Mrs. Overtheway's Remembrances Part 11

"And then a cold chill crept over me also; for I remembered that the wall from behind which the snoring unmistakably proceeded was an outer wall. There had been the room of old Mr. Bartlett, which his son-in-law and murderer had pulled down. There he had been heard 'breathing heavily,' and had been seen asleep upon his bed, long after he was smothered in his own pillows, and his body shut up in the family vault. At least, so it was said, and at that particular moment we felt no comfort from the fact that Miss Lucy had said that 'of course it wasn't true.' I said something, to which Fatima made no reply, and I could feel her trembling, and hear a half-choked sob. I think fear for her overpowered my other alarm, and gave me a sort of strength.

"'Don't, dear,' I begged. 'Let's be brave. It must be something else.

And there's nothing in the room. Let's go to Bedford. She's next door but one.'

"Fatima could speak no more. By the moonlight through the blind, I jumped up, and half dragged, half helped her out of bed and across the room. Opening the door was the worst. To touch anything at such a moment is a trial. We groped down the pa.s.sage; I felt the handle of the first door, and turned that of the second, and in we went. The window-blind of this room was drawn up, and the moonlight streamed over everything. A nest of white drapery covered one chair, a muslin dress lay like a sick ghost over a second, some little black satin shoes and web-like stockings were on the floor, a gold watch and one or two feminine ornaments lay on the table; and in the bed reposed--not Bedford, but our friend Kate, fast asleep, with one arm over the bed-clothes, and her long red hair in a pigtail streaming over the pillow. I climbed up and treated her as Fatima had treated me, calling her in low, frightened tones over and over again. She woke at last, and sat up.

"'You sprites! What is the matter?' she exclaimed.

"I stumbled through an account of our misfortunes, in the middle of which the young lady lay down, and before it was ended I believe she was asleep again. Poor Fatima, who saw nothing before us but to return to our room with all its terrors, here began to sob violently, which roused our friend once more, and she became full of pity.

"'You poor children!' she said, 'I'm so sleepy. I cannot get up and go after the ghost now; besides, one might meet somebody. But you may get into bed if you like; there's plenty of room, and nothing to frighten you.'

"In we both crept, most willingly. She gave us the long tail of her hair, and said, 'If you want me, pull. But go to sleep, if you can!'--and, before she had well finished the sentence, her eyes closed once more. In such good company a snoring ghost seemed a thing hardly to be realized. We held the long plait between us, and, clinging to it as drowning men to a rope, we soon slept also.

"When we returned to our room next day, there was no snoring to be heard, and in the full suns.h.i.+ne of a summer morning our fright seemed so completely a thing of the past, that I persuaded myself to suggest that it might have been 'fancy' (Kate had already expressed her deliberate opinion to this effect), to which Fatima, whose convictions were of a more resolute type than mine, replied, 'What's the use of trying to believe what's not true? I heard it; and shall know that I heard it, if I live till I'm a hundred.'

"In all correct ghost stories, when the hero comes down in the morning, valiant, but exhausted from the terrors of the night, to breakfast, his host invariably asks him how he slept. When we came down, we found Kate and the Irishman alone together in the breakfast-room. Now it certainly was in keeping with our adventure when he stepped forward, and, bowing profoundly, asked how we had pa.s.sed the night; but, in spite of the gravity of his face, there was a twinkle in the big brown eyes which showed us that we were being made fun of; and I felt slightly indignant with our friend, who had faithfully promised not to betray us to Miss Lucy, and might, I thought, have saved us from the ridicule of the Irishman. The rest of the company began to a.s.semble, however, and to our relief the subject was dropped. But though the Irishman kept our secret, we had every reason to suspect that he did not forget it; he looked terribly roguish through breakfast, and was only kept in order by Kate's severe glances.

"'Always breathe through the nose,' he suddenly began. 'It moderates the severity of the air, is less trying to the lungs, and prevents snoring.'

"'Very true,' said the major, who was sensible, and liked instructive observations.

"'It may be laid down as an axiom,' continued the Irishman, gravely, 'that the man who snores is sure to disturb somebody; and also that the man who doesn't snore till he dies, is not likely to live to be a snoring ghost when he is dead.'

"Kate looked daggers. The major laughed, and said, 'Let me give you some beef.' When he didn't understand a remark he always laughed, and generally turned the conversation to eatables, in which he was pretty safe; for food is common ground, and a slight laugh answers most remarks, unless at a serious meeting or a visit of condolence. A little later the Irishman asked: 'What's the origin of the expression to stir up with a long pole?' which turned the conversation to wild beasts. But he presently inquired: 'What's the meaning of putting a thing up the spout?'

"'p.a.w.ning it,' said the major, promptly.

"'People p.a.w.n their family jewels sometimes,' said Pat. 'Did you ever hear of anybody p.a.w.ning the family ghosts?' he asked, suddenly turning to me. I gave a distressed 'No,' and he continued in a whisper, 'You never saw a ghost up the spout?'

"But, before I could answer, he caught Kate's eye, and, making a penitent face, became silent.

"We were in the drawing-room after breakfast, when the Irishman pa.s.sed the window outside, whistling 'Kathleen Mavourneen.' We were sitting at Kate's feet, and she got up, and whispering, 'He's got something to show you, but he wouldn't let me tell,' went out into the garden, we following her.

"There we found the Irishman, with a long pole, which he was waving triumphantly in the air. He bowed as we approached.

"'This, young ladies,' he said, 'is the original long pole spoken of at the breakfast-table. With this I am about to stir up and bring forth for your inspection the living and identical ghost whose snoring disturbed your repose last night.'

"The little Irishman's jokes rea.s.sured me. I guessed that he had found some clue to our mysterious noise; but with Fatima it was otherwise. She had been too deeply frightened to recover so easily.

She clung tremblingly to me, as I was following him, and whispered 'I'd rather not.'

"On her behalf I summoned courage to remonstrate.

"'If you please, sir,' I said, 'Fatima would rather not; and, if you please, don't tease us any more.'

"The young lady added her entreaties, but they were not needed. The good-natured little gentleman no sooner saw Fatima's real distress than he lowered his pole, and sank upon his knees on the gra.s.s, with a face of genuine penitence.

"'I _am_ so sorry I've been tormenting you so!' he exclaimed. 'I forgot you were really frightened, and you see I knew it wasn't a ghost.'

"'I heard it,' murmured Fatima resolutely, with her eyes half shut.

"'So did I,' said the Irishman, gaily; 'I've heard it dozens of times.

It's the owls.'

"We both exclaimed.

"'Ah!' he said, comically, 'I see you don't believe me! That's what comes of telling so many small fibs. But it's true, I a.s.sure you. (And the brown eyes did look particularly truthful.) Barn-door owls do make a noise that is very like the snoring of an old man. And there are some young ones who live in the spout at the corner of the wall of your room. They're snoring and scrambling in and out of that spout all night.'

"It was quite true, Ida, as we found, when Fatima was at last persuaded to visit the corner where the rooms had been pulled down, and where, decorated with ivy, the old spout formed a home for the snoring owls. By the aid of the long pole he brought out a young one to our view--a shy, soft, lovely, shadow-tinted creature, ghostly enough to behold, who felt like an impalpable ma.s.s of fluff, utterly refused to be kissed, and went savagely blinking back into his spout at the earliest possible opportunity. His snoring alarmed us no more."

"And the noise really was that?" said Ida.

"It really was, my dear."

"It's a splendid story," said Ida; "you see, I didn't go to sleep _this_ time. And what became of everybody, please? Did the red-haired young lady marry the Irishman?"

"Very soon afterwards, my dear," said Mrs. Overtheway. "We kept up our friends.h.i.+p, too, in after life; and I have many times amused their children with the story of the Snoring Ghost."

REKA DOM.

"What is home, and where, but with the loving?"

FELICIA HEMANS.

At last Ida was allowed to go out. She was well wrapped up, and escorted by Nurse in a short walk for the good of her health. It was not very amusing, but the air was fresh and the change pleasant, although the street did not prove quite that happy region it had looked from the nursery windows. Moreover, however strong one may fancy one has become indoors, the convalescent's first efforts out of doors are apt to be as feeble as those of a white moth that has just crept from the shelter of its coc.o.o.n, giddy with daylight, and trembling in the open air. By-and-by this feeling pa.s.sed away, and one afternoon Ida was allowed to go by herself into the garden, "just for a run."

The expression was metaphorical, for she was far from being able to run; but she crept quietly up and down the walks, and gathered some polyanthuses, putting them to her face with that pleasure which the touch of fresh flowers gives to an invalid. Then she saw that the hedge was budding, and that the gap through which she had scrambled was filled up. Ida thought of the expedition and smiled. It had certainly made her very ill, but--it had led to Mrs. Overtheway.

The little old lady did not come that day, and in the evening Ida was sent for by her uncle. She had not been downstairs in the evenings since her illness. These interviews with the reserved old gentleman were always formal, uncomfortable affairs, from which Ida escaped with a sense of relief, and that evening--being weak with illness and disappointed by Mrs. Overtheway's absence--her nervousness almost amounted to terror.

Nurse did her best in the way of encouragement. It was true that Ida's uncle was not a merry gentleman, but there was such a nice dessert!

What could a well-behaved young lady desire more than to wear her best frock, and eat almonds and raisins in the dining-room, as if she were the lady of the house?

"Though I am sorry for the child," Nurse confided to the butler when she had left Ida with her uncle, "for his looks are enough to frighten a grown person, let alone a little girl. And do you go in presently, like a good soul, if you can find an excuse, and let her see a cheerful face."

But before the kind-hearted old man-servant could find a plausible pretext for intruding into the dining-room, and giving an encouraging smile from behind his master's chair, Ida was in the nursery once more.

She had honestly endeavoured to be good. She had made her curtsey at the door without a falter--weak as she was. She had taken her place at the head of the table with all dignity, and had accepted the almonds and raisins with sufficiently audible thanks. She had replied prettily enough to her uncle's inquiries after her health; and, anxious to keep up the conversation, had told him that the hedge was budding.

"_What's_ the matter with the hedge?" he had asked rather sharply; and when Ida repeated her bit of spring news, he had not seemed to be interested. It was no part of the gardener's work.

Ida relapsed into silence, and so did her uncle. But this was not all.

He had sharp eyes, and fierce bushy eyebrows, from under which he was apt to scrutinize Ida in a way that seemed to scatter all her presence of mind. This night of all nights she found his eyes upon her oftener than usual. Whenever she looked up he was watching her, and her discomfort increased accordingly. At last he broke the silence abruptly by saying: