The Forsaken Inn

I began to hate my role, but went on stolidly.

"They were a handsome pair, and I felt an interest in them at once. But this interest immeasurably heightened when the young man, almost before the door had closed upon them, drew me apart and said: 'Madame, we are an unhappy couple. We have been married just four hours.'"

Here I paused for breath, and to take a good look at madame.

She was fixed as a stone, but her eyes were burning. Evidently she expected the relation of a story which she knew. I would disappoint her. I would cause in her first a shock of relief, and then I would reawaken her fears and probe her very soul. Slowly, and as if it were a matter of course, I proceeded to say:

"It was a run-away match, and as the young husband remarked, 'a great disappointment to my wife's father, who is an English general and a great man. My wife loves me, and will never allow herself to be torn from me; but she is not of age, and her father is but a few minutes' ride behind us. Will you let us come in? We dare not risk the encounter on the road; he would shoot me down like a dog, and that would kill my young wife. If we see him here, he may take pity on our love, and—'

"He needed to say no more. My own compassion had been excited, as much by her countenance as by his words, and I threw open the doors of this very room.

"'Go in,' said I, 'I have a woman's heart, and cannot bear to see young people in distress. When the general comes—'

"'We shall hear him,' cried the girl; 'he has half a dozen horsemen with him. We saw them when we were on the brow of the hill.'

"'Take comfort, then,' I cried, as I closed the door, and went to see after the solitary horse which had brought them to this place.

"But before I could provide the meal with which I meant to strengthen them for the scene that must presently ensue, I heard the anticipated clattering of hoofs, and simultaneously with it, the unclosing of this door and the cry of the young wife to her husband:

"'I cannot bear it. At his first words I should fall in a faint; and how could I resist him then? No; let me fly; let me hide myself; and when he comes in, swear that you are here alone; that you brought no bride; that she left you at the altar—anything to baffle his rage and give us time.' And the young thing sprang out before me, and lifting her hands, prayed with great wide-open eyes that I would assist the lie, and swear to her father, when he came in, that her husband had ridden up alone.

"I was not as old then as I am now, I say, and I was very tender toward youthful lovers. Though I thought the scheme a wild one and totally impracticable, she so governed me by her looks and tones that I promised to do what she asked, saying, however, that if she hid herself she must do it well, for if she were found my reputation for reliability would be ruined. And standing there where you see that jog in the wall, she promised, and giving just one look of love to her companion, who stood white but firm on the threshold, she sped from our sight down the hall.

"A moment later the general's foot was where hers had been, and the general's voice was filling the house, asking for his daughter.

"'She is not here,' came from the young man in firm and stern accents. 'You have been pleased to think she was with me all these miles, but you will not find her. You can search if you please. I have nothing to say against that. But it will be time wasted.'

"'We will see about that. The girl is here, is she not?' the father asked, turning to me.

"'No,' was my firm reply; 'she is not.'

"I do not know how I managed the lie, but I did. Something in the young man's aspect had nerved me. I began to think she would not be found, though I could see no good reason for this conclusion.

"'Scatter!' he now shouted to his followers. 'Search the house well. Do not leave a nook or cranny unpenetrated. I am not General B– for nothing.' And turning to me, he added: 'You have brought this on yourself by a lie. I saw my daughter in this fellow's arms as they passed over the ridge of the hill. She is here, and in half an hour will be in my hands.'

"But the clock on the staircase struck not only the half hour, but the hour, and yet, though every room and corridor, the cellar and the garret, were searched, no token was found of the young wife's presence. Meanwhile the husband stood like a statue on the threshold, waiting with what seemed to me a strange certitude for the return of the father from his fruitless search.

"'Has she escaped from one of the windows?' I asked, moved myself to a strange curiosity.

"He looked at me, but made no reply.

"'It is dark; it is late. If the general chooses to remain here to-night—'

"'He will not find her,' was the reply.

"I was frightened—I know not why, but I was frightened. The young man had a supernatural air. I began to think of demon lovers, and was glad when the general finally appeared, storming and raving.

"'It is a conspiracy!' was his cry. 'You are all in league to deceive me. Where is my daughter, Mrs. Truax? I ask you because you have a character to lose.'

"'It is impossible for me to tell you,' was my reply. 'If she was to be found in my house, you must have found her. As you have not, there is but one conclusion to draw. She is not within these walls.'

"'She is not outside of them. I set a watch in the beginning, at the four corners of the house. None of my men have seen so much as a flutter of her dress. She is here, I say, and I ask you to give her up.'

"'This I am perfectly willing to do,' I rejoined, 'but I do not know where to find her. Let that but once be done, and I shall not stand in the way of your rights.'

"'Very well,' he cried. 'I will not search further to-night; but to-morrow—' A meaning gesture finished his sentence; he turned to the young man. 'As for you,' he cried, 'you will remain here. Unpleasant as it may be for us both, we will keep each other's company till morning. I do not insist upon conversation.' And without waiting for a reply, the sturdy old soldier took up his station in the doorway, by which action he not only shut the young man in, but gave himself a position of vantage from which he could survey the main hall and the most prominent passages.

"The rest were under charge of his followers, whom he had stationed all through the house, just as if it were in a state of siege. One guarded the east door and another the west, and on each landing of the staircase a sentinel stood, silent but alert, like a pair of living statues.

"I did not sleep that night; the mystery of the whole affair would have kept me awake even if my indignation had let me rest. I sat in the kitchen with my girls, and when the morning came, I joined the general again with offers of a breakfast.

"But he would eat nothing till he had gone through the house again; nor would he, in fact, eat here at all; for his second search ended as vainly as his first, and he was by this time so wroth, not only at the failure to recover his child, but at the loss which his dignity had suffered by this failure, that he had no sooner reached this spot, and found the young husband still standing where he had left him, than with a smothered execration, leveled not only at him, but the whole house, he strode out through the doorway, and finding his horse ready saddled in front, mounted and rode away, followed by all his troop.

"And now comes the strangest part of the tale.

"He was no sooner gone, and the dust from his horse's hoofs lost in the distance, than I turned to the young husband, and cried:

"'And now where is she? Let us have her here at once. She must be hungry, and she must be cold. Bring her, my good sir.'

"'I do not know where she is. We must be patient. She will return herself as soon as she thinks it safe.'

"I could not believe my ears.

"'You do not know where she is?' I repeated. 'How could you be so self-possessed through all these hours and all this maddened searching if you did not know she was safe?'

"'I did know she was safe. She swore to me before she set foot on your doorstep that she could so hide herself in these walls that no one could ever find her till she chose to reveal herself; and I believed her, and felt secure.'

"I did not know what to say.

"'But she is a stranger,' I murmured. 'What does she know about my house?'

"'She is a stranger to you,' he retorted, 'but she may not be a stranger to the house. How long have you lived here?'

"I could not say long. It was at the most but a year; so I merely shook my head, but I felt strangely nonplussed.

"This feeling, however, soon gave way to one much more serious as the moments fled by and presently the hours, and she did not come. We tried to curb our impatience, tried to believe that her delay was only owing to extra caution; but as morning waxed to noon, alarm took the place of satisfaction in our breasts, and we began to search the house ourselves, calling her name up and down the halls and through the empty rooms, till it seemed as if the very walls must open and reveal us the being so frantically desired.

"'She is not in the house,' I now asserted to the almost frenzied bridegroom. 'Our lies have come back upon our heads, and it is in the river we must look for her.'

"But he would not agree with me in this, and repeated again and again: 'She said she would hide here. She would not deceive me, nor would she have sought death alone. Leave me to look for her another hour. I must, I can, I will find her yet!'

"But he never did. After that last fond look with which she turned down that very hall you see before you, we saw her no more; and if my house owns no ghost and never echoes to the sound of a banshee's warning, it is not because it does not own a mystery which is certainly thrilling enough to give us either."

"Oh!" cried out several voices, as I ceased, "is that all? And what became of the poor bridegroom? And did the father ever come back? And haven't you ever really found out where the poor thing went to? And do you think she died?"

For reply I rose. I had never taken my eye off madame, and the strain upon us both had been terrible; but I let my glance wander now, and smiling genially into the eager faces which had crowded around me, I remarked:

"I never spoil a good story by too many explanations. You have heard all you will from me to-night. So do not question me further. Am I not right, madame?"

"Perfectly," came in her even tones. "And I am sure we are all very much obliged to you."

I bowed and slipped away into the background. I was worn out.

An hour later I was passing through the hall above on my way to my own room. As I passed madame's door, I saw it open, and before I had taken three steps away I felt her soft hand on my arm.

"Your pardon, Mrs. Truax," were her words; "but my daughter has been peculiarly affected by the story you related to us below. She says it is worse than any ghost story, and that she cannot rid herself of the picture of the young wife flitting out of sight down the hall. I am really afraid it has produced a very bad effect upon her, and that she will not sleep. Is it—was it a true story, Mrs. Truax, or were you merely weaving fancies out of a too fertile brain?"

I smiled, for she was smiling, and shook my head, looking directly into her eyes.

"Your daughter need not lose her sleep," I said, "on account of any story of mine. I saw they wanted something blood-curdling, so I made up a tale to please them. It was all imagination, madame; all imagination. I should not have told it if it had been otherwise. I think too much of my house."

"And you had nothing to found it upon? Just drew upon your fancy?"

I smiled. Her light tone did not deceive me as to the anxiety underlying all this; but it was not in my plan to betray my powers of penetration. I preferred that she should think me her dupe.

"Oh," I returned, as ingenuously as if I had never had a suspicious thought, "I do not find it difficult to weave a tale. Of course such a story could not be true. Why, I should be afraid to stay in the inn myself if it were. I could never abide anything mysterious. Everything with me must be as open as the day."

"And with me," she laughed; but there was a false note in her mirth, though I did not appear to notice it. "I did not suppose the story was real, but I thought you must have some old tradition to found it upon; some old wife's tale or some secret history which is a part and parcel of the house, and came to you with it."

But I shook my head, still smiling, and answered, quite at my ease:

"No old wife's tale that I have ever heard amounts to much. I can make up a better story any day than those which come down with a house like this. It was all the work of my imagination, I assure you. I tried to please them, and I hope I did it."

Her face changed at once. It was as if a black veil had been drawn away from it.

"My daughter will be so relieved," she affirmed. "I don't mind such lugubrious tales myself, but she is young and sensitive, and so tender-hearted. I am sure I thank you, Mrs. Truax, for your consideration, and beg leave to wish you a good-night."

I returned her civility, and we passed into our several rooms. Would I could know with what thoughts, for my own were as much a mystery to me as were hers.

October 9, 1791.

Madame never addresses her daughter by her first name. Consequently we do not know it. This is a matter of surprise to the whole house, and many are the conjectures uttered by the young men as to what it can be. I have no especial curiosity about it—I would much rather know the mother's, and yet I frequently wonder; for it seems unnatural for a mother always to address her child as mademoiselle. Is she her mother? I sometimes think she is not. If the interest in the oak parlor is what I think it is, then she cannot be, for what mother would wish to bring peril to her child? And peril lies at the bottom of all interest there; peril to the helpless, the trusting and the ignorant. But is she as interested there as I thought her? I have observed nothing lately to assure me of it. Perhaps, after all, I have been mistaken.

CHAPTER XIX.

IN THE HALLS AT MIDNIGHT

October 10, 1791.

I was not mistaken. Madame is not only interested in, but has serious designs upon the oak parlor. Not content with roaming up and down the hallway leading to it, she was detected yesterday morning trying to open its door, and when politely questioned as to whom she was seeking, answered that she was looking for the sitting room, which, by the way, is on the other side of the house. And this is not all. As I lay in my bed last night resting as only a weary woman can rest, I heard a light tap at my door. Rising, I opened it, and was astonished to see standing before me the light figure of mademoiselle.

"Excuse me for troubling you," said she, in her pure English—they both speak good English, though with a foreign accent—"I am sorry to wake you, but I am so anxious about my mother. She went to bed with me, and we fell asleep; but when I woke a little while ago she was missing, and though I have waited for her a long time, she does not return. I am not well, and easily frightened! Oh, how cold it is."

I drew her in, wrapped a shawl about her, and led her back to her room.

"Your mother will return speedily," I promised. "Doubtless she felt restless, and is taking a turn or two up and down the hall."

"Perhaps; for her dressing gown and slippers are gone. But she never did anything like this before, and in a strange house—"

A slight trembling stopped the young lady from continuing.

Urging her to get into bed, I spoke one or two further words of a comforting nature, at which the lovely girl seemed to forget her pride, for she threw her arms about my neck with a low sigh, and then, pushing me softly from her, observed:

"You are a kind woman; you make me feel happier whenever you speak to me."

Touched, I made some loving reply, and withdrew. I longed to linger, longed to tell her how truly I was her friend; but I feared the mother's return—feared to miss the knowledge of madame's whereabouts, which my secret suspicion made important; so I subdued my feelings and hastened quickly to my room, where I wrapped myself in a long, dark cloak. Thus equipped, I stole back again to the hall, and gliding with as noiseless a step as possible, found my way to the back stairs, down which I crept, holding my breath, and listening intently.

To many who read these words the situation of those back stairs is well known; but there may be others who will not understand that they lead directly, after a couple of turns, to that hall upon which opens the oak parlor. Five steps from the lower floor there is a landing, and upon this landing there is a tall Dutch clock, so placed as to offer a very good hiding place behind it to any one anxious to gaze unobserved down the hall. But to reach the clock one has to pass a window, and as this looks south, and was upon this night open to the moonlight, I felt that the situation demanded circumspection.

I, therefore, paused when I reached the last step above the platform, and listened intently before proceeding further. There was no noise; all was quiet, as a respectable house should be at two o'clock in the morning. Yet from the hall below came an undefinable something which made me feel that she was there; a breathing influence that woke every nervous sensibility within me, and made my heart-beats so irregular that I tried to stop them lest my own presence should be betrayed. She was there, a creeping, baleful figure, blotting the moonshine with her tall shadow, as she passed, panther-like, to and fro before that closed door, or crouched against the wall in the same attitude of listening which I myself assumed. Or so I pictured her as I clung to the balustrade above, asking myself how I could cross that strip of moonlight separating me from that vantage-point I longed to gain. For that I knew her to be there was not enough. I must see her, and learn, if possible, what the attraction was which drew her to this fatal door. But how, how, how? If she were watching, as secrecy ever watches, I could not take a step upon that platform without being discerned. Not even if a friendly cloud came to obscure the brightness of the moon, could I hope to project my dark figure into that belt of light without discovery. I must see what was to be seen from the step where I stood, and to do this I knew but one way. Taking up the end of my long cloak, I advanced it the merest trifle beyond the edge of the partition that separated me from the hall below. Then I listened again. No sound, no stir. I breathed deeply and thrust my arm still further, the long cloak hanging from it dark and impenetrable to the floor below. Then I waited. The moonlight was not quite as bright as it had been; surely that was a cloud I saw careering over the face of the sky above me, and in another moment, if I could wait for it, the hall would be almost dark. I let my arm advance an inch or so further, and satisfied now that I had got the slit which answers for an arm-hole into a position that would afford me full opportunity of looking through the black wall I had thus improvised, I watched the cloud for the moment of comparative darkness which I so confidently expected. It came, and with it a sound—the first I had heard. It was from far down the hall, and was, as near as I could judge, of a jingling nature, which for an instant I found it hard to understand. Then the quick suspicion came as to what it was, and unable to restrain myself longer I separated the slit I have spoken of with the fingers of my right hand, and looked through.

There she was, standing before the door of the oak parlor, fitting keys. I knew it at my first glimpse, both from her attitude and the slight noise which the keys made. Taken aback, for I had not expected this, I sank out of sight, cloak and all, asking myself what I should do. I finally decided to do nothing. I would listen, and if the least intimation came to prove that she had succeeded in her endeavor, I would then spring down the steps that separated us and hold her back by the hair of her head. Meanwhile I congratulated myself that the lock of that room was a peculiar one, and that the only key I knew of that would unlock it was under the pillow of the bed I had just left.

She worked several minutes; then the moon came out. Instantly all was still. I knew whither she had gone. Near the door she was tampering with is a short passageway leading to another window. Into this she had slipped, and I could look out now with impunity, sure that she would not see me.

But I remained immovable. There was another cloud rushing up from the south, and in another moment I was confident that I should hear again the slight clatter of the key against the lock. And I did, and not only once, but several times, which fact assured me that she had not only brought a handful of keys with her, but that these keys must have come from some more distant quarter than the town; that indeed she had come provided to the Happy-Go-Lucky for this nocturnal visit, and that any doubts I might cherish were likely to have a better foundation in fact than is usual with women circumstanced like myself.

She did not succeed in her efforts. Had she brought burglar's tools I hardly think she would have been able to open that lock; as it was, there was no hope for her, and presently she seemed to comprehend this, for the slight sounds ceased and, presently, I heard a step, and peering recklessly from my corner, I perceived her gliding away toward the front stairs. I smiled, but it could not have been in a way she would have enjoyed seeing, and crept noiselessly to my own room, and our doors closed simultaneously.

This morning I watched with some anxiety for her first look. It was slightly inquiring. Summoning up my best smile, I gave her a cheerful good-morning, and then observed:

"I am glad to see you look so well this morning! Your daughter seemed to be concerned about you in the night because you had left your bed. But I told her I was sure all was right, that you were feeling nervous, and only wanted a breath of the fresh air you would find in the halls." And my glance did not flinch, nor my mouth lose its smile, though she surveyed me keenly with eyes whose look might penetrate a stone.

"You understand your own sex," was her light reply, after this short study of my face. "Yes; I was very nervous. I have cares on my mind, and, though my daughter does not realize it, I often lie awake at her side, longing for space to breathe in and freedom to move as freely as my uneasiness demands. Last night my feelings were too much for my self-control, and I arose. I hope I did not seriously disturb you, or awaken anybody, with my restless pacing up and down the hall."

I assured her that it took more than this to disturb me, and that after quieting her daughter I had immediately fallen asleep; all of which she may have believed or may not; I had no means of reading her mind, as she had no means of reading mine.

But whether she was deceived or whether she was not, she certainly looked relieved, and after some short remarks about the weather, turned from me with the most cheerful air in the world, to greet her daughter.

As for me, I have made up my mind to change my room. I shall not say anything about it or make any fuss on the subject, but to-night, and for some nights to come, I intend to take up my abode in a certain small room in the west wing, not very far removed from the dreadful oak parlor.

CHAPTER XX.

THE STONE IN THE GARDEN

October 11, 1791.

This morning the post brought two letters for my strange guests. Being anxious to see how they would be received, I carried them up to Madame Letellier's room myself.

The ladies were sitting together, the daughter embroidering. At the sight of the letters in my hand they both rose, the daughter reaching me first.

"Let me have them!" she cried, a glad, bright color showing for a moment on her cheek.

"From your father?" asked the mother, in a tone of nonchalance that did not deceive me.

The girl shook her head. A smile as exquisite as it was sad made her mouth beautiful. "From—" she began, but stopped, whether from an instinct of maidenly shame or some secret signal from her mother, I cannot say.

"Well, never mind," the mother exclaimed, and turned away toward the window in a manner that gave me my dismissal.