THE HAUNTER.
The vesper bell called them to the chapel, and the conversation ceased.
Salome joined the procession and entered the choir.
As soon as she had taken her seat she looked through the screen upon the
congregation assembled in the public part of the church. A great dread
seized her that she should see again the man whose presence had so
disturbed her in the morning.
Heaven! he was there!--not where he sat before, but in one of the end
pews, facing the choir, so that she had a full view of his ghastly face
and glassy eyes.
A sudden superstitious fear fell upon her. She almost thought the figure
was his ghost, or was some optical illusion conjured up by her own
imagination.
She wished to test its reality by the eyes of another. She wished to
whisper to the abbess, and point him out, and ask her if she, too, saw
him; but she dared not do this. The vesper hymn was pealing forth from
the choir, and all the sisterhood, except herself, were singing.
She was their soprano, and she had to join them. She began first in a
tremulous voice, but soon the spell of the music took hold of her, and
carried her away, far, far above all earthly thoughts and cares, and she
sang, as her hearers afterward declared, "like a seraph."
At the end of the service she whispered to the abbess, calling her
attention to the pallid stranger in the end pew; but when both turned
to look, the man had vanished!
"Mother, I do not know whether that ghostly figure was a real man, after
all!" whispered Salome, in an awe-stricken tone.
"My good child, what do you mean?" inquired the abbess, uneasily.
"Mother, I feel as if I were haunted!" said Salome, with a shudder.
"Come! your nerves have been overtasked. You must have a composing
draught, and go to bed," said the superior, decisively.
"It may be that I am nervous and excitable, and that I have conjured up
this image in my brain--such a ghastly, ghostly image, mother! It could
not have been real, though I thought nothing else this morning than that
it was real. But this evening--oh! madam, if you had seen it, with its
blanched face and glazed eyes, like a sceptre risen from the grave!"
"I have not seen the man yet, either this morning or this evening," said
the elder lady, as she drew the younger's arm within her own.
"No, you have never seen him. I have no one's eyes but my own to test the
matter. You have never seen him, and that is another reason why I think
of the man as ghostly or unreal," whispered Salome.
They were now in the long passage leading from the chapel to the cells.
"I will take you again to your own little room in the Infants' Asylum,"
murmured the lady, as she turned with her protegee into the rectangular
passage leading to the asylums.
She took Salome to the door of the house, gave her a benediction, and
left her.
"Out there I have trouble, here I shall have peace," muttered the young
woman, as she entered the children's dormitory, where every tiny cot was
now occupied by a little, sleeping child.
Salome prepared to retire, and in a few moments she also was at rest,
with her little Marie Perdue in her arms.
Christmas had come on Saturday that year. The next day being Sunday,
there was another high mass to be celebrated in the chapel.
Salome, as usual, joined the nuns' procession to the choir, where the
sisterhood, as was their custom, took their seats some few minutes before
the entrance of the priest and his attendants.
With a heart almost pausing in its pulsations, Salome bent forward to
peer through the screen upon the congregation, to see if by any chance
the Duke of Hereward (or his ghost) sat among them.
With a half-suppressed cry, she recognized his form, seated in the
opposite corner of the church, from the spot he had last occupied.
"He shifts his place every time he appears," she said to herself.
And now, being determined that other eyes should see him as well as her
own, she touched the abbess' arm and whispered:
"Pray look before the priest enters. There is the Duke of Hereward (or
his ghost) sitting quite alone in the corner pew, on the left hand side
of the altar. Do you see him now?"
The abbess followed the direction with her eyes, and answered:
"No, I do not see any one there."
"Why, he is sitting alone in the left hand corner pew. Surely, you must
see him now?" said Salome, bending forward to look again at the stranger.
The next instant she sank back in her seat, nearly fainting.
The pew was empty!
"There is really no one there, my child. Your eyes have deceived you,"
murmured the abbess, gently.
"He was there a moment since, but he has vanished! Oh! mother, what is
the meaning of this?" gasped the girl, turning pale as death.
"The meaning is that your nervous system is shattered, and you are the
victim of optical illusions. Or else--if there was a man really in that
pew--he may have passed out through that little corner door leading
to the vestry. But hush! here comes the priest," said the abbess, as the
procession entered the chancel, preceded by the solemn notes of the
organ.
Since "Miss Levison" was obliged to keep her place in the choir, it was
well that she was an enthusiast in music, and thus able to lose all sense
of care and trouble in the exercise of her divine art.
But for the music she would scarcely have got through the morning
service.
And very much relieved she felt when the benediction was at length
pronounced, and she was at liberty to leave the chapel.
"Oh, madam, this mystery is killing me! I have seen, or fancied I have
seen, the Duke of Hereward in the church three times; yet no one else has
been able to see him! If it was the duke, he has come here for some
fixed purpose. He has, probably, by means of those expert London
detectives, traced me out, and discovered my residence under this sacred
roof. He has followed me here to give me trouble!" said Salome, as soon
she found herself alone with the superior.
"My child," said the lady, "I must reiterate that _you_ have
nothing--_he_ has everything to fear! I do not know, of course, for
even you are not sure that you have really seen him. If you have, he is
in this immediate neighborhood. If he is, why, then, the fact must be
known to nearly every one outside the convent walls. The Duke of Hereward
is not a man whose presence could be ignored. To-morrow, therefore, I
will cause inquiries to be made, and we shall be sure to find out whether
he is really here or not."
"Thanks, good mother, thanks. It will be a great relief to have this
question decided in any way," said Salome, gratefully.
The mother-superior smiled, gave the benediction, and retired.
At vespers that evening, Salome looked all over the church in anxious
fear of seeing the form that haunted her imagination; but her "ghost" did
not appear, and, after all, she scarcely knew whether she was relieved or
disturbed by his absence.
The next day, Monday, the abbess set diligent inquiries on foot to
discover whether the Duke of Hereward, or any other stranger of any name
or title whatever, had been seen in the neighborhood of St. Rosalie's
for many days. Winter was not the season for strangers there.
After this, the Duke of Hereward (or his ghost) was seen no more in the
chapel.
Every time Salome accompanied the sisterhood to the chapel, she peered
through the choir-screen, in much anxiety as to whether she should see
the duke, or his apparition, among the congregation below; but she
never saw him there again, nor could she decide, in the conflict between
her love and her sense of duty, whether she most desired or deplored his
absence.
So the days passed into weeks, and nothing more was heard or seen of the
Duke of Hereward.
The Christmas holidays came to an end after Twelth-Day; the pupils
returned to the school, and the academy buildings grew gay with the
exuberance of young life.
Salome, who, during many years of her childhood and youth, had shared
this bright and cheery school-life, now saw nothing of it.
The academy buildings, as has been explained before this, were situated
on the opposite side of the court-yard from the asylums and entirely cut
off from communication with them.
Salome, devoted to her duties in the Infants' Asylum, was more completely
secluded from the world than even the cloistered nuns themselves; for the
nuns were the teachers of the academy, and in daily communication with
their pupils and frequent correspondence with their patrons, saw and
heard much of the busy life without.
So the weeks passed slowly into months, and the winter into spring, yet
nothing more was seen or heard of the Duke of Hereward.
Salome lost the habit of looking for him, and gradually recovered her
tranquility. In the work to which she had consecrated herself--the care
of helpless and destitute infancy--she grew almost happy.
Already she seemed as dead to the world as though the "black vail" had
fallen like a pall over her head. No newspapers ever drifted into the
asylum, nor did any visitor come to bring intelligence of the good or
evil of the life beyond the convent walls.
Her year of probation was passing away. At its close she would take the
white vail and enter upon the second stage of her chosen vocation--her
year of novitiate--at the end of which she would assume the black vail
of the cloistered nun, which would seal her fate.
She knew that before taking that final step she must make some
disposition of that vast inheritance which, in her flight from her home,
she had left without one word of explanation or instruction. She was
assured that her fortune was in the hands of honest men, and there she
was content to leave it for the present. She had in her possession about
a thousand pounds in money and several thousand pounds in diamonds--ample
means for self-support and alms-giving.
And so she was satisfied for the present to leave her financial affairs
as they were, until the time should come when it would be absolutely
necessary for her to give attention to them.
Meanwhile, had she forgotten him who had once been the idol of her
worship?
Ah, no! however diligently her eyes, her hands, her feet were employed in
the service of the little children she loved so tenderly, her thoughts
were with him. She loved him still! It seemed to her at once the sin and
the curse of her life that she loved him still. She prayed daily to be
delivered from "inordinate and sinful affections," but in this case
prayer seemed of little use; for the more she prayed the more she loved
and trusted him. It was a mystery she could not make out.
So the spring bloomed into summer, and the world outside became so
disturbed and turbulent with "wars and rumors of wars," that its tumult
was heard even within the peaceful convent sanctuary.
The news of the abdication of Her Most Catholic Majesty, Isabella II of
Spain, fell like a thunderbolt upon the little community of the faithful
in the convent; and nowhere, in the political conclaves of Prussia or of
France, was the Spanish succession discussed with more intensity of
interest than among the simple sisterhood of St. Rosalie.
Who would now fill the throne of the Western Caesars, left vacant by the
abdication of their daughter, the Queen Isabella?
These were the topics which filled the minds and employed the tongues of
the quiet nuns, whenever and wherever their rules permitted them to
indulge in conversation.
No sound of this disturbance however penetrated the peaceful sphere of
the Infants' Asylum, which, indeed, seemed to be the innermost retreat,
or the holy of holies in the sanctuary.
Salome lived within it, the chief ministering angel, dispensing blessings
all around her, and growing daily into deeper peace, until one fatal
morning, when a great shock fell upon her.
It was a beautiful, bright morning near the end of June, and the day in
regular rotation on which the mother-superior of the convent made her
official rounds of inspection in the Infants' Asylum.
She arrived early, and, accompanied by Salome, went over every department
of the asylum, from attic to cellar, from dormitory to recreation
grounds, and found all well, and approved and delighted in the
well-being.
After her long walk she sat down to rest in the children's play-room, and
directed Salome to take a seat by her side.
The room was full of little children. Not seated in orderly rows, as we
have too often seen in Infant Asylums on exhibition days; but moving
about everywhere as freely as their little limbs would carry them, and
making quite as much noise as their health and well-being certainly
required.
Among them was little Marie Perdue, now a bright, fair, blue-eyed cherub
of seven months old, seated on a mat, and tossing about with screams of
delight a number of small, gay-hued India-rubber balls.
The abbess was watching the children with pleased attention, when one of
the lay sisters entered and put a card in her hands, saying that the
gentleman and lady were waiting at the porter's wicket, and desired
permission to see the interior of the Infant Asylum.
"Certainly, they are welcome," said the abbess. "Go and tell Sister
Francoise to be their guide."
The lay sister left the room, and the abbess gave her attention again
to the children, making occasional remarks on their health, beauty,
playfulness, and so forth, which were all sympathetically responded to
by Salome, until they heard the sounds of approaching voices and
footsteps, and the visiting party, escorted by Sister Francoise.
Then the abbess and her companion ceased speaking, and lowered their eyes
to the floor until the strangers should pass them.
But the strangers lingered on their way, noticing individual children for
beauty, or brightness, or some other trait which seemed to attract.
The gentleman, speaking French with an English accent, asked questions in
too low a tone to reach the ears of the abbess and her companion; but the
lady kept silence.
At length, as the visitors drew nearer, they came upon little Marie
Perdue, sitting on her mat, engaged in tossing about her gay-colored
balls, and laughing with delight.
"Whose child is that?" asked the gentleman, in a voice that thrilled to
the heart of Salome.
She forgot herself, and looked up quickly, but the form of Sister
Francoise, standing, concealed the figure of the speaker, who seemed
to be stooping over the child.
"Ay! wha's bairn is it?" inquired another voice, that fell with ominous
familiarity on her ear, as she turned her head a little and saw the
female visitor, a tall, handsome blonde, with bold, blue eyes and a
cataraet of golden hair falling on her shoulders.
Sister Francoise did not understand the language of the woman, and turned
with a helpless and appealing look to the gentleman, who still speaking
French with the slightly defective English accent, replied:
"Madame asks whose child is that?"
"Oh, pardon! We do not know, Monsieur. It was left at our doors on the
eighteenth of December last," replied Sister Francoise.
"A very fine child! Its name?"
"Marie Perdue."
"'Marie Perdue?' What? 'Marie Perdue?' What's 'Perdue?'" querulously
inquired the tall, blonde beauty.
"'Thrown away,' 'lost,' 'abandoned,'" answered the gentleman, in a low
voice.
As he spoke he stood up and turned around.
Salome uttered a low, half-suppressed cry, and covered her face with both
hands.
The abbess impulsively looked up to see what was the matter, and--echoed
the cry!
There was dead silence in the room for a minute, and then Salome lifted
up her head and cautiously looked around.
The visitors had gone, and the children, who with child-like curiosity
had suspended their play to gaze upon the strangers, were now
re-commencing their noise with renewed vehemence.
Salome still trembling in every limb, turned toward her companion.
The abbess sat with clasped hands, lowered eyelids, and face as pale as
death.
Salome, too much absorbed in her own emotion to notice the strange
condition of the abbess, touched her on the shoulder and eagerly
whispered:
"Mother, did you observe the visitors?"
"Yes," breathed the lady, in a very low tone, without lifting her
eyelids.
"Did you notice--_the man_?" Salome continued.
"I did," murmured the abbess, in an almost inaudible voice, as she
devoutly made the sign of the cross.
"Do you know who he was?"
"_I do._"
"He was like our Christmas visitor in the chapel! He was the Duke of
Hereward!"
"Nay," said the abbess, in a stern solemn voice. "He was not the Duke of
Hereward. He was one whom I had reckoned as numbered with the dead full
twenty years ago!"