Part 24 (1/2)

THE MAJOR'S VISIT TO THE ”NAG'S-HEAD.”

Major Buckley and his wife stood together in the verandah of their cottage, watching the storm. All the afternoon they had seen it creeping higher and higher, blacker and more threatening up the eastern heavens, until it grew painful to wait any longer for its approach. But now that it had burst on them, and night had come on dark as pitch, they felt the pleasant change in the atmosphere, and, in spite of the continuous gleam of the lightning, and the eternal roll and crackle of the thunder, they had come out to see the beauty and majesty of the tempest.

They stood with their arms entwined for some time, in silence; but after a crash louder than any of those which had preceded it, Major Buckley said:--

”My dearest Agnes, you are very courageous in a thunderstorm.”

”Why not, James?” she said; ”you cannot avoid the lightning, and the thunder won't harm you. Most women fear the sound of the thunder more than anything, but I suspect that Ciudad Rodrigo made more noise than this, husband?”

”It did indeed, my dear. More noise than I ever heard in any storm yet.

It is coming nearer.”

”I am afraid it will shake the poor Vicar very much,” said Mrs.

Buckley. ”Ah, there is Sam, crying.”

They both went into the sitting-room; little Sam had pet.i.tioned to go to bed on the sofa till the storm was over, and now, awakened by the thunder, was sitting up in his bed, crying out for his mother.

The Major went in and lay down by the child on the sofa, to quiet him.

”What!” said he, ”Sammy, you're not afraid of thunder, are you?”

”Yes! I am,” said the child; ”very much indeed. I am glad you are come, father.”

”Lightning never strikes good boys, Sam,” said the Major.

”Are you sure of that, father?” said the little one.

That was a poser; so the Major thought it best to counterfeit sleep; but he overdid it, and snored so loud, that the boy began to laugh, and his father had to practise his deception with less noise. And by degrees, the little hand that held his moustache dropped feebly on the bedclothes, and the Major, ascertaining by the child's regular breathing that his son was asleep, gently raised his vast length, and proposed to his wife to come into the verandah again.

”The storm is breaking, my love,” said he; ”and the air is deliciously cool out there. Put your shawl on and come out.”

They went out again; the lightning was still vivid, but the thunder less loud. Straight down the garden from them stretched a broad gravel walk, which now, cut up by the rain into a hundred water channels, showed at each flash like rivers of glittering silver. Looking down this path toward the black wood during one of the longest continued illuminations of the lightning, they saw for an instant a dark, tall figure, apparently advancing towards them. Then all the prospect was wrapped again in tenfold gloom.

Mrs. Buckley uttered an exclamation, and held tighter to her husband's arm. Every time the garden was lit up, they saw the figure, nearer and nearer, till they knew that it was standing before them in the darkness; the Major was about to speak, when a hoa.r.s.e voice, heard indistinctly above the rus.h.i.+ng of the rain, demanded:

”Is that Major Buckley?”

At the same minute the storm-light blazed up once more, and fell upon an object so fearful and startling that they both fell back amazed. A woman was standing before them, tall, upright, and bareheaded; her long black hair falling over a face as white and ghastly as a three days'

corpse; her wild countenance rendered more terrible by the blue glare of the lightning s.h.i.+ning on the rain that streamed from every lock of her hair and every shred of her garments. She looked like some wild daughter of the storm, who had lost her way, and came wandering to them for shelter.

”I am Major Buckley,” was the answer. ”What do you want? But in G.o.d's name come in out of the rain.”

”Come in and get your things dried, my good woman,” said Mrs. Buckley.

”What do you want with my husband such a night as this?”

”Before I dry my things, or come in, I will state my business,” said the woman, coming under the verandah. ”After that I will accept your hospitality. This is a night when polecats and rabbits would shelter together in peace; and yet such a night as this, a man turns out of his house the woman who has lain beside him twenty years.”

”Who are you, my good soul?” said the Major.