It was said that he met the keeper, a man who had strangely come to the place and sought for employment in that situation, that Sir Hugh had charged the keeper with acts of villany and treachery, that the other had insultingly retorted, that a fierce struggle had ensued. Two days afterwards the body of the keeper had been found, shot through the breast, in a remote part of the grounds. Rumour pointed to Sir Hugh as the murderer, but he was never accused openly. It was further asserted that the dying man had foretold that his spirit would haunt the Hall for ten generations, and that during that time the eldest son should never succeed to his inheritance. Sir Hugh appears to have been severely punished, at all events.
The fate of his beautiful and beloved daughter was a sad one. The keeper’s son, though talented, was utterly unprincipled, and she died young, from a broken heart. His sister, too, did not turn out as well as her young husband had anticipated. As she grew older, and more was expected of her, tastes and manners became apparent which had been overlooked in a young and pretty girl. Hugh died before his father, and Sir Hugh lived long, a sad and childless old man, and his estate descended to a brother’s son.
“Where did you get that story, Jane?” asked the baronet, in a tone of annoyance, very unlike that in which he usually spoke.
“My dear Jane, where could you possibly have heard that tale?” exclaimed her aunt.
“That is more than I can tell you,” answered Miss Otterburn. “I thought that I had invented it, and I certainly drew on my imagination for the names, but I confess that it is possible I may have heard it somewhere. I often, when I fancy that I am inventing, find that I have heard the outline of the tale before.”
Neither Sir Gilbert nor Lady Ilderton said anything more on the subject, though both were unusually grave. Other tales were told, in many of which ghosts and goblins played a prominent part. During the course of the evening, Cousin Giles took an opportunity of drawing Miss Otterburn aside.
“What in the name of wonder, my dear Jane, induced you to tell that story?” he exclaimed. “Don’t you know that it is connected with this house and Sir Gilbert’s ancestors? You gave even the right Christian names of father and son. There can be no doubt that Sir Hugh really did shoot the keeper, old Hooker, as he was called, and it is asserted and believed that his ghost haunts, as he threatened, the mansion of his murderer.”
“What! this very house!” exclaimed Jane, with a look of astonishment, and it might have been terror, or some other uncomfortable feeling, in her countenance.
“Yes, if old women, housekeepers, and superannuated butlers can be believed, old Hooker’s ghost has appeared more than once or twice stalking through the Hall at midnight, no one daring to speak to it or attempt to stop it. You must understand that the family give a different version of the story. They say that old Hooker committed suicide, in consequence of his daughter running off with young Hugh, who, they state, did not marry her, and of his son, of whom he was very proud, being transported for the abduction of Miss Ilderton. With regard to the son, it is difficult to say who was most to blame. The young man had, I believe, raised himself by his extraordinary talents far above his former position, and he might have supposed that a marriage with her would have advanced his ambitious projects; or he might have run off with her and treated her as he ultimately did in retaliation for the way his sister had been treated by young Hugh. Still I suspect that, at the best, he was an unprincipled fellow, and that not much can be said in favour of any of the parties concerned. However, they are all long ago dead and buried, and waiting to be tried by a tribunal which will measure out even justice to all men; so do not let us condemn them undefended.”
CHAPTER III
PREPARATIONS FOR TWELFTH-NIGHT
The story of old Hooker’s Ghost was not again alluded to in the presence of any of the Ilderton family, as the subject was evidently distasteful to them; but it formed the subject of conversation among the guests when only two or three were together, and at length, through one or two of the ladies’-maids, the story reached the servants’-hall, where, of course, it was eagerly received. Lampet, the butler, however, shook his head when he heard it, and advised that it should not be talked about.
“It may be true, or it may not be true, but there’ll be no harm come of letting it alone,” he observed.
Notwithstanding the wisdom of this remark, neither in the servants’-hall nor above-stairs would people let it alone, till at length many began to feel uncomfortable as night drew on, and preferred having a companion when they had to traverse the long passages and corridors which led from wing to wing of the mansion. Jane Otterburn found that she had indeed raised a ghost of a character she had little anticipated. All this time none of the family knew what was going on, as, after it had been understood that Sir Gilbert and Lady Ilderton disliked the subject, when any of them approached it was instantly dropped. In time even the costume old Hooker had worn was minutely described: a hunting-frock of Lincoln green, with leathern belt; a cap with iron bands, shaped somewhat like a Mambrino’s helmet, or the hat of a policeman of modern days; a powder-horn at his back, high leathern boots, and a huge spear, which it must have required two hands to wield. This showed that he was a head keeper—a person of no little consequence, and one who must have proved a formidable opponent to deerstalkers and poachers of all descriptions. That he was above the ordinary keepers, accounted for the superior education he had managed to give his son.
Jane had talked so much and thought so much about the story, that she was not quite comfortable herself, and more than once, when going somewhat late to bed, her door having suddenly burst open as she went to shut it, she thought she saw—the moonlight streaming through a window—a strange figure moving along the passage in the distance. She was a courageous girl, though imaginative in the extreme, so she watched the figure, wondering if it would turn, but it vanished apparently through the window at the farther end of the passage. She told no one what she had seen, believing that her senses had deceived her; but three nights afterwards, when, under precisely the same circumstances, the figure again appeared and disappeared, she was, to say the least of it, extremely puzzled and secretly agitated, though she still determined not to mention the occurrence. By the morning she had recovered her equanimity, and was as lively and agreeable as usual. The gentlemen thought her especially so, and the light-hearted merry Captain Fotheringsail, whose breast when in uniform was covered with orders, seemed to have ears and thoughts for no one else. Jane liked him, but had a fancy that he had come to the Hall as a suitor for the hand of one of her cousins. She was one of those happy beings who think so little of self that she always fancied that, if attentions were paid, they must be intended for some other person present. It might have been very stupid in the captain not to make his intentions more clear, but so it was, and Jane thought herself heart free.
It should have been mentioned that, on Christmas-day, Sir Gilbert and Lady Ilderton had had their hearts made glad by the announcement that their sailor son, Charley, was on his way to England, and, as he would soon get leave, might be expected shortly at the Hall.
Several of the proposed amusements were put off till his arrival; among them was a fancy ball, or masquerade rather, which it was settled should take place on Twelfth Night, should he write word that he could come in time.
“Hurra! Charley is coming!” cried Gilbert, on opening a letter at the breakfast-table—that delightful period of the day in a well-ordered English household, when, rising refreshed by sleep, all the members meet round the snow-white board, laden with sweet-smelling bread and rolls of all shapes, and toast and butter in fanciful pats swimming in crystal bowls of pure water, and preserves in cut glasses, and, maybe, some delicate sausages or cutlets kept hot under covers, and fragrant tea and coffee, and china of elegant pattern, all so cool, and fresh, and bright, and then the sideboard groaning with substantial viands. “Yes, he’ll be here by the fifth at latest, and, depend on it, if any one is inclined to be slow, he’ll stir them up.”
Charley was a general favourite, though it must be acknowledged, when he went to sea, he was a somewhat harum-scarum fellow.
Now great preparations were making for the ball, and the costumes which were to be worn at it. There were to be knights in armour, and a Robin Hood and Maid Marian, and Turks, and Greeks, and Albanians, and Circassians, and Hamlets, and an Othello, a Rolla, and a Young Norval, and a Virgin of the Sun, and Night and Morning, and the Four Seasons, and a Harlequin, and a Clown, and Columbine—indeed, it was difficult to say what characters were not to appear; but the best of it was, that no one knew who was to be who, except, perhaps, Cousin Giles, and Jane Otterburn, and Gilbert, who were among the initiated. The ball-room was a magnificent hall—the pride of the county—and that was to be decked with evergreens, with lamps placed amidst them, and bowers of flowers which the hothouses alone could provide at that season of the year.
“It would be great fun,” said Cousin Giles to Jane, as they were busy over some of their plans. “I don’t think, really, that Sir Gilbert would be annoyed. What vexes him is to have the matter taken in earnest. I rather fancy that he doesn’t believe the story himself. The dress is that of a society of Foresters in this party of the country, and I can easily procure it.”
Jane looked thoughtful. Could it have been any one masquerading at night whom she had seen in the passage? Had she seen it but one night that might have been the solution of the mystery. She did not like to mention the subject, even to Cousin Giles, for she had an idea that he would laugh at her, so she said nothing, and kept wondering on.
The fifth of January came, and the preparations were in a forward state, but Charley had not arrived, though Gilbert did not seem much concerned, and said that he was sure that he would make his appearance, at all events, in time for the ball.
CHAPTER IV
A MASQUERADE, AND AN ACCOUNT OF THE PART THE GHOST PLAYED AT IT
It was Twelfth-night, and people from all the country round were assembling at Huntingfield Hall—some few in a sober, modern costume, but the greater number in all varieties of fantastic dresses. A Lady Abbess came chaperoning a Columbine, an Italian Flower-girl, and a fair Circassian; and a magnificently-robed Pasha supported on one arm a demure Quakeress, and on the other a sombre-clad Nun; but some glittering trimming, which could be seen under her cloak, showed that she was not likely to remain long in that costume. A Virgin of the Sun entered arm in arm with Don Juan, and a Greek Pirate with the Maid of Orleans; a Circassian chief and a Russian noble were hand and glove, and a bog-trotting Irishman, with a doodeen in his mouth and a shillelagh in his fist, supported the arm of a somewhat stout Queen Elizabeth. Sir Gilbert and Lady Ilderton appeared as a gentleman and lady of the time of Henry the Eighth, and their daughters, with another young lady, as the Four Seasons, without masks.
The fun began, and every effort was made to discover who was who, but so well disguised were many of the guests that this was often no easy task. Not only animals, but even senseless objects were represented; and among other things, a huge cask glided into the room. Remarks not over-complimentary to the talent of the occupant were made as it circled its way on, as if moved by human hands outside, in the usual fashion of making a cask progress, when a voice invariably replied, “I may be stupid, for I am a butt for the wit of others.” After turning round and round through the room for some time, resting occasionally near some couple engaged in interesting conversation, a voice from within seldom failing to make some appropriate comment, it stopped near one of the evergreen bowers, exhibiting a smiling ruddy countenance, with a huge mouth, to the company, from which a loud peal of laughter burst forth. From that moment it remained stationary, and when soon afterwards a Clown, who had been inquisitively prying into every corner, began to knock at it, and at length attempted to get in, it was found to be empty. He on this set to work to trundle it away, and as if fatigued, stopped again near the wall to be out of the way; a Columbine passing engaged his attention, when, to his apparent dismay and the astonishment of the guests, the tub began to move on of itself, he following, and pretending to be unable to overtake it, while he shouted “Hillo, you mesmerised butt, you—stop—stop! Hillo, you spirit of a tun, a pipe, a cask, or whatever you are, or call yourself—stop, I say—stop!” But the butt would not stop till it reached a deep recess, when he overtook it, and, pulling away at it, upset it, when, as before, it was seen to be empty.
Meantime, an admirably-dressed hunchback Gipsy had been going about telling fortunes. Although she had no mask, so well was her face disguised that no one seemed to know who she was—whether old, or young, or tall, or short. She had not to seek people out, but one after the other they came up to her, and with wonderful accuracy she told them who they were, and mostly what were their aims and wishes, what they had done, and what they proposed doing. Among others, a jovial sailor rolled up, pipe in mouth, and asked to what part of the world he should next be sent, how long he should remain, and when he came back whether he should find his black-eyed Susan faithful and true? To the answer he got to the first question he paid little attention. Instead of replying to the second, she desired him to describe his black-eyed Susan, to say how long he had been attached, and whether she returned his affection. His description answered exactly to that of Jane Otterburn. Three weeks only had passed since he had seen her for the first time; but sailors can seldom enjoy more than a brief time of courtship, and have to sing “Happy’s the wooing that’s not long a doing.” The point, in truth, about which he was most anxious, was the return he might expect to his affection. The Gipsy hesitated a little, and her voice was scarcely as clear and high as it had previously been, as she replied:
“True honest love, when it meets with a free heart and disengaged hand, seldom fails to obtain a return, and the honest love of a brave man, when no return can be given, changes to friendship, and he seeks wisely and soon some other object on whom to bestow his affections.”
“But Mistress Gipsy,” persisted Jack, “suppose I cares for Sue, and I does care for her, and for the very ground she treads on, does Sue care for me? That’s the gist of the matter, and what I wants to know.”
“Ask her yourself. If she is what you describe, she’ll give you a sincere answer,” answered the Gipsy, and her voice was still lower than before; “but not this evening—not this evening. You have nothing to dread, I suspect,” she added.