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The Watcher by the Dead

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The Watcher by the Dead By KATHERINE TYNAN. .Author of That Sweet Enemy," The Dear Irish Girl," The Adventures of Alicia." Dick Pentreath," &c., &c. I had ridden round and round the wood, I knew not how many times. I t was a very labyrinth of winding ways with nothing to distinguish them. The trees were as like as two peas-pale, slender tress, ghostly in the dark, with a waving plume of leafage far over- head. A silent wood. No nightingales sang under the May moon. There wrs no scurry ing of little furry beasts in the undergrowth. Only here and there a glow-worm lit his lamp and as quickly extinguished it as my foot came in his delicat e hearing. "Keep to the right." they had said at the tast inn, as you cross the Wood of Meetings, and you will come out in open country and see the lights of Godmanstowe town below you. If you turn but once to the left you are lost in the maze." I bad turned to the right so many times. Miles and miles there were of green avenues, With bluebells underfoot and wild anemones in the sky's colours, and liquid waters trickling in the moss. I had walked far that day. and 1 walked like a man in a dream. I had waked up that morning thinking of Alice, and her face had been with me all day. Hair of night, fine beautiful brows, eyes like tho eternal stars, a ale, tender mouth with a wonderful smile. Dnco all these had been mine and 1 had lost them. She had cared for my kinsman, Giles De LaPoer, more than for me. and I bad stood aside. More, I had not defended myself when the had believed me guilty of my cousin's sin. Since she did not love me it could not matter ihat she did not esteem me. And the sacrifice tt-as due to her for my love's sake. that she should marry a man she held for innocent, and fiever grieve her tender heart, for the wretch Ihe held guilty. There was just one thing I Was sure of. that. Giles loved her. and possess- ing her would not follow after the husks of Twine as he had been used to. Her. face, shining upon me between the ghostly trunks of the silver birches, be- wildered me, so that I must have taken one turn to the Icft unknowingly. Anyhow 1 had got lost in the maze, and through tho summer afternoon and summer dusk T had wandered Until the summer night settled down on the wood with a white brilliance overhead that told of-the summer moon beyond the tree-tops. It would have been no great, hardship to have Bang myself on the starred mosses for the night, but I was dogged in my purpose to be free of the maze, and I kept on and on, till my head swam and my senses ached with fatigue. Not even an owl hooted in the wood. It would be little use now. I felt, to arrive at Godman- stowe, since the people would all be abed and yet I kept on. And suddenly ] came out in front of a house which must have been hidden in the heart of the maze. The good people behind had told me nothing of this. But there it was with lights in the upper windows, its square shape iørk against the sky in an opening of the woods. The moon in the clear space was white as silver, but. the bouse threw its own shadow in a celvet blackness. I groped like a man in thick darkness till I found tbe door-hen and pulled it. The sound of it echoed through the house, and J had sense as though it jarred, as though it Were an outrage on the stillness. It had scarcely sounded before I heard the -eager whining of a dog beneath the door. The tound moved hither and thither, the creature's nose sniffed close to my feet, reminding me oddly of little Trust, the terrier I had given to Alice in our happy days six years ago. I had a hazy thoncht that I might be master of the house coming home to hi" own. I, who had no house, but had relinquished that with my pood name to Giles so that he might make Alice happy. Next I heard a shuffling foot in the hall be- yond the door; a bolt was letdown a key creaked in the wards of the lock. The door was opened, letting the light of a lantern fall upon my face. At the same instant some wild thing launched itself upon me, devouring my hands, as it seemed with kisses. Why, Trust, little Trust." I said. with hardly any surprise. So you remember your old master, little Trust. You are more faith- ful them human friends." All that evening while T wandered in the wood J had had the strangest feeling of having stepped over a borderland. I hardly knew whether this was a. world of living things or not in which I met my old friend whom 1 had never looted to see agnin I was caressing the little beast, having lifted him in my arms, when I recognised in the man who held the lantern another old friend or ac- quaintance of mine. Gregorv Mumhy, Lady N»*we's butler, from whom I had received many civilities in the days before my cousin Giles had snatched the sao out of my sky. We stared at each other and a wondcribgrecognition dawned in his eyes. He was the same Gregory I re- membered, rosy-cheeked, bine-eyed, with a lock of silver hair that overhung his forehead. He was not a day older for the six years and as he recognised me sudden joy leaped into his face. You come at s, good time, Sir Greville," he saU but you should never have left us. your honour, indeed vou should never have left us." Whose house is this ?" I asked in a startled voice, mhich I could hear as though it were another person's. Who but. Lady Newe's "he answered, giving me the answer I expected. So that was why I had been brought to the Wood of Meetings, why my careless feet had wandered the way I should have avoided of all others if but J had known.whythe wood-spirits or the angels or some mocking Fate had made me take the false turn that led me to the house of my lost love. J put down the little dog who yet licked my hands. I did not know. Gregory," 1 sa.id. H or 1 never should have come. I lost my way in the wood and some mischance brought me to Lady Newe's door. But there is no harm done. I can go as I came. Can you give me the clue by which to escape from the maze ?" I was not going even to ask for Alice. She was Lady De La Poer long before this doubt- less. I bad not heard of my cousin's marriage, butthen I had been a gipsy on the earth of late years, and had avoided bearing news of my old world so far as I could. As I turned away suddenly the old man laid a detaining hand on my arm- You wouldn't go, Sir Greville," he said. when my mistress has so much need of you ? Why, I am the only one left. All the others have fled for fear of the spotted fever. We are all alone with the dead, my lady and I and Mistress Alice." "The dead?" For a moment my senses swam. What did he mean ? Yet his words gave me reassurance. My dark rote of the world was not dead at least. And he had spoken of her in the old familiar way, of Mistress Alice not of Lady De La Poer—an old servant's slip doubtless. I put one foot over the threshold and the little dog began licking eagerly at my feet, as though he would lead me further. "I am Lady Newe's servant." I said, al- though I felt in my heart that I owed her lady- ship little for her judgment of me. She had been < oo plastic in my cousin's cunning hands. Yet she was Alice's mother. Time had been, before Giles had come, when she had tried to he pleasant to me, although with indifferent success. "I am her ladyship's servant," I repeated. But, Gregory Murphy, who is the dead ?" "Your own cousin. Sir Giles De La Poer. 'Tis but a week last Wednesday he came here. He was here but two days when he sickened of the fever, and he has been a' dead man Since mid-day." And—and—Mistress Alice ?" "She i" asleep, poorlatnb. She did every- thing for him whiL, he lived as though she loved him. She is worn out with nursing him, and may be sickening for the fever for all I laiow. It is a pretty tbing to have the dead In the house and only old Gregory Murphy to watch by the dead and serve the living." I have been in foreign countries, Gregory," I,said, and have heard no news. Tcllme now, is not Mistress AHcc married to my cousin ?" Lord lore you, r»o."lie answered. Mistress Alice was lor marrying no man, but would have gone to the convent after your honour left us. Her ladyship was for the marriage, and Sir Giles would not take no for an answer but came again and again. At last Mistress Alice, worn out with their importunities, consented to the marriage. And now Sir Giles is a dead man. Will you come to her ladyship, Sir Greville 7" I nodded my absent and followed him. So he hsvl cheated me after all, and Alice had not ioved him. It had been a plot between him and her mother, and being so. easily cajoled I had clip my love, my honorable name, my in- heritance, for this, for nothing. And now he tVDS dead, and I thought I knew Giles well enough to know that he had not cleared me. As I vent up the stairs with Gregory Murphy, I rhook like a leaf in the wind with a sense of my wwn impotence. Giles was dead, and Margery Fletcher was dead, and there was no one now to clear me wtih Alice. She had not loved Giles; she had loved me, and I had been a fool for her and mysdlf. God knows he had fooled cae thoroughly Lady Newe, sitting by the unlit fire with Blair's Sermons open on her knee as I had often seen her, looked up at me with a face on Which an unfriendly wonder grew. I had never pleased her because I not play the hypo- crite like my cousin, and I had lived harmlessly gay like other gentlemen of fashion and the profession of arms. This is un unexpected pleasure, Sir Gre- ville Dormer," she said. Yes, Lady Newe," I responded, and to me also. I lost my way in your woods, and Fate or something else brought? me to your doors. I had no idea, you were in this bleak North, but thought of you still as at Nightingales. We have left Nightingales these three years bsvek. We have had misfortunes. I was glad to bury myself from the world. Cheery Murphy has told you what has happened. Alas, it is in the inscrutable ways of Providence that the virtuous are taken and the wicked left." I winced under her sour speech. I had no intention of intruding." I said. In fact, I would have been now on my way if Gregory had not detained me. Gregory thought that you were in need of help." And so we are, although 1 would rather have had any helper than you. Sir Greville Dormer. We are sorely, sorely in need of help. What are we to do, two poor women and an old man, and a dead man to be buried ? He should be underground to-morrow, at latest." And I shall see to it," said I. Where shall we bury him ? Not at Godmanstowe. They have not forgotten the lasMever. There would be a riot." Just beyond the maze there is holy ground an old burying-place long disused, and the gable of a little church." To-morrow morning I shall dig the grave," J said. And Gregory and I can carry him there." I would have it over while Alice sleeps," she said. She has been in too great danger already. You might then perhaps go without seeing her. She is in grief for her betrothed husband." I had better stay," I said. How do we know who will be the next to sicken ?" It might he you," she said, thoughtfully, and we have none of the appliances of medi- cine. Promise me, if you feel ill. that you will hasten away. On the other hand, if any one of us were ill. you will stay." I have very little fear of the sickness, having been inoculated in my travels after the Eastern manner, and I shall stay," I answered. If you will keep to the Garden Room," she said Alice need not have the pain of seeing you." I will keep to the Garden Ronm," I replied, as humbly as though I had merited the con- demnation in her ga/.e. Gregory Murphy preceded me to the Garden Room. It was a room with a glass door looking on tho garden. It was on the ground floor of the house down beyond the fragged kitchen pas- sages. such a room as would be always entered by the garden way by the inmates of -he house. There was an organ in it and a piano, many pictures, and many books. On a little table in the centre there was a lit lamp, and supper was spread, a chicken, with a bottle of wine, whitebread and honey-coloured butter, with green lettuce in a dish. Sir Giles lies over theie," the old man said, pointing out into the darkness. In the pavi- lion. It has begun to rain. Do you hear the drops on the leaves ? It has been a dry summer. When your honour has supped you will find a bed here behind the screen." I went to the glass door and looked out. Across the darkness I could see the blur of dimy lit windows. So that was where he .was lying, who had robbed me of everything, and had not been an honest man even at the Jast. I shook like the reeds in a tempest with a gust of anger then suddenly it went ojt. What use was there in being angry against the dead ? I shall not sleep to-night, Gregory," I said. I am broad awake. If you will come for me at daybreak, we shall dig the grave and lay tho dead to rest." The old fellow yawned behind his 'hand. Very well, your honour," he said. I shall be to and fro keeping the candles alight. He must not lie in the dark, his last night on earth." Go to bed," I said. You ar.e tired. I will see to the candles." ] have been out of bed three nights." he answered with an air of relief. did not know how I should keep awake to-night. You are sure your honour will not mind 1" I shall not grudge him this last service," I said. The wind rose, and a wet bough tapped at the window-pane. "Your honour wiil go dry-footed,"the old fellow said, as though I should fear the passage of the garden in the rain, .1, who had become friends with the night and the elements, and feared none of them- here is a covered way. Sir Giles lies in the upper room. There is a lamp in the lower, and candles. Will your honour have a fire ? The night is damp." He lit the fire before he left me and when it had sprung up I opened the garden door and let the sweet wet airs come in.. Little Trust lay at my feet with his chin across my boot as often before. I stooped and caressed his grey top-knot, and he lodked up at me with dwnb eyes of affection. He had grown old since we had had our heyday together. I had found a book—" The Campaigns of the Duke of Marlborough "—an old calf-bound volume which I remembered at Nightingales. When 1 had laid it on the table and opened it. I thought that I would see to the candles be- fore beginning to road. As I crossed the garden the dog followed me. but lay whimpering at the threshold and would not enter the pavilion. The lower room was dimly lit. Around it were knights in armour, and there was faded tapestry on the walls that swelled and moved in the wind. Every corner was a deep shadow. As I lifted the lamp and looked about me. the shadows seemed to lrrk behind the heavy furniture, to fly in a pa"k before the light that discovered them. The place was so full of them that the light ha3 no chance against them. As I turned about I saw them creeping by the wall, whisking into the dark corners, crouching behind the settee or the tall screens. I was not one to be frightened of shadows, nor of the dead. I had seen too many dead for that, and looked too often into the eyes of death. I turned away, having replaced the lamp, and went up the winding staircase in the corner where the shadows were thickest. When I had come out into the room above I found more of an illumination. There was the bed with the dead man in it. There were candles at each side of him. and candles at the foot. The white drapery of the bed threw back the light and intensified it. I went and stood at the foot of the bed and gazed at my old enemy. I have said that I did not fear tho face of death, as I did not fear the fever, but I will confess that for an instant stark horror took hold of me. The dead man's face was horrible in the candle-light. Giles had been comely and well-featured as I remembered him. The fever had blackened his ruddiness the features were swollen and shapeless the lips parted over the teeth in a grin. It was time that he was under earth. My first, thought was that Alice must not sec him. It was no sight for women not for Lady Newe, though she had done much nursing of the sick. I replaced the candle which had fallen side- ways in the socket, and returned to the Garden Room. to which Trust welcomed me with a great sigh of relief. But between the campaigns of Marlborough and my apprehension the face of my cousin con- stantly intruded. It was horrible it was like nothing human. And yet to that the fairest of us might come if the spotted fever laid hold of us. Many thoughts came and went in my brain. I remembered Giles, my playfellow, and merry; and at thcught of it a great pity stirred in me for that marred and defaced image of God over there in the pavilion. Then again. I was angry at the thought of how he had tricked me out of Alice, making me believe that she loved him and not. me. And to think that he had died without righting me, that he had gone before his Maker with that wrong undone. I had been a poor fool to have been cheated out of my dear, yet if Lady Newe thought I was going so easily, she was mis- taken. I would see Alice. I would tell her the truth. To be sure. it might be that she would spurn me as the slanderer of the dead. Yet I thought she would not. I thought her eyes of truth would shine down into my heart, and dis- cern that through all my folly I had ever been true to her, so true that I had given up every- thing for what I thoiight to be her liappiness. A gust of ram scattered from the leaves re- minded me of the passage of time. cloi'k struck midnight somewhere within the' house. It would be daylight abont four o'clock. And notv it was time for me to see to the candles. When I stood by the bed again, I fotind that the wind had blown one of the curtains of the bed soclöse to a flaming candle that I was only in time to preent a, conflagration. The near- ness of the danger alarmed me. I resolved that I would stay where I was for the rest of my vigil. The windows of the pavilion stood open. The white curtains framed dense blackness out- side with not a sound except the wind in the trees, and the .stealing. footsteps of the rain on the parched earth below. I found a Book of Hours on a little table, and, taking a chair and facing the bed, I turned it over by the light, of the candles. It was strangely and gorgeously illuminated, but what struck me most was how often the figure of Death appeared in the pages. The skeleton victor struck at the child in the cradle, at the king on his throne, at the abbot among his monks, the bride in the arms of her groom. On every page the whole world was fleeing before his deadly arrows. Everywhere he overtook and slew his victims. The pictnres were amazingly diversified des- pite their sombre bent. I sat turning them over, glancing now and again at the bed, rising now and again to light a fresh candle, or to set one straight. As t moved hither and thither I avoided the distorted faceon the pillows, while I marvelled to myself upon the strange Fate that had sent me, of all men in the world, to keep vigil hy him that last night. hen-I fancy I dozed a little, and I awoke with a start. There was a sound in the room, Something had happened to set my heart beat- ing violently. The darkness was still outside the open window. Not a bird twittered. The candles burned straight and tall. The curtains of the bed stirred ever so little in the air from the window. I went to the bedside and looked down on the dead man. Nothing was changed. He had not stirred so much as an eyelid. It had been a delusion of my sleep that he had moved, spoken. I bent, over him, scrutinising the face with its hideous pustules. The teeth still grinned at me like those of an animal about to spring Certainly of late years Giles had hated mc-since he had wronged me so much. The last, time I had seen him he had cursed m. I had an odd faney now that in some horrible rcsurrecticn he in íc:nt. sprblg at mcand throttle me, and I drew back with an involuntary motion. And suddenly—I could swear to it—I saw the eyelid lift and drop again. Again he lay so motionless that it might have been a trick of the wavering candlelight or my own excited imagination. But I had no doubt, and yet for a moment I hesitated. Was I to bring him back to life, this be- traver of friends and women, this thief of the happiness and fame and fortune of others, bring him back to renew that troth with Alice, which death had broken ? lie deserved death. I said to myself that I need not do anything. It was most unlikely he should live even if he yet had a flickering of lihin him. And he had died without confessing his sin and my innocence. Why should I help him to Jive in order that he should rob me again of the hope of Alice's love ? For her sake he ought to die. I listened to the temptation but only for a second. Was I indeed to become viler than even he had painted me ? I shook off from my shoulder the hand of the Tempter, and, stoop- ing, I took the loathsome dead man in my arms. I stumbled with him down the steep and wind- ing stairs, and across the wet garden, where the first sleepy calls of the birds had begun. I laid him down before the fire in the Garden Room. I wrapped him in blankets from my own bed. I took the eau de vie, which Gregory Murphy had had the forethought to leave me in a little whiteand gold flask,and. I poured some between his lips, although at first it ran out. and I could not be sure that any had been swallowed. I worked his arms about as I had seem them do With drowned men. I sought to revive him as frantically as though I had loved him and not hated him. And, at last, his eyes opened and looked at me. By this time old Gregory had come in, and stood opening his mouth and saying nothing as though he had lost the power of speech. Why, he is alive, Sir Greville," he said at last. He is alive," I answered. Come, help me to get him into bed. He is alive, and he sees and hears. The fever has left him, Perhaps he is going to live." And then I went out to find a doctor, amd was fortunate to find one who would come, having heard what my errand was. And so we lived for days in an atmosphere of smoking sul- phur, and smelt incessantly of essences, and were drenched with wholesome oils, and none of us took the sickness, but in my own case I am sure I was preserved from it by that innocula- tion which interested Dr. Gossage so much to hear of. He, because he must not return among healthy folk, stayed on at the house in the mate, and helped to nurse Giles back to health, as it seemed and I having handled him so much, kept away from Lady Newe and Alice, and we were waited on by old Gregory. It was August when we were set free of our imprisonment, and Giles walked in the garden and through the maze so that the air might cleanse him of the last taint. I was always his companion, the doctor, by this time, having returned to the world. As we paced together slowly I used to glance at my cousin's pale check and wonder that I hated him no longer. He was to see Lady Newe and Alice soon. Often, often I had thought during his illness that I would wring a confession from him when he was well, but now it seemed difficult to begin to talk to him about it. He was so pale, so unearthly looking. He was very silent, too, and his thoughts seemed always to be ab- stracted. What did it matter after all ? I began to feel that Giles would never marry Alice He gained to strength. He yet leant upon me almost as heavily as the first day. While I walked by him one day I had a feel- ing that he was not really a pulsing awd living manlike myself. There was something un- earthly about, him. Suddenly he turned and looked at me, and I wondered, as I had often done since his illness, whither had vanished the fleeting devil that used to mock me from his face since we had. been rivals for the love of Alice. You saved my live, Cousin Greville," he said. I could not let you die," I answered lamely. Although I deserved it. Yet you could not, for your soul's sake. I believe I was dead, Gre- ville, dead and condemned. But God gave me another chance for my soul. He let me come back to make atonement for my sins. I shall see Alice to-morrow to tell her the truth. I shall give up all I have wrung from you by unlawful means. You shall marry Alice, Cousin Greville. And And you ?" I am going to the Carthusians. I hope God will leave me a few yesrs on earth in which to expiate the sins of that other life." So I married Alice and we are happy, and Giles is Brother Bruno of the Carthusians. After all he has lived. I am ten years a husband, and a lover still. Once I caught sight of Giles's face under the cowl. It was at sunset, and he was in the graveyard of the monastery on the hill-siie the monks have reclaimed. He was flinging a spadeful of earth out of his grave as the Carthusians do. He looked like a dead man. Giles," I cried to him, remembering- our boyhood. He only pulled the cowl lower and went on with his task. •• Not Sir Giles." said the Prior at my car, not Sir Giles, Sir Greville, but- Brother Bruno, and a saint."

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