CHAPTER VII THE PHANTOM
And now I am about to recount an occurrence so strange and unearthly that I have sometimes since doubted whether it was not the creation of my own fancy; whether or not I really saw what I am about to relate. I can offer no reasonable hypothesis that would account for such a physical impossibility—something that we are taught to sneer at—I can only say with others who have trod before us: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in thy philosophy." I can only set down in black and white what really took place, as best I can.
I know not how long I slept, whether one hour or five; I only know that I was awakened by that peculiar sensation which thou hast felt in thy sleep, when conscious that someone is gazing intently at thee. Rubbing my eyes, I looked around the room.
The storm clouds had passed away as rapidly as they had come, and the moonlight, streaming through the window, bathed the whole room in a flood of light, and lit it up as brightly as could the noonday sun.
There, standing cold and grim and gray near the bed, some six or eight paces away, clothed in a coat of antique armor, leaning upon his great bloody sword, his eyes fixed sternly upon me, was the figure of Geoffrey Winchester, first Lord Richmond.
There is a tradition in the family, handed down from father to son, from generation to generation, which runs somewhat like this: When William the Conqueror landed in England, he brought with him from Normandy a certain stout, sturdy, and gallant gentleman—this same Geoffrey Winchester—whom he held in high esteem for his stout arm and undaunted courage.
At the great battle of Hastings, the death-blow to so many noble Saxon scions of great families, this gentleman, Geoffrey, bore himself with great valor. Twice was William beaten to his knees by the furious assaults of the desperate Saxons, and twice did Geoffrey come to the rescue, and with his great two-handled sword clear a path around the King.
And so after the battle was over, William had called the Norman to him, and had asked him what he would have, telling him that he should have what he willed, even to the half of his kingdom. And Winchester had answered, so the legend ran, that he cared not for earthly honors, but he would that he might be able to come to the rescue of those of his own blood, when in some danger from their foes.
The King, struck by the strangeness of his request, had called to him a pious bishop who had fought by his side that day, and recounted to him what the soldier would have.
The holy man of God had turned to Geoffrey Winchester, and bidding him kneel, had prayed to the God of Battle that he grant the request of Winchester's heart, and then blessing him, had said: "Thou hast chosen wisely. So be it. In the ages to come, when thou hast long crumbled into the dust, still thou shalt have the power to appear once to those of thine own blood when they are in sore distress, and warn them of danger. Go thou in peace."
And so it had been from that day. When Richmond Castle was sacked during the troublous times of Stephen's reign, the phantom had appeared to warn the third Lord Richmond, who had escaped barely in time to save himself. In the reign of Richard Cœur de Lion, John Winchester, sixth Lord Richmond, who accompanied the King on his crusade to the Holy Land, saw this vision, which told him not to embark on the vessel that was to carry the host across the Mediterranean Sea. He did as the spectre had cautioned, and though his companions jeered at him for his craven heart to fear a dream of the night, still he stood firm, and the ship had gone down with all her crew on board. And so on down the ages. My grandfather, fighting the Scots upon the frontier, was warned by the gray Geoffrey to ride for England without delay. He waited for naught, but mounted and dashed away post-haste; an hour later the camp was sacked and burned by the wild Highlanders, and the whole company put to the sword.
Once, and only once, he had appeared, sooner or later, to each of the blood of Winchester, and in their hour of direst need had warned them of their danger.
True to the story, he stood before me to-night, just as he had stood when the bishop had blessed him at the battle of Hastings, the great dents still in his armor, his huge sword dripping with blood. There was no mistake; I had often seen his picture, when I had been but a child at the castle, and it had made an impression upon me. There was something wild, but yet noble, that I could never forget, in that bold, dark eye, the broad, high forehead, prominent, curved nose, and mouth set in its stern mould.
And now as I lay gazing at him the marrow almost froze in my bones; the cold, damp sweat stood out in great beads upon my forehead; my very hair seemed to rise on my head; my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; I could not speak.
For a moment he stood thus, looking down at me, while his dark piercing eyes seemed to read the very secrets of my bosom. And then he spoke—or was it but the beating of my own heart? "Up! Be vigilant!" For an instant I saw him standing there, and then—there was only the moonlight as it cast the moving light and shadow upon the wall opposite. He was gone.
Springing up, with trembling hand I found my flint and steel, and lit the candle. Carefully I searched every nook and cranny of the broad room—there was nothing here; no one but myself.
Whatever there was to fear was plainly outside, and I knew not what to guard against, nor how to prepare myself for the danger that even now approached me; for I had no doubt that the specter spoke truth. He had never deceived one of my name yet, and deep down in my heart, I felt—yes, I knew—with a conviction unmistakable, that I stood to-night in perhaps the greatest peril of any which I had yet faced.
Blowing out the candle and drawing my sword, I took my seat in the darkest corner of the room, and waited—I knew not for what. I sat there an hour; no sound floated up from the silent house, nothing stirred; only the moon, pale and calm, shone down into the window. What meant the warning? Did danger imminent and portentous threaten me? I could draw no other meaning from the vision; and if so, where and how did it approach? I could only wait.
This much I knew, that whenever the first Lord Richmond had appeared to any of my house, on down through the ages, he had ever warned of some great peril, which, but for his appearance, would have proven the end of him to whom he spoke.
An hour I sat there, silent and motionless, my drawn sword in my hand, and then—I had almost persuaded myself that I had dreamed of the spectre, and turned to go to bed when lo! I heard a slight sound. It was as if someone had halted near me, I knew not exactly where, and stopped to listen. Then a click, and from the shadow of the room opposite, as though from out the solid wall, there stepped a man. Slowly, silently, he crept forward; quietly, softly, as though he feared to breathe, he crossed the room and drew near the bed. Then as he stood beside it, he straightened himself, raised his hand high, and as he drew back to strike I saw something glitter in the dim light.
Dropping my sword, I sprang forward with one bound, and caught him by one hand on his throat, the other clutching the arm that held the dagger. A short struggle, and I felt him grow limp under my iron grasp, for I held his throat like a vise. Carrying him forward in my arms to the window, and laying him down on the floor, I peered into his face. It was the fat priest.
I waited patiently, the dagger that he had dropped clasped in my hand. It was a long, sharp blade, and had it not been for my ghostly visitant, I would even now sleep that sleep that knows no waking.
A long sigh from the priest; he was coming to his senses. Sitting up, he looked around him, and catching sight of me as I stood opposite, the dagger in my hand, he cowered back against the wall, and covered his face with his hand.
"Listen," I said, bending toward him. "One sound, and I will run this dagger into that craven heart of thine. If thou dost fail to answer one question of mine, I shall say no word, but I will kill thee where thou sittest. Take away thy hand from thine eyes, and answer me quickly, as I put the questions to thee. Dost hear?"
Father Francis had jerked his hands from his face like a puppet figure, and now he sat by the window, his ruddy face all white and ghastly in the moonlight. "What wouldst thou have?" he moaned.
"Who sent thee here?" I asked. "Answer me quickly and truly, or into the nether world thou goest," and I flashed his dagger in his face.
"In the name of Heaven!" he cried in alarm. "Good Sir Thomas, brandish not the dagger about me so recklessly; should it but slip and strike me, I would be done for this world," and he shrank back against the wall.
"It would but serve thee right," I answered grimly. "Thou deservest no better fate. Answer me as I tell thee," and I pricked his fat arm with the point of the weapon.
With a loud howl of pain, he rubbed the injured spot vigorously.
"No one sent me," he said sullenly. "Didst thou not strike me down but a few short hours ago, without cause or provocation, as I walked peaceably along the shore, and then take from me papers that concerned thee not? Am I a man, that I should bear such treatment as this quietly? My head rings yet from the blow," and he raised his hand to his forehead, where there was a great swollen place as large as an egg.
"Thou liest," I answered coolly. "Speak truly; one last chance I give thee, and if thou dost fail to answer, thy soul shall go out to join that of thy comrade Herrick," and I made as if to stab him.
The ruse succeeded admirably.
"Stop!" he cried. "Stop! Wouldst thou murder me? I will answer truly, if thou wilt but give me time. It was DeNortier."
"And so thou wouldst creep upon a man and slay him unawares, while he sleeps. Is that all the manhood that remains in thee? I would not soil my hand with such carrion as thou art. Though thou dost richly deserve death, yet thou shalt go unharmed this once; but remember this, if thou dost cross my path again I will slay thee as I would a serpent, calmly and without compunction. Go! And tell thy master that he should do such work as this like a man; not hire such scum to do that which he fears to attempt himself. But stay a moment," I said, as the priest scrambled to his feet, and began to slink toward the door. "Give me that ring of mine which thou wearest upon thy finger." And I held out my hand for it.
Slowly he drew it from his pudgy finger, and dropped it into my outstretched palm.
"And another thing, how camest thou into the room? Show me but that, and thou shalt go unharmed." And catching him by the collar, I dragged him across the floor to the corner where I had seen him first.
With a growl he raised his hand, and touched the wall with his finger. Immediately a panel slipped back and disclosed an opening in the solid wood.
I turned to him. "Go!" I said, pointing to the door, "before I forget myself and run thee through. No—not through the panel, but out yonder door."
He waddled back across the room, and turning the key in the lock, opened the door. Stopping on the threshold, he looked back at me as I stood by the open panel. A smile was upon his fat countenance—a smile of triumph.
"Be not so sure that thou wilt explore yon passage to-night, my Lord," he cried in glee. "The battle thou knowest is not ever to the strong;" and as he said this the secret door in the wall slid to with a snap, and with a loud laugh, even as I sprang towards him, he slammed the door of the room and the bolt turned in the lock. He had touched some secret spring outside, that closed the aperture in the wall.
Long I stood there on the floor listening, but I heard no sound. The house was as though all were wrapped in slumber.
Crossing to the window, I looked out; along the sand outside there was passing the figure of a man. I did not have to look twice to know who it was; short, thick, and clumsy, it could be none other than Father Francis.
He halted, and I saw another man step forward to meet him. They were too far away for me to recognize who the stranger was; wrapped in a great cloak, he stood close to Francis and they seemed to be engaged in an earnest conversation, for they would turn and point towards the mansion as they talked, and I saw the priest double in a loud fit of laughter.
At the sight a bitter smile crossed my lips, for I surmised that he was relating how he had outwitted and trapped me.
I turned my head; footsteps soft and slow were coming down the hall, and at the sound I crossed over to the door, and beat upon it with the hilt of the dagger. The steps stopped outside.
"What is it, Señor?" said the low voice of one of the Indian attendants, called José.
"Open, José," I whispered. "'Tis I, Sir Thomas."
A moment of silence. "I dare not, Señor," he whispered. "What would the Count say?"
"Open," I pleaded, "and thou shalt have a fine piece of gold with the face of the great mother across the water on it."
An instant, and then the key grated in the lock; the door swung open, and the face of the native peered in.
"I know not what the lord would say, did he know that I had done this," he muttered, trembling.
"He need not know of it," I replied. "Not unless thou dost tell him, for I most assuredly will not;" and tossing him a coin, I stopped only long enough to pick up my sword, which lay in the corner where I had dropped it.
Rushing quickly down the stairs and out of the house, I dashed toward the place where I had seen the priest and the stranger a few minutes before. The sky had clouded again, and it was evident that we were to have another storm; for in this changeable climate one moment the weather would be fine, and the next the heavens would be darkened by the heavy clouds.
I made my way cautiously down the path and followed the couple who, several hundred yards ahead of me, were walking slowly by the side of the water, seemingly deep in confab. Quietly and stealthily, keeping some distance behind, I followed them, gradually drawing nearer all the while. Never once did they look behind, as with heads bent, they walked steadily on.
Suddenly I saw them stop, and I threw myself flat upon the sand. They were evidently discussing something of more than ordinary interest. Who could the priest's companion be? I could not tell from this distance.
They had seated themselves upon the bench, and at the sight, I crawled cautiously up to where the rough, uneven sand lay heaped back from the water, and began to worm my way, flat on my stomach, towards them. 'Twas slow work, for I had to move at a snail's pace lest I should startle the twain, so engrossed in their conversation.
Minutes passed; I was getting nearer to them now, when there rang out a splash from the sea, and peering gradually up, I saw a boat, manned by four seamen, approaching rapidly the spot where the priest and his companion awaited them. Turning my head, I could see that I was within a few yards of them; but I did not care to run into their hands with the boat approaching, so I lay quiet where I was.
Nearer it drew, until within a few yards of the land; then one of the sailors hailed. Father Francis answered; and the boat grated upon the sand, while the men rested on their oars in silence. As they did so, a stray moonbeam came out from behind the clouds and fell full into the face of the tall stranger, who had arisen and was about to step into the boat. It was Lord Dunraven.
For a moment I lay still; and then, reckless of the seamen, thinking only of the way that he had slunk from me in the cave, of his plans against Margaret, and how he would wrest her away from her friends and home if he could, I arose to my feet.
"And so Lord Dunraven is afraid to walk in the day, and slinks about under cover of darkness to meet his hired assassins!" I cried ironically. "Such bravery as this is worthy of thee, and deserves commendation."
At the sound of my voice he had turned toward me, his foot upon the stern of the boat.
"Ah, Sir Thomas!" he said, "did I not have other plans on foot, I would meet thee here, and once and for all settle all matters of difference between us; but mighty reasons, which I have already stated to thee, forbid me from doing so. Should I by any mischance fall by thy sword, it would be a shame that the loveliest lady of England should weep out her eyes in sorrow at my untimely fate. Even now I go back to England to her kisses. I trust that thy stay upon the island may not prove unprofitable, and should time hang heavy on thy hands, perchance thou mightst amuse thyself with the thought of the bright lady in my arms. Farewell!" And he stepped into the boat.
"Dog!" I cried, rushing forward, "wait but one moment, and thou shalt hold no lady in thy foul arms again."
The priest, who had stood quietly on the sand, intending I suppose to see my lord off, at the first sound of my voice had pushed by Dunraven and sprang into the boat. Now as I ran forward, he cried:
"Wouldst thou wait for him? He is a fiend in disguise. Did I not lock him up, and has he not broken loose? Push off!—for the love of God push off!" his voice rising to a shriek as I neared them.
The boatmen needed no second bidding; plainly they feared the cold steel in my hand, for in a twinkle they had pushed off, and bent their backs to the oars with a will. When I reached the spot where my lord had stepped on board, they were fifty feet or more from me.
I hesitated for one moment, sorely tempted to spring into the surf and swim after them; but angered as I was, calm common sense came to my rescue. I was burdened with my steel breastplate and sword, and could not overtake the light boat manned by four sturdy seamen; even though I should, it would mean certain death to me. Six men to one, and he in the water; so I stood and watched them pull away.
Oh for a musketoon! I could have picked off my lord, as he sat in the stern facing me, as easily as I would a hare.
And even as I stood there upon the shore, biting my lips with rage to see them so easily glide out of my reach, my lord arose, and sweeping his hat from his head, bowed. "Adieu!" he said. "May thy dreams be pleasant. I shall remember thee to my lady," and he took his seat with a smile upon his face.
The boat dwindled down into a speck upon the water; still I stood there silent. Dunraven seemed ever to escape me, as I had my hand upon his throat. What meant he when he said that he returned to England? Did he speak truth, or was it but some lie to throw me off his track while he remained here to watch my movements?
Was the priest his spy kept here but to watch me, and perhaps the Spaniard also, and report all that we did or said? It seemed so from the diary that I had read. Perhaps Dunraven distrusted the Count as much as he did me, and was keeping an eye on us both.
I was beginning to think that he had good reason to fear the Spaniard, for had not the priest said in the cave to his companion Herrick that he had seen DeNortier walk the floor in agony, and cry out "Margaret! Margaret!"
I knew something of the Count by this time, and realized that he was a dangerous foe. Instead of one rival, it began to look as if I had two. Perhaps I might be able to join forces with DeNortier, and thus outwit Dunraven; then I could settle with the adventurer later. But where had the Spaniard seen Margaret? Echo answered "where?"
And so musing I retraced my steps towards the mansion, my head bent low in thought. The wind was rising again, and we would have a great storm if this but kept up for the night.
It was nearly day when I stood again in my own room. Something hung and dangled from the window, swinging to and fro in the rising wind, and knocking against the side of the house. My God! It could not be!
Rushing to the window, I drew through the grating the rope that hung outside; and there, his face bruised and disfigured, with gaping tongue, a great cut in his breast, hung the body of José, the servant who had released me from the room only a short while before. Cold, stiff, and lifeless he hung, and there, kneeling by his lifeless body, I swore that if God gave me health and strength I would pursue and punish the fiend who had done this deed.