And cold with never-melting snow,
Sees nought above, nor deigns to cast
A look away on aught below.
An emotion of interest—something she could not define, even to herself, had impelled Calantha to remain till the song was ended: a different feeling now prompted her to retire in haste. She fled; nor stopped, till she again found herself opposite the castle gate, where she had been left by her companions.
While yet dwelling in thought upon the singular being she had one moment beheld—whilst asking herself what meant this new, this strange emotion, she found another personage by her side, and recognized, through a new disguise, her morning’s acquaintance, Wailman the preacher, otherwise called Cowdel O’Kelly. This rencontre gave an immediate turn to her thoughts. She enquired of him if he were an inhabitant of Belfont Abbey? “No, madam,” he answered, “but of St. Alvin Priory.” She desired him to inform her, whether any one resided there who sung in the manner she then described. “Sure, then, I sing myself in that manner,” said the man, “if that’s all; and beside me, there be some who howl and wail, the like you never heard. Mayhap it is he you fell in with; if so, it must have moved your heart to tears.”
“Explain yourself,” said Calantha eagerly. “If he is unhappy, it is the same I have seen and heard. Tell me what sorrows have befallen him?” “Sorrows! why enough too, to plague any man. Has he not got the distemper?” “The distemper!” “Aye, Lady; for did he not catch it sleeping in our dog-kennel, as he stood petrified there one night, kilt by the cold? When my Lord found him, he had not a house to his head then, it’s my belief; but now indeed he’s got one, he’s no wiser, having, as I think, no head to his house.” “Och! it would surprise you how he howls and barks, whenever the moon shines bright. But here be those who fell on me at the fair. In truth I believe they be searching for the like of you.”
CHAPTER IV.
The party from the castle now joined Calantha. They were in evident discomfiture. Their adventures had been rather less romantic than Lady Avondale’s, and consequently had not given them such refined pleasure; for while she was attending to a strain of such enchanting sweetness, they had been forcibly detained in an apartment of the priory, unwillingly listening to very different music.
The housekeeper having led them through the galleries, the ladies, escorted by Count Gondimar, Lord Trelawney and Sir Everard, turned to examine some of the portraits, fretted cornices and high casements, till the dame who led the way, calling to them, shewed them a large dreary apartment hung with tapestry, and requested them to observe the view from the window. “It is here,” she said, “in this chamber, that John de Ruthven drank hot blood from the skull of his enemy and died.” A loud groan, at that moment, proceeded from an inner chamber. “That must be the ghost,” said Lord Trelawney. His Lady shrieked. The dame, terrified at Lady Trelawney’s terror, returned the shriek by a piercing yell, rushed from the room, closing the heavy door in haste, which fastened with a spring lock, and left the company not a little disconcerted.
“We are a good number, however,” cried Frances, taking fast hold of her Lord, who smiled vacantly upon her. “We certainly can match the ghost in point of strength: but it is rather unpleasant to be confined here till the old woman recovers her senses.” Groans most piteous and terrible interrupted this remark—groans uttered as if in the agony of a soul ill at rest. Sophia grasped Sir Everard St. Clare’s hand. Sir Everard looked at Lady Margaret. Lady Margaret disdainfully returned the glance. “I fear not,” she said; “but we will assuredly have this affair examined. I shall speak to my brother the moment I return: there is possibly some evil concealed which requires investigation.” “Hark! I hear a step,” said Frances. “If I were not afraid of seeing a ghost,” cried Lord Trelawney, “faith, I would climb up to that small grated window.”