THE LOST ROOM.
Donal then took the light from her hand, and looked in. The opening
went into the further wall and turned immediately to the left. He gave
her back the candle, and went in. Arctura followed close.
There was a stair in the thickness of the wall, going down steep and
straight. It was not wide enough to let them go abreast. “Put your hand
on my shoulder, my lady,” said Donal. “That will keep us together. If I
fall, you must stand stock-still.”
She put her hand on his shoulder, and they began their descent. The
steps were narrow and high, therefore the stair was steep. They had gone
down from thirty to thirty-five steps, when they came to a level
passage, turning again at right angles to the left. It was twice the
width of the stair. Its sides, like those of the stair, were of roughly
dressed stones, and unplastered. It led them straight to a strong door.
It was locked, and in the rusty lock they could see the key from
within. To the right was another door, a smaller one, which stood wide
open. They went through, and by a short passage entered an opener
space. Here on one side there seemed to be no wall, and they stood for
a moment afraid to move lest they should tumble into darkness. But
sending the light about, and feeling with hands and feet, they soon
came to an idea of the place they were in. It was a little gallery,
with arches on one side opening into a larger place, the character of
which they could only conjecture, for nearly all they could determine
was, that it went below and rose above where they stood. On the other
side was a plain wall, such as they had had on both sides of them.
They had been speaking in awe-filled whispers, and were now in silence
endeavouring to send their sight through the darkness beyond the arches.
“Listen, my lady,” said Donal.
From above their heads came a chord of the aerial music, soft and
faint and wild! A strange effect it had! it was like news of the still
airy night and the keen stars, come down through secret ways into the
dark places of the earth, from spaces so wide that they seem the most
awful of prisons! It sweetly fostered Arctura’s courage.
“That must be how the songs of angels sounded, with news of high
heaven, to the people of old!” she said.
Donal was not in so high a mood. He was occupied at the moment with the
material side of things.
“We can’t be far,” he said, “from the place where our plummet came
down! But let us try a little further.”
The next moment they came against a cord, and at their feet was the
weight of the clock.
At the other end of the little gallery they came again to a door and
again to a stair, turning to the right; and again they went down.
Arctura kept up bravely. The air was not so bad as might have been
feared, though it was cold and damp. This time they descended but a
little way, and came to a landing place, on the right of which was a
door. Donal raised a rusty latch and pushed; the door swung open
against the wall, dropping from one hinge with the slight shock. Two
steps more they descended, and stood on a stone floor.
Donal thought at first they must be in one of the dungeons, but soon
bethought himself that they had not descended far enough for that.
A halo of damp surrounded their candle; its weak light seemed scarcely
to spread beyond it; for some moments they took in nothing of what was
around them. The floor first began to reveal itself to Donal’s eye: in
the circle of the light he saw, covered with dust as it was, its
squares of black and white marble. Then came to him a gleam of white
from the wall; it was a tablet; and at the other end was something like
an altar, or a tomb.
“We are in the old chapel of the castle!” he said. “--But what is
that?” he added instantly with an involuntary change of voice, and a
shudder through his whole nervous being.
Arctura turned; her hand sought his and clasped it convulsively. They
stood close to something which the light itself had concealed from
them. Ere they were conscious of an idea concerning it, each felt the
muscles of neck and face drawn, as if another power than their own
invaded their persons. But they were live wills, and would not be
overcome. They forced their gaze; perception cleared itself; and slowly
they saw and understood.
With strangest dream-like incongruity and unfitness, the thing beside
them was a dark bedstead, with carved posts and low wooden tester,
richly carved!--This in the middle of a chapel!--But there was no
speculation in them; they could only see, not think. Donal took the
candle. From the tester hung large pieces of stuff that had once made
heavy curtains, but seemed hardly now to have as much cohesion as the
dust on a cobweb; it held together only in virtue of the lightness to
which decay had reduced it. On the bed lay a dark mass, like bed
clothes and bedding not quite turned to dust--they could yet see
something like embroidery in one or two places--dark like burnt paper
or half-burnt flaky rags, horrid as a dream of dead love!
Heavens! what was that shape in the middle?--what was that on the black
pillow?--what was that thick line stretching towards one of the
head-posts? They stared speechless. Arctura pressed close to Donal. His
arm went round her to protect her from what threatened almost to
overwhelm himself--the inroad of an unearthly horror. Plain to the eyes
of both, the form in the middle of the bed was that of a human body,
slowly crumbling where it lay. Bed and blankets and quilt, sheets and
pillows had crumbled with it through the long wasting years, but
something of its old shape yet lingered with the dust: that was a head
that lay on the pillow; that was the line of a long arm that pointed
across the pillow to the post.--What was that hanging from the bedpost
and meeting the arm? God in heaven! there was a staple in the post, and
from the staple came a chain!--and there at its other end a ring, lying
on the pillow!--and through it--yes through it, the dust-arm
passed!--This was no mere death-bed; it was a torture bed--most likely
a murder-bed; and on it yet lay the body that died on it--had lain for
hundreds of years, unlifted for kindly burial: the place of its decease
had been made its tomb--closed up and hidden away!
A bed in a chapel, and one dead thereon!--how could it be? Had the
woman--for Donal imagined the form yet showed it the body of a
woman--been carried thither of her own desire, to die in a holy place?
That could not be: there was the chain! Had she sought refuge there
from some persecutor? If so, he has found her! She was a captive--mad
perhaps, more likely hated and the victim of a terrible revenge; left,
probably enough, to die of hunger, or disease--neglected or tended, who
could tell? One thing, only was clear--that there she died, and there
she was buried!
Arctura was trembling. Donal drew her closer, and would have taken her
away. But she said in his ear, as if in dread of disturbing the dust,
“I am not frightened--not _very_. It is only the cold, I think.”
They went softly to the other end of the chapel, almost clinging
together as they went. They saw three narrow lancet windows on their
right, but no glimmer came through them.
They came to what had seemed an altar, and such it still seemed. But on
its marble-top lay the dust plainly of an infant--sight sad as fearful,
and full of agonizing suggestion! They turned away, nor either looked
at the other. The awful silence of the place seemed settling on them
like a weight. Donal made haste, nor did Arctura seem less anxious to
leave it.
When they reached the stair, he made her go first: he must be between
her and the terror! As they passed the door on the other side of the
little gallery--down whose spiracle had come no second breath--Donal
said to himself he must question that door, but to Arctura he said
nothing: she had had enough of inquiry for the moment!
Slowly they ascended to Arctura’s chamber. Donal replaced the slab, and
propped it in its position; gathered the plaster into the pail;
replaced the press, and put a screw through the bottom of it into the
floor. Arctura stood and watched him all the time.
“You must leave your room again, my lady!” said Donal.
“I will. I shall speak to mistress Brookes at once.”
“Will you tell her all about it?”
“We must talk about that!”
“How will she bear it,” thought Donal; “how after such an experience,
can she spend the rest of the day alone? There is all the long
afternoon and evening to be met!”
He gave the last turn to the screw in the floor, and rose. Then first
he saw that Arctura had turned very white.
“Do sit down, my lady!” he said. “I would run for mistress Brookes, but
I dare not leave you.”
“No, no; we will go down together! Give me that bottle of eau de
Cologne, please.”
Donal did not know either eau de Cologne or its bottle, but he darted
to the dressing-table and guessed correctly. It revived her, and she
began to take deep breaths. Then with a strong effort she rose to go
down.
The time for speech concerning what they had seen, was not come!
“Would you not like, my lady,” said Donal, “to come to the schoolroom
this afternoon? You could sit beside while I give Davie his lessons!”
“Yes,” she answered at once; “I should like it much!--Is there not
something you could give me to do?--Will you not teach me something?”
“I should like to begin you with Greek, and teach you a little
mathematics--geometry first of all.”
“You frighten me!”
“Your fright wouldn’t outlast the beginning,” said Donal. “Anyhow, you
will have Davie and me for company! You must be lonely sometimes! You
see little of Miss Carmichael now, I fancy.”
“She has not been near me since that day in the avenue! We salute now
and then coming out of church. She will not come again except I ask
her; and I shall be in no haste: she would only assume I was sorry, and
could not do without her!”
“I should let her wait, my lady!” said Donal. “She sorely wants
humbling!”
“You do not know her, Mr. Grant, if you think anything I could do would
have that effect on her.”
“Pardon me, my lady; I did not imagine it your task to humble her! But
you need not let her ride over you as she used to do; she knows nothing
really, and a great many things unreally. Unreal knowledge is worse
than ignorance.--Would not Miss Graeme be a better friend?”
“She is much more lovable; but she does not trouble her head about the
things I care for.--I mean religion,” she added hesitatingly.
“So much the better,--”
“Mr. Grant!”
“You did not let me finish, my lady!--So much the better, I was going
to say, till she begins to trouble her _heart_ about it--or rather to
untrouble her heart with it! The pharisee troubled his head, and no
doubt his conscience too, and did not go away justified; but the poor
publican, as we with our stupid pity would call him, troubled his heart
about it; and that trouble once set a going, there is no fear. Head and
all must soon follow.--But how am I to get rid of this plaster without
being seen?”
“I will show you the way to your own stair without going down--the way
we came once, you may remember. You can take it to the top of the house
till it is dark.--But I do not feel comfortable about my uncle’s visit.
Can it be that he suspects something? Perhaps he knows all about the
chapel--and that stair too!”
“He is a man to enjoy having a secret!--But our discovery bears out
what we were saying as to the likeness of house and man--does it not?”
“You don’t mean there is anything like that in me?” rejoined Arctura,
looking frightened.
“_You!_” he exclaimed. “--But I mean no individual application,” he
added, “except as reflected from the general truth. This house is like
every human soul, and so, like me and you and all of us. We have found
the chapel of the house, the place they used to pray to God in, built
up, lost, forgotten, filled with dust and damp--and the mouldering dead
lying there before the Lord, waiting to be made live again and praise
him!”
“I said you meant me!” murmured Arctura, with a faint, sad smile.
“No; the time is past for that. It is long since first you were aware
of the dead self in the lost chapel; a hungry soul soon misses both,
and knows, without being sure of it, that they are somewhere. You have
kept searching for them in spite of all persuasion that the quest was
foolish.”
Arctura’s eyes shone in her pale face; but they shone with gathering
tears. Donal turned away, and took up the pail. She rose, and guided
him to his tower-stair, where he went up and she went down.