AN APPARITION.
Through the lighted window prying,
Softly on the bright pane sighing,
Then in sudden panic flying,
Through the untrodden gloom,
To the dark oak-tree she cometh,
Round its trunk she wildly roameth,
Shuddering as the dark stream foameth,
There she waits her coming doom.—_E. P. Lee._
It was a medium-sized, comfortable apartment, well carpeted, and
well-curtained, with its back windows looking out upon the shrubberies
in the rear of the mansion.
A well-spread supper-table stood in the middle of the floor, and around
it were gathered Mrs. Broadsides, Mr. Jessup, Miss Tabs, and Mr.
Antonio, who were the housekeeper’s guests for the evening. Their
conversation, like that of their superiors, had turned upon the late
tragic events at Allworth.
Here, also, opinion was divided upon the subject of the supposed
criminal—Mrs. Broadsides, Jessup, and Mr. Antonio loudly declaring their
belief in the guilt of Eudora, and Miss Tabs stoutly asserting her faith
in her innocence.
But through the whole of this conversation, it was observed that at
intervals Mrs. Broadsides, who sat at the head of the table opposite the
window, would often start, stare and bless herself, while Jessup, who
sat at the foot, would twist his head over his shoulder as though he saw
a spectre behind him.
Politeness deterred Miss Tabs and Mr. Antonio from taking any notice of
these strange manifestations.
At length Jessup, after giving his own neck a most dangerous wring, and
getting no satisfaction for his pains, spoke out, saying:
“Mrs. Broadsides, I would be obliged to you, ma’am, if you would tell me
what it is that you see out of that window, for shiver my timbers if I
can see anything but black darkness.”
“Jessup, don’t ask me! that’s a good soul! it’s nothing earthly as I
see,” answered the woman, in a hushed tone of awe.
“What is it, then? I insist upon knowing.”
“Don’t, Jessup! it’s nothing earthly, I tell you, and I don’t like to
speak of it. Lord bless my soul, there it is again!” exclaimed the
woman, in a suppressed tone of horror.
“What? where? I see nothing!” said Mr. Jessup, wringing around his neck
until his face was nearly between his shoulders.
“It’s vanished” whispered the housekeeper, without withdrawing her gaze
from the window, while Mr. Antonio and Miss Tabs stared in amazement,
and Mr. Jessup regarded her with incredulous indignation, saying at
length:
“Can’t you tell me what you saw, then, if you saw anything but of your
own imagination?”
“’Twas no imagination of mine, Jerry Jessup; if you must and will know
what I have seen, I’ll tell. Since I have been sitting here at this
table, I have seen a pale, ghostly female figure flit past that window
three times!”
Every one glanced shudderingly at the window except Jessup, who
contemptuously exclaimed:
“It was only your own fancy, Mrs. Broadsides!”
The housekeeper shook her head ominously.
“It’s all along o’ leaving the shutters open. It’s awful ghostly to have
the night peeping in at you through the glass. I always imagine that I
see something at such time.”
“Why don’t you close the shutters?” suggested Miss Tabs.
“Because of a whim of master’s to keep all the windows open till
bed-time, most especially on stormy nights, when they may serve for
beacons to guide the belated traveler to the shelter of this roof. Lord
bless the admiral and mend his ways, so kind to all the world, so cruel
to his own dear darter,” sighed Mrs. Broadsides.
“His daughter?” echoed Mr. Antonio.
“Yes, his darter, my young missus, as run off with a young lieutenant in
a marching regiment, and married him all for love. She went ’long of him
everywhere, and may have died of fever in the Crimea, or been massacred
in India, for aught we’ve heard of her since her marriage; for it’s as
much as any one’s life’s worth to mention her name in master’s
presence.”
“And is he so hard all these years that he won’t make friends with her?”
“Make friends with her? You don’t know him. He won’t even hear her
name,” put in Jerry Jessup.
“Wish I was his wally-de-sham. I’d ding it into his ears morning, noon
and night. I’d bring it up with his hot water and lay it down with his
slippers, and put it on with his night-cap every day of his life,” said
Miss Tabs, valiantly.
“No you wouldn’t, for the very first time you tried it, you’d get
pitched out of the window or down the stairs, and have your neck broken.
Heaven save me, there it is again!” cried the woman, breaking off in
terror.
All looked towards the window. Jessup wrung his neck around nearly to
the point of dislocation, exclaiming:
“Where now? I tell you there’s nothing there. It’s all your own nerves.
Mrs. Broadsides, ma’am, you want a dose of assafiddity.”
“It’s gone again!” whispered the woman.
“It never was!” snapped Mr. Jessup, impatiently.
“Yes it was. And I know _what_ it was. It was a Banshee come to warn me
of my own death, or my master’s, or my old missusses.”
“Stuff and nonsense.”
“It isn’t stuff, and it isn’t nonsense. It is a Banshee, if ever one
appeared to mortal eyes!”
“Yes, _if_ ever one appeared,” sneered Mr. Jessup.
“But I have heard of the Banshee, myself,” said Miss Tabs, coming to the
assistance of the housekeeper.
“To be sure you have, my dear. Who in this country-side has not heard of
the Banshee that appeared to the Honorable Mrs. Elverton, of Edenlawn?
How Mr. Elverton was on the Continent, where he had been a many months,
and Mrs. Elverton was at Edenlawn, sitting up late at night, reading in
her dressing-room. The night was fine, and the curtains were undrawn,
when all of a sudden she heard a low, moaning, unearthly voice outside
of the window, and looking up, she saw a female figure, in flowing white
raiment float past the window as if it were swimming in the air, and
heard it wail forth the words—‘_Hollis Elverton is no more!_’ as it
disappeared. Well, the lady got up and made a note of the day and the
hour; and sure enough a fortnight after that, she heard of the death of
her husband at St. Petersburg, and he died the very day and hour at
which she had seen the Banshee! There! what do you make of _that_?”
inquired the housekeeper, triumphantly.
“Why, as the Honorable Mrs. Elverton was just as hysterical as you be,”
said Mr. Jessup, doggedly.
“But then her husband actually died at St. Petersburg at the very day
and hour that the Banshee appeared to her at Edenlawn. How do you
account for that?”
“Just happened so, that’s all.”
“You’re as unbelieving as Thomas—Oh, Lord have mercy upon us! Look
there; there it is again! and no Banshee neither, but the spirit of my
young mistress, with her very face and form, only looking as if she had
risen from the grave. Look, look, oh!” cried the woman, covering her
face with her hands, and shaking with terror.
Again all looked fearfully towards the window.
Jessup wrung his neck nearly in two in the effort to look behind his
back; and upon this occasion perseverance was rewarded. Pressed against
the outside of the window, they all saw a fair, wan young face, that
sank out of sight the instant it was detected.
“That’s neither a Banshee nor a spirit; it’s a mortal girl!” exclaimed
Jessup, springing up, overturning his chair, and rushing out of the
room.
The remainder of the party held their breaths in suspense until Jessup
pushed open the door and reappeared, dragging after him the pale, weary,
half-starved, dripping wet figure of a young girl, whom he pulled up
before the astonished housekeeper, saying, mockingly:
“There—there’s your Banshee! A girl as has been caught out in the storm,
and was frightened at ringing the door-bell at such a great house as
this.”
“The very form, the very face! I never, no, I never _did_ see such a
likeness; the express image of my young missus, only thinner, and paler,
and smaller. Come to the fire, my lass. What is your name, and how came
you out in the storm? You are not one of the village girls?” inquired
the housekeeper, drawing the chilled stranger to the bright little coal
fire that the dampness of the evening made very comfortable even at this
season.
Then seeing in the glare of the light that the girl was wet to the skin,
she exclaimed:
“Oh, deary me; you haven’t a dry thread on you! You must have been out
in the whole storm; come into my chamber and get a suit of dry clothes
on your back, and then you shall have some hot supper before you answer
any of my questions.”
And taking the young stranger by the hand, the good housekeeper
conducted her into an adjoining room.
They were gone about fifteen minutes, at the end of which Mrs.
Broadsides returned, leading her _protégée_, who was now comfortably
clad in a black silk dress, that looked as if it had been made for her.
“Dear me, how well that fits,” said Miss Tabs.
“Yes, it was my young missus’s. She left most of her clothes here, poor
child, when she went away, and I have taken care of them ever since. And
now, if you want to know what my darling looked like, just look at this
young gal; for there never was two peas so much alike as Miss Anna
Eleanora, and this young gal, only that this one looks like the ghost of
the other. And now, my child, sit down at the corner of the table here
by the fire, and have some of this curried chicken, while we make you a
glass of warm port-wine negus; and no one shall trouble you with any
questions until you have done supper,” said the good housekeeper,
settling her _protégée_ in the most comfortable seat.
Another fifteen minutes sufficed to satisfy the appetite of the
stranger, who was thereupon required to gratify the curiosity of her
entertainers.
“And now, my lass, tell us all about yourself. You are not of this
country-side, I suppose?” said Mrs. Broadsides, when they had gathered
around the fire.
“No, ma’am, I came from London this morning by rail as far as the
station, and then set off to walk.”
“But where were you going my child, when you were caught in the storm?”
“To Allworth Abbey, ma’am.”
“To ALLWORTH ABBEY!” exclaimed Mrs. Broadsides and Miss Tabs in a
breath.
“Yes,” said the girl, looking up in surprise at the manner in which they
had received her communication.
But this was no time to explain by introducing the tragedy of Allworth
Abbey. The curious women were for once more eager to hear than tell
news, and so Mrs. Broadsides inquired:
“And whatever could have taken you to Allworth Abbey of all the places
in the world, my poor dear?”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you as you are so good to me. I am an
orphan; my mother died when I was an infant, and my poor father died a
few days ago in his lodgings in London, leaving me quite destitute. So
the parish officers talked of sending me to the union, or binding me
apprentice to a mistress. I couldn’t bear the thoughts of either, so I
ran away, travelling by rail as long as my money lasted, and then
setting out to walk.”
“But why to Allworth Abbey?”
“Because my poor mother had a foster-sister living at service there,
who, I thought, might be kind to me.”
“What—what was her name?” inquired Miss Tabs.
“Tabitha Tabs. I remember it well.”
“Why, that was _my_ name; but my mother never had but one-nurse child,
and that was Miss Anna Eleanor Brunton. Oh, my goodness, Mrs.
Broadsides, can—can—can it be as this is her darter!” exclaimed Miss
Tabs, breathlessly.
“What is your name, young girl?” exclaimed the housekeeper, in an
agitated voice, grasping the arm and gazing eagerly into the face of the
stranger.
“Annella Wilder—Oh-h! don’t squeeze my arm so tightly; you’ll break the
bone!” said the girl, shrinking from such a very pressing proof of
regard.
“Annella Wilder! Annella was the pet name we used to call my darling by,
being the short for Anna Eleanora; and Wilder was the name of the young
fellow as bolted with her. And you as like her as one pea-pod is to
another, and as sure as fate you are my poor darling’s child. You are!
you are! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! oh!” cried the housekeeper, catching the
girl to her bosom, and sobbing and weeping over her.
“And so my darling is dead! Died when you were an infant you say! And
her young husband, your father, did he ever forget her who gave up so
much for his sake? Did he ever put another woman in her place?” cried
the affectionate creature, still holding the girl to her bosom.
“Never; he devoted himself to her memory—he mourned her as long as he
lived.”
“Then how was it, my child, that you were left so destitute?”
“Oh, my father, was unfortunate—he was obliged to sell out—and—he became
more and more unfortunate until he died—in destitution—and—do not ask me
any more,” said Annella, hesitatingly and bursting into tears.
“I understand; I understand; that word ‘unfortunate’ means a great deal,
whether it is applied to man or woman. But there! don’t cry any more, my
dear. Better fortune is in store for you, I hope; for surely the admiral
will never visit the offences of the parents upon the child. There,
don’t cry any more, you are all right now, you are here,” said the
woman, wiping the tears from Annella’s eyes and re-seating her in her
chair.
“But tell me who you are who take so kind an interest in my mother and
myself, and what place this is where I feel so much at home?” said
Annella.
“Who am I, and what place is this? Why, my dear, is it possible that you
do not know where you are?”
“No more than the dead.”
“Did ever any one hear the like! And how did it happen that you came
here, then?”
“As I told you before, I was trying to find Allworth Abbey, when I was
overtaken by the night and the storm, and while I was wandering about
like a lost child, I saw the lights of this house shine from afar and
they guided me to it.”
“Well, Lord bless the admiral’s lights, for they have done some good at
last in guiding his own grand-daughter home!” said Mrs. Broadsides,
fervently.
“Ma’am?” exclaimed Annella, opening her grey eyes in astonishment.
“Now, is it creditable that you don’t yet know as you’re at the
Anchorage, the seat of your grandfather, Admiral Sir Ira Brunton?”
“And is it possible that I am in the house of my grandfather—my stern
and terrible grandfather, who hated and discarded my father and my
mother?” exclaimed Annella, in dismay.
“Yes, my dear, but he will not hate them any longer; he must not hate
the dead, you know; and he _must_ love the living; and he shall
acknowledge you as his grand-daughter and sole heiress, and take you to
his heart, or else turn me out of his house,” said the woman, stoutly.
“And me, too; which I don’t think he be likely to do for a trifling
difference of opinion,” said Mr. Jessup.
“And me!” said Miss Tabs, valiantly.
And so likewise said Mr. Antonio.
Annella remained in one maze of astonishment.
A question now arose as to whether it would be better to let the admiral
know at once of the arrival of his grand-daughter, or to defer the
announcement until the morning.
Mrs. Broadsides, who, with all her assumed heroism, was really very
timid, felt inclined to postpone the threatening hour as long as
possible.
Miss Tabs agreed with her, especially as the admiral was now engaged
with company.
But Mr. Jessup said the matter ought to be referred to Miss Annella
herself, and he was supported in his opinion by Mr. Antonio. And the
matter was referred accordingly.
“Since I am in my grandfather’s house, of all others in the world, I am
not going to stay one hour without his knowledge and consent,” said
Annella.
“And the girl is right,” said Mr. Jessup, emphatically.
“Then I hope you’ll go and denounce her yourself, Jerry Jessup, as
you’re so bold about it,” exclaimed Mrs. Broadsides.
“And that I’ll do this minute, too,” said Jerry, rising.
“And mind, however master may receive the news, it may be as well to let
him know that out of this house she doesn’t go this night without my
going too!”
“Hush, hush, woman; don’t cry out till you’re hit. Wait till I come
back,” said Jerry, leaving the room.
The admiral was still in the drawing-room with his grandmother, his
mother, the Princess Pezzilini, and the young midshipman. The whole
party had finished tea, and were gathered near the fire, still engaged
in discussing the tragedy at Allworth Abbey, when the door opened, and
Mr. Jessup made his appearance.
“Well, Jerry?” inquired the admiral, looking up.
Mr. Jessup gave the naval salute to his superior officer, and answered:
“If you please, your honor, I spied a small craft to windward, making
signals of distress.”
“Well?”
“I put out after her, your honor, and found her beating about in the
storm, though well nigh water-logged and ready to go down.”
“And what then?”
“I overhauled her, your honor, took possession, and towed her into
port.”
“And what now?”
“Please, your honor, I have come to report and take orders about her.”
“What sort of a craft is she?”
“Please, your honor, a small craft, tight-built, trim-rigged, fast
sailing in favorable weather, I should think, though now rather the
worse for the wear and tear of winds and waves.”
“Well, haul her up along side, and let’s have a look at her,” commanded
the admiral.
“Ay, ay, sir!” said Jerry, hastening to obey.
“Whatever does he mean? I never can understand that man, any more than
if he spoke in Hebrew,” said Mrs. Brunton.
“Hang the fellow! he always mistakes the drawing-room for the
quarter-deck,” said the admiral, laughing. “He means that a young person
has been caught out by the storm, and driven in here for shelter.”
“But you will never bring a stranger into this room, Iry?”
“Certainly, if Madame Pezzilini has no objection.”
“Oh, certainly not,” replied the princess, with a suave courtesy.
“Then we will see what she is like, and perhaps turn her over to the
care of Mrs. Broadsides,” concluded the veteran.
At this moment the door opened, and Jerry hove into sight, towing in his
prize, which he announced as—
“The Annella Wilder, London, your honor.”
The admiral did not hear the name distinctly, but fixed his eyes upon
the young girl, who was steadily advancing towards him. And as she drew
nearer, his eyes dilated in astonishment, until, when she stood before
him, he gazed upon her in a panic of consternation, for it seemed to him
that his long-lost daughter was in his presence.
For a minute that seemed an age, the old man and little maiden regarded
each other in silence, while all the other members of the party looked
on in surprise, and then the admiral broke forth:
“Anna; my Lord, is it possible? I heard that you were dead long ago,
child—you and your infant daughter together. Where do you come from? You
look, indeed, as if it were from the grave! Why do you come here now? Is
it to reproach me?”
“Grandfather,” said the young girl, sadly but fearlessly; “the Anna whom
you invoke is not here to offend you with her presence. She could not
come if she would, she would not, perhaps, if she could; fifteen years
ago she went with her broken heart to heaven. And I, her daughter,
standing here before you, came here not willingly or wittingly. The
storm without drove me, the lights within drew me here, not knowing
where I came. And now I am ready to depart, not caring where I go.”
During this short interview, the two old ladies had risen from their
seats, and drawn near with looks of deep interest. The elder spoke:
“Oh, Iry, she is poor Anna’s child! You will never let her go! She is my
great-great-grandchild; only think of that, Iry! She _shall_ not go, or,
if she does, I’ll go forth, with my century of years, and beg with her!”
“Peace, peace, grandmother, be easy,” replied the admiral.
Then turning again to Annella, he said, sternly:
“Your father?”
“Is in his grave,” answered the girl.
“Thank heaven for that!” were the words that rose to the lips of the
veteran; but a glance at the face of his grand-daughter repressed their
utterance.
“When did he die?” he asked.
“On Thursday last,” she answered.
“Why did he not write to me in all these years?”
“Grandfather, if he had been happy and prosperous, he would have
written; but he was the reverse of all this, and he would not write.”
“But _my_ blood ran in _his_ child’s veins! and if he was unhappy and
unsuccessful, he should have written to me! I am not flint!”
“Grandfather, he was unhappy only in the loss of her whom your
unkindness hurried to the grave. And any help from your relenting hand,
that came too late for her relief, came much too late for his
acceptance! Grandfather, he loved your daughter too truly to enjoy a
benefit that she could not share.”
The admiral groaned in the spirit, but did not reply. After a few
minutes of silence, during which all the other members of the circle
looked on in painful suspense, he inquired:
“How came you out wandering alone in this remote country, so far from
the scene of your father’s death? Had he no friends to look after his
orphan child?”
“Grandfather, it is a very long story; but I will tell you if you would
like to hear it.”
“Yes, but sit down; sit down there in the little chair beside Madame
Pezzilini. And now go on,” said the admiral, throwing himself into his
own elbow-chair.
Annella commenced, and gave a short history of her life in the camp with
her father; dwelling on his services in the Crimean war and the Indian
insurrection, glancing slightly at the circumstances that drove him to
sell his commission, and suppressing altogether the fact of that fatal
habit that caused his ruin.
But notwithstanding the delicacy with which she treated her father’s
memory, the experienced veteran understood it all.
Annella suppressed also the incident of the pauper funeral; but dwelt
fondly upon the benevolence of her landlady, and especially on that of
the beautiful, foreign-looking lodger, who had arrived in London only
the day before, and who seemed to have so deep a sorrow of her own.
Something in the manner of the girl in describing her lovely
benefactress attracted the particular attention of the Princess
Pezzilini, who began with much interest to question the young girl.
“When did you say this young lady reached London?”
“On the morning of Wednesday.”
“How was she dressed?”
“In deep mourning.”
“Will you describe her personal appearance?”
“Oh, yes; she was so beautiful it would be a real pleasure to do so. She
was rather small and slender, but not thin. She had a clear, olive
complexion, with full, pouting, crimson lips, and large soft, dark eyes,
shaded with long black eyelashes, and arched with slender, jet black
eyebrows, and her hair was black as jet, and curled in long spiral
ringlets all around her head.”
“Had she a little black mole over her right eye?”
“Yes; and another at the left corner of her mouth; they were both very
pretty.”
“It is Eudora Leaton!” said the princess, addressing the admiral.
“There is no doubt of it, and I shall give information to the police
to-morrow,” replied the latter.
“Sir?” inquired Annella, looking uneasily, she scarcely knew why,
towards her grandfather.
“Nothing, my dear, only we think the young lady you mention is an
acquaintance of ours. And now, my dear, your looks betray so much
weariness, that I must order you off to bed. Grandmother, will you touch
the bell?”
Mrs. Stilton complied; and Mr. Jessup made his appearance.
“Send Broadsides here, Jerry,” said Mrs. Brunton.
The housekeeper obeyed the summons.
“Broadsides, show Miss Wilder into the suite of rooms formerly occupied
by her mother; and look out to-morrow for a discreet person to attend
her as lady’s-maid,” said Mrs. Brunton.
The housekeeper courtesied in assent, and led off Annella, saying, as
she preceded her up-stairs:
“I told you, my dear, that when you found yourself here you were all
right, and you see now that I spoke the truth, for you _are all right_!”