_The Second Hearing_.
One summer evening, I had lingered longer than usual in my rocky
retreat: I had lain half dreaming in the mouth of my cave, till the
shadows of evening had fallen, and the gloaming had deepened half-way
towards the night. But the night had no more terrors for me than the
day. Indeed, in such regions there is a solitariness for which there
seems a peculiar sense, and upon which the shadows of night sink with a
strange relief, hiding from the eye the wide space which yet they throw
more open to the imagination. When I lifted my head, only a star here
and there caught my eye; but, looking intently into the depths of
blue-grey, I saw that they were crowded with twinkles. The mountain rose
before me, a huge mass of gloom; but its several peaks stood out against
the sky with a clear, pure, sharp outline, and looked nearer to me than
the bulk from which they rose heaven-wards. One star trembled and
throbbed upon the very tip of the loftiest, the central peak, which
seemed the spire of a mighty temple where the light was
worshipped--crowned, therefore, in the darkness, with the emblem of the
day. I was lying, as I have said, with this fancy still in my thought,
when suddenly I heard, clear, though faint and far away, the sound as of
the iron-shod hoofs of a horse, in furious gallop along an uneven rocky
surface. It was more like a distant echo than an original sound. It
seemed to come from the face of the mountain, where no horse, I knew,
could go at that speed, even if its rider courted certain destruction.
There was a peculiarity, too, in the sound--a certain tinkle, or clank,
which I fancied myself able, by auricular analysis, to distinguish from
the body of the sound. Supposing the sound to be caused by the feet of a
horse, the peculiarity was just such as would result from one of the
shoes being loose. A terror--strange even to my experience--seized me,
and I hastened home. The sounds gradually died away as I descended the
hill. Could they have been an echo from some precipice of the mountain?
I knew of no road lying so that, if a horse were galloping upon it, the
sounds would be reflected from the mountain to me.
The next day, in one of my rambles, I found myself near the cottage of
my old foster-mother, who was distantly related to us, and was a trusted
servant in the family at the time I was born. On the death of my mother,
which took place almost immediately after my birth, she had taken the
entire charge of me, and had brought me up, though with difficulty; for
she used to tell me, I should never be either _folk_ or _fairy_. For
some years she had lived alone in a cottage, at the bottom of a deep
green circular hollow, upon which, in walking over a healthy table-land,
one came with a sudden surprise. I was her frequent visitor. She was a
tall, thin, aged woman, with eager eyes, and well-defined clear-cut
features. Her voice was harsh, but with an undertone of great
tenderness. She was scrupulously careful in her attire, which was rather
above her station. Altogether, she had much the bearing of a
gentle-woman. Her devotion to me was quite motherly. Never having had
any family of her own, although she had been the wife of one of my
father’s shepherds, she expended the whole maternity of her nature upon
me. She was always my first resource in any perplexity, for I was sure
of all the help she could give me. And as she had much influence with my
father, who was rather severe in his notions, I had had occasion to beg
her interference. No necessity of this sort, however, had led to my
visit on the present occasion.
I ran down the side of the basin, and entered the little cottage. Nurse
was seated on a chair by the wall, with her usual knitting, a stocking,
in one hand; but her hands were motionless, and her eyes wide open and
fixed. I knew that the neighbours stood rather in awe of her, on the
ground that she had the second sight; but, although she often told us
frightful enough stories, she had never alluded to such a gift as being
in her possession. Now I concluded at once that she was _seeing_. I was
confirmed in this conclusion when, seeming to come to herself suddenly,
she covered her head with her plaid, and sobbed audibly, in spite of her
efforts to command herself. But I did not dare to ask her any questions,
nor did she attempt any excuse for her behaviour. After a few moments,
she unveiled herself, rose, and welcomed me with her usual kindness;
then got me some refreshment, and began to question me about matters at
home. After a pause, she said suddenly: “When are you going to get your
commission, Duncan, do you know?” I replied that I had heard nothing of
it; that I did not think my father had influence or money enough to
procure me one, and that I feared I should have no such good chance of
distinguishing myself. She did not answer, but nodded her head three
times, slowly and with compressed lips--apparently as much as to say, “I
know better.”
Just as I was leaving her, it occurred to me to mention that I had heard
an odd sound the night before. She turned towards me, and looked at me
fixedly. “What was it like, Duncan, my dear?”
“Like a horse galloping with a loose shoe,” I replied.
“Duncan, Duncan, my darling!” she said, in a low, trembling voice, but
with passionate earnestness, “you did not hear it? Tell me that you did
not hear it! You only want to frighten poor old nurse: some one has been
telling you the story!”
It was my turn to be frightened now; for the matter became at once
associated with my fears as to the possible nature of my auricular
peculiarities. I assured her that nothing was farther from my intention
than to frighten her; that, on the contrary, she had rather alarmed me;
and I begged her to explain. But she sat down white and trembling, and
did not speak. Presently, however, she rose again, and saying, “I have
known it happen sometimes without anything very bad following,” began to
put away the basin and plate I had been using, as if she would compel
herself to be calm before me. I renewed my entreaties for an
explanation, but without avail. She begged me to be content for a few
days, as she was quite unable to tell the story at present. She
promised, however, of her own accord, that before I left home she would
tell me all she knew.
The next day a letter arrived announcing the death of a distant
relation, through whose influence my father had had a lingering hope of
obtaining an appointment for me. There was nothing left but to look out
for a situation as tutor.