Part 49 (1/2)

The boy at once mastered the horse. I did not rise immediately, for I had been somewhat jarred by the fall; when I did I found d.i.c.k engaged in mending a ruptured trace. One of the shafts was broken, and a carriage lamp had been shattered.

”d.i.c.k,” said I, ”there are a couple of steep hills to descend, and that is risky with a single shaft. I will lighten the dogcart by walking home, and do you take care at the hills.”

”I think we can manage, sir.”

”I should prefer to walk the rest of the way. I am rather shaken by my fall, and a good step out in the cool night will do more to put me to rights than anything else. When you get home, send up a message to your mistress that she is not to expect me at once. I shall arrive in due time, and she is not to be alarmed.”

”It's a good trudge before you, sir. And I dare say we could get the shaft tied up at Fifewell.”

”What--at this time of night? No, d.i.c.k, do as I say.”

Accordingly the groom drove off, and I started on my walk. I was glad to get out of the clinging fog, when I reached higher ground. I looked back, and by the starlight saw the river bottom filled with the mist, lying apparently dense as snow.

After a swinging walk of a quarter of an hour I entered the outskirts of Fifewell, a village of some importance, with shops, the seat of the petty sessions, and with a small boot and shoe factory in it.

The street was deserted. Some bedroom windows were lighted, for our people have the habit of burning their paraffin lamps all night. Every door was shut, no one was stirring.

As I pa.s.sed along the churchyard wall, the story of the young carpenter, told by Miss Fulton, recurred to me.

”By Jove!” thought I, ”it is now close upon midnight, a rare opportunity for me to see the wonders of St. Mark's eve. I will go into the porch and rest there for a few minutes, and then I shall be able, when I meet that girl again, to tell her that I had done what she challenged me to do, without any idea that I would take her challenge up.”

I turned in at the gate, and walked up the pathway. The headstones bore a somewhat ghostly look in the starlight. A cross of white stone, recently set up, I supposed, had almost the appearance of phosph.o.r.escence. The church windows were dark.

I seated myself in the roomy porch on a stone bench against the wall, and felt for my pipe. I am not sure that I contemplated smoking it then and there, partly because Miss Fulton had forbidden it, but also because I felt that it was not quite the right thing to do on consecrated ground. But it would be a satisfaction to finger it, and I might plug it, so as to be ready to light up so soon as I left the churchyard. To my vexation I found that I had lost it. The tobacco-pouch was there, and the matches. My pipe must have fallen out of my pocket when I was pitched from the trap. That pipe was a favourite of mine.

”What a howling nuisance,” said I. ”If I send d.i.c.k back over the road to-morrow morning, ten chances to one if he finds it, for to-morrow is market-day, and people will be pa.s.sing early.”

As I said this, the clock struck twelve.

I counted each stroke. I wore my fur-lined coat, and was not cold--in fact, I had been too warm walking in it. At the last stroke of twelve I noticed lines of very brilliant light appear about the door into the church. The door must have fitted well, as the light did no more than show about it, and did not gush forth at all the crevices. But from the keyhole shot a ray of intense brilliancy.

Whether the church windows were illumined I did not see--in fact, it did not occur to me to look, either then or later--but I am pretty certain that they were not, or the light streaming from them would have brought the gravestones into prominence. When you come to think of it, it was remarkable that the light of so dazzling a nature should s.h.i.+ne through the crannies of the door, and that none should issue, as far as I could see, from the windows. At the time I did not give this a thought; my attention was otherwise taken up. For I saw distinctly Miss Venville, a very nice girl of my acquaintance, coming up the path with that swinging walk so characteristic of an English young lady.

How often it has happened to me, when I have been sitting in a public park or in the gardens of a Cursaal abroad, and some young girls have pa.s.sed by, that I have said to my wife: ”I bet you a bob those are English.”

”Yes, of course,” she has replied; ”you can see that by their dress.”

”I don't know anything about dress,” I have said; ”I judge by the walk.”

Well, there was Miss Venville coming towards the porch.

”This is a joke,” said I. ”She is going to sit here on the look-out for ghosts, and if I stand up or speak she will be scared out of her wits.

Hang it, I wish I had my pipe now; if I gave a whiff it would reveal the presence of a mortal, without alarming her. I think I shall whistle.”

I had screwed up my lips to begin ”Rocked in the cradle of the deep”--that is my great song I perform whenever there is a village concert, or I am asked out to dinner, and am entreated afterwards to sing--I say I had screwed up my lips to whistle, when I saw something that scared me so that I made no attempt at the melody.

The ray of light through the keyhole was shut off, and I saw standing in the porch before me the form of Mrs. Venville, the girl's mother, who had died two years before. The ray of white light arrested by her filled her as a lamp--was diffused as a mild glow from her.

”Halloo, mother, what brings you here?” asked the girl.