THE GHOST.
I saw no more of Clara, but sat and read until I grew cold and tired,
and wished very much that Mrs. Wilson would come. I thought she might
have forgot me in the hurry, and there I should have to stay all night.
After my recent escape, however, from a danger so much worse, I could
regard the prospect with some composure. A full hour more must have
passed; I was getting sleepy, and my candle had burned low, when at
length Mrs Wilson did make her appearance, and I accompanied her
gladly.
‘I am sure you want your tea, poor boy!’ she said.
‘Tea! Mrs. Wilson,’ I rejoined. ‘It’s bed I want. But when I think of
it, I _am_ rather hungry.’
‘You shall have tea and bed both,’ she answered kindly. ‘I’m sorry
you’ve had such a dull evening, but I could _not_ help it.’
‘Indeed, I’ve not been dull at all,’ I answered--‘till just the last
hour or so.’
I longed to tell her all I had been about, for I felt guilty; but I
would not betray Clara.
‘Well, here we are!’ she said, opening the door of her own room. ‘I
hope I shall have peace enough to see you make a good meal.’
I did make a good meal. When I had done, Mrs Wilson took a rushlight
and led the way. I took my sword and followed her. Into what quarter of
the house she conducted me I could not tell. There was a nice fire
burning in the room, and my night-apparel was airing before it. She set
the light on the floor, and left me with a kind good-night. I was soon
undressed and in bed, with my sword beside me on the coverlet of silk
patchwork.
But, from whatever cause, sleepy as I had been a little while before, I
lay wide awake now, staring about the room. Like many others in the
house, it was hung with tapestry, which was a good deal worn and
patched--notably in one place, where limbs of warriors and horses came
to an untimely end, on all sides of a certain oblong piece quite
different from the rest in colour and design. I know now that it was a
piece of _Gobelins,_ in the midst of ancient needlework. It looked the
brighter of the two, but its colours were about three, with a good deal
of white; whereas that which surrounded it had had many and brilliant
colours, which, faded and dull and sombre, yet kept their harmony. The
guard of the rushlight cast deeper and queerer shadows, as the fire
sank lower. Its holes gave eyes of light to some of the figures in the
tapestry, and as the light wavered, the eyes wandered about in a
ghostly manner, and the shadows changed and flickered and heaved
uncomfortably.
How long I had lain thus I do not know; but at last I found myself
watching the rectangular patch of newer tapestry. Could it be that it
moved? It _could_ be only the effect of the wavering shadows. And yet I
could not convince myself that it did not move. It _did_ move. It came
forward. One side of it did certainly come forward. A kind of universal
cramp seized me--a contraction of every fibre of my body. The patch
opened like a door--wider and wider; and from behind came a great
helmet peeping. I was all one terror, but my nerves held out so far
that I lay like a watching dog--watching for what horror would come
next. The door opened wider, a mailed hand and arm appeared, and at
length a figure, armed cap-à-pie, stepped slowly down, stood for a
moment peering about, and then began to walk through the room, as if
searching for something. It came nearer and nearer to the bed. I wonder
now, when I think of it, that the cold horror did not reach my heart. I
cannot have been so much a coward, surely, after all! But I suspect it
was only that general paralysis prevented the extreme of terror, just
as a man in the clutch of a wild beast is hardly aware of suffering. At
last the figure stooped over my bed, and stretched out a long arm. I
remember nothing more.
I woke in the grey of the morning. Could a faint have passed into a
sleep? or was it all a dream? I lay for some time before I could recall
what made me so miserable. At length my memory awoke, and I gazed
fearful about the room. The white ashes of the burnt-out fire were
lying in the grate; the stand of the rushlight was on the floor; the
wall with its tapestry was just as it had been; the cold grey light had
annihilated the fancied visions: I had been dreaming and was now awake.
But I could not lie longer in bed. I must go out. The morning air would
give me life; I felt worn and weak. Vision or dream, the room was
hateful to me. With a great effort I sat up, for I still feared to
move, lest I should catch a glimpse of the armed figure. Terrible as it
had been in the night, it would be more terrible now. I peered into
every corner. Each was vacant. Then first I remembered that I had been
reading the _Castile of Otranto_ and the _Seven Champions of
Christendom_ the night before. I jumped out of bed and dressed myself,
growing braver and braver as the light of the lovely Spring morning
swelled in the room. Having dipped my head in cold water, I was myself
again. I opened the lattice and looked out. The first breath of air was
a denial to the whole thing. I laughed at myself. Earth and sky were
alive with Spring. The wind was the breath of the coming Summer: there
were flakes of sunshine and shadow in it. Before me lay a green bank
with a few trees on its top. It was crowded with primroses growing
through the grass. The dew was lying all about, shining and sparkling
in the first rays of the level sun, which itself I could not see. The
tide of life rose in my heart and rushed through my limbs. I would take
my sword and go for a ramble through the park. I went to my bedside,
and stretched across to find it by the wall. It must have slipped down
at the back of the bed. No. Where could it be? In a word, I searched
everywhere, but my loved weapon had vanished. The visions of the night
returned, and for a moment I believed them all. The night once again
closed around me, darkened yet more with the despair of an irreparable
loss. I rushed from the room and through a long passage, with the blind
desire to get out. The stare of an unwashed maid, already busy with her
pail and brush, brought me to my senses.
‘I beg your pardon,’ I said; ‘I want to get out.’
She left her implements, led me down a stair close at hand, opened a
door at its foot, and let me out into the high court. I gazed about me.
It was as if I had escaped from a prison-cell into the chamber of
torture: I stood the centre of a multitude of windows--the eyes of the
house all fixed upon me. On one side was the great gate, through which,
from the roof, I had seen the carriages drive the night before; but it
was closed. I remembered, however, that Sir Giles had brought me in by
a wicket in that gate. I hastened to it. There was but a bolt to
withdraw, and I was free.
But all was gloomy within, and genial nature could no longer enter.
Glittering jewels of sunlight and dew were nothing but drops of water
upon blades of grass. Fresh-bursting trees were no more than the
deadest of winter-bitten branches. The great eastern window of the
universe, gorgeous with gold and roses, was but the weary sun making a
fuss about nothing. My sole relief lay in motion. I roamed I knew not
whither, nor how long.
At length I found myself on a height eastward of the Hall, overlooking
its gardens, which lay in deep terraces beneath. Inside a low wall was
the first of them, dark with an avenue of ancient trees, and below was
the large oriel window in the end of the ball-room. I climbed over the
wall, which was built of cunningly fitted stones, with mortar only in
the top row; and drawn by the gloom, strolled up and down the avenue
for a long time. At length I became aware of a voice I had heard
before. I could see no one; but, hearkening about, I found it must come
from the next terrace. Descending by a deep flight of old mossy steps,
I came upon a strip of smooth sward, with yew trees, dark and trim, on
each side of it. At the end of the walk was an arbour, in which I could
see the glimmer of something white. Too miserable to be shy, I advanced
and peeped in. The girl who had shown me the way to the library was
talking to her mother.
‘Mamma!’ she said, without showing any surprise, ‘here is the boy who
came into our room last night.’
‘How do you do?’ said the lady kindly, making room for me on the bench
beside her.
I answered as politely as I could, and felt a strange comfort glide
from the sweetness of her countenance.
‘What an adventure you had last night!’ she said. ‘It was well you did
not fall.’
‘That wouldn’t have been much worse than having to stop where we were,’
I answered.
The conversation thus commenced went on until I had told them all my
history, including my last adventure.
‘You must have dreamed it,’ said the lady.
‘So I thought, ma’am,’ I answered, ‘until I found that my sword was
gone.’
‘Are you sure you looked everywhere?’ she asked.
‘Indeed, I did.’
‘It does not follow however that the ghost took it. It is more likely
Mrs Wilson came in to see you after you were asleep, and carried it
off.’
‘Oh yes!’ I cried, rejoiced at the suggestion; ‘that must be it. I
shall ask her.’
‘I am sure you will find it so. Are you going home soon?’
‘Yes--as soon as I’ve had my breakfast. It’s a good walk from here to
Aldwick.’
‘So it is.--We are going that way too?’ she added thinkingly.
‘Mr. Elder is a great friend of papa’s--isn’t he, mamma?’ said the
girl.
‘Yes, my dear. They were friends at college.’
‘I have heard Mr Elder speak of Mr Osborne,’ I said. ‘Do you live near
us?’
‘Not very far off--in the next parish, where my husband is rector,’ she
answered. ‘If you could wait till the afternoon, we should be happy to
take you there. The pony-carriage is coming for us.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ I answered; ‘but I ought to go immediately after
breakfast. You won’t mention about the roof, will you? I oughtn’t to
get Clara into trouble.’
‘She is a wild girl,’ said Mrs Osborne; ‘but I think you are quite
right.’
‘How lucky it was I knew the library!’ said Mary, who had become quite
friendly, from under her mother’s wing.
‘That it was! But I dare say you know all about the place,’ I answered.
‘No, indeed!’ she returned. ‘I know nothing about it. As we went to our
room, mamma opened the door and showed me the library, else I shouldn’t
have been able to help you at all.’
‘Then you haven’t been here often?’
‘No; and I never shall be again.--I’m going away to school,’ she added;
and her voice trembled.
‘So am I,’ I said. ‘I’m going to Switzerland in a month or two. But
then I haven’t a mamma to leave behind me.’ She broke down at that, and
hid her head on her mother’s bosom. I had unawares added to her grief,
for her brother Charley was going to Switzerland too.
I found afterwards that Mr Elder, having been consulted by Mr Osborne,
had arranged with my uncle that Charley Osborne and I should go
together.
Mary Osborne--I never called her Polly as Clara did--continued so
overcome by her grief, that her mother turned to me and said,
‘I think you had better go, Master Cumbermede.’
I bade her good morning, and made my way to Mrs Wilson’s apartment. I
found she had been to my room, and was expecting me with some anxiety,
fearing I had set off without my breakfast. Alas! she knew nothing
about the sword, looked annoyed, and, I thought, rather mysterious;
said she would have a search, make inquiries, do what she could, and
such like, but begged I would say nothing about it in the house. I left
her with a suspicion that she believed the ghost had carried it away,
and that it was of no use to go searching for it.
Two days after, a parcel arrived for me. I concluded it was my sword;
but, to my grievous disappointment, found it was only a large hamper of
apples and cakes, very acceptable in themselves, but too plainly
indicating Mrs Wilson’s desire to console me for what could not be
helped. Mr Elder never missed the sword. I rose high in the estimation
of my schoolfellows because of the adventure, especially in that of
Moberly, who did not believe in the ghost, but ineffectually tasked his
poor brains to account for the disappearance of the weapon. The best
light was thrown upon it by a merry boy of the name of Fisher, who
declared his conviction that the steward had carried it off to add to
his collection.