“Cousin,” he again spoke, “it is to you that I come from my far-off English tomb. It was your need called me. It is no pious deed brings you to this wall to-night. You are planning to pillage these towers unworthily, even as I did yesterday. Death was my portion, and broken hearts to the father I wronged and the girl I sought.”
“But it is the father wrongs the girl here,” I heard myself saying.
“He who rules these towers to-day is of stern mind but loving heart,” said the ghost. “Patience. By the Star that redeems the world, love should not be won to-night by stealth, but by—love.”
He raised his hands toward the tower, his countenance radiant with an undying passion.
“She called to me and died,” he said, “and her little ghost comes not to earth again for any winter moon or any summer wind.”
“But you—you come often?” my voice was saying.
“No,” said the ghost, “only on Christmas Eve. Yule is the tide of specters; for then the thoughts of the world are so beautiful that they enter our dreams and call us back.”
He turned to go, and a boyish, friendly smile rested a moment on his pale face.
“Farewell, Sir Geoffray de Pierrepont,” he called to me.
Into the misty moonlight the ghost floated to that portion of the wall directly opposite the haunted room. From where I stood I could not see this chamber. After a moment I shook my numb senses to life. My first instinct was one of strong human curiosity, which impelled me to follow far enough to see the effect of the apparition on old Hobson, who must be watching at the window.