Chapter IV--Harold at Normanstand

by Bram Stoker

　　Two years afterwards a great blow fell upon Harold. His father, whohad been suffering from repeated attacks of influenza, was, when inthe low condition following this, seized with pneumonia, to which ina few days he succumbed. Harold was heart-broken. The affectionwhich had been between him and his father had been so consistent thathe had never known a time when it was not.When Squire Norman had returned to the house with him after thefuneral, he sat in silence holding the boy's hand till he had wepthis heart out. By this time the two were old friends, and the boywas not afraid or too shy to break down before him. There wassufficient of the love of the old generation to begin with trust inthe new.Presently, when the storm was past and Harold had become his own managain, Norman said:'And now, Harold, I want you to listen to me. You know, my dear boy,that I am your father's oldest friend, and right sure I am that hewould approve of what I say. You must come home with me to live. Iknow that in his last hours the great concern of your dear father'sheart would have been for the future of his boy. And I know, too,that it was a comfort to him to feel that you and I are such friends,and that the son of my dearest old friend would be as a son to me.We have been friends, you and I, a long time, Harold; and we havelearned to trust, and I hope to love, one another. And you and mylittle Stephen are such friends already that your coming into thehouse will be a joy to us all. Why, long ago, when first you came,she said to me the night you went away: "Daddy, wouldn't it be niceif Harold could come here altogether?"'And so Harold An Wolf came back with the Squire to Normanstand, andfrom that day on became a member of his house, and as a son to him.Stephen's delight at his coming was of course largely qualified byher sympathy with his grief; but it would have been hard to give himmore comfort than she did in her own pretty way. Putting her lips tohis she kissed him, and holding his big hand in both of her littleones, she whispered softly:'Poor Harold! You and I should love each other, for we have bothlost our mother. And now you have lost your father. But you mustlet my dear daddy be yours too!'At this time Harold was between fourteen and fifteen years old. Hewas well educated in so far as private teaching went. His father haddevoted much care to him, so that he was well grounded in all theAcademic branches of learning. He was also, for his years, an expertin most manly exercises. He could ride anything, shoot straight,fence, run, jump or swim with any boy more than his age and size.In Normanstand his education was continued by the rector. The Squireused often to take him with him when he went to ride, or fish, orshoot; frankly telling him that as his daughter was, as yet, tooyoung to be his companion in these matters, he would act as her locumtenens. His living in the house and his helping as he did inStephen's studies made familiarity perpetual. He was just enough hersenior to command her childish obedience; and there were certainqualities in his nature which were eminently calculated to win andkeep the respect of women as well as of men. He was the veryincarnation of sincerity, and had now and again, in certain ways, asublime self-negation which, at times, seemed in startling contrastto a manifestly militant nature. When at school he had often beeninvolved in fights which were nearly always on matters of principle,and by a sort of unconscious chivalry he was generally found fightingon the weaker side. Harold's father had been very proud of hisancestry, which was Gothic through the Dutch, as the manifestlycorrupted prefix of the original name implied, and he had gatheredfrom a constant study of the Sagas something of the philosophy whichlay behind the ideas of the Vikings.This new stage of Harold's life made for quicker development than anywhich had gone before. Hitherto he had not the same sense ofresponsibility. To obey is in itself a relief; and as it is anactual consolation to weak natures, so it is only a retarding of thestrong. Now he had another individuality to think of. There was inhis own nature a vein of anxiety of which the subconsciousness of hisown strength threw up the outcrop.Little Stephen with the instinct of her sex discovered before longthis weakness. For it is a weakness when any quality can be assailedor used. The using of a man's weakness is not always coquetry; butit is something very like it. Many a time the little girl, wholooked up to and admired the big boy who could compel her to anythingwhen he was so minded, would, for her own ends, work on his sense ofresponsibility, taking an elfin delight in his discomfiture.The result of Stephen's harmless little coquetries was that Haroldhad occasionally either to thwart some little plan of daring, or elsecover up its results. In either case her confidence in him grew, sothat before long he became an established fact in her life, a beingin whose power and discretion and loyalty she had absolute, blindfaith. And this feeling seemed to grow with her own growth. Indeedat one time it came to be more than an ordinary faith. It happenedthus:The old Church of St. Stephen, which was the parish church ofNormanstand, had a peculiar interest for the Norman family. There,either within the existing walls or those which had preceded themwhen the church was rebuilt by that Sir Stephen who was standard-bearer to Henry VI., were buried all the direct members of the line.It was an unbroken record of the inheritors since the first SirStephen, who had his place in the Domesday Book. Without, in thechurchyard close to the church, were buried all such of thecollaterals as had died within hail of Norcester. Some there were ofcourse who, having achieved distinction in various walks of life,were further honoured by a resting-place within the chancel. Thewhole interior was full of records of the family. Squire Norman wasfond of coming to the place; and often from the very beginning hadtaken Stephen with him. One of her earliest recollections waskneeling down with her father, who held her hand in his, whilst withthe other he wiped the tears from his eyes, before a tomb sculpturedbeautifully in snowy marble. She never forgot the words he had saidto her:'You will always remember, darling, that your dear mother rests inthis sacred place. When I am gone, if you are ever in any troublecome here. Come alone and open out your heart. You need never fearto ask God for help at the grave of your mother!' The child had beenimpressed, as had been many and many another of her race. For sevenhundred years each child of the house of Norman had been broughtalone by either parent and had heard some such words. The custom hadcome to be almost a family ritual, and it never failed to leave itsimpress in greater or lesser degree.Whenever Harold had in the early days paid a visit to Normanstand,the church had generally been an objective of their excursions. Hewas always delighted to go. His love for his own ancestry made himadmire and respect that of others; so that Stephen's enthusiasm inthe matter was but another cord to bind him to her.In one of their excursions they found the door into the crypt open;and nothing would do Stephen but that they should enter it. To-day,however, they had no light; but they arranged that on the morrow theywould bring candles with them and explore the place thoroughly. Theafternoon of the next day saw them at the door of the crypt with acandle, which Harold proceeded to light. Stephen looked onadmiringly, and said in a half-conscious way, the half-consciousnessbeing shown in the implication:'You are not afraid of the crypt?''Not a bit! In my father's church there was a crypt, and I was in itseveral times.' As he spoke the memory of the last time he had beenthere swept over him. He seemed to see again the many lights, heldin hands that were never still, making a grim gloom where the blackshadows were not; to hear again the stamp and hurried shuffle of themany feet, as the great oak coffin was borne by the struggling massof men down the steep stairway and in through the narrow door . . .And then the hush when voices faded away; and the silence seemed areal thing, as for a while he stood alone close to the dead fatherwho had been all in all to him. And once again he seemed to feel therecall to the living world of sorrow and of light, when his inerthand was taken in the strong loving one of Squire Norman.He paused and drew back.'Why don't you go on?' she asked, surprised.He did not like to tell her then. Somehow, it seemed out of place.He had often spoken to her of his father, and she had always been asympathetic listener; but here, at the entrance of the grim vault, hedid not wish to pain her with his own thoughts of sorrow and all theterrible memories which the similarity of the place evoked. And evenwhilst he hesitated there came to him a thought so laden with painand fear that he rejoiced at the pause which gave it to him in time.It was in that very crypt that Stephen's mother had been buried, andhad they two gone in, as they had intended, the girl might have seenher mother's coffin as he had seen his father's, but undercircumstances which made him shiver. He had been, as he said, oftenin the crypt at Carstone; and well he knew the sordidness of thechamber of death. His imagination was alive as well as his memory;he shuddered, not for himself, but for Stephen. How could he allowthe girl to suffer in such a way as she might, as she infalliblywould, if it were made apparent to her in such a brutal way? Howpitiful, how meanly pitiful, is the aftermath of death. Well heremembered how many a night he woke in an agony, thinking of how hisfather lay in that cold, silent, dust-strewn vault, in the silenceand the dark, with never a ray of light or hope or love! Gone,abandoned, forgotten by all, save perhaps one heart which bled . . .He would save little Stephen, if he could, from such a memory. Hewould not give any reason for refusing to go in.He blew out the candle, and turned the key in the lock, took it out,and put it in his pocket.'Come, Stephen!' he said, 'let us go somewhere else. We will not gointo the crypt to-day!''Why not?' The lips that spoke were pouted mutinously and the facewas flushed. The imperious little lady was not at all satisfied togive up the cherished project. For a whole day and night she had,whilst waking, thought of the coming adventure; the thrill of it wasnot now to be turned to cold disappointment without even anexplanation. She did not think that Harold was afraid; that would beridiculous. But she wondered; and mysteries always annoyed her. Shedid not like to be at fault, more especially when other people knew.All the pride in her revolted.'Why not?' she repeated more imperiously still.Harold said kindly:'Because, Stephen, there is really a good reason. Don't ask me, forI can't tell you. You must take it from me that I am right. Youknow, dear, that I wouldn't willingly disappoint you; and I know thatyou had set your heart on this. But indeed, indeed I have a goodreason.'Stephen was really angry now. She was amenable to reason, though shedid not consciously know what reason was; but to accept some oneelse's reason blindfold was repugnant to her nature, even at her thenage. She was about to speak angrily, but looking up she saw thatHarold's mouth was set with marble firmness. So, after her manner,she acquiesced in the inevitable and said:'All right! Harold.'But in the inner recesses of her firm-set mind was a distinctintention to visit the vault when more favourable circumstances wouldpermit.