The Haunted Room: A Tale

“I may as well put an end to this folly at once,” said Bruce, rising and looking around for some convenient weapon with which to chastise, or rather to alarm, the disturber of his repose. He took up his gun, but did not attempt to load it. Why should he do so when he had no intention of startling the household and frightening his sister by the sudden report of fire-arms? Vibert would not be able to tell by a glance whether the gun were or were not loaded. The object of Bruce was to frighten, but not to injure his brother.

The next thing to be done was to get the door-key, which Bruce had left on his mantel-piece. He scarcely expected to find it there still, but there it was.

“Vibert must have taken the precaution of replacing after using it,” thought Bruce, as he took up the key; “and he has been artful enough to leave my map still hanging up over the panel-door.”

Very softly Bruce now lifted off the large varnished map from its nail, and laid it down on the floor. His object was, by his sudden appearance with his gun, to startle his brother. Noiselessly Bruce turned the key in the lock, noiselessly pushed open the door in the panel, then suddenly sprang into the lighted chamber, with a loud exclamation of “Ha! have I caught you at it?” To Bruce’s amazement, as well as their own, he found himself confronted by Harper and Colonel Standish!

It is not to be denied that on his sudden recognition of these night-visitors, whom nought but an evil purpose could have brought to that place, to the heart of the youth “the life-blood thrilled with sudden start.” But Harper had now no timid girl to deal with. Raising his unloaded gun so as to cover now the one man, then the other, Bruce in a loud voice demanded, “Villains! what do ye here?”

Seizing the instant when the gun was pointed at his companion, Standish made a dart forwards and struck up the arm of Bruce. In another moment the two were locked in a deadly grapple.

Even then Bruce Trevor retained his presence of mind. Wrestling and struggling as he was, with a hand stronger than his own griping at his throat, and stifling the cry of “Robbers! help!” which would have burst from his lips, Bruce did his utmost to back through the doorway into his room. Could he but reach his bell-rope, he could bring his father and the servant to his assistance, and so overcome and perhaps capture his assailants. But in vain the young man struggled and strained every muscle in his frame, too closely grappled with by Standish to be able even to strike with the but-end of his gun. The strength of Bruce was failing, though not his courage; the odds were too heavy against him. While Standish, with throttling grasp, was pinning him against the wall, Harper, with some heavy instrument, came and struck the youth on the head. Bruce saw no more, felt no more than the one sharp pang of the blow. He fell heavily on the floor, at the mercy of the ruffians whose lurking-place he had on that night discovered!

In the meantime, the master of Myst Court was calmly sipping his claret, and telling to his daughter amusing stories of old adventures, all unconscious of the fearful scene going on within the walls of his own dwelling.

CHAPTER XXV.

STRANGE TIDINGS

When Emmie arose on the following morning, the landscape was covered with a soft mantle of snow. A few flakes were still falling, ever and anon, from a sky whence lowering clouds shut out the pale gleam of a winter daybreak.

Emmie arose with an earnest resolution on her mind – a resolution born of repentance, and gathering strength from prayer. She would no longer be the weak, selfish, useless being, whom every shadow could turn from the path of duty. She would listen for a Father’s guiding voice; she would cling to the helping Hand; she would, through God’s promised help, realize His protecting presence.

“I will beseech the Lord to enable me never, never again to mistrust His power or His love, or to doubt His promise that all things shall work together for good to His children,” said Emmie to herself, as she opened her Bible; and in that Bible she read the touching history of those who once walked unharmed in the burning fiery furnace.

It was thus that the weak soldier of Christ put on armour to resist her besetting sin. She would, ere the close of that day, sorely need that armour of proof.

When Emmie had finished her reading, she rose and looked forth from her casement. She saw an open vehicle approaching along the snow-covered road towards Myst Court. Three men were seated within it, besides the driver. It was with no common interest that the maiden watched their approach.

“Policemen! – London policemen! – and with an inspector!” exclaimed Emmie in surprise, for she recognized the familiar uniform of the officers of the law. “What can be bringing them hither? Can Harper’s secret have been discovered?”

Emmie’s heart thrilled with mingled fear and hope. Had the officers of justice received information of some secret plot, – had they come to search the house, – would light be thrown on its dark recesses? Such was Emmie’s hope, but still linked with a trembling fear. What might not Harper do, in his desperation, if he were driven to bay? Would he not conclude that her lips had betrayed his secret, that she had broken her solemn oath?

Emmie lost sight of the vehicle as it stopped before the large entrance-door of Myst Court, which was not overlooked by her window. She heard the policemen’s ring at the bell, she heard her father’s firm step as he descended the stairs to meet his early and most unexpected visitors. Emmie would have followed him at once, but the tresses of her long hair still floated down over her shoulders. The young lady was not independent of the help of a maid, and rang her bell for Susan.

Minutes passed, and no Susan appeared. There were sounds of steps and voices in the house, but not near Emmie’s apartment. Her curiosity made her impatient; she rang again, and more loudly; and as there was still delay in answering the summons, Emmie resolved to wait no longer, and herself gathered up and twisted into a knot, as best she might, her long, luxuriant hair. She had just finished her toilette when Susan entered at last, looking flushed and excited.

“I beg pardon, miss,” said the lady’s-maid; “but I could not come sooner. The police are here, and they have been questioning me and the other servants.”

“Have they come to search the house?” cried Emmie.

“Oh yes; they brought a warrant from London to do that,” was Susan’s reply.

Almost breathless with anxiety and hope, Emmie asked if they had searched the haunted chamber.

“That’s the first place they went to,” said Susan.

“And was any one there, any one arrested?” cried Emmie, trembling with eagerness to hear the reply, which might loose the knot of her perplexity, and free her for ever from haunting terrors.

“No one was found in this house, miss,” answered Susan, with a look of distress. “There were strange presses and instruments found, as I heard, in the haunted room, such as must have been used in forging those dreadful bank-notes.”

“Forging bank-notes! so that was the crime!” said Emmie under her breath. “And is any one suspected?” she inquired.

Susan at first looked perplexed, and avoided meeting her lady’s questioning glance. She then answered, “There is a warrant out for the arrest of Colonel Standish.”

“Colonel Standish!” echoed Emmie in surprise.

“The police had been at S – , at the White Hart, before they came here,” said Susan; “but the colonel had gone off, no one knows where. He had not been seen or heard of since yesterday morning. He owes a large debt at the hotel, and his stealing off thus, without paying it, makes every one think him guilty about the forged notes.”

“I never believed him to be a real gentleman,” observed Emmie. “But,” she added anxiously, “is he thought to have had no accomplice?” The maiden, bound by her oath, dared not so much as mention the name of Harper.

“I think that I hear master calling me,” said Susan; and without answering her lady’s question, she hurried from the apartment.

Emmie was standing near the window, and from it she now saw Joe leading her own pony-chaise from the stables towards the entrance of the house, and at a quick pace that told of haste. What was the vehicle brought for at so early an hour? Perhaps – so thought Emmie Trevor – to take one or more of the policemen back to S – . Yet scarcely so, for their own conveyance was waiting.

The maiden was not kept long in doubt. It was her own father that she saw in the chaise, a few seconds afterwards, urging on the pony to a frantic pace, plunging through the drifted snow as if life or death hung on its speed! Joe sat behind, while his master drove as Emmie had never seen her father drive before.

“What can be the matter?” exclaimed Emmie; “papa has forgotten even his greatcoat, and the weather is so cold, and it looks as if a storm would come on!” She watched the chaise till it disappeared behind intervening trees and brushwood.

Susan re-entered the room as her young lady, anxious and wondering, turned from the casement.

“Do you know where my father is going?” Emmie inquired of her maid.

“Master is going to London, miss,” was the answer; “but I doubt whether the pony can gallop fast enough to take him in time for the train. Master was in great haste, or he would have come to bid you good-bye.”

“What takes him to London?” cried Emmie.

“Oh, this bank-note forgery business,” said Susan, the look of uneasiness passing again over her face. “Master called me to give you a message, miss. He says that while the police have charge of the house, he – he does not wish you to speak to them, miss, or question them about the matter which has brought them here. Master is anxious about you. He has ordered me to take care that no one should disturb or intrude upon you, Miss Trevor.”

“The police are not likely to disturb the innocent, nor to intrude on ladies,” said Emmie, smiling from the pleasant assurance of safety conveyed by their presence in the mansion. “If my father does not wish me to question them or see them, of course his will shall be obeyed. I must depend on you for my information, or – where is my brother, Master Bruce?”

“I cannot tell, miss; he is not in the house; he must have gone out,” replied Susan in a flurried manner. The quiet, respectable, lady’s-maid had never before been examined by a superintendent of police, and her usual self-possession had forsaken her on that eventful morning.

“Bruce must have heard something of this warrant against Standish,” thought Emmie; “perhaps he has gone off early to S – , to help in the search after this daring impostor. I am glad that he felt well enough to do so; but how he could have received such early information of what has occurred, I know not.”

Emmie now went down-stairs to the breakfast room; there was no family-prayer in the confusion of that strange day. Susan brought in a tray with her young lady’s breakfast, in the absence of Joe. Emmie was not disposed to touch it. She lingered near the window, half hoping that Bruce might appear, or that her father, having missed the early train, might return to Myst Court. The policemen were very quiet; only the sound of a heavy tread, now and then, showed that they were in the house; but Emmie saw nothing of the officers of the law.

There were signs, however, that the unusual occurrences which had taken place at Myst Court had excited curiosity and interest in the surrounding neighbourhood. Knots of persons, not only from the hamlet, but apparently even from the town, came up the carriage-drive, as it seemed for no purpose but to stare up, open-mouthed, at the house. There was much shaking of heads and whispering amongst these spectators; but they had caught sight of the lady looking forth from the window, and nothing was uttered by them loud enough for its import to be distinguished by Emmie through the closed window.

Presently the wind rose in wild gusts, whirling the snow into blinding drifts; dark clouds were sweeping over the sky; all portended a violent storm; and the assembled crowd hastily retreated from the grounds of Myst Court, to seek refuge from the fury of the tempest.

“I would give anything to know whether Harper and his wife are under suspicion!” said Emmie to herself. “Susan is so strangely unwilling to give full information, she stammers as she answers my questions. I think that my father must have charged her to say nothing that could possibly agitate my nerves. He has desired that his weak daughter should be kept from excitement; and thus I, who have the deepest interest in all that is happening here, am more ignorant of what is going on than any servant in the household. I must question Susan again.”

Emmie was about to ring the bell for her maid; but before she did so, there was a quick tap at the door, and, without waiting for the lady’s “Come in,” Hannah entered the room. The cook looked more excited than Susan had done; but while, in the case of the latter, there had been an appearance of perplexity, if not of pain, with a desire to speak as little as she could, Hannah’s face, on the contrary, showed that she was not only brimming over with news, but that she had a vulgar pleasure in being the first to impart it. “Now I shall know all,” thought Emmie.

“La, miss!” exclaimed Hannah, “to think of you taking your breakfast so quietly here, as if nothing had happened, when there be such goings on in the place!”

“Any one arrested?” asked Emmie eagerly. She dared not mention the names of Harper or Jessel, lest, by turning suspicion on them, she should indirectly violate her oath.

“No one took up yet, that I know of, but he in London,” said Hannah. “Didn’t master go off like a shot, as soon as he heard the news!”

“What news? who was taken up?” asked Emmie.

“La, miss! you don’t mean to say that you’ve not heard of the scrape of poor Master Vibert, how he’s been catched and put into jail!”

Emmie staggered backwards as though she had been struck. “Put into jail! my brother! and on what pretext?” she exclaimed, grasping the table for support.

“I’ll tell you all about it – you ought to know, seeing you’re his own sister,” said Hannah, enjoying the excitement of the scene, and yet not without a touch of natural pity, on seeing the anguish which she inflicted. “Master Vibert went yesterday to London, you know; and when he got there, he went off straight to a jeweller (Golding, I think, is the name), and bought from him lots of jewels, diamonds, pearls, and all kinds of gim-cracks, worth more than a thousand pounds.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Emmie.

“But he did buy the jewels, and paid for them too with a lot of nice, fresh, clean ten-pound notes,” said Hannah. “The shopman didn’t suspect nothing at first, ’cause he knew the young gentleman’s face so well, as he’d often dealt at the shop. But when the head of the firm, as they call him, came in the afternoon to look after the business (there’s nothing like a master’s eye, we know), he said the notes weren’t real and honest bank-notes; and off he went at once to the biggest police-station in London.”

“My brother has been the unconscious tool of a villain!” murmured Emmie, who felt certain that Vibert’s vanity and careless security must have made him the victim of the impostor who had called himself Colonel Standish.

“The p’lice and Mr. Golding drove off to Grosvenor Square,” continued Hannah, “for the jeweller knew the address; and a mighty bustle and fuss was caused by their coming, for there was an afternoon party, and the gentlefolk were amazed when they found that he who had been the merriest of them all was to be haled up afore a magistrate, on a charge of passing forged notes.”

“Did not my brother at once clear himself from suspicion?” cried Emmie, the paleness of whose face was now exchanged for the crimson flush of indignation and shame.

“Master Vibert said that the notes had been given to him by a Colonel Standish; and that he had bought the jewels for Colonel Standish; and that he would have sent them off at once to some address in Liverpool, only he had waited to have out his dance.”

“Then are the jewels safe in the hands of the police?” asked Emmie.

“Ay; I wish that this cheat of a colonel were so too,” replied Hannah. “Hanging is too good for him, say I; for sure and certain it was his wheedling which made poor Master Vibert do so wicked a thing. Some of the police were sent off to Liverpool, and some hurried down to S – . And first they searched the colonel’s lodgings, and then they came ferreting here.”

“Did they easily find their way into the bricked-up room?” asked Emmie, who knew of no way of access into it but by the secret staircase.

“Bless you, miss, what could be easier, when the door was wide open ’twixt that room and Master Bruce’s!”

Emmie started, and turned deadly pale.

“You may well start with surprise, miss; all of us were astonished to find there was any door in that wall. Lizzie declares that even she never knew that there was one, though she tidies the room every day. Master Bruce was so sly – he was – hanging the big map over the place!”

“How dare you speak thus of my brother?” cried Emmie.

“It ain’t my speaking, but every one’s speaking,” said Hannah, firing up at the word of rebuke. “The police say as how young master could not have slept in the one room for a month, and have been innocent as a babe of what was going on in the other. Ay, they said that of him, Miss Trevor, before they’d found a lot of the odd kind of paper of which bank-notes are made in one of his drawers. I wonder young master did not throw it all into the fire before he absconded.”

Emmie pressed her temples with both her icy cold hands. Her brain was reeling. Half unconsciously, she echoed the word “Absconded!”

“That’s what the p’lice called it; and they’re going to take out a warrant against Master Bruce,” said Hannah. “It’s plain he went off last night, for his bed had never been slept in.”

This was to Emmie the crowning horror. There had been a door then – an open door – between her brother’s room and that haunted by the presence of the unscrupulous Harper; and Bruce – the noble, the brave – had disappeared during the night!

“Leave me, leave me!” cried Emmie wildly; and, alarmed at the lady’s ghastly looks, the bearer of evil tidings at once obeyed her command. Hannah had said more than enough, and now retreated in alarm, lest the effect of her words should have been to turn her young mistress’s brain.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE WEAK ONE

Emmie remained for a few brief seconds as if transfixed into stone. More wretched was she even than her father, who had rushed off to London on hearing of the arrest of his younger son, without knowing that any danger or disgrace threatened the elder. It need not be said that Emmie never for one instant doubted the innocence of either; her present intense agony arose from her fear regarding the fate of Bruce.

“In that fatal room which he has occupied through my own selfish folly,” so flowed the stream of thought like burning lava through the poor girl’s brain, “Bruce has heard – has discovered the forgers. He would take no cowardly oath, and they have murdered him to ensure his silence. What a fearful fate may have overtaken mine own brave brother! But, oh! may merciful Heaven have shielded his precious life!”

Susan entered the room, alarmed by the account of the state of her mistress given by Hannah. She expected to find Miss Trevor either fainting or in hysterics, but to her surprise the lady was perfectly calm. This was no time to give way to weakness; the very extremity of Emmie’s anguish subdued its outward expression.

“Go to the policemen, Susan; tell them that I am certain that my brother Bruce has been the victim of some foul deed,” she said with distinct articulation though a quivering, bloodless lip. “Let every corner of this house, from attic to cellar, be searched; a thousand pounds’ reward to whoever shall find Bruce Trevor!” Emmie waved her hand impatiently to urge speed, and Susan hastened from the apartment, scarcely more certain of young Trevor’s innocence, or less anxious regarding his fate, than was his unhappy sister.

“There are two guilty ones who are likely enough to be able to throw light on this dark mystery,” said Emmie to herself; “Harper, and that wretched woman his wife. But can I set the police on their track without breaking my oath, my horrible oath? Would Heaven, in this dreadful emergency, condemn me for that, or suffer that those awful imprecations which I was forced to utter should fall on my body and soul? Is there any other course open before me in this maddening misery of doubt?” Emmie made two hurried steps towards the door, and then paused.

“There is one other course; yes, I see it. I could go myself – alone – to the dwelling of Jael; there is something of the woman left in her still, she protected my life from her husband. Bruce may be living still, but kept in confinement,” – a gleam of hope came with that thought, – “not in Harper’s hovel, which is too small and too close to others to be used as a hiding-place or a prison, but possibly in Jael’s, which stands by itself. I will go thither. Threats, promises, entreaties, all will I use to win from her at least some tidings of my lost brother! If I go alone I break no oath, and Jael will be able henceforth implicitly to trust in my honour. She may confide to me things which she would effectually conceal from officers of justice. Yes, I will go alone. Oh, God of mercy, help and direct me!”

One measure of precaution suggested itself to the mind of Emmie, who could not dissociate the idea of personal danger from intercourse with any of those concerned in the forgery plot. She tore a leaf from her pocket-book, and wrote upon it the few following lines, to be left on the dining-room table. “If there be tidings of my brother, or if I be long in returning, seek for me at the house of Mrs. Jessel.” “There is no breach of my oath in writing this,” thought Emmie, as she added her initials to the lines which she had hastily penned.

Emmie’s garden-hat and scarlet shawl were hung up in the hall; she sought no other equipment for her walk through the wood, though the clouds were hanging like a pall over the white earth, and the wind was now furiously high. Emmie did not pursue the path by the drive that would have led to the hamlet and the highway; there was a short cut through the woods to the dwelling of Jael, and the maiden took it, sheltering herself as best she might against the tempest which raged round her fragile form. The poor girl felt that she was on a dangerous enterprise. She knew not whom or what she might meet in the place to which she was going; she had not forgotten the gleam of Harper’s sharp blade, or the fierce threat expressed in his eyes. It may be marvelled at that one so timid as was Emmie should venture without protection to a dwelling in which might be lurking those whom she knew to be criminals, – those who, as she fearfully suspected, might be murderers also. It was indeed sisterly affection that impelled Emmie onwards, but her support, her strength, was in prayer. Emmie was trusting now as she never had trusted before; she was leaning on, clinging to the invisible arm that could hold her up, to the love which would never forsake her.

It is not to be supposed that Vibert’s miserable position was forgotten by Emmie in her terrors on account of his brother. But for Vibert the sister could do nothing but pray; his father was hastening to his aid: her whole energies, Emmie felt, must be concentrated on her own special work, – that of discovering the fate of Bruce Trevor.

Emmie had gone more than half-way to the dwelling of Jael, when the thunder-cloud above her burst in a storm compared to which that one which she had encountered on the evening of her arrival was but as the play of summer lightning. Never before had the trembling girl heard such deafening peals as those which now shook the welkin, while the rattling hail descended with fury. Branches above and on either side creaked and snapped in the gale, and some were whirled with violence across the path of the maiden. Emmie started, shuddered, and drew her shawl over her head for protection against the blast and the hail, but still she struggled onwards. She uttered no shriek, but she gasped forth a prayer; it was the moan of one in anguish, not the cry of one in despair.