HAUNTED ROOMS.
November has come with nights of drizzle and mornings of fog. The
dreariness of the weather without adds to the sense of discomfort within
the half-dismantled house. The carpet has been taken from the staircase,
and the old family clock no longer is heard striking the hours. The
drawing-room is much changed in appearance from what it was when the
reader was first introduced into the Trevors' cheerful abode. It is
evening, and the family are sitting together, with the exception of the
master of the house, who is busy in his study with lawyers' papers and
parchment deeds before him. The light of the drawing-room lamp falls on
a scanty amount of furniture; for sofa, arm-chair, and piano have all
been packed up for removal to the new home. No ornament of china, no
graceful vase relieves the bareness of the white mantelpiece; the mirror
has been taken away, no trace remains of pictures except square marks
on the wall. The guitar has vanished from view; the globe of gold-fish
is now the property of a friend; the ferns have been sent to the
greenhouse of an aunt in Grosvenor Square.
Emmie sits at the table with her lace-work beside her, but her needle is
idle. Bruce, the most actively occupied of the party, is drawing plans
of cottages, and jotting down in his note-book estimates of expenses.
The captain has a book in his hand, but makes slow progress with its
contents. Vibert is glancing over a number of _Punch_. The party have
been for the last ten minutes so silent that the pattering of the
November rain on the window-panes is distinctly heard.
"I hope that we shall not have such weather as this when we go to our
new home," said Vibert, as with a yawn he threw down his paper. "The
place will need at least sunshine to make it look a degree more lively
than a lunatic asylum. 'Tis lucky that our queer old great-aunt did not
take it into her head to paint the house black, inside and outside, and
put in her will that it must remain so, as a compliment to her husband,
who has been dead for the last fifty years. Fancy bricking up the best
bed-room!"
"Such an act proves that Mrs. Myers was in a very morbid state of mind,"
said the captain.
"What a misfortune!" observed Emmie.
"Misfortune! I should rather call it weakness--absurdity," said Bruce,
sternly glancing up from his drawing.
"I should call it a sin, a downright sin," cried Vibert. "Such a shame
it is to make what might have been a jolly country-house into a sort of
rural Newgate! I'm afraid that even our best friends will not care to
visit us there. Why, I asked pretty little Alice to-day whether she were
coming to brighten us up at Christmas, and she actually answered that
she was rather afraid of haunted houses, especially on dark winter
nights."
Bruce smiled a little disdainfully; and the captain suggested that
perhaps the fair lady was jesting.
"Not a bit of it," answered Vibert; "Alice was as much in earnest as
were all our servants when they gave us warning, because not one of them
but plucky Susan would go to Myst Court. Why, I'd bet that Emmie herself
is shivery-shakery at the idea of the house being haunted, and that
she'll not care to walk at night along the passages lest she should meet
some tall figure in white."
Emmie coloured, and looked so uncomfortable, that her uncle, who noticed
her embarrassment, effected a diversion in her favour by giving a turn
to the conversation.
"I have been tracing a parallel in my mind," he observed, "between the
human soul and the so-called haunted dwelling. Most persons have in the
deepest recess of the spiritual man some secret chamber, where prejudice
shuts out the light, where self-deception bricks up the door. Into this
chamber the possessor himself in some cases never enters to search out
and expel the besetting sin, which, unrecognized, perhaps lurks there in
the darkness."
"You speak of our hearts?" asked Emmie.
"I do," replied her uncle. "It is my belief that not one person in ten
thousand knows the ins and outs, the dark corners, the hidden chambers,
of that which he bears in his own bosom."
"Every Christian must," said Bruce; "for every Christian is bound to
practise the duty of self-examination."
"I hope that you don't call every one who does not practise it a heathen
or a Turk," cried Vibert. "All that dreadful hunting up of petty
peccadilloes, and confessing a string of them at once, is, at least to
my notion, only fit work for hermits and monks!"
"We are not talking about confession, but simply about self-knowledge,"
observed the captain.
"Oh, where ignorance is bliss," began Vibert gaily; but his brother cut
short the misapplied quotation with the remark, "Ignorance of ourselves
must be folly."
Vibert took up again the comic paper which he had laid down, and
pretended to re-examine the pictures. But for the captain's presence the
youth would have begun to whistle, to show how little he cared for
Bruce's implied rebuke; for, as Vibert had often told Emmie, he had no
notion of being "put down" by his brother.
"Do you think it easy to acquire self-knowledge?" asked Arrows, fixing
his penetrating glance upon Bruce, who met it with the calm steadiness
which was characteristic of the young man.
"Like any other kind of knowledge, it requires some study," replied
Bruce Trevor; "but it is not more difficult to acquire than those other
kinds of knowledge would be."
"In that you come to a different conclusion from that of the writer of
this book," observed Arrows; and he read aloud the following lines from
Dr. Goulburn's "Thoughts on Personal Religion," the volume which he held
in his hand:--
"'One of the first properties of the bosom sin with which it behoves us
to be well acquainted, as our first step in the management of our
spiritual warfare, is its property of concealing itself. In consequence
of this property, it often happens that a man, when touched in his weak
point, answers that whatever other faults he may have, this fault, at
least, is no part of his character.'"
The captain read the quotation so emphatically that Vibert again threw
down his paper, and listened whilst Arrows thus went on:--
"'This circumstance, then, may furnish us with a clue to the discovery:
of whatever fault you feel that, if accused of it, you would be stung
and nettled by the apparent injustice of the charge, suspect yourself of
that fault, in that quarter very probably lies the black spot of the
bosom sin. If the skin is in any part sensitive to pressure, there is
probably mischief below the surface.'"
"I doubt that the author is right," observed Bruce. "Besetting sins
cannot hide themselves thus from those who honestly search their own
hearts."
"Perhaps some search all but the haunted chamber," suggested Vibert.
Captain Arrows smiled assent to the observation.
"By way of throwing light on the question," said he, "suppose that each
of you were to set down in writing what you suppose to be your besetting
sin; and that I--who have watched your characters from your
childhood--should also put down on paper what I believe to be the bosom
temptation of each. Is it likely that your papers and mine would agree;
that the same 'black spot' would be touched by your hands and mine; that
we should point out the same identical fault as the one which most
easily and frequently besets the soul of each of you three?"
"It would be curious to compare the two papers," cried Vibert. "I wish,
captain, that you really would write down what you think of us all. It
would be like consulting a phrenological professor, without the need of
having a stranger's fingers reading off our characters from the bumps on
our heads."
"I am not speaking of the whole character, but of the one sin that most
easily besets," said the captain. "Would a close observer's view of its
nature agree with that held by the person within whose heart it might
lurk?"
"Perhaps not," said Bruce, after a pause for reflection. "But the person
beset by the sin would know more about its existence than the most acute
observer, who could judge but by outward signs."
"That is the very point on which we differ," remarked Captain Arrows.
"The property of the bosom sin is to conceal itself, but only from him
to whom the knowledge of its presence would be of the highest
importance. I should be half afraid," the captain added with a smile,
"to tell even my nephews and niece what I thought the besetting sin of
each, lest they should be 'stung and nettled by the apparent injustice
of the charge,' and feel, though they might not say it aloud, that
'whatever other faults they may have, this fault, at least, forms no
part of the character in question.'"
The captain's hearers looked surprised at his words. Vibert burst out
laughing. "You must think us a desperately bad lot!" cried he.
"Uncle, I wish that you would write down what you think is the besetting
sin of each of us," said Emmie, "and give the little paper quietly to
the person whom it concerns, not, of course, to be read by any one else.
I am sure that I would not be offended by anything you would write, and
it might do me good to know what you believe to be my greatest
temptation."
"As you are going away to-morrow, you would escape the rage and fury of
the indignant Emmie, however 'stung and nettled' she might be!" laughed
Vibert Trevor. "Now, Bruce," added the youth sarcastically, "would you
not like the captain to inform you confidentially what he considers the
tiny 'black spot' in your almost perfect character?"
"I have no objection to my uncle's writing down what he chooses,"
replied Bruce coldly. "All that I keep to is this,--neither he nor any
other man living can tell me a fact regarding my own character which I
have not known perfectly well before."
"Were I to agree to write down my impressions, it would be to induce you
all to give the subject serious reflection," observed the captain. "It
matters little whether I am or am not correct in my conclusions; but it
is of great importance that no one should be deceived regarding himself.
I wish to lead you to think."
"Oh, I'll not engage to do that! I hate thinking; it's a bore!" cried
Vibert gaily. "I know I'm a thoughtless dog,--ah, I've hit the 'black
spot' quite unawares! Thoughtlessness is my besetting sin!"
"My difficulty would be to single out one amongst my many faults," said
Emmie.
"Now that is humbug; you know that it is!" exclaimed her youngest
brother. "You have no fault at all, except the fault of being a great
deal too good. I should like you better if you were as lively and larky
as Alice!"
"Saucy boy!" said Emmie, and she smiled.
"But, captain," continued Vibert, addressing himself to his uncle,
"though we are willing enough to read what you write, we won't be driven
to anything in the shape of confession. You may tell us what is your
notion of what lurks in our haunted rooms, but we won't invite you in
and say, 'Behold there's my besetting sin!'"
"I want no confessions," said Captain Arrows. "I repeat that my only
object is to induce you to pull down your brickwork, draw back your
curtains, and search for yourselves; or, to drop metaphor and speak in
plain words, to lead you to make the discovery of the weakest point in
your respective characters the subject of candid investigation and
serious thought."
And to a certain degree this desired result was obtained. Though Vibert
laughed, and Bruce looked indifferent, to their minds, as well as to
that of their sister, the subject of self-knowledge recurred at
different parts of the evening.
"I don't suppose that the captain can look further through a mill-stone
than can any one else," thought Vibert; "yet he has uncommonly sharp
eyes, and is always on the watch. No doubt he learned that habit at sea.
I am glad that he can detect some fault in Master Bruce, who is a kind
of pope in our house, though I, for one, don't believe in his
infallibility. I wonder on what my uncle will fix as the bad spirit in
my haunted room. I should say--let me think--I have never thought about
the matter before. Well, I don't take to religion as earnestly as do
papa and my elder brother and sister. I don't go twice to church on
Sundays, nor--if the truth must be owned--do I pay much attention to the
service whilst I am there. I'd rather any day read a novel than a
serious book. I believe that's the worst I can say of myself. The
captain would call that--let me see--would he call that irreligion? No,
no; that name is too hard. I'm thoughtless, I own, but certainly not
irreligious. Impiety? Why, that is worse still! I do not pretend to be
in the least _pious_, but still I'd be ready to knock down any fellow
who called me the reverse. I'm something between the two poles. Levity?
Ah, that's the word, the precise word to describe my besetting sin, if
one can call mere levity a sin. I am no man's enemy but my own; and not
my own enemy either, for I spare and indulge myself in every way that I
can. Levity may be a fault at sixty, but it's no fault at all at
sixteen. I should decidedly object to be as sober as Bruce. He goes on
his way like a steady old coach, while I am like a bicycle,"--Vibert
laughed to himself as the simile occurred to his fancy. "A bicycle is
quick, light, not made to carry much luggage, and a little given to
coming to smash! Yes, I skim the world like a bicycle, and levity is my
worst fault!" Yawning after the unusual effort of even such cursory
self-examination, Vibert now set his thoughts free to ramble in any
direction, satisfied that nothing of a serious nature could be laid to
his charge.
"It is strange that my uncle should imagine that he can penetrate the
recesses of the heart of another," such was the reflection of Bruce, as,
candle in hand, he mounted the staircase that night. "Captain Arrows can
but judge of my character by my outward conduct, and he can have seen
but little to find fault with in that. I own--and with regret--that in
many points I fail in my duty towards my Maker; but that is a secret
between my conscience and God,--a secret which no man can penetrate, and
with which no man has a right to meddle. Yet it is evident that my uncle
has detected some visible error, whatever that error may be. I am aware
that I have a defective temper, but I have lately been gaining some
control over that which Calvin called an 'unruly beast.' I may, indeed,
have betrayed some impatience in my manner towards Vibert in the
presence of my critical uncle," thus flowed on the reflections of Bruce
as he entered his room, and closed the door behind him. "I now remember
my uncle's remarking to me that I might have more influence with my
brother if I showed him greater indulgence. But who can have patience
with Vibert's follies?" Bruce set down his candle, and threw himself on
a chair. "Vibert has been a spoilt child from his cradle, and now, when
nearly seventeen years of age, is no better than a spoilt child still!
Our poor dear mother made her youngest-born almost an idol; my father is
blind to his faults; Emmie pets and humours him to the top of his bent;
and all the world does the same. Vibert is admired, courted, and
welcomed wherever he goes, because, forsooth, his face is what girls
call handsome, and he can rattle off any amount of nonsense to please
them. Vibert does not mind playing the fool, and he plays it to the
life!" Bruce paused, and conscience gave a low note of warning to the
elder brother. "I am, I fear, harsh in my judgment. Want of charity,
that is perhaps my besetting sin. I am too quick to perceive the faults
and follies of others. That is a quality, however, which is not without
its advantages in a world such as this. I am not easily taken in; mere
veneer and gilding will not deceive my eye. I cannot be blind, if I wish
it, either to my own faults or to those of others." Bruce thought that
he knew himself thoroughly, and that there was no haunted room in his
heart which he had not boldly explored.
Emmie Trevor had her heart-searchings as she sat silent before her
mirror, while Susan brushed out the long glossy tresses of her young
mistress's hair.
"I would fain know what my dear uncle regards as my besetting sin,"
mused the gentle girl. "I was so foolish as almost to fancy that one so
loving and partial as he is would not notice my faults, and I am still
more foolish in feeling a little mortified on finding that I was
mistaken in this. What defect in my character is most likely to have
struck so acute an observer? My uncle cannot possibly know how often my
thoughts wander in prayer; how cold and ungrateful I sometimes am even
towards Him whom I yet truly love and adore. It is something in my
outward behaviour that must have displeased my uncle. Is it vanity?"
Emmie raised her eyes to her mirror, and had certainly no reason to be
dissatisfied with the face which she saw reflected in the glass. "Yes, I
fear that I am vain; I do think myself pretty, and I cannot help knowing
that I sing well,--I have been told that so often. Then I have certainly
love of approbation; my uncle may have detected that, for it is so sweet
to me to be admired and praised by those whom I love,--and perhaps by
others also. This vanity and love of approbation may lead to jealousy, a
very decided sin. Did I not feel some slight vexation even at Vibert's
playful words about Alice, his wish that I were more like that gay,
giddy girl? I find Alice nice enough as a companion, but would certainly
never set her up as a model. I am afraid,"--thus Emmie pursued the
current of her reflections,--"I am afraid that I might be haunted by
jealousy, if circumstances gave me any excuse for harbouring a passion
so mean, so sinful. I have often thought that for papa to marry again
would be to me such a trial. I could hardly bear that any one, even a
wife, should be dearer to him than myself. I should grieve at his doing
what might really add to his comfort; and oh! is not this selfish,
hatefully selfish? It shows that with all my love for my only remaining
parent, I care for his happiness less than my own. Certainly selfishness
is in my character; it lurks in my haunted chamber, and doubtless my
uncle has found it out! Then am I not conscious of giving way to
indolence, and harbouring self-will? There are duties which I know to be
duties, and yet from the performance of which I am always shrinking,
making excuses for my neglect such as conscience tells me are weak and
false. Truly mine is a very faulty character, yet am I given to
self-deception; the kindness and partiality of every one round me help
to blind me to my own faults, and perhaps to draw me into a little
hypocrisy, to make each 'black spot' more black."
It will be observed that Emmie was no stranger to self-examination; it
was to the maiden no new thing to commune with her heart and be still.