Ravelston, Ravelston.
The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill.
And through the silver meads.
Ravelston, Ravelston.
The stile beneath the tree.
The maid that kept her mother"s kine.
The song that sang she.
She sang her song, she kept her kine.
She sat beneath the thorn.
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode through the Monday morn.
His henchmen sing, his hawk bells ring.
His belted jewels shine-- O, Keith of Ravelston.
The sorrows of thy line!"
"Now, good-night," said Valentine, springing to her feet. "Don"t question me about the song. I sang it, but I cannot speak of it. The clock is about to strike. It is your hour for farewell. Oh, yes, I wish you all luck--all luck. The clock is striking----! Oh, what a noise there is in the street!"
"What a silence you mean," said Carr, as he took her hand.
It was true. The thunderous rattle of a heavy waggon, the discordant notes of a bra.s.s band, the din of a hurdy-gurdy frightfully out of tune, suddenly stopped. It was as if a wave of sound had been arrested, and in the quiet floated up the pa.s.sionate wail of a soul. There are no other words to describe what the sound meant. It had a voice and an interpretation. It was beautiful, but its beauty was torture. Trembling in every limb, Valentine sprang away from Carr, flew to one of the French windows, wrested it open, and stepped on to the balcony. She was in white, and the people in the street could see her. She pressed to the front of the balcony and looked eagerly up and down.
The wailing of the lost soul grew more feeble--more faint. It stopped.
There was a pause of half a minute, and then the waggon lumbered on, and the hurdy-gurdy crashed out its discordant notes.
"I saw nothing," said Carr, who had followed Mrs. Wyndham on to the balcony and now led her back to the drawing-room. "I saw nothing," he repeated. "I mean, I did not see the man who played."
"But you heard?"
"Oh, yes, I heard."
"You could not see. That was spirit music. My husband played. Don"t speak to me; don"t touch me; you tried to argue me out of my belief last night, but even _you_ heard to-night. My husband has come back in the spirit, and he has played for me. Only _he_ knows that air--only he in all the world. That was "Waves." Once I told you the story of "Music waves.""
She did not faint, she crouched down by the fire; but no face to be alive could be whiter than hers.
"What is the matter, Mr. Carr?" she said suddenly. "Why cannot my husband"s spirit rest? They say that those spirits that are hurried out of life before their time cannot rest. O, tell me what you think. O, tell me what it means. You heard the music yourself to-night."
"I did. I certainly heard it."
"And at the same hour. When the clock struck."
"That is a mere coincidence, not worth considering."
"I don"t believe in its being a coincidence."
She beat her hands pa.s.sionately together.
"The thing was planned--he planned it. He will come again to-morrow night when the clock strikes ten."
Again she beat her hands together; then she covered her face with them.
Carr looked at her anxiously. The weird soft wailing music had affected even his nerves. Of course he did not believe in the supernatural element, but he was touched by the distress of the woman who was crouching at his feet. This mental unrest, this superst.i.tious terror, might have a disastrous effect. He must do his utmost to check it. If necessary he must even be cruel to be kind.
"Mrs. Wyndham," he said, "you must go away to-morrow; you must go into the country for a few days."
"I will not. I won"t stir a step."
"You ought, your nerves are shaken. There is nothing for shaken nerves like change of air. Go to Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, and talk to Lilias.
She, too, loved your husband; she will sympathize, but she will not lose sight of common-sense."
"I will not stir from here."
"I think for your child"s sake you ought. The child belongs to your husband as well as you, to your dead husband. The child is fatherless as far as this world is concerned. You have no right--it is very, very wicked of you to do anything to make him motherless."
"What do you mean? Why do you speak to me in that tone? I don"t deserve it."
"You do."
"I think you are cruel."
Valentine"s eyes filled with sudden tears.
"What do you mean by saying that I will leave baby motherless?"
"I mean that if you encourage the fancy which has now taken possession of you you are extremely likely to lose your senses--to become, in short, insane. How can you train your child if you are insane?"
Valentine shuddered.
"But I did hear the music," she said. "The old story music that he only played. How can I doubt the evidence of my senses? Last night at ten o"clock I heard "Waves" played on the violin, my husband"s favorite instrument--the melody which he made, the harmony and melody with all the pa.s.sion and its story, which he made about himself and me. No one else could produce those sounds. I heard them last night at ten o"clock, you were here, but you heard nothing. To-night there was silence in the street, and we both heard--we both heard."
"I certainly heard some very melancholy music."
"Played on the violin?"
"Yes, played on the violin."
"In short, you heard "Waves.""
"I heard something which I never heard before. I cannot tell the name."
"No. What you heard was "Waves," in other words the cry of a soul."
"Mrs. Wyndham, get up. Give me your hand. Look me in the face. Now, that is better. I am going to talk common-sense to you. You have been from the first impressed with the idea that foul play was done to your husband. For a time I own I shared your apprehension. I discovered one or two things in connection with his death which far more than your words inclined me to this belief. Since I came to London I have thought a great deal over the matter. Last week a lucky chance brought me in communication with Captain Jellyby of the _Esperance_. Ah, you start. I saw him. I think you would like me to bring him here some night. He entered into minute particulars of Wyndham"s last days. He would like to tell you the story himself. I can only say that a fairer story could not be recorded of any man. He was beloved by every one on board the ship. "We all loved him," said Captain Jellyby. "Emigrants, pa.s.sengers, sailors, all alike. Sir," he said, "when Mr. Wyndham was washed over, there wasn"t a dry eye on board. But if ever a man humbly and cheerfully went forth to meet his Creator, he was the man, sir. He met his death trying to help the man at the wheel. Bless his heart, he spent all his life trying to help other people.""
Valentine was silently crying.
"You comfort me," she said; "you comfort me much. Go on."
"That is all, my dear friend, that is all. It set my mind at rest with regard to your husband. It ought to set yours at rest also. He is a glorious, and happy spirit in heaven now. Is it likely that he would come back from there to frighten you for no object or purpose? No, you must dismiss the idea from your mind."