[8] A corruption of the word _compare_ (godfather) which is used as a
familiar appellation among the peasantry, even when no such relations
exists between them. [9] Paini, the grade between a peasant and a gentleman. [10] A sort of pudding made of chestnut flour. [11] A species of cake made of Indian corn, used much among the Italian
peasantry, being cheaper than bread. [12] A paul is half a franc, and equal to five pence. [13] Padrone, master. [14] Oh, my holy souls of Purgatory! [15] Body of St. Anthony of Padua! [16] A corruption of per Cristo. [17] It is the custom in Roman Catholic countries for the dead to be
exposed in the centre of the church for twenty-four hours upon a bier,
with a candle burning. [18] To your Lordship. [19] A halfpenny. [Illustration]


CHAPTER IV. THE WAXEN IMAGE.--THE HOSTESS'S STORY. We have alluded before the commencement of our late story to a clapping
of hands proceeding from the club-room, announcing the termination of
some tale from our hostess. It will be remembered that the tale of our landlady had come to an end
previous to the commencement of our artist's narrative. Let us entreat
our reader, then, to take a retrospect glance, and imagine himself
seated in the club-room, in the company of its worthy members and our
buxom hostess, whilst the painter was deeply absorbed in his portrait of
the fair Helen. Dame Hearty, after continued pressing, and some diffidence on her part,
seemed finally to be collecting her ideas, which process was performed
by casting down her eyes and toying with the corners of her apron; then
as if suddenly inspired, she abruptly smoothed down her apron on her
lap, and dovetailing the fingers of each ruddy hand within those of the
other, she hemmed once or twice and proceeded in the following
strain. When I was a girl, gentlemen, about the age of my Helen, I was just such
another as she, though I dare say you would hardly believe it, to look
at me now; but ask my good man and he'll tell you the same. Look at my
Helen, and you will see what your humble servant was at her age. I had
the same rosy cheeks, like two ripe apples, the same laughing blue eyes
and sunny hair, and as for spirits, why, Lord bless you, the dear child
ain't nothing to what her mother was at her age. Well, gentlemen, I was always for gaming and romping, and folks would
say that there wasn't a lass like Molly Sykes for miles round. In fact,
I used to be called the pride of the village, though I say it, that
shouldn't. At the time I speak of, I was at the village school, and
there was hardly a young man in the village that did not come a courtin'
after me, but I paid no attention to none of them, as I had been
attached from childhood to my Jack, then a spruce lad of some eighteen
summers, but I laughed and joked with all, so I was always popular. The only school friend I ever had was a young girl about my own age--an
orphan, one Claribel Falkland, of an extremely delicate and sensitive
nature, the sweetest temper in the world, and of a beauty which in my
heart I felt surpassed my own, for it was more the beauty of a high-born
lady. I see before me now her pale oval face with her large lustrous
hazel eyes, her smooth dark nut-brown hair, and her slim graceful
figure which seemed to glide rather than walk about. I recollect, too,
her low soft voice that had music in the very tone of it, and her sweet
look radiant with the innocence of her heart. I know not how two beings
of such opposite temperaments should ever have become such fast friends,
for Claribel was pensive and melancholy, and of a studious turn, poring
over every book she could get hold of, whilst I, on the contrary, was a
perfect hoyden, always laughing and playing the fool when I ought to
have been at work. However strange it may appear, it is certain that a sympathy stronger
than that generally found between two sisters grew up between us. But
let me pass on to describe certain peculiarities in the constitution of
my young school friend. In the first place, she had been from childhood
a sleep walker, a phenomenon that I soon discovered, for poor Claribel
being an orphan and having no home of her own, used to live with us, and
we two always slept together. At first this peculiarity gave me no little alarm, as she would often
rise in the middle of the night, light a candle and wander all over the
house, and I was afraid that some night she would set the house on fire. However, no accident ever occurred, and to my surprise I found that she
seemed just as cautious in her sleep as if she had been in her waking
state, always shading the flame with her hand and using such extreme
caution when passing near the curtains or anything else at all likely
to catch fire, that I used to doubt sometimes if she really could be
asleep. Being warned by the doctor never to address her or touch her whilst in
this state, lest the shock should be too great for her, I, at first,
used to follow her with my eyes about the room, and if she left the
chamber, I generally used to rise and follow softly after, at some
distance, lest an accident should befall her. But finding soon that she
was just as certain of her footing in her sleep as in her waking
moments, I began to abandon my fears, and thought no more of this
peculiarity. Indeed, as she was in the habit of rising every other night, I soon felt
far too sleepy to trouble myself about her. But soon this strange power
in her began to develop itself, and to take a stranger and more
interesting form. She would now get up at night, sit herself down at a table, take pen,
ink, and paper, and fill sheet after sheet with close writing and
elegant composition. This was particularly the case if she had left a
task uncompleted during the day. In the morning it was sure to be found
finished, and generally better done than if it had been accomplished
during her hours of waking; nor was she herself conscious of it until
she examined her exercise the next morning. If I perchance should have an uncompleted task on hand, she would
invariably finish mine before her own. But this phenomenon in my young
friend, however strange and unaccountable it may seem, sinks into utter
insignificance before a far more terrible one which I am now about to
describe. You may think I exaggerate, gentlemen, or that it was the effect of my
own over-wrought fancy, produced by sleepless nights of watching over my
young friend, but there are witnesses living yet who saw what I saw, and
who are ready to give their testimony. The doctor of this village,
together with his assistant, the rector, and two women living close by,
are among these I speak of, besides others. Let them speak for
themselves if you will not believe my word. The phenomenon to which I have above alluded was the power, if I may so
call it, of dividing herself in two, or becoming two separate beings;
that is to say, of making a duplicate of herself.