of the windows. Thinking that some traveling tinkers had taken up free
lodgings there, he was preparing to pass as quickly and quietly as
possible, to avoid drawing attention upon himself and delaying his
progress. But, to his astonishment, the light suddenly went out, and by
the time he reached the house it was wrapped in darkness. There was
little moonlight (spite of Penny's indignant insinuations), for it was a
cloudy night, and the lad would have had difficulty in finding his way
had it not been so familiar. Curiosity urged Aleck to investigate the
mystery of the light, and, forgetful for the moment of his father's
injunction, he crept quietly to the unglazed window and looked through
the opening. Not a sound revealed the presence of any human being
within. A silence, accentuated no doubt by his startled imagination,
seemed to hang over the place. He was starting on again when a strange
sight met his eyes. Suddenly out of the darkness of the cottage shone
out the figure of a human hand! It seemed to glow with a faint greenish
light, and it held a long pointed knife, which burned with the same pale
hue. Nothing else could be seen except a kind of gauzy floating sleeve,
from which the mysterious hand emerged. Aleck had no wish to investigate
further, but promptly took to his heels, and made for home with all
speed, frightened out of his wits.
As luck would have it, the clock by which he had started was fast, and he
was home in good time. The circumstance tended to render his story more
worthy of credence than it might otherwise have proved. But his evident
terror, and the very incoherence of his narrative, told in his favor.
"He's been a truthful lad all his days," his mother proudly testified;
"while as to drink--not a drop of spirits has passed his lips sin' I gev'
him a wee drop for the spasms when he wes a wean!"
And Aleck's blushing approval of the maternal statement bore witness to
its truth.
I confess that the story did not in the least rouse any superstitious
credence in my mind. Luminous paint was not such an unknown quantity to
me as it would be to this country-bred lad and his family. I took care,
however, to breathe no word of my suspicions; for I meant to make a few
investigations on my own account. So with the looked-for expressions of
astonishment, I took my leave.
I had been asked to dine at Ardmuir House that evening, and as it was a
matter of eight miles distant, I was to stay the night. Accordingly, I
started in good time in the pony cart, old Willy by my side to bring back
the trap. Colonel Ashol was by way of being civil to Val and myself, and
frequently invited us; my brother, however, seldom accepted, and was
always glad when I undertook to represent the Flemings there. The
Ashols, though a family of a feeble type of Protestants, showed no
decided bigotry. They had a few Catholics in their employ on the estate,
and were cordial enough with us.
Ardmuir House and some of its land had been Church property before the
Reformation. Val looked the matter up once, and discovered that it had
been a dependency upon one of the larger abbeys, and was itself a place
of no little importance.
The mansion itself was rather picturesque; it had been rebuilt in a later
century on the site and from the materials of the former church and
monastery. You drove for some distance up a stately avenue of beeches
before sighting the house. It was a big, roomy place, with fine large
windows and handsome moldings round them--probably portions of the spoils
of the ancient erection. A wide portico, supported on stone pillars,
stood in front of the chief entrance, and carriages might drive under its
shelter to set down the occupants at the doorstep. An air of gloom
seemed to hang about it, owing to the huge trees which grew pretty close
to it in places.
The one striking feature about the house was the parapet, which ran round
the entire roof. This was pierced in such a way as to form the letters
composing a text of Scripture. The inscription, in huge characters, ran
thus:
EXCEPT THE LORD BUILD THE HOUSE THEY
LABOR IN VAIN THAT BUILD IT
The idea of such a decoration doubtless originated with the desire of
some pious Presbyterian ancestor of the present owners to emphasize the
fact that the ancient builders had not made pure Gospel teaching their
sure foundation. But, by the irony of fate, the text had become a
striking commentary upon the fortunes of later possessors of sacrilegious
spoils; for it was a tradition--upon which the family kept a discreet
silence--that three male heirs in direct succession had never lived to
inherit the property. At the very time of which I am writing, Colonel
Ashol's only son was suffering from what doctors had pronounced to be
incipient spinal disease, which, should it develop, would render him a
helpless cripple for life--should life be granted to him.
I was rather more keen than usual about that particular visit, as I
expected to meet a young Catholic priest, who was to stay with the Ashols
for a day or two in company with his mother, an old friend of the
hostess. For that reason Val would have accompanied me that evening, in
spite of his aversion to such "inanities," as he chose to call dinner
parties, had he not been otherwise engaged. He had already made an
appointment to interview for the first time a girl who lived some
distance away and could not be easily postponed; moreover, the occasion
was important, being the commencement of a series of instructions
preparatory to her reception into the Church. For the lassie in
question--to use the terminology of Ardmuirland--"had gotten a Catholic
man"; in other words, was engaged to be married to a Catholic, who had
inspired her with the desire of sharing his faith as well as his worldly
goods.
It was early when I arrived. The Colonel and some of the men were still
out on the moors, but a few guests were sitting about in the big, cool
entrance hall, waiting for tea. Among them were Mrs. Vansome and her
son, to both of whom I was at once presented. They happened to be the
only Catholics of the house party. We chatted amicably for some time,
until the dressing-bell broke up the gathering for the nonce.
I happened to remain for a few minutes in the hall after the rest had
left; I wanted to look into a paper which was there, and I knew my room
from previous visits. The staircase ran along two sides of the hall and
led to a broad corridor, upon which the rooms opened. Another passage at
right angles joined this corridor, and to reach my room I had to pass by
the end of it.
It was just between daylight and dusk, on a September evening, and no
lamps were yet needed. As I passed the passage on my way I saw an
elderly lady coming toward the main corridor. I am no great observer of
feminine costume--perhaps because I am not much in ladies' company, or,
it may be, because I never had a sister to instruct me; I can only say of
this lady's dress, therefore, that it struck me as differing from those I
had lately seen in the hall, both in fashion and material. I remember
hearing a rustling as of silk, and I think there was some white lace
about the neck and hair.
But what struck me most was the woman's face. I had looked in her
direction, lest I might seem discourteous to some acquaintance; but this
was a stranger. The face was that of a woman in an agony of suffering!
The wide-open eyes were full of trouble; the whole countenance expressed
pain and something like terror. (I am describing the impression made
upon me at the moment, for the incident passed more quickly than it takes
to tell, however brief the narration.)
As my eyes met hers, the woman stretched out her hands with an appealing
gesture, and seemed to be hastening swiftly toward me. But just as she
was almost near enough to touch me, she suddenly disappeared--having
turned, as it seemed to me, into a door close by.
For a moment I stood bewildered. Then that look of appeal for help came
back to mind; it was evident something was wrong. I at once entered the
open door into which the figure had passed, determined to do what I could
to assist one in such unmistakable need of help. To my astonishment I
found that the place was a mere housemaid's closet, for the keeping of
brooms, dusting appliances, and the like. It was but a tiny room, too; a
glance from the threshold was enough to convince me that no human being
was there!
It was not so much surprise as terror that seized me at such a discovery.
I found myself wiping from my brow the cold sweat that stood there in
great drops. I felt certain that I had been face to face with something
unexplainable by the ordinary laws of nature. I was as well as usual. I
had read nothing of late that could have conjured up such a figure. As
to preternatural manifestations of such a kind--I had but that very day,
and but an hour or two ago, passed supercilious judgment on what I
thought the credulity of ignorant rustics. And yet here I was, the
victim to some such hallucination--unless it was possible that I had
really seen the figure with my bodily eyes! My knees were shaking under
me as I managed to reach my room, my whole being agitated by an
unaccountable sense of fear.
Luckily we were allowed an unusually long time for dressing, and I was
able to get a smoke and take a bath; by dinner-time I was more like
myself.
I tried hard at first to persuade myself that the entire scene had been
imaginary; but I could not succeed. I was too firmly convinced that I
had actually seen such a figure to entertain the idea.
Dinner passed without particular incident. I had an interesting chat
after with young Father Vansome. I discovered that he was a Benedictine
attached to one of the English monasteries, and had been permitted, as a
relief from a long spell of heavy teaching work, to spend a few days at
Ardmuir House, where his mother was then staying. He was dressed like an
ordinary priest; this, as he explained, was out of consideration for the
Ashols, who were entertaining among their guests that day some of
ultra-Protestant views, who might have resented the intrusion into their
midst of a real live monk, "in habit as he lived."
More than once during our conversation the extraordinary occurrence which
had disturbed my peace of mind kept intruding itself upon my mental
vision, and again and again it was almost divulged to my companion; but I
shrank from being laughed at as a victim to superstitious imaginings. I
had a priest for a brother, and no one knew better than I how sceptical
were our own clergy with regard to any supernatural happenings that had
not been corroborated by the testimony of reliable authority.
There was the usual smoke, with the usual billiards, and bedtime arrived
without any disclosure on my part of the mysterious incident. I did not
fear further revelations, for my bedroom was nowhere near the scene of
the apparition. I must confess to a momentary creepy sensation as I
passed, in company with other men, the corridor of the adventure; but
nothing happened to disturb my rest materially.
I like to be stirring at a pretty early hour, to get a morning pipe of
peace. But in a strange house it is not always convenient to prowl about
too soon; however, I could not interfere with any one in the garden, so
to the garden I promptly betook myself. It wanted an hour until
breakfast, and I was rather surprised to find the Benedictine already
pacing the broad walk under the terrace, which was out of view of the
windows. He was not smoking, though, and when I accosted him it seemed
to me that he looked somewhat disturbed and embarrassed. We passed a few
desultory remarks, and then he asked whether I intended to leave early
after breakfast or stay for lunch. As it happened, I had arranged for
Willy to bring the cart in time to start soon after ten; for Val had to
drive somewhere in the afternoon, and it was as well to give Tim a rest
before starting out again. This I explained to Father Vansome.
"I wonder whether you could give me a lift," was his remark. "I should
very much like to consult Father Fleming upon a certain matter, and if
you could take me, it would avoid a fuss here. I shall enjoy the tramp
back again."
Of course I was delighted to give him a lift. So we set off in due time
with Willy on the back seat. I had been rejoicing in the prospect of an
agreeable drive with a pleasant companion, for I had been greatly
attracted by the young monk; but I was doomed to disappointment. My
constant efforts at conversation fell flat; for the priest seemed
preoccupied, and his responses were evidently merely mechanical.
Father Vansome was closeted with Val up to lunch time. He sat down to
table with us, and after the meal he and Val drove off together in the
trap; they had arranged that Father Vansome should get down at a point
where their roads diverged. I was rather astonished to learn, when I
took leave of him, that he hoped to return that same evening, as he had a
particular reason for wishing to say Mass next day.
Left to myself, I turned my steps in the direction of Archie's former
dwelling at the old mill; for I hoped to light upon some evidence which
would clear up to my own satisfaction at least the apparent mystery of
Aleck Farquhar's ghost story. Although I could not account by any
natural means for the event which had startled me at Ardmuir House, I was
nevertheless still sceptical with regard to the supposed apparition at
the mill-house. Indeed, I felt more certain than ever that a living
person had been playing pranks in the latter case, to serve some purpose
of his own; the impossibility of fraud in my regard contrasted strongly
with its probability at the old mill.
I was not deceived in my expectation. I found that the boards that
usually covered the window opening had been carefully removed, and were
standing in a corner awaiting replacement, probably. Here was a sign
that the midnight visitor had been surprised, and had not dared to wait
to cover up the window again--unless, indeed, it meant that another
"apparition" was intended. But a more close investigation convinced me
of trickery. Flung away into a corner was a small brush bearing traces
of luminous paint, and in a heap of rubbish I discerned the very lid of a
small tin of that effective spiritualistic medium. No further proof was
needed. By lucky chance I discovered what appeared to be a clue to the
reason of all this mystification. Loosened stones in the chimney and by
the hearth suggested that a search had been made for something supposed
to be hidden in the hut. The spiritual visitor had evidently been bent
upon seizing the material riches which rumor had doubtless located in the
dwelling of one whom those not in his confidence would have reason to
regard as a miser. Here then was one illusion dissipated by my
discoveries.
Father Vansome was driven over again in time for dinner. During the
progress of the meal I was inclined to make merry over my find; but I had
little success in gaining the interest either of Val or our guest, who
both seemed to shun the topic.
When dinner was over, it occurred to me to introduce the subject of my
own ghostly experience, for I was curious to hear what the priests would
think of it. As I led up to it by degrees I saw the dark eyes of Father
Vansome light up with expectation. Both he and Val listened with keen
interest, neither attempting to interrupt the narration. Then they
looked spontaneously at each other.
"I am quite as convinced as yourself," said the Benedictine to me as I
finished my relation, "that what you saw was neither an hallucination nor
a human figure. I have seen it also, and that is why I am here now."
He then gave, in turn, his experience. During the early part of the
night he had been unusually restless. When he did at last fall asleep he
had a strange dream. He saw the figure of an elderly woman, clad in
antique garb, holding by the hand a young man, who wore the habit of his
own Order. The woman fixed upon him eyes full of entreaty, and implored
him in piteous accents to offer Mass for her soul, for it was in his
power to release her from grievous torments. Father Vansome then awoke,
the impression made by his dream still vivid. He struck a light and
looked at his watch. It was two o'clock only; but his nerves were too
highly strung to suffer him to sleep again, and he lay wondering what the
dream could signify.
Suddenly, while still wide awake, he was aware of the figure of the woman
of his dream standing by his bed. Her eyes were full of intense
supplication, and her hands stretched out to him in eager entreaty.
Yielding to a sudden, irresistible impulse, he exclaimed:
"Tell me, in God's name, who you are and what you want of me?"
The answer came in a clear, distinct voice:
"I am Elizabeth Ashol. I am suffering for a wrong done to my stepson,
Gilbert, a monk of your Order. Say Mass for my soul and I shall have
rest."
Then the figure vanished.
Father Vansome naturally had no more sleep that morning. Very early,
indeed, he was summoned to his mother's bedside by her maid, and found
her as agitated as himself. From her lips he learned that she too had
been visited by the figure he had himself seen. The woman, answering to
the description of his ghostly visitor, had approached Mrs. Vansome's
bed, when she was still wide awake, with outstretched hands and
entreating eyes, but no voice had been heard.
The apparition to his mother had convinced Father Vansome that what he
had experienced was no trick of the imagination. He had, however, taken
counsel with Val, who, like himself, was of opinion that the Mass ought
to be said. He had found on returning to Ardmuir House that morning that
his mother had confided the matter to Mrs. Ashol, and had heard from her
that previous visitors had experienced similar apparitions; on further
consideration it was discovered--though Mrs. Ashol had not realized it
before--that such persons had been invariably Catholics. There was,
however, no record of the figure having spoken; this had happened for the
first time to the only Benedictine monk who had ever entered the house
since Elizabeth Ashol's death, two centuries before.
It appeared that a certain Dame Elizabeth Ashol, second wife of Gilbert
Ashol, lived in the latter part of the seventeenth century. She had one
son, Laurence, to whom his father left the estate, to the exclusion of
his eldest son, Gilbert, the offspring of the first marriage. This
youth, to his father's intense indignation, had reverted to the faith of
his ancestors; soon after his conversion he had entered a monastery on
the continent, with a view to returning, as so many of his religious
brethren were then doing, to work for the restoration of his
fellow-countrymen to the Church. It was generally thought that Dame
Elizabeth, in her ambition for the welfare of her own son, had encouraged
her husband in his religious bias, and secured the succession for
Laurence. It was held in the family that the disasters which had always
befallen the first-born of the house dated from the unjust acquisition of
the estate by this Laurence, and the entire disinheriting of Gilbert; it
was from a kind of superstitious dread attaching to the name that no
Ashol for a long term of years had ever been baptized Laurence.
Father Vansome said the required Mass next morning, and his mother drove
over to assist at it. Her prayers and mine were thus united with the
supreme Sacrifice on behalf of the soul so greatly in need.
The apparition has never been seen again, though many a Catholic guest
has visited Ardmuir House. More wonderful still--the curse seems to have
been averted by the laying of the ghost; for young Gilbert Ashol has so
greatly improved in health and strength that his doctors predict for him
a probably long and useful life.
The family has indeed been thoroughly impressed by the strange
circumstances just related. In the light of their increasing interest in
all things Catholic, Val is beginning to entertain hopes of the ultimate
return of the Ashols to the Faith their fathers abandoned more than three
hundred years ago.
IX
SPRING'S RETURN
"Now Ariel goes a-singing, by the olden
Dark yews, where flitter-mice were wont to cling.
All the world is turning golden, turning golden
In the spring."
(_Nora Hopper--"April"_)
"Guess the latest news, Ted," said my brother, coming in from parochial
visits.
I shook my head.
"I'm no hand at riddles."
"Well, there's a marriage to come off in our parish before long, if
matters can be satisfactorily arranged."
"A marriage!" That roused me; it would be the first function of the
kind I had seen in Ardmuirland. For our lads usually fetched partners
from elsewhere, and maidens being accustomed to migrate to service in
the south, found mates there--even as the swallows.
"I thought that would fetch you!" cried Val triumphant. "And now give
a guess."
But I racked my brains to no purpose.
"It's not Widow Lamont, and it's not Robina----"
"Why not?" he asked. But I saw he was quizzing.
"It's a widow," he said. "I'll tell you that much."
Even then I was nonplussed.
"Ted, you've no imagination! Is Christian Logan too old?"
"Christian Logan! Of course not! Who's the happy man?"
"He's not altogether happy yet," returned Val. "There are obstacles in
the way at present. Do you know the Camerons of Redbank Farm at all?"
"Camerons of Redbank! Why, they're Protestants!"
"Tell me something I don't know already," he retorted.
"I can say very little about them. There are two brothers, I
believe--one very middle-aged and the other less so. I may have passed
the time of day with one or the other."
"Well, it's the less middle-aged one--Lachlan by name--who wants to
marry Christian. It's all right about religion. He's ready to make
all the necessary promises, and moreover, remarked quite spontaneously
that he intended coming to church with his wife after they were
married--a most unusual undertaking in these cases. He's evidently
merely ignorant of everything Catholic; not bigoted, really. With a
wife like Christian, he is most likely to enter the Church himself
eventually."
"But what are these almost insurmountable obstacles?"
"Chiefly financial. It seems that the elder brother is the actual
tenant of Redbank, and Lachlan is little better than a farm-servant at
present. It would be scarcely possible for the poor chap to support a
wife and three of a ready-made family on the wages of a mere
plowman--except, of course, in the style of a common laborer, and he is
far above that. The best way out of the difficulty would be for
Christian to manage the house at Redbank, instead of a paid
housekeeper; but the old brother is bitter against Catholics, and more
opposed to young children in the house. Hence these tears! Don't you
think there are rather respectable obstacles to be overcome?"
"Quite. So what did you suggest?"
"Cameron himself suggested what I think a reasonable solution: to try
for some situation as farm bailiff or manager. He is thoroughly up to
it all, for he has been practically managing things at Redbank for the
last year or two, and has plenty of experience in farm work."
"He ought to be able to find something of the sort. Could the factor
at Taskerton do anything for him, do you think? Christian has already
lost a husband in the service of the estate, and it would be but
restitution to provide her with another."
"The idea struck me, too, though not in precisely the same terms," said
Val with an amused laugh. "I am thinking of writing to him about the
matter."
"You are really satisfied with the man, then?"
"Decidedly so! He struck me as being a very decent sort of fellow. He
has a straight-forward, pleasant manner with him, and is altogether
superior to an ordinary crofter. It would be a good match for
Christian. Poor soul! She deserves a better lot than she enjoys at
present."
"What's his age, do you suppose?"
"Forty-six. Quite a lad, for these parts!"
"Things look all right, certainly," was my summing up.
Val wrote to the factor, but the result was not over-promising. He
knew of nothing suitable at present. But he would keep the case in
mind, and write at once should he hear of anything available.
Both Val and I were keen on getting the matter settled, and often
talked it over together, discussing ways and means. But the weeks
slipped by, and we found ourselves no nearer to a solution of the
difficulty. We little dreamed of the quarter from which it was
eventually to come!
One day as we sat at breakfast Elsie brought in a telegram for Val. It
was a somewhat unusual occurrence; for we were a good way from the
office, and, porterage being expensive, we had carefully instructed our
ordinary correspondents that we preferred the humbler post-card, as a
rule. When a telegram did arrive, therefore, it generally presaged
something of unusual importance. I saw Val's face change as he read
it. He passed it over to me as he rose to write a reply. This is what
I saw: