THE HEADLESS LADY.--THE ARTIST'S FIRST STORY.
The morning following the saturnalia was cold and bleak. Without it was
snowing hard, and the windows of the old inn were covered with frost
crystals. Breakfast was late, few of the members of the club having yet
risen, apparently not yet recovered from the effects of the previous
evening.
The landlord exerted himself to make the interior of his inn as cheerful
as the gloomy state of the weather would permit. A large log crackled on
the hearth, and the breakfast table teemed with all the delicacies that
the inn could boast of; coffee, toast, hot rolls, eggs and bacon, ham,
chicken, tongue, and fresh butter. One by one the guests made their
appearance. They seemed to have slept well, for they looked none the
worse for their last night's carousal.
The last to enter the breakfast room was our fresh arrival, Mr. Vandyke
McGuilp. He presented a very different appearance to any of the rest. He
was pale and haggard, and his hair hung disordered over his eyes.
"I'm afraid you have not slept well, Mr. McGuilp," said Mr. Oldstone.
"What is the matter? It surely can't be the punch, for you drank less
than any of us last night. Why, I don't believe you drank more than a
couple of glasses the whole time; but perhaps you are not accustomed to
these orgies, and a little upsets you. Look at us--seasoned old casks
all of us--we are as jolly as ever. As for myself, I never felt better
in all my life."
"Oh, it is not that," replied our artist; "but I feel somehow I passed
an indifferent night."
Dr. Bleedem felt the pulse and looked at the tongue of the new guest,
and pronounced him a little feverish, but said that it would soon pass
over.
"My blessed eyes!" cried the captain, "if the gentleman doesn't look as
scared as I felt when the shark was at my heels last night. What say you
mine host?"
"Well, Captain," said the landlord, "if I might venture a remark, the
gentleman looks as if he had had a visit from the _headless lady_."
McGuilp started.
"Why do you start, sir?" inquired Mr. Blackdeed, who alone had noticed
the action, his eye being ever open to anything of a dramatic effect.
"A little nervousness, that is all," replied the artist. "I feel far
from well this morning."
"I assure you, your action was quite dramatic," said the tragedian.
"Oblige me by repeating it. Thank you; I'll practise it before the glass
this morning. It will just do for my tragedy, when the wicked baron, who
is in the act of carrying off a lady by force, is suddenly checked in
his career by the appearance of the spirit of her brother, whom he has
murdered."
"Ha! What's that all about?" cried Oldstone, who had pricked up his ears
at something resembling a story, while the rest were gossiping on
indifferent matters. "You must act us a scene out of that tragedy,
Blackdeed; remember, we had no story from you last night."
"Breakfast is ready, gentlemen," said the landlord.
The guests flocked round the table and commenced their repast.
"By the by, landlord," said McGuilp, as that worthy was about to quit
the room, "you give your inn a curious name. Is there any origin to it?"
"Well, sir," replied the landlord, "it was my grandfather, or great
grandfather, who gave it that name--I'm not sure which."
"But--but, is there no origin to it?--no legend connected with----"
"Oh, as to that, your honour," said the landlord, "folks used to say
that this house was haunted by a lady without a head; but that's a long
time ago. I don't exactly recollect the particulars of the story, but I
have heard my father say, when I was a youngster, that he had seen her;
but it's five and thirty years come Michaelmas that this inn has been in
my hands, and I never see anything of the sort, sir. No, sir; depend
upon it, she don't 'walk' now, sir. Even in my father's time her visits
used to be rare, though my grandfather used to tell me lots of stories
about her when I was a child."
"Do you remember any of those stories?"
"Not now, sir. I only remember hearing say that the lady was a nun; but
for what offence she was beheaded I can't exactly call to mind now."
"Perhaps I might be able to refresh your memory," said the artist. "What
would you say if I really had had a visit from the headless lady last
night?"
"You, sir!" exclaimed the landlord in great astonishment. "You don't
mean to say that you really _did see_----"
"The headless lady. Yes, I do; I mean to say that I had a visit from her
last night."
The landlord opened his eyes and mouth with a look of awe. The guests
remained as if petrified. The captain's red face grew a shade less so.
Mr. Parnassus became livid. The tragedian's hair stood on end. Mr.
Oldstone looked a few years older, while the countenances of the whole
company betrayed various grades of wonder and consternation.
"Ahem!" coughed the chairman of the previous evening, at length breaking
silence. "Perhaps you would not mind telling us about your experiences
of last night, Mr. McGuilp? I am sure we are all most curious to hear
something about this mysterious lady. I have never met anyone yet who
could say that they had seen her, though I have heard over and over
again that she used to 'walk.'"
Thus entreated, our artist proceeded as follows:
Well, then, after I left you, gentlemen, last night, before I retired to
rest, in looking round my apartment, I was much struck with an old
portrait, painted in a very early style, of a lady in a nun's dress. In
spite of the hard style of the period, there was something in the
face--a sort of resigned melancholy--that interested me exceedingly.
Still it was little more than a passing glance that I bestowed on the
picture, for I felt very sleepy, and more inclined for bed than for
criticising works of art. I accordingly undressed as quickly as I could,
blew out the light, and in two minutes was fast asleep.
I could not have enjoyed more than a quarter-of-an-hour's repose, when I
was suddenly awakened by what felt like a cold hand pressed upon my
forehead. I started up, and tried to call out, but could not raise my
voice above a whisper. I looked in the direction in which I expected to
find the person who had awakened me, but could see nothing.
All was pitch dark around me, but I heard, or thought I heard, a deep
sigh as I strained my ears to catch some sound of the intruder.
"Who's there?" I called out, in a husky whisper; but I received no
reply.
Beginning to be alarmed, fancying that some dishonest person had entered
my chamber to rob me, or else that it was someone of the household
given to walking in their sleep, I sat up in bed and peered into the
darkness.
As I listened I distinctly heard a low moan of such piteous anguish that
it made my flesh creep and my hair to stand up.
"Who could it be?" I asked myself. "Perhaps some person of unsound mind
in the family whose habit it was to walk at night, and lurk about the
bed-chambers."
The thought was anything but a pleasant one. Who knows what form this
madness might take? Mad people are not to be trusted. I trembled to
think what the intent of my visitor might be. Was he armed? I tried to
reach out my hand for my tinder-box, but such a supernatural terror
pervaded my whole frame, that my limbs were paralysed, and I remained
sitting up in bed, as if rooted to the spot, without power to move a
finger.
At length, not being able to bear this suspense any longer, I bethought
me of striking terror into my visitant, and though carrying no arms
about me, my object was to alarm the stranger into speaking, so I called
out in husky tones as loud as my voice would permit me, "Speak, or I
fire!"
But no answer was given. What was to be done? I could not carry my
threat into execution, having no weapon. I could not even move from my
post for fear, I felt the cold perspiration streaming down from my
temples, my whole frame shook, and my teeth chattered together.
It was something more than mortal fear that I suffered; it was as if I
were in the presence of some supernatural being. Gradually I became
aware of a dark form, apparently that of a woman, close to my bed. My
eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and I could distinguish the
various objects in my bed-chamber with greater facility.
I rivetted my eyes on the figure, but all I could discern was a long
black robe and two white hands. I looked for the face, but in vain. It
seemed covered up, for the shoulders merged into the darkness.
Soon, as if to aid my vision, a sort of pale blue light spread a halo
around the figure, and grew gradually brighter, setting it off in
relief. I could now see the whole figure distinctly. I looked for the
head. Oh, horror! _It was wanting._
I shuddered, and felt an intense desire to scream, but my voice was
gone. Had I then really lived to see a ghost? Was there, then, some
foundation for the strange name given to the inn? I had never heard from
my friend Rustcoin that it was reported haunted, and I most assuredly
should have heard about it if he had had any knowledge of it.
Perhaps it was a thing not generally known; perhaps its appearance was
not usual, and it only appeared at intervals to certain privileged
beings. Was I one of those beings? I asked myself. Perhaps so. It might
have something to communicate. I would address it, but my tongue clove
to the roof of my mouth, for now I saw distinctly that the head I had
missed was carried under the left arm of the figure.
I marked well the face; it was extremely beautiful, and I thought I
recognised a likeness to the old portrait I had been looking at; but oh!
how far short that old piece of painted panel fell of the original; if,
indeed, it was ever intended for a representation of the lineaments I
now gazed upon.
I made a second effort to address it, but as I opened my mouth to speak
I heard another most audible moan from the headless figure. I was awed,
but that intense fear which I experienced when I became aware that some
stranger had entered my chamber had all but vanished now that I was
_certain_ that I was in the presence of a denizen of the spirit world.
Awful as this certainty was, it seemed to fade into insignificance when
compared with the terrible feeling of doubt I had before experienced. I
now felt comparatively relieved; so much so, indeed, that I even found
room in my heart for pity--that one so young and so beautiful as she
appeared to be should have suffered such a cruel and ignominious death.
At length, in a low and subdued tone, I addressed the figure.
"Spirit, whate'er thou art or wert, whether of good or evil, whether
from the regions of the blest or the haunts of the damned, speak!
Declare thy mission."
A hollow moan proceeded from the trunk of the headless figure, and the
eyes in the head held under its arm rolled upwards with a look of
despair, while in tones low, solemn, yet sweet, it spoke, the lips
vibrating, though the voice came from the neck.
"I am the spirit of one who, dying in mortal sin, am doomed to perpetual
unrest. Beheaded for my crimes in this world, I wander nightly round
this spot, the scene of my infamy. Here where this house now stands once
stood the convent whose walls imprisoned me while yet on earth. Forced
into a life of seclusion for which I had no calling by a relentless
parent who, deeming that his daughter's alliance with the man she loved
would sully his illustrious name, I was compelled to utter vows with my
lips against which my heart revolted.
"I could not join in the pious oraisons of my sister nuns, for while my
knees bent and my lips moved my spirit was elsewhere. Day after day I
languished within my prison walls, mechanically going through my duties
with the rest, but to all outward seeming with devotion, for not one of
them knew but that I myself had chosen that calling.
"None knew then what I bore within. I made no friends, sought no
confidant. When I confessed, my confessions were always of a vague sort,
for I was reserved on that one point which, if confessed, would have
been regarded as the most heinous crime.
"At length our father confessor, who was an old man, died, and a new
priest took his place.
"Holy Virgin! it was my lover. He had discovered my whereabouts, and,
with no holier object than the desire to see me again, he had entered
into holy orders, and by stratagem contrived to enter our convent."
Here the figure gave a deep sigh, and paused. The face writhed, as if
struggling with itself, whether it should proceed or remain silent. The
pause was agonising, but I wished to hear more.
"Proceed," I said.
Another deep sigh ensued, and she continued.
"Mortal," she said with evident reluctance, "you will despise me when
you have heard the full extent of my crime. No matter, I am not what I
was--I can bear it. Know, then, that I fell. Ay, blush for me, hate,
loathe, despise me as thou wilt. Those holy walls which re-echoed for
ages with nought save the prayers and the chanting of pious nuns, were
doomed to hear the whispered words of fierce passion and to witness
scenes that must for ever leave a stain upon their fair memory.
"Enough, our intrigue was discovered, and I was sentenced to death. I
was beheaded secretly, yet even blood could not wash out the foul stain
from my soul, and I have ever since been doomed to eternal pangs of
remorse."
"What!" I exclaimed, "and had your lover no knowledge of this?"
"He had, and furious at the news, he came by night and set fire to the
convent. The building was razed to the ground, and every nun perished."
"And your lover," I asked, "what became of him?"
"He died shortly afterwards. I was permitted to see his spirit but once,
and then he was torn away from me for ever. It is that which grieves me
most, for I know not what fate is reserved for him.
"Heaven grant that his state may be happier than mine. Oh, how willingly
would I bear the weight of all his sins, so that his portion might be in
the region of the blest. I would then bear my doom without a murmur,
even were my sufferings ten-fold."
"And with this charitable feeling towards the author of thy ruin, canst
thou possess a soul so black as to merit eternal punishment?" said I.
"Alas!" murmured the spirit, "when we die in mortal sin our doom is
sealed, yet I would fain hope still that before I quit this state of
purgatory and am consigned to eternal flames that the prayers of
others----"
"I understand; it was with that object, then, thou soughtest me--that I
might pray for thy soul?"
"It was," replied the spirit; "and also for my lover. Oh, let me not
pray in vain. Tell me thou wilt pray for me."
"Spirit," I answered, "I am not of thy creed. I am a Protestant. Our
church holds all prayers for the dead useless."
"I know it; but it is an error. Pray, nevertheless. Thou comest from
Rome, and wilt shortly return thither. Bid the pious monks and nuns
there pray for my soul, and for the soul of my lover."
"Spirit, thy request is granted, and if my own weak prayers may serve in
any way to relieve thy torments, they, too, shall be added."
A smile of the most ineffable sweetness and gratitude, more eloquent
than words, spread over the face of the decapitated. She pressed my hand
fervently with her pale, icy-cold fingers, and gradually faded from my
gaze.
When she had vanished, it was already daybreak. Sleep had deserted my
eyelids, and as I tossed restlessly in my bed I kept wondering to myself
whether what I had seen and heard could be a dream, or whether I really
and truly had held converse with a ghost.
The rest of the time, with the exception of a short doze I took previous
to rising this morning, I spent in prayer for the release of the soul of
the headless lady from purgatory, and likewise that of her lover.
* * * * *
I leave the reader to imagine the sensation our artist's spiritual
visitation excited at the breakfast-table before the members of the
Wonder Club, whose thirst for the marvellous and supernatural was
insatiable. Second and third-hand ghost stories are common enough, and
are generally taken for what they are worth; but here was the case of a
ghost story told by the ghost seer himself, who had seen and spoken to
the ghost only the night before; in the very house, too, in which they
had all been sleeping. Then, added to that, was the manner of the
narrator, which alone bore the stamp of truth on it. The quick roll of
his eye, when he was describing the excited state of his feelings at the
time, the involuntary shudder, and the furtive glance which he from time
to time would give over his shoulder; all signs of a nervous system that
has received some great shock--to say nothing of his worn and disordered
appearance, as might be expected in a man that has seen a ghost.
All this enhanced the power of his words immensely. Then there was the
strange fact to be borne in mind that no one had informed him that the
house was haunted. No one could say that his imagination had been unduly
excited by any story concerning the house previous to his going to
sleep. He had retired to rest calmly, without any fear of a spiritual
visitation. And how could it all be a dream? For the landlord now
distinctly remembered that all our artist had related was exactly what
had been told him by his grandfather.
Various were the exclamations of wonderment from the guests at the
breakfast-table. They gazed with awe on the narrator, then at each
other, then at the narrator again. Our artist had won the esteem of the
whole club.
Breakfast being finished, our friends drew round the fire, and the
landlord left the room, looking grave and shaking his head. McGuilp's
strange adventure had furnished food for comment for two or three hours
afterwards. The whole forenoon nothing was talked of but the ghost.
At length a lull occurred in the conversation, and someone recollected
that it was Professor Cyanite's turn to tell a story. At that moment our
host's pretty daughter, Helen, a blooming girl of sixteen, entered with
the lunch.
Our artist was enraptured with the golden hair, blue eyes, and rosy
cheeks of the maiden, after the swarthy beauties of Italy; but, above
all, with her innocent, modest, and half-bashful manner.
"Well, Helen," said Mr. Oldstone, "has your father told you about the
ghost?"
"Oh, yes, sir," replied the girl, her merry expression changing suddenly
to a look of awe; "he did frighten me so; I am sure I shall never be
able to sleep again in this house."
"This is the gentleman who saw the ghost, Helen," cried one of the other
members, pointing to our artist.
The maiden turned and saw a fresh face in the club. Our artist was the
youngest, by many years, of any of the other gentlemen present, besides
which he was decidedly good looking. He gazed into the eyes of the girl
till the poor child blushed crimson and looked down abashed.
"Ho! ho! Helen, my girl," said Mr. Crucible, one of the oldest members
of the club, "you don't blush like that when you look at us old
fogies--what is the matter, eh?"
A general laugh ensued, much to the confusion of poor Helen, and our
artist himself felt not a little confused at having produced such an
impression on the girl in the presence of so many others of his own sex.
"What ho! Helen, bring another log; we're freezing," cried Professor
Cyanite, changing the conversation, much to the relief of the girl, who
was glad to escape from the banter of the club by quitting the room.
Our guests began their repast of cold meat and pickles, bread and
cheese, and home-brewed ale. After they had finished the daughter of the
landlord re-entered with a large log, which she placed on the fire.
"That's right, my girl," said Mr. Oldstone, drawing his chair up to the
fire; "now bring us pipes."
The girl left the room, and soon returned with a bundle of long clay
pipes, already waxed, which she distributed amongst the company,
receiving a chuck under the chin from one; a gentle pat on the cheek
from another; from a third, a stroke on the head; from a fourth, a
squeeze of the hand; a fifth placed his arm round her waist; while a
sixth pretended to kiss her, but no further harm was done. Our artist
placed a chair for her next to himself, round the fire, and asked her if
she were fond of hearing stories.
The maiden blushed and smiled and said that she was.
"Bravo, Helen," said Mr. Oldstone; "remain with us and hear a fresh
story. Professor Cyanite is just going to favour us."
A circle was formed round the fire; Helen seating herself modestly by
the side of the artist, while the professor, sitting back in his chair,
and stretching out his legs towards the fire, stroked his ample
forehead, and with a puff at his pipe, commenced the following story.