Had some hunting-party from the neighbourhood sought shelter here, glad to escape the pitiless rain? That was not impossible, I thought. I was an utter unbeliever in all ghostly things—ready to credit any possibility rather than suppose that I had been looking upon shadows. And yet the noiselessness, the awful sound of that horn—the strange unearthly gleam of that lantern! Little superstitious as I might be, a cold sweat stood out upon my forehead, and I trembled in every limb.
For some minutes I stood by the window, statue-like, staring blankly into the empty quadrangle. Then I roused myself suddenly and ran softly downstairs by a back staircase leading to the servants’ quarters, determined to solve the mystery somehow or other. The way to Mrs. Marjorum’s room was familiar to me from old experience, and it was thither that I bent my steps, determined to ask the housekeeper the meaning of what I had seen. I had a lurking conviction that it would be well for me not to mention that scene to any member of the family till I had taken counsel with someone who knew the secrets of Chrighton Abbey.
I heard the sound of merry voices and laughter as I passed the kitchen and servants’ hall. Men and maids were all busy in the pleasant labour of decorating their rooms for the evening’s festival. They were putting the last touches to garlands of holly and laurel, ivy and fir, as I passed the open doors; and in both rooms I saw tables laid for a substantial tea. The housekeeper’s room was in a retired nook at the end of a long passage—a charming old room, paneled with dark oak, and full of capacious cupboards, which in my childhood I had looked upon as storehouses of inexhaustible treasures in the way of preserves and other confectionery. It was a shady old room, with a wide old-fashioned fireplace, cool in summer, when the hearth was adorned with a great jar of roses and lavender; and warm in winter, when the logs burnt merrily all day long.
I opened the door softly and went in. Mrs. Marjorum was dozing in a high-backed arm-chair by the glowing hearth, dressed in her state gown of grey watered silk, and with a cap that was a perfect garden of roses. She opened her eyes as I approached her and stared at me with a puzzled look for the first moment or so.
“Why, is that you, Miss Sarah?” she exclaimed; “and looking as pale as a ghost, I can see, even by this firelight! Let me just light a candle, and then I’ll get you some sal volatile. Sit down in my armchair, miss; why, I declare you’re all of a tremble!”
She put me into her easy-chair before I could resist, and lighted the two candles which stood ready upon her table, while I was trying to speak. My lips were dry, and it seemed at first as if my voice was gone.
“Never mind the sal volatile, Marjorum,” I said at last. “I am not ill; I’ve been startled, that’s all; and I’ve come to ask you for an explanation of the business that frightened me.”
“What business, Miss Sarah?”
“You must have heard something of it yourself, surely. Didn’t you hear a horn just now, a huntsman’s horn?”
“A horn! Lord no, Miss Sarah. What ever could have put such a fancy into your head?”
I saw that Mrs. Marjorum’s ruddy cheeks had suddenly lost their colour, that she was now almost as pale as I could have been myself.
“It was no fancy,” I said; “I heard the sound, and saw the people. A hunting-party has just taken shelter in the north quadrangle. Dogs and horses, and gentlemen and servants.”
“What were they like, Miss Sarah?” the housekeeper asked in a strange voice.
“I can hardly tell you that. I could see that they wore red coats; and I could scarcely see more than that. Yes, I did get a glimpse of one of the gentlemen by the light of the lantern. A tall man, with grey hair and whiskers, and a stoop in his shoulders. I noticed that he wore a short waisted coat with a very high collar—a coat that looked a hundred years old.”
“The old Squire!” muttered Mrs. Marjorum under her breath; and then turning to me, she said with a cheery resolute air, “You’ve been dreaming, Miss Sarah, that’s just what it is. You’ve dropped off in your chair before the fire and had a dream, that’s it.”
“No, Marjorum, it was no dream. The horn woke me, and I stood at my window and saw the dogs and huntsmen come in.”
“Do you know, Miss Sarah, that the gates of the north quadrangle have been locked and barred for the last forty years, and that no one ever goes in there except through the house?”
“The gates may have been opened this evening to give shelter to strangers,” I said.
“Not when the only keys that will open them hang yonder in my cupboard, miss,” said the housekeeper, pointing to a corner of the room.
“But I tell you, Marjorum, these people came into the quadrangle; the horses and dogs are in the stables and kennels at this moment. I’ll go and ask Mr. Chrighton, or my cousin Fanny, or Edward, all about it, since you won’t tell me the truth.”
I said this with a purpose, and it answered. Mrs. Marjorum caught me eagerly by the wrist.
“No, miss, don’t do that; for pity’s sake don’t do that; don’t breathe a word to missus or master.”
“But why not?”
“Because you’ve seen that which always brings misfortune and sorrow to this house, Miss Sarah. You’ve seen the dead.”
“What do you mean?” I gasped, awed in spite of myself.
“I daresay you’ve heard say that there’s been something seen at times at the Abbey—many years apart, thank God; for it never came that trouble didn’t come after it.”
“Yes,” I answered hurriedly; “but I could never get anyone to tell me what it was that haunted this place.”
“No, miss. Those that know have kept the secret. But you have seen it all tonight. There’s no use in trying to hide it from you any longer. You have seen the old Squire, Meredith Chrighton, whose eldest son was killed by a fall in the hunting-field, brought home dead one December night, an hour after his father and the rest of the party had come safe home to the Abbey. The old gentleman had missed his son in the field, but had thought nothing of that, fancying that master John had had enough of the day’s sport and had turned his horse’s head homewards. He was found by a labouring-man, poor lad, lying in a ditch with his back broken, and his horse beside him staked. The old Squire never held his head up after that day, and never rode to hounds again, though he was passionately fond of hunting. Dogs and horses were sold, and the north quadrangle has been empty from that day.”
“How long is it since this kind of thing has been seen?”
“A long time, miss. I was a slip of a girl when it last happened. It was in the winter-time—this very night—the night Squire Meredith’s son was killed; and the house was full of company, just as it is now. There was a wild young Oxford gentleman sleeping in your room at that time, and he saw the hunting-party come into the quadrangle; and what did he do but throw his window wide open, and give them the view-hallo as loud as ever he could. He had only arrived the day before, and knew nothing about the neighbourhood; so at dinner he began to ask where were his friends the sportsmen, and to hope he should be allowed to have a run with the Abbey hounds next day. It was in the time of our master’s father; and his lady at the head of the table turned as white as a sheet when she heard this talk. She had good reason, poor soul. Before the week was out her husband was lying dead. He was struck with a fit of apoplexy, and never spoke or knew anyone afterwards.”
“An awful coincidence,” I said; “but it may have been only a coincidence.”
“I’ve heard other stories, miss—heard them from those that wouldn’t deceive—all proving the same thing: that the appearance of the old Squire and his pack is a warning of death to this house.”
“I cannot believe these things,” I exclaimed; “I cannot believe them. Does Mr. Edward know anything about this?”
“No, miss. His father and mother have been most careful that it should be kept from him.”
“I think he is, too strong-minded to be much affected by the fact,” I said.
“And you’ll not say anything about what you’ve seen to my master or my mistress, will you, Miss Sarah?” pleaded the faithful old servant. “The knowledge of it would be sure to make them nervous and unhappy. And if evil is to come upon this house, it isn’t in human power to prevent its coming.”
“God forbid that there is any evil at hand!” I answered. “I am no believer in visions or omens. After all, I would sooner fancy that I was dreaming—dreaming with my eyes open as I stood at the window—than that I beheld the shadows of the dead.”
Mrs. Marjorum sighed and said nothing. I could see that she believed firmly in the phantom hunt.
I went back to my room to dress for dinner. However rationally I might try to think of what I had seen, its effect upon my mind and nerves was not the less powerful. I could think of nothing else; and a strange morbid dread of coming misery weighted me down like an actual burden.
There was a very cheerful party in the drawing-room when I went downstairs, and at dinner the talk and laughter were unceasing—but I could see that my cousin Fanny’s face was a little graver than usual, and I had no doubt she was thinking of her son’s intended visit to Wycherly.
At the thought of this a sudden terror flashed upon me. How if the shadows I had seen that evening were ominous of danger to him—to Edward, the heir and only son of the house? My heart grew cold as I thought of this, and yet in the next moment I despised myself for such weakness.
“It is natural enough for an old servant to believe in such things,” I said to myself; “but for me—an educated woman of the world—preposterous folly.”
And yet from that moment I began to puzzle myself in the endeavour to devise some means by which Edward’s journey might be prevented. Of my own influence I knew that I was powerless to hinder his departure by so much as an hour; but I fancied that Julia Tremaine could persuade him to any sacrifice of his inclination, if she could only humble her pride so far as to entreat it. I determined to appeal to her.
We were very merry all that evening. The servants and their guests danced in the great hall, while we sat in the gallery above, and in little groups upon the staircase, watching their diversions. I think this arrangement afforded excellent opportunities for flirtation, and that the younger members of our party made good use of their chances—with one exception: Edward Chrighton and his affianced contrived to keep far away from each other all the evening.
While all was going on noisily in the hall below, I managed to get Miss Tremaine apart from the others in the embrasure of a painted window on the stairs, where there was a wide oaken bench. Seated here side by side, I described to her, under a promise of secrecy, the scene which I had witnessed that afternoon, and my conversation with Mrs. Marjorum.
“But, good gracious me, Miss Chrighton!” the young lady exclaimed, lifting her pencilled eyebrows with unconcealed disdain, “you don’t mean to tell me that you believe in such nonsense—ghosts and omens, and old woman’s folly like that!”
“I assure you, Miss Tremaine, it is most difficult for me to believe in the supernatural,” I answered earnestly; “but that which I saw this evening was something more than human. The thought of it has made me very unhappy; and I cannot help connecting it somehow with my cousin Edward’s visit to Wycherly. If I had the power to prevent his going, I would do it at any cost; but I have not. You alone have influence enough for that. For heaven’s sake, use it! Do anything to hinder his hunting with the Daleborough hounds.”
“You would have me humiliate myself by asking him to forgo his pleasure, and that after his conduct to me during the last week?”
“I confess that he has done much to offend you. But you love him, Miss Tremaine, though you are too proud to let your love be seen: I am certain that you do love him. For pity’s sake, speak to him; do not let him hazard his life, when a few words from you may prevent the danger.”
“I don’t believe he would give up this visit to please me,” she answered; “and I shall certainly not put it in his power to humiliate me by a refusal. Besides, all this fear of yours is such utter nonsense. As if nobody had ever hunted before. My brothers hunt four times a week every winter, and not one of them has ever been the worse for it yet.”
I did not give up the attempt lightly. I pleaded with this proud obstinate girl for a long time, as long as I could induce her to listen to me; but it was all in vain. She stuck to her text—no one should persuade her to degrade herself by asking a favour of Edward Chrighton. He had chosen to hold himself aloof from her, and she would show him that she could live without him. When she left Chrighton Abbey, they would part as strangers.
So the night closed, and at breakfast next morning I heard that Edward had started for Wycherly soon after daybreak. His absence made, for me at least, a sad blank in our circle. For one other also, I think; for Miss Tremaine’s fair proud face was very pale, though she tried to seem gayer than usual, and exerted herself in quite an unaccustomed manner in her endeavour to be agreeable to everyone.
* * * *
The days passed slowly for me after my cousin’s departure. There was a weight upon my mind, a vague anxiety, which I struggled in vain to shake off. The house, full as it was of pleasant people, seemed to me to have become dull and dreary now that Edward was gone. The place where he had sat appeared always vacant to my eyes, though another filled it, and there was no gap on either side of the long dinner-table. Lighthearted young men still made the billiard-room resonant with their laughter; merry girls flirted as gaily as ever, undisturbed in the smallest degree by the absence of the heir of the house. Yet for me all was changed. A morbid fancy had taken complete possession of me. I found myself continually brooding over the housekeeper’s words; those words which had told me that the shadows I had seen boded death and sorrow to the house of Chrighton.
My cousins, Sophy and Agnes, were no more concerned about their brother’s welfare than were their guests. They were full of excitement about the New Year’s ball, which was to be a very grand affair. Everyone of importance within fifty miles was to be present, every nook and corner of the Abbey would be filled with visitors coming from a great distance, while others were to be billeted upon the better class of tenantry round about. Altogether the organization of this affair was no small business; and Mrs. Chrighton’s mornings were broken by discussions with the housekeeper, messages from the cook, interviews with the head-gardener on the subject of floral decorations, and other details, which all alike demanded the attention of the chatelaine herself. With these duties, and with the claims of her numerous guests, my cousin Fanny’s time was so fully occupied, that she had little leisure to indulge in anxious feelings about her son, whatever secret uneasiness may have been lurking in her maternal heart. As for the master of the Abbey, he spent so much of his time in the library, where, under the pretext of business with his bailiff, he read Greek, that it was not easy for anyone to discover what he did feel. Once, and once only, I heard him speak of his son, in a tone that betrayed an intense eagerness for his return.
The girls were to have new dresses from a French milliner in Wigmore Street; and as the great event drew near, bulky packages of millinery were continually arriving, and feminine consultations and expositions of finery were being held all day long in bedrooms and dressing-rooms with closed doors. Thus, with a mind always troubled by the same dark shapeless foreboding, I was perpetually being called upon to give an opinion about pink tulle and lilies of the valley, or maize silk and apple-blossoms.
New Year’s morning came at last, after an interval of abnormal length, as it seemed to me. It was a bright clear day, an almost spring-like sunshine lighting up the leafless landscape. The great dining-room was noisy with congratulations and good wishes as we assembled for breakfast on this first morning of a new year, after having seen the old one out ch
eerily the night before; but Edward had not yet returned, and I missed him sadly. Some touch of sympathy drew me to the side of Julia Tremaine on this particular morning. I had watched her very often during the last few days, and I had seen that her cheek grew paler every day. Today her eyes had the dull heavy look that betokens a sleepless night. Yes, I was sure that she was unhappy—that the proud relentless nature suffered bitterly.
“He must be home today,” I said to her in a low voice, as she sat in stately silence before an untasted breakfast.
“Who must?” she answered, turning towards me with a cold distant look.
“My cousin Edward. You know he promised to be back in time for the ball.”
“I know nothing of Mr. Chrighton’s intended movements,” she said in her haughtiest tone; “but of course it is only natural that he should be here tonight. He would scarcely care to insult half the county by his absence, however little he may value those now staying in his father’s house.”
“But you know that there is one here whom he does value better than anyone else in the world, Miss Tremaine,” I answered, anxious to soothe this proud girl.
“I know nothing of the kind. But why do you speak so solemnly about his return? He will come, of course. There is no reason he should not come.”
She spoke in a rapid manner that was strange to her and looked at me with a sharp enquiring glance that touched me somehow, it was so unlike herself—it revealed to me so keen an anxiety.
“No, there is no reasonable cause for anything like uneasiness,” I said; “but you remember what I told you the other night. That has preyed upon my mind, and it will be an unspeakable relief to me when I see my cousin safe at home.”
“I am sorry that you should indulge in such weakness, Miss Chrighton.” That was all she said; but when I saw her in the drawing-room after breakfast, she had established herself in a window that commanded a view of the long winding drive leading to the front of the Abbey. From this point she could not fail to see anyone approaching the house. She sat there all day; everyone else was more or less busy with arrangements for the evening, or at any rate occupied with an appearance of business; but Julia Tremaine kept her place by the window, pleading a headache as an excuse for sitting still, with a book in her hand, all day, yet obstinately refusing to go to her room and lie down when her mother entreated her to do so.
The Ghost Story Megapack Page 4
