surprised me, + for he always hung back from condemnation, partly, I presume, from being + even morbidly conscious of his own imperfections, and partly that his + prolific suggestion supplied endless possibilities to explain or else + perplex everything. I had been often even annoyed by his use of the most + refined invention to excuse, as I thought, behaviour the most palpably + wrong. I believe now it was rather to account for it than to excuse it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Charley,’ I would say in such a case, ‘I am sure <i>you</i> would + never have done such a thing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I cannot guarantee my own conduct for a moment,’ he would answer; or, + taking the other tack, would reply: ‘Just for that reason I cannot believe + the man would have done it.’ + </p> + <p> + But the oddity in the present case was that he said nothing. I should, + however, have forgotten all about it, but that after some time I began to + observe that as often as I alluded to Clara—which was not often—he + contrived to turn the remark aside, and always without saying a syllable + about her. The conclusion I came to was that, while he shrunk from + condemnation, he was at the same time unwilling to disturb the present + serenity of my mind by defending her conduct. + </p> + <p> + Early in the Spring, an unpleasant event occurred, of which I might have + foreseen the possibility. One morning I was alone, working busily, when + the door opened. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, Charley—back already!’ I exclaimed, going on to finish my + sentence. + </p> + <p> + Receiving no answer, I looked up from my paper, and started to my feet. Mr + Osborne stood before me, scrutinizing me with severe grey eyes. I think he + knew me from the first, but I was sufficiently altered to make it + doubtful. + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said coldly—‘I thought these were Charles + Osborne’s chambers.’ And he turned to leave the room. + </p> + <p> + ‘They <i>are</i> his chambers, Mr Osborne,’ I replied, recovering myself + with an effort, and looking him in the face. + </p> + <p> + ‘My son had not informed me that he shared them with another.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We are very old friends, Mr Osborne.’ + </p> + <p> + He made no answer, but stood regarding me fixedly. + </p> + <p> + ‘You do not remember me, sir,’ I said. ‘I am Wilfrid Cumbermede.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have cause to remember you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you not sit down, sir? Charley will be home in less than an hour—I + quite expect.’ + </p> + <p> + Again he turned his back as if about to leave me. + </p> + <p> + ‘If my presence is disagreeable to you,’ I said, annoyed at his rudeness, + ‘I will go.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you please,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + I left my papers, caught up my hat, and went out of the room and the + house. I said <i>good morning</i>, but he made no return. + </p> + <p> + Not until nearly eight o’clock did I re-enter. I had of course made up my + mind that Charley and I must part. When I opened the door, I thought at + first there was no one there. There were no lights, and the fire had + burned low. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is that you, Wilfrid?’ said Charley. + </p> + <p> + He was lying on the sofa. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Charley,’ I returned. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come in, old fellow. The avenger of blood is not behind me,’ he said, in + a mocking tone, as he rose and came to meet me. ‘I’ve been having such a + dose of damnation—all for your sake!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very sorry, Charley. But I think we are both to blame. Your father + ought to have been told. You see day after day went by, and—somehow—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tut, tut! never mind. What <i>does</i> it matter—except that it’s a + disgrace to be dependent on such a man? I wish I had the courage to + starve.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s your father, Charley. Nothing can alter that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s the misery of it. And then to tell people God is their father! If + he’s like mine, he’s done us a mighty favour in creating us! I can’t say I + feel grateful for it. I must turn out to-morrow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Charley. The place has no attraction for me without you, and it was + yours first. Besides, I can’t afford to pay so much. I will find another + to-morrow. But we shall see each other often, and perhaps get through more + work apart. I hope he didn’t insist on your never seeing me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He did try it on; but there I stuck fast, threatening to vanish and + scramble for my living as I best might. I told him you were a far better + man than I, and did me nothing but good. But that only made the matter + worse, proving your influence over me. Let’s drop it. It’s no use. Let’s + go to the Olympic.’ + </p> + <p> + The next day I looked for a lodging in Camden Town, attracted by the + probable cheapness, and by the grass in the Regent’s Park; and having + found a decent place, took my things away while Charley was out. I had not + got them, few as they were, in order in my new quarters before he made his + appearance; and as long as I was there few days passed on which we did not + meet. + </p> + <p> + One evening he walked in, accompanied by a fine-looking young fellow, whom + I thought I must know, and presently recognized as Home, our old + school-fellow, with whom I had fought in Switzerland. We had become good + friends before we parted, and Charley and he had met repeatedly since. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you doing now, Home?’ I asked him. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve just taken deacon’s orders,’ he answered. ‘A friend of my father’s + has promised me a living. I’ve been hanging-about quite long enough now. A + fellow ought to do something for his existence.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t think how a strong fellow like you can take to mumbling prayers + and reading sermons,’ said Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘It ain’t nice,’ said Home, ‘but it’s a very respectable profession. There + are viscounts in it, and lots of honourables.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare say,’ returned Charley, with drought. ‘But a nerveless creature + like me, who can’t even hit straight from the shoulder, would be good + enough for that. A giant like you, Home!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! by-the-by, Osborne,’ said Home, not in love with the prospect, and + willing to turn the conversation, ‘I thought you were a church-calf + yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Honestly, Home, I don’t know whether it isn’t the biggest of all big + humbugs.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but—Osborne!—it ain’t the thing, you know, to talk like + that of a profession adopted by so many great men fit to honour any + profession,’ returned Home, who was not one of the brightest of mortals, + and was jealous for the profession just in as much as it was destined for + his own. + </p> + <p> + ‘Either the profession honours the men, or the men dishonour themselves,’ + said Charley. ‘I believe it claims to have been founded by a man called + Jesus Christ, if such a man ever existed except in the fancy of his + priesthood.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, really,’ expostulated Home, looking, I must say, considerably + shocked, ‘I shouldn’t have expected that from the son of a clergyman!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t help my father. I wasn’t consulted,’ said Charley, with an + uncomfortable grin. ‘But, at any rate, my father fancies he believes all + the story. I fancy I don’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you’re an infidel, Osborne.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps. Do you think that so very horrible?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I do. Tom Paine, and all the rest of them, you know!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Home, I’ll tell you one thing I think worse than being an infidel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Taking to the Church for a living.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t see that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Either the so-called truths it advocates are things to live and die for, + or they are the veriest old wives’ fables going. Do you know who was the + first to do what you are about now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I can’t say. I’m not up in Church history yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was Judas.’ + </p> + <p> + I am not sure that Charley was right, but that is what he said. I was + taking no part in the conversation, but listening eagerly, with a strong + suspicion that Charley had been leading Home to this very point. + </p> + <p> + ‘A man must live,’ said Home. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s precisely what I take it Judas said: for my part I don’t see it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t see what?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That a man must live. It would be a far more incontrovertible assertion + that a man must die—and a more comfortable one, too.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Upon my word, I don’t understand you, Osborne! You make a fellow feel + deuced queer with your remarks.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At all events, you will allow that the first of them—they call them + apostles, don’t they?—didn’t take to preaching the gospel for the + sake of a living. What a satire on the whole kit of them that word <i>living</i>, + so constantly in all their mouths, is! It seems to me that Messrs Peter + and Paul and Matthew, and all the rest of them, forsook their livings for + a good chance of something rather the contrary.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then it <i>was</i> true—what they said about you at Forest’s?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know what they said,’ returned Charley; ‘but before I would + pretend to believe what I didn’t—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I <i>do</i> believe it, Osborne.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘May I ask on what grounds?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why—everybody does.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That would be no reason, even if it were a fact, which it is not. You + believe it, or rather, choose to think you believe it, because you’ve been + told it. Sooner than pretend to teach what I have never learned, and be + looked up to as a pattern of godliness, I would ‘list in the ranks. There, + at least, a man might earn an honest living.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By Jove! You do make a fellow feel uncomfortable!’ repeated Home. ‘You’ve + got such a—such an uncompromising way of saying things—to use + a mild expression.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think it’s a sneaking thing to do, and unworthy of a gentleman.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t see what right you’ve got to bully me in that way,’ said Home, + getting angry. + </p> + <p> + It was time to interfere. + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley is so afraid of being dishonest, Home,’ I said, ‘that he is rude.—You + are rude now, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon, Home,’ exclaimed Charley at once. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, never mind!’ returned Home with gloomy good-nature. + </p> + <p> + ‘You ought to make allowance, Charley,’ I pursued. ‘When a man has been + accustomed all his life to hear things spoken of in a certain way, he + cannot help having certain notions to start with.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I thought as Osborne does,’ said Home, ‘I <i>would</i> sooner ‘list + than go into the Church.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I confess,’ I rejoined, ‘I do not see how any one can take orders, unless + he not only loves God with all his heart, but receives the story of the + New Testament as a revelation of him, precious beyond utterance. To the + man who accepts it so, the calling is the noblest in the world.’ + </p> + <p> + The others were silent, and the conversation turned away. From whatever + cause, Home did not go into the Church, but died fighting in India. + </p> + <p> + He soon left us—Charley remaining behind. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a hypocrite I am!’ he exclaimed;—‘following a profession in + which I must often, if I have any practice at all, defend what I know to + be wrong, and seek to turn justice from its natural course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you can’t always know that your judgment is right, even if it should + be against your client. I heard an eminent barrister say once that he had + come out of the court convinced by the arguments of the opposite counsel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And having gained the case?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That I don’t know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He went in believing his own side anyhow, and that made it all right for + him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know that either. His private judgment was altered, but whether + it was for or against his client, I do not remember. The fact, however, + shows that one might do a great wrong by refusing a client whom he judged + in the wrong.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘On the contrary, to refuse a brief on such grounds would be best for all + concerned. Not believing in it, you could not do your best, and might be + preventing one who would believe in it from taking it up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The man might not get anybody to take it up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then there would be little reason to expect that a jury charged under + ordinary circumstances would give a verdict in his favour.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But it would be for the barristers to constitute themselves the judges.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—of their own conduct—only that. There I am again! The + finest ideas about the right thing—and going on all the same, with + open eyes running my head straight into the noose! Wilfrid, I’m one of the + weakest animals in creation. What if you found at last that I had been + deceiving <i>you</i>! What would you say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing, Charley—to any one else.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What would you say to yourself, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. I know what I should do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Try to account for it, and find as many reasons as I could to justify + you. That is, I would do just as you do for every one but yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + He was silent—plainly from emotion, which I attributed to his + pleasure at the assurance of the strength of my friendship. + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose you could find none?’ he said, recovering himself a little. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should still believe there <i>were</i> such. <i>Tout comprendre c’est + tout pardonner</i>, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + He brightened at this. + </p> + <p> + ‘You <i>are</i> a friend, Wilfrid! What a strange condition mine is!—for + ever feeling I could do this and that difficult thing, were it to fall in + my way, and yet constantly failing in the simplest duties—even to + that of common politeness. I behaved like a brute to Home. He’s a fine + fellow, and only wants to see a thing to do it. <i>I</i> see it well + enough, and don’t do it. Wilfrid, I shall come to a bad end. When it + comes, mind I told you so, and blame nobody but myself. I mean what I say. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense, Charley! It’s only that you haven’t active work enough, and get + morbid with brooding over the germs of things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Wilfrid, how beautiful a life might be! Just look at that one in the + New Testament! Why shouldn’t <i>I</i> be like that? <i>I</i> don’t know + why. I feel as if I could. But I’m not, you see—and never shall be. + I’m selfish, and ill-tempered, and—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley! Charley! There never was a less selfish or better-tempered + fellow in the world.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t make me believe that, Wilfrid, or I shall hate the world as well as + myself. It’s all my hypocrisy makes you think so. Because I am ashamed of + what I am, and manage to hide it pretty well, you think me a saint. That + is heaping damnation on me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Take a pipe, Charley, and shut up. That’s rubbish!’ I said. I doubt much + if it was what I ought to have said, but I was alarmed for the + consequences of such brooding. ‘I wonder what the world would be like if + every one considered himself acting up to his own ideal!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If he was acting so, then it would do the world no harm that he knew it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But his ideal must then be a low one, and that would do himself and + everybody the worst kind of harm. The greatest men have always thought the + least of themselves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, but that was because they <i>were</i> the greatest. A man may think + little of himself just for the reason that he <i>is</i> little, and can’t + help knowing it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then it’s a mercy he does know it! for most small people think much of + themselves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But to know it—and to feel all the time you ought to be and could + be something very different, and yet never get a step nearer it! That is + to be miserable. Still it is a mercy to know it. There is always a last + help.’ + </p> + <p> + I mistook what he meant, and thought it well to say no more. After smoking + a pipe or two, he was quieter, and left me with a merry remark. One lovely + evening in Spring, I looked from my bed-room window, and saw the red + sunset burning in the thin branches of the solitary poplar that graced the + few feet of garden behind the house. It drew me out to the park, where the + trees were all in young leaf, each with its shadow stretching away from + its foot, like its longing to reach its kind across dividing space. The + grass was like my own grass at home, and I went wandering over it in all + the joy of the new Spring, which comes every year to our hearts as well as + to their picture outside. The workmen were at that time busy about the + unfinished botanical gardens, and I wandered thitherward, lingering about, + and pondering and inventing, until the sun was long withdrawn, and the + shades of night had grown very brown. + </p> + <p> + I was at length sauntering slowly home to put a few finishing touches to a + paper I had been at work upon all day, when something about a young couple + in front of me attracted my attention. They were walking arm in arm, + talking eagerly, but so low that I heard only a murmur. I did not quicken + my pace, yet was gradually gaining upon them, when suddenly the conviction + started up in my mind that the gentleman was Charley. I could not mistake + his back, or the stoop of his shoulders as he bent towards his companion. + I was so certain of him that I turned at once from the road, and wandered + away across the grass: if he did not choose to tell me about the lady, I + had no right to know. But I confess to a strange trouble that he had left + me out. I comforted myself, however, with the thought that perhaps when we + next met he would explain, or at least break, the silence. + </p> + <p> + After about an hour, he entered, in an excited mood, merry but + uncomfortable. I tried to behave as if I knew nothing, but could not help + feeling much disappointed when he left me without a word of his having had + a second reason for being in the neighbourhood. + </p> + <p> + What effect the occurrence might have had, whether the cobweb veil of + which I was now aware between us would have thickened to opacity or not, I + cannot tell. I dare not imagine that it might. I rather hope that by + degrees my love would have got the victory, and melted it away. But now + came a cloud which swallowed every other in my firmament. The next morning + brought a letter from my aunt, telling me that my uncle had had a stroke, + as she called it, and at that moment was lying insensible. I put my + affairs in order at once, and Charley saw me away by the afternoon coach. + </p> + <p> + It was a dreary journey. I loved my uncle with perfect confidence and + profound veneration, a result of the faithful and open simplicity with + which he had always behaved towards me. If he were taken away, and already + he might be gone, I should be lonely indeed, for on whom besides could I + depend with anything like the trust which I reposed in him? For, + conceitedly or not, I had always felt that Charley rather depended on me—that + I had rather to take care of him than to look for counsel from him. + </p> + <p> + The weary miles rolled away. Early in the morning we reached Minstercombe. + There I got a carriage, and at once continued my journey. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. CHANGES. + </h2> + <p> + I met no one at the house-door, or in the kitchen, and walked straight up + the stair to my uncle’s room. The blinds were down, and the curtains were + drawn, and I could but just see the figure of my aunt seated beside the + bed. She rose, and, without a word of greeting, made way for me to + approach the form which lay upon it stretched out straight and motionless. + The conviction that I was in the presence of death seized me; but instead + of the wretchedness of heart and soul which I had expected to follow the + loss of my uncle, a something deeper than any will of my own asserted + itself, and as it were took the matter from me. It was as if my soul + avoided the sorrow of separation by breaking with the world of material + things, asserting the shadowy nature of all the visible, and choosing its + part with the something which had passed away. It was as if my deeper self + said to my outer consciousness: ‘I too am of the dead—one with them, + whether they live or are no more. For a little while I am shut out from + them, and surrounded with things that seem: let me gaze on the picture + while it lasts; dream or no dream, let me live in it according to its + laws, and await what will come next; if an awaking, it is well: if only a + perfect because dreamless sleep, I shall not be able to lament the endless + separation—but while I know myself, I will hope for something + better.’ Like this, at least, was the blossom into which, under my + after-brooding, the bud of that feeling broke. + </p> + <p> + I laid my hand upon my uncle’s forehead. It was icy cold, just like my + grannie’s when my aunt had made me touch it. And I knew that my uncle was + gone, that the slow tide of the eternal ocean had risen while he lay + motionless within the wash of its waves, and had floated him away from the + shore of our world. I took the hand of my aunt, who stood like a statue + behind me, and led her from the room. + </p> + <p> + ‘He is gone, aunt,’ I said, as calmly as I could. + </p> + <p> + She made no reply, but gently withdrew her hand from mine, and returned + into the chamber. I stood a few moments irresolute, but reverence for her + sorrow prevailed, and I went down the stair and seated myself by the fire. + There the servant told me that my uncle had never moved since they laid + him in his bed. Soon after the doctor arrived, and went up-stairs; but + returned in a few minutes, only to affirm the fact. I went again to the + room, and found my aunt lying with her face on the bosom of the dead man. + She allowed me to draw her away, but when I would have led her down, she + turned aside and sought her own chamber, where she remained for the rest + of the day. + </p> + <p> + I will not linger over that miserable time. Greatly as I revered my uncle, + I was not prepared to find how much he had been respected, and was + astonished at the number of faces I had never seen which followed to the + churchyard. Amongst them were the Coninghams, father and son; but except + by a friendly grasp of the hand, and a few words of condolence, neither + interrupted the calm depression rather than grief in which I found myself. + When I returned home, there was with my aunt a married sister, whom I had + never seen before. Up to this time she had shown an arid despair, and been + regardless of everything about her; but now she was in tears. I left them + together, and wandered for hours up and down the lonely playground of my + childhood, thinking of many things—most of all, how strange it was + that, if there were a <i>hereafter</i> for us, we should know positively + nothing concerning it; that not a whisper should cross the invisible line; + that the something which had looked from its windows so lovingly should + have in a moment withdrawn, by some back-way unknown either to itself or + us, into a region of which all we can tell is that thence no prayers and + no tears will entice it to lift for an instant again the fallen curtain, + and look out once more. Why should not God, I thought, if a God there be, + permit one single return to each, that so the friends left behind in the + dark might be sure that death was not the end, and so live in the world as + not of the world? + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: I went again to the room, and found my aunt lying with her + face on the bosom of the dead man} + </p> + <p> + When I re-entered, I found my aunt looking a little cheerful. She was even + having something to eat with her sister—an elderly country-looking + woman, the wife of a farmer in a distant shire. Their talk had led them + back to old times, to their parents and the friends of their childhood; + and the memory of the long dead had comforted her a little over the recent + loss; for all true hearts death is a uniting, not a dividing power. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose you will be going back to London, Wilfrid?’ said my aunt, who + had already been persuaded to pay her sister a visit. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think I had better,’ I answered. ‘When I have a chance of publishing a + book, I should like to come and write it, or at least finish it, here, if + you will let me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The place is your own, Wilfrid. Of course I shall be very glad to have + you here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The place is yours as much as mine, aunt,’ I replied. ‘I can’t bear to + think that my uncle has no right over it still. I believe he has, and + therefore it is yours just the same—not to mention my own wishes in + the matter.’ + </p> + <p> + She made no reply, and I saw that both she and her sister were shocked + either at my mentioning the dead man, or at my supposing he had any + earthly rights left. The next day they set out together, leaving in the + house the wife of the head man at the farm, to attend to me until I should + return to town. I had purposed to set out the following morning, but I + found myself enjoying so much the undisturbed possession of the place, + that I remained there for ten days; and when I went, it was with the + intention of making it my home as soon as I might: I had grown enamoured + of the solitude so congenial to labour. Before I left I arranged my + uncle’s papers, and in doing so found several early sketches which + satisfied me that he might have distinguished himself in literature if his + fate had led him thitherward. + </p> + <p> + Having given the house in charge to my aunt’s deputy, Mrs Herbert, I at + length returned to my lodging in Camden Town. There I found two letters + waiting me, the one announcing the serious illness of my aunt, and the + other her death. The latter was two days old. I wrote to express my + sorrow, and excuse my apparent neglect, and having made a long journey to + see her also laid in the earth, I returned to my old home, in order to + make fresh arrangements. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. PROPOSALS. + </h2> + <p> + Mrs Herbert attended me during the forenoon, but left me after my early + dinner. I made my tea for myself, and a tankard filled from a barrel of + ale of my uncle’s brewing, with a piece of bread and cheese, was my + unvarying supper. The first night I felt very lonely, almost indeed what + the Scotch call <i>eerie</i>. The place, although inseparably interwoven + with my earliest recollections, drew back and stood apart from me—a + thing to be thought about; and, in the ancient house, amidst the lonely + field, I felt like a ghost condemned to return and live the vanished time + over again. I had had a fire lighted in my own room; for, although the air + was warm outside, the thick stone walls seemed to retain the chilly breath + of the last Winter. The silent rooms that filled the house forced the + sense of their presence upon me. I seemed to see the forsaken things in + them staring at each other, hopeless and useless, across the dividing + space, as if saying to themselves, ‘We belong to the dead, are mouldering + to the dust after them, and in the dust alone we meet.’ From the vacant + rooms my soul seemed to float out beyond, searching still—to find + nothing but loneliness and emptiness betwixt me and the stars; and beyond + the stars more loneliness and more emptiness still—no rest for the + sole of the foot of the wandering Psyche—save—one mighty + saving—an exception which, if true, must be the one all-absorbing + rule. ‘But,’ I was saying to myself, ‘love unknown is not even equal to + love lost,’ when my reverie was broken by the dull noise of a horse’s + hoofs upon the sward. I rose and went to the window. As I crossed the + room, my brain rather than myself suddenly recalled the night when my + pendulum drew from the churning trees the unwelcome genius of the storm. + The moment I reached the window—there through the dim Summer + twilight, once more from the trees, now as still as sleep, came the same + figure. + </p> + <p> + Mr Coningham saw me at the fire-lighted window, and halted. + </p> + <p> + ‘May I be admitted?’ he asked ceremoniously. + </p> + <p> + I made a sign to him to ride round to the door, for I could not speak + aloud: it would have been rude to the memories that haunted the silent + house. + </p> + <p> + ‘May I come in for a few minutes, Mr Cumbermede?’ he asked again, already + at the door by the time I had opened it. + </p> + <p> + ‘By all means, Mr Coningham,’ I replied. ‘Only you must tie your horse to + this ring, for we—I—have no stable here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve done this before,’ he answered, as he made the animal fast. ‘I know + the ways of the place well enough. But surely you’re not here in absolute + solitude?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I am. I prefer being alone at present.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very unhealthy, I must say! You will grow hypochondriacal if you mope in + this fashion,’ he returned, following me up-stairs to my room. + </p> + <p> + ‘A day or two of solitude now and then would, I suspect, do most people + more good than harm,’ I answered. ‘But you must not think I intend leading + a hermit’s life. Have you heard that my aunt—?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes.—You are left alone in the world. But relations are not a + man’s only friends—and certainly not always his best friends.’ + </p> + <p> + I made no reply, thinking of my uncle. + </p> + <p> + ‘I did not know you were down,’ he resumed. ‘I was calling at my father’s, + and seeing your light across the park, thought it possible you might be + here, and rode over to see. May I take the liberty of asking what your + plans are?’ he added, seating himself by the fire. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have hardly had time to form new ones; but I mean to stick to my work, + anyhow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean your profession?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, if you will allow me to call it such. I have had success enough + already to justify me in going on.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am more pleased than surprised to hear it,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘But what will you do with the old nest?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let the old nest wait for the old bird, Mr Coningham—keep it to die + in.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t like to hear a young fellow talking that way,’ he remonstrated. + ‘You’ve got a long life to live yet—at least I hope so. But if you + leave the house untenanted till the period to which you allude, it will be + quite unfit by that time even for the small service you propose to require + of it. Why not let it—for a term of years? I could find you a + tenant, I make no doubt.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t let it. I shall meet the world all the better if I have a place + of my own to take refuge in.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I can’t say but there’s good in that fancy. To have any spot of + your own, however small—freehold, I mean—must be a comfort. At + the same time, what’s the world for, if you’re to meet it in that + half-hearted way? I don’t mean that every young man—there are + exceptions—must sow just so many bushels of <i>avena fatua</i>. + There are plenty of enjoyments to be got without leading a wild life—which + I should be the last to recommend to any young man of principle. Take my + advice, and let the place. But pray don’t do me the injustice to fancy I + came to look after a job. I shall be most happy to serve you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am exceedingly obliged to you,’ I answered. ‘If you could let the farm + for me for the rest of the lease, of which there are but a few years to + run, that would be of great consequence to me. Herbert, my uncle’s + foreman, who has the management now, is a very good fellow, but I doubt if + he will do more than make both ends meet without my aunt, and the accounts + would bother me endlessly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall find out whether Lord Inglewold would be inclined to resume the + fag-end. In such case, as the lease has been a long one, and land has + risen much, he would doubtless pay a part of the difference. Then there’s + the stock, worth a good deal, I should think. I’ll see what can be done. + And then there’s the stray bit of park?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked. ‘We have been in the way of calling + it the <i>park</i>, though why I never could tell. I confess it does look + like a bit of Sir Giles’s that had wandered beyond the gates.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There <i>is</i> some old story or other about it, I believe. The + possessors of the Moldwarp estate have, from time immemorial, regarded it + as properly theirs. I know that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am much obliged to them, certainly. <i>I</i> have been in the habit of + thinking differently.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course, of course,’ he rejoined, laughing. ‘But there may have been + some—mistake somewhere. I know Sir Giles would give five times its + value for it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He should not have it if he offered the Moldwarp estate in exchange,’ I + cried indignantly; and the thought flashed across me that this temptation + was what my uncle had feared from the acquaintance of Mr Coningham. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your sincerity will not be put to so great a test as that,’ he returned, + laughing quite merrily. ‘But I am glad you have such a respect for real + property. At the same time—how many acres are there of it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know,’ I answered, curtly and truly. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is of no consequence. Only if you don’t want to be tempted, don’t let + Sir Giles or my father broach the subject. You needn’t look at me. <i>I</i> + am not Sir Giles’s agent. Neither do my father and I run in double + harness. He hinted, however, this very day, that he believed the old fool + wouldn’t stick at £500 an acre for this bit of grass—if he couldn’t + get it for less.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If that is what you have come about, Mr Coningham,’ I rejoined, haughtily + I dare say, for something I could not well define made me feel as if the + dignity of a thousand ancestors were perilled in my own,’ I beg you will + not say another word on the subject, for sell this land I <i>will not</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + He was looking at me strangely. His eye glittered with what, under other + circumstances, I might have taken for satisfaction; but he turned his face + away and rose, saying with a curiously altered tone, as he took up his + hat, + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very sorry to have offended you, Mr Cumbermede. I sincerely beg your + pardon. I thought our old—friendship may I not call it?—would + have justified me in merely reporting what I had heard. I see now that I + was wrong. I ought to have shown more regard for your feelings at this + trying time. But again I assure you I was only reporting, and had not the + slightest intention of making myself a go-between in the matter. One word + more: I have no doubt I could <i>let</i> the field for you—at good + grazing rental. That I think you can hardly object to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should be much obliged to you,’ I replied—‘for a term of not more + than seven years—but without the house, and with the stipulation + expressly made that I have right of way in every direction through it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Reasonable enough,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘One thing more,’ I said: ‘all these affairs must be pure matters of + business between us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you please,’ he returned, with, I fancied, a shadow of disappointment, + if not of displeasure, on his countenance. ‘I should have been more + gratified if you had accepted a friendly office; but I will do my best for + you, notwithstanding.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I had no intention of being unfriendly, Mr Coningham,’ I said. ‘But when + I think of it, I fear I may have been rude, for the bare proposal of + selling this Naboth’s vineyard of mine would go far to make me rude to any + man alive. It sounds like an invitation to dishonour myself in the eyes of + my ancestors.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! you do care about your ancestors?’ he said, half musingly, and + looking into his hat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I do. Who is there does not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only some ninety-nine hundredths of the English nation.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I cannot well forget,’ I returned, ‘what my ancestors have done for me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Whereas most people only remember that their ancestors can do no more for + them. I declare I am almost glad I offended you. It does one good to hear + a young man speak like that in these degenerate days, when a buck would + rather be the son of a rich brewer than a decayed gentleman. I will call + again about the end of the week—that is if you will be here—and + report progress.’ + </p> + <p> + His manner, as he took his leave, was at once more friendly and more + respectful than it had yet been—a change which I attributed to his + having discovered in me more firmness than he had expected, in regard, if + not of my rights, at least of my social position. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. ARRANGEMENTS. + </h2> + <p> + My custom at this time, and for long after I had finally settled down in + the country, was to rise early in the morning—often, as I used when + a child, before sunrise, in order to see the first burst of the sun upon + the new-born world. I believed then, as I believe still, that, lovely as + the sunset is, the sunrise is more full of mystery, poetry, and even, I + had almost said, pathos. But often ere he was well up I had begun to + imagine what the evening would be like, and with what softly mingled, all + but imperceptible, gradations it would steal into night. Then, when the + night came, I would wander about my little field, vainly endeavouring to + picture the glory with which the next day’s sun would rise upon me. Hence + the morning and evening became well known to me; and yet I shrink from + saying it, for each is endless in the variety of its change. And the + longer I was alone, I became the more enamoured of solitude, with the + labour to which, in my case, it was so helpful; and began, indeed, to be + in some danger of losing sight of my relation to ‘a world of men,’ for + with that world my imagination and my love for Charley were now my sole + recognizable links. + </p> + <p> + In the fore-part of the day I read and wrote; and in the after-part found + both employment and pleasure in arranging my uncle’s books, amongst which + I came upon a good many treasures, whereof I was now able in some measure + to appreciate the value—thinking often, amidst their ancient dust + and odours, with something like indignant pity, of the splendid + collection, as I was sure it must be, mouldering away in utter neglect at + the neighbouring Hall. + </p> + <p> + I was on my knees in the midst of a pile which I had drawn from a cupboard + under the shelves, when Mrs Herbert showed Mr Coningham in. I was annoyed, + for my uncle’s room was sacred; but as I was about to take him to my own, + I saw such a look of interest upon his face that it turned me aside, and I + asked him to take a seat. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you do not mind the dust,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mind the dust!’ he exclaimed, ‘—of old books! I count it almost + sacred. I am glad you know how to value them.’ + </p> + <p> + What right had he to be glad? How did he know I valued them? How could I + but value them? I rebuked my offence, however, and after a little talk + about them, in which he revealed much more knowledge than I should have + expected, it vanished. He then informed me of an arrangement he and Lord + Inglewold’s factor had been talking over in respect of the farm; also of + an offer he had had for my field. I considered both sufficiently + advantageous in my circumstances, and the result was that I closed with + both. + </p> + <p> + A few days after this arrangement I returned to London, intending to + remain for some time. I had a warm welcome from Charley, but could not + help fancying an unacknowledged something dividing us. He appeared, + notwithstanding, less oppressed, and, in a word, more like other people. I + proceeded at once to finish two or three papers and stories, which late + events had interrupted. But within a week London had grown to me stifling + and unendurable, and I longed unspeakably for the free air of my field and + the loneliness of my small castle. If my reader regard me as already a + hypochondriac, the sole disproof I have to offer is, that I was then + diligently writing what some years afterwards obtained a hearty reception + from the better class of the reading public. Whether my habits were + healthy or not, whether my love of solitude was natural or not, I cannot + but hope from this that my modes of thinking were. The end was that, after + finishing the work I had on hand, I collected my few belongings, gave up + my lodging, bade Charley good-bye, receiving from him a promise to visit + me at my own house if possible, and took my farewell of London for a + season, determined not to return until I had produced a work which my now + more enlarged judgment might consider fit to see the light. I had laid out + all my spare money upon books, with which, in a few heavy trunks, I now + went back to my solitary dwelling. I had no care upon my mind, for my + small fortune, along with the rent of my field, was more than sufficient + for my maintenance in the almost anchoretic seclusion in which I intended + to live, and hence I had every advantage for the more definite projection + and prosecution of a work which had been gradually shaping itself in my + mind for months past. + </p> + <p> + Before leaving for London, I had already spoken to a handy lad employed + upon the farm, and he had kept himself free to enter my service when I + should require him. He was the more necessary to me that I still had my + mare Lilith, from which nothing but fate should ever part me. I had no + difficulty in arranging with the new tenant for her continued + accommodation at the farm; while, as Herbert still managed its affairs, + the services of his wife were available as often as I required them. But + my man soon made himself capable of doing everything for me, and proved + himself perfectly trustworthy. + </p> + <p> + I must find a name for my place—for its own I will not write: let me + call it The Moat: there were signs, plain enough to me after my return + from Oxford, that there had once been a moat about it, of which the hollow + I have mentioned as the spot where I used to lie and watch for the sun’s + first rays, had evidently been a part. But the remains of the moat lay at + a considerable distance from the house, suggesting a large area of + building at some former period, proof of which, however, had entirely + vanished, the house bearing every sign of a narrow completeness. + </p> + <p> + The work I had undertaken required a constantly recurring reference to + books of the sixteenth century; and although I had provided as many as I + thought I should need, I soon found them insufficient. My uncle’s library + was very large for a man in his position, but it was not by any means + equally developed; and my necessities made me think often of the old + library at the Hall, which might contain somewhere in its ruins every book + I wanted. Not only, however, would it have been useless to go searching in + the formless mass for this or that volume, but, unable to grant Sir Giles + the desire of his heart in respect of my poor field, I did not care to ask + of him the comparatively small favour of being allowed to burrow in his + dust-heap of literature. + </p> + <p> + I was sitting, one hot noon, almost in despair over a certain little point + concerning which I could find no definite information, when Mr Coningham + called. After some business matters had been discussed, I mentioned, + merely for the sake of talk, the difficulty I was in—the sole + disadvantage of a residence in the country as compared with London, where + the British Museum was the unfailing resort of all who required such aid + as I was in want of. + </p> + <p> + ‘But there is the library at Moldwarp Hall,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, <i>there</i> it is; but there is not <i>here</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no doubt Sir Giles would make you welcome to borrow what books you + wanted. He is a good-natured man, Sir Giles.’ + </p> + <p> + I explained my reason for not troubling him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Besides,’ I added, ‘the library is in such absolute chaos, that I might + with less loss of time run up to London, and find any volume I happened to + want among the old-book-shops. You have no idea what a mess Sir Giles’s + books are in—scarcely two volumes of the same book to be found even + in proximity. It is one of the most painful sights I ever saw.’ + </p> + <p> + He said little more, but from what followed, I suspect either he or his + father spoke to Sir Giles on the subject; for, one day, as I was walking + past the park-gates, which I had seldom entered since my return, I saw him + just within, talking to old Mr Coningham. I saluted him in passing, and he + not only returned the salutation in a friendly manner, but made a step + towards me as if he wished to speak to me. I turned and approached him. He + came out and shook hands with me. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know who you are, Mr Cumbermede, although I have never had the pleasure + of speaking to you before,’ he said frankly. + </p> + <p> + ‘There you are mistaken, Sir Giles,’ I returned; ‘but you could hardly be + expected to remember the little boy who, many years ago, having stolen one + of your apples, came to you to comfort him.’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed heartily. + </p> + <p> + ‘I remember the circumstance well,’ he said. ‘And you were that unhappy + culprit? Ha! ha! ha! To tell the truth, I have thought of it many times. + It was a remarkably fine thing to do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What! steal the apple, Sir Giles?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Make the instant reparation you did.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There was no reparation in asking you to box my ears.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was all you could do, though.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To ease my own conscience, it was. There is always a satisfaction, I + suppose, in suffering for your sins. But I have thought a thousand times + of your kindness in shaking hands with me instead. You treated me as the + angels treat the repentant sinner, Sir Giles.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I certainly never thought of it in that light,’ he said; then, as + if wishing to change the subject,—‘Don’t you find it lonely now your + uncle is gone?’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I miss him more than I can tell.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A very worthy man he was—too good for this world, by all accounts.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s not the worse off for that now, Sir Giles, I trust.’ ‘No; of course + not,’ he returned quickly, with the usual shrinking from the slightest + allusion to what is called the other world.—‘Is there anything I can + do for you? You are a literary man, they tell me. There are a good many + books of one sort and another lying at the Hall. Some of them might be of + use to you. They are at your service. I am sure you are to be trusted even + with mouldy books, which, from what I hear, must be a greater temptation + to you now than red-cheeked apples,’ he added with another merry laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will tell you what,’ Sir Giles, I answered. ‘It has often grieved me to + think of the state of your library. It would be scarcely possible for me + to find a book in it now. But if you would trust me, I should be + delighted, in my spare hours, of which I can command a good many, to put + the whole in order for you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should be under the greatest obligation. I have always intended having + some capable man down from London to arrange it. I am no great reader + myself, but I have the highest respect for a good library. It ought never + to have got into the condition in which I found it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The books are fast going to ruin, I fear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are they indeed?’ he exclaimed, with some consternation. ‘I was not in + the least aware of that. I thought so long as I let no one meddle with + them, they were safe enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The law of the moth and rust holds with books as well as other unused + things,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then, pray, my dear sir, undertake the thing at once,’ he said, in a tone + to which the uneasiness of self-reproach gave a touch of imperiousness. + ‘But really,’ he added, ‘it seems trespassing on your goodness much too + far. Your time is valuable. Would it be a long job?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would doubtless take some months; but the pleasure of seeing order + dawn from confusion would itself repay me. And I <i>might</i> come upon + certain books of which I am greatly in want. You will have to allow me a + carpenter though, for the shelves are not half sufficient to hold the + books; and I have no doubt those there are stand in need of repair.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have a carpenter amongst my people. Old houses want constant attention. + I shall put him under your orders with pleasure. Come and dine with me + to-morrow, and we’ll talk it all over.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are very kind,’ I said. ‘Is Mr Brotherton at home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am sorry to say he is not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I heard the other day that he had sold his commission.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—six months ago. His regiment was ordered to India, and—and—his + mother——But he does not give us much of his company,’ added + the old man. ‘I am sorry he is not at home, for he would have been glad to + meet you.’ + </p> + <p> + Instead of responding, I merely made haste to accept Sir Giles’s + invitation. I confess I did not altogether relish having anything to do + with the future property of Geoffrey Brotherton; but the attraction of the + books was great, and in any case I should be under no obligation to him; + neither was the nature of the service I was about to render him such as + would awaken any sense of obligation in a mind like his. + </p> + <p> + I could not help recalling the sarcastic criticisms of Clara when I + entered the drawing-room of Moldwarp Hall—a long, low-ceiled room, + with its walls and stools and chairs covered with tapestry, some of it the + work of the needle, other some of the Gobelin loom; but although I found + Lady Brotherton a common enough old lady, who showed little of the dignity + of which she evidently thought much, and was more condescending to her + yeoman neighbour than was agreeable, I did not at once discover ground for + the severity of those remarks. Miss Brotherton, the eldest of the family, + a long-necked lady, the flower of whose youth was beginning to curl at the + edges, I found well-read, but whether in books or the reviews of them, I + had to leave an open question as yet. Nor was I sufficiently taken with + her not to feel considerably dismayed when she proffered me her assistance + in arranging the library. I made no objection at the time, only hinting + that the drawing up of a catalogue afterwards might be a fitter employment + for her fair fingers; but I resolved to create such a fearful pother at + the very beginning, that her first visit should be her last. And so I + doubt not it would have fallen out, but for something else. The only other + person who dined with us was a Miss Pease—at least so I will call + her—who, although the law of her existence appeared to be fetching + and carrying for Lady Brotherton, was yet, in virtue of a + poor-relationship, allowed an uneasy seat at the table. Her obedience was + mechanically perfect. One wondered how the mere nerves of volition could + act so instantaneously upon the slightest hint. I saw her more than once + or twice withdraw her fork when almost at her lips, and, almost before she + had laid it down, rise from her seat to obey some half-whispered, + half-nodded behest. But her look was one of injured meekness and + self-humbled submission. Sir Giles now and then gave her a kind or merry + word, but she would reply to it with almost abject humility. Her face was + grey and pinched, her eyes were very cold, and she ate as if she did not + know one thing from another. + </p> + <p> + Over our wine Sir Giles introduced business. I professed myself ready, + with a housemaid and carpenter at my orders when I should want them, to + commence operations the following afternoon. He begged me to ask for + whatever I might want, and after a little friendly chat, I took my leave, + elated with the prospect of the work before me. About three o’clock the + next afternoon I took my way to the Hall, to assume the temporary office + of creative librarian. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. PREPARATIONS. + </h2> + <p> + It was a lovely afternoon, the air hot, and the shadows of the trees dark + upon the green grass. The clear sun was shining sideways on the little + oriel window of one of the rooms in which my labour awaited me. Never have + I seen a picture of more stately repose than the huge pile of building + presented, while the curious vane on the central square tower glittered + like the outburning flame of its hidden life. The only objection I could + find to it was that it stood isolated from its own park, although the + portion next it was kept as trim as the smoothest lawn. There was not a + door anywhere to be seen, except the two gateway entrances, and not a + window upon the ground-floor. All the doors and low windows were either + within the courts, or opened on the garden, which, with its terraced walks + and avenues and one tiny lawn, surrounded the two further sides of the + house, and was itself enclosed by walls. + </p> + <p> + I knew the readiest way to the library well enough: once admitted to the + outer gate, I had no occasion to trouble the servants. The rooms + containing the books were amongst the bed-rooms, and after crossing the + great hall, I had to turn my back on the stair which led to the ball-room + and drawing-room, and ascend another to the left, so that I could come and + go with little chance of meeting any of the family. + </p> + <p> + The rooms, I have said, were six, none of them of any great size, and all + ill-fitted for the purpose. In fact, there was such a sense of confinement + about the whole arrangement as gave me the feeling that any difficult book + read there would be unintelligible. Order, however, is only another kind + of light, and would do much to destroy the impression. Having with + practical intent surveyed the situation, I saw there was no space for + action. I must have at least the temporary use of another room. + </p> + <p> + Observing that the last of the suite of book-rooms furthest from the + armoury had still a door into the room beyond, I proceeded to try it, + thinking to know at a glance whether it would suit me, and whether it was + likely to be yielded for my purpose. It opened, and, to my dismay, there + stood Clara Coningham, fastening her collar. She looked sharply round, and + made a half-indignant step towards me. ‘I beg your pardon a thousand + times, Miss Coningham,’ I exclaimed. ‘Will you allow me to explain, or + must I retreat unheard?’ + </p> + <p> + I was vexed indeed, for, notwithstanding a certain flutter at the heart, I + had no wish to renew my acquaintance with her. + </p> + <p> + ‘There must be some fatality about the place, Mr Cumbermede!’ she said, + almost with her old merry laugh. ‘It frightens me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Precisely my own feeling, Miss Coningham. I had no idea you were in the + neighbourhood.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I cannot say so much as that, for I had heard you were at The Moat; but I + had no expectation of seeing you—least of all in this house. I + suppose you are on the scent of some musty old book or other,’ she added, + approaching the door, where I stood with the handle in my hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘My object is an invasion rather than a hunt,’ I said, drawing back that + she might enter. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just as it was the last time you and I were here!’ she went on, with + scarcely a pause, and as easily as if there had never been any + misunderstanding between us. I had thought myself beyond any further + influence from her fascinations, but when I looked in her beautiful face, + and heard her allude to the past with so much friendliness, and such + apparent unconsciousness of any reason for forgetting it, a tremor ran + through me from head to foot. I mastered myself sufficiently to reply, + however. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is the last time you will see it so,’ I said; ‘for here stands the + Hercules of the stable—about to restore it to cleanliness, and what + is of far more consequence in a library—to order.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t mean it!’ she exclaimed with genuine surprise. ‘I’m so glad I’m + here!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you on a visit, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed I am; though how it came about I don’t know. I dare say my father + does. Lady Brotherton has invited me, stiffly of course, to spend a few + weeks during their stay. Sir Giles must be in it: I believe I am rather a + favourite with the good old man. But I have another fancy: my grandfather + is getting old; I suspect my father has been making himself useful, and + this invitation is an acknowledgment. Men always buttress their ill-built + dignities by keeping poor women in the dark; by which means you drive us + to infinite conjecture. That is how we come to be so much cleverer than + you at putting two and two together, and making five.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But,’ I ventured to remark, ‘under such circumstances, you will hardly + enjoy your visit.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! sha’n’t I? I shall get fun enough out of it for that. They are—all + but Sir Giles—they are great fun. Of course they don’t treat me as + an equal, but I take it out in amusement. You will find you have to do the + same.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not I. I have nothing to do with them. I am here as a skilled workman—one + whose work is his sufficient reward. There is nothing degrading in that—is + there? If I thought there was, of course I shouldn’t come.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You <i>never</i> did anything you felt degrading?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Happy mortal!’ she said, with a sigh—whether humorous or real, I + could not tell. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have had no occasion,’ I returned. + </p> + <p> + ‘And yet, as I hear, you have made your mark in literature?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who says that? I should not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind,’ she rejoined, with, as I fancied, the look of having said + more than she ought. ‘But,’ she added, ‘I wish you would tell me in what + periodicals you write.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You must excuse me. I do not wish to be first known in connection with + fugitive things. When first I publish a book, you may be assured my name + will be on the title-page. Meantime, I must fulfil the conditions of my <i>entrée</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I must go and pay my respects to Lady Brotherton. I have only just + arrived.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t you find it dull? There’s nobody of man-kind at home but Sir + Giles.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are unjust. If Mr Brotherton had been here, I shouldn’t have come. I + find him troublesome.’ + </p> + <p> + I thought she blushed, notwithstanding the air of freedom with which she + spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘If he should come into the property to-morrow,’ she went on, ‘I fear you + would have little chance of completing your work.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If he came into the property this day six months, I fear he would find it + unfinished. Certainly what was to do should remain undone.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be too sure of that. He might win you over. He can talk.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should not be so readily pleased as another might.’ + </p> + <p> + She bent towards me, and said in an almost hissing whisper— + </p> + <p> + ‘Wilfrid, I hate him!’ + </p> + <p> + I started. She looked what she said. The blood shot to my heart, and again + rushed to my face. But suddenly she retreated into her own room, and + noiselessly closed the door. The same moment I heard that of a further + room open, and presently Miss Brotherton peeped in. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you do, Mr Cumbermede?’ she said. ‘You are already hard at work, I + see.’ + </p> + <p> + I was, in fact, doing nothing. I explained that I could not make a + commencement without the use of another room. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will send the housekeeper, and you can arrange with her,’ she said, and + left me. + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes Mrs Wilson entered. Her manner was more stiff and formal + than ever. We shook hands in a rather limp fashion. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve got your will at last, Mr Cumbermede,’ she said, ‘I suppose the + thing’s to be done!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is, Mrs Wilson, I am happy to say. Sir Giles kindly offered me the use + of the library, and I took the liberty of representing to him that there + was no library until the books were arranged.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why couldn’t you take a book away with you and read it in comfort at + home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How could I take the book home if I couldn’t find it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You could find something worth reading, if that were all you wanted.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But that is not all. I have plenty of reading.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I don’t see what’s the good of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Books are very much like people, Mrs Wilson. There are not so many you + want to know all about; but most could tell you things you don’t know. I + want certain books in order to question them about certain things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, all I know is, it’ll be more trouble than it’s worth.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am afraid it will—to you, Mrs Wilson; but though I am taking a + thousand times your trouble, I expect to be well repaid for it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no doubt of that. Sir Giles is a liberal gentleman.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t suppose <i>he</i> is going to pay me, Mrs Wilson?’ ‘Who else + should?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, the books themselves, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + Evidently she thought I was making game of her, for she was silent. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you show me which room I can have?’ I said. ‘It must be as near this + one as possible. Is the next particularly wanted?’ I asked, pointing to + the door which led into Clara’s room. + </p> + <p> + She went to it quickly, and opened it far enough to put her hand in and + take the key from the other side, which she then inserted on my side, + turned in the lock, drew out, and put in her pocket. + </p> + <p> + ‘That room is otherwise engaged,’ she said. ‘You must be content with one + across the corridor.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well—if it is not far. I should make slow work of it, if I had + to carry the books a long way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can have one of the footmen to help you,’ she said, apparently + relenting. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, thank you,’ I answered. ‘I will have no one touch the books but + myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will show you one which I think will suit your purpose,’ she said, + leading the way. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly opposite—a bed-room, sparely furnished. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you. This will do—if you will order all the things to be + piled in that corner.’ + </p> + <p> + She stood silent for a few moments, evidently annoyed, then turned and + left the room, saying, + </p> + <p> + ‘I will see to it, Mr Cumbermede.’ + </p> + <p> + Returning to the books and pulling off my coat, I had soon compelled such + a cloud of very ancient and smothering dust, that when Miss Brotherton + again made her appearance, her figure showed dim through the thick air, as + she stood—dismayed, I hoped—in the doorway. I pretended to be + unaware of her presence, and went on beating and blowing, causing yet + thicker volumes of solid vapour to clothe my presence. She withdrew + without even an attempt at parley. + </p> + <p> + Having heaped several great piles near the door, each composed of books of + nearly the same size, the first rudimentary approach to arrangement, I + crossed to the other room to see what progress had been made. To my + surprise and annoyance, I found nothing had been done. Determined not to + have my work impeded by the remissness of the servants, and seeing I must + place myself at once on a proper footing in the house, I went to the + drawing-room to ascertain, if possible, where Sir Giles was. I had of + course put on my coat, but having no means of ablution at hand, I must + have presented a very unpresentable appearance when I entered. Lady + Brotherton half rose, in evident surprise at my intrusion, but at once + resumed her seat, saying, as she turned her chair half towards the window + where the other two ladies sat, + </p> + <p> + ‘The housekeeper will attend to you, Mr Cumbermede—or the butler.’ + </p> + <p> + I could see that Clara was making some inward merriment over my appearance + and reception. + </p> + <p> + ‘Could you tell me, Lady Brotherton,’ I said, ‘where I should be likely to + find Sir Giles?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can give you no information on that point,’ she answered, with + consummate stiffness. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know where he is,’ said Clara, rising. ‘I will take you to him. He is + in the study.’ + </p> + <p> + She took no heed of the glance broadly thrown at her, but approached the + door. + </p> + <p> + I opened it, and followed her out of the room. As soon as we were beyond + hearing, she burst out laughing. ‘How dared you show your workman’s face + in that drawing-room?’ she said. ‘I am afraid you have much offended her + ladyship.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope it is for the last time. When I am properly attended to, I shall + have no occasion to trouble her.’ + </p> + <p> + She led me to Sir Giles’s study. Except newspapers and reports of + companies, there was in it nothing printed. He rose when we entered, and + came towards us. + </p> + <p> + ‘Looking like your work already, Mr Cumbermede?’ he said, holding out his + hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘I must not shake hands with you this time, Sir Giles,’ I returned. ‘But I + am compelled to trouble you. I can’t get on for want of attendance. I <i>must</i> + have a little help.’ + </p> + <p> + I told him how things were. His rosy face grew rosier, and he rang the + bell angrily. The butler answered it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Send Mrs Wilson here. And I beg, Hurst, you will see that Mr Cumbermede + has every attention.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Wilson presently made her appearance, and stood with a flushed face + before her master. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let Mr Cumbermede’s orders be attended to <i>at once</i>, Mrs Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Sir Giles,’ she answered, and waited. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am greatly obliged to you for letting me know,’ he added, turning to + me. ‘Pray insist upon proper attention.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you, Sir Giles. I shall not scruple.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That will do, Mrs Wilson. You must not let Mr Cumbermede be hampered in + his kind labours for my benefit by the idleness of my servants.’ + </p> + <p> + The housekeeper left the room, and after a little chat with Sir Giles, I + went back to the books. Clara had followed Mrs Wilson, partly, I suspect, + for the sake of enjoying her confusion. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII. ASSISTANCE. + </h2> + <p> + I returned to my solitary house as soon as the evening began to grow too + dark for my work, which, from the lowness of the windows and the age of + the glass, was early. All the way as I went, I was thinking of Clara. Not + only had time somewhat obliterated the last impression she had made upon + me, but I had, partly from the infection of Charley’s manner, long ago + stumbled upon various excuses for her conduct. Now I said to myself that + she had certainly a look of greater sedateness than before. But her + expression of dislike to Geoffrey Brotherton had more effect upon me than + anything else, inasmuch as there Vanity found room for both the soles of + her absurdly small feet; and that evening, when I went wandering, after my + custom, with a volume of Dante in my hand, the book remained unopened, and + from the form of Clara flowed influences mingling with and gathering fresh + power from those of Nature, whose feminine front now brooded over me + half-withdrawn in the dim, starry night. I remember that night so well! I + can recall it now with a calmness equal to its own. Indeed in my memory it + seems to belong to my mind as much as to the outer world; or rather the + night filled both, forming the space in which my thoughts moved, as well + as the space in which the brilliant thread of the sun-lighted crescent + hung clasping the earth-lighted bulk of the moon. I wandered in the grass + until midnight was long by, feeling as quietly and peacefully at home as + if my head had been on the pillow and my soul out in a lovely dream of + cool delight. We lose much even by the good habits we form. What tender + and glorious changes pass over our sleeping heads unseen! What moons rise + and set in rippled seas of cloud, or behind hills of stormy vapour, while + we are blind! What storms roll thundering across the airy vault, with no + eyes for their keen lightnings to dazzle, while we dream of the dead who + will not speak to us! But ah! I little thought to what a dungeon of gloom + this lovely night was the jasmine-grown porch! + </p> + <p> + The next morning I was glad to think that there was no wolf at my door, + howling <i>work—-work!</i> Moldwarp Hall drew me with redoubled + attraction; and instead of waiting for the afternoon, which alone I had + intended to occupy with my new undertaking, I set out to cross the park + the moment I had finished my late breakfast. Nor could I conceal from + myself that it was quite as much for the chance of seeing Clara now and + then as from pleasure in the prospect of an ordered library that I + repaired thus early to the Hall. In the morning light, however, I began to + suspect, as I walked, that, although Clara’s frankness was flattering, it + was rather a sign that she was heart-whole towards me than that she was + careless of Brotherton. I began to doubt also whether, after our first + meeting, which she had carried off so well—cool even to kindness—she + would care to remember that I was in the house, or derive from it any + satisfaction beyond what came of the increased chances of studying the + Brothertons from a humorous point of view. Then, after all, why was she + there?—and apparently on such familiar terms with a family socially + so far superior to her own? The result of my cogitations was the + resolution to take care of myself. But it had vanished utterly before the + day was two hours older. A youth’s wise talk to himself will not make him + a wise man, any more than the experience of the father will serve the + son’s need. + </p> + <p> + I was hard at work in my shirt-sleeves, carrying an armful of books across + the corridor, and thinking whether I had not better bring my servant with + me in the afternoon, when Clara came out of her room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here already, Wilfrid!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why don’t you have some of the + servants to help you? You’re doing what any one might as well do for you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If these were handsomely bound,’ I answered, ‘I should not so much mind; + but being old and tattered, no one ought to touch them who does not love + them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then, I suppose, you wouldn’t trust me with them either, for I cannot + pretend to anything beyond a second-hand respect for them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean by a second-hand respect?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean such respect as comes from seeing that a scholar like you respects + them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I think I could accord you a second-hand sort of trust—under + my own eye, that is,’ I answered, laughing. ‘But you can scarcely leave + your hostess to help me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will ask Miss Brotherton to come too. She will pretend all the respect + you desire.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I made three times the necessary dust in order to frighten her away + yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! that’s a pity. But I shall manage to overrule her objections—that + is, if you would really like two tolerably educated housemaids to help + you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will gladly endure one of them for the sake of the other,’ I replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘No compliments, please,’ she returned, and left the room. + </p> + <p> + In about half an hour she re-appeared, accompanied by Miss Brotherton. + They were in white wrappers, with their dresses shortened a little, and + their hair tucked under mob caps. Miss Brotherton looked like a + lady’s-maid, Clara like a lady acting a lady’s-maid. I assumed the command + at once, pointing out to what heaps in the other room those I had grouped + in this were to be added, and giving strict injunctions as to carrying + only a few at once, and laying them down with care in regularly ordered + piles. Clara obeyed with a mock submission, Miss Brotherton with a reserve + which heightened the impression of her dress. I was instinctively careful + how I spoke to Clara, fearing to compromise her, but she seemed all at + once to change her <i>rôle</i>, and began to propose, object, and even + insist upon her own way, drawing from me the threat of immediate + dismission from my service, at which her companion laughed with an + awkwardness showing she regarded the pleasantry as a presumption. Before + one o’clock, the first room was almost empty. Then the great bell rang, + and Clara, coming from the auxiliary chamber, put her head in at the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t you come to luncheon?’ she said, with a sly archness, looking none + the less bewitching for a smudge or two on her lovely face, or the + blackness of the delicate hands which she held up like two paws for my + admiration. + </p> + <p> + ‘In the servants’ hall? Workmen don’t sit down with ladies and gentlemen. + Did Miss Brotherton send you to ask me?’ + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you had better come and lunch with me.’ + </p> + <p> + She shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope you will <i>some</i> day honour my little fragment of a house. It + is a curious old place,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t like musty old places,’ she replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘But I have heard you speak with no little admiration of the Hall: some + parts of it are older than my sentry-box.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t say I admire it at all as a place to live in,’ she answered + curtly. + </p> + <p> + ‘But I was not asking you to live in mine,’ I said—foolishly + arguing. + </p> + <p> + She looked annoyed, whether with herself or me I could not tell, but + instantly answered, + </p> + <p> + ‘Some day—when I can without—But I must go and make myself + tidy, or Miss Brotherton will be fancying I have been talking to you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what have you been doing, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only asking you to come to lunch.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you tell her that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—if she says anything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you <i>had</i> better make haste, and be asked no questions.’ + </p> + <p> + She glided away. I threw on my coat, and re-crossed the park. + </p> + <p> + But I was so eager to see again the fair face in the mob cap, that, + although not at all certain of its reappearance, I told my man to go at + once and bring the mare. He made haste, and by the time I had finished my + dinner she was at the door. I gave her the rein, and two or three minutes + brought me back to the Hall, where, having stabled her, I was at my post + again, I believe, before they had finished luncheon. I had a great heap of + books ready in the second room to carry into the first, and had almost + concluded they would not come, when I heard their voices—and + presently they entered, but not in their mob caps. + </p> + <p> + ‘What an unmerciful master you are!’ said Clara, looking at the heap. ‘I + thought you had gone home to lunch.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I went home to dinner,’ I said. ‘I get more out of the day by dining + early.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How is that, Mr Cumbermede?’ asked Miss Brotherton, with a nearer + approach to cordiality than she had yet shown. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think the evening the best part of the day—too good to spend in + eating and drinking.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But,’ said Clara, quite gravely, ‘are not those the chief ends of + existence?’ ‘Your friend is satirical, Miss Brotherton,’ I remarked. + </p> + <p> + ‘At least, you are not of her opinion, to judge by the time you have + taken,’ she returned. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been back nearly an hour,’ I said. ‘Workmen don’t take long over + their meals.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I suppose you don’t want any more of us now,’ said Clara. ‘You will + arrange the books you bring from the next room upon these empty shelves, I + presume?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, not yet. I must not begin that until I have cleared the very last, + got it thoroughly cleaned, the shelves seen to, and others put up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What a tremendous labour you have undertaken, Mr Cumbermede!’ said Miss + Brotherton. ‘I am quite ashamed you should do so much for us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I, on the contrary, am delighted to be of any service to Sir Giles.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you don’t expect us to slave all day as we did in the morning?’ said + Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly not, Miss Coningham. I am too grateful to be exacting.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you for that pretty speech. Come, then, Miss Brotherton, we must + have a walk. We haven’t been out-of-doors to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Really, Miss Coningham, I think the least we can do is to help Mr + Cumbermede to our small ability.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense!’—(Miss Brotherton positively started at the word.) ‘Any + two of the maids or men would serve his purpose better, if he did not + affect fastidiousness. We sha’n’t be allowed to come to-morrow if we + overdo it to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + Miss Brotherton was evidently on the point of saying something indignant, + but yielded notwithstanding, and I was left alone once more. Again I + laboured until the shadows grew thick around the gloomy walls. As I + galloped home, I caught sight of my late companions coming across the + park; and I trust I shall not be hardly judged if I confess that I did sit + straighter in my saddle, and mind my seat better. Thus ended my second + day’s work at the library of Moldwarp Hall. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV. AN EXPOSTULATION. + </h2> + <p> + Neither of the ladies came to me the next morning. As far as my work was + concerned, I was in considerably less need of their assistance, for it lay + only between two rooms opening into each other. Nor did I feel any great + disappointment, for so long as a man has something to do, expectation is + pleasure enough, and will continue such for a long time. It is those who + are unemployed to whom expectation becomes an agony. I went home to my + solitary dinner almost resolved to return to my original plan of going + only in the afternoons. + </p> + <p> + I was not thoroughly in love with Clara; but it was certainly the hope of + seeing her, and not the pleasure of handling the dusty books, that drew me + back to the library that afternoon. I had got rather tired of the whole + affair in the morning. It was very hot, and the dust was choking, and of + the volumes I opened as they passed through my hands, not one was of the + slightest interest to me. But for the chance of seeing Clara I should have + lain in the grass instead. + </p> + <p> + No one came. I grew weary, and for a change retreated into the armoury. + Evidently, not the slightest heed was paid to the weapons now, and I was + thinking with myself that, when I had got the books in order, I might give + a few days to furbishing and oiling them, when the door from the gallery + opened, and Clara entered. + </p> + <p> + ‘What! a truant?’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘You take accusation at least by the forelock, Clara. Who is the real + truant now—if I may suggest a mistake?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>I</i> never undertook anything. How many guesses have you made as to + the cause of your desertion to-day?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, three or four.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you made one as to the cause of Miss Brotherton’s graciousness to + you yesterday?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At least I remarked the change.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will tell you. There was a short notice of some of your writings in a + certain magazine which I contrived should fall in her way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Impossible!’ I exclaimed. ‘I have never put my name to anything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you have put the same name to all your contributions.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How should the reviewer know it meant me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your own name was never mentioned.’ + </p> + <p> + I thought she looked a little confused as she said this. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then how should Miss Brotherton know it meant me?’ + </p> + <p> + She hesitated a moment—then answered: + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps from internal evidence.—I suppose I must confess I told + her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then how did <i>you</i> know? + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been one of your readers for a long time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how did you come to know my work?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That has oozed out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Some one must have told you,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘That is my secret,’ she replied, with the air of making it a mystery in + order to tease me. + </p> + <p> + ‘It must be all a mistake,’ I said. ‘Show me the magazine.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you won’t take my word for it, I won’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I shall soon find out. There is but one could have done it. It is + very kind of him, no doubt; but I don’t like it. That kind of thing should + come of itself—not through friends.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who do you fancy has done it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you have a secret, so have I.’ + </p> + <p> + My answer seemed to relieve her, though I could not tell what gave me the + impression. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are welcome to yours, and I will keep mine,’ she said. ‘I only wanted + to explain Miss Brotherton’s condescension yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought you were going to explain why you didn’t come to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is only a re-action. I have no doubt she thinks she went too far + yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is absurd. She was civil; that was all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In reading your thermometer, you must know its zero first,’ she replied + sententiously. ‘Is the sword you call yours there still?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, and I call it mine still.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t you take it, then? I should have carried it off long ago.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To steal my own would be to prejudice my right,’ I returned. ‘But I have + often thought of telling Sir Giles about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t you, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hardly know. My head has been full of other things, and any time will + do. But I should like to see it in its own place once more.’ + </p> + <p> + I had taken it from the wall, and now handed it to her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is this it?’ she said carelessly. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is—just as it was carried off my bed that night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What room were you in?’ she asked, trying to draw it from the sheath. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t tell. I’ve never been in it since.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t seem to me to have the curiosity natural to a—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To a woman—no,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘To a man of spirit,’ she retorted, with an appearance of indignation. ‘I + don’t believe you can tell even how it came into your possession!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why shouldn’t it have been in the family from time immemorial?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So!—And you don’t care either to recover it, or to find out how you + lost it!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can I? Where is Mr Close?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, dead, years and years ago.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So I understood. I can’t well apply to him, then, and I am certain no one + else knows.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be too sure of that. Perhaps Sir Giles—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am positive Sir Giles knows nothing about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have reason to think the story is not altogether unknown in the + family.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you told it, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, but I <i>have</i> heard it alluded to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By Sir Giles?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By whom, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will answer no more questions.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Geoffrey, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are not polite. Do you suppose I am bound to tell you all I know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not by any means. Only, you oughtn’t to pique a curiosity you don’t mean + to satisfy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But if I’m not at liberty to say more?—All I meant to say was that, + if I were you, I <i>would</i> get back that sword.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You hint at a secret, and yet suppose I could carry off its object as I + might a rusty nail, which any passer-by would be made welcome to!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You might take it first, and mention the thing to Sir Giles afterwards.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not mention it first?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only on the supposition you had not the courage to claim it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In that case I certainly shouldn’t have the courage to avow the deed + afterwards. I don’t understand you, Clara.’ + </p> + <p> + She laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘That is always your way,’ she said. ‘You take everything so seriously! + Why couldn’t I make a proposition without being supposed to mean it?’ + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “Glued,” she echoed, “What do you mean?"} + </p> + <p> + I was not satisfied. There was something short of uprightness in the whole + tone of her attempted persuasion—which indeed I could hardly believe + to have been so lightly intended as she now suggested. The effect of my + feeling for her was that of a slight frost on the Spring blossoms. + </p> + <p> + She had been examining the hilt with a look of interest, and was now for + the third time trying to draw the blade from the sheath. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s no use, Clara,’ I said. ‘It has been too many years glued to the + scabbard.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Glued!’ she echoed. ‘What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + I did not reply. An expression almost of horror shadowed her face, and at + the same moment, to my astonishment, she drew it half-way. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why! You enchantress!’ I exclaimed. ‘I never saw so much of it before. It + is wonderfully bright—when one thinks of the years it has been shut + in darkness.’ + </p> + <p> + She handed it to me as it was, saying, + </p> + <p> + ‘If that weapon was mine, I should never rest until I had found out + everything concerning it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is easily said, Clara; but how can I? My uncle knew nothing about + it. My grandmother did, no doubt, but almost all I can remember her saying + was something about my great-grandfather and Sir Marmaduke.’ + </p> + <p> + As I spoke, I tried to draw it entirely, but it would yield no further. I + then sought to replace it, but it would not move. That it yielded to + Clara’s touch gave it a fresh interest and value. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was sure it had a history,’ said Clara. ‘Have you no family papers? + Your house you say is nearly as old as this: are there no papers of <i>any</i> + kind in it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, a few,’ I answered—‘the lease of the farm—and—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! rubbish!’ she said. ‘Isn’t the house your own?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And have you ever thoroughly searched it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t had time yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not had time!’ she repeated, in a tone of something so like the uttermost + contempt that I was bewildered. + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean some day or other to have a rummage in the old lumber-room,’ I + said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I do think that is the least you can do—if only out of + respect to your ancestors. Depend on it, they don’t like to be forgotten + any more than other people.’ + </p> + <p> + The intention I had just announced was, however, but just born of her + words. I had never yet searched even my grandmother’s bureau, and had but + this very moment fancied there might be papers in some old chest in the + lumber-room. That room had already begun to occupy my thoughts from + another point of view, and hence, in part, no doubt the suggestion. I was + anxious to have a visit from Charley. He might bring with him some of our + London friends. There was absolutely no common room in the house except + the hall-kitchen. The room we had always called the lumber-room was over + it, and nearly as large. It had a tall stone chimney-piece, elaborately + carved, and clearly had once been a room for entertainment. The idea of + restoring it to its original dignity arose in my mind; and I hoped that, + furnished after as antique a fashion as I could compass, it would prove a + fine room. The windows were small, to be sure, and the pitch rather low, + but the whitewashed walls were pannelled, and I had some hopes of the + ceiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who knows,’ I said to myself, as I walked home that evening, ‘but I may + come upon papers? I do remember something in the furthest corner that + looks like a great chest.’ + </p> + <p> + Little more had passed between us, but Clara left me with the old + Dissatisfaction beginning to turn itself, as if about to awake once more. + For the present I hung the half-naked blade upon the wall, for I dared not + force it lest the scabbard should go to pieces. + </p> + <p> + When I reached home, I found a letter from Charley, to the effect that, if + convenient, he would pay me a visit the following week. His mother and + sister, he said, had been invited to Moldwarp Hall. His father was on the + continent for his health. Without having consulted them on the matter, + which might involve them in after-difficulty, he would come to me, and so + have an opportunity of seeing them in the sunshine of his father’s + absence. I wrote at once that I should be delighted to receive him. + </p> + <p> + The next morning I spent with my man in the lumber-room; and before + mid-day the rest of the house looked like an old curiosity shop—it + was so littered with odds and ends of dust-bloomed antiquity. It was hard + work, and in the afternoon I found myself disinclined for more exercise of + a similar sort. I had Lilith out, and took a leisurely ride instead. The + next day, and the next also, I remained at home. The following morning I + went again to Moldwarp Hall. I had not been busy more than an hour or so + when Clara, who, I presume, had in passing heard me at work, looked in. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is a truant now?’ she said. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Here has + Miss Brotherton been almost curious concerning your absence, and Sir Giles + more than once on the point of sending to inquire after you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why didn’t he, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I suppose he was afraid it might look like an assertion of—of—of + baronial rights, or something of the sort. How <i>could</i> you behave in + such an inconsiderate fashion!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You must allow me to have <i>some</i> business of my own.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly. But with so many anxious friends, you ought to have given a + hint of your intentions.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I had none, however.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of which? Friends or intentions?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Either.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What! No friends? I verily surprised Miss Pease in the act of studying + her “Cookery for Invalids”—in the hope of finding a patient in you, + no doubt. She wanted to come and nurse you, but daren’t propose it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was very kind of her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No doubt. But then you see she’s ready to commit suicide any day, poor + old thing, but for lack of courage!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It must be dreary for her!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dreary! I should poison the old dragon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, perhaps I had better tell you, for Miss Pease’s sake, who is + evidently the only one that cares a straw about <i>me</i> in the matter, + that possibly I shall be absent a good many days this week, and perhaps + the next too.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, then—if I may ask—Mr Absolute?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because a friend of mine is going to pay me a visit. You remember Charley + Osborne, don’t you? Of course you do. You remember the ice-cave, I am + sure.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I do—quite well,’ she answered. + </p> + <p> + I fancied I saw a shadow cross her face. + </p> + <p> + ‘When do you expect him?’ she asked, turning away, and picking a book from + the floor. + </p> + <p> + ‘In a week or so, I think. He tells me his mother and sister are coming + here on a visit.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—so I believe—to-morrow, I think. I wonder if I ought to + be going. I don’t think I will. I came to please them—at all events + not to please myself; but as I find it pleasanter than I expected, I won’t + go without a hint and a half at least.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should you? There is plenty of room.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; but don’t you see?—so many inferiors in the house at once + might be too much for Madame Dignity. She finds one quite enough, I + suspect.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You do not mean that she regards the Osbornes as inferiors?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a doubt of it. Never mind. I can take care of myself. Have you any + work for me to-day?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Plenty, if you are in a mood for it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will fetch Miss Brotherton.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can do without <i>her</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + She went, however, and did not return. As I walked home to dinner, she and + Miss Brotherton passed me in the carriage, on their way, as I learned + afterwards, to fetch the Osborne ladies from the rectory, some ten miles + off. I did not return to Moldwarp Hall, but helped Styles in the + lumber-room, which before night we had almost emptied. + </p> + <p> + The next morning I was favoured with a little desultory assistance from + the two ladies, but saw nothing of the visitors. In the afternoon, and + both the following days, I took my servant with me, who got through more + work than the two together, and we advanced it so far that I was able to + leave the room next the armoury in the hands of the carpenter and the + housemaid, with sufficient directions, and did not return that week. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV. A TALK WITH CHARLEY. + </h2> + <p> + The following Monday, in the evening, Charley arrived, in great spirits, + more excited indeed than I liked to see him. There was a restlessness in + his eye which made me especially anxious, for it raised a doubt whether + the appearance of good spirits was not the result merely of resistance to + some anxiety. But I hoped my companionship, with the air and exercise of + the country, would help to quiet him again. In the late twilight we took a + walk together up and down my field. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose you let your mother know you were coming, Charley?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I did not,’ he answered. ‘My father must have nothing to lay to their + charge in case he should hear of our meeting.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But he has not forbidden you to go home, has he?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, certainly. But he as good as told me I was not to go home while he + was away. He does not wish me to be there without his presence to + counteract my evil influences. He seems to regard my mere proximity as + dangerous. I sometimes wonder whether the severity of his religion may not + have affected his mind. Almost all madness, you know, turns either upon + love or religion.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So I have heard. I doubt it—with men. It may be with women.—But + you won’t surprise them? It might startle your mother too much. She is not + strong, you say. Hadn’t I better tell Clara Coningham? She can let them + know you are here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be better.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you say to going there with me to-morrow? I will send my man with + a note in the morning.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked a little puzzled and undetermined, but said at length, + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare say your plan is the best. How long has Miss Coningham been here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘About ten days, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked thoughtful and made no answer. + </p> + <p> + ‘I see, you are afraid of my falling in love with her again,’ I said. ‘I + confess I like her much better than I did, but I am not quite sure about + her yet. She is very bewitching anyhow, and a little more might make me + lose my heart to her. The evident dislike she has to Brotherton would of + itself recommend her to any friend of yours or mine.’ + </p> + <p> + He turned his face away. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do not be anxious about me,’ I went on. ‘The first shadowy conviction of + any untruthfulness in her, if not sufficient to change my feelings at + once, would at once initiate a backward movement in them.’ + </p> + <p> + He kept his face turned away, and I was perplexed. After a few moments of + silence, he turned it towards me again, as if relieved by some resolution + suddenly formed, and said with a smile under a still clouded brow, + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, old fellow, we’ll see. It’ll all come right, I dare say. Write your + note early, and we’ll follow it. How glad I <i>shall</i> be to have a + glimpse of that blessed mother of mine without her attendant dragon!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For God’s sake don’t talk of your father so! Surely, after all, he is a + good man!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I want a new reading of the word.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He loves God, at least.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t stop to inquire—’ said Charley, plunging at once into + argument—‘what influence for good it might or might not have to love + a non-existence: I will only ask—Is it a good God he loves or a bad + one? If the latter, he can hardly be called good for loving him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But if there be a God at all, he must be a good God.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose the true God to be the good God, it does not follow that my + father worships <i>him</i>. There is such a thing as worshipping a false + God. At least the Bible recognizes it. For my part, I find myself + compelled to say—either that the true God is not a good God, or that + my father does not worship the true God. If you say he worships the God of + the Bible, I either admit or dispute the assertion, but set it aside as + altering nothing; for if I admit it, the argument lies thus: my father + worships a bad God; my father worships the God of the Bible: therefore the + God of the Bible is a bad God; and if I admit the authority of the Bible, + then the true God is a bad God. If, however, I dispute the assertion that + he worships the God of the Bible, I am left to show, if I can, that the + God of the Bible is a good God, and, if I admit the authority of the + Bible, to worship another than my father’s God. If I do not admit the + authority of the Bible, there may, for all that, be a good God, or, which + is next best to a perfectly good God, there may be no God at all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Put like a lawyer, Charley: and yet I would venture to join issue with + your first assertion—on which the whole argument is founded—that + your father worships a bad God.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Assuredly what he asserts concerning his God is bad.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Admitted; but does he assert <i>only</i> bad things of his God?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I daren’t say that. But God is one. You will hardly dare the proposition + that an infinite being may be partly good and partly bad.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I heartily hold that God must be <i>one</i>—a proposition far + more essential than that there is one God—so far, at least, as my + understanding can judge. It is only in the limited human nature that good + and evil can co-exist. But there is just the point: we are not speaking of + the absolute God, but of the idea of a man concerning that God. You could + suppose yourself utterly convinced of a good God long before your ideas of + goodness were so correct as to render you incapable of attributing + anything wrong to that God. Supposing such to be the case, and that you + came afterwards to find that you had been thinking something wrong about + him, do you think you would therefore grant that you had been believing + either in a wicked or in a false God?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you must give your father the same scope. He attributes what we are + absolutely certain are bad things to his God—and yet he may believe + in a good God, for the good in his idea of God is that alone in virtue of + which he is able to believe in him. No mortal can believe in the bad.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He puts the evil foremost in his creed and exhortations.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That may be. Few people know their own deeper minds. The more potent a + power in us, I suspect it is the more hidden from our scrutiny.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If there be a God, then, Wilfrid, he is very indifferent to what his + creatures think of him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps very patient and hopeful, Charley—who knows? Perhaps he + will not force himself upon them, but help them to grow into the true + knowledge of him. Your father may worship the true God, and yet have only + a little of that knowledge.’ + </p> + <p> + A silence followed. At length—‘Thank you for my father,’ said + Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank my uncle,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘For not being like my father?—I do,’ he returned. + </p> + <p> + It was the loveliest evening that brooded round us as we walked. The moon + had emerged from a rippled sea of grey cloud, over which she cast her dull + opaline halo. Great masses and banks of cloud lay about the rest of the + heavens, and, in the dark rifts between, a star or two were visible, + gazing from the awful distance. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish I could let it into me, Wilfrid,’ said Charley, after we had been + walking in silence for some time along the grass. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let what into you, Charley?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The night and the blue and the stars.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t you, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hate being taken in. The more pleasant a self-deception, the less I + choose to submit to it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is reasonable. But where lies the deception?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t say it’s a deception. I only don’t know that it isn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Please explain.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean what you call the beauty of the night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely there can be little question of that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ever so little is enough. Suppose I asked you wherein its beauty + consisted: would you be satisfied if I said—In the arrangement of + the blue and the white, with the sparkles of yellow, and the colours about + the scarce visible moon?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly not. I should reply that it lay in the gracious peace of the + whole—troubled only with the sense of some lovely secret behind, of + which itself was but the half-modelled representation, and therefore the + reluctant outcome.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose I rejected the latter half of what you say, admitting the former, + but judging it only the fortuitous result of the half-necessary, + half-fortuitous concurrences of nature. Suppose I said:—The air + which is necessary to our life, happens to be blue; the stars can’t help + shining through it and making it look deep; and the clouds are just there + because they must be somewhere till they fall again; all which is more + agreeable to us than fog because we feel more comfortable in weather of + the sort, whence, through complacency and habit, we have got to call it + beautiful:—suppose I said this, would you accept it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Such a theory would destroy my delight in nature altogether.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, isn’t it the truth?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be easy to show that the sense of beauty does not spring from + any amount of comfort; but I do not care to pursue the argument from that + starting-point.—I confess when you have once waked the questioning + spirit, and I look up at the clouds and the stars with what I may call + sharpened eyes—eyes, that is, which assert their seeing, and so + render themselves incapable for the time of submitting to impressions, I + am as blind as any Sadducee could desire. I see blue, and white, and gold, + and, in short, a tent-roof somewhat ornate. I dare say if I were in a + miserable mood, having been deceived and disappointed like Hamlet, I + should with him see there nothing but a foul and pestilent congregation of + vapours. But I know that when I am passive to its powers, I am aware of a + presence altogether different—of a something at once soothing and + elevating, powerful to move shame—even contrition and the desire of + amendment.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes,’ said Charley hastily. ‘But let me suppose further—and, + perhaps you will allow, better—that this blueness—I take a + part for the whole—belongs essentially and of necessity to the + atmosphere, itself so essential to our physical life; suppose also that + this blue has essential relation to our spiritual nature—taking for + the moment our spiritual nature for granted—suppose, in a word, all + nature so related, not only to our physical but to our spiritual nature, + that it and we form an organic whole full of action and reaction between + the parts—would that satisfy you? Would it enable you to look on the + sky this night with absolute pleasure? would you want nothing more?’ + </p> + <p> + I thought for a little before I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Charley,’ I said at last—‘it would not satisfy me. For it would + indicate that beauty might be, after all, but the projection of my own + mind—the name I gave to a harmony between that around me and that + within me. There would then be nothing absolute in beauty. There would be + no such thing in itself. It would exist only as a phase of me when I was + in a certain mood; and when I was earthly-minded, passionate, or troubled, + it would be <i>no</i>where. But in my best moods I feel that in nature + lies the form and fashion of a peace and grandeur so much beyond anything + in me, that they rouse the sense of poverty and incompleteness and blame + in the want of them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you perceive whither you are leading yourself?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I would rather hear you say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To this then—that the peace and grandeur of which you speak must be + a mere accident, therefore an unreality and pure <i>appearance</i>, or the + outcome and representation of a peace and grandeur which, not to be found + in us, yet exist, and make use of this frame of things to set forth and + manifest themselves in order that we may recognize and desire them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Granted—heartily.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In other words—you lead yourself inevitably to a God manifest in + nature—not as a powerful being—that is a theme absolutely + without interest to me—but as possessed in himself of the original + pre-existent beauty, the counterpart of which in us we call art, and who + has fashioned us so that we must fall down and worship the image of + himself which he has set up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s good, Charley. I’m so glad you’ve worked that out!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It doesn’t in the least follow that I believe it. I cannot even say I + wish I did:—for what I know, that might be to wish to be deceived. + Of all miseries—to believe in a lovely thing and find it not true—that + must be the worst.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You might never find it out, though,’ I said. ‘You might be able to + comfort yourself with it all your life.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was wrong,’ he cried fiercely. ‘Never to find it out would be the hell + of all hells. Wilfrid, I am ashamed of you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So should I be, Charley, if I had meant it. I only wanted to make you + speak. I agree with you entirely. But I <i>do</i> wish we could be <i>quite</i> + sure of it; for I don’t believe any man can ever be sure of a thing that + is not true.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My father is sure that the love of nature is not only a delusion, but a + snare. I should have no right to object, were he not equally sure of the + existence of a God who created and rules it. By the way, if I believed in + a God, I should say <i>create</i>s not <i>create</i>d. I told him once, + not long ago, when he fell out upon nature—he had laid hands on a + copy of <i>Endymion</i> belonging to me—I don’t know how the devil + he got it—I asked him whether he thought the devil made the world. + You should have seen the white wrath he went into at the question! I told + him it was generally believed one or the other did make the world. He told + me God made the world, but sin had unmade it. I asked him if it was sin + that made it so beautiful. He said it was sin that made me think it so + beautiful. I remarked how very ugly it must have looked when God had just + finished it! He called me a blasphemer, and walked to the door. I stopped + him for a moment by saying that I thought, after all, he must be right, + for according to geologists the world must have been a horrible place, and + full of the most hideous creatures, before sin came and made it lovely. + When he saw my drift, he strode up to me like—well, very like his + own God, I should think—and was going to strike me. I looked him in + the eyes without moving, as if he had been a madman. He turned and left + the room. I left the house, and went back to London the same night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! Charley, Charley, that was too bad!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I knew it, Wilfrid, and yet I did it! But if your father had made a + downright coward of you, afraid to speak the truth, or show what you were + thinking, you also might find that, when anger gave you a fictitious + courage, you could not help breaking out. It’s only another form of + cowardice, I know; and I am as much ashamed of it as you could wish me to + be.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you made it up with him since?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve never seen him since.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Haven’t you written, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. Where’s the use? He never would understand me. He knows no more of + the condition of my mind than he does of the other side of the moon. If I + offered such, he would put aside all apology for my behaviour to him—repudiating + himself, and telling me it was the wrath of an offended God, not of an + earthly parent, I had to deprecate. If I told him I had only spoken + against his false God—how far would that go to mend the matter, do + you think?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not far, I must allow. But I am very sorry.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wouldn’t care if I could be sure of anything—or even sure that, + if I were sure, I shouldn’t be mistaken.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid you’re very morbid, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps. But you cannot deny that my father is sure of things that you + believe utterly false.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suspect, however, that, if we were able to get a bird’s-eye view of his + mind and all its workings, we should discover that what he called + assurance was not the condition you would call such. You would find it was + not the certainty you covet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I <i>have</i> thought of that, and it is my only comfort. But I am sick + of the whole subject. See that cloud! Isn’t it like Death on the pale + horse? What fun it must be for the cherubs, on such a night as this, to go + blowing the clouds into fantastic shapes with their trumpet cheeks!’ + </p> + <p> + Assurance was ever what Charley wanted, and unhappily the sense of + intellectual insecurity weakened his moral action. + </p> + <p> + Once more I reveal a haunting uneasiness in the expression of a hope that + the ordered character of the conversation I have just set down may not + render it incredible to my reader. I record the result alone. The talk + itself was far more desultory, and in consequence of questions, + objections, and explanations, divaricated much from the comparatively + direct line I have endeavoured to give it here. In the hope of making my + reader understand both Charley and myself, I have sought to make the + winding and rough path straight and smooth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI. TAPESTRY. + </h2> + <p> + Having heard what I was about at the Hall, Charley expressed a desire to + take a share in my labours, especially as thereby he would be able to see + more of his mother and sister. I took him straight to the book-rooms, and + we were hard at work when Clara entered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here is your old friend Charley Osborne,’ I said. ‘You remember Miss + Coningham, Charley, I know.’ + </p> + <p> + He advanced in what seemed a strangely embarrassed—indeed, rather + sheepish manner, altogether unlike his usual bearing. I attributed it to a + doubt whether Clara would acknowledge their old acquaintance. On her part, + she met him with some frankness, but I thought also a rather embarrassed + look, which was the more surprising as I had let her know he was coming. + But they shook hands, and in a little while we were all chatting + comfortably. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall I go and tell Mrs Osborne you are here?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, if you please,’ said Charley, and she went. + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes Mrs Osborne and Mary entered. The meeting was full of + affection, but to my eye looked like a meeting of the living and the dead + in a dream—there was such an evident sadness in it, as if each was + dimly aware that they met but in appearance, and were in reality far + asunder. I could not doubt that however much they loved him, and however + little they sympathized with his father’s treatment of him, his mother and + sister yet regarded him as separated from them by a great gulf—that + of culpable unbelief. But they seemed therefore only the more anxious to + please and serve him—their anxiety revealing itself in an eagerness + painfully like the service offered to one whom the doctors had given up, + and who may now have any indulgence he happens to fancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I say, mother,’ said Charley, who seemed to strive after an airier manner + even than usual—‘couldn’t you come and help us? It would be so + jolly!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, my dear; I mustn’t leave Lady Brotherton. That would be rude, you + know. But I dare say Mary might.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, please, mamma! I should like it so much—especially if Clara + would stop! But perhaps Mr Cumbermede—we ought to have asked him + first.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—to be sure—he’s the foreman,’ said Charley. ‘But he’s not + a bad fellow, and won’t be disobliging. Only you must do as he tells you, + or it’ll be the worse for us all. <i>I</i> know him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall be delighted,’ I said. ‘I can give both the ladies plenty to do. + Indeed I regard Miss Coningham as one of my hands already. Won’t Miss + Brotherton honour us to-day, Miss Coningham?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will go and ask her,’ said Clara. + </p> + <p> + They all withdrew. In a little while I had four assistants, and we got on + famously. The carpenter had been hard at work, and the room next the + armoury, the oak-panelling of which had shown considerable signs of decay, + had been repaired, and the shelves, which were in tolerable condition, + were now ready to receive their burden, and reflect the first rays of a + dawning order. + </p> + <p> + Plenty of talk went on during the dusting and arranging of the books by + their size, which was the first step towards a cosmos. There was a certain + playful naïveté about Charley’s manner and speech, when he was happy, + which gave him an instant advantage with women, and even made the + impression of wit where there was only grace. Although he was perfectly + capable, however, of engaging to any extent in the <i>badinage</i> which + has ever been in place between young men and women since dawning humanity + was first aware of a lovely difference, there was always a certain + indescribable dignity about what he said which I now see could have come + only from a <i>believing</i> heart. I use the word advisedly, but would + rather my reader should find what I mean than require me to explain it + fully. Belief, to my mind, lies chiefly in the practical recognition of + the high and pure. + </p> + <p> + Miss Brotherton looked considerably puzzled sometimes, and indeed out of + her element. But her dignity had no chance with so many young people, and + was compelled to thaw visibly; and while growing more friendly with the + others, she could not avoid unbending towards me also, notwithstanding I + was a neighbour and the son of a dairy-farmer. + </p> + <p> + Mary Osborne took little part in the fun beyond a smile, or in the more + solid conversation beyond an assent or an ordinary remark. I did not find + her very interesting. An onlooker would probably have said she lacked + expression. But the stillness upon her face bore to me the shadow of a + reproof. Perhaps it was only a want of sympathy with what was going on + around her. Perhaps her soul was either far withdrawn from its present + circumstances, or not yet awake to the general interests of life. There + was little in the form or hue of her countenance to move admiration, + beyond a complexion without spot. It was very fair and delicate, with + little more colour in it than in the white rose, which but the faintest + warmth redeems from dead whiteness. Her features were good in form, but in + no way remarkable; her eyes were of the so-called hazel, which consists of + a mingling of brown and green; her figure was good, but seemed unelastic, + and she had nothing of her brother’s gaiety or grace of movement or + expression. I do not mean that either her motions or her speech was clumsy—there + was simply nothing to remark in them beyond the absence of anything + special. In a word, I did not find her interesting, save as the sister of + my delightful Charley, and the sharer of his mother’s griefs concerning + him. + </p> + <p> + ‘If I had as good help in the afternoon,’ I said, ‘we should have all the + books on the shelves to-night, and be able to set about assorting them + to-morrow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am sorry I cannot come this afternoon,’ said Miss Brotherton. ‘I should + have been most happy if I could. It is really very pleasant + notwithstanding the dust. But Mrs Osborne and mamma want me to go with + them to Minstercombe. You will lunch with us to-day, won’t you?’ she + added, turning to Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you, Miss Brotherton,’ he replied; ‘I should have been delighted, + but I am not my own master—I am Cumbermede’s slave at present, and + can eat and drink only when and where he chooses.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You <i>must</i> stay with your mother, Charley,’ I said. ‘You cannot + refuse Miss Brotherton.’ + </p> + <p> + She could thereupon scarcely avoid extending the invitation to me, but I + declined it on some pretext or other, and I was again, thanks to Lilith, + back from my dinner before they had finished luncheon. The carriage was at + the door when I rode up, and the moment I heard it drive away, I went to + the dining-room to find my coadjutors. The only person there was Miss + Pease. A thought struck me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t you come and help us, Miss Pease?’ I said. ‘I have lost one of my + assistants, and I am very anxious to get the room we are at now so far + finished to-night.’ + </p> + <p> + A smile found its way to her cold eyes, and set the blue sparkling for one + briefest moment. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is very kind of you, Mr Cumbermede, but—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Kind!’ I exclaimed—‘I want your help, Miss Pease.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Lady Brotherton can’t want you now. Do oblige me. You will find it fun.’ + </p> + <p> + She smiled outright—evidently at the fancy of any relation between + her and fun. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do go and put a cap on, and a cotton dress, and come,’ I persisted. + </p> + <p> + Without another word she left the room. I was still alone in the library + when she came to me, and having shown her what I wanted, we were already + busy when the rest arrived. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Peasey! Are you there?’ said Clara, as she entered—not + unkindly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have got a substitute for Miss Brotherton, you see, Clara—Miss + Coningham—I beg your pardon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no occasion to beg my pardon. Why shouldn’t you call me Clara if + you like? It <i>is</i> my name.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley might be taking the same liberty,’ I returned, extemporizing a + reason. + </p> + <p> + ‘And why <i>shouldn’t</i> Charley take the same liberty?’ she retorted. + </p> + <p> + ‘For no reason that I know,’ I answered, a trifle hurt, ‘if it be + agreeable to the lady.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And the gentleman,’ she amended. + </p> + <p> + ‘And the gentleman,’ I added. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well. Then we are all good boys and girls. Now, Peasey, I’m very + glad you’re come. Only mind you get back to your place before the ogress + returns, or you’ll have your head snapped off.’ + </p> + <p> + Was I right, or was it the result of the slight offence I had taken? Was + the gracious, graceful, naïve, playful, daring woman—or could she be—or + had she been just the least little bit vulgar? I am afraid I was then more + sensitive to vulgarity in a woman, real or fancied, than even to + wickedness—at least I thought I was. At all events, the first <i>conviction</i> + of anything common or unrefined in a woman would at once have placed me + beyond the sphere of her attraction. But I had no time to think the + suggestion over now; and in a few minutes—whether she saw the cloud + on my face I cannot tell—Clara had given me a look and a smile which + banished the possibility of my thinking about it for the present. + </p> + <p> + Miss Pease worked more diligently than any of the party. She seldom spoke, + and when she did, it was in a gentle, subdued, almost mournful tone; but + the company of the young people, without the restraint of her mistress, + was evidently grateful to what of youth yet remained in her oppressed + being. + </p> + <p> + Before it was dark we had got the books all upon the shelves, and leaving + Charley with the ladies, I walked home. + </p> + <p> + I found Styles had got everything out of the lumber-room except a heavy + oak chest in the corner, which, our united strength being insufficient to + displace it, I concluded was fixed to the floor. I collected all the keys + my aunt had left behind her, but sought the key of this chest in vain. For + my uncle, I never saw a key in his possession. Even what little money he + might have in the house, was only put away at the back of an open drawer. + For the present, therefore, we had to leave it undisturbed. + </p> + <p> + When Charley came home we went to look at it together. It was of oak, and + somewhat elaborately carved. + </p> + <p> + I was very restless in bed that night. The air was close and hot, and as + often as I dropped half asleep I woke again with a start. My thoughts kept + stupidly running on the old chest. It had mechanically possessed me. I + felt no disturbing curiosity concerning its contents; I was not annoyed at + the want of the key; it was only that, like a nursery rhyme that keeps + repeating itself over and over in the half-sleeping brain, this chest kept + rising before me till I was out of patience with its intrusiveness. It + brought me wide awake at last; and I thought, as I could not sleep, I + would have a search for the key. I got out of bed, put on my dressing-gown + and slippers, lighted my chamber-candle, and made an inroad upon the + contents of the closet in my room, which had apparently remained + undisturbed since the morning when I missed my watch. I believe I had + never entered it since. Almost the first thing I came upon was the + pendulum, which woke a strange sensation for which I could not account, + until by slow degrees the twilight memory of the incidents connected with + it half dawned upon me. I searched the whole place, but not a key could I + find. + </p> + <p> + I started violently at the sound of something like a groan, and for the + briefest imaginable moment forgot that my grannie was dead, and thought it + must come from her room. It may be remembered that such a sound had led me + to her in the middle of the night on which she died. Whether I really + heard the sound, or only fancied I heard it—by some half-mechanical + action of the brain, roused by the association of ideas—I do not + even yet know. It may have been changed or expanded into a groan, from one + of those innumerable sounds heard in every old house in the stillness of + the night; for such, in the absence of the correction given by other + sounds, assume place and proportion as it were at their pleasure. What + lady has not at midnight mistaken the trail of her own dress on the + carpet, in a silent house, for some tumult in a distant room? Curious to + say, however, it now led to the same action as the groan I had heard so + many years before; for I caught up my candle at once, and took my way down + to the kitchen, and up the winding stair behind the chimney to grannie’s + room. Strange as it may seem, I had not been in it since my return; for my + thoughts had been so entirely occupied with other things, that, although I + now and then looked forward with considerable expectation to a thorough + search of the place, especially of the bureau, I kept it up as a <i>bonne + bouche</i>, the anticipation of which was consolation enough for the + postponement. + </p> + <p> + I confess it was with no little quavering of the spirit that I sought this + chamber in the middle of the night. For, by its association with one who + had from my earliest recollection seemed like something forgotten and left + behind in the onward rush of life, it was, far more than anything else in + the house, like a piece of the past embedded in the present—a + fragment that had been, by some eddy in the stream of time, prevented from + gliding away down its course, and left to lie for ever in a cranny of the + solid shore of unmoving space. But although subject to more than the + ordinary tremor at the thought of unknown and invisible presences, I must + say for myself that I had never yielded so far as to allow such tremor to + govern my actions. Even in my dreams I have resisted ghostly terrors, and + can recall one in which I so far conquered a lady-ghost who took every + means of overcoming me with terror, that at length she fell in love with + me, whereupon my fear vanished utterly—a conceited fancy, and as + such let it fare. + </p> + <p> + I opened the door then with some trembling, half expecting to see first + the white of my grannie’s cap against the tall back of her dark chair. But + my senses were sound, and no such illusion seized me. All was empty, + cheerless, and musty. Grannie’s bed, with its white curtains, looked as if + it were mouldering away after her. The dust lay thick on the counterpane + of patchwork silk. The bureau stood silent with all its secrets. In the + fire-place was the same brushwood and coals which Nannie laid the morning + of grannie’s death: interrupted by the discovery of my presence, she had + left it, and that fire had never been lighted. Half for the sake of + companionship, half because the air felt sepulchral and I was thinly clad, + I put my candle to it and it blazed up. My courage revived, and after a + little more gazing about the room, I ventured to sit down in my grannie’s + chair and watch the growing fire. Warned, however, by the shortness of my + candle, I soon rose to proceed with my search, and turned towards the + bureau. + </p> + <p> + Here, however, the same difficulty occurred. The top of the bureau was + locked as when I had last tried it, and not one of my keys would fit it. + At a loss what to do or where to search, I dropped again into the chair by + the fire, and my eyes went roving about the room. They fell upon a black + dress which hung against the wall. At the same moment I remembered that, + when she gave me the watch, she took the keys of the bureau from her + pocket. I went to the dress and found a pocket, not indeed in the dress, + but hanging under it from the same peg. There her keys were! It would have + been a marvel to me how my aunt came to leave them undisturbed all those + years, but for the instant suggestion that my uncle must have expressed a + wish to that effect. With eager hand I opened the bureau. Besides many + trinkets in the drawers, some of them of exceedingly antique form, and, I + fancied, of considerable value, I found in the pigeon-holes what I was far + more pleased to discover—a good many letters, carefully tied in + small bundles, with ribbon which had lost all determinable colour. These I + reserved to take an early opportunity of reading, but replaced for the + present, and, having come at last upon one hopeful-looking key, I made + haste to return before my candle, which was already flickering in the + socket, should go out altogether, and leave me darkling. When I reached + the kitchen, however, I found the grey dawn already breaking. I retired + once more to my chamber, and was soon fast asleep. + </p> + <p> + In the morning, my first care was to try the key. It fitted. I oiled it + well, and then tried the lock. I had to use considerable force, but at + last there came a great clang that echoed through the empty room. When I + raised the lid, I knew by the weight it was of iron. In fact, the whole + chest was iron with a casing of oak. The lock threw eight bolts, which + laid hold of a rim that ran all round the lip of the chest. It was full of + ‘very ancient and fish-like’ papers and parchments. I do not know whether + my father or grandfather had ever disturbed them, but I am certain my + uncle never had, for, as far back as I can remember, the part of the room + where it stood was filled with what had been, at one time and another, + condemned as lumber. + </p> + <p> + Charley was intensely interested in the discovery, and would have sat down + at once to examine the contents of the chest, had I not persuaded him to + leave them till the afternoon, that we might get on with our work at the + Hall. + </p> + <p> + The second room was now ready for the carpenter, but, having had a peep of + tapestry behind the shelves, a new thought had struck me. If it was in + good preservation, it would be out of the question to hide it behind + books. + </p> + <p> + I fear I am getting tedious. My apology for diffuseness in this part of my + narrative is that some threads of the fringe of my own fate show every now + and then in the record of these proceedings. I confess also that I hang + back from certain things which are pressing nearer with their claim for + record. + </p> + <p> + When we reached the Hall, I took the carpenter with me, and had the + bookshelves taken down. To my disappointment we found that an oblong piece + of some size was missing from the centre of the tapestry on one of the + walls. That which covered the rest of the room was entire. It was all of + good Gobelins work—somewhat tame in colour. The damaged portion + represented a wooded landscape with water and reedy flowers and aquatic + fowl, towards which in the distance came a hunter with a crossbow in his + hand, and a queer, lurcher-looking dog bounding uncouthly at his heel; the + edge of the vacant space cut off the dog’s tail and the top of the man’s + crossbow. + </p> + <p> + I went to find Sir Giles. He was in the dining-room, where they had just + finished breakfast. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, Mr Cumbermede!’ he said, rising as I entered, and holding out his + hand—‘here already?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We have uncovered some tapestry, Sir Giles, and I want you to come and + look at it, if you please.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will,’ he answered. ‘Would any of you ladies like to go and see it?’ + </p> + <p> + His daughter and Clara rose. Lady Brotherton and Mrs Osborne sat still. + Mary, glancing at her mother, remained seated also. + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t you come, Miss Pease?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + She looked almost alarmed at the audacity of the proposal, and murmured, + ‘No, thank you,’ with a glance at Lady Brotherton, which appeared as + involuntary as it was timid. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is my son with you?’ asked Mrs Osborne. + </p> + <p> + I told her he was. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall look in upon you before the morning is over,’ she said quietly. + </p> + <p> + They were all pleased with the tapestry, and the ladies offered several + conjectures as to the cause of the mutilation. + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be a shame to cover it up again—would it not, Sir Giles?’ + I remarked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed it would,’ he assented. + </p> + <p> + ‘If it weren’t for that broken piece,’ said Clara. ‘That spoils it + altogether. <i>I</i> should have the books up again as soon as possible.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It does look shabby,’ said Charley. ‘I can’t say I should enjoy having + anything so defective always before my eyes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We must have it taken down very carefully, Hobbes,’ said Sir Giles, + turning to the carpenter. + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Must</i> it come down, Sir Giles?’ I interposed. ‘I think it would be + risky. No one knows how long it has been there, and though it might hang + where it is for a century yet, and look nothing the worse, it can’t be + strong, and at best we could not get it down without some injury, while it + is a great chance if it would fit any other place half as well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you propose, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This is the largest room of the six, and the best lighted—with that + lovely oriel window: I would venture to propose, Sir Giles, that it should + be left clear of books and fitted up as a reading-room.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how would you deal with that frightful <i>lacuna</i> in the + tapestry?’ said Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Sir Giles; ‘it won’t look handsome, I fear—do what you + will.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think I know how to manage it,’ I said. ‘If I succeed to your + satisfaction, will you allow me to carry out the project?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what are we to do with the books, then? We shan’t have room for + them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Couldn’t you let me have the next room beyond?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean to turn me out, I suppose,’ said Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is there tapestry on your walls?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a thread—all wainscot—painted.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then your room would be the very thing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is much larger than any of these,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then do let us have it for the library, Sir Giles,’ I entreated. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will see what Lady Brotherton says,’ he replied, and left the room. + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes we heard his step returning. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lady Brotherton has no particular objection to giving up the room you + want,’ he said. ‘Will you see Mrs Wilson, Clara, and arrange with her for + your accommodation?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘With pleasure. I don’t mind where I’m put—unless it be in Lord + Edward’s room—where the ghost is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean the one next to ours? There is no ghost there, I assure you,’ + said Sir Giles, laughing, as he again left the room with short, heavy + steps. ‘Manage it all to your own mind, Mr Cumbermede. I shall be + satisfied,’ he called back as he went. + </p> + <p> + ‘Until further notice,’ I said, with grandiloquence, ‘I request that no + one may come into this room. If you are kind enough to assort the books we + put up yesterday, oblige me by going through the armoury. I must find Mrs + Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will go with you,’ said Clara. ‘I wonder where the old thing will want + to put me. I’m not going where I don’t like, I can tell her,’ she added, + following me down the stair and across the hall and the court. + </p> + <p> + We found the housekeeper in her room. I accosted her in a friendly way. + She made but a bare response. + </p> + <p> + ‘Would you kindly show me where I slept that night I lost my sword, Mrs + Wilson?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know nothing about your sword, Mr Cumbermede,’ she answered, shaking + her head and pursing up her mouth. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t ask you anything about it, Mrs Wilson; I only ask you where I + slept the night I lost it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Really, Mr Cumbermede, you can hardly expect me to remember in what room + a visitor slept—let me see—it must be twelve or fifteen years + ago! I do not take it upon me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! never mind, then. I referred to the circumstances of that night, + thinking they might help you to remember the room; but it is of no + consequence; I shall find it for myself. Miss Coningham will, I hope, help + me in the search. She knows the house better than I do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must attend to my own business first, if you please, sir,’ said Clara. + ‘Mrs Wilson, I am ordered out of my room by Mr Cumbermede. You must find + me fresh quarters, if you please.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Wilson stared. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you mean, miss, that you want your things moved to another bed-room?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That <i>is</i> what I mean, Mrs Wilson.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must see what Lady Brotherton says to it, miss.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do, by all means.’ + </p> + <p> + I saw that Clara was bent on annoying her old enemy, and interposed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Sir Giles and Lady Brotherton have agreed to let me have Miss Coningham’s + room for an addition to the library, Mrs Wilson,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + She looked very grim, but made no answer. We turned and left her. She + stood for a moment as if thinking, and then, taking down her bunch of + keys, followed us. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you will come this way,’ she said, stopping just behind us at another + door in the court, ‘I think I can show you the room you want. But really, + Mr Cumbermede, you are turning the place upside down. If I had thought it + would come to this—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope to do so a little more yet, Mrs Wilson,’ I interrupted. ‘But I am + sure you will be pleased with the result.’ + </p> + <p> + She did not reply, but led the way up a stair, across the little open + gallery, and by passages I did not remember, to the room I wanted. It was + in precisely the same condition as when I occupied it. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is the room, I believe,’ she said, as she unlocked and threw open + the door. ‘Perhaps it would suit you, Miss Coningham?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not in the least,’ answered Clara. ‘Who knows which of my small + possessions might vanish before the morning!’ + </p> + <p> + The housekeeper’s face grew turkey-red with indignation. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Cumbermede has been filling your head with some of his romances, I + see, Miss Clara!’ + </p> + <p> + I laughed, for I did not care to show myself offended with her rudeness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never you mind,’ said Clara; ‘I am <i>not</i> going to sleep there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very good,’ said Mrs Wilson, in a tone of offence severely restrained. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you show me the way to the library?’ I requested. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will,’ said Clara; ‘I know it as well as Mrs Wilson—every bit.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then that is all I want at present, Mrs Wilson,’ I said, as we came out + of the room. ‘Don’t lock the door, though, please,’ I added. ‘Or, if you + do, give me the key.’ + </p> + <p> + She left the door open, and us in the passage. Clara led me to the + library. There we found Charley waiting our return. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you take that little boy to his mother, Clara?’ I said. ‘I don’t + want him here to-day. We’ll have a look over those papers in the evening, + Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s right,’ said Clara. ‘I hope Charley will help you to a little + rational interest in your own affairs. I am quite bewildered to think that + an author, not to say a young man, the sole remnant of an ancient family, + however humble, shouldn’t even know whether he had any papers in the house + or not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ve come upon a glorious nest of such addled eggs, Clara. Charley and I + are going to blow them to-night,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘You never know when such eggs are addled,’ retorted Clara. ‘You’d better + put them under some sensible fowl or other first,’ she added, looking back + from the door as they went. + </p> + <p> + I turned to the carpenter’s tool-basket, and taking from it an old chisel, + a screw-driver, and a pair of pincers, went back to the room we had just + left. + </p> + <p> + There could be no doubt about it. There was the tip of the dog’s tail, and + the top of the hunter’s crossbow. + </p> + <p> + But my reader may not have retained in her memory the facts to which I + implicitly refer. I would therefore, to spare repetition, beg her to look + back to chapter xiv., containing the account of the loss of my sword. + </p> + <p> + In the consternation caused me by the discovery that this loss was no + dream of the night, I had never thought of examining the wall of the + chamber, to see whether there was in it a door or not; but I saw now at + once plainly enough that the inserted patch did cover a small door. + Opening it, I found within, a creaking wooden stair, leading up to another + low door, which, fashioned like the door of a companion, opened upon the + roof:—nowhere, except in the towers, had the Hall more than two + stories. As soon as I had drawn back the bolt and stepped out, I found + myself standing at the foot of an ornate stack of chimneys, and remembered + quite well having tried the door that night Clara and I were shut out on + the leads—the same night on which my sword was stolen. + </p> + <p> + For the first time the question now rose in my mind whether Mrs Wilson + could have been in league with Mr Close. Was it likely I should have been + placed in a room so entirely fitted to his purposes by accident? But I + could not imagine any respectable woman running such a risk of terrifying + a child out of his senses, even if she could have connived at his being + robbed of what she might well judge unsuitable for his possession. + </p> + <p> + Descending again to the bed-room, I set to work with my tools. The utmost + care was necessary, for the threads were weak with old age. I had only one + or two slight mishaps, however, succeeding on the whole better than I had + expected. Leaving the door denuded of its covering, I took the patch on my + arm, and again sought the library. Hobbes’s surprise, and indeed pleasure, + when he saw that my plunder not only fitted the gap, but completed the + design, was great. I directed him to get the whole piece down as carefully + as he could, and went to extract, if possible, a favour from Lady + Brotherton. + </p> + <p> + She was of course very stiff—no doubt she would have called it + dignified; but I did all I could to please her, and perhaps in some small + measure succeeded. After representing, amongst other advantages, what an + addition a suite of rooms filled with a valuable library must be to the + capacity of the house for the reception and entertainment of guests, I + ventured at last to beg the services of Miss Pease for the repair of the + bit of the tapestry. + </p> + <p> + She rang the bell, sent for Miss Pease, and ordered her, in a style of the + coldest arrogance, to put herself under my direction. She followed me to + the door in the meekest manner, but declined the arm I offered. As we went + I explained what I wanted, saying I could not trust it to any hands but + those of a lady, expressing a hope that she would not think I had taken + too great a liberty, and begging her to say nothing about the work itself, + as I wished to surprise Sir Giles and my assistants. She said she would be + most happy to help me, but when she saw how much was wanted, she did look + a little dismayed. She went and fetched her work-basket at once, however, + and set about it, tacking the edges to a strip of canvas, in preparation + for some kind of darning, which would not, she hoped, be unsightly. + </p> + <p> + For a whole week she and the carpenter were the only persons I admitted, + and while she gave to her darning every moment she could redeem from her + attendance on Lady Brotherton, the carpenter and I were busy—he + cleaning and polishing, and I ranging the more deserted parts of the house + to find furniture suitable for our purpose. In Clara’s room was an old + Turkey-carpet which we appropriated, and when we had the tapestry up + again, which Miss Pease had at length restored in a marvellous manner—surpassing + my best hopes, and more like healing than repairing—the place was to + my eyes a very nest of dusky harmonies. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII. THE OLD CHEST. + </h2> + <p> + I cannot help dwelling for a moment on the scene, although it is not of + the slightest consequence to my story, when Sir Giles and Lady Brotherton + entered the reading-room of the resuscitated library of Moldwarp Hall. It + was a bright day of Autumn. Outside all was brilliant. The latticed oriel + looked over the lawn and the park, where the trees had begun to gather + those rich hues which could hardly be the heralds of death if it were the + ugly thing it appears. Beyond the fading woods rose a line of blue heights + meeting the more ethereal blue of the sky, now faded to a colder and paler + tint. The dappled skins of the fallow deer glimmered through the trees, + and the whiter ones among them cast a light round them in the shadows. + Through the trees that on one side descended to the meadow below, came the + shine of the water where the little brook had spread into still pools. All + without was bright with sunshine and clear air. But when you turned, all + was dark, sombre, and rich, like an Autumn ten times faded. Through the + open door of the next room on one side, you saw the shelves full of books, + and from beyond, through the narrow uplifted door, came the glimmer of the + weapons on the wall of the little armoury. Two ancient tapestry-covered + settees, in which the ravages of moth and worm had been met by a skilful + repair of chisel and needle, a heavy table of oak, with carved sides as + black as ebony, and a few old, straight-backed chairs, were the sole + furniture. + </p> + <p> + Sir Giles expressed much pleasure, and Lady Brotherton, beginning to enter + a little into my plans, was more gracious than hitherto. + </p> + <p> + ‘We must give a party as soon as you have finished, Mr Cumbermede,’ she + said; ‘and—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That will be some time yet,’ I interrupted, not desiring the invitation + she seemed about to force herself to utter; ‘and I fear there are not many + in this neighbourhood who will appreciate the rarity and value of the + library—if the other rooms should turn out as rich as that one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe old books <i>are</i> expensive now-a-days,’ she returned. ‘They + are more sought after, I understand.’ + </p> + <p> + We resumed our work with fresh vigour, and got on faster. Both Clara and + Mary were assiduous in their help. + </p> + <p> + To go back for a little to my own old chest—we found it, as I said, + full of musty papers. After turning over a few, seeming, to my uneducated + eye, deeds and wills and such like, out of which it was evident I could + gather no barest meaning without a labour I was not inclined to expend on + them—for I had no pleasure in such details as involved nothing of + the picturesque—I threw the one in my hand upon the heap already + taken from the box, and to the indignation of Charley, who was absorbed in + one of them, and had not spoken a word for at least a quarter of an hour, + exclaimed— + </p> + <p> + ‘Come, Charley; I’m sick of the rubbish. Let’s go and have a walk before + supper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Rubbish!’ he repeated; ‘I am ashamed of you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see Clara has been setting you on. I wonder what she’s got in her head. + I am sure I have quite a sufficient regard for family history and all + that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very like it!’ said Charley—‘calling such a chestful as this + rubbish!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am pleased enough to possess it,’ I said; ‘but if they had been such + books as some of those at the Hall—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, then,’ he said, stooping over the chest, and with some + difficulty hauling out a great folio which he had discovered below, but + had not yet examined—‘just see what you can make of that.’ + </p> + <p> + I opened the title-page rather eagerly. I stared. Could I believe my eyes? + First of all on the top of it, in the neatest old hand, was written—‘Guilfrid + Combremead His Boke. 1630.’ Then followed what I will not write, lest this + MS. should by any accident fall into the hands of book-hunters before my + death. I jumped to my feet, gave a shout that brought Charley to his feet + also, and danced about the empty room hugging the folio. ‘Have you lost + your senses?’ said Charley; but when he had a peep at the title-page, he + became as much excited as myself, and it was some time before he could + settle down to the papers again. Like a bee over a flower-bed, I went + dipping and sipping at my treasure. Every word of the well-known lines + bore a flavour of ancient verity such as I had never before perceived in + them. At length I looked up, and finding him as much absorbed as I had + been myself— + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Charley, what are you finding there?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Proof perhaps that you come of an older family than you think,’ he + answered; ‘proof certainly that some part at least of the Moldwarp + property was at one time joined to the Moat, and that you are of the same + stock, a branch of which was afterwards raised to the present baronetage. + At least I have little doubt such is the case, though I can hardly say I + am yet prepared to prove it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t mean I’m of the same blood as—as Geoffrey Brotherton!’ I + said. ‘I would rather not, if it’s the same to you, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t help it: that’s the way things point,’ he answered, throwing down + the parchment. ‘But I can’t read more now. Let’s go and have a walk. I’ll + stop at home to-morrow and take a look over the whole set.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll stop with you.’ + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “Well. Charley. What are you finding there?” I asked.} + </p> + <p> + ‘No, you won’t. You’ll go and get on with your library. I shall do better + alone. If I could only get a peep at the Moldwarp chest as well!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But the place may have been bought and sold many times. Just look here, + though,’ I said, as I showed him the crest on my watch and seal. ‘Mind you + look at the top of your spoon the next time you eat soup at the Hall.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is unnecessary, quite. I recognise the crest at once. How strangely + these cryptographs come drifting along the tide, like the gilded ornaments + of a wreck after the hull has gone down!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Or, like the mole or squint that re-appears in successive generations, + the legacy of some long-forgotten ancestor,’ I said—and several + things unexplained occurred to me as possibly having a common solution. + </p> + <p> + ‘I find, however,’ said Charley, ‘that the name of Cumbermede is not + mentioned in your papers more than about a hundred years back—as far + as I have yet made out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is odd,’ I returned, ‘seeing that in the same chest we find that + book with my name, surname and Christian, and the date 1630.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is strange,’ he acquiesced, ‘and will perhaps require a somewhat + complicated theory to meet it.’ + </p> + <p> + We began to talk of other matters, and, naturally enough, soon came to + Clara. + </p> + <p> + Charley was never ready to talk of her—indeed, avoided the subject + in a way that continued to perplex me. + </p> + <p> + ‘I confess to you, Charley,’ I said, ‘there is something about her I do + not and cannot understand. It seems to me always as if she were—I + will not say underhand—but as if she had some object in view—some + design upon you—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Upon me!’ exclaimed Charley, looking at me suddenly and with a face from + which all the colour had fled. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no, Charley, not that,’ I answered, laughing. ‘I used the word + impersonally. I will be more cautious. One would think we had been talking + about a witch—or a demon-lady—you are so frightened at the + notion of her having you in her eye.’ + </p> + <p> + He did not seem altogether relieved, and I caught an uneasy glance seeking + my countenance. + </p> + <p> + ‘But isn’t she charming?’ I went on. ‘It is only to you I could talk about + her so. And after all it may be only a fancy.’ + </p> + <p> + He kept his face downwards and aside, as if he were pondering and coming + to no conclusion. The silence grew and grew until expectation ceased, and + when I spoke again it was of something different. + </p> + <p> + My reader may be certain from all this that I was not in love with Clara. + Her beauty and liveliness, with a gaiety which not seldom assumed the form + of grace, attracted me much, it is true; but nothing interferes more with + the growth of any passion than a spirit of questioning, and, that once + roused, love begins to cease and pass into pain. Few, perhaps, could have + arrived at the point of admiration I had reached without falling instantly + therefrom into an abyss of absorbing passion; but with me, inasmuch as I + searched every feeling in the hope of finding in it the everlasting, there + was in the present case a reiterated check, if not indeed recoil; for I + was not and could not make myself sure that Clara was upright;—perhaps + the more commonplace word <i>straightforward</i> would express my meaning + better. + </p> + <p> + Anxious to get the books arranged before they all left me, for I knew I + should have but little heart for it after they were gone, I grudged + Charley the forenoon he wanted amongst my papers, and prevailed upon him + to go with me the next day as usual. Another fortnight, which was almost + the limit of their stay, would, I thought, suffice; and giving up + everything else, Charley and I worked from morning till night, with much + though desultory assistance from the ladies. I contrived to keep the + carpenter and housemaid in work, and by the end of the week began to see + the inroads of order ‘scattering the rear of darkness thin.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII. MARY OSBORNE. + </h2> + <p> + All this time the acquaintance between Mary Osborne and myself had not + improved. Save as the sister of my friend I had not, I repeat, found her + interesting. She did not seem at all to fulfil the promise of her + childhood. Hardly once did she address me; and, when I spoke to her, would + reply with a simple, dull directness which indicated nothing beyond the + fact of the passing occasion. Rightly or wrongly, I concluded that the + more indulgence she cherished for Charley, the less she felt for his + friend—that to him she attributed the endlessly sad declension of + her darling brother. Once on her face I surprised a look of unutterable + sorrow resting on Charley’s; but the moment she saw that I observed her, + the look died out, and her face stiffened into its usual dulness and + negation. On me she turned only the unenlightened disc of her soul. Mrs + Osborne, whom I seldom saw, behaved with much more kindness, though hardly + more cordiality. It was only that she allowed her bright indulgence for + Charley to cast the shadow of his image over the faults of his friend; and + except by the sadness that dwelt in every line of her sweet face, she did + not attract me. I was ever aware of an inward judgment which I did not + believe I deserved, and I would turn from her look with a sense of injury + which greater love would have changed into keen pain. + </p> + <p> + Once, however, I did meet a look of sympathy from Mary. On the second + Monday of the fortnight I was more anxious than ever to reach the end of + my labours, and was in the court, accompanied by Charley, as early as + eight o’clock. From the hall a dark passage led past the door of the + dining-room to the garden. Through the dark tube of the passage we saw the + bright green of a lovely bit of sward, and upon it Mary and Clara, radiant + in white morning dresses. We joined them. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here come the slave-drivers!’ remarked Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘Already!’ said Mary, in a low voice, which I thought had a tinge of + dismay in its tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind, Polly,’ said her companion—‘we’re not going to bow to + their will and pleasure. We’ll have our walk in spite of them.’ + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she threw a glance at us which seemed to say—‘You may + come if you like;’ then turned to Mary with another which said—‘We + shall see whether they prefer old books or young ladies.’ + </p> + <p> + Charley looked at me—interrogatively. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do as you like, Charley,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will do as you do,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I have no right—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! bother!’ said Clara. ‘You’re so magnificent always with your rights + and wrongs! Are you coming, or are you not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I’m coming,’ I replied, convicted by Clara’s directness, for I was + quite ready to go. + </p> + <p> + We crossed the court, and strolled through the park, which was of great + extent, in the direction of a thick wood, covering a rise towards the + east. The morning air was perfectly still; there was a little dew on the + grass, which shone rather than sparkled; the sun was burning through a + light fog, which grew deeper as we approached the wood; the decaying + leaves filled the air with their sweet, mournful scent. Through the wood + went a wide opening or glade, stretching straight and far towards the + east, and along this we walked, with that exhilaration which the fading + Autumn so strangely bestows. For some distance the ground ascended softly, + but the view was finally closed in by a more abrupt swell, over the brow + of which the mist hung in dazzling brightness. + </p> + <p> + Notwithstanding the gaiety of animal spirits produced by the season, I + felt unusually depressed that morning. Already, I believe, I was beginning + to feel the home-born sadness of the soul whose wings are weary and whose + foot can find no firm soil on which to rest. Sometimes I think the wonder + is that so many men are never sad. I doubt if Charley would have suffered + so but for the wrongs his father’s selfish religion had done him; which + perhaps were therefore so far well, inasmuch as otherwise he might not + have cared enough about religion even to doubt concerning it. But in my + case now, it may have been only the unsatisfying presence of Clara, + haunted by a dim regret that I could not love her more than I did. For + with regard to her my soul was like one who in a dream of delight sees + outspread before him a wide river, wherein he makes haste to plunge that + he may disport himself in the fine element; but, wading eagerly, alas! + finds not a single pool deeper than his knees. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the matter with you, Wilfrid?’ said Charley, who, in the midst of + some gay talk, suddenly perceived my silence. ‘You seem to lose all your + spirits away from your precious library. I do believe you grudge every + moment not spent upon those ragged old books.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wasn’t thinking of that, Charley; I was wondering what lies beyond that + mist.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see!—A chapter of the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>! Here we are—Mary, + you’re Christiana, and, Clara, you’re Mercy. Wilfrid, you’re—what?—I + should have said Hopeful any other day, but this morning you look like—let + me see—like Mr Ready-to-Halt. The celestial city lies behind that + fog—doesn’t it, Christiana?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t like to hear you talk so, Charley,’ said his sister, smiling in + his face. + </p> + <p> + ‘They ain’t in the Bible,’ he returned. + </p> + <p> + ‘No—and I shouldn’t mind if you were only merry, but you know you + are scoffing at the story, and I love it—so I can’t be pleased to + hear you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon, Mary—but your celestial city lies behind such a + fog that not one crystal turret, one pearly gate of it was ever seen. At + least <i>we</i> have never caught a glimmer of it, and must go tramp, + tramp—we don’t know whither, any more than the blind puppy that has + crawled too far from his mother’s side.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do see the light of it, Charley dear,’ said Mary, sadly—not as if + the light were any great comfort to her at the moment. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you do see something—how can you tell what it’s the light of? It + may come from the city of Dis, for anything you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know what that is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! the red-hot city—down below. You will find all about it in + Dante.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It doesn’t look like that—the light I see,’ said Mary, quietly. + </p> + <p> + ‘How very ill-bred you are—to say such wicked things, Charley!’ said + Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘Am I? They <i>are</i> better unmentioned. Let us eat and drink, for + to-morrow we die! Only don’t allude to the unpleasant subject.’ + </p> + <p> + He burst out singing: the verses were poor, but I will give them. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Let the sun shimmer! + Let the wind blow! + All is a notion—What + do we know? + Let the moon glimmer! + Let the stream flow! + All is but motion + To and fro! + + ‘Let the rose wither! + Let the stars glow! + Let the rain batter— + Drift sleet and snow! + Bring the tears hither! + Let the smiles go! + What does it matter? + To and fro! + + ‘To and fro ever, + Motion and show! + Nothing goes onward— + Hurry or no! + All is one river— + Seaward and so + Up again sunward— + To and fro! + + ‘Pendulum sweeping + High, and now low! + That star—<i>tic</i>, blot it! + <i>Tac</i>, let it go! + Time he is reaping + Hay for his mow; + That flower—he’s got it! + To and fro! + + ‘Such a scythe swinging, + Mighty and slow! + Ripping and slaying— + Hey nonny no! + Black Ribs is singing— + Chorus—Hey, ho! + What is he saying— + To and fro? + + ‘Singing and saying + “Grass is hay—ho! + Love is a longing; + Water is snow.” + Swinging and swaying, + Toll the bells go! + Dinging and donging + To and fro!’ +</pre> + <p> + ‘Oh, Charley!’ said his sister, with suppressed agony, ‘what a wicked + song!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It <i>is</i> a wicked song,’ I said. ‘But I meant——it only + represents an unbelieving, hopeless mood.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>You</i> wrote it, then!’ she said, giving me—as it seemed, + involuntarily—a look of reproach. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I did; but—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I think you are very horrid,’ said Clara, interrupting. + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley!’ I said, ‘you must not leave your sister to think so badly of + me! You know why I wrote it—and what I meant.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish I had written it myself,’ he returned. ‘I think it splendid. + Anybody might envy you that song.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you know I didn’t mean it for a true one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who knows whether it is true or false?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>I</i> know,’ said Mary: ‘I know it is false.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And <i>I</i> hope it,’ I adjoined. + </p> + <p> + ‘Whatever put such horrid things into your head, Wilfrid?’ asked Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘Probably the fear lest they should be true. The verses came as I sat in a + country church once, not long ago.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In a church!’ exclaimed Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! he does go to church sometimes,’ said Charley, with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘How could you think of it in church?’ persisted Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s more like the churchyard,’ said Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was in an old church in a certain desolate sea-forsaken town,’ I said. + ‘The pendulum of the clock—a huge, long, heavy, slow thing—hangs + far down into the church, and goes swing, swang over your head, three or + four seconds to every swing. When you have heard the <i>tic</i>, your + heart grows faint every time between—waiting for the <i>tac</i>, + which seems as if it would never come.’ + </p> + <p> + We were ascending the acclivity, and no one spoke again before we reached + the top. There a wide landscape lay stretched before us. The mist was + rapidly melting away before the gathering strength of the sun: as we stood + and gazed we could see it vanishing. By slow degrees the colours of the + Autumn woods dawned out of it. Close under us lay a great wave of gorgeous + red—beeches, I think—in the midst of which, here and there, + stood up, tall and straight and dark, the unchanging green of a fir-tree. + The glow of a hectic death was over the landscape, melting away into the + misty fringe of the far horizon. Overhead the sky was blue, with a clear + thin blue that told of withdrawing suns and coming frosts. + </p> + <p> + ‘For my part,’ I said, ‘I cannot believe that beyond this loveliness there + lies no greater. Who knows, Charley, but death may be the first + recognizable step of the progress of which you despair?’ + </p> + <p> + It was then I caught the look from Mary’s eye, for the sake of which I + have recorded the little incidents of the morning. But the same moment the + look faded, and the veil or the mask fell over her face. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am afraid,’ she said, ‘if there has been no progress before, there will + be little indeed after.’ + </p> + <p> + Now of all things, I hated the dogmatic theology of the party in which she + had been brought up, and I turned from her with silent dislike. + </p> + <p> + ‘Really,’ said Clara, ‘you gentlemen have been very entertaining this + morning. One would think Polly and I had come out for a stroll with a + couple of undertaker’s-men. There’s surely time enough to think of such + things yet! None of us are at death’s door exactly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘“Sweet remembrancer!”—Who knows?’ said Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Now I, to comfort him,”’ I followed, quoting Mrs Quickly concerning Sir + John Falstaff, ‘“bid him, ‘a should not think of God: I hoped there was no + need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mary—‘there was no word of Him in the + matter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see,’ said Clara: ‘you meant that at me, Wilfrid. But I assure you I am + no heathen. I go to church regularly—once a Sunday when I can, and + twice when I can’t help it. That’s more than you do, Mr Cumbermede, I + suspect.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What makes you think so?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t imagine you enjoying anything but the burial service.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is to my mind the most consoling of them all,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I haven’t reached the point of wanting that consolation yet, thank + heaven.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps some of us would rather have the consolation than give thanks + that we didn’t need it,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t say I understand you, but I know you mean something disagreeable. + Polly, I think we had better go home to breakfast.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary turned, and we all followed. Little was said on the way home. We + divided in the hall—the ladies to breakfast, and we to our work. + </p> + <p> + We had not spoken for an hour, when Charley broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a brute I am, Wilfrid!’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t I be as good as + Jesus Christ? It seems always as if a man might. But just look at me! + Because I was miserable myself, I went and made my poor little sister + twice as miserable as she was before. She’ll never get over what I said + this morning.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It <i>was</i> foolish of you, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was brutal. I am the most selfish creature in the world—always + taken up with myself. I do believe there is a devil, after all. <i>I</i> + am <i>a</i> devil. And the universal self is <i>the</i> devil. If there + were such a thing as a self always giving itself away—that self + would be God.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Something very like the God of Christianity, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If it were so, there would be a chance for us. We might then one day give + the finishing blow to the devil in us. But no: <i>he</i> does all for his + own glory.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It depends on what his glory is. If what the self-seeking self would call + glory, then I agree with you—that is not the God we need. But if his + glory should be just the opposite—the perfect giving of himself away—then—Of + course I know nothing about it. My uncle used to say things like that.’ + </p> + <p> + He did not reply, and we went on with our work. Neither of the ladies came + near us again that day. + </p> + <p> + Before the end of the week the library was in tolerable order to the eye, + though it could not be perfectly arranged until the commencement of a + catalogue should be as the dawn of a consciousness in the half-restored + mass. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX. A STORM. + </h2> + <p> + So many books of rarity and value had revealed themselves, that it was not + difficult to make Sir Giles comprehend in some degree the importance of + such a possession. He had grown more and more interested as the work went + on; and even Lady Brotherton, although she much desired to have, at least, + the oldest and most valuable of the books re-bound in red morocco first, + was so far satisfied with what she was told concerning the worth of the + library, that she determined to invite some of the neighbours to dinner, + for the sake of showing it. The main access to it was to be by the + armoury; and she had that side of the gallery round the hall which led + thither covered with a thick carpet. + </p> + <p> + Meantime Charley had looked over all the papers in my chest, but, beyond + what I have already stated, no fact of special interest had been brought + to light. + </p> + <p> + In sending an invitation to Charley, Lady Brotherton could hardly avoid + sending me one as well: I doubt whether I should otherwise have been + allowed to enjoy the admiration bestowed on the result of my labours. + </p> + <p> + The dinner was formal and dreary enough: the geniality of one of the heads + of a household is seldom sufficient to give character to an entertainment. + </p> + <p> + ‘They tell me you are a buyer of books, Mr Alderforge,’ said Mr Mellon to + the clergyman of a neighbouring parish, as we sat over our wine. + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite a mistake,’ returned Mr Alderforge. ‘I am a reader of books.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That of course! But you buy them first—don’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not always. I sometimes borrow them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That I never do. If a book is worth borrowing, it is worth buying.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps—if you can afford it. But many books that book-buyers value + I count worthless—for all their wide margins and uncut leaves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you come-and have a look at Sir Giles’s library?’ I ventured to say. + </p> + <p> + ‘I never heard of a library at Moldwarp Hall, Sir Giles,’ said Mr Mellon. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am given to understand there is a very valuable one,’ said Mr + Alderforge. ‘I shall be glad to accompany you, sir,’ he added, turning to + me, ‘—if Sir Giles will allow us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You cannot have a better guide than Mr Cumbermede,’ said Sir Giles. ‘I am + indebted to him almost for the discovery—altogether for the + restoration of the library.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Assisted by Miss Brotherton and her friends, Sir Giles,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘A son of Mr Cumbermede of Lowdon Farm, I presume?’ said Alderforge, + bowing interrogatively. + </p> + <p> + ‘A nephew,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘He was a most worthy man.—By the way, Sir Giles, your young friend + here must be a distant connection of your own. I found in some book or + other lately, I forget where at the moment, that there were Cumbermedes at + one time in Moldwarp Hall.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—about two hundred years ago, I believe. It passed to our branch + of the family some time during the troubles of the seventeenth century—I + hardly know how—I am not much of an historian.’ + </p> + <p> + I thought of my precious volume, and the name on the title-page. That book + might have been in the library of Moldwarp Hall. If so, how had it strayed + into my possession—alone, yet more to me than all that was left + behind? + </p> + <p> + We betook ourselves to the library. The visitors expressed themselves + astonished at its extent, and the wealth which even a glance revealed—for + I took care to guide their notice to its richest veins. + </p> + <p> + ‘When it is once arranged,’ I said, ‘I fancy there will be few private + libraries to stand a comparison with it—I am thinking of old English + literature, and old editions: there is not a single volume of the present + century in it, so far as I know.’ + </p> + <p> + I had had a few old sconces fixed here and there, but as yet there were no + means of really lighting the rooms. Hence, when a great flash of lightning + broke from a cloud that hung over the park right in front of the windows, + it flooded them with a dazzling splendour. I went to find Charley, for the + library was the best place to see the lightning from. As I entered the + drawing-room, a tremendous peal of thunder burst over the house, causing + so much consternation amongst the ladies, that, for the sake of company, + they all followed to the library. Clara seemed more frightened than any. + Mary was perfectly calm. Charley was much excited. The storm grew in + violence. We saw the lightning strike a tree which stood alone a few + hundred yards from the house. When the next flash came, half of one side + seemed torn away. The wind rose, first in fierce gusts, then into a + tempest, and the rain poured in torrents. + </p> + <p> + ‘None of you can go home to-night, ladies,’ said Sir Giles. ‘You must make + up your minds to stop where you are. Few horses would face such a storm as + that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be to tax your hospitality too grievously, Sir Giles,’ said Mr + Alderforge. ‘I dare say it will clear up by-and-by, or at least moderate + sufficiently to let us get home.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that,’ returned Sir Giles. ‘The + barometer has been steadily falling for the last three days. My dear, you + had better give your orders at once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You had better stop, Charley,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t if you go,’ he returned. + </p> + <p> + Clara was beside. + </p> + <p> + ‘You must not think of going,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + Whether she spoke to him or me I did not know, but as Charley made no + answer— + </p> + <p> + ‘I cannot stop without being asked,’ I said, ‘and it is not likely that + any one will take the trouble to ask me.’ + </p> + <p> + The storm increased. At the request of the ladies, the gentlemen left the + library and accompanied them to the drawing-room for tea. Our hostess + asked Clara to sing, but she was too frightened to comply. + </p> + <p> + ‘You will sing, Mary, if Lady Brotherton asks you, I know,’ said Mrs + Osborne. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do, my dear,’ said Lady Brotherton; and Mary at once complied. + </p> + <p> + I had never heard her sing, and did not expect much. But although she had + little execution, there was, I found, a wonderful charm both in her voice + and the simplicity of her mode. I did not feel this at first, nor could I + tell when the song began to lay hold upon me, but when it ceased, I found + that I had been listening intently. I have often since tried to recall it, + but as yet it has eluded all my efforts. I still cherish the hope that it + may return some night in a dream, or in some waking moment of quiescent + thought, when what we call the brain works as it were of itself, and the + spirit allows it play. + </p> + <p> + The close was lost in a louder peal of thunder than had yet burst. Charley + and I went again to the library to look out on the night. It was dark as + pitch, except when the lightning broke and revealed everything for one + intense moment. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think sometimes,’ said Charley, ‘that death will be like one of those + flashes, revealing everything in hideous fact—for just one-moment + and no more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How for one moment and no more, Charley?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because the sight of the truth concerning itself must kill the soul, if + there be one, with disgust at its own vileness, and the miserable contrast + between its aspirations and attainments, its pretences and its efforts. At + least, that would be the death fit for a life like mine—a death of + disgust at itself. We claim immortality; we cringe and cower with the fear + that immortality may <i>not</i> be the destiny of man; and yet we—<i>I</i>—do + things unworthy not merely of immortality, but unworthy of the butterfly + existence of a single day in such a world as this sometimes seems to be. + Just think how I stabbed at my sister’s faith this morning—careless + of making her as miserable as myself! Because my father has put into her + mind his fancies, and I hate them, I wound again the heart which they + wound, and which cannot help their presence!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But the heart that can be sorry for an action is far above the action, + just as her heart is better than the notions that haunt it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Sometimes I hope so. But action determines character. And it is all such + a muddle! I don’t care much about what they call immortality. I doubt if + it is worth the having. I would a thousand times rather have one day of + conscious purity of heart and mind and soul and body, than an eternity of + such life as I have now.—What am I saying?’ he added, with a + despairing laugh. ‘It is a fool’s comparison; for an eternity of the + former would be bliss—one moment of the latter is misery.’ + </p> + <p> + I could but admire and pity my poor friend both at once. + </p> + <p> + Miss Pease had entered unheard. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Cumbermede,’ she said, ‘I have been looking for you to show you your + room. It is not the one I should like to have got for you, but Mrs Wilson + says you have occupied it before, and I dare say you will find it + comfortable enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you, Miss Pease. I am sorry you should have taken the trouble. I + can go home well enough. I am not afraid of a little rain.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A little rain!’ said Charley, trying to speak lightly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, any amount of rain,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘But the lightning!’ expostulated Miss Pease in a timid voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am something of a fatalist, Miss Pease,’ I said. ‘“Every bullet has its + billet,” you know. Besides, if I had a choice, I think I would rather die + by lightning than any other way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t talk like that, Mr Cumbermede.—Oh! what a flash!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was not speaking irreverently, I assure you,’ I replied.—‘I think + I had better set out at once, for there seems no chance of its clearing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am sure Sir Giles would be distressed if you did.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He will never know, and I dislike giving trouble.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The room is ready. I will show you where it is, that you may go when you + like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If Mrs Wilson says it is a room I have occupied before, I know the way + quite well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There are two ways to it,’ she said. ‘But of course one of them is + enough,’ she added with a smile. ‘Mr Osborne, your room is in another part + quite.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know where my sister’s room is,’ said Charley. ‘Is it anywhere near + hers?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is the room you are to have. Miss Osborne is to be with your mamma, + I think. There is plenty of accommodation, only the notice was short.’ + </p> + <p> + I began to button my coat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t go, Wilfrid,’ said Charley. ‘You might give offence. Besides, you + will have the advantage of getting to work as early as you please in the + morning.’ + </p> + <p> + It was late and I was tired—consequently less inclined than usual to + encounter a storm, for in general I enjoyed being in any commotion of the + elements. Also I felt I should like to pass another night in that room, + and have besides the opportunity of once more examining at my leisure the + gap in the tapestry. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you meet me early in the library, Charley?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—to be sure I will—as early as you like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let us go to the drawing-room, then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should you, if you are tired, and want to go to bed?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because Lady Brotherton will not like my being included in the + invitation. She will think it absurd of me not to go home.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There is no occasion to go near her, then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do not choose to sleep in the house without knowing that she knows it.’ + </p> + <p> + We went. I made my way to Lady Brotherton. Clara was standing near her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am much obliged by your hospitality, Lady Brotherton,’ I said. ‘It is + rather a rough night to encounter in evening dress.’ + </p> + <p> + She bowed. + </p> + <p> + ‘The distance is not great, however,’ I said, ‘and perhaps—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Out of the question!’ said Sir Giles, who came up at the moment. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Will you see, then, Sir Giles, that a room is prepared for your +guest?’ she said. +</pre> + <p> + ‘I trust that is unnecessary,’ he replied. ‘I gave orders.’—But as + he spoke he went towards the bell. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is all arranged, I believe, Sir Giles,’ I said. ‘Mrs Wilson has + already informed me which is my room. Good-night, Sir Giles.’ + </p> + <p> + He shook hands with me kindly. I bowed to Lady Brotherton and retired. + </p> + <p> + It may seem foolish to record such mere froth of conversation, but I want + my reader to understand how a part, at least, of the family of Moldwarp + Hall regarded me. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL. A DREAM. + </h2> + <p> + My room looked dreary enough. There was no fire, and the loss of the patch + of tapestry from the wall gave the whole an air of dilapidation. The wind + howled fearfully in the chimney and about the door on the roof, and the + rain came down on the leads like the distant trampling of many horses. But + I was not in an imaginative mood. Charley was again my trouble. I could + not bear him to be so miserable. Why was I not as miserable as he? I asked + myself. Perhaps I ought to be, for although certainly I hoped more, I + could not say I believed more than he. I wished more than ever that I did + believe, for then I should be able to help him—I was sure of that; + but I saw no possible way of arriving at belief. Where was the proof? + Where even the hope of a growing probability? + </p> + <p> + With these thoughts drifting about in my brain, like waifs which the tide + will not let go, I was poring over the mutilated forms of the tapestry + round the denuded door, with an expectation, almost a conviction, that I + should find the fragment still hanging on the wall of the kitchen at the + Moat, the very piece wanted to complete the broken figures. When I had + them well fixed in my memory, I went to bed, and lay pondering over the + several broken links which indicated some former connection between the + Moat and the Hall, until I fell asleep, and began to dream strange wild + dreams, of which the following was the last. + </p> + <p> + I was in a great palace, wandering hither and thither, and meeting no one. + A weight of silence brooded in the place. From hall to hall I went, along + corridor and gallery, and up and down endless stairs. I knew that in some + room near me was one whose name was Athanasia,—a maiden, I thought + in my dream, whom I had known and loved for years, but had lately lost—I + knew not how. Somewhere here she was, if only I could find her! From room + to room I went seeking her. Every room I entered bore some proof that she + had just been there—but there she was not. In one lay a veil, in + another a handkerchief, in a third a glove; and all were scented with a + strange entrancing odour, which I had never known before, but which in + certain moods I can to this day imperfectly recall. I followed and + followed until hope failed me utterly, and I sat down and wept. But while + I wept, hope dawned afresh, and I rose and again followed the quest, until + I found myself in a little chapel like that of Moldwarp Hall. It was + filled with the sound of an organ, distance-faint, and the thin music was + the same as the odour of the handkerchief which I carried in my bosom. I + tried to follow the sound, but the chapel grew and grew as I wandered, and + I came no nearer to its source. At last the altar rose before me on my + left, and through the bowed end of the aisle I passed behind it into the + lady-chapel. There against the outer wall stood a dusky ill-defined shape. + Its head rose above the sill of the eastern window, and I saw it against + the rising moon. But that and the whole figure were covered with a thick + drapery; I could see nothing of the face, and distinguish little of the + form. + </p> + <p> + ‘What art thou?’ I asked trembling. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am Death—dost thou not know me?’ answered the figure, in a sweet + though worn and weary voice. ‘Thou hast been following me all thy life, + and hast followed me hither.’ + </p> + <p> + Then I saw through the lower folds of the cloudy garment, which grew thin + and gauze-like as I gazed, a huge iron door, with folding leaves, and a + great iron bar across them. + </p> + <p> + ‘Art thou at thine own door?’ I asked. ‘Surely thy house cannot open under + the eastern window of the church?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Follow and see,’ answered the figure. + </p> + <p> + Turning, it drew back the bolt, threw wide the portals, and low-stooping + entered. I followed, not into the moonlit night, but through a cavernous + opening into darkness. If my Athanasia were down with Death, I would go + with Death, that I might at least end with her. Down and down I followed + the veiled figure, down flight after flight of stony stairs, through + passages like those of the catacombs, and again down steep straight + stairs. At length it stopped at another gate, and with beating heart I + heard what I took for bony fingers fumbling with a chain and a bolt. But + ere the fastenings had yielded, once more I heard the sweet odour-like + music of the distant organ. The same moment the door opened, but I could + see nothing for some time for the mighty inburst of a lovely light. A fair + river, brimming full, its little waves flashing in the sun and wind, + washed the threshold of the door, and over its surface, hither and + thither, sped the white sails of shining boats, while from somewhere, + clear now, but still afar, came the sound of a great organ psalm. Beyond + the river the sun was rising—over blue Summer hills that melted into + blue Summer sky. On the threshold stood my guide, bending towards me, as + if waiting for me to pass out also. I lifted my eyes: the veil had fallen—it + was my lost Athanasia! Not one beam touched her face, for her back was to + the sun, yet her face was radiant. Trembling, I would have kneeled at her + feet, but she stepped out upon the flowing river, and with the sweetest of + sad smiles, drew the door to, and left me alone in the dark hollow of the + earth. I broke into a convulsive weeping, and awoke. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLI. A WAKING. + </h2> + <p> + I suppose I awoke tossing in my misery, for my hand fell upon something + cold. I started up and tried to see. The light of a clear morning of late + Autumn had stolen into the room while I slept, and glimmered on something + that lay upon the bed. It was some time before I could believe that my + troubled eyes were not the sport of one of those odd illusions that come + of mingled sleep and waking. But by the golden hilt and rusted blade I was + at length convinced, although the scabbard was gone, that I saw my own + sword. It lay by my left side, with the hilt towards my hand. But the + moment I turned a little to take it in my right hand, I forgot all about + it in a far more bewildering discovery, which fixed me staring half in + terror, half in amazement, so that again for a moment I disbelieved in my + waking condition. On the other pillow lay the face of a lovely girl. I + felt as if I had seen it before—whether only in the just vanished + dream, I could not tell. But the maiden of my dream never comes back to me + with any other features or with any other expression than those which I + now beheld. There was an ineffable mingling of love and sorrow on the + sweet countenance. The girl was dead asleep, but evidently dreaming, for + tears were flowing from under her closed lids. For a time I was unable + even to think; when thought returned, I was afraid to move. All at once + the face of Mary Osborne dawned out of the vision before me—how + different, how glorified from its waking condition! It was perfectly + lovely—transfigured by the unchecked outflow of feeling. The + recognition brought me to my senses at once. I did not waste a single + thought in speculating how the mistake had occurred, for there was not a + moment to be lost. I must be wise to shield her, and chiefly, as much as + might be, from the miserable confusion which her own discovery of the + untoward fact would occasion her. At first I thought it would be best to + lie perfectly still, in order that she, at length awaking and discovering + where she was, but finding me fast asleep, might escape with the + conviction that the whole occurrence remained her own secret. I made the + attempt, but I need hardly say that never before or since have I found + myself in a situation half so perplexing; and in a few moments I was + seized with such a trembling that I was compelled to turn my thoughts to + the only other possible plan. As I reflected, the absolute necessity of + attempting it became more and more apparent. In the first place, when she + woke and saw me, she might scream and be heard; in the next, she might be + seen as she left the room, or, unable to find her way, might be involved + in great consequent embarrassment. But, if I could gather all my + belongings, and, without awaking her, escape by the stair to the roof, she + would be left to suppose that she had but mistaken her chamber, and would, + I hoped, remain in ignorance that she had not passed the night in it + alone. I dared one more peep into her face. The light and the loveliness + of her dream had passed; I should not now have had to look twice to know + that it was Mary Osborne; but never more could I see in hers a common + face. She was still fast asleep, and, stealthy as a beast of prey, I began + to make my escape. At the first movement, however, my perplexity was + redoubled, for again my hand fell on the sword which I had forgotten, and + question after question as to how they were together, and together there, + darted through my bewildered brain. Could a third person have come and + laid the sword between us? I had no time, however, to answer one of my own + questions. Hardly knowing which was better, or if there was <i>a better</i>, + I concluded to take the weapon with me, moved in part by the fact that I + had found it where I had lost it, but influenced far more by its + association with this night of marvel. + </p> + <p> + Having gathered my garments together, and twice glanced around me—once + to see that I left nothing behind, and once to take farewell of the + peaceful face, which had never moved, I opened the little door in the + wall, and made my strange retreat up the stair. My heart was beating so + violently from the fear of her waking, that, when the door was drawn to + behind me, I had to stand for what seemed minutes before I was able to + ascend the steep stair, and step from its darkness into the clear frosty + shine of the Autumn sun, brilliant upon the leads wet with the torrents of + the preceding night. + </p> + <p> + I found a sheltered spot by the chimney-stack, where no one could see me + from below, and proceeded to dress myself—assisted in my very + imperfect toilet by the welcome discovery of a pool of rain in a + depression of the lead-covered roof. But alas, before I had finished, I + found that I had brought only one of my shoes away with me! This settled + the question I was at the moment debating—whether, namely, it would + be better to go home, or to find some way of reaching the library. I put + my remaining shoe in my pocket, and set out to discover a descent. It + would have been easy to get down into the little gallery, but it + communicated on both sides immediately with bed-rooms, which for anything + I knew might be occupied; and besides I was unwilling to enter the house + for fear of encountering some of the domestics. But I knew more of the + place now, and had often speculated concerning the odd position and + construction of an outside stair in the first court, close to the chapel, + with its landing at the door of a room <i>en suite</i> with those of Sir + Giles and Lady Brotherton. It was for a man an easy drop to this landing. + Quiet as a cat, I crept over the roof, let myself down, crossed the court + swiftly, drew back the bolt which alone secured the wicket, and, with no + greater mishap than the unavoidable wetting of shoeless feet, was soon + safe in my own room, exchanging my evening for a morning dress. When I + looked at my watch, I found it nearly seven o’clock. + </p> + <p> + I was so excited and bewildered by the adventures I had gone through, + that, from very commonness, all the things about me looked alien and + strange. I had no feeling of relation to the world of ordinary life. The + first thing I did was to hang my sword in its own old place, and the next + to take down the bit of tapestry from the opposite wall, which I proceeded + to examine in the light of my recollection of that round the denuded door. + Room was left for not even a single doubt as to the relation between this + and that: they had been wrought in one and the same piece by fair fingers + of some long vanished time. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLII. A TALK ABOUT SUICIDE. + </h2> + <p> + In the same excited mood, but repressing it with all the energy I could + gather, I returned to the Hall and made my way to the library. There + Charley soon joined me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why didn’t you come to breakfast?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve been home, and changed my clothes,’ I answered. ‘I couldn’t well + appear in a tail-coat. It’s bad enough to have to wear such an ugly thing + by candle-light.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked again, after an interval of + silence, which I judge from the question must have been rather a long one. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is the matter with me, Charley?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t tell. You don’t seem yourself somehow.’ + </p> + <p> + I do not know what answer I gave him, but I knew myself what was the + matter with me well enough. The form and face of the maiden of my dream, + the Athanasia lost that she might be found, blending with the face and + form of Mary Osborne, filled my imagination so that I could think of + nothing else. Gladly would I have been rid of even Charley’s company, + that, while my hands were busy with the books, my heart might brood at + will now upon the lovely dream, now upon the lovely vision to which I + awoke from it, and which, had it not glided into the forms of the foregone + dream, and possessed it with itself, would have banished it altogether. At + length I was aware of light steps and sweet voices in the next room, and + Mary and Clara presently entered. + </p> + <p> + How came it that the face of the one had lost the half of its radiance, + and the face of the other had gathered all that the former had lost. + Mary’s countenance was as still as ever; there was not in it a single ray + of light beyond its usual expression; but I had become more capable of + reading it, for the coalescence of the face of my dream with her dreaming + face had given me its key; and I was now so far from indifferent, that I + was afraid to look for fear of betraying the attraction I now found it + exercise over me. Seldom surely has a man been so long familiar with and + careless of any countenance to find it all at once an object of absorbing + interest! The very fact of its want of revelation added immensely to its + power over me now—for was I not in its secret? Did I not know what a + lovely soul hid behind that unexpressive countenance? Did I not know that + it was as the veil of the holy of holies, at times reflecting only the + light of the seven golden lamps in the holy place; at others almost melted + away in the rush of the radiance unspeakable from the hidden and holier + side—the region whence come the revelations. To draw through it, if + but once, the feeblest glimmer of the light I had but once beheld, seemed + an ambition worthy of a life. Knowing her power of reticence, however, and + of withdrawing from the outer courts into the penetralia of her sanctuary, + guessing also at something of the aspect in which she regarded me, I dared + not now make any such attempt. But I resolved to seize what opportunity + might offer of convincing her that I was not so far out of sympathy with + her as to be unworthy of holding closer converse; and I now began to feel + distressed at what had given me little trouble before, namely, that she + should suppose me the misleader of her brother, while I knew that, however + far I might be from an absolute belief in things which she seemed never to + have doubted, I was yet in some measure the means of keeping him from + flinging aside the last cords which held him to the faith of his fathers. + But I would not lead in any such direction, partly from the fear of + hypocrisy, partly from horror at the idea of making capital of what little + faith I had. But Charley himself afforded me an opportunity which I could + not, whatever my scrupulosity, well avoid. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you ever looked into that little book, Charley?’ I said, finding in + my hands an early edition of the <i>Christian Morals</i> of Sir Thomas + Browne.—I wanted to say something, that I might not appear + distraught. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ he answered, with indifference, as he glanced at the title-page. ‘Is + it anything particular?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Everything he writes, however whimsical in parts, is well worth more than + mere reading,’ I answered. ‘It is a strangely latinized style, but has its + charm notwithstanding.’ + </p> + <p> + He was turning over the leaves as I spoke. Receiving no response, I looked + up. He seemed to have come upon something which had attracted him. + </p> + <p> + ‘What have you found?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here’s a chapter on the easiest way of putting a stop to it all,’ he + answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He was a medical man—wasn’t he? I’m ashamed to say I know nothing + about him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, certainly he was.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then he knew what he was about.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As well probably as any man of his profession at the time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He recommends drowning,’ said Charley, without raising his eyes from the + book. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean for suicide.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense, He was the last man to favour that. You must make a mistake. He + was a thoroughly Christian man.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know nothing about that. Hear this.’ + </p> + <p> + He read the following passages from the beginning of the thirteenth + section of the second part. + </p> + <p> + ‘With what shifts and pains we come into the world, we remember not; but + ‘tis commonly found no easy matter to get out of it. Many have studied to + exasperate the ways of death, but fewer hours have been spent to soften + that necessity.’—‘Ovid, the old heroes, and the Stoicks, who were so + afraid of drowning, as dreading thereby the extinction of their soul, + which they conceived to be a fire, stood probably in fear of an easier way + of death; wherein the water, entering the possessions of air, makes a + temporary suffocation, and kills as it were without a fever. Surely many, + who have had the spirit to destroy themselves, have not been ingenious in + the contrivance thereof.’—‘Cato is much to be pitied, who mangled + himself with poniards; and Hannibal seems more subtle, who carried his + delivery, not in the point but the pummel of his sword.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Poison. I suppose,’ he said, as he ended the extract. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, that’s the story, if you remember,’ I answered; ‘but I don’t see + that Sir Thomas is favouring suicide. Not at all. What he writes there is + merely a speculation on the comparative ease of different modes of dying. + Let me see it.’ + </p> + <p> + I took the book from his hands, and, glancing over the essay, read the + closing passage. + </p> + <p> + ‘But to learn to die, is better than to study the ways of dying. Death + will find some ways to untie or cut the most gordian knots of life, and + make men’s miseries as mortal as themselves: whereas evil spirits, as + undying substances, are unseparable from their calamities; and, therefore, + they everlastingly struggle under their angustias, and, bound up with + immortality, can never get out of themselves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There! I told you so!’ cried Charley. Don’t you see? He is the most + cunning arguer—beats Despair in the <i>Fairy Queen</i> hollow!’ + </p> + <p> + By this time, either attracted by the stately flow of Sir Thomas’s speech, + or by the tone of our disputation, the two girls had drawn nearer, and + were listening. + </p> + <p> + ‘What <i>do</i> you mean, Charley?’ I said, perceiving, however, the hold + I had by my further quotation given him. + </p> + <p> + ‘First of all, he tells you the easiest way of dying, and then informs you + that it ends all your troubles. He is too cunning to say in so many words + that there is no hereafter, but what else can he wish you to understand + when he says that in dying we have the advantage over the evil spirits, + who cannot by death get rid of their sufferings? I will read this book,’ + he added, closing it and putting it in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish you would,’ I said: ‘for although I confess you are logically + right in your conclusions, I know Sir Thomas did not mean anything of the + sort. He was only misled by his love of antithesis into a hasty and + illogical remark. The whole tone of his book is against such a conclusion. + Besides, I do not doubt he was thinking only of good people, for whom he + believed all suffering over at their death.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I don’t see, supposing he does believe in immortality, why you should + be so anxious about his orthodoxy on the other point. Didn’t Dr Donne, as + good a man as any, I presume, argue on the part of the suicide?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have not read Dr Donne’s essay, but I suspect the obliquity of it has + been much exaggerated.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should you? I never saw any argument worth the name on the other + side. We have plenty of expressions of horror—but those are not + argument. Indeed, the mass of the vulgar are so afraid of dying that, + apparently in terror lest suicide should prove infectious, they treat in a + brutal manner the remains of the man who has only had the courage to free + himself from a burden too hard for him to bear. It is all selfishness—nothing + else. They love their paltry selves so much that they count it a greater + sin to kill oneself than to kill another man—which seems to me + absolutely devilish. Therefore, the <i>vox populi</i>, whether it be the + <i>vox Dei</i> or not, is not nonsense merely, but absolute wickedness. + Why shouldn’t a man kill himself?’ + </p> + <p> + Clara was looking on rather than listening, and her interest seemed that + of amusement only. Mary’s eyes were wide-fixed on the face of Charley, + evidently tortured to find that to the other enormities of his unbelief + was to be added the justification of suicide. His habit of arguing was + doubtless well enough known to her to leave room for the mitigating + possibility that he might be arguing only for argument’s sake, but what he + said could not but be shocking to her upon any supposition. + </p> + <p> + I was not ready with an answer. Clara was the first to speak. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a cowardly thing, anyhow,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you make that out, Miss Clara?’ asked Charley. ‘I’m aware it’s the + general opinion, but I don’t see it myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s surely cowardly to run away in that fashion.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For my part,’ returned Charley, ‘I feel that it requires more courage + than <i>I</i>’ve got, and hence it comes, I suppose, that I admire any one + who has the pluck.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What vulgar words you use, Mr Charles!’ said Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘Besides,’ he went on, heedless of her remark, ‘a man may want to escape—not + from his duties—he mayn’t know what they are—but from his own + weakness and shame.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, Charley dear,’ said Mary, with a great light in her eyes, and the + rest of her face as still as a sunless pond, ‘you don’t think of the sin + of it. I know you are only talking, but some things oughtn’t to be talked + of lightly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What makes it a sin? It’s not mentioned in the ten commandments,’ said + Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely it’s against the will of God, Charley dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He hasn’t said anything about it, anyhow. And why should I have a thing + forced upon me whether I will or not, and then be pulled up for throwing + it away when I found it troublesome?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely I don’t quite understand you, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, if I must be more explicit—I was never asked whether I chose + to be made or not. I never had the conditions laid before me. Here I am, + and I can’t help myself—so far, I mean, as that here I am.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But life is a good thing,’ said Mary, evidently struggling with an almost + overpowering horror. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know that. My impression is that if I had been asked—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But that couldn’t be, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then it wasn’t fair. But why couldn’t I be made for a moment or two, long + enough to have the thing laid before me, and be asked whether I would + accept it or not? My impression is that I would have said—No, thank + you; that is, if it was fairly put.’ + </p> + <p> + I hastened to offer a remark, in the hope of softening the pain such + flippancy must cause her. + </p> + <p> + ‘And my impression is, Charley,’ I said, ‘that if such had been possible—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course,’ he interrupted, ‘the God you believe in could have made me + for a minute or two. He can, I suppose, unmake me now when he likes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; but could he have made you all at once capable of understanding his + plans, and your own future? Perhaps that is what he is doing now—making + you, by all you are going through, capable of understanding them. + Certainly the question could not have been put to you before you were able + to comprehend it, and this may be the only way to make you able. Surely a + being who <i>could</i> make you had a right to risk the chance, if I may + be allowed such an expression, of your being satisfied in the end with + what he saw to be good—so good indeed that, if we accept the New + Testament story, he would have been willing to go through the same + troubles himself for the same end.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no; not the same troubles,’ he objected. ‘According to the story to + which you refer, Jesus Christ was free from all that alone makes life + unendurable—the bad inside you, that will come outside whether you + will or not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I admit your objection. As to the evil coming out, I suspect it is better + it should come out, so long as it is there. But the end is not yet; and + still I insist the probability is that, if you could know it all now, you + would say with submission, if not with hearty concurrence—“Thy will + be done.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have known people who could say that without knowing it all now, Mr + Cumbermede,’ said Mary. + </p> + <p> + I had often called her by her Christian name, but she had never accepted + the familiarity. + </p> + <p> + ‘No doubt,’ said Charley, ‘but <i>I</i>’m not one of those.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you would but give in,’ said his sister, ‘you would—in the end, + I mean—say, “It is well.” I am sure of that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—perhaps I might—after all the suffering had been forced + upon me, and was over at last—when I had been thoroughly exhausted + and cowed, that is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Which wouldn’t satisfy any thinking soul, Charley—much less God,’ I + said. ‘But if there be a God at all—’ + </p> + <p> + Mary gave a slight inarticulate cry. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dear Miss Osborne,’ I said, ‘I beg you will not misunderstand me. I + cannot be sure about it, as you are—I wish I could—but I am + not disputing it in the least; I am only trying to make my argument as + strong as I can.—I was going to say to Charley—not to you—that, + if there be a God, he would not have compelled us to be, except with the + absolute fore-knowledge that, when we knew all about it, we would + certainly declare ourselves ready to go through it all again if need + should be, in order to attain the known end of his high calling.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But isn’t it very presumptuous to assert anything about God which he has + not revealed in his Word?’ said Mary, in a gentle, subdued voice, and + looking at me with a sweet doubtfulness in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am only insisting on the perfection of God—as far as I can + understand perfection,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘But may not the perfection of God be something very different from + anything we <i>can</i> understand?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will go further,’ I returned. ‘It <i>must</i> be something that we + cannot understand—but different from what we can understand by being + greater, not by being less.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mayn’t it be such that we can’t understand it at all?’ she insisted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then how should we ever worship him? How should we ever rejoice in him? + Surely it is because you see God to be good—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Or fancy you do,’ interposed Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘Or fancy you do,’ I assented, ‘that you love him—not merely because + you are told he is good. The Fejee islander might assert his God to be + good, but would that make you love him? If you heard that a great power, + away somewhere, who had nothing to do with you at all, was very good, + would that make you able to love him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it would,’ said Mary, decidedly. ‘It is only a good man who would + see that God was good.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There you argue entirely on my side. It must be because you supposed his + goodness what you call goodness—not something else—that you + could love him on testimony. But even then your love could not be of that + mighty absorbing kind which alone you would think fit between you and your + God. It would not be loving him with all your heart and soul and strength + and mind—would it? It would be loving him second-hand—not + because of himself, seen and known by yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But Charley does not even love God second-hand,’ she said, with a + despairing mournfulness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps because he is very anxious to love him first-hand, and what you + tell him about God does not seem to him to be good. Surely neither man nor + woman can love because of what seems not good! I confess one may love in + spite of what is bad, but it must be because of other things that are + good.’ + </p> + <p> + She was silent. + </p> + <p> + ‘However goodness may change its forms,’ I went on, ‘it must still be + goodness; only if we are to adore it, we must see something of what it is—of + itself. And the goodness we cannot see, the eternal goodness, high above + us as the heavens are above the earth, must still be a goodness that + includes, absorbs, elevates, purifies all our goodness, not tramples upon + it and calls it wickedness. For if not such, then we have nothing in + common with God, and what we call goodness is not of God. He has not even + ordered it; or, if he has, he has ordered it only to order the contrary + afterwards; and there is, in reality, no real goodness—at least in + him; and, if not in him, of whom we spring—where then?—and + what becomes of ours, poor as it is?’ + </p> + <p> + My reader will see that I had already thought much about these things; + although, I suspect, I have now not only expressed them far better than I + could have expressed them in conversation, but with a degree of clearness + which must be owing to the further continuance of the habit of reflecting + on these and cognate subjects. Deep in my mind, however, something like + this lay; and in some manner like this I tried to express it. + </p> + <p> + Finding that she continued silent, and that Charley did not appear + inclined to renew the contest, anxious also to leave no embarrassing + silence to choke the channel now open between us—I mean Mary and + myself—I returned to the original question. + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems to me, Charley—and it follows from all we have been saying—that + the sin of suicide lies just in this, that it is an utter want of faith in + God. I confess I do not see any Other ground on which to condemn it—provided, + always, that the man has no other dependent upon him, none for whom he + ought to live and work.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But does a man owe nothing to himself?’ said Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing that I know of,’ I replied. ‘I am under no obligation to myself. + How can I divide myself, and say that the one-half of me is indebted to + the other? To my mind, it is a mere fiction of speech.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But whence, then, should such a fiction arise?’ objected Charley, + willing, perhaps, to defend Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘From the dim sense of a real obligation, I suspect—the object of + which is mistaken. I suspect it really springs from our relation to the + unknown God, so vaguely felt that a false form is readily accepted for its + embodiment by a being who, in ignorance of its nature, is yet aware of its + presence. I mean that what seems an obligation to self is in reality a + dimly apprehended duty—an obligation to the unknown God, and not to + self, in which lies no causing, therefore no obligating power.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why say <i>the unknown God</i>, Mr Cumbermede?’ asked Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I do not believe that any one who knew him could possibly + attribute to himself what belonged to Him—could, I mean, talk of an + obligation to himself, when that obligation was to God.’ + </p> + <p> + How far Mary Osborne followed the argument or agreed with it I cannot + tell, but she gave me a look of something like gratitude, and my heart + felt too big for its closed chamber. + </p> + <p> + At this moment the housemaid who had, along with the carpenter, assisted + me in the library, entered the room. She was rather a forward girl, and I + suppose presumed on our acquaintance to communicate directly with myself + instead of going to the housekeeper. Seeing her approach as if she wanted + to speak to me, I went to meet her. She handed me a small ring, saying, in + a low voice, + </p> + <p> + ‘I found this in your room, sir, and thought it better to bring it to + you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you,’ I said, putting it at once on my little finger; ‘I am glad + you found it.’ + </p> + <p> + Charley and Clara had begun talking. I believe Clara was trying to make + Charley give her the book he had pocketed, imagining it really of the + character he had, half in sport, professed to believe it. But Mary had + caught sight of the ring, and, with a bewildered expression on her + countenance, was making a step towards me. I put a finger to my lips, and + gave her a look by which I succeeded in arresting her. Utterly perplexed, + I believe, she turned away towards the bookshelves behind her. I went into + the next room, and called Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think we had better not go on with this talk,’ I said. ‘You are very + imprudent indeed, Charley, to be always bringing up subjects that tend to + widen the gulf between you and your sister. When I have a chance, I do + what I can to make her doubt whether you are so far wrong as they think + you, but you must give her time. All your kind of thought is so new to her + that your words cannot possibly convey to her what is in your mind. If + only she were not so afraid of me! But I think she begins to trust me a + little.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s no use,’ he returned. Her head is so full of rubbish!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But her heart is so full of goodness!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish you could make anything of her! But she looks up to my father with + such a blind adoration that it isn’t of the slightest use attempting to + put an atom of sense into her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should indeed despair if I might only set about it after your fashion. + You always seem to shut your eyes to the mental condition of those that + differ from you. Instead of trying to understand them first, which gives + the sole possible chance of your ever making them understand what you + mean, you care only to present your opinions; and that you do in such a + fashion that they must appear to them false. You even make yourself seem + to hold these for very love of their untruth; and thus make it all but + impossible for them to shake off their fetters: every truth in advance of + what they have already learned, will henceforth come to them associated + with your presumed backsliding and impenitence.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Goodness! where did you learn their slang?’ cried Charley. ‘But + impenitence, if you like,—not backsliding. I never made any <i>profession</i>. + After all, however, their opinions don’t seem to hurt them—I mean my + mother and sister.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They must hurt them if only by hindering their growth. In time, of + course, the angels of the heart will expel the demons of the brain; but it + is a pity the process should be retarded by your behaviour.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know I am a brute, Wilfrid. I <i>will</i> try to hold my tongue.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Depend upon it,’ I went on, ‘whatever such hearts can believe, is, as + believed by them, to be treated with respect. It is because of the truth + in it, not because of the falsehood, that they hold it; and when you speak + against the false in it, you appear to them to speak against the true; for + the dogma seems to them an unanalyzable unit. You assail the false with + the recklessness of falsehood itself, careless of the injury you may + inflict on the true.’ + </p> + <p> + I was interrupted by the entrance of Clara. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you gentlemen don’t want us any more, we had better go,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + I left Charley to answer her, and went back into the next room. Mary stood + where I had left her, mechanically shifting and arranging the volumes on a + shelf at the height of her eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think this is your ring, Miss Osborne,’ I said, in a low and hurried + tone, offering it. + </p> + <p> + Her expression at first was only of questioning surprise, when suddenly + something seemed to cross her mind; she turned pale as death, and put her + hand on the bookshelves as if to support her; as suddenly flushed crimson + for a moment, and again turned deadly pale—all before I could speak. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t ask me any questions, dear Miss Osborne,’ I said. ‘And, please, + trust me this far; don’t mention the loss of your ring to any one, unless + it be your mother. Allow me to put it on your finger.’ + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “I THINK THIS IS YOUR RING, MISS OSBORNE."} + </p> + <p> + She gave me a glance I cannot and would not describe. It lies treasured—for + ever, God grant!—in the secret jewel-house of my heart. She lifted a + trembling left hand, and doubtingly held—half held it towards me. To + this day I know nothing of the stones of that ring—not even their + colour; but I know I should know it at once if I saw it. My hand trembled + more than hers as I put it on the third finger. + </p> + <p> + What followed, I do not know. I think I left her there and went into the + other room. When I returned a little after, I know she was gone. From that + hour, not one word has ever passed between us in reference to the matter. + The best of my conjectures remains but a conjecture; I know how the sword + got there—nothing more. + </p> + <p> + I did not see her again that day, and did not seem to want to see her, but + worked on amongst the books in a quiet exultation. My being seemed tenfold + awake and alive. My thoughts dwelt on the rarely revealed loveliness of my + <i>Athanasia</i>; and, although I should have scorned unspeakably to take + the smallest advantage of having come to share a secret with her, I could + not help rejoicing in the sense of nearness to and <i>alone-ness</i> with + her which the possession of that secret gave me; while one of the most + precious results of the new love which had thus all at once laid hold upon + me, was the feeling—almost a conviction—that the dream was not + a web self-wove in the loom of my brain, but that from somewhere, beyond + my soul even, an influence had mingled with its longings to in-form the + vision of that night—to be as it were a creative soul to what would + otherwise have been but loose, chaotic, and shapeless vagaries of the + unguided imagination. The events of that night were as the sudden opening + of a door through which I caught a glimpse of that region of the supernal + in which, whatever might be her theories concerning her experiences + therein, Mary Osborne certainly lived, if ever any one lived. The degree + of God’s presence with a creature is not to be measured by that creature’s + interpretation of the manner in which he is revealed. The great question + is whether he is revealed or not; and a strong truth can carry many + parasitical errors. + </p> + <p> + I felt that now I could talk freely to her of what most perplexed me—not + so much, I confess, with any hope that she might cast light on my + difficulties, as in the assurance that she would not only influence me to + think purely and nobly, but would urge me in the search after God. In such + a relation of love to religion the vulgar mind will ever imagine ground + for ridicule; but those who have most regarded human nature know well + enough that the two have constantly manifested themselves in the closest + relation; while even the poorest love is the enemy of selfishness unto the + death, for the one or the other must give up the ghost. Not only must God + be in all that is human, but of it he must be the root. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIII. THE SWORD IN THE SCALE. + </h2> + <p> + The next morning Charley and I went as usual to the library, where, later + in the day, we were joined by the two ladies. It was long before our eyes + once met, but when at last they did, Mary allowed hers to rest on mine for + just one moment with an expression of dove-like beseeching, which I dared + to interpret as meaning—‘Be just to me.’ If she read mine, surely + she read there that she was safe with my thoughts as with those of her + mother. + </p> + <p> + Charley and I worked late in the afternoon, and went away in the last of + the twilight. As we approached the gate of the park, however, I remembered + I had left behind me a book I had intended to carry home for comparison + with a copy in my possession, of which the title-page was gone. I asked + Charley, therefore, to walk on and give my man some directions about + Lilith, seeing I had it in my mind to propose a ride on the morrow, while + I went back to fetch it. + </p> + <p> + Finding the door at the foot of the stair leading to the open gallery + ajar, and knowing that none of the rooms at either end of it were + occupied, I went the nearest way, and thus entered the library at the + point furthest from the more public parts of the house. The book I sought + was, however, at the other end of the suite, for I had laid it on the + window-sill of the room next the armoury. + </p> + <p> + As I entered that room, and while I crossed it towards the glimmering + window, I heard voices in the armoury, and soon distinguished Clara’s. It + never entered my mind that possibly I ought not to hear what might be + said. Just as I reached the window I was arrested, and stood stock still: + the other voice was that of Geoffrey Brotherton. Before my self-possession + returned, I had heard what follows. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am certain <i>he</i> took it,’ said Clara. ‘I didn’t see him, of + course; but if you call at the Moat to-morrow, ten to one you will find it + hanging on the wall.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I knew him for a sneak, but never took him for a thief. I would have lost + anything out of the house rather than that sword!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you mention my name in it. If you do, I shall think you—well, + I will never speak to you again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And if I don’t, what then?’ + </p> + <p> + Before I heard her answer, I had come to myself. I had no time for + indignation yet. I must meet Geoffrey at once. I would not, however, have + him know I had overheard any of their talk. It would have been more + straightforward to allow the fact to be understood, but I shrunk from + giving him occasion for accusing me of an eavesdropping of which I was + innocent. Besides, I had no wish to encounter Clara before I understood + her game, which I need not say was a mystery to me. What end could she + have in such duplicity? I had had unpleasant suspicions of the truth of + her nature before, but could never have suspected her of baseness. + </p> + <p> + I stepped quietly into the further room, whence I returned, making a noise + with the door-handle, and saying, + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you there, Miss Coningham? Could you help me to find a book I left + here?’ + </p> + <p> + There was silence; but after the briefest pause I heard the sound of her + dress as she swept hurriedly out into the gallery. I advanced. On the top + of the steps, filling the doorway of the armoury in the faint light from + the window, appeared the dim form of Brotherton. + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘I heard a lady’s voice, and thought it was + Miss Coningham’s.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I cannot compliment your ear,’ he answered. ‘It was one of the maids. I + had just rung for a light. I presume you are Mr Cumbermede?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I returned to fetch a book I forgot to take with me. I + suppose you have heard what we’ve been about in the library here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been partially informed of it,’ he answered, stiffly. ‘But I have + heard also that you contemplate a raid upon the armoury. I beg you will + let the weapons alone.’ + </p> + <p> + I had said something of the sort to Clara that very morning. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have a special regard for them,’ he went on; ‘and I don’t want them + meddled with. It’s not every one knows how to handle them. Some amongst + them I would not have injured for their weight in diamonds. One in + particular I should like to give you the history of—just to show you + that I am right in being careful over them.—Here comes the light.’ + </p> + <p> + I presume it had been hurriedly arranged between them as Clara left him + that she should send one of the maids, who in consequence now made her + appearance with a candle. Brotherton took it from her and approached the + wall. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why! What the devil! Some one has been meddling already, I find! The very + sword I speak of is gone! There’s the sheath hanging empty! What <i>can</i> + it mean? Do you know anything of this, Mr Cumbermede?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do, Mr Brotherton. The sword to which that sheath belongs is <i>mine</i>. + I have it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Yours!</i>’ he shouted; then restraining himself, added in a tone of + utter contempt—‘This is rather too much. Pray, sir, on what grounds + do you lay claim to the smallest atom of property within these walls? My + father ought to have known what he was about when he let you have the run + of the house! And the old books, too! By heaven, it’s too much! I always + thought—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It matters little to me what you think, Mr Brotherton—so little + that I do not care to take any notice of your insolence—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Insolence!’ he roared, striding towards me, as if he would have knocked + me down. + </p> + <p> + I was not his match in strength, for he was at least two inches taller + than I, and of a coarse-built, powerful frame. I caught a light rapier + from the wall, and stood on my defence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Coward!’ he cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘There are more where this came from,’ I answered, pointing to the wall. + </p> + <p> + He made no move towards arming himself, but stood glaring at me in a white + rage. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am prepared to prove,’ I answered as calmly as I could, ‘that the sword + to which you allude is mine. But I will give <i>you</i> no explanation. If + you will oblige me by asking your father to join us, I will tell him the + whole story.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will have a warrant out against you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you please. I am obliged to you for mentioning it. I shall be ready. I + have the sword, and intend to keep it. And by the way, I had better secure + the scabbard as well,’ I added, as with a sudden spring I caught it also + from the wall, and again stood prepared. + </p> + <p> + He ground his teeth with rage. He was one of those who, trusting to their + superior strength, are not much afraid of a row, but cannot face cold + steel: soldier as he had been, it made him nervous. + </p> + <p> + ‘Insulted in my own house!’ he snarled from between his teeth. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your father’s house,’ I corrected. ‘Call him, and I will give + explanations.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Damn your explanations! Get out of the house, you puppy; or I’ll have the + servants up, and have you ducked in the horse-pond.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Bah!’ I said. ‘There’s not one of them would lay hands on me at your + bidding. Call your father, I say, or I will go and find him myself.’ + </p> + <p> + He broke out in a succession of oaths, using language I had heard in the + streets of London, but nowhere else. I stood perfectly still, and + watchful. All at once he turned and went into the gallery, over the + balustrade of which he shouted, + </p> + <p> + ‘Martin! Go and tell my father to come here—to the armoury—at + once. Tell him there’s a fellow here out of his mind.’ + </p> + <p> + I remained quiet, with my scabbard in one hand, and the rapier in the + other—a dangerous weapon enough, for it was, though slight, as sharp + as a needle, and I knew it for a bit of excellent temper. Brotherton stood + outside waiting for his father. In a few moments I heard the voice of the + old man. + </p> + <p> + ‘Boys! boys!’ he cried; ‘what is all this to do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, sir,’ answered Geoffrey, trying to be calm, ‘here’s that fellow + Cumbermede confesses to have stolen the most valuable of the swords out of + the armoury—one that’s been in the family for two hundred years, and + says he means to keep it.’ + </p> + <p> + I just caught the word <i>liar</i> ere it escaped my lips: I would spare + the son in his father’s presence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tut! tut!’ said Sir Giles. ‘What does it all mean? You’re at your old + quarrelsome tricks, my boy! Really you ought to be wiser by this time!’ + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he entered panting, and with the rubicund glow beginning to + return upon a face from which the message had evidently banished it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tut! tut!’ he said again, half starting back as he caught sight of me + with the weapon in my hand—‘What is it all about, Mr Cumbermede? I + thought <i>you</i> had more sense!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Sir Giles,’ I said, ‘I have not confessed to having stolen the sword—only + to having taken it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A very different thing,’ he returned, trying to laugh. ‘But come now; + tell me all about it. We can’t have quarrelling like this, you know. We + can’t have pot-house work here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is just why I sent for you, Sir Giles,’ I answered, replacing the + rapier on the wall. ‘I want to tell you the whole story.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let’s have it, then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mind, I don’t believe a word of it,’ said Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ said his father, sharply. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Brotherton,’ I said, ‘I offered to tell the story to Sir Giles—not + to you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You offered!’ he sneered. ‘You may be compelled—under different + circumstances by-and-by, if you don’t mind what you’re about.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come now—no more of this!’ said Sir Giles. + </p> + <p> + Thereupon I began at the beginning, and told him the story of the sword, + as I have already given it to my reader. He fidgeted a little, but + Geoffrey kept himself stock-still during the whole of the narrative. As + soon as I had ended Sir Giles said, + </p> + <p> + ‘And you think poor old Close actually carried off your sword!—Well, + he was an odd creature, and had a passion for everything that could kill. + The poor little atomy used to carry a poniard in the breast-pocket of his + black coat—as if anybody would ever have thought of attacking his + small carcass! Ha! ha! ha! He was simply a monomaniac in regard of swords + and daggers. There, Geoffrey! The sword is plainly his. <i>He</i> is the + wronged party in the matter, and we owe him an apology.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe the whole to be a pure invention,’ said Geoffrey, who now + appeared perfectly calm. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Brotherton!’ I began, but Sir Giles interposed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hush! hush!’ he said, and turned to his son. ‘My boy, you insult your + father’s guest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will at once prove to you, sir, how unworthy he is of any forbearance, + not to say protection from you. Excuse me for one moment.’ + </p> + <p> + He took up the candle, and opening the little door at the foot of the + winding stair, disappeared. Sir Giles and I sat in silence and darkness + until he returned, carrying in his hand an old vellum-bound book. + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare say you don’t know this manuscript, sir,’ he said, turning to his + father. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know nothing about it,’ answered Sir Giles. ‘What is it? Or what has it + to do with the matter in hand?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Close found it in some corner or other, and used to read it to me when + I was a little fellow. It is a description, and in most cases a history as + well, of every weapon in the armoury. They had been much neglected, and a + great many of the labels were gone, but those which were left referred to + numbers in the book-heading descriptions which corresponded exactly to the + weapons on which they were found. With a little trouble he had succeeded + in supplying the numbers where they were missing, for the descriptions are + very minute.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke in a tone of perfect self-possession. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Geoffrey, I ask again, what has all this to do with it?’ said his + father. + </p> + <p> + ‘If Mr Cumbermede will allow you to look at the label attached to the + sheath in his hand—for fortunately it was a rule with Mr Close to + put a label on both sword and sheath—and if you will read me the + number, I will read you the description in the book.’ + </p> + <p> + I handed the sheath to Sir Giles, who began to decipher the number on the + ivory ticket. + </p> + <p> + ‘The label is quite a new one,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have already accounted for that,’ said Brotherton. ‘I will leave it to + yourself to decide whether the description corresponds.’ + </p> + <p> + Sir Giles read out the number figure by figure, adding— + </p> + <p> + ‘But how are we to test the description? I don’t know the thing, and it’s + not here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is at the Moat,’ I replied; ‘but its future place is at Sir Giles’s + decision.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Part of the description belongs to the scabbard you have in your hand, + sir,’ said Brotherton. ‘The description of the sword itself I submit to Mr + Cumbermede.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Till the other day I never saw the blade,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Likely enough,’ he retorted dryly, and proceeding, read the description + of the half-basket hilt, inlaid with gold, and the broad blade, channeled + near the hilt, and inlaid with ornaments and initials in gold. + </p> + <p> + ‘There is nothing in all that about the scabbard,’ said his father. + </p> + <p> + ‘Stop till we come to the history,’ he replied, and read on, as nearly as + I can recall, to the following effect. I have never had an opportunity of + copying the words themselves. + </p> + <p> + ‘“This sword seems to have been expressly forged for Sir {——} + {——},”’ (He read it <i>Sir So and So</i>.) ‘“whose initials + are to be found on the blade. According to tradition, it was worn by him, + for the first and only time, at the battle of Naseby, where he fought in + the cavalry led by Sir Marmaduke Langdale. From some accident or other, + Sir {——} {——} found, just as the order to charge + was given, that he could not draw his sword, and had to charge with only a + pistol in his hand. In the flight which followed he pulled up, and + unbuckled his sword, but while attempting to ease it, a rush of the enemy + startled him, and, looking about, he saw a Roundhead riding straight at + Sir Marmaduke, who that moment passed in the rear of his retiring troops—giving + some directions to an officer by his side, and unaware of the nearness of + danger. Sir {——} {——} put spurs to his charger, + rode at the trooper, and dealt him a downright blow on the pot-helmet with + his sheathed weapon. The fellow tumbled from his horse, and Sir {——} + {——} found his scabbard split halfway up, but the edge of his + weapon unturned. It is said he vowed it should remain sheathed for ever.”—The + person who has now unsheathed it has done a great wrong to the memory of a + loyal cavalier.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The sheath halfway split was as familiar to my eyes as the face of my + uncle,’ I said, turning to Sir Giles. ‘And in the only reference I ever + heard my great-grandmother make to it, she mentioned the name of Sir + Marmaduke. I recollect that much perfectly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how could the sword be there and here at one and the same time?’ said + Sir Giles. + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>That</i> I do not pretend to explain,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here at least is written testimony to our possession of it,’ said + Brotherton in a conclusive tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘How, then, are we to explain Mr Cumbermede’s story?’ said Sir Giles, + evidently in good faith. + </p> + <p> + ‘With that I cannot consent to allow myself concerned.—Mr Cumbermede + is, I am told, a writer of fiction.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Geoffrey,’ said Sir Giles, ‘behave yourself like a gentleman.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I endeavour to do so,’ he returned with a sneer. + </p> + <p> + I kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘How can you suppose,’ the old man went on, ‘that Mr Cumbermede would + invent such a story? What object could he have?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He may have a mania for weapons, like old Close—as well as for old + books,’ he replied. + </p> + <p> + I thought of my precious folio. But I did not yet know how much additional + force his insinuation with regard to the motive of my labours in the + library would gain if it should be discovered that such a volume was in my + possession. + </p> + <p> + ‘You may have remarked, sir,’ he went on, ‘that I did not read the name of + the owner of the sword in any place where it occurred in the manuscript.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I did. And I beg to know why you kept it back,’ answered Sir Giles. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you think the name might be, sir?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How should I know? I am not an antiquarian.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Sir <i>Wilfrid Cumbermede</i>. You will find the initials on the blade.—Does + that throw any light on the matter, do you think, sir?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, that is your very own name!’ cried Sir Giles, turning to me. + </p> + <p> + I bowed. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is a pity the sword shouldn’t be yours.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is mine, Sir Giles—though, as I said, I am prepared to abide by + your decision.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And now I remember;—the old man resumed, after a moment’s thought—‘the + other evening Mr Alderforge—a man of great learning, Mr Cumbermede—told + us that the name of Cumbermede had at one time belonged to our family. It + is all very strange. I confess I am utterly bewildered.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At least you can understand, sir, how a man of imagination, like Mr + Cumbermede here, might desire to possess himself of a weapon which bears + his initials, and belonged two hundred years ago to a baronet of the same + name as himself—a circumstance which, notwithstanding it is by no + means a common name, is not <i>quite</i> so strange as at first sight + appears—that is, if all reports are true.’ + </p> + <p> + I did not in the least understand his drift; neither did I care to inquire + into it now. + </p> + <p> + ‘Were you aware of this, Mr Cumbermede?’ asked his father. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Sir Giles,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Cumbermede has had the run of the place for weeks. I am sorry I was + not at home. This book was lying all the time on the table in the room + above, where poor old Close’s work-bench and polishing-wheel are still + standing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Brotherton, this gets beyond bearing,’ I cried. ‘Nothing but the + presence of your father, to whom I am indebted for much kindness, protects + you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tut! tut!’ said Sir Giles. + </p> + <p> + ‘Protects me, indeed!’ exclaimed Brotherton. ‘Do you dream I should be by + any code bound to accept a challenge from you?—Not, at least, I + presume to think, before a jury had decided on the merits of the case.’ + </p> + <p> + My blood was boiling, but what could I do or say? Sir Giles rose, and was + about to leave the room, remarking only— + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know what to make of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At all events, Sir Giles,’ I said hurriedly, ‘you will allow me to prove + the truth of what I have asserted. I cannot, unfortunately, call my uncle + or aunt, for they are gone; and I do not know where the servant who was + with us when I took the sword away is now. But, if you will allow me, I + will call Mrs Wilson—to prove that I had the sword when I came to + visit her on that occasion, and that on the morning after sleeping here I + complained of its loss to her, and went away without it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would but serve to show the hallucination was early developed. We + should probably find that even then you were much attracted by the + armoury,’ said Brotherton, with a judicial air, as if I were a culprit + before a magistrate. + </p> + <p> + I had begun to see that, although the old man was desirous of being just, + he was a little afraid of his son. He rose as the latter spoke, however, + and going into the gallery, shouted over the balustrade— + </p> + <p> + ‘Some one send Mrs Wilson to the library!’ + </p> + <p> + We removed to the reading-room, I carrying the scabbard which Sir Giles + had returned to me as soon as he had read the label. Brotherton followed, + having first gone up the little turn-pike stair, doubtless to replace the + manuscript. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Wilson came, looking more pinched than ever, and stood before Sir + Giles with her arms straight by her sides, like one of the ladies of + Noah’s ark. I will not weary my reader with a full report of the + examination. She had seen me <i>with</i> a sword, but had taken no notice + of its appearance. I <i>might</i> have taken it from the armoury, for I <i>was</i> + in the library all the afternoon. She had left me there thinking I was a + ‘gentlemany’ boy. I had <i>said</i> I had lost it, but she was sure <i>she</i> + did not know how that could be. She was <i>very</i> sorry she had caused + any trouble by asking me to the house, but Sir Giles would be pleased to + remember that he had himself introduced the boy to her notice. Little she + thought, &c., &c. + </p> + <p> + In fact, the spiteful creature, propitiating her natural sense of justice + by hinting instead of plainly suggesting injurious conclusions, was paying + me back for my imagined participation in the impertinences of Clara. She + had besides, as I learned afterwards, greatly resented the trouble I had + caused of late. + </p> + <p> + Brotherton struck in as soon as his father had ceased questioning her. + </p> + <p> + ‘At all events, if he believed the sword was his, why did he not go and + represent the case to you, sir, and request justice from you? Since then + he has had opportunity enough. His tale has taken too long to hatch.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This is all very paltry,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not so paltry as your contriving to sleep in the house in order to carry + off your host’s property in the morning—after studying the place to + discover which room would suit your purpose best!’ + </p> + <p> + Here I lost my presence of mind. A horror shook me lest something might + come out to injure Mary, and I shivered at the thought of her name being + once mentioned along with mine. If I had taken a moment to reflect, I must + have seen that I should only add to the danger by what I was about to say. + But her form was so inextricably associated in my mind with all that had + happened then, that it seemed as if the slightest allusion to any event of + that night would inevitably betray her; and in the tremor which, like an + electric shock, passed through me from head to foot, I blurted out words + importing that I had never slept in the house in my life. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your room was got ready for you, anyhow, Master Cumbermede,’ said Mrs + Wilson. + </p> + <p> + ‘It does not follow that I occupied it,’ I returned. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can prove that false,’ said Brotherton; but, probably lest he should be + required to produce his witness, only added,—‘At all events, he was + seen in the morning, carrying the sword across the court before any one + had been admitted.’ + </p> + <p> + I was silent; for I now saw too clearly that I had made a dreadful + blunder, and that any attempt to carry assertion further, or even to + explain away my words, might be to challenge the very discovery I would + have given my life to ward off. + </p> + <p> + As I continued silent, steeling myself to endure, and saying to myself + that disgrace was not dishonour, Sir Giles again rose, and turned to leave + the room. Evidently he was now satisfied that I was unworthy of + confidence. + </p> + <p> + ‘One moment, if you please, Sir Giles,’ I said. ‘It is plain to me there + is some mystery about this affair, and it does not seem as if I should be + able to clear it up. The time may come, however, when I can. I did wrong, + I see now, in attempting to right myself, instead of representing my case + to you. But that does not alter the fact that the sword was and is mine, + however appearances may be to the contrary. In the mean time, I restore + you the scabbard, and as soon as I reach home, I shall send my man with + the disputed weapon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It will be your better way,’ he said, as he took the sheath from my hand. + </p> + <p> + Without another word, he left the room. Mrs Wilson also retired. + Brotherton alone remained. I took no further notice of him, but followed + Sir Giles through the armoury. He came after me, step for step, at a + little distance, and as I stepped out into the gallery, said, in a tone of + insulting politeness: + </p> + <p> + ‘You will send the sword as soon as may be quite convenient, Mr + Cumbermede? Or shall I send and fetch it?’ + </p> + <p> + I turned and faced him in the dim light which came up from the hall. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Brotherton, if you knew that book and those weapons as early as you + have just said, you cannot help knowing that at that time the sword was <i>not</i> + there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I decline to re-open the question,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + A fierce word leaped to my lips, but repressing it I turned away once + more, and walked slowly down the stair, across the hall, and out of the + house. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIV. I PART WITH MY SWORD + </h2> + <p> + I made haste out of the park, but wandered up and down my own field for + half an hour, thinking in what shape to put what had occurred before + Charley. My perplexity arose not so much from the difficulty involved in + the matter itself as from my inability to fix my thoughts. My brain was + for the time like an ever-revolving kaleidoscope, in which, however, there + was but one fair colour—the thought of Mary. Having at length + succeeded in arriving at some conclusion, I went home, and would have + despatched Styles at once with the sword, had not Charley already sent him + off to the stable, so that I must wait. + </p> + <p> + ‘What <i>has</i> kept you so long, Wilfrid?’ Charley asked, as I entered. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve had a tremendous row with Brotherton,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘The brute! Is he there? I’m glad I was gone. What was it all about?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘About that sword. It was very foolish of me to take it without saying a + word to Sir Giles.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So it was,’ he returned. ‘I can’t think how <i>you</i> could be so + foolish!’ + </p> + <p> + I could, well enough. What with the dream and the waking, I could think + little about anything else; and only since the consequences had overtaken + me, saw how unwisely I had acted. I now told Charley the greater part of + the affair—omitting the false step I had made in saying I had not + slept in the house; and also, still with the vague dread of leading to + some discovery, omitting to report the treachery of Clara; for, if Charley + should talk to her or Mary about it, which was possible enough, I saw + several points where the danger would lie very close. I simply told him + that I had found Brotherton in the armoury, and reported what followed + between us. I did not at all relish having now in my turn secrets from + Charley, but my conscience did not trouble me about it, seeing it was for + his sister’s sake; and when I saw the rage of indignation into which he + flew, I was, if possible, yet more certain I was right. I told him I must + go and find Styles, that he might take the sword at once; but he started + up, saying he would carry it back himself, and at the same time take his + leave of Sir Giles, whose house, of course, he could never enter again + after the way I had been treated in it. I saw this would lead to a rupture + with the whole family, but I should not regret that, for there could be no + advantage to Mary either in continuing her intimacy, such as it was, with + Clara, or in making further acquaintance with Brotherton. The time of + their departure was also close at hand, and might be hastened without + necessarily involving much of the unpleasant. Also, if Charley broke with + them at once, there would be the less danger of his coming to know that I + had not given him all the particulars of my discomfiture. If he were to + find I had told a falsehood, how could I explain to him why I had done so? + This arguing on probabilities made me feel like a culprit who has to + protect himself by concealment; but I will not dwell upon my discomfort in + the half-duplicity thus forced upon me. I could not help it. I got down + the sword, and together we looked at it for the first and last time. I + found the description contained in the book perfectly correct. The upper + part was inlaid with gold in a Greekish pattern, crossed by the initials + W. C. I gave it up to Charley with a sigh of submission to the inevitable, + and having accompanied him to the park-gate, roamed my field again until + his return. + </p> + <p> + He rejoined me in a far quieter mood, and for a moment or two I was silent + with the terror of learning that he had become acquainted with my unhappy + blunder. After a little pause, he said, + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very sorry I didn’t see Brotherton. I should have liked just a word + or two with him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s just as well not,’ I said. ‘You would only have made another row. + Didn’t you see any of them?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I saw the old man. He seemed really cut up about it, and professed great + concern. He didn’t even refer to you by name—and spoke only in + general terms. I told him you were incapable of what was laid to your + charge; that I had not the slightest doubt of your claim to the sword,—your + word being enough for me,—and that I trusted time would right you. I + went too far there, however, for I haven’t the slightest hope of anything + of the sort.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How did he take all that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He only smiled—incredulously and sadly,—so that I couldn’t + find it in my heart to tell him all my mind. I only insisted on my own + perfect confidence in you.—I’m afraid I made a poor advocate, + Wilfrid. Why should I mind his grey hairs where justice is concerned? I am + afraid I was false to you, Wilfrid.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense; you did just the right thing, old boy. Nobody could have done + better.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Do</i> you think so? I am <i>so</i> glad! I have been feeling ever + since as if I ought to have gone into a rage, and shaken the dust of the + place from my feet for a witness against the whole nest of them! But + somehow I couldn’t—what with the honest face and the sorrowful look + of the old man.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are always too much of a partisan, Charley; I don’t mean so much in + your actions—for this very one disproves that—but in your + notions of obligation. You forget that you had to be just to Sir Giles as + well as to me, and that he must be judged—not by the absolute facts + of the case, but by what appeared to him to be the facts. He could not + help misjudging me. But you ought to help misjudging him. So you see your + behaviour was guided by an instinct or a soul, or what you will, deeper + than your judgment.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That may be—but he ought to have known you better than believe you + capable of misconduct.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know that. He had seen very little of me. But I dare say he puts + it down to cleptomania. I think he will be kind enough to give the ugly + thing a fine name for my sake. Besides, he must hold either by his son or + by me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s the worst that can be said on my side of the question. He must by + this time be aware that that son of his is nothing better than a low + scoundrel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It takes much to convince a father of such an unpleasant truth as that, + Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not much, if my experience goes for anything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I trust it is not typical, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose you’re going to stand up for Geoffrey next?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no such intention. But if I did, it would be but to follow your + example. We seem to change sides every now and then. You remember how you + used to defend Clara when I expressed my doubts about her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And wasn’t I right? Didn’t you come over to my side?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I did,’ I said, and hastened to change the subject; adding, ‘As for + Geoffrey, there is room enough to doubt whether he believes what he says, + and that makes a serious difference. In thinking over the affair since you + left me, I have discovered further grounds for questioning his + truthfulness.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As if that were necessary!’ he exclaimed, with an accent of scorn.’ But + tell me what you mean?’ he added. + </p> + <p> + ‘In turning the thing over in my mind, this question has occurred to me.—He + read from the manuscript that oh the blade of the sword, near the hilt, + were the initials of Wilfrid Cumbermede. Now, if the sword had never been + drawn from the scabbard, how was that to be known to the writer?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps it was written about that time,’ said Charley. + </p> + <p> + ‘No; the manuscript was evidently written some considerable time after. It + refers to tradition concerning it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then the writer knew it by tradition.’ + </p> + <p> + The moment Charley’s logical faculty was excited his perception was + impartial. + </p> + <p> + ‘Besides,’ he went on,’ it does not follow that the sword had really never + been drawn before. Mr Close even may have done so, for his admiration was + apparently quite as much for weapons themselves as for their history. + Clara could hardly have drawn it as she did if it had not been meddled + with before.’ + </p> + <p> + The terror lest he should ask me how I came to carry it home without the + scabbard hurried my objection. + </p> + <p> + ‘That supposition, however, would only imply that Brotherton might have + learned the fact from the sword itself, not from the book. I should just + like to have one peep of the manuscript to see whether what he read was + all there!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Or any of it, for that matter,’ said Charley. ‘Only it would have been a + more tremendous risk than I think he would have run.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish I had thought of it sooner, though.’ + </p> + <p> + My suspicion was that Clara had examined the blade thoroughly, and given + him a full description of it. He <i>might</i>, however, have been at the + Hall on some previous occasion, without my knowledge, and might have seen + the half-drawn blade on the wall, examined it, and pushed it back into the + sheath; which might have so far loosened the blade that Clara was + afterwards able to draw it herself. I was all but certain by this time + that it was no other than she that had laid it on my bed. But then why had + she drawn it? Perhaps that I might leave proof of its identity behind me—for + the carrying out of her treachery, whatever the object of it might be. But + this opened a hundred questions not to be discussed, even in silent + thought, in the presence of another. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you see your mother, Charley?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I thought it better not to trouble her. They are going to-morrow. + Mary had persuaded her—why, I don’t know—to return a day or + two sooner than they had intended.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope Brotherton will not succeed in prejudicing them against me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish that were possible,’ he answered. ‘But the time for prejudice is + long gone by.’ + </p> + <p> + I could not believe this to be the case in respect of Mary; for I could + not but think her favourably inclined to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Still,’ I said, ‘I should not like their bad opinion of me to be enlarged + as well as strengthened by the belief that I had attempted to steal Sir + Giles’s property. You <i>must</i> stand my friend there, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you <i>do</i> doubt me, Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a bit, you foolish fellow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know, I can’t enter that house again, and I don’t care about writing + to my mother, for my father is sure to see it; but I will follow my mother + and Mary the moment they are out of the grounds to-morrow, and soon see + whether they’ve got the story by the right end.’ + </p> + <p> + The evening passed with me in alternate fits of fierce indignation and + profound depression, for, while I was clear to my own conscience in regard + of my enemies, I had yet thrown myself bound at their feet by my foolish + lie; and I all but made up my mind to leave the country, and only return + after having achieved such a position—of what sort I had no more + idea than the school-boy before he sets himself to build a new castle in + the air—as would buttress any assertion of the facts I might see fit + to make in after-years. + </p> + <p> + When we had parted for the night, my brains began to go about, and the + centre of their gyrations was not Mary now, but Clara. What could have + induced her to play me false? All my vanity, of which I had enough, was + insufficient to persuade me that it could be out of revenge for the + gradual diminution of my attentions to her. She had seen me pay none to + Mary, I thought, unless she had caught a glimpse from the next room of the + little passage of the ring, and that I did not believe. Neither did I + believe she had ever cared enough about me to be jealous of whatever + attentions I might pay to another. But in all my conjectures, I had to + confess myself utterly foiled. I could imagine no motive. Two + possibilities alone, both equally improbable, suggested themselves—the + one, that she did it for pure love of mischief, which, false as she was to + me, I could not believe; the other, which likewise I rejected, that she + wanted to ingratiate herself with Brotherton. I had still, however, + scarcely a doubt that she had laid the sword on my bed. Trying to imagine + a connection between this possible action and Mary’s mistake, I built up a + conjectural form of conjectural facts to this effect—that Mary had + seen her go into my room, had taken it for the room she was to share with + her, and had followed her either at once—in which case I supposed + Clara to have gone out by the stair to the roof to avoid being seen—or + afterwards, from some accident, without a light in her hand. But I do not + care to set down more of my speculations, for none concerning this either + were satisfactory to myself, and I remain almost as much in the dark to + this day. In any case the fear remained that Clara must be ever on the + borders of the discovery of Mary’s secret, if indeed she did not know it + already, which was a dreadful thought—more especially as I could + place no confidence in her. I was glad to think, however, that they were + to be parted so soon, and I had little fear of any correspondence between + them. + </p> + <p> + The next morning Charley set out to waylay them at a certain point on + their homeward journey. I did not propose to accompany him. I preferred + having him speak for me first, not knowing how much they might have heard + to my discredit, for it was far from probable the matter had been kept + from them. After he had started, however, I could not rest, and for pure + restlessness sent Styles to fetch my mare. The loss of my sword was a + trifle to me now, but the proximity of the place where I should henceforth + be regarded as what I hardly dared to realize, was almost unendurable. As + if I had actually been guilty of what was laid to my charge, I longed to + hide myself in some impenetrable depth, and kept looking out impatiently + for Styles’s return. At length I caught sight of my Lilith’s head rising + white from the hollow in which the farm lay, and ran up to my room to make + a little change in my attire. Just as I snatched my riding-whip from a + hook by the window, I spied a horseman approaching from the direction of + the park gates. Once more it was Mr Coningham, riding hitherward from the + windy trees. In no degree inclined to meet him, I hurried down the stair, + and arriving at the very moment Styles drew up, sprung into the saddle, + and would have galloped off in the opposite direction, confident that no + horse of Mr Coningham’s could overtake my Lilith. But the moment I was in + the saddle, I remembered there was a pile of books on the window-sill of + my uncle’s room, belonging to the library at the Hall, and I stopped a + moment to give Styles the direction to take them home at once, and, having + asked a word of Miss Pease, to request her, with my kind regards, to see + them safely deposited amongst the rest. In consequence of this delay, just + as I set off at full speed from the door, Mr Coningham rode round the + corner of the house. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a devil of a hurry you are in, Mr Cumbermede!’ he cried. ‘I was just + coming to see you. Can’t you spare me a word?’ + </p> + <p> + I was forced to pull up, and reply as civilly as might be. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am only going for a ride,’ I said, ‘and will go part of your way with + you if you like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you. That will suit me admirably, I am going Gastford way. Have you + ever been there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I answered. ‘I have only just heard the name of the village.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is a pretty place. But there’s the oddest old church you ever saw, + within a couple of miles of it—alone in the middle of a forest—or + at least it was a forest not long ago. It is mostly young trees now. There + isn’t a house within a mile of it, and the nearest stands as lonely as the + church—quite a place to suit the fancy of a poet like you! Come + along and see it. You may as well go one way as another, if you only want + a ride.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How far is it?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Only seven or eight miles across country. I can take you all the way + through lanes and fields.’ + </p> + <p> + Perplexed or angry I was always disinclined for speech; and it was only + after things had arranged themselves in my mind, or I had mastered my + indignation, that I would begin to feel communicative. But something + prudential inside warned me that I could not afford to lose any friend I + had; and although I was not prepared to confide my wrongs to Mr Coningham, + I felt I might some day be glad of his counsel. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLV. UMBERDEN CHURCH. + </h2> + <p> + My companion chatted away, lauded my mare, asked if I had seen Clara + lately, and how the library was getting on. I answered him carelessly, + without even a hint at my troubles. + </p> + <p> + ‘You seem out of spirits, Mr Cumbermede?’ he said. ‘You’ve been taking too + little exercise. Let’s have a canter. It will do you good. Here’s a nice + bit of sward.’ + </p> + <p> + I was only too ready to embrace the excuse for dropping a conversation + towards which I was unable to contribute my share. + </p> + <p> + Having reached a small roadside inn, we gave our horses a little + refreshment; after which, crossing a field or two by jumping the stiles, + we entered the loveliest lane I had ever seen. It was so narrow that there + was just room for horses to pass each other, and covered with the greenest + sward rarely trodden. It ran through the midst of a wilderness of tall + hazels. They stood up on both sides of it, straight and trim as walls, + high above our heads as we sat on our horses; and the lane was so + serpentine that we could never see further than a few yards ahead; while, + towards the end, it kept turning so much in one direction that we seemed + to be following the circumference of a little circle. It ceased at length + at a small double-leaved gate of iron, to which we tied our horses before + entering the churchyard. But instead of a neat burial-place, which the + whole approach would have given us to expect, we found a desert. The grass + was of extraordinary coarseness, and mingled with quantities of + vile-looking weeds. Several of the graves had not even a spot of green + upon them, but were mere heaps of yellow earth in huge lumps, mixed with + large stones. There was not above a score of graves in the whole place, + two or three of which only had gravestones on them. One lay open, with the + rough yellow lumps all about it, and completed the desolation. The church + was nearly square—small, but shapeless, with but four latticed + windows, two on one side, one in the other, and the fourth in the east + end. It was built partly of bricks and partly of flint stones, the walls + bowed and bent, and the roof waved and broken. Its old age had gathered + none of the graces of age to soften its natural ugliness, or elevate its + insignificance. Except a few lichens, there was not a mark of vegetation + about it. Not a single ivy leaf grew on its spotted and wasted walls. It + gave a hopeless, pagan expression to the whole landscape—for it + stood on a rising ground, from which we had an extensive prospect of + height and hollow, cornfield and pasture and wood, away to the dim blue + horizon. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t find it enlivening, do you—eh?’ said my companion. + </p> + <p> + ‘I never saw such a frightfully desolate spot,’ I said, ‘to have yet the + appearance of a place of Christian worship. It looks as if there were a + curse upon it. Are all those the graves of suicides and murderers? It + cannot surely be consecrated ground?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s not nice,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect you to like it. I only said it + was odd.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is there any service held in it?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—once a fortnight or so. The rector has another living a few + miles off.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where can the congregation come from?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hardly from anywhere. There ain’t generally more than five or six, I + believe. Let’s have a look at the inside of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The windows are much too high, and no foothold.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll go in.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where can you get the key? It must be a mile off at least, by your own + account. There’s no house nearer than that, you say.’ + </p> + <p> + He made me no reply, but going to the only flat gravestone, which stood on + short thick pillars, he put his hand beneath it, and drew out a great + rusty key. + </p> + <p> + ‘Country lawyers know a secret or two,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not always much worth knowing,’ I rejoined,—‘if the inside be no + better than the outside.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll have a look, anyhow,’ he said, as he turned the key in the dry + lock. + </p> + <p> + The door snarled on its hinges, and disclosed a space drearier certainly, + and if possible uglier, than its promise. + </p> + <p> + ‘Really, Mr Coningham,’ I said, ‘I don’t see why you should have brought + me to look at this place.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It answered for a bait, at all events. You’ve had a good long ride, which + was the best thing for you. Look what a wretched little vestry that is!’ + </p> + <p> + It was but a corner of the east end, divided off by a faded red curtain. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose they keep a parish register here,’ he said. ‘Let us have a + look.’ + </p> + <p> + Behind the curtain hung a dirty surplice and a gown. In the corner stood a + desk like the schoolmaster’s in a village school. There was a shelf with a + few vellum-bound books on it, and nothing else, not even a chair in the + place. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; there they are!’ he said, as he took down one of the volumes from + the shelf. ‘This one comes to a close in the middle of the last century. I + dare say there is something in this, now, that would be interesting enough + to somebody. Who knows how many properties it might make change hands?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not many, I should think. Those matters are pretty well seen to now.’ + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + {Illustration: “COUNTRY LAWYERS KNOW A SECRET OR TWO,” HE SAID.} +</pre> + <p> + ‘By some one or other—not always the rightful heirs. Life is full of + the strangest facts, Mr Cumbermede. If I were a novelist, now, like you, + my experience would make me dare a good deal more in the way of invention + than any novelist I happen to have read. Look there, for instance.’ + </p> + <p> + He pointed to the top of the last page, or rather the last half of the + cover. I read as follows: + </p> + <h3> + ‘MARRIAGES, 1748. + </h3> + <p> + ‘Mr Wilfrid Cumbermede Daryll, of the Parish of {——} second + son of Sir Richard Daryll of Moldwarp Hall in the County of {——} + and Mistress Elizabeth Woodruffe were married by a license Jan. 15.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know the name of Daryll,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was your own great-grandfather’s name,’ he returned. ‘I happen to know + that much.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You knew this was here, Mr Coningham,’ I said. ‘That is why you brought + me here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are right. I did know it. Was I wrong in thinking it would interest + you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly not. I am obliged to you. But why this mystery? Why not have + told me what you wanted me to go for?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will why you in turn. Why should I have wanted to show you now more + than any other time what I have known for as many years almost as you have + lived? You spoke of a ride—why shouldn’t I give a direction to it + that might pay you for your trouble? And why shouldn’t I have a little + amusement out of it if I pleased? Why shouldn’t I enjoy your surprise at + finding in a place you had hardly heard of, and would certainly count most + uninteresting, the record of a fact that concerned your own existence so + nearly? There!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I confess it interests me more than you will easily think—inasmuch + as it seems to offer to account for things that have greatly puzzled me + for some time. I have of late met with several hints of a connection at + one time or other between the Moat and the Hall, but these hints were so + isolated that I could weave no theory to connect them. Now I dare say they + will clear themselves up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a doubt of-that, if you set about it in earnest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How did he come to drop his surname?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That has to be accounted for.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It follows—does it not?—that I am of the same blood as the + present possessors of Moldwarp Hall?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are—but the relation is not a close one,’ said Mr Coningham. + </p> + <p> + ‘Sir Giles was but distantly related to the stock of which you come.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then—but I must turn it over in my mind. I am rather in a maze.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have got some papers at the Moat?’ he said—interrogatively. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; my friend Osborne has been looking over them. He found out this much—that + there was once some connection between the Moat and the Hall, but at a far + earlier date than this points to, or any of the hints to which I just now + referred. The other day, when I dined at Sir Giles’s, Mr Alderforge said + that Cumbermede was a name belonging to Sir Giles’s ancestry—or + something to that effect; but that again could have had nothing to do with + those papers, or with the Moat at all.’ + </p> + <p> + Here I stopped, for I could not bring myself to refer to the sword. It was + not merely that the subject was too painful: of all things I did not want + to be cross-questioned by my lawyer-companion. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is not amongst those you will find anything of importance, I suspect. + Did your great-grandmother—the same, no doubt, whose marriage is + here registered—leave no letters or papers behind her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve come upon a few letters. I don’t know if there is anything more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You haven’t read them, apparently.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have not. I’ve been always going to read them, but I haven’t opened one + of them yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I recommend you—that is, if you care for an interesting piece + of family history—to read those letters carefully, that is + constructively.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean—putting two and two together, and seeing what comes of it; + trying to make everything fit into one, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I understand you. But how do you happen to know that those letters + contain a history, or that it will prove interesting when I have found + it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All family history ought to be interesting—at least to the last of + his race,’ he returned, replying only to the latter half of my question.’ + It must, for one thing, make him feel his duty to his ancestors more + strongly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘His duty to marry, I suppose you mean?’ I said with some inward + bitterness. ‘But to tell the truth, I don’t think the inheritance worth it + in my case.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It might be better,’ he said, with an expression which seemed odd beside + the simplicity of the words. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! you think then to urge me to make money; and for the sake of my dead + ancestors increase the inheritance of those that may come after me? But I + believe I am already as diligent as is good for me—that is, in the + main, for I have been losing time of late.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I meant no such thing, Mr Cumbermede. I should be very doubtful whether + any amount of success in literature would enable you to restore the + fortunes of your family.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Were they so very ponderous, do you think? But in truth I have little + ambition of that sort. All I will readily confess to is a strong desire + not to shirk what work falls to my share in the world.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he said, in a thoughtful manner—‘if one only knew what his + share of the work was.’ + </p> + <p> + The remark was unexpected, and I began to feel a little more interest in + him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hadn’t you better take a copy of that entry?’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—perhaps I had. But I have no materials.’ + </p> + <p> + It did not strike me that attorneys do not usually, like excise-men, carry + about an ink-bottle, when he drew one from the breast-pocket of his coat, + along with a folded sheet of writing-paper, which he opened and spread out + on the desk. I took the pen he offered me, and copied the entry. + </p> + <p> + When I had finished, he said— + </p> + <p> + ‘Leave room under it for the attestation of the parson. We can get that + another time, if necessary. Then write, “Copied by me”—and then your + name and the date. It may be useful some time. Take it home and lay it + with your grandmother’s papers.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There can be no harm in that,’ I said, as I folded it up, and put it in + my pocket. ‘I am greatly obliged to you for bringing me here, Mr + Coningham. Though I am not ambitious of restoring the family to a grandeur + of which every record has departed, I am quite sufficiently interested in + its history, and shall consequently take care of this document.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mind you read your grandmother’s papers, though,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + He replaced the volume on the shelf, and we left the church; he locked the + door and replaced the key under the gravestone; we mounted our horses, and + after riding with me about half the way to the Moat, he took his leave at + a point where our roads, diverged. I resolved to devote that very evening, + partly in the hope of distracting my thoughts, to the reading of my + grandmother’s letters. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVI. MY FOLIO. + </h2> + <h3> + When I reached home I found Charley there, as I had expected. + </h3> + <p> + But a change had again come over him. He was nervous, restless, apparently + anxious. I questioned him about his mother and sister. He had met them as + planned, and had, he assured me, done his utmost to impress them with the + truth concerning me. But he had found his mother incredulous, and had been + unable to discover from her how much she had heard; while Mary maintained + an obstinate silence, and, as he said, looked more stupid than usual. He + did not tell me that Clara had accompanied them so far, and that he had + walked with her back to the entrance of the park. This I heard afterwards. + When we had talked a while over the sword-business—for we could not + well keep off it long—Charley seeming all the time more + uncomfortable than ever, he said, perhaps merely to turn the talk into a + more pleasant channel— + </p> + <p> + By the way, where have you put your folio? I’ve been looking for it ever + since I came in, but I can’t find it. A new reading started up in my head + the other day, and I want to try it both with the print and the context.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s in my room,’ I answered, ‘I will go and fetch it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We will go together,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + I looked where I thought I had laid it, but there it was not. A pang of + foreboding terror invaded me. Charley told me afterwards that I turned as + white as a sheet. I looked everywhere, but in vain; ran and searched my + uncle’s room, and then Charley’s, but still in vain; and at last, all at + once, remembered with certainty that two nights before I had laid it on + the window-sill in my uncle’s room. I shouted for Styles, but he was gone + home with the mare, and I had to wait, in little short of agony, until he + returned. The moment he entered I began to question him. + </p> + <p> + ‘You took those books home, Styles?’ I said, as quietly as I could, + anxious not to startle him, lest it should interfere with the just action + of his memory. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, sir. I took them at once, and gave them into Miss Pease’s own hands;—at + least I suppose it was Miss Pease. She wasn’t a young lady, sir.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All right, I dare say. How many were there of them?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Six, sir.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I told you five,’ I said, trembling with apprehension and wrath. + </p> + <p> + ‘You said four or five, and I never thought but the six were to go. They + were all together on the window-sill.’ + </p> + <p> + I stood speechless. Charley took up the questioning. + </p> + <p> + ‘What sized books were they?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Pretty biggish—one of them quite a large one—the same I’ve + seen you, gentlemen, more than once, putting your heads together over. At + least it looked like it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley started up and began pacing about the room. Styles saw he had + committed some dreadful mistake, and began a blundering expression of + regret, but neither of us took any notice of him, and he crept out in + dismay. + </p> + <p> + It was some time before either of us could utter a word. The loss of the + sword was a trifle to this. Beyond a doubt the precious tome was now lying + in the library of Moldwarp Hall—amongst old friends and companions, + possibly—where years on years might elapse before one loving hand + would open it, or any eyes gaze on it with reverence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lost, Charley!’ I said at last.—‘Irrecoverably lost!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will go and fetch it,’ he cried, starting up. ‘I will tell Clara to + bring it out to me. It is beyond endurance this. Why should you not go and + claim what both of us can take our oath to as yours?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You forget, Charley, how the sword-affair cripples us—and how the + claiming of this volume would only render their belief with regard to the + other the more probable. You forget, too, that I <i>might</i> have placed + it in the chest first, and, above all, that the name on the title-page is + the same as the initials on the blade of the sword,—the same as my + own.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—I see it won’t do. And yet if I were to represent the thing to + Sir Giles?—He doesn’t care for old books——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You forget again, Charley, that the volume is of great money-value. + Perhaps my late slip has made me fastidious; but though the book be mine—and + if I had it, the proof of the contrary would lie with them—I could + not take advantage of Sir Giles’s ignorance to recover it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I might, however, get Clara—she is a favourite with him, you know—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will not hear of it,’ I said, interrupting him, and he was forced to + yield. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Charley,’ I said again; ‘I must just bear it. Harder things <i>have</i> + been borne, and men have got through the world and out of it + notwithstanding. If there isn’t another world, why should we care much for + the loss of what <i>must</i> go with the rest?—and if there is, why + should we care at all?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very fine, Wilfrid! but when you come to the practice—why, the less + said the better.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But that is the very point: we don’t come to the practice. If we did, + then the ground of it would be proved unobjectionable.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘True;—but if the practice be unattainable—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would take much proving to prove that to my—dissatisfaction I + should say; and more failure besides, I can tell you, than there will be + time for in this world. If it were proved, however—don’t you see it + would disprove both suppositions equally? If such a philosophical spirit + be unattainable, it discredits both sides of the alternative on either of + which it would have been reasonable.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There is a sophism there of course, but I am not in the mood for pulling + your logic to pieces,’ returned Charley, still pacing up and down the + room. + </p> + <p> + In sum, nothing would come of all our talk but the assurance that the + volume was equally irrecoverable with the sword, and indeed with my poor + character—at least, in the eyes of my immediate neighbours. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: I SAT DOWN AGAIN BY THE FIRE TO READ, IN MY + GREAT-GRANDMOTHER’S CHAIR.} + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVII. THE LETTERS AND THEIR STORY. + </h2> + <p> + As soon as Charley went to bed, I betook myself to my grandmother’s room, + in which, before discovering my loss, I had told Styles to kindle a fire. + I had said nothing to Charley about my ride, and the old church, and the + marriage-register. For the time, indeed, I had almost lost what small + interest I had taken in the matter—my new bereavement was so + absorbing and painful; but feeling certain, when he left me, that I should + not be able to sleep, but would be tormented all night by innumerable + mental mosquitoes if I made the attempt, and bethinking me of my former + resolution, I proceeded to carry it out. + </p> + <p> + The fire was burning brightly, and my reading lamp was on the table, ready + to be lighted. But I sat down first in my grandmother’s chair and mused + for I know not how long. At length my wandering thoughts rehearsed again + the excursion with Mr Coningham. I pulled the copy of the marriage-entry + from my pocket, and in reading it over again, my curiosity was + sufficiently roused to send me to the bureau. I lighted my lamp at last, + unlocked what had seemed to my childhood a treasury of unknown marvels, + took from it the packet of yellow withered letters, and sat down again by + the fire to read, in my great-grandmother’s chair, the letters of Wilfrid + Cumbermede Daryll—for so he signed himself in all of them—my + great-grandfather. There were amongst them a few of her own in reply to + his—badly written and badly spelt, but perfectly intelligible. I + will not transcribe any of them—I have them to show if needful—but + not at my command at the present moment;—for I am writing neither + where I commenced my story—on the outskirts of an ancient city, nor + at the Moat, but in a dreary old square in London; and those letters lie + locked again in the old bureau, and have lain unvisited through thousands + of desolate days and slow creeping nights, in that room which I cannot + help feeling sometimes as if the ghost of that high-spirited, + restless-hearted grandmother of mine must now and then revisit, sitting in + the same old chair, and wondering to find how far it was all receded from + her—wondering, also, to think what a work she made, through her long + and weary life, about things that look to her now such trifles. + </p> + <p> + I do not then transcribe any of the letters, but give, in a connected + form, what seem to me the facts I gathered from them; not hesitating to + present, where they are required, self-evident conclusions as if they were + facts mentioned in them. I repeat that none of my names are real, although + they all point at the real names. + </p> + <p> + Wilfrid Cumbermede was the second son of Richard and Mary Daryll of + Moldwarp Hall. He was baptized Cumbermede from the desire to keep in + memory the name of a celebrated ancestor, the owner, in fact, of the + disputed sword—itself alluded to in the letters,—who had been + more mindful of the supposed rights of his king than the next king was of + the privations undergone for his sake, for Moldwarp Hall at least was + never recovered from the Roundhead branch of the family into whose + possession it had drifted. In the change, however, which creeps on with + new generations, there had been in the family a re-action of sentiment in + favour of the more distinguished of its progenitors; and Richard Daryll, a + man of fierce temper and overbearing disposition, had named his son after + the cavalier. A tyrant in his family, at least in the judgment of the + writers of those letters, he apparently found no trouble either with his + wife or his eldest or youngest son; while, whether his own fault or not, + it was very evident that from Wilfrid his annoyances had been numerous. + </p> + <p> + A legal feud had for some time existed between the Ahab of Moldwarp Hall + and the Naboth of the Moat, the descendant of an ancient yeoman family of + good blood, and indeed related to the Darylls themselves, of the name of + Woodruffe. Sir Richard had cast covetous eyes upon the field surrounding + Stephen’s comparatively humble abode, which had at one time formed a part + of the Moldwarp property. In searching through some old parchments, he had + found, or rather, I suppose, persuaded himself he had found, sufficient + evidence that this part of the property of the Moat, then of considerable + size, had been willed away in contempt of the entail which covered it, and + belonged by right to himself and his heirs. He had therefore instituted + proceedings to recover possession, during the progress of which their + usual bickerings and disputes augmented in fierceness. A decision having + at length been given in favour of the weaker party, the mortification of + Sir Richard was unendurable to himself, and his wrath and + unreasonableness, in consequence, equally unendurable to his family. One + may then imagine the paroxysm of rage with which he was seized when he + discovered that, during the whole of the legal process, his son Wilfrid + had been making love to Elizabeth Woodruffe, the only child of his enemy. + In Wilfrid’s letters, the part of the story which follows is fully + detailed for Elizabeth’s information, of which the reason is also plain—that + the writer had spent such a brief period afterwards in Elizabeth’s society + that he had not been able for very shame to recount the particulars. + </p> + <p> + No sooner had Sir Richard come to a knowledge of the hateful fact, + evidently through one of his servants, than, suppressing the outburst of + his rage for the moment, he sent for his son Wilfrid, and informed him, + his lips quivering with suppressed passion, of the discovery he had made; + accused him of having brought disgrace on the family, and of having been + guilty of falsehood and treachery; and ordered him to go down on his knees + and abjure the girl before heaven, or expect a father’s vengeance. + </p> + <p> + But evidently Wilfrid was as little likely as any man to obey such a + command. He boldly avowed his love for Elizabeth, and declared his + intention of marrying her. His father, foaming with rage, ordered his + servants to seize him. Overmastered in spite of his struggles, he bound + him to a pillar, and taking a horse-whip, lashed him furiously; then, + after his rage was thus in a measure appeased, ordered them to carry him + to his bed. There he remained, hardly able to move, the whole of that + night and the next day. On the following night, he made his escape from + the Hall, and took refuge with a farmer-friend a few miles off—in + the neighbourhood, probably, of Umberden Church. + </p> + <p> + Here I would suggest a conjecture of my own—namely, that my + ancestor’s room was the same I had occupied, so—fatally, shall I + say?—to myself, on the only two occasions on which I had slept at + the Hall; that he escaped by the stair to the roof, having first removed + the tapestry from the door, as a memorial to himself and a sign to those + he left; that he carried with him the sword and the volume—both + probably lying in his room at the time, and the latter little valued by + any other. But all this, I repeat, is pure conjecture. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he was sufficiently recovered, he communicated with Elizabeth, + prevailed upon her to marry him at once at Umberden Church, and within a + few days, as near as I could judge; left her to join, as a volunteer, the + army of the Duke of Cumberland, then fighting the French in the + Netherlands. Probably from a morbid fear lest the disgrace his father’s + brutality had inflicted should become known in his regiment, he dropped + the surname of Daryll when he joined it; and—for what precise + reasons I cannot be certain—his wife evidently never called herself + by any other name than Cumbermede. Very likely she kept her marriage a + secret, save from her own family, until the birth of my grandfather, which + certainly took place before her husband’s return. Indeed I am almost sure + that he never returned from that campaign, but died fighting, not + unlikely, at the battle of Laffeldt; and that my grannie’s letters, which + I found in the same packet, had been, by the kindness of some comrade, + restored to the young widow. + </p> + <p> + When I had finished reading the letters, and had again thrown myself back + in the old chair, I began to wonder why nothing of all this should ever + have been told me. That the whole history should have dropped out of the + knowledge of the family, would have been natural enough, had my + great-grandmother, as well as my great-grandfather, died in youth; but + that she should have outlived her son, dying only after I, the + representative of the fourth generation, was a boy at school, and yet no + whisper have reached me of these facts, appeared strange. A moment’s + reflection showed me that the causes and the reasons of the fact must have + lain with my uncle. I could not but remember how both he and my aunt had + sought to prevent me from seeing my grannie alone, and how the last had + complained of this in terms far more comprehensible to me now than they + were then. But what could have been the reasons for this their obstruction + of the natural flow of tradition? They remained wrapped in a mystery which + the outburst from it of an occasional gleam of conjectural light only + served to deepen. + </p> + <p> + The letters lying open on the table before me, my eyes rested upon one of + the dates—the third day of March, 1747. It struck me that this date + involved a discrepancy with that of the copy I had made from the register. + I referred to it, and found my suspicion correct. According to the copy, + my ancestors were not married until the 15th of January, 1748. I must have + made a blunder—and yet I could hardly believe I had, for I had + reason to consider myself accurate. If there <i>was</i> no mistake, I + should have to reconstruct my facts, and draw fresh conclusions. + </p> + <p> + By this time, however, I was getting tired and sleepy and cold; my lamp + was nearly out; my fire was quite gone; and the first of a frosty dawn was + beginning to break in the east. I rose and replaced the papers, reserving + all further thought on the matter for a condition of circumstances more + favourable to a correct judgment. I blew out the lamp, groped my way to + bed in the dark, and was soon fast asleep, in despite of insult, + mortification, perplexity, and loss. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVIII. ONLY A LINK. + </h2> + <p> + It may be said of the body in regard of sleep as well as in regard of + death, ‘It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.’ For me, the next + morning, I could almost have said, ‘I was sown in dishonour and raised in + glory.’ No one can deny the power of the wearied body to paralyze the + soul; but I have a correlate theory which I love, and which I expect to + find true—that, while the body wearies the mind, it is the mind that + restores vigour to the body, and then, like the man who has built him a + stately palace, rejoices to dwell in it. I believe that, if there be a + living, conscious love at the heart of the universe, the mind, in the + quiescence of its consciousness in sleep, comes into a less disturbed + contact with its origin, the heart of the creation; whence gifted with + calmness and strength for itself, it grows able to impart comfort and + restoration to the weary frame. The cessation of labour affords but the + necessary occasion; makes it possible, as it were, for the occupant of an + outlying station in the wilderness to return to his father’s house for + fresh supplies of all that is needful for life and energy. The child-soul + goes home at night, and returns in the morning to the labours of the + school. Mere physical rest could never of its own negative self build up + the frame in such light and vigour as come through sleep. + </p> + <p> + It was from no blessed vision that I woke the next morning, but from a + deep and dreamless sleep. Yet the moment I became aware of myself and the + world, I felt strong and courageous, and I began at once to look my + affairs in the face. Concerning that which was first in consequence, I + soon satisfied myself: I could not see that I had committed any serious + fault in the whole affair. I was not at all sure that a lie in defence of + the innocent, and to prevent the knowledge of what no one had any right to + know, was wrong—seeing such involves no injustice on the one side, + and does justice on the other. I have seen reason since to change my mind, + and count my liberty restricted to silence—not extending, that is, + to the denial or assertion of what the will of God, inasmuch as it exists + or does not exist, may have declared to be or not to be the fact. I now + think that to lie is, as it were, to snatch the reins out of God’s hand. + </p> + <p> + At all events, however, I had done the Brothertons no wrong. ‘What matter, + then,’ I said to myself, ‘of what they believe me guilty, so long as + before God and my own conscience I am clear and clean?’ + </p> + <p> + Next came the practical part:—What was I to do? To right myself + either in respect of their opinion, or in respect of my lost property, was + more hopeless than important, and I hardly wasted two thoughts upon that. + But I could not remain where I was, and soon came to the resolution to go + with Charley to London at once, and taking lodgings in some obscure recess + near the Inns of Court, there to give myself to work, and work alone, in + the foolish hope that one day fame might buttress reputation. In this + resolution I was more influenced by the desire to be near the brother of + Mary Osborne than the desire to be near my friend Charley, strong as that + was. I expected thus to hear of her oftener, and even cherished the hope + of coming to hear from her—of inducing her to honour me with a word + or two of immediate communication. For I could see no reason why her + opinions should prevent her from corresponding with one who, whatever + might or might not seem to him true, yet cared for the truth, and must + treat with respect every form in which he could descry its predominating + presence. + </p> + <p> + I would have asked Charley to set out with me that very day, but for the + desire to clear up the discrepancy between the date of my ancestor’s + letters, all written within the same year, and that of the copy I had made + of the registration of their marriage—with which object I would + compare the copy and the original. I wished also to have some talk with Mr + Coningham concerning the contents of the letters which at his urgency I + had now read. I got up and wrote to him therefore, asking him to ride with + me again to Umberden Church, as soon as he could make it convenient, and + sent Styles off at once on the mare to carry the note to Minstercombe, and + bring me back an answer. + </p> + <p> + As we sat over our breakfast, Charley said suddenly, ‘Clara was regretting + yesterday that she had not seen the Moat. She said you had asked her once, + but had never spoken of it again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And now I suppose she thinks, because I’m in disgrace with her friends at + the Hall, that she mustn’t come near me,’ I said, with another bitterness + than belonged to the words. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wilfrid!’ he said reproachfully; ‘she didn’t say anything of the sort. I + will write and ask her if she couldn’t contrive to come over. She might + meet us at the park gates.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I returned; ‘there isn’t time. I mean to go back to London—perhaps + to-morrow evening. It is like turning you out, Charley, but we shall be + nearer each other in town than we were last time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am delighted to hear it,’ he said. ‘I had been thinking myself that I + had better go back this evening. My father is expected home in a day or + two, and it would be just like him to steal a march on my chambers. Yes, I + think I shall go to-night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, old boy,’ I answered. ‘That will make it all right. It’s a + pity we couldn’t take the journey together, but it doesn’t matter much. I + shall follow you as soon as I can.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why can’t you go with me?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + Thereupon I gave him a full report of my excursion with Mr Coningham, and + the after reading of the letters, with my reason for wishing to examine + the register again; telling him that I had asked Mr Coningham to ride with + me once more to Umberden Church. + </p> + <p> + When Styles returned, he informed me that Mr Coningham at first proposed + to ride back with him, but probably bethinking himself that another + sixteen miles would be too much for my mare, had changed his mind and sent + me the message that he would be with me early the next day. + </p> + <p> + After Charley was gone, I spent the evening in a thorough search of the + old bureau. I found in it several quaint ornaments besides those already + mentioned, but only one thing which any relation to my story would justify + specific mention of—namely, an ivory label, discoloured with age, on + which was traceable the very number Sir Giles had read from the scabbard + of Sir Wilfrid’s sword. Clearly, then, my sword was the one mentioned in + the book, and as clearly it had not been at Moldwarp Hall for a long time + before I lost it there. If I were in any fear as to my reader’s acceptance + of my story, I should rejoice in the possession of that label more than in + the restoration of sword or book; but amidst all my troubles, I have as + yet been able to rely upon her justice and her knowledge of myself. Yes—I + must mention one thing more I found—a long, sharp-pointed, + straight-backed, snake-edged Indian dagger, inlaid with silver—a + fierce, dangerous, almost venomous-looking weapon, in a curious case of + old green morocco. It also may have once belonged to the armoury of + Moldwarp Hall. I took it with me when I left my grannie’s room, and laid + it in the portmanteau I was going to take to London. + </p> + <p> + My only difficulty was what to do with Lilith; but I resolved for the mean + time to leave her, as before, in the care of Styles, who seemed almost as + fond of her as I was myself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIX. A DISCLOSURE. + </h2> + <p> + Mr Coningham was at my door by ten o’clock, and we set out together for + Umberden Church. It was a cold clear morning. The dying Autumn was turning + a bright thin defiant face upon the conquering Winter. I was in great + spirits, my mind being full of Mary Osborne. At one moment I saw but her + own ordinary face, only what I had used to regard as dulness I now + interpreted as the possession of her soul in patience; at another I saw + the glorified countenance of my Athanasia, knowing that, beneath the veil + of the other, this, the real, the true face ever lay. Once in my sight the + frost-clung flower had blossomed; in full ideal of glory it had shone for + a moment, and then folding itself again away, had retired into the regions + of faith. And while I knew that such could dawn out of such, how could I + help hoping that from the face of the universe, however to my eyes it + might sometimes seem to stare like the seven-days dead, one morn might + dawn the unspeakable face which even Moses might not behold lest he should + die of the great sight? The keen air, the bright sunshine, the swift + motion—all combined to raise my spirits to an unwonted pitch; but it + was a silent ecstasy, and I almost forgot the presence of Mr Coningham. + When he spoke at last, I started. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought from your letter you had something to tell me, Mr Cumbermede,’ + he said, coming alongside of me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, to be sure. I have been reading my grannie’s papers, as I told you.’ + </p> + <p> + I recounted the substance of what I had found in them. + </p> + <p> + ‘Does it not strike you as rather strange that all this should have been + kept a secret from you?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very few know anything about their grandfathers,’ I said; ‘so I suppose + very few fathers care to tell their children about them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is because there are so few concerning whom there is anything worth + telling.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For my part,’ I returned, ‘I should think any fact concerning one of + those who link me with the infinite past out of which I have come, + invaluable. Even a fact which is not to the credit of an ancestor may be a + precious discovery to the man who has in himself to fight the evil derived + from it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That, however, is a point of view rarely taken. What the ordinary man + values is also rare; hence few regard their ancestry, or transmit any + knowledge they may have of those who have gone before them to those that + come after them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My uncle, however, I suppose, told <i>me</i> nothing because, unlike the + many, he prized neither wealth nor rank, nor what are commonly considered + great deeds.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are not far from the truth there,’ said Mr Coningham in a significant + tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then <i>you</i> know why he never told me anything!’ I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + ‘I do—from the best authority.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘His own, you mean, I suppose.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But—but—I didn’t know you were ever—at all—intimate + with my uncle,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + He laughed knowingly. + </p> + <p> + ‘You would say, if you didn’t mind speaking the truth, that you thought + your uncle disliked me—disapproved of me. Come, now—did he not + try to make you avoid me? You needn’t mind acknowledging the fact, for, + when I have explained the reason of it, you will see that it involves no + discredit to either of us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no fear for my uncle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are honest, if not over-polite,’ he rejoined. ‘—You do not feel + so sure about my share. Well, I don’t mind who knows it, for my part. I + roused the repugnance, to the knowledge of which your silence confesses, + merely by acting as any professional man ought to have acted—and + with the best intentions. At the same time, all the blame I should ever + think of casting upon him is that he allowed his high-strung, saintly, I + had almost said superhuman ideas to stand in the way of his nephew’s + prosperity.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps he was afraid of that prosperity standing in the way of a + better.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Precisely so. You understand him perfectly. He was one of the best and + simplest-minded men in the world.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am glad you do him that justice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At the same time I do not think he intended you to remain in absolute + ignorance of what I am going to tell you. But, you see, he died very + suddenly. Besides, he could hardly expect I should hold my tongue after he + was gone.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps, however, he might expect me not to cultivate your acquaintance,’ + I said, laughing to take the sting out of the words. + </p> + <p> + ‘You cannot accuse yourself of having taken any trouble in that + direction,’ he returned, laughing also. + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe, however,’ I resumed, ‘from what I can recall of things he + said, especially on one occasion, on which he acknowledged the existence + of a secret in which I was interested, he did not intend that I should + always remain in ignorance of everything he thought proper to conceal from + me then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I presume you are right. I think his conduct in this respect arose + chiefly from anxiety that the formation of your character should not be + influenced by the knowledge of certain facts which might unsettle you, and + prevent you from reaping the due advantages of study and self-dependence + in youth. I cannot, however, believe that by being open with you I shall + now be in any danger of thwarting his plans, for you have already proved + yourself a wise, moderate, conscientious man, diligent and painstaking. + Forgive me for appearing to praise you. I had no such intention. I was + only uttering as a fact to be considered in the question, what upon my + honour I thoroughly believe.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should be happy in your good opinion, if I were able to appropriate + it,’ I said. ‘But a man knows his own faults better than his neighbour + knows his virtues.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Spoken like the man I took you for, Mr Cumbermede,’ he rejoined gravely. + </p> + <p> + ‘But to return to the matter in hand,’ I resumed; ‘what can there be so + dangerous in the few facts I have just come to the knowledge of, that my + uncle should have cared to conceal them from me? That a man born in humble + circumstances should come to know that he had distinguished ancestors, + could hardly so fill him with false notions as to endanger his relation to + the laws of his existence.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course—but you are too hasty. Those facts are of more importance + than you are aware—involve other facts. Moldwarp Hall is <i>your</i> + property, and not Sir Giles Brotherton’s.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then the apple was my own, after all!’ I said to myself exultingly. It + was a strange fantastic birth of conscience and memory—forgotten the + same moment, and followed by an electric flash—not of hope, not of + delight, not of pride, but of pure revenge. My whole frame quivered with + the shock; yet for a moment I seemed to have the strength of a Hercules. + In front of me was a stile through a high hedge: I turned Lilith’s head to + the hedge, struck my spurs into her, and over or through it, I know not + which, she bounded. Already, with all the strength of will I could summon, + I struggled to rid myself of the wicked feeling; and although I cannot + pretend to have succeeded for long after, yet by the time Mr Coningham had + popped over the stile, I was waiting for him, to all appearance, I + believe, perfectly calm. He, on the other hand, from whatever cause, was + actually trembling. His face was pale, and his eye flashing. Was it that + he had roused me more effectually than he had hoped? + </p> + <p> + ‘Take care, take care, my boy,’ he said, ‘or you won’t live to enjoy your + own. Permit me the honour of shaking hands with Sir Wilfrid Cumbermede + Daryll.’ + </p> + <p> + After this ceremonial of prophetic investiture, we jogged away quietly, + and he told me a long story about the death of the last proprietor, the + degree in which Sir Giles was related to him, and his undisputed accession + to the property. At that time, he said, my father was in very bad health, + and indeed died within six months of it. + </p> + <p> + ‘I knew your father well, Mr Cumbermede,’ he went on, ‘—one of the + best of men, with more spirit, more ambition than your uncle. It was <i>his</i> + wish that his child, if a boy, should be called Wilfrid,—for though + they had been married five or six years, their only child was born after + his death. Your uncle did not like the name, your mother told me, but made + no objection to it. So you were named after your grandfather, and + great-grandfather, and I don’t know how many of the race besides.—When + the last of the Darylls died—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then,’ I interrupted, ‘my father was the heir.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; you mistake: your uncle was the elder—Sir David Cumbermede + Daryll, of Moldwarp Hall and The Moat,’ said Mr Coningham, evidently bent + on making the most of my rights. + </p> + <p> + ‘He never even told me he was the eldest,’ I said. ‘I always thought, from + his coming home to manage the farm when my father was ill, that he was the + second of the two sons.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘On the contrary, he was several years older than your father, but taking + more kindly to reading than farming, was sent by his father to Oxford to + study for the Church, leaving the farm, as was tacitly understood, to + descend to your father at your grandfather’s death. After the idea of the + Church was abandoned he took a situation, refusing altogether to subvert + the order of things already established at the Moat. So you see you are + not to suppose that he kept you back from any of your rights. They were + his, not yours, while he lived.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will not ask,’ I said, ‘why he did not enforce them. That is plain + enough from what I know of his character. The more I think of that, the + loftier and simpler it seems to grow. He could not bring himself to spend + the energies of a soul meant for higher things on the assertion and + recovery of earthly rights.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I rather differ from you there; and I do not know,’ returned my + companion, whose tone was far more serious than I had ever heard it + before, ‘whether the explanation I am going to offer will raise your uncle + as much in your estimation as it does in mine. I confess I do not rank + such self-denial as you attribute to him so highly as you do. On the + contrary I count it a fault. How could the world go on if everybody was + like your uncle?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If everybody was like my uncle, he would have been forced to accept the + position,’ I said; ‘for there would have been no one to take it from him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps. But you must not think Sir Giles knew anything of your uncle’s + claim. He knows nothing of it now.’ + </p> + <p> + I had not thought of Sir Giles in connection with the matter—only of + Geoffrey; and my heart recoiled from the notion of dispossessing the old + man who, however misled with regard to me at last, had up till then shown + me uniform kindness. In that moment I had almost resolved on taking no + steps till after his death. But Mr Coningham soon made me forget Sir Giles + in a fresh revelation of my uncle. + </p> + <p> + ‘Although,’ he resumed, ‘all you say of your uncle’s indifference to this + world and its affairs is indubitably correct, I do not believe, had there + not been a prospect of your making your appearance, that he would have + shirked the duty of occupying the property which was his both by law and + by nature. But he knew it might be an expensive suit—for no one can + tell by what tricks of the law such may be prolonged—in which case + all the money he could command would soon be spent, and nothing left + either to provide for your so-called aunt, for whom he had a great regard, + or to give you that education, which, whether you were to succeed to the + property or not, he counted indispensable. He cared far more, he said, + about your having such a property in yourself as was at once personal and + real, than for your having any amount of property out of yourself. + Expostulation was of no use. I had previously learned—from the old + lady herself—the true state of the case, and, upon the death of Sir + Geoffrey Daryll, had at once communicated with him—which placed me + in a position for urging him, as I did again and again, considerably to + his irritation, to assert and prosecute his claim to the title and + estates. I offered to take the whole risk upon myself; but he said that + would be tantamount to giving up his personal liberty until the matter was + settled, which might not be in his lifetime. I may just mention, however, + that, besides his religious absorption, I strongly suspect there was + another cause of his indifference to worldly affairs: I have grounds for + thinking that he was disappointed in a more than ordinary attachment to a + lady he met at Oxford—in station considerably above any prospects he + had then. To return: he was resolved that, whatever might be your fate, + you should not have to meet it without such preparation as he could afford + you. As you have divined, he was most anxious that your character should + have acquired some degree of firmness before you knew anything of the + possibility of your inheriting a large property and historical name; and I + may appropriate the credit of a negative share in the carrying out of his + plans, for you will bear me witness how often I might have upset them by + informing you of the facts of the case.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am heartily obliged to you,’ I said, ‘for not interfering with my + uncle’s wishes, for I am very glad indeed that I have been kept in + ignorance of my rights until now. The knowledge would at one time have + gone far to render me useless for personal effort in any direction worthy + of it. It would have made me conceited, ambitious, boastful: I don’t know + how many bad adjectives would have been necessary to describe me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is all very well to be modest, but I venture to think differently.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like to ask you one question, Mr Coningham,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘As many as you please.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How is it that you have so long delayed giving me the information which + on my uncle’s death you no doubt felt at liberty to communicate?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I did not know how far you might partake of your uncle’s disposition, and + judged that the wider your knowledge of the world, and the juster your + estimate of the value of money and position, the more willing you would be + to listen to the proposals I had to make.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you remember,’ I asked, after a canter, led off by my companion, ‘one + very stormy night on which you suddenly appeared at the Moat, and had a + long talk with my uncle on the subject?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perfectly,’ he answered. ‘But how did you come to know? <i>He</i> did not + tell you of my visit!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly not. But, listening in my night-gown on the stair, which is + open to the kitchen, I heard enough of your talk to learn the object of + your visit—namely, to carry off my skin to make bagpipes with.’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed so heartily that I told him the whole story of the pendulum. + </p> + <p> + ‘On that occasion,’ he said, ‘I made the offer to your uncle, on condition + of his sanctioning the commencement of legal proceedings, to pledge myself + to meet every expense of those, and of your education as well, and to + claim nothing whatever in return, except in case of success.’ + </p> + <p> + This quite corresponded with my own childish recollections of the + interview between them. Indeed there was such an air of simple + straightforwardness about his whole communication, while at the same time + it accounted so thoroughly for the warning my uncle had given me against + him, that I felt I might trust him entirely, and so would have told him + all that had taken place at the Hall, but for the share his daughter had + borne in it, and the danger of discovery to Mary. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER L. THE DATES. + </h2> + <p> + I have given, of course, only an epitome of our conversation, and by the + time we had arrived at this point we had also reached the gate of the + churchyard. Again we fastened up our horses; again he took the key from + under the tombstone; and once more we entered the dreary little church, + and drew aside the curtain of the vestry. I took down the volume of the + register. The place was easy to find, seeing, as I have said, it was at + the very end of the volume. + </p> + <p> + The copy I had taken was correct: the date of the marriage in the register + was January 15, and it was the first under the 1748, written at the top of + the page. I stood for a moment gazing at it; then my eye turned to the + entry before it, the last on the preceding page. It bore the date December + 13—under the general date at the top of the page, 1747. The next + entry after it was dated March 29. At the bottom of the page, or cover + rather, was the attestation of the clergyman to the number of marriages in + that year; but there was no such attestation at the bottom of the + preceding page. I turned to Mr Coningham, who had stood regarding me, and, + pointing to the book, said: + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Mr Coningham. I cannot understand it. Here the date of the + marriage is 1748; and that of all their letters, evidently written after + the marriage, is 1747.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked, and stood looking, but made me no reply. In my turn I looked at + him. His face expressed something not far from consternation; but the + moment he became aware that I was observing him, he pulled out his + handkerchief, and wiping his forehead with an attempt at a laugh, said: + </p> + <p> + ‘How hot it is! Yes; there’s something awkward there. I hadn’t observed it + before. I must inquire into that. I confess I cannot explain it all at + once. It does certainly seem queer. I must look into those dates when I go + home.’ + </p> + <p> + He was evidently much more discomposed than he was willing I should + perceive. He always spoke rather hurriedly, but I had never heard him + stammer before. I was certain that he saw or at least dreaded something + fatal in the discrepancy I had pointed out. As to looking into it when he + got home, that sounded very like nonsense. He pulled out a note-book, + however, and said: + </p> + <p> + ‘I may just as well make a note of the blunder—for blunder it must + be—a very awkward one indeed, I am afraid. I should think so—I + cannot—but then—’ + </p> + <p> + He went on uttering disjointed and unfinished expressions, while he made + several notes. His manner was of one who regards the action he is about as + useless, yet would have it supposed the right thing to do. + </p> + <p> + ‘There!’ he said, shutting up his note-book with a slam; and turning away + he strode out of the place—much, it seemed to me, as if his business + there was over for ever. I gave one more glance at the volume, and + replaced it on the shelf. When I rejoined him, he was already mounted and + turning to move off. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wait a moment, Mr Coningham,’ I said. ‘I don’t exactly know where to put + the key.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Fling it under the gravestone, and come along,’ he said, muttering + something more, in which, perhaps, I only fancied I heard certain + well-known maledictions. + </p> + <p> + By this time my spirits had sunk as much below their natural level as, a + little before, they had risen above it. But I felt that I must be myself, + and that no evil any more than good fortune ought for a moment to perturb + the tenor of my being. Therefore, having locked the door deliberately and + carefully, I felt about along the underside of the gravestone until I + found the ledge where the key had lain. I then made what haste I could to + mount and follow Mr Coningham, but Lilith delayed the operation by her + eagerness. I gave her the rein, and it was well no one happened to be + coming in the opposite direction through that narrow and tortuous passage, + for she flew round the corners—‘turning close to the ground, like a + cat when scratchingly she wheels about after a mouse,’ as my old + favourite, Sir Philip Sidney, says. Notwithstanding her speed, however, + when I reached the mouth of the lane, there was Mr Coningham half across + the first field, with his coat-tails flying out behind him. I would not + allow myself to be left in such a discourteous fashion, and gave chase. + Before he had measured the other half of the field, I was up with him. + </p> + <p> + ‘That mare of yours is a clever one,’ he said, as I ranged alongside of + him. ‘I thought I would give her a breather. She hasn’t enough to do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s not breathing so <i>very</i> fast,’ I returned. ‘Her wind is as + good as her legs.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let’s get along then, for I’ve lost a great deal of time this morning. I + ought to have been at Squire Strode’s an hour ago. How hot the sun is, to + be sure, for this time of the year!’ + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he urged his horse, but I took and kept the lead, feeling, I + confess, a little angry, for I could not help suspecting he had really + wanted to run away from me. I did what I could, however, to behave as if + nothing had happened. But he was very silent, and his manner towards me + was quite altered. Neither could I help thinking it scarcely worthy of a + man of the world, not to say a lawyer, to show himself so much chagrined. + For my part, having simply concluded that the new-blown bubble hope had + burst, I found myself just where I was before-with a bend sinister on my + scutcheon, it might be, but with a good conscience, a tolerably clear + brain, and the dream of my Athanasia. + </p> + <p> + The moment we reached the road, Mr Coningham announced that his way was in + the opposite direction to mine, said his good morning, shook hands with + me, and jogged slowly away. I knew that was not the nearest way to Squire + Strode’s. + </p> + <p> + I could not help laughing—he had so much the look of a dog with his + tail between his legs, or a beast of prey that had made his spring and + missed his game. I watched him for some time, for Lilith being pulled both + ways—towards home, and after her late companion—was tolerably + quiescent, but he never cast a glance behind him. When at length a curve + in the road hid him from my sight, I turned and went quietly home, + thinking what the significance of the unwelcome discovery might be. If the + entry of the marriage under that date could not be proved a mere blunder, + of which I could see no hope, then certainly my grandfather must be + regarded as born out of wedlock, a supposition which, if correct, would + account for the dropping of the <i>Daryll</i>. + </p> + <p> + On the way home I jumped no hedges. + </p> + <p> + Having taken my farewell of Lilith, I packed my ‘bag of needments,’ locked + the door of my uncle’s room, which I would have no one enter in my + absence, and set out to meet the night mail. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LI. CHARLEY AND CLARA. + </h2> + <p> + On my arrival in London, I found Charley waiting for me, as I had + expected, and with his help soon succeeded in finding, in one of the + streets leading from the Strand to the river, the accommodation I wanted. + There I settled and resumed the labour so long and thanklessly + interrupted. + </p> + <p> + When I recounted the circumstances of my last interview with Mr Coningham, + Charley did not seem so much surprised at the prospect which had opened + before me as disappointed at its sudden close, and would not admit that + the matter could be allowed to rest where it was. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think the change of style could possibly have anything to do with + it?’ he asked, after a meditative silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Which change of style do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean the change of the beginning of the year from March to January,’ he + answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘When did that take place?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Some time about the middle of the last century,’ he replied; ‘but I will + find out exactly.’ + </p> + <p> + The next night he brought me the information that the January which, + according to the old style, would have been that of 1752 was promoted to + be the first month of the year 1753. + </p> + <p> + My dates then were, by several years, antecedent to the change, and it was + an indisputable anachronism that the January between the December of 1747 + and the March of 1748, should be entered as belonging to the latter year. + This seemed to throw a little dubious light upon the perplexity; the + January thus entered belonging clearly to 1747, and, therefore, was the + same January with that of my ancestor’s letters. Plainly, however, the + entry could not stand in evidence, its interpolation at least appeared + indubitable, for how otherwise could it stand at the beginning of the new + year instead of towards the end of the old, five, years before the change + of style? Also, now I clearly remember that it did look a little crushed + between the heading of the year and the next entry. It must be a forgery—and + a stupid one as well, seeing the bottom of the preceding page, where there + was a small blank, would have been the proper place to choose for it—that + is, under the heading 1747. Could the 1748 have been inserted afterwards? + That did not appear likely, seeing it belonged to all the rest of the + entries on the page, there being none between the date in question and + March 29, on the 25th of which month the new year began. The conclusion + lying at the door was that some one had inserted the marriage so long + after the change of style that he knew nothing of the trap there lying for + his forgery. It seemed probable that, blindly following the letters, he + had sought to place it in the beginning of the previous year, but, getting + bewildered in the apparent eccentricities of the arrangement of month and + year, had at last drawn his bow at a venture. Neither this nor any other + theory I could fashion did I, however, find in the least satisfactory. All + I could be sure of was that here was no evidence of the marriage—on + the contrary, a strong presumption against it. + </p> + <p> + For my part, the dream in which I had indulged had been so short that I + very soon recovered from the disappointment of the waking therefrom. + Neither did the blot with which the birth of my grandfather was menaced + affect me much. My chief annoyance in regard of that aspect of the affair + was in being <i>so</i> related to Geoffrey Brotherton. + </p> + <p> + I cannot say how it came about, but I could not help observing that, by + degrees, a manifest softening appeared in Charley’s mode of speaking of + his father, although I knew that there was not the least approach to a + more cordial intercourse between them. I attributed the change to the + letters of his sister, which he always gave me to read. From them I have + since classed her with a few others I have since known, chiefly women, the + best of their kind, so good and so large-minded that they seem ever on the + point of casting aside the unworthy opinions they have been taught, and + showing themselves the true followers of Him who cared only for the truth, + and yet holding by the doctrines of men, and believing them to be the mind + of God. + </p> + <p> + In one or two of Charley’s letters to her I ventured to insert a question + or two, and her reference to these in her replies to Charley gave me an + opportunity of venturing to write to her more immediately, in part + defending what I thought the truth, in part expressing all the sympathy I + honestly could with her opinions. She replied very kindly, very earnestly, + and with a dignity of expression as well as of thought which harmonized + entirely with my vision of her deeper and grander nature. + </p> + <p> + The chief bent of my energies was now to vindicate for myself a worthy + position in the world of letters; but my cherished hope lay in the growth + of such an intimacy with Mary Osborne as might afford ground for the + cultivation of far higher and more precious ambitions. + </p> + <p> + It was not, however, with the design of furthering these that I was now + guilty of what will seem to most men a Quixotic action enough. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your sister is fond of riding—is she not?’ I asked Charley one day, + as we sauntered with our cigars on the terrace of the Adelphi. + </p> + <p> + ‘As fond as one can possibly be who has had so little opportunity,’ he + said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was hoping to have a ride with her and Clara the very evening when that + miserable affair occurred. The loss of that ride was at least as great a + disappointment to me as the loss of the sword.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You seem to like my sister, Wilfrid,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘At least I care more for her good opinion than I do for any woman’s—or + man’s either, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am so glad!’ he responded. ‘You like her better than Clara, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ever so much,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + He looked more pleased than annoyed, I thought—certainly neither the + one nor the other entirely. His eyes sparkled, but there was a flicker of + darkness about his forehead. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am very glad,’ he said again, after a moment’s pause. ‘I thought—I + was afraid—I had fancied sometimes—you were still a little in + love with Clara.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not one atom,’ I returned. ‘She cured me of that quite. There is no + danger of that any more,’ I added—foolishly, seeing I intended no + explanation. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you mean?’ he asked, a little uneasily. + </p> + <p> + I had no answer ready, and a brief silence followed. The subject was not + resumed. + </p> + <p> + It may well seem strange to my reader that I had never yet informed him of + the part Clara had had in the matter of the sword. But, as I have already + said, when anything moved me very deeply I was never ready to talk about + it. Somehow, perhaps from something of the cat-nature in me, I never liked + to let go my hold of it without good reason. Especially I shrank from + imparting what I only half comprehended; and besides, in the present case, + the thought of Clara’s behaviour was so painful to me still that I + recoiled from any talk about it—the more that Charley had a kind and + good opinion of her, and would, I knew, only start objections and + explanations defensive, as he had done before on a similar occasion, and + this I should have no patience with. I had, therefore, hitherto held my + tongue. There was, of course, likewise the fear of betraying his sister, + only the danger of that was small, now that the communication between the + two girls seemed at an end for the time; and if it had not been that a + certain amount of mutual reticence had arisen between us, first on + Charley’s part and afterwards on mine, I doubt much whether, after all, I + should not by this time have told him the whole story. But the moment I + had spoken as above, the strangeness of his look, which seemed to indicate + that he would gladly request me to explain myself but for some hidden + reason, flashed upon me the suspicion that he was himself in love with + Clara. The moment the suspicion entered, a host of circumstances + crystallized around it. Fact after fact flashed out of my memory, from the + first meeting of the two in Switzerland down to this last time I had seen + them together, and in the same moment I was convinced that the lady I saw + him with in the Regent’s Park was no other than Clara. But, if it were so, + why had he shut me out from his confidence? Of the possible reasons which + suggested themselves, the only one which approached the satisfactory was + that he had dreaded hurting me by the confession of his love for her, and + preferred leaving it to Clara to cure me of a passion to which my doubtful + opinion of her gave a probability of weakness and ultimate evanescence. + </p> + <p> + A great conflict awoke in me. What ought I to do? How could I leave him in + ignorance of the falsehood of the woman he loved? But I could not make the + disclosure now. I must think about the how and the how much to tell him. I + returned to the subject which had led up to the discovery. + </p> + <p> + ‘Does your father keep horses, Charley?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He has a horse for his parish work, and my mother has an old pony for her + carriage.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is the rectory a nice place?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe it is, but I have such painful associations with it that I + hardly know.’ + </p> + <p> + The Arab loves the desert sand where he was born; the thief loves the + court where he used to play in the gutter. How miserable Charley’s + childhood must have been! How <i>could</i> I tell him of Clara’s + falsehood? + </p> + <p> + ‘Why doesn’t he give Mary a pony to ride?’ I asked. ‘But I suppose he + hasn’t room for another?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! yes, there’s plenty of room. His predecessor was rather a big fellow. + In fact, the stables are on much too large a scale for a clergyman. I dare + say he never thought of it. I must do my father the justice to say there’s + nothing stingy about him, and I believe he loves my sister even more than + my mother. It certainly would be the best thing he could do for her to + give her a pony. But she will die of religion—young, and be sainted + in a twopenny tract, and that is better than a pony. Her hair doesn’t curl—that’s + the only objection. Some one has remarked that all the good children who + die have curly hair.’ + </p> + <p> + Poor Charley! Was his mind more healthy, then? Was he less likely to come + to an early death? Was his want of faith more life-giving than what he + considered her false faith? + </p> + <p> + ‘I see no reason to fear it,’ I said, with a tremor at my heart as I + thought of my dream. + </p> + <p> + That night I was sleepless—but about Charley—not about Mary. + What could I do?—what ought I to do? Might there be some mistake in + my judgment of Clara? I searched, and I believe searched honestly, for any + possible mode of accounting for her conduct that might save her + uprightness, or mitigate the severity of the condemnation I had passed + upon her. I could find none. At the same time, what I was really seeking + was an excuse for saying nothing to Charley. I suspect now that, had I + searched after justification or excuse for her from love to herself, I + might have succeeded in constructing a theory capable of sheltering her; + but, as it was, I failed utterly, and, turning at last from the effort, I + brooded instead upon the Quixotic idea already adverted to, grown the more + attractive as offering a good excuse for leaving Charley for a little. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LII. LILITH MEETS WITH A MISFORTUNE. + </h2> + <p> + The next day, leaving a note to inform Charley that I had run home for a + week, I set out for the Moat, carrying with me the best side-saddle I + could find in London. + </p> + <p> + As I left the inn at Minstercombe in a gig, I saw Clara coming out of a + shop. I could not stop and speak to her, for, not to mention the opinion I + had of her, and the treachery of which I accused her, was I not at that + very moment meditating how best to let her lover know that she was not to + be depended upon? I touched the horse with the whip, and drove rapidly + past. Involuntarily, however, I glanced behind, and saw a white face + staring after me. Our looks encountering thus, I lifted my hat, but held + on my course. + </p> + <p> + I could not help feeling very sorry for her. The more falsely she had + behaved, she was the more to be pitied. She looked very beautiful with + that white face. But how different was her beauty from that of my + Athanasia! + </p> + <p> + Having tried the side-saddle upon Lilith, and found all it wanted was a + little change in the stuffing about the withers, I told Styles to take it + and the mare to Minstercombe the next morning, and have it properly + fitted. + </p> + <p> + What trifles I am lingering upon! Lilith is gone to the worms—no, + that I <i>do not</i> believe: amongst the things most people believe, and + I cannot, that is one; but at all events she is dead, and the saddle gone + to worms; and yet, for reasons which will want no explanation to my one + reader, I care to linger even on the fringes of this part of the web of my + story. + </p> + <p> + I wandered about the field and house, building and demolishing many an + airy abode, until Styles came back. I had told him to get the job done at + once, and not return without the saddle. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can I trust you, Styles?’ I said abruptly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope so, sir. If I may make so bold, I don’t think I was altogether to + blame about that book—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course not. I told you so. Never think of it again. Can you keep a + secret?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can try, sir. You’ve been a good master to me, I’m sure, sir.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That I mean to be still, if I can. Do you know the parish of Spurdene?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was born there, sir.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! that’s not so convenient. Do you know the rectory?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Every stone of it, I may say, sir.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And do they know you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, it’s some years since I left—a mere boy, sir.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I want you, then—if it be possible—you can tell best—to + set out with Lilith to-morrow night—I hope it will be a warm night. + You must groom her thoroughly, put on the side-saddle and her new bridle, + and lead her—you’re not to ride her, mind—I don’t want her to + get hot—lead her to the rectory of Spurdene—and-now here is + the point—if it be possible, take her up to the stable, and fasten + her by this silver chain to the ring at the door of it—as near + morning as you safely can to avoid discovery, for she mustn’t stand longer + at this season of the year than can be helped. I will tell you all.—I + mean her for a present to Miss Osborne; but I do not want any one to know + where she comes from. None of them, I believe, have ever seen her. I will + write something on a card, which you will fasten to one of the pommels, + throwing over all this horsecloth.’ + </p> + <p> + I gave him a fine bear-skin I had bought for the purpose. He smiled, and, + with evident enjoyment of the spirit of the thing, promised to do his + best. + </p> + <p> + Lilith looked lovely as he set out with her late the following night. When + he returned the next morning, he reported that everything had succeeded + admirably. He had carried out my instructions to the letter; and my white + Lilith had by that time, I hoped, been caressed, possibly fed, by the + hands of Mary Osborne herself. + </p> + <p> + I may just mention that on the card I had written, or rather printed, the + words: ‘To Mary Osborne, from a friend.’ + </p> + <p> + In a day or two I went back to London, but said nothing to Charley of what + I had done—waiting to hear from him first what they said about it. + </p> + <p> + ‘I say, Wilfrid!’ he cried, as he came into my room with his usual hurried + step, the next morning but one, carrying an open letter in his hand, + ‘what’s this you’ve been doing—you sly old fellow? You ought to have + been a prince, by Jove!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you accuse me of? I must know that first, else I might confess to + more than necessary. One must be on one’s guard with such as you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Read that,’ he said, putting the letter into my hand. + </p> + <p> + It was from his sister. One passage was as follows: + </p> + <p> + ‘A strange thing has happened. A few mornings ago the loveliest white + horse was found tied to the stable door, with a side-saddle, and a card on + it directed to <i>me</i>. I went to look at the creature. It was like the + witch-lady in Christabel, ‘beautiful exceedingly.’ I ran to my father, and + told him. He asked me who had sent it, but I knew no more than he did. He + said I couldn’t keep it unless we found out who had sent it, and probably + not then, for the proceeding was as suspicious as absurd. To-day he has + put an advertisement in the paper to the effect that, if the animal is not + claimed before, it will be sold at the horse-fair next week, and the money + given to the new school fund. I feel as if I couldn’t bear parting with + it, but of course I can’t accept a present without knowing where it comes + from. Have you any idea who sent it? I am sure papa is right about it, as + indeed, dear Charley, he always is.’ + </p> + <p> + I laid down the letter, and, full of mortification, went walking about the + room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought it better, if you were questioned, that you should not know. + But it was a foolish thing to do—very. I see it now. Of course your + father is right. It doesn’t matter though. I will go down and buy her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You had better not appear in it. Go to the Moat, and send Styles.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—that will be best. Of course it will. When is the fair, do you + know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will find out for you. I hope some rascal mayn’t in the mean time take + my father in, and persuade him to give her up. Why shouldn’t I run down + and tell him, and get back poor Lilith without making you pay for your + own?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed you shan’t. The mare is your sister’s, and I shall lay no claim to + her. I have money enough to redeem her.’ + </p> + <p> + Charley got me information about the fair, and the day before it, I set + out for the Moat. + </p> + <p> + When I reached Minstercombe, having more time on my hands than I knew what + to do with, I resolved to walk round by Spurdene. It would not be more + than ten or twelve miles, and so I should get a peep of the rectory. On + the way I met a few farmer-looking men on horseback, and just before + entering the village saw at a little distance a white creature—very + like my Lilith—with a man on its back, coming towards me. + </p> + <p> + As they drew nearer, I was certain of the mare, and, thinking it possible + the rider might be Mr Osborne, withdrew into a thicket on the road-side. + But what was my dismay to discover that it was indeed my Lilith, but + ridden by Geoffrey Brotherton! As soon as he was past, I rushed into the + village, and found that the people I had met were going from the fair. + Charley had been misinformed. I was too late: Brotherton had bought my + Lilith. Half distracted with rage and vexation, I walked on and on, never + halting till I reached the Moat. Was this man destined to swallow up + everything I cared for? Had he suspected me as the foolish donor, and + bought the mare to spite me? A thousand times rather would I have had her + dead. Nothing on earth would have tempted me to sell my Lilith but + inability to feed her, and then I would rather have shot her. I felt + poorer than even when my precious folio was taken from me, for the lowest + animal life is a greater thing than a rare edition. I did not go to bed at + all that night, but sat by my fire or paced about the room till dawn, when + I set out for Minstercombe, and reached it in time for the morning coach + to London. The whole affair was a folly, and I said to-myself that I + deserved to suffer. Before I left, I told Styles, and begged him to keep + an eye on the mare, and, if ever he learned that her owner wanted to part + with her, to come off at once and let me know. He was greatly concerned at + my ill-luck, as he called it, and promised to watch her carefully. He knew + one of the grooms, he said, a little, and would cultivate his + acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + I could not help wishing now that Charley would let his sister know what I + had tried to do for her, but of course I would not say so. I think he did + tell her, but I never could be quite certain whether or not she knew it. I + wonder if she ever suspected me. I think not. I have too good reason to + fear that she attributed to another the would-be gift; I believe that, + from Brotherton’s buying her, they thought he had sent her—a present + certainly far more befitting his means than mine. But I came to care very + little about it, for my correspondence with her through Charley, went on. + I wondered sometimes how she could keep from letting her father know: that + he did not know I was certain, for he would have put a stop to it at once. + I conjectured that she had told her mother, and that she, fearing to widen + the breach between her husband and Charley, had advised her not to mention + it to him; while believing it would do both Charley and me good, she did + not counsel her to give up the correspondence. It must be considered, + also, that it was long before I said a word implying any personal + interest. Before I ventured that, I had some ground for thinking that my + ideas had begun to tell upon hers, for, even in her letters to Charley, + she had begun to drop the common religious phrases, while all she said + seemed to indicate a widening and deepening and simplifying of her faith. + I do not for a moment imply that she had consciously given up one of the + dogmas of the party to which she belonged, but there was the perceptible + softening of growth in her utterances, and after that was plain to me, I + began to let out my heart to her a little more. + </p> + <p> + About this time also I began to read once more the history of Jesus, + asking myself as if on a first acquaintance with it, ‘Could it be—might + it not be that, if there were a God, he would visit his children after + some fashion? If so, is this a likely fashion? May it not even be the only + right fashion?’ In the story I found at least a perfection surpassing + everything to be found elsewhere; and I was at least sure that whatever + this man said must be true. If one could only be as sure of the record! + But if ever a dawn was to rise upon me, here certainly the sky would + break; here I thought I already saw the first tinge of the returning + life-blood of the swooning world. The gathering of the waters of + conviction at length one morning broke out in the following verses, which + seemed more than half given to me, the only effort required being to fit + them rightly together:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come to me, come to me, O my God; + Come to me everywhere! + Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod, + And the water and the air. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For thou art so far that I often doubt, + As on every side I stare, + Searching within, and looking without, + If thou art anywhere. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How did men find thee in days of old? + How did they grow so sure? + They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold, + They suffered, and kept themselves pure. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But now they say—neither above the sphere, + Nor down in the heart of man, + But only in fancy, ambition, or fear, + The thought of thee began. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If only that perfect tale were true + Which, with touch of sunny gold, + Of the ancient many makes one anew, + And simplicity manifold. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But <i>he</i> said that they who did his word + The truth of it should know: + I will try to do it—if he be Lord, + Perhaps the old spring will flow; +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Perhaps the old spirit-wind will blow + That he promised to their prayer; + And doing thy will, I yet shall know + Thee, Father, everywhere! +</pre> + <p> + These lines found their way without my concurrence into a certain + religious magazine, and I was considerably astonished, and yet more + pleased, one evening when Charley handed me, with the kind regards of his + sister, my own lines, copied by herself. I speedily let her know they were + mine, explaining that they had found their way into print without my + cognizance. She testified so much pleasure at the fact, and the little + scraps I could claim as my peculiar share of the contents of Charley’s + envelopes grew so much more confiding that I soon ventured to write more + warmly than hitherto. A period longer than usual passed before she wrote + again, and when she did she took no express notice of my last letter. + Foolishly or not, I regarded this as a favourable sign, and wrote several + letters, in which I allowed the true state of my feelings towards her to + appear. At length I wrote a long letter in which, without a word of direct + love-making, I thought yet to reveal that I loved her with all my heart. + It was chiefly occupied with my dream on that memorable night—of + course without the slightest allusion to the waking, or anything that + followed. I ended abruptly, telling her that the dream often recurred, but + as often as it drew to its lovely close, the lifted veil of Athanasia + revealed ever and only the countenance of Mary Osborne. + </p> + <p> + The answer to this came soon and in few words. + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare not take to myself what you write. That would be presumption + indeed, not to say wilful self-deception. It will be honour enough for me + if in any way I serve to remind you of the lady in your dream. Wilfrid, if + you love me, take care of my Charley. I must not write more.—M.O.’ + </p> + <p> + It was not much, but enough to make me happy. I write it from memory—every + word as it lies where any moment I could read it—shut in a golden + coffin whose lid I dare not open. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIII. TOO LATE. + </h2> + <p> + I must now go back a little. After my suspicions had been aroused as to + the state of Charley’s feelings, I hesitated for a long time before I + finally made up my mind to tell him the part Clara had had in the loss of + my sword. But while I was thus restrained by dread of the effect the + disclosure would have upon him if my suspicions were correct, those very + suspicions formed the strongest reason for acquainting him with her + duplicity; and, although I was always too ready to put off the evil day so + long as doubt supplied excuse for procrastination, I could not have let so + much time slip by and nothing said but for my absorption in Mary. + </p> + <p> + At length, however, I had now resolved, and one evening, as we sat + together, I took my pipe from my mouth, and, shivering bodily, thus began: + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley,’ I said, ‘I have had for a good while something on my mind, + which I cannot keep from you longer.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked alarmed instantly. I went on. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have not been quite open with you about that affair of the sword.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked yet more dismayed; but I must go on, though it tore my very + heart. When I came to the point of my overhearing Clara talking to + Brotherton, he started up, and, without waiting to know the subject of + their conversation, came close up to me, and, his face distorted with the + effort to keep himself quiet, said, in a voice hollow and still and + far-off, like what one fancies of the voice of the dead: + </p> + <p> + ‘Wilfrid, you said Brotherton, I think?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I did, Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She never told me that!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How could she when she was betraying your friend?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No no!’ he cried, with a strange mixture of command and entreaty; ‘don’t + say that. There is some explanation. There <i>must</i> be.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She told <i>me</i> she hated him,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>I know</i> she hates him. What was she saying to him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I tell you she was betraying me, your friend, who had never done her any + wrong, to the man she had told me she hated, and whom I had heard her + ridicule.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean by betraying you?’ + </p> + <p> + I recounted what I had overheard. He listened with clenched teeth and + trembling white lips; then burst into a forced laugh. ‘What a fool I am! + Distrust <i>her!</i> I will <i>not</i>. There is some explanation! There + <i>must</i> be!’ + </p> + <p> + The dew of agony lay thick on his forehead. I was greatly alarmed at what + I had done, but I could not blame myself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do be calm, Charley,’ I entreated. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am as calm as death,’ he replied, striding up and down the room with + long strides. + </p> + <p> + He stopped and came up to me again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wilfrid,’ he said, ‘I am a damned fool. I am going now. Don’t be + frightened—I am perfectly calm. I will come and explain it all to + you to-morrow—no—the next day—or the next at latest. She + had some reason for hiding it from me, but I shall have it all the moment + I ask her. She is not what you think her. I don’t for a moment blame you—but—are + you sure it was—Clara’s—voice you heard?’ he added with forced + calmness and slow utterance. + </p> + <p> + ‘A man is not likely to mistake the voice of a woman he ever fancied + himself in love with.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t talk like that, Wilfrid. You’ll drive me mad. How should she know + you had taken the sword?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She was always urging me to take it. There lies the main sting of the + treachery. But I never told you where I found the sword.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What can that have to do with it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I found it on my bed that same morning when I woke. It could not have + been there when I lay down.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley, I believe <i>she</i> laid it there.’ + </p> + <p> + He leaped at me like a tiger. Startled, I jumped to my feet. He laid hold + of me by the throat, and griped me with a quivering grasp. Recovering my + self-possession, I stood perfectly still, making no effort even to remove + his hand, although it was all but choking me. In a moment or two he + relaxed his hold, burst into tears, took up his hat, and walked to the + door. + </p> + <p> + ‘Charley! Charley! you must <i>not</i> leave me so,’ I cried, starting + forwards. + </p> + <p> + ‘To-morrow, Wilfrid; to-morrow,’ he said, and was gone. + </p> + <p> + He was back before I could think what to do next. Opening the door half + way, he said—as if a griping hand had been on <i>his</i> throat— + </p> + <p> + ‘I—I—I—don’t believe it, Wilfrid. You only said you + believed it. <i>I</i> don’t. Good night. I’m all right now. <i>Mind, I + don’t believe it.</i>’ + </p> + <p> + He, shut the door. Why did I not follow him? + </p> + <p> + But if I had followed him, what could I have said or done? In every man’s + life come awful moments when he must meet his fate—dree his weird—alone. + Alone, I say, if he have no God—for man or woman cannot aid him, + cannot touch him, cannot come near him. Charley was now in one of those + crises, and I could not help him. Death is counted an awful thing: it + seems to me that life is an infinitely more awful thing. + </p> + <p> + In the morning I received the following letter:— + </p> + <p> + ‘Dear Mr Cumbermede, + </p> + <p> + ‘You will be surprised at receiving a note from me—still more at its + contents. I am most anxious to see you—so much so that I venture to + ask you to meet me where we can have a little quiet talk. I am in London, + and for a day or two sufficiently my own mistress to leave the choice of + time and place with you—only let it be when and where we shall not + be interrupted. I presume on old friendship in making this extraordinary + request, but I do not presume in my confidence that you will not + misunderstand my motives. One thing only I <i>beg</i>—that you will + not inform C.O. of the petition I make. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your old friend, + </p> + <h3> + ‘C.C.’ + </h3> + <p> + What was I to do? To go, of course. She <i>might</i> have something to + reveal which would cast light on her mysterious conduct. I cannot say I + expected a disclosure capable of removing Charley’s misery, but I did + vaguely hope to learn something that might alleviate it. Anyhow, I would + meet her, for I dared not refuse to hear her. To her request of concealing + it from Charley, I would grant nothing beyond giving it quarter until I + should see whither the affair tended. I wrote at once—making an + appointment for the same evening. But was it from a suggestion of Satan, + from an evil impulse of human spite, or by the decree of fate, that I + fixed on that part of the Regent’s Park in which I had seen him and the + lady I now believed to have been Clara walking together in the dusk? I + cannot now tell. The events which followed have destroyed all certainty, + but I fear it was a flutter of the wings of revenge, a shove at the spokes + of the wheel of time to hasten the coming of its circle. + </p> + <p> + Anxious to keep out of Charley’s way—for the secret would make me + wretched in his presence—I went into the City, and, after an early + dinner, sauntered out to the Zoological Gardens, to spend the time till + the hour of meeting. But there, strange to say, whether from insight or + fancy, in every animal face I saw such gleams of a troubled humanity that + at last I could bear it no longer, and betook myself to Primrose Hill. + </p> + <p> + It was a bright afternoon, wonderfully clear, with a crisp frosty feel in + the air. But the sun went down, and one by one, here and there, above and + below, the lights came out and the stars appeared, until at length sky and + earth were full of flaming spots, and it was time to seek our rendezvous. + </p> + <p> + I had hardly reached it when the graceful form of Clara glided towards me. + She perceived in a moment that I did not mean to shake hands with her. It + was not so dark but that I saw her bosom heave and a flush overspread her + countenance. + </p> + <p> + ‘You wished to see me, Miss Coningham,’ I said. ‘I am at your service.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is wrong, Mr Cumbermede? You never used to speak to me in such a + tone.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There is nothing wrong if you are not more able than I to tell what it + is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why did you come if you were going to treat me so?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because you requested it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have I offended you, then, by asking you to meet me? I trusted you. I + thought <i>you</i> would never misjudge me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should be but too happy to find I had been unjust to you, Miss + Coningham. I would gladly go on my knees to you to confess that fault, if + I could only be satisfied of its existence. Assure me of it, and I will + bless you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How strangely you talk! Some one has been maligning me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No one. But I have come to the knowledge of what only one besides + yourself could have told me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Geoffrey Brotherton.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>He!</i> He has been telling you—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No—thank heaven! I have not yet sunk to the slightest communication + with <i>him</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + She turned her face aside. Veiled as it was by the gathering gloom, she + yet could not keep it towards me. But after a brief pause she looked at me + and said, + </p> + <p> + ‘You know more than—I do not know what you mean.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do know more than you think I know. I will tell you under what + circumstances I came to such knowledge.’ + </p> + <p> + She stood motionless. + </p> + <p> + ‘One evening,’ I went on, ‘after leaving Moldwarp Hall with Charles + Osborne, I returned to the library to fetch a book. As I entered the room + where it lay, I heard voices in the armoury. One was the voice of Geoffrey + Brotherton—a man you told me you hated. The other was yours.’ + </p> + <p> + She drew herself up, and stood stately before me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is that your accusation?’ she said. ‘Is a woman never to speak to a man + because she detests him?’ + </p> + <p> + She laughed—I thought drearily. + </p> + <p> + ‘Apparently not—for then I presume you would not have asked me to + meet you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should you think I hate <i>you</i>?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because you have been treacherous to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In talking to Geoffrey Brotherton? I do hate him. I hate him more than + ever. I spoke the truth when I told you that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you do not hate me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And yet you delivered me over to my enemy bound hand and foot, as Delilah + did Samson.—I heard what you said to Brotherton.’ + </p> + <p> + She seemed to waver, but stood—speechless, as if waiting for more. + </p> + <p> + ‘I heard you tell him that I had taken that sword—the sword you had + always been urging me to take—the sword you unsheathed and laid on + my bed that I might be tempted to take it—why I cannot understand, + for I never did you a wrong to my poor knowledge. I fell into your snare, + and you made use of the fact you had achieved to ruin my character, and + drive me from the house in which I was foolish enough to regard myself as + conferring favours rather than receiving them. You have caused me to be + branded as a thief for taking—at your suggestion—that which + was and still is my own!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Does Charley know this?’ she asked, in a strangely altered voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘He does. He learned it yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘O my God!’ she cried, and fell kneeling on the grass at my feet. + ‘Wilfrid! Wilfrid! I will tell you all. It was to tell you all about this + very thing that I asked you to come. I could not bear it longer. Only your + tone made me angry. I did not know you knew so much.’ + </p> + <p> + The very fancy of such submission from such a creature would have thrilled + me with a wild compassion once; but now I thought of Charley and felt cold + to her sorrow as well as her loveliness. When she lifted her eyes to mine, + however—it was not so dark but I could see their sadness—I + began to hope a little for my friend. I took her hand and raised her. She + was now weeping with down-bent head. + </p> + <p> + ‘Clara, you shall tell me all. God forbid I should be hard upon you! But + you know I cannot understand it. I have no clue to it. How could you serve + me so?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is very hard for me—but there is no help now: I must confess + disgrace, in order to escape infamy. Listen to me, then—as kindly as + you can, Wilfrid. I beg your pardon; I have no right to use any old + familiarity with you. Had my father’s plans succeeded, I should still have + had to make an apology to you, but under what different circumstances! I + will be as brief as I can. My father believed you the rightful heir to + Moldwarp Hall. Your own father believed it, and made my father believe it—that + was in case your uncle should leave no heir behind him. But your uncle was + a strange man, and would neither lay claim to the property himself, nor + allow you to be told of your prospects. He did all he could to make you, + like himself, indifferent to worldly things; and my father feared you + would pride yourself on refusing to claim your rights, unless some + counter-influence were used.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why should your father have taken any trouble in the matter?’ I + asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, you know—one in his profession likes to see justice done; + and, besides, to conduct such a case must, of course, be of professional + advantage to him. You must not think him under obligation to the present + family: my grandfather held the position he still occupies before they + came into the property.—I am too unhappy to mind what I say now. My + father was pleased when you and I—indeed I fancy he had a hand in + our first meeting. But while your uncle lived he had to be cautious. + Chance, however, seemed to favour his wishes. We met more than once, and + you liked me, and my father thought I might wake you up to care about your + rights, and—and—but—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see. And it might have been, Clara, but for—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only, you see, Mr Cumbermede,’ she interrupted with a half-smile, and a + little return of her playful manner—‘<i>I</i> didn’t wish it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. You preferred the man who <i>had</i> the property.’ + </p> + <p> + It was a speech both cruel and rude. She stepped a pace back, and looked + me proudly in the face. + </p> + <p> + Prefer that man to <i>you</i>, Wilfrid! No. I could never have fallen so + low as that. But I confess I didn’t mind letting papa understand that Mr + Brotherton was polite to me—just to keep him from urging me to—to—You + <i>will</i> do me the justice that I did not try to make you—to make + you—care for me, Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I admit it heartily. I will be as honest as you, and confess that you + might have done so—easily enough at one time. Indeed I am only half + honest after all: I loved you once—after a boyish fashion.’ + </p> + <p> + She half smiled again. ‘I am glad you are believing me now,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thoroughly,’ I answered. ‘When you speak the truth, I must believe you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was afraid to let papa know the real state of things. I was always + afraid of him, though I love him dearly, and he is very good to me. I + dared not disappoint him by telling him that I loved Charley Osborne. That + time—you remember—when we met in Switzerland, his strange ways + interested me so much! I was only a girl—but—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I understand well enough. I don’t wonder at any woman falling in love + with my Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you,’ she said, with a sigh which seemed to come from the bottom of + her heart. ‘You were always generous. You will do what you can to right me + with Charley—won’t you? He is very strange sometimes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will indeed. But, Clara, why didn’t Charley let <i>me</i> know that you + and he loved each other?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! there my shame comes in again! I wanted—for my father’s sake, + not for my own—I need not tell you that—I wanted to keep my + influence over you a little while—that is, until I could gain my + father’s end. If I should succeed in rousing you to enter an action for + the recovery of your rights, I thought my father might then be reconciled + to my marrying Charley instead—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Instead of me, Clara. Yes—I see. I begin to understand the whole + thing. It’s not so bad as I thought—not by any means.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Wilfrid! how good of you! I shall love you next to Charley all my + life.’ + </p> + <p> + She caught hold of my hand, and for a moment seemed on the point of + raising it to her lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘But I can’t easily get over the disgrace you have done me, Clara. + Neither, I confess, can I get over your degrading yourself to a private + interview with such a beast as I know—and can’t help suspecting you + knew—Brotherton to be.’ + </p> + <p> + She dropped my hand, and hid her face in both her own. + </p> + <p> + ‘I did know what he was; but the thought of Charley made me able to go + through with it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘With the sacrifice of his friend to his enemy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was bad. It was horridly wicked. I hate myself for it. But you know I + thought it would do you no harm in the end.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How much did Charley know of it all?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing whatever. How could I trust his innocence? He’s the simplest + creature in the world, Wilfrid.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know that well enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I could not confess one atom of it to him. He would have blown up the + whole scheme at once. It was all I could do to keep him from telling you + of our engagement; and that made him miserable.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you tell him I was in love with you? You knew I was, well enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I dared not do that,’ she said, with a sad smile. ‘He would have vanished—would + have killed himself to make way for you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see you understand him, Clara.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That will give me some feeble merit in your eyes—won’t it, + Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Still I don’t see quite why you betrayed me to Brotherton. I dare say I + should if I had time to think it over.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wanted to put you in such a position with regard to the Brothertons + that you could have no scruples in respect of them such as my father + feared from what he called the over-refinement of your ideas of honour. + The treatment you must receive would, I thought, rouse every feeling + against them. But it was not <i>all</i> for my father’s sake, Wilfrid. It + was, however mistaken, yet a good deal for the sake of Charley’s friend + that I thus disgraced myself. Can you believe me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do. But nothing can wipe out the disgrace to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The sword was your own. Of course I never for a moment doubted that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But they believed I was lying.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t persuade myself it signifies greatly what such people think about + you. I except Sir Giles. The rest are—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yet you consented to visit them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was in reality Sir Giles’s guest. Not one of the others would have + asked me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not Geoffrey?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I owe <i>him</i> nothing but undying revenge for Charley.’ Her eyes + flashed through the darkness; and she looked as if she could have killed + him. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you were plotting against Sir Giles all the time you were his guest?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not unjustly, though. The property was not his, but yours—that is, + as we then believed. As far as I knew, the result would have been a real + service to him, in delivering him from unjust possession—a thing he + would himself have scorned. It was all very wrong—very low, if you + like—but somehow it then seemed simple enough—a lawful + stratagem for the right.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your heart was so full of Charley!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you do forgive me, Wilfrid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘With all my soul. I hardly feel now as if I had anything to forgive.’ + </p> + <p> + I drew her towards me and kissed her on the forehead. She threw her arms + round me, and clung to me, sobbing like a child. + </p> + <p> + ‘You will explain it all to Charley—won’t you?’ she said, as soon as + she could speak, withdrawing herself from the arm which had involuntarily + crept around her, seeking to comfort her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + We were startled by a sound in the clump of trees behind us. Then over + their tops passed a wailful gust of wind, through which we thought came + the fall of receding footsteps. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope we haven’t been overheard,’ I said. ‘I shall go at once and tell + Charley all about it. I will just see you home first.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no occasion for that, Wilfrid; and I’m sure I don’t deserve it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You deserve a thousand thanks. You have lifted a mountain off me. I see + it all now. When your father found it was no use—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I saw I had wronged you, and I couldn’t bear myself till I had + confessed all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your father is satisfied, then, that the register would not stand in + evidence?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. He told me all about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He has never said a word to me on the matter; but just dropped me in the + dirt, and let me lie there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You must forgive him too, Wilfrid. It was a dreadful blow to him, and it + was weeks before he told me. We couldn’t think what was the matter with + him. You see he had been cherishing the scheme ever since your father’s + death, and it was a great humiliation to find he had been sitting so many + years on an addled egg,’ she said, with a laugh in which her natural + merriment once more peeped out. + </p> + <p> + I walked home with her, and we parted like old friends. On my way to the + Temple I was anxiously occupied as to how Charley would receive the + explanation I had to give him. That Clara’s confession would be a relief I + could not doubt; but it must cause him great pain notwithstanding. His + sense of honour was so keen, and his ideal of womankind so lofty, that I + could not but dread the consequences of the revelation. At the same time I + saw how it might benefit him. I had begun to see that it is more divine to + love the erring than to love the good, and to understand how there is more + joy over the one than over the ninety and nine. If Charley, understanding + that he is no divine lover, who loves only so long as he is able to + flatter himself that the object of his love is immaculate, should find + that he must love Clara in spite of her faults and wrong-doings, he might + thus grow to be less despairful over his own failures; he might, through + his love for Clara, learn to hope for himself, notwithstanding the awful + distance at which perfection lay removed. + </p> + <p> + But as I went I was conscious of a strange oppression. It was not properly + mental, for my interview with Clara had raised my spirits. It was a kind + of physical oppression I felt, as if the air, which was in reality clear + and cold, had been damp and close and heavy. + </p> + <p> + I went straight to Charley’s chambers. The moment I opened the door, I + knew that something was awfully wrong. The room was dark—but he + would often sit in the dark. I called him, but received no answer. + Trembling, I struck a light, for I feared to move lest I should touch + something dreadful. But when I had succeeded in lighting the lamp, I found + the room just as it always was. His hat was on the table. He must be in + his bed-room. And yet I did not feel as if anything alive was near me. Why + was everything so frightfully still? I opened the door as slowly and + fearfully as if I had dreaded arousing a sufferer whose life depended on + his repose. There he lay on his bed, in his clothes—fast asleep, as + I thought, for he often slept so, and at any hour of the day—the + natural relief of his much-perturbed mind. His eyes were closed, and his + face was very white. As I looked, I heard a sound—a drop—another! + There was a slow drip somewhere. God in heaven! Could it be? I rushed to + him, calling him aloud. There was no response. It was too true! He was + dead. The long snake-like Indian dagger was in his heart, and the blood + was oozing slowly from around it. + </p> + <p> + I dare not linger over that horrible night, or the horrible days that + followed. Such days! such nights! The letters to write!—The friends + to tell!—Clara!—His father!—The police!—The + inquest! + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Mr Osborne took no notice of my letter, but came up at once. Entering + where I sat with my head on my arms on the table, the first announcement I + had of his presence was a hoarse deep broken voice ordering me out of the + room. I obeyed mechanically, took up Charley’s hat instead of my own, and + walked away with it. But the neighbours were kind, and although I did not + attempt to approach again all that was left of my friend, I watched from a + neighbouring window, and following at a little distance, was present when + they laid his form, late at night, in the unconsecrated ground of a + cemetery. + </p> + <p> + I may just mention here what I had not the heart to dwell upon in the + course of my narrative—that since the talk about suicide occasioned + by the remarks of Sir Thomas Browne, he had often brought up the subject—chiefly, + however, in a half-humorous tone, and from what may be called an aesthetic + point of view as to the best mode of accomplishing it. For some of the + usual modes he expressed abhorrence, as being so ugly; and on the whole + considered—I well remember the phrase, for he used it more than once—that + a dagger—and on one of those occasions he took up the Indian weapon + already described and said—‘such as this now,’—was ‘the most + gentleman-like usher into the presence of the Great Nothing.’ As I had, + however, often heard that those who contemplated suicide never spoke of + it, and as his manner on the occasions to which I refer was always merry, + such talk awoke little uneasiness; and I believe that he never had at the + moment any conscious attraction to the subject stronger than a speculative + one. At the same time, however, I believe that the speculative attraction + itself had its roots in the misery with which in other and prevailing + moods he was so familiar. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIV. ISOLATION. + </h2> + <p> + After writing to Mr Osborne to acquaint him with the terrible event, the + first thing I did was to go to Clara. I will not attempt to describe what + followed. The moment she saw me, her face revealed, as in a mirror, the + fact legible on my own, and I had scarcely opened my mouth when she cried + ‘He is dead!’ and fell fainting on the floor. Her aunt came, and we + succeeded in recovering her a little. But she lay still as death on the + couch where we had laid her, and the motion of her eyes hither and + thither, as if following the movements of some one about the room, was the + only sign of life in her. We spoke to her, but evidently she heard + nothing; and at last, leaving her when the doctor arrived, I waited for + her aunt in another room, and told her what had happened. + </p> + <p> + Some days after, Clara sent for me, and I had to tell her the whole story. + Then, with agony in every word she uttered, she managed to inform me that, + when she went in after I had left her at the door that night, she found + waiting her a note from Charley; and this she now gave me to read. It + contained a request to meet him that evening at the very place which I had + appointed. It was their customary rendezvous when she was in town. In all + probability he was there when we were, and heard and saw—heard too + little and saw too much, and concluded that both Clara and I were false to + him. The frightful perturbation which a conviction such as that must cause + in a mind like his could be nothing short of madness. For, ever tortured + by a sense of his own impotence, of the gulf to all appearance eternally + fixed between his actions and his aspirations, and unable to lay hold of + the Essential, the Causing Goodness, he had clung, with the despair of a + perishing man, to the dim reflex of good he saw in her and me. If his + faith in that was indeed destroyed, the last barrier must have given way, + and the sea of madness ever breaking against it must have broken in and + overwhelmed him. But oh, my friend! surely long ere now thou knowest that + we were not false; surely the hour will yet dawn when I shall again hold + thee to my heart; yea, surely, even if still thou countest me guilty, thou + hast already found for me endless excuse and forgiveness. + </p> + <p> + I can hardly doubt, however, that he inherited a strain of madness from + his father, a madness which that father had developed by forcing upon him + the false forms of a true religion. + </p> + <p> + It is not then strange that I should have thought and speculated much + about madness.—What does its frequent impulse to suicide indicate? + May it not be its main instinct to destroy itself as an evil thing? May + not the impulse arise from some unconscious conviction that there is for + it no remedy but the shuffling off of this mortal coil—nature + herself dimly urging through the fumes of the madness to the one blow + which lets in the light and air? Doubtless, if in the mind so sadly + unhinged, the sense of a holy presence could be developed—the sense + of a love that loves through all vagaries—of a hiding-place from + forms of evil the most fantastic—of a fatherly care that not merely + holds its insane child in its arms, but enters into the chaos of his + imagination, and sees every wildest horror with which it swarms; if, I + say, the conviction of such a love dawned on the disordered mind, the man + would live in spite of his imaginary foes, for he would pray against them + as sure of being heard as St Paul when he prayed concerning the thorn from + which he was not delivered, but against which he was sustained. And who + can tell how often this may be the fact—how often the lunatic also + lives by faith? Are not the forms of madness most frequently those of love + and religion? Certainly, if there be a God, he does not forget his + frenzied offspring; certainly he is more tender over them than any mother + over her idiot darling; certainly he sees in them what the eye of brother + or sister cannot see. But some of them, at least, have not enough of such + support to be able to go on living; and, for my part, I confess I rejoice + as often as I hear that one has succeeded in breaking his prison bars. + When the crystal shrine has grown dim, and the fair forms of nature are in + their entrance contorted hideously; when the sunlight itself is as blue + lightning, and the wind in the summer trees is as ‘a terrible sound of + stones cast down, or a rebounding echo from the hollow mountains;’ when + the body is no longer a mediator between the soul and the world, but the + prison-house of a lying gaoler and torturer—how can I but rejoice to + hear that the tormented captive has at length forced his way out into + freedom? + </p> + <p> + When I look behind me, I can see but little through the surging lurid + smoke of that awful time. The first sense of relief came when I saw the + body of Charley laid in the holy earth. For the earth <i>is</i> the Lord’s—and + none the less holy that the voice of the priest may have left it without + his consecration. Surely if ever the Lord laughs in derision, as the + Psalmist says, it must be when the voice of a man would in <i>his</i> name + exclude his fellows from their birthright. O Lord, gather thou the + outcasts of thy Israel, whom the priests and the rulers of thy people have + cast out to perish. + </p> + <p> + I remember for the most part only a dull agony, interchanging with apathy. + For days and days I could not rest, but walked hither and thither, + careless whither. When at length I would lie down weary and fall asleep, + suddenly I would start up, hearing the voice of Charley crying for help, + and rush in the middle of the Winter night into the wretched streets there + to wander till daybreak. But I was not utterly miserable. In my most + wretched dreams I never dreamed of Mary, and through all my waking + distress I never forgot her. I was sure in my very soul that she did me no + injustice. I had laid open the deepest in me to her honest gaze, and she + had read it, and could not but know me. Neither did what had occurred + quench my growing faith. I had never been able to hope much for Charley in + this world; for something was out of joint with him, and only in the + region of the unknown was I able to look for the setting right of it. Nor + had many weeks passed before I was fully aware of relief when I remembered + that he was dead. And whenever the thought arose that God might have given + him a fairer chance in this world, I was able to reflect that apparently + God does not care for this world save as a part of the whole; and on that + whole I had yet to discover that he could have given him a fairer chance. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LV. ATTEMPTS AND COINCIDENCES. + </h2> + <p> + It was months before I could resume my work. Not until Charley’s absence + was, as it were, so far established and accepted that hope had begun to + assert itself against memory; that is, not until the form of Charley + ceased to wander with despairful visage behind me and began to rise + amongst the silvery mists before me, was I able to invent once more, or + even to guide the pen with certainty over the paper. The moment, however, + that I took the pen in my hand another necessity seized me. + </p> + <p> + Although Mary had hardly been out of my thoughts, I had heard no word of + her since her brother’s death. I dared not write to her father or mother + after the way the former had behaved to me, and I shrunk from approaching + Mary with a word that might suggest a desire to intrude the thoughts of + myself upon the sacredness of her grief. Why should she think of me? + Sorrow has ever something of a divine majesty, before which one must draw + nigh with bowed head and bated breath: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here I and sorrows sit; + Here is my throne: bid kings come bow to it. +</pre> + <p> + But the moment I took the pen in my hand to write, an almost agonizing + desire to speak to her laid hold of me. I dared not yet write to her, but, + after reflection, resolved to send her some verses which should make her + think of both Charley and myself, through the pages of a magazine which I + knew she read. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, look not on the heart I bring— + It is too low and poor; + I would not have thee love a thing + Which I can ill endure. + + Nor love me for the sake of what + I would be if I could; + O’er peaks as o’er the marshy flat, + Still soars the sky of good. + + See, love, afar, the heavenly man + The will of God would make; + The thing I must be when I can, + Love now, for faith’s dear sake. +</pre> + <p> + But when I had finished the lines, I found the expression had fallen so + far short of what I had in my feeling, that I could not rest satisfied + with such an attempt at communication. I walked up and down the room, + thinking of the awful theories regarding the state of mind at death in + which Mary had been trained. As to the mere suicide, love ever finds + refuge in presumed madness; but all of her school believed that at the + moment of dissolution the fate is eternally fixed either for bliss or woe, + determined by the one or the other of two vaguely defined attitudes of the + mental being towards certain propositions; concerning which attitudes they + were at least right in asserting that no man could of himself assume the + safe one. The thought became unendurable that Mary should believe that + Charley was damned—and that for ever and ever. I must and would + write to her, come of it what might. That my Charley, whose suicide came + of misery that the painful flutterings of his half-born wings would not + bear him aloft into the empyrean, should appear to my Athanasia lost in an + abyss of irrecoverable woe; that she should think of God as sending forth + his spirit to sustain endless wickedness for endless torture;—it was + too frightful. As I wrote, the fire burned and burned, and I ended only + from despair of utterance. Not a word can I now recall of what I wrote:—the + strength of my feelings must have paralyzed the grasp of my memory. All I + can recollect is that I closed with the expression of a passionate hope + that the God who had made me and my Charley to love each other, would + somewhere, some day, somehow, when each was grown stronger and purer, give + us once more to each other. In that hope alone, I said, was it possible + for me to live. By return of post I received the following:— + </p> + <h3> + SIR, + </h3> + <p> + After having everlastingly ruined one of my children, body and soul, for + <i>your</i> sophisms will hardly alter the decrees of divine justice, once + more you lay your snares—now to drag my sole remaining child into + the same abyss of perdition. Such wickedness—wickedness even to the + pitch of blasphemy against the Holy Ghost—I have never in the course + of a large experience of impenitence found paralleled. It almost drives me + to the belief that the enemy of souls is still occasionally permitted to + take up his personal abode in the heart of him who wilfully turns aside + from revealed truth. I forgive you for the ruin you have brought upon our + fondest hopes, and the agony with which you have torn the hearts of those + who more than life loved him of whom you falsely called yourself the + friend. But I fear you have already gone too far ever to feel your need of + that forgiveness which alone can avail you. Yet I say—Repent, for + the mercy of the Lord is infinite. Though my boy is lost to me for ever, I + should yet rejoice to see the instrument of his ruin plucked as a brand + from the burning. + </p> + <p> + Your obedient well-wisher, + </p> + <h3> + CHARLES OSBORNE. + </h3> + <p> + ‘P.S.—I retain your letter for the sake of my less experienced + brethren, that I may be able to afford an instance of how far the + unregenerate mind can go in its antagonism to the God of Revelation.’ + </p> + <p> + I breathed a deep breath, and laid the letter down, mainly concerned as to + whether Mary had had the chance of reading mine. I could believe any + amount of tyranny in her father—even to perusing and withholding her + letters; but in this I may do him injustice, for there is no common ground + known to me from which to start in speculating upon his probable actions. + I wrote in answer something nearly as follows:— + </p> + <h3> + SIR, + </h3> + <p> + That you should do me injustice can by this time be no matter of surprise + to me. Had I the slightest hope of convincing you of the fact, I should + strain every mental nerve to that end. But no one can labour without hope, + and as in respect of <i>your</i> justice I have none, I will be silent. + May the God in whom I trust convince you of the cruelty of which you have + been guilty: the God in whom you profess to believe, must be too like + yourself to give any ground of such hope from him. + </p> + <p> + Your obedient servant, + </p> + <h3> + ‘WILFRID CUMBERMEDE.’ + </h3> + <p> + If Mary had read my letter, I felt assured her reading had been very + different from her father’s. Anyhow she could not judge me as he did, for + she knew me better. She knew that for Charley’s sake I had tried the + harder to believe myself. + </p> + <p> + But the reproaches of one who had been so unjust to his own son could not + weigh very heavily on me, and I now resumed my work with a tolerable + degree of calmness. But I wrote badly. I should have done better to go + down to the Moat, and be silent. If my reader has ever seen what I wrote + at that time, I should like her to know that I now wish it all unwritten—not + for any utterance contained in it, but simply for its general inferiority. + </p> + <p> + Certainly work is not always required of a man. There is such a thing as a + sacred idleness, the cultivation of which is now fearfully neglected. + Abraham, seated in his tent door in the heat of the day, would be to the + philosophers of the nineteenth century an object for uplifted hands and + pointed fingers. They would see in him only the indolent Arab, whom + nothing but the foolish fancy that he saw his Maker in the distance, could + rouse to run. + </p> + <p> + It was clearly better to attempt no further communication with Mary at + present; and I could think but of one person from whom, without giving + pain, I might hope for some information concerning her. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Here I had written a detailed account of how I contrived to meet Miss + Pease, but it is not of consequence enough to my story to be allowed to + remain. Suffice it to mention that one morning at length I caught sight of + her in a street in Mayfair, where the family was then staying for the + season, and overtaking addressed her. + </p> + <p> + She started, stared at me for a moment, and held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t know you, Mr Cumbermede. How much older you look! I beg your + pardon. Have you been ill?’ + </p> + <p> + She spoke hurriedly, and kept looking over her shoulder now and then, as + if afraid of being seen talking to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have had a good deal to make me older since we met last, Miss Pease,’ I + said. ‘I have hardly a friend left in the world but you—that is, if + you will allow me to call you one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly, certainly,’ she answered, but hurriedly, and with one of those + uneasy glances. ‘Only you must allow, Mr Cumbermede, that—that—that—’ + </p> + <p> + The poor lady was evidently unprepared to meet me on the old footing, and, + at the same time, equally unwilling to hurt my feelings. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should be sorry to make you run a risk for my sake,’ I said. ‘Please + just answer me one question. Do you know what it is to be misunderstood—to + be despised without deserving it?’ + </p> + <p> + She smiled sadly, and nodded her head gently two or three times. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then have pity on me, and let me have a little talk with you.’ + </p> + <p> + Again she glanced apprehensively over her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are afraid of being seen with me, and I don’t wonder,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Geoffrey came up with us,’ she answered. ‘I left him at breakfast. He + will be going across the park to his club directly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then come with me the other way—into Hyde Park,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + With evident reluctance, she yielded and accompanied me. + </p> + <p> + As soon as we got within Stanhope Gate, I spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘A certain sad event, of which you have no doubt heard, Miss Pease, has + shut me out from all communication with the family of my friend Charley + Osborne. I am very anxious for some news of his sister. She is all that is + left of him to me now. Can you tell me anything about her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She has been very ill,’ she replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope that means that she is better,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘She is better, and, I hear, going on the Continent, as soon as the season + will permit. But, Mr Cumbermede, you must be aware that I am under + considerable restraint in talking to you. The position I hold in Sir + Giles’s family, although neither a comfortable nor a dignified one—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I understand you perfectly, Miss Pease,’ I returned, ‘and fully + appreciate the sense of propriety which causes your embarrassment. But the + request I am about to make has nothing to do with them or their affairs + whatever. I only want your promise to let me know if you hear anything of + Miss Osborne.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I cannot tell—what—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What use I may be going to make of the information you give me. In a + word, you do not trust me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I neither trust nor distrust you, Mr Cumbermede. But I am afraid of being + drawn into a correspondence with you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I will ask no promise. I will hope in your generosity. Here is my + address. I pray you, as you would have helped him who fell among thieves, + to let me know anything you hear about Mary Osborne.’ + </p> + <p> + She took my card, and turned at once, saying, + </p> + <p> + ‘Mind, I make no promise.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I imagine none,’ I answered. ‘I will trust in your kindness.’ + </p> + <p> + And so we parted. + </p> + <p> + Unsatisfactory as the interview was, it yet gave me a little hope. I was + glad to hear that Mary was going abroad, for it must do her good. For me, + I would endure and labour and hope. I gave her to God, as Shakspere says + somewhere, and set myself to my work. When her mind was quieter about + Charley, somehow or other I might come near her again.—I could not + see how. + </p> + <p> + I took my way across the Green Park. + </p> + <p> + I do not believe we notice the half of the coincidences that float past us + on the stream of events. Things which would fill us with astonishment, and + probably with foreboding, look us in the face and pass us by, and we know + nothing of them. + </p> + <p> + As I walked along in the direction of the Mall, I became aware of a tall + man coming towards me, stooping, as if with age, while the length of his + stride indicated a more vigorous period. He passed without lifting his + head, but, in the partial view of the wan and furrowed countenance, I + could not fail to recognize Charley’s father. Such a worn unhappiness was + there depicted that the indignation which still lingered in my bosom went + out in compassion. If his sufferings might but teach him that to brand the + truth of the kingdom with the private mark of opinion must result in + persecution and cruelty! He mounted the slope with strides at once eager + and aimless, and I wondered whether any of the sure-coming compunctions + had yet begun to overshadow the complacency of his faith; whether he had + yet begun to doubt if it pleased the Son of Man that a youth should be + driven from the gates of truth because he failed to recognize her image in + the faces of the janitors. + </p> + <p> + Aimless also, I turned into the Mall, and again I started at the sight of + a known figure. Was it possible?—could it be my Lilith betwixt the + shafts of a public cabriolet? Fortunately it was empty. I hailed it, and + jumped up, telling the driver to take me to my chambers. + </p> + <p> + My poor Lilith! She was working like one who had never been loved! So far + as I knew she had never been in harness before. She was badly groomed and + thin, but much of her old spirit remained. I soon entered into + negotiations with the driver, whose property she was, and made her my own + once more, with a delight I could ill express in plain prose—for my + friends were indeed few. I wish I could draw a picture of the lovely + creature, when at length, having concluded my bargain, I approached her, + and called her by her name! She turned her head sideways towards me with a + low whinny of pleasure, and when I walked a little away, walked wearily + after me. I took her myself to livery stables near me, and wrote for + Styles. His astonishment when he saw her was amusing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good Lord! Miss Lilith!’ was all he could say—for some moments. + </p> + <p> + In a few days she had begun to look like herself, and I sent her home with + Styles. I should hardly like to say how much the recovery of her did to + restore my spirits; I could not help regarding it as a good omen. + </p> + <p> + And now, the first bitterness of my misery having died a natural death, I + sought again some of the friends I had made through Charley, and + experienced from them great kindness. I began also to go into society a + little, for I had found that invention is ever ready to lose the forms of + life, if it be not kept under the ordinary pressure of its atmosphere. As + it is, I doubt much if any of my books are more than partially true to + those forms, for I have ever heeded them too little; but I believe I have + been true to the heart of man. At the same time, I have ever regarded that + heart more as the fountain of aspiration than the grave of fruition. The + discomfiture of enemies and a happy marriage never seemed to me ends of + sufficient value to close a history withal—I mean a fictitious + history, wherein one may set forth joys and sorrows which in a real + history must walk shadowed under the veil of modesty; for the soul, still + less than the body, will consent to be revealed to all eyes. Hence, + although most of my books have seemed true to some, they have all seemed + visionary to most. + </p> + <p> + A year passed away, during which I never left London. I heard from Miss + Pease—that Miss Osborne, although much better, was not going to + return until after another Winter. I wrote and thanked her, and heard no + more. It may seem I accepted such ignorance with strange indifference; + but, even to the reader for whom alone I am writing, I cannot, as things + are, attempt to lay open all my heart. I have not written and cannot write + how I thought, projected, brooded, and dreamed—all about <i>her</i>; + how I hoped when I wrote that she might read; how I questioned what I had + written, to find whether it would look to her what I had intended it to + appear. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVI. THE LAST VISION. + </h2> + <p> + I had engaged to accompany one of Charley’s barrister-friends, in whose + society I had found considerable satisfaction, to his father’s house—to + spend the evening with some friends of the family. The gathering was + chiefly for talk, and was a kind of thing I disliked, finding its + aimlessness and flicker depressing. Indeed, partly from the peculiar + circumstances of my childhood, partly from what I had suffered, I always + found my spirits highest when alone. Still, the study of humanity apart, I + felt that I ought not to shut myself out from my kind, but endure some + little irksomeness, if only for the sake of keeping alive that surface + friendliness which has its value in the nourishment of the deeper + affections. On this particular occasion, however, I yielded the more + willingly that, in the revival of various memories of Charley, it had + occurred to me that I once heard him say that his sister had a regard for + one of the ladies of the family. + </p> + <p> + There were not many people in the drawing-room when we arrived, and my + friend’s mother alone was there to entertain them. With her I was chatting + when one of her daughters entered, accompanied by a lady in mourning. For + one moment I felt as if on the borders of insanity. My brain seemed to + surge like the waves of a wind-tormented tide, so that I dared not make a + single step forward lest my limbs should disobey me. It was indeed Mary + Osborne; but oh, how changed! The rather full face had grown delicate and + thin, and the fine pure complexion if possible finer and purer, but + certainly more ethereal and evanescent. It was as if suffering had removed + some substance unapt, {Footnote: Spenser’s ‘Hymne in Honour of Beautie.‘} + and rendered her body a better-fitting garment for her soul. Her face, + which had before required the softening influences of sleep and dreams to + give it the plasticity necessary for complete expression, was now full of + a repressed expression, if I may be allowed the phrase—a latent + something ever on the tremble, ever on the point of breaking forth. It was + as if the nerves had grown finer, more tremulous, or, rather, more + vibrative. Touched to finer issues they could never have been, but + suffering had given them a more responsive thrill. In a word, she was the + Athanasia of my dream, not the Mary Osborne of the Moldwarp library. + </p> + <p> + Conquering myself at last, and seeing a favourable opportunity, I + approached her. I think the fear lest her father should enter gave me the + final impulse; otherwise I could have been contented to gaze on her for + hours in motionless silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘May I speak to you, Mary?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + She lifted her eyes and her whole face towards mine, without a smile, + without a word. Her features remained perfectly still, but, like the + outbreak of a fountain, the tears rushed into her eyes and overflowed in + silent weeping. Not a sob, not a convulsive movement, accompanied their + flow. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is your father here?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought you were abroad somewhere—I did not know where.’ + </p> + <p> + Again she shook her head. She dared not speak, knowing that if she made + the attempt she must break down. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will go away till you can bear the sight of me,’ I said. She + half-stretched out a thin white hand, but whether to detain me or bid me + farewell I do not know, for it dropped again on her knee. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “I will come to you by and by,” I said.} + </p> + <p> + ‘I will come to you by-and-by,’ I said, and moved away. The rooms rapidly + filled, and in a few minutes I could not see the corner where I had left + her. I endured everything for awhile, and then made my way back to it; but + she was gone, and I could find her nowhere. A lady began to sing. When the + applause which followed her performance was over, my friend, who happened + to be near me, turned abruptly and said, + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, Cumbermede, <i>you</i> sing.’ + </p> + <p> + The truth was that, since I had loved Mary Osborne, I had attempted to + cultivate a certain small gift of song which I thought I possessed. I + dared not touch any existent music, for I was certain I should break down; + but having a faculty—somewhat thin, I fear—for writing songs, + and finding that a shadowy air always accompanied the birth of the words, + I had presumed to study music a little, in the hope of becoming able to + fix the melody—the twin sister of the song. I had made some + progress, and had grown able to write down a simple thought. There was + little presumption, then, in venturing my voice, limited as was its scope, + upon a trifle of my own. Tempted by the opportunity of realizing hopes + consciously wild, I obeyed my friend, and, sitting down to the instrument + in some trepidation, sang the following verses— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I dreamed that I woke from a dream, + And the house was full of light; + At the window two angel Sorrows + Held back the curtains of night. + + The door was wide, and the house + Was full of the morning wind; + At the door two armed warders + Stood silent, with faces blind. + + I ran to the open door, + For the wind of the world was sweet; + The warders with crossing weapons + Turned back my issuing feet. + + I ran to the shining windows— + There the winged Sorrows stood; + Silent they held the curtains, + And the light fell through in a flood. + + I clomb to the highest window— + Ah! there, with shadowed brow, + Stood one lonely radiant Sorrow, + And that, my love, was thou. +</pre> + <p> + I could not have sung this in public, but that no one would suspect it was + my own, or was in the least likely to understand a word of it—except + her for whose ears and heart it was intended. + </p> + <p> + As soon as I had finished, I rose, and once more went searching for Mary. + But as I looked, sadly fearing she was gone, I heard her voice close + behind me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are those verses your own, Mr Cumbermede?’ she asked, almost in a + whisper. + </p> + <p> + I turned trembling. Her lovely face was looking up at me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I answered—‘as much my own as that I believe they are not to + be found anywhere. But they were given to me rather than made by me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Would you let me have them? I am not sure that I understand them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am not sure that I understand them myself. They are for the heart + rather than the mind. Of course you shall have them. They were written for + you. All I have, all I am, is yours.’ + </p> + <p> + Her face flushed, and grew pale again instantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘You must not talk so,’ she said. ‘Remember.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can never forget. I do not know why you say <i>remember</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘On second thoughts, I must not have the verses. I beg your pardon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary, you bewilder me. I have no right to ask you to explain, except that + you speak as if I must understand. What have they been telling you about + me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing—at least nothing that—’ + </p> + <p> + She paused. + </p> + <p> + ‘I try to live innocently, and were it only for your sake, shall never + stop searching for the thread of life in its ravelled skein.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do not say for <i>my</i> sake, Mr Cumbermede. That means nothing. Say for + your own sake, if not for God’s.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If <i>you</i> are going to turn away from me, I don’t mind how soon I + follow Charley.’ + </p> + <p> + All this was said in a half-whisper, I bending towards her where she sat, + a little sheltered by one of a pair of folding doors. My heart was like to + break—or rather it seemed to have vanished out of me altogether, + lost in a gulf of emptiness. Was this all? Was this the end of my + dreaming? To be thus pushed aside by the angel of my resurrection? + </p> + <p> + ‘Hush! hush!’ she said kindly. ‘You must have many friends. But—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you will be my friend no more? Is that it, Mary? Oh, if you knew all! + And you are never, never to know it!’ + </p> + <p> + Her still face was once more streaming with tears. I choked mine back, + terrified at the thought of being observed; and without even offering my + hand, left her and made my way through the crowd to the stair. On the + landing I met Geoffrey Brotherton. We stared each other in the face and + passed. + </p> + <p> + I did not sleep much that night, and when I did sleep, woke from one + wretched dream after another, now crying aloud, and now weeping. What + could I have done? or rather, what could any one have told her I had done + to make her behave thus to me? She did not look angry—or even + displeased—only sorrowful, very sorrowful; and she seemed to take it + for granted I knew what it meant. When at length I finally woke after an + hour of less troubled sleep, I found some difficulty in convincing myself + that the real occurrences of the night before had not been one of the many + troubled dreams that had scared my repose. Even after the dreams had all + vanished, and the facts remained, they still appeared more like a dim + dream of the dead—the vision of Mary was so wan and hopeless, memory + alone looking out from her worn countenance. There had been no warmth in + her greeting, no resentment in her aspect; we met as if we had parted but + an hour before, only that an open grave was between us, across which we + talked in the voice of dreamers. She had sought to raise no barrier + between us, just because we <i>could</i> not meet, save as one of the dead + and one of the living. What could it mean? But with the growing day awoke + a little courage. I would at least try to find out what it meant. Surely + <i>all</i> my dreams were not to vanish like the mist of the morning! To + lose my dreams would be far worse than to lose the so-called realities of + life. What were these to me? What value lay in such reality? Even God was + as yet so dim and far off as to seem rather in the region of dreams—of + those true dreams, I hoped, that shadowed forth the real—than in the + actual visible present. ‘Still,’ I said to myself, ‘she had not cast me + off; she did not refuse to know me; she did ask for my song, and I will + send it.’ + </p> + <p> + I wrote it out, adding a stanza to the verses:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I bowed my head before her, + And stood trembling in the light; + She dropped the heavy curtain, + And the house was full of night. +</pre> + <p> + I then sought my friend’s chambers. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was not aware you knew the Osbornes,’ I said. ‘I wonder you never told + me, seeing Charley and you were such friends.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never saw one of them till last night. My sister and she knew each + other some time ago, and have met again of late. What a lovely creature + she is! But what became of you last night? You must have left before any + one else.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t feel well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t look the thing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I confess meeting Miss Osborne rather upset me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It had the same effect on her. She was quite ill, my sister said, this + morning. No wonder! Poor Charley! I always had a painful feeling that he + would come to grief somehow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let’s hope he’s come to something else by this time, Marston,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Amen,’ he returned. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is her father or mother with her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. They are to fetch her away—next week, I think it is.’ I had now + no fear of my communication falling into other hands, and therefore sent + the song by post, with a note, in which I begged her to let me know if I + had done anything to offend her. Next morning I received the following + reply: + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Wilfrid—for Charley’s sake, I must call you by your name—you + have done nothing to offend me. Thank you for the song. I did not want you + to send it, but I will keep it. You must not write to me again. Do not + forget what we used to write about. God’s ways are not ours. Your friend, + Mary Osborne.’ + </p> + <p> + I rose and went out, not knowing whither. Half-stunned, I roamed the + streets. I ate nothing that day, and when towards night I found myself + near my chambers, I walked in as I had come out, having no intent, no + future. I felt very sick, and threw myself on my bed. There I passed the + night, half in sleep, half in helpless prostration. When I look back, it + seems as if some spiritual narcotic must have been given me, else how + should the terrible time have passed and left me alive? When I came to + myself, I found I was ill, and I longed to hide my head in the nest of my + childhood. I had always looked on the Moat as my refuge at the last; now + it seemed the only desirable thing—a lonely nook, in which to lie + down and end the dream there begun—either, as it now seemed, in an + eternal sleep, or the inburst of a dreary light. After the last refuge it + could afford me it must pass from my hold; but I was yet able to determine + whither. I rose and went to Marston. + </p> + <p> + ‘Marston,’ I said, ‘I want to make my will.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All right!’ he returned; ‘but you look as if you meant to register it as + well. You’ve got a feverish cold; I see it in your eyes. Come along. I’ll + go home with you, and fetch a friend of mine, who will give you something + to do you good.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t rest till I have made my will,’ I persisted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, there’s no harm in that,’ he rejoined. ‘It won’t take long, I dare + say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It needn’t anyhow. I only want to leave the small real property I have to + Miss Osborne, and the still smaller-personal property to yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘All right, old boy! I haven’t the slightest objection to your willing + your traps to me, but every objection in the world to your <i>leaving</i> + them. To be sure, every man, with anything to leave, ought to make his + will betimes;—so fire away.’ + </p> + <p> + In a little while the draught was finished. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall have it ready for your signature by to-morrow,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + I insisted it should be done at once. I was going home, I said. He + yielded. The will was engrossed, signed, and witnessed that same morning; + and in the afternoon I set out, the first part of the journey by rail, for + the Moat. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVII. ANOTHER DREAM. + </h2> + <p> + The excitement of having something to do had helped me over the morning, + and the pleasure of thinking of what I had done helped me through half the + journey; but before I reached home I was utterly exhausted. Then I had to + drive round by the farm, and knock up Mrs Herbert and Styles. + </p> + <p> + I could not bear the thought of my own room, and ordered a fire in my + grandmother’s, where they soon got me into bed. All I remember of that + night is the following dream. + </p> + <p> + I found myself at the entrance of the ice-cave. A burning sun beat on my + head, and at my feet flowed the brook which gathered its life from the + decay of the ice. I stooped to drink; but, cool to the eye and hand and + lips, it yet burned me within like fire. I would seek shelter from the sun + inside the cave. I entered, and knew that the cold was all around me; I + even felt it; but somehow it did not enter into me. My brain, my very + bones, burned with fire. I went in and in. The blue atmosphere closed + around me, and the colour entered into my soul till it seemed dyed with + the potent blue. My very being swam and floated in a blue atmosphere of + its own. My intention—I can recall it perfectly—was but to + walk to the end, a few yards, then turn and again brave the sun; for I had + a dim feeling of forsaking my work, of playing truant, or of being + cowardly in thus avoiding the heat. Something else too was wrong, but I + could not clearly tell what. As I went on, I began to wonder that I had + not come to the end. The gray walls yet rose about me, and ever the film + of dissolution flowed along their glassy faces to the runnel below; still + before me opened the depth of blue atmosphere, deepening as I went. After + many windings, the path began to branch, and soon I was lost in a + labyrinth of passages, of which I knew not why I should choose one rather + than another. It was useless now to think of returning. Arbitrarily I + chose the narrowest way, and still went on. + </p> + <p> + A discoloration of the ice attracted my attention, and as I looked it + seemed to retreat into the solid mass. There was something not ice within + it, which grew more and more distinct as I gazed, until at last I plainly + distinguished the form of my grandmother lying as then when my aunt made + me touch her face. A few yards further on lay the body of my uncle, as I + saw him in his coffin. His face was dead white in the midst of the cold + clear ice, his eyes closed, and his arms straight by his side. He lay like + an alabaster king upon his tomb. It <i>was</i> he, I thought, but he would + never speak to me more—never look at me—-never more awake. + There lay all that was left of him—the cold frozen memory of what he + had been, and would never be again. I did not weep. I only knew somehow in + my dream that life was all a wandering in a frozen cave, where the faces + of the living were dark with the coming corruption, and the memories of + the dead, cold and clear and hopeless evermore, alone were lovely. + </p> + <p> + I walked further; for the ice might possess yet more of the past—all + that was left me of life. And again I stood and gazed, for, deep within, I + saw the form of Charley—at rest now, his face bloodless, but not so + death-like as my uncle’s. His hands were laid palm to palm over his bosom, + and pointed upwards, as if praying for comfort where comfort was none: + here at least were no flickerings of the rainbow fancies of faith and hope + and charity! I gazed in comfortless content for a time on the repose of my + weary friend, and then went on, inly moved to see what further the ice of + the godless region might hold. Nor had I wandered far when I saw the form + of Mary, lying like the rest, only that her hands were crossed on her + bosom. I stood, wondering to find myself so little moved. But when the ice + drew nigh me, and would have closed around me, my heart leaped for joy; + and when the heat of my lingering life repelled it, my heart sunk within + me, and I said to myself: ‘Death will not have me. I may not join her even + in the land of cold forgetfulness: I may not even be nothing <i>with</i> + her.’ The tears began to flow down my face, like the thin veil of water + that kept ever flowing down the face of the ice; and as I wept, the water + before me flowed faster and faster, till it rippled in a sheet down the + icy wall. Faster and yet faster it flowed, falling, with the sound as of + many showers, into the runnel below, which rushed splashing and gurgling + away from the foot of the vanishing wall. Faster and faster it flowed, + until the solid mass fell in a foaming cataract, and swept in a torrent + across the cave. I followed the retreating wall through the seething water + at its foot. Thinner and thinner grew the dividing mass; nearer and nearer + came the form of my Mary. ‘I shall yet clasp her,’ I cried; ‘her dead form + will kill me, and I too shall be inclosed in the friendly ice. I shall not + be with her, alas! but neither shall I be without her, for I shall depart + into the lovely nothingness.’ Thinner and thinner grew the dividing wall. + The skirt of her shroud hung like a wet weed in the falling torrent. I + kneeled in the river, and crept nearer with outstretched arms: when the + vanishing ice set the dead form free, it should rest in those arms—the + last gift of the life-dream—for then, surely, I <i>must</i> die. + ‘Let me pass in the agony of a lonely embrace!’ I cried. As I spoke she + moved. I started to my feet, stung into life by the agony of a new hope. + Slowly the ice released her, and gently she rose to her feet. The torrents + of water ceased—they had flowed but to set her free. Her eyes were + still closed, but she made one blind step towards me, and laid her left + hand on my head, her right hand on my heart. Instantly, body and soul, I + was cool as a Summer eve after a thunder-shower. For a moment, precious as + an aeon, she held her hands upon me—then slowly opened her eyes. Out + of them flashed the living soul of my Athanasia. She closed the lids again + slowly over the lovely splendour; the water in which we stood rose around + us; and on its last billow she floated away through the winding passage of + the cave. I sought to follow her, but could not. I cried aloud and awoke. + </p> + <p> + But the burning heat had left me; I felt that I had passed a crisis, and + had begun to recover—a conviction which would have been altogether + unwelcome, but for the poor shadow of a reviving hope which accompanied + it. Such a dream, come whence it might, could not but bring comfort with + it. The hope grew, and was my sole medicine. + </p> + <p> + Before the evening I felt better, and, though still very feeble, managed + to write to Marston, letting him know I was safe, and requesting him to + forward any letters that might arrive. + </p> + <p> + The next day, I rose, but was unable to work. The very thought of writing + sickened me. Neither could I bear the thought of returning to London. I + tried to read, but threw aside book after book, without being able to tell + what one of them was about. If for a moment I seemed to enter into the + subject, before I reached the bottom of the page, I found I had not an + idea as to what the words meant or whither they tended. After many + failures, unwilling to give myself up to idle brooding, I fortunately + tried some of the mystical poetry of the seventeenth century. The + difficulties of that I found rather stimulate than repel me; while, much + as there was in the form to displease the taste, there was more in the + matter to rouse the intellect. I found also some relief in resuming my + mathematical studies: the abstraction of them acted as an anodyne. But the + days dragged wearily. + </p> + <p> + As soon as I was able to get on horseback, the tone of mind and body began + to return. I felt as if into me some sort of animal healing passed from + Lilith; and who can tell in how many ways the lower animals may not + minister to the higher? + </p> + <p> + One night I had a strange experience. I give it without argument, + perfectly aware that the fact may be set down to the disordered state of + my physical nature, and that without injustice. + </p> + <p> + I had not for a long time thought about one of the questions which had so + much occupied Charley and myself—that of immortality. As to any + communication between the parted, I had never, during his life, pondered + the possibility of it, although I had always had an inclination to believe + that such intercourse had in rare instances taken place. Former periods of + the world’s history, when that blinding self-consciousness which is the + bane of ours was yet undeveloped, must, I thought, have been far more + favourable to its occurrence. Anyhow I was convinced that it was not to be + gained by effort. I confess that, in the unthinking agony of grief after + Charley’s death, many a time when I woke in the middle of the night and + could sleep no more, I sat up in bed and prayed him, if he heard me, to + come to me, and let me tell him the truth—for my sake to let me + know, at least, that he lived, for then I should be sure that one day all + would be well. But if there was any hearing, there was no answer. Charley + did not come; the prayer seemed to vanish in the darkness; and my more + self-possessed meditations never justified the hope of any such being + heard. + </p> + <p> + One night I was sitting in my grannie’s room, which, except my uncle’s, + was now the only one I could bear to enter. I had been reading for some + time very quietly, but had leaned back in my chair, and let my thoughts go + wandering whither they would, when all at once I was possessed by the + conviction that Charley was near me. I saw nothing, heard nothing; of the + recognized senses of humanity not one gave me a hint of a presence; and + yet my whole body was aware—so, at least, it seemed—of the + proximity of another <i>I</i>. It was as if some nervous region + commensurate with my frame, were now for the first time revealed by + contact with an object suitable for its apprehension. Like Eliphaz, I felt + the hair of my head stand up—not from terror, but simply, as it + seemed, from the presence and its strangeness. Like others also of whom I + have read, who believed themselves in the presence of the disembodied, I + could not speak. I tried, but as if the medium for sound had been + withdrawn, and an empty gulf lay around me, no word followed, although my + very soul was full of the cry—<i>Charley! Charley!</i> And alas! in + a few moments, like the faint vanishing of an unrealized thought, leaving + only the assurance that something half-born from out the unknown had been + there, the influence faded and died. It passed from me like the shadow of + a cloud, and once more I knew but my poor lonely self, returning to its + candles, its open book, its burning fire. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVIII. THE DARKEST HOUR. + </h2> + <p> + Suffering is perhaps the only preparation for suffering: still I was but + poorly prepared for what followed. + </p> + <p> + Having gathered strength, and a certain quietness which I could not + mistake for peace, I returned to London towards the close of the Spring. I + had in the interval heard nothing of Mary. The few letters Marston had + sent on had been almost exclusively from my publishers. But the very hour + I reached my lodging, came a note, which I opened trembling, for it was in + the handwriting of Miss Pease. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +DEAR SIR,—I cannot, I think, be wrong in giving you a piece of +information which will be in the newspapers to-morrow morning. Your old +acquaintance, and my young relative, Mr Brotherton, was married this +morning, at St George’s, Hanover Square, to your late friend’s sister, +Miss Mary Osborne. They have just left for Dover on their way to +Switzerland. Your sincere well-wisher, + ‘JANE PEASE.’ +</pre> + <p> + Even at this distance of time, I should have to exhort myself to write + with calmness, were it not that the utter despair of conveying my + feelings, if indeed my soul had not for the time passed beyond feeling + into some abyss unknown to human consciousness, renders it unnecessary. + This despair of communication has two sources—the one simply the + conviction of the impossibility of expressing <i>any</i> feeling, much + more such feeling as mine then was—and is; the other the conviction + that only to the heart of love can the sufferings of love speak. The + attempt of a lover to move, by the presentation of his own suffering, the + heart of her who loves him not, is as unavailing as it is unmanly. The + poet who sings most wailfully of the torments of the lover’s hell, is but + a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal in the ears of her who has at best + only a general compassion to meet the song withal—possibly only an + individual vanity which crowns her with his woes as with the trophies of a + conquest. True, he is understood and worshipped by all the other wailful + souls in the first infernal circle, as one of the great men of their order—able + to put into words full of sweet torment the dire hopelessness of their + misery; but for such the singer, singing only for ears eternally deaf to + his song, cares nothing; or if for a moment he receives consolation from + their sympathy, it is but a passing weakness which the breath of an + indignant self-condemnation—even contempt, the next moment sweeps + away. In God alone there must be sympathy and cure; but I had not then—have + I indeed yet found what that cure is? I am at all events now able to write + with calmness. If suffering destroyed itself, as some say, mine ought to + have disappeared long ago; but to that I can neither pretend nor confess. + </p> + <p> + For the first time, after all I had encountered, I knew what suffering + could be. It is still at moments an agony as of hell to recall this and + the other thought that then stung me like a white-hot arrow: the shafts + have long been drawn out, but the barbed heads are still there. I neither + stormed nor maddened. I only felt a freezing hand lay hold of my heart, + and gripe it closer and closer till I should have sickened, but that the + pain ever stung me into fresh life; and ever since I have gone about the + world with that hard lump somewhere in my bosom into which the griping + hand and the griped heart have grown and stiffened. + </p> + <p> + I fled at once back to my solitary house, looking for no relief in its + solitude, only the negative comfort of escaping the eyes of men. I could + not bear the sight of my fellow-creatures. To say that the world had grown + black to me, is as nothing: I ceased—-I will not say <i>to believe</i> + in God, for I never dared say that mighty thing—but I ceased to hope + in God. The universe had grown a negation which yet forced its presence + upon me—death that bred worms. If there were a God anywhere, this + universe could be nothing more than his forsaken moth-eaten garment. He + was a God who did not care. Order was all an invention of phosphorescent + human brains; light itself the mocking smile of a Jupiter over his + writhing sacrifices. At times I laughed at the tortures of my own heart, + saying to it, ‘Writhe on, worm; thou deservest thy writhing in that thou + writhest. Godless creature, why dost thou not laugh with me? Am I not + merry over thee and the world—in that ye are both rottenness to the + core?’ The next moment my heart and I would come together with a shock, + and I knew it was myself that scorned myself. + </p> + <p> + Such being my mood, it will cause no surprise if I say that I too was + tempted to suicide; the wonder would have been if it had been otherwise. + The soft keen curves of that fatal dagger, which had not only slain + Charley but all my hopes—for had he lived this horror could not have + been—grew almost lovely in my eyes. Until now it had looked cruel, + fiendish, hateful; but now I would lay it before me and contemplate it. In + some griefs there is a wonderful power of self-contemplation, which indeed + forms their only solace; the moment it can set the sorrow away from itself + sufficiently to regard it, the tortured heart begins to repose; but + suddenly, like a waking tiger, the sorrow leaps again into its lair, and + the agony commences anew. The dagger was the type of my grief and its + torture: might it not, like the brazen serpent, be the cure for the sting + of its living counterpart? But alas! where was the certainty? Could I slay + <i>myself?</i> This outer breathing form I could dismiss—but the + pain was not <i>there</i>. I was not mad, and I knew that a deeper death + than that could give, at least. than I had any assurance that could give, + alone could bring repose. For, impossible as I had always found it + actually to believe in immortality, I now found it equally impossible to + believe in annihilation. And even if annihilation should be the final + result, who could tell but it might require ages of a horrible + slow-decaying dream-consciousness to kill the living thing which felt + itself other than its body? + </p> + <p> + Until now, I had always accepted what seemed the natural and universal + repugnance to absolute dissolution as the strongest argument on the side + of immortality;—for why should a man shrink from that which belonged + to his nature? But now annihilation seemed the one lovely thing, the one + sole only lonely thought in which lay no blackness of burning darkness. + Oh, for one eternal unconscious sleep!—the nearest likeness we can + cherish of that inconceivable nothingness—ever denied by the very + thinking of it—by the vain attempt to realize that whose very + existence is the knowing nothing of itself! Could that dagger have insured + me such repose, or had there been any draught of Lethe, utter Lethe, whose + blessed poison would have assuredly dissipated like a fume this conscious + self-tormenting <i>me</i>, I should not now be writhing anew, as in the + clutches of an old grief, clasping me like a corpse, stung to simulated + life by the galvanic battery of recollection. Vivid as it seems—all + I suffer as I write is but a faint phantasm of what I then endured. + </p> + <p> + I learned, therefore, that to some minds the argument for immortality + drawn from the apparently universal shrinking from annihilation must be + ineffectual, seeing they themselves do not shrink from it. Convince a man + that there is no God—or, for I doubt if that be altogether possible—make + it, I will say, impossible for him to hope in God—and it cannot be + that annihilation should seem an evil. If there is no God, annihilation is + the one thing to be longed for, with all that might of longing which is + the mainspring of human action. In a word, it is not immortality the human + heart cries out after, but that immortal eternal thought whose life is its + life, whose wisdom is its wisdom, whose ways and whose thoughts shall—must + one day—become its ways and its thoughts. Dissociate immortality + from the living Immortality, and it is not a thing to be desired—not + a thing that can on those terms, or even on the fancy of those terms, be + desired. + </p> + <p> + But such thoughts as these were far from me then. I lived because I + despaired of death. I ate by a sort of blind animal instinct, and so + lived. The time had been when I would despise myself for being able to eat + in the midst of emotion; but now I cared so little for the emotion even, + that eating or not eating had nothing to do with the matter. I ate because + meat was set before me; I slept because sleep came upon me. It was a + horrible time. My life seemed only a vermiculate one, a crawling about of + half-thoughts-half-feelings through the corpse of a decaying existence. + The heart of being was withdrawn from me, and my life was but the vacant + pericardium in which it had once throbbed out and sucked in the red + fountains of life and gladness. + </p> + <p> + I would not be thought to have fallen to this all but bottomless depth + only because I had lost Mary. Still less was it because of the fact that + in her, around whom had gathered all the devotion with which the man in me + could regard woman, I had lost all womankind. It was <i>the loss</i> of + Mary, as I then judged it, not, I repeat, the fact that <i>I</i> had lost + her. It was that she had lost herself. Thence it was, I say, that I lost + my hope in God. For, if there were a God, how could he let purity be + clasped in the arms of defilement? how could he marry my Athanasia—not + to a corpse, but to a Plague? Here was the man who had done more to ruin + her brother than any but her father, and God had given her to <i>him!</i> + I had had—with the commonest of men—some notion of womanly + purity—how was it that hers had not instinctively shuddered and + shrunk? how was it that the life of it had not taken refuge with death to + shun bare contact with the coarse impurity of such a nature as that of + Geoffrey Brotherton? My dreams had been dreams indeed! Was my Athanasia + dead, or had she never been? In my thought, she had ‘said to Corruption, + Thou art my father; to the worm, Thou art my mother and my sister.’ Who + should henceforth say of any woman that she was impure? She <i>might</i> + love him—true; but what was she then who was able to love such a + man? It was this that stormed the citadel of my hope, and drove me from + even thinking of a God. + </p> + <p> + Gladly would I now have welcomed any bodily suffering that could hide me + from myself; but no illness came. I was a living pain, a conscious + ill-being. In a thousand forms those questions would ever recur, but + without hope of answer. When I fell asleep from exhaustion, hideous + visions of her with Geoffrey would start me up with a great cry, sometimes + with a curse on my lips. Nor were they the most horrible of those dreams + in which she would help him to mock me. Once, and only once, I found + myself dreaming the dream of <i>that</i> night, and I knew that I had + dreamed it before. Through palace and chapel and charnel-house, I followed + her, ever with a dim sense of awful result; and when at the last she + lifted the shining veil, instead of the face of Athanasia, the bare teeth + of a skull grinned at me from under a spotted shroud, through which the + sunlight shone from behind, revealing all its horrors. I was not mad—my + reason had not given way: <i>how</i> remains a marvel. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0059" id="link2HCH0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIX. THE DAWN. + </h2> + <p> + All places were alike to me now—for the universe was but one dreary + chasm whence I could not escape. One evening I sat by the open window of + my chamber, which looked towards those trees and that fatal Moldwarp Hall. + My suffering had now grown dull by its own excess, and I had moments of + restless vacuity, the nearest approach to peace I had yet experienced. It + was a fair evening of early summer—but I was utterly careless of + nature as of all beyond it. The sky was nothing to me—and the earth + was all unlovely. There I sat, heavy, but free from torture; a kind of + quiet had stolen over me. I was roused by the tiniest breath of wind on my + cheek, as if the passing wing of some butterfly had fanned me; and on that + faintest motion came a scent as from long-forgotten fields, a scent like + as of sweet-peas or wild roses, but of neither: flowers were none nearer + me than the gardens of the Hall. I started with a cry. It was the scent of + the garments of my Athanasia, as I had dreamed it in my dream! Whence that + wind had borne it, who could tell? but in the husk that had overgrown my + being it had found a cranny, and through that cranny, with the scent, + Nature entered. I looked up to the blue sky, wept, and for the first time + fell on my knees. ‘O God!’ I cried, and that was all. But what are the + prayers of the whole universe more than expansions of that one cry? It is + not what God can give us, but God that we want. Call the whole thing fancy + if you will; it was at least no fancy that the next feeling of which I was + conscious was compassion: from that moment I began to search heaven and + earth and the soul of man and woman for excuses wherewith to clothe the + idea of Mary Osborne. For weeks and weeks I pondered, and by degrees the + following conclusions wrought themselves out in my brain:— + </p> + <p> + That she had never seen life as a whole; that her religious theories had + ever been eating away and absorbing her life, so preventing her religion + from interpenetrating and glorifying it; that in regard to certain facts + and consequences she had been left to an ignorance which her innocence + rendered profound; that, attracted by the worldly splendour of the offer, + her father and mother had urged her compliance, and broken in spirit by + the fate of Charley, and having always been taught that self-denial was in + itself a virtue, she had taken the worldly desires of her parents for the + will of God, and blindly yielded; that Brotherton was capable, for his + ends, of representing himself as possessed of religion enough to satisfy + the scruples of her parents, and, such being satisfied, she had resisted + her own as evil things. + </p> + <p> + Whether his hatred of me had had any share in his desire to possess her, I + hardly thought of inquiring. + </p> + <p> + Of course I did not for a single moment believe that Mary had had the + slightest notion of the bitterness, the torture, the temptation of Satan + it would be to me. Doubtless the feeling of her father concerning the + death of Charley had seemed to hollow an impassable gulf between us. Worn + and weak, and not knowing what she did, my dearest friend had yielded + herself to the embrace of my deadliest foe. If he was such as I had too + good reason for believing him, she was far more to be pitied than I. + Lonely she must be—lonely as I—for who was there to understand + and love her? Bitterly too by this time she must have suffered, for the + dove can never be at peace in the bosom of the vulture, or cease to hate + the carrion of which he must ever carry about with him at least the + disgusting memorials. Alas! I too had been her enemy, and had cried out + against her; but now I would love her more and better than ever! Oh! if I + knew but something I could do for her, some service which on the bended + knees of my spirit I might offer her! I clomb the heights of my grief, and + looked around, but alas! I was such a poor creature! A dabbler in the ways + of the world, a writer of tales which even those who cared to read them + counted fantastic and Utopian, who was I to weave a single silken thread + into the web of her life? How could I bear her one poorest service? Never + in this world could I approach her near enough to touch yet once again the + hem of her garment. All I could do was to love her. No—I could and + did suffer for her. Alas! that suffering was only for myself, and could do + nothing, for her! It was indeed some consolation to me that my misery came + from her hand; but if she knew it, it would but add to her pain. In my + heart I could only pray her pardon for my wicked and selfish thoughts + concerning her, and vow again and ever to regard her as my Athanasia.—But + yes! there was one thing I <i>could</i> do for her: I would be a true man + for her sake; she should have some satisfaction in me; I would once more + arise and go to my Father. + </p> + <p> + The instant the thought arose in my mind, I fell down before the possible + God in an agony of weeping. All complaint of my own doom had vanished, now + that I began to do her the justice of love. Why should <i>I</i> be blessed—here + and now at least—according to my notions of blessedness? Let the + great heart of the universe do with me as it pleased! Let the Supreme take + his own time to justify himself to the heart that sought to love him! I + gave up myself, was willing to suffer, to be a living pain, so long as he + pleased; and the moment I yielded half the pain was gone; I gave my + Athanasia yet again to God, and all <i>might</i> yet, in some nigh, + far-off, better-world-way, be well. I could wait and endure. If only God + was, and was God, then it was, or would be, well with Mary—well with + me! + </p> + <p> + But, as I still sat, a flow of sweet sad repentant thought passing gently + through my bosom, all at once the self to which, unable to confide it to + the care of its own very life, the God conscious of himself and in himself + conscious of it, I had been for months offering the sacrifices of despair + and indignation, arose in spectral hideousness before me. I saw that I, a + child of the infinite, had been worshipping the finite—and therein + dragging down the infinite towards the fate of the finite. I do not mean + that in Mary Osborne I had been worshipping the finite. It was the + eternal, the lovely, the true that in her I had been worshipping: in + myself I had been worshipping the mean, the selfish, the finite, the god + of spiritual greed. Only in himself <i>can</i> a man find the finite to + worship; only in turning back upon himself does he create the finite for + and by his worship. All the works of God are everlasting; the only + perishable are some of the works of man. All love is a worship of the + infinite: what is called a man’s love for himself, is not love; it is but + a phantastic resemblance of love; it is a creating of the finite, a + creation of death. A man <i>cannot</i> love himself. If all love be not + creation—as I think it is—it is at least the only thing in + harmony with creation, and the love of oneself is its absolute opposite. I + sickened at the sight of myself: how should I ever get rid of the demon? + The same instant I saw the one escape: I must offer it back to its source—commit + it to him who had made it. I must live no more from it, but from the + source of it; seek to know nothing more of it than he gave me to know by + his presence therein. Thus might I become one with the Eternal in such an + absorption as Buddha had never dreamed; thus might I draw life ever fresh + from its fountain. And in that fountain alone would I contemplate its + reflex. What flashes of self-consciousness might cross me, should be God’s + gift, not of my seeking, and offered again to him in ever new + self-sacrifice. Alas! alas! this I saw then, and this I yet see; but oh, + how far am I still from that divine annihilation! The only comfort is, God + is, and I am his, else I should not be at all. + </p> + <p> + I saw too that thus God also lives—in his higher way. I saw, + shadowed out in the absolute devotion of Jesus to men, that the very life + of God by which we live is an everlasting eternal giving of himself away. + He asserts himself, only, solely, altogether, in an infinite sacrifice of + devotion. So must we live; the child must be as the father; live he cannot + on any other plan, struggle as he may. The father requires of him nothing + that he is not or does not himself, who is the one prime unconditioned + sacrificer and sacrifice. I threw myself on the ground, and offered back + my poor wretched self to its owner, to be taken and kept, purified and + made divine. + </p> + <p> + The same moment a sense of reviving health began to possess me. With many + fluctuations, it has possessed me, has grown, and is now, if not a + persistent cheerfulness, yet an unyielding hope. The world bloomed again + around me. The sunrise again grew gloriously dear; and the sadness of the + moon was lighted from a higher sun than that which returns with the + morning. + </p> + <p> + My relation to Mary resolved and re-formed itself in my mind into + something I can explain only by the following—call it dream: it was + not a dream; call it vision: it was not a vision; and yet I will tell it + as if it were either, being far truer than either. + </p> + <p> + I lay like a child on one of God’s arms. I could not see his face, and the + arm that held me was a great cloudy arm. I knew that on his other arm lay + Mary. But between us were forests and plains, mountains and great seas; + and, unspeakably worse than all, a gulf with which words had nothing to + do, a gulf of pure separation, of impassable nothingness, across which no + device, I say not of human skill, but of human imagination, could cast a + single connecting cord. There lay Mary, and here lay I—both in God’s + arms—utterly parted. As in a swoon I lay, through which suddenly + came the words: ‘What God hath joined, man cannot sunder.’ I lay thinking + what they could mean. All at once I thought I knew. Straightway I rose on + the cloudy arm, looked down on a measureless darkness beneath me, and up + on a great, dreary, world-filled eternity above me, and crept along the + arm towards the bosom of God. + </p> + <p> + In telling my—neither vision nor dream nor ecstasy, I cannot help it + that the forms grow so much plainer and more definite in the words than + they were in the revelation. Words always give either too much or too + little shape: when you want to be definite, you find your words clumsy and + blunt; when you want them for a vague shadowy image, you straightway find + them give a sharp and impertinent outline, refusing to lend themselves to + your undefined though vivid thought. Forms themselves are hard enough to + manage, but words are unmanageable. I must therefore trust to the heart of + my reader. + </p> + <p> + I crept into the bosom of God, and along a great cloudy peace, which I + could not understand, for it did not yet enter into me. At length I came + to the heart of God, and through that my journey lay. The moment I entered + it, the great peace appeared to enter mine, and I began to understand it. + Something melted in my heart, and for a moment I thought I was dying, but + I found I was being born again. My heart was empty of its old selfishness, + and I loved Mary tenfold—no longer in the least for my own sake, but + all for her loveliness. The same moment I knew that the heart of God was a + bridge, along which I was crossing the unspeakable eternal gulf that + divided Mary and me. At length, somehow, I know not how, somewhere, I know + not where, I was where she was. She knew nothing of my presence, turned + neither face nor eye to meet me, stretched out no hand to give me the + welcome of even a friend, and yet I not only knew, but felt that she was + mine. I wanted nothing from her; desired the presence of her loveliness + only that I might know it; hung about her life as a butterfly over the + flower he loves; was satisfied that she could <i>be</i>. I had left my + self behind in the heart of God, and now I was a pure essence, fit to + rejoice in the essential. But alas! my whole being was not yet subject to + its best. I began to long to be able to do something for her besides—I + foolishly said <i>beyond</i> loving her. Back rushed my old self in the + selfish thought: Some day—will she not know—and at least—? + That moment the vision vanished. I was tossed—ah! let me hope, only + to the other arm of God—but I lay in torture yet again. For a man + may see visions manifold, and believe them all; and yet his faith shall + not save him; something more is needed—he must have that presence of + God in his soul, of which the Son of Man spoke, saying: ‘If a man love me, + he will keep my words: and my Father will love him, and we will come unto + him, and make our abode with him.’ God in him, he will be able to love for + very love’s sake; God not in him, his best love will die into selfishness. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LX. MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER. + </h2> + <p> + The morning then which had thus dawned upon me, was often over-clouded + heavily. Yet it was the morning and not the night; and one of the + strongest proofs that it was the morning lay in this, that again I could + think in verse. + </p> + <p> + One day, after an hour or two of bitterness, I wrote the following. A + man’s trouble must have receded from him a little for the moment, if he + descries any shape in it, so as to be able to give it form in words. I set + it down with no hope of better than the vaguest sympathy. There came no + music with this one. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If it be that a man and a woman + Are made for no mutual grief; + That each gives the pain to some other, + And neither can give the relief; + + If thus the chain of the world + Is tied round the holy feet, + I scorn to shrink from facing + What my brothers and sisters meet. + + But I cry when the wolf is tearing + At the core of my heart as now: + When I was the man to be tortured, + Why should the woman be <i>thou?</i> +</pre> + <p> + I am not so ready to sink from the lofty in to the abject now. If at times + I yet feel that the whole creation is groaning and travailing, I know what + it is for—its redemption from the dominion of its own death into + that sole liberty which comes only of being filled and eternally possessed + by God himself, its source and its life. + </p> + <p> + And now I found also that my heart began to be moved with a compassion + towards my fellows such as I had never before experienced. I shall best + convey what I mean by transcribing another little poem I wrote about the + same time. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once I sat on a crimson throne, + And I held the world in fee; + Below me I heard my brothers moan, + And I bent me down to see;— + + Lovingly bent and looked on them, + But <i>I</i> had no inward pain; + I sat in the heart of my ruby gem, + Like a rainbow without the rain. + + My throne is vanished; helpless I lie + At the foot of its broken stair; + And the sorrows of all humanity + Through my heart make a thoroughfare. +</pre> + <p> + Let such things rest for a while: I have now to relate another incident—strange + enough, but by no means solitary in the records of human experience. My + reader will probably think that of dreams and visions there has already + been more than enough: but perhaps she will kindly remember that at this + time I had no outer life at all. Whatever bore to me the look of existence + was within me. All my days the tendency had been to an undue predominance + of thought over action, and now that the springs of action were for a time + dried up, what wonder was it if thought, lording it alone, should assume a + reality beyond its right? Hence the life of the day was prolonged into the + night; nor was there other than a small difference in their conditions, + beyond the fact that the contrast of outer things was removed in sleep; + whence the shapes which the waking thought had assumed had space and + opportunity, as it were, to thicken before the mental eye until they + became dreams and visions. + </p> + <p> + But concerning what I am about to relate I shall offer no theory. Such + mere operation of my own thoughts may be sufficient to account for it: I + would only ask—does any one know what the <i>mere</i> operation of + his own thoughts signifies? I cannot isolate myself, especially in those + moments when the individual will is less awake, from the ocean of life and + thought which not only surrounds me, but on which I am in a sense one of + the floating bubbles. + </p> + <p> + I was asleep, but I thought I lay awake in bed—in the room where I + still slept—that which had been my grannie’s.—It was dark + midnight, and the wind was howling about the gable and in the chimneys. + The door opened, and some one entered. By the lamp she carried I knew my + great-grandmother,—just as she looked in life, only that now she + walked upright and with ease. That I was dreaming is plain from the fact + that I felt no surprise at seeing her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wilfrid, come with me,’ she said, approaching the bedside. ‘Rise.’ + </p> + <p> + I obeyed like a child. + </p> + <p> + ‘Put your cloak on,’ she continued. ‘It is a stormy midnight, but we have + not so far to go as you may think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think nothing, grannie,’ I said. ‘I do not know where you want to take + me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come and see then, my son. You must at last learn what has been kept from + you far too long.’ + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she led the way down the stair, through the kitchen, and out + into the dark night. I remember the wind blowing my cloak about, but I + remember nothing more until I found myself in the winding hazel-walled + lane, leading to Umberden Church. My grannie was leading me by one + withered hand; in the other she held the lamp, over the flame of which the + wind had no power. She led me into the churchyard, took the key from under + the tombstone, unlocked the door of the church, put the lamp into my hand, + pushed me gently in, and shut the door behind me. I walked to the vestry, + and set the lamp on the desk, with a vague feeling that I had been there + before, and that I had now to do something at this desk. Above it I caught + sight of the row of vellum-bound books, and remembered that one of them + contained something of importance to me. I took it down. The moment I + opened it I remembered with distinctness the fatal discrepancy in the + entry of my grannie’s marriage. I found the place: to my astonishment the + date of the year was now the same as that on the preceding page—1747. + That instant I awoke in the first gush of the sunrise. + </p> + <p> + I could not help feeling even a little excited by my dream, and the + impression of it grew upon me: I wanted to see the book again. I could not + rest. Something seemed constantly urging me to go and look at it. Half to + get the thing out of my head, I sent Styles to fetch Lilith, and for the + first time since the final assurance of my loss, mounted her. I rode for + Umberden Church. + </p> + <p> + It was long after noon before I had made up my mind, and when, having tied + Lilith to the gate, I entered the church, one red ray from the setting sun + was nestling in the very roof. Knowing what I should find, yet wishing to + see it again, I walked across to the vestry, feeling rather uncomfortable + at the thought of prying thus alone into the parish register. + </p> + <p> + I could almost have persuaded myself that I was dreaming still; and in + looking back, I can hardly in my mind separate the dreaming from the + waking visit. + </p> + <p> + Of course I found just what I had expected—1748, not 1747—at + the top of the page, and was about to replace the register, when the + thought occurred to me that, if the dream had been potent enough to bring + me hither, it might yet mean something. I lifted the cover again. There + the entry stood undeniably plain. This time, however, I noted two other + little facts concerning it. + </p> + <p> + I will just remind my reader that the entry was crushed in between the + date of the year and the next entry—plainly enough to the eye; and + that there was no attestation to the entries of 1747. The first additional + fact—and clearly an important one—was that, in the summing up + of 1748, before the signature, which stood near the bottom of the cover, a + figure had been altered. Originally it stood: ‘In all six couple,’ but the + six had been altered to a seven—corresponding with the actual + number. This appeared proof positive that the first entry on the cover was + a forged insertion. And how clumsily it had been managed! + </p> + <p> + ‘What could my grannie be about?’ I said to myself. It never occurred to + me then that it might have been intended to <i>look like</i> a forgery. + </p> + <p> + Still I kept staring at it, as if by very force of staring I could find + out something. There was not the slightest sign of erasure or alteration + beyond the instance I have mentioned. Yet—and here was my second + note—when I compared the whole of the writing on the cover with the + writing on the preceding page, though it seemed the same hand, it seemed + to have got stiffer and shakier, as if the writer had grown old between. + Finding nothing very suggestive in this, however, I fell into a dreamy + mood, watching the red light, as it faded, up in the old, dark, distorted + roof of the desolate church—with my hand lying on the book. + </p> + <p> + I have always had a bad habit of pulling and scratching at any knot or + roughness in the paper of the book I happen to be reading; and now, almost + unconsciously, with my forefinger I was pulling at an edge of parchment + which projected from the joint of the cover. When I came to myself and + proceeded to close the book, I found it would not shut properly because of + a piece which I had curled up. Seeking to restore it to its former + position, I fancied I saw a line or edge running all down the joint, and + looking closer, saw that these last entries, in place of being upon a leaf + of the book pasted to the cover in order to strengthen the binding, as I + had supposed, were indeed upon a leaf which was pasted to the cover, but + one which was not otherwise connected with the volume. + </p> + <p> + I now began to feel a more lively interest in the behaviour of my + dream-grannie. Here might lie something to explain the hitherto + inexplicable. I proceeded to pull the leaf gently away. It was of + parchment, much thinner than the others, which were of vellum. I had + withdrawn only a small portion when I saw there was writing under it. My + heart began to beat faster. But I would not be rash. My old experience + with parchment in the mending of my uncle’s books came to my aid. If I + pulled at the dry skin as I had been doing, I might not only damage it, + but destroy the writing under it. I could do nothing without water, and I + did not know where to find any. It would be better to ride to the village + of Gastford, somewhere about two miles off, put up there, and arrange for + future proceedings. + </p> + <p> + I did not know the way, and for a long time could see no one to ask. The + consequence was that I made a wide round, and it was nearly dark before I + reached the village. I thought it better for the present to feed Lilith, + and then make the best of my way home. + </p> + <p> + The next evening—I felt so like a thief that I sought the thievish + security of the night—having provided myself with what was + necessary, and borrowed a horse for Styles, I set out again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXI. THE PARISH REGISTER. + </h2> + <p> + The sky clouded as we went; it grew very dark, and the wind began to blow. + It threatened a storm. I told Styles a little of what I was about—just + enough to impress on him the necessity for prudence. The wind increased, + and by the time we gained the copse, it was roaring, and the slender + hazels bending like a field of corn. + </p> + <p> + ‘You will have enough to do with two horses,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t mind it, sir,’ Styles answered. ‘A word from me will quiet Miss + Lilith; and for the other, I’ve known him pretty well for two years past.’ + </p> + <p> + I left them tolerably sheltered in the winding lane, and betook myself + alone to the church. Cautiously I opened the door, and felt my way from + pew to pew, for it was quite dark. I could just distinguish the windows + from the walls, and nothing more. As soon as I reached the vestry, I + struck a light, got down the volume, and proceeded to moisten the + parchment with a wet sponge. For some time the water made little + impression on the old parchment, of which but one side could be exposed to + its influence, and I began to fear I should be much longer in gaining my + end than I had expected. The wind roared and howled about the trembling + church, which seemed too weak with age to resist such an onslaught; but + when at length the skin began to grow soft and yield to my gentle efforts + at removal, I became far too much absorbed in the simple operation, which + had to be performed with all the gentleness and nicety of a surgical one, + to heed the uproar about me. Slowly the glutinous adhesion gave way, and + slowly the writing revealed itself. In mingled hope and doubt I restrained + my curiosity; and as one teases oneself sometimes by dallying with a + letter of the greatest interest, not until I had folded down the parchment + clear of what was manifestly an entry, did I bring my candle close to it, + and set myself to read it. Then, indeed, I found I had reason to regard + with respect the dream which had brought me thither. + </p> + <p> + Right under the 1748 of the parchment, stood on the vellum cover 1747. + Then followed the usual blank, and then came an entry corresponding word + for word with the other entry of my great-grandfather and mother’s + marriage. In all probability Moldwarp Hall was mine! Little as it could do + for me now, I confess to a keen pang of pleasure at the thought. + </p> + <p> + Meantime, I followed out my investigation, and gradually stripped the + parchment off the vellum to within a couple of inches of the bottom of the + cover. The result of knowledge was as follows:— + </p> + <p> + Next to the entry of the now hardly hypothetical marriage of my ancestors, + stood the summing up of the marriages of 1747, with the signature of the + rector. I paused, and, turning back, counted them. Including that in which + alone I was interested, I found the number given correct. Next came by + itself the figures 1748, and then a few more entries, followed by the + usual summing up and signature of the rector. From this I turned to the + leaf of parchment; there was a difference: upon the latter the sum was + six, altered to seven; on the former it was five. This of course suggested + further search: I soon found where the difference indicated lay. + </p> + <p> + As the entry of <i>the</i> marriage was, on the forged leaf, shifted up + close to the forged 1748, and as the summing and signature had to be + omitted, because they belonged to the end of 1747, a blank would have been + left, and the writing below would have shone through and attracted + attention, revealing the forgery of the whole, instead of that of the part + only which was intended to look a forgery. To prevent this, an altogether + fictitious entry had been made—over the summing and signature. This, + with the genuine entries faithfully copied, made of the five, six, which + the forger had written and then blotted into a seven, intending to expose + the entry of my ancestors’ marriage as a forgery, while the rest of the + year’s register should look genuine. It took me some little trouble to + clear it all up to my own mind, but by degrees everything settled into its + place, assuming an intelligible shape in virtue of its position. + </p> + <p> + With my many speculations as to why the mechanism of the forgery had + assumed this shape, I need not trouble my reader. Suffice it to say that + on more than one supposition, I can account for it satisfactorily to + myself. One other remark only will I make concerning it: I have no doubt + it was an old forgery. One after another those immediately concerned in it + had died, and there the falsehood lurked—in latent power—inoperative + until my second visit to Umberden Church. But what differences might there + not have been had it not started into activity for the brief space betwixt + then and my sorrow? + </p> + <p> + I left the parchment still attached to the cover at the bottom, and, + laying a sheet of paper between the formerly adhering surfaces, lest they + should again adhere, closed and replaced the volume. Then, looking at my + watch, I found that, instead of an hour as I had supposed, I had been in + the church three hours. It was nearly eleven o’clock, too late for + anything further that night. + </p> + <p> + When I came out, the sky was clear and the stars were shining. The storm + had blown over. Much rain had fallen. But when the wind ceased or the rain + began, I had no recollection; the storm had vanished altogether from my + consciousness. I found Styles where I had left him, smoking his pipe and + leaning against Lilith, who—I cannot call her <i>which</i>—was + feeding on the fine grass of the lane. The horse he had picketed near. We + mounted and rode home. + </p> + <p> + The next thing was to see the rector of Umberden. He lived in his other + parish, and thither I rode the following day to call upon him. I found him + an old gentleman, of the squire-type of rector. As soon as he heard my + name, he seemed to know who I was, and at once showed himself hospitable. + </p> + <p> + I told him that I came to him as I might, were I a Catholic, to a + father-confessor. This Startled him a little. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t tell me anything I ought not to keep secret,’ he said; and it gave + me confidence in him at once. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will not,’ I returned. ‘The secret is purely my own. Whatever crime + there is in it, was past punishment long before I was born; and it was + committed against, not by my family. But it is rather a long story, and I + hope I shall not be tedious.’ + </p> + <p> + He assured me of his perfect leisure. + </p> + <p> + I told him everything, from my earliest memory, which bore on the + discovery I had at length made. He soon showed signs of interest; and when + I had ended the tale with the facts of the preceding night, he silently + rose and walked about the room. After a few moments, he said: + </p> + <p> + ‘And what do you mean to do, Mr Cumbermede?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing,’ I answered, ‘so long as Sir Giles is alive. He was kind to me + when I was a boy.’ + </p> + <p> + He came up behind me where I was seated, and laid his hand gently on my + head; then, without a word, resumed his walk. + </p> + <p> + ‘And if you survive him, what then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I must be guided partly by circumstances,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘And what do you want of me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I want you to go with me to the church, and see the book, that, in case + of anything happening to it, you may be a witness concerning its previous + contents.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am too old to be the only witness,’ he said. ‘You ought to have several + of your own age.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I want as few to know the secret as may be,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘You should have your lawyer one of them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He would never leave me alone about it,’ I replied; ‘and positively I + shall take no measures at present. Some day I hope to punish him for + deserting me as he did.’ + </p> + <p> + For I had told him how Mr Coningham had behaved. + </p> + <p> + ‘Revenge, Mr Cumbermede?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a serious one. All the punishment I hope to give him is but to show + him the fact of the case, and leave him to feel as he may about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There can’t be much harm in that.’ + </p> + <p> + He reflected a few moments, and then said: + </p> + <p> + ‘I will tell you what will be best. We shall go and see the book together. + I will make an extract of both entries, and give a description of the + state of the volume, with an account of how the second entry—or more + properly the first—came to be discovered. This I shall sign in the + presence of two witnesses, who need know nothing of the contents of the + paper. Of that you shall yourself take charge.’ + </p> + <p> + We went together to the church. The old man, after making a good many + objections, was at length satisfied, and made notes for his paper. He + started the question whether it would not be better to secure that volume + at least under lock and key. For this I thought there was no occasion—that + in fact it was safer where it was, and more certain of being forthcoming + when wanted. I did suggest that the key of the church might be deposited + in a place of safety; but he answered that it had been kept there ever + since he came to the living forty years ago, and for how long before that + he could not tell; and so a change would attract attention, and possibly + make some talk in the parish, which had better be avoided. + </p> + <p> + Before the end of the week, he had his document ready. He signed it in my + presence, and in that of two of his parishioners, who as witnesses + appended their names and abodes. I have it now in my possession. I shall + enclose it, with my great-grandfather and mother’s letters—and + something besides—in the packet containing this history. + </p> + <p> + That same week Sir Giles Brotherton died. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0062" id="link2HCH0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXII. A FOOLISH TRIUMPH. + </h2> + <p> + I should have now laid claim to my property, but for Mary. To turn Sir + Geoffrey with his mother and sister out of it, would have caused me little + compunction, for they would still be rich enough; I confess indeed it + would have given me satisfaction. Nor could I say what real hurt of any + kind it would occasion to Mary; and if I were writing for the public, + instead of my one reader, I know how foolishly incredible it must appear + that for her sake I should forego such claims. She would, however, I + trust, have been able to believe it without the proofs which I intend to + give her. The fact was simply this: I could not, even for my own sake, + bear the thought of taking, in any manner or degree, a position if but + apparently antagonistic to her. My enemy was her husband: he should reap + the advantage of being her husband; for her sake he should for the present + retain what was mine. So long as there should be no reason to fear his + adopting a different policy from his father’s in respect of his tenants, I + felt myself at liberty to leave things as they were; for Sir Giles had + been a good landlord, and I knew the son was regarded with favour in the + county. Were he to turn out unjust or oppressive, however, then duty on my + part would come in. But I must also remind my reader that I had no love + for affairs; that I had an income perfectly sufficient for my wants; that, + both from my habits of thought and from my sufferings, my regard was upon + life itself—was indeed so far from being confined to this chrysalid + beginning thereof, that I had lost all interest in this world save as the + porch to the house of life. And, should I ever meet her again, in any + possible future of being, how much rather would I not stand before her as + one who had been even Quixotic for her sake—as one who for a + hair’s-breadth of her interest had felt the sacrifice of a fortune a + merely natural movement of his life! She would then know not merely that I + was true to her, but that I had been true in what I professed to believe + when I sought her favour. And if it had been a pleasure to me—call + it a weakness, and I will not oppose the impeachment;—call it + self-pity, and I will confess to that as having a share in it;—but, + if it had been a shadowy pleasure to me to fancy I suffered for her sake, + my present resolution, while it did not add the weight of a feather to my + suffering, did yet give me a similar vague satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + I must also confess to a certain satisfaction in feeling that I had power + over my enemy—power of making him feel my power—power of + vindicating my character against him as well, seeing one who could thus + abstain from asserting his own rights could hardly have been one to invade + the rights of another; but the enjoyment of this consciousness appeared to + depend on my silence. If I broke that, the strength would depart from me; + but while I held my peace, I held my foe in an invisible mesh. I half + deluded myself into fancying that, while I kept my power over him + unexercised, I retained a sort of pledge for his conduct to Mary, of which + I was more than doubtful; for a man with such antecedents as his, a man + who had been capable of behaving as he had behaved to Charley, was less + than likely to be true to his wife: he was less than likely to treat the + sister as a lady, who to the brother had been a traitorous seducer. + </p> + <p> + I have now to confess a fault as well as an imprudence—punished, I + believe, in the results. + </p> + <p> + The behaviour of Mr. Coningham still rankled a little in my bosom. From + Geoffrey I had never looked for anything but evil; of Mr Coningham I had + expected differently, and I began to meditate the revenge of holding him + up to himself: I would punish him in a manner which, with his confidence + in his business faculty, he must feel: I would simply show him how the + precipitation of selfish disappointment had led him astray, and frustrated + his designs. For if he had given even a decent attention to the matter, he + would have found in the forgery itself hints sufficient to suggest the + desirableness of further investigation. + </p> + <p> + I had not, however, concluded upon anything, when one day I accidentally + met him, and we had a little talk about business, for he continued to look + after the rent of my field. He informed me that Sir Geoffrey Brotherton + had been doing all he could to get even temporary possession of the park, + as we called it; and, although I said nothing of it to Mr Coningham, my + suspicion is that, had he succeeded, he would, at the risk of a law-suit, + in which he would certainly have been cast, have ploughed it up. He told + me, also, that Clara was in poor health; she who had looked as if no + blight could ever touch her had broken down utterly. The shadow of her + sorrow was plain enough on the face of her father, and his confident + manner had a little yielded, although he was the old man still. His father + had died a little before Sir Giles. The new baronet had not offered him + the succession. + </p> + <p> + I asked him to go with me yet once more to Umberden Church—for I + wanted to show him something he had over-looked in the register—not, + I said, that it would be of the slightest furtherance to his former hopes. + He agreed at once, already a little ashamed, perhaps, of the way in which + he had abandoned me. Before we parted we made an appointment to meet at + the church. + </p> + <p> + We went at once to the vestry. I took down the volume, and laid it before + him. He opened it, with a curious look at me first. But the moment he + lifted the cover, its condition at once attracted and as instantly riveted + his attention. He gave me one glance more, in which questions and remarks + and exclamations numberless lay in embryo; then turning to the book, was + presently absorbed, first in reading the genuine entry, next in comparing + it with the forged one. + </p> + <p> + ‘Right, after all!’ he exclaimed at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘In what?’ I asked.’ In dropping me without a word, as if I had been an + impostor? In forgetting that you yourself had raised in me the hopes whose + discomfiture you took as a personal injury?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear sir!’ he stammered in an expostulatory tone, ‘you must make + allowance. It was a tremendous disappointment to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I cannot say I felt it quite so much myself, but at least you owed me an + apology for having misled me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I had <i>not</i> misled you,’ he retorted angrily, pointing to the + register.—‘There!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You left <i>me</i> to find that out, though. <i>You</i> took no further + pains in the matter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How <i>did</i> you find it out?’ he asked, clutching at a change in the + tone of the conversation. + </p> + <p> + I said nothing of my dream, but I told him everything else concerning the + discovery. When I had finished— + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all plain sailing now,’ he cried. ‘There is not an obstacle in the + way. I will set the thing in motion the instant I get home.—It will + be a victory worth achieving,’ he added, rubbing his hands. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Coningham, I have not the slightest intention of moving in the + matter,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + His face fell. + </p> + <p> + ‘You do not mean—when you hold them in your very hands—to + throw away every advantage of birth and fortune, and be a nobody in the + world?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Infinite advantages of the kind you mean, Mr Coningham, could make me not + one whit more than I am; they <i>might</i> make me less.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come, come,’ he expostulated; ‘you must not allow disappointment to upset + your judgment of things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My judgment of things lies deeper than any disappointment I have yet + had,’ I replied. ‘My uncle’s teaching has at last begun to bear fruit in + me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your uncle was a fool!’ he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + ‘But for my uncle’s sake, I would knock you down for daring to couple such + a word with <i>him</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + He turned on me with a sneer. His eyes had receded in his head, and in his + rage he grinned. The old ape-face, which had lurked in my memory ever + since the time I first saw him, came out so plainly that I started: the + child had read his face aright! the following judgment of the man had been + wrong! the child’s fear had not imprinted a false eidolon upon the growing + brain. + </p> + <p> + ‘What right had, you,’ he said, ‘to bring me all this way for such + tomfoolery?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I told you it would not further your wishes.—But who brought me + here for nothing first?’ I added, most foolishly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was myself deceived. I did not intend to deceive you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know that. God forbid I should be unjust to you! But you have proved to + me that your friendship was all a pretence; that your private ends were + all your object. When you discovered that I could not serve those, you + dropped me like a bit of glass you had taken for a diamond. Have you any + right to grumble if I give you the discipline of a passing shame?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Cumbermede,’ he said, through his teeth, ‘you will repent this.’ + </p> + <p> + I gave him no answer, and he left the church in haste. Having replaced the + register, I was following at my leisure, when I heard sounds that made me + hurry to the door. Lilith was plunging and rearing and pulling at the + bridle which I had thrown over one of the spiked bars of the gate. Another + moment and she must have broken loose, or dragged the gate upon her—more + likely the latter, for the bridle was a new one with broad reins—when + some frightful injury would in all probability have been the consequence + to herself. But a word from me quieted her, and she stood till I came up. + Every inch of her was trembling. I suspected at once, and in a moment + discovered plainly that Mr Coningham had struck her with his whip: there + was a big weal on the fine skin of her hip and across, her croup. She + shrunk like a hurt child when my hand approached the injured part, but + moved neither hoof nor head. + </p> + <p> + Having patted and petted and consoled her a little, I mounted and rode + after Mr Coningham. Nor was it difficult to overtake him, for he was going + a foot-pace. He was stooping in his saddle, and when I drew near, I saw + that he was looking very pale. I did not, however, suspect that he was in + pain. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was a cowardly thing to strike the poor dumb animal,’ I cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘You would have struck her yourself,’ he answered with a curse,’ if she + had broken your leg.’ + </p> + <p> + I rode nearer. I knew well enough that she would not have kicked him if he + had not struck her first; and I could see that his leg was not broken; but + evidently he was in great suffering. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am very sorry,’ I said. Can I help you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Go to the devil!’ he groaned. + </p> + <p> + I am ashamed to say the answer made me so angry that I spoke the truth. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t suppose you deceive me,’ I said. ‘I know well enough my mare did + not kick you before you struck her. Then she lashed out, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + I waited for no reply, but turned and rode back to the church, the door of + which, in my haste, I had left open. I locked it, replaced the key, and + then rode quietly home. + </p> + <p> + But as I went, I began to feel that I had done wrong. No doubt, Mr + Coningham deserved it, but the law was not in my hands. No man has a right + to <i>punish</i> another. Vengeance belongs to a higher region, and the + vengeance of God is a very different thing from the vengeance of man. + However it may be softened with the name of retribution, revenge runs into + all our notions of justice; and until we love purely, so it must ever be. + </p> + <p> + All I had gained was self-rebuke, and another enemy. Having reached home, + I read the Manual of Epictetus right through before I laid it down, and, + if it did not teach me to love my enemies, it taught me at least to be + ashamed of myself. Then I wrote to Mr Coningham, saying I was sorry I had + spoken to him as I did, and begging him to let by-gones be by-gones; + assuring him that, if ever I moved in the matter of our difference, he + should be the first to whom I applied for assistance. + </p> + <p> + He returned me no answer. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0063" id="link2HCH0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXIII. A COLLISION. + </h2> + <p> + And now came a dreary time of re-action. There seemed nothing left for me + to do, and I felt listless and weary. Something kept urging me to get away + and hide myself, and I soon made up my mind to yield to the impulse and go + abroad. My intention was to avoid cities, and, wandering from village to + village, lay my soul bare to the healing influences of nature. As to any + healing in the power of Time, I despised the old bald-pate as a quack who + performed his seeming cures at the expense of the whole body. The better + cures attributed to him are not his at all, but produced by the operative + causes whose servant he is. A thousand holy balms require his services for + their full action, but they, and not he, are the saving powers. Along with + Time I ranked, and with absolute hatred shrunk from—all those means + which offered to cure me by making me forget. From a child I had a horror + of forgetting; it always seemed to me like a loss of being, like a hollow + scooped out of my very existence—almost like the loss of identity. + At times I even shrunk from going to sleep, so much did it seem like + yielding to an absolute death—a death so deep that the visible death + is but a picture or type of it. If I could have been sure of dreaming, it + would have been different, but in the uncertainty it seemed like + consenting to nothingness. That one who thus felt should ever have been + tempted to suicide, will reveal how painful if not valueless his thoughts + and feelings—his conscious life—must have grown to him; and + that the only thing which withheld him from it should be the fear that no + death, but a more intense life might be the result, will reveal it yet + more clearly. That in that sleep I might at least dream—there was + the rub. + </p> + <p> + All such relief, in a word, as might come of a lowering of my life, either + physically, morally, or spiritually, I hated, detested, despised. The man + who finds solace for a wounded heart in self-indulgence may indeed be <i>capable</i> + of angelic virtues, but in the mean time his conduct is that of the devils + who went into the swine rather than be bodiless. The man who can thus be + consoled for the loss of a woman could never have been worthy of her, + possibly would not have remained true to her beyond the first delights of + possession. The relief to which I could open my door must be such alone as + would operate through the enlarging and elevating of what I recognized as + <i>myself</i>. Whatever would make me greater, so that my torture, + intensified, it might well be, should yet have room to dash itself hither + and thither without injuring the walls of my being, would be welcome. If I + might become so great that, my grief yet stinging me to agony, the + infinite <i>I</i> of me should remain pure and calm, God-loving and + man-cherishing, then I should be saved. God might be able to do more for + me—I could not tell: I looked for no more. I would myself be such as + to inclose my pain in a mighty sphere of out-spacing life, in relation to + which even such sorrow as mine should be but a little thing. Such + deliverance alone, I say, could I consent with myself to accept, and such + alone, I believed, would God offer me—for such alone seemed worthy + of him, and such alone seemed not unworthy of me. + </p> + <p> + The help that Nature could give me, I judged to be of this ennobling kind. + For either nature was nature in virtue of having been born (<i>nata</i>) + of God, or she was but a phantasm of my own brain—against which + supposition the nature in me protested with the agony of a tortured man. + To nature, then, I would go. Like the hurt child who folds himself in the + skirt of his mother’s velvet garment, I would fold myself in the robe of + Deity. + </p> + <p> + But to give honour and gratitude where both are due, I must here confess + obligation with a willing and thankful heart. The <i>Excursion</i> of + Wordsworth was published ere I was born, but only since I left college had + I made acquaintance with it: so long does it take for the light of a new + star to reach a distant world! To this book I owe so much that to me it + would alone justify the conviction that Wordsworth will never be + forgotten. That he is no longer the fashion, militates nothing against his + reputation. We, the old ones, hold fast by him for no sentimental + reminiscence of the fashion of our youth, but simply because his humanity + has come into contact with ours. The men of the new generation have their + new loves and worships: it remains to be seen to whom the worthy amongst + them will turn long ere the frosts of age begin to gather and the winds of + the human autumn to blow. Wordsworth will recede through the gliding ages + until, with the greater Chaucer, and the greater Shakspere, and the + greater Milton, he is yet a star in the constellated crown of England. + </p> + <p> + Before I was able to leave home, however, a new event occurred. + </p> + <p> + I received an anonymous letter, in a hand-writing I did not recognize. Its + contents were as follows:— + </p> + <p> + ‘SIR,—Treachery is intended you. If you have anything worth + watching, <i>watch</i> it.’ + </p> + <p> + For one moment—so few were the places in which through my + possessions I was vulnerable—I fancied the warning might point to + Lilith, but I soon dismissed the idea. I could make no inquiries, for it + had been left an hour before my return from a stroll by an unknown + messenger. I could think of nothing besides but the register, and if this + was what my correspondent aimed at, I had less reason to be anxious + concerning it, because of the attested copy, than my informant probably + knew. Still its safety was far from being a matter of indifference to me. + I resolved to ride over to Umberden Church, and see if it was as I had + left it. + </p> + <p> + The twilight was fast thickening into darkness when I entered the gloomy + building. There was light enough, however, to guide my hand to the right + volume, and by carrying it to the door, I was able to satisfy myself that + it was as I had left it. + </p> + <p> + Thinking over the matter once more as I stood, I could not help wishing + that the book were out of danger just for the present; but there was + hardly a place in the bare church where it was possible to conceal it. At + last I thought of one—half groped my way to the pulpit, ascended its + creaking stair, lifted the cushion of the seat, and laid the book, which + was thin, open in the middle, and flat on its face, under it. I then + locked the door, mounted, and rode off. + </p> + <p> + It was now more than dusk. Lilith was frolicsome, and, rejoicing in the + grass under her feet, broke into a quick canter along the noiseless, + winding lane. Suddenly there was a great shock, and I lay senseless. + </p> + <p> + I came to myself under the stinging blows of a whip, only afterwards + recognized as such, however. I sprung staggering to my feet, and rushed at + the dim form of an assailant, with such a sudden and, I suppose, + unexpected assault, that he fell under me. Had he not fallen I should have + had little chance with him, for, as I now learned by his voice, it was Sir + Geoffrey Brotherton. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thief! Swindler! Sneak!’ he cried, making a last harmless blow at me as + he fell. + </p> + <p> + All the wild beast in my nature was roused. I had no weapon—not even + a whip, for Lilith never needed one. It was well, for what I might have + done in the first rush of blood to my reviving brain, I dare hardly + imagine. I seized him by the throat with such fury that, though far the + stronger, he had no chance as he lay. I kneeled on his chest. He struggled + furiously, but could not force my gripe from his throat. I soon perceived + that I was strangling him, and tightened my grasp. + </p> + <p> + His efforts were already growing feebler, when I became aware of a soft + touch apparently trying to take hold of my hair. Glancing up without + relaxing my hold, I saw the white head of Lilith close to mine. Was it the + whiteness—was it the calmness of the creature—I cannot pretend + to account for the fact, but the same instant before my mind’s eye rose + the vision of one standing speechless before his accusers, bearing on his + form the marks of ruthless blows. I did not then remember that just before + I came out I had been gazing, as I often gazed, upon an Ecce Homo of + Albert Dürer’s that hung in my room. Immediately my heart awoke within me. + My whole being still trembling with passionate struggle and gratified + hate, a rush of human pity swept across it. I took my hand from my enemy’s + throat, rose, withdrew some paces, and burst into tears. I could have + embraced him, but I dared not even minister to him for the insult at would + appear. He did not at once rise, and when he did, he stood for a few + moments, half-unconscious, I think, staring at me. Coming to himself, he + felt for and found his whip—I thought with the intention of + attacking me again, but he moved towards his horse, which was quietly + eating the grass, now wet with dew. Gathering its bridle from around its + leg, he mounted, and rode back the way he had come. + </p> + <p> + I lingered for a while utterly exhausted. I was trembling in every limb. + The moon rose and began to shed her low yellow light over the hazel copse, + filling the lane with brightness and shadow. Lilith, seeming-in her + whiteness to gather a tenfold share of the light upon herself, was now + feeding as gently as if she had known nothing of the strife, and I + congratulated myself that the fall had not injured her. But as she took a + step forward in her feeding, I discovered to my dismay that she was quite + lame. For my own part I was now feeling the ache of numerous and severe + bruises. When I took Lilith by the bridle to lead her away, I found that + neither of us could manage more than two miles an hour. I was very uneasy + about her. There was nothing for it, however, but make the best of our way + to Gastford. It was no little satisfaction to think, as we hobbled along, + that the accident had happened through no carelessness of mine, beyond + that of cantering in the dark, for I was on my own side of the road. Had + Geoffrey been on his, narrow as the lane was, we might have passed without + injury. + </p> + <p> + It was so late when we reached Gastford, that we had to rouse the ostler + before I could get Lilith attended to. I bathed the injured leg, of which + the shoulder seemed wrenched; and having fed her, but less plentifully + than usual, I left her to her repose. In the morning she was considerably + better, but I resolved to leave her where she was, and, sending a + messenger for Styles to come and attend to her, I hired a gig, and went to + call on my new friend the rector of Umberden. + </p> + <p> + I told him all that had happened, and where I had left the volume. He said + he would have a chest made in which to secure the whole register, and, + meanwhile, would himself go to the church and bring that volume home with + him. It is safe enough now, as any one may find who wishes to see it—though + the old man has long passed away. + </p> + <p> + Lilith remained at Gastford a week before I judged it safe for her to come + home. The injury, however, turned out to be a not very serious one. + </p> + <p> + Why should I write of my poor mare—but that she was once hers all + for whose hoped perusal I am writing this? No, there is even a better + reason: I shall never, to all my eternity, forget, even if I should never + see her again, which I do not for a moment believe, what she did for me + that evening. Surely she deserves to appear in her own place in my story! + </p> + <p> + Of course I was exercised in my mind as to who had sent me the warning. + There could be no more doubt that I had hit what it intended, and had + possibly preserved the register from being once more tampered with. I + could think only of one. I have never had an opportunity of inquiring, and + for her sake I should never have asked the question, but I have little + doubt it was Clara. Who else could have had a chance of making the + discovery, and at the same time would have cared to let me know it? Also + she would have cogent reason for keeping such a part in the affair a + secret. Probably she had heard her father informing Geoffrey; but he might + have done so with no worse intention than had informed his previous + policy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0064" id="link2HCH0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXIV. YET ONCE. + </h2> + <p> + I am drawing my story to a close. Almost all that followed bears so + exclusively upon my internal history, that I will write but one incident + more of it. I have roamed the world, and reaped many harvests. In the + deepest agony I have never refused the consolations of Nature or of Truth. + I have never knowingly accepted any founded in falsehood, in + forgetfulness, or in distraction. Let such as have no hope in God drink of + what Lethe they can find; to me it is a river of Hell and altogether + abominable. I could not be content even to forget my sins. There can be + but one deliverance from them, namely, that God and they should come + together in my soul. In his presence I shall serenely face them. Without + him I dare not think of them. With God a man can confront anything; + without God, he is but the withered straw which the sickle of the reaper + has left standing on a wintry field. But to forget them would be to cease + and begin anew, which to one aware of his immortality is a horror. + </p> + <p> + If comfort profound as the ocean has not yet overtaken and infolded me, I + see how such may come—perhaps will come. It must be by the enlarging + of my whole being in truth, in God, so as to give room for the storm to + rage, yet not destroy; for the sorrow to brood, yet not kill; for the + sunshine of love to return after the east wind and black frost of + bitterest disappointment; for the heart to feel the uttermost tenderness + while the arms go not forth to embrace; for a mighty heaven of the + unknown, crowded with the stars of endless possibilities, to dawn when the + sun of love has vanished, and the moon of its memory is too ghastly to + give any light: it is comfort such and thence that I think will one day + possess me. Already has not its aurora brightened the tops of my + snow-covered mountains? And if yet my valleys lie gloomy and forlorn, is + not light on the loneliest peak a sure promise of the coming day? + </p> + <p> + Only once again have I looked in Mary’s face. I will record the occasion, + and then drop my pen. + </p> + <p> + About five years after I left home, I happened in my wanderings to be in + one of my favourite Swiss valleys—high and yet sheltered. I rejoiced + to be far up in the mountains, yet behold the inaccessible peaks above me—mine, + though not to be trodden by foot of mine—my heart’s own, though + never to yield me a moment’s outlook from their lofty brows; for I was + never strong enough to reach one mighty summit. It was enough for me that + they sent me down the glad streams from the cold bosoms of their glaciers—the + offspring of the sun and the snow; that I too beheld the stars to which + they were nearer than I. + </p> + <p> + One lovely morning I had wandered a good way from the village—a + place little frequented by visitors, where I had a lodging in the house of + the syndic—when I was overtaken by one of the sudden fogs which so + frequently render those upper regions dangerous. There was no path to + guide me back to my temporary home, but, a hundred yards or so beneath + where I had been sitting, lay that which led down to one of the best known + villages of the canton, where I could easily find shelter. I made haste to + descend. + </p> + <p> + After a couple of hours’ walking, during which the fog kept following me, + as if hunting me from its lair, I at length arrived at the level of the + valley, and was soon in one of those large hotels which in Summer are + crowded as bee-hives, and in Winter forsaken as a ruin. The season for + travellers was drawing to a close, and the house was full of + homeward-bound guests. + </p> + <p> + For the mountains will endure but a season of intrusion. If travellers + linger too long within their hospitable gates, their humour changes, and, + with fierce winds and snow and bitter sleet, they will drive them forth, + preserving their Winter privacy for the bosom friends of their mistress, + Nature. Many is the Winter since those of my boyhood which I have spent + amongst the Alps; and in such solitude I have ever found the negation of + all solitude, the one absolute Presence. David communed with his own heart + on his bed and was still—there finding God: communing with my own + heart in the Winter-valleys of Switzerland I found at least what made me + cry out: ‘Surely this is the house of God; this is the gate of heaven!’ I + would not be supposed to fancy that God is in mountains, and not in plains—that + God is in the solitude, and not in the city: in any region harmonious with + its condition and necessities, it is easier, for the heart to be still, + and in its stillness to hear the still small voice. + </p> + <p> + Dinner was going on at the <i>table-d’hôte</i>. It was full, but a place + was found for me in a bay-window. Turning to the one side, I belonged to + the great world, represented by the Germans, Americans, and English, with + a Frenchman and Italian here and there, filling the long table; turning to + the other, I knew myself in a temple of the Most High, so huge that it + seemed empty of men. The great altar of a mighty mountain rose, massy as a + world, and ethereal as a thought, into the upturned gulf of the twilight + air—its snowy peak, ever as I turned to look, mounting up and up to + its repose. I had been playing with my own soul, spinning it between the + sun and the moon, as it were, and watching now the golden and now the + silvery side, as I glanced from the mountain to the table, and again from + the table to the mountain, when all at once I discovered that I was + searching the mountain for something—I did not know what. Whether + any tones had reached me, I cannot tell;—a man’s mind may, even + through his senses, be marvellously moved without knowing whence the + influence comes;—but there I was searching the face of the mountain + for something, with a want which had not begun to explain itself. From + base to peak my eyes went flitting and resting and wandering again + upwards. At last they reached the snowy crown, from which they fell into + the infinite blue beyond. Then, suddenly, the unknown something I wanted + was clear. The same moment I turned to the table. Almost opposite was a + face—pallid, with parted lips and fixed eyes—gazing at me. + Then I knew those eyes had been gazing at me all the time I had been + searching the face of the mountain. For one moment they met mine and + rested; for one moment, I felt as if I must throw myself at her feet, and + clasp them to my heart; but she turned her eyes away, and I rose and left + the house. + </p> + <p> + The mist was gone, and the moon was rising. I walked up the mountain path + towards my village. But long ere I reached it the sun was rising. With his + first arrow of slenderest light, the tossing waves of my spirit began to + lose their white tops, and sink again towards a distant calm; and ere I + saw the village from the first point of vision, I had made the following + verses. They are the last I will set down. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I know that I cannot move thee + To an echo of my pain, + Or a thrill of the storming trouble + That racks my soul and brain; + + That our hearts through all the ages + Shall never sound in tune; + That they meet no more in their cycles + Than the parted sun and moon. + + But if ever a spirit flashes + Itself on another soul, + One day, in thy stillness, a vapour + Shall round about thee roll; + + And the lifting of the vapour + Shall reveal a world of pain, + Of frosted suns, and moons that wander + Through misty mountains of rain. + + Thou shalt know me for one live instant— + Thou halt know me—and yet not love: + I would not have thee troubled, + My cold, white-feathered dove! + + I would only once come near thee—Myself, + and not my form; + Then away in the distance wander, + A slow-dissolving storm. + + The vision should pass in vapour, + That melts in aether again; + Only a something linger-Not + pain, but the shadow of pain. + + And I should know that thy spirit + On mine one look had sent; + And glide away from thy knowledge, + And try to be half-content. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0065" id="link2HCH0065"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXV. CONCLUSION. + </h2> + <p> + The ebbing tide that leaves bare the shore swells the heaps of the central + sea. The tide of life ebbs from this body of mine, soon to lie on the + shore of life like a stranded wreck; but the murmur of the waters that + break upon no strand is in my ears; to join the waters of the infinite + life, mine is ebbing away. + </p> + <p> + Whatever has been his will is well—grandly well—well even for + that in me which feared, and in those very respects in which it feared + that it might not be well. The whole being of me past and present shall + say: It is infinitely well, and I would not have it otherwise. Rather than + it should not be as it is, I would go back to the world and this body of + which I grew weary, and encounter yet again all that met me on my journey. + Yes—final submission of my will to the All-will—I would meet + it <i>knowing what was coming</i>. Lord of me, Father of Jesus Christ, + will this suffice? Is my faith enough yet? I say it, not having beheld + what thou hast in store—not knowing what I shall be—not even + absolutely certain that thou art—confident only that, if thou be, + such thou must be. + </p> + <p> + The last struggle is before me. But I have passed already through so many + valleys of death itself, where the darkness was not only palpable, but + choking and stinging, that I cannot greatly fear that which holds but the + shadow of death. For what men call death, is but its shadow. Death never + comes near us; it lies behind the back of God; he is between it and us. If + he were to turn his back upon us, the death which no imagination can + shadow forth, would lap itself around us, and we should be—we should + not know what. + </p> + <p> + At night I lie wondering how it will feel; and, but that God will be with + me, I would rather be slain suddenly, than lie still and await the change. + The growing weakness, ushered in, it may be, by long agony; the alienation + from things about me, while I am yet amidst them; the slow rending of the + bonds which make this body a home, so that it turns half alien, while yet + some bonds unsevered hold the live thing fluttering in its worm-eaten cage—but + God knows me and my house, and I need not speculate or forebode. When it + comes, death will prove as natural as birth. Bethink thee, Lord—nay, + thou never forgettest. It is because thou thinkest and feelest that I + think and feel; it is on thy deeper consciousness that mine ever floats; + thou knowest my frame, and rememberest that I am dust: do with me as thou + wilt. Let me take centuries to die if so thou willest, for thou wilt be + with me. Only if an hour should come when thou must seem to forsake me, + watch me all the time, lest self-pity should awake, and I should cry that + thou wast dealing hardly with me. For when thou hidest thy face, the world + is a corpse, and I am a live soul fainting within it. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Thus far had I written, and was about to close with certain words of Job, + which are to me like the trumpet of the resurrection, when the news + reached me that Sir Geoffrey Brotherton was dead. He leaves no children, + and the property is expected to pass to a distant branch of the family. + Mary will have to leave Moldwarp Hall. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + I have been up to London to my friend Marston—for it is years since + Mr Coningham died. I have laid everything before him, and left the affair + in his hands. He is so confident in my cause, that he offers, in case my + means should fail me, to find what is necessary himself; but he is almost + as confident of a speedy settlement. + </p> + <p> + And now, for the first time in my life, I am about—shall I say, to + court society? At least I am going to London, about to give and receive + invitations, and cultivate the acquaintance of those whose appearance and + conversation attract me. + </p> + <p> + I have not a single relative, to my knowledge, in the world, and I am + free, beyond question, to leave whatever property I have, or may have, to + whomsoever I please. + </p> + <p> + My design is this: if I succeed in my suit, I will offer Moldwarp to Mary + for her lifetime. She is greatly beloved in the county, and has done much + for the labourers, nor upon her own lands only. If she had the full power + she would do yet better. But of course it is very doubtful whether she + will accept it. Should she decline it, I shall try to manage it myself—leaving + it to her, with reversion to the man, whoever he may be, whom I shall + choose to succeed her. + </p> + <p> + What sort of man I shall endeavour to find, I think my reader will + understand. I will not describe him, beyond saying that he must above all + things be just, generous, and free from the petty prejudices of the + country gentleman. He must understand that property involves service to + every human soul that lives or labours upon it—the service of the + elder brother to his less burdened yet more enduring and more helpless + brothers and sisters; that for the lives of all such he has in his degree + to render account. For surely God never meant to uplift any man <i>at the + expense</i> of his fellows; but to uplift him that he might be strong to + minister, as a wise friend and ruler, to their highest and best needs—first + of all by giving them the justice which will be recognized as such by him + before whom a man <i>is</i> his brother’s keeper, and becomes a Cain in + denying it. + </p> + <p> + Lest Lady Brotherton, however, should like to have something to give away, + I leave my former will as it was. It is in Marston’s hands. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Would I marry her now, if I might? I cannot tell. The thought rouses no + passionate flood within me. Mighty spaces of endless possibility and + endless result open before me. Death is knocking at my door.— + </p> + <p> + No—no; I will be honest, and lay it to no half reasons, however + wise.—I would rather meet her then first, when she is clothed in + that new garment called by St Paul the spiritual body. That, Geoffrey has + never touched; over that he has no claim. + </p> + <p> + But if the loveliness of her character should have purified his, and drawn + and bound his soul to hers? + </p> + <p> + Father, fold me in thyself. The storm, so long still, awakes; once more it + flutters its fierce pinions. Let it not swing itself aloft in the air of + my spirit. I dare not think, not merely lest thought should kindle into + agony, but lest I should fail to rejoice over the lost and found. But my + heart is in thy hand. Need I school myself to bow to an imagined decree of + thine? Is it not enough that, when I shall know a thing for thy will, I + shall then be able to say: Thy will be done? It is not enough; I need + more. School thou my heart so to love thy will that in all calmness I + leave to think what may or may not be its choice, and rest in its holy + self. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + She has sent for me. I go to her. I will not think beforehand what I shall + say. + </p> + <p> + Something within tells me that a word from her would explain all that + sometimes even now seems so inexplicable as hers. Will she speak that + word? Shall I pray her for that word? I know nothing. The pure Will be + done! + </p> + <h3> + THE END. + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Wilfrid Cumbermede, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILFRID CUMBERMEDE *** + +***** This file should be named 9183-h.htm or 9183-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/8/9183/ + + +Text file produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charlie Kirschner and Online +Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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