Wilfrid Cumbermede by George MacDonald

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He did not reply, and we went on with our work. Neither of the ladies
came near us again that day.

Before the end of the week the library was in tolerable order to the
eye, though it could not be perfectly arranged until the commencement
of a catalogue should be as the dawn of a consciousness in the
half-restored mass.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

A STORM.

So many books of rarity and value had revealed themselves, that it was
not difficult to make Sir Giles comprehend in some degree the
importance of such a possession. He had grown more and more interested
as the work went on; and even Lady Brotherton, although she much
desired to have, at least, the oldest and most valuable of the books
re-bound in red morocco first, was so far satisfied with what she was
told concerning the worth of the library, that she determined to invite
some of the neighbours to dinner, for the sake of showing it. The main
access to it was to be by the armoury; and she had that side of the
gallery round the hall which led thither covered with a thick carpet.

Meantime Charley had looked over all the papers in my chest, but,
beyond what I have already stated, no fact of special interest had been
brought to light.

In sending an invitation to Charley, Lady Brotherton could hardly avoid
sending me one as well: I doubt whether I should otherwise have been
allowed to enjoy the admiration bestowed on the result of my labours.

The dinner was formal and dreary enough: the geniality of one of the
heads of a household is seldom sufficient to give character to an
entertainment.

'They tell me you are a buyer of books, Mr Alderforge,' said Mr Mellon
to the clergyman of a neighbouring parish, as we sat over our wine.

'Quite a mistake,' returned Mr Alderforge. 'I am a reader of books.'

'That of course! But you buy them first--don't you?'

'Not always. I sometimes borrow them.'

'That I never do. If a book is worth borrowing, it is worth buying.'

'Perhaps--if you can afford it. But many books that book-buyers value I
count worthless--for all their wide margins and uncut leaves.'

'Will you come-and have a look at Sir Giles's library?' I ventured to
say.

'I never heard of a library at Moldwarp Hall, Sir Giles,' said Mr
Mellon.

'I am given to understand there is a very valuable one,' said Mr
Alderforge. 'I shall be glad to accompany you, sir,' he added, turning
to me, '--if Sir Giles will allow us.'

'You cannot have a better guide than Mr Cumbermede,' said Sir Giles. 'I
am indebted to him almost for the discovery--altogether for the
restoration of the library.'

'Assisted by Miss Brotherton and her friends, Sir Giles,' I said.

'A son of Mr Cumbermede of Lowdon Farm, I presume?' said Alderforge,
bowing interrogatively.

'A nephew,' I answered.

'He was a most worthy man.--By the way, Sir Giles, your young friend
here must be a distant connection of your own. I found in some book or
other lately, I forget where at the moment, that there were Cumbermedes
at one time in Moldwarp Hall.'

'Yes--about two hundred years ago, I believe. It passed to our branch
of the family some time during the troubles of the seventeenth
century--I hardly know how--I am not much of an historian.'

I thought of my precious volume, and the name on the title-page. That
book might have been in the library of Moldwarp Hall. If so, how had it
strayed into my possession--alone, yet more to me than all that was
left behind?

We betook ourselves to the library. The visitors expressed themselves
astonished at its extent, and the wealth which even a glance
revealed--for I took care to guide their notice to its richest veins.

'When it is once arranged,' I said, 'I fancy there will be few private
libraries to stand a comparison with it--I am thinking of old English
literature, and old editions: there is not a single volume of the
present century in it, so far as I know.'

I had had a few old sconces fixed here and there, but as yet there were
no means of really lighting the rooms. Hence, when a great flash of
lightning broke from a cloud that hung over the park right in front of
the windows, it flooded them with a dazzling splendour. I went to find
Charley, for the library was the best place to see the lightning from.
As I entered the drawing-room, a tremendous peal of thunder burst over
the house, causing so much consternation amongst the ladies, that, for
the sake of company, they all followed to the library. Clara seemed
more frightened than any. Mary was perfectly calm. Charley was much
excited. The storm grew in violence. We saw the lightning strike a tree
which stood alone a few hundred yards from the house. When the next
flash came, half of one side seemed torn away. The wind rose, first in
fierce gusts, then into a tempest, and the rain poured in torrents.

'None of you can go home to-night, ladies,' said Sir Giles. 'You must
make up your minds to stop where you are. Few horses would face such a
storm as that.'

'It would be to tax your hospitality too grievously, Sir Giles,' said
Mr Alderforge. 'I dare say it will clear up by-and-by, or at least
moderate sufficiently to let us get home.'

'I don't think there's much chance of that,' returned Sir Giles. 'The
barometer has been steadily falling for the last three days. My dear,
you had better give your orders at once.'

'You had better stop, Charley,' I said.

'I won't if you go,' he returned.

Clara was beside.

'You must not think of going,' she said.

Whether she spoke to him or me I did not know, but as Charley made no
answer--

'I cannot stop without being asked,' I said, 'and it is not likely that
any one will take the trouble to ask me.'

The storm increased. At the request of the ladies, the gentlemen left
the library and accompanied them to the drawing-room for tea. Our
hostess asked Clara to sing, but she was too frightened to comply.

'You will sing, Mary, if Lady Brotherton asks you, I know,' said Mrs
Osborne.

'Do, my dear,' said Lady Brotherton; and Mary at once complied.

I had never heard her sing, and did not expect much. But although she
had little execution, there was, I found, a wonderful charm both in her
voice and the simplicity of her mode. I did not feel this at first, nor
could I tell when the song began to lay hold upon me, but when it
ceased, I found that I had been listening intently. I have often since
tried to recall it, but as yet it has eluded all my efforts. I still
cherish the hope that it may return some night in a dream, or in some
waking moment of quiescent thought, when what we call the brain works
as it were of itself, and the spirit allows it play.

The close was lost in a louder peal of thunder than had yet burst.
Charley and I went again to the library to look out on the night. It
was dark as pitch, except when the lightning broke and revealed
everything for one intense moment.

'I think sometimes,' said Charley, 'that death will be like one of
those flashes, revealing everything in hideous fact--for just
one-moment and no more.'

'How for one moment and no more, Charley?' I asked.

'Because the sight of the truth concerning itself must kill the soul,
if there be one, with disgust at its own vileness, and the miserable
contrast between its aspirations and attainments, its pretences and its
efforts. At least, that would be the death fit for a life like mine--a
death of disgust at itself. We claim immortality; we cringe and cower
with the fear that immortality may _not_ be the destiny of man; and yet
we--_I_--do things unworthy not merely of immortality, but unworthy of
the butterfly existence of a single day in such a world as this
sometimes seems to be. Just think how I stabbed at my sister's faith
this morning--careless of making her as miserable as myself! Because my
father has put into her mind his fancies, and I hate them, I wound
again the heart which they wound, and which cannot help their
presence!'

'But the heart that can be sorry for an action is far above the action,
just as her heart is better than the notions that haunt it.'

'Sometimes I hope so. But action determines character. And it is all
such a muddle! I don't care much about what they call immortality. I
doubt if it is worth the having. I would a thousand times rather have
one day of conscious purity of heart and mind and soul and body, than
an eternity of such life as I have now.--What am I saying?' he added,
with a despairing laugh. 'It is a fool's comparison; for an eternity of
the former would be bliss--one moment of the latter is misery.'

I could but admire and pity my poor friend both at once.

Miss Pease had entered unheard.

'Mr Cumbermede,' she said, 'I have been looking for you to show you
your room. It is not the one I should like to have got for you, but Mrs
Wilson says you have occupied it before, and I dare say you will find
it comfortable enough.'

'Thank you, Miss Pease. I am sorry you should have taken the trouble. I
can go home well enough. I am not afraid of a little rain.'

'A little rain!' said Charley, trying to speak lightly.

'Well, any amount of rain,' I said.

'But the lightning!' expostulated Miss Pease in a timid voice.

'I am something of a fatalist, Miss Pease,' I said. '"Every bullet has
its billet," you know. Besides, if I had a choice, I think I would
rather die by lightning than any other way.'

'Don't talk like that, Mr Cumbermede.--Oh! what a flash!'

'I was not speaking irreverently, I assure you,' I replied.--'I think
I had better set out at once, for there seems no chance of its
clearing.'

'I am sure Sir Giles would be distressed if you did.'

'He will never know, and I dislike giving trouble.'

'The room is ready. I will show you where it is, that you may go when
you like.'

'If Mrs Wilson says it is a room I have occupied before, I know the way
quite well.'

'There are two ways to it,' she said. 'But of course one of them is
enough,' she added with a smile. 'Mr Osborne, your room is in another
part quite.'

'I know where my sister's room is,' said Charley. 'Is it anywhere near
hers?'

'That is the room you are to have. Miss Osborne is to be with your
mamma, I think. There is plenty of accommodation, only the notice was
short.'

I began to button my coat.

'Don't go, Wilfrid,' said Charley. 'You might give offence. Besides,
you will have the advantage of getting to work as early as you please
in the morning.'

It was late and I was tired--consequently less inclined than usual to
encounter a storm, for in general I enjoyed being in any commotion of
the elements. Also I felt I should like to pass another night in that
room, and have besides the opportunity of once more examining at my
leisure the gap in the tapestry.

'Will you meet me early in the library, Charley?' I said.

'Yes--to be sure I will--as early as you like.'

'Let us go to the drawing-room, then.'

'Why should you, if you are tired, and want to go to bed?'

'Because Lady Brotherton will not like my being included in the
invitation. She will think it absurd of me not to go home.'

'There is no occasion to go near her, then.'

'I do not choose to sleep in the house without knowing that she knows
it.'

We went. I made my way to Lady Brotherton. Clara was standing near her.

'I am much obliged by your hospitality, Lady Brotherton,' I said. 'It
is rather a rough night to encounter in evening dress.'

She bowed.

'The distance is not great, however,' I said, 'and perhaps--'

'Out of the question!' said Sir Giles, who came up at the moment.

Will you see, then, Sir Giles, that a room is prepared for your
guest?' she said.

'I trust that is unnecessary,' he replied. 'I gave orders.'--But as he
spoke he went towards the bell.

'It is all arranged, I believe, Sir Giles,' I said. 'Mrs Wilson has
already informed me which is my room. Good-night, Sir Giles.'

He shook hands with me kindly. I bowed to Lady Brotherton and retired.

It may seem foolish to record such mere froth of conversation, but I
want my reader to understand how a part, at least, of the family of
Moldwarp Hall regarded me.

CHAPTER XL.

A DREAM.

My room looked dreary enough. There was no fire, and the loss of the
patch of tapestry from the wall gave the whole an air of dilapidation.
The wind howled fearfully in the chimney and about the door on the
roof, and the rain came down on the leads like the distant trampling of
many horses. But I was not in an imaginative mood. Charley was again my
trouble. I could not bear him to be so miserable. Why was I not as
miserable as he? I asked myself. Perhaps I ought to be, for although
certainly I hoped more, I could not say I believed more than he. I
wished more than ever that I did believe, for then I should be able to
help him--I was sure of that; but I saw no possible way of arriving at
belief. Where was the proof? Where even the hope of a growing
probability?

With these thoughts drifting about in my brain, like waifs which the
tide will not let go, I was poring over the mutilated forms of the
tapestry round the denuded door, with an expectation, almost a
conviction, that I should find the fragment still hanging on the wall
of the kitchen at the Moat, the very piece wanted to complete the
broken figures. When I had them well fixed in my memory, I went to bed,
and lay pondering over the several broken links which indicated some
former connection between the Moat and the Hall, until I fell asleep,
and began to dream strange wild dreams, of which the following was the
last.

I was in a great palace, wandering hither and thither, and meeting no
one. A weight of silence brooded in the place. From hall to hall I
went, along corridor and gallery, and up and down endless stairs. I
knew that in some room near me was one whose name was Athanasia,--a
maiden, I thought in my dream, whom I had known and loved for years,
but had lately lost--I knew not how. Somewhere here she was, if only I
could find her! From room to room I went seeking her. Every room I
entered bore some proof that she had just been there--but there she was
not. In one lay a veil, in another a handkerchief, in a third a glove;
and all were scented with a strange entrancing odour, which I had never
known before, but which in certain moods I can to this day imperfectly
recall. I followed and followed until hope failed me utterly, and I sat
down and wept. But while I wept, hope dawned afresh, and I rose and
again followed the quest, until I found myself in a little chapel like
that of Moldwarp Hall. It was filled with the sound of an organ,
distance-faint, and the thin music was the same as the odour of the
handkerchief which I carried in my bosom. I tried to follow the sound,
but the chapel grew and grew as I wandered, and I came no nearer to its
source. At last the altar rose before me on my left, and through the
bowed end of the aisle I passed behind it into the lady-chapel. There
against the outer wall stood a dusky ill-defined shape. Its head rose
above the sill of the eastern window, and I saw it against the rising
moon. But that and the whole figure were covered with a thick drapery;
I could see nothing of the face, and distinguish little of the form.

'What art thou?' I asked trembling.

'I am Death--dost thou not know me?' answered the figure, in a sweet
though worn and weary voice. 'Thou hast been following me all thy life,
and hast followed me hither.'

Then I saw through the lower folds of the cloudy garment, which grew
thin and gauze-like as I gazed, a huge iron door, with folding leaves,
and a great iron bar across them.

'Art thou at thine own door?' I asked. 'Surely thy house cannot open
under the eastern window of the church?'

'Follow and see,' answered the figure.

Turning, it drew back the bolt, threw wide the portals, and
low-stooping entered. I followed, not into the moonlit night, but
through a cavernous opening into darkness. If my Athanasia were down
with Death, I would go with Death, that I might at least end with her.
Down and down I followed the veiled figure, down flight after flight of
stony stairs, through passages like those of the catacombs, and again
down steep straight stairs. At length it stopped at another gate, and
with beating heart I heard what I took for bony fingers fumbling with a
chain and a bolt. But ere the fastenings had yielded, once more I heard
the sweet odour-like music of the distant organ. The same moment the
door opened, but I could see nothing for some time for the mighty
inburst of a lovely light. A fair river, brimming full, its little
waves flashing in the sun and wind, washed the threshold of the door,
and over its surface, hither and thither, sped the white sails of
shining boats, while from somewhere, clear now, but still afar, came
the sound of a great organ psalm. Beyond the river the sun was
rising--over blue Summer hills that melted into blue Summer sky. On the
threshold stood my guide, bending towards me, as if waiting for me to
pass out also. I lifted my eyes: the veil had fallen--it was my lost
Athanasia! Not one beam touched her face, for her back was to the sun,
yet her face was radiant. Trembling, I would have kneeled at her feet,
but she stepped out upon the flowing river, and with the sweetest of
sad smiles, drew the door to, and left me alone in the dark hollow of
the earth. I broke into a convulsive weeping, and awoke.

CHAPTER XLI.

A WAKING.

I suppose I awoke tossing in my misery, for my hand fell upon something
cold. I started up and tried to see. The light of a clear morning of
late Autumn had stolen into the room while I slept, and glimmered on
something that lay upon the bed. It was some time before I could
believe that my troubled eyes were not the sport of one of those odd
illusions that come of mingled sleep and waking. But by the golden hilt
and rusted blade I was at length convinced, although the scabbard was
gone, that I saw my own sword. It lay by my left side, with the hilt
towards my hand. But the moment I turned a little to take it in my
right hand, I forgot all about it in a far more bewildering discovery,
which fixed me staring half in terror, half in amazement, so that again
for a moment I disbelieved in my waking condition. On the other pillow
lay the face of a lovely girl. I felt as if I had seen it
before--whether only in the just vanished dream, I could not tell. But
the maiden of my dream never comes back to me with any other features
or with any other expression than those which I now beheld. There was
an ineffable mingling of love and sorrow on the sweet countenance. The
girl was dead asleep, but evidently dreaming, for tears were flowing
from under her closed lids. For a time I was unable even to think;
when thought returned, I was afraid to move. All at once the face of
Mary Osborne dawned out of the vision before me--how different,
how glorified from its waking condition! It was perfectly
lovely--transfigured by the unchecked outflow of feeling. The
recognition brought me to my senses at once. I did not waste a single
thought in speculating how the mistake had occurred, for there was not
a moment to be lost. I must be wise to shield her, and chiefly, as much
as might be, from the miserable confusion which her own discovery of
the untoward fact would occasion her. At first I thought it would be
best to lie perfectly still, in order that she, at length awaking and
discovering where she was, but finding me fast asleep, might escape
with the conviction that the whole occurrence remained her own secret.
I made the attempt, but I need hardly say that never before or since
have I found myself in a situation half so perplexing; and in a few
moments I was seized with such a trembling that I was compelled to turn
my thoughts to the only other possible plan. As I reflected, the
absolute necessity of attempting it became more and more apparent. In
the first place, when she woke and saw me, she might scream and be
heard; in the next, she might be seen as she left the room, or, unable
to find her way, might be involved in great consequent embarrassment.
But, if I could gather all my belongings, and, without awaking her,
escape by the stair to the roof, she would be left to suppose that she
had but mistaken her chamber, and would, I hoped, remain in ignorance
that she had not passed the night in it alone. I dared one more peep
into her face. The light and the loveliness of her dream had passed; I
should not now have had to look twice to know that it was Mary Osborne;
but never more could I see in hers a common face. She was still fast
asleep, and, stealthy as a beast of prey, I began to make my escape. At
the first movement, however, my perplexity was redoubled, for again my
hand fell on the sword which I had forgotten, and question after
question as to how they were together, and together there, darted
through my bewildered brain. Could a third person have come and laid
the sword between us? I had no time, however, to answer one of my own
questions. Hardly knowing which was better, or if there was _a better_,
I concluded to take the weapon with me, moved in part by the fact that
I had found it where I had lost it, but influenced far more by its
association with this night of marvel.

Having gathered my garments together, and twice glanced around me--once
to see that I left nothing behind, and once to take farewell of the
peaceful face, which had never moved, I opened the little door in the
wall, and made my strange retreat up the stair. My heart was beating so
violently from the fear of her waking, that, when the door was drawn to
behind me, I had to stand for what seemed minutes before I was able to
ascend the steep stair, and step from its darkness into the clear
frosty shine of the Autumn sun, brilliant upon the leads wet with the
torrents of the preceding night.

I found a sheltered spot by the chimney-stack, where no one could see
me from below, and proceeded to dress myself--assisted in my very
imperfect toilet by the welcome discovery of a pool of rain in a
depression of the lead-covered roof. But alas, before I had finished, I
found that I had brought only one of my shoes away with me! This
settled the question I was at the moment debating--whether, namely, it
would be better to go home, or to find some way of reaching the
library. I put my remaining shoe in my pocket, and set out to discover
a descent. It would have been easy to get down into the little gallery,
but it communicated on both sides immediately with bed-rooms, which for
anything I knew might be occupied; and besides I was unwilling to enter
the house for fear of encountering some of the domestics. But I knew
more of the place now, and had often speculated concerning the odd
position and construction of an outside stair in the first court, close
to the chapel, with its landing at the door of a room _en suite_ with
those of Sir Giles and Lady Brotherton. It was for a man an easy drop
to this landing. Quiet as a cat, I crept over the roof, let myself
down, crossed the court swiftly, drew back the bolt which alone secured
the wicket, and, with no greater mishap than the unavoidable wetting of
shoeless feet, was soon safe in my own room, exchanging my evening for
a morning dress. When I looked at my watch, I found it nearly seven
o'clock.

I was so excited and bewildered by the adventures I had gone through,
that, from very commonness, all the things about me looked alien and
strange. I had no feeling of relation to the world of ordinary life.
The first thing I did was to hang my sword in its own old place, and
the next to take down the bit of tapestry from the opposite wall, which
I proceeded to examine in the light of my recollection of that round
the denuded door. Room was left for not even a single doubt as to the
relation between this and that: they had been wrought in one and the
same piece by fair fingers of some long vanished time.

CHAPTER XLII.

A TALK ABOUT SUICIDE.

In the same excited mood, but repressing it with all the energy I could
gather, I returned to the Hall and made my way to the library. There
Charley soon joined me.

'Why didn't you come to breakfast?' he asked.

'I've been home, and changed my clothes,' I answered. 'I couldn't well
appear in a tail-coat. It's bad enough to have to wear such an ugly
thing by candle-light.'

'What's the matter with you?' he asked again, after an interval of
silence, which I judge from the question must have been rather a long
one.

'What is the matter with me, Charley?'

'I can't tell. You don't seem yourself somehow.'

I do not know what answer I gave him, but I knew myself what was the
matter with me well enough. The form and face of the maiden of my
dream, the Athanasia lost that she might be found, blending with the
face and form of Mary Osborne, filled my imagination so that I could
think of nothing else. Gladly would I have been rid of even Charley's
company, that, while my hands were busy with the books, my heart might
brood at will now upon the lovely dream, now upon the lovely vision to
which I awoke from it, and which, had it not glided into the forms of
the foregone dream, and possessed it with itself, would have banished
it altogether. At length I was aware of light steps and sweet voices in
the next room, and Mary and Clara presently entered.

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