Saying that, and saying no more, I bowed to him with marked respect, and left the house.
Mounting my pony at the door, I looked up at the center window, as she had bidden me.
It was open; but dark curtains, jealously closed, kept out the light from the room within.
At the sound of the pony's hoofs on the rough island road, as the animal moved, the curtains were parted for a few inches only.
Through the gap in the dark draperies a wan white hand appeared; waved tremulously a last farewell; and vanished from my view.
The curtains closed again on her dark and solitary life.
The dreary wind sounded its long, low dirge over the rippling waters of the lake.
The ponies took their places in the ferryboat which was kept for the passage of animals to and from the island.
With slow, regular strokes the men rowed us to the mainland and took their leave.
I looked back at the distant house.
I thought of her in the dark room, waiting patiently for death.
Burning tears blinded me.
The guide took my bridle in his hand:
"You're not well, sir," he said; "I will lead the pony."
When I looked again at the landscape round me, we had descended in the interval from the higher ground to the lower.
The house and the lake had disappeared, to be seen no more.
CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE SHADOW OF ST. PAUL'S.
In ten days I was at home again—and my mother's arms were round me.
I had left her for my sea-voyage very unwillingly—seeing that she was in delicate health.
On my return, I was grieved to observe a change for the worse, for which her letters had not prepared me.
Consulting our medical friend, Mr. MacGlue, I found that he, too, had noticed my mother's failing health, but that he attributed it to an easily removable cause—to the climate of Scotland.
My mother's childhood and early life had been passed on the southern shores of England.
The change to the raw, keen air of the North had been a trying change to a person at her age.
In Mr. MacGlue's opinion, the wise course to take would be to return to the South before the autumn was further advanced, and to make our arrangements for passing the coming winter at Penzance or Torquay.
Resolved as I was to keep the mysterious appointment which summoned me to London at the month's end, Mr. MacGlue's suggestion met with no opposition on my part.
It had, to my mind, the great merit of obviating the necessity of a second separation from my mother—assuming that she approved of the doctor's advice.
I put the question to her the same day.
To my infinite relief, she was not only ready, but eager to take the journey to the South.
The season had been unusually wet, even for Scotland; and my mother reluctantly confessed that she "did feel a certain longing" for the mild air and genial sunshine of the Devonshire coast.
We arranged to travel in our own comfortable carriage by post—resting, of course, at inns on the road at night.
In the days before railways it was no easy matter for an invalid to travel from Perthshire to London—even with a light carriage and four horses.
Calculating our rate of progress from the date of our departure, I found that we had just time, and no more, to reach London on the last day of the month.
I shall say nothing of the secret anxieties which weighed on my mind, under these circumstances.
Happily for me, on every account, my mother's strength held out.
The easy and (as we then thought) the rapid rate of traveling had its invigorating effect on her nerves.
She slept better when we rested for the night than she had slept at home.
After twice being delayed on the road, we arrived in London at three o'clock on the afternoon of the last day of the month.
Had I reached my destination in time?
As I interpreted the writing of the apparition, I had still some hours at my disposal.
The phrase, "at the month's end," meant, as I understood it, at the last hour of the last day in the month.
If I took up my position "under the shadow of Saint Paul's," say, at ten that night, I should arrive at the place of meeting with two hours to spare, before the last stroke of the clock marked the beginning of the new month.
At half-past nine, I left my mother to rest after her long journey, and privately quit the house.
Before ten, I was at my post.
The night was fine and clear; and the huge shadow of the cathedral marked distinctly the limits within which I had been bid to wait, on the watch for events.
The great clock of Saint Paul's struck ten—and nothing happened.
The next hour passed very slowly.
I walked up and down; at one time absorbed in my own thoughts; at another, engaged in watching the gradual diminution in the number of foot passengers who passed me as the night advanced.
The City (as it is called) is the most populous part of London in the daytime; but at night, when it ceases to be the center of commerce, its busy population melts away, and the empty streets assume the appearance of a remote and deserted quarter of the metropolis.
As the half hour after ten struck—then the quarter to eleven—then the hour—the pavement steadily became more and more deserted.
I could count the foot passengers now by twos and threes; and I could see the places of public refreshment within my view beginning already to close for the night.