CHAPTER XII. THE CASKET.

BehindthehouseattheRueFossettetherewasagarden—large,consideringthatitlayintheheartofacity,andtomyrecollectionatthisdayitseemspleasant:buttime,likedistance,lendstocertainscenesaninfluencesosofteningandwhereallisstonearound,blankwallandhotpavement,howpreciousseemsoneshrub,howlovelyanenclosedandplantedspotofground! TherewentatraditionthatMadameBeck’shousehadinolddaysbeenaconvent.Thatinyearsgoneby—howlonggonebyIcannottell,butIthinksomecenturies—beforethecityhadover-spreadthisquarter,andwhenitwastilledgroundandavenue,andsuchdeepandleafyseclusionasoughttoembosomareligioushouse—thatsomethinghadhappenedonthissitewhich,rousingfearandinflictinghorror,hadlefttotheplacetheinheritanceofaghost-story.Avaguetalewentofablackandwhitenun,sometimes,onsomenightornightsoftheyear,seeninsomepartofthisvicinage.Theghostmusthavebeenbuiltoutsomeagesago,fortherewerehousesallroundnowbutcertainconvent-relics,intheshapeofoldandhugefruit-trees,yetconsecratedthespotand,atthefootofone—aMethuselahofapear-tree,dead,allbutafewboughswhichstillfaithfullyrenewedtheirperfumedsnowinspring,andtheirhoney-sweetpendantsinautumn—yousaw,inscrapingawaythemossyearthbetweenthehalf-baredroots,aglimpseofslab,smooth,hard,andblack.Thelegendwent,unconfirmedandunaccredited,butstillpropagated,thatthiswastheportalofavault,imprisoningdeepbeneaththatground,onwhosesurfacegrassgrewandflowersbloomed,thebonesofagirlwhomamonkishconclaveofthedrearmiddleageshadhereburiedaliveforsomesinagainsthervow.Hershadowitwasthattremblershadfeared,throughlonggenerationsafterherpoorframewasdustherblackrobeandwhiteveilthat,fortimideyes,moonlightandshadehadmocked,astheyfluctuatedinthenight-windthroughthegarden-thicket. Independentlyofromanticrubbish,however,thatoldgardenhaditscharms.OnsummermorningsIusedtoriseearly,toenjoythemaloneonsummerevenings,tolingersolitary,tokeeptrystewiththerisingmoon,ortasteonekissoftheeveningbreeze,orfancyratherthanfeelthefreshnessofdewdescending.Theturfwasverdant,thegravelledwalkswerewhitesun-brightnasturtiumsclusteredbeautifulabouttherootsofthedodderedorchardgiants.Therewasalargeberceau,abovewhichspreadtheshadeofanacaciatherewasasmaller,moresequesteredbower,nestledinthevineswhichranallalongahighandgreywall,andgatheredtheirtendrilsinaknotofbeauty,andhungtheirclustersinlovingprofusionaboutthefavouredspotwherejasmineandivymetandmarriedthem. Doubtlessathighnoon,inthebroad,vulgarmiddleoftheday,whenMadameBeck’slargeschoolturnedoutrampant,andexternesandpensionnaireswerespreadabroad,vyingwiththedenizensoftheboys’collegecloseathand,inthebrazenexerciseoftheirlungsandlimbs—doubtlessthenthegardenwasatrite,trodden-downplaceenough.Butatsunsetorthehourofsalut,whentheexternesweregonehome,andtheboardersquietattheirstudiespleasantwasitthentostraydownthepeacefulalleys,andhearthebellsofSt.JeanBaptistepealoutwiththeirsweet,soft,exaltedsound. Iwaswalkingthusoneevening,andhadbeendetainedfartherwithinthevergeoftwilightthanusual,bythestill-deepeningcalm,themellowcoolness,thefragrantbreathingwithwhichflowersnosunshinecouldwinnowansweredthepersuasionofthedew.IsawbyalightintheoratorywindowthattheCatholichouseholdwerethengatheredtoeveningprayer—arite,fromattendanceonwhich,Inowandthen,asaProtestant,exemptedmyself. “Onemomentlonger,”whisperedsolitudeandthesummermoon,“staywithus:allistrulyquietnowforanotherquarterofanhouryourpresencewillnotbemissed:theday’sheatandbustlehavetiredyouenjoythesepreciousminutes.” Thewindowlessbacksofhousesbuiltinthisgarden,andinparticularthewholeofoneside,wasskirtedbytherearofalonglineofpremises—beingtheboarding-housesoftheneighbouringcollege.Thisrear,however,wasallblankstone,withtheexceptionofcertainatticloopholeshighup,openingfromthesleeping-roomsofthewomen-servants,andalsoonecasementinalowerstorysaidtomarkthechamberorstudyofamaster.But,thoughthussecure,analley,whichranparallelw