CHAPTER XVI.
THE THREE OAKS.
The Three Oaks was haunted.
At least every one said so, and what every one says is supposed to betrue.
To be sure, it would have been difficult to have found any person whohad actually seen the ghost.
Nor was this necessary.
Strange lights moving about the old house at night, flitting fromwindow to window, from the great parlor panes upon the first floor tothe little diamond-shaped panes up under the roof, had been seen by thepassers-by on the Fort Washington road at night, over and over again,and was quite enough for the neighbors who dwelt outside its crumblingwalls.
But what was Three Oaks and where was it?
These are both proper questions, and should be answered at once.
Three Oaks was a house, and an old one at that. It still stands to-dayon the road mentioned above, which is, as every one knows, in thenorth-west corner of Manhattan Island, and extends from the littlevillage whose name it bears to the 155th street station of the elevatedroad.
It was a large house and an old house; it stood in the center of athick growth of oaks, surrounded by a stretch of uncultivated ground,and divided from the road by a high stone wall.
A more gloomy, desolate-looking old rookery it would have beendifficult to have found. And yet Three Oaks had been a handsome placein its day.
But that day had long since passed.
For ten years, at least, old Jeremiah Mansfield, its former owner hadlived there alone. It was five years since he had been found murderedin his bed.
This was the work of burglars.
They had broken into the old house in the night, in the hope ofobtaining a large sum in money, of which the strange old man, littlebetter than a miser, was supposed to be possessed.
Whether they had succeeded in finding it no one ever knew.
The burglars were not caught--the dead lips of the murdered man nevertold the tale.
From that night Three Oaks had remained deserted, and was fast sinkingto ruin and decay.
To whom it belonged few in the neighborhood could have told, but everyone had seen the lights--seen them not only once, but again and again.And who but the ghost of old Miser Mansfield himself would think ofprowling about the dust-laden rooms of Three Oaks at midnight?
That was precisely what the neighbors wanted to know.
You could not have hired one of them to have approached the old houseafter dark.
Indeed, some timid persons objected even to passing it on the publicroad after the shades of night had begun to fall.
Upon the evening of the day following the events of the last fewchapters, at a little before midnight, a solitary pedestrian might havebeen observed picking his way gingerly along the Fort Washington road,opposite the moldering stone wall surrounding Three Oaks, shelteringhimself beneath a large alpaca umbrella from the rain which all daylong had been falling in torrents, rendering the snow of two daysbefore a slushy mass beneath the feet.
Might have been observed, did we say?
The qualification was well put.
Surely no one save a person whose errand was most pressing wouldventure out in a spot so lonely upon a night like this.
The wind whirling down the road from the Hudson and the heights of thePalisades beyond played with the alpaca umbrella as with some child'stoy, the rain coming down in what appeared in the darkness an almostunbroken sheet, has drenched the clothes of this unfortunate traveleras to make them cling like so many plasters to his body.
Indeed, so utterly saturated has he become, that it seems a matter ofwonder that he does not abandon the umbrella altogether and boldly facethe storm.
Slump! Slump! Slump!
As he raises one foot from the pasty, dripping mass of melting snow theother sinks through it to the very stones of the road beneath.
As he approached the broken gate leading up to the clump of oaks behindwhich the dark outlines of the old Mansfield house could be dimly seen,the man paused, leaned for a moment against the dripping wall, and gaveutterance to a single word:
"Rube!"
There was no answer.
"He has not come," muttered the man, impatiently. "Can anything havehappened? Rube is generally punctual. Perhaps the wind sighing throughthose gloomy old oaks has deadened the sound of my voice."
Again he called more distinctly than before:
"Rube! Rube!"
At the same instant from out of the clump of oaks a man's form appeared.
"All right. Come on," a voice was heard to say.
Pushing up the avenue leading to the mansion, which now more nearlyresembled a rushing river than the smooth graveled road its builder hadintended, he of the umbrella joined the man from among the trees, andboth ascending the steps of the piazza, stood before the door of ThreeOaks, sheltered from the storm at last.
"Pah! what a beast of a night!" exclaimed the owner of the alpacaumbrella, petulantly, shaking the water from his garments and closingit with a vicious snap. "I've had Satan's own time getting here, Rube.But it's just the night for our work. No fear of interruption from anyinquisitive neighbors in a storm like this."
"You are right, Lije," replied the other, striking a match upon histrousers and touching it to a cigar. "But somehow I wish we had chosenany other night myself. It reminds one of the night the old man peggedout. You remember--it rained harder even than this."
Dim as is the light of the match, it is sufficient to show us the facesof these midnight visitors to old Jeremiah Mansfield's former home.
It is Mr. Elijah Callister who grasps the alpaca umbrella, it is hisfriend the bank burglar who now puffs away at the cigar--Reuben Tisdaleby name.
"Well, upon my word, if you ain't the greatest fellow to bring upunpleasant memories I ever saw," exclaimed the stock-broker, crossly,as he produced a large key from his pocket, and inserting it in therusty lock, threw open the hall door. "Why the mischief can't you letsleeping dogs lie? No man wants to be reminded of his past sins."
"I need no reminding of mine, Lije," replied the man gloomily, asthe door was closed behind him and the broker proceeded to light alantern, which he took with apparent familiarity from one corner ofthe carpetless hall. "They are before me night and day. If I had thecourage I'd kill myself, but I have no more than a mouse. I'm a doomedman, Lije Callister, I feel it more and more, but being past redemptionmust go on sinning to the end."
"Well, if you ain't positively the worst," exclaimed Callister,impatiently. "What ails you?"
"I should think enough ailed me. With poor Maria's blood upon my handscalling for vengeance--ain't that enough?"
"You ought to have thought of that before you struck her. What's doneis done. Be your old self, Rube. We are likely to want all our couragebefore this bank affair quiets down."
"What's the latest, Lije?" asked Tisdale, in a low tone, and with someexpression of anxiety. "I have not seen a paper to-day."
"Oh, you may speak as loud as you wish," replied Callister, taking offthe top of the lantern, and picking up the wick with a pin. "There'sno one within a quarter of a mile of us. There's no special news otherthan what you know, except so far as concerns Frank Mansfield."
"And what of him? Did the plan of Billy Cutts succeed?"
"Yes, and no. Frank was arrested just as he was entering the bank, buton the way to the police station he managed to escape."
"The deuce! How was that?"
"No one seems to know. I sent a party to interview the detective whoarrested him--a fellow by the name of Hook--but could only learn thatsomewhere in the neighborhood of the wall of Trinity church-yard hemanaged to give the officer the slip."
"Was he handcuffed?"
"Yes, so I understand."
"And has not been caught since?"
"No."
"That is most mysterious."
"So I say."
"What do they say about the bank robbery?"
"They all believe Frank was in the job, of course. The
bank has offereda reward of a thousand dollars for his arrest."
"And what about Joe Dutton?"
"He was sent to the Tombs this morning. My party saw him, and he swearsby all that's holy he'll die before he gives us away by so much as aword."
"He'd better," muttered Tisdale, fiercely. "He'll be a dead Joe if heattempts to speak--don't let him forget that."
"That's all very true, Rube," replied the stock broker, "but all thesame his arrest is mighty bad for us. He's the first of our gang whoever fell into the hands of the law. When one goes, all goes--that'sthe old saying, you know."
"Then so much the more reason why we should succeed to-night. I tellyou, Lije, as I told you yesterday. It would be healthier for us toleave town for awhile."
"Yes, or to put Joe Dutton where he can't do us any harm," repliedCallister, in a fierce whisper.
"What! you wouldn't----"
"Wouldn't I? Well, never mind. Let's attend to the business we have inhand. Rube, old Mansfield's money is in this house. You know how thewill reads. If Frank can be convicted of crime before he is old enoughto inherit, which will now be in a very short time, the money comes tome in a regular course, and the parchment containing the secret of itshiding-place would have been delivered into my hand."
"Exactly. And not satisfied with the job you put upon the boy, you mustrope me into a bank robbery, where all we get is five thousand for ourpains. You must have that parchment, and this is the result."
"The result would have been quite different if you had managed to holdon to it instead of dropping it in the street," replied Callister,crossly. "That's where the folly comes in. But come, we've wasted timeenough in talking. Let us go up-stairs to the old man's chamber. I'vean idea that the treasure is hidden somewhere about the hearth."
He picked up the lantern and began to ascend the broad staircaseleading to the rooms above.
"So you've thought twenty times before, but could never find it,"growled Tisdale, following. "Didn't you examine this blessed oldrookery from garret to cellar, not over a year ago?"
They ascended the stairs, and entered a large room at the rear of thehouse upon the floor above.
Ruin and desolation met their gaze wherever the feeble rays of thelantern fell.
Filled with rich and costly furniture, adorned with pictures,expensive cabinets, and rich hangings about the windows and doors,the chamber--once that of the master of the mansion--was a forcibleillustration of the truth of that memorable warning against riches.
Upon earth Jeremiah Mansfield had heaped up treasures.
Moth and rust had corrupted--thieves had broken in to steal.
The rich carpet, the elegant hangings were worn and faded, the costlyfurniture heaped up in the corners rotting with dampness and decay.
From one side of the wall a large strip of heavy gilt had fallen away,green with mold, displaying the discolored plaster behind, dust coveredthe picture frames, the floor, the ceiling--in fact, everything in andabout the room, and more than all the bedstead upon which the old miserhad met his end.
This cumbrous piece of mahogany, tilted forward into the room, from thelapse of one decaying leg, was a dust heap in itself.
Tisdale looked about him shudderingly.
"Lije, it's enough to give a man the horrors!" he mutteringly said.
But the stock broker made no reply.
That he was in this chilling apartment for work, not talk, was evidentfrom every motion he made.
Throwing aside his coat and hat, he placed the lantern by the sideof the fire-place, and with a hammer and cold chisel, taken from thepockets of his overcoat, began to remove its back, brick by brick.
"Hold the lantern, Rube," he whispered, as he struck upon the backof the fire-place with the hammer. "There is a hollow space back ofthis--don't you hear? I tell you, man, we've struck it at last!"
Tisdale seized the lantern and stooped forward toward the fire-place,Callister ringing blow after blow upon the chisel, and prying out thebricks right and left.
Suddenly the whole back of the fire-place fell inward with a crash,raising a cloud of dust which nearly blinded them both.
Seizing the lantern from the hand of his companion, the broker thrusthis head into the space revealed, a hollow in the chimney, large enoughto hold a million in gold.
It was empty!
Save for the broken bricks and bits of mortar, the rays of the lanternshone upon empty space alone.
With a smothered curse, Elijah Callister drew back into the room.
"Fooled again!" he muttered, fiercely. "If the builders of thisinfernal den had constructed that place on purpose to raise my hopes,they could not have succeeded better. We'll have to try again."
The words had scarcely left his lips, when from the gloom behind them astrange sound fell upon their ears.
It was half-sigh--half-groan.
It seemed to come from behind the bed.
"My God! Lije, did you hear that?" exclaimed Tisdale, in a hoarsewhisper, seizing his companion by the arm.
At the same instant from behind the bed there emerged the form of awoman, tall and thin, with pinched features, wild, restless eyes, andlong gray hair hanging down her neck and shoulders.
Coarse, worn garments hung loosely about her, a cheap shawl was throwncarelessly about the shoulders and pinned across her breast.
With one long, white finger extended before her, she advanced slowlytoward the villainous pair without uttering a word.
Could Frank Mansfield have seen her, he would have instantly recognizedthe mother whose death he mourned.
Could Detective Hook have seen her, not for one instant could he havedoubted that Mrs. Marley, whose dead body he had raised with his ownhands from the floor of that wretched upper chamber in the rear of theDonegal Shades, and this woman were one and the same.
With a cry of horror Reuben Tisdale sprang backward toward thefire-place.
"Keep back, woman!" he yelled, his eyes starting from his head interror. "God have mercy! 'Tis the spirit of my murdered wife!"
With a deep sigh the specter, with a gliding motion, moved backward,disappearing in the gloom beyond.
And even as the last glimpse of her shadowy form had disappeared fromthe gaze of Elijah Callister, who, with whitened face, stood still,grasping the lantern in his hand, his companion fell forward with adeep groan, motionless upon the floor.