University of Virginia Library

21. XXI.
THE GHOST.

IT was nearly two hours later, when Miriam
and Sir Rohan approached the house from
the shore and paused at the foot of the lawn,
near the white camellia-bush where he had seen
her crowned with azalias. As they left the
strand, a dun glare shone upon the wild sky,
and the waves, so shortly since gray and dimly
foam-capped, tossed like fanged serpents in the
fiery light of their enchantress who, gathering
as a magnet great vapors round her, rolled
veiled and angry her glimmering rack up the
great obscurity.

They paused now, because Arundel was leaving
the door. He observed them, however, and
drew near, with an extinguished cigar in his
hand.

If a voice had whispered by his ear, “Be still.

Do not murder pity; do not destroy remembrance.
Take mercy for a staff. You hate him? But
see! that swift blood ebbs in hectics; these frosts
work like fire; he is weaker to-day than yesterday;
his disease consumes him surely; this deceitful
decline delivers him to death. Can you
not suffer Miriam to mourn a lover? Must you
needs poison grief; make tears a sin; turn joy
to disgust; stab the memory of love? Take
mercy, — you are free so soon —” Had such a
voice whispered, it would have been hushed in
the imperious “Speak now!” of his will; because
the last was destiny.

“I have been giving St. Denys the heads of
that story I promised you, Miss Miriam,” said
he, after wishing them good evening. “And, if
you like, you shall have it as well, since I may
not be able to come again immediately.”

Miriam glanced at Sir Rohan to see if he were
protected from the damp. But he wore a cloak,
and it was not a cold evening.

“Go on,” she replied, with a nod. “We attend.”

“It 's not a long story,” he said, walking to
and fro before them. “O, by the way! Some

time since, it occurred to me I might be of service
to you in the line of my profession, by elucidating
your mystery, Miss Miriam, if I had any
clew. I intimated as much to St. Denys, who
asked you what was that last whisper of your old
nurse. And you said, he tells me —”

“That the ring my dying mother wore was
hid beneath the seventh stone in the court-yard
of the Tower,” Miriam replied quickly, not choosing
to hear the words from him.

“Exactly so. That the ring your mother wore,
when dying, was buried in a book beneath the
seventh stone from the gateway of the Tower.
I wished to ascertain if I were quite correct.
However, that 's not my story.

“You must know,” continued Arundel, stooping
to pluck a blade of grass, “that the way in
which I learned these facts — for they are true,
Miss Miriam — has in it some dash of the supernatural.
I first received a suspicion from certain
ways and actions of a person whom I met; and
putting together one thing and another, — remembering
old county scandal; questioning somebody
who had reason to be acquainted with the matter;
detecting a likeness; and as I became more interested,

visiting the various localities and obtaining
further and satisfactory information from the
original sources, — I soon made out a complete
case. But through it all, I have felt as if some
one were directing me; the right thing turned up
at the right time, so that not a moment has been
lost, and I could almost swear that I have been
assisted by some extraordinary and inexplicable
agency.”

“O, charming,” said Miriam, “a ghost in it!”

“Well, to begin. It appears that several years
ago, — before you were born, and I was but a
child myself, — two boys left school for the University.
No matter for dates or names, just yet;
— facts hold good for John as for Peter. They
were warm friends, notwithstanding a slight difference
in their years; for one, the elder was a
quiet cheerful boy, and was attracted, perhaps,
by the recklessness and brilliance of the other.
This other had a species of heroism about him,
— so it was called, — a flashing, uncertain element,
but no more resembling the real thing than a
will-o'-the-wisp resembles that solid red heart of
a burning back-log. That is to say, he would go
through fire and water to do some famous deed,

but I doubt much if he 'd have held an umbrella
over an old woman with a shabby bonnet. Positively,
I think he was a sorry fellow. However,
the bigger boy saved him many a flogging, and he,
in return, rendered him some important service,
besides correcting his Greek exercises and writing
his Latin verses. And so, fast friends, they
left, as I said, for the University. The younger
had been an orphan two or three years when they
took their degrees, and the other was now, also, to
receive possession of his estate; to which, accordingly,
having been put through the mill, they went
down together; and in the press of business that
met the heir, it is not at all strange that he was
obliged to leave his friend much alone.

“One of the tenants on this estate was a
woman between fifty and sixty in age, who held a
tolerably good reputation, though more than once
accused of too great intimacy with the gypsies and
strolling women; some thought she had come out
from them. Still she was honest, and paid her
rent, but had not much to say to her neighbors,
who called her, on the whole, odd. She was a
widow, and lived alone with a grand-daughter, a
pretty girl, — no, something more than pretty, —

far too elegant and graceful for the peasants she
herded with. Wandering round the region, in
the absences of the other, the younger friend, as
may be supposed, frequently met this girl. He
was a likely-looking youth himself, — was rich,
and a gentleman. She was beautiful, impassioned,
yielding, — in short, they fell in love. Finally, the
gentleman drew his visit to a close, left his unsuspecting
friend, returned home for a day or two,
and then went to a place he had in quite another
part of the country.

“At the same time, the girl disappeared. Her
grandmother concealed her surprise, and gave out
that she was visiting in a distant town. Nobody
believed her, but then nobody said so. Yet when
the gentleman entered his residence at the North,
he was accompanied by a lady, who has been
described to me as the sweetest impersonation of
beauty that ever crossed threshold. She was
dressed, I am told, with great richness, and wore
her splendor as an inheritance, but scarcely
seemed to be his wife. They held no communication
with any one, employed only such servants as
were indispensable, and were totally wrapped in
the pleasure of each other; they were never

found apart, and appeared to be insensible of the
existence of others. Sometimes in a skiff they
were seen rowing up the stream; sometimes the
farmer heard a rash bold galloping, and they
dashed by like a flash, with their gay laughs chasing
behind; sometimes, by moon or star-light,
they climbed the old Tower together and watched
the prospect. It was a life of rich merriment and
exultation, that, half repressed, burst into bright
coruscations fanned by gusty glee, — a life bathed
with delight and youth, he rejoicing in the blaze
of her beauty, she revelling in adoration. I hope
I 'm not growing sentimental, Miss Miriam.”

“You speak with unction, sir,” she replied.
“And then?”

“Why, nothing then, or soon. The sweetness
cloyed. From a passion, I believe, the lover made
it a study; but the intricate psychology baffled or
wearied, — he became indifferent. They were met
no more together; he rode all day among the
hills, alone; she was seldom seen at all. Her
beauty began to fall away, — eye and cheek were
hollow, lips were pale. But latterly, before her
unhappiness began, she had once or twice spoken
with a cottager; the little children tumbling in

her path had received a smile, already somewhat
sad; kind donations, constant charities, were felt
by the neighboring poor. Their hearts instinctively
warmed to the lady, — who was to be pitied
if happy, how much more if not! — and it was no
great while before the keen eyes of these good farmwomen
detected the cause of her change. But
one evening, at about this time, she entered the
nearest habitation, and asked that the son might
be allowed to go to a distant place she mentioned,
with a certain message, and she gave him a roll of
gold pieces to deliver and pay his way. They
noticed that she wore but one ring, a brilliant
thing, on the hand where should have been the
marriage ring. Of course he went with expedition,
and when he returned the grandame came
with him. When they met, said my informant,
the lady only fell on her neck and wept, and went
away without a word. Perhaps she hoped to regain
her fair face and happiness when her child
was born.

“So time went on, and the poor lady sat sighing
her youth away in the dark room of the
Tower. You are cold, Miss Miriam?”

Miriam had shivered as the moon, running out

on the skirts of a long cloud, sparkled at some
glittering object Arundel held.

“O no,” she said. “Go on.”

Her hood had dropped upon her shoulder; she
stood attending with a pitying air, a creature all
radiance, and bliss, and blushing life, turning
every now and then her flaming eyes and tender
smile upon Sir Rohan.

With the narration, Sir Rohan had more than
once started and flung away her hand, but as
quickly seized it again, though his own was corpse-cold,
and bent his burning glance on her alone,
while it proceeded, for it seemed to him that his
Ghost stood victorious with her hosts behind Arundel.
His cap had fallen back, and the hair upon
his brow was damp; his cloak, too, was hanging
loosely, but in bronze-like, motionless folds; his
eyes gleamed like caverns pouring forth floods of
light; his face grew paler at every breath in the
flying light of the chill November moon. And as
the wild palpitations of his heart died out, the
shadow of a statue was not more rigid than he.

“It is not long,” said Arundel, again.

“One day toward sunset, the lover came into
this dark room where the wretched lady sat. She

had been looking listlessly at the illuminations of
a manuscript, which, he had often told her, a
monk, rather given to poetry than more orthodox
scripture, had spent his lifetime in decorating.
This monk had been a contemporary of Spenser,
and an ancestor of the lover's; and so when,
through some pique, he went into a cloister on the
continent, he had taken his friend's book too. I
have seen it since myself, Sir Rohan. A curious
thing: on one side of the parchment, the verses
copied fair, in garlands of flowers and leaves, with
bright-feathered birds among the vines; on the
other, the pictures, in Armenian blue, vermilion,
and gilding. Here, —

“There, teaching that `rude, mishapen, monstrous
rablement,' the fairest Una sat, `straunge
lady, in so straunge habiliment.' There, too, the
image of that man of hell, that calls himself Despayre,
sitting on the ground of his dark, doleful,
dreary den, with hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks
half hid by griesly locks; the one whose subtile
tongue like dropping honey melteth into the

heart, you know, and who counsels the Red Cross
Knight: —
the Knight listening `as he were charméd with inchaunted
rimes,' while the carle cries, —

“Again, the gateway of the Bowre of Bliss, —

Or yet the damsel bathing in the fountain, as she
loosens the golden knot of hair over ivory shoulders,
and

“Here the face of Belphœbe shone out, where
`upon her eyelids many graces sate.' And yonder,
the Masque of Cupid fills space after space
with splendid emblazonry; and still further on,
Colin Clout (`Who knows not Colin Clout?')
pipes to his Lovely Lass circled by the

A real work of art, Miss Miriam, though strange
tasks for a monk. I have given it to St. Denys.”

“I shall see it, then. But what has this book
to do with the lady?”

“I had quite forgotten. The lady had it in her
weary hand, but was not thinking of it. She must
have been a sad picture herself, with her heartache.
Perhaps he remembered, at the instant, what she
was, not a year before, and contrasted the laughing,
joyous siren he had met, with the sad woman,
faded and forlorn, sacrificed for him. So he spoke
tenderly, and called her to walk by the river-bank
on which the Tower stood. She obeyed, but with
a heavy step and slow movement, — all her light
alacrity lost; besides, she was not well; and he
hastened her sharply. They were standing on the

brink, the book still in her hand, when, it may be,
encouraged by so faint a glimpse of her old sunshine,
she summoned heart, and told him the
secret he had never guessed.

“It was a too legible writing of his sins. Harsh
words followed, — a blow, perhaps, — I will not say,
— for whether fallen, or dashed aside, in a moment
more she was sweeping down the tide, with
a small penknife, that he always carried, fixed in
her bosom. As for him, he re-entered the Tower,
paid and dismissed the servants, locked the door,
and rushed away. Nor has that door been opened
since.”

Arundel, in his cruel dalliance, paused again to
look at his auditors, ere resuming.

While he listened, almost divining each word
before its utterance, Sir Rohan had seemed to perceive
a fiery vapor rising from the earth and flowing,
like a wall, around himself and Miriam; but
she, unconscious and intent, looked only on the
ground.

“And the lady?” she asked.

“Yes, you are interested, I see. The lady was
not drowned; — don't start — for her hair had
caught in a floating branch, and the current landed

her some half-mile further down, where she
was found by the farmer and his son, and taken to
the cottage. And the stab proved to be merely a
scratch. Revived with difficulty, she spoke in
broken sentences with her grandame now and
then, chiefly of these occurrences; took her lover's
ring from her finger, directing it to be restored;
and lived only long enough to give birth
to a child, whose father never knew of its existence;
a daughter, whom the woman carried down
to Kent, where it was adopted by the gentleman of
whom I have already spoken. By St. Denys.”

“Marc!” cried Miriam, springing forward.
But Sir Rohan's grasp was on her arm like iron.

“A moment, Miss Miriam. The grandame did
not obey the lady's direction respecting the ring,
but concealed it; and after turning over one or
two stones, I found it, together with the knife,
whose point was rusted with a brown stain. I
found it in that mouldy book beneath the seventh
stone from the gateway. You shall see it directly.
There is only one word more.

“I have fancied the silent old woman driving
night and day, with the dreadful burden lying in
the cart behind her. For before going to Kent she

took the dead lady and carried her the long journey
to the other place of the lover. There were
always plenty to assist her. He was not there,
however; but she buried her by night at the foot
of a camellia-bush, and left her vengeance with it.
You are standing on the spot, Sir Rohan!”

So saying, Arundel took a taper from a box in
his pocket, and kindling it at his boot, held the
ring beneath the little light, toward Miriam.

It was a broad gold hoop, of old workmanship,
supporting a violet composed of amethysts and
azure enamel; in its centre lay a large, sparkling
diamond engraven with a singular device. Some
lapidary, in a narrow home of European cities, had
perhaps spent his prime upon the precious toil, cutting
it by dawn and sunset, and retouching it at
starlight. This antique intaglio presented a female
figure holding in one hand a distaff, the flax
from which, as she had spun it out, she had sportively
wound about her. But the filament had
snatched itself from her hand while she laughed,
and had writhed round in the frightful contortions
of a serpent, drawing, each moment, a longer
length from the distaff to coil again on her neck
and uplifted arm, while raising its head and glittering

eyes with a curve, the foamy fangs flickered
in her face. The terrible expression of her powerless
despair was carved upon the playfulness that
had had no time to pass away; both stood distinct,
like a palimpsest exposed to fire. Round the ring
this legend ran:

O Deus meus vindex!

Illum in istac die atrociter reminiscere.

Miriam did not observe this at once, — she was
too greatly bewildered. She saw only a ring in
the brief flash of the expiring taper. Suddenly it
was dropped into her hand, and Arundel strode
toward the house. But it rolled away unregarded
in the moments of awful silence that ensued, while
Miriam's wild eyes searched for refuge in the
wreck.

The grasp left her hand only to fasten on her
shoulder, and Sir Rohan compelled her gaze.

“We are standing on your mother's grave,” he
said in a hoarse voice torn by fragments from a
shattered breast. “You are my child. Look at
me. Miriam! Miriam! I am your father.”

A dreadful noise was in his ears. Like a sword
the Ghost struck in a blinding blade of light

through his eyes. All the blood in his pulses
sung across his brain; and he fell prostrate at her
feet.

A space, Miriam stood lost. Then drawing
back, she touched him curiously with her foot,
in doubt, disgust. It was one of those instants
that comprehend eternity; the next, she threw
herself on the ground beside him, lifting his head
on her bosom, and pouring forth wild prayers and
cries and tears. Regardless of Arundel dashing
away, of St. Denys hastening down, of all the
world, she held him.

But vain to him was joy or grief. Cry or prayer
he could not hear. Tears might not move him
now, nor that long kiss reinspire life. It was a
corpse within her arms.

Sir Rohan was dead of his Ghost.