cold,” he said. I joined the merry party upstairs, and was received by my Tilly with open, arms, and by my uncle Bonsor with an open, waistcoat. I partook in cheerful moderation of the snapdragon festivities of Christmas-eve. We all dined together on Christmas-day, and I helped the soup and carved a turkey, beautifully; and on the morrow, Boxing-day, was complimented by my uncle’s lawyer on my remarkably neat caligraphy, as displayed in the signatures to the necessary legal documents. On the twenty-seventh of December, eighteen, forty-six, I was married to my darling Tilly, and was going to live happy ever afterwards, when
I woke again
—really did wake in bed in this Haunted House—and found that I had been very much shaken on the railway coming down, and that there was no marriage, no Tilly, no Mary Seaton, no Van Plank, no anything but myself and the Ghost of the Ague, and the two inner windows of the Double Room rattling like the ghosts of two departed watchmen who wanted spiritual assistance to carry me to the dead and gone old Watch-house,
_The_Ghost_in_the_Picture_Room.jpg)
Belinda, with a modest self-possession quite her own, promptly answered for this Spectre in a low, clear voice:
Half weary with a listless discontent.
The flickering giant shadows, gathering near,
Closed round me Avith a dim and silent fear;
All dull, all dark; save when the leaping flame,
Glancing, lit up The Picture’s ancient frame.
Above the hearth it hung. Perhaps the night,
My foolish tremors, or the gleaming light,
Lent Power to that Portrait dark and quaint
A Portrait such as Rembrandt loved to paint
The likeness of a Nun. I seemed to trace
A world of sorrow in the patient face,
In the thin hand* folded across her breast
Its own and the room’s shadow hid the rest.
I gazed and dreamed, and the dull embers stirred,
Till an old legend that I once had heard
Came back to me; linked to the mystic gloom
Of the dark Picture in the ghostly room.
Where first the old chivalric lays were sung;
Where earliest smiled that gracious child of France,
Angel and Knight and Fairy, called Romance,
I stood one day. The warm blue June was spread
Upon the earth; blue summer overhead,
Without a cloud to fleck its radiant glare,
Without a breath to stir its sultry air.
All still, all silent, save the sobbing rush
Of rippling waves, that lapsed in silver hush
Upon the beach; where, glittering towards the strand,
The purple Mediterranean kissed the land.
Broke on the mid-day silence for a time,
Then trembling into quiet, seemed to cease,
In deeper silence and more utter peace.
So as I turned to gaze, where gleaming white,
Half hid by shadowy trees from passers’ sight,
The convent lay, one who had dwelt for long
In that fair home of ancient tale and song,
Who knew the story of each cave and hill,
And every haunting fancy lingering still
Within the land, spuke thus to me, and told
The convent’s treasured legend, quaint arid old:
Still more concealed where the white convent stood,
Borne on its perfumed wings the title came:
“Our Lady of the Hawthorns” is its name.
Then did that bell, which still rings out to-day
Bid all the country rise, or eat, or pray.
Before that convent shrine, the haughty knight
Passed the lone vigil of his perilous fight;
For humbler cottage strife, or village brawl,
The abbess listened, prayed, and settled all.
Young hearts that came, weighed down by lover or wrong,
Left her kind presence comforted and strong.
Each passing pilgrim, and each beggar’s right
Was food, and rest, and shelter for the night.
But, more than this, the nuns could well impart
The deepest mysteries of the healing art;
Their store of herbs and simples was renowned,
And held in wondering faith for miles around.
Thus strife, love, sorrow, good and evil fate,
Found help and blessing at the convent gate.
No eyelids veiling glances half as bright,
No step that glided with such noiseless feet,
No face that looked so tender or so sweet,
No voice that rose in choir so pure, so clear,
No heart to all the others half so dear
(So surely touched by others’ pain or woe,
Guessing the grief her young life could not know),
No soul in childlike faith so undefiled,
As Sister Angela’s, the “Convent Child.”
For thus they loved to call her. She had known
No home, no love, no kindred, save their own
An orphan, to their tender nursing given,
Child, plaything, pupil, now the bride of Heaven.
And she it was who trimmed the lamp’s red light
That swung before the altar, day and night.
Her hands it was, whose patient skill could trace
The finest broidery, weave the costliest lace;
But most of all, her first and dearest care,
The office she w r ould never miss or share,
Was every day to weave fresh garlands sweet,
To place before the shrine at Mary’s feet.
Nature is bounteous in that region fair,
For even winter has her Llossoms there.
Thus Angela loved to count each feast the best,
By telling with what flowers the shrine was dressed,
In pomp supreme the countless Roses passed,
Battalion on battalion thronging fast,
Each with a different banner, flaming bright,
Damask, or striped, or crimson, pink, or white,
Until they bowed before the new-born queen,
And the pure virgin lily rose serene.
Though Angela always thought the Mother blest,
Must love the time of her own hawthorns best
Each evening through the year, with equal care,
She placed her flowers; then kneeling down in prayer,
