now there was a pause. I was among the rafters of the ruined house, and near the place from which the bridge- way started. I knew I could not do it. The misery of my weakness l would no one else attempt it?
I looked down — I saw, believe me, reader, it is true, as truly as you see these words — I saw among the blocks of wood and litter of bricks and beams, sheltered by the same roof that sheltered me, and surrounded by a strange white shimmering light, a woman, clad in a greyish-coloured robe — it might have been her burial-dress, so it looked to me — like a statue, pale and immovable, yet with dark waving locks, in large masses, on her shoulders. But the sea-breeze never moved a hair of its long length; and, but that it was darker than Mrs. Barrington's, being nearly I black, and the whole figure taller, I might have mistaken them. Now I had never believed in t ghosts, I had never thought much about them; but no doubt of that form being her mother’s ever crossed my mind. It was her — taller, sadder, in a strange pale light of unearthly whiteness — standing as a sculptor might make an angel stand, with her eyes fixed on the figure who was holding by the mullion, and gazing among the crowd below. I say, I never doubted that the grave had given up its dead, and that He to whom all things were possible had for some great purpose sent her there. So I spoke under this strong sense of the supernatural which kept all fear away. I said, “For the love of God, what is to be done?” And I had the answer, how I cannot tell you, for I do not remember any voice; but in another moment I was standing below. I looked toward the place where the apparition had been, and it was not there. I went on quickly, for I had to do its bidding.
The clergyman of Beachly, and other good men, had taken charge of Mr. Barrington. They were telling him what was doing, not truly, but with such omissions as made it easy for him to hope and even feel secure of his wife’s safety. I stood before them.
“Mr- Barrington,” I said, “you are wanted. The bridge-way to your wife is so high, and sways so much, that two men have fallen in trying to reach her. She is standing on the sill of the bed-room window opposite the drawing-room. It is the only way of getting her out.”
There was no need for more. He had got up, and had said “Lead me on.”
Horror was painted on every face. They brought hope on mine. We advanced to where she could see. She stretched forth her arms. I said, “She sees and welcomes you.” He replied, “Thank God.”
He was soon up to the gable, and stood still.
“You must remember,” I said, “that the way is safe, though it does sway. It is of planks on to within ten feet of her — though a ladder reaches from the plank to her. That is a difficult place. And take care when you reach her — the narrowness, the double weight.”
“Keep close together!“ called a man from the crowd.
Leslie Barrington waved his hand towards the voice, and stepped with a cautious foot upon the plank. He took three or four steps very slowly, then walked on bravely, getting slower again as he reached the place of greatest vibration. What a silence reigned below. Only the rushing of the water, the cracking of timbers and hoarse whisper of the flames. Then came her voice so calm and sweet, and tenderly low.
“My husband — my darling — I am coming to you!“
She stepped on the trembling ladder, held up her hands once as Bhe nearly lost her balance, and where the ladder and the plank met — just where poles from below made steady the ends of each — they stood together; she had gone across those bars like a bird. She stood not trusting herself to look on anything but his sightless eyes. The silence below was unbroken; women dropped upon their knees; many prayed in their hearts, as I did. To our unutterable surprise, in stooping he lifted her in his arms, and leaned her on his shoulder across his breast. He turned round and walked back to where, on a temporary sort of flooring, I stood, and gently touching his arm as I had learnt to do, I guided him to the plank, where he set her down in safety.
The gazing world below made amends for silence then. How they cheered! They woke the seagulls from their nest, and the rocks and cavernous cliffs echoed the cheer. Amidst it all I saw them into a carriage, and found that the clergyman had arranged for them to go into a house close to his own, where they could be quiet in lodgings for a time.
“Anybody else can come into our house,” he said, “the carriage and horses, and men-servants are gone to the doctor’s. He waits for him at 5, Cliff Terrace.”
So I ran by the carriage and helped them out; saw Nugent at the door of the new residence; shook hands with Dr. Bennet; told Terese I should come in the morning, and went home to thank God, and get some refreshment as I might.
The next day, and many days following, I went to see them. In a week’s time they had recovered from the effects of their danger and fright. They gave God thanks publicly, and distributed a large sum of money among those who helped them.
Terese could talk of it now. And I had often thought that I would tell her of the apparition. But so solemn was the remembrance that I could not, for some weeks, get strength enough to speak of it.
At last, just before the day fixed for my departure, when I was sitting w ith her alone in the drawing-room of their lodgings, I began to tell her. At first she heard me, with a strange half- frightened face; but, as I went on, she looked intensely interested, now and then asking me a question in her sweet voice, and regarding me with a gentleness which had something sisterly in it.
I ceased speaking, and she answered me — answered with a question put with a downcast face, and the least possible smile trembling on her lips.
“Why have you never married?“