It was some weeks before Stephen got the chance she wanted. She knew it
would be difficult to evade Harold's observation, for the big boy's
acuteness as to facts had impressed itself on her. It was strange that
out of her very trust in Harold came a form of distrust in others. In
the little matter of evading him she inclined to any one in whom there
was his opposite, in whose reliability she instinctively mistrusted.
'There is nothing bad or good but thinking makes it so!' To enter that
crypt, which had seemed so small a matter at first, had now in process of
thinking and wishing and scheming become a thing to be much desired.
Harold saw, or rather felt, that something was in the girl's mind, and
took for granted that it had something to do with the crypt. But he
thought it better not to say anything lest he should keep awake a desire
which he hoped would die naturally.
One day it was arranged that Harold should go over to Carstone to see the
solicitor who had wound up his father's business. He was to stay the
night and ride back next day. Stephen, on hearing of the arrangement, so
contrived matters that Master Everard, the son of a banker who had
recently purchased an estate in the neighbourhood, was asked to come to
play with her on the day when Harold left. It was holiday time at Eton,
and he was at home. Stephen did not mention to Harold the fact of his
coming; it was only from a chance allusion of Mrs. Jarrold before he went
that he inferred it. He did not think the matter of sufficient
importance to wonder why Stephen, who generally told him everything, had
not mentioned this.
During their play, Stephen, after pledging him to secrecy, told Leonard
of her intention of visiting the crypt, and asked him to help her in it.
This was an adventure, and as such commended itself to the schoolboy
heart. He entered at once into the scheme con amore; and the two
discussed ways and means. Leonard's only regret was that he was
associated with a little girl in such a project. It was something of a
blow to his personal vanity, which was a large item in his moral
equipment, that such a project should have been initiated by the girl and
not by himself. He was to get possession of the key and in the forenoon
of the next day he was to be waiting in the churchyard, when Stephen
would join him as soon as she could evade her nurse. She was now more
than eleven, and had less need of being watched than in her earlier
years. It was possible, with strategy, to get away undiscovered for an
hour.
* * * * *
At Carstone Harold got though what he had to do that same afternoon and
arranged to start early in the morning for Normanstand. After an early
breakfast he set out on his thirty-mile journey at eight o'clock.
Littlejohn, his horse, was in excellent form, notwithstanding his long
journey of the day before, and with his nose pointed for home, put his
best foot foremost. Harold felt in great spirits. The long ride the day
before had braced him physically, though there were on his journey times
of great sadness when the thought of his father came back to him and the
sense of loss was renewed with each thought of his old home. But youth
is naturally buoyant. His visit to the church, the first thing on his
arrival at Carstone, and his kneeling before the stone made sacred to his
father's memory, though it entailed a silent gush of tears, did him good,
and even seemed to place his sorrow farther away. When he came again in
the morning before leaving Carstone there were no tears. There was only
a holy memory which seemed to sanctify loss; and his father seemed nearer
to him than ever.
As he drew near Normanstand he looked forward eagerly to seeing Stephen,
and the sight of the old church lying far below him as he came down the
steep road over Alt Hill, which was the short-cut from Norcester, set his
mind working. His visit to the tomb of his own father made him think of
the day when he kept Stephen from entering the crypt.
The keenest thought is not always conscious. It was without definite
intention that when he came to the bridle-path Harold turned his horse's
head and rode down to the churchyard. As he pushed open the door of the
church he half expected to see Stephen; and there was a vague possibility
that Leonard Everard might be with her.
The church was cool and dim. Coming from the hot glare the August
sunshine it seemed, at the first glance, dark. He looked around, and a
sense of relief came over him. The place was empty.
But even as he stood, there came a sound which made his heart grow cold.
A cry, muffled, far away and full of anguish; a sobbing cry, which
suddenly ceased.
It was the voice of Stephen. He instinctively knew where it came from;
the crypt. Only for the experience he had had of her desire to enter the
place, he would never have suspected that it was so close to him. He ran
towards the corner where commenced the steps leading downward. As he
reached the spot a figure came rushing up the steps. A boy in Eton
jacket and wide collar, careless, pale, and agitated. It was Leonard
Everard. Harold seized him as he came.
'Where is Stephen?' he cried in a quick, low voice.
'In the vault below there. She dropped her light and then took mine, and
she dropped it too. Let me go! Let me go!' He struggled to get away;
but Harold held him tight.
'Where are the matches?'
'In my pocket. Let me go! Let me go!'
'Give me them--this instant!' He was examining the frightened boy's
waistcoat pockets as he spoke. When he had got the matches he let the
boy go, and ran down the steps and through the open door into the crypt,
calling out as he came:
'Stephen! Stephen dear, where are you? It is I--Harold!' There was no
response; his heart seemed to grow cold and his knees to weaken. The
match spluttered and flashed, and in the momentary glare he saw across
the vault, which was not a large place, a white mass on the ground. He
had to go carefully, lest the match should be blown out by the wind of
his passage; but on coming close he saw that it was Stephen lying
senseless in front of a great coffin which rested on a built-out pile of
masonry. Then the match went out. In the flare of the next one he lit
he saw a piece of candle lying on top of the coffin. He seized and lit
it. He was able to think coolly despite his agitation, and knew that
light was the first necessity. The bruised wick was slow to catch; he
had to light another match, his last one, before it flamed. The couple
of seconds that the light went down till the grease melted and the flame
leaped again seemed of considerable length. When the lit candle was
placed steadily on top of the coffin, and a light, dim, though strong
enough to see with, spread around, he stooped and lifted Stephen in his
arms. She was quite senseless, and so limp that a great fear came upon
him that she might be dead. He did not waste time, but carried her
across the vault where the door to the church steps stood out sharp
against the darkness, and bore her up into the church. Holding her in
one arm, with the other hand he dragged some long cushions from one of
the pews and spread them on the floor; on these he laid her. His heart
was smitten with love and pity as he looked. She was so helpless; so
pitifully helpless! Her arms and legs were doubled up as though broken,
disjointed; the white frock was smeared with patches of thick dust.
Instinctively he stooped and pulled the frock down and straightened out
the arms and feet. He knelt beside her, and felt if her heart was still
beating, a great fear over him, a sick apprehension. A gush of thankful
prayer came from his heart. Thank God! she was alive; he could feel her
heart beat, though faintly underneath his hand. He started to his feet
and ran towards the door, seizing his hat, which lay on a seat. He
wanted it to bring back some water. As he passed out of the door he saw
Leonard a little distance off, but took no notice of him. He ran to the
stream, filled his hat with water, and brought it back. When he came
into the church he saw Stephen, already partially restored, sitting up on
the cushions with Leonard supporting her.
He was rejoiced; but somehow disappointed. He would rather Leonard had
not been there. He remembered--he could not forget--the white face of
the boy who fled out of the crypt leaving Stephen in a faint within, and
who had lingered outside the church door whilst he ran for water. Harold
came forward quickly and raised Stephen, intending to bring her into the
fresh air. He had a shrewd idea that the sight of the sky and God's
greenery would be the best medicine for her after her fright. He lifted
her in his strong arms as he used to do when she was a very little child
and had got tired in their walks together; and carried her to the door.
She lent herself unconsciously to the movement, holding fast with her arm
round his neck as she used to do. In her clinging was the expression of
her trust in him. The little sigh with which she laid her head on his
shoulder was the tribute to his masculine power, and her belief in it.
Every instant her senses were coming back to her more and more. The veil
of oblivion was passing from her half-closed eyes, as the tide of full
remembrance swept in upon her. Her inner nature was expressed in the
sequence of her emotions. Her first feeling was one of her own fault.
The sight of Harold and his proximity recalled to her vividly how he had
refused to go into the crypt, and how she had intentionally deceived him,
negatively, as to her intention of doing that of which he disapproved.
Her second feeling was one of justice; and was perhaps partially evoked
by the sight of Leonard, who followed close as Harold brought her to the
door. She did not wish to speak of herself or Harold before him; but she
did not hesitate to speak of him to Harold:
'You must not blame Leonard. It was all my fault. I made him come!' Her
generosity appealed to Harold. He was angry with the boy for being there
at all; but more for his desertion of the girl in her trouble.
'I'm not blaming him for being with you!' he said simply. Leonard spoke
at once. He had been waiting to defend himself, for that was what first
concerned that young gentleman; next to his pleasure, his safety most
appealed to him.
'I went to get help. You had let the candle drop; and how could I see in
the dark? You would insist on looking at the plate on the coffin!'
A low moan broke from Stephen, a long, low, trembling moan which went to
Harold's heart. Her head drooped over again on his shoulder; and she
clung close to him as the memory of her shock came back to her. Harold
spoke to Leonard over his shoulder in a low, fierce whisper, which
Stephen did not seem to hear:
'There! that will do. Go away! You have done enough already. Go! Go!'
he added more sternly, as the boy seemed disposed to argue. Leonard ran
a few steps, then walked to the lich-gate, where he waited.
Stephen clung close to Harold in a state of agitation which was almost
hysterical. She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing brokenly:
'Oh, Harold! It was too awful. I never thought, never for a moment,
that my poor dear mother was buried in the crypt. And when I went to
look at the name on the coffin that was nearest to where I was, I knocked
away the dust, and then I saw her name: "Margaret Norman, aetat 22." I
couldn't bear it. She was only a girl herself, only just twice my
age--lying there in that terrible dark place with all the thick dust and
the spiders' webs. Oh, Harold, Harold! How shall I ever bear to think
of her lying there, and that I shall never see her dear face? Never!
Never!'
He tried to soothe her by patting and holding her hands. For a good
while the resolution of the girl faltered, and she was but as a little
child. Then her habitual strength of mind asserted itself. She did not
ask Harold how she came to be out in the church instead of in the crypt
when she recovered her senses. She seemed to take it for granted that
Leonard had carried her out; and when she said how brave it had been of
him, Harold, with his customary generosity, allowed her to preserve the
belief. When they had made their way to the gate Leonard came up to
them; but before he could speak Stephen had begun to thank him. He
allowed her to do so, though the sight of Harold's mouth set in scorn,
and his commanding eyes firmly fixed on him, made him grow hot and cold
alternately. He withdrew without speaking; and took his way home with a
heart full of bitterness and revengeful feelings.
In the park Stephen tried to dust herself, and then Harold tried to
assist her. But her white dress was incurably soiled, the fine dust of
the vault seemed to have got ingrained in the muslin. When she got to
the house she stole upstairs, so that no one might notice her till she
had made herself tidy.
The next day but one she took Harold for a walk in the afternoon. When
they were quite alone and out of earshot she said:
'I have been thinking all night about poor mother. Of course I know she
cannot be moved from the crypt. She must remain there. But there
needn't be all that dust. I want you to come there with me some time
soon. I fear I am afraid to go alone. I want to bring some flowers and
to tidy up the place. Won't you come with me this time? I know now,
Harold, why you didn't let me go in before. But now it is different.
This is not curiosity. It is Duty and Love. Won't you come with me,
Harold?'
Harold leaped from the edge of the ha-ha where he had been sitting and
held up his hand. She took it and leaped down lightly beside him.
'Come,' he said, 'let us go there now!' She took his arm when they got
on the path again, and clinging to him in her pretty girlish way they
went together to the piece of garden which she called her own; there they
picked a great bunch of beautiful white flowers. Then they walked to the
old church. The door was open and they passed in. Harold took from his
pocket a tiny key. This surprised her, and heightened the agitation
which she naturally suffered from revisiting the place. She said nothing
whilst he opened the door to the crypt. Within, on a bracket, stood some
candles in glass shades and boxes of matches. Harold lit three candles,
and leaving one of them on the shelf, and placing his cap beside it, took
the other two in his hands. Stephen, holding her flowers tightly to her
breast with her right hand, took Harold's arm with the left, and with
beating heart entered the crypt.
For several minutes Harold kept her engaged, telling her about the crypt
in his father's church, and how he went down at his last visit to see the
coffin of his dear father, and how he knelt before it. Stephen was much
moved, and held tight to his arm, her heart beating. But in the time she
was getting accustomed to the place. Her eyes, useless at first on
coming out of the bright sunlight, and not able to distinguish anything,
began to take in the shape of the place and to see the rows of great
coffins that stood out along the far wall. She also saw with surprise
that the newest coffin, on which for several reasons her eyes rested, was
no longer dusty but was scrupulously clean. Following with her eyes as
well as she could see into the further corners she saw that there the
same reform had been effected. Even the walls and ceiling had been swept
of the hanging cobwebs, and the floor was clean with the cleanliness of
ablution. Still holding Harold's arm, she moved over towards her
mother's coffin and knelt before it. Harold knelt with her; for a little
while she remained still and silent, praying inwardly. Then she rose,
and taking her great bunch of flowers placed them lovingly on the lid of
the coffin above where she thought her mother's heart would be. Then she
turned to Harold, her eyes flowing and her cheeks wet with tears, and
laid her head against his breast. Her arms could not go round his neck
till he had bent his head, for with his great height he simply towered
above her. Presently she was quiet; the paroxysm of her grief had
passed. She took Harold's hand in both hers, and together they went to
the door. With his disengaged hand, for he would not have disturbed the
other for worlds, Harold put out the lights and locked the door behind
them.
In the church she held him away from her, and looked him fairly in the
face. She said slowly:
'Harold, was it you who had the crypt cleaned?' He answered in a low
voice:
'I knew you would want to go again!'
She took the great hand which she held between hers, and before he knew
what she was doing and could prevent her, raised it to her lips and
kissed it, saying lovingly:
'Oh, Harold! No brother in all the wide world could be kinder. And--and--'
this with a sob, 'we both thank you; mother and I!'