THE MYSTERIES OF FERNLEY
"Now, Uncle John!"
"Now, Margaret!"
"Don't be tormenting, sir! You know that you promised us a new Mystery
of Fernley, if we would all be good. We have been good; virtue shines
from every one of us, doesn't it, Hugh?"
"My eyes are dazzled," replied her cousin. "Most of it seems to come
from the feminine side of the house, though, I fear. All that the boys
and I have done has been to abstain from actual crime."
"Oh, cherries!" said Phil.
"Up into the tree of cherry,
Who should climb but little Jerry?"
"Pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Montfort. "What are cherries for except to eat, I
should like to know? Yes, you have all been good children, and it is
true that I promised--something. Sit down now, all of you, and I will
tell you the story of the Lost Casket."
The young people clustered about him, sitting on the floor, on cushions
and footstools, on anything rather than the prosaic seat of an ordinary
chair. Mr. Montfort looked around on their bright, eager faces. Margaret
sat next him, his own Margaret, fair and sweet in her white dress, with
the bright, joyous look that had grown so habitual to her of late. Next
to her was Gerald Merryweather; it struck Mr. Montfort suddenly that
Gerald Merryweather usually was beside Margaret. Beyond them again,
Peggy and Jean, with Phil between them; Phil, who as yet preferred his
sister Gertrude's society to that of any girl he had ever seen. At the
other side of the ring, Grace Wolfe, sitting a little apart, with the
curious air of solitariness that seemed to surround her even in company.
Hugh Montfort was not far off, though, and his deep brown eyes were
gazing at her intently.
"Once upon a time," Mr. Montfort began, and was greeted with a chorus of
disappointment. "Oh, Uncle John! You said it was true."
"Not a fairy story this time, sir, please; give us the real thing!"
"Will you be quiet, you impetuous creatures?" asked Uncle John. "It is
true, so far as I know. And if you interrupt me again--"
"We will not!"
"Hear us swear!" cried the young people.
"Once upon a time, then, some hundred and fifty years ago, there lived
here at Fernley Mr. Peter Montfort, the great-great-grandfather of some
of you. He was a worthy gentleman, with a pretty taste for engravings;
that Raphael Morghen print of the Transfiguration, Margaret, that you
are so fond of, is from his collection. He travelled about Europe a good
deal, buying engravings; that is the only thing I know about him, except
the fact that he married twice; and on this marrying twice hangs our
story. Listen now, and you shall hear. His first wife (she was a Miss
Rhinefels) died, leaving him with an only daughter, Christina Montfort.
The only time the name Christina appears, I believe, in the family
annals. At the time of her mother's death Christina was a woman grown;
a handsome person, to judge from her miniature, and of strong feelings.
She kept house for her father, and expected to do so all her days, as an
early disappointment had disinclined her for marriage. When, after a
couple of years, her father, being then a man of seventy, brought home a
wife of twenty-five, Christina was, not unnaturally, incensed. She
refused to speak to the newcomer, shut herself up in her own apartments,
and had a special servant to wait upon her. This uncomfortable state of
things continued for some time, when she sickened of some acute
distemper, and died in a short time. She possessed some fine jewels,
which she had inherited from her mother, and she was heard to say
repeatedly that her stepmother should never lay a finger on one of them.
It is supposed that she, or her servant acting under her orders, hid the
casket containing these jewels somewhere in this house; at all events,
they were never found after her death, and have never, it is said, been
seen to this day."
"Oh, Uncle John! but has any one looked for them?"
"My dear Peggy, every one has looked for them. I cannot tell you how
many Montfort ladies, in all these generations, have fretted their
nerves and worn out their finger-nails, hunting for this Lost Casket. I
specially requested your Aunt Faith, Margaret, not to mention it to you
or your cousins when you were here together. I had seen so many vain
searches, and heard of so many heart-burnings, in connection with it,
that I thought it best to defer the information till--till later. This,
however, seems a very favorable time. You are all too sensible, girls,
to be unhappy if you do not find it. To tell the truth, I used to hunt
for it when I was a boy. But you can have a grand game of hide and seek,
with an object, imaginary or actual, at the end of it; and I wish you a
merry game, young people, and I return to my conversation with the Sieur
de Montaigne."
He was surrounded in an instant, kissed, caressed, and thanked till he
declared his life was in danger, and threatened to take up the
hearth-broom in self-defence; finally they trooped off, to hold a
consultation in the hall.
"Shall we divide our forces and go in small parties?" inquired Hugh,
looking at Grace.
"I say we go just as it happens," said Peggy. "I think that will be much
more exciting."
"Perhaps it will," said Hugh, becoming resigned, as he saw Peggy link
her arm in Grace's. "Come on, then, girls and boys! Suppose we begin
with the garret; Margaret has been promising to show me its wonders ever
since I came."
On the second landing they paused to salute the old portraits, and Hugh
must point out this or that one that had a familiar look.
"This might be Margaret's self, I always think, Miss Wolfe; this
sweet-faced lady in the silvery green gown. See! she has the same clear,
quiet, true eyes, and her hair is the same shade of soft brown. A lovely
face."
"Are you looking at the Sea-green Me?" asked Margaret over his shoulder.
"Our dear Rita liked it, and used to call it her Sea-green Margaret. But
come now and look at the glorious Regina, who actually has a look of
Rita herself. And I want Grace to see Hugo, too."
[Illustration: "ON THE SECOND LANDING THEY PAUSED TO SALUTE THE OLD
PORTRAITS."]
She passed on, and Grace was about to follow, but Hugh detained her.
"Just one moment," he said, speaking low. "This is a fine collection,
Miss Wolfe, but I see no portrait of the Wood-nymph."
"The Wood-nymph?"
"Yes. Do you not know that a dryad haunts this garden of Fernley?
Sometimes she is not seen, only heard in the dusk, singing magical
songs, that fill whoever hears them with a strange feeling akin to
madness. But sometimes--sometimes she leaves her tree, and comes out in
the moonlight, and--dances--"
He paused. Grace had started, and now looked up at him with a curious
expression, in which anger, mirth, and fear seemed struggling for the
upper hand. Before she could reply, a terrific scream rang through the
gallery, startling the whole party. Turning, they saw Jean, who had run
on before the rest in her eagerness to explore, standing at the farther
end of the corridor, with open mouth and staring eyes, the very image of
terror.
"My dear child," cried Margaret, running toward her, "what is it? Are
you hurt?"
"What is it, Jeanie?" said Peggy, who was the first to reach her sister,
and already had her in her arms. "Jean, don't gasp so! You have seen
something; is that it? Margaret, what did I always tell you?"
Jean nodded, still gasping, and clung to Peggy with eager, trembling
hands. "Oh!" she moaned. "Peggy, save me! take me away! the closet; oh,
the closet!"
"What closet, dear? This one? Why, this is the broom closet. There is
nothing here to frighten you, Jean."
"The woman!" murmured Jean. "The dreadful dead woman! Peggy, I saw her
eyes, and her long hair. Oh, I shall die, I know I shall!"
"Oh, you poor lamb!" cried Margaret, laughing in spite of her
compassion. She hurried to the closet and flung the door wide open. "It
is only Mrs. Body!" she said. "Come and look again, Jean; it is the
lay-figure, dear, nothing else in the world."
"Lay figure?" faltered Jean, still trembling and hanging back.
"Yes, the model. Grandmother Montfort used to paint a great deal, and
she had this creature made to stand for the figure. Come and look at it,
dear child."
Gently and persuasively she drew the trembling girl forward; the others
all pressed behind her.
There on the floor of the closet lay a figure which might at the first
glance have alarmed a stouter heart than fifteen-year-old Jean's,--the
figure of a woman, scantily draped in white. The arms were stretched out
stiffly, the face, with its staring eyeballs, over which fell some lank
wisps of hair, was turned toward the door. No wonder Jean was terrified.
"I am so sorry!" said Margaret. "The children, Basil and Susan D., found
her in the garret last winter. They begged to be allowed to have her for
a plaything, so they kept her in here, and had great fun with her. Her
name is Mrs. Body, but she can take any part, from Ophelia to Simple
Susan. She took tea with us once, when Uncle John was away, and she
behaved beautifully; so you see you really must not mind her, Jean,
dear."
"It's no wonder she was frightened, though," said Gerald. "My right arm
cleaves to the roof of my mouth, even now that I know who she is. Mrs.
Body, my respects to you, ma'am, and I desire you of less acquaintance."
While they were all laughing over Mrs. Body, and commenting upon her
various points, Gerald slipped round to Margaret's side.
"Miss Montfort," he said, speaking in a low tone, "do you remember the
roarer?"
"Indeed I do, Mr. Merryweather. Do you know, you never showed me the
place. You had to go away the next day, you remember."
"That is just what I was thinking," said Gerald. "I have never forgotten
that burning moment when Mrs. Cook and I foregathered in the dark. I was
thinking, what if the Lost Casket should happen to be somewhere about
that place in the wall? and anyhow, it would be fun to explore it, and I
promised to show it to you, and I like to keep my promises, because
virtue is my only joy. Won't you come with me now, and let the rest go
on? Awfully nice in the garret, I am sure, but--won't you come,
please?"
"Oh," said Margaret, "that would be delightful! But--it is quite dark,
isn't it? and they have all the candles."
"All except this," said Gerald, drawing a slender cylinder from his
pocket. "Electric candle; you have seen them, of course. I brought it
with me, intending some such exploration, if permitted. I ran up and got
it, at Mr. Montfort's first word of this search. Come! the down-stairs
hall. This way; oh, please, this way."
Margaret hesitated, looking doubtfully at him. "I--don't know if I
ought," she said. "I should like it of all things, if I thought--"
"Don't think!" said Gerald, hastily. "Great mistake to think; wastes the
tissues awfully. Action first, thought afterward! aphorism! Or if you
must indulge in the baneful pursuit, think how much poor Jerry wants
you. Poor Jerry! child of misfortune!"
"Is that the way you get everything you want?" said Margaret, laughing,
as she followed him half-reluctantly down-stairs.
"One way; there are others. This is the best, since it procures me your
company. See, now! in this niche here, behind the big picture!"
He passed his hand along a panel; it swung back, revealing blackness.
Margaret stared. "I never knew that was a door!" she said. "Mr.
Merryweather, do you know, I think the person who built this house must
have been a smuggler, a magician, and a detective, all in one."
"Fine combination!" said Gerald. "I should like to have known the old
codg--I mean gentleman. No deep mystery here, though, beyond the secret
door. He did love secret doors, that ancestor of yours. He may have been
an architect, and have thought door-handles unsightly, as they are. But
see!"
They were now standing in a deep recess, and he waved his candle to and
fro. "This would appear to have been originally used as a kind of
store-room, or drying-room. See those hooks; probably for hams--if not
for hanging," he added. "If you prefer tragedy, Miss Montfort, you shall
have it. There is room for ten persons to hang here, without touching.
Their ghastly upturned faces, their blood-stained robes, glimmering
spectral white in the--"
"Oh, don't!" said Margaret. "You really frighten me. Yes, they must be
for hams; now I think of it, I have heard Frances speak of the
drying-closet. This wall is warm; it must be close against the kitchen
chimney."
"Jerusalem!" exclaimed Gerald. "Here are steps, Miss Montfort. Stone
steps, leading down to a trap-door. Shall I help you down, or--no, I
will go alone. When I open the door, a hollow groan will be heard, and
the clank of iron fetters. Would you rather have me descend to Hades
with a loud squeak, or shall a headless spectre arise, grinning and--beg
pardon! anatomy at fault; grinning requires a head. That's the way! my
genius is always checked in its soaring flight, and pulled back to earth
by idiot facts."
Running on thus, Gerald descended the stone steps, Margaret following to
their top, timidly. Sure enough, there was a trap-door at the bottom,
with a ring in it; a perfectly orthodox trap-door, suitable for the
Arabian Nights or anything else. Gerald took hold of the ring, prepared
for a vigorous pull; then paused, and looked at his companion. "I hear
voices!" he said. "Hark!"
They listened. A low murmur came up from below; the voices were muffled,
by distance or intervening substances, and could not be distinguished.
"Oh, do you think we'd better open it?" said Margaret, who had such a
wholesome awe of the Mysteries of Fernley that she was prepared for
anything in the way of the marvellous.
"That is what I think!" said Gerald, cheerfully. "That's what it was
made for, you see. A door that does not fulfil its destiny might just as
well be something else, skittles, or a pump, or--other things. Now
this--"
As he spoke, he gave a vigorous pull; the door lifted, but at the same
instant the candle slipped from his hand, and fell rattling into some
unseen depth below, leaving them in blank darkness. Margaret uttered a
cry of alarm. "Don't fall! Oh, pray be careful, Mr. Merryweather!"
"All right!" said Gerald. "Stay just where you are, for a moment, while
I explore this--aperture. Ha! the steps continue. You don't mind if I
leave you in the dark for just a minute, Miss Montfort?"
Margaret did not mind, once assured that her companion was not engaged
in the congenial pursuit of breaking his neck. She began feeling about
her in the darkness, darkness so thick it was like black velvet, she
said to herself. She found the wall; it was warm, as she said; she began
passing her hand mechanically along the bricks, counting them.
A cheerful voice came up from below: "I have found the doughnuts--good
ones!--and the--seem to be--yes! sweet pickles. Corking! And--now you've
done it, my son! Jam, by all that's adhesive! Put my whole hand in.
Jerusalem and Mad--"
At this instant there was a sound as of a door thrown violently open; a
flood of light filled the place; light, and an angry voice.
"Who's this here in my pantry? Come out of that, ye rascal, before I set
the dogs on ye!"
Gerald Merryweather uttered a yell of delight. "Destiny!" he shouted.
"My fate cries out. Quits, Mrs. Cook, quits! Come to my arms!"
And Margaret, peeping fearfully down through the trap-door, beheld her
guest waving one hand, a crimson one, in the air, and with the other
embracing the ample form of Frances the cook; while behind them the
grave Elizabeth looked wide-eyed, shading her candle with her hand.
"For shame, sir!" said Frances. "Do behave, now, Mr. Gerald! I never see
such a bold boy since born I was."
"No, no! not bold; don't say bold, Mrs. Cook! Witness my blushing eyes,
my tearful cheek, my stammering nose! Hush, listen, there's a good soul.
Your doughnuts are food for the gods; also for Jerry. Poor Jerry; never
had enough doughnuts in his life. You weep for him; let him dry the
starting tear!"
Drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, he gravely applied it to Frances's
eyes and went on. "We are looking for the Lost Casket, Miss Montfort and
I. If you can help us to it, Mrs. Cook,--
"I'll dress thee all in pongo silk,
And crown thee with a bowl of milk;
And hail thee, till my last breath passes,
The queen of sugar and molasses.
A poet, as you observe. Nothing to what I can do, give me time and a
yard measure. Now tell me--"
Margaret's voice from above interrupted him.
"Mr. Merryweather, there is a loose brick here. I can pull it quite out;
and--yes--there is a space behind it, and--oh, can you bring the light?"
To snatch the lamp from Frances's hand, blow her a kiss, and scramble up
the steps again, was the work of an instant with Gerald. He found
Margaret pale, with shining eyes, holding something in her hands.
"No!" cried Gerald. "I say, you haven't--you have! eccentric Jiminy, you
have found it!"
"I think I have!" said Margaret, who was fairly trembling with
excitement. "Look! the letters on the lid! oh, Mr. Merryweather!"
The object she held was a box some eight inches square, of ebony or some
other dark wood, banded with silver. On the lid were inlaid, also in
silver, the letters C. M.
"Christina Montfort!" said Margaret. "Oh, to think of my being the one
to find it!"
"I should like to know who else had the right to find it!" said Gerald.
"Punch their--I mean, of course, if they were fellows; I beg your
pardon, Miss Montfort."
"It is locked," said Margaret. "We must wait, and try some of Uncle
John's keys."
"Take care!" exclaimed Gerald. "The bottom is dropping out. Hold your
hand under it!"
As he spoke, the bottom of the box, which was of some soft wood and had
rotted through, dropped, and something rolled out and fell into
Margaret's hand. She held it up to the light. It was a hawk's egg,
neatly blown.