by G.P.R. James, Esq.
Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.8 #46 (Mar 1854).
From my earliest to my latest days, I have always had a peculiar delight in what I may call "the society of mere animals." By that term, I mean the members of that part of creation which are termed in Holy Writ "the brutes that perish," and to which the general opinion of mankind denies the privilege of soul. Perhaps it is so; perhaps they have not souls; for I have come to the conclusion, after much pondering and some observation, that here below we have not a double but a triple existence, and that, however intimately linked together in our human nature, body, intellect, and soul are distinct entities.
I can conceive, then, that "the brutes that perish" have no soul, although many of them display intellectual qualities equal to those of man, and perceptive qualities—probably (if we could see deep enough) entirely corporeal—often greatly superior. Nevertheless, their habits, their faculties, their strange approximation to the human creature—the share of reason and even imagination which many of them possess, have always been to me matters of deep interest and study.
When I was a mere boy, I had innumerable pets, living the short life of all such slaves of childhood, and succeeded immediately by others. I remember some scores of owls and starlings, dogs and squirrels, parrots and dormice; but they afforded me, I believe, a different kind of amusement from that which they generally furnish to children. They set me thinking, observing, analyzing. They all had to me a spirit, as it were; and although I had never, at that time, heard of the doctrine of the transmigration of souls, it seemed to me that somehow they were akin to me. As I grew up, I loved to discover some resemblance between the bird or beast and persons whom I knew—sometimes in the mere shape of the face and head, sometimes in the expression, sometimes in the traits of character. I believed and still believe that there are in the vast creation of things seen and unseen, links of sympathy, harmonies, relationships, which escape the eye of coarse observers, and I fondly hoped to make something out of the enigma by much study.
One of my early pets, and one which remained longest with me, was a raven, proverbially enduring and long lived. He was hardly fledged when I bought him of a man who sold birds in Covent Garden Market in those days; but as he advanced in life he grew troublesome, and was removed to a house belonging then to my father (now my own), some ten miles from London. One wing was clipped, to prevent my erratic friend from absconding; and there he lived for many years, while I passed through the schoolboy stage of life, seeing him occasionally during the holidays, and onward till I attained maturity and middle age.
Various were the mischievous tricks which Ralph—the invariable name of a raven—played, various the offenses he committed, and at first he run great risk of having his neck twisted for his depredations; but gradually the servants began to find out that his pranks might prove a vail for their own, and that Ralph might be made the scapegoat of many sins. If any thing was lost it was sure to be the raven that took it; and yet, when he was threatened with capital punishment, all voices were raised to intercede in his behalf.
A very provident gentleman was Master Ralph. Every fragment of his dinner, over and above what he thought fit to consume, was carefully buried for future use; and, with the true spirit of a miser, he would hide in strange holes and corners any glistening piece of metal he could lay his beak upon. The story of the maid and the magpie was too well known for the servants to run any risk in consequence of his depredations, though, as I have stated, he might sometimes be brought into peril in consequence of theirs. He was mightily pugnacious, too; and if any one approached one of his hiding-places, he would attack them boldly with his formidable bill, and peck their feet till he forced them to retire.
One year the gardener forgot to cut his wing after moulting, and away he flew, greatly to my consternation, though I was then more than one-and-twenty; but Ralph had become so accustomed to the place—all his associations were so entirely there—that after enjoying his liberty for an hour or two, he returned at the usual hour of being fed, and hopped about the garden as familiarly as ever.
I gave strict orders that no one should scare by attempting to catch him, and a sort of tacit convention was entered into between himself and me, to the effect that he should be free to come and go as he pleased, provided he did not forsake his old home, and that he should be regularly fed upon his return.
Unlike most of the human race, he did not abuse his privilege; but, on the contrary, seeming to comprehend at once his position, he made himself quite at ease, frequented the garden, hopped into the kitchen, eyed every thing with knowing and concupiscent eye, and pecked the feet, as usual, of those who approached too near his storehouses.
Thus matters proceeded for some years. Time pressed upon me; sorrows and cares bowed me, and the wearing of mind upon body was sometimes heavily felt. Often I would escape from the city or the crowd—often I would return from foreign travel to that old country-house, and strive to let my thoughts rest in quiet. And there, as in a summer evening I would sit out in the garden under an old apple-tree that grew there, my friend Ralph would frequently hop up to my feet, and turning his head on one side, would look shrewdly up in my face as if inquiring what I was meditating.
But let me say a word or two of that old house without attempting to describe it accurately. It was built, I suppose, about the beginning of the reign of George the Third, though it might have seen that monarch's grandfather. It is neither very large nor very commodious; but it does well enough for me; and its tall rooms, each almost square, with its grave-looking red face, suit the humor in which I usually seek its seclusion. It looks, in its grave straightness, so like a gentleman of a century ago, that I am sometimes inclined to think that the only thing it wants is a periwig. There is a quaint lawn behind it of some extent, partly filched from the kitchen garden; and I suppose that it is to that circumstance I must attribute the persistence of the old apple-tree I have mentioned, which has been spared by former owners, probably from some affections or associations now long forgotten.
Heaven help us, how many sacred feelings and dear memories are blotted out by time!
Beyond the lawn is the kitchen garden, with three walks running up all the length, and several others crossing them, forming squares surrounded by fruit trees en espalier, bearing delicate pears and apples. The lawn and the garden—as well, indeed, as the ground the house stands upon, and the little flower garden in front—are all let into a wide and very wild common, but not at all near the centre thereof. On the contrary, behind the garden, and on the western side, the space of open ground between the fence and the next hedge-row is not more than three hundred yards in width. But, on the east, the common extends some mile and a half, to a village, the church steeple of which may be seen rising over the inequalities of the ground. A clean sandy road runs in front, with a neat country house or two, and some small, tidy cottages on the other side.
The village church itself is a curious old building, of the reign of one of the Edwards. The pavement of the nave is raised a good deal above the level of the church-yard, so that one is obliged to enter by steps; and underneath is what has once been evidently the crypt, though it is now called "the vaults," and in these vaults repose the mortal remains of several families in the neighborhood, some coffins dating back as far as the reign of Elizabeth, while others are much more modern. None, however, are very recent, for the last heir of the last noble family that had a right to bury there fell in battle, in 1813, and the grated door has never been opened to admit a coffin since. Through that grated door, when the sun, due southwest, shines between the two old yew trees upon that side of the church, one can see far into the crypt, among the tattered velvet, and shreds of gold lace, and tinsel coronets, with which the friends of the dead have bedecked their last resting-place. It always struck me with a sort of homily feeling—the vanities of death shut out from the vanities of life, by the rusty old bars of that grated door.
The old sexton was an oddity in his way, as I have remarked old sextons very often are; but he was a shrewd, cunning, worldly old man, with hanging lower eyelids, showing the red lining thereof. He boasted of having been very handsome in his day; and his son, who bore some resemblance to him, certainly was handsome. But the father had lost all beauty, and the son, who was a purser on board a man-of-war, I never liked. I am not sure what it was I did not like, but it was a something tangible enough to instinct, though perhaps not to reason.
Let it be recollected that this is no after-thought: that this instinctive dislike existed from the first moment I saw him, which was some where about the year 1826, when he had returned from a cruise, with a good deal of money—at least all the villagers said so. It is marked to memory by peculiar circumstances. There was then a young girl in the village, an exceedingly pretty young girl, with small, delicate features, and beautiful brown eyes, the daughter of the apothecary, who died the year before, leaving a very considerable fortune for a man in his walk in life. She was about nineteen; and her father, by some strange whim, had thought fit to name me her guardian, an office which I had never sought, but did not think fit to refuse. Poor thing! she wanted some one to take care of her. She was very gentle, and very confiding—not without character, however, though unwilling to pain the meanest of God's creatures.
Poor Mary Bell! how well I remember her.
But it is in connection with her that my repugnance to Dick Cumberland first displayed itself. He came up to the house one day, with his confident and yet rather uneasy air, to ask my consent to his paying his addresses to Mary Bell; and talked a good deal of his means, and the money he had made. I asked if she had directed him to apply to me; but he acknowledged that she had not, talking very properly, however, and saying, that he thought it most decorous to ask my consent, in the first place, before he explained himself to her.
I had no objection to make, but yet I could not get over my dislike to him; and I told him it would be better to wait till she was of age, when she could judge for herself—getting rid of him somewhat unceremoniously.
I cross-questioned her too, as closely as an old bachelor could venture upon with a young ward; and I found no reason to suppose that she had the slightest predilection for him. Thus I returned to town without any misgivings, and was very little in the country for some time.
It was in the autumn of 1828 that, fatigued in mind and body, I returned to my lonely dwelling, intending to abstract myself entirely from all care, anxiety and labor; and the first day passed quietly enough. I contented myself with repose, asked after nobody, cared for nobody, walked about my garden, examined my house; enjoyed my newspaper, and was almost vexed when the curate came in to take a glass of wine with me after dinner. I suppose that was his object, for he came just as the dessert was put upon the table, and if he did not gain much from me, he certainly gave nothing in exchange. He was the quietest man I ever saw—provokingly quiet.
The next day, however, perfect repose was too perfect, and I begun to busy myself about various matters. I had not long to endure tranquillity, for the noon stage brought me a visitor in the shape of the son of my old friend Sharp. He was a young lieutenant in the navy, as active as a monkey, and as little disposed to rest. In an hour he had run over the whole house and grounds, and then he walked out upon the common. By the time he came back, he had seen almost every body in the village, and among the rest young Dick Cumberland and Mary Bell. The former had sailed in the same ship with him, and Charles—that was the boy's name—said he was a good sort of fellow enough. He had, however, told my young friend of a pretended engagement between himself and Mary Bell, and Charles had insisted upon being taken to see her.
"She's a sweet pretty creature," said the boy, "a great deal too good for Dick Cumberland—not that he is altogether a bad fellow, but I would rather be his commanding officer than his wife. I think I could fall in love with her myself, if I were to try hard."
I do not know whether he did try hard or not; but I know he staid four days, and every day he went over to the village. When he returned to town I missed him a good deal, for he was a blithe, cheerful creature, pleasant to the eye, and well able to wile away an hour or two with tales of many lands—none better.
After he went, his words in regard to Dick Cumberland returned to my mind, and I thought it but right to go to my pretty little ward, and see a little what she was doing. I spoke to her about her lover; but she denied, with an honest blush, there was any thing like an engagement between them.
"Oh no," she said, "she had no thought of marrying such a person."
There was a little pride in her tone, and, Heaven forgive me, I said nothing to take it down. I spoke to her about my young friend Charles, and for some reason or another the color grew deeper in her cheek than ever. She said little about him indeed, but the school-mistress at whose house she lodged, told me he had been there every day, and called him "a charming young gentleman."
The dog had a terrible way of winning old women's hearts, as well as young ones.
Two days after I had a note from Mary telling me that she intended to go to London for a day or two, to escape a persecution that annoyed her. She mentioned no name, but I easily understood what she meant, and I put myself in the coach with her, as she was now of age, and it was time I should give up to her the command of her own property. She had an old maiden cousin living in London, and at her house we settled accounts.
She was looking exceedingly lovely that day, and there was a sort of graceful timidity about her as she took possession of what was her own, and a warm-hearted fervor as she thanked me for my care, which marked that parting interview with sweet and harmonious colors.
The next day I returned to my old house, to carry out the scheme of relaxation, which had suffered a little interruption. But, I know not how it was, time wore heavily with me. I was restless; I was uneasy without cause. My sleep was troubled with evil dreams, my waking thoughts were melancholy. I read a good deal to amuse my mind; but, as if by a power beyond myself, I was driven to choose books of sombre import. I remember Blair's Grave was one of them, and Charles Lamb's pathetic tale of poor Rosamond Gray, another.
The evening of the 7th September was one of the most beautiful I ever beheld. I shall never forget it. There were clouds enough following the sun in his decline to gather up all the scattered rays, but not to impede them; and all the glories of an autumnal sunset were drawing near, when I walked out upon the lawn and seated myself in a garden chair, beneath the old apple-tree. I had a book in my hand, but I did not look at it; gazing over the sky toward the west, and meditating upon the themes which sunset always suggests to my mind—life, death, and immortality. As I gazed, I saw flying toward me, through the golden air, my old friend Ralph; and I said to myself, "he is coming to take up his nightly rest in the old elm-tree."
I was mistaken, however. The elm-tree was quite at the end of the garden, and he came on toward the lawn. He had something, too, in his bill. I could see it distinctly as he came nearer and nearer, but I could not make out what it was. In my fanciful mood I said to myself, "Perhaps he is coming to feed me in my solitude as his ancestors did with the prophet of old;" and I laughed with that sort of grim feeling which a joke excites when we are gloomy. But he did not come as far as my feet, dropping just on the other side of the haha, which separated the lawn from the garden, with a hop and a bound. Still I could not see what it was he carried in his bill; but I could plainly perceive it glitter in the rays of the setting sun.
My curiosity was somewhat roused, but I did not stir, sitting apathetically and watching him, while he dug a hole to hide his prize. Sometimes I compared him, in my fancy, to a grave-digger, and called him Sexton Ralph; sometimes I tried to picture to myself all the sights and scenes of the places where he gathered his banquets—the murderer's gibbet: the lost traveler's moor-side grave; the church-yard; the lone sea beach. I made myself shudder. I loved him not; and calling him a foul marauder, I went through the little gate to see what he was about.
Divining my intentions, and having as great an abhorrence to the discovery of any of his secrets as a scurvy politician, he hopped toward me, and, after first giving a warning look up in my face with one eye, he bestowed upon my feet sundry pecks with his tremendous bill, which effectually repelled me.
"What is it to me?" I asked; "the bird, like man, is stout in the defense of his unrighteous gains," and then, covering my retreat with a sneer, went back into the house. I had marked well, however, the exact spot where he had hidden his treasure by a dwarf pear-tree, and determined, sometime or another, to dig and examine.
Other things occurred to make me forget my resolution. On the following afternoon the schoolmistress came up to say something funny, as she termed it, had happened. She had received a note, she said, from Miss Bell, telling her that she would be down by the coach, and bring her the money that she wanted without fail.
"Now, Lord bless the dear child," said the good lady, "I don't want any money, and I can't tell what she means. Besides, the morning coach has been down these three hours, and she has not come by that, nor by the evening coach last night."
"To-morrow will probably explain, Mrs. Gregory," I answered, without attaching much importance to the subject at the moment; "something has most likely prevented her from coming; and as to the money, she is a liberal-hearted girl, and perhaps thinks you want it, though you don't."
The old lady shook her head with a grave air and went away, and she was hardly gone when I began to trouble myself about her intelligence, and to think the circumstances more strange than they had appeared at first. "What could have put it in the girl's head," I asked myself, "that old Mrs. Gregory wants money! All the world knows she is very well off. Can any one have deceived her by false intelligence! If so, what can be the object?"
Now the coach passed just on the other side of the hedge, which I have described as within three hundred yards of the eastern end of the garden, and gradually diverging from a straight line toward the village, dropped its passengers for that place at the distance of little more than half a mile from the church. So ringing the bell, I told my old man-servant Paul to go out upon the road, at the time the coach passed, to stop it, and if he did not find Miss Bell in it, to ask the coachman if he had seen any thing of her.
I did not choose to go myself, for nothing has so absurd an appearance as needless anxiety.
A full half-hour before the time, Paul set out upon his errand, and I betook myself to my seat upon the lawn again, endeavoring to persuade myself that I was not the least anxious in the world. I teased myself with a great number of conjectures, however, and listened with all my ears for the coach.
I heard it coming just as the sun was about a hand's breadth above the horizon; but at that very moment I saw the raven once more winging his flight toward me. I know not how I came to give way to such a folly, but I said with my heart, "It is a bad omen."
I heard the coach stop, but my eyes were upon the bird; and once more I perceived he had something in his bill—a good deal larger than that which he carried the night before. What strange undefinable link of connection established itself in my mind between that bird and Mary Bell, I can not say; but I felt that there was one; and starting up, I determined I would see what he carried. I cut myself a switch from one of the shrubs, while he lighted at a little distance, and thus armed I crept behind the low trees, hoping to catch him in the act of burying his prize; but he was too cunning for me, espied me in a moment, and coming up with prodigious hops, again attacked my feet.
I would not be baffled now, however, and I applied the switch to his broad back and half-extended wings with more fury than the case deserved. He gave me one tremendous peck even after I had struck him, but another blow of the switch drove him to take wing, and I darted on to the place near which he had lighted. I hunted about among the current bushes for a moment or two before I could discover any thing worthy of attention; but then what was my horror to behold, protruding from the ground, where he had commenced digging, a long lock of wavy nut-brown hair, some of its curls as glossy as in life, but others dabbied with clay, and, it seemed to me, with blood.
I shook in every limb; and for a moment or two I could not make up my mind to examine further; but at length I stooped down, and drew the ringlet out of the ground. There was human flesh attached to it. It had evidently been torn from a dead body. Poor Mary Bell! I knew no one, but her, who had hair like that. But as I gazed at it with feelings of horror, and grief unspeakable, the raven croaked hoarsely from the tree where he had perched, as if triumphing in the result of my satisfied curiosity.
I was half inclined to go into the house for a gun, and shoot him.
Just then I heard the sound of quick steps coming across the lawn. Paul was seeking me, but I had given up all hope. I knew he would bring me no good news. Those which he did bring, only served to confirm my worse fears, though he knew not, poor man, that I entertained any. He came up with quite a cheerful air, saying, "Miss Mary is in the village, Sir. Styles says he brought her down last night."
Then he saw what I had in my hand, and exclaimed, "Lord, Sir! that's a lock of hair. Where did it come from?"
"The bird brought it," I answered; and then the remembrance of the night before coming back upon my mind, I added, "quick, Paul, bring a spade. The wretched animal brought something last night, and buried it by that pear-tree. We must see what it is—my heart misgives me, Paul—my heart misgives me."
The old man stood and shook. He saw what was in my mind—perhaps recognized the ringlet. But the next moment he darted away faster than I thought he could run, and, in a moment or two, came back with a spade.
"Here's the Place, Sir," he said, standing by the pear-tree, "he's been digging here lately. I know his marks quite well."
"Dig away," I said; and he threw out one shovel full. I turned it over with my foot, and something glistened among the earth. It was a broach: a broach I had given to the poor child, some two years before.
"There is no hope left," I said; "she is gone—it is too clear!"
"Miss Mary?" asked the old man, with a tremulous voice.
"Ay," I said; "she has either been murdered, or met with some dreadful accident."
"Let me go for the constable!" cried Paul.
"Stay," I said, "let me think—what lies between the place where the coach stops, and the village?"
"Nothing, Sir, but the road over the common," answered the old man, "and the bit of copse, with the sand-pit in it, and then the road again, and Mr. Levi's house, and then the chureh—which way did Ralph come, Sir? Did you see him fly?"
I then remembered that, on the previous evening, the bird had come exactly from the direction of the copse he talked of. But this night his course had been more from the village. He might have turned in his flight however; and at all events it was necessary to do something.
I walked down to the village at once with old Paul, got hold of a magistrate, the constable, and several other men; and taking lanterns, for it was now dark, we sallied forth, pursuing the road from the church toward the place where the coach usually deposited its passengers. Young Dick Cumberland, who had just returned from London by the coach, accompanied us, and his father hobbled after. The young man said he had called upon poor Mary, that morning in London, but was told she had come down by the stage. We all forgot to go and ask at old Mrs. Gregory's; but it would have been no good, if we had remembered, for she never set foot in those doors again.
We searched the whole road along, and the ground on every side, from the village to the copse, a distance of about half a mile; but we discovered nothing. We then searched the copse and the sand-pit; but there was nothing there. On the edge of the sand-pit, just where the road ran along it, young Cumberland fancied he saw drops of blood, and I traced, what I thought was the print of a woman's foot, but the road was very hard, and many people passed along daily. The drops of blood were pronounced no drops of blood, by the surgeon, on the following morning, and we found the traces of what might or might not be women's feet, going all ways along the road. The next day we searched the whole common, we made all sorts of inquiries in the village, and I myself went to London, and saw poor Mary's old cousin. The result of all was only to render the business more dark. Not a trace of her was discovered in the country, and the cousin could only tell, that she had received a letter which seemed to vex her, and that shortly after, she had said that she must run down to see "poor Mrs. Gregory;" but would return the following day. It appeared, however, that she had gone to her banker's—old friends of her father's and of myself—and had drawn out six hundred pounds.
Every one was sad and puzzled; and it did seem as if the gloomy effect produced upon the whole village would never pass away. Those who thought so, however, were very much mistaken. Every thing passes away. In less than a fortnight people began to think of other things—except one or two, who could not shake off the weight so easily.
I myself determined I would not rest till I had found out the depth of the mystery. How, was the question. I had no resource but the raven, yet I fancied he might lead me right at last. He was not likely to abandon his fell repasts so long as there was a frail fragment of the soul-abandoned tenement remaining. He, only he, knew where the body lay, and could tell if he would speak; but it was only by watching all his movements, that one could get evidence from him, and to watch them with effect, was very difficult. He had grown very shy since he had received chastisement, seldom lighted in the garden, and kept himself the greater part of each day, upon the old tree, which he had chosen for his resting-place, for the preceding eighteen, or twenty years. He would put down his head and spread his wings, and make his usual hoarse, mournful noise, when he saw any one whom he knew in the garden. But there seemed a sort of cunning consciousness about him, that his flight was observed, which was very curious. Sometimes, when all eyes were off him, he departed from his perch, and would return toward dusk; but he always took a long rambling sort of flight round, before he lighted again, as if to be sure that there was no one watching him. One could almost have fancied that he was in league with the murderers.
In the mean while, as I have said, the excitement created by the first discovery of poor Mary Bell's disappearance died away with every one but myself and two others. One was the parson of the parish, a very excellent but somewhat dull man. He had always seemed to me somewhat selfish—selfish in small things. But his deep persisting interest in the dear lost girl, and in all that concerned her, redeemed his character in my estimation, and we used often to meet and discuss every particular of the event with unavailing efforts to arrive at some clew to the labyrinth of thought into which it had plunged us. The other was young Dick Cumberland. He did not talk of it so much; indeed, he did not willingly follow the topic when it was introduced. A few words, stern, low, and emphatic—a suggestion as to some inquiry that had not been made—a gloomy reference to some past event, were all that he gave utterance to. He did not at all parade his grief—he rather sought to conceal it. But yet his deep melancholy was very evident; it preyed upon—it consumed him. I used to meet him walking alone, with his hands behind his back and his eyes bent down upon the ground, the picture of despair; but his walks were all at a distance from the spot where the terrible event must have happened. He would walk along the public road between my house and the village, or on the other side of the village, and often he would pass those he knew best without even seeming to see them. Sometimes he would stand for an hour with crossed arms, leaning upon a gate and looking dully over into a field. All the purposes of life seemed gone for him, and nothing left but the dull, hard blank of existence.
I felt sincere compassion for the young man, and thought it a duty to do the best I could to give him consolation, and to lure him back, as it were, to resignation. I asked him to dine with me, but he said he was not fit. "I am a sad, gloomy companion, Sir," he answered; "I should only make you melancholy. However, if you will permit me, I will come in some evening when I feel a little lighter than usual, and sit an hour with you, if you are quite alone."
I tried to reason with him against yielding to repining, and tried both the mere worldly and the religious arguments suited to the case. To the first he listened in silence; but to the second he answered, "I have not been religiously brought up, Sir. I am sorry for it—very sorry for it; but so it is; and I fear that I can not mend now."
Indeed, I had remarked that he was seldom at church—never, indeed, now; nor had he been very regular before. This made me more sorry for him still, and I pressed him to come often.
"We both loved her, Mr. Cumberland," I said, "and we may console each other."
"I did love her—I did love her, indeed!" he answered as he turned away, and I never saw such a look of anguish as then crossed his face.
Two evenings after—it was just a fortnight after the poor girl disappeared, and it had been a sad, rainy day, going off into a misty drizzle toward the afternoon—they told me that the rain had come into some of the upper chambers of the house, and I went up to see. There had not been much damage done, and when I had examined it I turned to the window and looked out. It was as melancholy an atmosphere as ever I beheld, gray and cold like the cheek of death; but one could see through it distinctly enough, and, indeed, the objects at a distance seemed magnified with hazy, indefinite outlines, like figures in a horrid dream. I could see the dripping trees in the garden and the hedgerow on the left, and the church steeple, with the part of the nave which rose over a slope in the ground, looked taller than usual, like an enormous giraffe painted upon the leaden background of cloud. I felt chilly at the very aspect of the scene, but yet I stood and gazed, and presently I saw a sort of bustling flapping in the tree where the raven roosted. It had already lost some of its leaves. The moment after, the bird emerged from among the branches, and took his flight directly away from me toward the village. He did not suspect that he was watched, and there was no concealment about him now. Straight on he flew, as if intending to light upon the church steeple; but before he reached it he rose a little, and then descended with a heavy swoop. The spot where he lighted, I knew, must be in the church-yard. It wanted about an hour of sunset, and I resolved to stay and watch, without ever taking my eyes off the place where I had seen him go down. It was the most tiresome task I ever set myself, but still I kept it up with an eager anxiety I can not describe. It seemed to me as if the secret was at length about to be disclosed—as if the clew to the mystery was almost within my grasp, and I stood like a statue, with my eyes fixed upon that one spot for at least twenty minutes. I could see a shade come over the sky—a darker hue pervade the air, and I feared that before he appeared again night would be too far advanced to discover whence he rose distinctly. Just then, however, I saw a black object rise between me and the church, nearer to the building than the spot where he had gone down, and a little to the left of it. I thought it might not be the same bird, and remained watching. It was the raven, though now the cunning creature took a circuitous flight, whirling away to the right over the cottages before he came home to his tree. The very manœuvre, however, convinced me that he had betrayed his secret—that the place of his ghoul-like banquet was in the chureh-yard, and very near the church. It is strange we had never thought of seeking for the dead in the place of the dead. I saw him light in his tree, and then went down stairs resolved to go and examine that very night. Before I reached the library, however, some one rung the bell, and I paused upon the lowest step to see who it was. Paul opened the door to young Richard Cumberland, and I beckoned him hastily into the library. There I told him what I had seen, and informed him that I was going at once to the church-yard.
"I will go with you," he said quite calmly; but then he added, "I think we shall be disappointed. Two Sundays have passed, and if there had been any thing there, the people coming and going must have discovered it."
"True," I answered, "but the bird certainly lighted there, and rose from there. The ground is wet, and we shall be able to trace his feet. Stay, we had better have a lantern."
"We can get one at my father's," he replied, in a dull tone, "it would make the people stare to see us walking along the road with a light."
What he said was true, and only staying to put on my great coat, I set out upon our gloomy business. He walked by my side with a heavy firm tread, and nothing but his deep silence betrayed the agitation I knew he must feel, till we were near his father's house, and then, somewhat to my consternation, he gave a short low laugh, apparently at something passing in his own thoughts. I feared his brain must be turned with the bitter grief he had endured, and doubted whether it was wise to go on with him. But there were one or two houses within call of the church-yard, and I am not accustomed to give way to fear.
At his father's door we stopped, and I remained without while he went in for a lantern. He staid long, I thought, but at length he came forth with the light in his hand. I could not see his face, but he held the lantern quite steadily.
"Now, let me lead," said I; "for I marked the spot where the bird lighted and where it rose so accurately, that I am certain we shall find marks of him."
"Lead on!" he answered.
Entering the little side door next his father's house, we crossed toward the old yew-trees, and about twenty yards before we reached them I stopped, saying. "He came down near here."
Dick Cumberland held down the lantern; but at first we could see nothing but the glistening of the light upon the little plashy path which led to the gate of the old crypt, or "the vaults," as it was called. A moment after, however, I caught sight of the broad marks of the raven's feet, and we traced them on—on up the path, right to the iron grate I have mentioned. His hand shook enough now; but we came to nothing as yet, such as I expected to find. I was truly sorry for him.
"Hold up the light," I said, "let us look in."
He held it up, and slowly the rays penetrated the gloom as I gazed between the bars. There was nothing to be seen within, however, but the mouldering coffins, and the tatters of crimson velvet and gold lace with the dust of years upon them.
I then took the lantern from his hand to ascertain more exactly in which direction the last footmarks of the bird had turned. But now came a new discovery. The gate ended with a bar below, into which the other perpendicular bars were let, and, at the corner where the irons hinged upon the stone door-post, I perceived a little pile of earth dug out, and numerous traces of the bird's feet. It was clear he had enlarged the aperture beneath the door, so as to make his way into the vault.
"We have found it out at last," I cried, pointing out to him the circumstances I had remarked.
"You have, indeed!" he answered in a tone that made me instantly look up in his face. He was standing with his arms crossed upon his chest, his eyes fixed upon the spot at which I had been looking, and an expression on his countenance full of strange, stern, gloomy wonder. Suddenly he gave a start, took the light out of my hand, and bent down his head almost to the little hillock caused by the bird's excavation.
"I will trace this strange thing to an end," I said, "we must see what the vault contains."
"Of course," he answered, raising himself and speaking quite in a different tone, "we must see all."
"Well, let us get the keys from your father," I said.
"I have got the keys with me," replied the young man; "though I do not visit the church very much with the rest, I sometimes visit it alone—especially lately."
As he spoke he put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out the large bunch of church-keys. He found the key of the grate in a moment—it was a very remarkable old key with a filigree handle—and put it in the lock. He could not turn it, however, and I turned it for him. I then took a step or two into the crypt, and he followed with the lantern, drawing to the grated door behind us.
"There is no need of shutting the gate," I said; but he answered with a bitter scoff. "The dead can not hurt you."
A sort of chilly sensation came over me as he spoke, and as his voice vibrated along among the arches with coffins and mouldering bones all around us, I felt ashamed of my own feelings; but as I went forward, thoughts began to cross my mind, inquiries to present themselves, suggesting motives for fear more reasonable, more tangible. But we are very cunning when we are afraid, and I knew that it was vain—nay, might be dangerous to show alarm, though ever and anon I asked myself, "If she has been brought here, who can have brought her?"
Suddenly, when we had gone about a dozen steps, his hollow voice said, "Look to the left!" and turning my eyes in that direction, I beheld hat I had been so long seeking. The lifeless body of poor Mary Bell was lying stretched out by the side of three coffins piled one on the other, so that the corpse was hidden from the grate.
Some pains seem to have been taken to compose her limbs. Her arms were calmly resting by her side, her garments decently arranged. But ob, her face! The foul bird had been at those pretty features—but I dare not think of it. I shuddered as I gazed, and stole a glance to my companion's face. His teeth were firm set together; his brow knitted up; his eyes almost starting from his head—fixed, as if immovably upon that dead form.
"Let us go," I said, as calmly as I could, "let us go. We know all now;" and I was turning toward the grate again, when he stretched forth is powerful arm, and pushed me back.
"Sit down there," he said, in a fierce tone, pointing to a coffin lying near. "Sit down there. You do not know all, but you soon shall."
I hesitated for an instant, thinking that, perhaps, I might spring past him. But he put his and in his pocket and drew out a pistol, repeating the words, "Sit down there! Don't drive me to any more!"
I seated myself where he pointed; and he himself continued standing for a moment or two, gazing sternly at the ground in silence. His lips moved, indeed, but he uttered no word. Then he rolled his eyes round, as if in search of something, and spying an old trestle, from which some coffin had been removed, he leaned, rather than sat upon it, fixing his eyes upon my face.
"Don't move," he said, "or I will shoot you, and I would rather not;" but he cocked the pistol as he spoke.
Then came a long gloomy pause during which he never took his eyes off me, and at length, with a sort of convulsive gaze, he said, "I killed her! You have divined that, I suppose."
"How could I divine so terrible a thing?" I asked; "I thought you loved her—I thought you mourned for her."
"Ay, I loved her," he answered in a tone the saddest, the most plaintive, that ever met my ear. "Heaven knows how I loved her—hell knows how I loved her—mourned for her, did you say? Who has mourned like me! But I killed her, old man, notwithstanding."
"It was an act of madness," I answered, "surely, it was madness."
"Madness!" he said, in a musing tone, "madness!" and then he laughed aloud, adding, "as such madness as they kill dogs for. Sit down!—don't move !—I'm mad now; but I won't hurt you, if you don't move. But I'm not mad either. It's all nonsense—it's all a lie! I'm not mad now! I was not mad then. It was the devil then, and it's the same fiend now. I lured her down cunningly, for I thought she had gone after that young lad, and my brain was all in a flame about it. I told her that Mrs. Gregory was suddenly pressed hard for money. I knew that would bring her; but that was not like madness, was it?"
"Then it was not her money you sought to take?" I asked.
He sat for a moment or two glaring at me by the light of the lantern; and then answered slowly, "I don't know what I sought—I don't know what I intended. Men put the whip into the hand of Fate and leave him to flog them on. No, no. It was not her money. But she had given me cold words, and I swore a great oath that she should never be another man's wife. Yet, if she had but been a little gentle with me when I met her down there by the sand-pit; if she had only given me any hope; if she had not snatched away her hand as if it touched a snake, I should not have done what I did—or what I dreamed of either."
A cold shudder passed over me; but as he seemed more calm, I kept silence in order to let him proceed quietly. He did not say much more, however, and what he did say was broken and somewhat incoherent.
"It's not the first time I've shed blood," he said, "but I never shed a woman's blood before. Yet the horror did not last more than a minute or two. It went away and left me. Mad! Why, I was as sane as you are. Didn't I play my part well? When it was night I brought her here and then walked to London; and then came down again; and searched with the rest of you. But it was when things began to get still that the fit came back upon me, and night and day it has been all the same ever since. I slept like a stone the two first nights; but I have never slept since. I'm not going to be hanged, though; never you think it. Hark! wasn't that a step? The old man will be here in a minute; he'll come after the lantern. Here, you take it to him. Now, Mary—"
I stretched out my arm to take the light from him; but before I could reach it, he raised his hand to his head, and I heard a loud report. I could just see him reel, for an instant, and, then the lantern fell and the light was extinguished. The moment after came a sound of staggering and falling, and when I groped my way to the grated door of the vault, my hands were dipped in a wet warm pool that had gathered upon one of the coffins. Shaking with horror, I at length reached the outer air, and paused a single instant to draw a free breath. The mist had cleared away—the clouds were nearly gone; and the calm stars were shining out in the tranquil heavens.
I soon gave the alarm, and calling neighbors to my aid, re-entered that dismal place of death and crime. We found him, with the pistol still firmly clasped in his hand, lying bent as he had fallen, near the feet of the poor girl he had murdered, with his head resting upon the last abode of one who had gone long before him to the place of final account. May God have mercy upon all!