My heart stood still.
“Treasure?” I repeated eagerly.
“Ah, then you have never heard the legend of the Trevalyons, nor of the ghost which is supposed to haunt Tregarthlyn. But how pale you are, Ruby; perhaps I had better postpone my story.”
“Oh no; tell me now,” I urged, and drawing my sealskin closely round me, for I shivered intensely, I seated myself upon one of the seats on the terrace which flanked the south side of the building.
“Well, there was once upon a time, during the reign of Charles I., a certain Sir Guy Trevalyon. Of course he was a staunch Royalist, and something of a freebooter too, I’m afraid, judging by all accounts. This worthy knight was in close attendance upon the King, and was among the escort sent to convey the Queen Henrietta Maria to England. Later on he was despatched on a secret mission to Spain, and whilst there a quantity of Spanish treasure in the shape of money, drinking cups, flagons and chalices, all in pure gold, fell into his hands, and was brought here for concealment. Six months later, during the civil war, Tregarthlyn Castle was stormed by the Roundheads, who were successfully repulsed by Sir Guy; but after the siege was over the knight was found to be missing, and was never again heard of. What became of him, or the treasure, Heaven only knows. Every successive heir to the estate has searched the place, but to no purpose.”
“Have you?” I asked breathlessly.
“Yes indeed; you may think me a fool, but I have had surveyors and architects here for a month at a time. We found one secret chamber opening with a sliding panel from the picture gallery, but nothing more. There is an old doggerel rhyme about it; it runs something like this—
“ ‘She, who through love the——,’ ”
he broke off suddenly as I started forward, crying, “No, no, there must be some mistake—it can’t be.”
“Why, Ruby, what is the matter? you don’t mean to say you are frightened?”
I tried to smile, but I felt horrified; what did it all mean? Only too well I knew the remainder of the rhyme, for it haunted me. I had it written down in my desk at this very moment.
“I don’t see much chance of any lovely young maiden braving the ghost of Sir Guy for my sake,” he went on; but his tones seemed muffled and far away. I have a vague impression that he turned to me with keen solicitude in his glance; then he, the castle, everything, faded into a dark mist; a ghastly terror seemed to shake my very soul, and I fell forward, unconscious.
When I recovered myself I was in the warm breakfast-room, my aunt bending anxiously over me with a bottle of smelling salts.
“My dear child,” she said, “how you frightened me. I have been scolding Derrick for taking you out without any breakfast. You must remember, dear, that you are somewhat of an invalid, and quite unused to our cold climate.”
I sat up, and tried to smile. “Please don’t scold Derrick; it was all my fault.”
“Then you must promise me not to attempt to get up another morning until you are called. Now you must have some breakfast.”
At the mention of that somewhat overrated meal I began to think I was very hungry; and so, much to Derrick’s satisfaction (he seemed terribly put out by my sudden collapse, poor fellow), I allowed myself to be ensconced in a warm nook by the fire, and did ample justice to aunt’s hospitality. In the afternoon Bee offered to show me over the castle, and I gladly assented.
It was a rambling, old place, big enough to put up a regiment of soldiers. Two wings were entirely closed, and only saw daylight when it was necessary to remove the dust that gathered upon the time-worn furniture and brocaded hangings, relics of past generations.
Everywhere I saw the same evidences of decay, of poverty, that I had noticed out of doors; it was indeed sadly apparent that the glory of the Trevalyons had departed. When we entered the picture-gallery, which ran the length of the north wing, and was shut off by heavy folding doors, the sun was setting, and darkness was coming on apace. We passed down it, our footsteps making no sound upon the tapestried floor, the eyes of the dead and gone Trevalyons following us as eyes will do in an oil-painting, Bee pointing out to me the most noteworthy of them. I’m afraid they were mostly a lawless race, given to cards, dice, and wine, and more apt to love their neighbours’ wives than their own lawful spouses.
“This is the celebrated Sir Guy,” said Bee stopping short at a full-length picture of a knight in armour, his plumed casque in his hand; “he is supposed to haunt the castle. Isn’t he an old fright?”
I looked up at the dark and saturnine countenance above me with something of awe; certainly I felt no inclination to speak so irreverently of the Phantom Knight. His bold, black eyes gazed straight out from the canvas in a defiant stare, and—could it be fancy?—they seemed to me illumined as with an inward flame.
I glanced hastily round. Was it a shaft of sunlight that had caused that unearthly radiance? No, the gallery was already shrouded in darkness.
With a sudden feeling of terror I turned to Bee, who had gone on, and said in a half-whisper, “I don’t like this place, it is eerie; let us go downstairs,” and seizing her arm, I hurried her towards the door, and we ran down the corridor as if all the ghosts imaginable had been at our heels.
Bee threw herself, breathless and laughing, into a chair when we reached the drawing-room.
“I declare you have given me quite a scare,” she said as soon as she could speak. “What on earth did you see or hear? I expect Derrick frightened you this morning with his silly stories.”
“I wish you would not laugh about it,” I returned rather pettishly; “I detest ghosts and all that sort of thing.”
Bee jumped up and kissed me in her usual impulsive fashion.
“Poor little coz! she looks like a ghost herself with her pale face, and her wondering blue eyes.”
“Am I really so hideous?” I asked plaintively, with an anxious glance at the adjacent mirror.
“Oh, alarmingly so,” laughed my mischievous cousin. “That is, if one can be hideous with lovely, rippling, auburn hair, eyes like violets, and a little face like a wild rose.”
“You are too poetical to be truthful, I am afraid,” I returned severely; “but, tell me now, have you ever seen the ghost?”
“I? No, never, thank heaven! Sir Guy has not troubled me. He evidently thinks I am far too material a person to be honoured with his spiritual attentions. But with an ethereal being, like yourself, it may be different. I should not be at all surprised if he paid you a visit, if only out of deference to your personal charms. I have always heard that he was a great admirer of beauty; quite a gay Lothario in fact.”
This was too much; I was feeling horribly nervous and unstrung, and here, to Bee’s utter dismay, I burst into a fit of hysterical weeping.
In an instant she was on her knees beside me, her arms clasping my waist, her pretty, soft, rosy face pressed to mine, whilst she whispered contritely, “My little darling cousin, do forgive me. I am a brute to tease you. I did not mean a word of it, but I am not accustomed to the society of such a delicate little flower as you, so you must forgive me. Sir Guy is a myth, no one that I know of has ever seen him, or any other ghost. Of course, all old places boast of one; it is the proper thing to have, like old silver, old port, and ancestral portraits.” So she petted and cheered me, until gradually I recovered myself, though it was some time before I could quite shake off the nervous, uncomfortable feelings that had risen in my breast since my arrival.
III
The days slipped away very quickly, and I soon felt quite at home and happy with my relations, though there was scarcely any hour in the twenty-four that I did not think, with a swelling heart, of my dearest old dad, so many, many miles away. I grew rapidly stronger and better; the pure Cornish air, laden with the briny breath of the broad Atlantic, blew a faint colour into my cheeks; and perhaps a hidden happiness, which I scarcely yet realised, lent a brighter colour to my eyes. Yes, I was happy; for I felt that Derrick Trevalyon loved me! I was not a child, and I had had
a certain amount of experience in the ways of mankind in India, so I was not likely to deceive myself. I read his secret in the ardent gaze of his honest grey eyes, in the fervent clasp of his hand, in the tender inflection of his voice when he addressed me; and gradually the conviction dawned upon me that I reciprocated his affection. And with that knowledge came the belief that it was in me to do something—what, I could not determine—to help him at this crisis.
As the time passed his resolute young face grew graver and graver; on more than one occasion I found my aunt in tears, which she vainly endeavoured to conceal; and even my irrepressible cousin Bee seemed sad and anxious. Only too well I knew the cause. In three months they would be homeless! I had never learned the value of money; my father was scarcely a rich man, but we had always had enough for comfort, if not luxury; but now I longed for wealth as ardently as the most inveterate miser could have done.
I had now quite got over my old fear of Sir Guy Trevalyon, and in fact passed an hour or so every day in the gallery, which commanded a magnificent view of the surrounding country, whose exquisite hills and dales I was constantly sketching.
We spent a very pleasant Christmas Eve. The rector of the adjacent parish, and his noisy family, together with some distant neighbours, were our guests, and after dinner we had charades, finishing up with a dance. The next day there was a Christmas Tree for the village children, at which Bee and I had worked hard for some weeks, and an entertainment at the schools for the old men and women.
On New Year’s Eve we were bidden to a dance at Viscount Ruthlyn’s, about ten miles away, to which festivity both Bee and I were looking forward with feverish eagerness. We had seen a good deal of the Honourable Gerald Trevor, his lordship’s eldest son, during the last few weeks. Scarcely a day passed without bringing him over upon some excuse or another, and he seldom went away without a glimpse of Bee’s pretty face, and some of her saucy speeches ringing in his ears. In truth, she snubbed him unmercifully; but he seemed to like it, possibly because it offered such a complete contrast to the reception he usually met with at the hands of the fair sex, being the heir to large possessions. We started off in high spirits for the ball, Derrick having expressed his satisfaction at our appearance, which we secretly agreed left nothing to be desired,—we were dressed alike in white tulle—and arrived safely, in spite of the slippery state of the roads and the snow that had been falling during the day. Dancing had commenced, and all the notabilities of the county were footing it merrily. The old oak-panelled rooms were gay with flowers and holly, whose shining crimson berries gleamed like fire amongst the myriads of wax-lights.
During the evening, Derrick and I found ourselves in the cool depths of the conservatory, where rare exotics bloomed in a wealth of ferns and creepers. Almost hidden behind some giant palms was a cushioned lounge; I sank down upon it with a sigh of content, and commenced fanning myself.
“Hark,” said Derrick, listening intently, “it is twelve o’clock; there go the bells. Can you hear them?” and as he spoke, the wild musical ring of many iron tongues announced the death of the old year, the birth of the new.
“Ring out wild bells to the wild sky,
The flying clouds, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.”
So I quoted softly as Derrick leant towards me and took my hand in his.
“God bless my dear little cousin, and give her a very happy year,” he said tenderly, looking into my eyes.
“I should like to wish you the same,” I commenced shyly, for his earnest gaze somewhat disturbed me.
He dropped my hand, and, turning away, picked a spray of Cape Jessamine.
“Do you know I am going to London to-morrow?” he asked abruptly.
“No, are you really?”
“I am going to interview a gentleman, who requires a tutor for his son. You may wish me luck if you like.”
My eyes filled with tears, his tone was so bitter, so unlike himself.
“Derrick,” I said earnestly, “I wish I could help you. I would give all I possess to be able to do something for you all. I wonder what that rhyme means.”
I stopped suddenly, half frightened at the light that flashed over his face.
“ ‘She who through love the treasure seeks,’ ” he said gently. “Ruby, don’t tempt me to tell you what I have been longing to say for days past. I am a poor penniless beggar, who has no right to think of love, or any such luxury.”
“Don’t say that, Derrick; what has money to do with love?”
“A great deal, my sweet romantic little coz; the world cannot get on without it.”
I looked up at him, our eyes met, and then somehow, Derrick’s arm slipped round my waist, and my cheek found a comfortable resting-place on his shoulder, whilst he whispered that he adored me, had done so in fact ever since he saw me at Chubbs’ Hotel,—a forlorn, tearful little figure, kneeling by the fire.
I went home in a dream of happiness, and, as I bade Derrick good-night, promised to be down the next morning to give him his breakfast before starting for London.
On reaching my room, I told Bee I was tired to death, and shut the door leading into her apartment. There was a bright fire in the grate, and, after undressing, I slipped on a warm dressing-gown, and sat down to consider the state of affairs. The fixed idea in my head was still how I could help my darling. What on earth was the meaning of that doggerel rhyme? Why had I been troubled with that extraordinary vision on board the Victoria, if nothing was to come of it?
I sat there thinking and thinking until the fire went out, and I awoke to the fact that I was intensely sleepy and very cold. I got into bed, but I could not sleep; over and over again I recalled my curious interview with Mr. Delaware. He had said that I was peculiarly susceptible to spiritual influence. Surely, the spirits would not harm me if what I desired to know was to benefit those I loved. With a sudden, but irresistible impulse, I rose, took my candle, and stole noiselessly out of the room, along the corridor, to the picture gallery.
I paused for an instant with my hand on the door.
What mad act was I about to do? I knew not—but I was in that stage of exultation when fear is unknown. I turned the handle slowly and entered.
The cold moonlight, pouring in at the uncovered windows, fell athwart the picture of Sir Guy Trevalyon, standing grim and forbidding in his suit of mail.
I went up to it, scarcely conscious of what I was about, but feeling vaguely that I was acting under the guidance of a superior will; I fell upon my knees, and held out my arms imploringly to the portrait. “Great Shade,” I murmured, “help me to find this treasure. If it be true that thou walkest through these walls seeking rest, I pledge myself to give thee Christian burial if thou wilt grant my prayer, for the sake of thy descendants, now in such trouble.”
Was my petition impious, do you think? I know that it came from my heart; as I ended, my eyes fixed upon the scornful ones above me, a radiant flame, as of an expiring ember burned in them. I almost fancied that those dark harsh features softened as they looked down upon me. I rose from my knees, and was advancing towards the door, when a deep sigh, which was almost a groan, startled me.
In an access of terror I flew along the corridor, and regaining my room locked the door, and jumped into bed.
But I was too nervous, too excited, to sleep.
Great Heaven! what had I done? Invoked the spirit of the dreaded Sir Guy?
A crowd of horrible impossibilities overwhelmed me; I dared remain no longer by myself. I went into Bee’s room, and asked her to let me share her bed, to which she willingly consented; and after a long time I fell asleep.
IV
How long I had slept I know not, but I suddenly awoke with a violent start. I glanced at my companion, she was slumbering sweetly, I sat up and looked fearfully round the room. The night-light was burning dimly; outside the window was nothing but darkness, the moon had disappeared. How silent everything
seemed.
Hark! what was that sound? Surely in the distance I could hear the clank of armour; as it were the echo of a mailed footstep ascending the staircase.
I listened intently, but my heart beat with such suffocating throbs as almost to render me deaf to all else. Every nerve in my body seemed strained to its utmost tension. In breathless suspense I waited; yes, there it was again, that muffled but steady footfall, coming slowly along the corridor towards our room. Nearer and nearer it approached; and, oh horror! stopped at our door!
That door was locked, for I had turned the key myself when I came in. The handle was softly turned, it opened, and there entered a tall figure enveloped in a long grey misty cloak. It advanced to the foot of the bed, and, raising its arm, beckoned to to me with a skeleton finger.
I sat fascinated, an icy terror numbing my limbs, paralysing my faculties, my eyes fixed on those of the figure, which glittered like a lambent flame from beneath the folds of the cloak.
As I gazed spellbound, I seemed to hear the words, “You have summoned me—you must follow me.”
But I could not have moved a limb. At last I realised the fearful consequences of my rash act, and with a wild cry to Heaven for mercy, I turned, and, flinging myself upon the pillow, hid my face. I seized my cousin, and in a whisper implored her to wake; I shook her, I even pinched her, but though usually so light a sleeper, she remained immovable. Then I wondered if my grisly visitor had departed, but I dared not look up. Unable to endure the agony of suspense any longer, with a desperate effort, I at length ventured to peep out. Oh God! there it stood; its flaming eyes still fixed on me, its fleshless hand still beckoning.
Then as I watched it there came over me something of the same curious sensation I had experienced when Mr. Delaware mesmerised me. It seemed as though I became partially unconscious, my material self remaining motionless and inert, whilst my spiritual faculties were singularly clear and acute. In a dream of horror,—such horror that even now the remembrance of it curdles the very blood in my veins,—yet impelled by an irresistible attraction, I slipped gradually out of bed, and advanced towards the apparition.
The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories Page 4
