Chapter XXIII: What Philippa Saw

A horrid spectre rises to my sight,
Before my face, plain and palpable.
JOANNA BAILLIE.

David Lindsay entered the room, with a graver air than usual overshadowing his frank countenance.

Mrs. Brent arose and offered him her own chair by the fire.

With a gesture, he silently thanked her, and signed that she should resume her seat, while he drew another to the hearth for himself, saying, as he sank into it:

“Well, I have been all over this house, from cellar to attic, and I must repeat now from knowledge what I said at first from suspicion, that this place is no home for any lady, and therefore none for you.”

“Why?” inquired Gloria, with provoking coolness.

“‘Why?’ My dear lady, the answer is in everything around you—in the desolation, the dreariness, the solitude——”

“I do not want company,” interrupted Gloria.

“In its remoteness from all the life of the world——”

“And I do want to be very quiet,” added Gloria.

“In its dilapidation and dampness.”

“Good fires can rectify the one immediately, and good workmen the other in due time.”

“Finally, in the evil reputation of the place,” said the young man, solemnly.

“Now, David Lindsay, if you mean the rumors about the house being haunted, that is just what attracts me to it!” said Gloria, archly.

“It is not that idle rumor to which I refer. A place that has been little better than a stronghold of godless revellers, gamblers, drunkards, duellists, murderers, if all be true that is told of them, is no proper home for any lady, not to say you. It is only fit to be turned into a smelting-furnace for the treasures of iron ore said to be hidden in the depths of these mountains,” gravely concluded the young man.

“Oh, then you don’t believe that the house is haunted,” said Gloria, good-humoredly.

“It is haunted by the association of atrocious crimes and bitter sufferings, if by no other ghosts. Lady dear, I wish you would not think of living here,” he pleaded.

“The poor old place is in no way to blame for the evil lives of the monsters who once lived here and have now gone to where they belong—to Pandemonium. I shall stay here, David Lindsay, until I have become familiar with every part of the house, and acquainted with every part of the mountain. If I grow weary of the place I shall take Phil Cummings for a companion and one of her old uncles for an escort, and return to Washington.”

As Gloria said this, the housekeeper, who sat between the young pair, looked from one to the other, and with the bluntness that belonged to her nature and circumstances, exclaimed:

“Why, surely, if you go, Mr. Lindsay must escort you himself.”

“Mr. Lindsay has business that will compel his return North as soon as he sees me settled in my home,” coldly replied Gloria.

David Lindsay’s fine face flushed, and then grew pale.

“Well, I suppose, such a big estate as yours, ma’am—for I am told that Gryphynshold is but a small portion of it, and that the bulk of it is in Maryland—will require a deal of attention, not to say what the gentleman’s own affairs may call for; but one would think you would have settled all that before you came down here, so as not to be separated so soon again. It seems such a pity,” said the housekeeper, sympathetically.

Gloria did not reply, and David Lindsay could not.

“Well, I didn’t sit down here to idle away my time. I must go to the linen room and see to getting out the things to make up the beds—though, dear me, when I come to think of how long they have been packed away in the cedar chests, I don’t believe they will be fit for use, for yellowness and closeness,” said the housekeeper, getting up to leave the room.

“I will go with you,” said Gloria, rising to follow Mrs. Brent, for her sensitive conscience and sympathetic spirit made her dread a _tête-à-tête_ with David Lindsay almost as much as she had ever dreaded one with her uncle; not that she thought, for one instant, that the pure-hearted and noble-minded young fisherman would ever, under any temptation, or for any reason, break his word to her, or take the slightest unfair advantage of his position towards her.

She knew that he never would do that. She knew also that he would never plead for the love that she was unwilling to give him; that he would never invoke her pity by any look or tone expressive of the disappointment and humiliation, the sorrow and distress he really suffered, and which she intuitively knew that he suffered. No, but she was afraid of herself. She could trust David Lindsay utterly, but she could not trust herself.

She had loved David Lindsay from their childhood up; but she had never been “in love” with him, or with any one, and she had never wished to marry him, or any other; but driven by the very spite and stress of fate, she had married him, and immediately afterwards realized what a mad, fatal, irreparable error she had committed in uniting her fate to that of one so utterly unfitted by birth, position and education to be her husband!

Yet there were moments now when the memory of their lifelong, innocent, childish affection for each other melted her heart to tears; when the contemplation of his magnanimity filled her mind with admiration; when all that was best in her own nature bridged the gulf between them, and almost impelled her hands and lips and voice to go where her spirit had gone before.

She was afraid that in some such moments as this she should cast her arms around the neck of her young husband, and press her lips to his and say:

“You saved me once from death, and once from worse than that. You love me more than I deserve. You merit all my love. I am your wife. Do not leave me.”

She was in danger of saying this every hour—and she did not wish to say it.

Now she hurried after the old housekeeper, who led the way to a room at the end of the hall, fitted up with shelves above and drawers below, all around the walls. These were, however, empty, and two large cedar chests that stood in the middle of the floor seemed to contain all the household linen.

Mrs. Brent drew a key from her pocket and unlocked one of the chests, from which a heavy aromatic odor of sweet herbs and spices arose.

“I used to take out these things and air them every summer, but of late years, seeing that they never seemed to come into any use, I gave up doing that, and just contented myself with putting more dried lavender and basil in them every fall,” she said, as she lifted out folded sheets, fine as cambric, yellow as saffron, and filled with the odor of sweet herbs.

“It is no use, honey,” continued the housekeeper, “these here things are not fit to be used. They will have to be washed and bleached first. I shall have to lend you some of mine. They are not so fine as these, but they are a deal whiter, so perhaps you will excuse them.”

“I shall be very thankful for the loan of them, Mrs. Brent,” said the young lady.

“Indeed you are welcome, my dear,” replied the housekeeper, who was still looking over the contents of the cedar chest.

“Now, Mrs. Brent, I wish to ask you—have you never slept in this house since the night that—that Dyvyd Gryphyn was killed?”

“And his ghost appeared to us here? No, ma’am. Never since that night have I slept in this house. The officers of the law occupied it the next day, and after the inquest the undertaker had possession until the funeral. While that was going on I slept at my brother’s house. Then I had the furniture of my part of the house moved down to the gate lodge, which was empty at that time, and I have lived there ever since; only, as I told you before, coming up here, in broad daylight, with a lot of the colored people to keep me in courage, while I had the house opened and aired. This I have done faithfully every week all the year round, ever since the last master’s dreadful death.”

“And you have never seen anything to recall the horrors of that night?”

“Not much, ma’am, because I have always visited it in broad daylight, as I have told you.”

“Well, now that the place is thrown open to the sun and air, and Mr. Lindsay and myself are here to take possession, and your niece Philippa and a number of the colored servants, whom we shall bring in, you will not be afraid to join us?”

“You mean to come back and live here?” inquired the housekeeper, somewhat startled.

“Yes, to come and live here. I shall want a housekeeper in the house to look after the servants. I shall also need a matron, as a protector for myself during the absence of Mr. Lindsay; or, to speak more correctly, I should say, after the departure of Mr. Lindsay. I would give you for your sleeping-room, one of the best bedchambers in the house, the next to my own, for company, and your niece could sleep with you for closer company. Come, what do you say?”

“Oh, ma’am, I know not what to say. Of course, I know that I must do one thing or the other. As long as you need a housekeeper in the house, I must either come and live here or else I must give up my situation and let some other woman take it who would come and live in the house. I have held the situation of housekeeper at Gryphynshold for twenty-five years, and I don’t like to give up a post that I expected to live and die in; and, on the other hand, I am afeared to sleep in this house.”

“Well, Mrs. Brent,” said Gloria, with more firmness than she had ever given herself credit for possessing, “I do not wish to hurry you. Take your time to decide what you will do; but let me know your answer before Mr. Lindsay goes away; for it will be necessary for me to find some matronly protection before his departure.”

“And dear me, that will be so soon,” said the housekeeper.

“Yes; but listen. Your years of faithful service will not be forgotten. If you decide to leave me you shall have six months’ wages in advance; but if you decide to stay I will do anything in the world that I can do to make you happy.”

“My dear young lady, would you let me try it a little while before deciding?” inquired the old housekeeper.

“How do you mean?” asked Gloria.

“Let me try if I can stay here. If nothing happens, such as happened on that horrible night, why, I might stay and spend the rest of my life here; but if anything of that sort should come again, if it shouldn’t frighten me to death on the spot, it would, at least, scare me away from the house forever.”

“Such a night of horror is not likely to return in our lifetime. I accept your terms, Mrs. Brent, and I am very glad to do so. I should dislike to lose you.”

“Thanky, honey; so should I,” replied the old woman, rather obscurely. Then: “When would you like me to come in, ma’am?” she inquired.

“As soon as you possibly can.”

“Well, I think I can come to-day. As you were so kind as to say that you would give me a room next to your own, I shall not need to move the furniture from the lodge-house, as these rooms are already furnished. Now, honey, I’ll go down and see to preparing the dinner.”

“Thanks, and—please send your niece up to me, Mrs. Brent,” said Gloria, who still shrank from a _tête-à-tête_ with David Lindsay.

Philippa came dancing up stairs and into the room.

“There’s an army in the old house, and I am afraid they’ll rout the ghosts!” she exclaimed. “Just think of it! They have all the field negroes—who have not much to do outside at this season of the year, you know—in the house, busy scrubbing, scouring, mopping, sweeping, dusting and what not.”

“Then they will get through all the sooner, for which I shall be very glad,” said Gloria.

“Oh, they will get through cleaning to-night! And then we shall have peace for some time; for they can’t begin any repairs until the spring, you know.”

“I don’t want any repairs. The house is wind and water proof, and that is all that is necessary besides cleanliness. Fresh paint and new wall paper would utterly spoil it.”

“I think this inroad of mops and brooms and scrubbing-brushes has spoiled it already. Oh, the poor ghosts! I am so sorry for the ghosts. Yes, and for myself, too. I was so in hopes of seeing a ghost,” sighed Philippa, with a look of downright disappointment.

“Why should you wish to see a ghost, if such a being ever exists?” inquired Gloria.

“Why, oh, why? Because the apparition of a real ghost would be proof positive of the life after death,” said Philippa, quite seriously.

“But your Christian faith should assure you of that, if you have faith.”

“Oh, yes, I have faith, of course I have faith. Why, I have been confirmed, child, so of course I have faith; but what I want is certainty. I want to see a ghost who can tell me all about it. There is nothing in this hum-drum world I should like so well as a good, comfortable, sitting down, leisurely gossip with a real ghost! Or a midnight visit from a departed spirit, who would take a chair at my bedside and answer all my questions,” said Philippa; and she looked as if she meant it.

“You would be frightened out of your wits!” exclaimed Gloria.

“Not I! What would I have to fear? Who ever heard of a ghost hurting anybody? Of all the absurd cowardice, I think the fear of ghosts must be the weakest! Why, if the very wickedest old Gryphyn that ever killed and ate his grandmother, was to appear to me and try to bulldoze me, all I would say would be—‘Ah ha, old rooster! Your comb is cut now! Flesh and blood have no longer anything to fear from you! Clear out, or I will throw my prayer-book at your head’—for of course you know I wouldn’t care about hearing what he could tell me of the other world! But, oh dear! there is not the slightest probability of interviewing a spirit, good or evil, now. These commonplace, unimaginative sweepers, and dusters, and moppers, and scrubbers have exorcised them all—unless—— Come with me, Madame Gloria. I will show you a place that they haven’t invaded yet, and if that place is not consecrated or cursed to the use of ghosts, I’ll give them up,” said Philippa, suddenly rising.

Gloria, carried away by the impetuosity of her companion, arose and followed her.

Philippa led the way down stairs and down the main hall to a side door that opened into a long, dark, narrow passage leading through an ell of the building.

At the end of this she opened another door leading down a deep and narrow flight of stairs to a dark cellar.

At the foot of these stairs she stopped and said:

“Wait. I brought a piece of candle with me and a match. We must have a light before we go a step farther.”

And while Gloria stood there, Philippa snapped a match and lighted the end of the tallow candle, which, however, only showed a small ray in the midst of the deep darkness.

They stepped down now upon the flagstone floor of the cellar, which seemed quite dry. Groping along with their feeble light, they explored the walls, which were arched and divided into bins and niches—some of them with rusty iron doors—places which made the two girls shudder.

In one corner of this place they found a door which, when they opened it, revealed, in the dim light of the candle, a ladder leading down to a subterranean room below the cellar.

“Oh, look here!” whispered Philippa. “Look here! In the deepest deep a deeper deep!”

“Oh, come away! Come away! Come away directly and shut the door! There is a dreadful air arises from that place!” exclaimed Gloria, shrinking back.

“‘Come away,’ indeed! Not much! I am going down these stairs to see what is at the bottom. You can stay here until I come back, but I cannot leave you the candle, you know,” obstinately replied the stubborn girl.

In vain Gloria sought to dissuade her from her purpose. She was as stubborn and intractable as a young mule, and she began to go down the ladder.

Gloria, seeing her so determined, had no other alternative but to follow her willful guide.

A foul air, impregnated with must and mould and dampness, met them. They could scarcely breathe, the candle could scarcely burn in the impure, oppressive atmosphere.

“Oh, if you would only not persist,” moaned Gloria, as holding on to the sides of the ladder, she groped her way down after her conductor.

“But I must persist,” replied Philippa, who had now reached the bottom.

With some danger and difficulty Gloria descended the ladder and stood by her side.

The feeble rays of the candle showed but a small circle of light just around them. All beyond was utter darkness.

Suddenly Gloria grasped the arm of her companion and shuddered.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Philippa.

“Listen!”

“What?”

“Don’t you hear something?”

“No!”

“Oh, listen! There it is again!”

“What, I say?”

“That moaning, gurgling sound, as of some one strangling and groaning!”

“Oh, that is the sound of some subterranean, pent-up stream. I have found such in the caves under these mountains, and I have heard that the foundations of this house communicate with a chain of caverns opening from one into another under the whole breadth of the mountain base, and more than one stream of water must traverse them,” said Philippa.

“Then this is a very dangerous place! This is far down under the deepest foundations of the house, and in this utter darkness we might step into a stream of water, and be swept away and drowned. And oh! of all the gates that lead into the other life, a black water gate must be the most appalling! Do come back, Philippa!”

“I cannot! Something draws me on! But you keep behind me. I will go on before. If I should disappear, either down into a cave or into a subterranean stream, do you turn and go back to the upper world by the way you came.”

“This is foolish, foolhardy, wicked, Philippa.”

“I know it is, but I cannot help it. Something draws me on, I tell you!” exclaimed the willful creature. And at the same moment she stumbled, recovered herself, and held the candle close to the ground to see what the obstacle had been.

“Oh, gracious Heaven, what is this?” cried Philippa, in a tone of sickening horror, as she recoiled from the object.

“What is it?” whispered Gloria, in a frightened voice.

“Look! Look!” gasped Philippa.

Gloria caught the candle from the girl’s shaking hand, held it down, peered into the obscurity, and instantly sprang back with a piercing shriek.

They were on the very brink of a black torrent that rushed along through the depths of a deep and yawning gulch. Another moment—another step, and they must have plunged down the precipice into the dark water of that buried river, and been whirled on to destruction in the darkest depths of the abyss.

But it was not even that impending doom that had appalled them!

It was the dire object that rose from the earth on the bank of the chasm!

For a moment they stood clinging together, half petrified, and then, without a word, turned and fled to the foot of the ladder, and climbed it with tumultuous haste. On reaching the cellar over this cavern, they hurried across it to the door leading up stairs to the back building communicating with the house.

Pale, breathless, trembling, they at length found themselves in the great hall, with its doors and windows open to the wholesome sun and air, and cheerful wood fires burning in the broad fireplaces.