第 87 页

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,

that he felt sure he could have 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--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!'

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 her 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!'

'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 happy

sleep--eh?'

'Indeed it is,' returned the bachelor. 'Indeed, indeed, it is!'

'That's well!--and the waking--' faltered the old man.

'Happy too. Happier than tongue can tell, or heart of man conceive.'

They watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the other chamber

where the lamp had been replaced. They listened as he spoke again

within its silent walls. They looked into the faces of each other, and

no man's cheek was free from tears. He came back, whispering that she

was still asleep, but that he thought she had moved. It was her hand,

he said--a little--a very, very little--but he was pretty sure she had

moved it--perhaps in seeking his. He had known her do that, before

now, though in the deepest sleep the while. And when he had said this,

he dropped into his chair again, and clasping his hands above his head,

uttered a cry never to be forgotten.

The poor schoolmaster motioned to the bachelor that he would come on

the other side, and speak to him. They gently unlocked his fingers,

which he had twisted in his grey hair, and pressed them in their own.

'He will hear me,' said the schoolmaster, 'I am sure. He will hear

either me or you if we beseech him. She would, at all times.'

'I will hear any voice she liked to hear,' cried the old man. 'I love

all she loved!'

'I know you do,' returned the schoolmaster. 'I am certain of it.

Think of her; think of all the sorrows and afflictions you have shared

together; of all the trials, and all the peaceful pleasures, you have

jointly known.'

'I do. I do. I think of nothing else.'

'I would have you think of nothing else to-night--of nothing but those

things which will soften your heart, dear friend, and open it to old