Chapter XIV: The Wedding-Gift (1)

It was not so difficult, after this, to make the necessary explanations and apologies. Sir Philip had heard about Captain Bramston before, though Hilda had not; and, in the bottom of his heart, he did not object to regard him in the light of a possible son-in-law. But it would not do to confess this just at present. Captain Bramston had stood to his guns, and, on the spot where he stood, had declared his love for Hilda Kildhurm, and demanded Sir Philip's consent to their betrothal.

'I can give you nothing of the kind, sir,' replied the Baronet, endeavouring to look immitigable. 'Your request is as premature as--as it is contrary to sound principle. Anyone would suppose, Captain Bramston, that you expected the world to come to an end by to-morrow morning, by the haste you are in to have your affairs settled!'

'In this case, Sir Philip,' replied the Captain, with equal respect and firmness, 'sound principle is of no use. The falling in love is an accomplished fact. The next thing to settle is the date of the wedding.'

'Upon my word, Captain Bramston,' the Baronet exclaimed, 'if you are as pushing in war as you seem to be in other matters, you should have been a general long ago. But we will, if you please, dismiss this subject for the present. I am in no hurry to lose my daughter in the first place, and moreover, in an affair of this nature, I could not think of deciding anything without consulting Lady Kildhurm, my mother.'

Lady Kildhurm and Hilda had withdrawn during this colloquy between the gentlemen, and Hilda had gone into the house. But as the Baronet and Captain Bramston, still conversing earnestly, slowly made their way across the lawn, they were suddenly aware that Lady Kildhurm was again near them. They halted, and were silent.

She was, at this time, almost at the extreme limit of old age; yet her eyes were clear and her bearing dignified; and so far from her mental infirmity having become exaggerated, it had grown year by year less obtrusive, though she was at least as far as ever from being on normal terms with the material world. She lived in a world of her own; but she accommodated the latter to the former more easily than before. So serene and unexaggerated were her tones and gestures, that a stranger would hardly have suspected that she was virtually unconscious of what most people call the realities of life.

When the venerable sibyl was within a yard or so of Harold Bramston, she paused, with her face and the palms of her hands turned towards him: and without seeming to look at him in the usual way, she still had the air of taking his measure so keenly and fully, that, unless the Captain's conscience was cleaner than most men's, he must have passed an uneasy minute or two. But at length the sibyl raised her hands slowly and let them fall again with a gesture like a benediction; and the expression of her face was gracious as she said, in a gentle and flowing voice:

'He that rode over the Convent Cliff was a true man; and a spirit akin to his is here. If the treasure reveal itself to him, let him take it: he is worthy of it. I have waited long, I am weary. Lord, now speedily wilt Thou suffer me to depart. So be it!'

At this undeniable declaration in the young Captain's favour, Sir Philip felt a great deal more satisfaction than he was at all disposed to show; and the end of it was that the two lovers were allowed to stroll off by themselves beneath the Oak, and there formally to renew and re-seal the compact, in the making of which the Baronet had so aptly surprised them. That evening, after Hilda had gone to her chamber, the Baronet and Captain had a private confabulation in the former's study. The Captain then and there made a full statement regarding his position in the world, more particularly from the pecuniary point of view. It appeared that his circumstances were more than easy; that he had absolute control over nearly a hundred and fifty thousand pounds; and that he was prepared to settle any part of this sum, or the whole of it, according as Sir Philip pleased, on his wife, on the day of their marriage. He only wished that he could do something more.

'I must say, Bramston,' exclaimed Sir Philip, laughing, 'that you are more dangerously in love than any man I ever saw or heard of. You must go off somewhere for a month and see if you can't get rid of a little of it. I shall positively refuse to sign settlements with a man in so pitiable a condition as you are now. Recollect, my good fellow, that Hilda goes to you literally penniless; and that I never should feel comfortable if I had not left open to you every avenue of escape in my power. Besides, don't you see that you will be paying one another a finer mutual compliment by waiting a while and seeking distractions, than by coming together at once, and so losing all opportunity of making sacrifices? Well, whether you see it or not, those are my orders, and you will have to put up with them.'

'You will of course allow us to correspond?' demanded the Captain, when he saw that he was beaten on the main point.

'I should greatly prefer not.'

'Then I will write to her, Sir Philip, in spite of you!' cried out the other, firing up.

'Oh, very well: in that case I agree,' rejoined Sir Philip with a twinkle in his eyes. 'You may write to her five times in the course of the month--choosing your own times, whether all in one day, or once in every six. But are you sure a month will be long enough to get your affairs in order?'

'Oh, Sir Philip! And they are in order. They have been in charge of a friend of mine for three years past. I shall have a look through his accounts, so as to see exactly where I stand--that will take me about three hours I should say--and then I shall have nothing else to do until the month is up. Six times a week am I to write, did you say? Why not make it six times a day?'

'Ha, ha, ha! But as regards this friendly man of business of yours. You are quite certain he is trustworthy? That's a lot of property to leave out of your hands for three years, especially if you only require three hours in which to look through the accounts!'

'I trust him, dear Sir Philip, as I trust myself. If you only knew him----'

'Quite right! if I only knew him of course I should not have made the inquiry. As it is--having known what it was to lose money in my youth--I did make it! And now, Captain Bramston, as I can't ask you to spend the night here, I must bid you good-bye. I shall be glad to see you back, safe and sound, when your month is up; and I won't pretend to say that I don't believe you'll come, and that Hilda won't expect you. As for the money-matters, of course it's a capital thing to have a rich son-in-law; but I must confess that I should have liked you a good deal better if honours had been a little more equally divided!'

On these terms the two gentlemen parted; little anticipating what was to happen.

Hilda received her first letter on the day following her lover's departure, he having written it on his way to London, and despatched it back to her by special messenger. She did not expect a letter on the next day, nor on the next, and not much on the day after that; and this was well, for on no one of these days did a letter come. A week passed, and no letter. Ten days, and no letter. Two weeks, and still no letter. It was now apparent, even to Sir Philip, who had affected to make great fun of her at first, that something must have happened. The address which Captain Bramston had given had been at his business manager's; Sir Philip privately sent a messenger thither, to make inquiries; but at the end of the third week the messenger returned, and brought with him the astounding news that there were no news to bring! Nothing was known at the address given either of the manager or of Captain Bramston. Was the man dead, or an impostor, or had he simply changed his mind? It was at all events plain that he would never again show his face at Kildhurm Tower.

It was necessary, therefore, to have a very painful interview with Hilda. Poor Sir Philip recoiled at the prospect; but it was not to be avoided; and at last he sent for her, and having taken her by both hands and kissed her, he opened his mouth to begin. But she suddenly and quietly laid her hand upon his lips.

'I know what you are going to say, father, and you need not say it.'

'You have given him up, then? That's my brave girl!'

'I have not given him up. He is the same to me as ever, and I to him. I feel that he is true. I should know if he was not. You need not be uneasy or angry, dear father; and above all you need not try to persuade me that this is not so. He will come back; and we shall be happier even than we thought of being before.'

'Has my mother spoken?' demanded Sir Philip, after a long pause.

'She believes as I do: but it is not from her belief that I believe; it is from myself.'

'I shall not contradict you, my daughter,' said Sir Philip, after another silence. 'I will even say that it is possible--as everything is possible--that you may be right. But one thing I must ask of you. How long do you mean to hope? What day will you call the last?'

'The last day of the month to be sure, father. That is the day on which he will come.'

'What makes you say that, my daughter?'

'Because that is the day on which he promised to come!' returned Hilda with an involuntary smile. 'Do you think Harold would not keep his promise?'

The last day of the month came, and Hilda appeared with her best frock on, and with fresh flowers in her hair. 'He will be here at dinner,' she said; and she made her arrangements accordingly, setting a chair for him, and decorating that and his plate with leaves and blossoms. Sir Philip looked on with a heavy heart; but he held his peace. The faith of his child appalled him, but he dared not share it, and the moment was not yet come to repudiate it. His agitation was so great that he strove in vain to conceal it: but Hilda, though her colour was high and her eyes bright, was as calm and confident as if her lover had arrived the day before. Dinner time drew near; and, shortly before the hour struck, Harold appeared at the door as if by magic.

Sir Philip started up from his chair with a great hoarse shout, and remained stationary. Hilda came up to her lover, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him heartily! As for Harold, he looked haggard and grim, and he made scarce a show of returning Hilda's caress.

'Come, now, sit down,' she said, in the most natural and sensible way in the world, 'and tell us why you have not written, and what all this trouble has been about!'

'It is better that I should tell you at once,' said Harold, in a husky voice. 'All the money that I had is gone. I am almost a beggar. The friend whom I trusted....' He stopped for a few moments and then went on, 'I followed him--all this month until to-day I have been hunting after him; but he is gone, and all is gone; and I am come, Sir Philip, to release your daughter from her engagement, and to be gone also.'

So saying Captain Bramston got up from the chair in which he had unconsciously seated himself, and stood with his head bent, and his eyes on the floor.

Hilda broke into an irrepressible little laugh. 'How silly you are, Harold,' she said, 'to make so much fuss about a little money! Nobody paid us to fall in love with each other, and why should we be paid to be married?'

Harold raised his face, now flushed to the roots of his hair, and his eyes burning. 'But what say you, Sir Philip?' he cried in a sharp, ringing voice.

'I say I should marry her, if I were in your place,' answered the Baronet, with humorous indifference; 'and the next time you get a fortune, take better care what you do with it. Meanwhile, shake hands, my dear boy; and let me observe that I'm uncommonly glad (and surprised) to see you.'

'Your happiness is near,' said Lady Kildhurm, who had entered the room so quietly that none of the three had noticed her. 'To-night the spell is broken. The saying shall be made perfect. It shall be well with you, and with me. To-morrow, early in the morning, search the Oak.'

On that night all in the household were visited by strange dreams; and through the dreams they heard a sound of a voice chanting a weird song, and rising higher and clearer; until at last there came a deep booming sound like thunder: and after that the chant was heard no more.

In the morning, early, Harold and Hilda went out, and walked arm-in-arm to the cliff where the Oak had stood. But lo! the Oak was gone. The overhanging promontory on which it grew had parted from the main land during the night, wrenching the mighty tree with it. But the ocean had received the tree in its arms, and had carried it away, never again to be seen by mortal eyes. For the waves had been the friends of the mysterious Oak from the beginning; and they had drawn a veil of solemn mystery over its end.

But where was the ancient sibyl? She too had vanished, singing her wild chant; perhaps to find in another world the treasure whereof she had prophesied so long on this earth. At all events, no one ever saw her living or dead, after that night; and it came to be believed that she had been borne on her last journey amidst the branches of the tree which she had made her home.

But on the brink of the freshly-made chasm still stood a tall and rugged fragment of the Oak, which had remained in its place when the bulk of the tree was wrenched away. High up in this fragment there appeared a narrow and deep crevice or hole, now revealed, section-wise, by the rending asunder of the wood. At the bottom of this hole was seen a small wallet of embroidered leather: and when Harold shook the fragment of the tree, the wallet fell from its place, and bursting open on the ground, a flash of precious stones greeted the lovers' wondering eyes. Amidst the stones was found the lost signet ring of Norman Kildhurm.

In that narrow hole, therefore, these gems must have rested ever since the felonious right hand of Sir Norman had placed them there. But he, hurriedly striving to withdraw his hand, was caught by the narrow mouth of the hole; and fancying, in his guilty fear, that the demon of the Oak had got hold of him, he had screamed three times in uncontrollable terror, and had torn himself loose, mangling his hand, and leaving his signet ring behind. And the desperate vehemence of his effort had caused him to overbalance himself; so he fell backward through the branches to the ground, and his neck had been miserably broken by the fall. Such, at least, is the commonly accepted explanation of that dark catastrophe.

But to whom belonged the jewels thus strangely brought to light? Harold, as the nearest living relative of the murdered Colonel, was his legitimate heir; to him, accordingly, the long-deferred but most opportune inheritance came. To tell all that he did with it would require a new story. Whatever it was, it was done with the approval of his unworldly-wise wife, and of the worldly-wise Sir Philip, his father-in-law. For, after the days of mourning for the vanished Lady Kildhurm were over, Harold and Hilda were married, and lived together in much happiness, though they were never able to agree as to which had the best of the other in the matter of settlements. In process of time they became the parents of the child who grew up to be the beautiful Lady Mainwaring of our own day, and who, as has been intimated, deigned to furnish so modern a person as the present writer with the materials for this history of Kildhurm's Oak.

THE NEW ENDYMION.

I.

The term was over, and William Maybold had got his double first.

Under certain circumstances, and especially in youth, the mind becomes abnormally sensitive to impressions of all kinds. Severe and long-continued study, a light diet, lack of exercise, and a superfluity of anxiety, had combined to bring my mental man into a condition somewhat resembling the ascetic ecstasy ascribed to the monks of old time--a condition in which the young men see visions and the old men dream dreams. In other words, I had overworked myself, and my health, never very robust, now seemed to run some risk of breaking down altogether. My brain was in a state of nervous exaltation; my hands were thin and tremulous; my nights were disturbed by strange dreams, and even by occasional somnambulism; and I no longer felt energy to undertake the long walks which had been my panacea for bodily ailments. It seemed likely that my university honours might turn out to have been bought at too high a price.

My doctor, having felt my pulse, furnished me with the somewhat gratuitous information that what I needed was rest--rest absolute and persistent, bodily and mental: to dream beneath green trees; to linger by still waters; to forget that such things as books and knowledge existed; to think of nothing, and converse with nobody more stimulating than birds, beasts, country yokels, and speckled trout. Anything in the shape of newspapers, railways, days of the week or month, or, in fact, of time and civilisation in general, were to be entirely ignored. I was to establish a sort of rural eternity for myself, and to forget that such a thing as a nineteenth century had ever been born.

I was wholly persuaded of the soundness of this advice; the trouble was, I had not 'go' enough left in me to follow it. I wanted somebody to give me a shove in the required direction. Unfortunately, I was almost alone in the world, and could think of no quarter whence the external impetus might be expected. I had made few intimate friends in the university, and none of a temperament at once idle and energetic enough to provide the sort of companionship I needed. I was an only child, and my widowed mother had died about a year previous, leaving me an empty house somewhere in the suburbs of London, a comfortable competence, and no relations that I could remember ever to have seen. I was as solitary in the midst of the populous earth as if I had changed places with the man in the moon.

I was doing my situation less than justice, however. Just as I had begun to subside into I know not what sluggish depths of despondency, I received a letter which put a new face upon matters, and lent a fillip to my jaded mood such as awakened me to something like liveliness. The letter was from an uncle of mine, whose very existence had been almost mythical to me, for he was a recluse and an eccentric, who never went anywhere, and lived in an out-of-the-way place, where nobody ever went. As his communication was brief and to the point, I will give it here at full length:

'DEAR NEPHEW,--If your studies have left you brains enough to
apprehend the vanity of double firsts and their consequences, come
to me and let me look at you. If I like your looks you may stay
here a month or two. You will see the country, Diana, and the
stars; you will hear the winds, the birds, and the brook; and of
the world you have hitherto lived in you will see and hear nothing.
I shall expect you the day after to-morrow.--Your uncle,

'PHILIP NORMAN.'

I allowed myself no doubts as to this invitation, but wrote an acceptance by return of post. The rest of the day was spent in packing my trunk and making arrangements for my absence. It was only on the evening preceding departure, when all preparations were complete, that I found time to sit down and recall what little I knew of my uncle Philip, and to forecast the kind of life I might expect with him. He was my mother's brother, and I remember hearing that he had quarrelled with her on the occasion of her marriage some twenty-five years ago. Later on, he had himself married, but his wife had died in childbirth within the year, leaving him with an infant daughter--presumably the Diana referred to in his letter. But 'Diana--and the stars'--what was the meaning of that? Was my worthy relative a dabbler in astrology--a devotee of forbidden sciences? The idea moved me strangely. I had always been an imaginative youth, and nothing had stimulated the boyish poetry of my nature so much as the beauty and mystery of the heavenly bodies. I loved to speculate as to whether they were inhabited, and, if so, by what sort of beings: I loved to believe that they exercised some inscrutable influence over human destinies; that, at all events, the fortunes of our earth were connected with them in some manner whereof the attraction of gravitation was but the material symbol. Such speculations used to inspire me with a feeling at once of insignificance and of exaltation; and I deemed that my life could not be spent more wisely and worthily than in pondering over these secrets of the stars, and striving to solve the problem of their affinity with man. As I grew up, however, the course of my education drew me away from the region of these fancies; not without a vague sentiment of disappointment, I learned to open the gates of practical knowledge with the key of inductive reasoning; and the mystic enchantment of those heavenly suns and planets was half destroyed by the rude facts of spectrum analysis, and the ingenious calculations of distances, orbits, and dimensions. Astronomy, with its certainties and its syllogisms, repelled me: it revealed too much, and yet nothing to my purpose. I hated the impertinence of him who would tell me the density of Jupiter, the composition of Sirius, and the names of the mountains in the moon. To my sense, such petty knowledge was worse than no knowledge at all, and I was shocked by the self-complacent irreverence of its professors. Better, thought I, than these were the astrologers of yore, with their statistical ignorance, their spiritual insight, and their humble faith. They, at least, appreciated the awful solemnity that should attend the thought of other worlds, material, perhaps, as our own, yet for ever separated from us by a chasm as profound and as mysterious as death. Away with the modern man of science, ready primed with his dapper theories, who cares not to meditate upon the divine reason which placed that eternal gulf between the moon and us, but fancies he has disposed of the whole matter by informing us just how many miles and furlongs it measures across! Can he learn no loftier lesson from the ghastly majesty of that weird sphere?

With such prejudices against astronomy as distinguished from astrology, it is no wonder that I shunned the former as much as possible, both at school and at college. Though I could not avoid acquiring a certain familiarity with the phraseology and the general principles of the science, what I learned took no root in my mind, but remained lifeless and barren. It was my intention to improve the earliest opportunity of clearing it out altogether, and then to endeavour to regain, so far as might be possible, the poetical superstitions of my earlier time. Deliberate recantations of this kind are not, however, so practical as we fain would have them, and, until I read that chance sentence about the stars in my uncle's letter, I had really bestowed little or no serious consideration upon the matter. But his words, and the memories and reflections to which they gave rise, produced in me a singular excitement, which my abnormal state of health doubtless did much to foster. My sleep that night was more than usually disturbed, and when, the next day, I started for my uncle's house, I was in a tremor of indefinite expectation that was anything but healthful.

II.

The railway station at which I alighted was, the porter told me, about seven miles distant from Mr. Norman's place. This information rather staggered me, as there were no cabs in that part of the world, and walking, for one in my state of health, was quite out of the question. Just then, however, a country waggon drove up to the station door, with a stout, serviceable bay mare between the shafts. The elderly farmer who handled the reins threw them on the mare's back, and, clambering to the ground, faced about and abruptly asked me whether I were William Maybold.

'Yes,' I said, amused at his rustic bluntness; 'were you sent here by Mr. Philip Norman?'

'I'm to drive you to his house,' replied the man, gruffly. 'Get up, sir. Got any luggage?'

'Only that trunk; can you lift it?'

I needed scarcely have asked the question. My farmer, though not of any great height, was as broad and muscular as an old Roman gladiator, and he swung the trunk into the back of the waggon as easily as if it had been a lady's handbox. He was in every respect a fine type of the men of that region. His face was dark, and ruggedly moulded, and the deep lines which traversed it gave it an expression of sternness, which the gruffness of his tones in speaking seemed to confirm. His grizzled black hair was cropped short round the lower part of his head; the crown--as I noticed when he took off his hat to wipe his forehead--was bald; and he wore a great shaggy beard like a prophet. But the remarkable features of his face were his eyes, which were large and dark, and had the steady, distant look in them that is often observable in the eyes of seafaring men. They seemed to have beheld sights beyond ordinary human ken.

'I suppose you know Mr. Norman?' I said to my companion as we drove away.

'Yes; I have charge of his garden.'

'He sees very little of the world, I believe?'

'There are more worlds than one, young man.'

As I did not know exactly what to make of this reply, I was silent, and gave my attention to the country through which we were passing. It was fertile, and rich in verdure, but the houses were very scarce. The road we were travelling wound considerably, but constantly ascended, and bade fair to land us at last on the summit of a commanding eminence. The prospect constantly widened around us as we proceeded, and its beauty, as it reposed in the mellow splendour of the afternoon sunshine, so wrought upon me that at length I let slip some exclamation of delight.

'Can a Cockney care for this?' demanded the farmer, fixing his eyes upon me for a moment.

'I'm not infatuated with London,' I answered, laughing. 'I've travelled farther away from it than this, before now.'

'Ay, London's not the world, young man, and the world is not the universe,' rejoined my companion, whom I now began to recognise as a 'character.' After a pause, he added, 'Have you seen the Alps?'

'More than once.'

'What did they make you feel?'

'I think their loneliness and silence impressed me most. I felt that they were very mighty, and I very little.'

For what reason I could not imagine, this answer appeared to please the dark-browed farmer. He nodded his head once or twice, and murmured in a deep, inward voice 'Ay--right--right! But there are mountains wilder, and mightier, and lonelier than they.'

'You are a traveller yourself, then?' I exclaimed, surveying him with a new interest 'You have been a sailor, perhaps?'

'I have sailed a wide ocean and a deep one; and I have seen distant lands; yet I have never set foot off the shore of England,' was the reply.

Again I was silenced. There was something decidedly mysterious in the tone of this man's conversation. What did he mean by his talk of other worlds, and of visiting foreign countries without leaving his own? I should have set him down as perhaps a little wrong in the head, had not the stern self-possession and utter absence of extravagance in his manner discountenanced such a supposition. On the other hand, he was manifestly a man of some education and even refinement. His dress was rude enough, but his speech was accurate, and his face, despite its ruggedness, was sensitive to the play of thought within. It occurred to me that he might be a spiritualist, and that the strange lands to which he alluded might be the visions of mesmeric trance. Yet no; there was in him no trace of the morbid and unwholesome restlessness of the confirmed disciples of that unlucky science. What, then, was he?

I looked round at him as I asked this question of myself, and met those far-seeing eyes of his directed upon me with something like a grave smile lurking at their bottom. This smile quite changed the impression of his visage, illumining it with a genial light that was singularly winning. It brought a sudden memory to my mind.

'You take me for a lunatic, young man,' said he; 'well, in a certain way, perhaps I am one. You must ask your uncle.'

'I dare say he could tell me as much about you as anyone,' I replied, returning his smile; 'for I believe you are my uncle, yourself!'

'What makes you think that?'

'You smile as my mother used to do.'

At the mention of my mother his face saddened again, and he sighed; but after a moment, 'Well, my boy, you have found me out,' he said, patting me kindly on the shoulder. 'I wished to meet you as a man before I greeted you as a nephew. You seem to be an honest fellow, though you have but a flimsy body to carry your honesty about with. I am glad to see you here.'

There was so much quiet heartiness in this welcome, that I felt at home with my relative at once. He now talked with me more freely, asking many particulars about my mother and myself, and indulging in no more of those enigmatical utterances which had made him seem so questionable at first. In this manner we slowly wound our way to the top of the long acclivity, and after driving a level mile or so, I saw the summit of a lofty stone tower peering above the trees.

'That is my travelling-carriage,' said Uncle Philip, pointing to the tower with his whip. 'The house stands beside it; we shall see it when we have turned that corner.'

'His travelling-carriage!' thought I. But reflecting that all these enigmas could not fail to explain themselves under the influence of my month's sojourn, I held my peace for the present; and in another minute we had come in full view of the dwelling. It adjoined the tower, and, like it, was built of grey stone. It was an old farmhouse, of no great size, with a red-tiled roof and gabled ends; a clustered brick chimney divided the ridgepole, and two dormer-windows pushed themselves up above the low eaves. The windows beneath were cut down to the ground, and served as supplementary doors: they opened vertically, and from within was a glimpse of pleasant, low-ceiled rooms. As for the tower, which was half draped with ivy, it was evidently a much more ancient structure than the house; it must have been at least seventy feet in height, and its top rose well above the trees; and standing as it did on the highest point of ground for many a mile round about, it would overlook an amazing expanse of country.

'You are very near the moon, up there!' I remarked; and then I caught sight of a figure standing in the open doorway, which immediately commanded every faculty of my mind to the one function of looking.

III.

The waggon drew up to the door. 'Jump down, sir,' said my uncle. 'Diana,' he continued, 'this is your cousin William. I think you may trust him.'

She came forward and gave me her hand--it was soft, and smooth, and slender. She conquered me with the first glance of her great hazel eyes. Her whole figure and bearing were goddess-like, and withal completely feminine. She was well-named after the chaste huntress of mythology. I never saw a woman's form at once so stately, so supple, and so refined.

Her pale auburn hair was massed over her low forehead like the crescent moon. Her nose was straight and delicate, her cheeks oval, her mouth curved like a bow, her chin round and white. She was dressed in white, with a black bow at her throat, and a black sash round her waist; and a black velvet ribbon bound her hair. She was tall, but not too tall; and the lines of her figure were at once graceful and severe. She would have impressed me at any time and in any place; but in this secluded spot, and in my condition of peculiar sensitiveness, she came upon me almost like a being from a superior world. The ordinary daylight seemed too rude and familiar for her. She should have dwelt, methought, under the mystic influences of the moon; the original reserve and innocent dignity of her demeanour were somehow suggestive of the pure cold glamour of that strange companion of our earth.

While her father took the waggon round to the stable, she led me within doors, and made me sit down in the pleasant little parlour. It was full of the odour of flowers.

'You look tired, Cousin Will,' said she. 'It is a long way from London here.'

'It seems so, indeed. If I had journeyed to another planet, all this could not seem more fresh and delightful. Have you ever been there?'

'In London? Oh no; why should I? I was born here, and this is my home.'

True enough, London with its smoke and turmoil was no place for this young sibyl. Her beautiful feet were made to tread nothing lower than mountain-tops. I asked her whether many people visited them here.

'Last year we saw a great many--twelve, I believe,' she answered quite simply, as if the population of the earth were but a small multiple of that number. 'But they were all scientific persons, who came to find out about our discoveries. You are not scientific?'

'No, indeed! I am nothing--only a young man.'

'You are the first young man I have seen.'

'I wish I were a better specimen!' I said rather ruefully. 'They are not all like me, I assure you!'

She turned upon me the full gaze of her changing eyes, and I felt that she was looking very far into me. After a pause she said thoughtfully, 'It is strange! You look a little--yes, a great deal--like.... Are you like your mother?'

'I believe more like my father.'

She shook her head, still thoughtfully. Then, rousing herself, she said with a smile, 'You look pale and tired; but that we shall cure you of.'

'Why I begin to feel cured already, what with this pure air and--and all! But tell me, Cousin Diana, what are these discoveries you speak of?'

At this question her face became quite grave again, and she answered with a somewhat altered manner, and a lower intonation, as though touching upon a subject invested with a kind of sacredness:

'We do not speak of it to strangers--that is, we never speak of it. But you are not a stranger: and father said I might trust you: and--I think I may! Well, you shall know in good time.'

At this juncture my uncle came in.

'Now, nephew, your room is ready for you. You and Diana have had time enough to become good cousins, I hope? Very well, come up and get ready for dinner. This way!'

He conducted me along a passage to a narrow door, on opening which a winding staircase was discovered. Ascending this--a somewhat weary journey for me--my uncle paused on the third landing and ushered me into a nearly circular room, fitted and furnished with dark carved wood. Two or three dusky oil-portraits hung on the walls--which last, judging from the deep embrasures of the windows, must have been of extraordinary thickness; and the massive groined ceiling seemed designed to support a vast superincumbent weight.

'This is the lower chamber,' observed my uncle. 'As long as you stay with us it will be yours.'

'I'm not turning you out of your travelling-carriage, Uncle Philip?'

'That's overhead,' he answered, with a smile. 'After dinner, if the evening turns out clear, you may go up there, and try a little excursion.'

A light began to dawn upon my slow wits.

'It is an observatory!' I exclaimed. 'You are an astronomer?'

'Yes and no. I have been an astronomer, but only as a necessary condition to being something higher than that. But I gave it up, for the most part, years ago: I found myself growing old--my mind losing its delicacy of perception. Diana is the master now: and she--if she chooses--may indoctrinate you in the mysteries.' And nodding kindly to me, he shut the door and was gone.

He had not left me without food for reflection. I now understood--or at all events I had the key to--all that had puzzled me from the time I received his note of invitation down to the present hour. 'Diana and the stars' were to be my entertainment here: well--nothing, certainly, could so well have suited my own inclinations. The lore of the heavens, followed in such companionship, would be heavenly lore indeed! My aversion from astronomy now appeared to me unreasonable; or, rather, my uncle's words had enabled me to assign to astronomy its true place--that of an instrument to the study of 'something higher.' And Diana was the master--of this loftier science, that is. It was not likely, indeed, that my beautiful cousin would be content to spend her time in the pursuit of mere technical details; but, on the other hand, who was so fitted as she to enjoy a sort of imaginative existence among those far-shining planets, divining their strange secrets, and catching the aroma of their marvellous life? These, then, were the journeys to which my uncle had figuratively alluded; the seas that he had crossed were the profound abysses of space, and the foreign countries that he had visited were foreign in the largest sense. The longer I reflected upon the romantic conditions of this life, the more powerfully did it seize on my imagination; I seemed to have a glimpse of possibilities beyond what had hitherto been deemed the limits of human attainment; the thought of what they had perhaps dared to know made my hand tremble and my breath come fast. That discovery that Diana had mentioned--was it not some device whereby the magnifying power of the telescope had been vastly increased, enabling the student to behold sights such as man had scarcely as yet dreamed of? Oh, in that stone-built chariot of theirs, fast-bound to the whirling earth, what ineffable mysteries might not Philip Norman and Diana have explored! And now--was I to be admitted the companion of their sublime voyages?

To calm my excitement, I threw open the window, and, leaning upon the broad window-sill, looked out. The sun, swathed in clouds of golden dust, was just about to vanish behind the mighty shoulder of the glowing world. Beneath me stretched a wide and fertile plain, broken by hills, variegated with woods and fields, and dotted here and there with towns and hamlets. All the happiness and homely prosperity of human lives were there, at home in the bosom of benevolent nature, busied with lowly cares, ignorant and careless of aught beyond the familiar earth on which they were born, which yielded them food and raiment, and which at death resolved their mortal parts into itself again. Beautiful and peaceful was the prospect to look upon; beautiful and peaceful might be the lot of him who should cast his lines in those pleasant places, nor ever vex his soul with loftier things. And I myself, not longer ago than yesterday, would have been well content to settle down in some such fruitful valley, basking in the sunshine by day, sleeping dreamlessly by night, and not at any time caring to lift my eyes above the horizon rim. But that yesterday was gone for ever. To-day, in the stone chamber overhead, hung poised, I knew, the wondrous engine framed to overcome all space. What interest had this earth compared to the sights that piercing crystal eye had looked upon? Penetrating by its aid into the depths of the universe, the spirit would breathe a finer air and rise to grander heights than any known to earthly experience. Already I felt myself impatient of my corporeal trammels, and longed to push aside the veil that separated me from those far-off worlds. And now, happening to glance eastwards, I saw, pallid amidst the darkening blue, the great white moon stealing upwards like a ghost, solitary, silent, and inscrutable!

IV.

A hand laid upon my shoulder caused me to start nervously. I turned, and met the grave dark eyes of my uncle Philip.

'What are you dreaming about, young fellow?' said he. 'How pale and nervous you are! We shall have to put you on a strict regimen, I see: early hours and plenty of milk to drink. Come, let's see what sort of an appetite you can show!'

'Would not you feel rather at a loss, Uncle Philip, if the moon were to drop out of the sky some day?'

'I see your mind is running on the observatory,' he returned, with his short deep laugh. 'Ask Diana! She knows more about the moon than I do--or than anyone else does, for that matter.'

The conversation at dinner was not, however, much more transcendental than is customary on such occasions in England. Diana said but little; and her father and I kept our feet pretty constantly on _terra firma_; soaring but rarely beyond the attraction of gravity. The two things which chiefly affected me were, the luminous grace of my cousin's face and figure, and the airy potency of the wine, which was unlike anything I had heretofore tasted. It glowed like the warmth of a better life within my veins, and, while seeming to brace and clear my perceptive faculties, it stimulated and encouraged the poetical side of my nature. I felt, under these combined influences, as if my soul were obtaining a delightful mastery over my body. I noticed meanwhile, not without surprise, that although Diana vouchsafed to join me in more than one glass of this exquisite beverage, her father never touched it, but confined himself instead to a bottle of doubtless excellent burgundy.

'No,' he said, in answer to my remark, 'no, it is many years since I have drunk that wine. It is the wine of youth; and, for genuine youth, it possesses precious properties. Old age, whether premature or natural, finds it insipid and ineffective stuff enough. To its full enjoyment, a tender and sensitive texture of both mind and body are indispensable.'

'You are the first man who has cared to drink it,' observed Diana, looking at me. 'Generally, I have it all to myself!'

'How can anyone who has once tasted it care for other wine?' I exclaimed. 'It inspires one like beautiful music.'

'Your appreciation compliments you, nephew,' my uncle said. 'Most young fellows of your years would prefer a glass of brandy-and-water to a whole hogshead of that liquor. Among its other merits, therefore, it acts as a test of character.'

'How did you come by it?'

''Tis of a very ancient vintage,' he replied, 'and I believe every bottle of it now extant is in my cellar. It was grown in a famous comet year, and under favourable aspects of the heavenly bodies. I can remember when I used to find it an agreeable tipple, previous to taking an observation. It has--for those who can drink it--the rare quality of brightening the faculties without afterwards reacting upon them. A child could use it without injury.'

I looked at Diana, curious as to whether she had been brought up on this marvellous elixir; but, as if she had divined what was in my mind, and preferred to remain unquestioned, she arose at this point and went out, leaving her father and me to our decanters.

'You are fortunate in having made such good friends with your cousin,' he remarked. 'You are about the first man, except myself, to whom I have ever heard her volunteer an observation. Yea and nay is the sum of her speech to most of the inhabitants of this planet.'

'She is certainly not talkative,' said I, disguising the pleasure I felt at discovering that I had found favour in her sight. 'You see very little company, I believe?'

'Well, I don't seek men much, and they find little encouragement in seeking me,' returned my uncle, taking a draught of burgundy, and fixing his dark eyes upon me. 'We do not sympathise with their aims, nor they with ours. And yet, nephew, I sometimes wish that Diana could see the world. She has strange fancies: perhaps I have no right to call them mere fancies, either!'

He stopped abruptly: I was silent: presently he resumed again.

'I have tried to follow her in those strange flights of hers; if I were her own age, perhaps I might follow her after a fashion; but women are mysterious to men, especially young women like Diana--innocent as a flower, and fathomless as the ether. She is alone, quite alone, as far as human companionship goes. Ay, it might be well for her to see the world, were that possible, without the world's seeing her! I tell you, I sometimes fear the effect of this solitary life upon her--upon a girl with such a mind and heart. Heaven knows--I dare not ask--what unearthly friends she may hold communion with, up yonder in her tower!'

'I can imagine no communion so fitting for her as that of the stars,' said I.

'She was born to those studies, and has grown up in them: and she has divined secrets which no other human being has attempted. When she was born, I was full of the faith and eagerness of youth; and Diana, even as a child, showed traces of the influences that were uppermost with me. He who would fathom the stars, nephew, must needs be reverent, humble, and of a willing mind: they will not reveal themselves to self-conceit and prejudice. Age has stiffened my mental movements; the epoch of my deepest insight is gone, long since! Some rays of the great light once shone upon me; but they have faded--faded! Diana inherits all, and has made it more. Why, she is more at home among the craters of the moon than in her own boudoir!' and with this my uncle laughed again.

'She is the new daughter of the old astrology!' said I.

'Astrology? humph!' said my uncle. 'Mediæval astrology was crippled by religious superstition and intellectual darkness. But there was, no doubt, in prehistoric ages, an ancient race of men who had a profounder knowledge of this subject than modern minds are apt to imagine. From that primitive wisdom the science of ancient Egypt was a derivation--one of great subtlety and ingenuity, but lacking the celestial light of the earlier men. And the Egyptians, in turn, furnished the stock-in-trade upon which is founded the lore of our later Nostradamuses.'

'And is there truth in horoscopes and nativities?'

'They are but a paltry matter after all. There is better wisdom in the stars than that. The universe is human nature writ large; and he who learns to spell the least word of that great page will never afterwards condescend to work out horoscopes with compasses and logarithms. No: in those worlds yonder,' said my uncle, rising and sauntering towards the open window, 'live human races in every conceivable degree of development. Ay, think of that!'

'And is there most wickedness or goodness there?'

'They shine fair enough, don't they?' answered my uncle, after a short silence; 'but all their light cannot elucidate that question. You must ask your own heart; the elements of the solution are there.'

V.

It was a warm clear night, and we sat out on the balcony for an hour, smoking my uncle's excellent cigars, and sipping coffee; but our conversation died away as the shadows deepened, and for a long time no word passed between us. At length a lamp was lighted in the room--a moonlike globe of creamy glass, which contended in its homely way with the calm lustre of the great satellite that now stood high above us in the dark immutable ether. A figure was moving slowly to and fro within, which I knew, without directly looking at it, was Diana's. By-and-by she came to the window, and stood there between the lamplight and the moonlight, looking up.

'Which does she belong to?' I murmured to my uncle.

He understood me, and answered with a smile, 'The man in the moon has had it all his own way thus far; but now I shall take it kindly if you set up a wholesome rivalry with him!--Come in, nephew: I feel the dew--Diana, will you give us some music?'

She took a violin from a small table in the corner, and, sitting down where the moonlight fell into the room, she fixed her eyes dreamily upon the cold planet, and began to play. The violin, when skilfully touched, has always affected me more than any other instrument, and I had never been in so susceptible a mood as I was to-night. But ah! what music was that--so strange, so sweet, so wild! Wild it was as the far-off howling of wolves, when the moon shines upon snow-covered prairies; but organised, proportioned, and enriched by the subtle intelligence of a human musician's brain. It stirred my blood with eerie thrills; the home-like room in which I sate grew indistinct and vanished. I was alone with Diana and the music--and where were we? Not on earth, surely--not in any region where men and women ever lived and breathed. My eyes followed hers towards the moon; the white rays touched my heart and spirit, and mystically waived me thither. Slowly the burnished disc waxed larger and brighter: the fairy melody of the violin sounded keener and intenser in my ears: in the rarefied atmosphere I almost ceased to breathe: Diana was before me, but she too seemed fading out of sight: if I lost her, I should be alone in the bottomless void of space. The vibration of the strings died away....

'Drink this,' said my uncle's deep but kindly voice. 'That's it! You were within an ace of fainting dead away, my dear boy. You must be more exhausted by your journey than I thought. Hadn't you better turn in for the night?'

'It's nothing!--only a sort of--of momentary drowsiness that sometimes comes over me,' I replied, greatly mortified at such a display of my feebleness. 'I shall be all the better for it presently. As for turning in, I can't think of doing that before I've been up to see the telescope!' In saying this, I turned and met the glance of my cousin Diana. I thought--it may have been only a fancy--that she looked upon me with much more tenderness and interest than she had done heretofore. She bent down towards me, resting her beautiful hand on the arm of the sofa, close to my shoulder.

'You shall see it,' she said, in a tone so sweet and gentle that it brought the blood to my cheeks; to see her so near me made me feel warm and happy. 'You shall see what no one else has seen. But not to-night!'

'Oh, why not to-night?'