THE OPEN DOOR, AND THE PORTRAIT

 Stories of the Seen and the Unseen

 By Margaret O. Wilson Oliphant's

 1881

I

THE OPEN DOOR. 

I took the house of Brentwood on my return from India in 18--, for thetemporary accommodation of my family, until I could find a permanenthome for them. It had many advantages which made it peculiarlyappropriate. It was within reach of Edinburgh; and my boy Roland, whoseeducation had been considerably neglected, could go in and out toschool; which was thought to be better for him than either leaving homealtogether or staying there always with a tutor. The first of theseexpedients would have seemed preferable to me; the second commendeditself to his mother. The doctor, like a judicious man, took the midwaybetween. "Put him on his pony, and let him rile into the High Schoolevery morning; it will do him all the good in the world, " Dr. Simsonsaid; "and when it is bad weather, there is the train. " His motheraccepted this solution of the difficulty more easily than I could havehoped; and our pale-faced boy, who had never known anything moreinvigorating than Simla, began to encounter the brisk breezes of theNorth in the subdued severity of the month of May. Before the time ofthe vacation in July we had the satisfaction of seeing him begin toacquire something of the brown and ruddy complexion of hisschoolfellows. The English system did not commend itself to Scotland inthese days. There was no little Eton at Fettes; nor do I think, if therehad been, that a genteel exotic of that class would have tempted eithermy wife or me. The lad was doubly precious to us, being the only oneleft us of many; and he was fragile in body, we believed, and deeplysensitive in mind. To keep him at home, and yet to send him toschool, --to combine the advantages of the two systems, --seemed to beeverything that could be desired. The two girls also found at Brentwoodeverything they wanted. They were near enough to Edinburgh to havemasters and lessons as many as they required for completing thatnever-ending education which the young people seem to require nowadays. Their mother married me when she was younger than Agatha; and I shouldlike to see them improve upon their mother! I myself was then no morethan twenty-five, --an age at which I see the young fellows now gropingabout them, with no notion what they are going to do with their lives. However; I suppose every generation has a conceit of itself whichelevates it, in its own opinion, above that which comes after it. 

Brentwood stands on that fine and wealthy slope of country--one of therichest in Scotland--which lies between the Pentland Hills and theFirth. In clear weather you could see the blue gleam--like a bent bow, embracing the wealthy fields and scattered houses--of the great estuaryon one side of you, and on the other the blue heights, not gigantic likethose we had been used to, but just high enough for all the glories ofthe atmosphere, the play of clouds, and sweet reflections, which give toa hilly country an interest and a charm which nothing else can emulate. Edinburgh--with its two lesser heights, the Castle and the Calton Hill, its spires and towers piercing through the smoke, and Arthur's Seat lyingcrouched behind, like a guardian no longer very needful, taking hisrepose beside the well-beloved charge, which is now, so to speak, able totake care of itself without him--lay at our right hand. From the lawnand drawing-room windows we could see all these varieties of landscape. The color was sometimes a little chilly, but sometimes, also, as animatedand full of vicissitude as a drama. I was never tired of it. Its colorand freshness revived the eyes which had grown weary of arid plains andblazing skies. It was always cheery, and fresh, and full of repose. 

The village of Brentwood lay almost under the house, on the other side ofthe deep little ravine, down which a stream--which ought to have been alovely, wild, and frolicsome little river--flowed between its rocks andtrees. The river, like so many in that district, had, however, in itsearlier life been sacrificed to trade, and was grimy with paper-making. But this did not affect our pleasure in it so much as I have known it toaffect other streams. Perhaps our water was more rapid; perhaps lessclogged with dirt and refuse. Our side of the dell was charmingly_accidenté_, and clothed with fine trees, through which various pathswound down to the river-side and to the village bridge which crossed thestream. The village lay in the hollow, and climbed, with very prosaichouses, the other side. Village architecture does not flourish inScotland. The blue slates and the gray stone are sworn foes to thepicturesque; and though I do not, for my own part, dislike the interiorof an old-fashioned hewed and galleried church, with its little familysettlements on all sides, the square box outside, with its bit of a spirelike a handle to lift it by, is not an improvement to the landscape. Still a cluster of houses on differing elevations, with scraps of gardencoming in between, a hedgerow with clothes laid out to dry, the openingof a street with its rural sociability, the women at their doors, theslow wagon lumbering along, gives a centre to the landscape. It wascheerful to look at, and convenient in a hundred ways. Within ourselveswe had walks in plenty, the glen being always beautiful in all itsphases, whether the woods were green in the spring or ruddy in theautumn. In the park which surrounded the house were the ruins of theformer mansion of Brentwood, --a much smaller and less important housethan the solid Georgian edifice which we inhabited. The ruins werepicturesque, however, and gave importance to the place. Even we, who werebut temporary tenants, felt a vague pride in them, as if they somehowreflected a certain consequence upon ourselves. The old building had theremains of a tower, --an indistinguishable mass of mason-work, over-grown with ivy; and the shells of walls attached to this were halffilled up with soil. I had never examined it closely, I am ashamed tosay. There was a large room, or what had been a large room, with thelower part of the windows still existing, on the principal floor, andunderneath other windows, which were perfect, though half filled up withfallen soil, and waving with a wild growth of brambles and chance growthsof all kinds. This was the oldest part of all. At a little distance weresome very commonplace and disjointed fragments of building, one of themsuggesting a certain pathos by its very commonness and the complete wreckwhich it showed. This was the end of a low gable, a bit of gray wall, allincrusted with lichens, in which was a common door-way. Probably it hadbeen a servants' entrance, a backdoor, or opening into what are called"the offices" in Scotland. No offices remained to be entered, --pantry andkitchen had all been swept out of being; but there stood the door-wayopen and vacant, free to all the winds, to the rabbits, and every wildcreature. It struck my eye, the first time I went to Brentwood, like amelancholy comment upon a life that was over. A door that led tonothing, --closed once, perhaps, with anxious care, bolted and guarded, now void of any meaning. It impressed me, I remember, from the first; soperhaps it may be said that my mind was prepared to attach to it animportance which nothing justified. 

The summer was a very happy period of repose for us all. The warmth ofIndian suns was still in our veins. It seemed to us that we could neverhave enough of the greenness, the dewiness, the freshness of the northernlandscape. Even its mists were pleasant to us, taking all the fever outof us, and pouring in vigor and refreshment. In autumn we followed thefashion of the time, and went away for change which we did not in theleast require. It was when the family had settled down for the winter, when the days were short and dark, and the rigorous reign of frost uponus, that the incidents occurred which alone could justify me in intrudingupon the world my private affairs. These incidents were, however, of socurious a character, that I hope my inevitable references to my ownfamily and pressing personal interests will meet with a general pardon. 

I was absent in London when these events began. In London an old Indianplunges back into the interests with which all his previous life has beenassociated, and meets old friends at every step. I had been circulatingamong some half-dozen of these, --enjoying the return to my former life inshadow, though I had been so thankful in substance to throw itaside, --and had missed some of my home letters, what with going down fromFriday to Monday to old Benbow's place in the country, and stopping onthe way back to dine and sleep at Sellar's and to take a look intoCross's stables, which occupied another day. It is never safe to missone's letters. In this transitory life, as the Prayer-book says, how canone ever be certain what is going to happen? All was well at home. I knewexactly (I thought) what they would have to say to me: "The weather hasbeen so fine, that Roland has not once gone by train, and he enjoys theride beyond anything. " "Dear papa, be sure that you don't forgetanything, but bring us so-and-so, and so-and-so, "--a list as long as myarm. Dear girls and dearer mother! I would not for the world haveforgotten their commissions, or lost their little letters, for all theBenbows and Crosses in the world. 

But I was confident in my home-comfort and peacefulness. When I got backto my club, however, three or four letters were lying for one, upon someof which I noticed the "immediate, " "urgent, " which old-fashioned peopleand anxious people still believe will influence the post-office andquicken the speed of the mails. I was about to open one of these, whenthe club porter brought me two telegrams, one of which, he said, hadarrived the night before. I opened, as was to be expected, the lastfirst, and this was what I read: "Why don't you come or answer? For God'ssake, come. He is much worse. " This was a thunderbolt to fall upon aman's head who had one only son, and lie the light of his eyes! The othertelegram, which I opened with hands trembling so much that I lost time bymy haste, was to much the same purport: "No better; doctor afraid ofbrain-fever. Calls for you day and night. Let nothing detain you. " Thefirst thing I did was to look up the time-tables to see if there was anyway of getting off sooner than by the night-train, though I knew wellenough there was not; and then I read the letters, which furnished, alas!too clearly, all the details. They told me that the boy had been pale forsome time, with a scared look. His mother had noticed it before I lefthome, but would not say anything to alarm me. This look had increased dayby day: and soon it was observed that Roland came home at a wild gallopthrough the park, his pony panting and in foam, himself "as white as asheet, " but with the perspiration streaming from his forehead. For a longtime he had resisted all questioning, but at length had developed suchstrange changes of mood, showing a reluctance to go to school, a desireto be fetched in the carriage at night, --which was a ridiculous piece ofluxury, --an unwillingness to go out into the grounds, and nervous startat every sound, that his mother had insisted upon an explanation. Whenthe boy--our boy Roland, who had never known what fear was--began to talkto her of voices he had heard in the park, and shadows that had appearedto him among the ruins, my wife promptly put him to bed and sent for Dr. Simson, which, of course, was the only thing to do. 

I hurried off that evening, as may be supposed, with an anxious heart. How I got through the hours before the starting of the train, I cannottell. We must all be thankful for the quickness of the railway when inanxiety; but to have thrown myself into a post-chaise as soon as horsescould be put to, would have been a relief. I got to Edinburgh very earlyin the blackness of the winter morning, and scarcely dared look the manin the face, at whom I gasped, "What news?" My wife had sent thebrougham for me, which I concluded, before the man spoke, was a bad sign. His answer was that stereotyped answer which leaves the imagination sowildly free, --"Just the same. " Just the same! What might that mean? Thehorses seemed to me to creep along the long dark country road. As wedashed through the park, I thought I heard some one moaning among thetrees, and clenched my fist at him (whoever he might be) with fury. Whyhad the fool of a woman at the gate allowed any one to come in to disturbthe quiet of the place? If I had not been in such hot haste to get home, I think I should have stopped the carriage and got out to see what trampit was that had made an entrance, and chosen my grounds, of all places inthe world, --when my boy was ill!--to grumble and groan in. But I had noreason to complain of our slow pace here. The horses flew like lightningalong the intervening path, and drew up at the door all panting, as ifthey had run a race. My wife stood waiting to receive me, with a paleface, and a candle in her hand, which made her look paler still as thewind blew the flame about. "He is sleeping, " she said in a whisper, as ifher voice might wake him. And I replied, when I could find my voice, alsoin a whisper, as though the jingling of the horses' furniture and thesound of their hoofs must not have been more dangerous. I stood on thesteps with her a moment, almost afraid to go in, now that I was here; andit seemed to me that I saw without observing, if I may say so, that thehorses were unwilling to turn round, though their stables lay that way, or that the men were unwilling. These things occurred to me afterwards, though at the moment I was not capable of anything but to ask questionsand to hear of the condition of the boy. 

I looked at him from the door of his room, for we were afraid to go near, lest we should disturb that blessed sleep. It looked like actual sleep, not the lethargy into which my wife told me he would sometimes fall. Shetold me everything in the next room, which communicated with his, risingnow and then and going to the door of communication; and in this therewas much that was very startling and confusing to the mind. It appearedthat ever since the winter began--since it was early dark, and night hadfallen before his return from school--he had been hearing voices amongthe ruins: at first only a groaning, he said, at which his pony was asmuch alarmed as he was, but by degrees a voice. The tears ran down mywife's cheeks as she described to me how he would start up in the nightand cry out, "Oh, mother, let me in! oh, mother, let me in!" with apathos which rent her heart. And she sitting there all the time, onlylonging to do everything his heart could desire! But though she would tryto soothe him, crying, "You are at home, my darling. I am here. Don't youknow me? Your mother is here!" he would only stare at her, and after awhile spring up again with the same cry. At other times he would be quitereasonable, she said, asking eagerly when I was coming, but declaringthat he must go with me as soon as I did so, "to let them in. " "Thedoctor thinks his nervous system must have received a shock, " my wifesaid. "Oh, Henry, can it be that we have pushed him on too much with hiswork--a delicate boy like Roland? And what is his work in comparison withhis health? Even you would think little of honors or prizes if it hurtthe boy's health. " Even I!--as if I were an inhuman father sacrificing mychild to my ambition. But I would not increase her trouble by taking anynotice. After awhile they persuaded me to lie down, to rest, and to eat, none of which things had been possible since I received their letters. The mere fact of being on the spot, of course, in itself was a greatthing; and when I knew that I could be called in a moment, as soon as hewas awake and wanted me, I felt capable, even in the dark, chill morningtwilight, to snatch an hour or two's sleep. As it happened, I was soworn out with the strain of anxiety, and he so quieted and consoled byknowing I had come, that I was not disturbed till the afternoon, when thetwilight had again settled down. There was just daylight enough to seehis face when I went to him; and what a change in a fortnight! He waspaler and more worn, I thought, than even in those dreadful days in theplains before we left India. His hair seemed to me to have grown long andlank; his eyes were like blazing lights projecting out of his white face. He got hold of my hand in a cold and tremulous clutch, and waved toeverybody to go away. "Go away--even mother, " he said; "go away. " Thiswent to her heart; for she did not like that even I should have more ofthe boy's confidence than herself; but my wife has never been a woman tothink of herself, and she left us alone. "Are they all gone?" he saideagerly. "They would not let me speak. The doctor treated me as if I werea fool. You know I am not a fool, papa. "

"Yes, yes, my boy, I know. But you are ill, and quiet is so necessary. You are not only not a fool, Roland, but you are reasonable andunderstand. When you are ill you must deny yourself; you must not doeverything that you might do being well. "

He waved his thin hand with a sort of indignation. "Then, father, I amnot ill, " he cried. "Oh, I thought when you came you would not stopme, --you would see the sense of it! What do you think is the matter withme, all of you? Simson is well enough; but he is only a doctor. What doyou think is the matter with me? I am no more ill than you are. A doctor, of course, he thinks you are ill the moment he looks at you--that's whathe's there for--and claps you into bed. "

"Which is the best place for you at present, my dear boy. "

"I made up my mind, " cried the little fellow, "that I would stand it tillyou came home. I said to myself, I won't frighten mother and the girls. But now, father, " he cried, half jumping out of bed, "it's not illness:it's a secret. "

His eyes shone so wildly, his face was so swept with strong feeling, thatmy heart sank within me. It could be nothing but fever that did it, andfever had been so fatal. I got him into my arms to put him back intobed. "Roland, " I said, humoring the poor child, which I knew was theonly way, "if you are going to tell me this secret to do any good, youknow you must be quite quiet, and not excite yourself. If you exciteyourself, I must not let you speak. "

"Yes, father, " said the boy. He was quiet directly, like a man, as if hequite understood. When I had laid him back on his pillow, he looked up atme with that grateful, sweet look with which children, when they are ill, break one's heart, the water coming into his eyes in his weakness. "I wassure as soon as you were here you would know what to do, " he said. 

"To be sure, my boy. Now keep quiet, and tell it all out like a man. " Tothink I was telling lies to my own child! for I did it only to humor him, thinking, poor little fellow, his brain was wrong. 

"Yes, father. Father, there is some one in the park--some one that hasbeen badly used. " "Hush, my dear; you remember there is to be noexcitement. Well, who is this somebody, and who has been ill-using him?We will soon put a stop to that. "

"All, " cried Roland, "but it is not so easy as you think. I don't knowwho it is. It is just a cry. Oh, if you could hear it! It gets into myhead in my sleep. I heard it as clear--as clear; and they think that Iam dreaming, or raving perhaps, " the boy said, with a sort ofdisdainful smile. 

This look of his perplexed me; it was less like fever than I thought. "Are you quite sure you have not dreamed it, Roland?" I said. 

"Dreamed?--that!" He was springing up again when he suddenly bethoughthimself, and lay down flat, with the same sort of smile on his face. "Thepony heard it, too, " he said. "She jumped as if she had been shot. If Ihad not grasped at the reins--for I was frightened, father--"

"No shame to you, my boy, " said I, though I scarcely knew why. 

"If I hadn't held to her like a leech, she'd have pitched me over herhead, and never drew breath till we were at the door. Did the pony dreamit?" he said, with a soft disdain, yet indulgence for my foolishness. Then he added slowly, "It was only a cry the first time, and all thetime before you went away. I wouldn't tell you, for it was so wretchedto be frightened. I thought it might be a hare or a rabbit snared, and Iwent in the morning and looked; but there was nothing. It was after youwent I heard it really first; and this is what he says. " He raisedhimself on his elbow close to me, and looked me in the face: "'Oh, mother, let me in! oh, mother, let me in!'" As he said the words a mistcame over his face, the mouth quivered, the soft features all melted andchanged, and when he had ended these pitiful words, dissolved in ashower of heavy tears. 

Was it a hallucination? Was it the fever of the brain? Was it thedisordered fancy caused by great bodily weakness? How could I tell? Ithought it wisest to accept it as if it were all true. 

"This is very touching, Roland, " I said. 

"Oh, if you had just heard it, father! I said to myself, if father heardit he would do something; but mamma, you know, she's given over toSimson, and that fellow's a doctor, and never thinks of anything butclapping you into bed. "

"We must not blame Simson for being a doctor, Roland. "

"No, no, " said my boy, with delightful toleration and indulgence; "oh, no; that's the good of him; that's what he's for; I know that. Butyou--you are different; you are just father; and you'll dosomething--directly, papa, directly; this very night. "

"Surely, " I said. "No doubt it is some little lost child. "

He gave me a sudden, swift look, investigating my face as though to seewhether, after all, this was everything my eminence as "father" cameto, --no more than that. Then he got hold of my shoulder, clutching itwith his thin hand. "Look here, " he said, with a quiver in his voice;"suppose it wasn't--living at all!"

"My dear boy, how then could you have heard it?" I said. 

He turned away from me with a pettish exclamation, --"As if you didn'tknow better than that!"

"Do you want to tell me it is a ghost?" I said. 

Roland withdrew his hand; his countenance assumed an aspect of greatdignity and gravity; a slight quiver remained about his lips. "Whateverit was--you always said we were not to call names. It was something--introuble. Oh, father, in terrible trouble!"

"But, my boy, " I said (I was at my wits' end), "if it was a childthat was lost, or any poor human creature--but, Roland, what do youwant me to do?"

"I should know if I was you, " said the child eagerly. "That is what Ialways said to myself, --Father will know. Oh, papa, papa, to have toface it night after night, in such terrible, terrible trouble, and neverto be able to do it any good! I don't want to cry; it's like a baby, Iknow; but what can I do else? Out there all by itself in the ruin, andnobody to help it! I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" cried my generousboy. And in his weakness he burst out, after many attempts to restrainit, into a great childish fit of sobbing and tears. 

I do not know that I ever was in a greater perplexity, in my life; andafterwards, when I thought of it, there was something comic in it too. Itis bad enough to find your child's mind possessed with the convictionthat he has seen, or heard, a ghost; but that he should require you to goinstantly and help that ghost was the most bewildering experience thathad ever come my way. I am a sober man myself, and not superstitious--atleast any more than everybody is superstitious. Of course I do notbelieve in ghosts; but I don't deny, any more than other people, thatthere are stories which I cannot pretend to understand. My blood got asort of chill in my veins at the idea that Roland should be a ghost-seer;for that generally means a hysterical temperament and weak health, andall that men most hate and fear for their children. But that I shouldtake up his ghost and right its wrongs, and save it from its trouble, wassuch a mission as was enough to confuse any man. I did my best to consolemy boy without giving any promise of this astonishing kind; but he wastoo sharp for me: he would have none of my caresses. With sobs breakingin at intervals upon his voice, and the rain-drops hanging on hiseyelids, he yet returned to the charge. 

"It will be there now!--it will be there all the night! Oh, think, papa, --think if it was me! I can't rest for thinking of it. Don't!" hecried, putting away my hand, --"don't! You go and help it, and mother cantake care of me. "

"But, Roland, what can I do?"

My boy opened his eyes, which were large with weakness and fever, andgave me a smile such, I think, as sick children only know the secret of. "I was sure you would know as soon as you came. I always said, Fatherwill know. And mother, " he cried, with a softening of repose upon hisface, his limbs relaxing, his form sinking with a luxurious ease in hisbed, --"mother can come and take care of me. "

I called her, and saw him turn to her with the complete dependence of achild; and then I went away and left them, as perplexed a man as any inScotland. I must say, however, I had this consolation, that my mind wasgreatly eased about Roland. He might be under a hallucination; but hishead was clear enough, and I did not think him so ill as everybody elsedid. The girls were astonished even at the ease with which I took it. "How do you think he is?" they said in a breath, coming round me, layinghold of me. "Not half so ill as I expected, " I said; "not very bad atall. " "Oh, papa, you are a darling!" cried Agatha, kissing me, and cryingupon my shoulder; while little Jeanie, who was as pale as Roland, claspedboth her arms round mine, and could not speak at all. I knew nothingabout it, not half so much as Simson; but they believed in me: they had afeeling that all would go right now. God is very good to you when yourchildren look to you like that. It makes one humble, not proud. I was notworthy of it; and then I recollected that I had to act the part of afather to Roland's ghost, --which made me almost laugh, though I mightjust as well have cried. It was the strangest mission that ever wasintrusted to mortal man. 

It was then I remembered suddenly the looks of the men when they turnedto take the brougham to the stables in the dark that morning. They hadnot liked it, and the horses had not liked it. I remembered that even inmy anxiety about Roland I had heard them tearing along the avenue back tothe stables, and had made a memorandum mentally that I must speak of it. It seemed to me that the best thing I could do was to go to the stablesnow and make a few inquiries. It is impossible to fathom the minds ofrustics; there might be some devilry of practical joking, for anything Iknew; or they might have some interest in getting up a bad reputation forthe Brentwood avenue. It was getting dark by the time I went out, andnobody who knows the country will need to be told how black is thedarkness of a November night under high laurel-bushes and yew-trees. Iwalked into the heart of the shrubberies two or three times, not seeing astep before me, till I came out upon the broader carriage-road, where thetrees opened a little, and there was a faint gray glimmer of sky visible, under which the great limes and elms stood darkling like ghosts; but itgrew black again as I approached the corner where the ruins lay. Botheyes and ears were on the alert, as may be supposed; but I could seenothing in the absolute gloom, and, so far as I can recollect, I heardnothing. Nevertheless there came a strong impression upon me thatsomebody was there. It is a sensation which most people have felt. I haveseen when it has been strong enough to awake me out of sleep, the senseof some one looking at me. I suppose my imagination had been affected byRoland's story; and the mystery of the darkness is always full ofsuggestions. I stamped my feet violently on the gravel to rouse myself, and called out sharply, "Who's there?" Nobody answered, nor did I expectany one to answer, but the impression had been made. I was so foolishthat I did not like to look back, but went sideways, keeping an eye onthe gloom behind. It was with great relief that I spied the light in thestables, making a sort of oasis in the darkness. I walked very quicklyinto the midst of that lighted and cheerful place, and thought the clankof the groom's pail one of the pleasantest sounds I had ever heard. Thecoachman was the head of this little colony, and it was to his house Iwent to pursue my investigations. He was a native of the district, andhad taken care of the place in the absence of the family for years; itwas impossible but that he must know everything that was going on, andall the traditions of the place. The men, I could see, eyed me anxiouslywhen I thus appeared at such an hour among them, and followed me withtheir eyes to Jarvis's house, where he lived alone with his old wife, their children being all married and out in the world. Mrs. Jarvis met mewith anxious questions. How was the poor young gentleman? But the othersknew, I could see by their faces, that not even this was the foremostthing in my mind. 

 * * * * *

"Noises?--ou ay, there'll be noises, --the wind in the trees, and thewater soughing down the glen. As for tramps, Cornel, no, there's littleo' that kind o' cattle about here; and Merran at the gate's a carefulbody. " Jarvis moved about with some embarrassment from one leg toanother as he spoke. He kept in the shade, and did not look at me morethan he could help. Evidently his mind was perturbed, and he hadreasons for keeping his own counsel. His wife sat by, giving him a quicklook now and then, but saying nothing. The kitchen was very snug andwarm and bright, --as different as could be from the chill and mystery ofthe night outside. 

"I think you are trifling with me, Jarvis, " I said. 

"Triflin', Cornel? No me. What would I trifle for? If the deevil himselwas in the auld hoose, I have no interest in 't one way or another--"

"Sandy, hold your peace!" cried his wife imperatively. 

"And what am I to hold my peace for, wi' the Cornel standing there askinga' thae questions? I'm saying, if the deevil himsel--"

"And I'm telling ye hold your peace!" cried the woman, in greatexcitement. "Dark November weather and lang nichts, and us that ken a' weken. How daur ye name--a name that shouldna be spoken?" She threw downher stocking and got up, also in great agitation. "I tellt ye you nevercould keep it. It's no a thing that will hide, and the haill toun kens asweel as you or me. Tell the Cornel straight out--or see, I'll do it. Idinna hold wi' your secrets, and a secret that the haill toun kens!" Shesnapped her fingers with an air of large disdain. As for Jarvis, ruddyand big as he was, he shrank to nothing before this decided woman. Herepeated to her two or three times her own adjuration, "Hold your peace!"then, suddenly changing his tone, cried out, "Tell him then, confoundye! I'll wash my hands o't. If a' the ghosts in Scotland were in the auldhoose, is that ony concern o' mine?"

After this I elicited without much difficulty the whole story. In theopinion of the Jarvises, and of everybody about, the certainty that theplace was haunted was beyond all doubt. As Sandy and his wife warmed tothe tale, one tripping up another in their eagerness to tell everything, it gradually developed as distinct a superstition as I ever heard, andnot without poetry and pathos. How long it was since the voice had beenheard first, nobody could tell with certainty. Jarvis's opinion was thathis father, who had been coachman at Brentwood before him, had neverheard anything about it, and that the whole thing had arisen within thelast ten years, since the complete dismantling of the old house; whichwas a wonderfully modern date for a tale so well authenticated. Accordingto these witnesses, and to several whom I questioned afterwards, and whowere all in perfect agreement, it was only in the months of November andDecember that "the visitation" occurred. During these months, the darkestof the year, scarcely a night passed without the recurrence of theseinexplicable cries. Nothing, it was said, had ever been seen, --at least, nothing that could be identified. Some people, bolder or more imaginativethan the others, had seen the darkness moving, Mrs. Jarvis said, withunconscious poetry. It began when night fell, and continued, atintervals, till day broke. Very often it was only all inarticulate cryand moaning, but sometimes the words which had taken possession of mypoor boy's fancy had been distinctly audible, --"Oh, mother, let me in!"The Jarvises were not aware that there had ever been any investigationinto it. The estate of Brentwood had lapsed into the hands of a distantbranch of the family, who had lived but little there; and of the manypeople who had taken it, as I had done, few had remained through twoDecembers. And nobody had taken the trouble to make a very closeexamination into the facts. "No, no, " Jarvis said, shaking his head, "No, no, Cornel. Wha wad set themsels up for a laughin'-stock to a' thecountry-side, making a wark about a ghost? Naebody believes in ghosts. Itbid to be the wind in the trees, the last gentleman said, or some effec'o' the water wrastlin' among the rocks. He said it was a' quite easyexplained; but he gave up the hoose. And when you cam, Cornel, we wereawfu' anxious you should never hear. What for should I have spoiled thebargain and hairmed the property for no-thing?"

"Do you call my child's life nothing?" I said in the trouble of themoment, unable to restrain myself. "And instead of telling this all tome, you have told it to him, --to a delicate boy, a child unable to siftevidence or judge for himself, a tender-hearted young creature--"

I was walking about the room with an anger all the hotter that I felt itto be most likely quite unjust. My heart was full of bitterness againstthe stolid retainers of a family who were content to risk other people'schildren and comfort rather than let a house be empty. If I had beenwarned I might have taken precautions, or left the place, or sent Rolandaway, a hundred things which now I could not do; and here I was with myboy in a brain-fever, and his life, the most precious life on earth, hanging in the balance, dependent on whether or not I could get to thereason of a commonplace ghost-story! I paced about in high wrath, notseeing what I was to do; for to take Roland away, even if he were able totravel, would not settle his agitated mind; and I feared even that ascientific explanation of refracted sound or reverberation, or any otherof the easy certainties with which we elder men are silenced, would havevery little effect upon the boy. 

"Cornel, " said Jarvis solemnly, "and _she'll_ bear me witness, --the younggentleman never heard a word from me--no, nor from either groom orgardener; I'll gie ye my word for that. In the first place, he's no a ladthat invites ye to talk. There are some that are, and some that arena. Some will draw ye on, till ye've tellt them a' the clatter of the toun, and a' ye ken, and whiles mair. But Maister Roland, his mind's fu' of hisbooks. He's aye civil and kind, and a fine lad; but no that sort. And yesee it's for a' our interest, Cornel, that you should stay at Brentwood. I took it upon me mysel to pass the word, --'No a syllable to MaisterRoland, nor to the young leddies--no a syllable. ' The women-servants, that have little reason to be out at night, ken little or nothing aboutit. And some think it grand to have a ghost so long as they're no in theway of coming across it. If you had been tellt the story to begin with, maybe ye would have thought so yourself. "

This was true enough, though it did not throw any light upon myperplexity. If we had heard of it to start with, it is possible that allthe family would have considered the possession of a ghost a distinctadvantage. It is the fashion of the times. We never think what a risk itis to play with young imaginations, but cry out, in the fashionablejargon, "A ghost!--nothing else was wanted to make it perfect. " I shouldnot have been above this myself. I should have smiled, of course, at theidea of the ghost at all, but then to feel that it was mine would havepleased my vanity. Oh, yes, I claim no exemption. The girls would havebeen delighted. I could fancy their eagerness, their interest, andexcitement. No; if we had been told, it would have done no good, --weshould have made the bargain all the more eagerly, the fools that we are. "And there has been no attempt to investigate it, " I said, "to see whatit really is?"

"Eh, Cornel, " said the coachman's wife, "wha would investigate, as yecall it, a thing that nobody believes in? Ye would be the laughin'-stockof a' the country-side, as my man says. "

"But you believe in it, " I said, turning upon her hastily. The woman wastaken by surprise. She made a step backward out of my way. 

"Lord, Cornel, how ye frichten a body! Me!--there's awfu' strange thingsin this world. An unlearned person doesna ken what to think. But theminister and the gentry they just laugh in your face. Inquire into thething that is not! Na, na, we just let it be. "

"Come with me, Jarvis, " I said hastily, "and we'll make an attempt atleast. Say nothing to the men or to anybody. I'll come back after dinner, and we'll make a serious attempt to see what it is, if it is anything. IfI hear it, --which I doubt, --you may be sure I shall never rest till Imake it out. Be ready for me about ten o'clock. "

"Me, Cornel!" Jarvis said, in a faint voice. I had not been looking athim in my own preoccupation, but when I did so, I found that the greatestchange had come over the fat and ruddy coachman. "Me, Cornel!" herepeated, wiping the perspiration from his brow. His ruddy face hung inflabby folds, his knees knocked together, his voice seemed halfextinguished in his throat. Then he began to rub his hands and smile uponme in a deprecating, imbecile way. "There's nothing I wouldna do topleasure ye, Cornel, " taking a step further back. "I'm sure _she_ kensI've aye said I never had to do with a mair fair, weel-spokengentleman--" Here Jarvis came to a pause, again looking at me, rubbinghis hands. 

"Well?" I said. 

"But eh, sir!" he went on, with the same imbecile yet insinuating smile, "if ye'll reflect that I am no used to my feet. With a horse atween mylegs, or the reins in my hand, I'm maybe nae worse than other men; but onfit, Cornel--It's no the--bogles--but I've been cavalry, ye see, " with alittle hoarse laugh, "a' my life. To face a thing ye dinna understan'--onyour feet, Cornel. "

"Well, sir, if _I_ do it, " said I tartly, "why shouldn't you?"

"Eh, Cornel, there's an awfu' difference. In the first place, ye trampabout the haill countryside, and think naething of it; but a walk tiresme mair than a hunard miles' drive; and then ye're a gentleman, and doyour ain pleasure; and you're no so auld as me; and it's for your ainbairn, ye see, Cornel; and then--"

"He believes in it, Cornel, and you dinna believe in it, " the woman said. 

"Will you come with me?" I said, turning to her. 

She jumped back, upsetting her chair in her bewilderment. "Me!" with ascream, and then fell into a sort of hysterical laugh. "I wouldna say butwhat I would go; but what would the folk say to hear of Cornel Mortimerwith an auld silly woman at his heels?"

The suggestion made me laugh too, though I had little inclination for it. "I'm sorry you have so little spirit, Jarvis, " I said. "I must find someone else, I suppose. "

Jarvis, touched by this, began to remonstrate, but I cut him short. Mybutler was a soldier who had been with me in India, and was not supposedto fear anything, --man or devil, --certainly not the former; and I feltthat I was losing time. The Jarvises were too thankful to get rid of me. They attended me to the door with the most anxious courtesies. Outside, the two grooms stood close by, a little confused by my sudden exit. Idon't know if perhaps they had been listening, --as least standing as nearas possible, to catch any scrap of the conversation. I waved my hand tothem as I went past, in answer to their salutations, and it was veryapparent to me that they also were glad to see me go. 

And it will be thought very strange, but it would be weak not to add, that I myself, though bent on the investigation I have spoken of, pledgedto Roland to carry it out, and feeling that my boy's health, perhaps hislife, depended on the result of my inquiry, --I felt the mostunaccountable reluctance to pass these ruins on my way home. My curiositywas intense; and yet it was all my mind could do to pull my body along. Idaresay the scientific people would describe it the other way, andattribute my cowardice to the state of my stomach. I went on; but if Ihad followed my impulse, I should have turned and bolted. Everything inme seemed to cry out against it: my heart thumped, my pulses all began, like sledge-hammers, beating against my ears and every sensitive part. Itwas very dark, as I have said; the old house, with its shapeless tower, loomed a heavy mass through the darkness, which was only not entirely sosolid as itself. On the other hand, the great dark cedars of which wewere so proud seemed to fill up the night. My foot strayed out of thepath in my confusion and the gloom together, and I brought myself up witha cry as I felt myself knock against something solid. What was it? Thecontact with hard stone and lime and prickly bramble-bushes restored me alittle to myself. "Oh, it's only the old gable, " I said aloud, with alittle laugh to reassure myself. The rough feeling of the stonesreconciled me. As I groped about thus, I shook off my visionary folly. What so easily explained as that I should have strayed from the path inthe darkness? This brought me back to common existence, as if I had beenshaken by a wise hand out of all the silliness of superstition. How sillyit was, after all! What did it matter which path I took? I laughed again, this time with better heart, when suddenly, in a moment, the blood waschilled in my veins, a shiver stole along my spine, my faculties seemedto forsake me. Close by me, at my side, at my feet, there was a sigh. No, not a groan, not a moaning, not anything so tangible, --a perfectly soft, faint, inarticulate sigh. I sprang back, and my heart stopped beating. Mistaken! no, mistake was impossible. I heard it as clearly as I hearmyself speak; a long, soft, weary sigh, as if drawn to the utmost, andemptying out a load of sadness that filled the breast. To hear this inthe solitude, in the dark, in the night (though it was still early), hadan effect which I cannot describe. I feel it now, --something coldcreeping over me, up into my hair, and down to my feet, which refused tomove. I cried out, with a trembling voice, "Who is there?" as I had donebefore; but there was no reply. 

I got home I don't quite know how; but in my mind there was no longerany indifference as to the thing, whatever it was, that haunted theseruins. My scepticism disappeared like a mist. I was as firmly determinedthat there was something as Roland was. I did not for a moment pretendto myself that it was possible I could be deceived; there were movementsand noises which I understood all about, --cracklings of small branchesin the frost, and little rolls of gravel on the path, such as have avery eerie sound sometimes, and perplex you with wonder as to who hasdone it, _when there is no real mystery_; but I assure you all theselittle movements of nature don't affect you one bit _when there issomething_. I understood _them_. I did not understand the sigh. That wasnot simple nature; there was meaning in it, feeling, the soul of acreature invisible. This is the thing that human nature trembles at, --acreature invisible, yet with sensations, feelings, a power somehow ofexpressing itself. I had not the same sense of unwillingness to turn myback upon the scene of the mystery which I had experienced in going tothe stables; but I almost ran home, impelled by eagerness to geteverything done that had to be done, in order to apply myself to findingit out. Bagley was in the hall as usual when I went in. He was alwaysthere in the afternoon, always with the appearance of perfectoccupation, yet, so far as I know, never doing anything. The door wasopen, so that I hurried in without any pause, breathless; but the sightof his calm regard, as he came to help me off with my overcoat, subduedme in a moment. Anything out of the way, anything incomprehensible, faded to nothing in the presence of Bagley. You saw and wondered how_he_ was made: the parting of his hair, the tie of his white neckcloth, the fit of his trousers, all perfect as works of art; but you could seehow they were done, which makes all the difference. I flung myself uponhim, so to speak, without waiting to note the extreme unlikeness of theman to anything of the kind I meant. "Bagley, " I said, "I want you tocome out with me to-night to watch for--"

"Poachers, Colonel?" he said, a gleam of pleasure running all over him. 

"No, Bagley; a great deal worse, " I cried. 

"Yes, Colonel; at what hour, sir?" the man said; but then I had not toldhim what it was. 

It was ten o'clock when we set out. All was perfectly quiet indoors. Mywife was with Roland, who had been quite calm, she said, and who (though, no doubt, the fever must run its course) had been better ever since Icame. I told Bagley to put on a thick greatcoat over his evening coat, and did the same myself, with strong boots; for the soil was like asponge, or worse. Talking to him, I almost forgot what we were going todo. It was darker even than it had been before, and Bagley kept veryclose to me as we went along. I had a small lantern in my hand, whichgave us a partial guidance. We had come to the corner where the pathturns. On one side was the bowling-green, which the girls had takenpossession of for their croquet-ground, --a wonderful enclosure surroundedby high hedges of holly, three hundred years old and more; on the other, the ruins. Both were black as night; but before we got so far, there wasa little opening in which we could just discern the trees and the lighterline of the road. I thought it best to pause there and take breath. "Bagley, " I said, "there is something about these ruins I don'tunderstand. It is there I am going. Keep your eyes open and your witsabout you. Be ready to pounce upon any stranger you see, --anything, manor woman. Don't hurt, but seize anything you see. " "Colonel, " saidBagley, with a little tremor in his breath, "they do say there's thingsthere--as is neither man nor woman. " There was no time for words. "Areyou game to follow me, my man? that's the question, " I said. Bagley fellin without a word, and saluted. I knew then I had nothing to fear. 

We went, so far as I could guess, exactly as I had come; when I heardthat sigh. The darkness, however, was so complete that all marks, as oftrees or paths, disappeared. One moment we felt our feet on the gravel, another sinking noiselessly into the slippery grass, that was all. I hadshut up my lantern, not wishing to scare any one, whoever it might be. Bagley followed, it seemed to me, exactly in my footsteps as I made myway, as I supposed, towards the mass of the ruined house. We seemed totake a long time groping along seeking this; the squash of the wet soilunder our feet was the only thing that marked our progress. After a whileI stood still to see, or rather feel, where we were. The darkness wasvery still, but no stiller than is usual in a winter's night. The soundsI have mentioned--the crackling of twigs, the roll of a pebble, the soundof some rustle in the dead leaves, or creeping creature on thegrass--were audible when you listened, all mysterious enough when yourmind is disengaged, but to me cheering now as signs of the livingness ofnature, even in the death of the frost. As we stood still there came upfrom the trees in the glen the prolonged hoot of an owl. Bagley startedwith alarm, being in a state of general nervousness, and not knowing whathe was afraid of. But to me the sound was encouraging and pleasant, beingso comprehensible. 

"An owl, " I said, under my breath. "Y--es, Colonel, " said Bagley, histeeth chattering. We stood still about five minutes, while it broke intothe still brooding of the air, the sound widening out in circles, dyingupon the darkness. This sound, which is not a cheerful one, made mealmost gay. It was natural, and relieved the tension of the mind. I movedon with new courage, my nervous excitement calming down. 

When all at once, quite suddenly, close to us, at our feet, there brokeout a cry. I made a spring backwards in the first moment of surprise andhorror, and in doing so came sharply against the same rough masonry andbrambles that had struck me before. This new sound came upwards from theground, --a low, moaning, wailing voice, full of suffering and pain. Thecontrast between it and the hoot of the owl was indescribable, --the onewith a wholesome wildness and naturalness that hurt nobody; the other, asound that made one's blood curdle, full of human misery. With a greatdeal of fumbling, --for in spite of everything I could do to keep up mycourage my hands shook, --I managed to remove the slide of my lantern. Thelight leaped out like something living, and made the place visible in amoment. We were what would have been inside the ruined building hadanything remained but the gable-wall which I have described. It was closeto us, the vacant door-way in it going out straight into the blacknessoutside. The light showed the bit of wall, the ivy glistening upon it inclouds of dark green, the bramble-branches waving, and below, the opendoor, --a door that led to nothing. It was from this the voice came whichdied out just as the light flashed upon this strange scene. There was amoment's silence, and then it broke forth again. The sound was so near, so penetrating, so pitiful, that, in the nervous start I gave, the lightfell out of my hand. As I groped for it in the dark my hand was clutchedby Bagley, who, I think, must have dropped upon his knees; but I was toomuch perturbed myself to think much of this. He clutched at me in theconfusion of his terror, forgetting all his usual decorum. "For God'ssake, what is it, sir?" he gasped. If I yielded, there was evidently anend of both of us. "I can't tell, " I said, "any more than you; that'swhat we've got to find out. Up, man, up!" I pulled him to his feet. "Willyou go round and examine the other side, or will you stay here with thelantern?" Bagley gasped at me with a face of horror. "Can't we staytogether, Colonel?" he said; his knees were trembling under him. I pushedhim against the corner of the wall, and put the light into his hands. "Stand fast till I come back; shake yourself together, man; let nothingpass you, " I said. The voice was within two or three feet of us; of thatthere could be no doubt. 

I went myself to the other side of the wall, keeping close to it. Thelight shook in Bagley's hand, but, tremulous though it was, shone outthrough the vacant door, one oblong block of light marking all thecrumbling corners and hanging masses of foliage. Was that something darkhuddled in a heap by the side of it? I pushed forward across the light inthe door-way, and fell upon it with my hands; but it was only ajuniper-bush growing close against the wall. Meanwhile, the sight of myfigure crossing the door-way had brought Bagley's nervous excitement to aheight: he flew at me, gripping my shoulder. "I've got him, Colonel!I've got him!" he cried, with a voice of sudden exultation. He thought itwas a man, and was at once relieved. But at that moment the voice burstforth again between us, at our feet, --more close to us than any separatebeing could be. He dropped off from me, and fell against the wall, hisjaw dropping as if he were dying. I suppose, at the same moment, he sawthat it was me whom he had clutched. I, for my part, had scarcely morecommand of myself. I snatched the light out of his hand, and flashed itall about me wildly. Nothing, --the juniper-bush which I thought I hadnever seen before, the heavy growth of the glistening ivy, the brambleswaving. It was close to my ears now, crying, crying, pleading as if forlife. Either I heard the same words Roland had heard, or else, in myexcitement, his imagination got possession of mine. The voice went on, growing into distinct articulation, but wavering about, now from onepoint, now from another, as if the owner of it were moving slowly backand forward. "Mother! mother!" and then an outburst of wailing. As mymind steadied, getting accustomed (as one's mind gets accustomed toanything), it seemed to me as if some uneasy, miserable creature waspacing up and down before a closed door. Sometimes--but that must havebeen excitement--I thought I heard a sound like knocking, and thenanother burst, "Oh, mother! mother!" All this close, close to the spacewhere I was standing with my lantern, now before me, now behind me: acreature restless, unhappy, moaning, crying, before the vacant door-way, which no one could either shut or open more. 

"Do you hear it, Bagley? do you hear what it is saying?" I cried, stepping in through the door-way. He was lying against the wall, his eyesglazed, half dead with terror. He made a motion of his lips as if toanswer me, but no sounds came; then lifted his hand with a curiousimperative movement as if ordering me to be silent and listen. And howlong I did so I cannot tell. It began to have an interest, an excitinghold upon me, which I could not describe. It seemed to call up visibly ascene any one could understand, --a something shut out, restlesslywandering to and fro; sometimes the voice dropped, as if throwing itselfdown, sometimes wandered off a few paces, growing sharp and clear. "Oh, mother, let me in! oh, mother, mother, let me in! oh, let me in!" Everyword was clear to me. No wonder the boy had gone wild with pity. I triedto steady my mind upon Roland, upon his conviction that I could dosomething, but my head swam with the excitement, even when I partiallyovercame the terror. At last the words died away, and there was a soundof sobs and moaning. I cried out, "In the name of God, who are you?" witha kind of feeling in my mind that to use the name of God was profane, seeing that I did not believe in ghosts or anything supernatural; but Idid it all the same, and waited, my heart giving a leap of terror lestthere should be a reply. Why this should have been I cannot tell, but Ihad a feeling that if there was an answer it would be more than I couldbear. But there was no answer; the moaning went on, and then, as if ithad been real, the voice rose a little higher again, the wordsrecommenced, "Oh, mother, let me in! oh, mother, let me in!" with anexpression that was heart-breaking to hear. 

_As if it had been real_! What do I mean by that? I suppose I got lessalarmed as the thing went on. I began to recover the use of my senses, --Iseemed to explain it all to myself by saying that this had once happened, that it was a recollection of a real scene. Why there should have seemedsomething quite satisfactory and composing in this explanation I cannottell, but so it was. I began to listen almost as if it had been a play, forgetting Bagley, who, I almost think, had fainted, leaning against thewall. I was startled out of this strange spectatorship that had fallenupon me by the sudden rush of something which made my heart jump oncemore, a large black figure in the door-way waving its arms. "Come in!come in! come in!" it shouted out hoarsely at the top of a deep bassvoice, and then poor Bagley fell down senseless across the threshold. Hewas less sophisticated than I, --he had not been able to bear it anylonger. I took him for something supernatural, as he took me, and it wassome time before I awoke to the necessities of the moment. I rememberedonly after, that from the time I began to give my attention to the man, Iheard the other voice no more. It was some time before I brought him to. It must have been a strange scene: the lantern making a luminous spot inthe darkness, the man's white face lying on the black earth, I over him, doing what I could for him, probably I should have been thought to bemurdering him had any one seen us. When at last I succeeded in pouring alittle brandy down his throat, he sat up and looked about him wildly. "What's up?" he said; then recognizing me, tried to struggle to his feetwith a faint "Beg your pardon, Colonel. " I got him home as best I could, making him lean upon my arm. The great fellow was as weak as a child. Fortunately he did not for some time remember what had happened. From thetime Bagley fell the voice had stopped, and all was still. 

 * * * * *

"You've got an epidemic in your house, Colonel, " Simson said to me nextmorning. "What's the meaning of it all? Here's your butler raving about avoice. This will never do, you know; and so far as I can make out, youare in it too. "

"Yes, I am in it, Doctor. I thought I had better speak to you. Of courseyou are treating Roland all right, but the boy is not raving, he is assane as you or me. It's all true. "

"As sane as--I--or you. I never thought the boy insane. He's got cerebralexcitement, fever. I don't know what you've got. There's something veryqueer about the look of your eyes. "

"Come, " said I, "you can't put us all to bed, you know. You had betterlisten and hear the symptoms in full. "

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders, but he listened to me patiently. Hedid not believe a word of the story, that was clear; but he heard it allfrom beginning to end. "My dear fellow, " he said, "the boy told me justthe same. It's an epidemic. When one person falls a victim to this sortof thing, it's as safe as can be, --there's always two or three. "

"Then how do you account for it?" I said. 

"Oh, account for it!--that's a different matter; there's no accountingfor the freaks our brains are subject to. If it's delusion, if it's sometrick of the echoes or the winds, --some phonetic disturbance or other--"

"Come with me to-night, and judge for yourself, " I said. 

Upon this he laughed aloud, then said, "That's not such a bad idea; butit would ruin me forever if it were known that John Simson wasghost-hunting. "

"There it is, " said I; "you dart down on us who are unlearned with yourphonetic disturbances, but you daren't examine what the thing really isfor fear of being laughed at. That's science!"

"It's not science, --it's common-sense, " said the Doctor. "The thing hasdelusion on the front of it. It is encouraging an unwholesome tendencyeven to examine. What good could come of it? Even if I am convinced, Ishouldn't believe. "

"I should have said so yesterday; and I don't want you to be convinced orto believe, " said I. "If you prove it to be a delusion, I shall be verymuch obliged to you for one. Come; somebody must go with me. "

"You are cool, " said the Doctor. "You've disabled this poor fellow ofyours, and made him--on that point--a lunatic for life; and now you wantto disable me. But, for once, I'll do it. To save appearance, if you'llgive me a bed, I'll come over after my last rounds. "

It was agreed that I should meet him at the gate, and that we shouldvisit the scene of last night's occurrences before we came to the house, so that nobody might be the wiser. It was scarcely possible to hope thatthe cause of Bagley's sudden illness should not somehow steal into theknowledge of the servants at least, and it was better that all should bedone as quietly as possible. The day seemed to me a very long one. I hadto spend a certain part of it with Roland, which was a terrible ordealfor me, for what could I say to the boy? The improvement continued, buthe was still in a very precarious state, and the trembling vehemence withwhich he turned to me when his mother left the room filled me with alarm. "Father?" he said quietly. "Yes, my boy, I am giving my best attention toit; all is being done that I can do. I have not come to anyconclusion--yet. I am neglecting nothing you said, " I cried. What I couldnot do was to give his active mind any encouragement to dwell upon themystery. It was a hard predicament, for some satisfaction had to be givenhim. He looked at me very wistfully, with the great blue eyes which shoneso large and brilliant out of his white and worn face. "You must trustme, " I said. "Yes, father. Father understands, " he said to himself, as ifto soothe some inward doubt. I left him as soon as I could. He was aboutthe most precious thing I had on earth, and his health my first thought;but yet somehow, in the excitement of this other subject, I put thataside, and preferred not to dwell upon Roland, which was the most curiouspart of it all. 

That night at eleven I met Simson at the gate. He had come by train, andI let him in gently myself. I had been so much absorbed in the comingexperiment that I passed the ruins in going to meet him, almost withoutthought, if you can understand that. I had my lantern; and he showed me acoil of taper which he had ready for use. "There is nothing like light, "he said, in his scoffing tone. It was a very still night, scarcely asound, but not so dark. We could keep the path without difficulty as wewent along. As we approached the spot we could hear a low moaning, brokenoccasionally by a bitter cry. "Perhaps that is your voice, " said theDoctor; "I thought it must be something of the kind. That's a poor brutecaught in some of these infernal traps of yours; you'll find it among thebushes somewhere. " I said nothing. I felt no particular fear, but atriumphant satisfaction in what was to follow. I led him to the spotwhere Bagley and I had stood on the previous night. All was silent as awinter night could be, --so silent that we heard far off the sound of thehorses in the stables, the shutting of a window at the house. Simsonlighted his taper and went peering about, poking into all the corners. Welooked like two conspirators lying in wait for some unfortunatetraveller; but not a sound broke the quiet. The moaning had stoppedbefore we came up; a star or two shone over us in the sky, looking downas if surprised at our strange proceedings. Dr. Simson did nothing bututter subdued laughs under his breath. "I thought as much, " he said. "Itis just the same with tables and all other kinds of ghostly apparatus; asceptic's presence stops everything. When I am present nothing ever comesoff. How long do you think it will be necessary to stay here? Oh, I don'tcomplain; only when _you_ are satisfied, _I_ am--quite. "

I will not deny that I was disappointed beyond measure by this result. Itmade me look like a credulous fool. It gave the Doctor such a pull overme as nothing else could. I should point all his morals for years tocome; and his materialism, his scepticism, would be increased beyondendurance. "It seems, indeed, " I said, "that there is to be no--""Manifestation, " he said, laughing; "that is what all the mediums say. Nomanifestations, in consequence of the presence of an unbeliever. " Hislaugh sounded very uncomfortable to me in the silence; and it was nownear midnight. But that laugh seemed the signal; before it died away themoaning we had heard before was resumed. It started from some distanceoff, and came towards us, nearer and nearer, like some one walking alongand moaning to himself. There could be no idea now that it was a harecaught in a trap. The approach was slow, like that of a weak person, withlittle halts and pauses. We heard it coming along the grass straighttowards the vacant door-way. Simson had been a little startled by thefirst sound. He said hastily, "That child has no business to be out solate. " But he felt, as well as I, that this was no child's voice. As itcame nearer, he grew silent, and, going to the door-way with his taper, stood looking out towards the sound. The taper being unprotected blewabout in the night air, though there was scarcely any wind. I threw thelight of my lantern steady and white across the same space. It was in ablaze of light in the midst of the blackness. A little icy thrill hadgone over me at the first sound, but as it came close, I confess that myonly feeling was satisfaction. The scoffer could scoff no more. The lighttouched his own face, and showed a very perplexed countenance. If he wasafraid, he concealed it with great success, but he was perplexed. Andthen all that had happened on the previous night was enacted once more. It fell strangely upon me with a sense of repetition. Every cry, everysob seemed the same as before. I listened almost without any emotion atall in my own person, thinking of its effect upon Simson. He maintained avery bold front, on the whole. All that coming and going of the voicewas, if our ears could be trusted, exactly in front of the vacant, blankdoor-way, blazing full of light, which caught and shone in the glisteningleaves of the great hollies at a little distance. Not a rabbit could havecrossed the turf without being seen; but there was nothing. After a time, Simson, with a certain caution and bodily reluctance, as it seemed to me, went out with his roll of taper into this space. His figure showedagainst the holly in full outline. Just at this moment the voice sank, aswas its custom, and seemed to fling itself down at the door. Simsonrecoiled violently, as if some one had come up against him, then turned, and held his taper low, as if examining something. "Do you see anybody?"I cried in a whisper, feeling the chill of nervous panic steal over me atthis action. "It's nothing but a--confounded juniper-bush, " he said. ThisI knew very well to be nonsense, for the juniper-bush was on the otherside. He went about after this round and round, poking his tapereverywhere, then returned to me on the inner side of the wall. He scoffedno longer; his face was contracted and pale. "How long does this go on?"he whispered to me, like a man who does not wish to interrupt some onewho is speaking. I had become too much perturbed myself to remark whetherthe successions and changes of the voice were the same as last night. Itsuddenly went out in the air almost as he was speaking, with a softreiterated sob dying away. If there had been anything to be seen, Ishould have said that the person was at that moment crouching on theground close to the door. 

We walked home very silent afterwards. It was only when we were in sightof the house that I said, "What do you think of it?" "I can't tell whatto think of it, " he said quickly. He took--though he was a very temperateman--not the claret I was going to offer him, but some brandy from thetray, and swallowed it almost undiluted. "Mind you, I don't believe aword of it, " he said, when he had lighted his candle; "but I can't tellwhat to think, " he turned round to add, when he was half-way upstairs. 

All of this, however, did me no good with the solution of my problem. Iwas to help this weeping, sobbing thing, which was already to me asdistinct a personality as anything I knew; or what should I say toRoland? It was on my heart that my boy would die if I could not find someway of helping this creature. You may be surprised that I should speak ofit in this way. I did not know if it was man or woman; but I no moredoubted that it was a soul in pain than I doubted my own being; and itwas my business to soothe this pain, --to deliver it, if that waspossible. Was ever such a task given to an anxious father trembling forhis only boy? I felt in my heart, fantastic as it may appear, that I mustfulfill this somehow, or part with my child; and you may conceive thatrather than do that I was ready to die. But even my dying would not haveadvanced me, unless by bringing me into the same world with that seekerat the door. 

 * * * * *

Next morning Simson was out before breakfast, and came in with evidentsigns of the damp grass on his boots, and a look of worry and weariness, which did not say much for the night he had passed. He improved a littleafter breakfast, and visited his two patients, --for Bagley was still aninvalid. I went out with him on his way to the train, to hear what hehad to say about the boy. "He is going on very well, " he said; "there areno complications as yet. But mind you, that's not a boy to be trifledwith, Mortimer. Not a word to him about last night. " I had to tell himthen of my last interview with Roland, and of the impossible demand hehad made upon me, by which, though he tried to laugh, he was muchdiscomposed, as I could see. "We must just perjure ourselves all round, "he said, "and swear you exorcised it;" but the man was too kind-heartedto be satisfied with that. "It's frightfully serious for you, Mortimer. Ican't laugh as I should like to. I wish I saw a way out of it, for yoursake. By the way, " he added shortly, "didn't you notice that juniper-bushon the left-hand side?" "There was one on the right hand of the door. Inoticed you made that mistake last night. " "Mistake!" he cried, with acurious low laugh, pulling up the collar of his coat as though he feltthe cold, --"there's no juniper there this morning, left or right. Just goand see. " As he stepped into the train a few minutes after, he lookedback upon me and beckoned me for a parting word. "I'm coming backto-night, " he said. 

I don't think I had any feeling about this as I turned away from thatcommon bustle of the railway which made my private preoccupations feel sostrangely out of date. There had been a distinct satisfaction in my mindbefore, that his scepticism had been so entirely defeated. But the moreserious part of the matter pressed upon me now. I went straight from therailway to the manse, which stood on a little plateau on the side of theriver opposite to the woods of Brentwood. The minister was one of a classwhich is not so common in Scotland as it used to be. He was a man of goodfamily, well educated in the Scotch way, strong in philosophy, not sostrong in Greek, strongest of all in experience, --a man who had "comeacross, " in the course of his life, most people of note that had everbeen in Scotland, and who was said to be very sound in doctrine, withoutinfringing the toleration with which old men, who are good men, aregenerally endowed. He was old-fashioned; perhaps he did not think so muchabout the troublous problems of theology as many of the young men, norask himself any hard questions about the Confession of Faith; but heunderstood human nature, which is perhaps better. He received me with acordial welcome. 

"Come away, Colonel Mortimer, " he said; "I'm all the more glad to seeyou, that I feel it's a good sign for the boy. He's doing well?--God bepraised, --and the Lord bless him and keep him. He has many a poor body'sprayers, and that can do nobody harm. "

"He will need them all, Dr. Moncrieff, " I said, "and your counsel too. "And I told him the story, --more than I had told Simson. The old clergymanlistened to me with many suppressed exclamations, and at the end thewater stood in his eyes. 

"That's just beautiful, " he said. "I do not mind to have heard anythinglike it; it's as fine as Burns when he wished deliverance to one--that isprayed for in no kirk. Ay, ay! so he would have you console the poor lostspirit? God bless the boy! There's something more than common in that, Colonel Mortimer. And also the faith of him in his father!--I would liketo put that into a sermon. " Then the old gentleman gave me an alarmedlook, and said, "No, no; I was not meaning a sermon; but I must write itdown for the 'Children's Record. '" I saw the thought that passed throughhis mind. Either he thought, or he feared I would think, of a funeralsermon. You may believe this did not make me more cheerful. 

I can scarcely say that Dr. Moncrieff gave me any advice. How could anyone advise on such a subject? But he said, "I think I'll come too. I'm anold man; I'm less liable to be frightened than those that are further offthe world unseen. It behooves me to think of my own journey there. I'veno cut-and-dry beliefs on the subject. I'll come too; and maybe at themoment the Lord will put into our heads what to do. "

This gave me a little comfort, --more than Simson had given me. To beclear about the cause of it was not my grand desire. It was another thingthat was in my mind, --my boy. As for the poor soul at the open door, Ihad no more doubt, as I have said, of its existence than I had of my own. It was no ghost to me. I knew the creature, and it was in trouble. Thatwas my feeling about it, as it was Roland's. To hear it first was a greatshock to my nerves, but not now; a man will get accustomed to anything. But to do something for it was the great problem; how was I to beserviceable to a being that was invisible, that was mortal no longer?"Maybe at the moment the Lord will put it into our heads. " This is veryold-fashioned phraseology, and a week before, most likely, I should havesmiled (though always with kindness) at Dr. Moncrieff's credulity; butthere was a great comfort, whether rational or otherwise I cannot say, inthe mere sound of the words. 

The road to the station and the village lay through the glen, not by theruins; but though the sunshine and the fresh air, and the beauty of thetrees, and the sound of the water were all very soothing to the spirits, my mind was so full of my own subject that I could not refrain fromturning to the right hand as I got to the top of the glen, and goingstraight to the place which I may call the scene of all my thoughts. Itwas lying full in the sunshine, like all the rest of the world. Theruined gable looked due east, and in the present aspect of the sun thelight streamed down through the door-way as our lantern had done, throwing a flood of light upon the damp grass beyond. There was a strangesuggestion in the open door, --so futile, a kind of emblem of vanity: allfree around, so that you could go where you pleased, and yet thatsemblance of an enclosure, --that way of entrance, unnecessary, leading tonothing. And why any creature should pray and weep to get in--to nothing, or be kept out--by nothing, you could not dwell upon it, or it made yourbrain go round. I remembered, however, what Simson said about thejuniper, with a little smile on my own mind as to the inaccuracy ofrecollection which even a scientific man will be guilty of. I could seenow the light of my lantern gleaming upon the wet glistening surface ofthe spiky leaves at the right hand, --and he ready to go to the stake forit that it was the left! I went round to make sure. And then I saw whathe had said. Right or left there was no juniper at all! I was confoundedby this, though it was entirely a matter of detail nothing at all, --abush of brambles waving, the grass growing up to the very walls. Butafter all, though it gave me a shock for a moment, what did that matter?There were marks as if a number of footsteps had been up and down infront of the door, but these might have been our steps; and all wasbright and peaceful and still. I poked about the other ruin--the largerruins of the old house--for some time, as I had done before. There weremarks upon the grass here and there--I could not call themfootsteps--all about; but that told for nothing one way or another. I hadexamined the ruined rooms closely the first day. They were half filled upwith soil and _debris_, withered brackens and bramble, --no refuge for anyone there. It vexed me that Jarvis should see me coming from that spotwhen he came up to me for his orders. I don't know whether my nocturnalexpeditions had got wind among the servants, but there was a significantlook in his face. Something in it I felt was like my own sensation whenSimson in the midst of his scepticism was struck dumb. Jarvis feltsatisfied that his veracity had been put beyond question. I never spoketo a servant of mine in such a peremptory tone before. I sent him away"with a flea in his lug, " as the man described it afterwards. Interference of any kind was intolerable to me at such a moment. 

But what was strangest of all was, that I could not face Roland. I didnot go up to his room, as I would have naturally done, at once. This thegirls could not understand. They saw there was some mystery in it. "Mother has gone to lie down, " Agatha said; "he has had such a goodnight. " "But he wants you so, papa!" cried little Jeanie, always with hertwo arms embracing mine in a pretty way she had. I was obliged to go atlast, but what could I say? I could only kiss him, and tell him to keepstill, --that I was doing all I could. There is something mystical aboutthe patience of a child. "It will come all right, won't it, father?" hesaid. "God grant it may! I hope so, Roland. " "Oh, yes, it will come allright. " Perhaps he understood that in the midst of my anxiety I could notstay with him as I should have done otherwise. But the girls were moresurprised than it is possible to describe. They looked at me withwondering eyes. "If I were ill, papa, and you only stayed with me amoment, I should break my heart, " said Agatha. But the boy had asympathetic feeling. He knew that of my own will I would not have doneit. I shut myself up in the library, where I could not rest, but keptpacing up and down like a caged beast. What could I do? and if I could donothing, what would become of my boy? These were the questions that, without ceasing, pursued each other through my mind. 

Simson came out to dinner, and when the house was all still, and most ofthe servants in bed, we went out and met Dr. Moncrieff, as we hadappointed, at the head of the glen. Simson, for his part, was disposed toscoff at the Doctor. "If there are to be any spells, you know, I'll cutthe whole concern, " he said. I did not make him any reply. I had notinvited him; he could go or come as he pleased. He was very talkative, far more so than suited my humor, as we went on. "One thing is certain, you know; there must be some human agency, " he said. "It is all boshabout apparitions. I never have investigated the laws of sound to anygreat extent, and there's a great deal in ventriloquism that we don'tknow much about. " "If it's the same to you, " I said, "I wish you'd keepall that to yourself, Simson. It doesn't suit my state of mind. " "Oh, Ihope I know how to respect idiosyncrasy, " he said. The very tone of hisvoice irritated me beyond measure. These scientific fellows, I wonderpeople put up with them as they do, when you have no mind for theircold-blooded confidence. Dr. Moncrieff met us about eleven o'clock, thesame time as on the previous night. He was a large man, with a venerablecountenance and white hair, --old, but in full vigor, and thinking lessof a cold night walk than many a younger man. He had his lantern, as Ihad. We were fully provided with means of lighting the place, and we wereall of us resolute men. We had a rapid consultation as we went up, andthe result was that we divided to different posts. Dr. Moncrieff remainedinside the wall--if you can call that inside where there was no wall butone. Simson placed himself on the side next the ruins, so as to interceptany communication with the old house, which was what his mind was fixedupon. I was posted on the other side. To say that nothing could come nearwithout being seen was self-evident. It had been so also on the previousnight. Now, with our three lights in the midst of the darkness, the wholeplace seemed illuminated. Dr. Moncrieff's lantern, which was a large one, without any means of shutting up, --an old-fashioned lantern with apierced and ornamental top, --shone steadily, the rays shooting out of itupward into the gloom. He placed it on the grass, where the middle of theroom, if this had been a room, would have been. The usual effect of thelight streaming out of the door-way was prevented by the illuminationwhich Simson and I on either side supplied. With these differences, everything seemed as on the previous night. 

And what occurred was exactly the same, with the same air of repetition, point for point, as I had formerly remarked. I declare that it seemed tome as if I were pushed against, put aside, by the owner of the voice ashe paced up and down in his trouble, --though these are perfectly futilewords, seeing that the stream of light from my lantern, and that fromSimson's taper, lay broad and clear, without a shadow, without thesmallest break, across the entire breadth of the grass. I had ceased evento be alarmed, for my part. My heart was rent with pity andtrouble, --pity for the poor suffering human creature that moaned andpleaded so, and trouble for myself and my boy. God! if I could not findany help, --and what help could I find?--Roland would die. 

We were all perfectly still till the first outburst was exhausted, as Iknew, by experience, it would be. Dr. Moncrieff, to whom it was new, wasquite motionless on the other side of the wall, as we were in our places. My heart had remained almost at its usual beating during the voice. I wasused to it; it did not rouse all my pulses as it did at first. But justas it threw itself sobbing at the door (I cannot use other words), theresuddenly came something which sent the blood coursing through my veins, and my heart into my mouth. It was a voice inside the wall, --theminister's well-known voice. I would have been prepared for it in anykind of adjuration, but I was not prepared for what I heard. It came outwith a sort of stammering, as if too much moved for utterance. "Willie, Willie! Oh, God preserve us! is it you?"

These simple words had an effect upon me that the voice of theinvisible creature had ceased to have. I thought the old man, whom Ihad brought into this danger, had gone mad with terror. I made a dashround to the other side of the wall, half crazed myself with thethought. He was standing where I had left him, his shadow thrown vagueand large upon the grass by the lantern which stood at his feet. Ilifted my own light to see his face as I rushed forward. He was verypale, his eyes wet and glistening, his mouth quivering with partedlips. He neither saw nor heard me. We that had gone through thisexperience before, had crouched towards each other to get a littlestrength to bear it. But he was not even aware that I was there. Hiswhole being seemed absorbed in anxiety and tenderness. He held out hishands, which trembled, but it seemed to me with eagerness, not fear. Hewent on speaking all the time. "Willie, if it is you, --and it's you, ifit is not a delusion of Satan, --Willie, lad! why come ye here frightingthem that know you not? Why came ye not to me?"

He seemed to wait for an answer. When his voice ceased, his countenance, every line moving, continued to speak. Simson gave me another terribleshock, stealing into the open door-way with his light, as muchawe-stricken, as wildly curious, as I. But the minister resumed, withoutseeing Simson, speaking to some one else. His voice took a tone ofexpostulation:--

"Is this right to come here? Your mother's gone with your name on herlips. Do you think she would ever close her door on her own lad? Do yethink the Lord will close the door, ye faint-hearted creature? No!--Iforbid ye! I forbid ye!" cried the old man. The sobbing voice had begunto resume its cries. He made a step forward, calling out the last wordsin a voice of command. "I forbid ye! Cry out no more to man. Go home, yewandering spirit! go home! Do you hear me?--me that christened ye, thathave struggled with ye, that have wrestled for ye with the Lord!" Herethe loud tones of his voice sank into tenderness. "And her too, poorwoman! poor woman! her you are calling upon. She's not here. You'll findher with the Lord. Go there and seek her, not here. Do you hear me, lad?go after her there. He'll let you in, though it's late. Man, take heart!if you will lie and sob and greet, let it be at heaven's gate, and notyour poor mother's ruined door. "

He stopped to get his breath; and the voice had stopped, not as it haddone before, when its time was exhausted and all its repetitions said, but with a sobbing catch in the breath as if overruled. Then theminister spoke again, "Are you hearing me, Will? Oh, laddie, you've likedthe beggarly elements all your days. Be done with them now. Go home tothe Father--the Father! Are you hearing me?" Here the old man sank downupon his knees, his face raised upwards, his hands held up with a tremblein them, all white in the light in the midst of the darkness. I resistedas long as I could, though I cannot tell why; then I, too, dropped uponmy knees. Simson all the time stood in the door-way, with an expressionin his face such as words could not tell, his under lip dropped, his eyeswild, staring. It seemed to be to him, that image of blank ignorance andwonder, that we were praying. All the time the voice, with a low arrestedsobbing, lay just where he was standing, as I thought. 

"Lord, " the minister said, --"Lord, take him into Thy everlastinghabitations. The mother he cries to is with Thee. Who can open to him butThee? Lord, when is it too late for Thee, or what is too hard for Thee?Lord, let that woman there draw him inower! Let her draw him inower!"

I sprang forward to catch something in my arms that flung itself wildlywithin the door. The illusion was so strong, that I never paused till Ifelt my forehead graze against the wall and my hands clutch theground, --for there was nobody there to save from falling, as in myfoolishness I thought. Simson held out his hand to me to help me up. Hewas trembling and cold, his lower lip hanging, his speech almostinarticulate. "It's gone, " he said, stammering, --"it's gone!" We leanedupon each other for a moment, trembling so much, both of us, that thewhole scene trembled as if it were going to dissolve and disappear; andyet as long as I live I will never forget it, --the shining of thestrange lights, the blackness all round, the kneeling figure with allthe whiteness of the light concentrated on its white venerable head anduplifted hands. A strange solemn stillness seemed to close all round us. By intervals a single syllable, "Lord! Lord!" came from the oldminister's lips. He saw none of us, nor thought of us. I never knew howlong we stood, like sentinels guarding him at his prayers, holding ourlights in a confused dazed way, not knowing what we did. But at last herose from his knees, and standing up at his full height, raised hisarms, as the Scotch manner is at the end of a religious service, andsolemnly gave the apostolical benediction, --to what? to the silentearth, the dark woods, the wide breathing atmosphere; for we were butspectators gasping an Amen!

It seemed to me that it must be the middle of the night, as we all walkedback. It was in reality very late. Dr. Moncrieff put his arm into mine. He walked slowly, with an air of exhaustion. It was as if we were comingfrom a death-bed. Something hushed and solemnized the very air. There wasthat sense of relief in it which there always is at the end of adeath-struggle. And nature, persistent, never daunted, came back in allof us, as we returned into the ways of life. We said nothing to eachother, indeed, for a time; but when we got clear of the trees andreached the opening near the house, where we could see the sky, Dr. Moncrieff himself was the first to speak. "I must be going, " he said;"it's very late, I'm afraid. I will go down the glen, as I came. "

"But not alone. I am going with you, Doctor. "

"Well, I will not oppose it. I am an old man, and agitation wearies morethan work. Yes; I'll be thankful of your arm. To-night, Colonel, you'vedone me more good turns than one. "

I pressed his hand on my arm, not feeling able to speak. But Simson, who turned with us, and who had gone along all this time with his taperflaring, in entire unconsciousness, came to himself, apparently at thesound of our voices, and put out that wild little torch with a quickmovement, as if of shame. "Let me carry your lantern, " he said; "it isheavy. " He recovered with a spring; and in a moment, from theawe-stricken spectator he had been, became himself, sceptical andcynical. "I should like to ask you a question, " he said. "Do youbelieve in Purgatory, Doctor? It's not in the tenets of the Church, sofar as I know. "

"Sir, " said Dr. Moncrieff, "an old man like me is sometimes not verysure what he believes. There is just one thing I am certain of--and thatis the loving-kindness of God. "

"But I thought that was in this life. I am no theologian--"

"Sir, " said the old man again, with a tremor in him which I could feelgoing over all his frame, "if I saw a friend of mine within the gates ofhell, I would not despair but his Father would take him by the handstill, if he cried like _you_. "

"I allow it is very strange, very strange. I cannot see through it. Thatthere must be human agency, I feel sure. Doctor, what made you decideupon the person and the name?"

The minister put out his hand with the impatience which a man might showif he were asked how he recognized his brother. "Tuts!" he said, infamiliar speech; then more solemnly, "How should I not recognize a personthat I know better--far better--than I know you?"

"Then you saw the man?"

Dr. Moncrieff made no reply. He moved his hand again with a littleimpatient movement, and walked on, leaning heavily on my arm. And we wenton for a long time without another word, threading the dark paths, whichwere steep and slippery with the damp of the winter. The air was verystill, --not more than enough to make a faint sighing in the branches, which mingled with the sound of the water to which we were descending. When we spoke again, it was about indifferent matters, --about the heightof the river, and the recent rains. We parted with the minister at hisown door, where his old housekeeper appeared in great perturbation, waiting for him. "Eh, me, minister! the young gentleman will be worse?"she cried. 

"Far from that--better. God bless him!" Dr. Moncrieff said. 

I think if Simson had begun again to me with his questions, I should havepitched him over the rocks as we returned up the glen; but he was silent, by a good inspiration. And the sky was clearer than it had been for manynights, shining high over the trees, with here and there a star faintlygleaming through the wilderness of dark and bare branches. The air, as Ihave said, was very soft in them, with a subdued and peaceful cadence. Itwas real, like every natural sound, and came to us like a hush of peaceand relief. I thought there was a sound in it as of the breath of asleeper, and it seemed clear to me that Roland must be sleeping, satisfied and calm. We went up to his room when we went in. There wefound the complete hush of rest. My wife looked up out of a doze, andgave me a smile: "I think he is a great deal better; but you are verylate, " she said in a whisper, shading the light with her hand that theDoctor might see his patient. The boy had got back something like his owncolor. He woke as we stood all round his bed. His eyes had the happy, half-awakened look of childhood, glad to shut again, yet pleased with theinterruption and glimmer of the light. I stooped over him and kissed hisforehead, which was moist and cool. "All is well, Roland, " I said. Helooked up at me with a glance of pleasure, and took my hand and laid hischeek upon it, and so went to sleep. 

 * * * * *

For some nights after, I watched among the ruins, spending all the darkhours up to midnight patrolling about the bit of wall which wasassociated with so many emotions; but I heard nothing, and saw nothingbeyond the quiet course of nature; nor, so far as I am aware, hasanything been heard again. Dr. Moncrieff gave me the history of theyouth, whom he never hesitated to name. I did not ask, as Simson did, howhe recognized him. He had been a prodigal, --weak, foolish, easily imposedupon, and "led away, " as people say. All that we had heard had passedactually in life, the Doctor said. The young man had come home thus a dayor two after his mother died, --who was no more than the housekeeper inthe old house, --and distracted with the news, had thrown himself down atthe door and called upon her to let him in. The old man could scarcelyspeak of it for tears. To me it seemed as if--Heaven help us, how littledo we know about anything!--a scene like that might impress itselfsomehow upon the hidden heart of nature. I do not pretend to know how, but the repetition had struck me at the time as, in its terriblestrangeness and incomprehensibility, almost mechanical, --as if the unseenactor could not exceed or vary, but was bound to re-enact the whole. Onething that struck me, however, greatly, was the likeness between the oldminister and my boy in the manner of regarding these strange phenomena. Dr. Moncrieff was not terrified, as I had been myself, and all the restof us. It was no "ghost, " as I fear we all vulgarly considered it, tohim, --but a poor creature whom he knew under these conditions, just ashe had known him in the flesh, having no doubt of his identity. And toRoland it was the same. This spirit in pain, --if it was a spirit, --thisvoice out of the unseen, --was a poor fellow-creature in misery, to besuccored and helped out of his trouble, to my boy. He spoke to me quitefrankly about it when he got better. "I knew father would find out someway, " he said. And this was when he was strong and well, and all ideathat he would turn hysterical or become a seer of visions had happilypassed away. 

 * * * * *

I must add one curious fact, which does not seem to me to have anyrelation to the above, but which Simson made great use of, as the humanagency which he was determined to find somehow. We had examined the ruinsvery closely at the time of these occurrences; but afterwards, when allwas over, as we went casually about them one Sunday afternoon in theidleness of that unemployed day, Simson with his stick penetrated an oldwindow which had been entirely blocked up with fallen soil. He jumpeddown into it in great excitement, and called me to follow. There we founda little hole, --for it was more a hole than a room, --entirely hiddenunder the ivy and ruins, in which there was a quantity of straw laid in acorner, as if some one had made a bed there, and some remains of crustsabout the floor. Some one had lodged there, and not very long before, hemade out; and that this unknown being was the author of all themysterious sounds we heard he is convinced. "I told you it was humanagency, " he said triumphantly. He forgets, I suppose, how he and I stoodwith our lights, seeing nothing, while the space between us was audiblytraversed by something that could speak, and sob, and suffer. There is noargument with men of this kind. He is ready to get up a laugh against meon this slender ground. "I was puzzled myself, --I could not make itout, --but I always felt convinced human agency was at the bottom of it. And here it is, --and a clever fellow he must have been, " the Doctor says. 

Bagley left my service as soon as he got well. He assured me it was nowant of respect, but he could not stand "them kind of things;" and theman was so shaken and ghastly that I was glad to give him a present andlet him go. For my own part, I made a point of staying out thetime--two years--for which I had taken Brentwood; but I did not renewmy tenancy. By that time we had settled, and found for ourselves apleasant home of our own. 

I must add, that when the Doctor defies me, I can always bring backgravity to his countenance, and a pause in his railing, when I remind himof the juniper-bush. To me that was a matter of little importance. Icould believe I was mistaken. I did not care about it one way or other;but on his mind the effect was different. The miserable voice, the spiritin pain, he could think of as the result of ventriloquism, orreverberation, or--anything you please: an elaborate prolonged hoax, executed somehow by the tramp that had found a lodging in the old tower;but the juniper-bush staggered him. Things have effects so different onthe minds of different men. 

II

THE PORTRAIT

At the period when the following incidents occurred, I was living with myfather at The Grove, a large old house in the immediate neighborhood of alittle town. This had been his home for a number of years; and I believeI was born in it. It was a kind of house which, notwithstanding all thered and white architecture known at present by the name of Queen Anne, builders nowadays have forgotten how to build. It was straggling andirregular, with wide passages, wide staircases, broad landings; the roomslarge but not very lofty; the arrangements leaving much to be desired, with no economy of space; a house belonging to a period when land wascheap, and, so far as that was concerned, there was no occasion toeconomize. Though it was so near the town, the clump of trees in which itwas environed was a veritable grove. In the grounds in spring theprimroses grew as thickly as in the forest. We had a few fields for thecows, and an excellent walled garden. The place is being pulled down atthis moment to make room for more streets of mean little houses, --thekind of thing, and not a dull house of faded gentry, which perhaps theneighborhood requires. The house was dull, and so were we, its lastinhabitants; and the furniture was faded, even a little dingy, --nothingto brag of. I do not, however, intend to convey a suggestion that we werefaded gentry, for that was not the case. My father, indeed, was rich, andhad no need to spare any expense in making his life and his house brightif he pleased; but he did not please, and I had not been long enough athome to exercise any special influence of my own. It was the only home Ihad ever known; but except in my earliest childhood, and in my holidaysas a schoolboy, I had in reality known but little of it. My mother haddied at my birth, or shortly after, and I had grown up in the gravity andsilence of a house without women. In my infancy, I believe, a sister ofmy father's had lived with us, and taken charge of the household and ofme; but she, too, had died long, long ago, my mourning for her being oneof the first things I could recollect. And she had no successor. Therewere, indeed, a housekeeper and some maids, --the latter of whom I onlysaw disappearing at the end of a passage, or whisking out of a room whenone of "the gentlemen" appeared. Mrs. Weir, indeed, I saw nearly everyday; but a curtsey, a smile, a pair of nice round arms which she caressedwhile folding them across her ample waist, and a large white apron, wereall I knew of her. This was the only female influence in the house. Thedrawing-room I was aware of only as a place of deadly good order, intowhich nobody ever entered. It had three long windows opening on the lawn, and communicated at the upper end, which was rounded like a great bay, with the conservatory. Sometimes I gazed into it as a child from without, wondering at the needlework on the chairs, the screens, thelooking-glasses which never reflected any living face. My father did notlike the room, which probably was not wonderful, though it never occurredto me in those early days to inquire why. 

I may say here, though it will probably be disappointing to those whoform a sentimental idea of the capabilities of children, that it didnot occur to me either, in these early days, to make any inquiry aboutmy mother. There was no room in life, as I knew it, for any suchperson; nothing suggested to my mind either the fact that she must haveexisted, or that there was need of her in the house. I accepted, as Ibelieve most children do, the facts of existence, on the basis withwhich I had first made acquaintance with them, without question orremark. As a matter of fact, I was aware that it was rather dull athome; but neither by comparison with the books I read, nor by thecommunications received from my school-fellows, did this seem to meanything remarkable. And I was possibly somewhat dull too by nature, for I did not mind. I was fond of reading, and for that there wasunbounded opportunity. I had a little ambition in respect to work, andthat too could be prosecuted undisturbed. When I went to theuniversity, my society lay almost entirely among men; but by that timeand afterwards, matters had of course greatly changed with me, andthough I recognized women as part of the economy of nature, and did notindeed by any means dislike or avoid them, yet the idea of connectingthem at all with my own home never entered into my head. That continuedto be as it had always been, when at intervals I descended upon thecool, grave, colorless place, in the midst of my traffic with theworld: always very still, well-ordered, serious, --the cooking verygood, the comfort perfect; old Morphew, the butler, a little older (butvery little older, perhaps on the whole less old, since in my childhoodI had thought him a kind of Methuselah); and Mrs. Weir, less active, covering up her arms in sleeves, but folding and caressing them just asalways. I remember looking in from the lawn through the windows uponthat deadly-orderly drawing-room, with a humorous recollection of mychildish admiration and wonder, and feeling that it must be kept soforever and ever, and that to go into it would break some sort ofamusing mock mystery, some pleasantly ridiculous spell. 

But it was only at rare intervals that I went home. In the long vacation, as in my school holidays, my father often went abroad with me, so that wehad gone over a great deal of the Continent together very pleasantly. Hewas old in proportion to the age of his son, being a man of sixty when Iwas twenty, but that did not disturb the pleasure of the relationsbetween us. I don't know that they were ever very confidential. On myside there was but little to communicate, for I did not get into scrapesnor fall in love, the two predicaments which demand sympathy andconfidences. And as for my father himself, I was never aware what therecould be to communicate on his side. I knew his life exactly, --what hedid almost at every hour of the day; under what circumstances of thetemperature he would ride and when walk; how often and with what guestshe would indulge in the occasional break of a dinner-party, a seriouspleasure, --perhaps, indeed, less a pleasure than a duty. All this I knewas well as he did, and also his views on public matters, his politicalopinions, which naturally were different from mine. What ground, then, remained for confidence? I did not know any. We were both of us of areserved nature, not apt to enter into our religious feelings, forinstance. There are many people who think reticence on such subjects asign of the most reverential way of contemplating them. Of this I am farfrom being sure; but, at all events, it was the practice most congenialto my own mind. 

And then I was for a long time absent, making my own way in the world. Idid not make it very successfully. I accomplished the natural fate of anEnglishman, and went out to the Colonies; then to India in asemi-diplomatic position; but returned home after seven or eight years, invalided, in bad health and not much better spirits, tired anddisappointed with my first trial of life. I had, as people say, "nooccasion" to insist on making my way. My father was rich, and had nevergiven me the slightest reason to believe that he did not intend me to behis heir. His allowance to me was not illiberal, and though he did notoppose the carrying out of my own plans, he by no means urged me toexertion. When I came home he received me very affectionately, andexpressed his satisfaction in my return. "Of course, " he said, "I am notglad that you are disappointed, Philip, or that your health is broken;but otherwise it is an ill wind, you know, that blows nobody good; and Iam very glad to have you at home. I am growing an old man--"

"I don't see any difference, sir, " said I; "everything here seems exactlythe same as when I went away--"

He smiled, and shook his head. "It is true enough, " he said; "after wehave reached a certain age we seem to go on for a long time on aplane, and feel no great difference from year to year; but it is aninclined plane, and the longer we go on the more sudden will be thefall at the end. But at all events it will be a great comfort to me tohave you here. "

"If I had known that, " I said, "and that you wanted me, I should havecome in any circumstances. As there are only two of us in the world--"

"Yes, " he said, "there are only two of us in the world; but still Ishould not have sent for you, Phil, to interrupt your career. "

"It is as well, then, that it has interrupted itself, " I said ratherbitterly; for disappointment is hard to bear. 

He patted me on the shoulder, and repeated, "It is an ill wind that blowsnobody good, " with a look of real pleasure which gave me a certaingratification too; for, after all, he was an old man, and the only one inall the world to whom I owed any duty. I had not been without dreams ofwarmer affections, but they had come to nothing--not tragically, but inthe ordinary way. I might perhaps have had love which I did not want butnot that which I did want, --which was not a thing to make any unmanlymoan about, but in the ordinary course of events. Such disappointmentshappen every day; indeed, they are more common than anything else, andsometimes it is apparent afterwards that it is better it was so. 

However, here I was at thirty stranded, yet wanting for nothing, --in aposition to call forth rather envy than pity from the greater part of mycontemporaries; for I had an assured and comfortable existence, as muchmoney as I wanted, and the prospect of an excellent fortune for thefuture. On the other hand, my health was still low, and I had nooccupation. The neighborhood of the town was a drawback rather than anadvantage. I felt myself tempted, instead of taking the long walk intothe country which my doctor recommended, to take a much shorter onethrough the High Street, across the river, and back again, which wasnot a walk but a lounge. The country was silent and full ofthoughts, --thoughts not always very agreeable, --whereas there were alwaysthe humors of the little urban population to glance at, the news to beheard, --all those petty matters which so often make up life in a veryimpoverished version for the idle man. I did not like it, but I feltmyself yielding to it, not having energy enough to make a stand. Therector and the leading lawyer of the place asked me to dinner. I mighthave glided into the society, such as it was, had I been disposed forthat; everything about me began to close over me as if I had been fifty, and fully contented with my lot. 

It was possibly my own want of occupation which made me observe withsurprise, after a while, how much occupied my father was. He hadexpressed himself glad of my return; but now that I had returned, I sawvery little of him. Most of his time was spent in his library, as hadalways been the case. But on the few visits I paid him there, I could notbut perceive that the aspect of the library was much changed. It hadacquired the look of a business-room, almost an office. There were largebusiness-like books on the table, which I could not associate withanything he could naturally have to do; and his correspondence was verylarge. I thought he closed one of those books hurriedly as I came in, andpushed it away, as if he did not wish me to see it. This surprised me atthe moment without arousing any other feeling; but afterwards Iremembered it with a clearer sense of what it meant. He was more absorbedaltogether than I had been used to see him. He was visited by mensometimes not of very prepossessing appearance. Surprise grew in my mindwithout any very distinct idea of the reason of it; and it was not tillafter a chance conversation with Morphew that my vague uneasiness beganto take definite shape. It was begun without any special intention on mypart. Morphew had informed me that master was very busy, on some occasionwhen I wanted to see him. And I was a little annoyed to be thus put off. "It appears to me that my father is always busy, " I said hastily. Morphewthen began very oracularly to nod his head in assent. 

"A deal too busy, sir, if you take my opinion, " he said. 

This startled me much, and I asked hurriedly, "What do you mean?" withoutreflecting that to ask for private information from a servant about myfather's habits was as bad as investigating into a stranger's affairs. Itdid not strike me in the same light. 

"Mr. Philip, " said Morphew, "a thing 'as 'appened as 'appens more oftenthan it ought to. Master has got awful keen about money in his old age. "

"That's a new thing for him, " I said. 

"No, sir, begging your pardon, it ain't a new thing. He was oncebroke of it, and that wasn't easy done; but it's come back, if you'llexcuse me saying so. And I don't know as he'll ever be broke of itagain at his age. "

I felt more disposed to be angry than disturbed by this. "You must bemaking some ridiculous mistake, " I said. "And if you were not so old afriend as you are, Morphew, I should not have allowed my father to be sospoken of to me. "

The old man gave me a half-astonished, half-contemptuous look. "He's beenmy master a deal longer than he's been your father, " he said, turning onhis heel. The assumption was so comical that my anger could not stand inface of it. I went out, having been on my way to the door when thisconversation occurred, and took my usual lounge about, which was not asatisfactory sort of amusement. Its vanity and emptiness appeared to bemore evident than usual to-day. I met half-a-dozen people I knew, and hadas many pieces of news confided to me. I went up and down the length ofthe High Street. I made a small purchase or two. And then I turnedhomeward, despising myself, yet finding no alternative within my reach. Would a long country walk have been more virtuous? It would at least havebeen more wholesome; but that was all that could be said. My mind didnot dwell on Morphew's communication. It seemed without sense or meaningto me; and after the excellent joke about his superior interest in hismaster to mine in my father, was dismissed lightly enough from my mind. Itried to invent some way of telling this to my father without letting himperceive that Morphew had been finding faults in him, or I listening; forit seemed a pity to lose so good a joke. However, as I returned home, something happened which put the joke entirely out of my head. It iscurious when a new subject of trouble or anxiety has been suggested tothe mind in an unexpected way, how often a second advertisement followsimmediately after the first, and gives to that a potency which in itselfit had not possessed. 

I was approaching our own door, wondering whether my father had gone, andwhether, on my return, I should find him at leisure, --for I had severallittle things to say to him, --when I noticed a poor woman lingering aboutthe closed gates. She had a baby sleeping in her arms. It was a springnight, the stars shining in the twilight, and everything soft and dim;and the woman's figure was like a shadow, flitting about, now here, nowthere, on one side or another of the gate. She stopped when she saw meapproaching, and hesitated for a moment, then seemed to take a suddenresolution. I watched her without knowing, with a prevision that she wasgoing to address me, though with no sort of idea as to the subject of heraddress. She came up to me doubtfully, it seemed, yet certainly, as Ifelt, and when she was close to me, dropped a sort of hesitating curtsey, and said, "It's Mr. Philip?" in a low voice. 

"What do you want with me?" I said. 

Then she poured forth suddenly, without warning or preparation, her longspeech, --a flood of words which must have been all ready and waiting atthe doors of her lips for utterance. "Oh, sir, I want to speak to you! Ican't believe you'll be so hard, for you're young; and I can't believehe'll be so hard if so be as his own son, as I've always heard he had butone, 'll speak up for us. Oh, gentleman, it is easy for the likes of you, that, if you ain't comfortable in one room, can just walk into another;but if one room is all you have, and every bit of furniture you havetaken out of it, and nothing but the four walls left, --not so much as thecradle for the child, or a chair for your man to sit down upon when hecomes from his work, or a saucepan to cook him his supper--"

"My good woman, " I said, "who can have taken all that from you? Surelynobody can be so cruel?"

"You say it's cruel!" she cried with a sort of triumph. "Oh, I knowed youwould, or any true gentleman that don't hold with screwing poor folks. Just go and say that to him inside there for the love of God. Tell himto think what he's doing, driving poor creatures to despair. Summer'scoming, the Lord be praised, but yet it's bitter cold at night with yourcounterpane gone; and when you've been working hard all day, and nothingbut four bare walls to come home to, and all your poor little sticks offurniture that you've saved up for, and got together one by one, allgone, and you no better than when you started, or rather worse, for thenyou was young. Oh, sir!" the woman's voice rose into a sort of passionatewail. And then she added, beseechingly, recovering herself, "Oh, speakfor us; he'll not refuse his own son--"

"To whom am I to speak? Who is it that has done this to you?" I said. 

The woman hesitated again, looking keenly in my face, then repeated witha slight faltering, "It's Mr. Philip?" as if that made everything right. 

"Yes; I am Philip Canning, " I said; "but what have I to do with this?and to whom am I to speak?"

She began to whimper, crying and stopping herself. "Oh, please, sir! it'sMr. Canning as owns all the house property about; it's him that our courtand the lane and everything belongs to. And he's taken the bed from underus, and the baby's cradle, although it's said in the Bible as you're notto take poor folks' bed. "

"My father!" I cried in spite of myself; "then it must be some agent, some one else in his name. You may be sure he knows nothing of it. Ofcourse I shall speak to him at once. "

"Oh, God bless you, sir, " said the woman. But then she added, in a lowertone, "It's no agent. It's one as never knows trouble. It's him thatlives in that grand house. " But this was said under her breath, evidentlynot for me to hear. 

Morphew's words flashed through my mind as she spoke. What was this? Didit afford an explanation of the much-occupied hours, the big books, thestrange visitors? I took the poor woman's name, and gave her somethingto procure a few comforts for the night, and went indoors disturbed andtroubled. It was impossible to believe that my father himself wouldhave acted thus; but he was not a man to brook interference, and I didnot see how to introduce the subject, what to say. I could but hopethat, at the moment of broaching it, words would be put into my mouth, which often happens in moments of necessity, one knows not how, evenwhen one's theme is not so all-important as that for which such help hasbeen promised. As usual, I did not see my father till dinner. I havesaid that our dinners were very good, luxurious in a simple way, everything excellent in its kind, well cooked, well served, --theperfection of comfort without show, --which is a combination very dear tothe English heart. I said nothing till Morphew, with his solemnattention to everything that was going, had retired; and then it waswith some strain of courage that I began. 

"I was stopped outside the gate to-day by a curious sort ofpetitioner, --a poor woman, who seems to be one of your tenants, sir, butwhom your agent must have been rather too hard upon. "

"My agent? Who is that?" said my father quietly. 

"I don't know his name, and I doubt his competence. The poor creatureseems to have had everything taken from her, --her bed, her child'scradle. "

"No doubt she was behind with her rent. "

"Very likely, sir. She seemed very poor, " said I. 

"You take it coolly, " said my father, with an upward glance, half-amused, not in the least shocked by my statement. "But when a man, or a womaneither, takes a house, I suppose you will allow that they ought to payrent for it. "

"Certainly, sir, " I replied, "when they have got anything to pay. "

"I don't allow the reservation, " he said. But he was not angry, which Ihad feared he would be. 

"I think, " I continued, "that your agent must be too severe. And thisemboldens me to say something which has been in my mind for sometime"--(these were the words, no doubt, which I had hoped would be putinto my month; they were the suggestion of the moment, and yet as I saidthem it was with the most complete conviction of their truth)--"and thatis this: I am doing nothing; my time hangs heavy on my hands. Make meyour agent. I will see for myself, and save you from such mistakes; andit will be an occupation--"

"Mistakes? What warrant have you for saying these are mistakes?" he saidtestily; then after a moment: "This is a strange proposal from you, Phil. Do you know what it is you are offering?--to be a collector of rents, going about from door to door, from week to week; to look after wretchedlittle bits of repairs, drains, etc. ; to get paid, which, after all, isthe chief thing, and not to be taken in by tales of poverty. "

"Not to let you be taken in by men without pity, " I said. 

He gave me a strange glance, which I did not very well understand, andsaid abruptly, a thing which, so far as I remember, he had never in mylife said before, "You've become a little like your mother, Phil--"

"My mother!" the reference was so unusual--nay, so unprecedented--that Iwas greatly startled. It seemed to me like the sudden introduction of aquite new element in the stagnant atmosphere, as well as a new party toour conversation. My father looked across the table, as if with someastonishment at my tone of surprise. 

"Is that so very extraordinary?" he said. 

"No; of course it is not extraordinary that I should resemble my mother. Only--I have heard very little of her--almost nothing. "

"That is true. " He got up and placed himself before the fire, which wasvery low, as the night was not cold--had not been cold heretofore atleast; but it seemed to me now that a little chill came into the dim andfaded room. Perhaps it looked more dull from the suggestion of asomething brighter, warmer, that might have been. "Talking of mistakes, "he said, "perhaps that was one: to sever you entirely from her side ofthe house. But I did not care for the connection. You will understand howit is that I speak of it now when I tell you--" He stopped here, however, said nothing more for a minute or so, and then rang the bell. Morphewcame, as he always did, very deliberately, so that some time elapsed insilence, during which my surprise grew. When the old man appeared at thedoor--"Have you put the lights in the drawing-room, as I told you?" myfather said. 

"Yes, sir; and opened the box, sir; and it's a--it's a speakinglikeness--"

This the old man got out in a great hurry, as if afraid that his masterwould stop him. My father did so with a wave of his hand. 

"That's enough. I asked no information. You can go now. "

The door closed upon us, and there was again a pause. My subject hadfloated away altogether like a mist, though I had been so concerned aboutit. I tried to resume, but could not. Something seemed to arrest my verybreathing; and yet in this dull, respectable house of ours, whereeverything breathed good character and integrity, it was certain thatthere could be no shameful mystery to reveal. It was some time before myfather spoke, not from any purpose that I could see, but apparentlybecause his mind was busy with probably unaccustomed thoughts. 

"You scarcely know the drawing-room, Phil, " he said at last. 

"Very little. I have never seen it used. I have a little awe of it, totell the truth. "

"That should not be. There is no reason for that. But a man by himself, as I have been for the greater part of my life, has no occasion for adrawing-room. I always, as a matter of preference, sat among my books;however, I ought to have thought of the impression on you. "

"Oh, it is not important, " I said; "the awe was childish. I have notthought of it since I came home. "

"It never was anything very splendid at the best, " said he. He lifted thelamp from the table with a sort of abstraction, not remarking even myoffer to take it from him, and led the way. He was on the verge ofseventy, and looked his age; but it was a vigorous age, with no symptomof giving way. The circle of light from the lamp lit up his white hairand keen blue eyes and clear complexion; his forehead was like old ivory, his cheek warmly colored; an old man, yet a man in full strength. He wastaller than I was, and still almost as strong. As he stood for a momentwith the lamp in his hand, he looked like a tower in his great height andbulk. I reflected as I looked at him that I knew him intimately, moreintimately than any other creature in the world, --I was familiar withevery detail of his outward life; could it be that in reality I did notknow him at all?

 * * * * *

The drawing-room was already lighted with a flickering array of candlesupon the mantelpiece and along the walls, producing the pretty, starryeffect which candles give without very much light. As I had not thesmallest idea what I was about to see, for Morphew's "speaking likeness"was very hurriedly said, and only half comprehensible in the bewildermentof my faculties, my first glance was at this very unusual illumination, for which I could assign no reason. The next showed me a largefull-length portrait, still in the box in which apparently it hadtravelled, placed upright, supported against a table in the centre of theroom. My father walked straight up to it, motioned to me to place asmaller table close to the picture on the left side, and put his lampupon that. Then he waved his hand towards it, and stood aside that Imight see. 

It was a full-length portrait of a very young woman--I might say a girlscarcely twenty--in a white dress, made in a very simple old fashion, though I was too little accustomed to female costume to be able to fixthe date. It might have been a hundred years old, or twenty, for aught Iknew. The face had an expression of youth, candor, and simplicity morethan any face I had ever seen, --or so, at least in my surprise, Ithought. The eyes were a little wistful, with something which was almostanxiety which at least was not content--in them; a faint, almostimperceptible, curve in the lids. The complexion was of a dazzlingfairness, the hair light, but the eyes dark, which gave individuality tothe face. It would have been as lovely had the eyes been blue, --probablymore so, --but their darkness gave a touch of character, a slight discord, which made the harmony finer. It was not, perhaps, beautiful in thehighest sense of the word. The girl must have been too young, too slight, too little developed for actual beauty; but a face which so invited loveand confidence I never saw. One smiled at it with instinctive affection. "What a sweet face!" I said. "What a lovely girl! Who is she? Is this oneof the relations you were speaking of on the other side?"

My father made me no reply. He stood aside, looking at it as if he knewit too well to require to look, --as if the picture was already in hiseyes. "Yes, " he said, after an interval, with a long-drawn breath, "shewas a lovely girl, as you say. "

"Was?--then she is dead. What a pity!" I said; "what a pity! so young andso sweet!"

We stood gazing at her thus, in her beautiful stillness and calm, --twomen, the younger of us full-grown and conscious of many experiences, theother an old man, --before this impersonation of tender youth. At lengthhe said, with a slight tremulousness in his voice, "Does nothing suggestto you who she is, Phil?"

I turned round to look at him with profound astonishment, but he turnedaway from my look. A sort of quiver passed over his face. "That is yourmother, " he said, and walked suddenly away, leaving me there. 

My mother!

I stood for a moment in a kind of consternation before the white-robedinnocent creature, to me no more than a child; then a sudden laugh brokefrom me, without any will of mine something ludicrous, as well assomething awful, was in it. When the laugh was over, I found myself withtears in my eyes, gazing, holding my breath. The soft features seemed tomelt, the lips to move, the anxiety in the eyes to become a personalinquiry. Ah, no! nothing of the kind; only because of the water in mine. My mother! oh, fair and gentle creature, scarcely woman, how could anyman's voice call her by that name! I had little idea enough of what itmeant, --had heard it laughed at, scoffed at, reverenced, but never hadlearned to place it even among the ideal powers of life. Yet if it meantanything at all, what it meant was worth thinking of. What did she ask, looking at me with those eyes? What would she have said if "those lipshad language"? If I had known her only as Cowper did--with a child'srecollection--there might have been some thread, some faint butcomprehensible link, between us; but now all that I felt was the curiousincongruity. Poor child! I said to myself; so sweet a creature: poorlittle tender soul! as if she had been a little sister, a child ofmine, --but my mother! I cannot tell how long I stood looking at her, studying the candid, sweet face, which surely had germs in it ofeverything that was good and beautiful; and sorry, with a profoundregret, that she had died and never carried these promises tofulfillment. Poor girl! poor people who had loved her! These were mythoughts; with a curious vertigo and giddiness of my whole being in thesense of a mysterious relationship, which it was beyond my power tounderstand. 

Presently my father came back, possibly because I had been a long timeunconscious of the passage of the minutes, or perhaps because he washimself restless in the strange disturbance of his habitual calm. He camein and put his arm within mine, leaning his weight partially upon me, with an affectionate suggestion which went deeper than words. I pressedhis arm to my side: it was more between us two grave Englishmen than anyembracing. 

"I cannot understand it, " I said. 

"No. I don't wonder at that; but if it is strange to you, Phil, think howmuch more strange to me! That is the partner of my life. I have never hadanother, or thought of another. That--girl! If we are to meet again, as Ihave always hoped we should meet again, what am I to say to her, --I, anold man? Yes; I know what you mean. I am not an old man for my years; butmy years are threescore and ten, and the play is nearly played out. Howam I to meet that young creature? We used to say to each other that itwas forever, that we never could be but one, that it was for life anddeath. But what--what am I to say to her, Phil, when I meet her again, that--that angel? No, it is not her being an angel that troubles me; butshe is so young! She is like my--my granddaughter, " he cried, with aburst of what was half sobs, half laughter; "and she is my wife, --and Iam an old man--an old man! And so much has happened that she could notunderstand. "

I was too much startled by this strange complaint to know what to say. It was not my own trouble, and I answered it in the conventional way. 

"They are not as we are, sir, " I said; "they look upon us with larger, other eyes than ours. "

"Ah! you don't know what I mean, " he said quickly; and in the interval hehad subdued his emotion. "At first, after she died, it was my consolationto think that I should meet her again, --that we never could be reallyparted. But, my God, how I have changed since then! I am another man, --Iam a different being. I was not very young even then, --twenty years olderthan she was; but her youth renewed mine. I was not an unfit partner; sheasked no better, and knew as much more than I did in some things, --beingso much nearer the source, --as I did in others that were of the world. But I have gone a long way since then, Phil, --a long way; and there shestands, just where I left her. "

I pressed his arm again. "Father, " I said, which was a title I seldomused, "we are not to suppose that in a higher life the mind standsstill. " I did not feel myself qualified to discuss such topics, butsomething one must say. 

"Worse, worse!" he replied; "then she too will be, like me, a differentbeing, and we shall meet as what? as strangers, as people who have lostsight of each other, with a long past between us, --we who parted, my God!with--with--"

His voice broke and ended for a moment then while, surprised and almostshocked by what he said, I cast about in my mind what to reply, hewithdrew his arm suddenly from mine, and said in his usual tone, "Whereshall we hang the picture, Phil? It must be here in this room. What doyou think will be the best light?"

This sudden alteration took me still more by surprise, and gave me almostan additional shock; but it was evident that I must follow the changes ofhis mood, or at least the sudden repression of sentiment which heoriginated. We went into that simpler question with great seriousness, consulting which would be the best light. "You know I can scarcelyadvise, " I said; "I have never been familiar with this room. I shouldlike to put off, if you don't mind, till daylight. "

"I think, " he said, "that this would be the best place. " It was on theother side of the fireplace, on the wall which faced the windows, --notthe best light, I knew enough to be aware, for an oil-painting. When Isaid so, however, he answered me with a little impatience, "It does notmatter very much about the best light; there will be nobody to see it butyou and me. I have my reasons--" There was a small table standing againstthe wall at this spot, on which he had his hand as he spoke. Upon itstood a little basket in very fine lace-like wicker-work. His hand musthave trembled, for the table shook, and the basket fell, its contentsturning out upon the carpet, --little bits of needlework, colored silks, asmall piece of knitting half done. He laughed as they rolled out at hisfeet, and tried to stoop to collect them, then tottered to a chair, andcovered for a moment his face with his hands. 

No need to ask what they were. No woman's work had been seen in the housesince I could recollect it. I gathered them up reverently and put themback. I could see, ignorant as I was, that the bit of knitting wassomething for an infant. What could I do less than put it to my lips? Ithad been left in the doing--for me. 

"Yes, I think this is the best place, " my father said a minute after, inhis usual tone. 

We placed it there that evening with our own hands. The picture waslarge, and in a heavy frame, but my father would let no one help me buthimself. And then, with a superstition for which I never could give anyreason even to myself, having removed the packings, we closed and lockedthe door, leaving the candles about the room, in their soft, strangeillumination, lighting the first night of her return to her old place. 

That night no more was said. My father went to his room early, which wasnot his habit. He had never, however, accustomed me to sit late with himin the library. I had a little study or smoking-room of my own, in whichall my special treasures were, the collections of my travels and myfavorite books, --and where I always sat after prayers, a ceremonial whichwas regularly kept up in the house. I retired as usual this night to myroom, and, as usual, read, --but to-night somewhat vaguely, often pausingto think. When it was quite late, I went out by the glass door to thelawn, and walked round the house, with the intention of looking in at thedrawing-room windows, as I had done when a child. But I had forgottenthat these windows were all shuttered at night; and nothing but a faintpenetration of the light within through the crevices bore witness to theinstallment of the new dweller there. 

In the morning my father was entirely himself again. He told me withoutemotion of the manner in which he had obtained the picture. It hadbelonged to my mother's family, and had fallen eventually into the handsof a cousin of hers, resident abroad, --"A man whom I did not like, andwho did not like me, " my father said; "there was, or had been, somerivalry, he thought: a mistake, but he was never aware of that. Herefused all my requests to have a copy made. You may suppose, Phil, thatI wished this very much. Had I succeeded, you would have been acquainted, at least, with your mother's appearance, and need not have sustained thisshock. But he would not consent. It gave him, I think, a certain pleasureto think that he had the only picture. But now he is dead, and out ofremorse, or with some other intention, has left it to me. "

"That looks like kindness, " said I. 

"Yes; or something else. He might have thought that by so doing he wasestablishing a claim upon me, " my father said; but he did not seemdisposed to add any more. On whose behalf he meant to establish a claim Idid not know, nor who the man was who had laid us under so great anobligation on his death-bed. He _had_ established a claim on me at least;though, as he was dead, I could not see on whose behalf it was. And myfather said nothing more; he seemed to dislike the subject. When Iattempted to return to it, he had recourse to his letters or hisnewspapers. Evidently he had made up his mind to say no more. 

Afterwards I went into the drawing-room, to look at the picture oncemore. It seemed to me that the anxiety in her eyes was not so evident asI had thought it last night. The light possibly was more favorable. Shestood just above the place where, I make no doubt, she had sat in life, where her little work-basket was, --not very much above it. The picturewas full-length, and we had hung it low, so that she might have beenstepping into the room, and was little above my own level as I stood andlooked at her again. Once more I smiled at the strange thought that thisyoung creature--so young, almost childish--could be my mother; and oncemore my eyes grew wet looking at her. He was a benefactor, indeed, whohad given her back to us. I said to myself, that if I could ever doanything for him or his, I would certainly do it, for my--for this lovelyyoung creature's sake. And with this in my mind, and all the thoughtsthat came with it, I am obliged to confess that the other matter, which Ihad been so full of on the previous night, went entirely out of my head. 

 * * * * *

It is rarely, however, that such matters are allowed to slip out of one'smind. When I went out in the afternoon for my usual stroll, --or ratherwhen I returned from that stroll, --I saw once more before me the womanwith her baby, whose story had filled me with dismay on the previousevening. She was waiting at the gate as before, and, "Oh, gentleman, buthaven't you got some news to give me?" she said. 

"My good woman, --I--have been greatly occupied. I have had--no time to doanything. "

"Ah!" she said, with a little cry of disappointment, "my man said not tomake too sure, and that the ways of the gentlefolks is hard to know. "

"I cannot explain to you, " I said, as gently as I could, "what it is thathas made me forget you. It was an event that can only do you good in theend. Go home now, and see the man that took your things from you, andtell him to come to me. I promise you it shall all be put right. "

The woman looked at me in astonishment, then burst forth, as it seemed, involuntarily, "What! without asking no questions?" After this there camea storm of tears and blessings, from which I made haste to escape, butnot without carrying that curious commentary on my rashness away withme, --"Without asking no questions?" It might be foolish, perhaps; butafter all, how slight a matter. To make the poor creature comfortable atthe cost of what, --a box or two of cigars, perhaps, or some other trifle. And if it should be her own fault, or her husband's--what then? Had Ibeen punished for all my faults, where should I have been now? And if theadvantage should be only temporary, what then? To be relieved andcomforted even for a day or two, was not that something to count in life?Thus I quenched the fiery dart of criticism which my _protégée_ herselfhad thrown into the transaction, not without a certain sense of the humorof it. Its effect, however, was to make me less anxious to see my father, to repeat my proposal to him, and to call his attention to the crueltyperformed in his name. This one case I had taken out of the category ofwrongs to be righted, by assuming arbitrarily the position of Providencein my own person, --for, of course, I had bound myself to pay the poorcreature's rent as well as redeem her goods, --and, whatever might happento her in the future, had taken the past into my own hands. The man camepresently to see me, who, it seems, had acted as my father's agent in thematter. "I don't know, sir, how Mr. Canning will take it, " he said. "Hedon't want none of those irregular, bad-paying ones in his property. Healways says as to look over it and let the rent run on is making thingsworse in the end. His rule is, 'Never more than a month, Stevens;' that'swhat Mr. Canning says to me, sir. He says, 'More than that they can'tpay. It's no use trying. ' And it's a good rule; it's a very good rule. Hewon't hear none of their stories, sir. Bless you, you'd never get a pennyof rent from them small houses if you listened to their tales. But if sobe as you'll pay Mrs. Jordan's rent, it's none of my business how it'spaid, so long as it's paid, and I'll send her back her things. Butthey'll just have to be took next time, " he added composedly. "Over andover; it's always the same story with them sort of poor folks, --they'retoo poor for anything, that's the truth, " the man said. 

Morphew came back to my room after my visitor was gone. "Mr. Philip, " hesaid, "you'll excuse me, sir, but if you're going to pay all the poorfolks' rent as have distresses put in, you may just go into the court atonce, for it's without end--"

"I am going to be the agent myself, Morphew, and manage for my father;and we'll soon put a stop to that, " I said, more cheerfully than I felt. 

"Manage for--master, " he said, with a face of consternation. "You, Mr. Philip!"

"You seem to have a great contempt for me, Morphew. "

He did not deny the fact. He said with excitement, "Master, sir, --masterdon't let himself be put a stop to by any man. Master's--not one to bemanaged. Don't you quarrel with master, Mr. Philip, for the love of God. "The old man was quite pale. 

"Quarrel!" I said. "I have never quarrelled with my father, and I don'tmean to begin now. "

Morphew dispelled his own excitement by making up the fire, which wasdying in the grate. It was a very mild spring evening, and he made up agreat blaze which would have suited December. This is one of many ways inwhich an old servant will relieve his mind. He muttered all the time ashe threw on the coals and wood. "He'll not like it, --we all know as he'llnot like it. Master won't stand no meddling, Mr. Philip, "--this last hedischarged at me like a flying arrow as he closed the door. 

I soon found there was truth in what he said. My father was not angry, hewas even half amused. "I don't think that plan of yours will hold water, Phil. I hear you have been paying rents and redeeming furniture, --that'san expensive game, and a very profitless one. Of course, so long as youare a benevolent gentleman acting for your own pleasure, it makes nodifference to me. I am quite content if I get my money, even out of yourpockets, --so long as it amuses you. But as my collector, you know, whichyou are good enough to propose to be--"

"Of course I should act under your orders, " I said; "but at least youmight be sure that I would not commit you to any--to any--" I pausedfor a word. 

"Act of oppression, " he said, with a smile--"piece of cruelty, exaction--there are half-a-dozen words--"

"Sir--" I cried. 

"Stop, Phil, and let us understand each other. I hope I have always beena just man. I do my duty on my side, and I expect it from others. It isyour benevolence that is cruel. I have calculated anxiously how muchcredit it is safe to allow; but I will allow no man, or woman either, togo beyond what he or she can make up. My law is fixed. Now youunderstand. My agents, as you call them, originate nothing; they executeonly what I decide--"

"But then no circumstances are taken into account, --no bad luck, no evilchances, no loss unexpected. "

"There are no evil chances, " he said; "there is no bad luck; they reap asthey sow. No, I don't go among them to be cheated by their stories, andspend quite unnecessary emotion in sympathizing with them. You will findit much better for you that I don't. I deal with them on a general rule, made, I assure you, not without a great deal of thought. "

"And must it always be so?" I said. "Is there no way of ameliorating orbringing in a better state of things?"

"It seems not, " he said; "we don't get 'no forrarder' in thatdirection so far as I can see. " And then he turned the conversation togeneral matters. 

I retired to my room greatly discouraged that night. In former ages--orso one is led to suppose--and in the lower primitive classes who stilllinger near the primeval type, action of any kind was, and is, easierthan amid the complication of our higher civilization. A bad man is adistinct entity, against whom you know more or less what steps to take. Atyrant, an oppressor, a bad landlord, a man who lets miserable tenementsat a rack-rent (to come down to particulars), and exposes his wretchedtenants to all those abominations of which we have heard so much--well!he is more or less a satisfactory opponent. There he is, and there isnothing to be said for him--down with him! and let there be an end of hiswickedness. But when, on the contrary, you have before you a good man, ajust man, who has considered deeply a question which you allow to be fullof difficulty; who regrets, but cannot, being human, avert the miserieswhich to some unhappy individuals follow from the very wisdom of hisrule, --what can you do? What is to be done? Individual benevolence athaphazard may balk him here and there, but what have you to put in theplace of his well-considered scheme? Charity which makes paupers? or whatelse? I had not considered the question deeply, but it seemed to me thatI now came to a blank wall, which my vague human sentiment of pity andscorn could find no way to breach. There must be wrong somewhere, butwhere? There must be some change for the better to be made, but how?

I was seated with a book before me on the table, with my head supportedon my hands. My eyes were on the printed page, but I was not reading; mymind was full of these thoughts, my heart of great discouragement anddespondency, --a sense that I could do nothing, yet that there surely mustand ought, if I but knew it, be something to do. The fire which Morphewhad built up before dinner was dying out, the shaded lamp on my tableleft all the corners in a mysterious twilight. The house was perfectlystill, no one moving: my father in the library, where, after the habit ofmany solitary years, he liked to be left alone, and I here in my retreat, preparing for the formation of similar habits. I thought all at once ofthe third member of the party, the new-comer, alone too in the room thathad been hers; and there suddenly occurred to me a strong desire to takeup my lamp and go to the drawing-room and visit her, to see whether hersoft, angelic face would give any inspiration. I restrained, however, this futile impulse, --for what could the picture say?--and insteadwondered what might have been had she lived, had she been there, warmlyenthroned beside the warm domestic centre, the hearth which would havebeen a common sanctuary, the true home. In that case what might havebeen? Alas! the question was no more simple to answer than the other: shemight have been there alone too, her husband's business, her son'sthoughts, as far from her as now, when her silent representative held herold place in the silence and darkness. I had known it so, often enough. Love itself does not always give comprehension and sympathy. It might bethat she was more to us there, in the sweet image of her undevelopedbeauty, than she might have been had she lived and grown to maturity andfading, like the rest. 

I cannot be certain whether my mind was still lingering on this not verycheerful reflection, or if it had been left behind, when the strangeoccurrence came of which I have now to tell. Can I call it an occurrence?My eyes were on my book, when I thought I heard the sound of a dooropening and shutting, but so far away and faint that if real at all itmust have been in a far corner of the house. I did not move except tolift my eyes from the book as one does instinctively the better tolisten; when--But I cannot tell, nor have I ever been able to describeexactly what it was. My heart made all at once a sudden leap in mybreast. I am aware that this language is figurative, and that the heartcannot leap; but it is a figure so entirely justified by sensation, thatno one will have any difficulty in understanding what I mean. My heartleaped up and began beating wildly in my throat, in my ears, as if mywhole being had received a sudden and intolerable shock. The sound wentthrough my head like the dizzy sound of some strange mechanism, athousand wheels and springs circling, echoing, working in my brain. Ifelt the blood bound in my veins, my mouth became dry, my eyes hot; asense of something insupportable took possession of me. I sprang to myfeet, and then I sat down again. I cast a quick glance round me beyondthe brief circle of the lamplight, but there was nothing there toaccount in any way for this sudden extraordinary rush of sensation, norcould I feel any meaning in it, any suggestion, any moral impression. Ithought I must be going to be ill, and got out my watch and felt mypulse: it was beating furiously, about one hundred and twenty-five throbsin a minute. I knew of no illness that could come on like this withoutwarning, in a moment, and I tried to subdue myself, to say to myself thatit was nothing, some flutter of the nerves, some physical disturbance. Ilaid myself down upon my sofa to try if rest would help me, and keptstill, as long as the thumping and throbbing of this wild, excitedmechanism within, like a wild beast plunging and struggling, would letme. I am quite aware of the confusion of the metaphor; the reality wasjust so. It was like a mechanism deranged, going wildly withever-increasing precipitation, like those horrible wheels that from timeto time catch a helpless human being in them and tear him to pieces; butat the same time it was like a maddened living creature making thewildest efforts to get free. 

When I could bear this no longer I got up and walked about my room; thenhaving still a certain command of myself, though I could not master thecommotion within me, I deliberately took down an exciting book from theshelf, a book of breathless adventure which had always interested me, andtried with that to break the spell. After a few minutes, however, I flungthe book aside; I was gradually losing all power over myself. What Ishould be moved to do, --to shout aloud, to struggle with I know not what;or if I was going mad altogether, and next moment must be a ravinglunatic, --I could not tell. I kept looking round, expecting I don't knowwhat; several times with the corner of my eye I seemed to see a movement, as if some one was stealing out of sight; but when I looked straight, there was never anything but the plain outlines of the wall and carpet, the chairs standing in good order. At last I snatched up the lamp in myhand, and went out of the room. To look at the picture, which had beenfaintly showing in my imagination from time to time, the eyes, moreanxious than ever, looking at me from out the silent air? But no; Ipassed the door of that room swiftly, moving, it seemed, without anyvolition of my own, and before I knew where I was going, went into myfather's library with my lamp in my hand. 

He was still sitting there at his writing-table; he looked up astonishedto see me hurrying in with my light. "Phil!" he said, surprised. Iremember that I shut the door behind me, and came up to him, and set downthe lamp on his table. My sudden appearance alarmed him. "What is thematter?" he cried. "Philip, what have you been doing with yourself?"

I sat down on the nearest chair and gasped, gazing at him. The wildcommotion ceased; the blood subsided into its natural channels; myheart resumed its place. I use such words as mortal weakness can toexpress the sensations I felt. I came to myself thus, gazing at him, confounded, at once by the extraordinary passion which I had gonethrough, and its sudden cessation. "The matter?" I cried; "I don'tknow what is the matter. "

My father had pushed his spectacles up from his eyes. He appeared to meas faces appear in a fever, all glorified with light which is not inthem, --his eyes glowing, his white hair shining like silver; but hislooks were severe. "You are not a boy, that I should reprove you; but youought to know better, " he said. 

Then I explained to him, so far as I was able, what had happened. Hadhappened? Nothing had happened. He did not understand me; nor did I, nowthat it was over, understand myself; but he saw enough to make him awarethat the disturbance in me was serious, and not caused by any folly of myown. He was very kind as soon as he had assured himself of this, andtalked, taking pains to bring me back to unexciting subjects. He had aletter in his hand with a very deep border of black when I came in. Iobserved it, without taking any notice or associating it with anything Iknew. He had many correspondents; and although we were excellent friends, we had never been on those confidential terms which warrant one man inasking another from whom a special letter has come. We were not so nearto each other as this, though we were father and son. After a while Iwent back to my own room, and finished the evening in my usual way, without any return of the excitement which, now that it was over, lookedto me like some extraordinary dream. What had it meant? Had it meantanything? I said to myself that it must be purely physical, somethinggone temporarily amiss, which had righted itself. It was physical; theexcitement did not affect my mind. I was independent of it all the time, a spectator of my own agitation, a clear proof that, whatever it was, ithad affected my bodily organization alone. 

Next day I returned to the problem which I had not been able to solve. Ifound out my petitioner in the back street, and that she was happy in therecovery of her possessions, which to my eyes indeed did not seem veryworthy either of lamentation or delight. Nor was her house the tidy housewhich injured virtue should have when restored to its humble rights. Shewas not injured virtue, it was clear. She made me a great many curtseys, and poured forth a number of blessings. Her "man" came in while I wasthere, and hoped in a gruff voice that God would reward me, and that theold gentleman'd let 'em alone. I did not like the look of the man. Itseemed to me that in the dark lane behind the house of a winter's nighthe would not be a pleasant person to find in one's way. Nor was this all:when I went out into the little street which it appeared was all, oralmost all, my father's property, a number of groups formed in my way, and at least half-a-dozen applicants sidled up. "I've more claims norMary Jordan any day, " said one; "I've lived on Squire Canning's property, one place and another, this twenty year. " "And what do you say to me?"said another; "I've six children to her two, bless you, sir, and ne'er afather to do for them. " I believed in my father's rule before I got outof the street, and approved his wisdom in keeping himself free frompersonal contact with his tenants. Yet when I looked back upon theswarming thoroughfare, the mean little houses, the women at their doorsall so open-mouthed and eager to contend for my favor, my heart sankwithin me at the thought that out of their misery some portion of ourwealth came, I don't care how small a portion; that I, young and strong, should be kept idle and in luxury, in some part through the money screwedout of their necessities, obtained sometimes by the sacrifice ofeverything they prized! Of course I know all the ordinary commonplaces oflife as well as any one, --that if you build a house with your hand oryour money, and let it, the rent of it is your just due; and must bepaid. But yet--

"Don't you think, sir, " I said that evening at dinner, the subject beingreintroduced by my father himself, "that we have some duty towards themwhen we draw so much from them?"

"Certainly, " he said; "I take as much trouble about their drains as I doabout my own. "

"That is always something, I suppose. "

"Something! it is a great deal; it is more than they get anywhere else. Ikeep them clean, as far as that's possible. I give them at least themeans of keeping clean, and thus check disease, and prolong life, whichis more, I assure you, than they've any right to expect. "

I was not prepared with arguments as I ought to have been. That is all inthe Gospel according to Adam Smith, which my father had been brought upin, but of which the tenets had begun to be less binding in my day. Iwanted something more, or else something less; but my views were not soclear, nor my system so logical and well-built, as that upon which myfather rested his conscience, and drew his percentage with a light heart. 

Yet I thought there were signs in him of some perturbation. I met him onemorning coming out of the room in which the portrait hung, as if he hadgone to look at it stealthily. He was shaking his head, and saying "No, no, " to himself, not perceiving me, and I stepped aside when I saw him soabsorbed. For myself, I entered that room but little. I went outside, asI had so often done when I was a child, and looked through the windowsinto the still and now sacred place, which had always impressed me witha certain awe. Looked at so, the slight figure in its white dress seemedto be stepping down into the room from some slight visionary altitude, looking with that which had seemed to me at first anxiety, which Isometimes represented to myself now as a wistful curiosity, as if shewere looking for the life which might have been hers. Where was theexistence that had belonged to her, the sweet household place, the infantshe had left? She would no more recognize the man who thus came to lookat her as through a veil, with a mystic reverence, than I could recognizeher. I could never be her child to her, any more than she could be amother to me. 

 * * * * *

Thus time passed on for several quiet days. There was nothing to make usgive any special heed to the passage of time, life being very uneventfuland its habits unvaried. My mind was very much preoccupied by my father'stenants. He had a great deal of property in the town which was so nearus, --streets of small houses, the best-paying property (I was assured) ofany. I was very anxious to come to some settled conclusion: on the onehand, not to let myself be carried away by sentiment; on the other, notto allow my strongly roused feelings to fall into the blank of routine, as his had done. I was seated one evening in my own sitting-room, busywith this matter, --busy with calculations as to cost and profit, with ananxious desire to convince him, either that his profits were greater thanjustice allowed, or that they carried with them a more urgent duty thanhe had conceived. 

It was night, but not late, not more than ten o'clock, the householdstill astir. Everything was quiet, --not the solemnity of midnightsilence, in which there is always something of mystery, but thesoft-breathing quiet of the evening, full of the faint habitual sounds ofa human dwelling, a consciousness of life about. And I was very busy withmy figures, interested, feeling no room in my mind for any other thought. The singular experience which had startled me so much had passed oververy quickly, and there had been no return. I had ceased to think of it;indeed, I had never thought of it save for the moment, setting it downafter it was over to a physical cause without much difficulty. At thistime I was far too busy to have thoughts to spare for anything, or roomfor imagination; and when suddenly in a moment, without any warning, thefirst symptom returned, I started with it into determined resistance, resolute not to be fooled by any mock influence which could resolveitself into the action of nerves or ganglions. The first symptom; asbefore, was that my heart sprang up with a bound, as if a cannon had beenfired at my ear. My whole being responded with a start. The pen fell outof my fingers, the figures went out of my head as if all faculty haddeparted; and yet I was conscious for a time at least of keeping myself-control. I was like the rider of a frightened horse, rendered almostwild by something which in the mystery of its voiceless being it hasseen, something on the road which it will not pass, but wildly plunging, resisting every persuasion, turns from, with ever-increasing passion. Therider himself after a time becomes infected with this inexplainabledesperation of terror, and I suppose I must have done so; but for a timeI kept the upper hand. I would not allow myself to spring up as I wished, as my impulse was, but sat there doggedly, clinging to my books, to mytable, fixing myself on I did not mind what, to resist the flood ofsensation, of emotion, which was sweeping through me, carrying me away. Itried to continue my calculations. I tried to stir myself up withrecollections of the miserable sights I had seen, the poverty, thehelplessness. I tried to work myself into indignation; but all throughthese efforts I felt the contagion growing upon me, my mind falling intosympathy with all those straining faculties of the body, startled, excited, driven wild by something, I knew not what. It was not fear. Iwas like a ship at sea straining and plunging against wind and tide, butI was not afraid. I am obliged to use these metaphors, otherwise I couldgive no explanation of my condition, seized upon against my will, andtorn from all those moorings of reason to which I clung with desperation, as long as I had the strength. 

When I got up from my chair at last, the battle was lost, so far as mypowers of self-control were concerned. I got up, or rather was draggedup, from my seat, clutching at these material things round me as with alast effort to hold my own. But that was no longer possible; I wasovercome. I stood for a moment looking round me feebly, feeling myselfbegin to babble with stammering lips, which was the alternative ofshrieking, and which I seemed to choose as a lesser evil. What I saidwas, "What am I to do?" and after a while, "What do you want me to do?"although throughout I saw no one, heard no voice, and had in reality notpower enough in my dizzy and confused brain to know what I myself meant. I stood thus for a moment, looking blankly round me for guidance, repeating the question, which seemed after a time to become almostmechanical, "What do you want me to do?" though I neither knew to whom Iaddressed it nor why I said it. Presently--whether in answer, whether inmere yielding of nature, I cannot tell--I became aware of a difference:not a lessening of the agitation, but a softening, as if my powers ofresistance being exhausted, a gentler force, a more benignant influence, had room. I felt myself consent to whatever it was. My heart melted inthe midst of the tumult; I seemed to give myself up, and move as if drawnby some one whose arm was in mine, as if softly swept along, notforcibly, but with an utter consent of all my faculties to do I knew notwhat, for love of I knew not whom. For love, --that was how itseemed, --not by force, as when I went before. But my steps took the samecourse: I went through the dim passages in an exaltation indescribable, and opened the door of my father's room. 

He was seated there at his table as usual, the light of the lamp fallingon his white hair; he looked up with some surprise at the sound of theopening door. "Phil, " he said, and with a look of wondering apprehensionon his face, watched my approach. I went straight up to him and put myhand on his shoulder. "Phil, what is the matter? What do you want withme? What is it?" he said. 

"Father, I can't tell you. I come not of myself. There must be somethingin it, though I don't know what it is. This is the second time I havebeen brought to you here. "

"Are you going--?" He stopped himself. The exclamation had been begunwith an angry intention. He stopped, looking at me with a scared look, asif perhaps it might be true. 

"Do you mean mad? I don't think so. I have no delusions that I know of. Father, think--do you know any reason why I am brought here? for somecause there must be. "

I stood with my hand upon the back of his chair. His table was coveredwith papers, among which were several letters with the broad black borderwhich I had before observed. I noticed this now in my excitement withoutany distinct association of thoughts, for that I was not capable of; butthe black border caught my eye. And I was conscious that he too gave ahurried glance at them, and with one hand swept them away. 

"Philip, " he said, pushing back his chair, "you must be ill, my poor boy. Evidently we have not been treating you rightly; you have been more illall through than I supposed. Let me persuade you to go to bed. "

"I am perfectly well, " I said. "Father, don't let us deceive one another. I am neither a man to go mad nor to see ghosts. What it is that has gotthe command over me I can't tell; but there is some cause for it. You aredoing something or planning something with which I have a right tointerfere. "

He turned round squarely in his chair, with a spark in his blue eyes. He was not a man to be meddled with. "I have yet to learn what cangive my son a right to interfere. I am in possession of all myfaculties, I hope. "

"Father, " I cried, "won't you listen to me? No one can say I have beenundutiful or disrespectful. I am a man, with a right to speak my mind, and I have done so; but this is different. I am not here by my own will. Something that is stronger than I has brought me. There is something inyour mind which disturbs--others. I don't know what I am saying. This isnot what I meant to say; but you know the meaning better than I. Someone--who can speak to you only by me--speaks to you by me; and I knowthat you understand. "

He gazed up at me, growing pale, and his underlip fell. I, for my part, felt that my message was delivered. My heart sank into a stillness sosudden that it made me faint. The light swam in my eyes; everything wentround with me. I kept upright only by my hold upon the chair; and in thesense of utter weakness that followed, I dropped on my knees I thinkfirst, then on the nearest seat that presented itself, and, covering myface with my hands, had hard ado not to sob, in the sudden removal ofthat strange influence, --the relaxation of the strain. 

There was silence between us for some time; then he said, but with avoice slightly broken, "I don't understand you, Phil. You must havetaken some fancy into your mind which my slower intelligence--Speak outwhat you want to say. What do you find fault with? Is it all--all thatwoman Jordan?"

He gave a short, forced laugh as he broke off, and shook mealmost roughly by the shoulder, saying, "Speak out! what--what doyou want to say?"

"It seems, sir, that I have said everything. " My voice trembled more thanhis, but not in the same way. "I have told you that I did not come by myown will, --quite otherwise. I resisted as long as I could: now all issaid. It is for you to judge whether it was worth the trouble or not. "

He got up from his seat in a hurried way. "You would have me as--mad asyourself, " he said, then sat down again as quickly. "Come, Phil: if itwill please you, not to make a breach, --the first breach between us, --youshall have your way. I consent to your looking into that matter about thepoor tenants. Your mind shall not be upset about that, even though Idon't enter into all your views. "

"Thank you, " I said; "but, father, that is not what it is. "

"Then it is a piece of folly, " he said angrily. "I suppose you mean--butthis is a matter in which I choose to judge for myself. "

"You know what I mean, " I said, as quietly as I could, "though I don'tmyself know; that proves there is good reason for it. Will you do onething for me before I leave you? Come with me into the drawing-room--"

"What end, " he said, with again the tremble in his voice, "is to beserved by that?"

"I don't very well know; but to look at her, you and I together, willalways do something for us, sir. As for breach, there can be no breachwhen we stand there. "

He got up, trembling like an old man, which he was, but which he neverlooked like save at moments of emotion like this, and told me to take thelight; then stopped when he had got half-way across the room. "This is apiece of theatrical sentimentality, " he said. "No, Phil, I will not go. Iwill not bring her into any such--Put down the lamp, and, if you willtake my advice, go to bed. "

"At least, " I said, "I will trouble you no more, father, to-night. Solong as you understand, there need be no more to say. "

He gave me a very curt "good-night, " and turned back to his papers, --theletters with the black edge, either by my imagination or in reality, always keeping uppermost. I went to my own room for my lamp, and thenalone proceeded to the silent shrine in which the portrait hung. I atleast would look at her to-night. I don't know whether I asked myself, in so many words, if it were she who--or if it was any one--I knewnothing; but my heart was drawn with a softness--born, perhaps, of thegreat weakness in which I was left after that visitation--to her, to lookat her, to see, perhaps, if there was any sympathy, any approval in herface. I set down my lamp on the table where her little work-basket stillwas; the light threw a gleam upward upon her, --she seemed more than everto be stepping into the room, coming down towards me, coming back to herlife. Ah, no! her life was lost and vanished: all mine stood between herand the days she knew. She looked at me with eyes that did not change. The anxiety I had seen at first seemed now a wistful, subdued question;but that difference was not in her look but in mine. 

 * * * * *

I need not linger on the intervening time. The doctor who attended ususually, came in next day "by accident, " and we had a long conversation. On the following day a very impressive yet genial gentleman from townlunched with us, --a friend of my father's, Dr. Something; but theintroduction was hurried, and I did not catch his name. He, too, had along talk with me afterwards, my father being called away to speak tosome one on business. Dr. ---- drew me out on the subject of the dwellingsof the poor. He said he heard I took great interest in this question, which had come so much to the front at the present moment. He wasinterested in it too, and wanted to know the view I took. I explained atconsiderable length that my view did not concern the general subject, onwhich I had scarcely thought, so much as the individual mode ofmanagement of my father's estate. He was a most patient and intelligentlistener, agreeing with me on some points, differing in others; and hisvisit was very pleasant. I had no idea until after of its special object;though a certain puzzled look and slight shake of the head when my fatherreturned, might have thrown some light upon it. The report of the medicalexperts in my case must, however, have been quite satisfactory, for Iheard nothing more of them. It was, I think, a fortnight later when thenext and last of these strange experiences came. 

This time it was morning, about noon, --a wet and rather dismal springday. The half-spread leaves seemed to tap at the window, with an appealto be taken in; the primroses, that showed golden upon the grass at theroots of the trees, just beyond the smooth-shorn grass of the lawn, wereall drooped and sodden among their sheltering leaves. The very growthseemed dreary--the sense of spring in the air making the feeling ofwinter a grievance, instead of the natural effect which it had conveyed afew months before. I had been writing letters, and was cheerful enough, going back among the associates of my old life, with, perhaps, a littlelonging for its freedom and independence, but at the same time a notungrateful consciousness that for the moment my present tranquillitymight be best. 

This was my condition--a not unpleasant one--when suddenly the nowwell-known symptoms of the visitation to which I had become subjectsuddenly seized upon me, --the leap of the heart; the sudden, causeless, overwhelming physical excitement, which I could neither ignore nor allay. I was terrified beyond description, beyond reason, when I becameconscious that this was about to begin over again: what purpose did itanswer; what good was in it? My father indeed understood the meaning ofit though I did not understand; but it was little agreeable to be thusmade a helpless instrument, without any will of mine, in an operation ofwhich I knew nothing; and to enact the part of the oracle unwillingly, with suffering and such a strain as it took me days to get over. Iresisted, not as before, but yet desperately, trying with betterknowledge to keep down the growing passion. I hurried to my room andswallowed a dose of a sedative which had been given me to procure sleepon my first return from India. I saw Morphew in the hall, and called himto talk to him, and cheat myself, if possible, by that means. Morphewlingered, however, and, before he came, I was beyond conversation. Iheard him speak, his voice coming vaguely through the turmoil which wasalready in my ears, but what he said I have never known. I stood staring, trying to recover my power of attention, with an aspect which ended bycompletely frightening the man. He cried out at last that he was sure Iwas ill, that he must bring me something; which words penetrated more orless into my maddened brain. It became impressed upon me that he wasgoing to get some one--one of my father's doctors, perhaps--to preventme from acting, to stop my interference, and that if I waited a momentlonger I might be too late. A vague idea seized me at the same time, oftaking refuge with the portrait, --going to its feet, throwing myselfthere, perhaps, till the paroxysm should be over. But it was not therethat my footsteps were directed. I can remember making an effort to openthe door of the drawing-room, and feeling myself swept past it, as if bya gale of wind. It was not there that I had to go. I knew very well whereI had to go, --once more on my confused and voiceless mission to myfather, who understood, although I could not understand. 

Yet as it was daylight, and all was clear, I could not help noting one ortwo circumstances on my way. I saw some one sitting in the hall as ifwaiting, --a woman, a girl, a black-shrouded figure, with a thick veilover her face; and asked myself who she was, and what she wanted there. This question, which had nothing to do with my present condition, somehowgot into my mind, and was tossed up and down upon the tumultuous tidelike a stray log on the breast of a fiercely rolling stream, nowsubmerged, now coming uppermost, at the mercy of the waters. It did notstop me for a moment, as I hurried towards my father's room, but it gotupon the current of my mind. I flung open my father's door, and closed itagain after me, without seeing who was there or how he was engaged. Thefull clearness of the daylight did not identify him as the lamp did atnight. He looked up at the sound of the door, with a glance ofapprehension; and rising suddenly, interrupting some one who was standingspeaking to him with much earnestness and even vehemence, came forward tomeet me. "I cannot be disturbed at present, " he said quickly; "I ambusy. " Then seeing the look in my face, which by this time he knew, hetoo changed color. "Phil, " he said, in a low, imperative voice, "wretchedboy, go away--go away; don't let a stranger see you--"

"I can't go away, " I said. "It is impossible. You know why I have come. Icannot, if I would. It is more powerful than I--"

"Go, sir, " he said; "go at once; no more of this folly. I will not haveyou in this room: Go-go!"

I made no answer. I don't know that I could have done so. There hadnever been any struggle between us before; but I had no power to doone thing or another. The tumult within me was in full career. I heardindeed what he said, and was able to reply; but his words, too, werelike straws tossed upon the tremendous stream. I saw now with myfeverish eyes who the other person present was. It was a woman, dressedalso in mourning similar to the one in the hall; but this a middle-agedwoman, like a respectable servant. She had been crying, and in thepause caused by this encounter between my father and myself, dried hereyes with a handkerchief, which she rolled like a ball in her hand, evidently in strong emotion. She turned and looked at me as my fatherspoke to me, for a moment with a gleam of hope, then falling back intoher former attitude. 

My father returned to his seat. He was much agitated too, though doingall that was possible to conceal it. My inopportune arrival was evidentlya great and unlooked-for vexation to him. He gave me the only look ofpassionate displeasure I have ever had from him, as he sat down again;but he said nothing more. 

"You must understand, " he said, addressing the woman, "that I have saidmy last words on this subject. I don't choose to enter into it again inthe presence of my son, who is not well enough to be made a party to anydiscussion. I am sorry that you should have had so much trouble in vain, but you were warned beforehand, and you have only yourself to blame. Iacknowledge no claim, and nothing you can say will change my resolution. I must beg you to go away. All this is very painful and quite useless. Iacknowledge no claim. "

"Oh, sir, " she cried, her eyes beginning once more to flow, her speechinterrupted by little sobs. "Maybe I did wrong to speak of a claim. I'mnot educated to argue with a gentleman. Maybe we have no claim. But ifit's not by right, oh, Mr. Canning, won't you let your heart be touchedby pity? She don't know what I'm saying, poor dear. She's not one to begand pray for herself, as I'm doing for her. Oh, sir, she's so young!She's so lone in this world, --not a friend to stand by her, nor a houseto take her in! You are the nearest to her of any one that's left in thisworld. She hasn't a relation, --not one so near as you, --oh!" she cried, with a sudden thought, turning quickly round upon me, "this gentleman'syour son! Now I think of it, it's not your relation she is, but his, through his mother! That's nearer, nearer! Oh, sir! you're young; yourheart should be more tender. Here is my young lady that has no one in theworld to look to her. Your own flesh and blood; your mother'scousin, --your mother's--"

My father called to her to stop, with a voice of thunder. "Philip, leaveus at once. It is not a matter to be discussed with you. "

And then in a moment it became clear to me what it was. It had been withdifficulty that I had kept myself still. My breast was laboring with thefever of an impulse poured into me, more than I could contain. And nowfor the first time I knew why. I hurried towards him, and took his hand, though he resisted, into mine. Mine were burning, but his like ice: theirtouch burnt me with its chill, like fire. "This is what it is?" I cried. "I had no knowledge before. I don't know now what is being asked of you. But, father, understand! You know, and I know now, that some one sendsme, --some one--who has a right to interfere. "

He pushed me away with all his might. "You are mad, " he cried. "Whatright have you to think--? Oh, you are mad--mad! I have seen itcoming on--"

The woman, the petitioner, had grown silent, watching this brief conflictwith the terror and interest with which women watch a struggle betweenmen. She started and fell back when she heard what he said, but did nottake her eyes off me, following every movement I made. When I turned togo away, a cry of indescribable disappointment and remonstrance burstfrom her, and even my father raised himself up and stared at mywithdrawal, astonished to find that he had overcome me so soon andeasily. I paused for a moment, and looked back on them, seeing them largeand vague through the mist of fever. "I am not going away, " I said. "I amgoing for another messenger, --one you can't gainsay. "

My father rose. He called out to me threateningly, "I will have nothingtouched that is hers. Nothing that is hers shall be profaned--"

I waited to hear no more; I knew what I had to do. By what means it wasconveyed to me I cannot tell; but the certainty of an influence which noone thought of calmed me in the midst of my fever. I went out into thehall, where I had seen the young stranger waiting. I went up to her andtouched her on the shoulder. She rose at once, with a little movement ofalarm, yet with docile and instant obedience, as if she had expected thesummons. I made her take off her veil and her bonnet, scarcely looking ather, scarcely seeing her, knowing how it was: I took her soft, small, cool, yet trembling hand into mine; it was so soft and cool, --notcold, --it refreshed me with its tremulous touch. All through I moved andspoke like a man in a dream; swiftly, noiselessly, all the complicationsof waking life removed; without embarrassment, without reflection, without the loss of a moment. My father was still standing up, leaning alittle forward as he had done when I withdrew; threatening, yetterror-stricken, not knowing what I might be about to do, when I returnedwith my companion. That was the one thing he had not thought of. He wasentirely undecided, unprepared. He gave her one look, flung up his armsabove his head, and uttered a distracted cry, so wild that it seemed thelast outcry of nature, --"Agnes!" then fell back like a sudden ruin, uponhimself, into his chair. 

I had no leisure to think how he was, or whether he could hear what Isaid. I had my message to deliver. "Father, " I said, laboring with mypanting breath, "it is for this that heaven has opened, and one whom Inever saw, one whom I know not, has taken possession of me. Had we beenless earthly, we should have seen her--herself, and not merely her image. I have not even known what she meant. I have been as a fool withoutunderstanding. This is the third time I have come to you with hermessage, without knowing what to say. But now I have found it out. Thisis her message. I have found it out at last. " There was an awfulpause, --a pause in which no one moved or breathed. Then there came abroken voice out of my father's chair. He had not understood, though Ithink he heard what I said. He put out two feeble hands. "Phil--I think Iam dying--has she--has she come for me?" he said. 

We had to carry him to his bed. What struggles he had gone through beforeI cannot tell. He had stood fast, and had refused to be moved, and now hefell, --like an old tower, like an old tree. The necessity there was forthinking of him saved me from the physical consequences which hadprostrated me on a former occasion. I had no leisure now for anyconsciousness of how matters went with myself. 

His delusion was not wonderful, but most natural. She was clothed inblack from head to foot, instead of the white dress of the portrait. Shehad no knowledge of the conflict, of nothing but that she was called for, that her fate might depend on the next few minutes. In her eyes there wasa pathetic question, a line of anxiety in the lids, an innocent appeal inthe looks. And the face the same: the same lips, sensitive, ready toquiver; the same innocent, candid brow; the look of a common race, whichis more subtle than mere resemblance. How I knew that it was so I cannottell, nor any man. It was the other, the elder, --ah, no! not elder; theever young, the Agnes to whom age can never come, she who they say wasthe mother of a man who never saw her, --it was she who led her kinswoman, her representative, into our hearts. 

 * * * * *

My father recovered after a few days: he had taken cold, it was said, theday before; and naturally, at seventy, a small matter is enough to upsetthe balance even of a strong man. He got quite well; but he was willingenough afterwards to leave the management of that ticklish kind ofproperty which involves human well-being in my hands, who could moveabout more freely, and see with my own eyes how things were going on. Heliked home better, and had more pleasure in his personal existence in theend of his life. Agnes is now my wife, as he had, of course, foreseen. Itwas not merely the disinclination to receive her father's daughter, or totake upon him a new responsibility, that had moved him, to do himjustice; but both these motives had told strongly. I have never beentold, and now will never be told, what his griefs against my mother'sfamily, and specially against that cousin, had been; but that he had beenvery determined, deeply prejudiced, there can be no doubt. It turned outafter, that the first occasion on which I had been mysteriouslycommissioned to him with a message which I did not understand, and whichfor that time he did not understand, was the evening of the day on whichhe had received the dead man's letter, appealing to him--to him, a manwhom he had wronged--on behalf of the child who was about to be leftfriendless in the world. The second time, further letters--from the nursewho was the only guardian of the orphan, and the chaplain of the placewhere her father had died, taking it for granted that my father's housewas her natural refuge--had been received. The third I have alreadydescribed, and its results. 

For a long time after, my mind was never without a lurking fear that theinfluence which had once taken possession of me might return again. Whyshould I have feared to be influenced, to be the messenger of a blessedcreature, whose wishes could be nothing but heavenly? Who can say? Fleshand blood is not made for such encounters: they were more than I couldbear. But nothing of the kind has ever occurred again. 

Agnes had her peaceful domestic throne established under the picture. My father wished it to be so, and spent his evenings there in thewarmth and light, instead of in the old library, --in the narrow circlecleared by our lamp out of the darkness, as long as he lived. It issupposed by strangers that the picture on the wall is that of my wife;and I have always been glad that it should be so supposed. She who wasmy mother, who came back to me and became as my soul for three strangemoments and no more, but with whom I can feel no credible relationshipas she stands there, has retired for me into the tender regions of theunseen. She has passed once more into the secret company of thoseshadows, who can only become real in an atmosphere fitted to modify andharmonize all differences, and make all wonders possible, --the light ofthe perfect day.