CHAPTER XXVI.THE SPECTRE.
It was about to speakAnd then it started like a guilty thing.Upon a fearful summons.—Shakespeare.
“Philip Dubarry remained walking up and down the door, foaming with impotent rage, as well as trembling witha vague and awful terror. He had a practical and scientific mind, and could understand everything that might be governed by known laws. But he could not understand this unwelcome visitant, that had appeared to every one else in the house but himself. He was an arbitrary and despotic man who enforced his will upon all connected with him, and ruled all flesh with a rod of iron. But he could not rule the spirit, and he knew it. He could not lay this ghost of his guilt.
“There was one grain of truth in the ton of falsehood that he had told to his unconscious wife, to account for the apparition seen by her. There really was a Milly Jones, the daughter of a poor family on the mountains, and she really did come occasionally to the house to ask for broken victuals and old clothes; but instead of being a beautiful black-eyed and black-haired little gipsy, in the picturesque red cloak, she was a pale-faced, light-haired, poor-spirited looking creature, in a faded calico frock, and an old plaid shawl; and instead of being the family pet, with the run of the house, she was the family nuisance, strictly prohibited from passing the bounds of the servants’ hall.
“So when that day, being a rainy day, and therefore highly favorable for attention to domestic matters, Mistress Alicia Dubarry called the house-steward to her presence, and ordered him to send a small pension of two dollars a week to the Jones family, with an intimation that Miss Milly need not come to collect it, the order was promptly executed, to the satisfaction of all the domestics; and poor Milly, glad to be relieved from her fatiguing journey and degrading mendicity, was seen no more at Shut-up Dubarry.
“But Mrs. Dubarry did not therefore get rid of her visitor. Not more than three days had elapsed since the issuing of her order, when, one evening between the lights, she entered her own bedroom, and saw the girl in the red cloak sitting quietly in the easy-chair beside the fire.
“‘How dare you come here, after the message I sent you? Get up and begone, and let me never catch you here again,’ angrily demanded the lady.
“The apparition melted into air; but as it disappeared, the words came, like a sigh borne upon the breeze:
“‘I wait.’
“The lady was about to dress for an evening party, and so she paid no attention to any chance sound.
“But the next morning she met the girl in the hall, and the next evening in the parlor; again she passed the figure on the stairs, or encountered it in the drawing-room. The lady lost patience, and sent for the house-steward in her presence.
“‘Did I not command that that girl should not come here again?’ she sternly demanded.
“‘Yes, my lady,’ respectfully answered the man.
“‘Then how is it that she comes here as much as ever?’
“‘My dear lady, she have never entered the house since your ladyship gave the order that she was not so to do.’
“‘But she has. I have seen her here at least a half a dozen times.’
“‘Dear lady, I dare not contradict you; but poor Milly Jones has been down with the pleurisy for these two weeks past, and could not have got out of her bed, even if your ladyship had ordered her to come.’
“‘Isaac, is this true?’
“‘True as truth, your ladyship, which you can find it out for yourself by riding up to the hut and seeing the poor girl, which it would be a charity so to do.’
“‘And you say she has not been here for a fortnight?’
“‘No, madam.’
“‘Then, in the name of Heaven,whois it that I meet so often?’ slowly and sternly demanded Mrs. Dubarry.
“Old Isaac solemnly shook his gray head, and answered never a word.
“‘What do you mean by that? Speak! I will have an answer. Who is this silent girl in the red cloak, I ask?’ repeated the lady.
“‘Madam, I don’t know. And that is what I meant when I shook my head,’ replied the old man, trembling.
“‘You don’t know! do you dare to mock me?’
“‘Far from it, my lady; but goodness knows I don’t know.’
“‘But you have seen her?’
“‘Dear, my lady, I don’t know who she is, nor dare I speak of her; the master has forbidden us so to do. Dear madam, ask the master; but oh, for pity sake, do not ask me further,’ pleaded the old man, very humbly.
“The lady turned white with jealousy. There was but one interpretation she could put upon this mystery.
“‘Go and say to your master that I would feel much obliged if he would come to me here,’ she said, grimly seating herself.
“The trembling old man went to the kennels, where Mr. Dubarry was busy doctoring a favorite setter, and delivered his message. Dubarry was still enough in love with his three months wife to come quickly at her call.
“‘Philip!’ exclaimed the lady, as soon as she saw him enter the room, ‘once for all, I wish to know who is this girl in the red cloak; and why I am daily insulted with her presence in this house?’
“Dubarry went pale, as usual at the mention of the apparition; but he faltered out with what composure he could command:
“‘I—I told you who she is—Milly Jones.’
“‘No; begging your pardon, she isnotMilly Jones. Milly Jones has been ill with pleurisy, at home on the mountain, for the last two weeks; and I have sent her a pension of two dollars a week. No; this is no Milly Jones, and I insist on knowing who she is!’
“‘Then, if she is not Milly Jones, she is a creature of your own imagination, for no other living girl comes to the house,’ answered Dubarry doggedly.
“‘You will not tell me who she is? Very well. When next I see her,sheshall tell me, silent as she is,’ said the lady grimly setting her teeth.
“Dubarry arose with a sigh, and went back to his ailing setter; but his thoughts brooded over the subject of the apparition.
“The lady kept her word at a fearful cost. For the remainder of the day, her conduct towards her husband was so cold and repelling as to wound and offend him. So it happened that when the hour for retiring came that night, she went up to her chamber alone. She had but time to reach the room, when all the household was startled by a piercing shriek and a heavy fall.
“Mr. Dubarry, soon followed by all the servants, rushed up stairs to Mrs. Dubarry’s bedroom. They found the lady extended on the floor, in a deep swoon. She was raised and laid upon the bed, and proper means taken to revive her. When at length she opened her eyes, and recognized her husband, she signed for every one else to leave the room; and when they had done so, she turned and took his hand and kissed it, and fixed her wild and frightened eyes upon him and whispered in an awe-struck tone:
“‘Phil, dear, I wronged you. I took that creature in the red cloak to be a sweetheart of yours, Phil, but it was not; it was—a spectre!’
“There was silence between them for a minute, during which she never took her scared eyes from his pale face. He was the first to speak. Summoning up as much resolution as he could muster, he affected a light laugh, and answered:
“‘Spectre! My sweet wife, there is no such thing.’
“‘Ah, but—but—if you could have seen what I saw,felt what I felt!’
“‘Nonsense, dear one. You were the subject of an optical illusion.’
“‘No, I was not. Hush! Let me tell you what happened. I came up into this room. It was warm and ruddy with the fire light and the lamp light; and in the glow I saw the girl standing between the hearth and the bed. I spoke to her, asking her how she dared intrude into my most sacred privacy; and then she silently glided from the spot. But I told her she should not leave the room until she had given some account of herself. And I put forth my hand to stop her, but the moment I did so I received a shock as from some powerful galvanic battery! a tremendous shock that threw me down upon my face. I knew no more until I came to my senses and found myself here, with you watching over me. Now, Philip, tell me that was an optical illusion, if you dare,’ said the lady, solemnly.
“‘Yes, love, I dare. I tell you that what you sawwasan optical illusion.’
“‘—But what I felt?’
“‘—Was a slight—a very slight attack of catalepsy. Both the vision and the fit, dear, took their rise in some abnormal state of the nervous system,’ said Philip Dubarry; and feeling almost pleased with his own explanation of the mystery, he tried to persuade himself that it was the true one.”
“But his wife turned her face to the wall, saying, however.
“‘Well, at any rate, I am glad that the girl in the red cloak is not flesh and blood, Phil. I would rather she should be an “optical illusion” or a fit of “catalepsy,” or even a “spectre,” than a sweetheart of yours, as I first took, her to be.’
“‘Be not afraid. You have no living rival, Alicia,’ answered her husband.
“And the reconciliation between the husband and the wife was complete from that time forth.
“But somehow the condition of the lady was worse than before.
“She was haunted.
“She knew herself to be haunted; but whether by a spectral illusion or a real spectre, she could not know. In the glow of the fire light, in the shadow of the bed-curtains in the illuminated drawing-room, on the dark staircase, wherever and whenever she found herself alone, the vision of the girl in the red cloak crossed her path. She did not speak to it, or try to stop it again. She did not wish to risk another such an electric shock as should ‘cast her shuddering on her face.’ But her health wasted under the trial. Her nerves failed. She grew fearful of being left alone for an instant; nothing would induce her to go into any room in the house without an attendant. She contracted a habit of looking fearfully over her shoulder, and sometimes suddenly screaming.
“Nor was the mistress of the house the only sufferer from this ‘abnormal state of the nervous system,’ as the master of the house preferred to call the mystery. The servants grew so much afraid to move about the building alone, that their usefulness was much impaired. And at length one after another ran away, and took to the woods and mountain caves, preferring to starve or beg rather than live in luxury in the haunted house. New servants were procured to supply the places of the old ones, until the latter could be brought back; but none of them stayed long; nothing could induce them to remain in the ‘haunted house.’ The story of the gipsy girl’s ghost got around in the neighborhood. Not all the despotic power of Mr. Dubarry could prevent this. The house came to be pointed out and avoided by the ignorant and superstitious, as a haunted and accursed spot. Even the more intelligent and enlightened portion of the community gradually forsook it; for it was not very agreeable to visit a family where the mistress wasso full of ‘flaws and starts’ that, even at the head of her own table, she would often startle the whole company by suddenly looking over her right shoulder and uttering a piercing scream.
“And so the house was abandoned by high and low, rich and poor alike. And the worthy gossips of the neighborhood wisely nodded over their tea-cups, and declared that the deserted condition of the house was but a just retribution for the sins of its master.
“And in the meantime the health of the mistress grew worse and worse. The most serious fears were entertained for her life and reason, death or insanity seeming to be the most probable issue of her malady. Medical advice was called in. The doctor, either in complaisance or sincerity, agreed with Mr. Dubarry’s theory of the patient’s condition, ascribing her illness to an ‘abnormal state of the nervous system,’ and he advised change of air and scene, and he held forth good hopes that within a very few months, when the young wife should become a mother, her health might be perfectly reëstablished.
“Under these circumstances, early in the new year, Mr. Dubarry took his wife to Williamsburg, to spend the winter among the gayeties of the colonial Governor’s court.
“The haunted house was shut up, and left to itself. Not a man or woman could be found to live in it, for love or money.
“In the glories of the colonial capital, Mrs. Dubarry completely recovered from her nervous malady. She was visited by no more ‘optical illusions’ or ‘cataleptic’ fits. She even grew to regard her former visitations in the same way in which her husband pretended to view them—as mere nervous phenomena. And as the fashionable season at Williamsburg closed, and as the spring opened, Mrs. Dubarry expressed an ardent desire to return to ‘Shut-up Dubarry’for her confinement. ‘The heir of the manor should be born on the manor,’ she said.
“Mr. Dubarry had great doubts about the safety of this measure, and attempted to dissuade his wife from it; but she was firm in her purpose, and so she carried it.
“It was early in the royal month of June that the young wife was taken back to her country home. Shut-up Dubarry looked as little like a ‘haunted house’ as any house could look: waving woods, sparkling waters, blossoming trees, blooming flowers, singing birds—all the richness, beauty and splendor of summer turned it into a paradise. Besides, Mrs. Dubarry brought down half a dozen young cousins of both sexes with her, and they filled the house with youthful life. Under these circumstances, the old servants were tempted back. And all went on very well until one day one of the young girls suddenly spoke out at the full breakfast-table, and asked:
“‘Alicia, who is that strange, silent girl, in the red cloak, that is always following you about?’
“Mrs. Dubarry grew deadly pale, sat down the cup that she had held in her hand, but she did not attempt to speak.
“‘Have I said anything wrong? I did not mean to do so. I am sure I beg pardon, if I have,’ faltered the young cousin, looking from the pale face of Mrs. Dubarry to the troubled countenance of Mr. Dubarry.
“‘I am very sorry if I have said anything wrong,’ repeated the little cousin, in dismay.
“‘No, no, you have said nothing amiss; but it is a very painful subject; let us drop it,’ replied Mr. Dubarry rather inconsistently. And every one around the table silently wondered what the matter could be.
“When breakfast was over, and the husband and wife found themselves alone together, Mrs. Dubarry seized his arm, and whispered:
“‘Oh, Philip! the spectre has not gone!’
“‘My dearest Alicia! you have not fancied that you have seen it lately?’
“‘No, no; butshehas seen it! Kitty has seen italways following me! She took it for a real girl, as I did at first!’
“What could Philip Dubarry say to all this? Only one thing:
“‘My darling, I cannot have your nerves shaken in this manner. You had no such visitations as these while we stayed at Williamsburg. And so to Williamsburg we will return immediately. Tell your maid to pack up this afternoon, and we will set out to-morrow. No objections, Alicia! for I tell you we must go.’
“She saw that his resolution was fixed, and she made no opposition to it. She rang for her maid, and gave the necessary directions. And then, feeling very unwell, she sent down an excuse to her company, and retired to bed.
“At twelve o’clock that night, while the young people were enjoying themselves in some round game in the drawing-room, and Mr. Dubarry was doing all that he could to promote their entertainment, the whole party was startled by a terrific cry coming from Mrs. Dubarry’s chamber. All paused for a breathless instant, and then rushed tumultuously up the stairs. At the door of the bed-chamber, Mr. Dubarry turned around and waved them all back. Then he entered the chamber alone. All seemed quiet there then. The moonlight came flickering through the vine leaves on the outside of the open window, and fell fitfully upon the face and form of Alicia Dubarry, who was sitting up in bed, staring straight before her.
“Mr. Dubarry locked the door before he approached the bed.
“‘Alicia,’ he said, ‘my dear Alicia, what is the matter?’
“‘It is doom! It is doom!’ she answered in an awfulvoice, without removing her eyes from some object between the foot of the bed and the moonlit window.
“‘Compose yourself, dear wife, and tell me what has happened.’
“‘Look! Look! for yourself!’ she cried, her finger extended, and following the direction of her eyes.
“‘My sweet Alicia, there is nothing there but the tremulous shadow of the vine leaves cast by the moonlight,’ said Mr. Dubarry, persuasively, as he went and drew the curtain before the window, and then struck a match and lighted a lamp.
“But her eyes were never removed from the spot where she had gazed.
“‘It is there yet!’ she cried.
“‘What is there, good Alicia? there is nothing there, indeed!’
“‘Yes, the dead woman and dead child! Do you not see them?’
“‘See! no! you are in one of your nervous attacks; but to-morrow we will leave this place, and you will have no more of them.’
“‘Hush! No! I shall never leave this place again.’
“‘You shall start by sunrise to-morrow.’
“‘Hush! listen! I will tell you what happened. I was sleeping well, very well, when suddenly I was awakened with a tremendous shock. I started up in bed and sawher—the terrible girl! She was standing at the foot of the bed looking at me, and pointing to something that lay upon the floor. I looked and saw—there it is yet!—the dead woman, with the dead babe on her bosom! I shrieked aloud, for I knew the woman was myself, and the babe was my own! And as I shrieked, she vanished, as she always does; but the dead woman and child remained! And there they are yet! Oh! cover them over, Philip! cover them over! Cover them from my sight, for I have nopower to withdraw my eyes from them,’ she exclaimed in wild excitement.
“Almost beside himself with distress, Philip Dubarry seized a large table cover and threw it down over the spot upon which her eyes were fixed.
“‘Ah! it is of no use! it is of no use! I see them still! they rise above the covering! they lie upon it!’ she cried, in terrific emotion, shaking as if with an ague fit.
“‘Lie down,’ said Philip Dubarry, compelling himself to be calm, for the sake of trying to calm her. And he took her and laid her back upon the pillow. But still she raved, like one in high fever and delirium.
“‘I have received my sentence! I am doomed! I am doomed! I have seen my own corpse, and the corpse of my child!’ she cried. And then a violent convulsion seized her.
“Nearly maddened by terror and despair, Philip Dubarry rushed from the room and loudly called for assistance. The chamber was soon filled with the members of the household, not one of whom knew what to do, until the entrance of the old housekeeper, who sent everybody out, and requested Mr. Dubarry to dispatch a carriage for the family physician.
“Before morning the doctor arrived. But the convulsions and the delirium of the lady increased in violence until just at the dawn of day, when she gave birth to an infant boy, who breathed and died.
“Then, just before her own death, she recovered her senses and grew very calm. She asked to see her child. When the nurse brought it, she kissed its cold face, and bade her lay it by her side. Then the lady called her husband, and whispered so faintly that he had to lean his ear to her lips to hear her words. She said:
“‘The vision is realized in the dead mother and the dead babe! But, Philip!for whose sin do we die?’
“Before he could make a reply, if any reply had been possible, she was gone.
“The mother and babe were buried together. The company at Shut-up Dubarry broke up in the greatest consternation. The story of the vision, real or imaginary, that had caused the lady’s death, got out. All the neighborhood talked of it, and connected it with the fate of the hardly used gipsy girl, whose spirit was said to haunt the house.
“Mr. Dubarry became a prey to the most poignant grief and remorse. He shut himself up in his desolate house, where he was abandoned by all his neighbors, and by all his servants, with the exception of the old housekeeper and house-steward, whose devotion to the family they had served so long, retained them still in the service of its last and most unhappy representative.
“But awful stories crept out from that house of gloom. ’Twas said that the master was always followed by the spectre of the gipsy girl—that he could be heard in the dead of night walking up and down the hall outside of his chamber door, raving in frenzy, or expostulating with some unknown and unseen being, who was said to be the spectre that haunted the house.
“At length, unable to endure the misery of solitude and superstitious terrors, Mr. Dubarry took an aged Catholic priest to share his home. Under the influence of Father Ingleman, Philip Dubarry became a penitent and a devotee. At that time this church was but a rude chapel, erected over the old family vault. But now, by the advice of the old priest, Mr. Dubarry rebuilt and enlarged the chapel, for the accommodation of all the Catholics in the neighborhood. He also added a priest’s house. And Father Ingleman said mass every Sunday, while waiting for another priest to be appointed to the charge.
“This rebuilding and remodelling amused the miserable master of the manor, during the latter part of the summer and the autumn following his wife’s death. But with the coming of the winter, returned all his gloom and horror.And the good old priest, so far from being able to help his patron, was himself so much affected in health and spirits by this condition of the house, that he begged and obtained leave to retire to the little dwelling beside the church.
“The awful winter passed away.
“But on one stormy night in March, the mansion house took fire. It was said that the haunted master of the house, in a fit of desperation, actually set it on fire, with the purpose of burning out the ghost. At all events, it seems certain that he would permit nothing to be done to stop the flames.
“The house was burned to the ground. The houseless master took refuge with Father Ingleman, in the priest’s dwelling by the church. But there also the spectre followed him, nor could all the exorcisms of Father Ingleman with ‘candle, bell, and book,’ avail to lay the disturbed spirit.
“Philip Dubarry, half a maniac by this time, sent away the priest, pulled down the priest’s house, and took up his abode in the body of the church itself, which was thenceforward deserted by all others. But here also the spectre was supposed to have followed him. At length he disappeared. No one knew whither he went. Some said that he had gathered together his money and departed for a foreign country; others, that he had drowned himself in the Black River, though his body never was found. Some said that he had cast himself down headlong from some mountain crest, and his bones were bleaching in some inaccessible ravine; while others, again, did not hesitate to say that the devil had flown away with him bodily.
“The fate of the last of the Dubarrys is unknown. The estate, unclaimed, is held in abeyance. The house, burned to the ground, has never been restored. The church, thereafter known as the Haunted Chapel, has crumbled into the ruin that you see. And such, dear Sybil, is the story of the ‘Fall of the Dubarrys.’”
CHAPTER XXVII.FEARFUL WAITING.
Still the wood is dim and lonely,Still the plashing fountains play,But the past with all its beauty,Whither has it fled away?Hark! the mournful echoes say,Fled away! —A. A. Proctor.
“And the apparition that we both saw was like that of the gipsy girl in the ghostly legend,” said Sybil, musingly.
“Yes; in the matter of the red cloak—a very common garment, dear Sybil. Such a resemblance reminds us of Paganini’s portrait which the child said was like him, ‘about the fiddle,’” replied Lyon Berners, with an effort towards pleasantry, which was very far indeed from his heart; for he was oppressed with grief and dread. He was anxiously looking forward to the arrival of Captain Pendleton; and fearing for the effect his disclosures must have upon his beloved Sybil, who seemed still so utterly unable to realize her position. She seemed almost satisfied now, so that Lyon was near her, and she was the only object of his care. So disengaged was her mind, at this hour, from all real appreciation of her situation, that she had leisure to feel interested in the tale that Lyon had told her. She again reverted to it.
“But the likeness was not only in the red cloak, it was in the whole gipsy style. I spoke of that, even before you had told me anything about the gipsy girl,” persisted Sybil.
Before Lyon could answer her, steps were heard approaching.
“There is Pendleton,” exclaimed Mr. Berners, and he arose and hurried forward to meet the visitor.
“Hush! come out here a moment,” he whispered, drawing Captain Pendleton outside the chapel. “Sybil knowsnothing of that verdict as yet. I wish to keep it from her knowledge as long as possible—for ever, if possible. So if you have any more bad news to tell, tell it now, and here, to me,” he added.
“Berners,” began the Captain—but then he paused in pity.
“Go on,” said Lyon.
“My friend, the flight of your wife and yourself if not absolutely ascertained, is strongly suspected. An officer watches your closed chamber door. Two others have been dispatched to Blackville, to watch the ferry. By to-morrow morning the flight, so strongly suspected now, will be fully discovered. This is all I have to say in private. And now, perhaps we had better not linger any longer here, lest Mrs. Berners may suspect something, if possible, even more alarming than the truth,” said Captain Pendleton.
“You are quite right,” admitted Lyon Berners, and they entered the chapel together.
Sybil sprang up to meet them.
“What news, Captain? Is the murderer discovered? May we return home?” she eagerly inquired.
“No, madam; the murderer has not yet been discovered, nor do I think it would be prudent in you yet to return home,” replied the Captain, feeling relieved that her questions had taken forms that enabled him to reply truly to them without divulging the alarming intelligence of the verdict of the coroner’s jury.
He unstrapped a portmanteau from his shoulders and threw it down near the fire, and seated himself upon it. Then turning to Mr. Berners, he said:
“I have made arrangements with your faithful Joe to bring certain necessaries to this place to-night. They cannot, you know, be brought to this spot by the same direct route that we took in coming here. But as soon as the moon goes down, which will be about one o’clock, Joe willlaunch a boat just below Black Hall and come across the river with all that is most needed. There he will find a cart and horse waiting for him. He will load the cart and drive it up here to the entrance of the thicket.”
“But that cart, Pendleton?”
“Yes! you will wonder how I got it there without exciting suspicion. It was done in this way. I ordered Joe to bring it boldly up in front of the house, and to put in it the boxes containing my own and my sister’s masquerade dresses, and to take them over to our place. Joe understood and obeyed me, and drove the cart to Blackville, and crossed the river at the ferry, under the very eyes of the constable stationed there to watch. He brought the cart down this bank, and left it concealed in a clearing of the wood. He will watch his opportunity, as soon as it is dark enough to swim across the river, and launch the boat and fill it with the necessaries that he will secretly obtain from Black Hall. It is a business that will require considerable tact and discretion; or at least, great secretiveness and cautiousness,” added Captain Pendleton.
“And these, Joe, like all his race, possesses in excess,” observed Lyon Berners.
“Are the guests all gone away from the house?” inquired Sybil.
“Nearly all. My sister remains there for the present to watch your interests, Mrs. Berners. The old Judge also, to superintend legal processes; but even he will go away in the morning, I think.”
While they spoke, a loud sneeze and then a cough was heard outside, and then Joe walked in, with a doubled up mattress on his head.
“This here is moving under difficulties, Master,” he panted, as he laid the mattress down on the stone floor.
“How ever did you get that along the narrow path through the thicket, Joe?” inquired Sybil.
“You may well ax that, Missis. I had to lay it down endways, and drag it. Howsever, I has got all the things through the worst part of the way now, and they’s all out in the church-yard,” answered Joe, recovering his breath, and starting for the remaining goods.
He soon returned, bringing in a small assortment of bedding, clothing, and so forth. And in another trip he brought in a small supply of food and a few cooking utensils.
“That’s all. And now, Miss Sybil, if you would only let me live here along o‘ you and Marse Lyon, and wait on to you bofe, I could make myself very much satisfied into my own mind,” he said, as he laid down the last articles, and stood to rest himself.
“But you know, Joe, that you can serve us better by remaining at Black Hall,” said Sybil, kindly.
“Now, Marser Capping Pendulum, I hope them there fineries in the boxes, as you told me to bring away, for a blind from our place, won’t take no harm along of being left out in the woods all night, for it was there underneaf of a pile of leaves and bushes as I was obligated for to leave them.”
“They’ll not take cold, at all events, Joe,” said Captain Pendleton, good-naturedly.
By this time, the fire on the stone floor had become so low that it was quite dark in the chapel. But among the little necessities of life brought by Joe, was a small silver candlestick and a few slim wax candles. One of these was lighted, and gleamed faintly around, striking strangely upon the faces of the group gathered near the smouldering fire.
The friends sat and talked together, and arranged as far as they could their plans for future movements. It was not until near day that Captain Pendleton arose to depart, saying:
“Well, Berners, I do dislike to leave you and Mrs. Berners here alone again, especially as I fear that you will not go to sleep, as you ought to do. I see that Mrs. Berners’ eyes are still wide open—”
“I slept so long in the afternoon,” put in Sybil.
“But, at all events, I am forced to leave you before light. It is not quite safe now to be seen in open daylight, travelling this road so often. To-night I will come again, and bring you further news, and perhaps more comfort. Come, Joe.”
Joe, who had fallen asleep over the fire, now slowly woke up and lifted himself from the floor.
The Captain shook hands with his friends, and followed by Joe, left the Chapel.
Sybil then went and spread out the mattress, and put the pillows and covering upon it, and persuaded Lyon to lie down and try to sleep, as he had not slept for two nights past. She said that she herself could not sleep, but that she would sit close by him, so as to be ready to arouse him, on the slightest indication of danger.
Very reluctantly he yielded to her pleadings, and stretched himself upon the mattress. She went and gathered the smouldering coals and brands together, so that the fire might not go entirely out, and then she returned and sat down beside her husband.
He took her hand in his, and clasping it protectingly, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
She sat watching the little fire, and brooding almost to insanity over the strange revolution that a few hours had made in her life, driving her so suddenly from her own hereditary manor-house, her home of wealth and honor and safety, out into the perilous wilderness, a fugitive from the law.
Yet not once did Sybil’s imagination take in the extreme horror of her position. She thought that she had beenbrought away by her husband to be saved from the affront of an arrest, and the humiliation of a few days imprisonment. That anything worse than this could happen to her, she never even dreamed. But even this to the pure, proud Sybil would have been almost insupportable mortification and misery. To escape all this she was almost willing to incur the charge of having fled from justice, and to endure the hardships of a fugitive’s life.
And oh! through all there was one consolation so great, that it was enough to compensate for all the wretchedness of her position. She was assured of her husband’s love, beyond all possibility of future doubt. He was by her side, never to leave her more!
This was enough! She closed her hand around the beloved hand that held hers, and felt a strange peace and joy, even in the midst of her exile and danger.
Perhaps in this stillness she slumbered a while, for when she lifted her head, the chapel, that had been dark before, but for the gleaming of the little fire, was now dimly filled with the gray light of dawn.
She saw the shapes of the pointed windows against the background of heavy shadows and pale lights, and she knew that day was coming. She did not stir from the spot, lest she should wake her husband, whose hand held hers. All was still in the chapel, so still that even the faint sweet sounds of wakening nature could be heard—the stirring of the partridge in her cover, the creeping of the squirrel from her hole, the murmur of the little brook, the rustle of the leaves, and, farther off, the deep thunder of the cascade, and the detonating echoes of the mountains.
Sybil sat motionless, and almost breathless, lest she should disturb her beloved sleeper. But the next moment she could scarcely forbear screaming aloud; for there passed along the wall before her a figure that, even in the dim light, she recognized as the strange visitant of the precedingday. It came from the direction of the altar, and glided past each of the four windows and vanished through the door. When Sybil had repressed her first impulse to scream, self-control was easy, so she sat quietly holding her husband’s hand, though much amazed by what she had again seen.
Day broadened, and soon the rays of the rising sun, striking through the east windows, and lighting on the face of the sleeper, awoke him.
He looked into the face of his wife, and then along the walls of the chapel, with a bewildered expression of countenance. This had been his first sleep for two nights, and it had been so deep that he had utterly forgotten the terrible drama of the two last preceding days, and could not at once remember what had happened, or where he was. But as he again turned and looked into Sybil’s face, full memory of all flashed back upon him. But he did not allude to the past; he merely said to Sybil:
“You have not slept, love.”
“I have not wished to do so,” she answered.
“This is a very primitive sort of life we are living, love,” he said, with a smile, as he arose from the mattress.
“But it is not at all an unhappy one,” answered Sybil; “for, oh, since you are with me, I do not care much about anything else. Destiny may do what she pleases, so that she does not part us. I can bear exile, hunger, cold, fatigue, pain—anything but parting, Lyon!”
“Do not fear that, love; we will never part for a single day, if I can help it.”
“Then let anything else come. I can bear it cheerfully,” smiled Sybil. While they talked they were working also. Sybil was folding up the bedclothes, and Lyon was looking about for a bucket, to fetch water from the fountain. He soon found one, and went upon his errand.
Sybil followed him with two towels. They washed theirhands and faces in the stream, and dried them on the towels. And then they went higher up the glen, and caught a bucketful of delightful water from the crystal spring that issued from the rocks.
They returned to the chapel, and together they made the fire and prepared the breakfast.
It was not until they were seated at their primitively arranged breakfast, which was laid upon the flagstones of the chapel floor—it was not, in fact, until they had nearly finished their simple meal, that Sybil told Lyon of the apparition she had seen in the early dawn, to come up as if from the floor to the right of the altar, and glide along the east wall of the chapel, past the four gothic windows, and disappear through the door.
“It was a morning dream, dear Sybil; nothing more,” said Lyon, sententiously; for in the broad daylight he believed in nothing supernatural, even upon the evidence of his own senses.
“If that were a morning dream, then the sight that we saw together yesterday was but a dream, and you are but a dream, and life itself is but a dream,” replied Sybil, earnestly.
“Well, at all events, what we have both, either separately or together, seen and experienced, must be something perfectly natural and commonplace, although we may not either of us be able to understand or explain it. My private opinion and worse misgiving is, that there is some woman concealed about the place. If ever I find myself in arm’s length of that little gipsy, I shall intercept her, even at the risk of receiving such a spiritual-shock as that which struck Mrs. Alicia Dubarry to the ground,” said Lyon, facetiously; for he might well make a jest of this lighter affair of the chapel mystery to veil the deep anxiety he felt in the heavy matter of their affliction.
The husband and wife passed this second day of hidingtediously enough. She made the little housekeeping corner of the chapel tidy, by folding up and putting aside all their bedclothes and garments, and by washing and arranging their few cooking utensils. He brought in wood and brush, which he broke up and piled in another corner, to have it near at hand to replenish the fire. Also, he brought water from the spring; and then with no other instrument than his pocket-knife, he made a trap and set it to catch rabbits.
Then they rambled together through the wilderness around the chapel, and the better they grew acquainted with the wild neighborhood, the surer they felt of their safety in its profound solitude.
Their only anxiety connected with their security in this place, was upon the subject of the mysterious visitant. It was incomprehensible by any known law of nature.
They talked of this mystery. They reverted to all the so-called “authenticated ghost stories” that they had ever read or heard, and that they had hitherto set down to be either impostures or delusions.
But now here was a fact in their own experience that utterly confounded their judgment, and the end of their discussion on the subject left them just where they had been at its commencement. They resolved, however, to divulge the whole matter to Captain Pendleton, to whom they had not yet even hinted it, and to ask his counsel; and they looked forward with impatience to the evening visit of this devoted friend.
As it was growing cold towards the setting of the sun they turned their steps again towards the chapel. It was quite dark when they reached it. Their fire had nearly gone out, but he replenished it, and she began to prepare the evening meal.
While she was still engaged in this work, the sound of approaching footsteps warned them that Captain Pendleton was near. Lyon Berners went out to meet him.
CHAPTER XXVIII.A GHASTLY PROCESSION.
If charnel-houses and our graves must sendThose that we bury back, our monumentsShall be the maws of kites.—Shakespeare.
“Well?” exclaimed Mr. Berners, eagerly.
“Well, the flight is now discovered beyond all doubt. Search-warrants have been issued. My house is to be searched among the rest,” replied Captain Pendleton.
“What else?”
“Arrangements are being made for the funeral of the dead woman. They will bury her the day after to-morrow in the church-yard at Blackville.”
“And what else?”
“Nothing, but that I would not permit Joe to accompany me to-night. More precaution is now necessary to insure your safety.”
“And that is all?”
“Yes.”
“Then come in and see Sybil.”
They went in together, where Mrs. Berners greeted Captain Pendleton with her usual courtesy, and then immediately repeated her anxious questions.
“Has the murderer been discovered? May we go home?”
“Not yet, dear Madam!” answered Pendleton to both questions, as he sat down by the fire.
“I have something to tell you, Pendleton, and to ask your advice about,” began Lyon Berners. And he related the mysterious vision that had thrice crossed their path.
“Oh! it is a form of flesh and blood! We don’t believe in apparitions at this age of the world! But this indeed must be looked to! If you have seen her here three times,of course she has seen you,” said Captain Pendleton in much anxiety.
“Most certainly she knows of our presence here, if she knows nothing else about us,” replied Mr. Berners.
“Then it is useless to attempt to conceal yourselves from her. She must be laid hold of, talked with, and won or bribed to keep our secret—to help us if possible. We must find out whether she will serve our purpose. If she will, it will be all quite right, and you may remain here until it is safe to depart; but if she will not, it will be all entirely wrong, and you must leave this place at all hazards,” concluded Captain Pendleton.
“Yes, it is very well for you to talk of intercepting her, but you had just as well try to intercept a shadow as it glides past you,” put in Sybil, with a wise nod.
“The attempt shall be made, at all events,” determined Mr. Berners.
Sybil was in the act of putting the supper—not on the table, for table there was none in the chapel—but on the cloth spread upon the flagstones, when Captain Pendleton, to give a lighter turn to their talk, said:
“You may put a plate for me also, Mrs. Berners! I have not yet supped, and I’m glad I have got here in time to join you.”
“I am glad too! We are getting quite comfortably to housekeeping here, Captain. And Lyon has set his traps, and we shall soon have game to offer you when you come to visit us,” replied Sybil quickly, responding to his gayety.
“If I had only a gun, and could venture to use it, it would be a great relief, and we should be very well supplied,” smiled Lyon.
“Yes! if you had a gun, and should venture to use it, you would soon bring aposse comitatusdown upon you; We will have no reverberations of that sort, if you please, Lyon,” recommended the Captain.
And then they all sat down around the table-cloth, and Sybil poured out and served the coffee.
Now, whether they were very thirsty, or whether the coffee was unusually good, or whether both these causes combined to tempt them to excess, is not known; but it is certain that the two gentlemen were intemperate in their abuse of this fragrant beverage; which proves that people can be intemperate in other drinks, as well as in alcoholic liquors. This coffee also got into their heads. Their spirits rose; they grew gay, talkative, inspired, brilliant. Even Sybil, who took but one cup of coffee, caught the infection, and laughed and talked and enjoyed herself as if she were at a picnic, instead of being in hiding for her life or liberty.
In a word, some strange exhilaration, some wonderful intoxication pervaded the little party; but the most marvellous symptom of their case was, that they talked no nonsense—that while, under their adverse and perilous circumstances, such gayety was unnatural and irrational, yet their minds were clear and their utterances brilliant. And this abnormal exaltation of intellect and elevation of spirit continued for several hours, long into the night.
Then the great reaction came. First Sybil grew very quiet, though not in the least degree sad; then Lyon Berners evinced a disposition rather to listen than to talk; and finally Captain Pendleton arose, and saying that this had been one of the strangest and pleasantest evenings he had ever passed in his, life, took leave of his friends and departed.
Sybil was very sleepy, and as soon as their guest was gone she asked Lyon to help her with the mattress: that she was so drowsy she could scarcely move. He begged her to sit still, for that he himself would do all that was necessary. And with much good-will, but also much awkwardness, he spread the couch, and then went to tell Sybil it was ready. But he found her with her head upon herknees, apparently fast asleep. He lifted her gently in his arms, and carried her and laid her on the mattress. And then, feeling overcome with drowsiness, he threw himself down beside her, and fell into a profound sleep.
But Sybil, as she afterwards told, did not sleep so deeply. It seemed, indeed, less sleep than stupor that overcame her. She was conscious when her husband raised her up in his arms and laid her on the bed; but she was too utterly oppressed with stupor and weariness to lift her eyes to look, or open her lips to speak, or, even after he had laid her down, to move a limb from the position into which it fell.
So she lay like one dead, except in being clearly conscious of all that was going on around her. She knew when Lyon laid down, and when he went to sleep. And still she lay in that heavy state, which was at once a profound repose and a clear consciousness, for perhaps an hour longer, when suddenly the stillness of the scene was stirred by a sound so slight that it could only have been heard by one whose senses were, like hers at that time, preternaturally acute. The sound was of the slow, cautious turning of a door upon its hinges!
Without moving hand or foot, she just languidly lifted her eyelids, and looked around upon the dim darkness.
There was a faint glow from the smouldering fire on the flagstone floor, and there was a faint light from the starlit night coming through the windows. By the aid of these she saw, as in a dream, the door of the vault wide open!
In her profound state of conscious repose there was no fear of danger, and no wish to move. So, still as in a dream, she witnessed what followed.
First a dark, shrouded figure issued from the vault, and turned around and bent down towards it, as if speaking to some one within. But no word was heard. Then the figure backed a pace, drawing up from the steps of the vault what seemed to be a long narrow box. As this boxcame up, it was followed by another dark, shrouded figure, who supported its other end. And as the two mysterious apparitions now stood beside the altar, Sybil saw that the box that they held between them was a coffin!
Nor was that all. While they moved a little down the side wall, they were followed by two other strange figures, issuing from the vault in the same order, and bearing between them, in the same manner, a second coffin; and as they, in their turn, filed down the side wall, they also were followed by still two others coming up out of the vault, and bringing with them a third coffin!
And then a ghastly procession formed against the side wall. Three long shadowy coffins borne by six dark shrouded figures, filed past the gothic windows, and disappeared through the open chapel door.
Sybil clearly saw all this, as in a nightmare from which she could not escape; she still lay motionless, speechless, and helpless, until she quite lost consciousness in a profound and dreamless sleep. So deep and heavy was this sleep, that she had no sense of existence for many hours. When at length she did awake, it seemed almost to a new life, so utterly, for a time, was all that had recently past forgotten. But as she arose and looked around, and collected her faculties, and remembered her position, she was astonished to see by the shining of the sun into the western windows, that it was late in the afternoon, and that they had slept nearly all day, for her husband was still sleeping heavily.
Then she remembered the horrible vision of the night, and she looked anxiously towards the door of the vault. It seemed fast as ever. She got up and went to look at it. Itwasfast, the bars firmly bedded in the solid masonry, as they had been before.
What then had been the vision? She shuddered to think of it. Her first impulse was now to arouse her husband and tell him what had happened. But her tenderness for him pleaded with her to forbear.
“He sleeps well, poor Lyon! let him sleep,” she said, and she threw a shawl around her shoulders, and went out of the chapel to get a breath of the fresh morning air.
She had to pass among the gray old gravestones lying deep in the bright-colored dew-spangled brushwood. As she picked her way past them, she suddenly stopped and screamed.
Captain Pendleton was lying prostrate, like a dead man at the foot of an old tree!
With a strong effort of the will, she controlled herself sufficiently to enable her to approach and examine him. He was not dead, as she had at first supposed; but he was in a very death-like sleep.
She arose to her feet, and clasped her forehead with both hands while she tried to think. What could these things mean? The unnatural exhilaration of their little party on the previous evening; the powerful reaction that prostrated them all in heavy stupor or dreamless sleep, that had lasted some fifteen hours; the ghastly procession she had seen issue from the open door of the old vault, and march slowly down the east wall of the church, past all the gothic windows, and disappear through the front door; the spell that had so deeply bound her own faculties, that she had neither the power nor the will to call out; their visitor overtaken by sleep while on his way to mount his horse, and now lying prostrate among the gravestones? What could all these things mean?
She could not imagine.
However much she might have wished to spare her husband’s rest up to this moment, she felt that she must arouse him now. She hurried back into the church, and went up to the little couch and looked at Lyon.
He was moving restlessly, and muttering sadly in his sleep. And now she felt less reluctance to wake him from his troubled dream. She shook him gently, and called him.
He opened his eyes, gazed at her, arose up in a sitting posture, and stared around for a moment, and then seeing his wife, exclaimed:
“Oh! is it you, Sybil? What is this? the chapel seems to be turned around.” And he gazed again at the western windows, where the sun was shining, and which he mistook for the eastern, supposing the time to be morning.
“The chapel has not turned around, Lyon; but the sun has. It is late in the afternoon, and that is the declining and not the rising sun that you see.”
“Good gracious, Sybil! Have I slept so late as this? Why did you let me?”
“Because I slept myself; we all slept; even to Captain Pendleton, who must have been overpowered by sleep on his way to his horse; for I have just found him lying among the gravestones.”
“What? Who? Pendleton asleep among the gravestones? Say that again. I don’t understand.”
Sybil briefly repeated her statement.
Lyon started up, shook himself as if to arouse all his faculties, and then went and douched his head and face with cold water, and finally, as he dried them, he turned to Sybil and said:
“What is all this that you tell me? Where is Pendleton? Come and show me.”
Sybil led the way to the spot where their friend lay in his heavy sleep.
“Good Heaven! He must have fallen down, or sunk down here, within three minutes of leaving the church!” exclaimed Lyon Berners, gazing on the sleeper.
“Something must have happened to us all, dear Lyon. Do you remember how unreasonably gay we all were at supper last evening? We, too, who had every reason to be very grave and even sad? And do you remember the reaction? When we all grew so drowsy that we couldhardly keep our eyes open? And then there was something else, which I will tell you of by and by. And now we have all slept fifteen or sixteen hours. Something strange has happened to us, Lyon,” said Sybil, slowly.
“Something has, indeed. But now we must arouse Pendleton. Good Heaven! he may have caught his death by sleeping out all night,” exclaimed Mr. Berners, as he stooped down and shook the sleeper.
But it was not without difficulty that Lyon succeeded in arousing Captain Pendleton, who, when he was fairly upon his feet, reeled like a drunken man.
“Pendleton, Pendleton, wake up! What, man! what has happened to you?” exclaimed Lyon, trying to steady the other upon his feet.
“Too late for roll-call. Bad example to the rank and file,” murmured the Captain, with some remnant of a camp-dream lingering in his mind.
Mr. Berners shook him roughly, while Sybil dipped up a double handful of water from a little spring at their feet, and threw it up into his face.
This fairly aroused him.
“Whew-ew! Phiz! What’s that for? What the demon’s all this? What’s the matter?” he exclaimed, sneezing, coughing, and sputtering through the water that Sybil had flung into his face.
“What’s all this?” exclaimed Lyon Berners, echoing his question. “It is that we are all robbed and murdered, and carried into captivity, for all I know,” he added, smiling, as he could not fail to do, at the droll figure cut by his friend.
“How the deuce came I here?” demanded Pendleton, glaring around with his mouth and eyes wide open. “Is this enchantment?”
“Something very like it, Pendleton. But come, man, this is no laughing matter. It is very serious. Therefore rouse yourself and collect your faculties. You will need them all, I assure you,” gravely replied Lyon Berners.
“But—how in thunder, came I here?” again demanded the Captain, shivering and staring around him.
“We can not tell. My wife found you here about half an hour ago. You are supposed to have been overcome by drowsiness, while on your way to your horse, and to have sunk down here and slept from that time to this—some sixteen hours.”
“Good—! I remember taking leave of you both, after our lively supper of last evening, and starting for the thicket, and giving way just here to an irresistible feeling of drowsiness, and sinking down with the dreamy idea that I would not go to sleep, but would soon arise and pursue my journey. And I have lain here all night!” he exclaimed in astonishment.
“Yes, and all day!” added Lyon, solemnly.
“How is it that I was not awakened before?” demanded the Captain, with an injured look.
“Because we ourselves were in the same condition. It is not more than fifteen minutes since my wife awakened me.”
“In the name of heaven, then, what has befallen us all?” demanded the Captain in amazement.
“That is what we must try to find out. You must help us. I have been thinking rapidly while standing here, and the result is, that I judge we have all been drugged with opium; but whether by accident or with design, or if with design, by whom, or with what purpose, I cannot even imagine; though I do vaguely connect the fact with the mysterious visitant of the chapel,” replied Mr. Berners.
While he spoke they all turned their steps towards the chapel. And with his concluding words, they entered it in company.
The “housekeeping corner” of the chapel was in a state of confusion very much at variance with the young housekeeper’s fastidiously tidy habits.
The supper dishes lay upon the table-cloth on the floor,where they had been uncared for by the drugged and drowsy pair. And the little bed remained unmade, as it had been left by them when they ran out to look after Captain Pendleton.
Sybil saw all this at a glance, and with a flush; and forgetting for a moment everything else, she bade her husband and his guest stop where they were until she had put her “house” in order.
In this limited manner of domestic economy, it took Sybil but ten minutes to make the bed and wash the dishes. And, meanwhile, Lyon Berners made up the fire, and Clement Pendleton brought a pail of fresh water from the fountain.
Sybil began to prepare the breakfast, but none of the party felt like eating it.
“And that is another sign of opium! We have no appetite,” observed Lyon Berners, as they sat down around the table-cloth; and instead of discussing the viands before them, they discussed the events of the preceding day and night.
Lyon Berners remembered that Sybil and himself had spent nearly the whole of the preceding afternoon in rambling through the woods; and he suggested as the only solution of the mystery that, during their absence some one had entered the chapel, and put opium in their food and drink.
“‘Some one;’ but whom?” inquired Captain Pendleton, incredulously.
“Most probably the girl whom we have seen here,” answered Mr. Berners.
“But for what purpose do you think she drugged your drink?”
“To throw us into a deep sleep for many hours, which would enable her to come and go, to and from the chapel, undiscovered and unmolested.”
“But why should she wish to come back and forth to such a dreary, empty old place as this?”
“Ah! that I cannot tell; at that point conjecture is utterly baffled,” answered Lyon.
“Yes; because conjecture has been pursuing a phantom—a phantom that vanishes upon being nearly approached. I cannot accept your theory of the mystery, Berners; and what is worse, I cannot substitute one of my own,” said Captain Pendleton, shaking his head.
“And now I have something to reveal,” said Sybil, solemnly.
“Another morning dream?” inquired Lyon, while Pendleton looked up with interest.
“No; a reality—a ghastly, horrible reality,” she answered.
And while both looked at her with strange, deep interest and curiosity, she related her sepulchral experiences of the night. When with pale cheeks and shuddering frame she described the six dark, shrouded forms that had come up out of the vault, bearing long shadowy coffins, which they carried in a slow procession down along the east wall, past the Gothic windows and out at the front door, her two listeners looked at her, and then at each other, in amazement and incredulity.
“It was an opium dream,” said Mr. Berners, in a positive manner.
“It would be useless, dear Lyon, for me to tell you that I was rather wider awake then than I am now, yet I really was,” said Sybil, with equal assurance.
“And yet you did not lift hand or voice to call my attention to what was going on.”
“I did not wish to do it; my will seemed palsied. I could only gaze at the awful procession and think how ghastly it was, and thinking so, I sank into a dreamless sleep, and knew no more until I woke up this afternoon.”
“Meanwhile let us go and look at the door of the vault. You say the door was wide open?” inquired Captain Pendleton.
“Of course it was wide open: that is, wide open last night when those horrible forms came up out of the vault; but this morning it was fast enough,” answered Sybil.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Berners.
“I know what that ‘oh!’ means, Lyon. But I hope before we leave this chapel that you will find out that I can distinguish a dream from a dreadful reality,” observed his wife.
Meanwhile they had reached the iron door of the vault. It was fast. Pendleton took hold of the iron bars and tried to shake it; but the bars were bedded in solid stone, and the door was immovable. Then he looked through the grating down into the depths below, but he only saw the top of the staircase, the bottom of which disappeared in the darkness.
“My dear Mrs. Berners,” he then said, turning to Sybil, “I do not like to differ with a lady in a matter of her ‘own experience’; but as we are in search of the truth, and the truth happens to be of the most vital importance to our safety, I feel constrained to assure you that this door, from its very appearance, assures us that it can not have been opened within half a century, and that consequently your ‘own experience’ of the last night cannot have been a reality, but must have been a dream.”
“I wish you could dream such a one, and then you would know something about it,” answered Sybil.
“I think you will have to come to my theory about the opium,” put in Mr. Berners, “especially as I have pursued my ‘phantom’ one stage farther in her flight, and am able to assign a possible motive for her secret visits to the chapel.”
“Ah! do that, and we will think about agreeing with your views. Now then the motive,” exclaimed Pendleton.
“A lover.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, a lover. She comes here to meet him; and not liking eye-witnesses to the courtship, she drugged us,” said Mr. Berners, triumphantly.
“That is the most violent and far-fetched theory of the mystery. Nothing but our desperate need of an elucidation could excuse its being put forward,” said Captain Pendleton, drily. Then he spoke more earnestly: “Berners, whatever may be the true explanation of all that we have experienced here, one thing seems certain: that your retreat here is known to at least one person, who may or may not be inimical to your interests. Now my advice to you is still the same. Stop this girl the first time you see her again, and compel her to give an account of herself. Conceal your names and stations from her, if possible, and in any case bribe her to silence upon the subject of your abode here. If it were prudent, I should counsel you to leave this chapel for some other place of concealment; but really there seems now more danger in moving than in keeping still. So I reiterate my advice, that you shall enlist this strange girl in your interests.”
“But before cooking your hare, you must catch it,” said Sybil. “We may see this visitant a dozen times more, but we will never be able to stop her. She appears and vanishes! Is seen and gone in an instant! But, Captain Pendleton, I will tell you what I wish you to do for me.”
“I will do anything in the world that you wish, except believe in ghosts.”
“Then you will bring me a crowbar, or whatever the tool or tools may be with which strong doors may be forced. I want that grated iron door forced open, that we may go down into that vault and see what it holds.”
“Good Heavens Mrs. Berners!” he exclaimed, striking a theatrical attitude.
“‘Would’st bid me burstThe loathsome charnel-house, andSpread a pestilence?’”
“I want to see what is in it; and Iwill,” persisted Sybil.
“Bring the tools when you come again, Pendleton, and we will open the door, and examine the vault,” added Mr. Berners.
“Ugh! you will find it full of coffins and skeletons—
“‘And mair o’ horrible and awfu’Whilk e’en to name wad be unlawfu’.’”
“You are in a poetical mood, Pendleton.”