THE SIBYL.
Lady Kildhurm, if she could not properly be called insane, was none the
less in a very abnormal mental state. The attitude of her mind, indeed,
might be considered almost the reverse of that usual to mortals: for
to her the material world appeared visionary and unstable, and the
objects of her inner life were her only realities. Being thus removed
from sympathy with her fellow-creatures, she necessarily occupied a
place apart, where she commanded the respect, and sometimes the awe, of
those who came into contact with her, but never their comprehension.
Always a striking-looking woman, her appearance was now invested
with a solemn majesty, to which the shadow of the tragedy with which
she had been connected no doubt lent impressiveness. By degrees she
adopted certain peculiarities of costume and demeanour and fell into
various eccentricities of speech and conduct, all of which tended to
confirm the country folks of the neighbourhood in the opinion that
the lady of Kildhurm was a species of wise-woman, or sibyl, acquainted
with supernatural lore, and able to give them a good harvest or a bad
rheumatism according as her whim might be. Of course when a delusion
of this kind once gets a footing in the popular mind, nothing can
occur, either good or bad, which will not be cited in support of
it. Fortunately for Lady Kildhurm, it was generally agreed that her
salutary outweighed her hostile influence. Mothers brought their sick
children to her to touch, as if she had been a monarch; and fathers
sought her advice on questions of business, and shaped her vague and
wandering utterances into profoundly pertinent replies. Thus, without
being necessarily aware of it, the poor lady created around her a
voluntary host of feudal retainers, quite as loyal as those which the
former lords of Kildhurm had lost, and much more willing and unstinting
in the matter of supplies of provisions, and of tributary hay and
corn. So it happened that the domestic economy of Kildhurm Tower had
not, for many years past, been in so prosperous a condition as it was
now. The curse which seemed to have been darkening over the place for
several successive generations, had now begun to lift and lighten, as
if it had done its worst. Mrs. Chepstow also remained at the Tower, and
practically had the entire charge of the household and of the education
of young Sir Philip, and had moreover contributed to this better state
of things by making over to the heir the whole of the fortune which
Colonel Banyon had bequeathed to her; reserving to herself, until the
boy came of age, the right of spending the income of this estate for
the common benefit of the family. It will be seen, therefore, that,
leaving out the fact that the lord of the Tower had died a violent and
mysterious death, and that his wife had lost her reason in consequence,
Kildhurm had not much more cause to complain of its destiny than have
other ancient and partially decayed families.
The Oak, meanwhile, had by no means ceased to connect itself with
the family interests, although it, also, seemed to have become less
menacing since its last terrible manifestation. Its present relation
to the household was more intimate and friendly than had ever been the
case before; it had, in fact, become the haunt and almost the home of
Lady Kildhurm herself. It was her daily and also her nightly habit to
climb into its branches, and there sit for hours, gazing out on the sea
and singing to herself fragments of songs; or occasionally carrying on
what had the semblance of being long and earnest conversations with
some interlocutor who never made himself visible to any other eyes than
those of her ladyship, and who was probably only subjectively manifest
even to her. Be that as it may, this unseen personage's existence was
solidly believed in by many intelligent persons, several of whom went
so far as to say that they had heard the tones of his voice. Others
affirmed that he could be no other than the genie himself of the Oak,
who, having made away with Lady Kildhurm's husband on account of some
slight which the latter put upon him, was now making amends to the wife
by taking her into his confidence, and imparting to her many invaluable
family secrets, as well as giving her instructions as to the future.
Among other things, he must have explained to her the true meaning of
the prophetic verses inscribed upon the silver disc, which was at this
period almost entirely embedded in the substance of the bark: and she
must therefore be aware of the nature of the fortune which was in store
for the Kildhurm race, and of the means by which it was to be acquired.
But the more things she was credited with knowing, the less inclined
did she seem to satisfy the curiosity of the ignorant; insomuch that
not one well-authenticated word of all the tales that the genie of the
Oak was said to have poured into her ear has ever transpired from that
day to this.
I am far from supposing, on the other hand, that Lady Kildhurm was
above sharing the persuasions of these unenlightened people as to
the extent of her own enlightenment, or perhaps, as to the channels
through which it was obtained. Persons in her peculiar condition are
not apt to be lacking in self-appreciation, and easily adopt any
theory concerning themselves which seems to give them the distinction
appertaining to supernatural pretensions. It is highly probable that
the widow of Sir Norman believed that she held communion with beings
of another world or plane of existence, and that she was happy in that
belief. It is certain that she regarded herself as in a manner a sacred
personage, and that she attributed the highest importance to all her
acts and utterances, no matter how meaningless these might appear to
the uninitiated observer. She commonly spoke of the Oak as 'My Friend,'
or 'My Counsellor,' and was careful to observe certain ceremonies and
formalities before ascending into the seclusion of the branches: such
as kneeling at the foot of the trunk and touching her forehead to the
bark, and tracing a circle round about the base of the tree with her
ivory cross. A few rude foot-rests had been made, by means of which she
could ascend to her retreat with ease; and in the angle of the boughs
she had constructed for herself a sort of seat, which she called her
throne. Here, no doubt, the pleasantest hours of her weird and lonely
existence were passed. Here she gathered in the harvest of her wisdom,
and from hence she gave it forth. The sinister Oak, which had been the
hostile tyrant of the Kildhurm race for more than a hundred and fifty
years, was become this forlorn woman's most intimate and inexhaustible
companion. On summer days the branches which supported her swayed
soothingly, and the broad leaves whispered in a murmurous undertone;
while glimpses of yellow sunshine strayed here and there through the
interstices of the foliage; or, perhaps, a shower pattered harmlessly
on the living roof overhead. From below came up the endless prattle of
the musical ocean, and the sparkle of its breezy blue. What wonder if,
at such moments, she heard voices that do not speak to mortal ears, or
beheld visions whereof the outward eye can take no note? But when the
great equinoctial gales were let loose, and came shrieking down upon
the astonished coast, then did the sibyl and her Oak strike a wilder
and more interior chord of harmony. The Oak breathed forth its deep
organ-tones of power and defiance, while the sibyl loudly chanted a
thrilling treble, that often rang out above the other noises of the
natural symphony, and caused passing travellers to start and stare,
and, if the night were already fallen, to hasten their steps and wish
themselves safe at home. After such a bout, the prophetess would
descend from her perch with a flashing eye and an exalted mien, as if
instinct with the divine fury of the seers of old; and occasionally,
after an exceptionally boisterous gale, she would appear with a cluster
of acorns or a branch of leaves in her bosom or amongst her hair, and
she was more careful of these adornments and more proud of them than if
they had been gold and precious stones. 'They are my friend's gift,'
she would answer to inquirers; 'and the token of his confidence and
favour.'
But this fantastic behaviour was, for the most part, confined to her
hours of actual association with the Oak; at such times as she was
within doors, her bearing was gentle and undemonstrative, her look
passive and vacant, and she spoke but little, and that feebly and
vaguely. She was less observant as a rule, of sights than of sounds;
she always seemed to recognise the voice of Philip, and to be aware of
the bond that united him to her; and she was fond of walking about with
his hand clasped in hers, or with her arm resting upon his shoulder,
when he had grown bigger. She was never weary of listening to his
childish and boyish talk, and he, for his part, was never more pleased
with himself and with things in general than when he was pouring out to
her the riches of his small mind--appealing to her at the end of every
sentence or two for sympathy or approval, which she never failed to
accord with a smile, or a movement of the head or hand, or a murmured
word. And sometimes--but this very rarely--she would in turn talk to
him, in a low cadenced voice, as if chanting blank verse, and with a
delivery free alike from emphasis and from hesitation. Whether or not
any wisdom were contained in these monologues, Philip only could tell;
and he used to declare that they were replete with everything that was
most sapient and profound. He never, in fact, gave in to the belief
that his mother was in any respect deficient in mental effectiveness;
on the contrary he held her to be an altogether superior being, and
argued that she appeared 'queer' to ordinary people only because the
latter were too far below her in the intellectual scale to be able to
appreciate her illustration. He was proud of her preference; and she
yielded him every indulgence he could desire, save one:--she never
permitted him to climb the Oak and share her mysterious vigils amidst
the branches. 'No,' she would answer, smiling, to his entreaties, 'no,
dear, no--no. He is our friend, but it is to me he speaks; you must
hear him only through me. Be content--be content! by-and-by you shall
know all.'
'But when will by-and-by come, mother?'
'When the great change comes, and the seal is broken, and the prophecy
is fulfilled, and the sibyl and her counsellor have vanished. There is
time; do not seek to hasten the steps of fate. Love will lead the way,
and pass through the valley of tribulation, and honour and wealth shall
wait for him beyond. You are but a boy yet! be content! by-and-by you
shall know all.'
'But I don't want you to vanish, mother, or your counsellor either. Why
should you vanish, and where are you going to vanish to?'
'Those who impart happiness must not wait to behold its enjoyment. The
bearers of evil tidings remain; but the heralds of joy pass on.'
What all this meant, Philip might have found it difficult to explain:
but he was bound to consider it satisfactory. And then his mother,
laying one hand on his shoulder, and with the other pointing upwards
through the branches of the Oak, would say solemnly, 'There--there is
treasure! Seek for it!'