31. CHAPTER XXXI.
THE ORGAN'S REQUIEM.
The darkening sky was black with the approaching tempest now, and a low
peal of thunder mingled with the deep tones of Fergus's voice as he pronounced
the last words, and suffered the parchment to fall from his hands.
In the gloomy chamber seemed to have fallen an uglier shadow than all those
crowding there before; the very air seemed thick with the passion and the
wrong, the crime and the misery summoned from their uneasy graves by the recital
just finished. Out from the record of that wicked life seemed to have
emanated a curse ready to fall upon the heads of those, his luckless descendants
already trembling in its presence. Already it had set its seal upon the wan
face of the girl, the hard rebellious brow of the man. Each looked at the other
through the gloom, as might the children of Cain have looked at each other
when first they learned to read the sign upon their father's brow.
Fergus was the first to speak, and his tone was harsh and bitter:
“Allow me to congratulate you, Neria. You are, it seems, the only veritable
Vaughn among us, although you have lost the name by marriage. Your husband,
my uncle, has as little right to it as my mother had. I wonder where we
shall find our relatives of the Grant connection.”
“Richard Grant's wife was as much a Vaughn as her cousin, our great grand
father,” said Neria, timidly.
“Ah, yes, I forgot; we may claim cousinship still through that immaculate
woman—that woman `sans reproche,' as her cousin so aptly called her,” sneered
Fergus.
In the growing gloom, Neria crept a little closer to his side, and put her hand
in his, saying, softly:
“Dear Fergus, they are dead long years ago. Let their sin and their suffering
rest with them. Let us live as if we had never learned their dismal secrets;
let us hold ourselves in the sunshine and leave these mournful shadows to themselves.
Why should we clasp them to our hearts to darken what should be all
brightness. Let us look for our own faults which, with God's mercy, may yet be set
right; and let us only remember this sad confession when we pray to God to forgive
those who sinned before us, and to keep our own feet from the bitter path
they trod.”
“This paper directs that the children of Richard Grant shall no longer bear
the name of Vaughn. It belongs alone to you,” persisted Fergus; but his face
brightened, his voice softened as Neria spoke and looked.
“Could he speak to us now he would take back that cruel wish. In the
grave all is forgiven. Make peace with his memory, dear Fergus, as you yourself
need pardon. Forgive and be forgiven.”
As she spoke, the tempest, risen to its height, broke in a fearful thunder-clap
directly above their heads; the bolt splintering the topmost crag of the Lion's
Head, and sending its blackened fragments plunging into the flat and pallid sea
at its feet. The old house rocked to its foundation, and the great organ in its
recess quivered through every fibre. Then, like the swan who dies, its agony
found voice, and from the long-silent pipes crept a strange wild sound, as fantastic
and as thrilling as the supernatural tones of the æolian harp. For one moment
its wild waves filled the chamber, then sank, trembling through fine gradations
to a whisper—a sigh faint as that of a dying infant, and were gone. “It is the
answer to my words—it is the promise of peace and pardon,” murmured Neria.
Fergus made no reply. His hard reason refused to accept this solution of
the phenomenon, yet failed to furnish a better. While he still hesitated, another
flash of lightning, yet more blinding than the last, filled the room, and in the
same instant a clattering peal of thunder seemed to burst upon their very heads.
“The house is struck—quick, Neria!” cried Fergus; and, seizing her in his
arms, rushed from the room, through the long corridors, and into the open air,
leaving the storm, the shadows, the grim, golden knight, the confession of Egbert
Vaughn, the memory of his son Reginald, of Lazarus Graves, of John Gillies,
of Giovanna Vascetti, of all the sin and misery which a hundred years had
gathered there, to hold revel together in the dreary house.
But the measure of its days was full; its heaped iniquities might no longer be
forgiven. With a thunderous crash the western wall, riven stone from stone,
fell out, and through the chasm Fergus pointed silently to the organ already
wreathed in flame, whose agile fingers ran across the keys, whose waving garments
fluttered from the choir, whose passionate breath crept through every tube,
and flaunted, banner-like, from the desecrated cross at the top.
Neria looked and hid her eyes.
“Some attempt must be made to save the house or its contents,” said Fergus,
looking impatiently down the empty road.
“Do nothing; it is the hand of God,” replied Neria, solemnly. “Let house
and secret perish together, and let us trust that, with fire from His own hand,
God has purged away the guilt of each.”
