The party from the castle now joined Calantha. They were in evident
discomfiture. Their adventures had been rather less romantic than Lady
Avondale’s, and consequently had not given them such refined pleasure; for
while she was attending to a strain of such enchanting sweetness, they
had been forcibly detained in an apartment of the priory, unwillingly
listening to very different music.
The housekeeper having led them through the galleries, the ladies,
escorted by Count Gondimar, Lord Trelawney and Sir Everard, turned to
examine some of the portraits, fretted cornices and high casements, till
the dame who led the way, calling to them, shewed them a large dreary
apartment hung with tapestry, and requested them to observe the view
from the window. “It is here,” she said, “in this chamber, that John de
Ruthven drank hot blood from the skull of his enemy and died.” A loud
groan, at that moment, proceeded from an inner chamber. “That must be the
ghost,” said Lord Trelawney. His Lady shrieked. The dame, terrified at
Lady Trelawney’s terror, returned the shriek by a piercing yell, rushed
from the room, closing the heavy door in haste, which fastened with a
spring lock, and left the company not a little disconcerted.
“We are a good number, however,” cried Frances, taking fast hold of her
Lord, who smiled vacantly upon her. “We certainly can match the ghost in
point of strength: but it is rather unpleasant to be confined here till
the old woman recovers her senses.” Groans most piteous and terrible
interrupted this remark—groans uttered as if in the agony of a soul ill
at rest. Sophia grasped Sir Everard St. Clare’s hand. Sir Everard looked
at Lady Margaret. Lady Margaret disdainfully returned the glance. “I
fear not,” she said; “but we will assuredly have this affair examined.
I shall speak to my brother the moment I return: there is possibly some
evil concealed which requires investigation.” “Hark! I hear a step,” said
Frances. “If I were not afraid of seeing a ghost,” cried Lord Trelawney,
“faith, I would climb up to that small grated window.”
“I fear no ghosts,” replied Count Gondimar, smiling. “The sun has not
set, therefore I defy them thus.—Only take care and hold the stool upon
the table, that I may not break my neck.” “What do you see?” “A large
room lighted by two candles:—would it were but a lamp.” “Truly this
is a fair beginning.—What is the matter now?—why what the devil is the
matter?—If you come down so precipitately I cannot support you. Help!
the Count is literally fainting.” It was true. “A sudden dizziness—a
palpitation”—He only uttered these words and fell; a ghastly paleness
overspread his face; the cold damps stood upon his forehead.
“This is the most unfortunate confirmation of the effects of terror upon
an evil conscience,” exclaimed Sir Everard, “that ever I beheld. I’ll
be bound there is not an Irish or English man here, that would have been
so frightened.” “It’s a dizziness, a mere fainting fit,” said Gondimar,
“Let me feel his pulse,” cried Sir Everard. “Well, doctor?” “Well, sir,
he has no pulse left:—give him air.” “I am better now,” said Gondimar,
with a smile, as he revived. “Was I ill enough for this?”—Sir Everard
called in. Lord Trelawney’s curiosity engaged him to climb to the grated
window; but the candles had been extinguished, probably, for all beyond
the window was utter darkness.
Whilst some were assisting the Count, the rest had been vainly
endeavouring to open the door. A key was now heard on the outside; and
the solemn boy entering, said to Lady Margaret, “I am come to tell your
honour, that our dame being taken with the qualms and stericks, is no
ways able of shewing you any further into the Priory.” “I trust, however,
that you will immediately shew us out of it, Sir,” said Gondimar. “It
not being her fault, but her extrame weakness,” continued the boy: “she
desires me to hope your honours will excuse her.” “We will certainly
excuse her; but,” added Lady Margaret, “I must insist upon knowing from
her, or from some of you, the cause of the groans we heard, and what all
those absurd stories of ghosts can arise from. I shall send an order for
the house to undergo an immediate examination, so you had better tell
all you know.”
“Then, indeed, there be no mischief in them groans,” said the boy, who
appeared indifferent whether the house were examined or not. “It’s only
that gentleman as howls so, who makes them queer noises. I thought ye’d
heard something stranger than that. There be more singular noises than
he makes, many’s the time.” “Sirrah, inform me who inhabits this d——d
Priory?” said Count Gondimar. “What, you’re recovered from your qualms
and stericks, I perceive, though the old dame is so ill with them?”
“No jesting, Sir Everard. I must sift this affair to the bottom. Come,
Sir, answer straightly, who inhabits this Priory?” “Sure, Sir, indeed
none as can get a bed in the Abbey,” “You evade, young one: you evade
my enquiry: to the point; be plain.” “That he can’t help being,” said
Lord Trelawney. “Proceed, Sir, lead us as fast as possible out of these
cold damp galleries; but talk as you go.” “Like the cuckoo.” “Lord
Trelawney, your jests are mighty pleasant; but I have peculiar reasons
for my enquiries.” “And I for my jokes.” “Come, Sirrah, proceed: I shall
say no more at present.” “Do you like being here?” said Lady Trelawney,
taking up the question. “Well enough,” returned the stupid boy. “I hear,”
continued Frances, “there are some who play upon the harp in the night,
and sing so, that the country people round, say they are spell-bound.”
“Oh musha! there be strange things heard in these here old houses: one
must not always believe all one hears.”
Count Gondimar and Lady Margaret, were engaged in deep discourse. “I can
hardly believe it,” said she. “It is most true—most terribly true,” said
Gondimar. “I will question the boy myself,” she cried; “he is subtle
with all that appearance of clownish simplicity; but we shall gather
something from him. Now, Lady Trelawney, give me leave to speak, and do
you lead these gentlemen and ladies into the fresh air. Lady Augusta
says she longs to behold living objects and day-light. I shall soon
overtake you. Come here. I think, from what I have gathered, that St.
Alvin Priory has not been inhabited by any of the Glenarvon family since
the year ****: in that case, who has had charge of it?” “None but Mr.
Mackenzie and Dame since the old Lord de Ruthven’s and his son the young
Colonel’s time. There’s been no quality in these parts till now; but
about three years and better, the young Lord sent some of his friends
here, he being in Italy; and as they only asked for the ould ruin, and
did not wish to meddle with the castle, they have done their will there.
The steward lets them bide.”
“Have they been here above three years?” “Indeed then, that they’ve
not, your honour; for sometimes they’ve all been here, and sometimes
there’s not a soul alive: but since last Michaelmas, there’s been no
peace for them.” “Can you tell me any of their names?” “All, I believe;
for isn’t there one calls himself Citizen Costoly, whom we take to be
the master, the real Lord; but he cares not to have it thought: only
he’s such a manner with him, one can’t but think it. Then there’s Mister
O’Kelly, he as calls himself Citizen Wailman—the wallet; and there’s
another as sings, but has no name, a female; and there’s a gentleman
cries and sobs, and takes care of a baby; and his name, I think, is
Macpherson; then there’s the old one as howls; and Mrs. Kelly O’Grady;
and St. Clara, the prophetess; besides many more as come to feast and
revel here.” “And what right have they to be here?” “Why to be sure,
then, they’ve not any right at all; that’s what we are all talking of;
except them letters from my Lord; and they all live a strange wicked
life under ground, the like of thaves; and whatever’s the reason, for
some time past, that young gentleman as was, is disappeared: nothing’s
known as to what’s gone with him—only he’s gone; and the child—och! the
young master’s here, and the only one of ’em, indeed, as looks like a
christian.” “Is his name Clare of Costoly?” “Ah! sure your honour knows
him.”
Having reached the front porch, by the time the boy had gone through
his examination, Lady Margaret perceiving O’Kelly, sent for him, and
tried, vainly, to make him answer her enquiries more satisfactorily;
which not being able to accomplish, she set forth to return home, in an
extreme ill humour. Lord Trelawney rallied her about the ghost. Casting
an angry glance at him, she refused positively to return home in either
of the carriages; saying, she was resolved to walk back across the cliff,
the short way. Some of the gentlemen proposed escorting her; but she
haughtily refused them, and desired permission to be a few moments left
to herself. They, therefore, re-entered their carriages, and returned
without any further event.
Calantha was tired and grave during the drive home; and, what may perhaps
appear strange, she named not her adventure. “It is himself—it must
be.” “Who?” said Lady Mandeville. Confused at having betrayed her own
thoughts,—“Young Linden,” she cried, looking out of the carriage; and
then feigned sleep, that she might think over again and again on that
countenance, that voice, that being, she had one moment seen.