Hopes and Fears

She paused under the porch, and ere fitting the heavy key to the lock, felt that strange pressure and emotion of the heart that even if it be sorrow is also an exquisite sensation. If it were mournful that the one last office she could render to Humfrey was over, it was precious to her to be the only one who had a right to pay it, the one whom he had loved best upon earth, round whom she liked to believe that he still might be often hovering-whom he might welcome by and by. Here was the place for communion with him, the spot which had, indeed, been to him none other than the gate of Heaven.

Yet, will it be believed? Not one look did Honora cast at Humfrey Charlecote's monument that morning.

With both hands she turned the reluctant bolts of the lock, and pushed open the nail-studded door. She slowly advanced along the uneven floor of the aisle, and had just reached the chancel arch, when something suddenly stirred, making her start violently. It was still, and after a pause she again advanced, but her heart gave a sudden throb, and a strange chill of awe rushed over her as she beheld a little white face over the altar rail, the chin resting on a pair of folded hands, the dark eyes fixed in a strange, dreamy, spiritual expression of awe.

The shock was but for a moment, the next the blood rallied to her heart, and she told herself that Humfrey would say, that either the state of her spirits had produced an illusion, or else that some child had been left here by accident. She advanced, but as she did so the two hands were stretched out and locked together as in an agony, and the childish, feeble voice cried out, 'Oh! if you're an angel, please don't frighten me; I'll be very good.'

Honora was in a pale, soft, gray dress, that caught the light in a rosy glow from the east window, and her golden hair was hanging in radiant masses beneath her straw bonnet, but she could not appreciate the angelic impression she made on the child, who had been tried so long by such a captivity. 'My poor child,' she said, 'I am no angel; I am only Miss Charlecote. I'm afraid you have been shut up here;' and, coming nearer, she perceived that it was a boy of about seven years old, well dressed, though his garments were disordered. He stood up as she came near, but he was trembling all over, and as she drew him into her bosom, and put her arms round him, she found him quivering with icy cold.

'Poor little fellow,' she said, rocking him, as she sat on the step and folded her shawl round him, 'have you been here all night? How cold you are; I must take you home, my dear. What is your name?'

'I'm Robert Mervyn Fulmort,' said the little boy, clinging to her. 'We came in to see Mr. Charlecote's monument put up, and I suppose they forgot me. I waked up, and everybody was gone, and the door was locked. Oh! please,' he gasped, 'take me out. I don't want to cry.'

She thought it best to take him at once into the cheerful sunlight, but it did not yet yield the warmth that he needed; and all her soothing words could not check the nervous tremor, though he held her so tight that it seemed as if he would never let her go.

'You shall come home with me, my dear little boy; you shall have some breakfast, and then I will take you safe home to Beauchamp.'

'Oh, if you please!' said the boy, gratefully.

Exercise was thawing his numbed limbs, and his eyes brightened.

'Whom were you with?' she asked. 'Who could have forgotten you?'

'I came with Lieschen and nurse and the babies. The others went out with Mademoiselle.'

'And you went to sleep?'

'Yes; I liked to see the mason go chip, chip, and I wanted to see them fit the thing in. I got into that great pew, to see better; and I made myself a nest, but at last they were all gone.'

'And what did you do, then? Were you afraid?'

'I didn't know what to do. I ran all about to see if I could look out at a window, but I couldn't.'

'Did you try to call?'

'Wouldn't it have been naughty?' said the boy; and then with an impulse of honest truthfulness, 'I did try once; but do you know, there was another voice came back again, and I thought that die Geistern wachten sich auf.'

'The what?'

'Die Geistern das Lieschen sagt in die Gewolben wohnen,' said little Robert, evidently quite unconscious whether he spoke German or English.

'So you could not call for the echo. Well, did you not think of the bells?'

'Yes; but, oh! the door was shut; and then, I'll tell you-but don't tell Mervyn-I did cry.'

'Indeed, I don't wonder. It must have been very lonely.'

'I didn't like it,' said Robert, shivering; and getting to his German again, he described 'das Gewitter' beating on the panes, with wind and whirling leaves, and the unearthly noises of the creaking vane. The terror of the lonely, supperless child was dreadful to think of; and she begged to know what he could have done as it grew dark.

'I got to Mr. Charlecote,' said Robert-an answer that thrilled her all over. 'I said I'd be always very good, if he would take care of me, and not let them frighten me. And so I did go to sleep.'

'I'm sure Mr. Charlecote would, my dear little man,' began Honora, then checked by remembering what he would have said. 'But didn't you think of One more sure to take care of you than Mr. Charlecote?'

'Lieschen talks of der Lieber Gott,' said the little boy. 'We said our prayers in the nursery, but Mervyn says only babies do.'

'Mervyn is terribly wrong, then,' said Honora, shuddering. 'Oh! Robert, Mr. Charlecote never got up nor went to bed without asking the good God to take care of him, and make him good.'

'Was that why he was so good?' asked Robert.

'Indeed it was,' said she, fervently; 'nobody can be good without it. I hope my little friend will never miss his prayers again, for they are the only way to be manly and afraid of nothing but doing wrong, as he was.'

'I won't miss them,' said Robert, eagerly; then, with a sudden, puzzled look-'Did he send you?'

'Who?'

'Mr. Charlecote.'

'Why-how should . . . ? What made you think so?'

'I-why, once in the night I woke up; and oh! it was so dark, and there were such noises, such rattlings and roarings; and then it came all white-white light-all the window-bars and all so plain upon the wall; and then came-bending, bending over-a great gray darkness-oh! so horrible!-and went away, and came back.'

'The shadow of the trees, swaying in the moonlight.'

'Was it? I thought it was the Nebel Wittwen neckten mir, and then the Erlkonung-tochter. Wissen sie-and oh! I did scream once; and then, somehow, it grew quietly darker; and I thought Mr. Charlecote had me folded up so warm on his horse's back, and that we rode ever so far; and they stretched out their long white arms, and could not get me; but somehow he set me down on a cold stone, and said, "Wait here, Robin, and I'll send her to lead you." And then came a creaking, and there were you.'

'Well, little Robin, he did not quite send me; but it was to see his tablet that I came down this morning; so he brought me after all. He was my very dear Cousin Humfrey, and I like you for having been his little friend. Will you be mine, too, and let me help you, if I can? and if your papa and mamma give leave, come and see me, and play with the little girl and boy who live with me?'

'Oh, yes!' cried Robert; 'I like you.'

The alliance was sealed with a hearty kiss.

'But,' said Robert, 'you must ask Mademoiselle; papa and mamma are away!'

'And how was it no one ever missed you?'

Robert was far less surprised at this than she was; for, like all children, to be left behind appeared to him a contingency rather probable than otherwise.

He was a fine-looking boy, with dark gray, thoughtful eyes, and a pleasant countenance; but his nerves had been so much shaken that he started, and seemed ready to catch hold of her at every sound.