 27. A Sunday. A man may be a heretic in the truth, and if he believes things only because his pastor says so, or the assembly so determines, without knowing other reason, though his belief be true, yet the very truth he holds becomes his heresy. 28. Milton. Aereo Pijetica. At length the expected visitors arrived. He saw nothing of them till they assembled for dinner. Mrs. Elton was a benevolent old lady, not old enough to give in to being old, rather tall and rather stout, in rich widow costume, whose depth had been moderated by time. Her kindly gray eyes looked out from a calm face, which seemed to have taken comfort from loving everybody in a mild and moderate fashion. Lady Emily was a slender girl, rather shy, with fair hair, and a pale, innocent face. She wore a violet dress, which put out her blue eyes. She showed to no advantage, beside the suppressed glow of life which made you for look like a tropical twilight. I am aware there is no such thing, but if there were, it would be just like her. Mrs. Elton seemed to have concentrated the motherhood of her nature, which was her most prominent characteristic, notwithstanding, or perhaps in virtue of, her childlessness, upon Lady Emily. To her, Mrs. Elton was solicitously attentive, and she, on her part, received it all sweetly and gratefully, taking no umbridge of being treated as more of an invalid than she was. Lady Emily ate nothing but chicken and custard pudding or rice, all the time she was at Arnstead. The richer and more seasoned any dish, the more grateful it was to Euphra. Mr. Arnold was a saddle of mutton man. Hugh preferred roast beef, but ate anything. What sort of a clergyman have you now, Mr. Arnold? asked Mrs. Elton at the dinner table. Oh, a very respectable young gentleman, brother to Sir Richard, who has the gift, you know, a very moderate, excellent clergyman he makes, too. Ah, but you know, Lady Emily and I, here she looked at Lady Emily, who smiled and blushed faintly, are very dependent on her Sundays, and we all go to church regularly, I assure you, Mrs. Elton, and of course my carriage shall be always at your disposal. I was in no doubt about either of those things indeed, Mr. Arnold, but what sort of a preacher is he? Ah, well, let me see. What was the subject of his sermon last Sunday, Euphra, my dear? The devil and all his angels answered Euphra with a wicked flash in her eyes. Yes, yes, so it was. Oh, I assure you, Mrs. Elton, he is quite a respectable preacher, as well as a clergyman. He is an honor to the cloth. Hugh could not help thinking that the tailor should have his due, and that Mr. Arnold gave it him. He is no PCI to either, added Mr. Arnold, seen but not understanding Mrs. Elton's baffled expression, though he does preach once a month in his surplice. I am afraid you will not find him very original, though, said Hugh, wishing to help the old lady. Original, interposed Mr. Arnold, really, I am bound to say I don't know how the remark applies. How is a man to be original on a subject that is all laid down in plain print, to use a vulgar expression, and has been commented upon for eighteen hundred years and more? Very true, Mr. Arnold, responded Mrs. Elton. We don't want originality, do we? It is only the gospel we want. As he preached the gospel, how can he preach anything else? His text is always out of some part of the Bible. I am glad to see you hold by the inspiration of the scriptures, Mr. Arnold, said Mrs. Elton, chaotically bewildered. Good heavens, madame, what do you mean? Could you for a moment suppose me to be an atheist? Surely you have not become a student with German neology. And Mr. Arnold smiled a grim smile. Not I, indeed, protested poor Mrs. Elton, moving uneasily in her seat. I quite agree with you, Mr. Arnold. Then you may take my word for it, that you will hear nothing but what is highly orthodox and perfectly worthy of a gentleman and a clergyman from the pulpit of Mr. Penfold. He dined with us only last week. This last assertion was made in an injured tone, just sufficient to curl the tail of the sentence, after which what was to be said. Several vain attempts followed before a new subject was started, sufficiently uninteresting to cause, neither from warmth nor stupidity, any damage of dissension and quite worthy of being here omitted. Dinner over, and the ceremony of tea, in Lady Emily's case milk and water, having been observed, the visitors withdrew. The next day was Sunday. Lady Emily came downstairs in black, which suited her better. She was a pretty gentle creature, interesting from her illness, and good because she knew no evil except what she heard of from the pulpit. They walked to church, which was no great distance, along a meadow path paved with flags, some of them worn through by the heavy shoes of country generations. The church was one of those which are, in some measure, typical of the church itself, for it was very old and would have been very beautiful had it not been all plastered over and whitened to a smooth uniformity of ugliness. The attempt having been more successful in the case of the type, the open roof, and a French heaven added to it, I mean a ceiling, and the pillars which, even if they were not carved, though it was impossible to come to a conclusion on that point, must yet have been worn into the beauty of age, had been filled up and stained with yellow ochre. Even the remnants of stained glass and some of the windows were half concealed by modern appliances for the partial exclusion of the light. The church had fared its chaucer in the hands of Dryden, so had the truth that flickered through the sermon fared in the hands of the clergymen, or the sermon-right whose manuscript he had bought for eighteen pence. I am told the sermons are to be procured at that price on his last visit to London. Having although a Scotchman, had an Episcopalian education, he could not help rejoicing that not merely the Bible, but the church service as well, had been fixed beyond the reach of such degenerating influences as those which had operated on the more material embodiments of religion. For otherwise, such would certainly have been the first to operate and would have found the greatest scope in any alteration. We may hope that nothing but a true growth in such religion as needs and seeks new expression for new depth and breadth of feeling will ever be permitted to lay the hand of change upon it, a hand otherwise of desecration and ruin. The sermon was chiefly occupied with proving that God is no respecter of persons, a mark of indubitable condescension in the clergymen, the rank in society which he could claim for himself duly considered. But unfortunately, the church was so constructed that its area contained three platforms of position, actually of differing level, the loftiest in the chancel on the right hand of the pulpit occupied by the gentry, the middle opposite the pulpit occupied by the tulip beds of their servants, and the third on the left of the pulpit occupied by the common parishioners. Unfortunately too, by the perpetuation of some old custom whose significance was not worn out, all on the left of the pulpit were expected as often as they stood up to sing, which was three times, to turn their backs to the pulpit and so face away from the chancel where the gentry stood. But there was not much inconsistency after all, the sermon founding its argument chiefly on the antithetical facts that death, lowering the rich to the level of the poor, was a dead leveler, and that on the other hand the life to come would raise the poor to the level of the rich. It was a pity that there was no phrase in the language to justify him in carrying out the antithesis and so balancing his sentence like a rope walker by saying that life was a live leveler. The sermon ended with a solemn morning. Those who neglect the gospel scheme and never think of death and judgment be they rich or poor, be they wise or ignorant, whether they dwell in the palace or the hut shall be damned, glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost, etc. Lady Emily was forced to confess that she had not been much interested in the sermon. Mrs. Elton thought he spoke plainly, but there was not much of the gospel in it. Mr. Arnold opined that people should not go to church to hear sermons, but to make the responses, whoever read prayers, it made no difference, for the prayers were the churches, not the parson's, and for the sermon as long as it showed the uneducated had to be saved and taught them to do their duty in the station of life to which God had called them, and so long as the parson preached neither puseism nor radicalism, he frowned solemnly and disgustedly as he repeated the word, nor radicalism, it was a comparatively little moment whether he was a man of intellect or not, for he could not go wrong. Little was said and replied to this, except something not very audible or definite by Mrs. Elton about the necessity of faith. The conversation which took place at luncheon, flagged, and the visitors withdrew to their respective rooms to comfort themselves with their daily portions. At dinner, Mr. Arnold evidently believing he had made an impression by his harangue of the morning, resumed the subject. He was a little surprised to find that he had, even of a negative sort, strong opinions on the subject of religion. What do you think then, Mrs. Elton, my dear madam, that a clergyman ought to preach? I think, Mr. Arnold, that he ought to preach salvation by faith in the merits of the Savior. Oh, of course, of course, we shall not differ about that. Everybody believes that. I doubt it very much. He ought, in order that men may believe, to explain the divine plan by which the demands of divine justice are satisfied and the punishment due to sin averted from the guilty and laid upon the innocent. That by bearing our sins he might make atonement to the wrath of a justly offended God and so. Now, my dear madam, permit me to ask what right we, the subjects of the supreme authority, have to inquire into his reasons of his doings. It seems to me I should be sorry to offend anyone, but it seems to me quite as presumptuous as the present arrogance of the lower classes and the interfering with government, and demanding a right to give their opinion forsooth as to the laws by which they shall be governed, as if they were capable of understanding the principles by which kings rule and governors decree justice. I believe, I quote, scripture. Are we then to remain in utter ignorance of the divine character? What business have we with the divine character, or how could we understand it? It seems to me we have enough to do with our own. Do I inquire into the character of my sovereign? All we have to do is to listen to what we are told by those who are educated for such studies, whom the church approves and who are appointed to take care of the souls committed to their charge, to teach them to respect their superiors and to lead honest, hardworking lives. Much more of the same sort flowed from the irracular lips of Mr. Arnold. When he ceased, he found that the conversation had ceased also. As soon as the ladies withdrew, he said, without looking at Hugh, as he filled his glass, Mr. Sutherland, I hate, can't. And so he can'ted against it. But the next day, and during the whole week, he seemed to lay himself out to make amends for the sharpness of his remarks on the Sunday. He was afraid he had made his guests uncomfortable and so sinned against his own character as a host. Everything that he could devise was brought to bear for their entertainment, daily rides in the open carriage, in which he always accompanied them to show his estate, and the improvements he was making upon it. Visit sometimes to the more deserving, as he called them, of the poor upon his property. The more deserving being the most submissive and obedient to the wishes of their Lord. Inspections of the schools, et cetera, et cetera. In all of which matters, he took a stupid, benevolent interest. For if people would be content to occupy the corner in which he chose to place them, he would throw them morsel after morsel, as long as ever they chose to pick it up. But woe to them if they left this corner a single pace. Euphra made one of the party always, and it was dreary indeed for Hugh to be left in the desolate house without her, though but for a few hours. And when she was at home, she never yet permitted him to speak to her alone. There might have been some hope for Harry in Hugh's separation from Euphra, but the result was that although he spent school hours more regularly with him, Hugh was yet more dull and uninterested in the work than he had been before. Instead of caring that his pupils should understand this or that particular, he would be speculating on Euphra's behavior, trying to account for this or that individual look or tone, or seeking perhaps a special symbolic meaning in some general remark that she had happened to let fall. Meanwhile poor Harry would be stupefying himself with work which he could not understand for lack of some explanation or other that ought to have been given him weeks ago. Still however he clung to Hugh with a far off worshiping love, never suspecting that he could be to blame, but thinking at one time that he must be ill, at another that he himself was really too stupid, and that his big brother could not help getting tired of him. When Hugh would be wandering about the place, seeking to catch a glimpse of the skirt of Euphra's dress, as she went about with her gas, or devising how he could procure an interview with her alone, Harry would be following him at a distance like a little terrier that had lost its master, and did not know whether this man would be friendly or not, never spying on his actions but merely longing to be near him. For had not Hugh set him going in the way of life, even if he had now left him to walk in it alone, if you could have once seen into that warm true pining little heart, he would not have neglected it as he did. He had no eyes however, but for Euphra. Still it may be that even now Harry was able to gather, though with tears, some advantage from Hugh's neglect. He used to wander about alone, and it may be that the hence which his tutor had already given him, enabled him now to find for himself the interest belonging to many objects, never before remarked. Perhaps even now he began to take a few steps alone. The waking independence of which was of more value for the future growth of his nature than a thousand miles accomplished by the aid of the strong arm of his tutor. One certain advantage was that the constitutional trouble of the boy's nature had now assumed a definite form by gathering around a definite object and blending its own shadowy being with the sorrow he experienced from the loss of his tutor's sympathy. Should that sorrow ever be cleared away, much besides might be cleared away along with it. Meantime, nature found some channels worn by his grief, through which her comforts, that, like waters, press on all sides and enter at every cranny and fissure in the house of life, might gently flow into him with their sympathetic soothing. Often he would creep away to the nest which he had built, and then forsaken, and seated there in the solitude of the wide virgin oak, he would sometimes feel for a moment as if lifted up above the world and its sorrows to be visited by an all healing wind from God that came to him, through the wilderness of leaves around him gently, like all powerful things. But I am putting the boy's feelings into forms and words for him. He had none of either for them. And Chapter 27 of David Elginbrod. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elginbrod by George McDonald. Chapter 28 A Storm When the mind's free, the body's delicate, the tempest in my mind, doth from my senses take all feeling else, save what beats there. King Lear While Harry took to wandering abroad in the afternoon sun, Hugh, on the contrary, found the bright weather so distasteful to him that he generally trifled away his afternoons with some old romance in the dark library, or lay on the couch in his study, listless and suffering. He could neither read nor write, but he felt he must do he did, but nothing more. One day about noon the weather began to change. In the afternoon it grew dark, and Hugh, going to the window, perceived with delight the first he had experienced for many days, that a great thunderstorm was at hand. Harry was rather frightened, but under his fear there evidently lay a deep delight. The storm came nearer and nearer, till at length a vivid flash broke from the massive darkness over the woods, lasted for one brilliant moment, and vanished. The thunder followed like a pursuing wild beast, close on the traces of the vanishing light, as if darkness were hunting the light from the earth, and bellowing with rage that it could not overtake and annihilate it. Without the usual prelude of a few drops, the rain poured at once in continuous streams from the dense canopy overhead, and in a few moments there were six inches of water, all around the house, which the force of the falling streams made the foam and fume and flash like a seething torrent. Harry had crept close to Hugh, who stood looking out of the window, and as if the convulsion of the elements had begun to clear the spiritual and moral as well as the physical atmosphere, Hugh looked down on the boy kindly and put his arm around his shoulders. Harry nestled closer and wished it would thunder forever, but longing to hear his tutor's voice he ventured to speak, looking up to his face. Euphra says it is only electricity, Mr. Sutherland. What is that? A common tutor would have seized the opportunity of explaining what he knew of the laws and operations of electricity, but Hugh had been long enough a pupil of David to feel that to talk at such a time of anything in nature but God would be to do the boy's serious wrong. One capable of so doing would in the presence of the Savior himself speculate on the nature of his own faith or upon the death of his child seize the opportunity of lecturing on anatomy, but before Hugh could make any reply a flash almost invisible from excess of light was accompanied rather than followed by a roar that made the house shake, and in a moment more the room was filled with the terrified household which by an unreasoning impulse rushed to the neighborhood of him who was considered the strongest. Mr. Arnold was not at home. Come from the window instantly Mr. Sutherland, how can you be so imprudent? cried Mrs. Elton, her usually calm voice elevated in command but tremulous with fear. Why Mrs. Elton answered Hugh on Hugh's temper as well as conduct recent events had had their operation. Do you think the devil makes the thunder? Lady Emily gave a faint shriek whether out of reverence for the devil or fear of God I hesitate to decide and flitting out of the room dived into her bed and drew the clothes over her head at least so she was found at a later period of the day. Euphra walked up to the window beside Hugh as if to show her approval of his rudeness and stood looking out with eyes that filled their own night with home-born flashes though her lip was pale and quivered a little. Mrs. Elton confounded at Hugh's reply and perhaps fearing the house might inconsequence share the fate of Sodom notwithstanding the presence of a godly proportion of the righteous fled accompanied by the housekeeper to the wine cellar. The rest of the household crept into corners except the coachmen who retaining his composure and virtue of a greater degree of insensibility from his near approximation to the inanimate creation emptied the jug of ale intended for the dinner of the company and went out to look after his horses. But there was one in the house who left alone through the window wide open and with gently class hands and calm countenance looked up into the heavens and the clearness of whose eye seemed the prophetic symbol of the clearness that rose all untroubled above the wild turmoil of the earthly storm. Truly God was in the storm but there was more of God in the clear heaven beyond and yet more of him in the eye that regarded the whole with a still joy in which was mingled no dismay. Euphra, Hugh, and Harry were left together looking out upon the storm. Hugh could not speak in Harry's presence. At length the boy sat down in a dark corner on the floor concealed from the others by a window curtain. Hugh thought he had left the room. Euphra, he began. Euphra looked round for Harry and not seeing him thought likewise that he had left the room. She glided away without making any answer to Hugh's invocation. He stood for a few moments in motionless despair then glancing around the room and taking in all its desertedness caught up his hat and rushed out into the storm. It was the best relief his feelings could have had for the sullen gloom alternated with bursts of flame invasions of horrid uproar and long wailing blasts of tyrannous wind gave him his own mood to walk in met his spirit with its own element widened as it were his microcosm to the expanse of the macrocosm around him. All the walls of separation were thrown down and he lived not in his own frame but in the universal frame of nature. The world was for the time to the reality of his feeling which Schleermacher in his monologon describes it as being to man an extension of the body in which he dwells. His spirit flashed in the lightning raved in the thunder moaned in the wind and wept in the rain but this could not last long either without or within him. He came to himself in the woods how far he had wandered or where about he was he did not know the storm had died away and all that remained was the wind and the rain. The treetops swayed wildly in the irregular blasts and shook new, fitful, distracted and momentary showers upon him. It was evening but what hour of the evening he could not tell. He was wet to the skin but that to a young Scotsman is a matter of little moment. Although he had no intention of returning home for some time it meant especially to avoid the dinner table for in the mood he was in it seemed more than he could endure. He yet felt the weakness to which we are subject as embodied beings in a common enough form that namely of the necessity of knowing the precise portion of space which at that moment we fill a conviction of our identity not being sufficient to make us comfortable without a knowledge of our locality. So looking all about him and finding where the wood seemed thinnest he went in that direction and soon by forcing his way through obstacles of all salvage kind found himself in the high road within a quarter of a mile of the country town next to Arnstead removed from it about three miles. This little town he knew pretty well and beginning to feel exhausted resolved to go to an inn there dry his clothes and then walk back in the moonlight for he felt sure the storm would be quite over in an hour or so. The fatiguing out felt was proof enough in itself that the inward storm had for the time raved itself off and now must it be confessed he wished very much for something to eat and drink. He was soon seated by a blazing fire with a chop and a jug of ale before him. End Chapter 28 Chapter 29 of David Elginbrod This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. David Elginbrod by George McDonald Chapter 29 an evening lecture. The nightmare shall call thee when it walks. Middleton the witch. The inn to which Hugh had be taken himself though not the first in the town was yet what is called a respectable house and was possessed of a room of considerable size in which the farmers of the neighborhood were accustomed to hold their gatherings. While eating his dinner Hugh learned from the conversation around him for he sat in the kitchen for the sake of the fire that this room was being got ready for a lecture on biology as the landlady called it. Bills in red and blue had been posted all over the town and before he had finished his dinner the audience had begun to arrive. Partly from curiosity about a subject of which he knew nothing and partly because it's still rain and having got nearly dry he did not care about a second wedding if he could help it. Hugh resolved to make one of them so he stood by the fire till he was informed that the lecturer had made his appearance when he went upstairs paid his shilling and was admitted to one of the front seats. The room was tolerably lighted with gas and a platform had been constructed for the lecturer and his subjects. When the place was about half filled he came from another room alone a little thick set bull-neck man with vulgar face and rusty black clothes and mounting the platform commenced his lecture if lecture it could be called in which there seemed to be no order and scarcely any sequence. No attempt even at a theory showed itself in the mass of what he called facts and scientific truths and he perpeturated the most awful blunders in his English. It will not be desired that I should give any further account of such a lecture. The lecturer himself seemed to depend chiefly for his success upon the manifestations of his art which he proceeded to bring forward. He called his familiar by the name of Willie Aum and a stunted pale-faced dull-looking youth started up from somewhere and scrambled upon the platform beside his master. Upon this tutored slave a number of experiments was performed. He was first cast into whatever abnormal condition is necessary for the operations of biology and then compelled to make a fool of himself by exhibiting actions the most inconsistent with his real circumstances and necessities. But aware that all this was open to the most palpable objection of collusion the operator next invited any of the company that pleased to submit themselves to his influences. After a pause of a few moments a stout country fellow, floored and healthy, got up and slouched to the platform. Certainly whatever might be the nature of the influence that was brought to bear its operative power could not with the least probability be attributed to an overactivity of imagination in either of the subjects submitted to its exercise. In the latter as well as in the former case the operator was eminently successful and the clown returned to his seat looking remarkably foolish and conscious of disgrace, a sufficient voucher to most present that in this case at least there had been no collusion. Several others volunteered their negative services but with no one of them did he succeed so well and in one case the failure was evident. The lecturer pretended to account for this in making some confused and unintelligible remarks about the state of the weather, the thunderstorm, electricity, etc. of which things he evidently did not understand the best known laws. The blundering idiot growled close to Hugh's ear a voice with a foreign accent. He looked round sharply. A tall, powerful, eminently handsome man with his face as foreign as his tone and accent sat beside him. I beg your pardon, he said to Hugh. I thought aloud. I should like to know if you wouldn't mind telling me what you detect of the blunderer in him. I'm quite ignorant of these matters. I have had many opportunities of observing them and I see at once that this man, though he has the natural power, is excessively ignorant of the whole subject. This was all the answer he vowed safe to Hugh's modest inquiry. Hugh had not yet learned that one will always fare better by concealing than by acknowledging ignorance. The man, whatever his capacity, who honestly confesses even a partial ignorance will instantly be treated as more or less incapable by the ordinary man who has already gained a partial knowledge or is capable of assuming a knowledge which he does not possess. But, for God's sake, let the honest and modest man stick to his honesty and modesty, cost what they may. Hugh was silent and fixed his attention once more on what was going on, but presently he became aware that the foreigner was scrutinizing him with the closest attention. He knew this somehow without having looked around, and the knowledge was accompanied with a feeling of discomfort that caused him to make a restless movement on his seat. Presently he felt that the annoyance had ceased, but not many minutes had passed before it again commenced. In order to relieve himself from the feeling which he could only compare to that which might be produced by the presence of the dead, he turned towards his neighbor so suddenly that it seemed for a moment to embarrass him, his eyes being caught in the very act of devouring the stolen indulgence. But the stranger recovered himself instantly with the question, will you permit me to ask of what country you are? He thought he made the request only for the sake of covering his rudeness, and so merely answered. Why, an Englishman, of course. Ah, yes, it is not necessary to be told that, but it seems to me from your accent that you are a Scotchman. So I am, a Highlander. I was born in the Highlands, but if you are very anxious to know my pedigree, I have no reason for concealing the fact that I am, by birth, half a Scotchman and half a Weltsman. The foreigner riveted his gaze, though but for the briefest moment sufficient to justify its being called a gaze, once more upon Hugh, and then with a slight bow, as of acquiescence, turned towards the lecturer. When the lecture was over and Hugh was walking away in the midst of the withdrawing audience, the stranger touched him on the shoulder. You said that you would like to know more of this science. Will you come to my lodging? said he. With pleasure, Hugh answered, though the look with which he accompanied the words must have been one rather of surprise. You are astonished that a stranger should invite you so. Ah, you English always demand an introduction. There is mine. He handed Hugh a card, Herr von Funkelstein. Hugh happened to be provided with one in exchange. The two walked out of the inn, along the old High Street, full of gables and all the delightful irregularities of an old country town, till they came to a court down which Herr von Funkelstein led the way. He let himself in with the pass key at a low door, and then conducted Hugh by a stare whose narrowness was equaled by its steepness to a room which, though not many yards above the level of the court, was yet next to the roof of the low house. Hugh could see nothing till his conductor lighted a candle, then he found himself in a rather large room with a shaky floor and a low roof. A chintz curtain bed in one corner had the skin of a tiger thrown over it, and a table in another had a pair of foils lying upon it. The German, for such he seemed to Hugh, offered him a chair in the politest manner, and Hugh sat down. I am only in lodgings here, said the host, so you will forgive the poverty of my establishment. There is no occasion for forgiveness, I assure you, answered Hugh. You wish to know something of the subject with which that lecture was befooling himself and the audience at the same time. I shall be grateful for any enlightenment. Ah, it is a subject for the study of a benevolent scholar, not for such a clown as that. He jumps at no conclusions, yet he shares the fate of one who does. He flounders in the mire between. No man will make anything of it who has not the benefit of the human race at heart. Humanity is the only safe guide in matters such as these. This is a dangerous study indeed in unskillful hands. Here a frightful catarwaling interrupted here von Funkelstein. The room had a storm window of which the lattice stood open. In front of it, on the roof, seen against the White House opposite, stood a demon of a cat, arched to its half its length, with its tail expanded to double its natural thickness. Its antagonist was invisible from where he sat. Von Funkelstein started up without making the slightest noise, trod as softly as a cat to the table, took up one of the foils, removed the button, and, creeping close to the window, made one rapid pass at the enemy which vanished with a shriek of hatred and fear. He then, replacing the button, laid the foil down and resumed his seat and his discourse. This, after dealing with generalities and common places for some time, gave no sign of coming either to an end or to the point. All the time he was watching Hugh, at least so Hugh thought, as if speculating on him in general. Then appearing to have come to some conclusion, he gave his mind more to his talk and encouraged Hugh to speak as well. The conversation lasted for nearly half an hour. At its close, Hugh felt that the stranger had touched upon a variety of interesting subjects, as one possessed of a minute knowledge of them, but he did not feel that he had gained any insight from his conversation. It seemed rather as if he had been giving him a number of psychological, social, literary, and scientific receipts. During the course of the talk, his eyes had appeared to rest on Hugh by a kind of compulsion, as if by its own will it would have retired from the scrutiny, but the will of its owner was too strong for it. It seemed, in relation to him, to be only a kind of tool which he used for a particular purpose. At length Funklestein rose, and marching across the room to a cupboard, brought out a bottle and glasses, saying in the most by-the-by way as he went. Have you the second sight, Mr. Sutherland? Certainly not, as far as I am aware. Ah, the Welsh do have it. Do they not? Oh, yes, of course, answered Hugh, laughing. I should like to know, though, he added, whether they inherit the gift as Celts or as Mountaineers. Will you take a glass of nothing, thank you, answered an interrupted Hugh. It is time for me to be going. Indeed, I fear I have stayed too long already. Good night, Herr von Funklestein. You will allow me the honour of returning your visit. Hugh felt he could do no less, although he had not the smallest desire to keep up the acquaintance. He wrote, instead, on his card. As he left the house, he stumbled over something in the court. Looking down, he saw it was a cat, apparently dead. Can it be the cat, Herr von Funklestein made the pass at, thought he, but presently he forgot all about it in the visions of Euphra, which filled his mind, during his moonlight walk home. It just occurred to him, however, before those visions had blotted everything else from his view, that he had learned simply nothing whatever about biology from his late host. When he reached home, he was admitted by the Butler and retired to bed at once, where he slept soundly for the first time for many nights. But, as he drew near his own room, he might have seen, though he saw not, a little white figure gliding away in the far distance of the long passage. It was only Harry, who could not lie still in his bed, till he knew that his big brother was safe at home. End Chapter 29 Chapter 30 of David Elginbrod This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elginbrod, by George McDonald. Chapter 30 Another Evening Lecture This Aeneas is come to paradise, out of the swallow of hell. Chaucer, Legend of Daito The next day, he was determined to find or make an opportunity of speaking to Euphra, and fortune seemed to favor him. Or was it Euphra herself in one or other of her inexplicable moods? At all events, she had that morning allowed the ladies and her uncle to go without her, and he met her as he went to his study. May I speak to you for one moment? said he hurriedly, and with trembling lips. Yes, certainly, she replied with a smile and a glance in his face as of wonder, as to what could trouble him so much. Then, turning and leading the way, she said, come into my room. He followed her. She turned and shut the door, which he had left open behind him. He almost knelt to her, but something held him back from that. Euphra, he said, what have I done to offend you? Offend me? Nothing. This was uttered in a perfect tone of surprise. How is it that you avoid me as you do, and will not allow me one moment speech with you? You are driving me to distraction. Why, you foolish man, she answered half playfully, pressing the palms of her little hands together and looking up in his face. How can I? Don't you see how those two dear old ladies swallow me up in their fattles? Oh dear, oh dear, I wish they would go. Then it would be all right again, wouldn't it? But he was not to be so easily satisfied. Before they came, ever since that night, hush, she interrupted, putting her finger on his lips, and looking hurriedly around her with an air of fright, of which he could hardly judge whether it was real or assumed. Hush. Comforted wondrously by the hushing finger, he would yet understand more. I am no baby, dear Yufra, he said, taking hold of the hand to which the finger belonged, and laying it on his mouth. Do not make one of me. There is some mystery in all this, at least something I do not understand. I will tell you all about it one day, but seriously you must be careful how you behave to me, for if my uncle should, but for one moment entertain a suspicion, goodbye to you, perhaps goodbye to Arnstead, all my influence with him comes from his thinking that I like him better than anybody else, so you must not make the poor old man jealous. By the by she went on, rapidly as if she would turn the current of the conversation aside, what a favorite you have grown with him. You should have heard him talk of you to the old ladies. I might well be jealous of you, there never was a tutor like this. His heart smote him, that the praise of even this common man, proud of his own vanity, should be undeserved by him. He was troubled, too, at the flippancy with which Yufra spoke, yet not the less did he feel that he loved her passionately. I daresay, he replied, he praised me as he would anything else that happened to be his. Isn't that old bay horse of his the best hack in the county? You naughty man, are you going to be satirical? You claim that as your privilege, do you? Worse than worse, I will not talk to you. But seriously, for I must go, bring your Italian to, to, she hesitated. To the library, why not, suggested you. No, she answered, shaking her head and looking quite solemn. Well, will you come to my study? Will that please you better? Yes, I will, she answered with the definitive tone. Goodbye now. She opened the door and, having looked out to see that no one was passing, told him to go. As he went, he felt as if the oaken floor were elastic beneath his tread. It was some time after the household had retired, however, before Yufra made her appearance, at the door of his study. She seemed rather shy of entering and hesitated, as if she felt she was doing something she ought not to do. But as soon as she had entered and the door was shut, she appeared to recover herself quite, and they sat down at the table with their books. They could not get on very well with their reading, however. He often forgot what he was about in looking at her, and she seemed no-wise inclined to avert his gazes, or check the growth of his admiration. Rather abruptly, but apparently starting from some suggestion in the book, she said to him, By the by, has Mr. Arnold ever said anything to you about the family jewels? No, said Hugh, are there many? Yes, a great many. Mr. Arnold is very proud of them, as well as of the portraits. So he treats them in the same way, keeps them locked up. Indeed, he seldom allows them to see daylight, except it be as a mark of a special favor to someone. I should like much to see them. I have always been curious about stones. There are wonderful, mysterious things to me. Euphra gave him a very peculiar, searching glance as he spoke. Shall I, he continued, give him a hint that I should like to see them? By no means answered Euphra emphatically, except he should refer to them himself. He is very jealous of his possessions. His family possessions, I mean. Poor old man, he has not much else to plume himself upon, has he? He is kind to you, Euphra. She looked at him as if she did not understand him. Yes, what then? You ought not to be unkind to him. You odd creature. I am not unkind to him. I like him. But we are not getting on with our reading. What could have led me to talk about family jewels? Oh, I see. What a strange thing the association of ideas is. There is not a very obvious connection here, is there? No, one cannot account for such things. The links in the chain of ideas are sometimes slender enough, yet the slenderest is sufficient to enable the electric flash of thought to pass along the line. She seemed pondering for a moment. That strikes me as a fine simile, she said. You ought to be a poet yourself. You made no reply. I dare say you have hundreds of poems in that old desk now. I think they might be counted by tens. Do let me see them. You would not care for them. Wouldn't I, Hugh? I will, on one condition. Two conditions, I mean. What are they? One is that you show me yours. Mine. Yes. Who told you I wrote verses? That silly boy. No, I saw your verses before I saw you. You remember. It was very dishonorable in you to read them. I only saw they were verses. I did not read a word. I forgive you then. You must show me yours first, till I see whether I could venture to let you see mine. If yours were very bad indeed, then I might risk showing mine. And much more of this sort, with which I will not weary my readers. It ended in Hugh's taking from the old Escortoir a bundle of papers and handing them to Euphra. But the reader need not fear that I am going to print any of these verses. I have more respect for my honest prose page than to break it up so. Indeed, the whole of this interview might have been omitted, but for two circumstances. One of them was that in getting these papers Hugh had to open a concealed portion of the Escortoir, which his mathematical knowledge had enabled him to discover. It had evidently not been opened for many years before he found it. He had made use of it to hold the only treasures he had, poor enough treasures certainly. Not a loving note, not a lock of hair, even had he, nothing but the few cobwebs spun from his own brain. It is true we are rich or poor according to what we are, not what we have. But what a man has produced is not what he is. He may even impoverish his true self by production. When Euphra saw him open this place, she uttered a suppressed cry of astonishment. Ah, said Hugh, you did not know of this hidey-hole, did you? Indeed I did not. I had used the desk myself for this was a favorite room of mine before you came. But I never found that. Dear me, let me look. She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned over him as he pointed out the way of opening it. Did you find nothing in it? she said, with a light tremor in her voice. Nothing whatever. There may be more places. No, I have accounted for the whole bulk, I believe. How strange. But now you must give me my guerdon, said Hugh timidly. The fact was, the poor youth had bargained in a playful manner, and yet with an earnest covetous heart, for one, the first kiss and return for the poem she begged to see. She turned her face towards him. The second circumstance which makes the interview worth recording is that at this moment three distinct knocks were heard on the window. They sprang asunder and saw each other's face pale as death. In Euphra's the expression of fright was mingled with one of annoyance. Hugh, though his heart trembled like a bird, leaped to the window. Nothing was to be seen but the trees that stretched their dark arms within a few feet of the oriole. Turning again towards Euphra, he found to his mortification that she had vanished and had left the packet of poems behind her. He replaced them in their old quarters in the Escortoir, and his vague dismay at the unaccountable noise was drowned in the bitter waters of miserable humiliation. He slept at last from the exhaustion of disappointment. When he awoke, however, he tried to persuade himself that he had made far too much of the trifling circumstance of her leaving the verses behind. For was she not terrified? Why then did she leave the room and go alone to her own room? She must have felt that she ought not to be in his at that hour, and therefore dared not stay. Why dared not? Did she think the house was haunted by a ghost of propriety? What rational theory could he invent to account for the strange and repeated sounds? He puzzled himself over it to the verge of absolute intellectual prostration. He was generally the first in the breakfast room that is after Euphra who was always the first. She went up to him as he entered and said almost in a whisper, Have you got the poems for me? Quick! He hesitated. She looked at him. No, he said at last. You never wanted them. That is very unkind. When you know I was frightened out of my wits, do give me them. They are not worth giving you. Besides, I have not got them. I don't carry them in my pocket. They are in the Escortoir. I couldn't leave them lying about. Never mind them. I have a right to them, she said, looking up at him slyly and shyly. Well, I gave you them, and you did not think them worth keeping. I kept my part of the bargain. She looked annoyed. Never mind, dear Euphra. You shall have them or anything else I have. The brain that made them, if you like. Was it only the brain that had to do with the making of them? Perhaps the heart too, but you have that already. Her face flushed like a damask rose. At that moment, Mrs. Elton entered and looked a little surprised. Euphra instantly said, I think it is rather too bad of you, Mr. Sutherland, to keep the boy so hard to his work, when you know he is not strong. Mrs. Elton, I have been begging a holiday for poor Harry to let him go with us to Wattenhouse. But he has such a hard task master, he will not hear of it. The flush, which she could not get rid of all at once, was thus made to do duty as one of displeasure. Mrs. Elton was thoroughly deceived and united her in treaties to those of Miss Cameron. Hugh was compelled to join in the deception and pretend to yield a slow consent. Thus a holiday was extemporized for Harry, subject to the approbation of his father. This was readily granted, and Mr. Arnold turning to Hugh said, You will have nothing to do, Mr. Sutherland, had you not better join us. With pleasure replied he, But the carriage will be full. You can take your horse. Thank you very much, I will. The day was delightful, one of those gray summer days that are far better for an excursion than bright ones. In the best of spirits mounted on a good horse, riding alongside of the carriage, in which was the lady who was all woman kind to him, and who, without taking much notice of him, yet contrived to throw him a glance now and then, he would have been overflowingly happy, but for an unquiet, distressed feeling, which all the time made him aware of the presence of a sick conscience somewhere within. Mr. Arnold was exceedingly pleasant, for he was much taken with the sweetness and modesty of Lady Emily, who, having no strong opinions upon anything, received those of Mr. Arnold with attentive submission. He saw, or fancied he saw, in her a great resemblance to his deceased wife, to whom he had been as sincerely attached as his nature would allow. In fact, Lady Emily advanced so rapidly in his good graces, that either Euphra was, or thought fit to appear, rather jealous of her. She paid her every attention, however, and seemed to gratify Mr. Arnold by her care of the Inblid. She even joined in the entreaty switch, on their way home. He made with evident earnestness for an extension of their visit to a month. Lady Emily was already so much better for the change, that Mrs. Elton made no objection to the proposal. Euphra gave Hugh one look of misery, and, turning again, insisted with increased warmth on their immediate consent. It was gained without much difficulty before they reached home. Harry, too, was captivated by the gentle kindness of Lady Emily, and hardly took his eyes off her all the way. While, on the other hand, his delicate little attentions had already gained the heart of good Mrs. Elton, who, from the first, had remarked, and pitied the sad looks of the boy. CHAPTER 31 OF DAVID ELGENBROD This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. David Elginbrod by George MacDonald. CHAPTER 31 A NEW VISITOR AND AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE He is enough to bring a woman to confusion, more than a wiser man, or a far greater, Middleton, the Witch. When they reached the lodge, Lady Emily expressed a wish to walk up the avenue to the house. To this, Mr. Arnold gladly consented. The carrots was sent round the back way, and Hugh, dismounting, gave his horse to the footmen in attendance. As they drew near the house, the rest of the party having stopped to look at an old tree, which was a favorite with its owner, Hugh and Harry were some yards in advance, when the former spied, approaching them from the house, the distinguished figure of Herr von Funkelstein. Sluting as they met, the visitor informed Hugh that he had just been leaving his card for him, and would call some other morning soon, for, as he was rusticating, he had little to occupy him. Hugh turned with him towards the rest of the party, who were now close at hand, when Funkelstein exclaimed in a tone of surprise. What? Miss Cameron here, and advanced with the profound obeisance, holding his hat in his hand. Hugh thought he saw her look annoyed, but she held out her hand to him, and in a voice indicating, still, as it appeared to Hugh, some reluctance, introduced him to her uncle with the words. We met at Sir Edward Laston's, when I was visiting Mrs. Elkingham, two years ago, uncle. Mr. Arnold lifted his hat, and bowed politely to the stranger. Had Euphra informed him that, although a person of considerable influence in Sir Edward's household, Herr von Funkelstein had his standing there only as Sir Edward's private secretary, Mr. Arnold's aversion to foreigners generally would not have been so scrupulously managed into the background of his behavior. Ordinary civilities passed between them, marked by an air of flattering deference on Funkelstein's part, which might have been disagreeable to a man less uninterruptedly conscious of his own importance than Mr. Arnold, and the new visitor turned once more as a forgetful of his previous direction, and accompanied them towards the house. Before they reached it, he had, even in that short space, ingratiated himself so far with Mr. Arnold that he asked him to stay and dine with them, an invitation which was accepted with manifest pleasure. Mr. Sutherland, said Mr. Arnold, will you show your friend anything worth note about the place? He has kindly consented to dine with us, and in the meantime I have some letters to write. With pleasure answered you. But all this time he had been inwardly commenting on the appearance of his friend, as Mr. Arnold called him, with the jealousy of a youth in love, for it was not Funkelstein an old acquaintance of Miss Cameron, what might not have passed between them in that old hidden time. For love is jealous of the past as well as of the future, love as well as metaphysics has a lasting quarrel with time and space. The lower love fears them, while the higher defies them, and he could not help seeing that Funkelstein was one to win favor in ladies eyes. Very regular features and a dark complexion were lighted up by eyes as black as euphoria and capable of a wonderful play of light, while his form was remarkable for strength and symmetry. He felt that in any company he would attract immediate attention. His long dark beard, of which just the center was removed to expose a finely turned chin, blew over each shoulder as often as they met the wind in going round the house. From what I have heard of him, from other opponents besides you, I should judge that he did well to conceal the lines of his mouth in a long moustache which flowed into his bifurcated beard. He had just enough of the foreign in his dress to add to the appearance of fashion which it bore. As they walked, he could not help observing an odd peculiarity in the carriage of his companion. It was that every few steps he gave a backward and downward glance to the right with the sweeping bend of his body as if he were trying to get a view of the calf of his leg, or as if he fancied he felt something trailing at his foot. So probable from his motion did the latter supposition seem that he changed sides to satisfy himself whether or not there was some dragging briar or straw annoying him, but no follower was to be discovered. You are a happy man, Mr. Sutherland, said the guest, to live under the same roof with that beautiful Miss Cameron. Am I, thought Hugh, but he only said affecting some surprise. Do you think her so beautiful? Funkelstein's eyes were fixed upon him as if to see the effect of his remark. Hugh felt them and could not conform his face to the indifference of his words, but his companion only answered indifferently. Well, I should say so, but beauty is not that is not beauty for us. Whether or not there was poison in the fork of this remark, Hugh could only conjecture. He made no reply. As they walked about the precincts of the house, Funkelstein asked many questions of Hugh, which his entire ignorance of domestic architecture made it impossible for him to answer. This seemed only to excite the questioner's desire for information to a higher pitch, and as if the very stones could reply to his demands, he examined the whole range of the various buildings constituting the house of Arnstead as he would draw it. Certainly, said he, there is at least variety enough in the style of this massive material. There is enough for one pyramid. That would be rather at the expense of the variety, would it not, said Hugh, in spiteful response to the inconsequence of the second member of Funkelstein's remark. But the latter was apparently too much absorbed in his continued inspection of the house, from every attainable point of near view, to heed the comment. This they called the ghost's walk, said Hugh. Ah, about these old houses there are always such tales. What sort of tales do you mean? I mean of particular spots and their ghosts. You must have heard many such. No, not I. I think Germany is more prolific of such stories. I could tell you plenty. But you don't mean you believe such things. To me it is equal. I look at them entirely as objects of art. That is a new view of a ghost to me, an object of art. I should have thought them considerably more suitable objects previous to their disembodiment. Ah, you do not understand. You call art painting, don't you, or sculpture at most. I give up sculpture certainly in painting too. But don't you think a ghost a very effective object in literature now? Confess. Do you not like a ghost story very much? Yes, if it is a very good one. Hamlet now. We don't speak of Shakespeare's plays as stories. His characters are so real to us that in thinking of their development, we go back even to their fathers and mothers and sometimes even speculate about their future. You islanders are always in earnest somehow. So are we Germans. We are all one. I hope you can be in earnest about dinner then, for I hear the bell. We must render ourselves in the drawing room then, yes. When they entered the drawing room they found Miss Cameron alone. Funkelstein advanced and addressed a few words to her in German, which used limited acquaintance with the language prevented him from catching. At the same moment Mr. Arnold entered and Funkelstein turning to him immediately, proceeded as if by way of apology for speaking in an unknown tongue, to interpret for Mr. Arnold's benefit. I have just been telling Miss Cameron in the language of my country how much better she looks than when I saw her at Sir Edward Lastin's. I know I was quite a scarecrow then, said Euphra, attempting to laugh. And now you are quite a decoy duck, eh Euphra? said Mr. Arnold, laughing in reality at his own joke, which put him in great good humor for the whole time of dinner and dessert. Thank you, Uncle, said Euphra, with a pridly pretended affectation of humility. Then she added, gaily, When did you rise on our Sussex horizon, Herr von Funkelstein? Oh, I have been in the neighborhood for a few days. But I out my meeting with you to one of those coincidences which, were they not so pleasant, to me in this case at least, one would think could only result from the blundering of old-day nature over her knitting. If I had not had the good fortune to meet Mr. Sutherland the other evening, I should have remained in utter ignorance of your neighborhood and my own felicity, Miss Cameron. Indeed, I called now to see him, not you. He saw Mr. Arnold looking rather doubtful of the foreigner's fine speeches. Dinner was announced. Funkelstein took Miss Cameron, Hugh Mrs. Elton, and Mr. Arnold followed with Lady Emily, who would never proceed her older friend. Hugh tried to talk to Mrs. Elton, but with meager success. He was suddenly a nobody and felt more than he had felt for a long time what, in his present deteriorated moral state, he considered the degradation of his position. A gulf seemed to have suddenly yawned between himself and Euphra, and the loudest voice of his despairing agony could not reach across that gulf. An awful conviction awoke within him that the woman he worshipped would scarcely receive his worship at the worth of incense now, and yet in spirit he fell down groveling before his idol. The words Euphraise and Rue kept ringing in his brain, coming over and over with an awful mingling of chime and toll. When he thought about it afterwards, he seemed to have been a year in crossing the hall with Mrs. Elton on his arm. But as if dividing his thoughts, just as they passed through the dining room door, Euphra looked around at him, almost over Funkelstein's shoulder, and, without putting into her face the least expression discernible by either of the others following, contrived to banish for the time all Hugh's despair, and to convince him that he had nothing to fear from Funkelstein. How it was done Hugh himself could not tell. He could not even recall the look. He only knew that he had been as miserable as one waking in his coffin, and that now he was out in the sunny air. During dinner Funkelstein paid no very particular attention to Euphraisea, but was remarkably polite to Lady Emily. She seemed hardly to know how to receive his attentions, but to regard him as a strange animal which she did not know how to treat, and of which she was a little afraid. Mrs. Elton, on the contrary, appeared to be delighted with his behavior and conversation, for, without showing the least originality, he yet had seen so much, and knew so well how to bring out what he had seen, that he was a most interesting companion. Hugh took little share in the conversation beyond listening as well as he could, to prevent himself from gazing too much at Euphra. Had Mr. Sutherland and Hugh been old acquaintances, then, here of Funkelstein, asked Mr. Arnold reverting to the conversation which had been interrupted by the announcement of dinner? No, not at all. We met quite accidentally and introduced ourselves. I believe a thunderstorm and a lecture on biology were the mediating parties between us. Was it not so, Mr. Sutherland? I beg your pardon, stammered Hugh, but Mr. Arnold interposed. A lecture on what, did you say? On biology. Mr. Arnold looked posed. He did not like to say he did not know what the word meant, for, like many more ignorant men, he thought such a confession humiliating. Von Funkelstein hastened to his relief. It would be rather surprising if you were acquainted with the subject, Mr. Arnold. I fear to explain it to you, lest both Mr. Sutherland and myself should sink irrevocably in your estimation, but young men want to know all that is going on. Herr Funkelstein was not exactly what one would call a young man, but as he chose to do so himself, there was no one to dispute the classification. Oh, of course, replied Mr. Arnold, quite right. What then pray is biology? A science, falsely so called, said Hugh, who waking up a little wanted to join in the conversation. What does the word mean, said Mr. Arnold? Von Funkelstein answered at once. The science of life, but I must say the name as now applied is no indication of the thing signified. How then is a gentleman to know what it is, said Mr. Arnold, half pettishly, and forgetting that his knowledge had not extended even to the interpretation of the name. It is one of the sciences, true or false, connected with animal magnetism. Pa, exclaimed Mr. Arnold rather rudely. You would have said so if you had heard the lecture, said Funkelstein. The conversation had not taken this turn until quite late in the dining ceremony. Euphor rose to go, and Hugh remarked that her face was dreadfully pale, but she walked steadily out of the room. This interrupted the course of the talk, and the subject was not resumed. Immediately after tea, which was served very soon, Funkelstein took his leave of the ladies. We shall be glad to see you often while in this neighborhood, said Mr. Arnold, as he bade him good night. I shall, without fail, do myself the honor of calling again soon, replied he, and bowed himself out. Lady Emily evidently relieved by his departure rose and approaching Euphor said in a sweet, coaxing tone, which even she could hardly have resisted. Dear Miss Cameron, you promised to sing for me in particular some evening. May I claim the fulfillment of your promise? Euphor had recovered her complexion, and she too seemed to Hugh to be relieved by the departure of Funkelstein. Certainly, she answered rising at once, what shall I sing? Hugh is all here now. Something sacred, if you please. Euphor hesitated, but not long. Shall I sing Mozart's Agnes Day, then? Lady Emily hesitated in her turn. I should prefer something else. I don't approve of singing popish music, however beautiful it may be. Well, what shall it be? Something of handle, or Mendelssohn, please. Do you sing? I know that my Redeemer liveth. I daresay I can sing it, replied Euphor with some petulance, and went to the piano. This was a favorite air with Hugh, and he placed himself so as to see the singer without being seen himself, and to lose no slightest modulation of her voice. But what was his disappointment to find, that oratorio music was just what Euphor was incapable of? No doubt she sang it quite correctly, but there was no religion in it. Not a single tone worshipped or rejoiced. The quality of sound necessary to express the feeling and thought of the composer was lacking. The palace of sound was all right constructed, but of wrong material. Euphor, however, was quite unconscious of failure. She did not care for the music, but she attributed her lack of interest in it to the music itself, never dreaming that, in fact, she had never really heard it, having no inner ear for its deeper harmonies. As soon as she had finished, Lady Emily thanked her, it did not praise her more than by saying, I wish I had a voice like yours, Miss Cameron. I dare say you have a better of your own, said Euphor falsely. Lady Emily laughed. It is the poorest little voice you ever heard. Yet I confess I am glad for my own sake that I have even that. What should I do if I never heard handle? This simple mind has a little well of beauty somewhere in its precincts, which flows and warbles even when the owner is unheedful. The religion of Lady Emily had led her into a region far beyond the reach of her intellect, in which they sprang a constant fountain of sacred song. To it she owed her highest moods. Then handle is your musician, said Euphor. You should not have put me to such a test. It was very unfair of you, Lady Emily. Lady Emily laughed, as if quite amused at the idea of having done Euphor any wrong. Euphor added, You must sing now, Lady Emily. You cannot refuse after the admission you have just made. I confess it is only fair, but I warn you to expect nothing. She took her place at the piano and sang, He shall feed his flock. Her health had improved so much during her sojourn at Arnstead that when she began to sing, the quantity of her voice surprised herself. But after all it was a poor voice, and the execution, if clear of any great faults, made no other pretense to merit. Yet she effected the end of the music, the very result which every musician would most desire, wherein Euphor had failed utterly. This was worthy of note, and Hugh was not even yet too blind to perceive it. Lady Emily, with very ordinary intellect and paltry religious opinions, yet because she was good herself and religious, could in the reproduction of the highest kind of music greatly surpass the spirited intellectual musician, whose voice was as superior to hers as a nightingale's to a sparrow's, and whose knowledge of music and musical power generally surpassed hers beyond all comparison. It must be allowed for Euphor that she seemed to have gained some perception of the fact. Perhaps she had seen signs of emotion in Hugh's face which he had shaded with his hand as Lady Emily sang, or perhaps the singing produced in her a feeling which she had not had when singing herself. All I know is that the same night while Hugh was walking up and down his room, meditating on this defect of Euphor's, and yet feeling that if she could sing only Devil's music he must love her, a tap came to the door which made him start with the suggestion of the former mysterious noises of a similar kind, that he sprang to the door and that instead of looking out on a vacant quarter, as he all but anticipated, he saw Euphor standing there in the dark who said in a whisper, Ah, you do not love me any longer because Lady Emily can sing psalms better than I can. There was both Pethos and Spite in the speech. Come in, Euphor. No, I am afraid I have been very naughty in coming here at all. Do come in. I want you to tell me something about Funkelstein. What do you want to know about him? I suppose you are jealous of him. Ah, you men can both be jealous and make jealous at the same moment. A little broken sigh followed. Hugh answered, I only want to know what he is. I was some twentieth cousin of mine. Mr. Arnold does not know that. Oh, dear no. It is so far off I can't count it. In fact, I doubt it altogether. It must date centuries back. His intimacy then is not to be counted for by his relationship. Ah, I thought so. Jealous of the poor count. Count? Oh, dear, what does it matter? He doesn't like to be called count because all foreigners are counts or barons or something equally distinguished. I oughtn't to have let it out. Never mind, tell me something about him. He is Bohemian. I met him first some years ago on the continent. Then that was not your first meeting at Sir Edward Laston's. No. How candid she is, thought Hugh. He calls me his cousin, but if you be mine, he is yet more Mr. Arnold's, but he does not want it mentioned yet. I am sure I don't know why. Is he in love with you? How can I tell? She answered archly, by his being very jealous. Is that the way to know whether a man is in love with one? But if he is in love with me, it does not follow that I am in love with him, does it? Confess. Am I not very good to answer all your impertinent downright questions? They are as point blank as the church catechism. Mind, I don't say it's rude. But how can I be in love with two at up? She seemed to check herself, but Hugh had heard enough, as she had intended he should. She turned instantly and sped, surrounded by the low melodious thunder of her silking garments to her own door where she vanished noiselessly. What care I for Oratorio said Hugh to himself as he put the light out towards morning? Where was all this to end? What goal had Hugh set himself? Could he not go away and achieve renown in one of many ways and return fit in the eyes of the world to claim the hand of Miss Cameron? But would he marry her if he could? He would not answer the question. He closed the ears of his heart to it and tried to go to sleep. He slept and dreamed of Margaret in the storm. A few days passed without anything occurring sufficiently marked for relation. Euphra and he seemed satisfied without meeting in private. Perhaps both were afraid of carrying it too far, at least too far to keep clear of the risk of discovery, seeing that danger was at present greater than usual. Mr. Arnold continued to be thoroughly attentive to his guests and became more and more devoted to Lady Emily. There was no saying where it might end, for he was not an old man yet, and Lady Emily appeared to have no special admirers. Arnstead was such an abode and surrounded was such an estate as few even of the nobility could call their own. And a reminiscence of his first wife seemed to haunt all Mr. Arnold's contemplations of Lady Emily and all his attentions to her. These were delicate in the extreme, evidently bringing out the best life that yet remained in a heart that was almost a fossil. He made some fresh efforts to do his duty by Harry, and so far succeeded that at least the boy made some progress, evident enough to the moderate expectations of his father. But what helped Harry as much as anything was the motherly kindness, even tenderness, of good Mrs. Elton, who often had him to sit with her in her own room. To her he generally fled for refuge when he felt deserted and lonely. Chapter 31. Chapter 32 of David Elginbrod. This is the Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. David Elginbrod by George MacDonald. Chapter 32. Materialism, alias ghost hunting. Weed their mon, Siege Laktan Dranget, Durchten Dunkelnd Walk and Floor. Also talked as Dunkelnd Zeitin, Mir Ein Ligtes Bild Hervor. Heinrich Hein. As the moon her face advances through the darkened cloudy veil, so from darkened times arising, dawns on me a vision pale. In consequence of what Euphra had caused him to believe without saying it, he felt more friendly towards his new acquaintance. And happening, on his side at least, it did happen. To meet him a few days after, walking in the neighborhood, he joined him in a stroll. Mr. Arnold met them on horseback and invited Von Funkelstein to dine with them that evening, to which he willingly consented. It was noticeable that no sooner was the count within the doors of Arnstead House than he behaved with cordiality to every one of the company except you. With him he made no approach to familiarity of any kind, treating him on the contrary with studious politeness. In the course of the dinner Mr. Arnold said, it is curious Hervon Funkelstein how often, if you meet with something new to you, you fall in with it again almost immediately. I found an article on biology in the newspaper the very day after our conversation on the subject. But absurd as the whole thing is, it is quite surpassed by a letter in today's times about spirit wrapping and mediums and whatnot. This observation of the host that once opened the whole question of those physical, psychological phenomena to which the name of spiritualism has been so absurdly applied. Mr. Arnold was profound in his contempt of the whole system, if not very profound in his arguments against it. Everyone had something to remark in opposition to the notions which were so rapidly gaining ground in the country except Funkelstein who maintained a rigid silence. This silence could not continue long without attracting the attention of the rest of the party, upon which Mr. Arnold said, you have not given us your opinion on the subject, Hervon Funkelstein. I have not, Mr. Arnold. I should not like to encounter the opposition of so many fair adversaries as well as of my host. We are in England, sir, and every man is at liberty to say what he thinks. For my part, I think it all absurd, if not improper. I would not willingly differ from you, Mr. Arnold, and I confess that a great deal that finds its way into the public prints does seem very ridiculous indeed. But I am bound, for true sake, to say that I have seen more than I can account for in that kind of thing. There are strange stories connected with my own family, which perhaps inclined me to believe in the supernatural. And indeed, without making the smallest pretense to the dignity of what they call a medium, I have myself had some curious experiences. I fear I have some natural proclivity towards what you despise. But I beg that my statement of my own feelings on the subject may not interfere in the least with the prosecution of the present conversation, for I am quite capable of drawing pleasure from listening to what I am unable to agree with. But let us hear your argument, strengthened by your facts in opposition to ours, for it will be impossible to talk with the silent judge amongst us, you venture to say. I set up for no judge, Mr. Sutherland. I assure you, and perhaps I shall do my opinions more justice by remaining silent, seen I am conscious of utter inability to answer the a priori arguments which you in particular have brought against them. All I would venture to say is that an a priori argument may owe its force to a mistaken hypothesis, with regard to the matter in question, and that the true Baconian method, which is the glory of your English philosophy, would be to inquire first what the thing is by recording observations and experiments made in its supposed direction. At least Heravon Funkelstein has the best of the argument now, I am compelled to confess, said hew. Funkelstein bowed stiffly and was silent. You rouse our curiosity, said Mr. Arnold, but I fear after the free utterance which we have already given to our own judgments and ignorance, of course, of your greater experience, you will not be inclined to make us wiser by communicating any of the said experience, however much we may desire to hear it. Had he been speaking to one of less evident social standing than Funkelstein, Mr. Arnold, if dying with curiosity, would not have expressed the least wish to be made acquainted with his experiences. He would have sat in apparent indifference, but in real anxiety that someone else would draw him out and thus gratify his curiosity without endangering his dignity. I do not think, replied Funkelstein, that it is of any use to bring testimony to bear on such a matter. I have seen, to use the words of someone else, I forget whom, on a similar subject. I have seen with my own eyes what I certainly should never have believed on the testimony of another. Consequently, I have no right to expect that my testimony should be received. Besides, I do not wish it to be received, although I confess I shrink from presenting it with the certainty of its being rejected. I have no wish to make converts, to my opinion. Really, Herr von Funkelstein, at the risk of your considering me importionate, I would beg. Excuse me, Mr. Arnold. The recital of some of the matters to which you refer would not only be painful to myself, but would be agitating to the ladies present. In that case, I have only to beg your pardon for pressing the matter. I hope no further than to diverge of insubility. In no degree approaching it, I assure you, Mr. Arnold, in proof that I do not think so, I am ready, if you wish it, although I rather dread the possible effects on the nerves of the ladies, especially as this is an old house, to repeat, with the aid of those present, certain experiments which I have sometimes found perhaps only too successful. Oh, don't, said you for faintly. An expression of the opposite desire followed, however, from the other ladies. Their curiosity seemed to strive with their fears and to overcome them. I hope we shall have nothing to do with it in any other way than merely a spectator, said Mrs. Elton. Nothing more than you please. It is doubtful if you can even be spectators. That remains to be seen. Good gracious, exclaimed Mrs. Elton. Lady Emily looked at her with surprise, almost reproof. I beg your pardon, my dear, but it sounds so dreadful. What can it be? Let me entreat you, ladies, not to imagine that I am urging you to anything, said von Funkelstein. Not in the least, replied Mrs. Elton. I was very foolish, and the old lady looked ashamed and was silent. Then if you will allow me, I will make one small preparation. Have you a tool chest anywhere, Mr. Arnold? There must be tools enough about the place, I know. I will ring for actins. I know where the tool chest is, said you, and if you will allow me a suggestion, would it not be better the servants should know nothing about this? There are some foolish stories afloat amongst them already. A very proper suggestion, Mr. Sutherland, said Mr. Arnold graciously. Will you find all that is wanted, then? What tools do you want, asked you? Only a small drill. Could you get me an earthenware plate, not china, too? I will manage that, said Euphra. Hugh soon returned with the drill and Euphra with the plate. The Bohemian, with some difficulty and the remark that the English ware was very hard, drilled a small hole in the rim of the plate, a dinner plate, then begging an HB drawing pencil from his camera and cut off a small piece and fitted it into the hole, making it just long enough to touch the table with its point when the plate lay in its ordinary position. Now I am ready, said he, but he added raising his head and looking all around the room, as if a sudden thought had struck him. I do not think this room will be quite satisfactory. They were now in the drawing room. Choose the room in the house that will suit you, said Mr Arnold, the dining room. Certainly not, answered Funkelstein, as he took from his watch chain a small compass and laid it on the table. Not the dining room nor the breakfast room, I think. Let me see. How is it situated? He went to the hall as if to refresh his memory and then looked again at the compass. No, not the breakfast room. Hugh could not help thinking there was more or less of the charlatan about the man. The library suggested Lady Emily. They adjourned to the library to see. The library would do. After some further difficulty, they succeeded in procuring a large sheet of paper and fastening it down to the table by drawing pins. Only two candles were in the great room and it was scarcely lighted at all by them. Yet Funkelstein requested that one of these should be extinguished and the other removed to a table near the door. He then said solemnly, let me request silence, absolute silence, and quiescence of thought even. After stillness had settled down with outspread wings of intensity, he resumed, will anyone or better two of you touch the plate as lightly as possible with your fingers? I'll hung back for a moment then Mr. Arnold came forward. I will, said he and laid his fingers on the plate. As lightly as possible if you please, if the plate moves follow it with your fingers, but be sure not to push it in any direction. I understand, said Mr. Arnold, and silence fell again. The Bohemian, after a pause, spoke once more but in a foreign tongue. The words sounded first like in treaty, then like command, and at last almost like implication. The lady shuddered. Any movement of the vehicle, said he to Mr. Arnold. If by the vehicle you mean the plate, certainly not, said Mr. Arnold solemnly, but the ladies were very glad of the pretext for attempting to laugh in order to get rid of the oppression which they had felt for some time. Hush, said Funkelstein solemnly, will no one else touch the plate as well? It will seldom move with one. It does with me, but I fear I might be suspected of treachery if I offered to join Mr. Arnold. Do not hint at such a thing, you are beyond suspicion. What ground Mr. Arnold had for making such an assertion was no better known to himself than to anyone else present. Von Funkelstein, without another word, put the fingers of one hand lightly on the plate beside Mr. Arnold's. The plate instantly began to move upon the paper. The motion was a succession of small jerks at first, but soon it tilted up a little and moved upon a changing point of support. Now it careered rapidly in wavy lines, sweeping back towards the other side as often as it approached the extremity of the sheet. The men keeping their fingers in contact with it, but not appearing to influence its motion. Gradually the motion ceased. Von Funkelstein withdrew his hand and requested that the other candle should be lighted. The paper was taken up and examined. Nothing could be discovered upon it, but a labyrinth of wavy and sweeping lines. Von Funkelstein poured over it for some minutes and then confessed his inability to make a single letter out of it, still less words and sentences as he had expected. But, said he, we are at least so far successful. It moves. Let us try again. Who will try next? I will, said Hugh, who had refrained at first partly from dislike to the whole affair, partly because he shrank from putting himself forward. A new sheet of paper was fixed. The candle was extinguished. Hugh put his fingers on the plate. In a second or two it began to move. A medium, murmured Von Funkelstein. He then spoke aloud some words unintelligible to the rest. Whether from the peculiarity of his position and the consequent excitement of his imagination or from some other cause, Hugh grew quite cold and began to tremble. The plate, which had been careering violently for a few moments, now went more slowly, making regular short motions and returns at right angles to its chief direction as if letters were being formed by the pencil. Hugh shuddered, thinking he recognized the letters as they grew. The writing ceased. The candles were brought. Yes, there it was, not plain but easily decipherable. David Elginbrod. Hugh felt sick. Euphra, looking on beside him, whispered, what an odd name. Who can it mean? He made no reply. Neither of the other ladies saw it, for Mrs. Elton had discovered the moment the second candle was lighted, that Lady Emily was either asleep or in a faint. She was soon all but satisfied that she was asleep. Hugh's opinion, gathered from what followed, was that the Bohemian had not been so intent on the operations with the plate as he had appeared to be, and that he had been employing part of his energy in mesmerizing Lady Emily. Mrs. Elton, remembering that she had had quite a long walk that morning, was not much alarmed. Unwilling to make a disturbance, she rang the bell very quietly and going to the door asked the servant who answered it to send her maid with some euda cologne. Meantime, the gentleman had been too much absorbed to take any notice of her proceedings, and after removing the wand and extinguishing the other candle had reverted to the plate, Hugh was still the operator. Von Funkelstein spoke again in an unknown tongue. The plate began to move as before. After only a second or two of preparatory gyration, Hugh felt that it was riding Turrypuffet and shook from head to foot. Suddenly in the middle of the word the plate ceased its motion and lay perfectly still. Hugh felt a kind of surprise come upon him, as if he had waked from an unpleasant dream and saw the sun shining. The morbid excitement of his nervous system had suddenly ceased and a healthful sense of strength and everyday life took its place. Simultaneously with the stopping of the plate and this new feeling which I have tried to describe, Hugh involuntarily raised his eyes towards the door of the room. In the all but darkness between him and the door he saw pale beautiful face, a face only. It was the face of Margaret Elgenrod. Not however such as he had used to see it, but glorified. That was the only word by which he could describe its new aspect. A mist of darkness fell upon his brain and the room swam round with him. But he was saved from falling or attracting attention to a weakness for which he could have made no excuse by a sudden cry from Lady Emily. See, see, she cried wildly pointing towards one of the windows. These looked across to another part of the house, one of the oldest at some distance. One of its windows apparently on the first floor is shown with a faint bluish light. All the company had hurried to the window at Lady Emily's exclamation. Who can be in that part of the house? Said Mr. Arnold angrily. It is Lady Euphrasia's window, said Euphra in a low voice, the tone of which suggested somehow that the speaker was very cold. What do you mean by speaking like that? Said Mr. Arnold, forgetting his dignity. Surely you are above being superstitious. Is it possible the servants could be about any mischief? I will discharge anyone at once that dares go there without permission. The light disappeared, fading slowly out. Indeed, the servants are all too much alarmed after what took place last year to go near that wing, much less that room, said Euphra. Besides, Mrs. Horton has all the keys in her own charge. Go yourself and get me them, Euphra. I will see at once what this means. Don't say why you want them. Certainly not, Uncle. Hugh had recovered almost instantaneously. Though full of amazement, he had yet his perceptive faculties sufficiently unimpaired to recognize the real source of the light in the window. It seemed to him more like moonlight than anything else, and he thought the others would have seen it to be such, but for the effect of Lady Emily's sudden exclamation. Perhaps she was under the influence of the Bohemian at the moment. Certainly they were all in a tolerable condition for seeing whatever might be required of them. True, there was no moon to be seen, and if it was the moon, why did the light go out? But he found afterwards that he had been right. The house stood upon a rising ground, and every recurring cycle the moon would shine, through a certain vista of trees and branches upon Lady Euphrasia's window, provided there had been no growth of twigs to stop up the channel of the light, which was so narrow that in a few moments the moon had crossed it. A gap in a hedge made by a bull that morning had removed the last screen. Lady Euphrasia's window was so neglected and dusty that it could reflect nothing more than a dim, bluish shimmer. Will you all accompany me, ladies and gentlemen, that you may see with your own eyes that there is nothing dangerous in the house? said Mr. Arnold. Of course, Funkelstein was quite ready in Hugh as well, although he felt at this moment ill-fitted for ghost hunting. The ladies hesitated, but at last more afraid of being left behind alone than of going with the gentleman they consented. Euphra brought the keys, and they commenced their march of investigation. Up the grand staircase they went. Mr. Arnold first with the keys, Hugh next with Mrs. Elton and Lady Emily and the Bohemian, considerably to use this satisfaction bringing up the rear with Euphra. This misarrangement did more than anything else could have done to deaden for the time the distraction of feeling produced in Hugh's mind by the events of the last few minutes. Yet even now he seemed to be wandering through the old house in a dream instead of following Mr. Arnold, whose presence might well have been sufficient to destroy any illusion except such as a Chinese screen might super induce. For possessed of far less imagination than a horse, he was incapable of any terrors, but such as had to do with robbers or fire or chartis, which latter fear included both the former. He strode on securely carrying a candle in one hand and the keys in the other. Each of the other gentlemen likewise bore a light. They had to go through various doors, some locked, some open, following a different route from that taken by Euphra on a former occasion. But Mr. Arnold found the keys troublesome. He could not easily distinguish those he wanted and was compelled to apply to Euphra. She left Uncle Stein in consequence and walked in front with her uncle. Her former companion got beside Lady Emily and as they could not well walk for a brass, she fell behind with him. So Hugh got next to Euphra behind her and was comforted. At length, by torturous ways across old rooms and up and down abrupt little stairs, they reached the door of Lady Euphra's room. The key was found and the door opened with some perturbation, manifest on the part of the ladies and concealed on the part of the men. The place was quite dark. They entered and Hugh was greatly struck with its strange antiquity. Lady Euphra's ghost had driven the last occupant out of it nearly a hundred years ago, but most of the furniture was much older than that, having probably belonged to Lady Euphraesia herself. The room remained just as the said last occupant had left it. Even the bedclothes remained folded down as if expecting their occupant for the last hundred years. The final linen had grown yellow and the rich counterpane lay like a churchyard after the resurrection, full of the open graves of the liberated moss. On the wall hung the portrait of a nun in convent attire. Some have taken that for a second portrait of Lady Euphraesia, said Mr. Arnold, but it cannot be. Euphra, we will go back through the picture gallery. I suspected of originating the tradition that Lady Euphraesia became a nun at last. I do not believe it myself. The picture is certainly old enough to stand for her, but it does not seem to me in the least like the other. It was a great room with large recesses and therefore irregular in form. Old chairs with remnants of enamel and gilding and seats of faded damask stood all about. But the beauty of the chamber was its tapestry, the walls were entirely covered with it, and the rich colors had not yet receded into the dull gray of the past, though their gorgeousness had become somber with age. The subject was the story of Samson. Come, see this strange piece of furniture, said Euphraesia, who had kept by her side since they entered this room. She led him into one of the recesses almost concealed by the bed hangings. In it stood a cabinet of ebony reaching nearly to the ceiling, curiously carved in high relief. I wish I could show you the inside of it, she went on, but I cannot now. This was said almost in a whisper. Hugh replied with only a look of thanks. He gazed at the carving on whose black surface his candle made little light and through no shadows. You have looked at this before, Euphraesia. Explain it to me. I have often tried to find out what it is, she answered, but I never could quite satisfy myself about it. She proceeded, however, to tell him what she fancied it might mean, speaking still in the low tone, which seemed suitable to the awe of the place. She got interested in showing him the relations of the different figures, and he made several suggestions as to the possible intention of the artist. More than one well-known subject was proposed and rejected. Suddenly, becoming aware of the sensation of silence, they looked up and saw that theirs was the only light in the room. They were left alone in the haunted chamber. They looked at each other for one moment, then said with half stifled voices. Euphra. Hugh. Euphraesia seemed half amused and half perplexed. Hugh looked half perplexed and wholly pleased. Come, come, said Euphra, recovering herself and leading the way to the door. When they reached it, they found it closed and locked. Euphra raised her hand to beat on it. Hugh caught it. You will drive Lady Emily into Fitz. Did you not see how awfully pale she was? Euphrae instantly lifted her hand again, as if she would just like to try that result. But Hugh, who was in no haste for any result, held her back. She struggled for a moment or two, but not very strenuously and, desisting, all at once, let her arms drop by her sides. I fear it is too late. This is a double door and Mr. Arnold will have locked all the doors between this and the picture gallery. They are there now. What shall we do? She said this with an expression of comical despair, which would have made Hugh burst into laughter had he not been too much pleased to laugh. Never mind, he said. We will go on with our study of the cabinet. They will soon find out that we are left behind and come back to look for us. Yes, but only fancy being found here. She laughed, but the laugh did not succeed. It could not hide a real embarrassment. She pondered and seemed irresolute. Then, with the words, they will say we stayed behind on purpose. She moved her hand to the door, but again withdrew it and stood irresolute. Let us put out the light, said Hugh laughing, and make no answer. Can you starve well? With you. She murmured something to herself then said aloud and hastily, as if she had made up her mind by the compulsion of circumstances. But this won't do. They are still looking at the portrait, I dare say. Come. So sane she went into another recess and, lifting a curtain of tapestry, opened the door. Come quick, she said. Hugh followed her down a short stare into a narrow passage nowhere lighted from the outside. The door went to behind them, as if someone had banged it in anger at their intrusion. The passage smelt very musty and was as quiet as death. Not a word of this, Hugh, as you love me. It may be useful yet. Not a word. They came through a sliding panel into an empty room. You foreclosed it behind them. Now shade your light. He did so. She took him by the hand. A few more turns brought them in sight of the lights of the rest of the party. As Euphra had conjectured, they were looking at the picture of Lady Euphrasia, Mr. Arnold, prosing away to them and proved that the nun could not be she. They entered the gallery without being heard and parting a little way, one pretending to look at one picture, the other at another, crept gradually round till they joined the group. It was a piece on most successful generalship. Euphra was doubtless, quite prepared with her story in case it should fail. Dear Lady Emily, said she, how tired you look. Do let us go, Uncle. By all means, take my arm, Lady Emily. Euphra, will you take the keys again and lock the doors? Mrs. Elton had already taken Hugh's arm and was leading him away after Mr. Arnold and Lady Emily. I will not leave you behind with the specters, Cameron, said Funkelstein. Thank you, they will not detain me long, they don't mind being locked up. It was some little time, however, before they presented themselves in the drawing room to which, and not to the library, the party had gone. They had had enough of horrors for that night. Lest my readers should think they have had too many wonders at least, I will explain one of them. It was really Margaret Elginbrod whom Hugh had seen. Mrs. Elton was the lady in whose service she had left her home. It was nothing strange that they had not met, for Margaret knew he was in the same house and had several times seen him but had avoided meeting him. Neither was it a wonderful coincidence that they should be in such close proximity. For the college friend from whom Hugh had first heard of Mr. Arnold was the son of the gentleman whom Mrs. Elton was visiting when she first saw Margaret. Margaret had obeyed her mistress's summons to the drawing room and had entered while Hugh was stooping over the plate. As the room was nearly dark and she was dressed in black, her pale face alone caught the light in his eye as he looked up, and the giddiness which followed had prevented him from seeing more. She left the room the next moment while they were all looking out of the window, nor was it any exercise of his excited imagination that had presented her face as glorified. She was now a woman, and there being no divine law against saying so, I say that she had grown a lady as well, as indeed anyone might have foreseen who was capable of foreseen it. Her whole nature had blossomed into a still, stately, lily-like beauty, and the face that Hugh saw was indeed the realized idea of the former face of Margaret. But how did the plate move, and whence came the writing of old David's name? I must for the present leave the whole matter to the speculative power of each of my readers. But Margaret was in mourning, was David indeed dead? He was dead, yet his name will stand as the name of my story for pages to come, because if he had not been in it, the story would never have been worth writing, because the influence of that plowman is the salt of the whole, because a man's life in the earth is not to be measured by the time he is visible upon it, and because when the story is wound up, it will be in the presence of his spirit. Do I then believe that David himself did write that name of his? Heaven forbid that any friend of mine should be able to believe it. Long before she saw him, Margaret had known, from what she heard among the servants, that Master Harry's tutor could be no other than her own tutor of the old time. By and by she learned a great deal about him from Harry's talk with Mrs. Elton and Lady Emily. But she did not give the least hint that she knew him or betray the least desire to see him. Mrs. Elton was amusingly bewildered by the occurrences of the evening. Her theories were something astounding, and followed one another with such alarming rapidity that had they been in themselves such as to imply the smallest exercise of the thinking faculty, she might well have been considered in danger of an attack of brain fever. As it was, none such supervene. Lady Emily said nothing, but seemed unhappy. As for Hugh, he simply could not tell what to make of the writing. But he did not for a moment doubt that the vision he had seen was only a vision, a homemade ghost sent out from his own creative brain. Still, he felt that Margaret's face, come once it might, was a living reproof to him, for he was losing his life in passion, sinking deeper in it day by day. His powers were deserting him. Poetry, usually supposed to be the attendant of love had deserted him. Only by fits could he see anything beautiful, and then it was but in closest association of thought with the one image which was burning itself deeper and deeper into his mental sensorium. Come what might, he could not tear it away. It had become a part of himself, of his inner life, even while it seemed to be working the death of life. Deeper and deeper it would burn, till it reached the innermost chamber of life, let it burn. Yet he felt that he could not trust her. Vague hopes he had, that by trusting she might be made trustworthy, but he feared they were in vain as well as Vague, and yet he would not cast them away, for he could not cast her away. End Chapter 32