The NightmareShall call thee when it walks.
MIDDLETON.—The Witch.
The inn to which Hugh had betaken himself, though not the first in the town, was yet what is called a respectable house, and was possessed of a room of considerable size, in which the farmers of the neighbourhood were accustomed to hold their gatherings. While eating his dinner, Hugh learned from the conversation around him—for he sat in the kitchen for the sake of the fire—that this room was being got ready for a lecture on Bilology, as the landlady called it. Bills in red and blue had been posted all over the town; and before he had finished his dinner, the audience had begun to arrive. Partly from curiosity about a subject of which he knew nothing, and partly because it still rained, and, having got nearly dry, he did not care about a second wetting if he could help it, Hugh resolved to make one of them. So he stood by the fire till he was informed that the lecturer had made his appearance, when he went up-stairs, paid his shilling, and was admitted to one of the front seats. The room was tolerably lighted with gas; and a platform had been constructed for the lecturer and his subjects. When the place was about half-filled, he came from another room alone—a little, thick-set, bull-necked man, with vulgar face and rusty black clothes; and, mounting the platform, commenced his lecture; if lecture it could be called, in which there seemed to be no order, and scarcely any sequence. No attempt even at a theory, showed itself in the mass of what he called facts and scientific truths; and he perpeturated the most awful blunders in his English. It will not be desired that I should give any further account of such a lecture. The lecturer himself seemed to depend chiefly for his success, upon the manifestations of his art which he proceeded to bring forward. He called his familiar by the name of Willi-am, and a stunted, pale-faced, dull-looking youth started up from somewhere, and scrambled upon the platform beside his master. Upon this tutored slave a number of experiments was performed. He was first cast into whatever abnormal condition is necessary for the operations of biology, and then compelled to make a fool of himself by exhibiting actions the most inconsistent with his real circumstances and necessities. But, aware that all this was open to the most palpable objection of collusion, the operator next invited any of the company that pleased, to submit themselves to his influences. After a pause of a few moments, a stout country fellow, florid and healthy, got up and slouched to the platform. Certainly, whatever might be the nature of the influence that was brought to bear, its operative power could not, with the least probability, be attributed to an over-activity of imagination in either of the subjects submitted to its exercise. In the latter, as well as in the former case, the operator was eminently successful; and the clown returned to his seat, looking remarkably foolish and conscious of disgrace—a sufficient voucher to most present, that in this case at least there had been no collusion. Several others volunteered their negative services; but with no one of them did he succeed so well; and in one case the failure was evident. The lecturer pretended to account for this, in making some confused and unintelligible remarks about the state of the weather, the thunder-storm, electricity, &c., of which things he evidently did not understand the best known laws.
“The blundering idiot!” growled, close to Hugh’s ear, a voice with a foreign accent.
He looked round sharply.
A tall, powerful, eminently handsome man, with a face as foreign as his tone and accent, sat beside him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said to Hugh; “I thought aloud.”
“I should like to know, if you wouldn’t mind telling me, what you detect of the blunderer in him. I am quite ignorant of these matters.”
“I have had many opportunities of observing them; and I see at once that this man, though he has the natural power, is excessively ignorant of the whole subject.”
This was all the answer he vouchsafed to Hugh’s modest inquiry. Hugh had not yet learned that one will always fare better by concealing than by acknowledging ignorance. The man, whatever his capacity, who honestly confesses even a partial ignorance, will instantly be treated as more or less incapable, by the ordinary man who has already gained a partial knowledge, or is capable of assuming a knowledge which he does not possess. But, for God’s sake! let the honest and modest man stick to his honesty and modesty, cost what they may.
Hugh was silent, and fixed his attention once more on what was going on. But presently he became aware that the foreigner was scrutinizing him with the closest attention. He knew this, somehow, without having looked round; and the knowledge was accompanied with a feeling of discomfort that caused him to make a restless movement on his seat. Presently he felt that the annoyance had ceased; but not many minutes had passed, before it again commenced. In order to relieve himself from a feeling which he could only compare to that which might be produced by the presence of the dead, he turned towards his neighbour so suddenly, that it seemed for a moment to embarrass him, his eyes being caught in the very act of devouring the stolen indulgence. But the stranger recovered himself instantly with the question:
“Will you permit me to ask of what country you are?”
Hugh thought he made the request only for the sake of covering his rudeness; and so merely answered:
“Why, an Englishman, of course.”
“Ah! yes; it is not necessary to be told that. But it seems to me, from your accent, that you are a Scotchman.”
“So I am.”
“A Highlander?”
“I was born in the Highlands. But if you are very anxious to know my pedigree, I have no reason for concealing the fact that I am, by birth, half a Scotchman and half a Welchman.”
The foreigner riveted his gaze, though but for the briefest moment sufficient to justify its being called a gaze, once more upon Hugh; and then, with a slight bow, as of acquiescence, turned towards the lecturer.
When the lecture was over, and Hugh was walking away in the midst of the withdrawing audience, the stranger touched him on the shoulder.
“You said that you would like to know more of this science: will you come to my lodging?” said he.
“With pleasure,” Hugh answered; though the look with which he accompanied the words, must have been one rather of surprise.
“You are astonished that a stranger should invite you so. Ah! you English always demand an introduction. There is mine.”
He handed Hugh a card: Herr von Funkelstein. Hugh happened to be provided with one in exchange.
The two walked out of the inn, along the old High Street, full of gables and all the delightful irregularities of an old country-town, till they came to a court, down which Herr von Funkelstein led the way.
He let himself in with a pass-key at a low door, and then conducted Hugh, by a stair whose narrowness was equalled by its steepness, to a room, which, though not many yards above the level of the court, was yet next to the roof of the low house. Hugh could see nothing till his conductor lighted a candle. Then he found himself in a rather large room with a shaky floor and a low roof. A chintz-curtained bed in one corner had the skin of a tiger thrown over it; and a table in another had a pair of foils lying upon it. The German—for such he seemed to Hugh—offered him a chair in the politest manner; and Hugh sat down.
“I am only in lodgings here,” said the host; “so you will forgive the poverty of my establishment.”
“There is no occasion for forgiveness, I assure you,” answered Hugh.
“You wished to know something of the subject with which that lecturer was befooling himself and the audience at the same time.”
“I shall be grateful for any enlightenment.”
“Ah! it is a subject for the study of a benevolent scholar, not for such a clown as that. He jumps at no conclusions; yet he shares the fate of one who does: he flounders in the mire between. No man will make anything of it who has not the benefit of the human race at heart. Humanity is the only safe guide in matters such as these. This is a dangerous study indeed in unskilful hands.”
Here a frightful caterwauling interrupted Herr von Funkelstein. The room had a storm-window, of which the lattice stood open. In front of it, on the roof, seen against a white house opposite, stood a demon of a cat, arched to half its length, with a tail expanded to double its natural thickness. Its antagonist was invisible from where Hugh sat. Von Funkelstein started up without making the slightest noise, trod as softly as a cat to the table, took up one of the foils, removed the button, and, creeping close to the window, made one rapid pass at the enemy, which vanished with a shriek of hatred and fear. He then, replacing the button, laid the foil down, and resumed his seat and his discourse. This, after dealing with generalities and commonplaces for some time, gave no sign of coming either to an end or to the point. All the time he was watching Hugh—at least so Hugh thought—as if speculating on him in general. Then appearing to have come to some conclusion, he gave his mind more to his talk, and encouraged Hugh to speak as well. The conversation lasted for nearly half an hour. At its close, Hugh felt that the stranger had touched upon a variety of interesting subjects, as one possessed of a minute knowledge of them. But he did not feel that he had gained any insight from his conversation. It seemed rather as if he had been giving him a number of psychological, social, literary, and scientific receipts. During the course of the talk, his eye had appeared to rest on Hugh by a kind of compulsion; as if by its own will it would have retired from the scrutiny, but the will of its owner was too strong for it. In seemed, in relation to him, to be only a kind of tool, which he used for a particular purpose.
At length Funkelstein rose, and, marching across the room to a cupboard, brought out a bottle and glasses, saying, in the most by-the-bye way, as he went:
“Have you the second-sight, Mr. Sutherland?”
“Certainly not, as far as I am aware.”
“Ah! the Welch do have it, do they not?”
“Oh! yes, of course,” answered Hugh laughing. “I should like to know, though,” he added, “whether they inherit the gift as Celts or as mountaineers.”
“Will you take a glass of—?”
“Of nothing, thank you,” answered and interrupted Hugh. “It is time for me to be going. Indeed, I fear I have stayed too long already. Good night, Herr von Funkelstein.”
“You will allow me the honour of returning your visit?”
Hugh felt he could do no less, although he had not the smallest desire to keep up the acquaintance. He wrote Arnstead on his card.
As he left the house, he stumbled over something in the court. Looking down, he saw it was a cat, apparently dead.
“Can it be the cat Herr Funkelstein made the pass at?” thought he. But presently he forgot all about it, in the visions of Euphra which filled his mind during his moonlight walk home. It just occurred to him, however, before those visions had blotted everything else from his view, that he had learned simply nothing whatever about biology from his late host.
When he reached home, he was admitted by the butler, and retired to bed at once, where he slept soundly, for the first time for many nights.
But, as he drew near his own room, he might have seen, though he saw not, a little white figure gliding away in the far distance of the long passage. It was only Harry, who could not lie still in his bed, till he knew that his big brother was safe at home.
This Eneas is come to Paradise Out of the swolowe of Hell.
CHAUCER.—Legend of Dido.
The next day, Hugh was determined to find or make an opportunity of speaking to Euphra; and fortune seemed to favour him.—Or was it Euphra herself, in one or other of her inexplicable moods? At all events, she had that morning allowed the ladies and her uncle to go without her; and Hugh met her as he went to his study.
“May I speak to you for one moment?” said he, hurriedly, and with trembling lips.
“Yes, certainly,” she replied with a smile, and a glance in his face as of wonder as to what could trouble him so much. Then turning, and leading the way, she said:
“Come into my room.”
He followed her. She turned and shut the door, which he had left open behind him. He almost knelt to her; but something held him back from that.
“Euphra,” he said, “what have I done to offend you?”
“Offend me! Nothing.”—This was uttered in a perfect tone of surprise.
“How is it that you avoid me as you do, and will not allow me one moment’s speech with you? You are driving me to distraction.”
“Why, you foolish man!” she answered, half playfully, pressing the palms of her little hands together, and looking up in his face, “how can I? Don’t you see how those two dear old ladies swallow me up in their faddles? Oh, dear? Oh, dear! I wish they would go. Then it would be all right again—wouldn’t it?”
But Hugh was not to be so easily satisfied.
“Before they came, ever since that night—”
“Hush-sh!” she interrupted, putting her finger on his lips, and looking hurriedly round her with an air of fright, of which he could hardly judge whether it was real or assumed—“hush!”
Comforted wondrously by the hushing finger, Hugh would yet understand more.
“I am no baby, dear Euphra,” he said, taking hold of the hand to which the finger belonged, and laying it on his mouth; “do not make one of me. There is some mystery in all this—at least something I do not understand.”
“I will tell you all about it one day. But, seriously, you must be careful how you behave to me; for if my uncle should, but for one moment, entertain a suspicion—good-bye to you—perhaps good-bye to Arnstead. All my influence with him comes from his thinking that I like him better than anybody else. So you must not make the poor old man jealous. By the bye,” she went on—rapidly, as if she would turn the current of the conversation aside—“what a favourite you have grown with him! You should have heard him talk of you to the old ladies. I might well be jealous of you. There never was a tutor like his.”
Hugh’s heart smote him that the praise of even this common man, proud of his own vanity, should be undeserved by him. He was troubled, too, at the flippancy with which Euphra spoke; yet not the less did he feel that he loved her passionately.
“I daresay,” he replied, “he praised me as he would anything else that happened to be his. Isn’t that old bay horse of his the best hack in the county?”
“You naughty man! Are you going to be satirical?”
“You claim that as your privilege, do you?”
“Worse and worse! I will not talk to you. But, seriously, for I must go—bring your Italian to—to—” She hesitated.
“To the library—why not?” suggested Hugh.
“No-o,” she answered, shaking her head, and looking quite solemn.
“Well, will you come to my study? Will that please you better?”
“Yes, I will,” she answered, with a definitive tone. “Good-bye, now.”
She opened the door, and having looked out to see that no one was passing, told him to go. As he went, he felt as if the oaken floor were elastic beneath his tread.
It was sometime after the household had retired, however, before Euphra made her appearance at the door of his study. She seemed rather shy of entering, and hesitated, as if she felt she was doing something she ought not to do. But as soon as she had entered, and the door was shut, she appeared to recover herself quite; and they sat down at the table with their books. They could not get on very well with their reading, however. Hugh often forgot what he was about, in looking at her; and she seemed nowise inclined to avert his gazes, or check the growth of his admiration.
Rather abruptly, but apparently starting from some suggestion in the book, she said to him:
“By the bye, has Mr. Arnold ever said anything to you about the family jewels?”
“No,” said Hugh. “Are there many?”
“Yes, a great many. Mr. Arnold is very proud of them, as well as of the portraits; so he treats them in the same way—keeps them locked up. Indeed he seldom allows them to see daylight, except it be as a mark of especial favour to some one.”
“I should like much to see them. I have always been curious about stones. They are wonderful, mysterious things to me.”
Euphra gave him a very peculiar, searching glance, as he spoke.
“Shall I,” he continued, “give him a hint that I should like to see them?”
“By no means,” answered Euphra, emphatically, “except he should refer to them himself. He is very jealous of his possessions—his family possessions, I mean. Poor old man! he has not much else to plume himself upon; has he?”
“He is kind to you, Euphra.”
She looked at him as if she did not understand him.
“Yes. What then?”
“You ought not to be unkind to him.”
“You odd creature! I am not unkind to him. I like him. But we are not getting on with our reading. What could have led me to talk about family-jewels? Oh! I see. What a strange thing the association of ideas is! There is not a very obvious connexion here; is there?”
“No. One cannot account for such things. The links in the chain of ideas are sometimes slender enough. Yet the slenderest is sufficient to enable the electric flash of thought to pass along the line.”
She seemed pondering for a moment.
“That strikes me as a fine simile,” she said. “You ought to be a poet yourself.”
Hugh made no reply.
“I daresay you have hundreds of poems in that old desk, now?”
“I think they might be counted by tens.”
“Do let me see them.”
“You would not care for them.”
“Wouldn’t I, Hugh?”
“I will, on one condition—two conditions, I mean.”
“What are they?”
“One is, that you show me yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
“Who told you I wrote verses? That silly boy?”
“No—I saw your verses before I saw you. You remember?”
“It was very dishonourable in you to read them.”
“I only saw they were verses. I did not read a word.”
“I forgive you, then. You must show me yours first, till I see whether I could venture to let you see mine. If yours were very bad indeed, then I might risk showing mine.”
And much more of this sort, with which I will not weary my readers. It ended in Hugh’s taking from the old escritoire a bundle of papers, and handing them to Euphra. But the reader need not fear that I am going to print any of these verses. I have more respect for my honest prose page than to break it up so. Indeed, the whole of this interview might have been omitted, but for two circumstances. One of them was, that in getting these papers, Hugh had to open a concealed portion of the escritoire, which his mathematical knowledge had enabled him to discover. It had evidently not been opened for many years before he found it. He had made use of it to hold the only treasures he had—poor enough treasures, certainly! Not a loving note, not a lock of hair even had he—nothing but the few cobwebs spun from his own brain. It is true, we are rich or poor according to what we are, not what we have. But what a man has produced, is not what he is. He may even impoverish his true self by production.
When Euphra saw him open this place, she uttered a suppressed cry of astonishment.
“Ah!” said Hugh, “you did not know of this hidie-hole, did you?”
“Indeed, I did not. I had used the desk myself, for this was a favourite room of mine before you came, but I never found that. Dear me! Let me look.”
She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned over him, as he pointed out the way of opening it.
“Did you find nothing in it?” she said, with a slight tremour in her voice.
“Nothing whatever.”
“There may be more places.”
“No. I have accounted for the whole bulk, I believe.”
“How strange!”
“But now you must give me my guerdon,” said Hugh timidly.
The fact was, the poor youth had bargained, in a playful manner, and yet with an earnest, covetous heart, for one, the first kiss, in return for the poems she begged to see.
She turned her face towards him.
The second circumstance which makes the interview worth recording is, that, at this moment, three distinct knocks were heard on the window. They sprang asunder, and saw each other’s face pale as death. In Euphra’s, the expression of fright was mingled with one of annoyance. Hugh, though his heart trembled like a bird, leaped to the window. Nothing was to be seen but the trees that “stretched their dark arms” within a few feet of the oriel. Turning again towards Euphra, he found, to his mortification, that she had vanished—and had left the packet of poems behind her.
He replaced them in their old quarters in the escritoire; and his vague dismay at the unaccountable noises, was drowned in the bitter waters of miserable humiliation. He slept at last, from the exhaustion of disappointment.
When he awoke, however, he tried to persuade himself that he had made far too much of the trifling circumstance of her leaving the verses behind. For was she not terrified?—Why, then, did she leave him and go alone to her own room?—She must have felt that she ought not to be in his, at that hour, and therefore dared not stay.—Why dared not? Did she think the house was haunted by a ghost of propriety? What rational theory could he invent to account for the strange and repeated sounds?—He puzzled himself over it to the verge of absolute intellectual prostration.
He was generally the first in the breakfast-room; that is, after Euphra, who was always the first. She went up to him as he entered, and said, almost in a whisper:
“Have you got the poems for me? Quick!”
Hugh hesitated. She looked at him.
“No,” he said at last.—“You never wanted them.”
“That is very unkind; when you know I was frightened out of my wits. Do give me them.”
“They are not worth giving you. Besides, I have not got them. I don’t carry them in my pocket. They are in the escritoire. I couldn’t leave them lying about. Never mind them.”
“I have a right to them,” she said, looking up at him slyly and shyly.
“Well, I gave you them, and you did not think them worth keeping. I kept my part of the bargain.”
She looked annoyed.
“Never mind, dear Euphra; you shall have them, or anything else I have;—the brain that made them, if you like.”
“Was it only the brain that had to do with the making of them?”
“Perhaps the heart too; but you have that already.”
Her face flushed like a damask rose.
At that moment Mrs. Elton entered, and looked a little surprised. Euphra instantly said:
“I think it is rather too bad of you, Mr. Sutherland, to keep the poor boy so hard to his work, when you know he is not strong. Mrs. Elton, I have been begging a holiday for poor Harry, to let him go with us to Wotton House; but he has such a hard task-master! He will not hear of it.”
The flush, which she could not get rid of all at once, was thus made to do duty as one of displeasure. Mrs. Elton was thoroughly deceived, and united her entreaties to those of Miss Cameron. Hugh was compelled to join in the deception, and pretend to yield a slow consent. Thus a holiday was extemporised for Harry, subject to the approbation of his father. This was readily granted; and Mr. Arnold, turning to Hugh, said:
“You will have nothing to do, Mr. Sutherland: had you not better join us?”
“With pleasure,” replied he; “but the carriage will be full.”
“You can take your horse.”
“Thank you very much. I will.”
The day was delightful; one of those grey summer-days, that are far better for an excursion than bright ones. In the best of spirits, mounted on a good horse, riding alongside of the carriage in which was the lady who was all womankind to him, and who, without taking much notice of him, yet contrived to throw him a glance now and then, Hugh would have been overflowingly happy, but for an unquiet, distressed feeling, which all the time made him aware of the presence of a sick conscience somewhere within. Mr. Arnold was exceedingly pleasant, for he was much taken with the sweetness and modesty of Lady Emily, who, having no strong opinions upon anything, received those of Mr. Arnold with attentive submission. He saw, or fancied he saw in her, a great resemblance to his deceased wife, to whom he had been as sincerely attached as his nature would allow. In fact, Lady Emily advanced so rapidly in his good graces, that either Euphra was, or thought fit to appear, rather jealous of her. She paid her every attention, however, and seemed to gratify Mr. Arnold by her care of the invalid. She even joined in the entreaties which, on their way home, he made with evident earnestness, for an extension of their visit to a month. Lady Emily was already so much better for the change, that Mrs. Elton made no objection to the proposal. Euphra gave Hugh one look of misery, and, turning again, insisted with increased warmth on their immediate consent. It was gained without much difficulty before they reached home.
Harry, too, was captivated by the gentle kindness of Lady Emily, and hardly took his eyes off her all the way; while, on the other hand, his delicate little attentions had already gained the heart of good Mrs. Elton, who from the first had remarked and pitied the sad looks of the boy.
He’s enoughTo bring a woman to confusion,More than a wiser man, or a far greater.
MIDDLETON.—The Witch.
When they reached the lodge, Lady Emily expressed a wish to walk up the avenue to the house. To this Mr. Arnold gladly consented. The carriage was sent round the back way; and Hugh, dismounting, gave his horse to the footman in attendance. As they drew near the house, the rest of the party having stopped to look at an old tree which was a favourite with its owner, Hugh and Harry were some yards in advance; when the former spied, approaching them from the house, the distinguished figure of Herr von Funkelstein. Saluting as they met, the visitor informed Hugh that he had just been leaving his card for him, and would call some other morning soon; for, as he was rusticating, he had little to occupy him. Hugh turned with him towards the rest of the party, who were now close at hand; when Funkelstein exclaimed, in a tone of surprise,
“What! Miss Cameron here!” and advanced with a profound obeisance, holding his hat in his hand.
Hugh thought he saw her look annoyed; but she held out her hand to him, and, in a voice indicating—still as it appeared to Hugh—some reluctance, introduced him to her uncle, with the words:
“We met at Sir Edward Laston’s, when I was visiting Mrs. Elkingham, two years ago, uncle.”
Mr. Arnold lifted his hat and bowed politely to the stranger. Had Euphra informed him that, although a person of considerable influence in Sir Edward’s household, Herr von Funkelstein had his standing there only as Sir Edward’s private secretary, Mr. Arnold’s aversion to foreigners generally would not have been so scrupulously banished into the background of his behaviour. Ordinary civilities passed between them, marked by an air of flattering deference on Funkelstein’s part, which might have been disagreeable to a man less uninterruptedly conscious of his own importance than Mr. Arnold; and the new visitor turned once more, as if forgetful of his previous direction, and accompanied them towards the house. Before they reached it he had, even in that short space, ingratiated himself so far with Mr. Arnold, that he asked him to stay and dine with them—an invitation which was accepted with manifest pleasure.
“Mr. Sutherland,” said Mr. Arnold, “will you show your friend anything worth note about the place? He has kindly consented to dine with us; and in the meantime I have some letters to write.”
“With pleasure,” answered Hugh.
But all this time he had been inwardly commenting on the appearance of his friend, as Mr. Arnold called him, with the jealousy of a youth in love; for was not Funkelstein an old acquaintance of Miss Cameron? What might not have passed between them in that old hidden time?—for love is jealous of the past as well as of the future. Love, as well as metaphysics, has a lasting quarrel with time and space: the lower love fears them, while the higher defies them.—And he could not help seeing that Funkelstein was one to win favour in ladies’ eyes. Very regular features and a dark complexion were lighted up by eyes as black as Euphra’s, and capable of a wonderful play of light; while his form was remarkable for strength and symmetry. Hugh felt that in any company he would attract immediate attention. His long dark beard, of which just the centre was removed to expose a finely-turned chin, blew over each shoulder as often as they met the wind in going round the house. From what I have heard of him from other deponents besides Hugh, I should judge that he did well to conceal the lines of his mouth in a long moustache, which flowed into his bifurcated beard. He had just enough of the foreign in his dress to add to the appearance of fashion which it bore.
As they walked, Hugh could not help observing an odd peculiarity in the carriage of his companion. It was, that, every few steps, he gave a backward and downward glance to the right, with a sweeping bend of his body, as if he were trying to get a view of the calf of his leg, or as if he fancied he felt something trailing at his foot. So probable, from his motion, did the latter supposition seem, that Hugh changed sides to satisfy himself whether or not there was some dragging briar or straw annoying him; but no follower was to be discovered.
“You are a happy man, Mr. Sutherland,” said the guest, “to live under the same roof with that beautiful Miss Cameron.”
“Am I?” thought Hugh; but he only said, affecting some surprise:
“Do you think her so beautiful?”
Funkelstein’s eyes were fixed upon him, as if to see the effect of his remark. Hugh felt them, and could not conform his face to the indifference of his words. But his companion only answered indifferently:
“Well, I should say so; but beauty is not, that is not beauty for us.”
Whether or not there was poison in the fork of this remark, Hugh could only conjecture. He made no reply.
As they walked about the precincts of the house, Funkelstein asked many questions of Hugh, which his entire ignorance of domestic architecture made it impossible for him to answer. This seemed only to excite the questioner’s desire for information to a higher pitch; and as if the very stones could reply to his demands, he examined the whole range of the various buildings constituting the house of Arnstead “as he would draw it.”
“Certainly,” said he, “there is at least variety enough in the style of this mass of material. There is enough for one pyramid.”
“That would be rather at the expense of the variety, would it not?” said Hugh, in spiteful response to the inconsequence of the second member of Funkelstein’s remark. But the latter was apparently too much absorbed in his continued inspection of the house, from every attainable point of near view, to heed the comment.
“This they call the Ghost’s Walk,” said Hugh.
“Ah! about these old houses there are always such tales.”
“What sort of tales do you mean?”
“I mean of particular spots and their ghosts. You must have heard many such?”
“No, not I.”
“I think Germany is more prolific of such stories. I could tell you plenty.”
“But you don’t mean you believe such things?”
“To me it is equal. I look at them entirely as objects of art.”
“That is a new view of a ghost to me. An object of art? I should have thought them considerably more suitable objects previous to their disembodiment.”
“Ah! you do not understand. You call art painting, don’t you—or sculpture at most? I give up sculpture certainly—and painting too. But don’t you think a ghost a very effective object in literature now? Confess: do you not like a ghost-story very much?”
“Yes, if it is a very good one.”
“Hamlet now?”
“Ah! we don’t speak of Shakspere’s plays as stories. His characters are so real to us, that, in thinking of their development, we go back even to their fathers and mothers—and sometimes even speculate about their future.”
“You islanders are always in earliest somehow. So are we Germans. We are all one.”
“I hope you can be in earnest about dinner, then, for I hear the bell.”
“We must render ourselves in the drawing-room, then? Yes.”
When they entered the drawing-room, they found Miss Cameron alone. Funkelstein advanced, and addressed a few words to her in German, which Hugh’s limited acquaintance with the language prevented him from catching. At the same moment, Mr. Arnold entered, and Funkelstein, turning to him immediately, proceeded, as if by way of apology for speaking in an unknown tongue, to interpret for Mr. Arnold’s benefit:
“I have just been telling Miss Cameron in the language of my country, how much better she looks than when I saw her at Sir Edward Lastons.”
“I know I was quite a scare-crow then,” said Euphra, attempting to laugh.
“And now you are quite a decoy-duck, eh, Euphra?” said Mr. Arnold, laughing in reality at his own joke, which put him in great good-humour for the whole time of dinner and dessert.
“Thank you, uncle,” said Euphra, with a prettily pretended affectation of humility. Then she added gaily:
“When did you rise on our Sussex horizon, Herr von Funkelstein?”
“Oh! I have been in the neighbourhood for a few days; but I owe my meeting with you to one of those coincidences which, were they not so pleasant—to me in this case, at least—one would think could only result from the blundering of old Dame Nature over her knitting. If I had not had the good fortune to meet Mr. Sutherland the other evening, I should have remained in utter ignorance of your neighbourhood and my own felicity, Miss Cameron. Indeed, I called now to see him, not you.”
Hugh saw Mr. Arnold looking rather doubtful of the foreigner’s fine speeches.
Dinner was announced. Funkelstein took Miss Cameron, Hugh Mrs. Elton, and Mr. Arnold followed with Lady Emily, who would never precede her older friend. Hugh tried to talk to Mrs. Elton, but with meagre success. He was suddenly a nobody, and felt more than he had felt for a long time what, in his present deteriorated moral state, he considered the degradation of his position. A gulf seemed to have suddenly yawned between himself and Euphra, and the loudest voice of his despairing agony could not reach across that gulf. An awful conviction awoke within him, that the woman he worshipped would scarcely receive his worship at the worth of incense now; and yet in spirit he fell down grovelling before his idol. The words “euphrasy and rue” kept ringing in his brain, coming over and over with an awful mingling of chime and toll. When he thought about it afterwards, he seemed to have been a year in crossing the hall with Mrs. Elton on his arm. But as if divining his thoughts—just as they passed through the dining-room door, Euphra looked round at him, almost over Funkelstein’s shoulder, and, without putting into her face the least expression discernible by either of the others following, contrived to banish for the time all Hugh’s despair, and to convince him that he had nothing to fear from Funkelstein. How it was done Hugh himself could not tell. He could not even recall the look. He only knew that he had been as miserable as one waking in his coffin, and that now he was out in the sunny air.
During dinner, Funkelstein paid no very particular attention to Euphrasia, but was remarkably polite to Lady Emily. She seemed hardly to know how to receive his attentions, but to regard him as a strange animal, which she did not know how to treat, and of which she was a little afraid. Mrs. Elton, on the contrary, appeared to be delighted with his behaviour and conversation; for, without showing the least originality, he yet had seen so much, and knew so well how to bring out what he had seen, that he was a most interesting companion. Hugh took little share in the conversation beyond listening as well as he could, to prevent himself from gazing too much at Euphra.
“Had Mr. Sutherland and you been old acquaintances then, Herr von Funkelstein?” asked Mr. Arnold, reverting to the conversation which had been interrupted by the announcement of dinner.
“Not at all. We met quite accidentally, and introduced ourselves. I believe a thunderstorm and a lecture on biology were the mediating parties between us. Was it not so, Mr. Sutherland?”
“I beg your pardon,” stammered Hugh. But Mr. Arnold interposed:
“A lecture on what, did you say?”
“On biology.”
Mr. Arnold looked posed. He did not like to say he did not know what the word meant; for, like many more ignorant men, he thought such a confession humiliating. Von Funkelstein hastened to his relief.
“It would be rather surprising if you were acquainted with the subject, Mr. Arnold. I fear to explain it to you, lest both Mr. Sutherland and myself should sink irrecoverably in your estimation. But young men want to know all that is going on.”
Herr Funkelstein was not exactly what one would call a young man; but, as he chose to do so himself, there was no one to dispute the classification.
“Oh! of course,” replied Mr. Arnold; “quite right. What, then, pray, is biology?”
“A science, falsely so called,” said Hugh, who, waking up a little, wanted to join in the conversation.
“What does the word mean?” said Mr. Arnold.
Von Funkelstein answered at once:
“The science of life. But I must say, the name, as now applied, is no indication of the thing signified.”
“How, then, is a gentleman to know what it is?” said Mr. Arnold, half pettishly, and forgetting that his knowledge had not extended even to the interpretation of the name.
“It is one of the sciences, true or false, connected with animal magnetism.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Mr. Arnold, rather rudely.
“You would have said so, if you had heard the lecture,” said Funkelstein.
The conversation had not taken this turn till quite late in the dining ceremony. Euphra rose to go; and Hugh remarked that her face was dreadfully pale. But she walked steadily out of the room.
This interrupted the course of the talk, and the subject was not resumed. Immediately after tea, which was served very soon, Funkelstein took his leave of the ladies.
“We shall be glad to see you often while in this neighbourhood,” said Mr. Arnold, as he bade him good night.
“I shall, without fail, do myself the honour of calling again soon,” replied he, and bowed himself out.
Lady Emily, evidently relieved by his departure, rose, and, approaching Euphra, said, in a sweet coaxing tone, which even she could hardly have resisted:
“Dear Miss Cameron, you promised to sing, for me in particular, some evening. May I claim the fulfilment of your promise?”
Euphra had recovered her complexion, and she too seemed to Hugh to be relieved by the departure of Funkelstein.
“Certainly,” she answered, rising at once. “What shall I sing?”
Hugh was all ear now.
“Something sacred, if you please.”
Euphra hesitated, but not long.
“Shall I sing Mozart’s Agnus Dei, then?”
Lady Emily hesitated in her turn.
“I should prefer something else. I don’t approve of singing popish music, however beautiful it may be.”
“Well, what shall it be?”
“Something of Handel or Mendelssohn, please. Do you sing, ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth?’”
“I daresay I can sing it,” replied Euphra, with some petulance; and went to the piano.
This was a favourite air with Hugh; and he placed himself so as to see the singer without being seen himself, and to lose no slightest modulation of her voice. But what was his disappointment to find that oratorio-music was just what Euphra was incapable of! No doubt she sang it quite correctly; but there was no religion in it. Not a single tone worshipped or rejoiced. The quality of sound necessary to express the feeling and thought of the composer was lacking: the palace of sound was all right constructed, but of wrong material. Euphra, however, was quite unconscious of failure. She did not care for the music; but she attributed her lack of interest in it to the music itself, never dreaming that, in fact, she had never really heard it, having no inner ear for its deeper harmonies. As soon as she had finished, Lady Emily thanked her, but did not praise her more than by saying:
“I wish I had a voice like yours, Miss Cameron.”
“I daresay you have a better of your own,” said Euphra, falsely.
Lady Emily laughed.
“It is the poorest little voice you ever heard; yet I confess I am glad, for my own sake, that I have even that. What should I do if I never heard Handel!”
Every simple mind has a little well of beauty somewhere in its precincts, which flows and warbles, even when the owner is unheedful. The religion of Lady Emily had led her into a region far beyond the reach of her intellect, in which there sprang a constant fountain of sacred song. To it she owed her highest moods.
“Then Handel is your musician?” said Euphra. “You should not have put me to such a test. It was very unfair of you, Lady Emily.”
Lady Emily laughed, as if quite amused at the idea of having done Euphra any wrong. Euphra added:
“You must sing now, Lady Emily. You cannot refuse, after the admission you have just made.”
“I confess it is only fair; but I warn you to expect nothing.”
She took her place at the piano, and sang—He shall feed his flock. Her health had improved so much during her sojourn at Arnstead, that, when she began to sing, the quantity of her voice surprised herself; but after all, it was a poor voice; and the execution, if clear of any great faults, made no other pretence to merit. Yet she effected the end of the music, the very result which every musician would most desire, wherein Euphra had failed utterly. This was worthy of note, and Hugh was not even yet too blind to perceive it. Lady Emily, with very ordinary intellect, and paltry religious opinions, yet because she was good herself, and religious—could, in the reproduction of the highest kind of music, greatly surpass the spirited, intellectual musician, whose voice was as superior to hers as a nightingale’s to a sparrow’s, and whose knowledge of music and musical power generally, surpassed hers beyond all comparison.
It must be allowed for Euphra, that she seemed to have gained some perception of the fact. Perhaps she had seen signs of emotion in Hugh’s face, which he had shaded with his hand as Lady Emily sang; or perhaps the singing produced in her a feeling which she had not had when singing herself. All I know is, that the same night—while Hugh was walking up and down his room, meditating on this defect of Euphra’s, and yet feeling that if she could sing only devil’s music, he must love her—a tap came to the door which made him start with the suggestion of the former mysterious noises of a similar kind; that he sprang to the door; and that, instead of looking out on a vacant corridor, as he all but anticipated, he saw Euphra standing there in the dark—who said in a whisper:
“Ah! you do not love me any longer, because Lady Emily can sing psalms better than I can!”
There was both pathos and spite in the speech.
“Come in, Euphra.”
“No. I am afraid I have been very naughty in coming here at all.”
“Do come in. I want you to tell me something about Funkelstein.”
“What do you want to know about him? I suppose you are jealous of him. Ah! you men can both be jealous and make jealous at the same moment.” A little broken sigh followed. Hugh answered:
“I only want to know what he is.”
“Oh! some twentieth cousin of mine.”
“Mr. Arnold does not know that?”
“Oh dear! no. It is so far off I can’t count it, In fact I doubt it altogether. It must date centuries back.”
“His intimacy, then, is not to be accounted for by his relationship?”
“Ah! ah! I thought so. Jealous of the poor count!”
“Count?”
“Oh dear! what does it matter? He doesn’t like to be called Count, because all foreigners are counts or barons, or something equally distinguished. I oughtn’t to have let it out.”
“Never mind. Tell me something about him.”
“He is a Bohemian. I met him first, some years ago, on the continent.”
“Then that was not your first meeting—at Sir Edward Laston’s?”
“No.”
“How candid she is!” thought Hugh.
“He calls me his cousin; but if he be mine, he is yet more Mr. Arnold’s. But he does not want it mentioned yet. I am sure I don’t know why.”
“Is he in love with you?”
“How can I tell?” she answered archly. “By his being very jealous? Is that the way to know whether a man is in love with one? But if he is in love with me, it does not follow that I am in love with him—does it? Confess. Am I not very good to answer all your impertinent downright questions? They are as point blank as the church-catechism;—mind, I don’t say as rude.—How can I be in love with two at—a—?”
She seemed to cheek herself. But Hugh had heard enough—as she had intended he should. She turned instantly, and sped—surrounded by the “low melodious thunder” of her silken garments—to her own door, where she vanished noiselessly.
“What care I for oratorios?” said Hugh to himself, as he put the light out, towards morning.
Where was all this to end? What goal had Hugh set himself? Could he not go away, and achieve renown in one of many ways, and return fit, in the eyes of the world, to claim the hand of Miss Cameron? But would he marry her if he could? He would not answer the question. He closed the ears of his heart to it, and tried to go to sleep. He slept, and dreamed of Margaret in the storm.
A few days passed without anything occurring sufficiently marked for relation. Euphra and he seemed satisfied without meeting in private. Perhaps both were afraid of carrying it too far; at least, too far to keep clear of the risk of discovery, seeing that danger was at present greater than usual. Mr. Arnold continued to be thoroughly attentive to his guests, and became more and more devoted to Lady Emily. There was no saying where it might end; for he was not an old man yet, and Lady Emily appeared to have no special admirers. Arnstead was such an abode, and surrounded with such an estate, as few even of the nobility could call their own. And a reminiscence of his first wife seemed to haunt all Mr. Arnold’s contemplations of Lady Emily, and all his attentions to her. These were delicate in the extreme, evidently bringing out the best life that yet remained in a heart that was almost a fossil. Hugh made some fresh efforts to do his duty by Harry, and so far succeeded, that at least the boy made some progress—evident enough to the moderate expectations of his father. But what helped Harry as much as anything, was the motherly kindness, even tenderness, of good Mrs. Elton, who often had him to sit with her in her own room. To her he generally fled for refuge, when he felt deserted and lonely.