'Thank you, old chap,' he said to the latter; 'that's all I shall ask of you at present.' He put a gold piece into the man's hand, and, leaving him to stare at it in bewildered incredulity, he proceeded rapidly to unsaddle the horse and to rub him down vigorously with wisps of hay.
Sir Norman had followed him to the stable. 'Surely, Colonel,' he exclaimed in a tone of remonstrance, 'surely you don't mean to leave us again in three hours? Before that time it will be dark night, and there are signs of a storm coming on. I trust you will not hold our hospitality so cheap as to give it but a three hours' trial!'
'By no means, Sir Norman,' replied the other heartily. 'I hope to return hither a week or ten days hence, and to make a longer stay. But at present I have no choice but to make a forced march. The ship which brought me from India, you must know, was driven from its course by contrary winds, and I was landed last night at some port up here to the north, a hundred miles out of my way. I must report myself at Chester to-morrow; so you may know I have no time to lose. Luckily, my horse is one of the best in the world. But I should have been angry enough at my mishap, had I not found that it would enable me to pass Kildhurm Tower, and to catch a glimpse of my fair cousin; and to thank Lady Kildhurm and yourself for your kind care of her. Faith, she looked twice as pretty and as happy as when I bade her farewell a year and six months ago!'
'The hour of welcome better suits beauty than that of farewell,' observed Sir Norman with a smile. 'And now, Colonel, if you have made your horse as comfortable as the poor accommodation will admit, return with me to the house, and we will try to do the like by you. We have but homely country fare to set before you, but it is cordially at your service. And I think there is a bottle or two of wine in the cellar that will compensate some deficiencies.'
'I am the last man in the world to be particular about what I eat,' said the Colonel, as he and his host left the stables; 'if I were at the table of the King of the Cannibal Islands, I should devour what was set before me with gratitude and gusto—especially if I felt as hungry as I do now! But, in fact, the pleasure of seeing my dear cousin once more—and of making the acquaintance of Lady Kildhurm and yourself—is better to me even than a meal.'
Sir Norman bowed to the compliment, and led his guest upstairs. 'In this room,' said he opening a door, 'you can free yourself from some of the dust of travel; and meanwhile I will give orders for the other preparations. But, by the by, have you no luggage with you?'
'It has all gone round by sea,' answered the Colonel; 'all except such small matters as one may carry about his person; and except—this!' he added, 'which of course I am never parted from.'
As he spoke, he pulled from the front of his military jacket a bag made of soft yellow leather, curiously embroidered with coloured braid. It was about half as big again as a man's fist, and seemed heavy.
'And what—if the question may be permitted—is that?' inquired Sir Norman, fixing his eyes keenly on those of his guest.
'Oh, they are my diamonds, which I promised my cousin to bring her from India. But, before giving them to her, I shall take them to a lapidary in London and have them carefully set. At present, as you may see, they are many of them in the rough state, and worthless for a lady's ornaments.'
'They are not in themselves worthless, however,' remarked Sir Norman, bending over the glittering pile of jewels which the Colonel had carelessly poured out upon the table. 'And not all of them are diamonds.'
'No, they are of all kinds—rubies, sapphires, emeralds, or diamonds—I was not particular. And they have a value of their own, as you say: a fellow who understands about such things once offered me a hundred thousand guineas for the lot. But, of course, it was not his money that I wanted: each of those stones has some adventure associated with it which no money could buy of me; and, besides, they are all destined to adorn the person of my pretty cousin.'
'A magnificent gift, indeed!' murmured Sir Norman.
'I hope she will like it,' replied the Colonel ingenuously.
'What woman—what human being, for that matter—could be indifferent to it!' sighed Sir Norman, turning away. 'Well, I will leave you for a moment; when you are prepared, come to the room where you first found Mrs. Chepstow. We shall await you with impatience.'
CHAPTER IX.
THE GUEST.
If Colonel Banyon's visit was brief, it was merry: it was filled from end to end with laughter, talk, and story. The Colonel had, naturally, a thousand anecdotes to tell, and a still greater number of questions to answer. Though a hero, he was neither a reticent nor a shamefaced one. He enjoyed what he was heartily. He had lived a successful, daring, reckless, honourable life, and was accustomed to look back over the past and forward to the future with equal satisfaction and cheerfulness. He gave a very vivid and entertaining picture of his recent Indian experiences, and when, at length, he declared that it was time for him to be off, Mrs. Chepstow could not conceal her chagrin: her pretty under-lip trembled, and tears stood in her eyes.
'You will be back soon, cousin?' she said piteously.
'In ten days, if I live so long,' he declared.
'Live ten days! What do you mean?'
'Nothing, upon my soul!' laughed the Colonel. 'They say, though, that when folks have been so merry as we have been this evening, calamity is nigh. And since I have been the merriest, it would be fair to infer that it's to me the calamity is nighest.'
'Don't talk so! you make me shudder!' exclaimed Mrs. Chepstow, hiding her face in her hands. 'And last night I dreamt I saw you dead!'
'Well, if I die, it will be my own fault,' returned the Colonel, still with the sparkle of laughter in his blue eyes.
'You ride armed, I trust,' put in Sir Norman. 'With such a treasure beneath your jacket, you should make your account for a highwayman or two.'
'I always keep one or two of these fellows about me,' said the other, showing the butt of a small pistol. 'Not that I should think of shooting a highwayman; poor devils, they have a hard enough time of it without that! No, I keep my pistols in case of accidents; and accidents are what never happen in civilised countries.'
'May none happen to you, at all events!' said Lady Kildhurm kindly.
'Thanks, noble lady,' replied the warrior, kissing her hand. 'Thanks and farewell! Farewell, my dearest cousin. You shall have the jewels back again as soon as the deftest of lapidaries can get them in order for you. Farewell, Sir Norman: my best acknowledgments for your hospitality.'
'Our parting shall not be yet,' said Sir Norman. 'I will saddle my mare and ride beside you for a mile or two. The road you must travel skirts the cliff, and in parts is dangerous to an unfamiliar tread, especially at nightfall. After seeing you safely past those treacherous spots, I can leave you with a better conscience.'
'I shall be heartily glad of your companionship, I need not say,' was the Colonel's answer. 'As to cliffs, however, I am not unaccustomed to them.'
He again took leave of the ladies, and followed Sir Norman down the stairs, and across the courtyard to the stables, where each man led out and saddled his own horse. The old gardener always made a point of retiring to his quarters at sunset.
'That storm you spoke of still holds off,' remarked the Colonel.
'It will overtake us before daylight,' answered the Baronet.
'Sir Norman, did you ever see a man struck by lightning?'
'Never.'
'I saw it once at sea. I don't know why I happened to think of it at this moment. There isn't lightning enough in all England, at this time of year, to kill me. There I go again, hinting at my own death! That sweet cousin of mine seems to have put foolish notions into my head. However, if anything is to happen to me, I have taken care that she shall lose nothing by it. My will is made, signed, and sealed, and both the jewels and all other wealth that I have got go to her.'
'Let us hope that you may find a better way of endowing her with your worldly goods than by bequeathing them to her,' said Sir Norman, smiling.
'It lies with her, and I think she likes me,' returned the Colonel, twisting his moustachios. 'But though I'm little enough afraid of most things, and by no means as blind as a mole either, I'm blessed if I dare to ask her whether she'll marry me, because I can't see quite clearly enough into her heart. However, all in good time! Perhaps the glitter of the gems may serve to throw some light upon the question.'
Sir Norman nodded, but he made no reply.
They were now riding along a narrow and rocky road, within sight of the sea, and following the line of the coast southward. There was as yet no wind, but the waves were breaking with a hollow, rhythmical sound along the shore, telling of some tornado a hundred miles away. There was no moon, and the sky was in great part overcast with clouds, so that the darkness was considerable. The riders could see no more of each other than their black outlines, as they rode along side by side. At the distance of about a mile from Kildhurm Tower, the coast began to rise; and the road, instead of skirting the inland base of this eminence, climbed up with it, and, moreover, approached so near the verge that, in some places, it actually infringed upon it. The Colonel's military eye did not fail to take note of this peculiarity.
'I have a better opinion of the legs of the fellows who built this road than of their brains,' he observed. 'Did they think it was shorter to climb up a precipice than to go round it?'
'There were two reasons why the road was made in this way,' replied the Baronet. 'First, there is a deep morass across the inland route, which is beyond the skill of our local engineers either to bridge over or to fill up. Secondly, there existed, at the time the road was planned, a convent at the highest point of the cliff; and it was deemed advisable, in that religious age, that the way of the world should run as near as possible to the convent door. We shall come to the ruins of the convent very soon: and there, or thereabouts, I shall take leave of you.'
The horses scrambled up the steep ascent, Sir Norman leading the way; and it was not until they had reached the summit that he spoke again.
'Are you a religious man, Colonel Banyon?' he abruptly asked.
The Colonel turned a surprised glance at him. 'I believe in my Saviour, and pray to Him when I get a chance and a prayer comes into my head,' he replied.
'If a man were about to die, I have thought that no place could be more fitting than this from which to take a last look at the world; and from which to offer up a last prayer to heaven, if he were that way minded.'
'I will remember your suggestion when my final hour approaches; and if I'm in this neighbourhood perhaps I may avail myself of it. The spot has one recommendation—that if, after all, Death made his approach too slowly, you would need to take not more than a single step to find yourself in his arms.'
'Yes, it is two hundred feet to the bottom, and barely three feet to the brink!' said the Baronet. 'Death hovers within arm's length of us as we ride.'
'He has been nearer to me than that, and yet I have snapped my fingers at him,' returned the Colonel, laughing. 'Well, I must be on my way again.'
'Let me lead your horse over this dangerous pass,' said Sir Norman, dismounting from his own horse and seizing the Colonel's bridle. 'And then, farewell indeed!'
'Have a care! What are you about?' cried Colonel Banyon, after a moment.
'Farewell!' repeated the other; and with all his strength he forced the Colonel's horse backwards to the edge of the cliff. The rider saw and perhaps comprehended the danger. He had not time to dismount; he drew his pistol, and at the same time drove his spurs into the horse's sides. The horse reared and strove to plunge forward, but it was too late. His hind hoofs trod upon the crumbling verge of the precipice. There was a cry, a flash and a report, and a scent of burnt powder on the night air, which Sir Norman breathed alone.
CHAPTER X.
A BURIED SECRET.
Sir Norman stood on the brink of the cliff, and listened. There was not much to hear—no more remarkable sound than might be caused by the fall of a loose boulder, and the murmur of the surf partly disguised even that. The tide was rising; in another half hour it would be dashing against the base of the precipice.
The Baronet took his mare by the head-stall, and began to lead her back down the steep road which he had so lately climbed in company with Colonel Banyon. His mood of mind was much more composed and lucid now than it had been then. While the deed which he was to commit was as yet in the future he had been full of agitation and doubt. Sir Norman had a single plain fact to deal with, not an indefinite number of vague and dangerous possibilities. He saw his proper course in the circumstances as clearly as if he had planned it all out beforehand; and he lost no time in following it.
Having arrived at the lowest dip of the road, he secured his horse to the branch of a dead tree, clambered down to the shore, and began to make his way as rapidly as he could towards that spot where he knew the body of Colonel Banyon must be lying. With an active step and a heedful eye he hurried over the broken débris of the beach, and presently came to that part which lies immediately beneath the loftiest altitude of the cliff.
It was not easy to distinguish the horse and man where they lay in the darkness, and anybody who had not been on the lookout for them might easily have passed them by in the belief that they were nothing more than a heap of sea drift. But Sir Norman was under no such delusion. When he caught sight of them—it was the whiteness of the Colonel's upturned face that first arrested his glance—he approached cautiously, with ears alert to detect whatever whispered groan there might still remain to hear. But there was nothing; the agony had not been prolonged, and it was over. Colonel Banyon and his horse were both quite dead. Sir Norman had certainly anticipated nothing else, and yet the visibility of the fact gave him a start. Colonel Banyon had been so very much alive a few minutes before, and now he was so very lifeless! The handsome, gallant, dashing officer, who had been so overflowing with hopes and projects, and love and laughter, was now suddenly become inert and devoid alike of thought and passion, good or evil. It was so impressive that it affected Sir Norman almost like something theatrical. The Colonel appeared to him for a moment to be acting a part. When the curtain came down, he would get up, like Mr. Betterton in 'Hamlet,' and come out and make his bow before the audience. But unfortunately there is no curtain in these cases, and the poor actor, having died with what realism he can command, is obliged to remain dead indefinitely.
The surf, now breaking near at hand, reminded Sir Norman that he also had a part to enact. Not that he had been altogether idle since leaving Kildhurm Towers; but he had accomplished only the preliminary portion of the work which he had resolved to perform. In looking forward to this night's occupations, he might have been led to suppose that the murder would be more difficult to an unpractised hand than the robbery; but experience proved that the truth was just the other way. To hurl his victim over the cliff had been an excitement—fierce, and, in a certain sense, pleasurable. But this despoiling the corpse in cold blood afterwards was neither pleasant nor exciting; and yet it had to be done, else all the benefit of the murder would be thrown away. To kill, moreover, was aristocratic; Sir Norman's ancestors had won renown by doing no more than he had just done; but to pick a pocket was plebeian, and none of his ancestors, so far as he was aware, had ever been guilty of that. But again, there was no escape from it—or only one escape! Sir Norman might, if he chose, return to his horse, mount him, ride him up the cliff, and leap him over the verge to a resting-place here beside the Colonel. By this means, and by this only, could he avoid the logical necessity of pocket-picking, and at the same time conceal, and perhaps in some measure expiate, the crime already committed. Sir Norman thought of all this, and weighed the question for a moment in his mind. Should he go on, or should he turn back? He decided to go on: and, stooping over the body of his late guest, he drew the purse of embroidered leather from its hiding-place, thrust it into his own pocket, and turned away. He had got a fortune, according to the promise of destiny; but if it had been larger than it was, he already felt that he had paid a fair equivalent for it. As he stumbled back along the dark shore, he was glad of the darkness, and inclined to wish that daylight might altogether cease from the earth. It was a wish characteristic of a fresh-born criminal. By-and-by he would learn how to make his own face answer all the purposes of darkness, so far as the concealment of what was within was concerned. In one way or another, however, darkness must be his category from this time forth. He was a creature of the night, and would for ever remain such.
'I do not intend to excuse my act,' said Sir Norman to himself, when he had once more attained the road and resumed his saddle. 'But if I admit the sin of it, I have a right also to take account of its uses. I have deliberately and treacherously murdered the man who was my guest; I have murdered him from no feeling of hatred or anger, but solely for my pecuniary advantage. That is the worst there is to be said, and I admit that it is damnable. But now for the other side. I have restored the fortunes of my family. I have given comfort to my wife, prosperity to my son, and power to myself. I shall have caused my sister Chepstow to shed a few tears, perhaps, when she learns (if she ever does learn it) that her dream about her dead lover has come true; but in a week or a month her eyes will be dried by some other suitor, and meanwhile she will receive, as compensation for the loss of her jewels, all the fortune in ready money which her cousin bequeathed to her in his will. That, certainly, cannot be considered an injury. As to Colonel Banyon himself, I could not have killed him had not his hour been fully come; and therefore he can have no more quarrel with me than with any other instrument which fate might have chosen to employ. Nor have I harmed society or the state; for the murder which is not known to be a murder becomes a simple death, which can neither outrage the law nor corrupt the morals of the people. I conclude, then, that no person or thing has been wronged or injured by my act, except myself: and I have even benefited others at the sacrifice of my own moral welfare and repose. And finally, since I have been my own accuser, let me also be my own judge!'
At this point of Sir Norman's soliloquy, the storm which had been all night brewing suddenly came into noisy and violent existence. Buffeted by the wind and pelted by the rain, the Baronet was distracted from his casuistical and metaphysical vein, and his meditations took a more outward and material turn.
'No one can have seen these gems besides ourselves,' he thought; 'but yet there is danger to be feared from those which are uncut. Perhaps I may find it safest to dispose of them abroad. Meanwhile, I can put them where they will be as secure as death itself, and might remain so for a hundred years if necessary. It will be best, at all events, to take no further step in the business until the Colonel's death has been discovered, and his property administered. The gems, no doubt, are mentioned in the will; inquiry will be made for them; and it will be known that the Colonel was last seen alive under our roof. And what after that? Why, then, I rode forth with him, to set him on his way: and it was known to me that he carried the gems upon his person. Yes, and I had spoken warningly to him of the peril which menaced a lonely traveller, so richly laden, in these parts: the women will bear witness to that. But then it will be asked: "How far did you ride with him? and which way was he heading when you saw him last?" What shall be my answer? Shall I say, "I left him at the rise of the convent cliff, and know no more of him?" Why not rather tell the truth up even to the last moment? Why not tell the truth and nothing but the truth, and only not the whole truth?—which, indeed, finite man can never tell. Why not say, "I rode with him to the top of the cliff, my hand on his bridle; but there, in the darkness, his horse took fright, and reared, and fell backwards: and I, unless I would have been dragged over also, was fain to loose my hold of the bridle, and let them go. Then I went down to the shore to search, but ... well, but the tide had risen, and the storm had come on, and it was impossible to reach the bodies." That would be better than downright vulgar perjury: more decent, and perhaps more prudent likewise. Stay, though! if I take this stand, it must be taken at once! I must burst into the room, heated, dishevelled, distraught, and gasp out my story with horror in my voice! Am I actor enough for that? I fear not! And who knows but another sort of horror might find its way into my tones or eyes, and betray me! No, I cannot venture it. As yet, I have looked on no living human face since I saw his vanish over the cliff, lit up for an instant by the flash of his pistol. Perhaps—who knows?—I shall blanch and turn pale under the glance of the first questioning eyes I meet. I know the man I have been heretofore, but I do not yet know the man I am now. Perhaps I am a coward, or an idiot, or a madman. What wonder if I were, after such a night's work! Was ever a night so black, or a storm so boisterous! All the witches in hell might be abroad, and I among the rest! Am I a witch, then? Who knows? The country folks have long believed no better of me; and perhaps to-night's work will bring about an encounter between his Satanic majesty and me, and a signing of the Book! Where shall the meeting be held? Where but beneath Kildhurm's Oak, where all the mischief was hatched from the beginning! Forward, mare! Why do we lag here in the rain, when company is awaiting us at home? Forward!'
Goaded by whip and spur, the mare put herself to her best speed, and before many minutes Sir Norman knew, less by any visible sign than by the direction and inclination of the road, that the Tower was near. He drew rein, and paused for a moment. Should he take his mare to the stable now, or—afterwards? He resolved on the latter course. Keeping as much as possible on the turf, and feeling rather than seeing his way, he pressed cautiously forward until he found himself almost beneath the branches of the Oak. There he dismounted.
The din of the tempest was bewildering. The waves came thundering against the shore with such headlong power that a tremor of the earth was perceptible every time they struck. There was a fury of white foam beneath the rocky, overhanging parapet, on which the Oak stood, and this whiteness extended far out, until the blackness of the night prevailed over it. Occasionally sounds like moaning and sighing seemed to come from the mid-tumult of the sea, as if some huge creature were complaining there: and the driving spray and the rain assumed strange drifting forms, like disembodied spirits hurtling through the air. But terrible as was the sea, the Oak was more terrible still. It fought the wild wind with its great arms like a mad creature. Its cumbrous foliage flapped and hissed through the wet gale like the matted locks of a wrestling giant. Its whole vast frame rocked to and fro, as if it were about to tear itself up from its rooted place, and go forth to meet and struggle with the storm. And from the grinding together of the mighty boughs were generated shrieks and human-like outcries and noises like weeping and like mocking laughter, as though a knot of evil spirits were tearing each other to pieces in the central darkness of the tree; or were they combining to torture and torment some newly-captured human soul? Dimly, meanwhile, through the murky obscurity, glowed three red squares of light from the Tower, where Lady Kildhurm and her sister waited for Sir Norman's return. The Baronet saw the light, and a vision of the two innocent and loving women rose before his mind; and of the infant boy, lulled asleep in his crib by the muffled voices of the gale. All that was as a foreign country to him now; all the more alien because it had been so intimately his own. He turned his back upon it, and fixed his regard upon the haunted Oak. He stepped beneath the wide spread of the labouring branches; then, with a leap from the ground, he caught the lowest of these between his arms, and in another moment had swung himself up into the heart of the tree, and out of sight of earth and sky.
'He has been gone more than two hours,' said Lady Kildhurm, breaking silence at last.
'I do heartily pray nothing has happened to him—it is dreadful to think how wet he will get in this rain, poor fellow; and he must be in Chester to-morrow, he said. I wish he had spent the night here.'
'And so do I; but it was of my husband that I spoke.'
'Oh, Sir Norman knows his way about! wasn't he born and bred here? No fear but he will find his way home safe enough.'
'But he should have been away half an hour at the most: and now—see! it is close upon midnight. I fear something has gone wrong.'
'It is the rain that keeps him. He has taken shelter somewhere, and will bide his time till the worst of it is over. But my poor cousin—what will become of him! Heigho! I felt, when I said good-bye to him, as if 'twas for ever.'
Lady Kildhurm laid down the sewing with which she had been occupying herself and clasping her hands on her knee, sat gazing out on the black and rain-smitten window-pane. Suddenly she said:
'This is his evil day. I had forgotten it. Oh, my heart!'
'His evil day, sister? What do you mean?'
'Yes; he showed me it once in his horoscope. The evil and the good came side by side, but the evil was the stronger. He should not have gone out; to-night of all nights I should have kept him! Oh, Norman—my husband, come back to me!'
'La, sister, how you talk! you make me shudder. As for horoscopes, I'm sure no Christian ought to believe in them.'
'I feel as if he were near me!' exclaimed Lady Kildhurm, rising from her chair and moving about the room uneasily. 'He is near me, somewhere, and yet I am not happy: I cannot breathe freely, and there is pain in my heart.'
'La! sister, indeed you frighten me. Pray sit down again, and do not stare about so! do you think to see him through a stone wall?'
'He is near me—and it is not well with him. He is looking towards me—now—can you not see his face at the window?'
'His face at the window! Pray remember, my dear, that the window is fifty feet from the ground, and——'
'No, there is no face there. It was a flake of foam, maybe. But I cannot bear to lose him; I could not bear it!'
'You are working yourself into such a state of mind, my dear, that very soon I shall be more anxious about you than I am about him. As for not being able to bear things, you never know what you can bear till you try. I have borne the loss of my husband, and a great many worse things. One can bear almost anything, I believe. Because, if the thing to be borne comes, what else can you do?'
'I could not bear it!' repeated Lady Kildhurm feverishly. She moved again to the window, and peered out for a few moments into the darkness.
'Depend upon it,' said Mrs. Chepstow, with a confidence of tone that was not altogether warranted by her interior sentiments, 'depend upon it, my dear, your husband has stepped into one of the peasants' huts out of the rain, and is at this very instant swallowing a draught of hot ale, with a pipe of tobacco in his other hand. How he will laugh when I tell him how you have——'
'Hark!'
'Merciful heavens! what is it?'
Quick as thought, Lady Kildhurm had unfastened the catch of the lattice, and the wind, violently driving it open, burst headlong into the room, put out the candles, and went roaring through the house, slamming doors, flapping curtains, and shaking soot down the chimneys. None of this disturbance, however, had been noticed by the two women. Their ears had been filled and their hearts stopped by the sound of three frantic screams, following rapidly one upon another, and rising high above the confusion of the tempest. They were the screams of a man in mortal agony and horror. Both the women had known at once whose voice it was, though they had never heard it pitched in that key before. But what could have happened to him? The screams were not repeated. The women exchanged a ghastly look.
CHAPTER XI.
THE DEVIL'S GRIP.
'Let us go together,' said Mrs. Chepstow at last, in a shaking voice.
'No,' replied her sister, decisively. 'Do you stay here and guard my son. I must go to meet them yonder alone.'
'Them! who are they? Do you think my cousin is there too?'
'Satan and his imps are there. Hush! you must not question me. If they have taken him, they must take me also—unless I can win him back! That is the question, for I cannot bear to lose him. Either he must return to me, or I will follow him: I cannot live apart from him. Hush! Do you stay by the child; and on your life, do not come near the Oak till after sunrise.'
While Lady Kildhurm had been speaking in this strange fashion, she was making her preparations to go forth, and the only provision against the storm and its portents which she took with her consisted of a small Bible, which she put in her bosom, and a cross of carved ivory, which she hung at her girdle. Thus equipped, and wearing still the embroidered satin gown which she had put on that evening in honour of her guest, she went out, and the darkness closed upon her. Mrs. Chepstow crept fearfully to the child's crib, and knelt down there; and crying, praying, and dropping asleep by turns, she passed the long hours of that memorable night.
But Lady Kildhurm, on issuing from the gate, made straight for the Oak. As she approached it, a kind of phosphorescent gleam seemed to hover about the branches, such as sailors sometimes behold on the yardarms of their vessel in bad weather. The gale, however, had suddenly fallen almost calm; and though drops of rain fell occasionally, it was evident that the storm had raged itself out. The sea tossed its waves upwards aimlessly, as if forgetting whither to drive them, and therefore appealing to the clouds. A sense of exhaustion and heaviness seemed to pervade nature, as if she had aroused herself to do some hideous deed, and now, the deed being done, were awaiting shudderingly what should follow.
The woman paused just outside the circle of the Oak's boughs, and sent her glance resolutely into the obscurity underneath. After a few moments' scrutiny, she took the ivory cross between her hands, and went forward. The phosphorescent gleams wavering to and fro, illuminated duskily the figure of a man stretched out near the base of the trunk. Lady Kildhurm crouched down beside him and spoke close to his ear:
'Norman, thy wife is with thee!'
The man emitted a stertorous breath, but uttered no word.
'Norman, thou art dying. Tell me, how is it with thy soul? for whither thou goest thy wife shall follow thee. If it is well with thee, kiss this cross for a sign. See I hold it to thy lips.'
But the man's lips did not move.
'Has the Evil One overcome thee, then?' said the woman sadly, after a pause. 'But take comfort, my beloved, for I will not desert thee. We have seen and known many marvellous things, Norman—thou and I together: and I have never shrunk from going along with thee, hand in hand, wherever thou didst lead the way. And now, my love shall go with thee across the grave; I will not seek a happiness where thou art not; and in proof of it, my husband, if thou biddest me to fling the cross into the sea, and to tear the leaves from the Holy Book and cast them on the air I will do it! Only move thy hand in answer, and it shall be enough.'
For a long time, as it seemed, the man lay wholly motionless; his life, which had hung trembling on the balance, appeared quite to have slipped away. A great fear bestirred itself in Lady Kildhurm's soul: if her husband died, and made no sign as to whither he had gone, how should she follow him? Under the influence of this dread, she placed her lips to his ear, and spoke sharply and urgently:
'Norman, my husband,' she cried; 'come back! Tell me what I am to do!'
A tremor passed through the man's body. Slowly and stiffly he raised himself on one arm, and lifting the other hand, he pointed upwards.
'There!' he muttered, in a sluggish but articulate tone; 'there is treasure! seek for it!'
For a moment after saying these words, he maintained his position: one hand pointing upwards, while his face, on whose features death was visible, beat heavily towards the earth. Then, stiffly, he sank back; his wife received his head in her lap. He was already dead: and, indeed, his spirit seemed to have returned to its human clay, in obedience to the wife's summons, only to utter those ambiguous sentences, and then to finally depart. But, ambiguous or not, they had answered their purpose; they had planted hope, like a seed, in the very midst of the bereaved woman's despair. He had spoken to her of a treasure above—a treasure in Heaven; and had bade her seek it there. But if he knew of a treasure in Heaven, it must needs be a treasure which he himself had laid up there: and thither, consequently, he must himself have gone. So reasoned Lady Kildhurm; and she forbore to fling away her cross, or scatter the leaves of the Holy Book to the winds. In her shaken and now distempered mind, she beheld a vision of a long vigil of prayer and sanctity, and at the end a death which would be blessed, because it would unite her once more to him. She drew the lifeless body to the foot of the Oak, and seated there, resting against the weather-blackened bole, she waited for the morning.
The morning dawned early and pure, with a sky like banks of wild roses and primroses, and breezes cool and sweet breathing from them. The facile sea translated these fragrant glories into deeper-toned but scarce less enchanting beauty; and the earth sparkled with freshness. But Kildhurm's Oak, standing in the midst of so much loveliness, did not mingle with it, but rather seemed to hold darkly and grimly aloof from it, as if conscious of a spirit altogether at variance with the gentler influences of creation. It stretched its branches above the group of lifeless and living humanity huddled beneath it, with an air of sardonic protection. 'Behold my handiwork!' it appeared to say, 'and sweeten it with the graces of the morning if you can!' When Mrs. Chepstow and the old gardener and the boy, Philip, first came upon the two, they thought that both were dead. But as they drew near, they perceived that the woman's eyes were open and seeing, though there was a wild and unsettled expression in them. Nor did she answer when her sister or the old man addressed her; she only whispered to herself, and then bent over and whispered again in the dead man's ear, and smiled. But when her little son Philip spoke to her in his childish tones, some vestige of motherly memories glimmered in her haggard face; and presently she beckoned him to her.
'There, my son,' she said in solemn tones, pointing upwards with her finger; 'there is treasure! seek for it!'
'Where, mamma?' demanded the little fellow. 'In the Oak?'
Lady Kildhurm smiled drearily, and relapsed into silence.
A stretcher was brought, and the body of Sir Norman was carried back to the Tower. The manner of his death was a mystery, and one which was not for many years fully explained. His mare, still saddled and bridled, was found in her stable, whither she had evidently made her way after the catastrophe to her rider had happened. But of what nature had been that catastrophe? It was found, upon examination, that the Baronet's neck had been dislocated, which of course amply accounted for the fact of his death, though not for anything beyond that. Some opined that his horse must have taken fright during the storm, and rushing beneath the Oak had either thrown the Baronet there, or he had been swept off his saddle by a branch of the tree. This latter hypothesis seemed plausible enough, though there were still those three terrible screams left uninterpreted. The screams, however, might have been comfortably ignored, had it not been for a certain appalling sign of violence which had been left upon the person of the dead man himself, and the significance of which, if it could not be fathomed, it was equally impossible to do away with. The right hand, from the wrist to the finger-ends, was stripped of the skin, and in parts even of the flesh: the bone of the thumb was crushed, and the wrist was wrenched out of joint. These indications—so far as the awe-stricken senses of the beholders were able to apprehend them—seemed to show that the Baronet's hand must have been caught in a grasp of superhuman strength; and that in tearing it free with the energy of desperation, he had left part of its substance behind. Whose hand, then, had gripped his own so hard? and for what purpose? any answer to such questions must evidently be purely conjectural. It was indeed a grisly problem to ponder over, and one which nervous people would rather discuss with cronies in broad daylight than with their own minds in the small hours of the night. Especially would this be the case after certain wiseacres had intimated their opinion that the marks left upon Sir Norman's hand had been made by no other talons than those of his Satanic majesty; who must have been strangely impressed with the idea that the Baronet was his property—if firmness of grasp is to be taken as any criterion of conviction of ownership. On the other hand, it was to be said in the Baronet's favour that he had, after all, succeeded in wrenching himself loose; but since a rough comparison of times proved that he must have died a few minutes after this escape, the doubt suggested itself whether, in his disembodied state, Satan might not have proved too strong for him. Might it not be, in fact, that although the fleshly hand had been freed, the spiritual one had remained in the Arch-Enemy's gripe? Three screams of horror and agony had been heard, but not so much as a single shout of triumph and victory. Upon the whole, therefore, the preponderance of contemporary opinion went rather against poor Sir Norman, though it was admitted by everyone that it was never safe to dogmatise about an occurrence of this kind. Besides, the man was dead, and dead people, even when they have lived under the suspicion of being wizards, had better not be abused. Sir Norman, accordingly, was buried with the ceremonies of His Majesty's most Christian Church. On opening his will, in which the few possessions he owned were bequeathed to his wife in trust for their son, it was observed that particular mention was made of a signet ring; but the ring was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Chepstow, however, being interrogated, declared that the Baronet had always been in the habit of wearing this ring on the fourth finger of his right hand; and that she had noticed it there on the last occasion of her seeing him alive. This evidence made it clear that whoever had squeezed the Baronet's hand so tightly was, in all likelihood, the present wearer of the signet ring. For the rest, the evidence was not of much practical value—unless it should aid some time in the identification of the other party to this mysterious and grisly encounter.
About the time that the mortal remains of Sir Norman were safely laid in their last resting-place, the drowned corpse of Colonel Banyon was discovered by a fisherman some distance down the coast. It was plain from the condition of the body—many of the bones on the left side had been broken—that the Colonel must have fallen from a great height; and the subsequent discovery of his horse, in a similar shattered state, helped the coroner in coming to the conclusion that the deceased must have ridden over the cliffs during the late storm. There was no trace of the leather bag of jewels which the Colonel was reported to have had with him; but his garments had become so much torn and loosened by the action of the waves and the attacks of fishes, that this was not surprising. The gems, if they were anywhere, must be at the bottom of the bay; such was the coroner's verdict upon this point; and it had so much weight, with the fishermen's boys along the coast, that for many years thereafter, squads of them might be seen every day at low tide, groping amidst the sands and seaweeds for precious stones. But not so much as a single diamond, emerald, or ruby ever rewarded these industrious searchers.
CHAPTER XII.
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!'
CHAPTER XIII.
THE HEYDAY OF YOUTH.
The conditions of life in this world do not permit boys to retain their boyhood indefinitely; and so it was that the boy Philip grew in time to be a young man, and to entertain the thoughts and aspirations proper to that important and interesting stage of human existence. He came of age, and a celebration was held in honour of that event; and after that he considered it to be a part of his duty to go forth and see the world. The world, as not infrequently happens in such cases, took more out of its beholder than its beholder could get in return from the world; in other words, Sir Philip Kildhurm spent the larger part of the fortune which his aunt Mrs. Chepstow had made over to him, in discovering that it is not so easy as it looks to be wise without experience. This curious bit of news having been duly recorded in his memory, he presently made his way back to Kildhurm Tower, which he found very much in the state in which he had left it; though it appeared to him rather more stupid and monotonous than of yore. However, young men are always fertile of expedients to relieve monotony; and the medicine which Sir Philip prescribed to himself in the present instance was the singularly original one of falling in love. He fell in love with an excellent and charming young lady; and she fell in love with him, which was probably more than he deserved: and in due course they were betrothed, and married. Within a year from the wedding-day, the new Lady Kildhurm presented her husband with a daughter; and soon after having done this, she died; but the little girl lived and grew strong and vigorous and charming.
The widower, whose somewhat frivolous and unsteady disposition had been sobered and steadied by the shock of his much-beloved young wife's death, sought compensation for her loss in his little daughter. No father was ever more devoted than he; and now he fancied he had attained a deeper understanding of that old saying of his mother about the treasure above. Old Lady Kildhurm, it should be mentioned, was still living at nearly eighty years of age, and was apparently neither more nor less vigorous than she had been twenty years before. Only now her hair was completely white, and hung down in long thick braids, reaching below her waist. Her face, also, had undergone a certain change. The vacant expression had given place to what might be described as a childlike look; for it had all the serenity and frankness of a child, and the eyes possessed that unconscious quality of penetration that is born of the child's unsullied intuitions. When these untroubled eyes rested upon the beholder's, therefore, he generally looked away, if he was a bad man; but if he was a good man he looked into them, and the further he looked, the more he found himself thinking, not of old age, but of childhood; and if, moreover, he happened to be acquainted with little Hilda, the granddaughter, he was apt to find himself thinking particularly of her. Certain it is that the infant woman and the aged one lost no time in becoming dearly attached to each other, as if they had been kindred spirits; and when Hilda was three years old, her sibylline grandmother did an unprecedented thing; for she took the child in her arms, and mounted with her to her seat in the Oak. Sir Philip almost feared for his precious little daughter's safety, and confidently expected to hear her break out into a clamour of alarm and aversion at the gloom and all the strange surroundings. But as it turned out the small neophyte underwent her initiation not only with composure but with gratification. When, after an hour's withdrawal from the world the venerable sibyl restored her to her father's arms, Hilda seemed regretful rather than relieved that the experience was over.
'What did grandmamma show you?' inquired Sir Philip.
But Hilda, with praiseworthy discretion, only looked at him and shook her wise little head, with a roguish smile in her brown eyes.
'Oh, so you are going to keep the secret as well!' said Sir Philip laughing.
'It is her secret now,' said old Lady Kildhurm, laying her thin dark hand on the child's golden hair. 'The spirit of the Oak was my friend, but he is her servant. She is mistress of Kildhurm, and all it contains. In her shall the race be blessed and their sorrows be comforted: and woe unto him who would thwart her purpose or dispute her will!'
All this might be true; but the fact nevertheless remained that as Hilda grew up, the worldly fortunes of Kildhurm went down; until, at about the period of the young lady's seventeenth birthday, they were pretty nearly in as bad a condition as when, forty years before, Sir Norman had ridden out to show his friend Colonel Banyon the way over the Convent Cliff. Evidently, therefore, if Hilda was going to restore the fortunes of the race, she could not set about the business too soon. Hilda herself, however, did not appear to have any idea how the thing was to be done; nor (being a person of a disposition to derive a great deal of pleasure from a very economical expenditure) did she seem to think a fortune of any paramount importance. She performed her household avocations with cheerfulness and punctuality, and enjoyed her recreation on the sea shore or the hills as heartily as if she had been mistress of ten thousand a year. But at last, luckily for Kildhurm, and for the reputation of prophecy, an unexpected occurrence took place. A strange young gentleman made his appearance in the neighbourhood.
He was in every respect a highly interesting object. He was blue-eyed, handsome in face and figure, courteous and brave. Though hardly more than twenty-five years old, he was a captain of Grenadiers, and had won his rank by gallant services in the American War. He was rich and well connected; and it was reported that he had come into the neighbourhood to buy land, to build a house, and to settle down in it. His name was Harold Bramston; and he was a bachelor.
Improbable as it may appear, one of the last people in the county to hear the news about Captain Bramston was the very person who was generally considered to be the most affected by it: namely, Miss Hilda Kildhurm. The first she knew about the matter was, that one afternoon, as she was sitting beneath the Oak, mending a rent that she had made in her frock the day before, she saw a gentleman ride along the road, and draw rein at the Tower gate; and a moment afterwards she saw him pulling vigorously at the bell-handle. This proved (what Miss Hilda had already suspected) that the gentleman was a stranger; for anybody who was not a stranger would have known that the bell of Kildhurm Tower had been cracked and done away with any time these ten years past. Now, it was unquestionably the duty of the Kildhurm family to be hospitable to strangers; and since that family at present consisted of three members, one of whom—Sir Philip—was absent in the neighbouring market town, and another of whom—Miss Hilda's grandmother—was presumably asleep in the topmost chamber of the Tower;—such being the state of affairs, it inevitably devolved upon the third and only available member—Miss Hilda herself—to do the honours of the occasion. So she arose, and paced demurely across the grass towards the stranger. As she drew near she perceived that he was very good-looking, in both senses of that phrase, and this discovery gave her a certain satisfaction. Moreover, when he turned to look at her it was evident that he found her appearance agreeable, which was the more noteworthy inasmuch as she was by no means dressed to receive company, and her hair was in disorder. She thought the stranger must be a man of great natural kindliness, and very easy to please. When she was within speaking distance, therefore, she asked him, in a friendly tone, whether he wanted to see anyone?
He eyed her for a moment very intently, as if she were the first young woman he had ever beheld; and he answered in a deep but very pleasant voice, lifting his hat from his forehead,
'I beg your pardon!' (which she thought quite unnecessary). 'I am Captain Bramston—Harold Bramston: you may chance to have heard mention made of me——?' He bowed slightly with an expectant look.
'No: I never heard of you before,' replied Hilda, with a meditative air, as if she were searching her memory to make sure.
Captain Bramston coloured a little. 'You are, I venture to suppose, Miss—that is, Miss——'
'Yes, I am Miss Kildhurm,' she replied gravely. 'Hilda Kildhurm,' she added, after a pause.
The Captain hereupon doffed his hat again, and continued to hold it in his hand while he spoke.
'I am happy and honoured to meet Miss Kildhurm,' he said. 'Though you have never heard of me, I heard of you long ago, and I have often thought of you—pardon the liberty!—especially of late. I am a sort of relative of yours, you must know: a distant one, I fear; but still——'
'A distant one is better than none at all,' put in Hilda, intending no more than to help him out with his sentence; for he seemed to find a difficulty in finishing his sentences; and when he broke off in the midst of them he had a way of resting his eyes on her face, as if he expected to find the conclusion there.
'Thank you for thinking it worth while to say that!' exclaimed the Captain, straightening himself and lifting his head with a very bright glance.
'Oh, you must not think I meant that—exactly!' Hilda said in some haste and panic, and with a flush that may have indicated her regret at having been born such a fool.
The Captain was certainly very kind. He took no notice of her embarrassment, but went on, smoothing the feather in his hat as he spoke,
'I was going to explain, in regard to our being relations, that I had a grand-uncle, whose name was Banyon. He was an Indian colonel.'
'Oh, I know all about him,' said Hilda, glad to show that she was not quite such a fool after all. 'He was in love with his cousin, poor old Mrs. Chepstow, my grand-aunt; and left her all his precious stones in his will; only she never got them, because, poor man....' Here Hilda paused, and threw a glance at the handsome young officer.
'Because he was drowned, wasn't he?' said he, smiling however in a very unnephew-like manner. 'And the precious stones were drowned along with him, of course.'
'That is what the common people believe,' said Miss Kildhurm with a certain reserve in her manner that prompted the Captain to say,
'Ah then, if I may ask it, what is Miss Kildhurm's belief?'
'I believe,' said she, after a moment's silence, 'that there is a secret, and a mystery!'
'A mystery?' repeated the Captain, opening his blue eyes. 'Where?'
Hilda's brown eyes met his blue ones with a grave and somewhat doubtful expression: but at last she raised her hand and pointed to the Oak, saying nothing.
'In the Oak?' Captain Bramston at first reddened a little, as if he thought he were being made game of; but in a moment he exclaimed in a tone full of interest, 'Oh, is that the famous Oak—the Oak of Kildhurm?'
'Yes, that is our Oak,' replied Hilda, with a breath of pride.
'You see, I had heard of it before,' said the Captain.
'I should think there was no one who had not heard of the Oak of Kildhurm,' replied Hilda, rather amused at the contrary suggestion. 'I suppose there might be some who couldn't,' she added charitably, reflecting that India and America were a long way off, and their inhabitants probably very ignorant.
'May I see it?' resumed Captain Bramston.
'You cannot see the mystery!' Hilda answered with some awe in her voice. 'I have not seen that myself; I only know a little about it. My grandmamma is the only one who has seen!'
'I was speaking of the Oak. As to the mystery, I shan't ask about seeing that as long as I may see you.'
'I don't see how you can say that,' replied Hilda, 'since you have known me only so short a time.'
'But I have been waiting to know you a long time,' the Captain was bold enough to say: 'ever since I was a man. And the longer one waits to know a woman, the faster he gets to know her when he begins.'
'But I have not been waiting any time at all to know you, and yet—' began Hilda. But there she broke off, and said, 'You will think I have no manners, Captain Bramston. I have forgotten to ask you on what errand you are come here. And will you not step into the house and have some refreshment? I expect my father back in an hour or so.'
'Miss Kildhurm, have I offended you?' said the Captain very humbly.
'No, indeed, anything but that!'
'Else you would not speak so formally.'
'I must not speak as I might speak, if my father were here,' answered the young lady with a blush. 'I am the representative of the family until he comes, and I must speak for them and not for myself.'
'Then—I wish your father were here!' exclaimed the Captain.
'So do I.'
'Why do you wish it? So that you might get rid of me? or so that you might not continue to be the representative of your family?'
'That does not seem to me a very wise question. But will you not step into the house?'
'You were sitting under the Oak when I first saw you: would you mind letting me come there?'
'Wherever you wish,' replied Miss Kildhurm graciously; and she led the way to the Oak, and she and the Captain established themselves beneath its shadow.
The Captain thought it was the loveliest day and the loveliest spot that he had ever seen; which simply showed that he must have been a very unobservant young man hitherto, because, in his travels about the world, he had met with scenes and with climates far lovelier than Kildhurm could boast of at its best. But the Captain, though he praised the prospect, looked at it much less than at his companion; and if he had said that his travels had never brought him in contact with anybody like her, he would probably have been declaring more nearly what he felt to be the truth. She was so simple, and yet so dignified: so naïve, and yet so sensible: so lovely, and yet so unconscious. He gazed, and wondered, and blessed his stars for having brought him round the world, and reserved this fairest of all sights for him at the end of his pilgrimages and dangers. Yes, it was a blessed fortune that had put it into his mind to come and settle down here, in this remote and beautiful region, here to make his home and to spend his days. And it was a beneficent Providence, surely, that had kept his heart free and unstained through those perilous years of early youth, when hearts are so apt to go astray. What happiness to think that he might say to this charming maiden, 'You are the first woman I have loved; and I am not wholly unfit to take your hand in mine, and to look in your dear eyes!' For it was nothing less than this that the Captain already imagined himself as saying to Miss Kildhurm.
But having got thus far in his thoughts he began to entertain gloomy and portentous fears. What if Miss Kildhurm should not respond to this sudden and unlooked-for passion of his? What should she know of love? And why should she love him? This last was a question which Harold Bramston might not have thought it necessary to ask himself in respect of every woman that he had met: but, as regarded Hilda Kildhurm, he found himself destitute of any vanity whatever, and inclined to look upon himself as the most insignificant of men. The most insignificant of men? Was there then some other man who was more significant—or who possessed more significance in Hilda's eyes? This idea was torture to Captain Bramston, and he tried to put it away, and to fight against it; but the more he tried the more numerous and plausible were the reasons which suggested themselves to him for supposing it to be true. There must be young men enough in the country-side to love and woo fifty Hildas; and such a Hilda as this might raise up lovers to herself in the midst of a desert. And if she were loved, why might she not love in return? Oh! misery, why might she not be engaged to somebody at this very moment? Was it consistent with human nature to suppose that she could have lived for a little less than twenty years in the world without having been obliged to engage herself to somebody? Captain Bramston groaned inwardly, and cursed his luck for not having made him to be born and raised under the shadow of Kildhurm's Oak.
And what were Hilda's thoughts all this time? She said to herself that there was a sensation in her heart which she had never known till now: a lightness, a fulness, and yet a fear: it affected her voice, so that she found it difficult to speak evenly or to breathe as regularly as usual, or to keep under control the blood that sought her cheeks. Moreover, a smile was ever attempting to manifest itself on her lips, without her being able to account to herself satisfactorily for its being there. She told herself that this was very silly; but its being silly did not prevent it from being rather pleasant. Another singularity in her sensations was, that she felt a great tenderness and affection for the world at large. Everything seemed kind to her, and considerate of her happiness. There was a bird up somewhere in the branches of the Oak that sang just the kind of song that she would have liked to sing, if she had known how. Surely the sunshine need not have fallen with such mellow radiance of warm colour on the grass and on the grey Tower, if it had not wished to do her an especial favour: surely the sea need not have murmured with such languorous sweetness beneath the cliff, if it had not wished to echo the inarticulate harmony that whispered in her own soul. And, by the way (not that this had anything to do with it), what a delightful voice Captain Bramston had, and what a noble countenance, and what a gentle and withal spirited expression, and what a picturesque way of leaning against the trunk of the Oak, and of occasionally moving his hand when he spoke, and of throwing back his head when he laughed. What a strange freak of destiny to bring this young hero all round the world to sit here at her feet at last, and make a summer afternoon so memorable! It was a remarkably brief afternoon, however, and once gone it would never return. It would never return. There was a sweet pain in that reflection—the sweeter the more painful. Yes, Captain Bramston would ride away by-and-by, and he would never come back. Why should he come back? There could never be such another afternoon: there could never be such another Captain Bramston: there could never be such another longing, and tenderness, and fear as abode now in Hilda's heart. Such things, such times, came once and came no more. As Hilda said this to herself, she felt quite melancholy in the midst of her happiness; and soft tears stood in her eyes as she looked seaward.
It must not be supposed that these two young people allowed anything of what was passing in their minds to appear in their conversation: by no means! They talked of anything rather than that. The Captain gave an interesting account of his adventures abroad, and described the American Indians, and General Lafayette, and General Washington, and General Arnold, and unfortunate Major André, who was so cruelly hanged. Captain Bramston was of opinion that Arnold was much more deserving of hanging than André. To all this Hilda listened and replied and questioned; and then, being questioned in turn, she attempted to give some account of her own life at Kildhurm; whom she saw, what she did, what she wanted to do: but it all struck her as being profoundly uninteresting and empty, and she was sure that Captain Bramston must share her opinion, though he very politely made believe that he liked to hear her. So the hours passed away and the sun reached the hills, and Hilda expected every moment to hear Captain Bramston say that now he must be going. But he stayed on in the most unaccountable way. It was strange, too, how well acquainted with each other they seemed to have become, though they had been but so short a time together, and had talked about such external matters. It almost seemed as if they must have known what was passing, unuttered, in each other's hearts. Could it be that those things that can never be spoken manage to get themselves expressed, somehow, in the tones of the voice and the glances of the eyes, and effect more in a few hours than words can tell in as many months?
'You have not yet told me, Captain Bramston,' Hilda said at last, 'the reason why you came here.'
'I did not know why I came till after I got here,' said the Captain.
Hilda gazed at him inquiringly.
'I knew as soon as I saw you,' the intrepid gentleman pursued.
'Oh! then it was not anything worth knowing!'
'I care more about it than about anything else in the world!'
'Then what did you care most about before this?'