The housekeeper has dropped her voice to a little
more than a whisper.
“She had been a lady of a handsome figure and
a noble carriage. She never complained of the
change; she never spoke to any one of being crippled
or of being in pain, but day by day she tried to walk
upon the terrace, and with the help of the stone balustrade,
went up and down, up and down, up and down, in sun
and shadow, with greater difficulty every day.
At last, one afternoon her husband (to whom she had
never, on any persuasion, opened her lips since that
night), standing at the great south window, saw her
drop upon the pavement. He hastened down to
raise her, but she repulsed him as he bent over her,
and looking at him fixedly and coldly, said, ’I
will die here where I have walked. And I will
walk here, though I am in my grave. I will walk
here until the pride of this house is humbled.
And when calamity or when disgrace is coming to it,
let the Dedlocks listen for my step!’”
Watt looks at Rosa. Rosa in the deepening gloom
looks down upon the ground, half frightened and half
shy.
“There and then she died. And from those
days,” says Mrs. Rouncewell, “the name
has come down—the Ghost’s Walk.
If the tread is an echo, it is an echo that is only
heard after dark, and is often unheard for a long
while together. But it comes back from time
to time; and so sure as there is sickness or death
in the family, it will be heard then.”
“And disgrace, grandmother—”
says Watt.
“Disgrace never comes to Chesney Wold,”
returns the housekeeper.
Her grandson apologizes with “True. True.”
“That is the story. Whatever the sound
is, it is a worrying sound,” says Mrs. Rouncewell,
getting up from her chair; “and what is to be
noticed in it is that it must be heard.
My Lady, who is afraid of nothing, admits that when
it is there, it must be heard. You cannot shut
it out. Watt, there is a tall French clock behind
you (placed there, ’a purpose) that has a loud
beat when it is in motion and can play music.
You understand how those things are managed?”
“Pretty well, grandmother, I think.”
“Set it a-going.”
Watt sets it a-going—music and all.
“Now, come hither,” says the housekeeper.
“Hither, child, towards my Lady’s pillow.
I am not sure that it is dark enough yet, but listen!
Can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through the
music, and the beat, and everything?”
“I certainly can!”
“So my Lady says.”
Covering a Multitude of Sins
