Dawn

by H. Rider Haggard

  CHAPTER XXII

  The dog-cart that Arthur had hired to take him away belonged to anold-fashioned inn in the parish of Rewtham, situated about a mile fromRewtham House (which had just passed into the hands of the Bellamys),and two from Bratham Abbey, and thither Arthur had himself driven. HisJehu, known through all the country round as "Old Sam," was an ancientostler, who had been in the service of the Rewtham "King's Head," manand boy, for over fifty years, and from him Arthur collected a gooddeal of inaccurate information about the Caresfoot family, including agarbled version of all the death of Angela's mother and Philip'sdisinheritance.

  After all, there are few more comfortable places than an inn; not ahuge London hotel, where you are known as No. 48, and have to lock thedoor of your cell when you come out of it, and deliver up your key tothe warder in the hall; but an old-fashioned country establishmentwhere they cook your breakfast exactly as you like it, and give yousound ale and a four-poster. At least, so thought Arthur, as he sat inthe private parlour smoking his pipe and reflecting on the curiousvicissitudes of existence. Now, here he was, with all the hopes andinterests of his life utterly changed in a single space of six-and-twenty hours. Why, six-and-twenty hours ago, he had never met hisrespected guardian, nor Sir John and Lady Bellamy, nor Philip and hisdaughter. He could hardly believe that it was only that morning thathe had first seen Angela. It seemed weeks ago, and, if time could havebeen measured on a new principle, by events and not by minutes, itwould have been weeks. The wheel of life, he thought, revolves with astrange irregularity. For months and years it turns slowly andsteadily under the even pressure of monotonous events. But, on someunexpected day, a tide comes rushing down the stream of being, andspins it round at speed; and then tears onward to the ocean called thePast, leaving its plaything to creak and turn, to turn and creak, orwrecked perhaps and useless.

  Thinking thus, Arthur made his way to bed. The excitement of the dayhad wearied him, and for a while he slept soundly, but, as the fatigueof the body wore off, the activity of his mind asserted itself, and hebegan to dream vague, happy dreams of Angela, that by degrees tookshape and form, till they stood out clear before the vision of hismind. He dreamt that he and Angela were journeying, two such happytravellers, through the green fields in summer, till by-and-by theycame to the dark entrance of a wood, into which they plunged, fearingnothing. Thicker grew the overshadowing branches, and darker grew thepath, and now they journeyed lover-wise, with their arms around eachother. But, as they passed along, they came to a place where the pathsforked, and here he stooped to kiss her. Already he could feel thethrill of her embrace, when she was swept from him by an unseen force,and carried down the path before them, leaving him rooted where hewas. But still he could trace her progress as she went, wringing herhands in sorrow; and presently he saw the form of Lady Bellamy, robedas an Egyptian sorceress, and holding a letter in her hand, which sheoffered to Angela, whispering in her ear. She took it, and then in asecond the letter turned to a great snake, with George's head, thatthrew its coils around her and struck at her with its fangs. Next, thedarkness of night rushed down upon the scene, and out of the darknesscame wild cries and mocking laughter, and the choking sounds of death.And his senses left him.

  When sight and sense came back, he dreamt that he was still walkingdown a wooded lane, but the foliage of the overhanging trees was of aricher green. The air was sweet with the scent of unknown flowers,beautiful birds flitted around him, and from far-off came the murmurof the sea. And as he travelled, broken-hearted, a fair woman with agentle voice stood by his side, and kissed and comforted him, till atlength he grew weary of her kisses, and she left him, weeping, and hewent on his way alone, seeking his lost Angela. And then at length thepath took a sudden turn, and he stood on the shore of an illimitableocean, over which brooded a strange light, as where

  "The quiet end of evening smiles Miles on miles."

  And there, with the soft light lingering on her hair, and tears ofgladness in her eyes, stood Angela, more lovely than before, her armsoutstretched to greet him. And then the night closed in, and he awoke.

  His eyes opened upon the solemn and beautiful hour of the firstquickening of the dawn, and the thrill and softness that comes fromcontact with the things we meet in sleep was still upon him. He got upand flung open his lattice window. From the garden beneath rose thesweet scent of May flowers, very different from that of his dreamwhich yet lingered in his nostrils, whilst from a neighbouring lilac-bush streamed the rich melody of the nightingale. Presently it ceasedbefore the broadening daylight, but in its stead, pure and clear andcold, arose the notes of the mavis, giving tuneful thanks and glory toits Maker. And, as he listened, a great calm stole upon his spirit,and kneeling down there by the open window, with the breath of springupon his brow, and the voice of the happy birds within his ears, heprayed to the Almighty with all his heart that it might please Him inHis wise mercy to verify his dream, inasmuch as he would be wellcontent to suffer, if by suffering he might at last attain to such anunutterable joy. And rising from his knees, feeling better andstronger, he knew in some dim way that that undertaking must be blestwhich, in such a solemn hour of the heart, he did not fear to pray Godto guide, to guard, and to consummate.

  And on many an after-day, and in many another place, the book of hislife would reopen at this well-conned page, and he would see the dimlight in the faint, flushed sky, and hear the song of the thrushswelling upwards strong and sweet, and remember his prayer and thepeace that fell upon his soul.

  By ten o'clock that morning, Arthur, his dog, and his portmanteau, hadall arrived together in front of the Abbey House. Before his feet hadtouched the moss-grown gravel, the hall-door was flung open, andAngela appeared to welcome him, looking, as old Sam the ostlerforcibly put it afterwards to his helper, "just like a hangel with thewings off." Jakes, too, emerged from the recesses of the garden, andasked Angela, in a tone of aggrieved sarcasm, as he edged his waysuspiciously past Aleck, why the gentleman had not brought the"rampingest lion from the Zoologic Gardens" with him at once? Havingthus expressed his feelings on the subject of bull-dogs, he shoulderedthe portmanteau, and made his way with it upstairs. Arthur followedhim up the wide oak stairs, every one of which was squared out of asingle log, stopping for a while on the landing, where the staircaseturned, to gaze at the stern-faced picture that hung so that it lookedthrough the large window facing it, right across the park and over thewhole stretch of the Abbey lands, and to wonder at the deep-gravedinscription of "Devil Caresfoot" set so conspicuously beneath.

  His room was the largest upon the first landing, and the same in whichAngela's mother had died. It had never been used from that hour tothis, and, indeed, in a little recess or open space between a cupboardand the wall, there still stood two trestles, draped with rotten blackcloth, that had originally been brought there to rest her coffin on,and which Angela had overlooked in getting the room ready.

  This spacious but somewhat gloomy apartment was hung round withportraits of the Caresfoots of past ages, many of which bore a markedresemblance to Philip, but amongst whom he looked in vain for one inthe slightest degree like Angela, whose handiwork he recognized in twolarge bowls of flowers placed upon the dark oak dressing-table.

  Just as Jakes had finished unbuckling his portmanteau, a task that hehad undertaken with some groaning, and was departing in haste, lest heshould be asked to do something else, Arthur caught sight of thetrestles.

  "What are those?" he asked, cheerfully.

  "Coffin-stools," was the abrupt reply.

  "Coffin-stools!" ejaculated Arthur, feeling that it was unpleasant tohave little details connected with one's latter end brought thusabruptly into notice. "What the deuce are they doing here?"

  "Brought to put the last as slept in that 'ere bed on, and stood eversince."

  "Don't you think," insinuated Arthur, gently, "that you had bettertake them away?"

  "Can't do so; they be part of
the furniture, they be--stand there allhandy for the next one, too, maybe you;" and he vanished with asardonic grin.

  Jakes did not submit to the indignities of unbuckling portmanteaus andhaving his legs sniffed at by bull-dogs for nothing. Not by any meanspleased by suggestions so unpleasant, Arthur took his way downstairs,determined to renew the coffin-stool question with his host. He foundAngela waiting for him in the hall, and making friends with Aleck.

  "Will you come in and see my father for a minute before we go out?"she said.

  Arthur assented, and she led the way into the study, where Philipalways sat, the same room in which his father had died. He was sittingat a writing-table as usual, at work on farm accounts. Rising, hegreeted Arthur civilly, taking, however, no notice of his daughter,although he had not seen her since the previous day.

  "Well, Heigham, so you have made up your mind to brave these barbarouswilds, have you? I am delighted to see you, but I must warn you that,beyond a pipe and a glass of grog in the evening, I have not much timeto put at your disposal. We are rather a curious household. I don'tknow whether Angela has told you, but for one thing we do not take ourmeals together, so you will have to make your choice between thedining-room and the nursery, for my daughter is not out of the nurseryyet;" and he gave a little laugh. "On the whole, perhaps you hadbetter be relegated to the nursery; it will, at any rate, be moreamusing to you that the society of a morose old fellow like myself.And, besides, I am very irregular in my habits. Angela, you arestaring at me again; I should be so very much obliged if you wouldlook the other way. I only hope, Heigham, that old Pigott won't talkyour head off; she has got a dreadful tongue. Well, don't let me keepyou any longer; it is a lovely day for the time of year. Try to amuseyourself somehow, and I hope for your sake that Angela will not occupyherself with you as she does with me, by staring as though she wishedto examine your brains and backbone. Good-by for the present."

  "What does he mean?" asked Arthur, as soon as they were fairly outsidethe door, "about your staring at him?"

  "Mean!" answered poor Angela, who looked as though she were going tocry. "I wish I could tell you; all I know is that he cannot bear me tolook at him--he is always complaining of it. That is why we do nottake our meals together--at least, I believe it is. He detests mybeing near him. I am sure I don't know why; it makes me very unhappy.I cannot see anything different in my eyes from anybody else's, canyou?" and she turned them, swimming as they were with tears ofmortification, full upon Arthur.

  He scrutinized their depths very closely, so closely indeed, thatpresently she turned them away again with a blush.

  "Well," she said, "I am sure you have looked long enough. Are theydifferent?"

  "Very different," replied the oracle, with enthusiasm.

  "How?"

  "Well, they--they are larger."

  "Is that all?"

  "And they are deeper."

  "Deeper--that is nothing. I want to know if they produce anyunpleasant effect upon you--different from other people's eyes, Imean?"

  "Well, if you ask me, I am afraid that your eyes do produce a strangeeffect upon me, but I cannot say that it is an unpleasant one. But youdid not look long enough for me to form a really sound opinion. Let ustry again."

  "No, I will not; and I do believe that you are laughing at me. I thinkthat is very unkind;" and she marched on in silence.

  "Don't be angry with me, or I shall be miserable. I really was notlaughing at you; only, if you knew what wonderful eyes you have got,you would not ask such ridiculous questions about them. Your fathermust be a strange man to get such ideas. I am sure I should bedelighted if you would look at me all day long. But tell me somethingmore about your father: he interests me very much."

  Angela felt the tell-tale blood rise to her face as he praised hereyes, and bit her lips with vexation; it seemed to her that she hadsuddenly caught an epidemic of blushing.

  "I cannot tell you very much about my father, because I do not knowmuch; his life is, to a great extent, a sealed book to me. But theysay that once he was a very different man, when he was quite young, Imean. But all of a sudden his father--my grand-father, you know--whosepicture is on the stairs, died, and within a day or two my mother diedtoo; that was when I was born. After that he broke down, and becamewhat he is now. For twenty years he has lived as he does now, poringall day over books of accounts, and very rarely seeing anybody, for hedoes all his business by letter, or nearly all of it, and he has nofriends. There was some story about his being engaged to a lady wholived at Rewtham when he married my mother, which I daresay you haveheard; but I don't know much about it. But, Mr. Heigham"--and here shedropped her voice--"there is one thing that I must warn you of: myfather has strange fancies at times. He is dreadfully superstitious,and thinks that he has communications with beings from another world.I believe that it is all nonsense, but I tell you so that you may notbe surprised at anything he says or does. He is not a happy man, Mr.Heigham."

  "Apparently not. I cannot imagine any one being happy who issuperstitious; it is the most dreadful bondage in the world."

  "Where are your ravens to-day?" asked Arthur, presently.

  "I don't know; I have not seen very much of them for the last week ortwo. They have made a nest in one of the big trees at the back of thehouse, and I daresay that they are there, or perhaps they are huntingfor their food--they always feed themselves. But I will soon tellyou," and she whistled in a soft but penetrating note.

  Next minute there was a swoop of wings, and the largest raven, afterhovering over her for a minute, lit upon her shoulder, and rubbed hisblack head against her face.

  "This is Jack, you see; I expect that Jill is busy sitting on hereggs. Fly away, Jack, and look after your wife." She clapped herhands, and the great bird, giving a reproachful croak, spread hiswings, and was gone.

  "You have a strange power over animals to make those birds so fond ofyou."

  "Do you think so? It is only because I have, living as I do quitealone, had time to study all their ways, and make friends of them. Doyou see that thrush there? I know him well; I fed him during the frostlast winter. If you will stand back with the dog, you shall see."

  Arthur hid himself behind a thick bush and watched. Angela whistledagain, but in another note, with a curious result. Not only the thrushin question, but quite a dozen other birds of different sorts andsizes, came flying round her, some settling at her feet, and one, alittle robin, actually perching itself upon her hat. Presently shedismissed them as she had done the raven, by clapping her hands, andcame back to Arthur.

  "In the winter time," she said, "I could show you more curious thingsthan that."

  "I think that you are a witch," said Arthur, who was astounded at thesight.

  She laughed as she answered,

  "The only witchery that I use is kindness."