It was Hallow-eve.
The north wind blew a cutting blast over the stately Charles, and
broke the waves into a miniature flood; it swept the streets of the
University city, and danced on into the outlying suburbs tossing the
last leaves about in gay disorder, not even sparing the quiet precincts
of Mount Auburn cemetery. A deep, clear, moonless sky stretched
overhead, from which hung myriads of sparkling stars.
In Mount Auburn, where the residences of the rich lay far apart,
darkness and quietness had early settled down. The main street seemed
given over to the duskiness of the evening, and with one exception,
there seemed no light on earth or in heaven save the cold gleam of the
stars.
The one exception was in the home of Charlie Vance, or “Adonis,” as he
was called by his familiars. The Vance estate was a spacious house with
rambling ells, tortuous chimney-stacks, and corners, eaves and ledges;
the grounds were extensive and well kept telling silently of the
opulence of its owner. Its windows sent forth a cheering light. Dinner
was just over.
Within, on an old-fashioned hearth, blazed a glorious wood fire, which
gave a rich coloring to the oak-panelled walls, and fell warmly on a
group of young people seated and standing, chatting about the fire.
At one side of it, in a chair of the Elizabethan period, sat the
hostess, Molly Vance, only daughter of James Vance, Esq., and sister of
“Adonis,” a beautiful girl of eighteen.
At the opposite side, leaning with folded arms against the high carved
mantel, stood Aubrey Livingston; the beauty of his fair hair and blue
eyes was never more marked as he stood there in the gleam of the fire
and the soft candle light. He was talking vivaciously, his eyes turning
from speaker to speaker, as he ran on, but resting chiefly with pride
on his beautiful betrothed, Molly Vance.
The group was completed by two or three other men, among them Reuel
Briggs, and three pretty girls. Suddenly a clock struck the hour.
“Only nine,” exclaimed Molly. “Good people, what shall we do to wile
the tedium of waiting for the witching hour? Have any one of you enough
wisdom to make a suggestion?”
“Music,” said Livingston.
“We don’t want anything so commonplace.”
“Blind Man’s Buff,” suggested “Adonis.”
“Oh! please not that, the men are so rough!”
“Let us,” broke in Cora Scott, “tell ghost stories.”
“Good, Cora! yes, yes, yes.”
“No, no!” exclaimed a chorus of voices.
“Yes, yes,” laughed Molly, gaily, clapping her hands. “It is the very
thing. Cora, you are the wise woman of the party. It is the very time,
tonight is the new moon, and we can try our projects in the Hyde house.”
“The moon should be full to account for such madness,” said Livingston.
“Don’t be disagreeable, Aubrey,” replied Molly. “The ‘ayes’ have it.
You’re with me, Mr. Briggs?”
“Of course, Miss Vance,” answered Reuel, “to go to the North Pole or
Hades--only please tell us where is ‘Hyde house.’”
“Have you never heard? Why it’s the adjoining estate. It is reputed to
be haunted, and a lady in white haunts the avenue in the most approved
ghostly style.”
“Bosh!” said Livingston.
“Possibly,” remarked the laughing Molly, “but it is the ‘bosh’ of a
century.”
“Go on, Miss Vance; don’t mind Aubrey. Who has seen the lady?”
“She is not easily seen,” proceeded Molly, “she only appears on
Hallow-eve, when the moon is new, as it will be tonight. I had
forgotten that fact when I invited you here. If anyone stands, tonight,
in the avenue leading to the house, he will surely see the tall veiled
figure gliding among the old hemlock trees.”
One or two shivered.
“If, however, the watcher remain, the lady will pause, and utter some
sentence of prophecy of his future.”
“Has any one done this?” queried Reuel.
“My old nurse says she remembers that the lady was seen once.”
“Then, we’ll test it again tonight!” exclaimed Reuel, greatly excited
over the chance to prove his pet theories.
“Well, Molly, you’ve started Reuel off on his greatest hobby; I wash
my hands of both of you.”
“Let us go any way!” chorused the venturesome party.
“But there are conditions,” exclaimed Molly. “Only one person must go
at a time.”
Aubrey laughed as he noticed the consternation in one or two faces.
“So,” continued Molly, “as we cannot go together, I propose that each
shall stay a quarter of an hour, then whether successful or not, return
and let another take his or her place. I will go first.”
“No--” it was Charlie who spoke--“I put my veto on that, Molly. If
you are mad enough to risk colds in this mad freak, it shall be done
fairly. We will draw lots.
“And I add to that, not a girl leave the house; we men will try the
charm for the sake of your curiosity, but not a girl goes. You can try
the ordinary Hallow-eve projects while we are away.”
With many protests, but concealed relief, this plan was reluctantly
adopted by the female element. The lots were prepared and placed in a
hat, and amid much merriment, drawn.
“You are third, Mr. Briggs,” exclaimed Molly who held the hat and
watched the checks.
“I’m first,” said Livingston, “and Charlie second.”
“While we wait for twelve, tell us the story of the house, Molly,”
cried Cora.
Thus adjured, Molly settled herself comfortably in her chair and began:
“Hyde House is nearly opposite the cemetery, and its land joins that
of this house; it is indebted for its ill-repute to one of its owners,
John Hyde. It has been known for years as a haunted house, and avoided
as such by the superstitious. It is low-roofed, rambling, and almost
entirely concealed by hemlocks, having an air of desolation and decay
in keeping with its ill-repute. In its dozen rooms were enacted the
dark deeds which gave the place the name of the ‘haunted house.’
“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 every one. 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 perceptible pause in her
step. Suddenly she covered her face with her clasped hands, as if in
uncontrollable grief. Moved by a mighty emotion, Briggs addressed the
lonely figure:
“You are in trouble, madam; may I help you?”
Briggs never knew how he survived the next shock. Slowly the hands were
removed from the face and the moon gave a distinct view of the lovely
features of the jubilee singer--Dianthe Lusk.
She did not seem to look at Briggs, but straight before her, as she
said in a low, clear, passionless voice:
“You can help me, but not now; tomorrow.”
Reuel’s most prominent feeling was one of delight. The way was open to
become fully acquainted with the woman who had haunted him sleeping and
waking, for weeks past.
“Not now! Yet you are suffering. Shall I see you soon? Forgive me--but
oh! tell me--”
He was interrupted. The lady moved or floated away from him, with her
face toward him and gazing steadily at him.
He felt that his whole heart was in his eyes, yet hers did not drop,
nor did her cheek color.
“The time is not yet,” she said in the same, clear, calm, measured
tones, in which she had spoken before. Reuel made a quick movement
toward her, but she raised her hand, and the gesture forbade him
to follow her. He paused involuntarily, and she turned away, and
disappeared among the gloomy hemlock trees.
He parried the questions of the merry crowd when he returned to the
house, with indifferent replies. How they would have laughed at
him--slave of a passion as sudden and romantic as that of Romeo for
Juliet; with no more foundation than the “presentments” in books which
treat of the “occult.” He dropped asleep at last, in the early morning
hours, and lived over his experience in his dreams.
