Its entrance was hard by, through one of the very doors I had noticed when the glimmer showed me the staircase, and it entirely answered my expectations, in so far as it was very dim and haunted-looking, very unlike my own room in England, or any of our rooms at home. It had a stove, a looking-glass, and a press large enough to contain a bride's trousseau complete. There was also a recess which seemed lined with London fog, but which, on examination by the light of my candle, I found to contain the bed in a box of which my mother had forewarned me. I could no more have slept in it than if it had been a coffin, and for the first time I fully appreciated her provision for my comfort in this particular. My boxes were all there, and I uncorded them and drew forth my keys. My excellent sister Clo had packed in one trunk the bed and bedding, and one set of night-clothes, also a variety of toilet necessaries in holland bags. It was quite an affair to lift out the pieces; they were fitted into each other so beautifully that it was natural to imagine they could never be got back again. None but an experienced feminine hand could have accomplished such a feat, and very carefully had I been inducted into the puzzlement of putting the parts together. I had just unfolded the tight white mattress, so narrow, but so exactly wide enough, when Santonio knocked at the door to bid me good-night and farewell; and as he came in he assisted me in the accomplishment of my plans with that assiduous deftness which pre-eminently distinguishes the instrumental artist. He most kindly offered to see me into bed; but that was out of the question, so I let him go with my hearty thanks. It was not the least a melancholy feeling with which I stretched myself, all tingling with my rapid ablutions, beneath my home-blanket. I did not the least long after home, nor the least experience the mother-sickness that is the very treble-string of humility to many a hero in his inaugurative exile; but I felt extremely old, grand, and self-reliant, especially satisfied, in spite of my present ignorance, that by some means or other this Aronach would make a man of me, and not a trifler. I was just asleep when I heard a hand on the lock, and that no dream, for a voice vociferated, roughly enough,—"Out with the light!" I sprang up and opened the door.
"It is only my little lamp, sir, that I brought with me, and it is very safe, as you see; but still, if you wish it, I will try to sleep in the dark. I have never liked to do so, because it excites me."
"Bah! thou art too young to know the meaning of excitement. But for the sake of some one else who loves the night-lamp, thou mayest keep thine eyes open with it, and thank him too, for it is his doing. Now get back to bed! and don't come out again,—the quick and living walk not about in night-smocks here."
I heard him bolt me in as soon as I shut the door. I cannot say this proceeding pleased me, but on the contrary cost me many a cold sweat until I became accustomed to it. I lay a little while awake, now spying out such variations from English style as had escaped me on my first acquaintance with my quarters; then reverted to Aronach's dark hint about the person who, like me, was excited by the darkness; and at last recollected my contemporaries, and speculated upon their present circumstantials. Most softly did that poor little soul present himself to mine as he played with my buttons, and I secretly determined to become his protector and ally. As for the imp in the blouse, I abjured him at first sight; perhaps because he was, though repugnant to my taste, handsome and elegant, and I was neither.
CHAPTER XXVI.
I awoke with sonorous cries, and sounds of bells, and songs of sellers, and the dim ringing of wheels on a frosty soil. Hard and white the day-dews stood upon the windows; the sky was clear as light itself, and my soul sprang as into the arms of freedom. It occurred to me that I was perhaps late, and I dressed fast. About half-way to the end, I heard the violins begin, both of them; but now they outrageously contradicted each other in different directions, and I could keep by my ear to neither.
I made the utmost haste, but, as in most cases, it was least speed. I pulled off a button, and then a shoestring came loose; I had to begin very nearly all over again. And when at length equipped, I recalled the incarceration of the previous night, and wondered how long I should stay there; but a sudden impulse sent me to the door, and immediately it yielded to my hand. "He has been here, then," I thought, "and has not awakened me, because I was tired last night. How good, to be sure! Not at all what I expected." I sallied forth to the landing; it was like a room itself, but still dark,—dark for day-time; and I could only make out its extent by the glimmer through the crack beneath every door. I listened at each first, not knowing at the instant which was which; but the violins asserted themselves, and I chose one to unlock on my own responsibility. I had made a mistake here, and come into the untenanted organ-room where we had supped. There the wintry light reigned full, and freshened up the old tints till they gleamed no more dusky, but rich.
The pictures and wreaths of other years gave welcome to me, that magic child especially; nor less the harpsichord unopened, quiet, while those sounds of younger violins broke through and through my fancy, and made my heart swell up till I could have fainted with emotion.
But of all that pressed upon me, the crowning sense was of that silent organ lost in the shady roof; the sun playing upon those columned tubes, and the black-white key-board clustering to hide its wealth of "unheard melodies," sweeter than those "heard" as one has sung, who can surely never have heard them!