David Elginbrod

“I shall not have to leave you to-night,” was all Margaret’s answer.

As for Hugh, when first he woke, the extraordinary experiences of the previous night appeared to him to belong only to the night, and to have no real relation to the daylight world. But a little reflection soon convinced him of the contrary; and then he went through the duties of the day like one who had nothing to do with them. The phantoms he had seen even occupied some of the thinking space formerly appropriated by the image of Euphra, though he knew to his concern that she was ill, and confined to her room. He had heard the message sent to Mr. Arnold, however, and so kept hoping for the dinner-hour.

With it came Euphra, very pale. Her eyes had an unsettled look, and there were dark hollows under them. She would start and look sideways without any visible cause; and was thus very different from her usual self—ordinarily remarkable for self-possession, almost to coolness, of manner and speech. Hugh saw it, and became both distressed and speculative in consequence. It did not diminish his discomfort that, about the middle of dinner, Funkelstein was announced. Was it, then, that Euphra had been tremulously expectant of him?

“This is an unforeseen pleasure, Herr von Funkelstein,” said Mr. Arnold.

“It is very good of you to call it a pleasure, Mr. Arnold,” said he. “Miss Cameron—but, good heavens! how ill you look!”

“Don’t be alarmed. I have only caught the plague.”

“Only?” was all Funkelstein said in reply; yet Hugh thought he had no right to be so solicitous about Euphra’s health.

As the gentlemen sat at their wine, Mr. Arnold said:

“I am anxious to have one more trial of those strange things you have brought to our knowledge. I have been thinking about them ever since.”

“Of course I am at your service, Mr. Arnold; but don’t you think, for the ladies’ sakes, we have had enough of it?”

“You are very considerate, Herr von Funkelstein; but they need not be present if they do not like it.”

“Very well, Mr. Arnold.”

They adjourned once more to the library instead of the drawing-room. Hugh went and told Euphra, who was alone in the drawing-room, what they were about. She declined going, but insisted on his leaving her, and joining the other gentlemen.

Hugh left her with much reluctance.

“Margaret,” said Lady Emily, “I am certain that man is in the house.”

“He is, my lady,” answered Margaret.

“They are about some more of those horrid experiments, as they call them.”

“I do not know.”

Mrs. Elton entering the room at the moment, Margaret said:

“Do you know, ma’am, whether the gentlemen are—in the library again?”

“I don’t know, Margaret. I hope not. We have had enough of that. I will go and find out, though.”

“Will you take my place for a few minutes first, please, ma’am?”

Margaret had felt a growing oppression for some time. She had scarcely left the sick-room that day.

“Don’t leave me, dear Margaret,” said Lady Emily, imploringly.

“Only for a little while, my lady. I shall be back in less than a quarter of an hour.”

“Very well, Margaret,” she answered dolefully.

Margaret went out into the moonlight, and walked for ten minutes. She sought the more open parts, where the winds were. She then returned to the sick-chamber, refreshed and strong.

“Now I will go and see what the gentlemen are about,” said Mrs. Elton.

The good lady did not like these proceedings, but she was irresistibly attracted by them notwithstanding. Having gone to see for Lady Emily, she remained to see for herself.

After she had left, Lady Emily grew more uneasy. Not even Margaret’s presence could make her comfortable. Mrs. Elton did not return. Many minutes elapsed. Lady Emily said at last:

“Margaret, I am terrified at the idea of being left alone, I confess; but not so terrified as at the idea of what is going on in that library. Mrs. Elton will not come back. Would you mind just running down to ask her to come to me?”

“I would go with pleasure,” said Margaret; “but I don’t want to be seen.”

Margaret did not want to be seen by Hugh. Lady Emily, with her dislike to Funkelstein, thought Margaret did not want to be seen by him.

“You will find a black veil of mine,” she said, “in that wardrobe—just throw it over your head, and hold a handkerchief to your face. They will be so busy that they will never see you.”

Margaret yielded to the request of Lady Emily, who herself arranged her head-dress for her.

Now I must go back a little.—When Mrs. Elton reached the room, she found it darkened, and the gentlemen seated at the table. A running fire of knocks was going on all around.

She sat down in a corner. In a minute or two, she fancied she saw strange figures moving about, generally near the floor, and very imperfectly developed. Sometimes only a hand, sometimes only a foot, shadowed itself out of the dim obscurity. She tried to persuade herself that it was all done, somehow or other, by Funkelstein, yet she could not help watching with a curious dread. She was not a very excitable woman, and her nerves were safe enough.

In a minute or two more, the table at which they were seated, began to move up and down with a kind of vertical oscillation, and several things in the room began to slide about, by short, apparently purposeless jerks. Everything threatened to assume motion, and turn the library into a domestic chaos. Mrs. Elton declared afterwards that several books were thrown about the room.—But suddenly everything was as still as the moonlight. Every chair and table was at rest, looking perfectly incapable of motion. Mrs. Elton felt that she dared not say they had moved at all, so utterly ordinary was their appearance. Not a sound was to be heard from corner or ceiling. After a moment’s silence, Mrs. Elton was quite restored to her sound mind, as she said, and left the room.

“Some adverse influence is at work,” said Funkelstein, with some vexation. “What is in that closet?”

So saying he approached the door of the private staircase, and opened it. They saw him start aside, and a veiled dark figure pass him, cross the library, and go out by another door.

“I have my suspicions,” said Funkelstein, with a rather tremulous voice.

“And your fears too, I think. Grant it now,” said Mr. Arnold.

“Granted, Mr. Arnold. Let us go to the drawing-room.”

Just as Margaret had reached the library door at the bottom of the private stair, either a puff of wind from an open loophole window, or some other cause, destroyed the arrangement of the veil, and made it fall quite over her face, She stopped for a moment to readjust it. She had not quite succeeded, when Funkelstein opened the door. Without an instant’s hesitation, she let the veil fall, and walked forward.

Mrs. Elton had gone to her own room, on her way to Lady Emily’s. When she reached the latter, she found Margaret seated as she had left her, by the bedside. Lady Emily said:

“I did not miss you, Margaret, half so much as I expected. But, indeed, you were not many moments gone. I do not care for that man now. He can’t hurt me, can he?”

“Certainty not. I hope he will give you no more trouble either, dear Lady Emily. But if I might presume to advise you, I would say—Get well as soon as you can, and leave this place.”

“Why should I? You frighten me. Mr. Arnold is very kind to me.”

“The place quite suits Lady Emily, I am sure, Margaret.”

“But Lady Emily is not so well as when she came.”

“No, but that is not the fault of the place,” said Lady Emily. “I am sure it is all that horrid man’s doing.”

“How else will you get rid of him, then? What if he wants to get rid of you?”

“What harm can I be doing him—a poor girl like me?”

“I don’t know. But I fear there is something not right going on.”

“We will tell Mr. Arnold at once,” said Mrs. Elton.

“But what could you tell him, ma’am? Mr. Arnold is hardly one to listen to your maid’s suspicions. Dear Lady Emily, you must get well and go.”

“I will try,” said Lady Emily, submissive as a child.

“I think you will be able to get up for a little while tomorrow.”

A tap came to the door. It was Euphrasia, inquiring after Lady Emily.

“Ask Miss Cameron to come in,” said the invalid.

She entered. Her manner was much changed—was subdued and suffering.

“Dear Miss Cameron, you and I ought to change places. I am sorry to see you looking so ill,” said Lady Emily.

“I have had a headache all day. I shall be quite well to-morrow, thank you.”

“I intend to be so too,” said Lady Emily, cheerfully.

After some little talk, Euphra went, holding her hand to her forehead. Margaret did not look up, all the time she was in the room, but went on busily with her needle.

That night was a peaceful one.

CHAPTER XXII. THE RING

shining crystal, whichOut of her womb a thousand rayons threw.BELLAY: translated by Spenser.

The next day, Lady Emily was very nearly as well as she had proposed being. She did not, however, make her appearance below. Mr. Arnold, hearing at luncheon that she was out of bed, immediately sent up his compliments, with the request that he might be permitted to see her on his return from the neighbouring village, where he had some business. To this Lady Emily gladly consented.

He sat with her a long time, talking about various things; for the presence of the girl, reminding him of his young wife, brought out the best of the man, lying yet alive under the incrustation of self-importance, and its inevitable stupidity. At length, subject of further conversation failing,

“I wonder what we can do to amuse you, Lady Emily,” said he.

“Thank you, Mr. Arnold; I am not at all dull. With my kind friend, Mrs. Elton, and—”

She would have said Margaret, but became instinctively aware that the mention of her would make Mr. Arnold open his eyes, for he did not even know her name; and that he would stare yet wider when he learned that the valued companion referred to was Mrs. Elton’s maid.

Mr. Arnold left the room, and presently returned with his arms filled with all the drawing-room books he could find, with grand bindings outside, and equally grand plates inside. These he heaped on the table beside Lady Emily, who tried to look interested, but scarcely succeeded to Mr. Arnold’s satisfaction, for he presently said:

“You don’t seem to care much about these, dear Lady Emily. I daresay you have looked at them all already, in this dull house of ours.”

This was a wonderful admission from Mr. Arnold. He pondered—then exclaimed, as if he had just made a grand discovery:

“I have it! I know something that will interest you.”

“Do not trouble yourself, pray, Mr. Arnold,” said Lady Emily. But he was already half way to the door.

He went to his own room, and his own strong closet therein.

Returning towards the invalid’s quarters with an ebony box of considerable size, he found it rather heavy, and meeting Euphra by the way, requested her to take one of the silver handles, and help him to carry it to Lady Emily’s room. She started when she saw it, but merely said:

“With pleasure, uncle.”

“Now, Lady Emily,” said he, as, setting down the box, he took out a curious antique enamelled key, “we shall be able to amuse you for a little while.”

He opened the box, and displayed such a glitter and show as would have delighted the eyes of any lady. All kinds of strange ornaments; ancient watches—one of them a death’s head in gold; cameo necklaces; pearls abundant; diamonds, rubies, and all the colours of precious stones—every one of them having some history, whether known to the owner or not; gems that had flashed on many a fair finger and many a shining neck—lay before Lady Emily’s delighted eyes. But Euphrasia’s eyes shone, as she gazed on them, with a very different expression from that which sparkled in Lady Emily’s. They seemed to search them with fingers of lightning. Mr. Arnold chose two or three, and gave Lady Emily her choice of them.

“I could not think of depriving you.”

“They are of no use to me,” said Mr. Arnold, making light of the handsome offer.

“You are too kind.—I should like this ring.”

“Take it then, dear Lady Emily.”

Euphrasia’s eyes were not on the speakers, nor was any envy to be seen in her face. She still gazed at the jewels in the box.

The chosen gem was put aside; and then, one after another, the various articles were taken out and examined. At length, a large gold chain, set with emeralds, was lifted from where it lay coiled up in a corner. A low cry, like a muffled moan, escaped from Euphrasia’s lips, and she turned her head away from the box.

“What is the matter, Euphra?” said Mr. Arnold.

“A sudden shoot of pain—I beg your pardon, dear uncle. I fear I am not quite so well yet as I thought I was. How stupid of me!”

“Do sit down. I fear the weight of the box was too much for you.”

“Not in the least. I want to see the pretty things.”

“But you have seen them before.”

“No, uncle. You promised to show them to me, but you never did.”

“You see what I get by being ill,” said Lady Emily.

The chain was examined, admired, and laid aside.

Where it had lain, they now observed, in the corner, a huge stone like a diamond.

“What is this?” said Lady Emily, taking it up. “Oh! I see. It is a ring. But such a ring for size, I never saw. Do look, Miss Cameron.”

For Miss Cameron was not looking. She was leaning her head on her hand, and her face was ashy pale. Lady Emily tried the ring on. Any two of her fingers would go into the broad gold circlet, beyond which the stone projected far in every direction. Indeed, the ring was attached to the stone, rather than the stone set in the ring.

“That is a curious thing, is it not?” said Mr. Arnold. “It is of no value in itself, I believe; it is nothing but a crystal. But it seems to have been always thought something of in the family;—I presume from its being evidently the very ring painted by Sir Peter Lely in that portrait of Lady Euphrasia which I showed you the other day. It is a clumsy affair, is it not?”

It might have occurred to Mr. Arnold, that such a thing must have been thought something of, before its owner would have chosen to wear it when sitting for her portrait.

Lady Emily was just going to lay it down, when she spied something that made her look at it more closely.

“What curious engraving is this upon the gold?” she asked.

“I do not know, indeed,” answered Mr. Arnold. “I have never observed it.”

“Look at it, then—all over the gold. What at first looks only like chasing, is, I do believe, words. The character looks to me like German. I wish I could read it. I am but a poor German scholar. Do look at it, please, dear Miss Cameron.”

Euphra glanced slightly at it without touching it, and said:

“I am sure I could make nothing of it.—But,” she added, as if struck by a sudden thought, “as Lady Emily seems interested in it—suppose we send for Mr. Sutherland. I have no doubt he will be able to decipher it.”

She rose as if she would go for him herself; but, apparently on second thoughts, went to the bell and rang it.

“Oh! do not trouble yourself,” interposed Lady Emily, in a tone that showed she would like it notwithstanding.

“No trouble at all,” answered Euphra and her uncle in a breath.

“Jacob,” said Mr. Arnold, “take my compliments to Mr. Sutherland, and ask him to step this way.”

The man went, and Hugh came.

“There’s a puzzle for you, Mr. Sutherland,” said Mr. Arnold, as he entered. “Decipher that inscription, and gain the favour of Lady Emily for ever.”

As he spoke he put the ring in Hugh’s hand. Hugh recognized it at once.

“Ah! this is Lady Euphrasia’s wonderful ring,” said he.

Euphra cast on him one of her sudden glances.

“What do you know about it?” said Mr. Arnold, hastily.

Euphra flashed at him once more, covertly.

“I only know that this is the ring in her portrait. Any one may see that it is a very wonderful ring indeed, by only looking at it,” answered Hugh, smiling.

“I hope it is not too wonderful for you to get at the mystery of it, though, Mr. Sutherland?” said Lady Emily.

“Lady Emily is dying to understand the inscription,” said Euphrasia.

By this time Hugh was turning it round and round, trying to get a beginning to the legend. But in this he met with a difficulty. The fact was, that the initial letter of the inscription could only be found by looking into the crystal held close to the eye. The words seemed not altogether unknown to him, though the characters were a little strange, and the words themselves were undivided. The dinner bell rang.

“Dear me! how the time goes in your room, Lady Emily!” said Mr. Arnold, who was never known to keep dinner waiting a moment. “Will you venture to go down with us to-day?”

“I fear I must not to-day. To-morrow, I hope. But do put up these beauties before you go. I dare not touch them without you, and it is so much more pleasure seeing them, when I have you to tell me about them.”

“Well, throw them in,” said Mr. Arnold, pretending an indifference he did not feel. “The reality of dinner must not be postponed to the fancy of jewels.”

All this time Hugh had stood poring over the ring at the window, whither he had taken it for better light, as the shadows were falling. Euphra busied herself replacing everything in the box. When all were in, she hastily shut the lid.

“Well, Mr. Sutherland?” said Mr. Arnold.

“I seem on the point of making it out, Mr. Arnold, but I certainly have not succeeded yet.”

“Confess yourself vanquished, then, and come to dinner.”

“I am very unwilling to give in, for I feel convinced that if I had leisure to copy the inscription as far as I can read it, I should, with the help of my dictionary, soon supply the rest. I am very unwilling, as well, to lose a chance of the favour of Lady Emily.”

“Yes, do read it, if you can. I too am dying to hear it,” said Euphra.

“Will you trust me with it, Mr. Arnold? I will take the greatest care of it.”

“Oh, certainly!” replied Mr. Arnold—with a little hesitation in his tone, however, of which Hugh was too eager to take any notice.

He carried it to his room immediately, and laid it beside his manuscript verses, in the hiding-place of the old escritoire. He was in the drawing-room a moment after.

There he found Euphra and the Bohemian alone.—Von Funkelstein had, in an incredibly short space of time, established himself as Hausfreund, and came and went as he pleased.—They looked as if they had been interrupted in a hurried and earnest conversation—their faces were so impassive. Yet Euphra’s wore a considerably heightened colour—a more articulate indication. She could school her features, but not her complexion.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE WAGER

He…stakes this ring;And would so, had it been a carbuncleOf Phoebus’ wheel; and might so safely, had itBeen all the worth of his car.Cymbeline.

Hugh, of course, had an immediate attack of jealousy. Wishing to show it in one quarter, and hide it in every other, he carefully abstained from looking once in the direction of Euphra; while, throughout the dinner, he spoke to every one else as often as there was the smallest pretext for doing so. To enable himself to keep this up, he drank wine freely. As he was in general very moderate, by the time the ladies rose, it had begun to affect his brain. It was not half so potent, however, in its influences, as the parting glance which Euphra succeeded at last, as she left the room, in sending through his eyes to his heart.

Hugh sat down to the table again, with a quieter tongue, but a busier brain. He drank still, without thinking of the consequences. A strong will kept him from showing any signs of intoxication, but he was certainly nearer to that state than he had ever been in his life before.

The Bohemian started the new subject which generally follows the ladies’ departure.

“How long is it since Arnstead was first said to be haunted, Mr. Arnold?”

“Haunted! Herr von Funkelstein? I am at a loss to understand you,” replied Mr. Arnold, who resented any such allusion, being subversive of the honour of his house, almost as much as if it had been depreciative of his own.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Arnold. I thought it was an open subject of remark.”

“So it is,” said Hugh; “every one knows that.”

Mr. Arnold was struck dumb with indignation. Before he had recovered himself sufficiently to know what to say, the conversation between the other two had assumed a form to which his late experiences inclined him to listen with some degree of interest. But, his pride sternly forbidding him to join in it, he sat sipping his wine in careless sublimity.

“You have seen it yourself, then?” said the Bohemian.

“I did not say that,” answered Hugh. “But I heard one of the maids say once—when—”

He paused.

This hesitation of his witnessed against him afterwards, in Mr. Arnold’s judgment. But he took no notice now.—Hugh ended tamely enough:

“Why, it is commonly reported amongst the servants.”

“With a blue light?—Such as we saw that night from the library window, I suppose.”

“I did not say that,” answered Hugh. “Besides, it was nothing of the sort you saw from the library. It was only the moon. But—”

He paused again. Von Funkelstein saw the condition he was in, and pressed him.

“You know something more, Mr. Sutherland.”

Hugh hesitated again, but only for a moment.

“Well, then,” he said, “I have seen the spectre myself, walking in her white grave-clothes, in the Ghost’s Avenue—ha! ha!”

Funkelstein looked anxious.

“Were you frightened?” said he.

“Frightened!” repeated Hugh, in a tone of the greatest contempt. “I am of Don Juan’s opinion with regard to such gentry.”

“What is that?”

“‘That soul and body, on the whole,Are odds against a disembodied soul.’”

“Bravo!” cried the count. “You despise all these tales about Lady Euphrasia, wandering about the house with a death-candle in her hand, looking everywhere about as if she had lost something, and couldn’t find it?”

“Pooh! pooh! I wish I could meet her!”

“Then you don’t believe a word of it?”

“I don’t say that. There would be less of courage than boasting in talking so, if I did not believe a word of it.”

“Then you do believe it?”

But Hugh was too much of a Scotchman to give a hasty opinion, or rather a direct answer—even when half-tipsy; especially when such was evidently desired. He only shook and nodded his head at the same moment.

“Do you really mean you would meet her if you could?”

“I do.”

“Then, if all tales are true, you may, without much difficulty. For the coachman told me only to-day, that you may see her light in the window of that room almost any night, towards midnight. He told me, too (for I made quite a friend of him to-day, on purpose to hear his tales), that one of the maids, who left the other day, told the groom—and he told the coachman—that she had once heard talking; and, peeping through the key-hole of a door that led into that part of the old house, saw a figure, dressed exactly like the picture of Lady Euphrasia, wandering up and down, wringing her hands and beating her breast, as if she were in terrible trouble. She had a light in her hand which burned awfully blue, and her face was the face of a corpse, with pale-green spots.”

“You think to frighten me, Funkelstein, and make me tremble at what I said a minute ago. Instead of repeating that. I say now: I will sleep in Lady Euphrasia’s room this night, if you like.”

“I lay you a hundred guineas you won’t!” cried the Bohemian.

“Done!” said Hugh, offering him his hand. Funkelstein took it; and so the bet was committed to the decision of courage.

“Well, gentlemen,” interposed Mr. Arnold at last, “you might have left a corner for me somewhere. Without my permission you will hardly settle your wager.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Arnold,” said Funkelstein. “We got rather excited over it, and forgot our manners. But I am quite willing to give it up, if Mr. Sutherland will.”

“Not I,” said Hugh;—“that is, of course, if Mr. Arnold has no objection.”

“Of course not. My house, ghost and all, is at your service, gentlemen,” responded Mr. Arnold, rising.

They went to the drawing-room. Mr. Arnold, strange to say, was in a good humour. He walked up to Mrs. Elton, and said: