THE GHOST IN NO. 41.
After waiting two days, during which no tidings were received of Robert,
James Cromwell determined to go to New York. He had hoped that the body
might be found in order that he might carry with him the proof that
would entitle him to the reward of ten thousand dollars. But he did not
venture to suggest that the pond should be dragged, lest it might appear
that he was too well informed about the matter.
He announced his determination to Mr. Manton and Clara the evening
previous. He thought it politic to assign a double motive for his
departure.
"You may remember," he said, "that I referred to a relative in delicate
health from whom I expected a legacy."
"Yes," said Mr. Manton.
"I have received intelligence that he is very low and wishes to see me.
So, although it will be inconvenient for me to leave my business, I
find it necessary to go."
"Perhaps you may be rewarded for going," suggested Mr. Manton.
"Yes, I have no reason to doubt that I shall be well remembered in my
relative's will. I think that when I return there will be nothing to
prevent my complying with the conditions you named, and that I may be
able to claim your daughter's hand."
"Perhaps I may change my mind," said Clara, energetically; but she saw
fit to devote herself to her suitor through the entire evening,
displaying an affability and assumed interest which quite captivated
him. The thoughts of her favor even drove away the memories of the dark
deed which, as he fully believed, had consigned to a watery grave the
boy who had been committed to his charge.
"There seems some chance of his story proving true," said Mr. Manton,
when the two were alone.
"Yes, it may be. On that chance I've been trying to make myself
agreeable to-night. He evidently thinks I'm dead in love with him. As if
anybody could fancy such a stupid lout. I declare I wish it was somebody
else who was going to get the money. The exertions I've made have quite
wearied me," and fair Clara yawned excessively.
"If you think you can't like him, it is not too late to withdraw," said
the father, who had a little more heart than his daughter.
"Oh, as to that, it isn't of much consequence," said Clara. "I haven't
got much sentiment, and if he can show the cash, I'll marry him."
"I presume you won't throw away your fascinations upon him after
marriage," said her father.
"You may be sure of that. He'll soon have a realizing sense of my
motives in marrying him."
"Suppose he resents it, and treats you badly?" suggested Mr. Manton,
with a little paternal solicitude.
"I can protect myself," said Clara, with nonchalance. "He's a weak fool
and I can twist him round my finger."
"He may not be as manageable as you think, Clara."
"Oh, I know him thoroughly. He hasn't much spirit. I should be ashamed
if I could not manage him."
"You remember Catharine in 'Taming the Shrew'?"
"Very polite, upon my word, to compare me to a shrew. Yes, I remember
her; but I shall have a different man to deal with from Petruchio. You
needn't trouble yourself about me. I know what I'm about."
"Well, it's your own affair," said Mr. Manton, philosophically. "We
shall know in a short time whether I am to welcome a son-in-law."
"Or whether your daughter is to remain a while longer 'an impatient rose
on the ancestral tree.'"
"And use her thorns on her father instead of a husband," supplemented
Mr. Manton.
"But you are getting bright in your old age, papa. Be careful or the
rose may show its thorns."
The conversation just recorded indicates the pleasant prospect which
James Cromwell had of domestic happiness in case his wishes were
gratified, and he gained the hand of the young lady. But he had no
conception of her real disposition, or he might have hesitated to go
farther. She had tact enough to veil her faults from the scrutiny of her
lover, and present to him only an amiable and agreeable side.
In the morning, James Cromwell started for New York, going by Wheeling.
It so chanced that he arrived in the evening at the same hotel where
Robert and Major Woodley had rooms. He was fatigued by his long journey,
and retired at nine o'clock, or soon after his arrival. He did not think
to look over the books of the hotel, or he might have made the discovery
that Robert was still alive, and that his journey was likely to prove
fruitless. Neither did he meet Major Woodley or Robert, for they were
sitting together in the major's room until half-past ten, chatting
cosily.
But James Cromwell was destined to meet with an adventure, which
tormented his soul with guilty fear, and gave him a great shock.
It chanced that the room assigned to him was No. 41. The room occupied
by Robert was No. 43, just beyond in the same corridor.
As has been said, Cromwell retired to bed at half-past nine; but, though
fatigued, he was unable to go to sleep--he was haunted by the thoughts
of the pond and the body that lay beneath, deprived of life through his
most wicked agency, and as he lay he became nervous and restless, and
not even his physical fatigue could induce the coveted slumber to visit
him.
When Robert, coming from the room of Major Woodley, sought his own room,
he could not at first remember whether it was No. 41 or 43. He had the
impression that it was No. 41 that had been assigned him. He accordingly
opened the door of the room and stood just within the door.
At the sound of the opening door James Cromwell rose in bed, and gazed
with horror at the face and figure of the boy whom he supposed that he
had murdered. The moonlight entering through the windows fell upon
Robert's face and gave it a ghastly look, or at least seemed to do so to
the excited imagination of the guilty Cromwell. He gazed spell-bound,
and cowering with fear at the apparition, with difficulty ejaculated:
"Who are you?"
Of course Robert recognized Cromwell and he at once guessed the truth,
that he was going to New York to give his own version of his
disappearance to his uncle. He saw at once that he was mistaken for a
ghost, and the desire seized him to carry out this deception. Certainly,
if one were justifiable in frightening another by exciting his
superstitious fears Robert was justified in terrifying the man who had
so basely sought his life.
When, therefore, with faltering lips, James Cromwell put the question,
"Who are you?" Robert answered in a low, guttural voice:
"I am the spirit of the boy you murdered!" As he uttered the words, he
waved one hand aloft, and made a step forward toward the bed.
Excited to the wildest pitch, Cromwell trembled convulsively, then
opened his lips to utter a piercing shriek, and flinging the bed-clothes
over his head, cowered beneath them in craven terror.
Robert thought this a good chance to make his exit. He noiselessly
retreated, closing the door behind him, and entered his own room before
the servants, aroused by Cromwell's shriek, could reach the door of his
apartment.
"What's the matter here?" demanded a waiter, opening the door of No. 41.
The only answer was a groan from beneath the bed-clothes.
"What's the matter, I say?" he repeated, rather sharply.
The voice was so decidedly earthly that James Cromwell, somewhat
relieved of his fear, removed the clothes from his head, and looked up.
"I--I don't know," he said, "I think I had the night-mare."
"Well," uttered the servant, "I hope you won't have it again. You'll
wake up all that are asleep, and make them think that somebody is being
murdered."
James Cromwell recoiled at the last word, and he said, hastily, for he
feared a return of the supposed spirit:
"My friend, if you'll come in here and stop till I've gone to sleep,
I'll pay you for your trouble. I'm afraid of having the night-mare
again."
"Can't do it; I haven't got the time. Besides, what's the use? You won't
have the night-mare when you're awake."
He shut the door, and James Cromwell lay for a long time in a state of
nervous terror, trying to go to sleep, but unable to do so. At last,
from sheer fatigue, he fell into a troubled slumber, which was disturbed
by terrifying dreams.
He woke, at an early hour unrefreshed, and going below ordered a
breakfast which he did not relish.
Thence he went to the depot and took the early morning train bound
eastward. He was already speeding on his way rapidly before Robert
Raymond arose. The door of No. 41 was open, and he looked in. But the
occupant had disappeared. Going to the office he saw the name of James
Cromwell on the books of the hotel, and learned from the clerk that he
had already gone.
"He's a queer chap," said the clerk; "he had a terrible night-mare last
night, and shrieked loud enough to take the roof off. You must have
heard him, as your room adjoined his!"
"Yes, I heard him," said Robert, but he said no more.