Jessie, taking up her guitar, commences a song, the first that occurs to her, which chances to be “Lucy Neal,” a negro melody, at the time much in vogue on the plantations of the South. She has chosen the pathetic strain without thought of the effect it may produce upon her sister. Observing it to be painful she abruptly breaks off, and with a sweep of her fingers across the guitar strings, changes to the merrier refrain of “Old Dan Tucker.” Helen, touched by the delicate consideration, rewards it with a faint smile. Then, Jessie rattles on through a mélange of negro ministrelsy, all of the light comical kind, her only thought being to chase away her sister’s despondency.
Still is she unsuccessful. Her merry voice, her laughter, and the cheerful tinkle of the guitar strings, are all exerted in vain. The sounds so little in consonance with Helen’s thoughts seem sorely out of place in that gloomy apartment; whose walls, though they once echoed the laughter of roystering friars, have, no doubt, also heard the sighs of many a poor peon suffering chastisement for disobedience, or apostacy.
At length perceiving how idle are her efforts, the younger sister lays aside her guitar, at the same time starting to her feet, and saying:—“Come, Helen! suppose we go outside for a stroll? That will be more agreeable than moping in this gloomsome cavern. There’s a beautiful moonlight, and we ought to enjoy it.”
“If you wish, I have no objections. Where do you intend strolling to?”
“Say the garden. We can take a turn along its walks, though they are a little weedy. A queer weird place it is—looks as if it might be haunted. I shouldn’t wonder if we met a ghost in it—some of the old monks; or it might be one of their victims. ’Tis said they were very cruel, and killed people—ay, tortured them. Only think of the savage monsters! True, the ones that were here, as I’ve heard, got killed themselves in the end—that’s some satisfaction. But it’s all the more reason for their ghosts being about. If we should meet one, what would you do?”
“That would depend on how he behaved himself.”
“You’re not afraid of ghosts, Helen! I know you’re not.”
“I was when a child. Now I fear neither the living nor the dead. I can dare both, having nought to make me care for life—”
“Come on!” cries Jessie, interrupting the melancholy train of reflection, “Let us to the garden. If we meet a monk in hood and cowl, I shall certainly—”
“Do what?”