A STRIKE AMONG THE SERVANTS, ENTAILED BY THE APPARITION AT CASTLE HALL.
The preparations for the grand masquerade ball were now nearly complete,
and the neighbourhood, as well as the highest portions of the _Morning
Post_ world, in those days of the reign of fashion, were in the greatest
excitement. Hairdressers from London and Paris obtained fabulous prices
for their promise to attend some of the chief houses in the country; and
London dressmakers were busily employed on the magnificent dresses
belonging to the most golden periods of the world’s history.
But these grand preparations had run a great risk of being marred by a
panic which gradually developed itself among the servants at the Castle.
It was said to be positively haunted by a ghost. Strange to say, it was
not the appearance of the wicked Baron Hugh, or there might have been
some excuse for their fears. The apparition which excited their terror
was that of a young and beautiful woman, who was said to haunt different
parts of the house with her pale and melancholy countenance. The
Countess’s own Italian ladysmaid, Cattarina Diabelli--or Catering
Devilry, as she was sometimes called by the servants, who dreaded her
violent temper--seemed frightened out of her wits by this mysterious
visitor. She had never known a night’s rest since the Countess’s fright
in the old chapel. She, and an English ladysmaid who acted under her
orders, had sat up all that night with their lady, at the Count’s
request; and Cattarina had understood, from the wild, dreamlike raving
of her mistress, that the ghost which had appeared on the old carved
balcony was that of the Count’s first wife, as she was generally
called--the lovely and ill-fated Dorina, who met with her untimely end
the very evening before her bridal-day.
Cattarina Diabelli, although violent in temper, and not over-honest, had
a great respect for her religion, and she considered this appearance of
the ghost to have been a warning to the Countess against her
sacrilegious intention of making a ball-room of the old chapel. And she
ventured to speak her mind on the subject to her ladyship.
But after the sound sleep which succeeded Cunigunda’s wild ravings, she
became insensible to the danger, and tried to make herself and others
believe that it could have been only fancy, or that she saw a bat in a
strip of moonlight on the quaint figures of the old carving.
But Cattarina was naturally superstitious, and felt convinced that her
lady had really seen Dorina’s ghost. Whether this idea gained complete
hold on her imagination, or that she really saw something, was never
ascertained; but she told the butler, in strict confidence, that one
night, as she was passing the end of the passage which led to the
Countess’s room, she saw a white figure approach the door of her room.
After standing there a few seconds, it turned slowly round, and she saw
the face quite plain.
It was ghastly pale, and seemed to have a kind of unearthly light in it,
but lovely too, and exactly like the picture of the celebrated beauty,
Baroness Alice, whose picture by Vandyck hung over the chimney-piece in
the blue drawing-room. And Cattarina had heard that the unfortunate
Dorina was said to be the image of that beautiful picture. Of course
this story soon spread among all the other servants, and all said they
had seen the pale lady and heard her moans.
“I heard the footsteps, too, quite plain,” said the upper housemaid,
“a-coming along the hattic passage, and groans like a body crying their
eyes out; and I was too frightened to look, but I heard it stop at my
door and the lock turn as plain as I hear that ’ere knife as you’re
sharpening; and I’m sure she came into my room, but I was so terribly
terrified I hid my head in the clothes, and never looked up till I fell
asleep.”
“Then you did not see it after all?”
“No, thank goodness gracious, for I’m sure the fright would have killed
me outright, and I must have given warning this very morning.”
“What, after you was killed?” said the solemn-looking matter-of-fact
butler.
“Ah, it is all very well for a strong man like you to laugh at a lady’s
fears (the man had the gravest of faces, and was never known to smile
except when he attended his uncle’s funeral, who had left him a legacy),
but if you heard the groans, and saw what Judy did through the window
that looks into the dead-room, you’d shake in your shoes, I know you
would,” she continued in a loud and angry tone.
“Hey-day, what’s all this about?” inquired the stately old housekeeper,
who sailed into the room in her stiff and rustling petticoats and fine
lace cap. “What nonsense is this you have all got into your foolish
heads about a ghost? Now, if ever I catch any of you talking of such
silly things I’ll speak to master, and you shall have warning.”
“Well, mum,” said Judy, who had been listening from the next room,
“that’s what we fear we must all do, for really I’ve had no sound sleep
this week past, afraid to open my eyes after I gets into bed, and
hearing strange sounds all night.”
“And then oversleeping yourself in the morning.”
“Well, mum, it ain’t me alone; there’s Mrs. Spinnyfit, the under
ladysmaid, as heard her ladyship the Countess telling Cattarina, and say
she’d seen the ghost.”
“That she could not, for I’m sure the Countess did not speak it in
English.”
“Well, mum, and there’s John Harris--he declared he saw the ghost
standing at those ruined windows up in the old castle in the middle of
the night, and----”
“And what business had he to be out at that time, I wonder?” said Mrs.
Lacy, with a still more severe look.
“And the under-footman, he said as how he saw lights flittering about up
at the very top window of the highest tower,” said the persevering Judy.
“And what did the ghost want with a light up there?” said the provoking,
incredulous housekeeper.
“I don’t know, I’m sure; but I’ve heard as how no Christian mortal could
get up to that door, seeing as how there bain’t no staircase up to it,
so it must have been something terrible. And I’ll swear I’ve seen a
light pass under my door, when I’ve heard no footstep at all.”
“What nonsense! Why, Mrs. Spinnyfit said it was the footsteps frightened
her to death.”
In spite, however, of the housekeeper’s sage reasonings, the servants’
fears went on increasing day by day; and even the grave-looking butler
began to be alarmed, for he confessed he was awoke the night before by
somebody trying to open the door of his room; and fearing it might be a
robber, as he kept some of the plate up there, he got his pistols out
before he ventured to open the door.
At last he opened it cautiously, and seeing no one, he looked all along
the passage, when he distinctly saw a white figure at the further end.
He thought he would be very brave and try to follow it, but before he
could reach the further end of the passage it had disappeared. He could
not tell how or where, for the only door at that end was locked, and
only led into the ruined and uninhabited part of the old building.
A serious strike among all the servants now seemed imminent, and even
the ladysmaids of the visitors who were staying in the house, declared
that they could stand it no longer, and they knew that their own ladies
were frightened out of their wits too, for Lady Selina Bugginfield rang
for her maid twice the night before, and declared that somebody was
hidden in the room, for she had heard footsteps going round her bed. The
house-keeper was obliged to ask for an audience of the Countess, in
order to explain the embarrassing situation of affairs.
Cunigunda seemed much annoyed when she heard it, and, as the housekeeper
afterwards confessed, looked considerably alarmed. She said that she
herself should leave the house a day or two after the fête, but that
nothing would induce her to put it off, so Mrs. Lacy must try to induce
the servants to remain till then.
“Well, my lady, I’ll see what can be done, but----”
“But what?” said the angry Countess; “it must--it shall be done!”
“I’ll try then, but I was going to say that I feared, if by chance your
ladyship saw what they all say they have seen, it would make you as ill
again as you were that night, and----”
“Never fear. I know what I am about, so make them stay till after the
ball, and you, too, shall be well paid.”
“No, my lady,” said the housekeeper, drawing herself up with a sort of
_minuet-de-la-cour_ dignity of air--“no, indeed, I do not require to be
bribed to do my duty after sixty years’ service.” So saying, with a low
curtsey, she sailed out of the room, and left the Countess alone.