Why sleeps he not, when others are at rest?--Byron.
According to the explanation I had received, the road I was now to
pursue was somewhat longer, but much better, than that which I generally
took. It was to lead me home through the churchyard of--, the same, by
the by, which Lord Vincent had particularized in his anecdote of the
mysterious stranger. The night was clear, but windy: there were a few
light clouds passing rapidly over the moon, which was at her full,
and shone through the frosty air, with all that cold and transparent
brightness so peculiar to our northern winters. I walked briskly on till
I came to the churchyard; I could not then help pausing (notwithstanding
my total deficiency in all romance) to look for a few moments at the
exceeding beauty of the scene around me. The church itself was extremely
old, and stood alone and grey, in the rude simplicity of the earliest
form of gothic architecture: two large dark yew-trees drooped on each
side over tombs, which from their size and decorations, appeared to be
the last possession of some quondam lords of the soil. To the left, the
ground was skirted by a thick and luxuriant copse of evergreens, in the
front of which stood one tall, naked oak, stern and leafless, a very
token of desolation and decay; there were but few grave stones scattered
about, and these were, for the most part, hidden by the long wild grass
which wreathed and climbed round them. Over all, the blue skies and
still moon shed that solemn light, the effect of which, either on the
scene or the feelings, it is so impossible to describe.
I was just about to renew my walk, when a tall, dark figure, wrapped up,
like myself, in a large French cloak, passed slowly along from the other
side of the church, and paused by the copse I have before mentioned. I
was shrouded at that moment from his sight by one of the yew trees;
he stood still only for a few moments; he then flung himself upon the
earth, and sobbed, audibly even at the spot where I was standing. I was
in doubt whether to wait longer or to proceed; my way lay just by him,
and it might be dangerous to interrupt so substantial an apparition.
However, my curiosity was excited, and my feet were half frozen, two
cogent reasons for proceeding; and, to say truth, I was never very much
frightened by any thing dead or alive.
Accordingly I left my obscurity, and walked slowly onwards. I had
not got above three paces before the figure rose, and stood erect and
motionless before me. His hat had fallen off, and the moon shone full
upon his countenance; it was not the wild expression of intense anguish
which dwelt on those hueless and sunken features; nor their quick change
to ferocity and defiance, as his eyes fell upon me, which made me start
back and feel my heart stand still! Notwithstanding the fearful ravages
graven in that countenance, then so brilliant with the graces of
boyhood, I recognized, at one glance, those still noble and chiselled
features. It was Reginald Glanville who stood before me! I recovered
myself instantly; I threw myself towards him, and called him by his
name. He turned hastily; but I would not suffer him to escape; I put my
hand upon his arm, and drew him towards me. “Glanville!” I exclaimed,
“it is I! it is your old--old friend, Henry Pelham. Good God! have I met
you at last, and in such a scene?”
Glanville shook me from him in an instant, covered his face with his
hands, and sunk down with one wild cry, which went fearfully through
that still place, upon the spot from which he had but just risen. I
knelt beside him; I took his hand; I spoke to him in every endearing
term that I could think of; and roused and excited as my feelings
were, by so strange and sudden a meeting, I felt my tears involuntarily
falling over the hand which I held in my own. Glanville turned; he
looked at me for one moment, as if fully to recognize me: and then
throwing himself in my arms, wept like a child.
It was but for a few minutes that this weakness lasted; he rose
suddenly--the whole expression of his countenance was changed--the
tears still rolled in large drops down his cheeks, but the proud, stern
character which the features had assumed, seemed to deny the feelings
which that feminine weakness had betrayed.
“Pelham,” he said, “you have seen me thus; I had hoped that no living
eye would--this is the last time in which I shall indulge this folly.
God bless you--we shall meet again--and this night shall then seem to
you like a dream.”
I would have answered, but he turned swiftly, passed in one moment
through the copse, and in the next had utterly disappeared.