THE SNORING GHOST.
_Clown._ Madman, thou errest: I say there is no darkness but Ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog.... What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild fowl?
_Malvolio._ That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.
_Clown._ What thinkest thou of his opinion?
_Malvolio_. I think nobly of the soul, and in no way approve his opinion.
_Twelfth Night_, iv. 2.
"I remember," said Mrs. Overtheway, "I remember my first visit. Thatis, I remember the occasion when I and my sister Fatima did, for thefirst time in our lives, go out visiting without our mother, or anygrown-up person to take care of us."
"Do you remember your mother?" asked Ida.
"Quite well, my dear, I am thankful to say. The best and kindest ofmothers!"
"Was your father alive, too?" Ida asked, with a sigh.
The old lady paused, pitying the anxious little face opposite, butIda went on eagerly:
"Please tell me what _he_ was like."
"He was a good deal older than my mother, who had married very early.He was a very learned man. His tastes and accomplishments were manyand various, and he was very young-hearted and enthusiastic in thepursuit of them all his life. He was apt to take up one subject ofinterest after another, and to be for the time completely absorbed init. And, I must tell you, that whatever the subject might be, so longas his head was full of it, the house seemed full of it too. Itinfluenced the conversation at meals, the habits of the household, thenames of the pet animals, and even of the children. I was called Mary,in a fever of chivalrous enthusiasm for the fair and luckless Queen ofScotland, and Fatima received her name when the study of Arabic hadbrought about an eastern mania. My father had wished to call herShahrazad, after the renowned sultana of the 'Arabian Nights' but whenhe called upon the curate to arrange for the baptism, that worthy manflatly rebelled. A long discussion ended in my father's making a listof eastern names, from which the curate selected that of Fatima asbeing least repugnant to the sobriety of the parish registers. SoFatima she was called, and as she grew up pale, and moon-faced, anddark-eyed, the name became her very well."
"Was it this Fatima who went out visiting with you?" asked Ida.
"Yes, my dear; and now as to the visit. The invitation came on mythirteenth birthday.
"One's birthday is generally a day of some importance. A very notableday whilst one is young, but less so when one is old, when one isbeing carried quickly through the last stages of life, and when itseems hardly worth while to count time so near the end of the journey.Even in youth, however some birthdays are more important than others.I remember looking forward to my tenth birthday as to a high point ofdignity and advancement; and the just pride of the occasion on which Ifirst wrote my age with more figures than one. With similar feelings,I longed to be thirteen. The being able to write my age with twofigures had not, after all, shed any special lustre upon life; butwhen I was 'in my teens' it must 'feel different somehow.' So Ithought. Moreover, this birthday was really to bring with it solidadvantages. I was now to be allowed to read certain books of a moregrown-up character than I had read hitherto, and to sit up till nineo'clock. I was to wear sandals to my shoes. My hair was henceforth togrow as long as I and the Fates would permit, and the skirts of myfrocks were to take an inch in the same direction. 'In four moreyears,' I said to Fatima, as we sat on the eve of my birthday,discussing its manifold advantages, 'in four more years I shall begrown up. Miss Ansted was introduced at seventeen.' The prospect wasillimitable.
"'Do people always grow much on their birthdays?' asked one of thelittle ones. I had boasted in the nursery, that when I was thirteen Ishould be 'nearly grown up,' and I myself had hardly outlived the ideathat on one's birthday one was a year older than on the previous day,and might naturally expect to have made a year's growth during thenight.
"This birthday, however, produced no such striking change. As usual,the presents were charming; the wreath as lovely as Fatima's deftfingers could make it, the general holiday and pleasure-making almosttoo much of a good thing. Otherwise, there was little to mark it fromother days in the year.
"Towards evening we were all sitting on the grass, the boys with theirheads on the sisters' laps, and there had been an outcry for a story,to which no one had responded; partly, perhaps, because the exquisiteair of evening seemed a sufficient delight, the stillness too profoundto be lightly disturbed. We had remained for some time withoutspeaking, and the idea was becoming general among the girls that theboys were napping, when the summer silence was broken by the distantfootfalls of a horse upon the high road.
"'Trotting!' observed one of the supposed sleepers. We were not, as afamily, given to explanations, and we drew a few more breaths of theevening air in silence. Then someone said:
"'We might make a story out of _that_, and fancy all sorts of things.Who is it? Where does he come from, and where is he going to?'
"'It is a messenger from the seat of war,' drawled the boy in my lap,without moving. Then, lifting his curly head for a moment, he cried,'To horse! gentlemen, to horse! The enemy will be at Carter's Mill bymidnight!'
"There was a pause; the solitary footfalls came nearer through theevening mists, and a small brother, of a quaint turn of mind, muchgiven to the study of the historical portions of the Old Testament,sat up and said, slowly:
"'It is one of Job's messengers. _The Chaldeans made out three bands,and fell upon the camels, and have carried them away, yea, and slainthe servants with the edge of the sword; and I only am escaped aloneto tell thee._'
"The others boys laughed, but he lay down again, as solemnly as he hadrisen.
"'That was a foot-messenger,' said my boy, contemptuously.
"'It doesn't say so,' retorted the small brother.
"'Well, any way, the camels had been carried off--so what did he rideupon?'
"A squabble was imminent. I covered my boy's face with a handkerchief,to keep him quiet.
"'Listen!' I said. 'It's the post. The mail from the north was stoppedon the highway, but he has saved the bags, and is riding hard forLondon.'
"'It's--'
"But the new suggestion was drowned in a general shout of--
"'It's coming up the lane!'
"The footfalls had diverged from the main road, and were coming up thesandy lane that skirted our wall. The boys lifted their heads, and wesat expectant. There was a pause, and a familiar gate-click, and thenthe footfalls broke upon the carriage-road, close by us. A man inlivery, upon a well-groomed horse--nothing more, but rather anuncommon sight with us. Moreover, the man and his livery were strange,and the horse looked tired.
"This event broke up the sitting, and we were strolling up to thehouse, when a maid met us, saying that my mother wished to see me andFatima.
"We found my mother sewing, with an opened letter beside her. It waswritten on one of the large quarto sheets then in use, and it wascovered and crossed, at every available corner, in a vague, scratchyhand.
"'I have heard from an old friend of mine, Mary,' said my mother.'She has come to live about twelves miles from here. There issomething in the letter about you and Fatima, and you may read thatpart aloud, if you can. The top of the last page.'
"I found the place, and, with some difficulty, deciphered: 'The dearMajor was all delicacy and consideration--'
"'No, no!' said my mother, 'the next sentence.'
"'Dear Cecilia was all sweetness. The dress was--'
"My mother took the letter, and found the right place herself, andthen I read:
"'If you cannot come yourself, at least let us renew acquaintance inour children. I think you have two girls about thirteen? My Lucy, adear child just fifteen, feels keenly the loss of her only sister, andsome young companions would be a boon, as all our company will be_elders_. Pray send them. They can come by the coach, and shall be metat Durnford, at the Elephant and Castle.'
"'Is the other sister dead?' asked Fatima, pityingly, when we haddiscussed our personal interest in the subject.
"'Oh, no! only married,' said my mother.
"It was decided that we should go. This decision was not arrived at atonce, or without some ups and downs. My mother could not go herself,and had some doubts as to our being old enough, as yet, to go outvisiting alone. It will be believed that I made much of being able tosay--'But you know, I am thirteen, now.'
"Next day, in the evening, my father was busy in his study, and mymother sat at the open window, with Fatima and me at her feet. Theletter of acceptance had been duly sent by the messenger, but she hadyet a good deal of advice to give, and some doubts to express. She wasone of those people who cannot sit with idle fingers, and as shetalked she knitted. We found it easy enough to sit idle upon twolittle footstools, listening to the dear kind voice, and watching twolittle clouds, fragments of a larger group, which had detachedthemselves, and were sailing slowly and alone across the heavens.
"'They are like us two,' Fatima had whispered to me; 'perhaps they aregoing to see some other clouds.'
"'I have observed two things which are apt to befall young people whogo out visiting,' said my mother, as she turned a row in her knitting,'one is, that they neglect little good habits while they are away, andthe other is, that they make themselves very disagreeable when theycome back.'
"The clouds drifted on, and my mother continued her knitting, armingus with many wise counsels on small matters connected with this greatevent; to which Fatima and I gratefully gave half our minds, whilstwith the other half we made rosy pictures of unparalleled excellenceunder trying circumstances, by which, hereafter, we should prove thesewarnings and counsels to have been, in our case, unnecessary andsuperfluous.
"'Most families and most people,' said my mother, 'have little goodhabits and customs of their own which they feel bound to keep,although they are not among the great general duties which bind everyone. So long as young people are at home, these matters are oftensimple enough, but when they go away certain difficulties arise. Theygo amongst people whose little habits are not the same as those towhich they have been accustomed. Sometimes they come to veryuncharitable conclusions upon their friends' characters inconsequence. And, I must say, that I have never met with any one whocould be more severe than young people of your age are apt to be. Iremember it of myself, and I have seen it in so many other girls. Homeis naturally the standard, and whatever is different seems wrong. Aslife goes on, these young critics learn (or should learn) todistinguish between general and particular duties; and also coming toknow a larger number of people, they find that all good persons arenot cut to the same pattern, and that one's friends' little ways arenot therefore absurd, because one does not happen to be used to them.On the other hand, if going amongst other people may tempt you to becritical of their little habits, it is also apt to make you neglectyour own. Perhaps you think this cannot much matter, as they are notthe great duties, and as other people seem to get on quite wellwithout them. But one learns in the end, that no character of anyvalue is formed without the discipline of individual rules, and thatrules are of no use that are not held to against circumstances."Charitable to others, severe to himself," seems a maxim for grown-uppeople in grown-up things; but, I believe, my little daughters, thatthe doubts and difficulties of life begin very early, earlier thanthey are commonly provided against; I think that innumerable girlsstruggle miserably in the practice of duty, from a radical ignoranceof its principles, and that the earlier these are learnt, the smalleris the burden of regret one heaps together to oppress the future, andthe sooner one finds that peace of mind which is not common evenamongst the young, and should-be light-hearted.'
"In these, or words to this effect, my dear mother prepared us for ourfirst plunge into society. We discussed the little good habits we wereto maintain, and, amongst others, certain little Sunday customs--forwe were to be away for a week.
"'We can't take all our good habits with us, if you won't come,' Isaid. 'What is to become of the Sunday readings?'
"For my mother used to read to us every Sunday evening, and we werejust in the middle of that book of wondrous fascination--'ThePilgrim's Progress.'
"'If it were not for the others, and if you would trust us with it,'said Fatima, thoughtfully, 'we might take the book with us, and Marymight read to me, if she would--I like her reading.'
"My mother consented. There was another copy in the house, and thoughthis volume was a favourite, she said it was time we learnt to takecare of valuable books. So it was settled. We talked no more thatevening; and the clouds drifted out of sight.
"'They have gone to bed in a big dark cloud on the other side' saidFatima, yawning; and we went to bed also.
"My story wanders, Ida; this is because it is an old woman's tale. Oldpeople of my age become prosy, my dear. They love to linger overlittle remembrances of youth, and to recall the good counsels of kindvoices long silent. But I must not put you to sleep a second time, soI will not describe the lists of good habits which Fatima and I drewup in fine Roman characters, and which were to be kept as goodresolutions had never been kept before. We borrowed the red ink, tomake them the more impressive to the eye, and, unfortunately, spiltit. A bad beginning, as many of our rules had reference to tidiness.Neither will I give you the full account of how we packed. How ourpreparations began at once, and were only stopped by the necessity ofsetting off when the day arrived. How we emptied all our drawers andcupboards, and disarranged both our bookshelves; and, in making readyfor the life of order and tidiness we were to live abroad, passed thatweek at home with our room in such chaos as it had never been before.How we prepared against an amount of spare time, that experienceeventually teaches one is not to be found out visiting; and, with thisobject, took more sewing than we should have performed in a month athome; books, that we had not touched for years; drawings, that werefated to be once touched, and no more.
"I will not describe the big box, which my father lent to us, nor thejoys of packing it. How Fatima's workbox dove-tailed with my desk. Howthe books (not having been chosen with reference to this great event)were of awkward sizes, and did not make comfortable paving for thebottom of the trunk; whilst folded stockings may be called thepacker's delight, from their usefulness to fill up corners. How,having packed the whole week long, we were barely ready, and a gooddeal flurried at the last moment; and how we took all our availableproperty with us, and left the key of the trunk behind. Fancy foryourself, how the green coach picked us up at the toll-bar, and how,as it jingled on, we felt the first qualm of home-sickness, and,stretching our heads and hands out of the window, waved adieux andkisses innumerable to Home, regardless of our fellow-traveller in thecorner, an old gentleman, with a yellow silk handkerchief on his head,who proved in the end a very pleasant companion. I remember that wetold him our family history, with minutest particulars, and conjugatedfour regular Latin verbs by his orders; and that he rewarded ourconfidences and learning with the most clear, the most sweet, the mostamber-coloured sticks of barley-sugar I have ever had the good fortuneto meet with. I remember also how, in the warmth of our newfriendship, Fatima unveiled to him the future, which, through somejoke of my father's, we had laid out for ourselves.
"I am to marry a Sultan, for I am moon-faced; but Mary is to be alinguist, for she has large eyes.'
"'Then Miss Mary is not to marry?' said the old gentleman, with a grimsmile.
"I shook my head in sage disdain. 'When I am sixteen, I shall be anAmazon.'
"Precisely what I meant by this I don't think I knew myself, but mydreams were an odd compound of heroic and fairy lore, with a love andambition for learning that were simply an inheritance. Many a nightdid I fancy myself master of all the languages of the world, huntingup and down the windy hills in a dress of Lincoln green. I had amighty contempt for men, and a high respect for myself, that was thegreatest of my many follies.
"After these interesting revelations we had barley-sugar
all round,and the coach rattled into Durnford.
"Shall I tell you how we were met at the Elephant and Castle by afootman of most gentlemanlike appearance (his livery excepted), who,with a sagacity which somewhat puzzled us, discovered that we were'the young ladies that were expected,' and led us to the carriage,firmly opposing my efforts to fulfil the last home orders I hadreceived, to 'look after the box?' How in the carriage we found a ladyhandsomely dressed in black, who came out to meet us, and seemed soanxious for our comfort, and so much interested in our arrival, thatwe naturally supposed her to be the lady who had invited us, till wediscovered that she was a lady's maid; and on arriving found ourhostess quite another sort of person, with no appearance at all ofbeing particularly interested in our arrival, which I have since foundto be the case with the heads of some other country houses.
"It was a large house, reminding me of the Manor within, but prettieroutside; old and irregularly built, with mullioned windows, and oddwings and corners. A glowing, well-kept garden contrasted prettilywith the grey stone, and the grounds seemed magnificent to our eyes.
"We were shown into the drawing-room, where the real lady of the housesat at a dainty writing-table, scratching away at a letter that was nodoubt as affectionate as the one which my mother had received. She wasshortsighted, which seemed to be the case also with most of the otherladies in the room; this, perhaps, was why they stared so hard at us,and then went on with the elaborate pieces of needlework on which allof them were engaged. It seemed to take our hostess a second or two tosee us, and another second or two to recall who we were; then she cameforward very kindly, showed us where to sit, and asked after mymother. Whilst I was replying, she crossed to the fire-place, and rangthe bell; and I felt slightly surprised by her seeming to wish for nofurther news of her old friend. She asked if we had had a pleasantjourney, and Fatima had hardly pronounced a modest yes, before shebegged we would allow her to finish her letter, and went back to thespindle-legged table. Whilst she scratched we looked around us. Threeor four ladies were in the room, more or less young, more or lesspretty, more or less elegantly dressed, and all with more or lesselaborate pieces of needlework. There was one gentleman, young anddark, with large brown eyes, who seemed to be employed in making paperpellets of an old letter, chatting the while in a low voice to a younglady with a good deal of red hair. We afterwards found out that he wasan Irishman, familiarly called 'Pat' by some of the young ladies, whoseemed to be related to him. We had seen all this when the man-servantappeared at the door.
"'Where is Miss Lucy, Thompson?' our hostess asked, sharply.
"'I will inquire, ma'am,' Thompson replied, with the utmost softness,and vanished.
"The scratching began again, the Irishman went on gently chatting, andit all felt very like a horrid dream. Then Thompson reappeared.
"'Miss Lucy is out, ma'am.'
"'Did she know what time these young ladies were to arrive?'
"'Miss Lucy knew that the carriage had gone to meet them, ma'am.'
"'Very thoughtless! Very thoughtless indeed!' said the lady. Thompsonpaused respectfully, as if to receive the full weight of the remark,and then vanished noiselessly as before.
"There was an awkward pause. Our hostess left off scratching, andlooked very cross; the Irishman fired one of his pellets across theroom, and left off chatting, and the red-haired young lady got up, andrustled across to us. I remember her so well, Ida, for we fell deeplyin love with her and her kindness. I remember her green and whitedress. She had a fair round face, more pleasant than really pretty, awhite starlike forehead, almost too firm a mouth, but a very gentlevoice, at least, so we thought, when she said:
"'As Lucy is out, may I take these young ladies to their room?'
"Our hostess hesitated, and murmured something about Bedford, who wasthe lady's maid. The starlike forehead contracted, and the red-hairedyoung lady said, rather emphatically:
"'As Lucy is not in to receive her friends, I thought I might perhapssupply her place.'
"'Well, my dear Kate, if you will be so kind,' said our hostess, 'Imust finish these letters.'
"'The yellow room?' said the young lady, abruptly, and swept us offwithout further parley. The Irish gentleman opened the door for us,staring with a half-puzzled, half-amused look at the lofty air withwhich the young lady passed out. He followed us into the hall, wherewe left him discharging his remaining pellets at the furniture, andwhistling 'Kathleen Mavourneen,' as clearly as a bird.
"The yellow room was a large airy one, with white painted wainscoting,a huge four-post bed with yellow curtains, and a pretty view from thewindows. In the middle of the floor we saw our box standing in all itsdignity, uncorded, and ready. Then it was the terrible fact broke uponour minds that the key was left behind. My sufferings during the fewseconds before I found courage to confide this misfortune to our newfriend were considerable. When I did tell her, the calmness and goodnature with which she received the confession were both surprising anddelightful.
"'The lock doesn't look a very uncommon one, she said, as she openedthe door. 'I dare say I may find a key to fit it.'
"'What's the matter?' said a voice outside. It was the Irishgentleman. She explained.
"'Keys?' said the Irish gentleman; 'got lots in my pocket, besidestheir being totally unnecessary, as I'm a capital hand atlock-picking. Let me see.'
"With which he slipped in, seeming quite as much at his ease as in thedrawing-room, and in another second had squatted upon the floor beforeour box, where he seemed to be quite as comfortable as in thearm-chair he had left. Here he poked, and fitted, and whistled, andchatted without a pause.
"'I've locks and keys to everything I possess' he cheerfully remarked;'and as I never lock up anything, there's no damage done if the keysare left behind, which is a good thing, you see, as I always leaveeverything everywhere.'
"'Do you make a principle of it?' asked the young lady, coldly.
"'I'm afraid I make a practice of it.' He had opened the box, and wasleaning against the bed-post, with a roguish twinkle in his browneyes, which faded, however, under the silent severity of thered-haired young lady, and gave place to a look of melancholy thatmight have melted granite, as he added:
"'I'm all alone, you see, that's what does it. I believe I'm theneatest creature breathing, if I'd only somebody to keep me up to it.'
"Neither his hardened untidiness nor his lonely lot seemed, however,to weigh heavily on his mind; for he withdrew whistling, and his noteswere heard about the passages for some little time. When they had diedaway in a distant part of the house, the red-haired young lady left usalso.
"I shall not give you a lengthened account of our unpacking, dear Ida;though it was as enjoyable, but less protracted than the packing-uphad been. How we revelled in the spacious drawers and cupboards, overwhich we were queens, and how strictly we followed one of our mother'swise counsels--'unpack to the bottom of your box at once, howevershort your visit may be; it saves time in the end.' We did unpack tothe lowest book (an artificial system of memory, which I had long beenpurposing to study, which I thought to find spare moments to get uphere, and which, I may as well confess, I did not look at during thevisit, and have not learnt to this day). We divided shelves and pegswith all fairness, and as a final triumph found a use for theelaborate watch-pockets that hung above our pillows. They were richwith an unlimited expenditure of quilled ribbon, and must have given agreat deal of trouble to someone who had not very many seriousoccupations in this life. Fatima and I wished that we had watches toput in them, till the happy thought suddenly struck one of us, that wecould keep in them our respective papers of good habits.
"Bedford came in whilst we were in the midst of our labours, andwarmly begged us to leave everything to her, as she would put ourthings away for us. The red-haired young lady had sent her, and shebecame a mainstay of practical comfort to us during our visit. Sheseemed a haven of humanity after the conventions of the drawing-room.From her we got incidental meals when we were hungry, spir
its of winewhen Fatima's tooth ached, warnings when we were near to being latefor breakfast, little modern and fashionable turns to our hair andclothes, and familiar anecdotes of this household and of others inwhich she had lived. I remember her with gratitude.
"Miss Lucy came home before our putting away was fairly finished, andwe had tea with her in the schoolroom. She was a slight, sharp, livelyyoung lady, looking older than fifteen to us, rather pretty, and veryself-possessed. She scanned us from head to foot when we first met,and I felt as if her eyes had found defects innumerable, which seemedthe less likely, as she also was shortsighted. As her governess wasaway visiting a sick relative, Miss Lucy did the honours of theschoolroom. She was cold and inattentive at first, became patronizingat tea, and ended by being gracious. In her gracious mood she was bothaffectionate and confidential. She called us 'my dear girls,' put herarms round us as we sat in the dark, and chattered without a pauseabout herself, her governesses, her sister, and her sister's husband.
"'A wedding in the house,' she observed, 'is very good fun,particularly if you take a principal part in it. I was chiefbride's-maid, you know, my dear girls. But I'll tell you the wholeaffair from the first. You know I had never been bride's-maid before,and I couldn't make up my mind about how I should like the dresses,'etc., etc. And we had got no further in the story than Miss Lucy's owncostume, when we were called to dress and go downstairs.
"'What are you going to put on?' she asked, balancing herself at ourdoor and peering in.
"'White muslin!' we said with some pride, for they were new frocks,and splendid in our eyes.
"'I have had so many muslins, I am tired of them,' she said; 'I shallwear a pink silk to-night. The trimming came from London. Perhaps Imay wear a muslin to-morrow; I have an Indian one. But you shall seemy dresses to-morrow, my dear girls.'
"With which she left us, and we put on our new frocks (which were tobe _the_ evening dresses of our visit) in depressed spirits. This wasowing to the thought of the pink silk, and of the possibility of asurfeit of white muslin.
"During the evening we learnt another of Miss Lucy's peculiarities.Affectionate as she had been when we were alone together, she was nosooner among the grown-up young ladies downstairs than she kept withthem as much as she was permitted, and seemed to forget us altogether.Perhaps a fit of particularly short sight attacked her; for she seemedto look over us, away from us, on each side of us, anywhere but at us,and to be quite unconscious of our existence. The red-haired younglady had made her fetch us a large scrap-book, and we sat with thisbefore our eyes, and the soft monotonous chit-chat of our hostess inour ears, as she talked and worked with some elder ladies on the sofa.It seemed a long gossip, with no particular end or beginning, in whichtatting, trimmings, military distinction, linens, servants, honourableconduct, sentiment, settlements, expectations, and Bath waters, werefinely blended. From the constant mention of Cecilia and the dearmajor, it was evident that the late wedding was the subject ofdiscourse; indeed, for that matter, it remained the prime topic ofconversation during our stay.
"Cecilia and the dear major were at Bath, and their letters were readaloud at the breakfast-table. I remember wondering at the deepinterest that all the ladies seemed to take in the bride's pretty flowof words about the fashions, the drives, and the pump-room, and thelong lists of visitors' names; this, too, without any connectionbetween the hearers and the people and places mentioned. When anybodydid recognize a name, however, about which she knew anything, itseemed like the finding of a treasure. All the ladies bore down uponit at once, dug up the family history to its farthest known point, anddivided the subject among them. Miss Lucy followed these lettersclosely, and remembered them wonderfully, though (as I afterwardsfound) she had never seen Bath, and knew no more of the peoplementioned than the little hearsay facts she had gathered from formerletters.
"It is a very useful art, my dear Ida, and one in which I have sadlyfailed all my life, to be able to remember who is related to whom,what watering-place such a family went to the summer before last, andwhich common friends they met there, etc. But, like other arts, itdemands close attention, forbids day-dreaming, and takes up a gooddeal of time.
"'_Wasn't_ it odd,' said Miss Lucy, one morning after breakfast, 'thatCecilia and the major should meet those Hicksons!'
"'Who are the Hicksons?' I asked.
"'Oh! my dear girl, don't you remember, in Cecilia's last letter, hertelling us about the lady she met in that shop when they were in town,buying a shawl the counterpart of her own? and it seems so odd theyshould turn up in Bath, and be such nice people! Don't you remembermamma said it must be the same family as that Colonel Hickson who wasengaged to a girl with one eye, and she caught the small-pox and gotso much marked, and he broke it off?'
"'Small-pox and one eye would look very ugly,' Fatima languidlyobserved; and this subject drifted after the rest.
"One afternoon, I remember, it chanced that we were left alone withour hostess in the drawing-room. No one else happened to be in the wayto talk to, and the good lady talked to us. We were clever girls forour age, I fancy, and we had been used to talk a good deal with ourmother; at any rate we were attentive listeners, and I do not thinkour hostess required much more of us. I think she was glad of anybodywho had not heard the whole affair from beginning to end, and so sheput up her feet on the sofa, and started afresh with the completehistory of her dear Cecilia from the cradle; and had gone on to themajor, his military exploits abroad, his genteel connections at home,and the tendency to gout in the family which troubled him at times,and was a sad anxiety to her dear child, when visitors were announced.
"Our intelligent attention had gained favour for us; and we wereintroduced to these ladies as 'daughters of a very dear friend ofmine, whom I have not seen for years,' on which one lady gave a sweetglance and a tight smile and murmured:
"'So pleasant to renew acquaintance in the children;' and the otherladies gave sweet glances, and tight smiles also, and echoed:
"'So pleasant!'
"'Such sensible girls!' said our hostess, as if we were not there;'like women of fifty. So like their dear mother! Such treasures to mylittle Lucy! You know she has lost her dear sister,' etc., etc.
"For then the ladies drew together, and our hostess having got a freshaudience, we retired to distant arm-chairs, a good deal bewildered.
"But to return to our first evening.
"Miss Lucy and we retired together, and no sooner had the drawing-roomdoor closed behind us, than she wound her arms round our waists, andbecame as devoted as if we had been side by side the whole evening.
"'I'll tell you what I'll do, my dear girls,' she said when wereached our room; 'I'll come and sleep with you (there's lots of roomfor three), and then I can go on about Cecilia's affair, and if wedon't finish to-night we can go on to-morrow morning before we get up.I always wake early, so I can call you. I'll come back when I'm readyfor bed.'
"And she vanished.
"We were in bed when she returned. Her hair had been undergoing somewonderful process, and was now stowed away under a large and elaboratenight-cap.
"'Bedford was so slow,' said she; 'and then, you know, I got into bed,and let her tidy the room, and then when she was fairly gone, out Igot, and here I am. We shall be as comfortable as possible; I'll be inthe middle, and then I can have you on each side of me, my deargirls;' and in she sprang.
"'Did you notice this?' she asked, holding up her hand, and pointingout the edging on the sleeve of her night-dress; 'it's a new pattern;do you know it? Oh! my dears, the yards and yards of tatting thatCecilia had for her trousseau!'
"Fatima and I were not rich in tatting edges, and rejoiced when theconversation took another turn.
"'About the proposal,' she rambled on; 'do you know I don't reallyknow whereabouts Henry (that is the major, my brother-in-law,' sheadded, with one of the little attacks of dignity to which she wassubject) 'proposed or what he said. I asked Cecy, but she wouldn'ttell me. She was very cross, often; I'm very glad s
he's married. Ithink sisters ought to marry off as fast as they can; they never geton well in a house together, you know.'
"I fairly gasped at this idea, and Fatima said bluntly:
"'There are lots of us, and we get on.
"'Ah!' said Miss Lucy, in tones of wisdom; 'wait till you're a littleolder, and you'll see. Cecy was at school with two sisters who hatedeach other like poison, and they were obliged to dress alike, and theyounger wore out her things much faster than the other one, but shewas obliged to wear them till her sister's were done. She used to wishso her sister would marry, Cecy said, and the best fun is, now they'reboth in love with the same man. He's the curate of the church they goto.'
"'Which of them is he in love with?' I asked.
"'Oh, neither that I know of,' said Miss Lucy, composedly. 'They don'tknow him, you know; but they sit close under the pulpit, and they havesuch struggles about which shall get into the corner of the pew that'snearest. Cecy and I weren't like that; but still I'm very glad she'smarried. Now wasn't it stupid of her not to tell me? I should neverhave told anybody, you know. And don't you wonder what gentlemen dosay, and how they say it? He couldn't propose sitting, and I thinkstanding would be very awkward. I suppose he knelt. Aunt Maria doesn'tapprove of gentlemen kneeling; she says it's idolatry. I think theymust look very silly. Cecy wouldn't even tell me what he said. Shesaid he spoke to mamma, and mamma said his conduct was highlyhonourable; but I think it was very stupid. Do you know, my dears, Ihave a cousin who was really married at Gretna Green? She married anofficer. He was splendidly handsome; but people said things againsthim, and her parents objected. So they eloped, and then went to Wales,to such a lovely place! Wasn't it romantic? They quarrelled afterwardsthough; he lives abroad now. People ought to be careful. I shall bevery careful myself; I mean to refuse the first few offers I get.'
"And so Miss Lucy rambled on, perfectly unconscious of the melancholyand yet ludicrous way in which she degraded serious subjects, whichshe was not old enough to understand, or wise enough to reverence. Wewere too young then to see it fully, but her frivolity jarred upon us,though she amused us, and excited our curiosity. She was not worsethan many other girls, with plenty of inquisitiveness and sharp sense,and not too much refinement and feeling; whose accomplishments arelearnt from the 'first masters,' and whose principles are left to bepicked up from gossip, servants, and second-rate books; digested byignorant, inquisitive, and undisciplined minds.
"I won't try to recall any more of it, dear Ida. I remember it was acontinuous stream of unedifying gossip, varied by small boastingsabout her own family. We've so many connections, was a favouritephrase of Miss Lucy's, and it seemed to mean a great deal. 'Do youlike making trees?' she asked. I was getting sleepy, and without muchthought replied, 'I love trees beyond anything, and I like growing oaktrees in bottles.' Miss Lucy's, 'My dear girl, I mean family trees,genealogical trees,' was patronizing to scorn. 'Ours is in the springdrawer of the big oak cabinet in the drawing-room,' she added. 'We aredescended from King Stephen.'
"I believe I was the first to fall asleep that night. The last words Iremember hearing were: 'We've so many connections.'
"The next day's post brought news from Bath of more general interestto the household. The plans of Cecilia and the major were changed;they were coming to her mother's on the following Monday.
"'My dear girls, I _am_ so glad!' said Miss Lucy; 'you'll see them.But you will have to move out of your room, I'm sorry to say.'
"And for the next twelve hours Miss Lucy was more descriptive of herfamily glories in general, and of the glories of her sister andbrother-in-law in particular, than ever.
"Sunday was a day of mixed experiences to us; some pleasant and somethe reverse. Miss Lucy in her best clothes was almost intolerablypatronizing, and a general stiffness seemed to pervade everything, theladies' silk dresses included. After breakfast we dawdled about tillit was time to dress for church, and as most of the ladies took aboutfive minutes more than they had allowed for, it seemed likely that weshould be late. At the last moment, Miss Lucy lost her Prayer Book,and it was not till another five minutes had gone in the search thatshe remembered having left it in church the Sunday before. This beingsettled we all stowed away in the carriages and drove off. It was onlya short drive; but when we came in sight of the quaint little churchthere was no sound of bells, and it became evident that we were late.In the porch we shook out our dresses, the Irishman divided the burdenof Prayer Books he had been gallantly bearing, our hostess turned backfrom the half-open door to say in a loud and encouraging whisper,'It's only the Confession;' and we swept up the little church into ahuge square pew.
"My dear Ida, I must tell you that we had been brought up to have ajust horror of being late for service, this being a point on which myfather was what is called 'very particular.' Fatima and I thereforefelt greatly discomposed by our late and disturbing entrance, thoughwe were in no way to blame. We had also been taught to kneel duringthe prayers, and it was with a most uncomfortable sensation of doubtand shame-facedness that we saw one lady after another sit down andbend her bonnet over her lap, and hesitated ourselves to follow ourown customs in the face of such a majority. But the red-haired younglady seemed fated to help us out of our difficulties. She sank at onceon her knees in a corner of the pew, her green silk falling round her;we knelt by her side, and the question was settled. The littleIrishman cast a doubtful glance at her for a moment, and then satdown, bending his head deeply into his hat. We went through a similarprocess about responding, which did not seem to be the fashion withour hostess and her friends. The red-haired young lady held to her owncustoms, however, and we held with her. Our responses were the lessconspicuous, as they were a good deal drowned by the voice of an oldgentleman in the next pew. Diversity seemed to prevail in the mannersof the congregation. This gentleman stood during prayers, balancing ahuge Prayer Book on the corner of the pew, and responding in a loudvoice, more devout than tuneful, keeping exact time with the parsonalso, as if he had a grudge against the clerk and felt it due tohimself to keep in advance of him. I remember, Ida, that as we camein, he was just saying, 'those things which we ought _not_ to havedone,' and he said it in so terrible a voice, and took such a glanceat us over his gold-rimmed spectacles, that I wished the massivepulpit-hangings would fall and bury my confusion. When the text ofthe sermon had been given out, our hostess rustled up, and drew thecurtains well round our pew. Opposite to me, however, there was a gapthrough which I could see the old gentleman. He had settled himselffacing the pulpit, and sat there gazing at the preacher with a rigidattention which seemed to say--'Sound doctrine, if you please; I havemy eye on you.'
"We returned as we came.
"'Is there afternoon service?' I asked Miss Lucy.
"'Oh, yes!' was the reply, 'the servants go in the afternoon.'
"'Don't you?' I asked.
"'Oh, no!' said Miss Lucy, 'once is enough. You can go with the maids,if you want to, my dears,' she added, with one of the occasionaltouches of insolence in which she indulged.
"Afternoon arrived, and I held consultation with Fatima as to what wewere to do.
"When once roused, Fatima was more resolute than I.
"'Of course we'll go,' said she; 'what's the use of having written outall our good rules and sticking at this? We always go twice at home.Let's look for Bedford.'
"On which mission I set forth, but when I reached the top of thestairs I caught sight of the red-haired young lady, in her bonnet andshawl, standing at the open door, a Prayer Book in her hand. I dasheddownstairs, and entered the hall just as the Irishman came into it byanother door. In his hand was a Prayer Book also, and he picked up hishat, and went smiling towards her. But as he approached the younglady, she looked so much annoyed--not to say cross--that I hesitatedto go forwards.
"'Are you going to church?' said the little Irishman, with a pleasedlook.
"'I don't know,' said the young lady, briefly, 'are you?'
"'I was--' he began, and stopped sh
ort, looking puzzled and vexed.
"'Is no else going?' he asked, after a moment's pause.
"'No one else ever does go,' she said, impatiently, and moved into thehall.
"The Irishman coloured.
"'I am in the habit of going twice myself, though you may not thinkit,' he said, quietly; 'my poor mother always did. But I do notpretend to go to such good purpose as she did, or as you would, so ifit is to lie between us--'and, without finishing his sentence, hethrew his book (not too gently) on to the table, and, just lifting hishat as he passed her, dashed out into the garden.
"I did not at all understand this little scene, but, as soon as he wasgone, I ran up to ask our friend if she were going to church, andwould take us. She consented, and I went back in triumph to Fatima. Asthere was no time to lose, we dressed quickly enough; so that I wasrather surprised, when we went down, to find the Irish gentleman, withhis face restored to its usual good humour, standing by our friend,and holding her Prayer Book as well as his own. The young lady did notspeak, but, cheerfully remarking that we had plenty of time before us,he took our books also, and we all set forth.
"I remember that walk so well, Ida! The hot, sweet summerafternoon--the dusty plants by the pathway--the clematis in the hedges(I put a bit into my Prayer Book, which was there for years)--thegrasshoppers and flies that our dresses caught up from the long grass,and which reappeared as we sat during the sermon.
"The old gentleman was in his pew, but his glance was almostbenevolent, as, in good time, we took our places. We (literally)_followed_ his example with much heartiness in the responses; and, ifhe looked over into our pew during prayers (and from his position hecould hardly avoid it), he must have seen that even the Irishman hadrejected compromises, and that we all knelt together.
"There was one other feature of that service not to be forgotten. Whenthe sermon was ended, and I had lost sight of the last grasshopper inmy hasty rising, we found that there was to be a hymn. It was the oldcustom of this church so to conclude Evening Prayer. No one seemed touse a book--it was Bishop Ken's evening hymn, which everyone knew,and, I think, everyone sang. But the feature of it to us was when theIrishman began to sing. From her startled glance, I think not even thered-haired young lady had known that he possessed so beautiful avoice. It had a clearness without effort, a tone, a truth, a pathos,such as I have not often heard. It sounded strangely above the nasaltones of the school-children, and the scraping of a solitary fiddle.Even our neighbour, who had lustily followed the rhythm of the tune,though without much varying from the note on which he responded,softened his own sounds and turned to look at the Irishman, who sangon without noticing it, till, in the last verse, he seemed disturbedto discover how many eyes were on him. Happily, self-consciousness hadcome too late. The hymn was ended.
"We knelt again for the Benediction, and then went back through thesummer fields.
"The red-haired young lady talked very little. Once she said:
"'How is it we have never heard you sing?'
"To which the Irishman replied:
"'I don't understand music, I sing by ear; and I hate 'company'performances. I will sing to you whenever you like.'
"'Mary,' said Fatima, when we were in our room again, 'I believe thosetwo will marry each other some day.'
"'So do I,' I answered; 'but don't say anything about it to Lucy.'
"'No, indeed!' said Fatima, warmly. So we kept this idea sacred fromMiss Lucy's comments--why, I do not think either of us could have toldin words.
'Pity, that pleasant impressions--pity, that most impressions--passaway so soon!
* * * * *
"The evening was not altogether so satisfactory as the afternoon hadbeen. First, Miss Lucy took us to see her sister's wedding-presents,most of which were still here in her mother's keeping. They weresplendid, and Miss Lucy was eloquent. From them we dawdled on into herroom, where she displayed her own treasures, with a running commentaryon matters of taste and fashion, which lasted till it was time todress for the evening, when she made the usual inquiry, 'What shallyou put on to-night, my dear girls?' and we blushed to own that therewas nothing further of our limited toilettes to reveal.
"In the drawing-room, similar subjects of conversation awaited us. Ourhostess and her friends did not seem to care much for reading, and, asthey did not work on Sunday evening, they talked the more. The chatterran chiefly upon the Bath fashions, and upon some ball which had beenheld somewhere, where somebody had been dressed after a manner that itappeared needful to protest against; whilst somebody else (a cousin ofour hostess) was at all points so perfectly attired, that it seemed asif she should have afforded ample consolation for the other lady'sdefects.
"Upon the beauty of this cousin, her father's wealth, and hersuperabundant opportunities of matrimony, Miss Lucy enlarged to us, aswe sat in a corner. Another of her peculiarities, by-the-by, was this.By her own account, all her relatives and friends were in some sensebeautiful. The men were generally 'splendidly handsome;' the ladies,'the loveliest creatures.' If not 'lovely,' they were 'stylish;' ifnothing else, they were 'charming.' For those who were beyond themagic circle, this process was reversed. If pretty, they 'wantedstyle.' If the dress was beyond criticism, the nose, the complexion,the hand was at fault. I have met with this _trait_ in other cliques,since then.
"My dear Ida, I wish to encourage no young lady of the hoydenish ageof thirteen, in despising nice dressing and pretty looks and manners;or in neglecting to pick up any little hints which she may glean insuch things from older friends. But there are people to whom thesequestions seem of such first importance, that to be with them when youare young and impressionable, is to feel every defect in your ownpersonal appearance to be a crime, and to believe that there isneither worth, nor love, nor happiness (no life, in fact, worth livingfor) connected with much less than ten thousand a year, and'connections.' Through some such ordeal we passed that evening, inseeing and hearing of all the expensive luxuries without which itseemed impossible to feed, dress, sleep, go out--in fact, exist; andall the equally expensive items of adornment, without which itappeared to be impossible to have (or at any rate retain) the respectand affection of your friends.
"Meanwhile, the evening slipped by, and our Sunday reading had notbeen accomplished. We had found little good habits less easy tomaintain in a strange household than we had thought, and this oneseemed likely to follow some others that had been allowed to slip.The red-haired young lady had been absent for about half an hour, andthe Irishman had been prowling restlessly round the room, performingmurderous-looking fidgets with the paper-knives, when she returnedwith a book in her hand, which she settled herself resolutely to read.The Irishman gave a comical glance at the serious-looking volume, andthen, seating himself on a chair just behind her, found apparent peacein the effort to sharpen a flat ruler on his knees. The young ladyread on. It was evident that her Sunday customs were not apt to bedisturbed by circumstances.
"I began to feel uncomfortable. Fatima was crouched down near Lucy,listening to the history of a piece of lace. I waited some little timeto catch her eye, and then beckoned her to me.
"'We haven't read,' I whispered.
"'Dare you go?' asked Fatima.
"'We ought,' I said.
"It required more daring than may appear. To such little people asourselves it _was_ rather an undertaking to cross the bigdrawing-room, stealing together over the soft carpet; to attack thelarge, smooth handle, open the heavy door, and leave the room in theface of the company. We did it, however, our confusion being muchincreased by the Irish gentleman, who jumped up to open the door forus. We were utterly unable to thank him, and, stumbling over eachother in the passage, flew up to our own room like caged birds setfree.
"Fatima drew out the pillows from the bed, and made herself easy onthe floor. I found the book, and climbed into the window-seat. The sunwas setting, the light would not last much longer; yet I turned overthe pages slowly, to find the place, which was in th
e second part,thinking of the conversation downstairs. Fatima heaved a deep sighamong her cushions, and said: 'I wish we were rich.'
"'I wish we were at home,' I answered.
"'When one's at home,' Fatima continued, in doleful tones, 'onedoesn't feel it, because one sees nobody; but when one goes amongother people, it _is_ wretched not to have plenty of money and things.And it's no good saying it isn't,' she added, hurriedly, as if toclose the subject.
"'It's getting dark,' I said.
"'I beg your pardon: go on,' sighed Fatima.
"I lifted up my voice, and read till I could see no longer. It wasabout the Valley of Humiliation through which Mr. Greatheart ledChristiana and her children. The 'green valley, beautified withlilies,' in whose meadows the air was pleasant; where 'a man shall befree from the noise and from the hurryings of this life;' and where'in former times men have met with angels.'
"The last streaks of crimson were fading in the sky when I read theconcluding lines of the shepherd-boy's song--
'Fulness to such a burden is, That go on pilgrimage, Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age.'
"'Here little, and hereafter bliss!'
"It is not always easy to realize what one believes. One needssometimes to get away from the world around, 'from the noise and fromthe hurryings of this life,' and to hear, read, see, or do somethingto remind one that there is a standard which is not of drawing-rooms;that petty troubles are the pilgrimage of the soul; that great andhappy lives have been lived here by those who have had but little; andthat satisfying bliss is not here, but hereafter.
"We went downstairs slowly, hand in hand.
"'I wonder what mother is doing?' said Fatima.
* * * * *
"The next day Miss Lucy very good-naturedly helped us to move ourbelongings into the smaller room we were now to occupy. It was inanother part of the house, and we rather enjoyed the running to andfro, especially as Miss Lucy was gracious and communicative in theextreme.
"'This is the oldest part of the house,' she said, as we sat on thebed resting from our labours, for the day was sultry; 'and it breaksoff here in an odd way. There are no rooms beyond this. There weresome that matched the other side of the house, but they were pulleddown.'
"'Why?' we asked.
"'Well, there's a story about it, in the family,' said Miss Lucy,mysteriously. 'But it's a ghost story. I'll tell you, if you like. Butsome people are afraid of ghost stories. I'm not; but if you are, Iwon't tell it.'
"Of course we declared we were not afraid. Sitting there together, ona sunny summer's afternoon, perhaps we were not.
"'It's years and years ago,' began Miss Lucy; 'you know the place hasbelonged to another branch of our family for generations. Well, atlast it came down to an old Mr. Bartlett, who had one daughter, who,of course, was to be the heiress. Well, she fell in love with a manwhose name I forget, but he was of inferior family, and very queercharacter; and her father would not hear of it, and swore that if shemarried him he would disinherit her. She would have married the man inspite of this, though; but what he wanted was her money; so, when hefound that the old man was quite resolute, and that there was nochance of his dying soon, he murdered him.'
"We both exclaimed; for this sudden catastrophe fairly took away ourbreath. Miss Lucy's nerves were not sensitive, however, and sherattled on.
"'He smothered him in bed, and, as he was a very old man, and mighteasily have died in the night some other way, and as nothing could beproved, he got off. Well, he married the daughter, and got theproperty; but the very first evening after he took possession, as hewas passing the door of the old man's room, he heard somebodybreathing heavily inside, and when he looked in, there was the oldfather asleep in his bed.'
"'Not really?' we said.
"'Of course not really,' said Miss Lucy, 'but so it was said. That'sthe ghost part of it. Well, do what he would, he never could get ridof the old man, who was always there asleep; so he pulled the roomsdown, and at last he went abroad, and there both he and his wife died,and the property went to a cousin, who took the name of Bartlett.'
"'How awful!' we murmured. But Miss Lucy laughed, and told us otherfamily anecdotes, and the ghost story somewhat passed from our minds,especially as a little later we heard wheels, and, peeping from thelanding window, beheld a post-chaise drive up.
"'It's Cecilia!' screamed Miss Lucy, and left us at once.
"I may as well say here, my dear Ida, that Cecilia and the majorproved altogether different from our expectations. Cecilia, intravelling gear, taking off an old bonnet, begging for a cup of tea,and complaining in soft accents that butter was a halfpenny a pounddearer in Bath than at home, seemed to have no connection with thatCecilia into the trimmings of whose dresses bank-notes had recklesslydissolved. The major, an almost middle-aged man, of roughish exterior,in plain clothes, pulling his moustache over a letter that had arrivedfor him, dispelled our visions of manly beauty and military pomp evenmore effectually. Later on, we discovered that Cecilia was reallypretty, soft, and gentle, a good deal lectured by her mother, andherself more critical of Miss Lucy's dress and appearance than thatyoung lady had been of ours. The major proved kind and sensible. Hewas well-to-do and had 'expectations,' which facts shed round him aglory invisible to us. They seemed a happy couple; more like the restof the world than we had been led to suppose.
"The new-comers completely absorbed our attention during the evening,and it was not till we were fairly entering the older part on thehouse on our way to bed, that the story of the old man's ghostrecurred to my mind. It was a relief to meet Bedford at this point, tohear her cheerful good-night, and to see her turn into a room only twodoors from ours. Once while we were undressing I said:
"'What a horrid story that was that Lucy told us.'
"To which sensible Fatima made answer: 'Don't talk about it.'
"We dismissed the subject by consent, got into bed, and I fell asleep.I do not quite know how far on it was into the night when I was rousedby Fatima's voice repeating my name over and over again, in tones ofsubdued terror. I know nothing more irritatingly alarming, when one isyoung and nervous, than to be roused thus by a voice in which theterror is evident and the cause unknown.
"'What's the matter?' I asked.
"'Don't you hear?' gasped Fatima, in a whisper.
"If she had said at once that there was a robber under the bed, aburglar at the window, or a ghost in the wardrobe, I should haveprepared for the worst, and it would have been less alarming than thisunknown evil.
"'I hear nothing,' I said, pettishly. 'I wish you'd go to sleep,Fatima.'
"'There!--now!' said Fatima.
"I held my breath, and in the silence heard distinctly the sound ofsome one snoring in an adjoining apartment.
"'It's only some one snoring,' I said.
"'Where?' asked Fatima, with all the tragedy in her voice unabated.
"'In the room behind us, of course,' I said, impatiently. 'Can't youhear?'
"Fatima's voice might have been the voice of a shadow as she answered:'_There is no room there._'
"And then a cold chill crept over me also; for I remembered that thewall from behind which the snoring unmistakably proceeded was an outerwall. There had been the room of old Mr. Bartlett, which hisson-in-law and murderer had pulled down. There he had been heard'breathing heavily,' and had been seen asleep upon his bed, long afterhe was smothered in his own pillows, and his body shut up in thefamily vault. At least, so it was said, and at that particular momentwe felt no comfort from the fact that Miss Lucy had said that 'ofcourse it wasn't true.' I said something, to which Fatima made noreply, and I could feel her trembling, and hear a half-choked sob. Ithink fear for her overpowered my other alarm, and gave me a sort ofstrength.
"'Don't, dear,' I begged. 'Let's be brave. It must be something else.And there's nothing in the room. Let's go to Bedford. She's next doorbut one.'
"Fatima could speak no more. By the moon
light through the blind, Ijumped up, and half dragged, half helped her out of bed and across theroom. Opening the door was the worst. To touch anything at such amoment is a trial. We groped down the passage; I felt the handle ofthe first door, and turned that of the second, and in we went. Thewindow-blind of this room was drawn up, and the moonlight streamedover everything. A nest of white drapery covered one chair, a muslindress lay like a sick ghost over a second, some little black satinshoes and web-like stockings were on the floor, a gold watch and oneor two feminine ornaments lay on the table; and in the bedreposed--not Bedford, but our friend Kate, fast asleep, with one armover the bed-clothes, and her long red hair in a pigtail streamingover the pillow. I climbed up and treated her as Fatima had treatedme, calling her in low, frightened tones over and over again. She wokeat last, and sat up.
"'You sprites! What is the matter?' she exclaimed.
"I stumbled through an account of our misfortunes, in the middle ofwhich the young lady lay down, and before it was ended I believe shewas asleep again. Poor Fatima, who saw nothing before us but to returnto our room with all its terrors, here began to sob violently, whichroused our friend once more, and she became full of pity.
"'You poor children!' she said, 'I'm so sleepy. I cannot get up andgo after the ghost now; besides, one might meet somebody. But you mayget into bed if you like; there's plenty of room, and nothing tofrighten you.'
"In we both crept, most willingly. She gave us the long tail of herhair, and said, 'If you want me, pull. But go to sleep, if youcan!'--and, before she had well finished the sentence, her eyes closedonce more. In such good company a snoring ghost seemed a thing hardlyto be realized. We held the long plait between us, and, clinging to itas drowning men to a rope, we soon slept also.
"When we returned to our room next day, there was no snoring to beheard, and in the full sunshine of a summer morning our fright seemedso completely a thing of the past, that I persuaded myself to suggestthat it might have been 'fancy' (Kate had already expressed herdeliberate opinion to this effect), to which Fatima, whose convictionswere of a more resolute type than mine, replied, 'What's the use oftrying to believe what's not true? I heard it; and shall know that Iheard it, if I live till I'm a hundred.'
"In all correct ghost stories, when the hero comes down in themorning, valiant, but exhausted from the terrors of the night, tobreakfast, his host invariably asks him how he slept. When we camedown, we found Kate and the Irishman alone together in thebreakfast-room. Now it certainly was in keeping with our adventurewhen he stepped forward, and, bowing profoundly, asked how we hadpassed the night; but, in spite of the gravity of his face, there wasa twinkle in the big brown eyes which showed us that we were beingmade fun of; and I felt slightly indignant with our friend, who hadfaithfully promised not to betray us to Miss Lucy, and might, Ithought, have saved us from the ridicule of the Irishman. The rest ofthe company began to assemble, however, and to our relief the subjectwas dropped. But though the Irishman kept our secret, we had everyreason to suspect that he did not forget it; he looked terriblyroguish through breakfast, and was only kept in order by Kate's severeglances.
"'Always breathe through the nose,' he suddenly began. 'It moderatesthe severity of the air, is less trying to the lungs, and preventssnoring.'
"'Very true,' said the major, who was sensible, and liked instructiveobservations.
"'It may be laid down as an axiom,' continued the Irishman, gravely,'that the man who snores is sure to disturb somebody; and also thatthe man who doesn't snore till he dies, is not likely to live to be asnoring ghost when he is dead.'
"Kate looked daggers. The major laughed, and said, 'Let me give yousome beef.' When he didn't understand a remark he always laughed, andgenerally turned the conversation to eatables, in which he was prettysafe; for food is common ground, and a slight laugh answers mostremarks, unless at a serious meeting or a visit of condolence. Alittle later the Irishman asked: 'What's the origin of the expressionto stir up with a long pole?' which turned the conversation to wildbeasts. But he presently inquired: 'What's the meaning of putting athing up the spout?'
"'Pawning it,' said the major, promptly.
"'People pawn their family jewels sometimes,' said Pat. 'Did you everhear of anybody pawning the family ghosts?' he asked, suddenly turningto me. I gave a distressed 'No,' and he continued in a whisper, 'Younever saw a ghost up the spout?'
"But, before I could answer, he caught Kate's eye, and, making apenitent face, became silent.
"We were in the drawing-room after breakfast, when the Irishman passedthe window outside, whistling 'Kathleen Mavourneen.' We were sittingat Kate's feet, and she got up, and whispering, 'He's got something toshow you, but he wouldn't let me tell,' went out into the garden, wefollowing her.
"There we found the Irishman, with a long pole, which he was wavingtriumphantly in the air. He bowed as we approached.
"'This, young ladies,' he said, 'is the original long pole spoken ofat the breakfast-table. With this I am about to stir up and bringforth for your inspection the living and identical ghost whose snoringdisturbed your repose last night.'
"The little Irishman's jokes reassured me. I guessed that he hadfound some clue to our mysterious noise; but with Fatima it wasotherwise. She had been too deeply frightened to recover so easily.She clung tremblingly to me, as I was following him, and whispered'I'd rather not.'
"On her behalf I summoned courage to remonstrate.
"'If you please, sir,' I said, 'Fatima would rather not; and, if youplease, don't tease us any more.'
"The young lady added her entreaties, but they were not needed. Thegood-natured little gentleman no sooner saw Fatima's real distressthan he lowered his pole, and sank upon his knees on the grass, with aface of genuine penitence.
"'I _am_ so sorry I've been tormenting you so!' he exclaimed. 'Iforgot you were really frightened, and you see I knew it wasn't aghost.'
"'I heard it,' murmured Fatima resolutely, with her eyes half shut.
"'So did I,' said the Irishman, gaily; 'I've heard it dozens of times.It's the owls.'
"We both exclaimed.
"'Ah!' he said, comically, 'I see you don't believe me! That's whatcomes of telling so many small fibs. But it's true, I assure you. (Andthe brown eyes did look particularly truthful.) Barn-door owls do makea noise that is very like the snoring of an old man. And there aresome young ones who live in the spout at the corner of the wall ofyour room. They're snoring and scrambling in and out of that spout allnight.'
"It was quite true, Ida, as we found, when Fatima was at lastpersuaded to visit the corner where the rooms had been pulled down,and where, decorated with ivy, the old spout formed a home for thesnoring owls. By the aid of the long pole he brought out a young oneto our view--a shy, soft, lovely, shadow-tinted creature, ghostlyenough to behold, who felt like an impalpable mass of fluff, utterlyrefused to be kissed, and went savagely blinking back into his spoutat the earliest possible opportunity. His snoring alarmed us no more."
"And the noise really was that?" said Ida.
"It really was, my dear."
"It's a splendid story," said Ida; "you see, I didn't go to sleep_this_ time. And what became of everybody, please? Did the red-hairedyoung lady marry the Irishman?"
"Very soon afterwards, my dear," said Mrs. Overtheway. "We kept upour friendship, too, in after life; and I have many times amused theirchildren with the story of the Snoring Ghost."
Mrs. Overtheway's Remembrances Page 3