by Simon Stern
It wanted but three days to Christmas, and several guests were yet to arrive on a Christmas visit, and a large house party was arranged for the coming festival. The shadows deepened, and soon after the well-lighted and curtained room enhanced the comfort of the ruddy firelight, and the cheerful conversation was brought to a temporary close by his being compelled to retire to his room to dress for dinner. Less than an hour later the family were seated to dinner. The head of the family, Mr. Maitland, was a well preserved and handsome man rather under sixty. He himself had been an only son, and, with the exception of the private fortunes of his two sisters, had inherited the Manor and the adjoining estates, together with an immense fortune and successive interest in the large banking firm which his great grandfather had founded. Thus born heir to a very large inheritance, he was a rich man and had long since withdrawn from any active part in financial business of the banking firm. He married early and had in family two sons, Horace and Gilbert, now aged twenty-two and seventeen, and three daughters, Frances, Emily, and Lucy. The elder sister was about twenty-five years of age, her second sister was about three years younger though rather fairer and not quite so tall, yet bore a remarkable likeness to her. Lucy was a girl of fifteen. Mrs. Maitland was nearly ten years younger than her husband.
All without exception who have travelled for long in any far distant country, especially for years, realize in a most extraordinary manner the peculiarly happy sensation experienced upon returning to their native home. Hugh Desmond loved his country with a wonderful devotion, and his enjoyment at this moment was of that transcendent character which baffles description. He was a brave, generous, and devoted man in disposition, whose only personal regard was his honour, and at thirty years of age he was a singularly handsome man and a perfect type of an English gentleman. A sudden and new life was dawning upon him unconsciously this winter’s afternoon, and illuminating his soul with an intoxicating rosy light, and uniting him with that abode in the realms of happiness which is perhaps the most blissful. He was seated next to the mother of Frances Maitland, but his gaze unavoidably rested again upon Frances, who was in truth a very beautiful woman. Tall and lithe of stature, the exquisite proportions of her form and figures were enhanced by a deep blue velvet winter dress, the rich folds affording a vivid contrast to the creamy whiteness of her arms. Her rich dark-brown hair fell in a profusion of natural ringlets over her temples and massing away from them over her head and drooping to the back of her neck. Her forehead was low and broad, her eyes deep, soft clear brown, with delicately arched eyebrows and long drooping lashes which looked almost black in their depth. Her nose was straight, with that finely chiselled arching at the nostrils which is called spiritual. Her lips were exquisitely formed with that upward turn at the corners called “Cupids bow,” and denoting sweetness and amiability of temper, and which always indicates a noble self-sacrificing character. The expression which lent its peculiar charm to her very intelligent face was that of patient innocence. It was the happiest evening of his life, and later, when she sang for him, the sweet penetrating tones of her voice thrilled the depths of his soul, and, as it were, filled him with its melody. When a girl of little more than sixteen he had loved her, and after an absence of nearly ten years, that love awakened with a tenfold force. Her beauty had matured and developed into not only a glorious womanhood, but a powerful and exalted soul, the influence of which once thoroughly established, was not to be forgotten, and especially by such a highly appreciative man as Hugh Desmond, whose heart throbbed faster at the kind pressure of her hand, ere he retired for the night.
Christmas Eve brought with it not only a full house party for whom accommodation was arranged, but an unexpected lady guest as the last moment, whose comfort was a matter of consideration at a time when the family were alone.
“I should not like to let her share a room or to go into an unused one,” observed Mrs. Maitland to her husband.
“Might I suggest,” said Hugh, “that it would give me a great pleasure if the lady could have my room which is so very comfortable, and I should be quite safe and at home in an unoccupied one, for I have been used for many years to far greater exposures, to frequent inclemency, as regards my surroundings, to have any fear of a damp room.”
“The difficulty is of another nature, Captain,” replied Mr. Maitland, “though one of the best rooms in the house, it has been seldom used for years, for more than a night at a time; it has a bad reputation,” and a smile crossed his face as he uttered the words—“it is called the Haunted Room.”
Hugh’s face lit up at the words. “The very adventure I have longed for as an experience for years. Pray gratify my wish now you have the chance; lest such an one might not occur again during my life-time,” and he added “but I have no belief in apparitions, and I shall be disappointed if I do not go. Please let me have my own way.”
All, especially Frances Maitland, endeavoured to deter him, for a look of apprehension crossed her face, but he persisted the more in his wish and broke into a merry peal of laughter.
“Let me tell you,” said Mr. Maitland, “that it will be difficult to induce the servants to go there, and none of us ever do; it is kept locked, Captain.”
Remonstrance was in vain, Desmond’s merriment was infectious, and amidst the laughter he had provoked he enquired if there was any legend attached to the Haunted Room, and who was the ghost.
“It is said to be the ghost of the Miriam Desmond, who was one of the last of your known ancestors in England,” was the reply. “She became a nun, and her two brothers went away no one knew whither; she is called by the country folks, ‘the White Lady,’ and that she is at times seen is a firmly rooted superstition.”
“That clinches the matter,” returned Hugh, “as long as I stay, please let me be there. I have a right to be with my ancestors who could not possibly harm me; yet I may not hope for a visit from one of them.”
The bell was rung and when the aged butler received his instructions to convey to the housekeeper, with orders to assist her as rapidly as possible, for the Captain’s occupation, his pale scared face told its own story. But he was a trusted servant and did not express his opinion. Fires were ordered to be lighted and kept going with the windows open for occupation on the succeeding night, as the lady visitor would not arrive till the morning of Christmas Day. That Christmas morn dawned as the happiest Hugh Desmond had ever known; his very eyelids enclosed with a great wonderment and half self-questioning of its reality. But it was all real and true, and breakfast would again bring him into the presence of Frances Maitland. It was a brilliant winter’s day, clear and sunshiny, and free from snow. The large house party gave the family the full complement of guests, and at the evening party were assembled a number of neighbouring friends and children, which filled the spacious rooms, lighted and garlanded for the season’s festivities; and as the evening wore on, the happy enjoyment seemed to deepen and gather greater happiness, as singing and dancing gave place to story-telling, and blind man’s buff, and forfeits. The elderly lady visitor at the latter was the judge, and, alike with others, the lips of Frances Maitland met those of Hugh beneath the mistletoe, and his heart bounded with rapture, and a rosy haze blinded his vision for the moment. Now and again the guests would seek the cool of the conservatory, and amidst the soft glow of the Chinese lanterns Hugh and Frances stood by the rippling fountain, and, drawing her to him, he kissed her head, saying, “I love you; you cannot tell how much I love you,” and again their lips met in a long, loving kiss, and then, arm in arm, they sauntered back and joined again in the waltz and country dance till a late hour, and the younger guests began to depart. It was approaching the midnight hour before the family and friends separated for the night, and Hugh, in a whirl of happiness and joy, took his way to his apartment.
As he entered the haunted room for the first time, and set his candle upon the table, and then closed the door after him, he then remembered his conversation regarding it with Mr. Maitland. It was a much
larger apartment than the one he had vacated, being nearly or quite square with high, and, in places, carved and panelled oak wainscotting, polished, and black with age. A cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth and wide and heavy curtains overhung the window which appeared so large that he was impelled to draw aside the folds, when he found that the extensive window, which attracted his notice, was really three gothic-shaped windows, the centre one being the largest, with the curious diamond-shaped panes of glass, with leaden glazing, and latticed, opening outwards.
Hugh glanced at the fastenings of the windows; they were all secure, and then re-placed the curtains; then walking to the fireplace seated himself in the comfortable easy chair, and glanced round at the antique chamber with mingled wonder and admiration, for he could not but feel impressed with the solemn grandeur of the room; but equally he wondered at himself, for yet in a few moments his sensations had unaccountably passed from the most joyous hilarity to a feeling of sad and sorrowful regret, tempered with anxiety. The room was quite warm, perceptibly so, for the fire had been well kept up since the previous day; he felt no sign of chill or cold, yet the sudden transition was so great that an instant after he strove to ridicule himself for letting the remembrance of the legend weigh upon his spirits.
Hugh shook himself, stooped down, took off his boots, and put on his slippers; then, walking to the door, opened it, and put the boots outside; as he did so a rush of joyous warmth seemed to pervade his being, and instinctively he stepped out with his slippered feet and stood alone in the silent dark corridor. The change was remarkable beyond description, his whole being thrilled with a great comfort; then he turned, and re-entering the room closed the door, and turning the handle of the key in the lock felt the handle of the door. It was fast.
Once more he felt as though he had entered a tomb. He glanced at the very large, old, and handsome four-post bedstead, and ejaculated mentally, “I shall soon get spoiled at this rate; soft and easy quarters seem to be enervating, this is a proof of it.”
Rapidly preparing himself, he undressed, extinguished the light, and went to bed, feeling tired, partly, but longing most for sleep till morning. He lay watching the flickering shadows cast by the slowly declining firelight. He closed his eyes and sought repose, and tried to think of Frances, but it was with a sad anxious feeling that he longed for the morning, and now and again he dozed. Then he fell asleep. He awoke with a slight start as though some noise had awakened him, and turning, listened, but the most profound silence reigned, and then thinking he must have started in his sleep, drowsiness was again stealing over him, when the distant Church bell began to strike. Arousing himself for the moment, he listened attentively, for the bell was tolling the warning for the hour, then with the few seconds pause came the solemn deep-toned single stroke of one o’clock.
“Only one,” he mused, as he closed his eyes again, “I could have slept only a few minutes; I thought it later,” and soon he slept profoundly once more. How long he slept he could not tell, but again his slumber was broken in the same manner; he started awake, and feeling intense weariness listened. Perfect, stilly silence reigned, and longing for sleep he strove to quiet himself. Soon he fell in a half-sleep, and was again disturbed by a strange hollow and distant booming sound. Conjecturing that it might be an unclosed door jarring with the draught, he nearly slept again, when the same sound was repeated, and notwithstanding his every effort to compose himself, for the desire for sleep became almost hungry with its intensity, he repeatedly awoke with the same sound occurring at intervals of two or three minutes.
He asked himself what it could be, and whether in the house or far distant; or whether it was really a sound, or noise, or a deception of his senses. But the noise kept on. At the same short intervals of about two minutes came the weird boom, seeming to come from the depths of space, and to strike upon the centre of his being. And now a new feeling came over him more prominent than the distant weird disturbance, an awful thirst for sleep, and he knew that he was fighting, and as it were almost struggling, for repose. But strive as he might, there was no intermission. Then he ceased to feel it, and a feeling of relief, mingled with dread, came over him lest it should disturb him again. Once more he slept, but with his senses acutely strained even in sleep, when a new and shocking sound struck upon his ear—the awful sound to a true man of a woman’s sob of intense suffering and sorrow; the deep drawn quivering sob of a woman in the extremity of anguish, weird, unearthly, distant, but yet still seeming to be within a few feet of Desmond.
A sensitive chord of his soul had been aroused, and from its depths mingled sympathy, grief, and compassion welled up, and with it regret, for he could think of no distant female friend who might be imagined to be in danger or suffering. But the desire for sleep became an agony, and closing his eyes again he strove to drown his senses, and almost succeeded when the same detonation already described, commenced again; it kept on in the same way, at the same intervals, and though prostrate with weariness, repose eluded him, and with each repetition his blood seemed to collide in its course, and he gasped for breath; it kept on, it grew insufferable, he could bear no more. Turning upon his back he swept the hair from his heated forehead with his hand, and with his arms flung wide gave up all hope of rest, and resolved to keep awake the rest of the night.
Now that Desmond was fully awake, intense silence prevailed. His senses were undisturbed. Yet he dreaded to sleep again. Then he remembered the strange reputation of the chamber in which he was, and he thought the coincidence remarkable, but resolved to make no mention of his impression on the morrow.
A new impulse came over him to get up and dress himself, and give up all prospect of sleep that night. He arose, struck a match, and lit his candle and looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes past two o’clock.
He dressed himself completely, put on his slippers, and seated himself in the easy chair, and leant back, gazing at the last expiring glow of the hollows left of the dying fire, and though his limbs almost ached with weariness, and he longed for rest, he yet felt glad he had risen and the reflection struck him that in an hour at most the candle would be burnt out, and he would be in the dark. He got up, walked softly to the window and drew aside one of the curtains. It was a brilliant moonlight. He flung all the curtains wide till the three large windows were bare, and the room was flooded with moonlight. Then he walked to the table and extinguished the candle, and the room seemed lighter than before, and he re-seated himself, and as he leant back in his chair, he grew more composed, pacified almost, but for the feeling of compassionate regret at the memory of the sound of that sob.
Perhaps half an hour passed, it seemed so long, and he grew chilly; he resolved to lie down again; at least, it would be warmer. His large, fur-lined railway and driving rug hung over a chair back, and he lay down, spread it wide over him, drew it beneath his feet by raising them, and in a few moments he was quite warm.
He rested, looking at the moonlight; then he dozed and opened his eyes again, looking at the window; then he dozed again; then he slept.
How long he slept he knew not, but he was aroused by something very gently touching his wrist. He opened his eyes, at first drowsily; then his orbits expanded to their fullest limit, and his blood seemed to grow cold. He could not utter a sound; his tongue became as rigid as his fixed gaze and motionless limbs. He was no longer alone.
Close to his bedside and in the full flood of the clear moonlight, with her hand outstretched to him in an attitude of supplication, was the figure of a small lady, clad in white from head to foot. Captain Hugh Desmond was a very brave man, an admirable soldier, regarding his utter fearlessness of death, added to his love of danger and perilous adventure, but never throughout his military career had he experienced the sensations of appalling dread which for the first few moments overcame him at this meeting between the earthly and the unearthly. But the spasm of horror was only for a few moments, the wraith was not only that of a small and delicate woman, but of a supplicant, compassion
rose within him, and determination to aid her to the best of his ability gave him back the use of his limbs. He rose upon his elbow, slowly at first, disengaged his limbs from the folds of the rug, and regaining his feet, stood before her.
Her face, raised as it was appealingly, scarcely reached the level of his breast as he stood by her side awaiting her will and wish.
She stretched out her hand to him, her left hand which he took gently in his right. The touch was perceptibly hard, the bones of the tiny hand were fleshless and the slender finger joints were rigidly straight and drawn together as in the attitude of death, and as he gently took that fleshless hand in his, he noticed that the finely pointed bones of the fore and middle fingers were broken and absent.
With that touch all was changed. No need was there for words or human language. Desmond knew all from moment to moment, her will, wish, motive, and the longing to transmit her memory’s records of the past.
Holding her by her fleshless hand, he walked by her side to the door which he unlocked, and threw open for her to pass. She guided him out into the dark corridor by that hand he constantly held, along through the black darkness, dark no longer now, for with them went a new and strange light, more like the light of day than the moonlight they had left.
Onward she led him, across the corridor, down a short corridor to the right, then a little way down a parallel corridor to the left, and across it to the heavy, black, oak-panelled woodwork. She paused at one of the dark alcoves, by her wish, and he knew what to do. He pressed a mound of heavy carving at the side, and the back of the recess gave way on its hinges, and they passed through the secret doorway—the same light going with them as they passed on noiselessly, but for the almost inaudible sound of Desmond’s slippered feet, to the head of some wooden stairs, by means of which they descended to a stone passage with a window in it, similar in the diamond-glazing to the one in the chamber he had left, but that the recess of several feet in depth, was enclosed by a grating of iron bars of vast strength let into the solid stonework.
