THE THREE OAKS.
The Three Oaks was haunted.
At least every one said so, and what every one says is supposed to be
true.
To be sure, it would have been difficult to have found any person who
had actually seen the ghost.
Nor was this necessary.
Strange lights moving about the old house at night, flitting from
window to window, from the great parlor panes upon the first floor to
the little diamond-shaped panes up under the roof, had been seen by the
passers-by on the Fort Washington road at night, over and over again,
and was quite enough for the neighbors who dwelt outside its crumbling
walls.
But what was Three Oaks and where was it?
These are both proper questions, and should be answered at once.
Three Oaks was a house, and an old one at that. It still stands to-day
on the road mentioned above, which is, as every one knows, in the
north-west corner of Manhattan Island, and extends from the little
village whose name it bears to the 155th street station of the elevated
road.
It was a large house and an old house; it stood in the center of a
thick growth of oaks, surrounded by a stretch of uncultivated ground,
and divided from the road by a high stone wall.
A more gloomy, desolate-looking old rookery it would have been
difficult to have found. And yet Three Oaks had been a handsome place
in its day.
But that day had long since passed.
For ten years, at least, old Jeremiah Mansfield, its former owner had
lived there alone. It was five years since he had been found murdered
in his bed.
This was the work of burglars.
They had broken into the old house in the night, in the hope of
obtaining a large sum in money, of which the strange old man, little
better than a miser, was supposed to be possessed.
Whether they had succeeded in finding it no one ever knew.
The burglars were not caught--the dead lips of the murdered man never
told the tale.
From that night Three Oaks had remained deserted, and was fast sinking
to ruin and decay.
To whom it belonged few in the neighborhood could have told, but every
one had seen the lights--seen them not only once, but again and again.
And who but the ghost of old Miser Mansfield himself would think of
prowling about the dust-laden rooms of Three Oaks at midnight?
That was precisely what the neighbors wanted to know.
You could not have hired one of them to have approached the old house
after dark.
Indeed, some timid persons objected even to passing it on the public
road after the shades of night had begun to fall.
Upon the evening of the day following the events of the last few
chapters, at a little before midnight, a solitary pedestrian might have
been observed picking his way gingerly along the Fort Washington road,
opposite the moldering stone wall surrounding Three Oaks, sheltering
himself beneath a large alpaca umbrella from the rain which all day
long had been falling in torrents, rendering the snow of two days
before a slushy mass beneath the feet.
Might have been observed, did we say?
The qualification was well put.
Surely no one save a person whose errand was most pressing would
venture out in a spot so lonely upon a night like this.
The wind whirling down the road from the Hudson and the heights of the
Palisades beyond played with the alpaca umbrella as with some child's
toy, the rain coming down in what appeared in the darkness an almost
unbroken sheet, has drenched the clothes of this unfortunate traveler
as to make them cling like so many plasters to his body.
Indeed, so utterly saturated has he become, that it seems a matter of
wonder that he does not abandon the umbrella altogether and boldly face
the storm.
Slump! Slump! Slump!
As he raises one foot from the pasty, dripping mass of melting snow the
other sinks through it to the very stones of the road beneath.
As he approached the broken gate leading up to the clump of oaks behind
which the dark outlines of the old Mansfield house could be dimly seen,
the man paused, leaned for a moment against the dripping wall, and gave
utterance to a single word:
"Rube!"
There was no answer.
"He has not come," muttered the man, impatiently. "Can anything have
happened? Rube is generally punctual. Perhaps the wind sighing through
those gloomy old oaks has deadened the sound of my voice."
Again he called more distinctly than before:
"Rube! Rube!"
At the same instant from out of the clump of oaks a man's form appeared.
"All right. Come on," a voice was heard to say.
Pushing up the avenue leading to the mansion, which now more nearly
resembled a rushing river than the smooth graveled road its builder had
intended, he of the umbrella joined the man from among the trees, and
both ascending the steps of the piazza, stood before the door of Three
Oaks, sheltered from the storm at last.
"Pah! what a beast of a night!" exclaimed the owner of the alpaca
umbrella, petulantly, shaking the water from his garments and closing
it with a vicious snap. "I've had Satan's own time getting here, Rube.
But it's just the night for our work. No fear of interruption from any
inquisitive neighbors in a storm like this."
"You are right, Lije," replied the other, striking a match upon his
trousers and touching it to a cigar. "But somehow I wish we had chosen
any other night myself. It reminds one of the night the old man pegged
out. You remember--it rained harder even than this."
Dim as is the light of the match, it is sufficient to show us the faces
of these midnight visitors to old Jeremiah Mansfield's former home.
It is Mr. Elijah Callister who grasps the alpaca umbrella, it is his
friend the bank burglar who now puffs away at the cigar--Reuben Tisdale
by name.
"Well, upon my word, if you ain't the greatest fellow to bring up
unpleasant memories I ever saw," exclaimed the stock-broker, crossly,
as he produced a large key from his pocket, and inserting it in the
rusty lock, threw open the hall door. "Why the mischief can't you let
sleeping dogs lie? No man wants to be reminded of his past sins."
"I need no reminding of mine, Lije," replied the man gloomily, as
the door was closed behind him and the broker proceeded to light a
lantern, which he took with apparent familiarity from one corner of
the carpetless hall. "They are before me night and day. If I had the
courage I'd kill myself, but I have no more than a mouse. I'm a doomed
man, Lije Callister, I feel it more and more, but being past redemption
must go on sinning to the end."
"Well, if you ain't positively the worst," exclaimed Callister,
impatiently. "What ails you?"
"I should think enough ailed me. With poor Maria's blood upon my hands
calling for vengeance--ain't that enough?"
"You ought to have thought of that before you struck her. What's done
is done. Be your old self, Rube. We are likely to want all our courage
before this bank affair quiets down."
"What's the latest, Lije?" asked Tisdale, in a low tone, and with some
expression of anxiety. "I have not seen a paper to-day."
"Oh, you may speak as loud as you wish," replied Callister, taking off
the top of the lantern, and picking up the wick with a pin. "There's
no one within a quarter of a mile of us. There's no special news other
than what you know, except so far as concerns Frank Mansfield."
"And what of him? Did the plan of Billy Cutts succeed?"
"Yes, and no. Frank was arrested just as he was entering the bank, but
on the way to the police station he managed to escape."
"The deuce! How was that?"
"No one seems to know. I sent a party to interview the detective who
arrested him--a fellow by the name of Hook--but could only learn that
somewhere in the neighborhood of the wall of Trinity church-yard he
managed to give the officer the slip."
"Was he handcuffed?"
"Yes, so I understand."
"And has not been caught since?"
"No."
"That is most mysterious."
"So I say."
"What do they say about the bank robbery?"
"They all believe Frank was in the job, of course. The bank has offered
a reward of a thousand dollars for his arrest."
"And what about Joe Dutton?"
"He was sent to the Tombs this morning. My party saw him, and he swears
by all that's holy he'll die before he gives us away by so much as a
word."
"He'd better," muttered Tisdale, fiercely. "He'll be a dead Joe if he
attempts to speak--don't let him forget that."
"That's all very true, Rube," replied the stock broker, "but all the
same his arrest is mighty bad for us. He's the first of our gang who
ever fell into the hands of the law. When one goes, all goes--that's
the old saying, you know."
"Then so much the more reason why we should succeed to-night. I tell
you, Lije, as I told you yesterday. It would be healthier for us to
leave town for awhile."
"Yes, or to put Joe Dutton where he can't do us any harm," replied
Callister, in a fierce whisper.
"What! you wouldn't----"
"Wouldn't I? Well, never mind. Let's attend to the business we have in
hand. Rube, old Mansfield's money is in this house. You know how the
will reads. If Frank can be convicted of crime before he is old enough
to inherit, which will now be in a very short time, the money comes to
me in a regular course, and the parchment containing the secret of its
hiding-place would have been delivered into my hand."
"Exactly. And not satisfied with the job you put upon the boy, you must
rope me into a bank robbery, where all we get is five thousand for our
pains. You must have that parchment, and this is the result."
"The result would have been quite different if you had managed to hold
on to it instead of dropping it in the street," replied Callister,
crossly. "That's where the folly comes in. But come, we've wasted time
enough in talking. Let us go up-stairs to the old man's chamber. I've
an idea that the treasure is hidden somewhere about the hearth."
He picked up the lantern and began to ascend the broad staircase
leading to the rooms above.
"So you've thought twenty times before, but could never find it,"
growled Tisdale, following. "Didn't you examine this blessed old
rookery from garret to cellar, not over a year ago?"
They ascended the stairs, and entered a large room at the rear of the
house upon the floor above.
Ruin and desolation met their gaze wherever the feeble rays of the
lantern fell.
Filled with rich and costly furniture, adorned with pictures,
expensive cabinets, and rich hangings about the windows and doors,
the chamber--once that of the master of the mansion--was a forcible
illustration of the truth of that memorable warning against riches.
Upon earth Jeremiah Mansfield had heaped up treasures.
Moth and rust had corrupted--thieves had broken in to steal.
The rich carpet, the elegant hangings were worn and faded, the costly
furniture heaped up in the corners rotting with dampness and decay.
From one side of the wall a large strip of heavy gilt had fallen away,
green with mold, displaying the discolored plaster behind, dust covered
the picture frames, the floor, the ceiling--in fact, everything in and
about the room, and more than all the bedstead upon which the old miser
had met his end.
This cumbrous piece of mahogany, tilted forward into the room, from the
lapse of one decaying leg, was a dust heap in itself.
Tisdale looked about him shudderingly.
"Lije, it's enough to give a man the horrors!" he mutteringly said.
But the stock broker made no reply.
That he was in this chilling apartment for work, not talk, was evident
from every motion he made.
Throwing aside his coat and hat, he placed the lantern by the side
of the fire-place, and with a hammer and cold chisel, taken from the
pockets of his overcoat, began to remove its back, brick by brick.
"Hold the lantern, Rube," he whispered, as he struck upon the back
of the fire-place with the hammer. "There is a hollow space back of
this--don't you hear? I tell you, man, we've struck it at last!"
Tisdale seized the lantern and stooped forward toward the fire-place,
Callister ringing blow after blow upon the chisel, and prying out the
bricks right and left.
Suddenly the whole back of the fire-place fell inward with a crash,
raising a cloud of dust which nearly blinded them both.
Seizing the lantern from the hand of his companion, the broker thrust
his head into the space revealed, a hollow in the chimney, large enough
to hold a million in gold.
It was empty!
Save for the broken bricks and bits of mortar, the rays of the lantern
shone upon empty space alone.
With a smothered curse, Elijah Callister drew back into the room.
"Fooled again!" he muttered, fiercely. "If the builders of this
infernal den had constructed that place on purpose to raise my hopes,
they could not have succeeded better. We'll have to try again."
The words had scarcely left his lips, when from the gloom behind them a
strange sound fell upon their ears.
It was half-sigh--half-groan.
It seemed to come from behind the bed.
"My God! Lije, did you hear that?" exclaimed Tisdale, in a hoarse
whisper, seizing his companion by the arm.
At the same instant from behind the bed there emerged the form of a
woman, tall and thin, with pinched features, wild, restless eyes, and
long gray hair hanging down her neck and shoulders.
Coarse, worn garments hung loosely about her, a cheap shawl was thrown
carelessly about the shoulders and pinned across her breast.
With one long, white finger extended before her, she advanced slowly
toward the villainous pair without uttering a word.
Could Frank Mansfield have seen her, he would have instantly recognized
the mother whose death he mourned.
Could Detective Hook have seen her, not for one instant could he have
doubted that Mrs. Marley, whose dead body he had raised with his own
hands from the floor of that wretched upper chamber in the rear of the
Donegal Shades, and this woman were one and the same.
With a cry of horror Reuben Tisdale sprang backward toward the
fire-place.
"Keep back, woman!" he yelled, his eyes starting from his head in
terror. "God have mercy! 'Tis the spirit of my murdered wife!"
With a deep sigh the specter, with a gliding motion, moved backward,
disappearing in the gloom beyond.
And even as the last glimpse of her shadowy form had disappeared from
the gaze of Elijah Callister, who, with whitened face, stood still,
grasping the lantern in his hand, his companion fell forward with a
deep groan, motionless upon the floor.