CHAPTER XXIII.THE SOLITUDE IS INVADED.
Oh, might we hereIn solitude live savage, in some gladeObscured, where highest woods impenetrableTo star, or sunlight, spread their umbrage broadAnd brown as evening; cover us, ye pinesYe cedars with innumerable boughsHide us where we may ne’er be seen again.—Byron.
Nothing could be more lonely and desolate than this place. It was abandoned to Nature and Nature’s wild children. Of the birds that perched so near his hand; of the squirrels that peeped at him from their holes under the gravestones, he might have said with Alexander Selkirk on Juan Fernandez,
“Their tameness is shocking to me.”
There was a great consolation to be derived from these circumstances, however; for they proved how completely deserted by human beings, and how perfectly safe for the refugees, was this old “Haunted Chapel.”
Too deeply troubled in mind to take any repose of body; Lyon Berners continued to ramble about among the gravestones, which were now so worn with age that no vestige of their original inscriptions remained to gratify the curiosity of a chance inspector.
Above him was the glorious autumn sky, now hazy with the golden mist of Indian summer. Around him lay a vast wilderness of hill and dell covered with luxuriant forests, now gorgeous with the glowing autumn colors of their foliage.
But his thoughts were not with this magnificent landscape. They wandered to the past days of peace and joy before the coming of the coquette had “made confusion” with the wedded pair. They wandered to the future, trying to penetrate the gloom and horror of its shadows. They flew to Black Hall, picturing the people, prevising the possibilities there.
How he longed for, yet dreaded the arrival of Captain Pendleton! Would there be danger in his coming through the open daylight? What news would he bring?
The verdict of the coroners jury? Against whom must this verdict be given? Lyon Berners shuddered away from answering this question. But it was also possible that before this the murderer might have been discovered and arrested. Should this surmise prove to be a fact, oh, what relief from anguish, what a happy return home for Sybil! If not—if the verdict should be rendered againsther,—nothing but flight and exile remained to them.
While Lyon Berners wandered up and down like a restless ghost among the gravestones, his attention was suddenly arrested by the sound of a crackling tread breaking through the bushes. He turned quickly, expecting to see Captain Pendleton, but he saw his own servant instead.
“Joe!” he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise.
“Marser!” responded the man, in a voice of grief.
“You come from Captain Pendleton? What message does he send? How is it at the house? Has the coroner come? And oh! has any clue been found to the murderer?” anxiously inquired Mr. Berners.
“No, marser, no clue an’t been found to no murderer. But the house up there is full of crowners and constables, as if it was the county court house, and Cappin Pendulum managing everything.”
“He sent you to me?”
“No, marser, nor likewise knowed I come.”
“Joe!whohas sent you here?” inquired Mr. Berners.
“No one hasn’t, marser,” answered Joe, dashing the tears from his eyes, and then proceeding to unstrap a large hamper that he carried upon his shoulders.
“No one! Then how came you here?” demanded Mr. Berners, uneasily.
Now, instead of answering his master’s question, Joe sat down upon his hamper, and wept aloud.
“What is the matter with you?” inquired Mr. Berners.
“You axed me how I comed here,” sobbed Joe, “just as if I could keep away when she and you was here in trouble, and a-wanting some one to look arter you.”
“But how did you know we were here?” anxiously questioned Mr. Berners.
“I wa’n’t a listening at key-holes, nor likewise a-eaves-dropping, which I considers beneath a gentleman to do; but I was a-looking to the back shutters, to see as they was all safe arter the fright we got, and I hearn somebody a-talking, which I was sure was more bugglers; so I made free to wait and hear what they said.”
“It was Captain Pendleton and myself, I suppose,” said Mr. Berners, much annoyed.
“Jes so, sir; it wer Capping Pendulum and yourself, which it hurt me to the heart as you should have trusted into Capping Pendulum and not into me—a old and valleyed servant of the family.”
“And so, Joe, you overheard the whole matter?”
“Which I did, sir, and shocked I was to think as any false charges should cause my dear young missus to run away from home in the night-time, like a fusible slave. And hurt I was to think you didn’t trust into me instead of into he.”
“Well, Joe, it appears to me that you were resolved to take our trust, if we did not give it to you. What brought you here this morning?”
“Coffee, sir,” gravely answered Joe, getting up off the hamper and beginning to untie its fastenings.
“What?” demanded Mr. Berners, gathering his brows into a frown.
“Coffee!” reiterated Joe, as he took from the hamper a small silver coffee-pot, a pair of cups and saucers, spoons, plates, and knives and forks, a bottle of cream, and several small packets containing all that was needful for breakfast.
“Joe! this was very kind and thoughtful of you; but was it quite safe for you to come here with a hamper on your back in open day?” inquired Mr. Berners.
“Lord bless you, sir! safe as safe! I took by-paths, and didn’t see a creetur, not one! Why, lord, sir, you had better a-trusted into me from the beginning, than into Capping Pendulum. Bress your soul, marser, there an’t that white man going, nor yet that red injun, that can aiqual a colored gentleman into hiding and seeking!”
“I can well believe that.”
“Why, marser!—but you don’t ’member that time I got mad long o’ old Marse Bertram Berners, ’bout blaming of me for the sorrell horse falling lame; and I run away?”
“No.”
“Well, I was gone three months, and not five miles from home all that time! And all the constables looking arter me for law and order; and all the poor white trash, hunting of me for the reward; and not one of ’em all ever struck upon my trail, and me so nigh home all the while!”
“Well, but you were found at last,” suggested Mr. Berners.
“Who,me? No,sir! And I don’t think as I should a-been found yet; ’cause it was a funny kind of life, that run-a-way life, a dodging of the man-hunters; but you see, marser, I sort o’ pined arter the child—meaning Miss Sybil, who was then about four years old. And, moreover, it was fotch to me by a secret friend o’ mine, as the child waslikewise a pining arter me. So I up and went straight home, and walked right up before old marse, and took off my hat and told him as howIwas willin’ to forgive and forget, and let by-gones be by-gones like a Christian gentleman, if he would do the same.”
“And of course your master at once accepted such magnanimous terms.”
“Who,he? Why, Marse Lyon! he looked jes as if he’d a-knocked me down! Only, you see, the child—meaning Miss Sybil—was a sitting on his knee, which, soon as ever she saw me, she ran to me, and clasped me round one leg, and tried to climb up in my arms; which I took her up at once; and old marster, he couldn’t knock me down then, if it had been to have saved his life.”
“So peace was ratified.”
“Yes, Marse Lyon! which I telled you all this here nonsense jes to let you know how good I was at hiding and seeking. And, Marse! the horses come home all right.”
“They did! I am glad of that.”
“This was the way of it being all right, sir! You see I knowed, when I heard you were going to ride to this old church, as you couldn’t get the horses through this thicket, but would have to turn them loose, to find their way home. And I knowed how if any other eyes ’cept mine saw them, it would set people to axing questions. So I goes out to the road, and watches till I sees ’em coming; when I takes charge of ’em, and gets ’em into the stable quiet, and no one the wiser.”
“Well done, Joe! But tell me, my good man, are we missed yet? Has any one inquired for us?”
“Plenty has axed arter you both, Marse! But as no one but me and Capping Pendulum knowed where you was gone, and as I locked your door, and took the key, most of the folks still think as how Miss Sybil has gone to bed, overcome by the ewents of the night, and as how you is a watching by her, and a taking care of her.”
“That also is well.”
“But, Marse, how is Miss Sybil, and where is she?” inquired the faithful servant, looking about himself.
“She is very much prostrated by fatigue and excitement, and is now sleeping in the church.”
“Thanks be to the Divine Marster as shecansleep,” said Joe, reverently.
“And now,” he continued, as he replaced it on his head, “I will kindle a fire and make the coffee, and may be she may wake up by the time it is ready.”
“Kindle a fire out here, Joe! Will not the smoke be seen, and lead to our discovery?” inquired Lyon Berners, glancing at the slender column of smoke from the fire in the church, that he himself had kindled, and now for the first time struck with the sense of the danger of discovery to which it might have exposed Sybil.
“Lord, Marse!” replied Joe, showing his teeth, “we are too far off from any human being for any eye to see our smoke. And even if it wasn’t so, bless you, there are so many mists rising from the valley this morning, that one smoke more or less wouldn’t be noticed.”
“That is true,” admitted Mr. Berners.
Meanwhile Joe busied himself with lighting a fire. When it was burning freely, he took the kettle and filled it from the little stream that flowed through the church-yard.
“Now, Marse Lyon, in about ten minutes I will set you down to as good a breakfast, almost, as you could have got at home,” said Joe, as he raised three cross-sticks over the fire, and hung the kettle over the blaze, gipsy fashion.
While Joe was at work, Mr. Berners went into the church to look after Sybil.
She was still sleeping the heavy sleep of utter mental and bodily prostration. For a few minutes he stood contemplating her with an expression of countenance full of love and pity, and then after adjusting the covering over her, andcollecting together the brands of the expiring fire to light up again, he left the church.
On going outside, he found that Joe had spread a cloth and arranged a rude sort of picnic breakfast upon the ground.
“The coffee is ready, Marse Lyon; but how about the Missis?” inquired the man, as he stirred down the grounds from the top of the pot.
“She is still sleeping, and must not be disturbed,” answered Mr. Berners.
“Well, Marse Lyon, I reckon as how you can relish a cup of coffee as well as she; so please to let me wait on you, sir.”
Mr. Berners thanked Joe, and threw himself down upon the ground, and made such a breakfast as a hungry mancanmake, even under the most deplorable circumstances.
“Now you know, sir, when the Missus wakes up, be it longer or shorter, I can make fresh coffee for her in ten minutes,” said Joe, cheerfully.
“But you cannot stay here very long. You’ll be missed from the house,” objected Mr. Berners.
“Please, sir, I have so well provided for all that, that I can stay till night. Bless you, sir, I told my fellow-servants as I was going to take some corn to the mill to be ground, and was agoin’ to wait all day to fetch it home; and so I really did take the corn, and told the miller I should come arter it this evening, and so I shall, and take it home all right, accordin’ to my word.”
“That was a very politic proceeding, Joe; but how could you account to them for the hamper you brought away, and which must have excited suspicion, if not inquiry?”
“Bless you, sir, I wasn’t fool enough to let them see the hamper. All they saw was the two bags of corn as I rode out of the gate with. I had filled the hamper on the sly, and hid it in the bushes by the road, until I went by and picked it up.”
“Still better, Joe! But your horse? what horse did you ride, and what have you done with him?”
“I rode Dick, which I have tied him fast in the deep woods on the other side of the river. I crossed over the rapids with the help of a pole,” explained Joe.
While they were speaking, a step was heard crushing through the dried brushwood, and in another moment Captain Pendleton, pale, sad, and weary, stood before them.
CHAPTER XXIV.THE VERDICT AND THE VISITOR.
Can such things be,And overcome us like a summer cloudWithout our special wonder?—Shakespeare.
“Pendleton! oh! Heaven, Pendleton! What news?” exclaimed Lyon Berners, starting up to greet him.
“Good heaven! Berners! How is this? Another—a servant taken into your confidence, and trusted with the secret of your retreat!” cried Captain Pendleton in dismay.
“He is trustworthy! I will vouch for his fidelity! But oh! Pendleton! What news? what news?” exclaimed Lyon Berners in an agony of impatience.
“The worst that you can anticipate!” cried Captain Pendleton in a voice full of sorrow.
“Oh! my unhappy wife! The coroner’s jury have found their verdict then?” groaned Lyon.
Captain Pendleton bowed his head. He was unable to reply in words.
“And that verdict is—Oh! speak I let me hear the worst!—that verdict is—”
“Wilful Murder!” muttered Pendleton in a hoarse and choking voice.
“Against—against—whom?” gasped Lyon Berners white as death.
“Oh Heaven!You know!Do not ask me to sully her name with the words!” cried Captain Pendleton, utterly overcome by his emotions.
“Oh, my unhappy wife! Oh, my lost Sybil!” exclaimed Lyon Berners, reeling under the blow, half-expected though it might have been.
There was silence for a few minutes. Pendleton was the first to recover himself. He went up to his friend, touched him on the shoulder, and said:
“Berners, rouse yourself; the position requires the exertion of your utmost powers of mind and body. Calm yourself, and collect all your faculties. Come now let us sit down here and talk over the situation.”
Lyon permitted the captain to draw him away to a little distance, where they both sat down side by side, on a fallen tombstone.
“In the first place, how is your wife, and how does she sustain herself under this overwhelming disaster?” inquired Captain Pendleton, forcing himself to speak composedly.
“I do not think my dear innocent Sybil was able fully to appreciate the danger of her position, even as she stood before the rendering of that false and fatal verdict, she was so strong in her sense of innocence. She seemed to suffer most from the lesser evils involved in her exile from home.”
“Where is she, then?”
“Sleeping heavily in the church there; sleeping very heavily, from the united effects of mental and bodily fatigue and excitement.”
“Heaven grant that she may sleep long and well. And now, Berners, to our plans. You must know that I kept a horse saddled and tied in the woods down by the river, and as soon as that lying verdict was rendered, I hurried off, leaped into my saddle and galloped here. I forded theriver, and have left my horse just below here, at the entrance of this thicket. I must soon mount and away again on your service.”
“Oh, my dear Pendleton, how shall I ever repay you?”
“By keeping up a stout heart until this storm-cloud blows over, as it must, in a few days or weeks. But now to business. How came this man Joe here?”
Mr. Berners explained how Joe had overheard all their conversation while they were making their arrangements, and taken pains to co-operate with them, and had followed them here with some necessary provisions. And he, Mr. Berners, closed with a eulogy on Joe’s fidelity and discretion.
“I am very glad to hear what you tell me, for it relieves my mind of a very great weight. I knew that there had been a listener to our conversation, for I almost ran against him as I went into the house; but as he made his escape before I could identify him, I was very anxious on the subject. So you may judge what a burden is lifted from my mind by the discovery that he was no other than honest Joe, whom Providence sent in the way. But why he ran from me, I cannot imagine.
“He was a little jealous, a little sulky, and somewhat fearful of being blamed, I suppose. But tell me, Pendleton, has our flight been discovered yet?” inquired Mr. Berners, anxiously.
“No, nor even suspected; at least, not up to the time that I left Black Hall. Mrs. Berners was supposed to be in her chamber. I warned all the men, and requested my sister to caution all the women, against knocking at her door.”
“And I, who must have been expected to be on the spot?” asked Lyon.
“You were often asked for. Fortunately for you, there is a well-known weakness in human nature to pretend toknow all about everything that may be inquired into. And so, every time you chanced to be inquired for by one party, you were accounted for by another. Some said you were with Mrs. Berners; others that you had gone to Blackville on pressing business connected with the tragedy. And these last authorities came to be believed; so that when I slipped away I left the people momentarily expecting your return.”
“Whom did you leave there?”
“Everybody—the coroner’s jury and all the guests of the house, who had been detained as witnesses.”
“Then all our friends heard the fatal verdict?”
“All.”
“Was there—a warrant issued?” gasped Lyon Berners, scarcely able to utter the words.
“Ah, yes; the issue of the warrant was the first intimation I had of the fatal nature of the verdict. It was put in the hands of an officer, with orders to be on the watch and serve it as soon as Mrs. Berners should come out of her chamber, but not to knock at the door, or molest her while she remained in it.”
Lyon Berners groaned deeply, and buried his face in his hands.
“Come, come! bear up, that you may sustainher!” said Captain Pendleton. “And now listen: Your flight, as I told you, was not suspected up to the time I left Black Hall. It will not be discovered probably until late this evening, when it will be too late for the authorities to take any immediate measures of pursuit. We have, therefore, this afternoon and to-night to perfect our plans. Only you need to bring steady nerves and a clear head to the task.”
“What do you suggest, Pendleton?”
“First of all, that during this night, which is ours, all necessary conveniences be brought here to support your life for a few days, for you must not leave this safe refugeimmediately—to do so would be to fall into the hands of the law.”
“I see that,” sighed Mr. Berners.
“I, then, with the help of this faithful Joe, will bring to you here to-night such things as you and Mrs. Berners will actually need, for the few days that you must remain. As to all your affairs at the Hall, I counsel you to give me a written authority to act for you in your absence. I have brought writing materials for the purpose; and when you have written it, I will myself take it and drop it secretly into the post-office at Blackville, so that it may reach me regularly through the mail, and help to mislead everybody to whom I shall show it, into the idea that you have gone away through Blackville. Will you write it now?” inquired Captain Pendleton, drawing from his pocket a rolled writing-case, containing all that was requisite for the work.
“A thousand thanks, Pendleton. I do not see how in the name of Heaven we could have managed without you,” replied Berners, as he took the case, unrolled it on his knee, and proceeded to write the required “power of attorney.”
“And now,” said the Captain, when he received the document, “now we must be getting back. The sun is quite low, and we have much to do. Come, Joe, are you ready?”
“Yes, Massa Capping; ready and waitin’ on you too. I ought to be at the mill now, ’fore the miller shuts it up.”
Captain Pendleton then shook hands with Mr. Berners, and Joe pulled his front lock of wool by way of a deferential adieu, and both left the spot and disappeared in the thicket.
But it was not until the last sound of their retreating steps, crashing through the dried bushes, had died away, that Lyon Berners turned and went into the church.
As he entered, a singular phenomenon, almost enough to confirm the reputation of the place as “haunted ground,” met his view.
All in one instant his eyes took in these things: First, Sybil covered over with the dark riding skirt, and still sleeping by the smouldering fire; but sleeping uneasily, and muttering in her sleep. Secondly, the four prints of the western windows laid in sunshine on the floor. Thirdly, ashadowthat slipped swiftly athwart this sunshine, and disappeared as if it had sunk into the floor on the right of the altar. And in the same moment Sybil, with a half-suppressed shriek, started up, and stared wildly around, exclaiming:
“Oh! what is this? Where am I? Who was she?” Lyon Berners hastened to his wife, saying soothingly:
“Sybil, wake up, darling; you have been dreaming.”
“But what does all this mean? Where are we? What strange place is this?” she cried, throwing back her long dark hair, and shading her eyes with her hands, as she gazed around.
“Dearest wife, take time to compose yourself, and you will remember all. A sudden and terrible catastrophe has driven us from our home. You have had a heavy sleep since that, and you find it difficult to awake to the truth,” said Lyon Berners tenderly, as he sat down by her side, and sought to soothe her.
“Oh! I know now! I remember all now! my fatal fancy ball! Rosa Blondelle’s mysterious murder! Our sudden flight! All! O! Heavens, all!” cried Sybil, dropping her face upon her hands.
Lyon Berners put his arm around her, and drew her to his bosom. But he did not speak; he thought it better to leave her to collect herself in silence.
After a few moments, she looked up again, and looked all around the church, and then gazed into her husband’s eyes, and inquired:
“But Lyon, who wasshe? and where has she gone?”
“Who was who, dear Sybil? I don’t understand,” answered Mr. Berners, in surprise.
“That gipsy-like girl in the red cloak; who was bending over me, and staring into my face, just as you came in?”
“There was no such girl near you, or even in the church, my dear,” said Mr. Berners.
“But indeed there was; she started away just as I woke up.”
“My dearest Sybil, you have been dreaming.”
“Indeed no; I saw her as plainly as I see you now: a girl in a red cloak, with such an elfin face I shall never forget it; such small piercing black eyes; such black eyebrows, depressed towards the nose, and raised high towards the temples, giving such an eldritch, mischievous, even dangerous expression to the whole dark countenance; and such wild black hair streaming around her shoulders.”
“A very vivid dream you have had, dear wife, and that is all.”
“I tell you no! she was bending over me; looking at me; and she fled away just as I woke up.”
“My darling, I will convince you out of your own mouth. She ran away, you say, just as you woke up; therefore you did not see her after you were awake, but only while you slept, in your dreams. Besides, dear, I was here when you woke up, and I saw no one near you, or even in the building,” persisted Lyon Berners—though at that moment he did recall to mindthe shadowthat he had seen slip past all the sunshine on the floor, and disappear as if it had sunk under the slabs on the right side of the altar.
“Lyon,” said Sybil, solemnly, “I do not like to contradict you, but as I hope to be saved, I saw that girl, not in a dream, but in reality; and since you do not know anything about her, I begin to think the apparition mysterious and alarming. Let me tell you all about it.”
“Well, tell me, dear, if to do so will do you any good,” said Mr. Berners indulgently, but incredulously.
“Listen, then. I was in adead sleep, oh, such a deepdead sleep, that I seemed to be away down in the bottom of some deep cave, when I felt a heavy breathing or panting over my face, and was conscious of somebody leaning over me, and looking at me. I tried to wake, but could not, I could not lift myself up out of that deep dark cave of sleep. But at last I felt a hand near my throat, trying to unfasten this golden locket that contains your miniature. Then I struggled, and succeeded in throwing off the spell and waking up. As soon as I opened my eyes I saw the wild eldritch face, with its keen bright black eyes and queer eyebrows, and snake-like black locks, running down over the red cloak. The instant I saw this, I cried out, and the girl fled, and you hurried up. Now call that a dream if you can, for I tell you I saw that figure start up and run away from me as plainly as I saw you come up. One event was as real as the other,” concluded Sybil.
Lyon Berners did not at once reply, for he thought again of the flittingshadowhe had seen cross the sunshine, and disappear as if it had sunk into the flagstones on the right side of the altar. And he mentally admitted the bare possibility that some intruder had entered the church and looked upon Sybil in her sleep, and fled at her awakening. But fled whither? The windows were very high, the wall was smooth beneath them; no one could have climbed to them, for there was no foothold or handhold to assist one in the ascent, and there was but the one door by which he himself had entered, at the same moment the strange visitor was said to have fled, and he was quite sure that no one had passed him. Besides, the shadow that he had seen vanished beside the altar, at the upper end of the church. Lyon Berners knew not what to think of all that he had seen and heard within the last quarter of an hour. But one thing was quite certain, that it was absolutely necessary to Sybil’s safety to ascertain whether any stranger had really entered the church, or even come upon the premises.
“Well,” inquired Sybil, seeing that he still remained silent, “what do you think now, Lyon?”
“I think,” he answered promptly, “that I will search the church.”
“There is not a hiding-place for anything bigger than a rat or a bird,” said his wife, glancing around upon the bare walls, floor, and ceiling.
Nevertheless Lyon Berners walked up to the side of the altar where he had seen the shadow disappear. Sybil followed close behind him. He examined the altar all around. It was built of stonework like the church; that was the reason it had stood so long. But he experienced a great surprise when he looked at the side where the shadow had vanished; for there he found a small iron-grated door, through which he dimly discerned the head of a flight of stone steps, the continuation of which was lost in the darkness below. Glancing over the top of the door, he read, in iron letters, the inscription:
“DUBARRY. 1650.”
“What is it, dear Lyon?” inquired Sybil, anxiously looking over his shoulder.
“Good Heaven! It is the family vault of the wicked old Dubarrys, who once owned all the land hereabouts, except the Black Valley Manor, and who built this chapel for their sins; for of them it might not be said with truth, that ‘all their sons were true, and all their daughters pure,’ but just exactly the reverse. However, they are well forgotten now!”
“And this is their family vault?”
“Yes; but I had almost forgotten its existence here.”
“Lyon, can my mysterious visitor have hidden herself in that vault?”
“I can search it, at any rate,” answered Mr. Berners, wrenching away at the grated door.
But it resisted all his efforts, as if its iron bars had been bedded in the solid masonry.
“No,” he answered; “your visitor, if you had one, could not possibly have entered here. See how fast the door is.”
“Lyon,” whispered Sybil, in a deep and solemn voice, “Lyon, could she possibly have come out from there?”
“Nonsense, dear! Are you thinking of ghosts?”
“This is the ‘Haunted Chapel,’ you know,” whispered Sybil.
“Bosh, my dear; you are not silly enough to believe that!”
“But my strange visitor?”
“You had no visitor, dear Sybil; you had a dream, and your dream had every feature of nightmare in it—the deep, death-like, yet half-conscious and much disturbed sleep; the sense of heavy oppression; the apparition hanging over you; the inability to awake; even the grappling at your throat, and the swift disappearance of the vision immediately upon your full awakening—all well-known features of incubus,” replied Mr. Berners. But again he thought of the shadow he had seen; now, however, only to dismiss the subject as an optical illusion.
Sybil sighed deeply.
“It is hard,” she said, “that you won’t trust to my senses in this affair.”
“Sweet wife, I would rather convince you how completely your senses have deceived you. Your imagination has been excited while your nerves were depressed. You have heard the legend of the Haunted Chapel, and while sleeping within it you conjured up the heroine of the story in your dream where she immediately took the form of incubus.”
“I!—the legend! What are you talking of, Lyon? I have heard the church called the Haunted Chapel indeed, but I never even knew that there was any story connected with it,” exclaimed Sybil, in surprise.
“Really? Never heard the legend of ‘Dubarry’s Fall’?” inquired Mr. Berners, with equal surprise.
“Never, upon my word.”
“Well, it is an old tradition; forgotten like the family with whom it was connected. I heard it in my childhood; but it had slipped my memory until your graphic description of the gipsy girl in the red cloak recalled it to my mind, and led me to believe that your knowledge of the legend had so impressed your imagination as to make it conjure up the heroine of the legend.”
“What is the legend? Do tell me, Lyon.”
“Not now, dearest. You must first have some coffee, which a faithful friend has provided for us.”
“Captain Pendleton?” eagerly inquired Sybil.
“No, dear, our servant Joe. I do not expect to see Captain Pendleton until nightfall,” added Lyon Berners, for he tried to anticipate and prevent any troublesome questions that Sybil might ask, as he wished to save her from needless additional pain as long as he possibly could.
“And Joe is here with us?” inquired Sybil, cheerfully.
“No, dear; he has returned home; but will come again to-night.”
“But what news did he bring?”
“None. We will hear from Captain Pendleton to-night. Now you must have some coffee; and then I will tell you the ‘Legend of the Haunted Chapel’; for that legend, Sybil, may well account for your vision, whether we look on it from my point of view or from yours—as illusion or reality,” said Lyon Berners.
“Or, stay,” he added, reflectively; “it is too cold for you to sup in the open air. I will bring the things in here.”
“Well, let me go with you, to help to bring them in, at least,” pleaded Sybil.
“What! are you really afraid to stay here alone?” inquired Lyon, smiling, with an attempt at pleasantry.
“No, indeed; but all smells mouldy inside this old church. At least it does since the sun set, and I wouldlike to go out and get a breath of fresh air,” replied Sybil, quite seriously.
“Come, then,” said Lyon.
They went out together.
The fire that had been built by Joe was now burnt down to embers; but the coffee-pot sat upon these embers, and the coffee was hot.
Lyon Berners took it up, while Sybil loaded herself with crockery ware and cutlery.
They had turned to go back to the church, when Sybil uttered a half-suppressed cry, and nearly dropped her burden.
“What’s the matter?” cried Mr. Berners.
“Look!” exclaimed Sybil.
“Where?”
“At the east window.”
Mr. Berners raised his eyes just in time to see a weird young face, with wild black hair, and a bright red mantle, flash downward from the window, as if it had dropped to the floor.
There was no dream now; not even an optical illusion. The reality of the vision was unquestionable.
“This is most strange,” exclaimed Mr. Berners.
“It is the same face that bent over me, and woke me up,” answered Sybil, with a shudder.
“It is some one who is concealed in the church, and whom we shall be sure to discover, for there is but one exit, by the front door; and if she comes out of that, we shall see her; or if she remains in the building, we shall be sure to find her there. Since I saw the face drop from the window, I have carefully watched the door. Do you also watch it, my dear Sybil; so that the creature, whatever it is, may not pass us,” said Mr. Berners, as he strode on rapidly towards the church, followed by his wife.
They entered together, and looked eagerly around.
Though the sun had set some ten minutes before, yet the “after glow” shone in through the six tall gothic window spaces, and revealed clearly every nook and corner of the interior. Their strange inmate or visitor, whichever she might be, was nowhere to be seen.
With an impatient gesture, Mr. Berners set down the coffee-pot, and hurried towards the door of the vault, and looked through the iron grating. But he could see nothing but the top of those stairs, the bottom of which disappeared in the darkness.
He then shook the door; but it firmly resisted all his strength. The bars appeared to be built into the solid masonry.
“This is really confounding to all one’s intelligence,” exclaimed Lyon Berners, gazing around in perplexity.
“It is, indeed. But it is well that you have seen this mystery with your own eyes, for if you had not done so, you never would have believed in it,” said Sybil, gravely shaking her head.
“Nor do I believe in it, now that I have seen it.”
“Then you will not trust the united evidence of your own eyes and mine.”
“No, Sybil; not for a prodigy so out of nature as that would be,” replied Lyon Berners, firmly.
“Well, then, tell me the legend of the Haunted Chapel, for you hinted that that legend must have some connection with this apparition.”
“A seeming connection, at the very least; but I cannot tell it to you now—not until you take something to eat and drink, for you have not broken your fast since morning.”
“Nor have I hungered since morning,” replied Sybil, with a sigh.
Mr. Berners went up to the smouldering embers of the fire that he had lighted in the morning on the stone floor of the church; and he drew together the dying brands, put fresh fuel on them, and soon rekindled the flame.
And the husband and wife sat down beside it; and while Sybil ate and drank with what appetite she could bring to the repast, Lyon Berners, to pass off the heavy time, related to her the legend of the Haunted Chapel.
CHAPTER XXV.THE FALL OF THE DUBARRYS.
But, soft! behold, lo, where it comes again!I’ll cross it, though it blast me.—Stay, illusion!If thou hast any sound, or use of voice,Speak to me!—Shakespeare.
“The Dubarrys,” he began, “were a French Roman Catholic family of distinction. A cadet of that family came over to Virginia among the earliest English settlers of the colony.
“As in the case of the more important among his anglican comrades, he obtained a very large tract of land by Royal patent. He built his hut and fixed his abode here, not a hundred yards from the spot where this church now stands.
“He took an Indian girl for a wife, and continued to live a wild huntsman sort of life in the wilderness; only breaking it sometimes by going down to Jamestown, twice a year, to buy such necessaries of civilized life as the wilderness could not furnish, and to hear news from any ship that might have come in from the old country; and above all, to take a holiday among civilized pleasure-seekers—for such existed even in the primitive settlement of Jamestown.
“In due course of time, a family of half-breed sons and daughters grew up around him, and the little primitive hut gave place to a substantial stone lodge.
“And the country around was becoming settled. TheBerners had got a grant of the Black Valley, and had built the first part of Black Hall, which has since been added to in every generation, until it has grown to its present dimensions.
“About this time also, Charles Dubarry was inspired with a certain ambition for his eldest son, a densely ignorant, half-Indian youth of nineteen; and hearing that the two young sons of Richard Berners of Black Hall were to be sent to England to be educated, he proposed that his own ‘black boy,’ as he called his handsome dark-eyed heir, should go with them. And as the three lads had been forest companions for some years, the proposal of old Dubarry was gladly accepted, and the three young men sailed in company for England.
“They spent ten years in the old world, and returned, as as they had set out, together. It was after their return that the close friendship of a young lifetime was turned to the deadliest enmity. It happened in this manner:
“The country, during their absence, had grown a great deal in population. Every rich valley among these mountains had its white proprietor. In the Valley of the Roses—so named, because at the time it was taken possession of by its first proprietor, it was fairly carpeted and festooned all around and about with the wild-rose vine—dwelt one Gabriel Mayo, a gentleman of fortune, taste, and culture. He had a family of fair daughters, of whom old Charles Dubarry, with his national gallantry and proneness to exaggeration, had said, that ‘they were all the most beautiful girls in the world, and each one more beautiful than all the others.’
“Be that as it may, it is certain that there were five lovely maidens, ranging from fifteen years to twenty-one, to choose from. Yet who can account for human caprice, especially in such matters? The three young men—Louis Dubarry, and John and William Berners—all fixed their affections upon Florette Mayo, the youngest beauty.
“Fierce and bitter was the rivalry between the lovers. But the young girl returned the love of John Berners, and married him, and became your ancestress, as you know, Sybil.
“And from that time to the time of the extinction of the American branch of the Dubarry family, a feud, as fierce and bitter, if not as warlike, as any that ever raged between rival barons of the middle ages, prevailed between the Berners and the Dubarrys.
“I come now to the period just before the breaking out of the Old French War, when the first rude stone lodges in these valleys had given place to handsome and spacious manor houses, and when the then proprietor of the Dubarry estate had erected a magnificent dwelling on the site of his first rough cottage. He called the mansion the Chateau Dubarry, a name which the country people quickly changed into Shut-up Dubarry.
“The last name was not inappropriate, for a more morose, solitary, and misanthropical man never lived than Henry Dubarry, the builder of that house. He neither visited nor received visits, but remained selfishly ‘shut-up’ in the paradise of art and letters that he had created within his dwelling.
“He had a wife, a son, and two daughters, all of whom suffered more or less from this isolation from their fellow-beings. So it was a great relief to the son when he was sent, first to the William and Mary College of Williamsburg for five years, and afterwards to Oxford for five more.
“After the departure of the son and brother, the mother and sisters suffered more and more seriously from the gloom and horror of their isolation, and in the course of years utterly succumbed to it. First the mother died, then the elder sister; and then the younger sister, left alone with her recluse father in that awful house, became a maniac.
“Under these circumstances, the father wrote to his sonto come home. But selfishness, not love, ruled that young man, as it had ruled his fathers. He had graduated with honors, and won a ‘fellowship’ at the University, and he was about to start for the fashionable European tour. He wrote home to this effect, and went on his farther way.
“He remained abroad until summoned home by two events—the deaths of his father and sister, and the necessity of raising money for himself.
“He came home, but not alone. He brought with him a gipsy girl of singular beauty, who seemed to be passionately attached to him, and whom he loved as much as it was in his selfish nature to love anything.
“He placed her at the head of his household, and his simple servants obeyed her as their mistress; and his sociable neighbors, willing to forgive old rebuffs, called upon the young pair.
“But their visits were not kindly received, and not in any case returned. And the report went around the neighborhood, that Philip Dubarry was as morose and selfish as his father had been before him. And so the house was abandoned, as it had been in the days of the old man and the idiot girl.
“But by and by other rumors, darker and more dishonorable to the master and mistress of Shut-up Dubarry, crept out among the people. These rumors were started by the Dubarry servants, in their gossipping with other family servants in the chance meeting in church or village. They were to the effect that Philip Dubarry often quarrelled fiercely with his gipsy wife, and even threatened to send her back to her native county, and that Gentiliska, or Iska, as she was more commonly called, wept and raved and tore her black hair by turns.
“It is the old sad tale, dear Sybil. At length the cultivated scholar and unprincipled villain grew tired of his beautiful but ignorant gipsy wife, who was a wife only injustice and not in law. He frequently left home for long absences. He spent his winters in the cities, and his summers in a round of visits to hospitable country houses, leaving her at all seasons to pine and weep, or rage and tear her hair in the gloomy solitude of Shut-up Dubarry. But for all this, whenever he did condescend to visit his home, she received him with an eagerness of welcome—a perfect self-abandonment to joy, that knew no bounds. And when he left her again, her despair was but the deeper, her anguish the fiercer. And all this was duly reported by that indefatigable corps of reporters, the domestics of the house.
“At last came the crisis. Philip Dubarry sent down an agent who opened the doors of Shut-up Dubarry, and brought into it an army of workmen, to repair, refurnish and decorate the mansion-house. In vain Gentiliska asked questions; the workmen either could not or would not give her any satisfaction. ‘It was the master’s orders,’ they said, and nothing more. To no one in the world were ‘the master’s’ orders more sacred than to his loyal gipsy wife. She bowed in submission, and let the workmen do their will. All the summer season was occupied with the work. But by the first of October the house was thoroughly renewed, within and without, so that it seemed like a palace in the midst of Paradise; and the gipsy wife wandered through the house and grounds in a delight that was only damped by the long-continued absence of her husband.
“At length, near the middle of the month, at the height of the hunting season, Philip Dubarry arrived. But the eager welcome of his wife was met with coldness and petulance, that wounded and enraged her. She gave way to a storm of grief and fury. She wept and raved and tore her hair, as was her way when fiercely excited. But now he had not the least patience with her, or the least mercy on her. He had ceased to love her and to want her, and so, in acting out his selfish and demoniac nature, he did not hesitateto treat her with cruel scorn and ignominy. He told her that she was not his wife, and never had been so. He called her ill names, and bade her pack up and go, he cared not where, so it was out of his sight, for he hated her; and out of his house also, for she dishonored it; and that, after being repaired and refurnished, it must also be purified ofherpresence, before he could bring into it the fair maiden whom he was about to make his wife.
“Then all her fury suddenly subsided, and she became calm and resolute unto death. She assured him that she never would leave the house; that she was his wife, and the house’s mistress; and she had the right to remain, and would remain. Whereupon he broke out into furious oaths, swearing that if she did not go, he would put her out by force. Then she answered, in these memorable words, that have come down to us in tradition:
“‘My body you may thrust forth from my home, but my spirit never! Living or dead, in the flesh or the spirit, I will stay in this house as long as its walls shall stand! Nay, though you were to pull this house down to eject me, in the flesh or the spirit, I would enter in and possess the next house you should build! And should you venture to bring here, or there, a bride to supplant me, in the flesh or the spirit I will blast and destroy her. So help me the gods of my people.’
“For a moment the ruthless and dauntless man stood appalled by the awful spirit he had raised in that slight form. But when he did recover himself it was to fall into a transport of fury, in which he seized the girl and hurled her violently through the open window. Fortunately they were on the ground floor, so the fall was not great, and she was, besides, light in form and agile as a cat. She fell on her hands and feet upon a thick carpet of the dead leaves that strewed the lawn.
“For a moment she lay where she had fallen, breathlessfrom the shock; then she lifted herself slowly up. One arm hung useless by her side; it was dislocated at the shoulder joint; but the other was raised to heaven, and she muttered some words in her native tongue, and then turned and walked away until she disappeared in the woods.
“‘I hope she’ll drown herself according to rule, and there will be an end,’ the fiendish wretch was heard to mutter. No one was allowed to follow her. She probablydiddrown herself, but that was by no means the end. Well, the gipsy girl is said to have kept her word.
“The third day thereafter, as a boy in search of eagle’s eggs was climbing the highest fastnesses of the Black Mountain, his eyes were attracted by the glow of something scarlet lying on a ledge of rocks about half way down the course of the Black Torrent. Agile as any chamois hunter of the Alps, the boy let himself down, from point to point, until he reached the ledge, upon which the dead body of the gipsy girl was found. It was crushed by the fall, and sodden by the white foam of the cascade that continually rolled over it.
“The boy hastened away to spread the news. With the greatest difficulty the body was recovered, and conveyed to Shut-up Dubarry. The inquest that sat upon it rendered the simple verdict, ‘Found Dead’; for whether the death were accidental or suicidal, or whether it resulted from the fall upon the rocks, or from the waters of the cascade, the Dogberries of that jury could not decide.
“The gipsy girl was buried; and her brutal protector coarsely professed himself to be greatly relieved by her death. And he assembled all his servants before him, and forbade them, under the penalty of his heaviest displeasure, ever to mention the name of Gentiliska to the lady he was about to bring home as his wife. These slaves knew their master, and in great fear and trembling they each and all solemnly promised to obey him. Then he left home for theeastern part of the State from which he was to bring his bride. On this occasion he was gone a month.
“It was in the middle of the month of November that he returned to Shut-up Dubarry, bringing with him his fair young bride. She was a Fairfax, from the county that was named after her family. She was unquestionably a lady of the highest and purest order, and the neighboring gentry, ever pleased to welcome such an one among them, called on her, invited her to their houses, and gave dinner or supper parties in her honor.
“Philip Dubarry, who had recently fretted at the galling ‘ban’ under which, for the transient love of the gipsy girl, he had voluntarily placed himself, now rejoiced at being delivered from it, and entered with all the zest of novelty into the social pleasures of the place. He loved his beautiful and high-born wife with both passion and pride, and she loved some imaginary hero in his form, and was happy in the illusion. Thus all went merry as a marriage bell until one dark and dismal day in December, when the rain fell in floods and the wind raved around the house, and the state of the weather kept the newly married couple closely confined within doors, his bride turned to him, and inquired quietly:
“‘Who is that little dark-haired girl with the piercing black eyes, and in the short red cloak, that I see so often around the house?’
“‘What did you say?’ inquired Philip Dubarry, in a quavering voice.
“‘Who is that little girl in the red cloak, who seems so much at home in the house? Is she deaf and dumb? I speak to her, but she never answers me; generally indeed, she goes away as soon as she perceives that I notice her. Who is she, Phil?’ and the young wife looked at her husband for an answer. But his face was that of a corpse, and his form was shaking with an ague fit, for the guilty are ever cowardly.
“But his wife mistook the cause of his agitation. Forgotten in an instant was the question she had asked, and upon which, she had placed no sort of importance; and she went to her husband and took his hand, and gazed into his face, and asked him, for Heaven’s sake, to tell her what was the matter.
“He told her a lie. He faltered out between his chattering teeth, that he feared he was struck with a congestive chill; that the sudden and severe change in the weather had affected him;—and more to the same effect.
“She hurried out and prepared a hot drink of brandy, boiling water, and spices, and she brought it to him and made him drink it.
“Under this powerful stimulant he revived. But she had, in the fear and excitement of the hour, utterly forgotten the inquiry she had put to him, and no more would have been said of it, had not he, in fearful interest, resumed the subject.
“‘You were asking me about—one of the servants, were you not?’ he inquired.
“‘Oh, yes. But never mind! sit still, and keep your feet to the fire until you get warm. Never mind about gratifying my foolish curiosity now,’ she answered, thoughtfully.
“‘My chill is already gone, thanks to your skilful nursing! What chill could resist your warm draughts? But now about your question. What was it?’
“‘Oh, nothing much! I only asked you who was the little girl with the red cloak, who is so silent and shy that she never answers me when I speak to her, and always shrinks away whenever she finds herself observed.’
“The trembling wretch was ready with his falsehood. He answered:
“‘Oh! she is the child of a poor couple on the mountain, and comes to the house for cold victuals; but she is as you have observed, very shy; so I think you had better leave her to herself.’
“‘Yes, but are you sure she is to be trusted? For shy as she is in other matters, she is bold enough to intrude into the most private parts of the house, and at the most untimely hours of the night,’ remarked the lady.
“‘Indeed!’ muttered the guilty man, in a sepulchral tone.
“‘Indeed and indeed! Why, only last night, when we came home at midnight, from Mrs. Judge Mayo’s ball, when you lingered below stairs to speak to the butler, and I ran up into my own room alone, I saw this strange looking little creature, with the streaming black hair and the red cloak, standing before my dressing-glass! Now what do you think of that?’
“‘She—she—she has been a sort of a pet of the family, and has had the run of the house, coming in and out of all the rooms at all hours, like any little dog,’ answered the conscious criminal, in a quavering voice.
“‘Thatmust be reformed at once!’ said the Fairfax bride, drawing herself up with much dignity, and also perhaps with some jealous suspicion.
“‘It shall, by my soul! I will give orders to that effect,’ quavered Philip Dubarry.
“‘Nay, do not take that trouble. It ismyprerogative to order my household, and I shall do it,’ proudly answered the lady.
“And here the matter might have ended, but for that interest Philip Dubarry felt in the subject. He remembered the most awful threat of his betrayed gipsy wife: ‘In the flesh or in the spirit, to dwell in the house as long as its walls should stand! In the flesh or in the spirit, to blast and destroy the bride he should bring there to take her place.’ Up to this time he had never had any reason to suppose that the gipsy girl had kept her word. He had never seen nor heard of anything unusual about the house. But now when his wife spoke of this silent inmate in thered cloak, he recognized the portrait all but too well, and his guilty soul quaked with fear. And yet he was not superstitious. He was a son of the eighteenth century, which was much more incredulous of the supernatural than the nineteenth, with all its mysterious spiritual manifestations, can be. He was a scientific and practical man. Yet he shuddered with awe as he listened to the description given by his unconscious wife of this strange visitant. And he could not forbear to question her.
“‘Did you speak to the girl when you found her in your room at midnight?’ he inquired.
“‘Yes, certainly; I asked her how she came to be there so late. But instead of answering my question, she glided silently away.’
“‘Have you spoken to any of the servants of this girl’s intrusion into parts of the house where she has no business to come?’
“‘No, not until this morning; for I never really felt interest enough in the little creature that I only casually met in the passages of the house, until I found her in my bedroom at midnight. So this morning I described her to the housekeeper, and asked who she was, and who gave her liberty to intrude into my bedroom so late. And what do you think old Monica answered?’
“‘I’m sure I don’t know.’
“‘She crossed herself, and cried out, “Lord have mercy on all our souls! You have seen her!” I inquired, ‘Seen who?’ But she answered, ‘Nothing. Nobody. I don’t know what I’m talking about. My head’s wool-gathering, I believe.’ Nor could any further questioning of mine draw from her any more satisfactory answer. And so I came to you for an explanation. And you tell me that she is Milly Jones, the child of poor parents, living on the mountain, and that she comes here for broken victuals and old clothes. Very well. In future I shall pension the poorfamily on the mountain, for I would not have any fellow-creature in my reach to suffer want; but I shall do it on condition that Miss Milly Jones stays home, and helps her mother with the family cooking and washing, instead of losing her time by day and her sleep by night in wandering through all the rooms of a gentleman’s house, and taking possession of a lady’s bed-chamber.’
“You see this bride never imagined a ghost, but strongly suspected a sweetheart, and so she was a little surprised when her husband answered:
“‘Do so, my dear; and may Heaven grant that you may get rid of this unpleasant visitor at once and forever.’
“And as he said this, Philip Dubarry arose and went into his library and rung the bell, and to the servant who answered it, he said:
“‘Send Monica the housekeeper here.’
“In a few minutes Monica entered the room.
“‘Did I not order you, on pain of my heaviest displeasure, never to annoy Mrs. Dubarry by so much as the mention of the gipsy girl’s name to her?’ sternly demanded Philip Dubarry.
“The old woman fell down upon her knees, and lifted up both her hands, and exclaimed:
“‘And no more I haven’t, master, not once! But that don’t do no good, forshe walks!’
“‘Who walks, you old fool?’
“‘She, the gipsy girl, master.She walks, and the missis sees her as well as we do!’
“‘We? Whom do you call “we,” you insupportable idiot?’
“‘Me and Ben the man-servant, and Betty the chambermaid, and Peggy the parlormaid. All sees her, master. We never, none of us, see her before the missis was brought home; but ever since that, we sees her every day; we sees just as much of her as we used to see when she was alive!’ answered the woman, grovelling and weeping.
“‘Wheredo you see her, or fancy you see her, lunatic?’ fiercely demanded Philip Dubarry.
“‘Everywhere, master! We meets her on the stairs; we sees her sitting at the head of the table, as soon as the meal is ready, and before the mistress comes to take the place; and we sees her lying in the unmade beds of a morning; but always, as soon as we screams, as scream we must, at such an object, master, she vanishes away!’ answered the housekeeper.
“Philip Dubarry was awed and almost silenced,—almost, but not quite, for he was the very sort of hero to browbeat others the most fiercely when he was himself the most frightened. He rallied himself.
“‘Look you here!’ he furiously exclaimed; ‘all this that you have just told me is the most wicked and abominable falsehood and absurdity! And now take notice!If everI hear of one more word being uttered on this subject in this house, or out of it, by any one of you, under any circumstances whatever, by my blood, I will make you all wish that you had never been born! Repeat this to your fellow-servants’, and order them from me to govern their tongues accordingly. Now go!’ he thundered at the poor old woman, who hastily picked herself up, and hurried out of the room.”