LITTLE NOVELS [75]
him of her writing? Assuming these questions to be answered in the affirmative, what, in that case, was his "business in London"? I remembered how he had spoken to me of his temptations, I recalled the expression that had crossed his face when he recognized the handwriting on the letter--and the conclusion that followed literally shook me to the soul. Ordering my horse to be saddled, I rode instantly to the railway-station.
The train by which he had traveled to London had reached the terminus nearly an hour since. The one useful course that I could take, by way of quieting the dreadful misgivings crowding one after another on my mind, was to telegraph to Jeromette at the address at which I had last seen her. I sent the subjoined message--prepaying the reply:
"If you are in any trouble, telegraph to me. I will be with you by the first train. Answer, in any case."
There was nothing in the way of the immediate dispatch of my message. And yet the hours passed, and no answer was received. By the advice of the clerk, I sent a second telegram to the London office, requesting an explanation. The reply came back in these terms:
"Improvements in street. Houses pulled down. No trace of person named in telegram."
I mounted my horse, and rode back slowly to the rectory.
"The day of his return to me will bring with it the darkest days of my life." . . . . . "I shall die young, and die miserably. Have you interest enough still left in me to wish to hear of it?" .... "You _ shall_ hear of it." Those words were in my memory while I rode home in the cloudless moonlight night. They were so vividly present to me that I could hear again her pretty foreign accent, her quiet clear tones, as she spoke them. For the rest, the emotions of that memorable day had worn me out. The answer from the telegraph office had struck me with a strange and stony despair. My mind was a blank. I had no thoughts. I had no tears.
I was about half-way on my road home, and I had just heard the clock of a village church strike ten, when I became conscious, little by little, of a chilly sensation slowly creeping through and through me to the bones. The warm, balmy air of a summer night was abroad. It was the month of July. In the month of July, was it possible that any living creature (in good health) could feel cold? It was _not_ possible--and yet, the chilly sensation still crept through and through me to the bones.
I looked up. I looked all round me.
My horse was walking along an open highroad. Neither trees nor waters were near me. On either side, the flat fields stretched away bright and broad in the moonlight.
I stopped my horse, and looked round me again.
Yes: I saw it. With my own eyes I saw it. A pillar of white mist--between five and six feet high, as well as I could judge--was moving beside me at the edge of the road, on my left hand. When I stopped, the white mist stopped. When I went on, the white mist went on. I pushed my horse to a trot--the pillar of mist was with me. I urged him to a gallop---the pillar of mist was with me. I stopped him again--the pillar of mist stood still.
The white color of it was the white color of the fog which I had seen over the river--on the night when I had gone to bid her farewell. And the chill which had then crept through me to the bones was the chill that was creeping through me now.
I went on again slowly. The white mist went on again slowly--with the clear bright night all round it.
I was awed rather than frightened. There was one moment, and one only, when the fear came to me that my reason might be shaken. I caught myself keeping time to the slow tramp of the horse's feet with the slow utterances of these words, repeated over and over again: "Jeromette is dead. Jeromette is dead." But my will was still my own: I was able to control myself, to impose silence on my own muttering lips. And I rode on quietly. And the pillar of mist went quietly with me.
My groom was waiting for my return at the rectory gate. I pointed to the mist, passing through the gate with me.
"Do you see
The train by which he had traveled to London had reached the terminus nearly an hour since. The one useful course that I could take, by way of quieting the dreadful misgivings crowding one after another on my mind, was to telegraph to Jeromette at the address at which I had last seen her. I sent the subjoined message--prepaying the reply:
"If you are in any trouble, telegraph to me. I will be with you by the first train. Answer, in any case."
There was nothing in the way of the immediate dispatch of my message. And yet the hours passed, and no answer was received. By the advice of the clerk, I sent a second telegram to the London office, requesting an explanation. The reply came back in these terms:
"Improvements in street. Houses pulled down. No trace of person named in telegram."
I mounted my horse, and rode back slowly to the rectory.
"The day of his return to me will bring with it the darkest days of my life." . . . . . "I shall die young, and die miserably. Have you interest enough still left in me to wish to hear of it?" .... "You _ shall_ hear of it." Those words were in my memory while I rode home in the cloudless moonlight night. They were so vividly present to me that I could hear again her pretty foreign accent, her quiet clear tones, as she spoke them. For the rest, the emotions of that memorable day had worn me out. The answer from the telegraph office had struck me with a strange and stony despair. My mind was a blank. I had no thoughts. I had no tears.
I was about half-way on my road home, and I had just heard the clock of a village church strike ten, when I became conscious, little by little, of a chilly sensation slowly creeping through and through me to the bones. The warm, balmy air of a summer night was abroad. It was the month of July. In the month of July, was it possible that any living creature (in good health) could feel cold? It was _not_ possible--and yet, the chilly sensation still crept through and through me to the bones.
I looked up. I looked all round me.
My horse was walking along an open highroad. Neither trees nor waters were near me. On either side, the flat fields stretched away bright and broad in the moonlight.
I stopped my horse, and looked round me again.
Yes: I saw it. With my own eyes I saw it. A pillar of white mist--between five and six feet high, as well as I could judge--was moving beside me at the edge of the road, on my left hand. When I stopped, the white mist stopped. When I went on, the white mist went on. I pushed my horse to a trot--the pillar of mist was with me. I urged him to a gallop---the pillar of mist was with me. I stopped him again--the pillar of mist stood still.
The white color of it was the white color of the fog which I had seen over the river--on the night when I had gone to bid her farewell. And the chill which had then crept through me to the bones was the chill that was creeping through me now.
I went on again slowly. The white mist went on again slowly--with the clear bright night all round it.
I was awed rather than frightened. There was one moment, and one only, when the fear came to me that my reason might be shaken. I caught myself keeping time to the slow tramp of the horse's feet with the slow utterances of these words, repeated over and over again: "Jeromette is dead. Jeromette is dead." But my will was still my own: I was able to control myself, to impose silence on my own muttering lips. And I rode on quietly. And the pillar of mist went quietly with me.
My groom was waiting for my return at the rectory gate. I pointed to the mist, passing through the gate with me.
"Do you see