And his countenance proclaimed the terror and agitation to which his thoughts gave birth.
“Does Apphia urge you to interfere, John?” I cried. “I ask only that.”
“She does, and of course I cannot refuse the appeal. But, as I have already told you, the effort will cost me my life.”
“Courage! John, courage!” I exclaimed. “Rouse yourself and be a man. You shall have all the support I can give you. Though the difficulties of the task may appear insurmountable at first, they will dwindle into nothing if met firmly. But we will talk of this anon. I have another matter to bring before you now. There is a person at hand whose claims upon your attention are urgent, and ought not to be deferred.”
And I then acquainted him with the unexpected arrival of Ned Culcheth, and entreated him to admit him.
“Assuredly I will see him,” he replied, “though I would willingly have chosen another occasion — when my nerves might be more firmly strung — for an interview with the poor fellow. Where is he — in the garden? — bid him come to me, and I will speak to him at once. And I must beg you, dear Mervyn, to let me have some quarter of an hour’s discourse with him in private. I will do my best to console him under his heavy affliction.”
On this I stepped forth, and calling to Ned Culcheth, bade him go in. He at once obeyed, uncovering his glowing locks, and bowing his tall head as he crossed the little threshold. I kept Hubert with me, and taking the hound into the arbour, sat down to meditate.
Many minutes had not elapsed when a startling noise was heard at the door of the cottage, as of some one rushing hurriedly forth, and Hubert, who was couched near me, sprang up, and dashed out of the arbour. —
I followed, and was just in time to stop poor Ned, who was making his way wildly across the little parterres and grass-plot, regardless of the shrubs and flowers that he trampled beneath his feet.
His looks were fearfully haggard, and his demeanour desperate. Nevertheless, I ran up to him, and laying hold of his arm, arrested him forcibly.
“What are you about, Ned?” I cried.
“I am about to put an end to a wretched existence,” he rejoined, in a voice scarcely human. “Stand off! and let me go.”
“Never, for the fell purpose you are bent on, Ned,” I exclaimed, still keeping fast hold of him. “What’s the matter with you, man? Have you become suddenly demented?”
“Ay!” he replied, dashing his cap on the ground with a force and fierceness that made Hubert spring back in alarm, “you’ve said the word. I am demented. I’ve suffered enough,” he continued, with a burst of anguish very painful, indeed, to hear. “I can bear no more. Let me die.”
“Forbear, Ned!” I sternly and authoritatively exclaimed, for I felt this was the only way to deal with him. “By raising your hand against yourself to escape present misery, which must and can be borne, you will destroy all your hopes of hereafter. Your present paroxysm of grief will abate, and you will then view matters differently. Give heed to what the good young man you have just abruptly quitted may say to you. Go back to him, — go back at once, or you will for ever forfeit my esteem — and return to me when you are calmer.”
Ned looked at me for a moment, wildly, almost savagely, but he gradually quailed beneath my steady gaze, groaned, let his head fall upon his breast, and, without a word, went back to John, who was standing beneath the porch anxiously watching us, and re-entered the cottage with him.
I returned to the arbour with Hubert, who seemed instinctively to comprehend that something distressing was happening to his master, for he whined and looked quite downcast.
A long interval occurred before Ned’s footsteps were again heard. Hubert and I came forth to meet him. The poor fellow’s heart had evidently been melted — his eyes were red with recent tears.
“I am calmer now, sir,” he said, in a low tone, and with a look of humble resignation; “I will do whatever you and Mr. Brideoake bid me.”
“Then you must remain with me here till to-morrow, my poor friend,” John Brideoake said, issuing from the porch. “You know why I desire you to stay,” he added, with a certain significance, “and what I would have you do.”
“I do, sir,” Ned replied; “and I hope Heaven will grant me strength to go through with it!”
At this juncture the sound of carriage wheels was heard in the distance, and Mr. Hazilrigge’s barouche, with the ladies inside it, could be descried coming slowly along the road towards the cottage.
“Make my excuses to Miss Hazilrigge, Mervyn,” John cried, hastily. “I cannot see her or Ora to-day. Come over to me to-morrow morning. I have much to say to you. This poor fellow,” he added, pointing to Ned, “will remain with me. He will have need of preparation — and so shall I — for the painful task which we have to perform. Farewell my dear friend!”
Signing to Ned Culcheth to come with him, John then retired, and Hubert followed them into the cottage.
I met the carriage at the gate, and made the best excuses I could for John. Both ladies displayed great interest concerning him, and, I had some difficulty in preventing Miss Hazilrigge from getting out to see him. She felt sure she could be of service to him, she declared. Could she send him anything? — wine — chicken broth — calves-foot jelly, or blancmange? I declined all for my friend. At last the steps were let down, and I got into the carriage, taking a place beside Cuthbert Spring.
We had not a very cheerful drive back to Owlarton Grange, for a gloom was cast over the party by the accounts I gave them of poor John’s alarming state of health.
CHAPTER XII.
THE LEGEND OF OWLARTON GRANGE — MY ADVENTURE IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.
MR. HAZILRIGGE was out when we returned to the Grange, and recent occurrences indisposing me for anything like light conversation, I at once withdrew to my own room, and continued there until the hour for dinner had arrived.
On descending, I found good, kind Miss Hazilrigge consulting with her brother about the propriety of haying John Brideoake at the Grange to be nursed, and the worthy old gentleman told her to do just as she pleased. She had his full consent to send for John at once, and nurse him as long as might be needful. I offered no objection, of course, though I felt almost certain that John would not accede to the arrangement. Cuthbert Spring expressed extraordinary sympathy for the invalid, and offered many suggestions for his benefit; but I could not help fancying that the interest he manifested was not entirely disinterested, but had its origin in a desire to please Miss Hazilrigge.
Ora’s vivacity had completely deserted her, and I could scarcely recognise in her the lively girl of the day before. Very little conversation passed between us at dinner. This was more my own fault than hers, I suspect, for she was too quick not to perceive that my manner towards her was changed; neither could she be ignorant of the cause of the alteration. There was no longer any exchange of speaking glances between us, but on the contrary, a growing coldness, which we both of us understood and felt, though neither cared to explain.
If there was any flirting that day, it was between Cuthbert Spring and Miss Hazilrigge, and I began to think it not unlikely that a match might be struck up between them. The ladies retired soon after dinner, for Ora complained of a severe headache.
Supernatural stories of course formed the staple of our conversation while discussing our claret. Our host inquired whether I had ever heard the legend connected with his house, and on my answering in the negative, and expressing a great desire to hear it, he was good enough to relate it to me.
“You have no doubt,” he premised, “remarked a curious picture hanging over the mantelpiece in the haunted chamber?”
I replied in the affirmative, and that the picture had struck me forcibly.
“The principal personage represented is my great-grandfather, Clotten Hazilrigge, surnamed, from his parsimonious habits, the ‘ Miser.’ The figure standing behind him is his much-trusted, but perfidious servant, Jotham Shocklach. Old Clotten little thought, when causing that portr
ait to be painted, that he would preserve the features of his murderer.”
“The portraits are admirably painted,” I observed, “and the artist must have caught the exact expression of the originals.”
“He was too indifferently paid, I make no doubt, to flatter. Old Clotten looks like what he was, and Jotham has the air of an assassin. But to my story. Clotten Hazilrigge had one son, Leycester, with whom he quarrelled, on account of his alleged extravagance, though I really believe the young man gave him no just cause of complaint on that score. But the miser could not bear to part with money even to his only son. His wife — fortunately, perhaps for her — died about three years after their marriage — tradition says of a broken heart, but this is beside the purpose. Clotten lived by himself at the Grange, and his penurious habits increased as he grew older. He was morose, unsociable, tyrannical, and was disliked both by tenants and neighbours. He visited no one, invited no one, and would allow no one to enter the house except on matters of business. He discharged all his servants except Jotham Shocklach, and in him, who merited the trust so little, he reposed implicit confidence.
“Now it was well known that old Clotten had vast hoards of gold secreted in the house, and his steward often remonstrated with him on the danger he ran from robbers by keeping such large sums of money in his possession; but the miser despised the warnings; denying that he had any secret hoards, and declaring that if thieves broke into the house they would find nothing. And Jotham privately confirmed the assertion, for though he knew, he said, that his master must have a heap of treasure somewhere about the premises, he could never find out where it was secreted.
“But he did discover the hidden store at last. One night, it is supposed — for this must rest on conjecture — he entered his master’s bed-chamber, and found, wide open, a narrow sliding door in the panels, of the existence of which he must have been previously unaware. Through this aperture he passed — stealthily, no doubt — and tracking a straight passage contrived in the thickness of the walls, arrived at a small chamber without a window, constructed for a priest’s hiding-place, for our family once were Papists. Here he discovered old Clotten, with a huge chest full of money-bags before him.
“No eye beheld them, no tongue related the dark transaction, yet the state in which all was subsequently found showed clearly what took place. Old Clotten must have sprung from his hoards like a tiger, and have seized Jotham by the throat, for a piece of the villain’s cravat was found in the miser’s gripe. But Jotham was a strong man, and, no doubt, shook himself easily free. With a heavy mallet, which it is supposed he picked up in the priest’s hiding-place, he dealt his master a fatal blow on the head, and then stuffing his pockets with gold, and taking so many money-bags as he could carry, hurried to the secret door.
“His horror and fright may be conceived on finding it closed. The lamp brought by his master had been crushed and extinguished in the death-struggle. It was found beneath the miser’s body. In vain the murderous villain searched for the secret spring. In vain he tried to batter open the door with the mallet. It was of stout oak, and resisted his attempts. He was caught in a trap from which there was no escape. He would only be liberated to meet the shameful death he merited. Yet a worse fate awaited him in his self-contrived prison.
“Next day some tradesfolk from Weverham came to the house, but finding none to answer them, they went away. This did not excite surprise, for the miser’s habits were so eccentric that it was thought he might have gone forth with his servant; but when he did not return on the succeeding day, some alarm began to be felt. Still no one entered the house until the evening of the third day after the murder, when the steward and some of the villagers got in through a window, and after searching about, went to the miser’s bed-room. While there, they heard a faint knocking against the wall. Somebody must be shut up there, the steward cried — old Clotten, or Jotham — perhaps both. He called out, and the knocking was renewed, but very feebly. Then there was a groan, and all became silent. After some search, the secret door was discovered; the spring was touched, and it flew open.
“A terrible spectacle presented itself to the steward, who was the first to enter — Jotham Shocklach lying dead with the mallet in his hand. The wretch had only just expired. Bags of money were near him, and the floor of the narrow passage was strewn over with pieces of gold. They dragged out the body of the murderer, and then, proceeding further, discovered his victim. All was now explained.
“After old Clotten’s tragical end, my grandfather, of course, came into possession of the property, and caused the secret door to be nailed up. Notwithstanding this, the restless spirit of Jotham Shocklach disturbed the house. Mysterious knockings, groans, and other appalling sounds, were heard in that room at dead of night. These nocturnal disturbances, however, had ceased for many years, and only began again about four months ago, when Cuthbert Spring occupied the haunted chamber.”
Tea being announced soon after this recital, we obeyed the summons, and found Miss Hazilrigge alone, for Ora’s headache having increased, she had retired for the night. As we could have no music, in consequence of Miss Doveton’s indisposition, we sat down to a rubber of whist, and, in cutting for partners, Mr. Spring fell to Miss Hazilrigge’s share — a circumstance that diverted them immensely. I felt so distrait that I scarcely knew what I was about, and it is surprising that I did not commit some unpardonable blunders. We did not play more than one game, which was won by the old bachelor and his partner, and then Miss Hazilrigge bade us good night, saying she must see how Ora was going on. As on the former occasion, Mr. Spring gallantly attended her to the door, where they had a few more “last words.”
No further bell-ringing having taken place that night I deferred my solution of the mystery till the morrow, but I put a few more questions to our host relative to Doctor Hooker. From Old Hazy’s description of the doctor, he appeared to be well skilled in chiromancy, physiognomy, necromancy, natural and judicial astronomy, could cast nativities, interpret dreams, and do many other wonderful things besides. I dare say the old gentleman did not tell me half the delusions that had been practised upon him by the doctor, but he told me quite enough to show me to what extent he had been duped. I tried in vain to open his eyes to the man’s real character. He would not believe that he was #a charlatan. The world, he said, always called the wisest men charlatans, but he knew better, and would never join in the senseless cry. Doctor Hooker had not overrated his influence over his dupe. When I affirmed that I was certain that Hooker had rung the bells, I rather raised than lowered him in the old gentleman’s opinion, for he declared that such a feat could not have been accomplished except by supernatural aid; and this alone was sufficient to establish the doctor’s extraordinary powers. No, no; I must not attempt to depreciate such a man. I did not reveal what I knew of the galvanic battery and the electric wires — for I kept that disclosure for another occasion. Cuthbert Spring made no remarks about Doctor Hooker, for he knew the man, and was too well aware of Old Hazy’s peculiarities to meddle with them.
Midnight had nearly arrived before our host released us.
Once more I was alone in the haunted chamber. Again I glanced at the portraits of the miser and his murderous servant, and, now that I was acquainted with the legend connected with the picture, it impressed me still more powerfully. In consequence, no doubt, of the story I had heard from Old Hazy, superstitious fancies crowded thickly upon me, and all my efforts to shake them off were unavailing. As on the previous night, I drew back the heavy curtain from before the deep bay-window, and allowed the moonlight to stream into the chamber. I took some precautions which I had not deemed needful on the former occasion. Taking my case of duelling-pistols from my portmanteau, I loaded the weapons, and laid them on the table. Then seating myself in an easy-chair, I determined to keep watch, but in spite of my resolutions of vigilance, sleep after awhile stole over my eyelids.
How long I slumbered I cannot say, but I was suddenly aroused by a strange a
nd startling noise, which I at once recognised as the ghostly knocking described by Cuthbert Spring. I listened intently. After the lapse of about a minute there was another heavy blow as if dealt by a mallet — a third — a fourth — up to ten; with the same intervals between each.
The unearthly sounds seemed to proceed from the lower part of the wall on the left of the bed. But they did not appear to be stationary. On the contrary, the blows were dealt at various points inside the wainscot.
I am not ashamed to own that I felt appalled. My taper had burnt out, and the wan light of the moon, which must have been struggling with passing clouds, only served to make darkness visible. The further end of the chamber in which the bed stood was plunged in deep shade.
While peering into this obscurity I fancied I saw a figure standing near the bed. It was perfectly motionless, and scarcely distinguishable; but as far as I could make it out, the attire of the phantom — or semblance of attire — was like that worn by Jotham Shocklach, as represented in the portrait — while the features, as far as they could be discerned — were those of the murderous servant. Something like a thin shroud hung over the lower part of the figure, and in its right hand it held a mallet.
Terror completely transfixed me. I strove to speak — but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. My limbs refused their office, and I could not grasp my pistols. The figure remained motionless and stationary, half concealed by the dark drapery of the bed, from which it could scarcely be distinguished. As I gazed at it, for I could not withdraw my eyes, it began to glide slowly towards me. No sound that I could detect attended its progress. —
My terror increased. At length the phantom came under the influence of a ray of moonlight streaming athwart the chamber, which lighted up its ghastly and cadaverous features. It then paused; and at that moment I recovered my firmness, for I felt convinced that I had to do with one of mortal mould. Starting to my feet, I demanded of the ghost, in tones that sounded hoarse and strange in my own ears — who it was, — and what it wanted?
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 471
