CHAPTER XIX.

THE GRAVE-YARD GHOST.

“Strange things, the neighbors say, have happened there! Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs, Dead maids have come again, and walked about; And a great bell has tolled unrung, untouched.”—_Blair’s Grave._

Susan crossed the hall and entered her own chamber, which was even more scantily furnished than the other rooms. There was a wide fire-place filled with evergreens and flanked by two closets, as in the others. And there was a four-post bedstead with a bed well made up and covered with a comfortable blue and white check counterpane; and there was an arm-chair and a table upon which stood a quadrant, a compass, an old chronometer, Bouditch’s Navigation, and other sailors’ belongings. On the mantle-piece were various curiosities, such as a mummy’s hand, a New Zealander’s skull, a Chinese woman’s skeleton foot, and other such enlivening articles of virtu, collected by the late Captain Brande, in his various voyages.

“Ugh! it’s enough to chill one’s blood, even without the ghost of the white-robed lady! Well! it’s a comfort at last that one can say their prayers,” said Susan, looking around upon the weird scene.

“And as I hope to be saved,” she added, as she examined the room—“there are no shutters outside the windows, and no curtains within! So that if the ghost of Blanche chooses to look in through the panes of glass I shall have to shut my eyes to avoid seeing her! Well, praise be to Heaven there remains prayer at least, and no one can be very much afraid who prays very hard!”

And with this consoling conclusion, Susan examined the bed, and finding the sheets all fresh and sweet, hastily undressed herself, said her prayers, put out the candle, and jumped into bed.

But she could not sleep. Reason with herself as she might, the utter isolation of the house, the emptiness of all the chambers, the profound solitude of her own room; the vague dread of runaway negroes, of whose occasional acts of violence she had sometimes read with horror; the story of the white-robed lady, whose ghost was said to wander through the house and grounds;—thoughts that at noon day, or in company, would have moved her mirthful scorn, now at midnight when she was alone, filled her heart with superstitious terror, which she could neither explain nor discard.

On the right hand of her bed was a large window, unprotected by either curtain or blind, and as often, as in her restless tossing about, she turned to that side, the whole outer scene in that direction was visible to her.

And such a scene! a table land, with here and there a solitary spectral pine, or cedar-tree, and in the midst an old family graveyard, with ghostly tombstones gleaming dimly white under the clouded starlight. The sea was not visible, but its monotonous and mournful murmur was all but too audible, and formed a strangely appropriate accompaniment to the gloomy aspect.

At each turning, and each glance out upon the wild, dark landscape, Susan grew more nervous, and consequently more superstitious and fearful.

And presently, a little after midnight, the wind arose with a sigh and a moan, that seemed like the voice of some denizen of that graveyard, waking from his death-sleep, to walk the earth at night.

Susan covered her head and held her breath. Then half-suffocating, she uncovered it, and looked out. There were the ghostly tombstones gleaming dimly under the clouded sky.

“Oh, my goodness alive! I shall go crazy if I stay here!” cried Susan, rising up into a sitting posture and throwing the bed-clothes off her. She peered cautiously toward the window pane and looked out. This position gave her a much more extensive view than she had before possessed.

But after the first glance, Susan fell back with a half-suppressed scream, and buried her face in the bed-clothes.

She had seen the form of a white-robed, graceful, female figure moving slowly up and down among the tombstones!

Her eyes were blinded by the blankets pressed around them, yet she could not shut out the vision of that white-robed, beautiful form with its flowing black hair, and clasped hands.

Susan’s first impulse was to fly to her lady’s room and rouse her; but terror had deprived her of the use of her limbs, and so she lay shuddering and helpless. Presently she remembered the Almighty Protector, and fell to praying.

Now, it is certain that the sincere prayer of a simple, faithful soul, is the antidote for all fear; and in praying, the wild throbs of the girl’s heart subsided.

And with returning calmness came the power of motion, and the first impulse of seeking her lady’s presence and protection; but then arose the generous thought of not disturbing her rest. And forming a resolution of self-restraint and patience, Susan recommended herself to the care of Heaven, and ventured once more to creep to the side of the bed and look toward the window. The spectral form had disappeared, and with a sigh of relief, Susan sank back upon her pillow. The reaction of so great a nervous excitement produced its natural effects, and Susan sank into the deep sleep of exhaustion.

The broad light of morning falling full upon her face awoke her. She started on seeing herself in a strange bed and room, and for some moments could not recollect how she came there; but when memory returned, she arose at once, feeling how heavily and how long she must have slept, and how late it must be.

She hurried on her clothes and went softly across the hall to the room of her mistress, whom she found apparently sleeping.

Then she returned and entered the kitchen. No sooner had her footfall sounded on the plank floor than a knock at the back door arrested her attention. She went and opened it, to find old Amphy there with a pail of water, waiting.

“De Lors, child! how late you—dem does get up, my patience alive! Here I’s bin t’ree times to de door, and dis time I jis sots myse’f down to wait—ef it’s all day! But I do spose how you was tired.”

“Yes, very tired! come in.”

The old creature entered and proceeded to fill the kettle, while Susan lighted the fire.

“How you sleep last night? You didn’t see nuffi’n, did you?”

“Hush—I’ll tell you after a bit. I don’t believe I really saw any thing, but I believe I _fancied_ I saw that white vestured female figure gliding among the tombstones,” said Susan, with a retrospective shudder.

“_’Tis she!_ Sure as ebber you lib in dis worl’ _’tis she_!” exclaimed the old woman in a voice of deep horror.

“Nonsense! it was imagination, optical illusion, no doubt,” replied Susan, whose superstitious terrors had disappeared with the shadows of night, and whose right reason had returned with daylight.

“Don’t matter what you call it, child,—wedder ’magination, optional solusion, or ghos’—it’s all one and de same thing, and I rudder see a live lion o a robber, nor one o’ _dem_. Has you any browned coffee?”

“No; I will get you to brown some,” said Susan, going to a hamper and taking out a packet, which she handed to her assistant.

Then leaving the old woman to her task, Susan once more visited the room of her mistress, whom she now found awake.

“Have I disturbed you, by coming in, my lady?”

“No, dear girl, I am about to rise.”

“Did you sleep well, Madam?”

“As usual, Susan.”

“Nothing disturbed you in the night, I hope, my lady?”

“Nothing, Susan.”

“No, of course not, _her_ windows have shutters to them, and are, besides, on the opposite side of the house to the graveyard,” thought Susan, with a momentary relapse into credulity.

But her mistress was now rising, and Susan busied herself in assisting at her toilet.

Mary Queen of Scots has been criticised for dressing as carefully each day, in her prison of Fotheringay, as at her palace of Holyrood. I have no doubt that it was a mere mechanical matter of habit, rather than of care or thought. Certainly it was only from force of habit that Lady Montressor, in the course of her simple matinal toilet, seated herself in a chair and yielded up her beautiful head of ebon hair, to be carefully dressed by her maid, whose affectionate hands braided up the back locks and rolled them in as neat a knot, and divided and disposed the front locks in as beautiful ringlets, as if, instead of hiding in this half ruined house, her ladyship had been going to receive morning visitors, in her boudoir of Montressor Castle. And with the same careful attention, she arranged the black cashmere morning dress, with its white lace collar and cuffs.

And then, as was her custom, she left the lady to her devotions, and passed into the parlor to open the shutters, light the fire, and set the solitary table for her morning meal.

Then she returned to the kitchen, where she found that the old busybody there had set the coffee, made biscuits and put them to bake, and was now engaged in preparing a fat partridge for the gridiron.

“Dear me! where did that quail come from?” asked Susan, in surprise and delight that this luxury was provided for her lady’s table.

“Dunno what you call _quail_, but if you mean dis ere _peertridge_, better ax my old man dere, honey; he kin handle a gun now et a hunner year ole, good as any young feller going’, I tell yer all good; you hears me, don’t you?” replied the old woman, proudly and fondly rolling her head toward the back door, whither now Susan directed her eyes to see old Neptune standing there, leaning on his fowling-piece, and smiling meekly as was his wont.

The old man took off his hat and handkerchief, and bowed with his usual gentle salute of—

“Sarvint, Mist’ess.”

“Good-morning, father—you brought these?”

“Yes, Mist’ess—I trought how de Madam, looking delikky, would like somethin’ relishing for her breakfas’.”

“I’ll tell her you brought it; you are so very good. I am sure she will value your kindness.”

“’Taint nuffin much, Mist’ess; wish I could do more for de Madam; she do look _wonderful_ delikky.”

And the old creature spoke sincerely; such an instance of thoughtful kindness was nothing unusual in his or his race; for there is not on all the earth, perhaps, a set of creatures more “kindly affectionate” than the old family servants of Maryland.

This old man seemed delighted with the pleasure he had given, and setting down his gun, went and busied himself with chopping and piling up wood, and making himself “generally useful.”

“Now, Mist’ess,” he said, “you has wood enough to las’ you all day.”

“I am very much obliged to you, indeed. But I am not _Mistress_,” said Susan, smiling.

“What shall I call you, then, honey?”

“My name is Susan Copsewood, and I am only Lady Mont——Gemini!—I mean Mrs. Estel’s maid. So you may call me any thing you please except Mistress.”

“Yes, Miss Susan,” replied the old man, mildly.

“Aye! that will do very well. Call me that, father.”

The old creature smiled; he was delighted to hear this rosy-cheeked, pleasant-spoken girl continue to call him father—not knowing that it was a title of respect Susan was in the habit of giving to very old men, of an humble class of life, in her native country.

As the breakfast was now ready, this “neat-handed” maid arranged it carefully upon a waiter and carried it into the parlor, where she found her mistress seated at the table in her old attitude of mournful abstraction.

Susan arranged the service upon the table and then, with the purpose of engaging her mistress in conversation, said, triumphantly—

“There, my lady! look at that quail!”

“Thank you, Susan,” answered the lady, abstractedly.

“But you don’t look at it—you don’t ask where it came from.”

Lady Montressor made no comment, and Susan slightly piqued, observed:

“Oh, to be sure, we are in the fabulous country, where quails fly in at the kitchen windows, already roasted?”

“My dear girl, what has vexed you?” inquired her ladyship, kindly, noticing now, for the first time, that her faithful attendant looked troubled.

“Nothing, my dear lady, only that you have no more curiosity about this quail, which I consider a god-send, than if your father’s gamekeeper had furnished it for the Hyde Hall breakfast table.”

At this sudden mention of her old home, Lady Montressor grew pale as death, and Susan in alarm, hastened to apologize.

“No, no—say nothing, as you are not to blame, child.”

There was a pause, and then Susan entreated her mistress to try and partake of some breakfast, and especially to try the “quail.”

And Lady Montressor, rather to gratify the girl than to please herself, complied.

The idea of telling her mistress about the graveyard vision of the white-robed lady occurred to Susan; but she prudently dismissed the gloomy subject, and told instead the pleasant story of the old centennial sportsman, whose gun had supplied the game for breakfast.

Lady Montressor listened, and replied:

“Bear the old man my thanks, Susan, and do not let his efforts go unrewarded.”

And Susan did as her mistress directed.

After breakfast, and after the young woman, with the assistance of Amphy, had put the lower rooms in order, and unpacked and disposed Lady Montressor’s few books upon the parlor table—leaving her ladyship engaged in reading, she went up stairs and explored the upper rooms, which she found completely bare of furniture, and even of window glasses—the closed shutters concealing this latter named deficiency from the outside; the plastering was cracked, and hanging in dangerous masses from the ceiling; and the locks on the doors were all broken; but the floor, and all the wood and brick-work were perfectly sound.

From the second story, Susan went up into the attic, which she found in even a worse condition—the window-sashes being entirely gone, and not only the plastering, but the lathing broken. But here, also, the plank and brick-work was sound, although the deep stains on walls and floor proved that in rainy weather the roof leaked badly.

“Horridly out of repair, but a good, soundly-built house, for all that; and a few hundred dollars will make it a very comfortable one,” was the conclusion to which Susan came.

She then went down stairs, and inquired of old Amphy how she might best reach the village of Eastville, to which she wished to go, to procure workmen to come out and repair the house.

Amphy assured her that the horse “Charley” and the carry-all, that had been left by Miss Barbary, in the old man’s care, was at her service, and that the old man himself would be happy to drive her over there.

This plan was no sooner proposed than accepted, and Susan went in to inform her mistress of her projected journey.

She found Lady Montressor seated near the window, with the book held idly on her lap in one careless hand, while the other arm, resting its elbow on the window-sill, supported her drooping head. Susan proposed her errand, and received the lady’s ready acquiescence.

Old Amphy promised, during the maid’s absence, to mind the house, and to cook one of her own chickens for the lady’s dinner; and old Neptune brought up the carry-all and horse to take Susan to the village. She prepared herself and soon set out.

She was absent several hours, but found it impossible to get any workmen to promise to come to the Headland House in less than a week or ten days. And with this insufficient satisfaction she was obliged to return home.

There was in the grove near the house a curious arbor, the work of Captain Brande, erected of six jaw bones of the whale, set up on end in a circular form, and covered with a thick growth of the trumpet vine with its shining, dark green, star-shaped leaves, and flaming red vase-like flowers.

As Susan drove into the park, she saw Lady Montressor sitting within that arbor, gazing out abstractedly upon the sea. Susan alighted and went up to her.

“The evening is chilly, dear lady, pray do not sit here,” she urged, with affectionate solicitude.

The lady lifted her large mournful eyes to the face of her faithful attendant, and without a word arose to accompany her to the house.

Old Amphy had tea ready in the parlor, and soon after it was served and cleared away, Lady Montressor retired to her chamber and dismissed her attendant for the night.

Old Amphy complaining of fatigue from having set up later than usual upon the preceding night, took leave and departed.

Susan, also, from loss of rest, was very tired and sleepy, so she fastened up the house, put out the fire, said her prayers and went to bed. But with the darkness of solitude, and the silence, returned her superstitious terrors. She shut her eyes, and then, not content with that safeguard against spectral sights, she drew the bed-clothes tightly over her head. But Susan had capacious lungs that required a good supply of fresh air, and so the sense of being half suffocated grew so intolerable that she was forced to uncover her face for the purpose of breathing. But she kept her eyelids closed.

Good angels! how solitary, how silent, and how dark it was! She could not see the darkness, but like the silence and the solitude, she _felt_ it, in the core of her heart, and quaked with vague terror.

It was long before she could quiet herself.

At last, however, she fell asleep.

How long she had slept she did not know, for sleepers take no account of time; and why she awoke, she could not tell, for dreamers are not always cognizant of causes;—but as she awoke, she thoughtlessly opened her eyes, turned over, faced the uncurtained window, and saw the half-obscured, star-lighted sky, the level table land with its sentinel trees—the graveyard, with its gleaming spectral-like tombstones, and there—oh, Heaven of Heavens!—the gliding form of the graceful, white-robed woman!

The panic-stricken girl had no power to withdraw her gaze, that seemed fascinated to that beautiful form, with its flowing, snowy drapery, and streaming jet-black hair, and long fair hands that she clasped and wrung like one in deepest grief, as in slow measured steps she paced up and down. Presently, in turning away from her monotonous path, to Susan’s unutterable horror, she slowly and steadily approached her window!

Just as that wild white face looked in from the outer darkness, Susan, half swooning, sunk back upon her pillow, with barely strength enough left to draw the counterpane over her swimming head; and there she lay half paralyzed with terror, her heart quivering, almost dying in her bosom with the momentary expectation of some supernatural denouement, until at length, as before, the deathly sense of suffocation, and the imminent necessity of breathing, compelled her to uncover her face.

All was solitude, silence and darkness around her. The spectral face had disappeared from the window. Still, in deadly terror of its return, she closed her eyes and lay shivering. She would have given all that she possessed in the world for the companionship of any human being. Yet in affectionate solicitude for the uninterrupted repose of her suffering mistress, she refrained from flying for shelter into the chamber of the latter.

And so she lay cowering and shuddering, occasionally lifting her eyelids a little way, to steal a cautious glance around the room and through the window; but all continued silent, dark and solitary, until near morning, when the joyous crowing of Aunt Amphy’s chickens, and the cheerful red streaks along the eastern horizon, heralding the approach of day, put her superstitious, midnight terrors to flight, and enabled her wearied frame to sink to sleep.

She must have slept long and heavily, when a sharp tapping upon the pane of glass nearest her ear caused her to start up in affright.

It was now very late in the morning, and Aunt Amphy stood outside, tapping on the window.

“Marster’s dear sake, chile, _is_ you dead, or is yer gwine sleep for eber?”

“Oh! is that you, Mother Amphy?”

“Sure it’s me, an’ its gwine on to seven o’clock, chile.”

“Oh, is it? I will get up directly and let you in,” said Susan, rising and hurrying on her clothes.

“_Dar_, what you tink of _dat_ for your Mist’ess’ breakfas’?” inquired the old woman, triumphantly holding up a fine fat “red neck” before the window.

“What sort of a bird do you call _that_?” asked Susan.

“Bird? De Lor! Dis ain’t no _bird_ chile! It is one of the bestest ducks ’cept de canwas back as flies over our waters. It’s a red-neck, an’ my ole darlin’ shoot him dis mornin’ for de chile’s breakfas’.”

“Why, your old man is the best of gamekeepers. My lady must reward him handsomely. He certainly is the very best of gamekeepers.”

“Lor’ bless yer soul, honey, no he ain’t! De dear ole angel, he never was no gamekeeper! De darlin’ ole creetur is too free-hearted to keep any thing, much less game, when dat delikky chile in dere might want it for her breakfas’.”

“Oh! you have mistaken my meaning, but I will tell you all about it,” said Susan, as she went around to the back door to admit the kind-hearted old woman.

And that morning, while old Amphy picked the red-neck and dressed it for breakfast, Susan let her into some of the mysteries of the game laws as they existed in the “old country.”

Whereupon, the namesake of the Ocean Queen expressed her astonishment and indignation “Dat any lords an’ ladies should ’sume for to ’nopolize de Lord’s free, wild creeturs as was ev’dently ’tended for de good of all, bofe black an’ white; and she thank de Lord, _she_ did, as she lived in a free country, where no sich divilments ’vailed!”

Susan laughed gayly at the old woman’s excitement, and then soothed her by praising her zeal, and skill in cooking.

This day passed much as the preceding one had done. Susan, in generous self-control, refrained from disturbing her mistress with the gloomy story of the apparition in the graveyard, and which now, in daylight, she tried to persuade herself to have been only the effect of imagination. She determined, however, not to leave her window bare and exposed to the visits of such a frightful spectre, however it might have been conjured up; so she took the skirt of a long green merino riding-dress, and manufactured a thick curtain, which she hung up at the window beside her bed.

Consequently, that night, if the ghost walked in the graveyard, Susan did not know it; by diligently saying over her prayers, she fell asleep, and her rest remained undisturbed.

Nor was she again troubled with ghostly visions up to the night previous to the arrival of Barbara Brande’s vessel.