CHAPTER XII.

THE SIBYL.

Lady Kildhurm, if she could not properly be called insane, was none the less in a very abnormal mental state. The attitude of her mind, indeed, might be considered almost the reverse of that usual to mortals: for to her the material world appeared visionary and unstable, and the objects of her inner life were her only realities. Being thus removed from sympathy with her fellow-creatures, she necessarily occupied a place apart, where she commanded the respect, and sometimes the awe, of those who came into contact with her, but never their comprehension. Always a striking-looking woman, her appearance was now invested with a solemn majesty, to which the shadow of the tragedy with which she had been connected no doubt lent impressiveness. By degrees she adopted certain peculiarities of costume and demeanour and fell into various eccentricities of speech and conduct, all of which tended to confirm the country folks of the neighbourhood in the opinion that the lady of Kildhurm was a species of wise-woman, or sibyl, acquainted with supernatural lore, and able to give them a good harvest or a bad rheumatism according as her whim might be. Of course when a delusion of this kind once gets a footing in the popular mind, nothing can occur, either good or bad, which will not be cited in support of it. Fortunately for Lady Kildhurm, it was generally agreed that her salutary outweighed her hostile influence. Mothers brought their sick children to her to touch, as if she had been a monarch; and fathers sought her advice on questions of business, and shaped her vague and wandering utterances into profoundly pertinent replies. Thus, without being necessarily aware of it, the poor lady created around her a voluntary host of feudal retainers, quite as loyal as those which the former lords of Kildhurm had lost, and much more willing and unstinting in the matter of supplies of provisions, and of tributary hay and corn. So it happened that the domestic economy of Kildhurm Tower had not, for many years past, been in so prosperous a condition as it was now. The curse which seemed to have been darkening over the place for several successive generations, had now begun to lift and lighten, as if it had done its worst. Mrs. Chepstow also remained at the Tower, and practically had the entire charge of the household and of the education of young Sir Philip, and had moreover contributed to this better state of things by making over to the heir the whole of the fortune which Colonel Banyon had bequeathed to her; reserving to herself, until the boy came of age, the right of spending the income of this estate for the common benefit of the family. It will be seen, therefore, that, leaving out the fact that the lord of the Tower had died a violent and mysterious death, and that his wife had lost her reason in consequence, Kildhurm had not much more cause to complain of its destiny than have other ancient and partially decayed families.

The Oak, meanwhile, had by no means ceased to connect itself with the family interests, although it, also, seemed to have become less menacing since its last terrible manifestation. Its present relation to the household was more intimate and friendly than had ever been the case before; it had, in fact, become the haunt and almost the home of Lady Kildhurm herself. It was her daily and also her nightly habit to climb into its branches, and there sit for hours, gazing out on the sea and singing to herself fragments of songs; or occasionally carrying on what had the semblance of being long and earnest conversations with some interlocutor who never made himself visible to any other eyes than those of her ladyship, and who was probably only subjectively manifest even to her. Be that as it may, this unseen personage's existence was solidly believed in by many intelligent persons, several of whom went so far as to say that they had heard the tones of his voice. Others affirmed that he could be no other than the genie himself of the Oak, who, having made away with Lady Kildhurm's husband on account of some slight which the latter put upon him, was now making amends to the wife by taking her into his confidence, and imparting to her many invaluable family secrets, as well as giving her instructions as to the future. Among other things, he must have explained to her the true meaning of the prophetic verses inscribed upon the silver disc, which was at this period almost entirely embedded in the substance of the bark: and she must therefore be aware of the nature of the fortune which was in store for the Kildhurm race, and of the means by which it was to be acquired. But the more things she was credited with knowing, the less inclined did she seem to satisfy the curiosity of the ignorant; insomuch that not one well-authenticated word of all the tales that the genie of the Oak was said to have poured into her ear has ever transpired from that day to this.

I am far from supposing, on the other hand, that Lady Kildhurm was above sharing the persuasions of these unenlightened people as to the extent of her own enlightenment, or perhaps, as to the channels through which it was obtained. Persons in her peculiar condition are not apt to be lacking in self-appreciation, and easily adopt any theory concerning themselves which seems to give them the distinction appertaining to supernatural pretensions. It is highly probable that the widow of Sir Norman believed that she held communion with beings of another world or plane of existence, and that she was happy in that belief. It is certain that she regarded herself as in a manner a sacred personage, and that she attributed the highest importance to all her acts and utterances, no matter how meaningless these might appear to the uninitiated observer. She commonly spoke of the Oak as 'My Friend,' or 'My Counsellor,' and was careful to observe certain ceremonies and formalities before ascending into the seclusion of the branches: such as kneeling at the foot of the trunk and touching her forehead to the bark, and tracing a circle round about the base of the tree with her ivory cross. A few rude foot-rests had been made, by means of which she could ascend to her retreat with ease; and in the angle of the boughs she had constructed for herself a sort of seat, which she called her throne. Here, no doubt, the pleasantest hours of her weird and lonely existence were passed. Here she gathered in the harvest of her wisdom, and from hence she gave it forth. The sinister Oak, which had been the hostile tyrant of the Kildhurm race for more than a hundred and fifty years, was become this forlorn woman's most intimate and inexhaustible companion. On summer days the branches which supported her swayed soothingly, and the broad leaves whispered in a murmurous undertone; while glimpses of yellow sunshine strayed here and there through the interstices of the foliage; or, perhaps, a shower pattered harmlessly on the living roof overhead. From below came up the endless prattle of the musical ocean, and the sparkle of its breezy blue. What wonder if, at such moments, she heard voices that do not speak to mortal ears, or beheld visions whereof the outward eye can take no note? But when the great equinoctial gales were let loose, and came shrieking down upon the astonished coast, then did the sibyl and her Oak strike a wilder and more interior chord of harmony. The Oak breathed forth its deep organ-tones of power and defiance, while the sibyl loudly chanted a thrilling treble, that often rang out above the other noises of the natural symphony, and caused passing travellers to start and stare, and, if the night were already fallen, to hasten their steps and wish themselves safe at home. After such a bout, the prophetess would descend from her perch with a flashing eye and an exalted mien, as if instinct with the divine fury of the seers of old; and occasionally, after an exceptionally boisterous gale, she would appear with a cluster of acorns or a branch of leaves in her bosom or amongst her hair, and she was more careful of these adornments and more proud of them than if they had been gold and precious stones. 'They are my friend's gift,' she would answer to inquirers; 'and the token of his confidence and favour.'

But this fantastic behaviour was, for the most part, confined to her hours of actual association with the Oak; at such times as she was within doors, her bearing was gentle and undemonstrative, her look passive and vacant, and she spoke but little, and that feebly and vaguely. She was less observant as a rule, of sights than of sounds; she always seemed to recognise the voice of Philip, and to be aware of the bond that united him to her; and she was fond of walking about with his hand clasped in hers, or with her arm resting upon his shoulder, when he had grown bigger. She was never weary of listening to his childish and boyish talk, and he, for his part, was never more pleased with himself and with things in general than when he was pouring out to her the riches of his small mind--appealing to her at the end of every sentence or two for sympathy or approval, which she never failed to accord with a smile, or a movement of the head or hand, or a murmured word. And sometimes--but this very rarely--she would in turn talk to him, in a low cadenced voice, as if chanting blank verse, and with a delivery free alike from emphasis and from hesitation. Whether or not any wisdom were contained in these monologues, Philip only could tell; and he used to declare that they were replete with everything that was most sapient and profound. He never, in fact, gave in to the belief that his mother was in any respect deficient in mental effectiveness; on the contrary he held her to be an altogether superior being, and argued that she appeared 'queer' to ordinary people only because the latter were too far below her in the intellectual scale to be able to appreciate her illustration. He was proud of her preference; and she yielded him every indulgence he could desire, save one:--she never permitted him to climb the Oak and share her mysterious vigils amidst the branches. 'No,' she would answer, smiling, to his entreaties, 'no, dear, no--no. He is our friend, but it is to me he speaks; you must hear him only through me. Be content--be content! by-and-by you shall know all.'

'But when will by-and-by come, mother?'

'When the great change comes, and the seal is broken, and the prophecy is fulfilled, and the sibyl and her counsellor have vanished. There is time; do not seek to hasten the steps of fate. Love will lead the way, and pass through the valley of tribulation, and honour and wealth shall wait for him beyond. You are but a boy yet! be content! by-and-by you shall know all.'

'But I don't want you to vanish, mother, or your counsellor either. Why should you vanish, and where are you going to vanish to?'

'Those who impart happiness must not wait to behold its enjoyment. The bearers of evil tidings remain; but the heralds of joy pass on.'

What all this meant, Philip might have found it difficult to explain: but he was bound to consider it satisfactory. And then his mother, laying one hand on his shoulder, and with the other pointing upwards through the branches of the Oak, would say solemnly, 'There--there is treasure! Seek for it!'