The dog-cart that Arthur had hired to take him away belonged to an
old-fashioned inn in the parish of Rewtham, situated about a mile from
Rewtham House (which had just passed into the hands of the Bellamys),
and two from Bratham Abbey, and thither Arthur had himself driven. His
Jehu, known through all the country round as “Old Sam,” was an ancient
ostler, who had been in the service of the Rewtham “King’s Head,” man
and boy, for over fifty years, and from him Arthur collected a good
deal of inaccurate information about the Caresfoot family, including a
garbled version of all the death of Angela’s mother and Philip’s
disinheritance.
After all, there are few more comfortable places than an inn; not a
huge London hotel, where you are known as No. 48, and have to lock the
door of your cell when you come out of it, and deliver up your key to
the warder in the hall; but an old-fashioned country establishment
where they cook your breakfast exactly as you like it, and give you
sound ale and a four-poster. At least, so thought Arthur, as he sat in
the private parlour smoking his pipe and reflecting on the curious
vicissitudes of existence. Now, here he was, with all the hopes and
interests of his life utterly changed in a single space of six-and-
twenty hours. Why, six-and-twenty hours ago, he had never met his
respected guardian, nor Sir John and Lady Bellamy, nor Philip and his
daughter. He could hardly believe that it was only that morning that he
had first seen Angela. It seemed weeks ago, and, if time could have
been measured on a new principle, by events and not by minutes, it
would have been weeks. The wheel of life, he thought, revolves with a
strange irregularity. For months and years it turns slowly and steadily
under the even pressure of monotonous events. But, on some unexpected
day, a tide comes rushing down the stream of being, and spins it round
at speed; and then tears onward to the ocean called the Past, leaving
its plaything to creak and turn, to turn and creak, or wrecked perhaps
and useless.
Thinking thus, Arthur made his way to bed. The excitement of the day
had wearied him, and for a while he slept soundly, but, as the fatigue
of the body wore off, the activity of his mind asserted itself, and he
began to dream vague, happy dreams of Angela, that by degrees took
shape and form, till they stood out clear before the vision of his
mind. He dreamt that he and Angela were journeying, two such happy
travellers, through the green fields in summer, till by-and-by they
came to the dark entrance of a wood, into which they plunged, fearing
nothing. Thicker grew the overshadowing branches, and darker grew the
path, and now they journeyed lover-wise, with their arms around each
other. But, as they passed along, they came to a place where the paths
forked, and here he stooped to kiss her. Already he could feel the
thrill of her embrace, when she was swept from him by an unseen force,
and carried down the path before them, leaving him rooted where he was.
But still he could trace her progress as she went, wringing her hands
in sorrow; and presently he saw the form of Lady Bellamy, robed as an
Egyptian sorceress, and holding a letter in her hand, which she offered
to Angela, whispering in her ear. She took it, and then in a second the
letter turned to a great snake, with George’s head, that threw its
coils around her and struck at her with its fangs. Next, the darkness
of night rushed down upon the scene, and out of the darkness came 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 walking
down a wooded lane, but the foliage of the overhanging trees was of a
richer green. The air was sweet with the scent of unknown flowers,
beautiful birds flitted around him, and from far-off came the murmur of
the sea. And as he travelled, broken-hearted, a fair woman with a
gentle voice stood by his side, and kissed and comforted him, till at
length he grew weary of her kisses, and she left him, weeping, and he
went on his way alone, seeking his lost Angela. And then at length the
path took a sudden turn, and he stood on the shore of an illimitable
ocean, 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 of
gladness in her eyes, stood Angela, more lovely than before, her arms
outstretched to greet him. And then the night closed in, and he awoke.
His eyes opened upon the solemn and beautiful hour of the first
quickening of the dawn, and the thrill and softness that comes from
contact with the things we meet in sleep was still upon him. He got up
and flung open his lattice window. From the garden beneath rose the
sweet scent of May flowers, very different from that of his dream which
yet lingered in his nostrils, whilst from a neighbouring lilac- bush
streamed the rich melody of the nightingale. Presently it ceased before
the broadening daylight, but in its stead, pure and clear and cold,
arose the notes of the mavis, giving tuneful thanks and glory to its
Maker. And, as he listened, a great calm stole upon his spirit, and
kneeling down there by the open window, with the breath of spring upon
his brow, and the voice of the happy birds within his ears, he prayed
to the Almighty with all his heart that it might please Him in His wise
mercy to verify his dream, inasmuch as he would be well content to
suffer, if by suffering he might at last attain to such an unutterable
joy. And rising from his knees, feeling better and stronger, he knew in
some dim way that that undertaking must be blest which, in such a
solemn hour of the heart, he did not fear to pray God to guide, to
guard, and to consummate.
And on many an after-day, and in many another place, the book of his
life would reopen at this well-conned page, and he would see the dim
light in the faint, flushed sky, and hear the song of the thrush
swelling upwards strong and sweet, and remember his prayer and the
peace that fell upon his soul.
By ten o’clock that morning, Arthur, his dog, and his portmanteau, had
all arrived together in front of the Abbey House. Before his feet had
touched the moss-grown gravel, the hall-door was flung open, and Angela
appeared to welcome him, looking, as old Sam the ostler forcibly put it
afterwards to his helper, “just like a hangel with the wings off.”
Jakes, too, emerged from the recesses of the garden, and asked Angela,
in a tone of aggrieved sarcasm, as he edged his way suspiciously past
Aleck, why the gentleman had not brought the “rampingest lion from the
Zoologic Gardens” with him at once? Having thus expressed his feelings
on the subject of bull-dogs, he shouldered the portmanteau, and made
his way with it upstairs. Arthur followed him up the wide oak stairs,
every one of which was squared out of a single log, stopping for a
while on the landing, where the staircase turned, to gaze at the
stern-faced picture that hung so that it looked through the large
window facing it, right across the park and over the whole stretch of
the Abbey lands, and to wonder at the deep-graved inscription of “Devil
Caresfoot” set so conspicuously beneath.
His room was the largest upon the first landing, and the same in which
Angela’s mother had died. It had never been used from that hour to
this, and, indeed, in a little recess or open space between a cupboard
and the wall, there still stood two trestles, draped with rotten black
cloth, 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 with
portraits of the Caresfoots of past ages, many of which bore a marked
resemblance to Philip, but amongst whom he looked in vain for one in
the slightest degree like Angela, whose handiwork he recognized in two
large bowls of flowers placed upon the dark oak dressing-table.
Just as Jakes had finished unbuckling his portmanteau, a task that he
had undertaken with some groaning, and was departing in haste, lest he
should be asked to do something else, Arthur caught sight of the
trestles.
“What are those?” he asked, cheerfully.
“Coffin-stools,” was the abrupt reply.
“Coffin-stools!” ejaculated Arthur, feeling that it was unpleasant to
have little details connected with one’s latter end brought thus
abruptly into notice. “What the deuce are they doing here?”
“Brought to put the last as slept in that ‘ere bed on, and stood ever
since.”
“Don’t you think,” insinuated Arthur, gently, “that you had better take
them away?”
“Can’t do so; they be part of the furniture, they be—stand there all
handy for the next one, too, maybe you;” and he vanished with a
sardonic grin.
Jakes did not submit to the indignities of unbuckling portmanteaus and
having his legs sniffed at by bull-dogs for nothing. Not by any means
pleased by suggestions so unpleasant, Arthur took his way downstairs,
determined to renew the coffin-stool question with his host. He found
Angela 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 Philip
always sat, the same room in which his father had died. He was sitting
at a writing-table as usual, at work on farm accounts. Rising, he
greeted 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 barbarous
wilds, 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 time
to put at your disposal. We are rather a curious household. I don’t
know whether Angela has told you, but for one thing we do not take our
meals together, so you will have to make your choice between the
dining-room and the nursery, for my daughter is not out of the nursery
yet;” and he gave a little laugh. “On the whole, perhaps you had better
be relegated to the nursery; it will, at any rate, be more amusing to
you that the society of a morose old fellow like myself. And, besides,
I am very irregular in my habits. Angela, you are staring at me again;
I should be so very much obliged if you would look the other way. I
only hope, Heigham, that old Pigott won’t talk your head off; she has
got a dreadful tongue. Well, don’t let me keep you any longer; it is a
lovely day for the time of year. Try to amuse yourself somehow, and I
hope for your sake that Angela will not occupy herself with you as she
does with me, by staring as though she wished to examine your brains
and backbone. Good-by for the present.”
“What does he mean?” asked Arthur, as soon as they were fairly outside
the door, “about your staring at him?”
“Mean!” answered poor Angela, who looked as though she were going to
cry. “I wish I could tell you; all I know is that he cannot bear me to
look at him—he is always complaining of it. That is why we do not take
our meals together—at least, I believe it is. He detests my being 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, can you?” and she
turned them, swimming as they were with tears of mortification, full
upon Arthur.
He scrutinized their depths very closely, so closely indeed, that
presently she turned them away again with a blush.
“Well,” she said, “I am sure you have looked long enough. Are they
different?”
“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 any unpleasant
effect upon you—different from other people’s eyes, I mean?”
“Well, if you ask me, I am afraid that your eyes do produce a strange
effect upon me, but I cannot say that it is an unpleasant one. But you
did not look long enough for me to form a really sound opinion. Let us
try again.”
“No, I will not; and I do believe that you are laughing at me. I think
that is very unkind;” and she marched on in silence.
“Don’t be angry with me, or I shall be miserable. I really was not
laughing at you; only, if you knew what wonderful eyes you have got,
you would not ask such ridiculous questions about them. Your father
must be a strange man to get such ideas. I am sure I should be
delighted if you would look at me all day long. But tell me something
more about your father: he interests me very much.”
Angela felt the tell-tale blood rise to her face as he praised her
eyes, and bit her lips with vexation; it seemed to her that she had
suddenly caught an epidemic of blushing.
“I cannot tell you very much about my father, because I do not know
much; his life is, to a great extent, a sealed book to me. But they say
that once he was a very different man, when he was quite young, I mean.
But all of a sudden his father—my grand-father, you know—whose picture
is on the stairs, died, and within a day or two my mother died too;
that was when I was born. After that he broke down, and became what he
is now. For twenty years he has lived as he does now, poring all day
over books of accounts, and very rarely seeing anybody, for he does all
his business by letter, or nearly all of it, and he has no friends.
There was some story about his being engaged to a lady who lived at
Rewtham when he married my mother, which I daresay you have heard; but
I don’t know much about it. But, Mr. Heigham”—and here she dropped her
voice—“there is one thing that I must warn you of: my father 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 not be
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 is
superstitious; 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 or
two. They have made a nest in one of the big trees at the back of the
house, and I daresay that they are there, or perhaps they are hunting
for their food—they always feed themselves. But I will soon tell you,”
and she whistled in a soft but penetrating note.
Next minute there was a swoop of wings, and the largest raven, after
hovering over her for a minute, lit upon her shoulder, and rubbed his
black head against her face.
“This is Jack, you see; I expect that Jill is busy sitting on her eggs.
Fly away, Jack, and look after your wife.” She clapped her hands, and
the great bird, giving a reproachful croak, spread his wings, and was
gone.
“You have a strange power over animals to make those birds so fond of
you.”
“Do you think so? It is only because I have, living as I do quite
alone, had time to study all their ways, and make friends of them. Do
you see that thrush there? I know him well; I fed him during the frost
last winter. If you will stand back with the dog, you shall see.”
Arthur hid himself behind a thick bush and watched. Angela whistled
again, but in another note, with a curious result. Not only the thrush
in question, but quite a dozen other birds of different sorts and
sizes, came flying round her, some settling at her feet, and one, a
little robin, actually perching itself upon her hat. Presently she
dismissed them as she had done the raven, by clapping her hands, and
came back to Arthur.
“In the winter time,” she said, “I could show you more curious things
than that.”
“I think that you are a witch,” said Arthur, who was astounded at the
sight.
She laughed as she answered,
“The only witchery that I use is kindness.”