it had about it.
They spoke together with a strange inconsistency, in whispers;
unwilling to disturb again the dreary echoes they had just now
raised.
'Let us go on,' said the younger brother, 'and leave this good
fellow to wake them, if he can. I cannot rest until I know that we
are not too late. Let us go on, in the name of Heaven!'
They did so, leaving the postilion to order such accommodation as
the house afforded, and to renew his knocking. Kit accompanied
them with a little bundle, which he had hung in the carriage when
they left home, and had not forgotten since--the bird in his old
cage--just as she had left him. She would be glad to see her
bird, he knew.
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The road wound gently downward. As they proceeded, they lost sight
of the church whose clock they had heard, and of the small village
clustering round it. The knocking, which was now renewed, and
which in that stillness they could plainly hear, troubled them.
They wished the man would forbear, or that they had told him not to
break the silence until they returned.
The old church tower, clad in a ghostly garb of pure cold white,
again rose up before them, and a few moments brought them close
beside it. A venerable building--grey, even in the midst of the
hoary landscape. An ancient sun-dial on the belfry wall was nearly
hidden by the snow-drift, and scarcely to be known for what it was.
Time itself seemed to have grown dull and old, as if no day were
ever to displace the melancholy night.
A wicket gate was close at hand, but there was more than one path
across the churchyard to which it led, and, uncertain which to
take, they came to a stand again.
The village street--if street that could be called which was an
irregular cluster of poor cottages of many heights and ages, some
with their fronts, some with their backs, and some with gable ends
towards the road, with here and there a signpost, or a shed
encroaching on the path--was close at hand. There was a faint
light in a chamber window not far off, and Kit ran towards that
house to ask their way.
His first shout was answered by an old man within, who presently
appeared at the casement, wrapping some garment round his throat as
a protection from the cold, and demanded who was abroad at that
unseasonable hour, wanting him.
''Tis hard weather this,' he grumbled, 'and not a night to call me
up in. My trade is not of that kind that I need be roused from
bed. The business on which folks want me, will keep cold,
especially at this season. What do you want?'
'I would not have roused you, if I had known you were old and ill,'
said Kit.
'Old!' repeated the other peevishly. 'How do you know I am old?
Not so old as you think, friend, perhaps. As to being ill, you
will find many young people in worse case than I am. More's the
pity that it should be so--not that I should be strong and hearty
for my years, I mean, but that they should be weak and tender. I
ask your pardon though,' said the old man, 'if I spoke rather rough
at first. My eyes are not good at night--that's neither age nor
illness; they never were--and I didn't see you were a stranger.'
'I am sorry to call you from your bed,' said Kit, 'but those
gentlemen you may see by the churchyard gate, are strangers too,
who have just arrived from a long journey, and seek the
parsonage-house. You can direct us?'
'I should be able to,' answered the old man, in a trembling voice,
'for, come next summer, I have been sexton here, good fifty years.
The right hand path, friend, is the road.--There is no ill news
for our good gentleman, I hope?'
Kit thanked him, and made him a hasty answer in the negative; he
was turning back, when his attention was caught
by the voice of a child. Looking up, he saw a very little creature
at a neighbouring window.
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'What is that?' cried the child, earnestly. 'Has my dream come
true? Pray speak to me, whoever that is, awake and up.'
'Poor boy!' said the sexton, before Kit could answer, 'how goes it,
darling?'
'Has my dream come true?' exclaimed the child again, in a voice so
fervent that it might have thrilled to the heart of any listener.
'But no, that can never be! How could it be--Oh! how could it!'
'I guess his meaning,' said the sexton. 'To bed again, poor boy!'
'Ay!' cried the child, in a burst of despair. 'I knew it could
never be, I felt too sure of that, before I asked! But, all
to-night, and last night too, it was the same. I never fall
asleep, but that cruel dream comes back.'
'Try to sleep again,' said the old man, soothingly. 'It will go in
time.'
'No no, I would rather that it staid--cruel as it is, I would
rather that it staid,' rejoined the child. 'I am not afraid to
have it in my sleep, but I am so sad--so very, very sad.'
The old man blessed him, the child in tears replied Good night, and
Kit was again alone.
He hurried back, moved by what he had heard, though more by the
child's manner than by anything he had said, as his meaning was
hidden from him. They took the path indicated by the sexton, and
soon arrived before the parsonage wall. Turning round to look
about them when they had got thus far, they saw, among some ruined
buildings at a distance, one single solitary light.
It shone from what appeared to be an old oriel window, and being
surrounded by the deep shadows of overhanging walls, sparkled like
a star. Bright and glimmering as the stars above their heads,
lonely and motionless as they, it seemed to claim some kindred with
the eternal lamps of Heaven, and to burn in fellowship with them.
'What light is that!' said the younger brother.
'It is surely,' said Mr Garland, 'in the ruin where they live. I
see no other ruin hereabouts.'
'They cannot,' returned the brother hastily, 'be waking at this
late hour--'
Kit interposed directly, and begged that, while they rang and
waited at the gate, they would let him make his way to where this
light was shining, and try to ascertain if any people were about.
Obtaining the permission he desired, he darted off with breathless
eagerness, and, still carrying the birdcage in his hand, made
straight towards the spot.
It was not easy to hold that pace among the graves, and at another
time he might have gone more slowly, or round by the path.
Unmindful of all obstacles, however, he pressed forward without
slackening his speed, and soon arrived within a few yards of the
window.
He approached as softly as he could, and advancing so near the wall
as to brush the whitened ivy with his dress, listened. There was
no sound inside. The church itself was not more quiet. Touching
the glass with his cheek, he listened again. No. And yet there
was such a silence all around, th
at he felt sure he could have
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heard even the breathing of a sleeper, if there had been one there.
A strange circumstance, a light in such a place at that time of
night, with no one near it.
A curtain was drawn across the lower portion of the window, and he
could not see into the room. But there was no shadow thrown upon
it from within. To have gained a footing on the wall and tried to
look in from above, would have been attended with some danger--
certainly with some noise, and the chance of terrifying the child,
if that really were her habitation. Again and again he listened;
again and again the same wearisome blank.
Leaving the spot with slow and cautious steps, and skirting the
ruin for a few paces, he came at length to a door. He knocked. No
answer. But there was a curious noise inside. It was difficult to
determine what it was. It bore a resemblance to the low moaning of
one in pain, but it was not that, being far too regular and
constant. Now it seemed a kind of song, now a wail--seemed, that
is, to his changing fancy, for the sound itself was never changed
or checked. It was unlike anything he had ever heard; and in its
tone there was something fearful, chilling, and unearthly.
The listener's blood ran colder now than ever it had done in frost
and snow, but he knocked again. There was no answer, and the sound
went on without any interruption. He laid his
hand softly upon the latch, and put his knee against the door. It
was secured on the inside, but yielded to the pressure, and turned
upon its hinges. He saw the glimmering of a fire upon the old
walls, and entered.
CHAPTER 71
The dull, red glow of a wood fire--for no lamp or candle burnt
within the room--showed him a figure, seated on the hearth with
its back towards him, bending over the fitful light. The attitude
was that of one who sought the heat. It was, and yet was not. The
stooping posture and the cowering form were there, but no hands
were stretched out to meet the grateful warmth, no shrug or shiver
compared its luxury with the piercing cold outside. With limbs
huddled together, head bowed down, arms crossed upon the breast,
and fingers tightly clenched, it rocked to and fro upon its seat
without a moment's pause, accompanying the action with the mournful
sound he had heard.
The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, with a crash
that made him start. The figure neither spoke, nor turned to look,
nor gave in any other way the faintest sign of having heard the
noise. The form was that of an old man, his white head akin in
colour to the mouldering embers upon which he gazed. He, and the
failing light and dying fire, the time-worn room, the solitude, the
wasted life, and gloom, were all in fellowship. Ashes, and dust,
and ruin!
Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words, though what they
were he scarcely knew. Still the same terrible low cry went on--
still the same rocking in the chair--the same stricken figure was
there, unchanged and heedless of his presence.
He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the form--
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distinctly seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed
up--arrested it. He returned to where he had stood before--
advanced a pace--another--another still. Another, and he saw the
face. Yes! Changed as it was, he knew it well.
'Master!' he cried, stooping on one knee and catching at his hand.
'Dear master. Speak to me!'
The old man turned slowly towards him; and muttered in a hollow
voice,
'This is another!--How many of these spirits there have been
to-night!'
'No spirit, master. No one but your old servant. You know me now,
I am sure? Miss Nell--where is she--where is she?'
'They all say that!' cried the old man. 'They all ask the same
question. A spirit!'
'Where is she?' demanded Kit. 'Oh tell me but that,--but that,
dear master!'
'She is asleep--yonder--in there.'
'Thank God!'
'Aye! Thank God!' returned the old man. 'I have prayed to Him,
many, and many, and many a livelong night, when she has been
asleep, He knows. Hark! Did she call?'
'I heard no voice.'
'You did. You hear her now. Do you tell me that you don't hear
THAT?'
He started up, and listened again.
'Nor that?' he cried, with a triumphant smile, 'Can any body know
that voice so well as I? Hush! Hush!'
Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away into another chamber.
After a short absence (during which he could be heard to speak in
a softened soothing tone) he returned, bearing in his hand a lamp.
'She is still asleep,' he whispered. 'You were right. She did not
call--unless she did so in her slumber. She has called to me in
her sleep before now, sir; as I have sat by, watching, I have seen
her lips move, and have known, though no sound came from them, that
she spoke of me. I feared the light might dazzle her eyes and wake
her, so I brought it here.'
He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor, but when he had put
the lamp upon the table, he took it up, as if impelled by some
momentary recollection or curiosity, and held it near his face.
Then, as if forgetting his motive in the very action, he turned
away and put it down again.
'She is sleeping soundly,' he said; 'but no wonder. Angel hands
have strewn the ground deep with snow, that the lightest footstep
may be lighter yet; and the very birds are dead, that they may not
wake her. She used to feed them, Sir. Though never so cold and
hungry, the timid things would fly from us. They never flew from
her!'
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Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely drawing breath, listened
for a long, long time. That fancy past, he opened an old chest,
took out some clothes as fondly as if they had been living things,
and began to smooth and brush them with his hand.
'Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell,' he murmured, 'when
there are bright red berries out of doors waiting for thee to pluck
them! Why dost thou lie so idle there, when thy little friends
come creeping to the door, crying "where is Nell--sweet Nell?"--
and sob, and weep, because they do not see thee. She was always
gentle with children. The wildest would do her bidding--she had
a tender way with them, indeed she had!'
Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with tears.
'Her little homely dress,--her favourite!' cried the old man,
pressing it to his breast, and patting it with his shrivelled hand.
'She will miss it when she wakes. They have hid it here in sport,
but she shall have it--she shall have it. I would not vex my
darling, for the wide world's riches. See here--these shoes--how
worn they are--she kept them to remind he
r of our last
long journey. You see where the little feet went bare upon the
ground. They told me, afterwards, that the stones had cut and
bruised them. She never told me that. No, no, God bless her! and,
I have remembered since, she walked behind me, sir, that I might
not see how lame she was--but yet she had my hand in hers, and
seemed to lead me still.'
He pressed them to his lips, and having carefully put them back
again, went on communing with himself--looking wistfully from time
to time towards the chamber he had lately visited.
'She was not wont to be a lie-abed; but she was well then. We must
have patience. When she is well again, she will rise early, as she
used to do, and ramble abroad in the healthy morning time. I often
tried to track the way she had gone, but her small footstep left no
print upon the dewy ground, to guide me. Who is that? Shut the
door. Quick!--Have we not enough to do to drive away that marble
cold, and keep her warm!'
The door was indeed opened, for the entrance of Mr Garland and his
friend, accompanied by two other persons. These were the
schoolmaster, and the bachelor. The former held a light in his
hand. He had, it seemed, but gone to his own cottage to replenish
the exhausted lamp, at the moment when Kit came up and found the
old man alone.
He softened again at sight of these two friends, and, laying aside
the angry manner--if to anything so feeble and so sad the term can
be applied--in which he had spoken when the door opened, resumed
his former seat, and subsided, by little and little into the old
action, and the old, dull, wandering sound.
Of the strangers, he took no heed whatever. He had seen them, but
appeared quite incapable of interest or curiosity. The younger
brother stood apart. The bachelor drew a chair towards the old
man, and sat down close beside him. After a long silence, he
ventured to speak.
'Another night, and not in bed!' he said softly; 'I hoped you would
be more mindful of your promise to me. Why do you not take some
rest?'
'Sleep has left me,' returned the old man. 'It is all with her!'
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'It would pain her very much to know that you were watching thus,'
said the bachelor. 'You would not give her pain?'
'I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her. She has
slept so very long. And yet I am rash to say so. It is a good and
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