"If you don't believe it, you can read it for yourself," said Allen
Clinton, climbing up the steps and searching among the volumes on the
top shelf.
I lay back in my chair. The beams from the sinking sun shone through the
stained glass of the windows of the old library, and dyed the rows of
black leather volumes with bands of red and yellow.
"Here, Bell!"
I took a musty volume from Allen Clinton, which he had unearthed from
its resting-place.
"It is about the middle of the book," he continued eagerly. "You will
see it in big, black, old English letters."
I turned over the pages containing the family tree and other archives of
the Clintons till I came to the one I was seeking. It contained the
curse which had rested on the family since 1400. Slowly and with
difficulty I deciphered the words of this terrible denunciation.
"And in this cell its coffin lieth, the coffin which hath not human
shape, for which reason no holy ground receiveth it. Here shall it rest
to curse the family of ye Clyntons from generation to generation. And
for this reason, as soon as the soul shall pass from the body of each
first-born, which is the heir, it shall become the warder of the door by
day and by night. Day and night shall his spirit stand by the door, to
keep the door closed till the son shall release the spirit of the father
from the watch and take his place, till his son in turn shall die. And
whoso entereth into the cell shall be the prisoner of the soul that
guardeth the door till it shall let him go."
"What a ghastly idea!" I said, glancing up at the young man who was
watching me as I read. "But you say this cell has never been found. I
should say its existence was a myth, and, of course, the curse on the
soul of the first-born to keep the door shut as warder is absurd. Matter
does not obey witchcraft."
"The odd part of it is," replied Allen, "that every other detail of the
Abbey referred to in this record has been identified; but this cell with
its horrible contents has never been found."
It certainly was a curious legend, and I allow it made some impression
on me. I fancied, too, that somewhere I had heard something similar, but
my memory failed to trace it.
I had come down to Clinton Abbey three days before for some pheasant
shooting.
It was now Sunday afternoon. The family, with the exception of old Sir
Henry, Allen, and myself, were at church. Sir Henry, now nearly eighty
years of age and a chronic invalid, had retired to his room for his
afternoon sleep. The younger Clinton and I had gone out for a stroll
round the grounds, and since we returned our conversation had run upon
the family history till it arrived at the legend of the family curse.
Presently, the door of the library was slowly opened, and Sir Henry, in
his black velvet coat, which formed such a striking contrast to his
snowy white beard and hair, entered the room. I rose from my chair, and,
giving him my arm, assisted him to his favourite couch. He sank down
into its luxurious depths with a sigh, but as he did so his eyes caught
the old volume which I had laid on the table beside it. He started
forward, took the book in his hand, and looked across at his son.
"Did you take this book down?" he said sharply.
"Yes, father; I got it out to show it to Bell. He is interested in the
history of the Abbey, and----"
"Then return it to its place at once," interrupted the old man, his
black eyes blazing with sudden passion. "You know how I dislike having
my books disarranged, and this one above all. Stay, give it to me."
He struggled up from the couch, and, taking the volume, locked it up in
one of the drawers of his writing-table, and then sat back again on the
sofa. His hands were trembling, as if some sudden fear had taken
possession of him.
"Did you say that Phyllis Curzon is coming to-morrow?" asked the old man
presently of his son in an irritable voice.
"Yes, father, of course; don't you remember? Mrs. Curzon and Phyllis are
coming to stay for a fortnight; and, by the way," he added, starting to
his feet as he spoke, "that reminds me I must go and tell Grace----"
The rest of the sentence was lost in the closing of the door. As soon as
we were alone, Sir Henry looked across at me for a few moments without
speaking. Then he said,--
"I am sorry I was so short just now. I am not myself. I do not know what
is the matter with me. I feel all to pieces. I cannot sleep. I do not
think my time is very long now, and I am worried about Allen. The fact
is, I would give anything to stop this engagement. I wish he would not
marry."
"I am sorry to hear you say that, sir," I answered. "I should have
thought you would have been anxious to see your son happily married."
"Most men would," was the reply; "but I have my reasons for wishing
things otherwise."
"What do you mean?" I could not help asking.
"I cannot explain myself; I wish I could. It would be best for Allen to
let the old family die out. There, perhaps I am foolish about it, and of
course I cannot really stop the marriage, but I am worried and troubled
about many things."
"I wish I could help you, sir," I said impulsively. "If there is
anything I can possibly do, you know you have only to ask me."
"Thank you, Bell, I know you would; but I cannot tell you. Some day I
may. But there, I am afraid--horribly afraid."
The trembling again seized him, and he put his hands over his eyes as if
to shut out some terrible sight.
"Don't repeat a word of what I have told you to Allen or any one else,"
he said suddenly. "It is possible that some day I may ask you to help
me; and remember, Bell, I trust you."
He held out his hand, which I took. In another moment the butler entered
with the lamps, and I took advantage of the interruption to make my way
to the drawing-room.
The next day the Curzons arrived, and a hasty glance showed me that
Phyllis was a charming girl. She was tall, slightly built, with a figure
both upright and graceful, and a handsome, somewhat proud face. When in
perfect repose her expression was somewhat haughty; but the moment she
spoke her face became vivacious, kindly, charming to an extraordinary
degree; she had a gay laugh, a sweet smile, a sympathetic manner. I was
certain she had the kindest of hearts, and was sure that Allen had made
an admirable choice.
A few days went by, and at last the evening before the day when I was to
return to London arrived. Phyllis's mother had gone to bed a short time
before, as she had complained of headache, and Allen suddenly proposed,
as the night was a perfect one, that we should go out and enjoy a
moonlight stroll.
Phyllis laughed with glee at the suggestion, and ran at once into the
hall to take a wrap from one of the pegs.
"Allen," she said to her lover, who was following her, "you and I will
go first."
"No, young lady, on this occasion you and I will have that privilege,"
said Sir Henry. He had also come into the hall, and, to our
astonishment, announced his intention of accompanying us in our walk.
Phyllis bestowed upon him a startled glance, then she laid her hand
lightly on his arm, nodded back at Allen with a smile, and walked on in
front somewhat rapidly. Allen and I followed in the rear.
"Now, what does my father mean by this?" said Allen to me. "He never
goes out at night; but he has not been well lately. I sometimes think he
grows queerer every day."
"He is very far from well, I am certain," I answered.
We stayed out for about half an hour and returned home by a path which
led into the house through a side entrance. Phyllis was waiting for us
in the hall.
"Where is my father?" asked Allen, going up to her.
"He is tired and has gone to bed," she answered. "Good-night, Allen."
"Won't you come into the drawing-room?" he asked in some astonishment.
"No, I am tired."
She nodded to him without touching his hand; her eyes, I could not help
noticing, had a queer expression. She ran upstairs.
I saw that Allen was startled by her manner; but as he did not say
anything, neither did I.
The next day at breakfast I was told that the Curzons had already left
the Abbey. Allen was full of astonishment and, I could see, a good deal
annoyed. He and I breakfasted alone in the old library. His father was
too ill to come downstairs.
An hour later I was on my way back to London. Many things there engaged
my immediate attention, and Allen, his engagement, Sir Henry, and the
old family curse, sank more or less into the background of my mind.
Three months afterwards, on the 7th of January, I saw to my sorrow in
the _Times_ the announcement of Sir Henry Clinton's death.
From time to time in the interim I had heard from the son, saying that
his father was failing fast. He further mentioned that his own wedding
was fixed for the twenty-first of the present month. Now, of course, it
must be postponed. I felt truly sorry for Allen, and wrote immediately
a long letter of condolence.
On the following day I received a wire from him, imploring me to go down
to the Abbey as soon as possible, saying that he was in great
difficulty.
I packed a few things hastily, and arrived at Clinton Abbey at six in
the evening. The house was silent and subdued--the funeral was to take
place the next day. Clinton came into the hall and gripped me warmly by
the hand. I noticed at once how worn and worried he looked.
"This is good of you, Bell," he said. "I cannot tell you how grateful I
am to you for coming. You are the one man who can help me, for I know
you have had much experience in matters of this sort. Come into the
library and I will tell you everything. We shall dine alone this
evening, as my mother and the girls are keeping to their own apartments
for to-night."
As soon as we were seated, he plunged at once into his story.
"I must give you a sort of prelude to what has just occurred," he began.
"You remember, when you were last here, how abruptly Phyllis and her
mother left the Abbey?"