Part 9 (2/2)
When the toiling girl who waited on him appeared with the proof-sheets in her hand, she came like a winged ministrant laying a wondrous gift before him. And in truth, poor as he came to think it, was it not a gift greater than any angel could have brought him? Was not the seed of it sown in his being by Him that loved him before he was? These were the poor first flowers, come to make way for better--themselves a gift none but G.o.d could give.
The book was rapidly approaching its birth, as the day of Lufa's summons drew near. He had inscribed the volume to her, not by name, but in a dedication she could not but understand and no other would; founded on her promise of a last ride: it was so delightful to have a secret with her! He hoped to the last to take a copy with him, but was disappointed by some _contretemps_ connected with the binding--about which he was as particular as if it had been itself a poem: he had to pack his portmanteau without it.
Continuously almost, on his way to the station, he kept repeating to himself: ”Is it to be the last ride, or only another?”
CHAPTER XVIII.
A WINTER AFTERNOON.
When Walter arrived, he found the paradise under snow. But the summer had only run in-doors, and there was blooming. Lufa was kinder than ever, but, he fancied, a little embarra.s.sed, which he interpreted to his advantage. He was shown to the room he had before occupied.
It did not take him long to learn the winter ways of the house. Mr. and Miss Sefton were there; and all seemed glad of his help against consciousness; for there could be no riding so long as the frost lasted and the snow kept falling, and the ladies did not care to go out; and in, some country-houses Time has as many lives as a cat, and wants a great deal of killing--a butchery to be one day bitterly repented, perhaps; but as a savage can not be a citizen, so can not people of fas.h.i.+on belong to the kingdom of heaven.
The third morning came a thaw, with a storm of wind and rain; and after lunch they gathered in the glooming library, and began to tell ghost stories. Walter happened to know a few of the rarer sort, and found himself in his element. His art came to help him, and the eyes of the ladies, and he rose to his best. As he was working one of his tales to its climax, Mr. Sefton entered the room, where Walter had been the only gentleman, and took a chair beside Lufa. She rose, saying,
”I beg your pardon, Mr. Colman, but would you mind stopping a minute while I get a little more red silk for my imperial dragon? Mr. Sefton has already taken the sting out of the snake!”
”What snake?” asked Sefton.
”The snake of terror,” she answered. ”Did you not see him as you came in--erect on his coiled tail, drawing his head back for his darting spring?”
”I am very sorry,” said Sefton. ”I have injured everybody, and I hope everybody will pardon me!”
When Lufa had found her silk, she took a seat nearer to Walter, who resumed and finished his narrative.
”I wonder she lived to tell it!” said one of the ladies.
”For my part,” rejoined their hostess, ”I do not see why every one should be so terrified at the thought of meeting a ghost! It seems to me cowardly.”
”I don't think it cowardly,” said Sefton, ”to be frightened at a ghost, or at anything else.”
”Now don't say you would run away!” remonstrated his sister.
”I couldn't very well, don't you know, if I was in bed! But I might--I don't know--hide my head under the blankets!”
”I don't believe it a bit!”
”To be sure,” continued Sefton, reflectively, ”there does seem a difference! To hide is one thing, and to run is another--quite another thing! If you are frightened, you are frightened and you can't help it; but if you run away, then you are a coward. Yes; quite true! And yet there are things some men, whom other men would be afraid to call cowards, would run from fast enough! Your story, Mr. Colman,” he went on, ”reminds me of an adventure I had--if that be an adventure where was no danger--except, indeed, of losing my wits, which Lufa would say was no great loss. I don't often tell the story, for I have an odd weakness for being believed; and n.o.body ever does believe that story, though it is as true as I live; and when a thing is true, the blame lies with those that don't believe it. Ain't you of my mind, Mr. Colman?”
”You had better not appeal to him!” said Lufa. ”Mr. Colman does not believe a word of the stories he has been telling. He regards them entirely from the artistic point of view, and cares only for their effect. He is writing a novel, and wants to study people under a ghost story.”
”I don't indorse your judgment of me, Lady Lufa,” said Walter, who did not quite like what she said. ”I am ready to believe anything in which I can see reason. I should like much to hear Mr. Sefton's story. I never saw the man that saw a ghost, except Mr. Sefton be that man.”
”You shall say what you will when you have heard. I shall offer no explanation, only tell you what I saw, or, if you prefer it, experienced; you must then fall back on your own metaphysics. I don't care what anybody thinks about it.”
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