They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet,An adder and a snake;But haud me fast, let me not pass,Gin ye would be my maik.
They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet,An adder and an aske;They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet,A bale that burns fast.
They’ll shape me in your arms, Janet,A dove, but and a swan;And last, they’ll shape me in your armsA mother-naked man:Cast your green mantle over me—And sae shall I be wan.
Scotch Ballad: Tamlane.
As soon as Hugh had left the house, Margaret hastened to Euphra. She found her in her own room, a little more cheerful, but still strangely depressed. This appearance increased towards the evening, till her looks became quite haggard, revealing an inward conflict of growing agony. Margaret remained with her.
Just before dinner, the upstairs bell, whose summons Margaret was accustomed to obey, rang, and she went down. Mrs. Elton detained her for a few minutes. The moment she was at liberty, she flew to Euphra’s room by the back staircase. But, as she ascended, she was horrified to meet Euphra, in a cloak and thick veil, creeping down the stairs like a thief. Without saying a word, the strong girl lifted her in her arms as if she had been a child, and carried her back to her room. Euphra neither struggled nor spoke. Margaret laid her on her couch, and sat down beside her. She lay without moving, and, although wide awake, gave no other sign of existence than an occasional low moan, that seemed to come from a heart pressed almost to death.
Having lain thus for an hour, she broke the silence.
“Margaret, do you despise me dreadfully?”
“No, not in the least.”
“Yet you found me going to do what I knew was wrong.”
“You had not made yourself strong by thinking about the will of God. Had you, dear?”
“No. I will tell you how it was. I had been tormented with the inclination to go to him, and had been resisting it till I was worn out, and could hardly bear it more. Suddenly all grew calm within me, and I seemed to hate Count Halkar no longer. I thought with myself how easy it would be to put a stop to this dreadful torment, just by yielding to it—only this once. I thought I should then be stronger to resist the next time; for this was wearing me out so, that I must yield the next time, if I persisted now. But what seemed to justify me, was the thought that so I should find out where he was, and be able to tell Hugh; and then he would get the ring for me, and, perhaps that would deliver me. But it was very wrong of me. I forgot all about the will of God. I will not go again, Margaret. Do you think I may try again to fight him?”
“That is just what you must do. All that God requires of you is, to try again. God’s child must be free. Do try, dear Miss Cameron.”
“I think I could, if you would call me Euphra. You are so strong, and pure, and good, Margaret! I wish I had never had any thoughts but such as you have, you beautiful creature! Oh, how glad I am that you found me! Do watch me always.”
“I will call you Euphra. I will be your sister-servant—anything you like, if you will only try again.”
“Thank you, with all my troubled heart, dear Margaret. I will indeed try again.”
She sprang from the couch in a sudden agony, and grasping Margaret by the arm, looked at her with such a terror-stricken face, that she began to fear she was losing her reason.
“Margaret,” she said, as if with the voice as of one just raised from the dead, speaking with all the charnel damps in her throat, “could it be that I am in love with him still?”
Margaret shuddered, but did not lose her self-possession.
“No, no, Euphra, darling. You were haunted with him, and so tired that you were not able to hate him any longer. Then you began to give way to him. That was all. There was no love in that.”
Euphra’s grasp relaxed.
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
A pause followed.
“Do you think God cares to have me do his will? Is it anything to him?”
“I am sure of it. Why did he make you else? But it is not for the sake of being obeyed that he cares for it, but for the sake of serving you and making you blessed with his blessedness. He does not think about himself, but about you.”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear! I must not go.”
“Let me read to you again, Eupra.”
“Yes, please do, Margaret.”
She read the fortieth chapter of Isaiah, one of her father’s favourite chapters, where all the strength and knowledge of God are urged to a height, that they may fall in overwhelming profusion upon the wants and fears and unbelief of his children. How should he that calleth the stars by their names forget his people?
While she read, the cloud melted away from Euphra’s face; a sweet sleep followed; and the paroxysm was over for the time.
Was Euphra insane? and were these the first accesses of daily fits of madness, which had been growing and approaching for who could tell how long?
Even if she were mad, or going mad, was not this the right way to treat her? I wonder how often the spiritual cure of faith in the Son of Man, the Great Healer, has been tried on those possessed with our modern demons. Is it proved that insanity has its origin in the physical disorder which, it is now said, can be shown to accompany it invariably? Let it be so: it yet appears to me that if the physician would, like the Son of Man himself, descend as it were into the disorganized world in which the consciousness of his patient exists, and receiving as fact all that he reveals to him of its condition—for fact it is, of a very real sort—introduce, by all the means that sympathy can suggest, the one central cure for evil, spiritual and material, namely, the truth of the Son of Man, the vision of the perfect friend and helper, with the revelation of the promised liberty of obedience—if he did this, it seems to me that cures might still be wrought as marvellous as those of the ancient time.
It seems to me, too, that that can be but an imperfect religion, as it would be a poor salvation, from which one corner of darkness may hide us; from whose blessed health and freedom a disordered brain may snatch us; making us hopeless outcasts, till first the physician, the student of physical laws, shall interfere and restore us to a sound mind, or the great God’s-angel Death crumble the soul-oppressing brain, with its thousand phantoms of pain and fear and horror, into a film of dust in the hollow of the deserted skull.
Hugh repaired immediately to Falconer’s chambers, where he was more likely to find him during the day than in the evening. He was at home. He told him of his interview with Euphra, and her feeling that the count was not far off.
“Do you think there can be anything in it?” asked he, when he had finished his relation.
“I think very likely,” answered his friend. “I will be more on the outlook than ever. It may, after all, be through the lady herself that we shall find the villain. If she were to fall into one of her trances, now, I think it almost certain she would go to him. She ought to be carefully watched and followed, if that should take place. Let me know all that you learn about her. Go and see her again to-morrow, that we may be kept informed of her experiences, so far as she thinks proper to tell them.”
“I will,” said Hugh, and took his leave.
But Margaret, who knew Euphra’s condition, both spiritual and physical, better than any other, had far different objects for her, through means of the unholy attraction which the count exercised over her, than the discovery of the stolen ring. She was determined that neither sleeping nor waking should she follow his call, or dance to his piping. She should resist to the last, in the name of God, and so redeem her lost will from the power of this devil, to whom she had foolishly sold it.
The next day, the struggle evidently continued; and it had such an effect on Euphra, that Margaret could not help feeling very anxious about the result as regarded her health, even if she should be victorious in the contest. But not for one moment did Margaret quail; for she felt convinced, come of it what might, that the only hope for Euphra lay in resistance. Death, to her mind, was simply nothing in the balance with slavery of such a sort.
Once—but evidently in a fit of absence—Euphra rose, went to the door, and opened it. But she instantly dashed it to again, and walking slowly back, resumed her seat on the couch. Margaret came to her from the other side of the bed, where she had been working by the window, for the last quarter of an hour, for the sake of the waning light.
“What is it, dear?” she said.
“Oh, Margaret! are you there? I did not know you were in the room. I found myself at the door before I knew what I was doing.”
“But you came back of yourself this time.”
“Yes I did. But I still feel inclined to go.”
“There is no sin in that, so long as you do not encourage the feeling, or yield to it.”
“I hate it.”
“You will soon be free from it. Keep on courageously, dear sister. You will be in liberty and joy soon.”
“God grant it.”
“He will, Euphra. I am sure he will.”
“I am sure you know, or you would not say it.”
A knock came to the street door. Euphra started, and sat in the attitude of a fearful listener. A message was presently brought her, that Mr. Sutherland was in the drawing-room, and wished to see her.
Euphra rose immediately, and went to him. Margaret, who did not quite feel that she could be trusted yet, removed to a room behind the drawing-room, whence she could see Euphra if she passed to go down stairs.
Hugh asked her if she could tell him anything more about Count Halkar.
“Only,” she answered, “that I am still surer of his being near me.”
“How do you know it?”
“I need not mind telling you, for I have told you before that he has a kind of supernatural power over me. I know it by his drawing me towards him. It is true I might feel it just the same whether he was in America or in London; but I do not think he would care to do it, if he were so far off. I know him well enough to know that he would not wish for me except for some immediate advantage to himself.”
“But what is the use of his doing so, when you don’t know where he is to be found.”
“I should go straight to him, without knowing where I was going.”
Hugh rose in haste.
“Put on your bonnet and cloak, and come with me. I will take care of you. Lead me to him, and the ring shall soon be in your hands again.”
Euphra hesitated, half rose, but sat down immediately.
“No, no! Not for worlds,” she said. “Do not tempt me. I must not—I dare not—I will not go.”
“But I shall be with you. I will take care of you. Don’t you think I am able, Euphra?”
“Oh, yes! quite able. But I must not go anywhere at that man’s bidding.”
“But it won’t be at his bidding: it will be at mine.”
“Ah! that alters the case rather, does it not? I wonder what Margaret would say.”
“Margaret! What Margaret?” said Hugh.
“Oh! my new maid,” answered Euphra, recollecting herself.
“Not being well at present, she is my nurse.”
“We shall take a cab as soon as we get to the corner.”
“I don’t think the count would be able to guide the horse,” said Euphra, with a smile. “I must walk. But I should like to go. I will. It would be such a victory to catch him in his own toils.”
She rose and ran up stairs. In a few minutes she came down again, cloaked and veiled. But Margaret met her as she descended, and leading her into the back drawing-room, said:
“Are you going, Euphra?”
“Yes; but I am going with Mr. Sutherland,” answered Euphra, in a defensive tone. “It is to please him, and not to obey the count.”
“Are you sure it is all to please Mr. Sutherland? If it were, I don’t think you would be able to guide him right. Is it not to get rid of your suffering by yielding to temptation, Euphra? At all events, if you go, even should Mr. Sutherland be successful with him, you will never feel that you have overcome him, or he, that he has lost you. He will still hold you fast. Don’t go. I am sure you are deceiving yourself.”
Euphra stood for a moment and pouted like a naughty child. Then suddenly throwing her arms about Margaret’s neck, she kissed her, and said:
“I won’t go, Margaret. Here, take my things up stairs for me.”
She threw off her bonnet and cloak, and rejoined Hugh in the drawing-room.
“I can’t go,” she said. “I must not go. I should be yielding to him, and it would make a slave of me all my life.”
“It is our only chance for the ring,” said Hugh.
Again Euphra hesitated and wavered; but again she conquered.
“I cannot help it,” she said. “I would rather not have the ring than go—if you will forgive me.”
“Oh, Euphra!” replied Hugh. “You know it is not for myself.”
“I do know it. You won’t mind then if I don’t go?”
“Certainly not, if you have made up your mind. You must have a good reason for it.”
“Indeed I have.” And even already she felt that resistance brought its own reward.
Hugh went almost immediately, in order to make his report to Falconer, with whom he had an appointment for the purpose.
“She is quite right,” said Falconer. “I do not think, in the relation in which she stands to him, that she could safely do otherwise. But it seems to me very likely that this will turn out well for our plans, too. Let her persist, and in all probability he will not only have to resign her perforce, but will so far make himself subject to her in turn, as to seek her who will not go to him. He will pull upon his own rope till he is drawn to the spot where he has fixed it. What remains for you and me to do, is to keep a close watch on the house and neighbourhood. Most likely we shall find the villain before long.”
“Do you really think so?”
“The whole affair is mysterious, and has to do with laws with which we are most imperfectly acquainted; but this seems to me a presumption worth acting upon. Is there no one in the house on whom you could depend for assistance—for information, at least?”
“Yes. There is the same old servant that Mrs. Elton had with her at Arnstead. He is a steady old fellow, and has been very friendly with me.”
“Well, what I would advise is, that you should find yourself quarters as near the spot as possible; and, besides keeping as much of a personal guard upon the house as you can, engage the servant you mention to let you know, the moment the count makes his appearance. It will probably be towards night when he calls, for such a man may have reasons as well as instincts to make him love the darkness rather than the light. You had better go at once; and when you have found a place, leave or send the address here to me, and towards night-fall I will join you. But we may have to watch for several days. We must not be too sanguine.”
Almost without a word, Hugh went to do as Falconer said. The only place he could find suitable, was a public-house at the corner of a back street, where the men-servants of the neighbourhood used to resort. He succeeded in securing a private room in it, for a week, and immediately sent Falconer word of his locality. He then called a second time at Mrs. Elton’s, and asked to see the butler. When he came:
“Irwan,” said he, “has Herr von Funkelstein called here to-day?”
“No, sir, he has not.”
“You would know him, would you not?”
“Yes, sir; perfectly.”
“Well, if he should call to-night, or to-morrow, or any time within the next few days, let me know the moment he is in the house. You will find me at the Golden Staff, round the corner. It is of the utmost importance that I should see him at once. But do not let him know that any one wants to see him. You shall not repent helping me in this affair. I know I can trust you.”
Hugh had fixed him with his eyes, before he began to explain his wishes. He had found out that this was the best way of securing attention from inferior natures, and that it was especially necessary with London servants; for their superciliousness is cowed by it, and the superior will brought to bear upon theirs. It is the only way a man without a carriage has to command attention from such. Irwan was not one of this sort. He was a country servant, for one difference. But Hugh made his address as impressive as possible.
“I will with pleasure, sir,” answered Irwan, and Hugh felt tolerably sure of him.
Falconer came. They ordered some supper, and sat till eleven o’clock. There being then no chance of a summons, they went out together. Passing the house, they saw light in one upper window only. That light would burn there all night, for it was in Euphra’s room. They went on, Hugh accompanying Falconer in one of his midnight walks through London, as he had done repeatedly before. From such companionship and the scenes to which Falconer introduced him, he had gathered this fruit, that he began to believe in God for the sake of the wretched men and women he saw in the world. At first it was his own pain at the sight of such misery that drove him, for consolation, to hope in God; so, at first, it was for his own sake. But as he saw more of them, and grew to love them more, he felt that the only hope for them lay in the love of God; and he hoped in God for them. He saw too that a God not both humanly and absolutely divine, a God less than that God shadowed forth in the Redeemer of men, would not do. But thinking about God thus, and hoping in him for his brothers and sisters, he began to love God. Then, last of all, that he might see in him one to whom he could abandon everything, that he might see him perfect and all in all and as he must be—for the sake of God himself, he believed in him as the Saviour of these his sinful and suffering kin.
As early as was at all excusable, the following morning, he called on Euphra. The butler said that she had not come down yet, but he would send up his name. A message was brought back that Miss Cameron was sorry not to see him, but she had had a bad night, and was quite unable to get up. Irwan replied to his inquiry, that the count had not called. Hugh withdrew to the Golden Staff.
A bad night it had been indeed. As Euphra slept well the first part of it, and had no attack such as she had had upon both the preceding nights, Margaret had hoped the worst was over. Still she laid herself only within the threshold of sleep ready to wake at the least motion.
In the middle of the night she felt Euphra move. She lay still to see what she would do. Euphra slipped out of bed, and partly dressed herself; then went to her wardrobe, and put on a cloak with a large hood, which she drew over her head. Margaret lay with a dreadful aching at her heart. Euphra went towards the door. Margaret called her, but she made no answer. Margaret flew to the door, and reached it before her. Then, to her intense delight, she saw that Euphra’s eyes were closed. Just as she laid her hand on the door, Margaret took her gently in her arms.
“Let me go, let me go!” Euphra almost screamed. Then suddenly opening her eyes, she stared at Margaret in a bewildered fashion, like one waking from the dead.
“Euphra! dear Euphra!” said Margaret.
“Oh, Margaret! is it really you?” exclaimed Euphra, flinging her arms about her. “Oh, I am glad. Ah! you see what I must have been about. I suppose I knew when I was doing it, but I don’t know now. I have forgotten all about it. Oh dear! oh dear! I thought it would come to this.”
“Come to bed, dear. You couldn’t help it. It was not yourself. There is not more than half of you awake, when you walk in your sleep.”
They went to bed. Euphra crept close to Margaret, and cried herself asleep again. The next day she had a bad head-ache. This with her always followed somnambulation. She did not get up all that day. When Hugh called again in the evening, he heard she was better, but still in bed.
Falconer joined Hugh at the Golden Staff, at night; but they had no better success than before. Falconer went out alone, for Hugh wanted to keep himself fresh. Though very strong, he was younger and less hardened than Falconer, who could stand an incredible amount of labour and lack of sleep. Hugh would have given way under the half.
O my admired mistress, quench not out The holy fires within you, though temptations Shower down upon you: clasp thine armour on; Fight well, and thou shalt see, after these wars, Thy head wear sunbeams, and thy feet touch stars.
MASSINGER.—The Virgin Martyr.
But Hugh could sleep no more than if he had been out with Falconer. He was as restless as a wild beast in a cage. Something would not let him be at peace. So he rose, dressed, and went out. As soon as he turned the corner, he could see Mrs. Elton’s house. It was visible both by intermittent moonlight above, and by flickering gaslight below, for the wind blew rather strong. There was snow in the air, he knew. The light they had observed last night, was burning now. A moment served to make these observations; and then Hugh’s eyes were arrested by the sight of something else—a man walking up and down the pavement in front of Mrs. Elton’s house. He instantly stepped into the shadow of a porch to watch him. The figure might be the count’s; it might not; he could not be sure. Every now and then the man looked up to the windows. At length he stopped right under the lighted one, and looked up. Hugh was on the point of gliding out, that he might get as near him as possible before rushing on him, when, at the moment, to his great mortification, a policeman emerged from some mysterious corner, and the figure instantly vanished in another. Hugh did not pursue him; because it would be to set all on a single chance, and that a poor one; for if the count, should it be he, succeeded in escaping, he would not return to a spot which he knew to be watched. Hugh, therefore, withdrew once more under a porch, and waited. But, whatever might be the cause, the man made his appearance no more. Hugh contrived to keep watch for two hours, in spite of suspicious policemen. He slept late into the following morning.
Calling at Mrs. Elton’s, he learned that the count had not been there; that Miss Cameron had been very ill all night; but that she was rather better since the morning.
That night, as the preceding, Margaret had awaked suddenly. Euphra was not in the bed beside her. She started up in an agony of terror; but it was soon allayed, though not removed. She saw Euphra on her knees at the foot of the bed, an old-fashioned four-post one. She had her arms twined round one of the bed-posts, and her head thrown back, as if some one were pulling her backwards by her hair, which fell over her night-dress to the floor in thick, black masses. Her eyes were closed; her face was death-like, almost livid; and the cold dews of torture were rolling down from brow to chin. Her lips were moving convulsively, with now and then the appearance of an attempt at articulation, as if they were set in motion by an agony of inward prayer. Margaret, unable to move, watched her with anxious sympathy and fearful expectation. How long this lasted she could not tell, but it seemed a long time. At length Margaret rose, and longing to have some share in the struggle, however small, went softly, and stood behind her, shadowing her from a feeble ray of moonlight which, through a wind-rent cloud, had stolen into the room, and lay upon her upturned face. There she lifted up her heart in prayer. In a moment after the tension of Euphra’s countenance relaxed a little; composure slowly followed; her head gradually rose, so that Margaret could see her face no longer; then, as gradually, drooped forward. Next her arms untwined themselves from the bed-post, and her hands clasped themselves together. She looked like one praying in the intense silence of absorbing devotion. Margaret stood still as a statue.
In speaking about it afterwards to Hugh, Margaret told him that she distinctly remembered hearing, while she stood, the measured steps of a policeman pass the house on the pavement below.
In a few minutes Euphra bowed her head yet lower, and then rose to her feet. She turned round towards Margaret, as if she knew she was there. To Margaret’s astonishment, her eyes were wide open. She smiled a most child-like, peaceful, happy smile, and said:
“It is over, Margaret, all over at last. Thank you, with my whole heart. God has helped me.”
At that moment, the moon shone out full, and her face appeared in its light like the face of an angel. Margaret looked on her with awe. Fear, distress, and doubt had vanished, and she was already beautiful like the blessed. Margaret got a handkerchief, and wiped the cold damps from her face. Then she helped her into bed, where she fell asleep almost instantly, and slept like a child. Now and then she moaned; but when Margaret looked at her, she saw the smile still upon her countenance.
She woke weak and worn, but happy.
“I shall not trouble you to-day, Margaret, dear,” said she. “I shall not get up yet, but you will not need to watch me. A great change has passed upon me. I am free. I have overcome him. He may do as he pleases now. I do not care. I defy him. I got up last night in my sleep, but I remember all about it; and, although I was asleep, and felt powerless like a corpse, I resisted him, even when I thought he was dragging me away by bodily force. And I resisted him, till he left me alone. Thank God!”
It had been a terrible struggle, but she had overcome. Nor was this all: she would no more lead two lives, the waking and the sleeping. Her waking will and conscience had asserted themselves in her sleeping acts; and the memory of the somnambulist lived still in the waking woman. Hence her two lives were blended into one life; and she was no more two, but one. This indicated a mighty growth of individual being.
“I woke without terror,” she went on to say. “I always used to wake from such a sleep in an agony of unknown fear. I do not think I shall ever walk in my sleep again.”
Is not salvation the uniting of all our nature into one harmonious whole—God first in us, ourselves last, and all in due order between? Something very much analogous to the change in Euphra takes place in a man when he first learns that his beliefs must become acts; that his religious life and his human life are one; that he must do the thing that he admires. The Ideal is the only absolute Real; and it must become the Real in the individual life as well, however impossible they may count it who never try it, or who do not trust in God to effect it, when they find themselves baffled in the attempt.
In the afternoon, Euphra fell asleep, and when she woke, seemed better. She said to Margaret:
“Can it be that it was all a dream, Margaret? I mean my association with that dreadful man. I feel as if it were only some horrid dream, and that I could never have had anything to do with him. I may have been out of my mind, you know, and have told you things which I believed firmly enough then, but which never really took place. It could not have been me, Margaret, could it?”
“Not your real, true, best self, dear.”
“I have been a dreadful creature, Margaret. But I feel that all that has melted away from me, and gone behind the sunset, which will for ever stand, in all its glory and loveliness, between me and it, an impassable rampart of defence.”
Her words sounded strange and excited, but her eye and her pulse were calm.
“How could he ever have had that hateful power over me?”
“Don’t think any more about him, dear, but enjoy the rest God has given you.”
“I will, I will.”
At that moment, a maid came to the door, with Funkelstein’s card for Miss Cameron.
“Very well,” said Margaret; “ask him to wait. I will tell Miss Cameron. She may wish to send him a message. You may go.”
She told Euphra that the count was in the house. Euphra showed no surprise, no fear, no annoyance.
“Will you see him for me, Margaret, if you don’t mind; and tell him from me, that I defy him; that I do not hate him, only because I despise and forget him; that I challenge him to do his worst.”
She had forgotten all about the ring. But Margaret had not.
“I will,” said she, and left the room.
On her way down, she went into the drawing-room, and rang the bell.
“Send Mr. Irwan to me here, please. It is for Miss Cameron.”
The man went, but presently returned, saying that the butler had just stepped out.
“Very well. You will do just as well. When the gentleman leaves who is calling now, you must follow him. Take a cab, if necessary, and follow him everywhere, till you find where he stops for the night. Watch the place, and send me word where you are. But don’t let him know. Put on plain clothes, please, as fast as you can.”
“Yes, Miss, directly.”
The servants all called Margaret, Miss.
She lingered yet a little, to give the man time. She was not at all satisfied with her plan, but she could think of nothing better. Happily, it was not necessary. Irwan had run as fast as his old legs would carry him to the Golden Staff. Hugh received the news with delight. His heart seemed to leap into his throat, and he felt just as he did, when, deer-stalking for the first time, he tried to take aim at a great red stag.
“I shall wait for him outside the door. We must have no noise in the house. He is a thief, or worse, Irwan.”
“Good gracious! And there’s the plate all laid out for dinner on the sideboard!” exclaimed Irwan, and hurried off faster than he had come.
But Hugh was standing at the door long before Irwan got up to it. Had Margaret known who was watching outside, it would have been a wonderful relief to her.
She entered the dining-room, where the count stood impatient. He advanced quickly, acting on his expectation of Euphra, but seeing his mistake, stopped, and bowed politely. Margaret told him that Miss Cameron was ill, and gave him her message, word for word. The count turned pale with mortification and rage. He bit his lip, made no reply, and walked out into the hall, where Irwan stood with the handle of the door in his hand, impatient to open it. No sooner was he out of the house, than Hugh sprang upon him; but the count, who had been perfectly upon his guard, eluded him, and darted off down the street. Hugh pursued at full speed, mortified at his escape. He had no fear at first of overtaking him, for he had found few men his equals in speed and endurance; but he soon saw, to his dismay, that the count was increasing the distance between them, and feared that, by a sudden turn into some labyrinth, he might escape him altogether. They passed the Golden Staff at full speed, and at the next corner Hugh discovered what gave the count the advantage: it was his agility and recklessness in turning corners. But, like the sorcerer’s impunity, they failed him at last; for, at the next turn, he ran full upon Falconer, who staggered back, while the count reeled and fell. Hugh was upon him in a moment. “Help!” roared the count, for a last chance from the sympathies of a gathering crowd.
“I’ve got him!” cried Hugh.
“Let the man alone,” growled a burly fellow in the crowd, with his fists clenched in his trowser-pockets.
“Let me have a look at him,” said Falconer, stooping over him. “Ah! I don’t know him. That’s as well for him. Let him up, Sutherland.”
The bystanders took Falconer for a detective, and did not seem inclined to interfere, all except the carman before mentioned. He came up, pushing the crowd right and left.
“Let the man alone,” said he, in a very offensive tone.
“I assure you,” said Falconer, “he’s not worth your trouble; for—”
“None o’ your cursed jaw!” said the fellow, in a louder and deeper growl, approaching Falconer with a threatening mien.
“Well, I can’t help it,” said Falconer, as if to himself.
“Sutherland, look after the count.”
“That I will,” said Hugh, confidently.
Falconer turned on the carman, who was just on the point of closing with him, preferring that mode of fighting; and saying only: “Defend yourself,” retreated a step. The man was good at his fists too, and, having failed in his first attempt, made the best use of them he could. But he had no chance with Falconer, whose coolness equalled his skill.
Meantime, the Bohemian had been watching his chance; and although the contest certainly did not last longer than one minute, found opportunity, in the middle of it, to wrench himself free from Hugh, trip him up, and dart off. The crowd gave way before him. He vanished so suddenly and completely, that it was evident he must have studied the neighbourhood from the retreat side of the question. With rat-like instinct, he had consulted the holes and corners in anticipation of the necessity of applying to them. Hugh got up, and, directed, or possibly misdirected by the bystanders, sped away in pursuit; but he could hear or see nothing of the fugitive.
At the end of the minute, the carman lay in the road.
“Look after him, somebody,” said Falconer.
“No fear of him, sir; he’s used to it,” answered one of the bystanders, with the respect which Falconer’s prowess claimed.
Falconer walked after Hugh, who soon returned, looking excessively mortified, and feeling very small indeed.
“Never mind, Sutherland,” said he. “The fellow is up to a trick or two; but we shall catch him yet. If it hadn’t been for that big fool there—but he’s punished enough.”
“But what can we do next? He will not come here again.”
“Very likely not. Still he may not give up his attempts upon Miss Cameron. I almost wonder, seeing she is so impressible, that she can give no account of his whereabouts. But I presume clairvoyance depends on the presence of other qualifications as well. I should like to mesmerize her myself, and see whether she could not help us then.”
“Well, why not, if you have the power?”
“Because I have made up my mind not to superinduce any condition of whose laws I am so very partially informed. Besides, I consider it a condition of disease in which, as by sleeplessness for instance, the senses of the soul, if you will allow the expression, are, for its present state, rendered unnaturally acute. To induce such a condition, I dare not exercise a power which itself I do not understand.”
For though that ever virtuous was she,She was increased in such excellence,Of thewes good, yset in high bounté,And so discreet and fair of eloquence,So benign, and so digne of reverence,And couthé so the poeple’s hert embrace,That each her loveth that looketh in her face.
CHAUCER.—The Clerk’s Tale.
Hugh returned to Mrs. Elton’s, and, in the dining-room, wrote a note to Euphra, to express his disappointment, and shame that, after all, the count had foiled him; but, at the same time, his determination not to abandon the quest, till there was no room for hope left. He sent this up to her, and waited, thinking that she might be on the sofa, and might send for him. A little weary from the reaction of the excitement he had just gone through, he sat down in the corner farthest from the door. The large room was dimly lighted by one untrimmed lamp.
He sat for some time, thinking that Euphra was writing him a note, or perhaps preparing herself to see him in her room. Involuntarily he looked up, and a sudden pang, as at the vision of the disembodied, shot through his heart. A dim form stood in the middle of the room, gazing earnestly at him. He saw the same face which he had seen for a moment in the library at Arnstead—the glorified face of Margaret Elginbrod, shimmering faintly in the dull light. Instinctively he pressed his hands together, palm to palm, as if he had been about to kneel before Madonna herself. Delight, mingled with hope, and tempered by shame, flushed his face. Ghost or none, she brought no fear with her, only awe.
She stood still.
“Margaret!” he said, with trembling voice.
“Mr. Sutherland!” she responded, sweetly.
“Are you a ghost, Margaret?”
She smiled as if she were all spirit, and, advancing slowly, took his joined hands in both of hers.
“Forgive me, Margaret,” sighed he, as if with his last breath, and burst into an agony of tears.
She waited motionless, till his passion should subside, still holding his hands. He felt that her hands were so good.
“He is dead!” said Hugh, at last, with all effort, followed by a fresh outburst of weeping.
“Yes, he is dead,” rejoined Margaret, calmly. “You would not weep so if you had seen him die as I did—die with a smile like a summer sunset. Indeed, it was the sunset to me; but the moon has been up for a long time now.”
She sighed a gentle, painless sigh, and smiled again like a saint. She spoke nearly as Scotch as ever in tone, though the words and pronunciation were almost pure English.—This lapse into so much of the old form, or rather garment, of speech, constantly recurred, as often as her feelings were moved, and especially when she talked to children.
“Forgive me,” said Hugh, once more.
“We are the same as in the old days,” answered Margaret; and Hugh was satisfied.
“How do you come to be here?” said Hugh, at last, after a silence.
“I will tell you all about that another time. Now I must give you Miss Cameron’s message. She is very sorry she cannot see you, but she is quite unable. Indeed, she is not out of bed. But if you could call to-morrow morning, she hopes to be better and to be able to see you. She says she can never thank you enough.”
The lamp burned yet fainter. Margaret went, and proceeded to trim it. The virgins that arose must have looked very lovely, trimming their lamps. It is a deed very fair and womanly—the best for a woman—to make the lamp burn. The light shone up in her face, and the hands removing the globe handled it delicately. He saw that the good hands were very beautiful hands; not small, but admirably shaped, and very pure. As she replaced the globe,—
“That man,” she said, “will not trouble her any more.”
“I hope not,” said Hugh; “but you speak confidently: why?”
“Because she has behaved gloriously. She has fought and conquered him on his own ground; and she is a free, beautiful, and good creature of God for ever.”
“You delight me,” rejoined Hugh “Another time, perhaps, you will be able to tell me all about it.”
“I hope so. I think she will not mind my telling you.”
They bade each other good night; and Hugh went away with a strange feeling, which he had never experienced before. To compare great things with small, it was something like what he had once felt in a dream, in which, digging in his father’s garden, he had found a perfect marble statue, young as life, and yet old as the hills. To think of the girl he had first seen in the drawing-room at Turriepuffit, idealizing herself into such a creature as that, so grand, and yet so womanly! so lofty, and yet so lovely; so strong, and yet so graceful!
Would that every woman believed in the ideal of herself, and hoped for it as the will of God, not merely as the goal of her own purest ambition! But even if the lower development of the hope were all she possessed, it would yet be well; for its inevitable failure would soon develope the higher and triumphant hope.
He thought about her till he fell asleep, and dreamed about her till he woke. Not for a moment, however, did he fancy he was in love with her: the feeling was different from any he had hitherto recognized as embodying that passion. It was the recognition and consequent admiration of a beauty which everyone who beheld it must recognize and admire; but mingled, in his case, with old and precious memories, doubly dear now in the increased earnestness of his nature and aspirations, and with a deep personal interest from the fact that, however little, he had yet contributed a portion of the vital food whereby the gracious creature had become what she was.
In the so-called morning he went to Mrs. Elton’s. Euphra was expecting his visit, and he was shown up into her room, where she was lying on a couch by the fire. She received him with the warmth of gratitude added to that of friendship. Her face was pale and thin, but her eyes were brilliant. She did not appear at first sight to be very ill: but the depth and reality of her sickness grew upon him. Behind her couch stood Margaret, like a guardian angel. Margaret could bear the day, for she belonged to it; and therefore she looked more beautiful still than by the lamp-light. Euphra held out a pale little hand to Hugh, and before she withdrew it, led Hugh’s towards Margaret. Their hands joined. How different to Hugh was the touch of the two hands! Life, strength, persistency in the one: languor, feebleness, and fading in the other.
“I can never thank you enough,” said Euphra; “therefore I will not try. It is no bondage to remain your debtor.”
“That would be thanks indeed, if I had done anything.”
“I have found out another mystery,” Euphra resumed, after a pause.
“I am sorry to hear it,” answered he. “I fear there will be no mysteries left by-and-by.”
“No fear of that,” she rejoined, “so long as the angels come down to men.” And she turned towards Margaret as she spoke.
Margaret smiled. In the compliment she felt only the kindness.
Hugh looked at her. She turned away, and found something to do at the other side of the room.
“What mystery, then, have you destroyed?”
“Not destroyed it; for the mystery of courage remains. I was the wicked ghost that night in the Ghost’s Walk, you know—the white one: there is the good ghost, the nun, the black one.”
“Who? Margaret?”
“Yes, indeed. She has just been confessing it to me. I had my two angels, as one whose fate was undetermined; my evil angel in the count—my good angel in Margaret. Little did I think then that the holy powers were watching me in her. I knew the evil one; I knew nothing of the good. I suppose it is so with a great many people.”
Hugh sat silent in astonishment. Margaret, then, had been at Arnstead with Mrs. Elton all the time. It was herself he had seen in the study.
“Did you suspect me, Margaret?” resumed Euphra, turning towards her where she sat at the window.
“Not in the least. I only knew that something was wrong about the house; that some being was terrifying the servants, and poor Harry; and I resolved to do my best to meet it, especially if it should be anything of a ghostly kind.”
“Then you do believe in such appearances?” said Hugh.
“I have never met anything of the sort yet. I don’t know.”
“And you were not afraid?”
“Not much. I am never really afraid of anything. Why should I be?”
No justification of fear was suggested either by Hugh or by Euphra. They felt the dignity of nature that lifted Margaret above the region of fear.
“Come and see me again soon,” said Euphra, as Hugh rose to go.
He promised.
Next day he dined by invitation with Mrs. Elton and Harry. Euphra was unable to see him, but sent a kind message by Margaret as he was taking his leave. He had been fearing that he should not see Margaret; and when she did appear he was the more delighted; but the interview was necessarily short.
He called the next day, and saw neither Euphra nor Margaret. She was no better. Mrs. Elton said the physicians could discover no definite disease either of the lungs or of any other organ. Yet life seemed sinking. Margaret thought that the conflict which she had passed through, had exhausted her vitality; that, had she yielded, she might have lived a slave; but that now, perhaps, she must die a free woman.
Her continued illness made Hugh still more anxious to find the ring, for he knew it would please her much. Falconer would have applied to the police, but he feared that the man would vanish from London, upon the least suspicion that he was watched. They held many consultations on the subject.