--"And I tremble amid the night."
About the centre of the entrance of the vale of Borrowdale,
conspicuously situated, stands that curious rock, called, by the
native Cumbrians, Borrowdale-stane. In form and position it is much
like a dismasted and stranded vessel, laying on its keel and leaning
a little to one side. On the highest point of this rock, a station
well known to the lovers of the sublime, stood a lady wrapped in a
warm fur lined cloak. Her air, however, was much too fashionable and
modern to harmonize in any degree with the wild desolation of the
surrounding region, which, when viewed from the elevated position she
thus occupied, as far as the eye could reach, resembled a stormy ocean:
its gigantic billows formed by the congregated tops of mountains.
The evening was cold, approaching to frost; and the sun, though still
much above the natural horizon, was just sinking from view behind
the lofty chain of western hills: his last rays lingered a while on
the most prominent parts of each stupendous height, then, gradually
retiring, left point after point, which, like so many beacon lights
extinguished by an invisible hand, successively disappeared, till all
became shrouded alike in cheerless gloom and volumes of mist rolling
down the sides of the mountains, a dense fog settled in the valley like
a white and waveless lake.
The lady on the rock appeared to deem it time to return home, for,
withdrawing her eyes from the distant view, she cast them downward in
search of the path by which to descend; when, amid the rocks and huge
rough stones which lay scattered beneath like the ruins of a former
world, she thought she saw something move, though very slightly.
She looked at it for a time; it quitted not the spot where she
first descried it; yet, still it certainly did move! She descended,
approached, and beheld a poor little boy, who seemed about five or six
years old. He was sitting on the ground; the wretched rags, in which
he was dressed, were dripping with wet; his poor limbs, which were all
bent together, and drawn up close to his face, trembled extremely,
while his little hands, with their long emaciated fingers, spread and
hooked round his knees, seemed endeavouring to hold them, as though
the violence of their motion was becoming too much for his frame to
bear.
The lady stood looking down on him for a moment with mingled pity and
surprise. He was slowly rocking himself from side to side: it was a
movement quite expressive of despondency, his chin rested on the backs
of the hands which held his knees, and his eyes wandered hopelessly
among the bare stones that lay around him, while his head retained the
same fixed position.
"Little boy, look up!" she said, taking one of his cold wet hands in
hers. He raised his face; misery was depicted in every feature: his
teeth chattered excessively, and his poor eyes, that swam in tears,
were now lifted to hers with an expression truly piteous.
"Poor child! come with me," she said. Something like hope began to dawn
on his forlorn countenance; but she finished her sentence, in what she
intended for the most comforting manner, by saying, "and I will take
you home to your mother."
He had not risen. He drew his hand from hers, turned on his face on
the ground with the universal shudder of terror, and, clinging to the
rocks, cried, "No! no! no!"
She endeavoured to soothe him, and to untwist his fingers from the
fastenings, which, like so many fibres of roots, they had found for
themselves among the crevices and broken fragments of his flinty bed;
but he hid his face against the hard stone, and would not turn round.
When she succeeded at length in detaching one of his hands, and was
gently endeavouring to raise him, his inward shudderings increased so
visibly that she became fearful of throwing him into convulsions: she
desisted therefore, and, feigning to go away, removed a few paces;
then stopped, and said, "Well! I am going; but won't you tell me your
name?"
"Edmund," he sobbed out; without, however, raising his head.
"Well, Edmund," said the lady, in a kind voice, "good night!" He
turned, sat up, looked at her, and then all round, as though having
had her near him, even for the last few seconds, the thought of being
left alone for the night now struck upon his heart anew with fresh
desolation; then, resuming the attitude she had first found him in,
he began, as before, to rock himself from side to side and weep. "But
where do you mean to sleep tonight, Edmund?" said the lady; "I am sure
you must be cold sitting on those hard stones with your clothes so wet."
"Yes, I am," he said, looking up wistfully again, "very cold, and very
hungry." Then, hesitating a little, he suddenly stretched out his
hand, and said, "I'll go with you, if you will hide me from every one."
"I will! I will, my poor child!" she exclaimed, flying back to him,
kindly stooping over him, and, with some difficulty, assisting him to
rise; for he was so stiffened it seemed scarcely possible to unbend his
knees: nor did there appear to be one spark of vital heat remaining in
the poor little creature! She drew a part of her warm fur mantle close
over him, and endeavoured to soothe him and give him confidence in her
protection.
"And will you stay here with me, then?" he whispered softly.
"I will take you to a much more comfortable place," she replied, "where
there is a good fire, and a nice dinner for Edmund."
"And are you sure she won't find me there?" he said, still whispering.
"She shall never hurt you, while you are with me," the lady replied,
"whoever she may be."
"Then I will go!" said Edmund; and he lifted his head and tried to
smile through his tears. The lady, still sharing with him her warm
cloak, now led him by the hand, while he held hers fast in both of his,
and walked, with short uneven steps, so close to her, that she was
every moment in danger of treading on his little bare feet; and thus
did they arrive at Lodore House, just as the first roll of the thunder
resounded along the desolate valley they had so lately quitted.