“Yes, I have heard of old Jasper Nellest who was so miserly, and yet died poor, and left his descendants nothing but this property that seemed afterward to be banned by a curse,” he replied.
“Yes, that is the gist of the story,” answered Maybelle, sighing. “That old man died rich, but he had turned all he owned into yellow, shining, golden coin. But he did not mean to cheat his heirs of their inheritance, only he died suddenly before he could tell them where the treasure was hidden. Well, his punishment is to haunt his old home, vainly trying to reveal the secret he carried to the grave.”
“Can this be true?” cried Alva in wonder.
“It is true,” answered Maybelle. “I have seen him again and again, and it is horrible!”
She paused and glanced half fearfully at the door, muttering:
“But, no, no—he will be shocked at the evil he has wrought, he will not venture back for long, long years. It has always been so, they say.”
They listened eagerly, devouring every word, wondering if her strange story could be true.
“You doubt me!” cried Maybelle, reading their faces. “Well, I am too weak to waste words trying to convince you. I can only tell what I know in the briefest fashion.”
She rested a little while, then resumed her story:
“This old man—this miser—has surely hidden his gold somewhere in this house, but he has not the power of speech, only of strange, demoniacal laughter. It is this way: Some night in wandering through the long corridor—always the long corridor—you come upon an old man chuckling, gibbering to himself. You stop, you stare in terror, and he spreads abroad his lean hands. You see grouped about him, as in a golden haze, open chests of golden coin—think of it, great chests of gold!—and the sight fires you with a mad longing to possess the treasure whose existence you thus discover. You gaze spell-bound, but the hideous old miser begins to laugh with hideous mirth, gloating over his wealth, till you fly in deadly terror from the scene. But, alas! only to return, goaded by an awful desire to search the old place over for the missing gold. You search in vain, and the old miser seems to gloat over your failures with his demon laughter; and then—then—the rage, the fear, the baffled desire for the treasure—seem to combine to drive one mad, so that this”—she shuddered as she pointed at Otho’s still form—“comes naturally as the awful finale. He—Otho—found it all out while seeking Floy, and persuaded me to come with him to seek for the chests of gold. Alas, alas!” and with a long, shuddering sigh she closed her eyes again.