_THE GHOST._
Mr. Morton was much affected when they placed in his hands the
handwriting of his long-lost brother, and he perceived that Gerald
had at least been thinking of him and beginning a communication to
him. There was no longer any doubt about the matter, his only
brother had lived in that poor frame-house for weeks together, and
had fled from it under suspicion of a terrible crime. That the
suspicion was utterly false could now be proved, thanks to Cyril and
Cynthy's having surprised and frightened the real culprit. But
Gerald had gone, and it might be long before the good news reached
him.
"We will not go home, Cyril," said Mr. Morton, "until we have found
your uncle. That is of the most importance now."
"If he has gone to the lumberers, as Pete said," remarked Cynthy, "I
have an idea in which direction we must go to find him. If only the
snow has ceased to-morrow I will guide you to the place. I should
like nothing better," she added, as Mr. Morton demurred about giving
her so much trouble. "They are used to my going away for a few days
at once, at my home; I have relations scattered about the country,
and they will conclude I am visiting them."
Then, as night was drawing in, the clever girl made up a good
fire--fortunately there was a sufficiency of wood in the house--and
arranged the rugs for Mr. Morton and Cyril to sleep on near the fire.
"I guess I'm going upstairs," she said, when this had been done, and
she ran lightly up the ladder to the loft above before they could
stop her.
"She'll be so cold up there, father!" exclaimed Cyril. "She'll
freeze. There isn't a fireplace in the room, or anything but a poor
bed on the floor."
"Run after her with this rug, Cyril," said Mr. Morton, choosing the
largest skin-rug. "Tell her I won't have it and neither will you.
We shall be miserable if she starves herself."
Cyril did as he was told with great willingness, but he had immense
difficulty in making the generous-hearted girl consent to take the
rug.
"I'm young and strong, Cyril," she said, "and you and your father are
delicate. Besides, you belong to Mr. Gerald, so you ought to have
the best of everything." But Cyril insisted, and she had to yield at
last. The tired travellers slept well and long, being much exhausted
with all they had gone through.
Mr. Morton awoke first, and had lighted the fire before Cynthy
appeared.
"I have been awake some time, but did not like to disturb you too
soon," she said, busying herself with filling the kettle. "Oh, now,
sir," she added, "you'll hurt your foot standing about on it so, and
there is no need. I can soon do everything."
"I'm glad to say my foot is much better," rejoined Mr. Morton, "and I
am not going to allow you to do everything."
Cynthy smiled brightly. "I am glad you are better," she said. "But
oh, look at the snow!" she added, removing one of the boards with
which she had filled in the empty window-frame.
The snow was piled up until it almost reached the top of the window,
and they could see that more was still coming down. It was
impossible to open the door, which Cynthy tried next; a great
snow-drift was piled up against it.
"We are snowed in!" she exclaimed. "And no one will think of looking
for us here in the haunted house--unless my Harry does. He knows I'm
not a bit superstitious. Still, I don't think he'll suppose we are
here," and she grew thoughtful, weighing the pros and cons.
They had to be very economical of food that day, and there was none
left for poor Blackie, much to Cyril's grief. Cynthy gave him some
lumps of sugar for his pony, but she could not spare any bread.
They all talked a great deal about Gerald Morton in the course of the
day, Cynthy relating many anecdotes of the kindly deeds he had done
for other people, all of which much delighted Mr. Morton, who asked
many questions about them. He told Cynthy his brother had been left
to his charge by a dying mother, and it was a great grief to him
when, having failed in business and become ruined in fortune, Gerald
left England, as he said, to seek his fortune in another country. "I
shall not return until I have found it," were his parting words, "and
it is of no use your writing, for I am going to try to travel about."
Mr. Morton, therefore, did not know where to write, and neither did
he like to leave his delicate wife to go in search of him when he
heard from a traveller that a gentleman like Gerald Morton had been
seen in the forest country north of Lake Michigan. But when she was
dying, Mrs. Morton, thinking of his dying mother's request, begged
him to go in search of his brother, and he had started with Cyril for
that purpose after her death.
Cyril then related his adventures. Cynthy was exceedingly interested
in them all. She had heard of the trial of robbers at Menominee,
when Whiterock and his captain were condemned to death, and knew what
an immense amount of harm the band of robbers had done. It seemed to
her a wonderful thing that one of the band--Davidson--should have
repented and returned to a civilised life. "You'll be glad all your
life that you helped him, Cyril," she said in her hearty way, "and I
hope, sir," she added to Mr. Morton, "that when you have found Mr.
Gerald you will tell him. He'll like to hear that."
Last thing that evening, just when they were all endeavouring to
persuade each other that they were not at all hungry, because there
was no food left, they all at once heard a great knocking at the very
top of the outer door.
Who could it be? It was beginning to get dark. Was it the ghost?
Cyril asked the question half laughingly, but he looked considerably
startled. When people have resigned themselves to the fact that they
are many miles away from any other person, it is rather queer to find
someone knocking at the door. It was Cynthy who cried out first,
"What do you want? Who is there?"
[Illustration: "'What do you want? Who is there?'"]
The others could not hear the answer, but it evidently reassured her,
for she gave a cry of joy, and her eyes shone with delight as she
again tried to open the door, but in vain. Then she turned to
explain to the others. "It's my Harry," she said. "He's found us.
I thought he would."
"Yes," sang out a hearty voice from the other side of the door. "No
matter what difficulties intervene love can find a way."
Cynthy blushed, and tried to hide her face from her companions, but
Mr. Morton reassured her by kind words and a reminiscence of a
far-off time when the dear lady who became his wife was lost with
some others on a mountain, and he alone was able to find her, because
he persevered after the others gave up the search. All this time the
man outside was digging the snow away from the door. As he did so he
called out, "Why, Cynthy, I hear you've Mr. Gerald inside there.
'Tis his voice, I'm sure."
"No 'tisn't," returned she, "but it is his brother and nephew, whom I
came across in the snow some little time before getting here."
"That's lucky," cried the man outside, "for I've found out where Mr.
Gerald is!"
They were all very glad to hear that, and when at length the snow was
cleared off sufficiently to admit a fine, tall young man they
besieged him with questions.
Harry Quilter related with much pleasure, as he shook hands with Mr.
Morton and Cyril, that a hunter had informed him at which lumberer's
camp he had lately seen the missing man. "It was only about ten
miles off as the bird might fly," he said, which caused Cynthy to
exclaim it would be nearly double that distance if they rode there.
Harry then proceeded to empty his pockets, which were stuffed with
tea, dried deer-flesh, salt bacon, and a great hunk of bread. Asked
how it was he knew of the whereabouts of his young lady, he answered
that a trapper he had met had informed him that he had seen a great
quantity of smoke issuing from the chimney of the haunted house. It
was impossible to believe that a mere ghost could have lighted a fire
so large as to cause all that smoke, and as Harry was anxious about
the non-appearance of Cynthy Wood at her home he had put on his
moccasins and plodded through the snow. He had brought as much food
as he could carry, in case there should be a difficulty about
returning that night.
They would have been almost merry, as they sat round the rough table
enjoying the welcome food, if it had not been for the thought of the
tragedy which had deprived that poor house of its owner, and also the
fact that Blackie was still calling out for food, which made the
tears come into his master's eyes every now and then. He would have
taken his own plate into the kitchen if Cynthy had not forbidden it.
"You need support more than that fat pony of yours does, Cyril," she
said in her brisk way. "But here is some more lump sugar. Now I
can't spare anything else. Sugar is very feeding, you know."
"And Blackie loves it. Thank you, Cynthy. Oh, just come and see my
pony, will you, Mr. Harry?" he added to the stranger.
"What! Do you keep ponies in my house?" cried a harsh voice behind
them.
They all turned to look at the door, which had silently opened. In
the doorway stood an old man, with a hooked nose and long, neglected
hair. He was so thin that he looked almost like a skeleton, and he
leaned heavily upon a strong, notched stick. On his feet he wore
moccasins, with which he had been able to walk through the snow.
"Is it the ghost?" faltered Cyril, whose imagination had been much
exercised about the haunted house.
Cynthy did not smile; she looked at the figure in the doorway with a
pale, frightened face. "It is Mr. Jabez Jones," she faltered.
"Aye, it's Jabez Jones, at your service," said the old man, coming
forward. "And he would like to know what you are doing in his house,
and what a horse is doing in his kitchen?" He almost screamed the
last words as Blackie neighed more loudly than ever.
"We are travellers who have come here for shelter from the snow,"
said Mr. Morton wonderingly.
"And I've come in search of one of them," said Harry Quilter, finding
his voice at length. "You know me, Jabez Jones, don't you?"
"Aye, aye, and I know her," said the old man, pointing to Cynthy,
"but I don't know these," looking at the Mortons. "However, never
mind. I guess I'll have a cup o' yon tea."
"Take my place," said Harry, offering his three-legged stool.
"Nay, I'll ha' my own arm-chair," said the old man rudely.
Mr. Morton at once rose, and placed it for him with gentle courtesy.
"Well, you can't be a ghost, for you're just old Jabez and no one
else!" cried Cynthy. "But everyone thinks you were drowned in the
river six months ago," she added. "Do tell us how you escaped."
"I wasn't drowned," said the old man. "But who has been after my
money?" He put down the cup he was just raising to his lips and went
up to the hole in the floor to investigate it, chuckling as he did so.
Cynthy, reassured that it was really Jabez Jones in life exactly as
he had ever been, described to him the scene that she and Cyril
witnessed on their arrival at the house, which the old man heard with
grunts of satisfaction.
"So Pete has begun to repent!" he said. "I'm glad of that. And see
now, my money isn't here after all. I took it away to the bank at
Menominee last fall, and when I got out of the river--for I was able
to float in it until washed on shore miles away lower down--having
some gold with me, I just went across country to Menominee to see if
it was safe. Happening to read in a newspaper that I had been
killed, and my house was haunted, I thought I'd stay away a bit and
frighten my graceless son well, and let him seek the money in vain.
You see, everyone thought I kept it hid in a hole somewhere, because
I always talked against banks, saying they were the worst places in
which a man could keep his money. But talking is one thing and
doing's another." He returned to the table and drank his tea.
Mr. Morton shook his head sadly over the hardened old man, and as the
lovers sat together in the chimney-corner, talking after tea, whilst
Cyril gave Blackie its lump sugar, he tried to make him see that the
love of money is a great evil, and that in his case it had led his
son into sin. But the old man's mental state was a very dark and
unenlightened one, and not much impression could be made.