“The story is told of an unfaithful husband, a wronged wife and a beautiful governess forming a combination which led to the murder of a guest for his money. The master of the house died from remorse, under peculiar circumstances. These materials give us the plot for a thrilling ghost story.”
“Well, where does the lady come in?” interrupted “Adonis.”
There was a general laugh.
“This world is all a blank without the ladies for Charlie,” remarked Aubrey. “Molly, go on with your story, my child.”
“You may all laugh as much as you please, but what I am telling you is believed in this section by everyone. A local magazine speaks of it as follows, as near as I can remember:
“ ‘A most interesting story is told by a woman who occupied the house for a short time. She relates that she had no sooner crossed the threshold than she was met by a beautiful woman in flowing robes of black, who begged permission to speak through her to her friends. The friends were thereupon bidden to be present at a certain time. When all were assembled they were directed by invisible powers to kneel. Then the spirit told the tale of the tragedy through the woman. The spirit was the niece of the murderer, and she was in the house when the crime was committed. She discovered blood stains on the door of the woodshed, and told her uncle that she suspected him of murdering the guest, who had mysteriously disappeared. He secured her promise not to betray him. She had always kept the secret. Although both had been dead for many years, they were chained to the scene of the crime, as was the governess, who was the man’s partner in guilt. The final release of the niece from the place was conditional on her making a public confession. This done she would never be heard from again. And she never was, except on Hallow-eve, when the moon is new.’ ”
“Bring your science and philosophy to bear on this, Reuel. Come, come, man, give us your opinion,” exclaimed Aubrey.
“Reuel doesn’t believe such stuff; he’s too sensible,” added Charlie.
“If these are facts, they are only for those who have a mental affinity with them. I believe that if we could but strengthen our mental sight, we could discover the broad highway between this and the other world on which both good and evil travel to earth,” replied Reuel.
“And that first highway was beaten out of chaos by Satan, as Milton has it, eh, Briggs?”
“Have it as you like, Smith. No matter. For my own part, I have never believed that the whole mental world is governed by the faculties we understand, and can reduce to reason or definite feeling. But I will keep my ideas to myself: one does not care to be laughed at.”
The conversation was kept up for another hour about indifferent subjects, but all felt the excitement underlying the frivolous chatter. At quarter before twelve, Aubrey put on his ulster with the words: “Well, here goes for my lady.” The great doors were thrown open, and the company grouped about him to see him depart.
“Mind, honor bright, you go,” laughed Charlie.
“Honor bright,” he called back.
Then he went on beyond the flood of light into the gloom of the night. Muffled in wraps and ulsters they lingered on the piazzas waiting his return.
“Would he see anything?”
“Of course not!” laughed Charlie and Bert Smith. “Still, we bet he’ll be sharp to his time.”
They were right. Aubrey returned at five minutes past twelve, a failure.
Charlie ran down the steps briskly, but in ten minutes came hastening back.
“Well,” was the chorus, “did you see it?”
“I saw something—a figure in the trees!”
“And you did not wait?” said Molly, scornfully.
“No, I dared not; I own it.”
“It’s my turn; I’m third,” said Reuel.
“Luck to you, old man,” they called as he disappeared in the darkness.
Reuel Briggs was a brave man. He knew his own great physical strength and felt no fear as he traversed the patch of woods lying between the two estates. As he reached the avenue of hemlocks he was not thinking of his mission, but of the bright home scene he had just left—of love and home and rest—such a life as was unfolding before Aubrey Livingston and sweet Molly Vance.
“I suppose there are plenty of men in the world as lonely as I am,” he mused; “but I suppose it is my own fault. A man though plain and poor can generally manage to marry; and I am both. But I don’t regard a wife as one regards bread—better sour bread than starvation; better an uncongenial life-companion than none! What a frightful mistake! No! The woman I marry must be to me a necessity, because I love her; because so loving her, ‘all the current of my being flows to her,’ and I feel she is my supreme need.”
Just now he felt strangely happy as he moved in the gloom of the hemlocks, and he wondered many times after that whether the spirit is sometimes mysteriously conscious of the nearness of its kindred spirit; and feels, in anticipation, the “sweet unrest” of the master-passion that rules the world.
The mental restlessness of three weeks before seemed to have possession of him again. Suddenly the “restless, unsatisfied longing,” rose again in his heart. He turned his head and saw a female figure just ahead of him in the path, coming toward him. He could not see her features distinctly, only the eyes—large, bright and dark. But their expression! Sorrowful, wistful—almost imploring—gazing straight forward, as if they saw nothing—like the eyes of a person entirely absorbed and not distinguishing one object from another.
She was close to him now, and there was a
