Whether it was that hope was dead, and the quiet that crept over me was the quiet of despair, or that really faith and resignation had come at last, I could not tell; but exhausted, benumbed, half dead, I lay motionless upon the ground, while the moments, crept slowly on, and formed themselves into hours; and still, with an ear that never lost a note of all the dirge that sounded through the forest, I lay, face downward, indifferent and apathetic. Consciousness never slept a single moment of the dreadful hours that passed over me, but Fear and Excitement did; and these terrible enemies only woke, when a sound that was not brawl of stream or roar of wind, profaned the ghastly solitude. It was a sound far fainter and less appalling than those I had been listening to, unmoved, so long, but it roused the keenest terror. Far down the road, I first caught it, so low that it might have been the falling of a nut the high wind had shaken from its tree; again, this time nearer, and the leaves rustle, and a chance bough crackles. I do not stir a hair's breadth from where I lie—the step approaches—I do not raise my head nor move a muscle—I do not think, nor wonder what it is, but all faculties absorbed in one, all energies concentrated in that one effort, I listen for the approaching sound. Nearer and nearer; and the quick terror shoots through every chilled vein. In another moment—but with resistless power, horror sweeps over every sense, and in one wild surge, blots out reason, memory, and consciousness.
[CHAPTER X.]
"O, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days;
So full of dismal terror was the time."
RICHARD III.
A shapeless tissue of dreams follow this dark warp upon the web of memory—how much the flashes of half-received truth, how much the fabric of distorted fancy, I cannot say. Into some such form as this, they have shaped themselves: mixed up in a confused way with the sights and sounds of that wild solitude, comes the recollection of being clasped in arms whose familiar hold inspired no terror; of hurried words of endearment, and a kiss upon my forehead that lulled the returning pulsations of fear into repose again; then a blank; then shouting voices, and the sound of footsteps, many and heavy, rouse me once more into faint and fitful consciousness, and dim and spectral as a graveyard dance of witches, appear strange men with lanterns, who cluster round me; and as I close my eyes in shuddering fear, Michael's face, in distorted ugliness, takes a hundred ghastly shapes, dances before my eyes, and keeps out everything else, for a space of time unspeakably frightful, as it is immeasurably long.
At last, dull stupor overpowers it; and long, long, after that, comes a woman's kind face and gentle touch; then a hand and voice that are unfamiliar and unwelcome; cat-like and soft, from which I shrink in aversion. Then, they too vanish, and when next the uncertain mist of oblivion rolls up, I am lying in a long low room, strange and new to me, but not unpleasing, even by the dim light that burns upon the table, shaded from me by a painted screen. My eyes wander around inquiringly upon the simple furniture of the room, the dark, low walls, the piles of books and pamphlets that heap the shelves irregularly, till they rest upon the two figures at the other end of the room. A fire burns low on the hearth, and beside it sits a man, stooping his head upon his hand. Another in an attitude that is familiar to me, stands with his arm upon the mantelpiece shading his eyes from the light. They talk low and earnestly; sometimes the one standing by the mantelpiece strides impatiently backward and forward, across the room, and resumes his former attitude. He by the fire never moves. I try to listen, but the effort confuses me; and it is a long while before any of their words reach me, and then only in a broken, uncertain way. The first I catch are those of the voice that is familiar to me:
"It is the first time I ever rejected your counsel; the first time I ever put aside your warning. Do you believe me when I say it pains me to the heart, after so many years of steadfast and close friendship, to rebel against the sacrifice it requires of me? But you do not know what you ask, indeed you do not!"
"Perhaps not, Arthur, perhaps not," answered his companion, in a low voice. "Do not think again of what I said; it was an over-anxiety for your happiness that prompted me to speak; and now forget the words, and remember only the love that moved them."
"No, Shenstone, I will not forget them," the other says, warmly; "I know too well the value of your counsels. I will remember what you have said, and keep the caution by me, when there is need for caution. But you must not blame me, if I cannot put aside at once a hope that has got so strong a hold upon me. I promise you to do nothing rashly, to let nothing blind my judgment, to put the test of absence, change of scene, change of interest, upon us both; years, if you will, shall pass before I dare attempt to realize my hope; years that shall prove its possibility, or show its folly; but do not ask me to give it up at once."
Mr. Shenstone shook his head. "Will it be easier to tear up the cherished hope of years, than to put down the fond fancy of a day, my friend, do you think?"