30. XXX.
THE STONE HOUSE AT MANASSAS.
He met me with a cordiality which really surprised me. His
face was gloomy still, and his voice as deep and measured; but
the weary air of the recluse had yielded to the martial ardor of
the soldier.
At the door of the tent stood the young Moor, Achmed, who
evidently filled something like the position of a confidential body-servant
near my host. At sight of me, the young Moor saluted
courteously; and then, at a sign from Mordaunt, busily set about
preparing some supper for me. This was set out upon a camp-chest,
by a negro, under the Moor's orders—and soon I tasted
once more that bitter black coffee, which revived my weary frame
like some elixir vitœ.
As I supped, Mordaunt conversed; and I had soon put him in
possession of the situation in the Valley. In return he explained
the state of affairs at Manassas, and informed me, in brief words,
that he had been with General Beauregard since May.
As he spoke I could see more than ever the change in him.
He evidently enjoyed the life of the bivouac far more than that
of the library. His gloomy air of languor and cynical disdain had
disappeared; and, although his melancholy seemed too deeply
rooted to be eradicated, he was altogether a different individual.
As I listened to his sonorous voice, and looked at his large and
muscular frame, I was confirmed in my former conviction, that
action and not meditation was the forte of this powerful organization.
When I had finished my supper, and my horse had ground
between his teeth the last handful of a plentiful supply of corn, I
rose and informed Mordaunt that I must go on to General Beauregard.
“I will ride with you a portion of the way,” was his reply.
“I was just going on my rounds to inspect the pickets, but I
will show you your road, and take my ride when I return.”
I accepted this friendly offer, and, mounting our horses, we
soon reached Sudley Ford, where Mordaunt passed me through
his interior picket. We then rode on through the darkness, which
had become intense.
“I never saw a blacker night in all my life,” I said.
“It is dark enough,” replied my companion, “but I know the
road.”
“Is this country familiar to you?”
“Naturally, as I have been picketing it.”
“But you never were here before the breaking out of the
war?”
My companion did not reply for a moment. He then said:
“Yes.”
There was a sudden gloom in his tone as he uttered this monosyllable,
which I could not avoid observing.
“Then we can't lose our way,” I replied, as we rode on. I
am fortunate in having you to show me the road, as I really cannot
see my hand before me. What a country! I don't see any
signs of an inhabitant. Are there any houses near us?”
“There is one not far off,” was Mordaunt's gloomy reply, “but
it is not occupied.”
“A deserted house—ah!” I said, with a laugh. “Well, that
is exactly in keeping with the funereal landscape. One would
really say that this country was intended for some bloody battle-field—to
become the scene of suffering and death! It is as
lugubrious as the grave, and your deserted house must resemble
a spectre. Come, relate some ghostly story connected
with the place, and the influence of the landscape will be complete.”
Mordaunt did not seem to participate, in any degree, in my
merriment. For some moments he preserved silence, and when
he spoke his voice was as gloomy as death itself.
“I have no story to tell,” was his brief response; but this only
piqued my curiosity.
“Come, acknowledge,” I said, laughing, “that there is some
mysterious and tragic affair in your memory! Confess that this
spectral mansion you refer to was the scene of it—and that no
human being can be induced again to set foot inside of its accursed
walls!”
“You are right, sir,” said Mordaunt, suddenly, in tones as cold
as ice, “the place is accursed!—trebly accursed!”
So abrupt was his reply, and his accents were so filled with
gloomy menace, that I started in spite of myself. Before I could
make any reply, he seemed to have realized his indiscretion, and,
uttering a harsh laugh, added coolly:
“You see, I partake of your superstitious feelings. I agree with
you, that these `haunted houses,' as they are called by children,
produce a singular effect upon the imagination—you see that this
one has had that effect upon me.”
He spoke with perfect coolness, but his nonchalance did not
deceive me. His exclamation had been far too gloomy to be attributable
to any mere sentiment such as he described. His reply
was an evasion—I was sure of that—his former speech the outburst
of some hidden tragedy.
We rode on, however, without further reference to the topic,
and soon I saw before me a dark object, which was doubtless the
house in question. It was a gloomy-looking building, of dark
stone, near the intersection of the Warrenton and Sudley-Brentsville
roads, and in the very heart of the subsequent battle. Thousands
of my readers will, no doubt, remember it as the “Old
Stone House at Manassas.”
“That is your spectral mansion, I suppose,” was my comment.
“Well, you did not exaggerate in describing it as looking accursed.
The very owls seem to have deserted it!”
“Yes,” came briefly from my companion. Then he suddenly
checked his horse, and said, in a low tone:
“That is strange!”
“What?” I said.
“I see a light yonder!”
I looked, and, in fact, a light was seen glimmering through
what seemed to be a window or doorway in the house.
“That is singular,” I said, “as you say the place is not occupied;
but doubtless some straggling soldiers have made their den
there.”
“It is probable.”
But the low tones appeared to say, “It is not probable.”
As Mordaunt spoke, the light moved, disappeared for an instant,
and then reappeared, moving along the ground in rear of
the house. Some one seemed to be carrying a lantern.
My companion remained motionless for some moments, gazing
at this weird will-o'-the-wisp: then he touched his horse with
the spur, and rode straight toward the house.
“We have stumbled upon something very much like an adventure,”
he said, with a harsh laugh. “Come! it is very little
out of our way—let us ride by, and see what is going on!”
I followed without a word, and we rode on through a field in
the direction of the house. It looked inexpressibly dreary, as
the gloomy gable loomed out indistinctly against the dark background
of the sky. It was ink upon ink: the gloomy thing
seemed to rise up before the eyes like some monstrous animal; to
approach and weigh upon the chest.
Fifty yards from the sombre mansion, a thick hedge of Osage
orange arrested us. Through this, however, the light was still
seen to glimmer—stationary now upon the ground—and I could
make out, around it, a desolate and weed-encumbered garden,
containing only a few stunted fruit-trees.
Under one of these trees stood a man and a woman. In the
shadow of the tree, a third figure, apparently that of a female,
was dimly visible. On the ground was a coffin beside a newly-dug
grave.
Mordaunt did not utter a word, but I heard his low breathing
at my car.
“Look!” I muttered in a whisper. “I told you this spot had
something ghostly about it. They are burying a dead body!”
My companion did not reply, but a ray from the light fell upon
his face, and its expression was startling. I never saw a deeper
pallor on the human countenance; and his singular expression
of stupefied surprise astonished me. What connection could
Mordaunt have with this scene, and why did it move him so? I
thought my eyes must have deceived me; but the next moment
served to explain a part of the mystery.
The man at the grave turned round, and the light fell upon
his face. I recognized Fenwick—and at the same instant made
out the face of his companion. It was the woman Parkins.
The third figure I could not see, as the shadow of the tree-trunk
concealed it.
Mordaunt laid his hand on my arm, and said, in a low, set tone,
as cold as ice:
“You recognize that man, do you not?”
“Certainly. It is Fenwick.”
“And that woman”—
“I know her too.”
“It is well,” said Mordaunt, through his clinched teeth.
“What devil's errand they have come upon, I do not know, or
why they should be here burying any one—but I know that
the hour I have long looked for has come.”
There was a concentrated hate in the low tones of his voice,
which made further words unnecessary.
“Let us wait,” he added, coolly, “and see the comedy out.”
And, leaning forward on his horse's neck, he seemed to devour
with his eyes the movements of the figures in the garden.
Fenwick had, meanwhile, hung the lantern on a bough of the
stunted tree under which the grave had been dug; and now,
with the assistance of the woman Parkins, inserted ropes beneath
the coffin. Without further delay, or any burial service,
it was lowered into the grave, and Fenwick seized a spade lying
near. A harsh and grating sound was then heard—it was the
dirt falling on the coffin. Fenwick worked with great energy
and rapidity, and the grave was soon filled. Throwing the last
spadeful on the hillock, he wiped his forehead, exchanged some
hurried words, apparently with the woman Parkins, and, taking
down the lantern, proceeded with rapid steps, followed by his
two companions, toward the house.
I was leaning close beside Mordaunt, and could see his face.
It was paler even than before, and there was a deadly meaning
in his eyes.
“Well,” I said, gloomy in spite of myself at this nocturnal
adventure, “we have seen the play through. What is the after-piece?”
“Follow me, and you will see,” said my companion. As he
spoke, I heard the click of his pistol as he tried the barrel. His
voice was so cold and steady that the hand must be equally so.
“This time, Fenwick is a dead man,” I thought.
