A DEBT OF HONOR.
A GHOST STORY.
Hush! what was that cry, so low but yet so piercing, so strange but yetso sorrowful? It was not the marmot upon the side of the Righi--it wasnot the heron down by the lake; no, it was distinctively human. Hush!there it is again--from the churchyard which I have just left!
Not ten minutes have elapsed since I was sitting on the low wall of thechurchyard of Weggis, watching the calm glories of the moonlightilluminating with silver splendor the lake of Lucerne; and I am certainthere was no one within the inclosure but myself.
I am mistaken, surely. What a silence there is upon the night! Not abreath of air now to break up into a thousand brilliant ripples the longreflection of the August moon, or to stir the foliage of the chestnuts;not a voice in the village; no splash of oar upon the lake. All lifeseems at perfect rest, and the solemn stillness that reigns about thetopmost glaciers of S. Gothard has spread its mantle over the warmerworld below.
I must not linger; as it is, I shall have to wake up the porter to letme into the hotel. I hurry on.
Not ten paces, though. Again I hear the cry. This time it sounds to melike the long, sad sob of a wearied and broken heart. Without staying toreason with myself, I quickly retrace my steps.
I stumble about among the iron crosses and the graves, and displace inmy confusion wreaths of immortelles and fresher flowers. A hugemausoleum stands between me and the wall upon which I had been sittingnot a quarter of an hour ago. The mausoleum casts a deep shadow upon theside nearest to me. Ah! something is stirring there. I strain myeyes--the figure of a man passes slowly out of the shade, and silentlyoccupies my place upon the wall. It must have been his lips that gaveout that miserable sound.
What shall I do? Compassion and curiosity are strong. The man whoseheart can be rent so sorely ought not to be allowed to linger here withhis despair. He is gazing, as I did, upon the lake. I mark hisprofile--clear-cut and symmetrical; I catch the lustre of large eyes.The face, as I can see it, seems very still and placid. I may bemistaken; he may merely be a wanderer like myself; perhaps he heard thethree strange cries, and has also come to seek the cause. I feelimpelled to speak to him.
I pass from the path by the church to the east side of the mausoleum,and so come toward him, the moon full upon his features. Great heaven!how pale his face is!
"Good-evening, sir. I thought myself alone here, and wondered that noother travellers had found their way to this lovely spot. Charming, isit not?"
For a moment he says nothing, but his eyes are full upon me. At last hereplies:
"It is charming, as you say, Mr. Reginald Westcar."
"You know me?" I exclaim, in astonishment.
"Pardon me, I can scarcely claim a personal acquaintance. But yours isthe only English name entered to-day in the Livre des Etrangers."
"You are staying at the Hotel de la Concorde, then?"
An inclination of the head is all the answer vouchsafed.
"May I ask," I continue, "whether you heard just now a very strange cryrepeated three times?"
A pause. The lustrous eyes seem to search me through and through--I canhardly bear their gaze. Then he replies.
"I fancy I heard the echoes of some such sounds as you describe."
The _echoes_! Is this, then, the man who gave utterance to those criesof woe! is it possible? The face seems so passionless; but the pallor ofthose features bears witness to some terrible agony within.
"I thought some one must be in distress," I rejoin, hastily; "and Ihurried back to see if I could be of any service."
"Very good of you," he answers, coldly; "but surely such a place as thisis not unaccustomed to the voice of sorrow."
"No doubt. My impulse was a mistaken one."
"But kindly meant. You will not sleep less soundly for acting on thatimpulse, Reginald Westcar."
He rises as he speaks. He throws his cloak round him, and standsmotionless. I take the hint. My mysterious countryman wishes to bealone. Some one that he has loved and lost lies buried here.
"Good-night, sir," I say, as I move in the direction of the littlechapel at the gate. "Neither of us will sleep the less soundly forthinking of the perfect repose that reigns around this place."
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"The dead," I reply, as I stretch my hand toward the graves. "Do you notremember the lines in 'King Lear'?
"'After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.'"
"But _you_ have never died, Reginald Westcar. You know nothing of thesleep of death."
For the third time he speaks my name almost familiarly, and--I know notwhy--a shudder passes through me. I have no time, in my turn, to ask himwhat he means; for he strides silently away into the shadow of thechurch, and I, with a strange sense of oppression upon me, returned tomy hotel.
* * * * *
The events which I have just related passed in vivid recollectionthrough my mind as I travelled northward one cold November day in theyear 185--. About six months previously I had taken my degree at Oxford,and had since been enjoying a trip upon the continent; and on my returnto London I found a letter awaiting me from my lawyers, informing mesomewhat to my astonishment, that I had succeeded to a small estate inCumberland. I must tell you exactly how this came about. My mother was aMiss Ringwood, and she was the youngest of three children: the eldestwas Aldina, the second was Geoffrey, and the third (my mother) Alice.Their mother (who had been a widow since my mother's birth) lived atthis little place in Cumberland, and which was known as The Shallows;she died shortly after my mother's marriage with my father, CaptainWestcar. My aunt Aldina and my uncle Geoffrey--the one at that time agedtwenty-eight, and the other twenty-six--continued to reside at TheShallows. My father and mother had to go to India, where I was born, andwhere, when quite a child, I was left an orphan. A few months after mymother's marriage my aunt disappeared; a few weeks after that event, andmy uncle Geoffrey dropped down dead, as he was playing at cards with Mr.Maryon, the proprietor of a neighboring mansion known as The Mere. Afortnight after my uncle's death, my aunt Aldina returned to TheShallows, and never left it again till she was carried out in her coffinto her grave in the churchyard. Ever since her return from hermysterious disappearance she maintained an impenetrable reserve. As aschoolboy I visited her twice or thrice, but these visits depressed myyouthful spirits to such an extent, that as I grew older I excusedmyself from accepting my aunt's not very pressing invitations; and atthe time I am now speaking of I had not seen her for eight or ten years.I was rather surprised, therefore, when she bequeathed me The Shallows,which, as the surviving child, she inherited under her mother'smarriage settlement.
But The Shallows had always exercised a grim influence over me, and theknowledge that I was now going to it as my home oppressed me. The roadseemed unusually dark, cold, and lonely. At last I passed the lodge, andtwo hundred yards more brought me to the porch. Very soon the door wasopened by an elderly female, whom I well remembered as having been myaunt's housekeeper and cook. I had pleasant recollections of her, andwas glad to see her. To tell the truth, I had not anticipated my visitto my newly acquired property with any great degree of enthusiasm; but avery tolerable dinner had an inspiriting effect, and I was pleased tolearn that there was a bin of old Madeira in the cellar. Naturally Isoon grew cheerful, and consequently talkative; and summoned Mrs. Balkfor a little gossip. The substance of what I gathered from her ratherdiffusive conversation was as follows:
My aunt had resided at The Shallows ever since the death of my uncleGeoffrey, but she had maintained a silent and reserved habit; and Mrs.Balk was of opinion that she had had some great misfortune. She hadpersistently refused all intercourse with the people at The Mere. SquireMaryon, himself a cold and taciturn man, had once or twice showed adisposition to be friendly, but she had sternly repulsed all suchovertures. Mrs. Balk was of opinion that Miss Ringwood was not "quiteright," as she expressed it, on some topics; especially did she seemimpressed with the idea t
hat The Mere ought to belong to her. Itappeared that the Ringwoods and Maryons were distant connections; thatThe Mere belonged in former times to a certain Sir Henry Benet; that hewas a bachelor, and that Squire Maryon's father and old Mr. Ringwoodwere cousins of his, and that there was some doubt as to which was thereal heir; that Sir Henry, who disliked old Maryon, had frequently saidhe had set any chance of dispute at rest, by bequeathing the Mereproperty by will to Mr. Ringwood, my mother's father; that, on hisdeath, no such will could be found; and the family lawyers agreed thatMr. Maryon was the legal inheritor, and my uncle Geoffrey and hissisters must be content to take the Shallows, or nothing at all. Mr.Maryon was comparatively rich, and the Ringwoods poor, consequently theywere advised not to enter upon a costly lawsuit. My aunt Aldinamaintained to the last that Sir Henry had made a will, and that Mr.Maryon knew it, but had destroyed or suppressed the document. I did notgather from Mrs. Balk's narrative that Miss Ringwood had any foundationfor her belief, and I dismissed the notion at once as baseless.
"And my uncle Geoffrey died of apoplexy, you say, Mrs. Balk?"
"_I_ don't say so, sir, no more did Miss Ringwood; but _they_ said so."
"Whom do you mean by _they_?"
"The people at The Mere--the young doctor, a friend of Squire Maryon's,who was brought over from York, and the rest; he fell heavily from hischair, and his head struck against the fender."
"Playing at cards with Mr. Maryon, I think you said."
"Yes, sir; he was too fond of cards, I believe, was Mr. Geoffrey."
"Is Mr. Maryon seen much in the county--is he hospitable?"
"Well, sir, he goes up to London a good deal, and has some friends downfrom town occasionally; but he does not seem to care much about thepeople in the neighborhood."
"He has some children, Mrs. Balk?"
"Only one daughter, sir; a sweet pretty thing she is. Her mother diedwhen Miss Agnes was born."
"You have no idea, Mrs. Balk, what my aunt Aldina's great misfortunewas?"
"Well, sir, I can't help thinking it must have been a love affair. Shealways hated men so much."
"Then why did she leave The Shallows to me, Mrs. Balk?"
"Ah, you are laughing, sir. No doubt she considered that The Mere oughtto belong to you, as the heir of the Ringwoods, and she placed you here,as near as might be to the place."
"In hopes that I might marry Miss Maryon, eh, Mrs. Balk?"
"You are laughing again, sir. I don't imagine she thought so much ofthat, as of the possibility of your discovering something about themissing will."
I bade the communicative Mrs. Balk good night and retired to mybedroom--a low, wide, sombre, oak-panelled chamber. I must confess thatfamily stories had no great interest for me, living apart from them atschool and college as I had done; and as I undressed I thought more ofthe probabilities of sport the eight hundred acres of wild shootingbelonging to The Shallows would afford me, than of the supposed will mypoor aunt had evidently worried herself about so much. Thoroughly tiredafter my long journey, I soon fell fast asleep amid the deep shadows ofthe huge four-poster I mentally resolved to chop up into firewood at anearly date, and substitute for it a more modern iron bedstead.
How long I had been asleep I do not know, but I suddenly started up, theecho of a long, sad cry ringing in my ears.
I listened eagerly--sensitive to the slightest sound--painfullysensitive as one is only in the deep silence of the night.
I heard the old-fashioned clock I had noticed on the stairs strikethree. The reverberation seemed to last a long time, then all was silentagain. "A dream," I muttered to myself, as I lay down upon the pillow;"Madeira is a heating wine. But what can I have been dreaming of?"
Sleep seemed to have gone altogether, and the busy mind wandered amongthe continental scenes I had lately visited. By and by I found myself inmemory once more within the Weggis churchyard. I was satisfied; I hadtraced my dream to the cries that I had heard there. I turned round tosleep again. Perhaps I fell into a doze--I cannot say; but again Istarted up at the repetition, as it seemed outside my window, of thatcry of sadness and despair. I hastily drew aside the heavy curtains ofmy bed--at that moment the room seemed to be illuminated with a dim,unearthly light--and I saw, gradually growing into human shape, thefigure of a woman. I recognized in it my aunt, Miss Ringwood.Horror-struck, I gazed at the apparition; it advanced a little--the lipsmoved--I heard it distinctly say:
"_Reginald Westcar, The Mere belongs to you. Compel John Maryon to paythe debt of honor!_"
I fell back senseless.
When next I returned to consciousness, it was when I was called in themorning; the shutters were opened, and I saw the red light of thedawning winter sun.
* * * * *
There is a strange sympathy between the night and the mind. All one'stroubles represent themselves as increased a hundredfold if one wakes inthe night, and begins to think about them. A muscular pain becomes thecertainty of an incurable internal disease; and a headache suggestsincipient softening of the brain. But all these horrors are dissipatedwith the morning light, and the after-glow of a cold bath turns theminto jokes. So it was with me on the morning after my arrival at TheShallows. I accounted most satisfactorily for all that had occurred, orseemed to have occurred, during the night; and resolved that, though theold Madeira was uncommonly good, I must be careful in future not todrink more than a couple of glasses after dinner. I need scarcely saythat I said nothing to Mrs. Balk of my bad dreams, and shortly afterbreakfast I took my gun, and went out in search of such game as I mightchance to meet with. At three o'clock I sent the keeper home, as hiscapacious pockets were pretty well filled, telling him that I thought Iknew the country, and should stroll back leisurely. The gray gloom ofthe November evening was spreading over the sky as I came upon a smallplantation which I believed belonged to me. I struck straight across it;emerging from its shadows, I found myself by a small stream and somemarshy land; on the other side another small plantation. A snipe got up,I fired, and tailored it. I marked the bird into this other plantation,and followed. Up got a covey of partridges--bang, bang--one down by theside of an oak. I was about to enter this covert, when a lady andgentleman emerged, and, struck with the unpleasant thought that I waspossibly trespassing, I at once went forward to apologize.
Before I could say a word, the gentleman addressed me.
"May I ask, sir, if I have given you permission to shoot over mypreserves?"
"I beg to express my great regret, sir," I replied, as I lifted my hatin acknowledgment of the lady's presence, "that I should have trespassedupon your land. I can only plead, as my excuse, that I fully believed Iwas still upon the manor belonging to The Shallows."
"Gentlemen who go out shooting ought to know the limits of theirestates," he answered harshly; "the boundaries of The Shallows are welldefined, nor is the area they contain so very extensive. You have noright upon this side the stream, sir; oblige me by returning."
I merely bowed, for I was nettled by his tone, and as I turned away Inoticed that the young lady whispered to him.
"One moment, sir," he said, "my daughter suggests the possibility ofyour being the new owner of The Shallows. May I ask if this is so?"
It had not occurred to me before, but I understood in a moment to whom Ihad been speaking, and I replied:
"Yes, Mr. Maryon--my name is Westcar."
Such was my introduction to Mr. and Miss Maryon. The proprietor of TheMere appeared to be a gentleman, but his manners were cold and reserved,and a careful observer might have remarked a perpetual restlessness inthe eyes, as if they were physically incapable of regarding the sameobject for more than a moment. He was about sixty years of age,apparently; and though he now and again made an effort to carry himselfupright, the head and shoulders soon drooped again, as if the weight ofyears, and, it might be, the memory of the past, were a heavy load tocarry. Of Miss Maryon it is sufficient to say that she was nineteen ortwenty, and it did not need a second glance to sati
sfy me that herbeauty was of no ordinary kind.
I must hurry over the records of the next few weeks. I became a frequentvisitor at The Mere. Mr. Maryon's manner never became cordial, but hedid not seem displeased to see me; and as to Agnes,--well, she certainlywas not displeased either.
I think it was on Christmas Day that I suddenly discovered that I wasdesperately in love. Miss Maryon had been for two or three days confinedto her room by a bad cold, and I found myself in a great state ofanxiety to see her again. I am sorry to say that my thoughts wandered agood deal when I was at church upon that festival, and I could not helpthinking what ample room there was for a bridal procession up thespacious aisle. Suddenly my eyes rested upon a mural tablet, inscribed,"To the memory of Aldina Ringwood." Then with a cold thrill there cameback upon me what I had almost forgotten, the dream, or whatever it was,that had occurred on that first night at The Shallows; and those strangewords--"The Mere belongs to you. Compel John Maryon to pay the debt ofhonor!" Nothing but the remembrance of Agnes' sweet face availed for thetime to banish the vision, the statement, and the bidding.
Miss Maryon was soon down-stairs again. Did I flatter myself too much inthinking that she was as glad to see me as I was to see her? No--I feltsure that I did not. Then I began to reflect seriously upon my position.My fortune was small, quite enough for me, but not enough for two; andas she was heiress of The Mere and a comfortable rent-roll of some sixor eight thousand a year, was it not natural that Mr. Maryon expectedher to make what is called a "good match"? Still, I could not concealfrom myself the fact, that he evinced no objection whatever to myfrequent visits at his house, nor to my taking walks with his daughterwhen he was unable to accompany us.
One bright, frosty day I had been down to the lake with Miss Maryon, andhad enjoyed the privilege of teaching her to skate; and on returning tothe house, we met Mr. Maryon upon the terrace, He walked with us to theconservatory; we went in to examine the plants, and he remained outside,pacing up and down the terrace. Both Agnes and myself were strangelysilent; perhaps my tongue had found an eloquence upon the ice which waswell met by a shy thoughtfulness upon her part. But there was a lovelycolor upon her cheeks, and I experienced a very considerable and unusualfluttering about my heart. It happened as we were standing at the doorof the conservatory, both of us silently looking away from the flowersupon the frosty view, that our eyes lighted at the same time upon Mr.Maryon. He, too, was apparently regarding the prospect, when suddenly hepaused and staggered back, as if something unexpected met his gaze.
"Oh, poor papa! I hope he is not going to have one of his fits!"exclaimed Agnes.
"Fits! Is he subject to such attacks?" I inquired.
"Not ordinary fits," she answered hurriedly; "I hardly know how toexplain them. They come upon him occasionally, and generally at thisperiod of the year."
"Shall we go to him?" I suggested.
"No; you cannot help him; and he cannot bear that they should benoticed."
We both watched him. His arms were stretched up above his head, andagain he recoiled a step or two. I sought for an explanation in Agnes'face.
"A stranger!" she exclaimed. "Who can it be?"
I looked toward Mr. Maryon. A tall figure of a man had come from thefarther side of the house; he wore a large, loose coat and a kind ofmilitary cap upon his head.
"Doubtless you are surprised to see me, John," we heard the new-comersay, in a confident voice, "but I am not the devil, man, that you shouldgreet me with such a peculiar attitude." He held out his hand, andcontinued, "Come, don't let the warmth of old fellowship be all on oneside, this wintry day."
We could see that Mr. Maryon took the proffered right hand with his leftfor an instant, then seemed to shrink away, but exchanged no word ofthis greeting.
"I don't understand this," said Agnes, and we both hurried forward. Thestranger, seeing Agnes approach, lifted his cap.
"Ah, your daughter, John, no doubt. I see the likeness to her lamentedmother. Pray introduce me."
Mr. Maryon's usually pallid features had assumed a still paler hue, andhe said in a low voice:
"Colonel Bludyer--my daughter." Agnes barely bowed.
"Charmed to renew your acquaintance, Miss Maryon. When last I saw you,you were quite a baby; but your father and I are very old friends--arewe not, John?"
Mr. Maryon vaguely nodded his head.
"Well, John, you have often pressed your hospitality upon me, but tillnow I have never had an opportunity of availing myself of your kindoffers; so I have brought my bag, and intend at last to give you thepleasure of my company for a few days."
I certainly should have thought that a man of Mr. Maryon's dispositionwould have resented such conduct as this, or, at all events, have giventhis self-invited guest a chilling welcome. Mr. Maryon, however, in aconfused and somewhat stammering tone, said that he was glad ColonelBludyer had come at last, and bade his daughter go and make thenecessary arrangements. Agnes, in silent astonishment, entered thehouse, and then Mr. Maryon turned to me hastily and bade me good-by. Ina by no means comfortable frame of mind I returned to The Shallows.
The sudden advent of this miscellaneous colonel was naturally somewhatirritating to me. Not only did I regard the man as an intolerable bore,but I could not help fancying that he was something more than an oldfriend of Mr. Maryon's; in fact, I was led to judge, by Mr. Maryon'sstrange conduct, that this Bludyer had some power over him which mightbe exercised to the detriment of the Maryon family, and I was convincedthere was some mystery it was my business to penetrate.
The following day I went up to The Mere to see if Miss Maryon wasdesirous of renewing her skating lesson. I found the party in thebilliard-room, Agnes marking for her father and the Colonel. Mr. Maryon,whom I knew to be an exceptionally good player, seemed incapable ofmaking a decent stroke; the Colonel, on the other hand, could evidentlygive a professional fifteen, and beat him easily. We all went down tothe lake together. I had no chance of any quiet conversation with Agnes;the Colonel was perpetually beside us.
I returned home disgusted. For two whole days I did not go near TheMere. On the third day I went up, hoping that the horrid Colonel wouldbe gone. It was beginning to snow when I left The Shallows at about twoo'clock in the afternoon, and Mrs. Balk foretold a heavy storm, and bademe not be late returning.
The black winter darkness in the sky deepened as I approached The Mere.I was ushered again into the billiard-room. Agnes was marking, as uponthe previous occasion, but two days had worked a sad difference in herface. Mr. Maryon hardly noticed my entrance; he was flushed, and playingeagerly; the Colonel was boisterous, declaring that John had neverplayed better twenty years ago. I relieved Agnes of the duty of marking.The snow fell in a thick layer upon the skylight, and the Colonel becameseriously anxious about my return home. As I did not think he was theproper person to give me hints, I resolutely remained where I was,encouraged in my behavior by the few words I gained from Agnes, and bythe looks of entreaty she gave me. I had always considered Mr. Maryon tobe an abstemious man, but he drank a good deal of brandy and soda duringthe long game of seven hundred up, and when he succeeded in beating theColonel by forty-three, he was in roaring spirits, and insisted upon mystaying to dinner. Need I say that I accepted the invitation?
I made such toilet as I could in a most unattainable chamber that wasallotted to me, and hurried back to the drawing-room in the hope that Imight get a few private words with Agnes. I was not disappointed. She,too, had hurried down, and in a few words I learned that thisabominable Bludyer was paying her his coarse attentions, and with,apparently, the full consent of Mr. Maryon. My indignation wasunbounded. Was it possible that Mr. Maryon intended to sacrifice thisfair creature to that repulsive man?
Mr. Maryon had appeared in excellent spirits when dinner began, and thefirst glass or two of champagne made him merrier than I thought itpossible for him to be. But by the time the dessert was on the table hehad grown silent and thoughtful; nor did he respond to the warmeulogiums the Colonel passed
upon the magnum of claret which was setbefore us.
After dinner we sat in the library. The Colonel left the room to fetchsome cigars he had been loudly extolling. Then Agnes had an opportunityof whispering to me.
"Look at papa--see how strangely he sits--his hands clenching the armsof the chair, his eyes fixed upon the blazing coals! How old he seems tobe to-night! His terrible fits are coming on--he is always like thistoward the end of January!" The Colonel's return put an end to anyfurther confidential talk.
When we separated for the night, I felt that my going to bed would bepurposeless. I felt most painfully wide awake. I threw myself down uponmy bed, and worried myself by trying to imagine what secret there couldbe between Maryon and Bludyer--for that a secret of some kind existed, Ifelt certain. I tossed about till I heard the stroke of one. A dreadfulrestlessness had come upon me. It seemed as if the solemn night-side oflife was busy waking now, but the silence and solitude of my antiquechamber became too much for me. I rose from my bed, and paced up anddown the room. I raked up the dying embers of the fire, and drew anarm-chair to the hearth. I fell into a doze. By and by I woke upsuddenly, and I was conscious of stealthy footsteps in the passage. Mysense of hearing became painfully acute. I heard the footstepsretreating down the corridor, until they were lost in the distance. Icautiously opened the door, and, shading the candle with my hand, lookedout--there was nothing to be seen; but I felt that I could not remainquietly in my room, and, closing the door behind me, I went out insearch of I knew not what.
The sitting-rooms and bedrooms in ordinary use at The Mere were in themodern part of the house; but there was an old Elizabethan wing which Ihad often longed to explore, and in this strange ramble of mine I soonhad reason to be satisfied that I was well within it. At the end of anoak-panelled narrow passage a door stood open, and I entered a low,sombre apartment fitted with furniture in the style of two hundred yearsago. There was something awfully ghostly about the look of this room. Agreat four-post bedstead, with heavy hangings, stood in a deep recess; around oak table and two high-backed chairs were in the centre of theroom. Suddenly, as I gazed on these things, I heard stealthy footstepsin the passage, and saw a dim light advancing. Acting on a suddenimpulse, I extinguished my candle and withdrew into the shadow of therecess, watching eagerly. The footsteps came nearer. My heart seemed tostand still with expectation. They paused outside the door, for amoment really--for an age it seemed to me. Then, to my astonishment, Isaw Mr. Maryon enter. He carried a small night-lamp in his hand. Anotherglance satisfied me that he was walking in his sleep. He came straightto the round table, and set down the lamp. He seated himself in one ofthe high-backed chairs, his vacant eyes staring at the chair opposite;then his lips began to move quickly, as if he were addressing some one.Then he rose, went to the bureau, and seemed to take something from it;then he sat down again. What a strange action of his hands! At first Icould not understand it; then it flashed upon me that in this dream ofhis he must be shuffling cards. Yes, he began to deal; then he wasplaying with his adversary--his lips moving anxiously at times.
A look of terrible eagerness came over the sleepwalker's countenance.With nimble fingers he dealt the cards, and played. Suddenly with asweep of his hand he seemed to fling the pack into the fireplace,started from his seat, grappled with his unseen adversary, raised hispowerful right hand, and struck a tremendous blow. Hush! more footstepsalong the passage! Am I deceived? From my concealment I watch for whatis to follow. Colonel Bludyer comes in, half dressed, but wide awake.
"You maniac!" I hear him mutter: "I expected you were given to suchtricks as these. Lucky for you no eyes but mine have seen your abjectfolly. Come back to your room."
Mr. Maryon is still gazing, his arms lifted wildly above his head, uponthe imagined foe whom he had felled to the ground. The Colonel toucheshim on the shoulder, and leads him away, leaving the lamp. My reasoningfaculties had fully returned to me. I held a clue to the secret, and forAgnes' sake it must be followed up. I took the lamp away, and placed iton a table where the chamber candlesticks stood, relit my own candle,and found my way back to my bedroom.
The next morning, when I came down to breakfast, I found Colonel Bludyerwarming himself satisfactorily at the blazing fire. I learned from himthat our host was far from well, and that Miss Maryon was in attendanceupon her father; that the Colonel was charged with all kinds ofapologies to me, and good wishes for my safe return home across thesnow. I thanked him for the delivery of the message, while I feltperfectly convinced that he had never been charged with it. However thatmight be, I never saw Mr. Maryon that morning; and I started back to TheShallows through the snow.
For the next two or three days the weather was very wild, but Icontrived to get up to The Mere, and ask after Mr. Maryon. Better, I wastold, but unable to see any one. Miss Maryon, too, was fatigued withnursing her father. So there was nothing to do but to trudge home again.
"_Reginald Westcar, The Mere is yours. Compel John Maryon to pay thedebt of honor!_"
Again and again these words forced themselves upon me, as I listlesslygazed out upon the white landscape. The strange scene that I hadwitnessed on that memorable night I passed beneath Mr. Maryon's roof hadbrought them back to my memory with redoubled force, and I began tothink that the apparition I had seen--or dreamed of--on my first nightat The Shallows had more of truth in it than I had been willing tobelieve.
Three more days passed away, and a carter-boy from The Mere brought me anote. It was Agnes' handwriting. It said:
"DEAR MR. WESTCAR: Pray come up here, if you possibly can. I cannotunderstand what is the matter with papa; and he wishes me to do adreadful thing. Do come. I feel that I have no friend but you. I amobliged to send this note privately."
I need scarcely say that five minutes afterward I was plunging throughthe snow toward The Mere. It was already late on that dark Februaryevening as I gained the shrubbery; and as I was pondering upon the bestmethod of securing admittance, I became aware that the figure of a manwas hurrying on some yards in front of me. At first I thought it must beone of the gardeners, but all of a sudden I stood still, and my bloodseemed to freeze with horror, as I remarked that the figure in front ofme _left no trace of footmarks on the snow_! My brain reeled for amoment, and I thought I should have fallen; but I recovered my nerves,and when I looked before me again, it had disappeared. I pressed oneagerly. I arrived at the front door--it was wide open; and I passedthrough the hall to the library. I heard Agnes' voice.
"No, no, papa. You must not force me to this! I cannot--will not--marryColonel Bludyer!"
"You _must_," answered Mr. Maryon, in a hoarse voice; "you _must_ marryhim, and save your father from something worse than disgrace!"
Not feeling disposed to play the eavesdropper, I entered the room. Mr.Maryon was standing at the fireplace. Agnes was crouching on the groundat his feet. I saw at once that it was no use for me to dissemble thereason of my visit, and, without a word of greeting, I said:
"Miss Maryon, I have come, in obedience to your summons. If I canprevent any misfortune from falling upon you I am ready to help you,with my life. You have guessed that I love you. If my love is returned Iam prepared to dispute my claim with any man."
Agnes, with a cry of joy, rose from her knees, and rushed toward me. Ah!how strong I felt as I held her in my arms!
"I have my answer," I continued. "Mr. Maryon, I have reason to believethat your daughter is in fear of the future you have forecast for her. Iask you to regard those fears, and to give her to me, to love andcherish as my wife."
Mr. Maryon covered his face with his hands; and I could hear him murmur,"Too late--too late!"
"No, not too late," I echoed. "What is this Bludyer to you, that youshould sacrifice your daughter to a man whose very look proclaims him avillain? Nothing can compel you to such a deed--not even a _debt ofhonor_!"
What it was impelled me to say these last words I know not, but they hadan extraordinary effect upon Mr. Maryon. He started toward me, thenchecked hims
elf; his face was livid, his eyeballs glaring, and he threwup his arms in the strange manner I had already witnessed.
"What is all this?" exclaimed a harsh voice behind me. "Mr. Westcarinsulting Miss Maryon and her father! it is time for me to interfere."And Colonel Bludyer approached me menacingly. All his jovial manner andfulsome courtesy was gone; and in his flushed face and insolent look thesavage rascal was revealed.
"You will interfere at your peril," I replied. "I am a younger man thanyou are, and my strength has not been weakened by drink and dissipation.Take care."
The villain drew himself up to his full height; and, though he must havebeen at least some sixty years of age, I felt assured that I should meetno ordinary adversary if a personal struggle should ensue. Agnesfainted, and I laid her on a sofa.
"Miss Maryon wants air," said the Colonel, in a calmer voice. "Excuseme, Mr. Maryon, if I open a window." He tore open the shutters, andthrew up the sash. "And now, Mr. Westcar, unless you are prepared to besensible, and make your exit by the door, I shall be under theunpleasant necessity of throwing you out of the window."
The ruffian advanced toward me as he spoke. Suddenly he paused. His jawdropped; his hair seemed literally to stand on end; his white lipsquivered; he shook, as with an ague; his whole form appeared to shrink.I stared in amazement at the awful change. A strange thrill shot throughme, as I heard a quiet voice say:
"Richard Bludyer, your grave is waiting for you. Go."
The figure of a man passed between me and him. The wretched man shrankback, and, with a wild cry, leaped from the window he had opened.
All this time Mr. Maryon was standing like a lifeless statue.
In helpless wonder I gazed at the figure before me. I saw clearly thefeatures in profile, and, swift as lightning, my memory was carried backto the unforgotten scene in the churchyard upon the Lake of Lucerne, andI recognized the white face of the young man with whom I there hadspoken.
"John Maryon," said the voice, "this is the night upon which, a quarterof a century ago, you killed me. It is your last night on earth. Youmust go through the tragedy again."
Mr. Maryon, still statue-like, beckoned to the figure, and opened ahalf-concealed door which led into his study. The strange but opportunevisitant seemed to motion to me with a gesture of his hand, which I feltI must obey, and I followed in this weird procession. From the study wemounted by a private staircase to a large, well-furnished bed-chamber.Here we paused. Mr. Maryon looked tremblingly at the stranger, and said,in a low, stammering voice:
"This is my room. In this room, on this night, twenty-five years ago,you told me that you were certain Sir Henry Benet's will was inexistence, and that you had made up your mind to dispute my possessionto this property. You had discovered letters from Sir Henry to yourfather which gave you a clue to the spot where that will might be found.You, Geoffrey Ringwood, of generous and extravagant nature, offered tofind the will in my presence. It was late at night, as now; all thehousehold slept. I accepted your invitation, and followed you."
Mr. Maryon ceased; he seemed physically unable to continue. The terriblestranger, in his low, echoing voice, replied:
"Go on; confess all."
"You and I, Geoffrey, had been what the world calls friends. We had beenmuch in London together; we were both passionately fond of cards. We hada common acquaintance, Richard Bludyer. He was present on the 2d ofFebruary, when I lost a large sum of money to you at _ecarte_. He hintedto me that you might possibly use these sums in instituting a lawsuitagainst me for the recovery of this estate. Your intimation that youknew of the existence of the will alarmed me, as it had become necessaryfor me to remain owner of The Mere. As I have said, I accepted yourinvitation, and followed you to Sir Henry Benet's room; and now I followyou again."
As he said these words, Geoffrey Ringwood, or his ghost, passed silentlyby Mr. Maryon, and led the way into the corridor. At the end of thecorridor all three paused outside an oak door which I remembered well. Agesture from the leader made Mr. Maryon continue:
"On this threshold you told me suddenly that Bludyer was a villain, andhad betrayed your sister Aldina; that she had fled with him that night;that he could never marry her, as you had reason to know he had a wifealive. You made me swear to help you in your vengeance against him. Weentered the room, as we enter it now."
Our leader had opened the door of the room, and we were in the samechamber I had wandered to when I had slept at The Mere. The figure ofGeoffrey Ringwood paused at the round table, and looked again at Mr.Maryon, who proceeded:
"You went straight to the fifth panel from the fireplace, and thentouched a spring, and the panel opened. You said that the will givingthis property to your father and his heirs was to be found there. I wasconvinced that you spoke the truth, but, suddenly remembering your loveof gambling, I suggested that we should play for it. You accepted atonce. We searched among the papers, and found the will. We placed thewill upon the table, and began to play. We agreed that we would play upto ten thousand pounds. Your luck was marvellous. In two hours the limitwas reached. I owed you ten thousand pounds, and had lost The Mere. Youlaughed, and said, 'Well, John, you have had a fair chance. At teno'clock this morning I shall expect you to pay me _your debt of honor_.'I rose; the devil of despair strong upon me. With one hand I swept thecards from the table into the fire, and with the other seized you by thethroat, and dealt you a blow upon the temple. You fell dead upon thefloor."
Need I say that as I heard this fearful narrative, I recognized theactions of the sleep-walker, and understood them all?
"To the end!" said the hollow voice. "Confess to the end!"
"The doctor who examined your body gave his opinion, at the inquest,that you had died of apoplexy, caused by strong cerebral excitement. Myevidence was to the effect that I believed you had lost a very large sumof money to Captain Bludyer, and that you had told me you were utterlyunable to pay it. The jury found their verdict accordingly, and I wasleft in undisturbed possession of The Mere. But the memory of my crimehaunted me as only such memories can haunt a criminal, and I became amorose and miserable man. One thing bound me to life--my daughter. WhenReginald Westcar appeared upon the scene I thought that the debt ofhonor would be satisfied if he married Agnes. Then Bludyer reappeared,and he told me that he knew that I had killed you. He threatened torevive the story, to exhume your body, and to say that Aldina Ringwoodhad told him all about the will. I could purchase his silence only bygiving him my daughter, the heiress of The Mere. To this I consented."
As he said these last words, Mr. Maryon sunk heavily into the chair.
The figure of Geoffrey Ringwood placed one ghostly hand upon his lefttemple, and then passed silently out of the room. I started up, andfollowed the phantom along the corridor--down the staircase--out at thefront door, which still stood open--across the snow-covered lawn--intothe plantation; and then it disappeared as strangely as I first had seenit; and, hardly knowing whether I was mad or dreaming, I found my wayback to The Shallows.
* * * * *
For some weeks I was ill with brain-fever. When I recovered I was toldthat terrible things had happened at The Mere. Mr. Maryon had beenfound dead in Sir Henry Benet's room--an effusion of blood upon thebrain, the doctors said--and the body of Colonel Bludyer had beendiscovered in the snow in an old disused gravel-pit not far from thehouse.
* * * * *
A year afterward I married Agnes Maryon; and, if all that I had seen andheard upon that 3d of February was not merely the invention of a feveredbrain, the debt of honor was at last discharged, for I, the nephew ofthe murdered Geoffrey Ringwood, became the owner of The Mere.