"I can do nothing, Aunt Caddy," he said with gentle sadness; "nothing great, noble, glorious; I am only a sick, helpless boy. But for the little while I am with them, I would like my people to be happy. I would like every heart to be light and free that I can render so. I will never live to add any thing to the lustre of the old name, never win fame or laurels in camp or court. Only I would like, when I am gone, to have it said that Sir Arthur, their boy-lord's rule was a light and happy one. So don't let me hear any more of unpaid rents, Johnson," he would add, smiling merrily at the faithful steward. "What do I want with poor Farmer Cropper's few guineas? Let my heir attend to all such matters, if he will; no one must be troubled while I can prevent it."
They had learned ere this not to be astonished at these strange, unchild-like speeches, and all tried to carry out their young lord's wishes with almost worshipping fondness and devotion.
So it happened that this Christmas the old Saxon hall was decked gayly with holly and ivy; mistletoe boughs hung temptingly from the dark old rafters, and the oaken floor was polished till it shone again.
Sir Arthur had determined that the servants' ball this year should be an unprecedented success; and he himself—"blessings on his sweet young face," as the good old housekeeper said when she announced the great event—was "to be present in person."
Scores of wax lights winked merrily between the heavy wreaths of ivy, and a yule log, parent of a hundred oaks, blazed like a royal bonfire on the spacious hearth.
Already the old fiddler, blind of one eye, and the old harpist, lame of one leg—a pair of musicians whom Sir Arthur patronized extensively, had taken their places; already many a bright eye and nimble foot danced expectant, and many a rosy cheek flushed deeper with anticipated pleasure. Stately Lady Nesbitt, Arthur's grandmother, was there, smiling benignantly; Aunt Caddy—or the "sweet Lady Caroline," as some of her devoted pensioners called her—with her Madonna face, waving hair, and soft silvery robe, looking like some gentle moonlight spirit; and Arthur, his fair cheek flushed—ah! too brightly—his golden ringlets, soft as a maiden's, clustering on his pale white brow, his clear blue eyes radiant with pleasure, sat looking on, the happiest baron of Hurston that ever reigned in that grim abode.
Old Johnson, the steward and master of ceremonies, alone was wanting; and the impatient dancers began to grow restless awaiting his signal to open the ball. "Where can Johnson be?" questioned Arthur for the twentieth time; when the door suddenly burst open, and Johnson appeared, not a vestige of color in his usually ruddy face, and every white hair on his aged crown bristling with terror.
"Great heavens!—I beg pardon, my lord and ladies," panted the old man breathlessly. "But I've seen him at last! The Lord forgive me! I'll never doubt that there be spirits return again. I saw him with these very eyes—the master, old Sir Ralph himself. O my poor blessed lamb! I beg pardon, my lord—Sir Arthur, I mean. I hope this portends nothing awful." And the faithful old servitor wiped the great beads of moisture from his brow.
"What do you mean, Johnson? What has terrified you?" asked Lady Nesbitt, calming in her stately way the excited group that had gathered around her.
"This, madam—simply this, my lady," replied the terrified old man. "I was in the chapel, putting the last wreath on Lady Edith's, my young lord's blessed mother's tomb, when I felt a sort of cold chill creep over me, and says I to myself, 'It's only the dampness'—for I have the rheumatics occasionally, as my Lady Caroline well knows. So says I, 'It's only the dampness;' for I never believed the stories the country folk tell about the barons of Hurston leaving their holy graves to walk on earth again. And so I was walking slowly out, when I heard a sort of groan, and I turned, and, O my lord and ladies! sure as the Lord sees me here, I saw old Sir Ralph, our young lord's grandfather, standing beside his own tomb, with his head bent down and his arms folded, as I've seen him over and over again in life. O my dear young lord! I couldn't be mistaken; it's he himself and no other. I could take my Bible oath to his back and legs; begging your pardon, ladies, I could indeed." And poor Johnson paused for breath.