*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78576 ***




                            THE LOST BRIDE.

                               VOL. II.




                            THE LOST BRIDE.

                                  BY

                      GEORGIANA LADY CHATTERTON.

                           IN THREE VOLUMES.

                               VOL. II.

                                LONDON:
                    HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
                     13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
                                 1872.
                _The right of Translation is reserved._


                                LONDON:
                   PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL,
                            BLENHEIM HOUSE.




                            THE LOST BRIDE.




CHAPTER I.

CASTLE HALL, AND ITS BEAUTIFUL GHOST.


As we drove home Aunt Jane said that she felt sure that Mrs. Lacy had
something on her mind, for she had never known her to be so reserved
before.

“But we may go there again before Cunigunda arrives, may we not?” asked
I, for I longed to ramble over the old ruins, and penetrate, if
possible, into those uninhabited and haunted rooms.

“Yes, we will come here for that purpose; but I see plainly that Mrs.
Lacy does not wish to have any visitors.”

So we drove over the next day, but instead of approaching the house by
the usual route, we took another road through the park, which led by the
river-side, and crossing a bridge, drove up the steep hill by the old
road which led to the former entrance to the ancient Castle, and there
we wandered about for hours, to our heart’s content.

There is nothing I ever loved more than wandering among ruins and old
dwellings. As a child in Italy I used to enjoy it, but the bright south
does not seem to harmonize so well with bygone ages as the more mellowed
tints of English skies. There was something, too, in the cloudy day
that seemed to accord so well with the sight. The very gloom seemed,
like moonlight, to harmonize with the mystic spirit of bygone ages which
pervaded the old Castle Hall.

I found myself thinking of the people who inhabited it many centuries
ago. They seemed to live and breathe around me. How is it that the past
tells one more of the future than the present ever does? I suppose that
the spirit-world into which the past sends us--the world of shadow,
which seems more present with us than the actual things or people we
see--has more of permanence about it, and consequently leads us to hope
for an eternal hereafter, making one happy with a kind of hallowed,
solemn, yet trembling hope. I felt as if all the spirits of the former
inhabitants were hovering protectingly around me, and, except in the
darkness, I do not dread to see them. But I suffer from nervous panic
fears at night, in most old houses, and cannot get over it. Yet I always
find them particularly pleasant by day.

We first walked round the inner court of the ancient Castle, and peeped
down into the dungeons and cellars, and tried, from the top of some
mounds of earth and stones, to make out the plan of the original
building. Then I climbed as far as the broken staircase would allow,
inside Cæsar’s Tower, which reached scarcely half-way up that lofty
building, and then I penetrated through a dark, narrow passage, into
some of the windowless rooms of the wing which wound down the hill
towards the present Hall. The floors were partly gone, but I managed to
climb along the sides, where stone projections gave me tolerably firm
footing.

Part of the carved ceilings still remained in some of them, and I
fancied that the rooms overhead must be in a better condition, for I
felt sure by the outside appearance, and from the rows of upper windows,
that there was a story above. But in vain I searched for a staircase, or
some means of getting on to the higher level. After a most diligent
search, I was obliged to give up the attempt.

In the part nearest Cæsar’s Tower, I saw there were two stories above
the ruinous suite through which I rambled, and that the fourth story
must be on a level with the beautiful oriel window of the great tower
which overlooked the precipice. Ah! what would I not give to reach that
window! I thought I would resolve to try on the outside whether any
tower staircase still remained; so I went down to the room underneath,
climbed through a ruined window, and found myself on a narrow strip of
grass on the precipice side of the walls. The footing was not very safe,
but I persevered till I passed round a projecting buttress, which point
commanded a splendid view down upon the Hall to the right, and towards
Cæsar’s Tower on the left. I had a little sketch-book in my pocket, and
as I stood (for there was not room to sit down), I made a sketch of
Cæsar’s Tower and the beautiful oriel window. I fancied I could discern
some painted glass in one of the upper mullions, and there was
certainly glass in all except one compartment. I made a correct sketch
of the window, and endeavoured to copy the coats of arms and red cross
of the Rolands, when, just as I was putting the last stroke, I saw
something pass inside, and then, for an instant, a beautiful pale face
appeared at the open compartment. It was gone in a moment. Could it have
been fancy? I thought, so instantaneously was it gone. I waited some
time in hopes it would appear again--or had the wind blown something
across the open space, in the folds of which I had conjured up a lovely
face? I could see that some creepers were growing on the battlements
above the window, and there might be some inside on which the light
fell, and my vivid imagination may have turned it into a lovely face.

Aunt Jane’s voice, proceeding from one of the ruined chambers over my
head, calling to me in great alarm, entreated me to return.

“How could you stand in such a perilous position, child?” she said, when
I had re-climbed through the ruined gable, and joined her up in the
windowless and floorless rooms.

“And how could you get up into this perilous spot?” I retorted, as I saw
her perched up on the stone parapet.

“Well, I am a good climber, too,” she laughingly said, “but I could not
have stood to make a sketch on that narrow ledge where I saw you; and
what a good view you have taken, too!”

“And I have seen the ghost also,” I said triumphantly. “I am sure it was
Lady Alice; nothing but a ghost could appear and disappear so quickly as
the beautiful face did in the oriel window, and I don’t wonder now at
what we hear!”

“A face!--impossible! Why, there is no entrance. I have been searching
everywhere to try and get up to these upper rooms, and there certainly
is none.”

We then went into the open courtyard, and looked in all directions.

“Perhaps there may be a way up to them from the old chapel,” said Aunt
Jane. “Look! its high roof is just on a level with that second story,
and the third story in yonder buildings is on a level with the oriel.”

We both felt the greatest curiosity to penetrate the mystery, but it was
now getting too dark to proceed with the search, and Aunt Jane did not
like to delay our drive down the steep hill and through the thick woods
any longer, so we woke up our little driver, who had fallen fast asleep
on the box, and went home.

We determined, however, to return the next day; but unfortunately the
news reached us in the morning that the family were expected to arrive
that very day at Castle Hall. So there was an end of our researches and
pleasant rambles, for we both determined not to go near it while
Cunigunda was there.




CHAPTER II.

REVIVAL OF EARLY IMPRESSIONS.


I found afterwards that Aunt Jane had often heard from Norah during my
long illness, or rather stupor, but she carefully concealed the letters
from me, lest my attention should have been arrested by the poor girl’s
handwriting, and she felt that my self-reproach might endanger my life,
if any circumstance awakened the recollection of the grievous wrong I
had done to her.

It was not until Aunt Jane had gladly seen my interest awakened by the
strange history of the Roland family, which fortunately diverted my mind
from recent events, that she ventured even to allow me to speak or think
of anything connected with the exciting events of the last six months;
and, above all, she avoided any allusion to Norah.

She used to make me describe the beautiful scenery of my Italian home,
and repeat any words of conversation of my father and mother which I
could recollect. By inquiring his opinion on various subjects, she
seemed to revive long dormant recollections, and words unheeded at the
time were, by her comments and the experience my suffering (more than
age) had given, enabled me to read his character by a still more
attractive light.

My deep affection for him, which had hitherto been more an instinct,
thus became not only intensified, but justified by reason and fact. She
purposely, though gradually, began to awaken my fears lest his character
should suffer in the opinion of the unthinking world, by the imputations
thrown out by Mr. Mordaunt--that he had purposely concealed the marriage
of his brother and birth of a son. I say purposely, because she was
prompted by the kindest motives to do this, in order to excite my
interest and prevent my mind from again falling back into its fatal
lethargy.

For a time this anxiety about the slur which might be cast on my father
seemed entirely to engross my mind, but one fatal morning, when Aunt
Jane was confined to her bed with a violent cold, the letters were
brought in to me, and I saw one for Aunt Jane in Norah’s handwriting.

It was as if a thunderbolt had been gradually gathering over my head,
and now suddenly exploded with annihilating force. All my guilt, the
thoughtless perverseness of my conduct, appeared in its true blackness
before my startled gaze, and then the remorse I felt seemed to paralyse
all my faculties.

How I survived this suddenly awakened and most poignant and stunning
grief I never could understand. This thorough awakening to a
consciousness of the full guilt and folly of my conduct Aunt Jane had
been anxious to postpone till my bodily health became stronger, for she
fancied that when I came fully to understand the wrong I had entailed on
Norah, remorse would nearly kill me.

It would, she thought, be the great turning-point of my life if I were
strong enough fully to feel, and yet survive the shock. I now saw
plainly how deeply I had injured the person I loved and venerated
most--a character which, from the first moment I became acquainted with
it, seemed the embodiment of everything beautiful and good. To think
that I had inflicted on her one of the greatest sorrows that one woman
can be guilty of towards another!

I now remembered her every look and word during my painful illness--how
she actually rescued me from the grave, for I certainly should have
died without her judicious efforts and her extraordinary soothing power.

For a time I sat with the letters before me, without moving. I seemed to
see nothing but that handwriting. Strange that I never should have felt
all this before, except at that moment when Aunt Jane arrived in London,
and suddenly made me write the letter to Sir Alfred Rivers. I was even
then so full of anger towards him that my compassion for Norah was by no
means fully aroused; and the excitement was so great that I became
insensible as soon as the letter was gone; and when I partly recovered,
Aunt Jane saw that I could bear no more.

I might have sat for hours looking at that loved handwriting, had not
the maid come from Aunt Jane to inquire whether there were no letters
for her.

“Ah! yes,” I said, with the kind of emphasis as if I felt that the most
important letter in the world had arrived. “Oh! yes, I will take it--I
will take them to her myself.”

The moment I opened her door, she scanned me with one of her most
searching looks, as if half anticipating some result which she had been
labouring to avert. Then she saw it all--the total change in my
expression, the conscious horror and dismay, the acute suffering which
had replaced the dull, heavy look of passive discontent, alternating
with half-conscious enjoyment of the scenes around me and the beauties
of nature.

“It must be a letter from Norah,” she said, before she looked at those I
held in my hand. “Well, give it--give them to me,” she said, with a
solemn voice, “and go and walk in the garden, on your favourite bank by
the river, while the sun shines; and when you come in I will see whether
I can show you her letter.”

Then she took my hand, and kissed my forehead, as if she were satisfied
with the sad expression it wore, and the resignation to bear, as I must,
what I had brought upon myself. She afterwards showed me the letter,
which I found was full of anxiety about my state. Norah’s father was
better, but it was decided that they were to pass the next Winter in a
warmer climate, and would probably go to Rome or Naples.

“Ah! how I hope they will meet, then; for Sir Alfred may possibly be
there!” I exclaimed.

“So do I,” said Aunt Jane; “for if any one could reclaim him, and
develop his naturally good qualities, it is Norah. And to-morrow you may
write and tell her how you are yourself--not to-day. You must economise
your agonies,” she added, with a smile, “or you will not live long
enough to repent.”




CHAPTER III.

THE CASTLE OF HOHENSTEIN.


Among the subjects which Aunt Jane, for my own sake, encouraged me to
talk about at this time, was that of the character and adventures of my
remarkable relation, Countess Rossi, and of her beautiful cousin Dorina,
the first betrothed of Count Rossi, who had disappeared the night before
her marriage.

In order to make the sequel of my story intelligible, I will here relate
what I told Aunt Jane, at that time, in various conversations.

Not far from the celebrated Caves of Adelberg may still be seen one of
those ancient castles that remind the traveller of days and customs long
passed away. Hohenstein is, or was some twenty years ago, inhabited by
the then representative of the ancient family whose name it bears. The
Graf von Hohenstein had an only child, Dorina, a young girl who, at the
time I was taken by my guardian to Paris, had lately come from the
convent at Udine, where she had been educated. Her mother was a
Venetian, of the noble family of Rossi, and died a year or two before
Dorina had been betrothed to her second cousin, Count Rossi. The young
couple were, at the express wish of Dorina’s mother, betrothed a year
before she left the convent; but as soon as she attained her seventeenth
year, the marriage was to take place at Hohenstein, with great
splendour.

While I was at my convent in Paris, I heard all about the projected
fêtes from my mother, who, as a near relation of Count Rossi, had been
asked to stay at Hohenstein for a couple of months, to be present at the
marriage.

The Count Hohenstein’s mother was English, the Countess Bianca (the Lady
Blanche Roland, of Castle Hall, the only daughter, and, after her
brother’s death, sole heir of the Earl of Roland). Dorina’s great friend
and constant companion was Cunigunda, the only child of the Count’s
younger brother, consequently her first cousin, and, after Dorina, next
heiress to the possessions of the Hohenstein family. She was more than a
year older than Dorina, but her parents had arranged that she should
remain in the convent until Dorina’s education should be finished.

The brilliant and beautiful Cunigunda was by no means so fond of the
convent, or its inmates, as her more gentle and loving cousin, and the
extra year of bondage, as she called it, annoyed her so much that she
gave vent to her spleen by many practical jokes, to the scandal of the
good nuns, and dismay of her confessor. Few women liked Cunigunda except
Dorina, who always endeavoured to screen her wild and mischievous cousin
from disgrace. Dorina had inherited her mother’s delicate constitution,
and although her form and features were lovely, yet her paleness formed
a contrast to her more brilliant cousin.

My mother told me that Cunigunda’s greatest amusement--in fact,
passion--seemed to be to make conquests; and she more than suspected
that the object of her ambition was to captivate Count Rossi before the
ceremony should take place--to make him give up the heiress, and propose
to herself.

From the first day of my mother’s arrival at Hohenstein she began to
suspect the game that the dazzling creature was playing, but
discarded--at first--the idea as something too dreadful; for Count Rossi
was evidently deeply attached to his gentle _fiancée_, and her changing
colour--the joy that seemed to tremble in her eyes whenever he
addressed her--gave full evidence of her affection for him.

The chase in the morning was generally succeeded by dancing in the
evening; and these dances ended with a polonaise, in which guests of all
ages joined, and paraded the long suites of rooms, up and down stairs,
and into the old gallery, which extended all over the upper story.
Sometimes these were headed by the young _fiancés_, but more often by
Cunigunda and some grandee; and when this was the case, she was sure to
lead the procession into all kinds of out-of-the-way and unexpected
places.

One night she led them down a remote turret stairs, into a place which
had formerly been a prison under the Castle, which she had secretly
contrived to make the good seneschal illuminate with brilliant-coloured
lamps. Then, to the surprise of even the Count himself, who had
forgotten the existence of this entrance into the caves, Cunigunda
tapped with a theatrically mysterious air at a small door at the further
end, and beckoning to those behind, she bade them follow her into what
she laughingly called an enchanted palace. It was at once opened, but
the doorway was so small and low that only one person could enter by
stooping.

An exclamation of wonder and delight was heard from the numerous guests
who followed Cunigunda and her partner. It really looked like a scene of
enchantment, for a portion of the celebrated Adelsberg caves, with
their brilliant stalactites, was disclosed to the view of the guests,
illumined with many torches, held up by people at intervals, who had
been stationed there.

The coolness too of the place on that hot Summer night was delicious,
and the Count von Hohenstein was so pleased that he determined to give a
regular ball to all the neighbourhood in the caves, and said he would
light them with coloured lamps, and put down a temporary floor to dance
upon.




CHAPTER IV.

A BALL IN THE ILLUMINATED CAVE.


The grand ball was appointed to take place at Schloss Hohenstein, on the
night before the day fixed for the wedding. The Count had placed the
carrying out of the fête in the hands of Cunigunda, at her urgent
request, and certainly she had more than fulfilled the high expectations
already raised. The uneven ground had been boarded over, and lamps of
every hue illuminated the brilliant roof and columns, formed of the
white and pink incrustations from the roof which, meeting those rising
up from the ground, produced a variety of graceful forms, resembling
Corinthian pillars and Gothic arches. Behind one large stalactite lights
were placed, and being transparent, it shone with a pale pink light,
producing a beautiful and magical effect. Garlands of flowers formed a
boundary in some places; in others distant vistas, illuminated by chains
of coloured lamps, stretched as far, apparently, as the eye could reach;
in others curtains of tapestry, or of Aubusson carpets, closed up
cavernous depths, which, if left unscreened, would have spoiled the
composition, and produced a feeling of desolation.

It was truly a scene of enchantment, a bit of fairyland, a realization
of some of the most graceful dreams of German imagination, such as De la
Motte Fouqué loved to paint, and by which he has entranced grown-up
children of all nations.

Some of the distant vistas were bordered with what appeared like strings
of brilliant emeralds; others with rubies or sapphires; and they were
strung in festoons, with a larger light, that resembled a diamond, as a
centre brooch.

In fact, the effect was like splendid necklaces of precious stones, set
in every kind of graceful device. Some appeared to culminate in a
fanciful and intricate pattern, beneath which seats, covered with
velvets of different colours, were placed. From these more open, and, as
it were, public seats, others placed in shade, and only partly
illumined, might be discerned in the background. These Cunigunda called
“Conversationen-sitzen,” and pointed them out to many a young
pair as they passed up and down the broader walks, while her
maliciously-speaking eyes seemed to say, “Those are flirting-places.”

In some of these seats the light was shaded by a trellis-work of
fragrant flowers, which produced a kind of chequered shade, and emitted
the most delicious perfumes.

Certainly that night there seemed to be something almost magical in
Cunigunda’s dazzling beauty. She was dressed in a kind of silvery
tissue, which formed a brilliant contrast to her jet-black hair and
star-like eyes. A wreath of white water-lilies crowned her head, and
drooping down her shoulders, was interwoven with the tresses of her
black hair. Except when speaking, her eyes were generally downcast, her
long black eyelashes resting on cheeks delicately tinted with
rose-colour. Then, when she spoke, the sudden flash with which she
looked up, and, as it were, fixed the beholder, was as startling as an
electric shock.

She is a person who makes you feel her presence, whether you will or
not.

My mother said she often felt as if she were looking at some awful
conflagration, yet could not take her eyes away from her. And I myself
have felt her glances on my face smiting like a blast from a furnace,
and her words and voice continuing to vibrate in my ear long after she
had ceased to speak.

She was, in fact, a creature of stronger vitality than ever I saw
before, added to the power of an unscrupulous will, and a chameleon-like
manifestation of good and evil.

Towards the end of the evening, my mother caught a momentary expression
on Cunigunda’s face as the two _fiancés_ passed close to her, and felt
convinced that she was determined to make Count Rossi, although he was
to be married on the morrow, dance the next dance that night. A few
minutes afterwards, Cunigunda went up to the bridegroom (as he is called
in Germany even before the ceremony takes place), and with a playful
“One dance with me, Count, this last night, and Dorina will be our
_vis-à-vis_,” she carried him off triumphantly.

It was getting late, and some of the lamps in the remoter avenues, which
were smaller than the rest, had begun to fail. It was after the galop,
and numerous couples were pacing along the avenues, or sought in their
comparative retirement a pleasant place for rest amid the flowery
bowers. My mother was standing near the centre column; the dance was
ended; Dorina and her partner passed close to her, and Cunigunda, who,
with Count Rossi, came by at that moment, said to Dorina’s partner that
they should go to the end of yonder emerald-lighted avenue for the most
beautiful _coup-d’œil_ of the ball-room, adding that she and Count Rossi
had just come from thence, and when she had seen them move in the
direction pointed out, she suddenly turned to her partner and said, “I
am dying with thirst--cannot you get me a _verre d’eau sucré_?”

My mother, who admired the fête extremely, and wished, also, to enjoy
the sight of it from what Cunigunda asserted to be the most beautiful
_point de vue_, determined to follow Dorina and her partner, who had
walked slowly in that direction, when she saw that the further end of
the chain of emerald lamps was gradually becoming quite extinguished,
and that even where she was, some were beginning to flicker and fade
away.

Not liking the idea of darkness in those intricate passages, she said to
some young ladies near her that she was thinking of returning to the
central hall, when suddenly a fearful shriek from the now obscure end of
the emerald avenue struck upon her ear. Another and another followed.
People, my mother among them, hurried towards the spot; and then,
finding themselves impeded by the increasing darkness, some rushed back
to seize wax candles or torches, or whatever could be got, to light them
on the way. At that moment Cunigunda came up, with a face of real or
feigned alarm, and cried out,

“Mein Gott! wo ist Dorina?”

“Why, why--where is she?” asked several voices; and Cunigunda said,

“I saw her last going down the emerald avenue with the _bello Inglese_.”

A scene of the most frightful confusion and consternation followed,
which can be more easily imagined than described. Search was made in
every direction with torches and such other lights as could be taken
from brackets, into all the known alleys and intricacies of the cave.
Except in the long alleys, which had been boarded over, not only was the
ground uneven, but deep fissures and chasms occasionally appeared, into
which a false step might precipitate anyone to a great depth. As soon,
however, as more torches were brought by the Graf’s order, he and Count
Rossi went in different directions, while they sent others into all the
known alleys and intricacies of the cave.

Some of the guests had, in traversing the alleys, fallen a considerable
depth, and were much hurt; but no trace of Dorina or her English
partner could be discovered. Soon all the brilliant illuminations in the
cave went out, and only a few torches were left to throw a dim light on
the terrible scene.

My mother saw that Cunigunda was ringing her hands in dismay, but she
clung to one of her recent partners, imploring him not to leave her, or
she would be sure to fall into some of the dreadful depths. My mother
saw that the crowd rather impeded than otherwise the search for the
missing couple, and suggested that the best plan would be for all the
guests to leave the cave, and endeavour to send down more people with
torches.

Cunigunda caught at the idea, and implored my mother to go with her. She
said that Dorina’s old nurse would be in dreadful anxiety, and she
might be of use to her.

No one thought of going to bed that night, and although nearly all the
guests had left the cave, they remained in the Banqueting Hall, which
was not far from its entrance, in order to obtain the first
intelligence, when those parties who were searching should return.

Towards morning the Graf and his brother (Cunigunda’s father) returned,
muddy, wet, and bruised, but their search had been unsuccessful; and the
Graf was now determined to proceed to the cave of Adelsberg, with which,
it was said, there was a communication from those under the Castle, and
cause search to be made in every direction there. He had left some
servants with torches in different parts underneath; and the Count
Rossi was still searching in another direction.

The Graf von Hohenstein took a compass with him, in order to ascertain
the south-eastern direction, in case they found avenues from one set of
caves to the other, and sent down a party to start from the caves
underneath, and, if possible, meet those coming from the Adelsberg
caves.

Just as the miserable father was leaving the Castle on this, his most
uncertain expedition, one of the gardeners rushed into the hall, and
said he feared that their search would be useless, because he was now
sure that the two persons he had seen pass along the South Terrace walk
in the moonlight, just before midnight, were the Gräfinn Dorina and the
Englishman. They were walking quietly towards the stables. On being
asked whether he saw their faces, and was sure it was the Gräfinn, he
said he could not tell; but that when he heard she could not be found
anywhere, he thought it might be possible.

“Still,” he said, “it seemed so unlikely the Gräfinn should be going
towards the stables at that time of night, he would not have thought of
mentioning it, if the Countess Cunigunda’s maid had not also said she
saw them from her window, and was certain that the lady she saw was the
Gräfinn Dorina, and had on a pink dress and white veil or cloak.”

Messengers were now sent in all directions to inquire of the country
people whether anyone had been seen that night riding away from the
Castle. But still the Graf von Hohenstein proceeded to Adelsberg,
because it seemed to be the general impression that his daughter had
been seen entering the emerald avenue, not long before those fearful
cries were heard, which caused such alarm among the company.

Count Rossi had not yet returned from his search in the cave, but as the
Graf von Hohenstein had met him twice in the course of their search, and
Jägers were stationed at intervals, with torches, in the principal
passages, they did not fear for his safety; and the distracted lover had
declared his intention never to give up the search till he had found
Dorina.

On the departure of the Graf von Hohenstein for Adelsberg, his brother
returned to the cave, and the old steward wisely sent refreshments down
for the Count, and all those who were determined to prolong their
search; also restoratives for the Gräfinn, if they were so fortunate as
to find her alive. But as fourteen hours had now passed since she
disappeared, few among the anxious throng could venture to indulge a
hope that, if she were really in the cave, she could be alive.




CHAPTER V.

SEARCH FOR THE LOST BRIDE.


Dorina was loved by all the retainers and peasants on her father’s vast
estates, and bitter were the lamentations uttered by all who heard of
the catastrophe. That she should have died in some dark recess of those
vast caves was fearful to think of, and yet the supposition (which my
mother felt convinced originated with Cunigunda) that Dorina had fled
with the English youth on the very day before she was to wed the Count,
seemed still more revolting.

Two of the gentlemen who, among the guests, were the most energetic in
prosecuting the search, found that about twenty yards beyond, and on the
left of the flowery seat which terminated the emerald avenue, the floor
descended suddenly to a much lower level, and there was a narrow
entrance to a much smaller cavern. This lower cave had three small
outlets, and they determined to pursue the centre one, which appeared to
descend more precipitately than the other two.

As the Adelberg caves were on a lower level than those of Hohenstein,
they thought that the lower they kept the more likely they were to reach
them. As they proceeded they searched on the ground, in hopes of
finding footmarks that might serve as a guide. In one place they fancied
they saw the prints of a small foot. Again, further on, there was
another, but no larger one; therefore, if this was Dorina’s, they
considered she must have been alone at that time.

Soon afterwards these passages became narrower, and so low that they
could scarcely stand upright; but as they proceeded further it opened
out into a cave so large and high that, though they held up their
torches for some time, no boundaries were visible. Keeping close to one
side, they went on, and, to their dismay, discovered a great number of
outlets; and here the droppings from the roof formed numerous pools, so
that no footsteps could be discovered. They then began reluctantly to
acknowledge that a further search was impossible, and; fearing to lose
themselves irrecoverably, they selected one of the outlets that led in a
southerly direction.

Soon afterwards, however, they met Count Rossi, and a large party of
gentlemen and servants, and informed him of the small footprint they had
seen in the narrow passage. The Count, of course, wished to go and
search in that direction, and the two Englishmen accompanied him. But
they found it impossible to remember which of the numerous outlets from
the large cave which contained pools of water was the one by which they
had entered it. In vain they searched in all directions--no footprints,
nor even any passage so low as the one where they had seen it, could be
found.

The Count was at last persuaded to give up this hopeless search, and
walked slowly back to the Castle without speaking a word. His eyes had a
glazed and vacant look; his cheeks were very pale; he walked as one in a
dream, and the party accompanied him in dead silence. It was very late
when they arrived at the Castle, and towards morning the Graf von
Hohenstein also returned home, exhausted by fatigue and sorrow, and much
injured by a fall in the Adelsberg cave, which broke his arm, and
bruised him severely.

Day after day passed on, no intelligence of the missing pair had
arrived, and there was every reason to fear that they had perished in
the cave, or that the gardener’s report of having seen the Gräfinn walk
to the stable, was true. The latter hypothesis was utterly rejected by
the unhappy father and bridegroom, who, as time passed on, became more
and more convinced that they should never again behold in this world
their beloved Dorina.

It sometimes crossed my mother’s mind that if the unhappy bride and her
partner had been lost in the windings of the cave, and did not die, they
might have fallen into the hands of smugglers or banditti, who were said
to infest some of its secret outlets, and carry on, in defiance of the
Government, their illicit trade. If so, they might keep them prisoners
for some time, lest their haunt should be made known. She hinted this
possibility to several people; and the Graf himself stationed men to
watch night and day on the roads and lanes leading to the Adelsberg
caves on the other side. For weeks they watched, but no traces of
banditti or smugglers were to be seen, nor were even the remains of any
of their secret dens discovered amid these wild and gloomy ravines,
which appeared untrodden by the foot of man.




CHAPTER VI.

CUNIGUNDA’S SUCCESS.


For a wicked person, Cunigunda was, or rather had been, unusually happy.
She had succeeded in most of her wishes, and her life had been an
incessant series of triumphs. Her deepest feeling, or rather greatest
passion, had been excited by the man she succeeded in marrying, and yet
from the moment of that marriage began to date the decline of her
prosperity. She was not satisfied with the depth of his love, for she
began gradually to perceive that she could not inspire the same
devotion, the all-absorbing, reverential adoration he had evinced for
his affianced Dorina.

Then she flirted, and endeavoured to excite his jealousy, little
understanding the high tone of his mind, but judging him by the standard
of her own. She was first surprised, then alarmed to see the feeling of
disgust her efforts produced. She soon became tired of the unsuccessful
game she was playing, and strove to throw herself heartily into every
kind of dissipation and excitement. A triumphant season at Rome, and
then at Paris, was succeeded by one in London. At the end of the last,
having heard of the delights of English country-house society, she
thought a few months passed at the place to which she had succeeded
after the death of her cousin Dorina, might be an agreeable change. She
therefore made a great merit of going there, in order to gratify her
husband’s wishes, who, since their arrival in England, had passed
several weeks there, since which time he had often expressed a wish that
she would live at it, and restore the beauty of the somewhat ruinous
house and place.

I afterwards heard that Carlo was at that time the chief among her
numerous adorers. He had come to London after I had been taken ill, and
he, with a few other men and two ladies in high society, but with rather
damaged reputation, went to Castle Hall towards the end of August.

Some modern furniture had been sent, and a few necessary repairs
suggested by Count Rossi had been made, and the gay party were enchanted
with the grand old house, its fine terraced gardens and glowing
parterres. The extensive view from the battlements of the old ruined
castle above was so thoroughly English in its rich loveliness that its
novelty surprised Cunigunda, and seemed to give her that great
requirement of a _blasé_ distraction-seeker, or (what is usually
miscalled pleasure-seeker) a new sensation. Neighbours of various kinds
flocked in to see and become acquainted with the celebrated beauty; and
as there was in those days a large and gay neighbourhood, there was no
end of morning and evening parties, besides some regular balls, which
were given in the larger houses, or at the town of Darlingford, ten
miles off.

I think I said there was a fine old half-ruined banqueting-hall, which
joined the present house--an Elizabethan structure, with the lower
buildings of the old castle. Part of this castle had been destroyed in
the various wars from the time of the Roses down to the period when it
was regularly besieged by Cromwell. Numerous dinners and some good
private theatricals had been given at Castle Hall to the neighbours; but
the party staying in the house, as well as the neighbours, declared that
the beautiful Countess ought to give a ball.

“Yes, certainly, and let it be a fancy ball, or, better still, a
masquerade,” said the lovely Countess; “but where?”

The long gallery, with its beautifully-carved ceiling, which extends
for a hundred feet above the western wing of the house, would do very
well for theatricals, but it would be impossible to have a good valse in
a room not more than twenty-five feet wide, and the large wainscoted
dining-room, though large enough, would be wanted for supper. The
tapestried drawing-room was both lofty and spacious, but it was so full
of old china and _pietra-dura_ cabinets and curiosities, collected
during the last century, since the family had been connected with Italy,
that there was no room for dancing.

“Why not repair that splendid old banqueting-hall?” said Carlo, one
evening after dinner. “A good floor might soon be put in, and the
ceiling and windows mended. It is quite a sin to leave it in that
dilapidated state. Did you ever look at the splendid old oak carving on
the gallery at the farther end, and the curious little corner-room or
oriel at one side with a most elaborate canopy?” he inquired of
Cunigunda.

“No, for I thought it so very dismal and melancholy that I only just
peeped in at the door.”

“Come, then, let us go and inspect it now; let us take lights and
torches; we shall see it as well or better than by day, for some of
those fine old Gothic windows seem to have been boarded up.”

Lights were then called for, and the merry party, each taking a couple
of candles, declared they would all go and inspect the old hall.

“But I scarcely know the way,” said Cunigunda. “I only looked into the
place through a kind of window in the wall of an old room beyond the
library, a horrible kind of stone hall called the dead-room, and I don’t
know that there is any door that leads into it.”

“There is from the outside, I know,” said Carlo; “for, as I once climbed
up the steepest side of the Castle hill, I came upon it--a fine arched
doorway, with a crossbar over it. This I knocked in, and I then saw
there was another arched doorway near the window you speak of, looking
into that dead-room. Moreover, I am sure the old housekeeper has the key
of that, and knows how to get in, for she was very angry, I saw, when I
told her I had been in it. She declared it was not safe, and nobody had
ventured under that old roof for a century or more.”

“Let us have her in, and make the dear old lady show us the way,” said
one of the ladies.




CHAPTER VII.

AN APPARITION IN THE OLD BANQUETING HALL.


The old housekeeper was then called, and came curtseying in, with her
picturesque, old-fashioned Brussels lace cap and stomacher, and a
brocaded petticoat which had formerly figured at the Court of Queen
Charlotte, on one of the beauties of the family.

The old lady declared it was positively unsafe to venture into that old
hall--no one had been there since she was quite a child, and, in fact,
the doors had been built up, in order to prevent accidents.

“But I saw a lock on the one near the window, which I am sure leads into
what you call the dead-room,” said Carlo, “and I think you have got the
key.”

The old lady looked perplexed, and seemed at a loss what to say;
whereupon the roguish Carlo, suspecting that she had some reason for not
wishing them to go there, determined all the more to carry his point,
and partly by persuasion, and partly by the force of will, he succeeded
in making her go and look for the key. After some minutes she returned,
with a ponderous rusty key.

“They do say it was formerly the chapel,” she said, “and Baron Hugh--the
one over the door there--turned it into a hall after the Reformation;
but, a-lack-a-day! it did not reform him, for he died in
dreamland-tremens, and, as the young Count used to say, ‘it did take
tree men to carry him to bed o’ nights.’ However, he died in his chair
at the feast under the gallery, before he’d time to say a word, good or
bad, and he left the property so encumbered that the fine old chapel
hall, as we calls it, was left to go to ruin.”

“Then it was never used as a banqueting-hall, except in Baron Hugh’s
time?”

“Never; and sure no luck would come of it after that; and so, thank God,
none of the family ever tried the trick again.”

“But we want to give a ball there,” said Cunigunda.

“Oh! lack-a-day, my lady, don’t ever think of such a thing! Sure there’s
the blue drawing-room, where I’ve seen many a fine dance, and was
considered even good enough for Royalty--for our good Queen Charlotte,
and the gracious King George, and the four fine young princesses danced
there. Well I mind them, bless their fair faces! They came here ofttimes
from Weyford.”

“Well, we will go through the blue drawing-room, but we must see the
banqueting-room,” said Cunigunda, who, by the old housekeeper’s
opposition, was made more anxious to see it.

The blue drawing-room was--like most of the old-fashioned
_with_-drawing-rooms--upstairs, and beyond it, on a little higher level,
was the library. At the further end of this long room there was a raised
gallery, which was approached by a broad flight of stone steps, and in
the centre of the gallery there was a high Gothic door, surrounded with
a beautifully-carved stone arch.

“This here door,” said the old housekeeper, pointing to the massive oak
panels, studded with large iron nails, “was said to have belonged to the
cloisters which went round the ancient chapel; and here, ladies and
gentlemen,” she said, with an air of triumph, as she swung open the
massive door, which ground on its rusty hinges with a most lugubrious
moan, “this is the dead-room.”

At the same moment a blast of cold and deadly damp wind blew in, and
almost extinguished the candles. Some of the ladies screamed, and
declared they would go no further; but Carlo and Cunigunda resolved to
proceed, and were followed by one or two gentlemen.

The time-stained walls of the dead-room were supported on arches, and
the lofty, pointed roof was of black oak. The stone floor was uneven and
damp, and, seen by the flickering light of a few candles, it had a most
lugubrious look.

“Now, quick, open the door of the banqueting-room,” said Cunigunda, who
was gradually becoming somewhat frightened at the death-like smell and
gloomy horror of the place.

The housekeeper applied her rusty key, but could not succeed in turning
the lock; nor could the united efforts of Carlo and the other gentlemen
produce any effect.

“Send for the men-servants, and send for the carpenter,” said Cunigunda.

Two of the gentlemen obeyed the imperious lady’s request, while she
motioned to Carlo to remain with her and the housekeeper, and he
continued to work at the lock. In a few seconds, just as the footsteps
of the other gentlemen ceased to be heard in the distant apartments, the
lock turned, and they entered the vast hall. The few candles they had
did not throw any light on the lofty roof, but a faint light shone on
the gallery at the farther end, which seemed to project far from the
wall.

“See how beautifully carved that gallery is!” said Carlo, and he
advanced with his two candles, and held them up aloft, while he looked
back at Cunigunda. “Was I not right, and would not this make a splendid
ball-room? But what is the matter?--what have you seen up there?” he
inquired, as he saw Cunigunda turn deadly pale; then she gave a piercing
shriek, as she fell backwards on the floor.

“Alack-a-day! deary me!--whatever has happened?” exclaimed the old
housekeeper, as she put down her candles, and tried to lift up her
fainting lady.

Carlo looked up with great curiosity towards the spot on the high
gallery towards which Cunigunda’s eyes had been directed, but nothing
save the black darkness was visible.

“What could it have been?--what did you see?” he eagerly inquired.

“No doubt it was the Baron Hugh’s ghost,” whispered Mrs. Lacy, “as it is
said to haunt the place o’ nights, and strange lights have been seen up
in the windows, and, deary me! I said all I could to stop her ladyship
and the quality from coming here. Come, dear lady, let us get you out of
this,” she added, as they half lifted the still pale and trembling
Cunigunda out of the banqueting-room, and crossing the dead-room as
quickly as possible, did not stop till they laid her on a sofa in the
library. Her maid was then sent for, and sal-volatile and other
restoratives applied. But she was evidently much shaken by the strange
fright, of the cause of which she would give no explanation; and Count
Rossi hoped that she had given up all idea of having a ball in the old
hall, for since he had heard it was formerly a chapel, he strongly
disapproved of its being still further desecrated.

But, to his infinite disappointment, the next morning she laughed at her
fears, said it must have been a large white bat or owl she saw up in the
gallery, and expressed her determination to send for workmen and have
the room properly restored and decorated; for, she added, she was
resolved to give a masqued ball and astonish the neighbours with the
magnificence of the scene.




CHAPTER VIII.

CUNIGUNDA PERSEVERES IN HER RESOLVE.


A few days after the occurrences related in the last chapter, I
accompanied Aunt Jane to the old blind woman’s cottage. We had not been
there for several weeks, for Aunt Jane had sprained her ankle just
before the owners of Castle Hall arrived there, and was confined to her
room in consequence. But the first day she was able to venture out we
went to the cottage.

We found the old blind woman alone at her spinning-wheel, and we both
thought she looked ill; and although she expressed the great pleasure
she felt at hearing our footstep in her cottage again after a long
absence, yet she seemed pre-occupied, and had an anxious look on her
face, which we had never remarked before. It occurred to us both that
she was perhaps rather disappointed with her new lady, and we soon
discovered that our surmises were just.

“Great doings at the Castle,” she said; “very great, but not good, I do
fear; and the old chapel--have you heard how they are going to make a
ball-room of it?--and that, too, when they know what a judgment fell on
Baron Hugh when he turned it into a banqueting-hall. No good will come
of it: nothing but evil--nothing but evil,” she continued to mutter;
and a look of pain and anxiety overclouded her usually serene face.

“And was it true that the Countess saw a ghost there?” I inquired, for
some vague rumour of Cunigunda’s serious alarm had reached our ears.

“Like enough, like enough,” she said, hurriedly; “but ’twas not old
Baron Hugh, ’twas her conscience smote her, but she had her warning, and
yet she’s gone against her husband’s wishes, for he tried all he could
to hold her back; if she’s going on to give that ball in the old chapel
she’ll rue the day, and perhaps lose the inheritance, or maybe her
life.”

“Do you really fear that?” said Aunt Jane; “I did not know you were so
superstitious. So you really believe in ghosts?”

“Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t; but I do wish--well, never mind; I
mustn’t be talking too much--least said soonest mended, so don’t ask me
any more about them folks, but tell me some of your good thoughts.”

Then Aunt Jane talked and read to her for half an hour, and we took our
leave, rather wondering at the alteration in her manner.

“Yet she does not look unhappy, only so pre-occupied and anxious; yet
why should she care so much for what that roguish Countess does?”

Soon afterwards we heard that the Banqueting-room had been all repaired;
a highly polished parquet of different coloured woods laid down; an old
narrow gallery repaired for the musicians, opposite to the large carved
black oak one at the further end, which the builder said was too much
out of repair to be finished by the time the Countess required the
room--therefore it was left untouched. Of course vague rumours of the
fright experienced by Cunigunda soon reached our ears, and as it was a
well-known fact in the neighbourhood that the sacrilegious Baron Hugh
was said to haunt the ancient chapel, people attributed to the gay
lady’s imagination that, having heard of it so much, she fancied that
she saw him standing in the gallery.

Rumour also reached us--the revival of an old story which Aunt Jane
remembered to have heard when she was a child--that the crypt under the
old chapel was used in the last, and part of this century, by smugglers;
and it was their interest to keep up the story of the ghost, in order
to prevent anyone from entering that part of the ruined building.

The old stone floor of the chapel was very uneven, but we did not hear
that the workmen who were now employed in placing the variegated parquet
of different-coloured woods over it, had discovered any opening to the
crypt which was said to be underneath, although we heard that they had
found that on some of the stones of the old floor were monumental
records of persons who were said to be buried underneath.

“Not a satisfactory flooring for a ball-room,” was Aunt Jane’s
observation to the old village shoemaker, who generally told us the news
about the Castle.

“No, indeed,” he said. “Can any good come of such a ‘sacrament?’ as old
Mrs. Lacy, the housekeeper, was a-saying; but she never seed such a
queer one as her foreign ladyship; but the Count he do count for
something, and is a right down good man, and did all he could to stay
her ladyship; and they say he’s going away to his own place in foreign
parts.”

“I don’t wonder at that,” said Aunt Jane.

“No, mum; pertickly as, besides the young lords and barrownights that is
sweet upon her ladyship, there’s a foreign count, too, as they say she
likes the best of ’em all.”

“Could this be Carlo?” I thought, as I suddenly remembered what occurred
in the London season. I say remembered, because since my illness many
of the stirring events which had occurred to me during the last year,
only came back by degrees to my mind.

Poor Carlo!--and now I felt more pity than either anger or love--pity
that he should have become ensnared by that syren; but my still dulled
senses prevented me from feeling much curiosity to know whether it was
really Carlo. All my curiosity, all my best feelings were excited by a
longing to know what Norah was doing--whether she would ever forgive Sir
Alfred Rivers, whether he could ever become worthy of her.

As I said before, Aunt Jane seemed to evade the subject, as if she still
feared that my mind would again break down; and, as I afterwards
learnt, she purposely tried to interest me with the village gossip about
Castle Hall. She thought it very likely that the ruined portion had long
been the haunt of smugglers, for it was only four miles across the
country to the coast, although there was no regular road leading to it,
without going a round of ten or twelve miles; and she thought that
probably some people might be still living who knew the secret of the
old passages or vaults under the ruins; and perhaps they might have been
still used as a lurking-place for illegal goods, or traffic of some
kind.




CHAPTER IX.

A MYSTERIOUS ENCOUNTER.


I felt rather disappointed at this idea of the ghost of Baron Hugh
being, after all, no ghost, but only a trick of the smugglers; and
disposed to be angry with Aunt Jane for her matter-of-fact way of
viewing the apparition.

“Surely,” I said, “if ever a sinner deserved to walk the earth after
death--and even in Plato’s days such ghosts were said to appear--Baron
Hugh, after desecrating the old church, and drinking himself to death,
is doomed to haunt it evermore.”

“But I don’t think it was Baron Hugh at all. I gathered, from some words
the blind dame involuntarily uttered, that it was a lady, a beautiful,
pale, fair young lady, like her favourite Lady Alice.”

“Oh! did she? What, the one she was anxious to know whether Dorina was
like? Well, that is strange.”

“Yes; but remember to say nothing of it,” she whispered, “to anyone
else, for the poor woman seemed much afraid of having let out some
dangerous secret. You, too, remarked how disinclined she has become
lately to speak about the family at all, and how anxious she looked.”

“Yes, but happy, too, as if she had discovered something that had
pleased her, or made her pleasantly anxious.”

At the moment we spoke about the supposition that the ghost was a lady,
a half-witted and deaf old man was passing near, and when I happened to
look round a few minutes afterwards, I saw that he was following us. He
did not live in the village, but he sometimes came there to sell fish
and shrimps; once he had been at Roland Grange with herrings, and Aunt
Jane fancied that he was not so deaf or silly as he pretended to be, for
his head was well-shaped, although his eyes had rather a vacant stare.
When I looked back, he came up and offered us some shrimps, which Aunt
Jane declined to purchase.

We were walking in the direction of Dame Jestico’s cottage, and the man
still contrived to follow us, even after we had left the high road, and
turned into the path across the fields. Aunt Jane turned round and told
him that it was useless for him to bring his shrimps to the cottages,
for the poor people would certainly not buy any. But she could not
succeed in making him hear or understand. So she let him take his
course, at the same time that she felt sure he had some motive in
pretending deafness or stupidity.

When we entered the cottage the man sat down on a bench in the porch
outside, and putting his basket of fish on the ground, leaned back, and
stretched out his legs with a wearied and listless air. We found the
little grand-daughter was with the old dame, and Aunt Jane told her to
go and see what the man wanted.

“Who is it? Surely I know that step! It ’minds me of long, long ago!”
asked the dame. And when Aunt Jane explained, she seemed much agitated,
and was going to speak several times, but checked herself, with an
apparently violent effort. She then endeavoured to get up from her
chair, and moved in the direction of the porch. Aunt Jane supported her,
and, as she seemed so anxious to approach the deaf man, we endeavoured
to assist her tottering steps.

“Who are you?” she inquired, as she groped along the bench with her hand
till she reached his shoulder. She then passed it quickly over his face,
and felt a mark of an old scar on his forehead. “I thought you had died
fifteen years ago,” she exclaimed. “And what has brought you here now?”

The man gave no answer, but looked as if he were trying to conceal the
annoyance he felt at her recognition.

“Come, come,” she said, in the same tone, “tell me what you want, or
I’ll----”

“I don’t want nothin’ at all, only to see if old friends remembered me.”

“What have you done with Eleanor? Tell me quick. Tell me at once, or, if
you don’t, I’ll punish you.”

“I’ll tell ye, then, if you promise not to betray me, for in these parts
I’m Joe Naylor, and you would spoil an honest man’s livelihood, what’s
been wrong in his head ever since this blow,” he said, pointing to the
mark on his forehead.

“I don’t believe you,” said the dame, “for well do I know how you came
by that; but I promise not to say I know you, if you will tell me truly
what you did with your poor wife.”

“She’s sleeping sound and peaceful in the deep blue sea,

    ‘Where the sun shines bright,
     And the moon by night
     It doth give more light
     Than it does now here;
     And now I’m near,
     And you shed no tear
     When I go away,
     And have said my say--
     But I can’t hear,
     So good-bye, my dear.’”

And with a wild kind of startling laugh, the strange man jumped up and
ran away.

“Is he mad, or what can he want?” inquired Aunt Jane of the old dame,
who stood listening intently to his receding footsteps, which she seemed
to hear long after they were inaudible to us.

“He’s gone up the wood-path, and no doubt will prowl about his old
haunts on the Castle-hill.”

“Was he one of the smugglers who were said to have had their
hiding-places there?”

“Who said he was?” inquired the dame, with an angry look. “I never said
so, and come what will, I will never betray poor Eleanor’s husband. Beg
pardon, dear lady, I’m forgetting myself; but my poor mind wanders, I
know, sometimes, and now I’ll go and rest.”

We saw that she evidently did not like to speak about this mysterious
man, so we led her back to her chair, and soon afterwards left her to
repose.

As we walked home, we could not help wondering what the strange man’s
motives could have been in thus seeking for the old dame’s recognition,
and before strangers, too, when he seemed, at the same time, so anxious
to be known only under his present evidently feigned name of Joe Naylor.
But as the dame evidently wished that he should keep up this
_incognito_, we determined to say nothing about our meeting with him to
anyone.




CHAPTER X.

THE SMUGGLERS’ HAUNTS.


As we heard long afterwards where the strange Joe Naylor went after
quitting the old dame’s cottage, I will now follow his footsteps to the
old Castle-hill. Proceeding by a narrow path which led through thick
woods towards the Castle (in which direction the dame had heard his
tread) for about a mile, he suddenly left it, and turned into the park,
where the underwood was very thick, and no path was discernible. Up a
steep hill he slowly climbed, feeling on the ground at every second step
for some stones, which might have been placed there long ago to indicate
some path; but most of them were partly covered with either moss or
fern, so that he was some time before he reached the highest part of the
hill, where there was a little open space, and the remains of some burnt
wood, as if left by a gipsy encampment. He felt the heap of ashes, and
finding some warmth in them, he gave a shrill whistle. After a few
moments, it was answered by another, when he proceeded in the direction
whence the sound came, thereby giving good proof that his deafness was
only feigned.

Under a projecting rock he found two men and a woman, apparently of the
gipsy tribe. He then said, with an air of command, “Follow me!”

“Not dark enough yet,” said the elder of the men, with a sulky look.
“I’m not going to risk my life after a fool’s errand--not till I knows
what’s to be got by it.”

“I explained it to Dick there,” he replied, in a better accent than was
usually spoken by the country people; “so don’t lose the precious
moments loitering here. ‘Come, them as knows they knows,’ you used to
say, old Rupert, when I showed ye the cutter off Forland Head; and you
got a pretty penny for your pains.”

“Yes, that ’ere was a good job. Well, master, I’ll agree to follow. But,
mind, you promised me half of the booty. But there’s more risk than
you’d a-knowed of, for Sarah heard that carpenters and people are at
work in the house.”

“Who said that?” inquired Joe Naylor; for as he had not been in this
part of the country until that day since the Countess arrived at the
Castle, he knew nothing of the repairs now in progress. “Who said
it?--Tell me quick!” he repeated.

“Sarah heard it last night down at the ‘Three Hats.’ They’re going to
give a grand ball, or summut, and got lots of workmen making
preparations.”

“Well, now we’ll go round by the lower park wood, and not go near the
old entrance till we see the workmen are gone.”

Then they descended the hill, and made a detour by the lower woods, till
they came to a place which commanded a view of the fine old ruins, as
well as the extensive pile of later buildings at its base. The sun had
now set, but there was sufficient light to see the numerous entrances to
the house, and stables, and various outbuildings and gardens.

Soon afterwards they saw a line of workmen emerge from a small gate on
the western side, and just afterwards a gay party in carriages,
accompanied by some gentlemen on horseback, followed by grooms, came out
of the opposite wood, and approached the principal entrance.

“My eye, what a lot o’ people; and look at all them powdered varlets in
livery! The gents in plush, that come to the door, have better dresses
than the quality on horseback. What if they could see us? However could
we get safe away?” inquired Dick.

“Never fear; we’re not going near the house where they all live.”

“But it joins on to them there ruins--I sees it do.”

“Yes; but that part is not inhabited; and nobody goes near it for fear
of old Baron Hugh’s ghost. And I overheard by chance this very day that
the lady herself saw it, and nearly died of fright. Come, now, for we
shall have some way to go round by the Devil’s Bridge up there, and so
round to the north side of the ruins.”

It took nearly an hour to reach this spot, as there was no way of
crossing a stream which ran down from the old deer park through a
ravine, and then skirting the base of the Castle, flowed in a clear
rapid stream along the western terrace garden, and formed a beautiful
lake in the centre of the park.

The Devil’s Bridge consisted now of only bare rough planks across the
deep chasm; but overhead was a massive broken arch, which had been the
chief entrance to the feudal castle. It had apparently been blown up in
the wars; and the massive masonry of the centre part lay on the side of
the steep hill near the present bridge of planks, and it was so perfect
that, if it could have been lifted up some twenty feet, it would have
exactly joined, and fitted the two sides which still projected over the
ravine.

“Sure and they built finely in them there old times. I don’t think as
how there’s a man living as could make stones stand up o’ their own
selves like them split arches. They look for all the world as if they
must fall down upon us, and yet they’ve never budged an inch, I know,
for hundreds of years.”

“Come on quick, now, and don’t speak, for there’s an echo here,” said
Joe Naylor, as he led them up the steep and pathless side of the
Castle-hill.

It was nearly dark, and the rocks were in some places perpendicular, and
their sides only broken by narrow patches of mossy grass, along which
the party were obliged to grope their way one after the other, for, in
some places, there was barely room for one person to stand.

“I knew we should want more light for this work,” Joe said, as the
others began to grumble at the difficulty and danger of their slippery
position. “You’ll say again that ‘them as knows they knows!’ before
we’re done, for you would insist on waiting till those stupid workmen
were gone away.”

“Is there no other way at all to your old gate?--and however did you get
the kegs and barrels along this here strip o’ slippery moss? ’Tis not
wide enough just here for a cat, let alone a Christian what’s fat!
Dick’ll be sure to scrape his lusty sides agin this sharp rock. Look,
man, how we gets round it, for I’ve hit my nose as a’most stunned me.
And how much further are we to climb like cats on a wall?”

“Only round the next point; and, here, hold on, for I’ve found the very
same rope as used to serve us to swing round the black rock corner.
Right glad am I to find it here still, as it shows that the old gate has
never been discovered; but don’t lean on it too hard, as maybe it’s
rotten by this time.”

They did not immediately swing round the point, but, after Joe had tried
its strength, and reached the old entrance-gate on the other side of the
rock, he threw it back to each in succession, and it served to steady
their footsteps round the narrowest and most dangerous part of the way.
They then crept on all fours for some distance, under the narrow
entrance of a rocky cave, where Joe struck a light.

“Now you may stand upright, while I try the key in the old lock.”

It was so rusty that they had great difficulty in turning it. But at
length it yielded to their efforts, and on opening the door they found
themselves at the top of a narrow flight of winding stairs. The steps
were broken in many places, so that the descent was not very easy, but
by the aid of a lantern which they had now lighted, they slowly went
down ninety-five steps. Joe reckoned them aloud as they went down, but
they had not reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Stop here now, and hold the lantern close to this wall. All right, the
plaster is still just where I laid it on the last time I was here, and
the mark too,” he muttered to himself, as he hastily struck at the
plaster with a small hatchet, when the letters L D were visible to his
quick eye.

After all the plain coating of plaster had been knocked off, a strong
oak door became visible, and taking out another key, he applied it to
the lock. It opened at once, and they found themselves in a large space,
so large that the light of the lantern did not show anything, save the
doorway through which they passed, and the stone floor under their feet.
They proceeded close along the wall for some twenty feet, and then a
colonnade of massive pillars, surmounted by round arches, became
visible; and leaving the outer wall on their right, they passed through
the middle of one of the colonnades, till they reached what seemed to be
an ancient altar tomb with a recumbent figure on the top. It was a
knight in armour, and the crossed legs showed that he must have been a
crusader.

Joe Naylor explained to his companions this interesting fact, and
thereby excited their admiration for what they called his wonderful
book-learning. But they did not loiter long over the inspection of this
or other monuments which they passed, but came to a spot which had been
the high altar of this ancient crypt. Near the front of this some of the
pavement stones seemed to have been plastered over in the same manner as
the staircase door through which they had come, and Joe Naylor applied
the instrument he had brought to pick it off, after discovering the same
marks of L D in a certain corner.

“All right!” he exclaimed, with great glee; “now we must all work hard
to get up the stone.”

This was not easy, for it was large and extremely heavy, and after
working at it for nearly an hour, they declared that it would be
impossible to lift it without more hands.

“There was no one about we could trust, and Sarah would not have been o’
much use if we had let her come,” said Joe.

“Ay, but she would though; she’s far stronger than most men, and so
clever-like, she’d a-hit on some way o’ getting it up.”

“Here, try this,” said Joe, who had found some old oak planks, probably
the remains of coffins; “put this end under, and we’ll all stand at the
other end, and see if we can’t hoist it up.”

By dint of hard labour they gradually succeeded in lifting the stone,
and then a flight of steps became visible. Joe kindled another light,
for the foul, damp air which came up from the vaults beneath nearly
extinguished the lantern.

“Bah! then it’s among the dead bodies we’re going,” muttered Dick.
“Sure, but I hope we may find the treasure at last; and, my eye, if it’s
not full of coffins!”

“Yes, and a good number we shall have to lift, before we get to the
right one.”

“But it has not got a dead body in it--Joe, has it?” inquired Dick, who
was all of a tremble, as he afterwards confessed, so that you might have
knocked him down with a feather, for it was the dismallest place he ever
sat eyes on--scattered bones on the ground, and coffins in every stage
of ruin and decay. When they reached the further end they found a pile
of some dozen coffins placed one above the other. Joe approached the
light to the sides, and reckoning nine from the top, looked eagerly for
a mark on the side of the tenth.

“All right,” he again said, rubbing his hands with glee. “Now we must
lift all the others off, for this is the one.”

“But surely we’re not going to carry that ’ere coffin the steep path we
came up?”

“Not such a fool as that, my man:--Here, see the bags I brought to hold
the gold.”




CHAPTER XI.

THE TREASURE IS FOUND IN THE ANCIENT CRYPT.


On hearing of gold, the men began to work hard, and soon the nine
coffins were lifted down. Just as they were about to wrench the top off
the tenth, a wailing sound was heard, which so frightened Dick that he
let the light fall, and would have run off, even without the gold, if he
could have found the way.

“What a fool you are!” said Joe. “It’s only a bat. I’ve heard such a
sound many a time here.”

“But it was like a body suffering--just for all the world like a
Christian voice.”

“Nonsense!--light the other candle again, and look sharp.”

Poor Dick rather expected to see a dead body with some valuable diamonds
on it, but his delight was extreme when he saw hundreds of gold and
silver pieces, and a great quantity of copper.

“Here, men, quick! pick out the silver, and I’ll reckon over the gold.”

“But we’re to have half,” exclaimed both the men--“that was the
bargain.”

“Yes, and so you shall; but we must first separate and reckon them
over.”

The men began to collect the silver, but kept their eyes principally on
the gold pieces that Joe told over as he placed them in one of his bags.

“Two hundred and fifty good golden guineas,” said Joe, as he tied it up,
and began to fill another. “Two hundred and fifty more,” he soon
afterwards repeated; “and here’s twenty more--ten for each bag; and you
ought to have got seventy pounds in silver.”

But they had been so eagerly watching the gold pieces that they had
neglected to reckon the silver.

“Yes, I know there must be, for the gold is all right, and nobody has
been here. So we’ll put the silver in the two other bags, and each of
you shall carry one.”

“Well, but we shall carry one gold too--that’s but fair.”

“Very well, so you shall; you’ve got thirty-five pounds in each of the
bags of silver, and here is two hundred and fifteen pounds in gold,
divided in two bags, for each of you to carry one.”

The men watched the division with such a greedy earnestness visible on
their rough faces that Joe cautioned them not to quarrel about it, as
they’d be sure to get into trouble.

“And now I’ll see if the way is clear above, that we may get on a better
road than we came up by, for we should never be able to climb along
those slippery rocks with all this weight in our hands.”

“And ours the heaviest load too, which ain’t fair,” said the older man,
with a dogged, sullen look, as he remembered the perilous descent.
“Come, sir, hand me out some o’ them guineas in exchange for the silver
and copper.”

Joe Naylor consented, as he saw the fierce expression on the man’s face,
and a further division took place.

“Now, then, place the lid on, and I’ll see if I can find the way into
the place overhead.”

He then led them up from the vault, and across the crypt to a small
narrow archway which opened into a winding staircase. It was even more
ruinous than the one by which they had descended, and was closed at the
top by a flat kind of massive trap-door. Joe touched a spring at the
side, and told the others to push hard. After a vigorous effort, it
flew open, and a rumbling noise was heard, as if stones were rolling off
from its top on to the rest of the pavement.

“Hush!--give me the light,” whispered Joe; “and don’t speak, for sure
we’re close to the house now. And what on earth has happened? Why,
there’s a floor above our heads, or the old chapel has fallen down. Why,
there’s not room to stand upright; and we ought to be in the grand old
chapel, or banqueting-hall, as they call it.”

It was true, a floor raised about four feet above the uneven and ruined
stone floor of the old chapel had been raised, and thus there was no
possibility of getting out that way.

“It’s lucky we left the trap-door wide open, for if we had shut it, the
spring would have caught, and we should have been buried alive between
these floors. But, look!--what’s this?” he said, pointing to a large
diamond-shaped place that seemed as if it could be easily opened just
above their heads; and, on feeling it round with a chisel, they found it
could be raised. In so doing they unconsciously removed with their
shoulders some of the supports, on one side, which kept it in its place,
and emerging into the room above, they hastily replaced the large
square, which they saw was a beautiful piece of inlaid woodwork, without
taking the trouble to see that it was done so securely.

“Oh! my, what a grand place!”

“Hush!--don’t make a noise,” whispered Joe. “Come along--quick, or we
may be heard.”

They cast a rapid glance over the hall, which had been beautifully
restored; and their lights were just sufficient to show the outline of
the elaborately-carved old gallery, with its curious corner oriel. Joe
held up his lantern in order to throw some light on that gallery, which
he had had the good taste to admire much in days long gone by, when, to
his surprise and horror, he saw a white figure, a pale lovely face
looking down upon them. The next moment it had disappeared, but Dick was
so frightened that he let the light and his money-bag fall on the floor;
and was on the point of shrieking with terror, when Joe’s hand was laid
heavily on his mouth. But Joe’s hand trembled too, for the apparition
was exactly like one of the family pictures in the hall of the good
Baroness who died in defending the castle from Cromwell’s army.

“Well, now I _have_ seen a ghost,” thought he; “for no living being
could look like that. Come,” he whispered to Dick, who still continued
to tremble and quake; “pick it all up, and quick--let’s be gone.”

“Oh! dear, oh! dear,” muttered Dick; “if I ever get safe out of this old
place, I’ll----”

“Don’t speak,” insisted Joe, as he motioned to the men to follow him
along the wall in the direction of the gallery. “We _must_ go under it,”
he explained, as he saw that both the men shrank from going near to the
spot above which the strange apparition had been seen. “There’s no other
way out; and if it’s been stopped up, we’re done for,” said Joe, who
began to consider it was possible, as the banqueting-hall had been so
wonderfully renovated. Then he found the arch which had formerly
contained an old broken door, but, to his dismay, he saw it had been
built up. He then examined the windows, which, from the level of the
floor having been raised, were now nearer to it than formerly; and near
one of these, which seemed to be still under the process of repair, he
saw a ladder. This he cautiously mounted, and found that some of the
panes of glass were not yet put in.

There was a buttress outside by which he thought they could clamber down
without displacing the ladder, which might betray their nocturnal visit
to the restored room. So he told the others to follow, and they all
three reached the ground in safety.

There was here but a narrow strip of grass between the walls and the
rocky precipice, but Joe assured them it would soon get wider, and then
they could return through the wood without having to clamber down the
steep by which they had ascended. When they at last reached the wood,
Joe Naylor turned to his two companions, and, with many cautions, told
them not to quarrel over their booty, and to be sure and tell Sarah
exactly what they had got.

Before they had time, even if they had inclination, to thank him for his
advice, he disappeared. The two men wondered for a few moments why he
so suddenly left them, and felt their money-bags to see if they were all
safe. Finding this was the case, they did not take his departure much to
heart, for he puzzled and somewhat awed them. We are all prone to
dislike what we cannot understand.




CHAPTER XII.

A STRIKE AMONG THE SERVANTS, ENTAILED BY THE APPARITION AT CASTLE HALL.


The preparations for the grand masquerade ball were now nearly complete,
and the neighbourhood, as well as the highest portions of the _Morning
Post_ world, in those days of the reign of fashion, were in the greatest
excitement. Hairdressers from London and Paris obtained fabulous prices
for their promise to attend some of the chief houses in the country; and
London dressmakers were busily employed on the magnificent dresses
belonging to the most golden periods of the world’s history.

But these grand preparations had run a great risk of being marred by a
panic which gradually developed itself among the servants at the Castle.
It was said to be positively haunted by a ghost. Strange to say, it was
not the appearance of the wicked Baron Hugh, or there might have been
some excuse for their fears. The apparition which excited their terror
was that of a young and beautiful woman, who was said to haunt different
parts of the house with her pale and melancholy countenance. The
Countess’s own Italian ladysmaid, Cattarina Diabelli--or Catering
Devilry, as she was sometimes called by the servants, who dreaded her
violent temper--seemed frightened out of her wits by this mysterious
visitor. She had never known a night’s rest since the Countess’s fright
in the old chapel. She, and an English ladysmaid who acted under her
orders, had sat up all that night with their lady, at the Count’s
request; and Cattarina had understood, from the wild, dreamlike raving
of her mistress, that the ghost which had appeared on the old carved
balcony was that of the Count’s first wife, as she was generally
called--the lovely and ill-fated Dorina, who met with her untimely end
the very evening before her bridal-day.

Cattarina Diabelli, although violent in temper, and not over-honest, had
a great respect for her religion, and she considered this appearance of
the ghost to have been a warning to the Countess against her
sacrilegious intention of making a ball-room of the old chapel. And she
ventured to speak her mind on the subject to her ladyship.

But after the sound sleep which succeeded Cunigunda’s wild ravings, she
became insensible to the danger, and tried to make herself and others
believe that it could have been only fancy, or that she saw a bat in a
strip of moonlight on the quaint figures of the old carving.

But Cattarina was naturally superstitious, and felt convinced that her
lady had really seen Dorina’s ghost. Whether this idea gained complete
hold on her imagination, or that she really saw something, was never
ascertained; but she told the butler, in strict confidence, that one
night, as she was passing the end of the passage which led to the
Countess’s room, she saw a white figure approach the door of her room.
After standing there a few seconds, it turned slowly round, and she saw
the face quite plain.

It was ghastly pale, and seemed to have a kind of unearthly light in it,
but lovely too, and exactly like the picture of the celebrated beauty,
Baroness Alice, whose picture by Vandyck hung over the chimney-piece in
the blue drawing-room. And Cattarina had heard that the unfortunate
Dorina was said to be the image of that beautiful picture. Of course
this story soon spread among all the other servants, and all said they
had seen the pale lady and heard her moans.

“I heard the footsteps, too, quite plain,” said the upper housemaid,
“a-coming along the hattic passage, and groans like a body crying their
eyes out; and I was too frightened to look, but I heard it stop at my
door and the lock turn as plain as I hear that ’ere knife as you’re
sharpening; and I’m sure she came into my room, but I was so terribly
terrified I hid my head in the clothes, and never looked up till I fell
asleep.”

“Then you did not see it after all?”

“No, thank goodness gracious, for I’m sure the fright would have killed
me outright, and I must have given warning this very morning.”

“What, after you was killed?” said the solemn-looking matter-of-fact
butler.

“Ah, it is all very well for a strong man like you to laugh at a lady’s
fears (the man had the gravest of faces, and was never known to smile
except when he attended his uncle’s funeral, who had left him a legacy),
but if you heard the groans, and saw what Judy did through the window
that looks into the dead-room, you’d shake in your shoes, I know you
would,” she continued in a loud and angry tone.

“Hey-day, what’s all this about?” inquired the stately old housekeeper,
who sailed into the room in her stiff and rustling petticoats and fine
lace cap. “What nonsense is this you have all got into your foolish
heads about a ghost? Now, if ever I catch any of you talking of such
silly things I’ll speak to master, and you shall have warning.”

“Well, mum,” said Judy, who had been listening from the next room,
“that’s what we fear we must all do, for really I’ve had no sound sleep
this week past, afraid to open my eyes after I gets into bed, and
hearing strange sounds all night.”

“And then oversleeping yourself in the morning.”

“Well, mum, it ain’t me alone; there’s Mrs. Spinnyfit, the under
ladysmaid, as heard her ladyship the Countess telling Cattarina, and say
she’d seen the ghost.”

“That she could not, for I’m sure the Countess did not speak it in
English.”

“Well, mum, and there’s John Harris--he declared he saw the ghost
standing at those ruined windows up in the old castle in the middle of
the night, and----”

“And what business had he to be out at that time, I wonder?” said Mrs.
Lacy, with a still more severe look.

“And the under-footman, he said as how he saw lights flittering about up
at the very top window of the highest tower,” said the persevering Judy.

“And what did the ghost want with a light up there?” said the provoking,
incredulous housekeeper.

“I don’t know, I’m sure; but I’ve heard as how no Christian mortal could
get up to that door, seeing as how there bain’t no staircase up to it,
so it must have been something terrible. And I’ll swear I’ve seen a
light pass under my door, when I’ve heard no footstep at all.”

“What nonsense! Why, Mrs. Spinnyfit said it was the footsteps frightened
her to death.”

In spite, however, of the housekeeper’s sage reasonings, the servants’
fears went on increasing day by day; and even the grave-looking butler
began to be alarmed, for he confessed he was awoke the night before by
somebody trying to open the door of his room; and fearing it might be a
robber, as he kept some of the plate up there, he got his pistols out
before he ventured to open the door.

At last he opened it cautiously, and seeing no one, he looked all along
the passage, when he distinctly saw a white figure at the further end.
He thought he would be very brave and try to follow it, but before he
could reach the further end of the passage it had disappeared. He could
not tell how or where, for the only door at that end was locked, and
only led into the ruined and uninhabited part of the old building.

A serious strike among all the servants now seemed imminent, and even
the ladysmaids of the visitors who were staying in the house, declared
that they could stand it no longer, and they knew that their own ladies
were frightened out of their wits too, for Lady Selina Bugginfield rang
for her maid twice the night before, and declared that somebody was
hidden in the room, for she had heard footsteps going round her bed. The
house-keeper was obliged to ask for an audience of the Countess, in
order to explain the embarrassing situation of affairs.

Cunigunda seemed much annoyed when she heard it, and, as the housekeeper
afterwards confessed, looked considerably alarmed. She said that she
herself should leave the house a day or two after the fête, but that
nothing would induce her to put it off, so Mrs. Lacy must try to induce
the servants to remain till then.

“Well, my lady, I’ll see what can be done, but----”

“But what?” said the angry Countess; “it must--it shall be done!”

“I’ll try then, but I was going to say that I feared, if by chance your
ladyship saw what they all say they have seen, it would make you as ill
again as you were that night, and----”

“Never fear. I know what I am about, so make them stay till after the
ball, and you, too, shall be well paid.”

“No, my lady,” said the housekeeper, drawing herself up with a sort of
_minuet-de-la-cour_ dignity of air--“no, indeed, I do not require to be
bribed to do my duty after sixty years’ service.” So saying, with a low
curtsey, she sailed out of the room, and left the Countess alone.




CHAPTER XIII

IN THE OLD ORANGERY.


Alone!--how often our angry wishes to be left “alone” are literally and
direfully realized. At this moment Cunigunda felt almost for the first
time in her life a sensation of utter loneliness. Her husband seemed
completely estranged from her; and Carlo, whose agreeability and evident
admiration for her had served for a time to distract and amuse, seemed
to have lost his charm. She was tired of everything and everybody, yet
she dreaded, above all things, to be alone.

The interview with the old housekeeper had taken place in the blue
drawing-room, which, from being upstairs, was not used in the mornings;
and as she sat leaning back listlessly in an easy-chair, she happened to
be just opposite Vandyck’s beautiful picture of Baroness Clotilda-Jane.

The eyes of the portrait seemed to gaze down upon her with a melancholy
earnestness that was quite distressing, and she hastily rose and went
towards a curious cabinet at the farther end, as if to escape from their
searching expression. But there was a fascination in the picture that
seemed to prevent her from removing her gaze from it; and she saw that
the eyes followed her about the room with the same melancholy and
reproachful look.

“It must be her spirit,” she thought. “Her life was unhappy, they say;
and she came to some untimely end. Oh! why did I come into this room?”
she suddenly thought. “I cannot stand that living look!” And she ran
wildly out into the outer gallery, as if she felt some evil spirit were
pursuing her, and never stopped till she reached the billiard-room
downstairs, where she found Carlo and some other gentlemen lounging over
a game.

A few minutes after the Countess had left the blue drawing-room, it was
entered by the Count, who walked up to the picture which had so
strangely excited his wife. He moved towards it with an air of
reverence and awe; while his handsome features expressed a passionate
love, mingled with respectful admiration. His thoughts, while he gazed
at the picture, assumed the form of some such words as these:

“Yes, it is her living self--the same soft loving eyes of heavenly blue;
the smiling dimples in her glowing cheek. She seems to smile down upon
me as Dorina did; and yet those arched brows could knit in holy anger,
too, at all that was base or mean. What a likeness to that perfect
angel! But I outraged her memory, and could fall into the snares--It is
too horrible!” he thought, as he covered his face with his hands. “I am
not worthy to look upon her likeness. But, oh! forgive me, dear saint!
Look down from thy heavenly state with pity on one who adores you more
than ever. Ha! what sound was that? It was like her voice--the cry of
agony that seemed to reach my ears when--” He turned round suddenly, for
the sound seemed to proceed from the farther end of the room. There
seemed to be no door, but on feeling along the blue damask hangings, his
hand came upon a hard projection, as of the handle of a lock; feeling
round it, he found what seemed to be the frame of a door.

Then he listened with breathless anxiety, for the voice seemed to have
come from that spot; and now he fancied he heard a gentle breathing, and
rustling, as of a dress.

“Who is there?” he inquired. No answer came, but he thought he heard
light footsteps receding gradually into the distance.

He then determined to inquire of the old housekeeper whether there was
formerly any passage through the seeming doorway, and to what it could
have led. He rang the bell in haste, but it was some time before it was
answered, for the servants had been summoned into the upper
housekeeper’s room, and she was at that moment endeavouring to carry out
the Countess’s wishes, and trying to make the best terms she could to
induce them to remain till after the masquerade. The Count rang again,
and he was answered by the solemn butler, who looked much less grave
than usual, for he had just succeeded in making a profitable bargain for
himself with Mrs. Lacy.

“I want to see the housekeeper. Beg Mrs. Lacy to come to me here.”

“Yes, sir; but she’s a-talking to the females now, as she’s just settled
with the gentle--the men-servants.”

“What do you mean? Settled what?”

“Didn’t you know, my Lord Count, that we was all a-going to
leave--couldn’t stand it no longer?”

“Stand what any longer?”

“The ghost, my lord.”

“The ghost! Are you mad?”

“The White Lady, sir--my Lord Count--what frightened the Countess
herself out of her senses in the old chapel.”

“She said afterwards it was mere fancy, or an owl, or something.”

“Ah! but we all a-seen it since.”

“Seen what? How can you be such fools? Send Mrs. Lacy at once, that I
may inquire from her the reason of all this.”

“Yes, sir; but, please, my Lord, _she_ don’t believe in the ghost at
all.”

“I should think not. Go, then, and ask her to come to me here
immediately.”

The butler retired rather crestfallen, and somewhat ashamed of having
showed that he was afraid of a ghost in which his master evidently did
not believe.

Mrs. Lacy soon appeared, making her very best curtsey, while a most
benign and reverential expression gradually banished the angry frown of
injured dignity which had been so excited by the rebellious domestics.
For she honoured the Count, and although she had never seen him till six
weeks ago, she already began to love him, and to feel the greatest
interest for him.

“What would you please to want?” she inquired, after a few moments, for
she found him gazing so intently on Baroness Clotilda’s portrait that
she began to think he had not seen her enter.

He turned round suddenly, and then looked at her with a kind of
searching expression, mingled with an interest and kindness which she
had never before remarked. In fact, he had always appeared so
pre-occupied and indifferent that she fancied he had never remarked her
at all before.

“You have been many years in this family, I suppose?” he said.

“Seventy-two years come next Christmas. I came into the service of her
Ladyship’s great-grandmother.”

“Then you remember the Lady Alice, who married Count Hohenstein?”

“That I do indeed, for she married the very next Spring; and a fine
wedding we had, and she the most beautiful and, more, the very best and
kindest of ladies.”

“And was she like that portrait?” he inquired, pointing to the Vandyck.

“As like as if it was painted for her, only her hair was lighter. ’Twas
a most lovely auburn, that looked as if it was full of sunshine. Indeed,
we used often to say ’twould light up a room in the dark, it was so
bright and gay, and fell in such loving, waving curls that seemed to
twine round our very hearts; and, indeed, there was not a dry eye for
miles round the day she left us. And I did use to think the family
wasn’t quite---- The old earl, her ladyship’s father, took it so to
heart that he never seemed the same man afterwards; and as to my lady,
she---- But it ill beseems me to say anything against them, only somehow
’twas a different house afterwards, and my mother was sorry she’d let me
come here so young.”

“The Lady Alice had exerted a great influence over all her family. I
suppose she was a sort of guardian angel?”

“That’s just the word, my lord, for nobody could look on her beautiful
face without feeling better--indeed, one felt quite ashamed of not being
more worthy, or, as poor Lady Jane used to say, ‘more in harmony with
its sweet look.’”

“Just like her!” said the Count, half to himself; “and she never came
back from Italy to see her parents?”

“Alack-a-day! none of us ever set eyes on her saint-like face again,
more’s the pity; for if she had, then I don’t think her sister, Lady
Matilda, would have married contrary to my lord’s wishes. I suppose you
heard, my lord, that she ran away with a gentleman that was not worthy
of her? And Lord Castleglen, he went contrairy too, and took to play,
and lost no end of money; but, as I said before, it ill becomes me to go
against the family; and then, to be sure, the old Earl’s grandson, he
married a dear, good lady, though she’d no fortune, and we had nothing
to keep up the place, for, my lord, he entertained all the quality and
the Royal Family, when they came to Weyford; and the King and Queen,
and the fair young Princesses, used to come sometimes unexpected-like,
and we had used to get banquets ready, and to send---- But then Lord
Castleglen, the eldest son, married a great heiress, so they came round
again, only the lady herself was not so--But, my lord, I’m tiring your
lordship with all this?”

“No--on the contrary, I like to hear about them all; pray go on.”

“Well, there is not much more to tell, for you know that the last Earl,
my lord, son and daughter, died and left no children; and so there was a
long minority, and we lived in expectation of---- But, my lord, you know
all this far better than I do; only we did long for--excuse me, I ought
not to remind you of what----”

She stopped short, for the look of agony which passed over the Count’s
expressive face excited the old lady’s honest sympathy, and she thought
to herself--“How deeply he must have loved the Lady Dorina!”

“I like to think--I like to talk of her to you, who remember her
great-grandmother so well, for all you said of Lady Alice, and
more--much more might be said of my betrothed wife; and how I ever
could---- But stay,” he said, restraining himself with a sudden violent
effort--“stay--I want to ask you whether there was ever a door there at
that further end, to the right of Baron Hugh’s picture?”

The housekeeper started, and a puzzled, anxious, and embarrassed look
was visible on her face.

“There is some mystery attached to that door, I suppose,” he said,
surprised at her evident embarrassment.

Mrs. Lacy seemed to ponder deeply for a few moments, and then she said,
with a candid and decided air:

“Yes, my lord, there is a mystery; and I would rather, if you would
forgive me--I would rather not speak about it; in fact, I have given a
solemn promise not to do so, and----”

“I will ask no more,” he said, “for I am sure you will not keep back
anything that I ought to know.”

“Perhaps I have been wrong, my lord; but I did it for the best, and a
promise is a promise.”

“Yes,” said the Count, who read plainly in her honest face that she was
only doing what she thought right.

“But I will tell you why I ask the question, and why I asked you to come
here. I fancied I heard a voice or moan, as if some person were
suffering at that end of the room, and on approaching it I distinctly
heard light footsteps receding in the distance; so light, so--but never
mind, I felt along this damask hanging, and see, here is plainly the
handle and lock of a door.”

Mrs. Lacy felt the spot, but her hand trembled with agitation, and she
could scarcely speak or even stand.

“Sit down,” said the Count, as he placed her in one of the large
old-fashioned chairs which were said to have come from the Doge’s Palace
at Venice. “And do not speak, do not think it necessary to give any
explanation of them, or the slightest reason against it.”

“You are most kind; I never can be grateful enough. Oh, sir, if I could
but speak, how glad I should be! Perhaps some day I may be able,” she
continued after a pause, while her countenance brightened with sudden
hope as she got up and walked towards the window. “But there are things
which--if your lordship did but know what people say----”

“What--what do you mean?”

“Perhaps I can show you, and may God forgive me if I am doing wrong!
Please to come this way, my lord,” she said, as she went to the other
end of the room, and touching a spring in the top of the dedo under the
damask hanging, a door opened. Stooping under the old blue damask, they
found themselves in a large old-fashioned bedroom. A high oriel window
opened into one of the back courtyards, but the old dame, motioning him
to be silent, led him to another smaller window which looked into the
old orangery. It was entirely covered on the outside with flowery
creepers, so that it was not visible from the other side.




CHAPTER XIV.

WHAT COUNT ROSSI SAW IN THE OLD ORANGERY.


In the meantime the Countess, as I said before, had left the blue room
in an unusually sad or perhaps rather _ennuyé_ state of mind, utterly
dissatisfied with everything and everybody, and in great want of some
new distraction.

Finding Carlo in the billiard-room, she motioned to him to come and take
a walk with her. “And do amuse me with something, for I seem to be
suddenly tired of the world and everything in it.”

“That’s because you have everything you wish for,” said he, as he walked
on the old south terrace. “If you had to fight your way--if you were
poor, and had to gamble or cheat for your bread, it would be different.”

“Yes, I know you hate being poor--you would marry an ugly heiress
to-morrow if any were to be had; you care for nothing but riches.”

“I thought you too valued them, else why----”

“Why--what?” she inquired, with a look of surprise.

“Oh, never mind, you know very well there are rumours, and always will
be.”

“That I induced the Count to propose to me; well, but that did not
increase my riches so very much. You know this property in England is
all my own.”

“Yes, but how did it become so?” he inquired, while he fixed his dark
penetrating eyes full on hers.

She looked down, and her colour rose. “What can you mean?--and what can
you know?”

“What many people in the south know right well. Don’t be frightened,
Cunigunda,” he said, with a tender look. “I am not going to repeat it.
For I can see you no longer care for Alphonso, and it must be almost
punishment enough to have committed a crime, and then to find after all
it was the wrong man you married--a man of too cold and unimpassioned a
nature ever to appreciate you.”

“Ah, yes, that is true,” she said, with a provoked look. “Yet he did
care for me at first. But all men are fickle--no one cares for one
long.”

“Oh yes, they do,” he said. “Come, he will take you away soon, and we
shall not have many more pleasant talks. Come into my favourite old
orangery, and let us have a little peace. All these stiff English people
are so fatiguing, and they stare so, whenever I say a word to you, that
it is quite disagreeable. Come in here.”

They went and sat down on a bench among the orange-trees, while he
passed his arm round her waist to support her as she leant back; and,
unforbidden, raised her hand to his lips, which he kissed with
tenderness.

“Stay, what is that?” asked Cunigunda, starting up. “I heard some sound
up there,” pointing to the high window that looked down from the blue
bed-room.

“Probably a bird among the creepers,” said he; “now don’t get frightened
and imagine another ghost, for there are none by daylight, and nobody
but ourselves ever comes into this tumble-down place.”

“I wish you would tell me openly what you alluded to just now,” she
said, “about me, and--what is it you heard?”

“Ah, there are many particulars, known to some and suspected by more,”
he said, “by everyone except your weak fool of a husband--that you----”

“Stop, not out loud--” she exclaimed, putting her hand on his mouth, as
she burst into a passionate flood of tears.

“Oh, there, brute that I am, I have made you weep!” he said, throwing
himself on his knees before her, and taking her hand.

“Who told you?” she rejoined, between her sobs. “Tell me that, and say
nothing more.”

He whispered some words in her ear, which seemed to agitate her
violently; and then after a pause, during which she wrung her hands as
if in agony, she said,

“Well, come away now, for I hate this place; the very air seems full of”
(“reproach” was the word in her mind, but in her utterance she hastily
changed it into) “poison and misery.”




CHAPTER XV.

LADY SELINA’S GOSSIPING LETTER.


Early in the following week was the day fixed for the masquerade ball,
and a number of guests arrived at an early hour. The Count had gone out
early in the morning, and the Countess, not being very well, and wishing
to repose herself for the evening’s gaiety, sent down word to beg they
would excuse her from appearing till the dinner hour.

So the guests strolled into the gardens and amused themselves very
well, but some of the ladies held rather aloof from Lady Selina
Bugginfield and Mrs. Dashworth, who, as they had been visitors for some
time at the Castle, thought it right to patronize the new-comers. But
finding it would not do, they went up and sulked in their own rooms, and
wrote bitterly gossiping letters to their dear friends.

“This won’t last long,” wrote Lady Selina to her sister that afternoon.
“How the husband can be so blind, we none of us can imagine. They go and
smoke in an old orangery every day; they have been seen there, and even
heard, by some of the servants; in fact, it is well known, and I shan’t
be surprised if they elope soon.

“Her adorer is a spendthrift Neapolitan, handsome, certainly, but”--but
he remained insensible to my charms, was the parenthesis of her mental
bitterness. “Her character is quite gone, if she ever had any, so she
will not be much worse after she has left her husband, and with such a
spendthrift it scarcely seems worth while; but she has her own fortune,
and that _I_ think is the great attraction for him--in fact, I’m sure of
it. Poor thing! she will find it out some day.

“The Duke and Duchess of Dromoland, and Lady E. G----, and the great
Mrs. de V---- are downstairs. They were obliged to come early to get
their hair dressed by Isidore, who came from Paris to dress Cunigunda’s.

“The Duke is very pleasant and nice, and so is Lord D----, but the
Duchess and Mrs. de V---- (who I am sure has no character to lose) are
disposed to be impertinent to me, and so I came upstairs and took no
further notice of them. How insufferably vulgar these great people often
are!

“My dress is to be that of a pilgrim from Capo Bosso. I saw one the last
time I was in Rome in the Holy Week, and Princess Doria washed her feet.
It is the prettiest dress in the world: a blue jacket and cap and very
short petticoats, and, as Alfred says, will suit my well-turned ankles
and perfect legs. We shall wear masques and dominoes till supper-time,
after which there will be a grand polonaise all over the curious old
house, and then those who like will remove their masques.

“It will certainly be great fun, and the restored old chapel or
banqueting-hall is splendid, where the dancing will be. Such a
floor!--all inlaid with flowers and fruit in marqueterie work, like the
beautiful old cabinet at D----. But I must dress now, and will finish
this to-morrow, and give you some account of the fête, if I am not too
tired.

“The party is to break up the following day, which I shall be sorry for.
They have an excellent cook, and a very pleasant set of men. There is no
drawback but the ghost, of which I told you in my last letter, which
frightened all the servants, and then they gave warning. I heard it,
too, quite plain, walking round my bed. I can’t bear to think of it; it
makes me shudder now--so like the tread of a skeleton!”




CHAPTER XVI.

CUNIGUNDA’S MISGIVINGS.


While Lady Selina was writing her letter, Cunigunda tried to repose on
her sofa, in order that she might be fully equal to the grand ball. But
she was rather restless and uneasy. She had remarked a great change in
the Count’s manner towards her during the last week. He treated her with
a kind of cold politeness which puzzled and mortified her; for of late,
since recent interviews with Carlo, some of her former love, mingled
with intense pity, revived and tormented her with a kind of remorse.

Quite a new feeling--a vivid remembrance of her past life, of actions
which at the time did not seem like crimes--now appeared in a startling
light, and her thoughts unfolded themselves into some such words as
these: “It was all the effect of that picture in the blue room, and of
that face in the gallery. It must have been the effect of the picture,
so like her, that made her real face haunt me in that hall! What if I
should see it again to-night during the ball! Oh! Dorina, I seem now to
wish I had been more like you! I feel that you are happier than I am, or
ever shall be. Oh, Dorina! have pity on me! For if there is a God, you
must have been made in the image of the divinity, for I can imagine
nothing better or more pure. And yet I--I hated you, and--O God! how
often I hear your dying cry!--it wakes me in the night; and now, since I
came here and saw that old picture, I seem to be continually haunted by
her presence, and every look on Alphonso’s face seems to reproach me for
depriving him of her.

“Strange I never believed in any hereafter before, and now I feel as if
I were doomed to--to what? an eternity of my present state of mind, for
no hell could be worse--no torture greater. But it must end. This new
torture cannot last. What a fool I am!--I who have always laughed at
superstition and prayer, and hated all what are called good people. Why,
then, did I ever love Alphonso?--does this show that I could ever, ever
become like Dorina? No, for I hate her still--all the more that he loved
her, and held her up as an example for me. For me--so superior to her in
beauty and--and genius. Yes, I could learn everything without trouble. I
know I excelled them all in beauty, but----” and she got up suddenly to
look at her own face in the glass. It was, in spite of her unwonted
despondency, brilliantly radiant; she looked on it with triumphant
admiration, and yet the pale face of the lovely Dorina seemed hovering
in the background, gazing at her with a reproachful look.

She turned suddenly round as if she really expected to see the shade of
the murdered Dorina. But nothing was there except the Pietra-dura
against the wall, and a splendid ball dress which lay extended on the
bed behind the spot where she stood.

“Is it all my own fancy?--of course it is. Her spirit does not exist.
She can neither know nor feel anything about me. So it must have been
fancy when she appeared up in that gallery, because my mind had been so
foolishly upset and engrossed by that old picture which is such a
wonderful likeness. I’ll have it burnt.”

A knock at the door interrupted the current of Cunigunda’s thoughts, for
it was her maid, Cattarina Diabelli, who came to say that M. Isidore was
waiting to dress her hair. So she was soon immersed in all the pleasure
and labours of her elaborate toilette: for a time Dorina’s image was
banished from her mind, and she began to anticipate, with triumphant
delight, the glorious fête she had devised.




CHAPTER XVII.

AM I TO BE INVITED TO THE MASQUE-BALL AT CASTLE-HALL?


When the old housekeeper led the Count through the mysterious opening
from the blue drawing-room into the old bed-room, which happened to be
her own (only she had another approach by which she and others always
entered), she had seen the Countess and Carlo walking beneath the
windows, and from previous experience knew they were going into the
orangery. She had seen them often there before, and so, unfortunately,
had some of the housemaids, who had peeped through the creepers which
covered the window, and then had spread about scandalous reports among
their fellow-servants.

As soon as Mrs. Lacy had seen with her own eyes that the Countess and
Carlo used often to come there, she allowed no one to enter her room,
and kept the key of it in her pocket. But it occurred to her, as the
Count was talking with her about his beautiful lost bride, that he had
better know the state of affairs about his present wife, so she suddenly
resolved to give him the opportunity.

It was a terrible moment, for he could not avoid overhearing words
spoken of himself, to which his wife should not have assentingly
listened; and although, without waiting for more, he immediately quitted
the room with the housekeeper, he caught a glimpse of them as he turned
away, just as Carlo was endeavouring, with a tender embrace, to atone
for having frightened the Countess by his words.

“Of course you allow no one to enter that room,” he said to the
housekeeper with as much calmness as he could command.

“Here is the key of the only door that is ever used,” she said, as she
took it out of her pocket, “and as for this entrance,” (through which
they were now passing into the blue drawing-room), “there is not a human
being that has known of it for more than fifty years. ’Twas in that
room--but now I must return to the housekeeper’s room at once, or they
will go wrong.”

The dear old tactful housekeeper had not ventured to look at the Count
since the scene she gave him the means of observing, and she indeed felt
that he must be left quite alone.

It just occurred to her, as she was leaving the drawing-room, that
perhaps he might not wish the great fête to take place; but on second
thoughts she felt that nothing could be done at present.

She was right in her surmises, for he had determined not to let this
cause, at the last hour, deprive the whole county of their intended
amusement; so he resolved to wait till the morning after the ball, when
the whole party were to break up, to speak on the subject to his wife.

He did not return home till late in the afternoon of the fête day, only
just in time to see the guests before dinner, for he felt quite unequal
to play the part of a civil host for an instant more than could be
helped.

The ladies had all gone already to make their grand toilettes, so he
found only the Duke of Dromoland, and four or five other gentlemen.
Though not personally known to them, their good-breeding and pleasant
manners did not clash unpleasantly with the sad pre-occupation of his
mind.

The Duke observed to his good-humoured wife, he supposed it must be a
great bore for a foreigner to have to undergo these kind of country
gatherings.

“House turned topsy-turvy,” he said to the Count, as they passed up the
great hall; “you only do this kind of thing in towns abroad, I suppose;
and your climate, too, is so delightful, you can’t well have much lack
of amusement. I remember a Summer we spent at Sorrento some years ago,
and I never enjoyed anything more. By-the-by, what has become of that
splendid beauty who came from Sorrento, who set everyone mad last season
when she went out with Lady Horatia Somerton?”

“Miss Vivian?”

“Yes; by-the-by, your friend Lord Lorrington is breaking his heart
because she refused him.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Count, “I did meet her in London, and indeed her
mother is a relation of ours; but I don’t know where she is now. I know
she had a kind friend in Lady Horatia, but I never heard of her since.”

“Why, don’t you know,” interrupted Mr. Taylour, one of the last
arrivals, “she is staying down here with an old lady who is very
eccentric, and never goes out or sees anybody at all, and the poor girl
is buried alive there?”

“And she is not coming here to-night then?” eagerly inquired the Duke.

“I do not think the Countess was aware of her being in our
neighbourhood,” said Count Rossi, “otherwise of course she would have
certainly been invited.”

“What a pity, for she is the most beautiful girl I ever saw. Could
nothing be done now?”

Mr. Taylour, who overheard this, was on the point of saying that he
himself had informed Cunigunda of the presence of her cousin in the next
village; but that she most strangely turned a deaf ear to the news,
which of course he attributed to jealousy; but not liking to make
mischief, he said nothing.

“Could nothing be done?” continued the Duke; “ought not the Countess to
be told? But perhaps you would not wish to disturb her,” continued the
good-natured Duke, when he saw a look of perplexity on the Count’s face.

“Where’s the Duchess? I’ll tell her, and no doubt she will manage it,
for it would never do to lose the presence of such a beauty at the
fête.”




CHAPTER XVIII.

WILL THE INVITATION BE ALLOWED TO REACH ME?


The Duke of Dromoland was then shown to the Duchess’s bedroom; and soon
afterwards the Countess was interrupted in her toilette by the entrance
of Mrs. Spinnyfit, with a note in the Duchess’s large straggling hand, a
gigantic “Immediate” being written on the outside.

Mrs. Spinnyfit had already peeped into the note, for she was fond of
reading letters, and having been with the Countess all through the last
London season, she was pretty well acquainted with the secret springs
which regulated many people’s lives; and on reading this note as she
passed through the passages, a mixture of triumph and malice might have
been seen on her thin face.

This expression had not subsided when she stood behind her lady and
handed the note to the upper ladysmaid, “Madame Catering Devilry.”
Cunigunda’s quick eyes detected it between the shining plaits that M.
Isidore’s hands were dexterously weaving; and then seeing the Duchess’s
bold handwriting with the startling “Immediate,” she hastily opened the
note.

It had been well fastened, but the seal being still moist, she was
convinced Mrs. Spinnyfit had read it, and that something disagreeable
was contained therein. It ran thus:

                “MY DEAR CONTESSA,

     “The Duke has just told me that you are not aware that your
     relation Miss Vivian is actually staying within three miles of this
     place. She is living there with a strange old lady, who knows
     nobody, which probably accounts for your ignorance about her. Of
     course you would wish to have Miss Vivian at your fête to-night,
     and as everybody is so busy, I have settled with the Duke to send
     our carriage with the horses that brought us to fetch her. You know
     he is one of her greatest admirers, and I hope no impediment will
     be made to this plan, or he will think _I_ am jealous of the
     beauty.

     “But I did not like to let him do it without telling you. I am
     writing a note to Miss Vivian to explain matters, as I feel sure
     you will not have a moment to spare, and ought indeed to rest, for
     I am sorry to hear that you are suffering from headache.

                                    “Believe me always,
                                    “Yours most sincerely,
                                    “G. DROMOLAND.”

“What insolent impertinence!” exclaimed the Countess in Italian, but
without allowing her face to express her thoughts, for she saw Mrs.
Spinnyfit’s eyes twinkling with eager curiosity by the reflection of her
face in the glass. So she added in English--

“Go back, Spinnyfit, and tell the Duchess, with my best love, that I am
much obliged to her, and shall be charmed to see Miss Vivian this
evening, as she so kindly offers to send for her.”

After Mrs. Spinnyfit had gone she made a sign to the ever-attentive
Cattarina to see if the door was closed.

The obedient Cattarina did this after looking out in the passage to see
that the underladysmaid was fairly out of sight, and then came back to
the Countess, who spoke a few words in Italian.

“_Capisco_,” said the quick-witted Italian, and immediately left the
room.

“It would never do,” thought the Countess, as M. Isidore proceeded with
her hair. “She was Carlo’s first love, but she shall not regain his
heart. And yet,” she continued, after painful thoughts which were too
quick to place themselves in words--“why should I care--after what he
appears to know----”

At this moment such a look of agony passed over her lovely face that M.
Isidore feared he had hurt her head, and apologised for his _gaucherie_.

“Yes,” she said, “take care, for my hair is very tender.”

But the anxious current of her miserable thoughts remained
uninterrupted; however, having great command of countenance, she did not
allow them again to appear in the tell-tale looking-glass.

Cattarina did not return for some time, but so absorbed was the Countess
in her thoughts that she scarcely missed her.

Mrs. Spinnyfit returned just as the hairdressing was finished, and
expected to have the glory and honour of attiring her lady in the
magnificent dress. But the Countess said she felt so ill she determined
not to go down to dinner, and sent her with a message to that effect to
the Duchess and the other ladies. She was going to add also to the
Count, but she felt a strange dread of seeing him, and feared that if he
thought her really ill he might come to her room.

“I cannot see him alone again to-night,” she thought; “his blue eyes, so
like hers, will pierce me through and through. How often they have made
me quake with fear lest he should ever know! Poor Alphonso! Oh, that I
could be for one half hour like the innocent Dorina, that I might not
shrink from his beautiful--yes, his heavenly eyes! But why does this
horror oppress me so now? I feel as if something dreadful were going to
happen that will awake me; something does now strangely awaken in my
mind a kind of remorse--regret--What has thus changed my nature? Can all
this horror be produced by the mere sight of a chance likeness in that
old picture? Why have I suddenly lost the vivid interest I always felt
in my dress and appearance?”

And going to the glass, in order to see if her own lovely face would not
revive her drooping spirits, she caught sight of the Duchess’s note--“or
the Duke will think _I_ am jealous,” with two large dashes under the I,
“which I see plainly means that she thought _my_ jealousy had prevented
me from inviting her. Was there ever such impertinence!--and what if
Cattarina does not succeed in stopping the carriage, and that the girl
comes here! What a position for Carlo, after they had been regularly
engaged! Well, there is something exciting about it, and perhaps she
will keep on her mask and not make herself known to him. And perhaps----
How strange, I scarcely seem to care. I feel as if I longed for nothing
but Dorina’s and Alphonso’s forgiveness. What an odd feeling to begin a
ball with! Come, I’ll try to laugh at it, and will not remain alone any
longer.”

So, ringing for her maids, she began to dress. Mrs. Spinnyfit answered
her bell, saying that Miss Cattarina could not be found. Mr. Snookfield
said he saw her go towards the stables half an hour ago, but no one had
seen her since.

“I suppose she has gone to walk in the park,” said the Countess, with
indifference. “I told her she might go out this evening, as she suffered
so much with the heat all day.”

“Yes, my lady, and so have I too; but I wonder that she----”

“Never mind, give me the diamonds; and, see, the fold of the silver
lappet wants looping up,” she said, as she surveyed herself in the long
looking-glass.

Her costume was somewhat similar to that worn by her at the memorable
ball in the caves of Hohenstein, where Dorina had so mysteriously
disappeared. A clear silvery gauze floated like wings round her slender
form, attached here and there with large single diamonds to a thicker
silvery tissue of the under-petticoat. The long tresses of luxuriant
dark hair were intertwined with water-lilies, fastened here and there by
large diamonds.

When the toilette was completed, she could not help enjoying the
loveliness of her appearance in the glass, and at that moment of triumph
Cattarina entered the room. After sending Mrs. Spinnyfit to fetch some
white camelias from the conservatory, Cattarina whispered in her ear.

“All right; but I had great difficulty, and I was obliged to climb up to
the top of the hill to see that I could depend upon my orders being
obeyed. I should never have been able to manage it, had I not luckily
found a deaf man helping in the stables, against whom I know something
which places him in my power, and I know he is clever enough, so I just
told him what was wanted, and ordered him, under pretence of showing the
Duke’s coachman the way to the Grange, to go with him, and make him
drive in quite another direction. As it’s dark now, the old fat
coachman, who was sulky enough at having to drive out again, and is half
drunk, will never be the wiser. And if the deaf, half-witted man
pretends afterwards to be drunk too, we must pay him well.”

“Bravo!” said Cunigunda, who was beginning to regain her usual high
spirits. “Now bring me something to eat, and some Champagne and
Chartreuse, and I’ll go down and receive the company in the
tapestry-room.”

“Yes, I will bring you up a nice dinner, for they will soon begin to
arrive, and the ladies will be coming out of the dining-room,” said
Cattarina.

The choice meal, and a few glasses of the fragrant wines, still further
revived her spirits, and, in her most radiant mood, Cunigunda entered
the brilliantly-lighted rooms.




CHAPTER XIX.

CUNIGUNDA WONDERS WHETHER I AM AT THE BALL, IN SPITE OF HER MAID’S
CLEVER CONTRIVANCE.


Soon afterwards the guests began to arrive, most of whom were in fancy
dresses, which they preferred to show during the first part of the
evening, so they left the masks and dominoes in the room prepared for
that purpose. But some few wished to remain unknown, and the speculation
about who these disguised people were afforded much amusement.

When the tapestry-room was nearly full, the Countess took the Duchess of
Dromoland, Prince L----, and a few other grandees, to see the ball-room,
as she herself wished to ascertain whether her orders had been fully
carried out.

“What a scene of enchantment!” they all exclaimed.

The walls were almost covered with flowers, in graceful devices and
shapes, intermingled with light in such a subtle manner, that it was
almost impossible to discover how or where the candles or lamps were
hid. Besides these decorated walls, festoons of flowers were suspended
in every variety of pattern from the roof, containing lights, which were
thus shaded from the eyes, while they helped to illuminate the scene.

As I said before, the highly-polished floor was composed of the finest
marqueterie work; and gorgeous flowers and fruits ran in borders round
medallions of still more elaborate devices.

The other guests soon began to follow; and then the band, which was
stationed in a gallery opposite the old carved one (which had remained
untouched) struck up a lively waltz.

It was the kind of gorgeous scene Cunigunda loved; and yet the brilliant
flowery light reminded her of the ball she had also devised in the caves
of Hohenstein. But Prince L----, who opened the ball with her, was a
first-rate waltzer, as well as a devoted admirer, and his pleasant talk,
and the admiration she saw depicted on all the faces as she flew along,
soon restored her spirits.

Carlo’s turn came next, and he asked her, with a somewhat anxious look,
which she saw he endeavoured to conceal, whether it was true, as the
Duchess had said at dinner, that Miss Vivian had been sent for.

“I suppose so,” she said, with some embarrassment.

“And do you think she knows that I am here?”

“I cannot tell. Not unlikely the Duchess told her in her note, I
suppose.”

“If I thought she was coming,” said Carlo, “I would put on my mask, and
not appear. I heard that she could not be here till late, as she will
have to dress.”

“Do, do,” she whispered--“that would be a very good plan.”

As soon as the dance was over, he went away, after whispering to her
that he was to have the first waltz after supper as Domino. To this she
nodded an assent.

The Count had not yet entered the ball-room, for he disapproved so
strongly of the old chapel being thus desecrated, that he wished to
avoid going there. But after supper he could scarcely refuse the Duchess
of Dromoland, who asked him to take her there, and who remarked that she
thought he had not entered the ball-room all that evening.

“And how very strange it is that Miss Vivian has not arrived, when I
sent the carriage on purpose for her. She had sent to inquire whether
the carriage had returned, and the servant had brought no message.

“Allow me to go and inquire?” continued the Count, who was willing to
seize this excuse for not entering the ball-room.

“Not yet. Please get me to my place at the farther end of the ball-room,
for I want you to see what a really magic scene of enchantment it
is--quite; and I really think that Miss Vivian has come after all. Look
at that domino--it is just like her graceful movement--waltzing with the
very tall man; and I daresay that quaint old lady in the corner is her
chaperon.”

The Countess had not seen Carlo since he went to put on his mask and
domino, although she had watched several men of about his height, and
felt sure she should know his walk and air even through that complete
disguise.

But she had seen a lady in a domino and mask who she fancied was Miss
Vivian, and she approached her to try if she could recognise the voice.
The longer she watched this tall domino the more convinced she became
that it was Miss Vivian, and the more anxious she became to know what
had become of Carlo. There was a very tall man who had spoken to this
girl several times, and whose presence seemed to agitate her; but he was
much taller than Carlo, and had a slovenly, ungraceful walk, most unlike
his graceful movements.

Lady Selina Bugginfield, too, was struck with the likeness to Miss
Vivian’s figure, and came up to tell her very triumphantly that she
thought the reigning beauty of last season had really arrived, and would
unmask after supper.

But the supper was now over, and the Countess had lost sight of her and
the tall man. Nor had Carlo come to claim his promised waltz, and she
had refused no end of partners--princes and dukes, and the best waltzers
in the room--all for a man who had now deserted her. She began to be
alarmed as the idea crossed her mind that the young girl might really
have been there all the evening, and that the tall, awkward mask was
really Carlo, and now both had disappeared. In vain she looked in all
directions--neither of these dominoes was to be seen anywhere.

The waltz began again, and the numerous couples thronged to take their
places, but still no Carlo appeared.

“What! not going to dance this lovely valse?” said Lady Selina, who was
leaning on Prince E---- W----’s arm, as they passed near, and they took
their places to begin the waltz. Still no Carlo appeared. What a
position for the greatest beauty in the world to be placed in! Could he
really have forgotten her?--had the fascination of that rival beauty
prevailed?

The position was most humiliating, and Cunigunda suddenly resolved to go
and assume a mask and domino, and lose herself among the crowd, hoping,
by that disguise, to ascertain the truth.

“It was foolish of me not to have done this before,” she thought, “for
of course they would shun my presence when they could see where I was.”

So she went and disguised herself completely, and then searched in all
the other apartments, as well as the ball-room, for the missing pair;
for by this time she had fully convinced herself that the strange domino
was Miss Vivian, and the tall gentleman was really Carlo.

During her search I will proceed to relate with what success Cattarina
planned to stop the summons sent by the Duchess of Dromoland to Aunt
Jane’s house.




CHAPTER XX.

THE INVITATION COMES IN SPITE OF ALL OBSTACLES.


Cattarina Diabelli had arranged her plan very well, but she was not
aware of the dogged determination and cleverness of English
coachmen--how they often contrive when drunk not only to sit upon a
hammercloth without falling off, but manage to guide their horses with
extraordinary precision amid the densest crowd. She climbed up to the
summit of the hill to see that the carriage took the turn in a contrary
direction from The Grange village; but if she had remained there a few
minutes longer she would have seen the carriage lamps suddenly turn the
other way; for in spite of the deaf man’s remonstrance, the coachman
declared that he had been told to “turn to the right close agin that
’ere windmill,” and doggedly pursued his way till he arrived at the old
Manor House, with the Duchess’s note safe in his pocket. Joe Naylor
inquired whether he should take in the Duchess’s note, but not liking to
trust the man who had tried to mislead him so strangely, the coachman
determined to give it into the servant’s hands.

But now that the note has reached the door of the house where I was
staying, I will resume the narrative in my own person.

It was only in the afternoon of that very day I heard that the foreign
gentleman, whose name was coupled so suspiciously with that of the
Countess, was really Carlo Spinola. We had before heard the sad rumour
that the Count and Cunigunda intended to separate; that he only remained
at Castle Hall till after the fête, in order not to create more
sensation in the county. Other reports were to the effect that she was
much compromised by the presence of a foreign gentleman with whom she
was constantly seen.

I found afterwards that Aunt Jane had all the time a strong suspicion
that this foreigner was Carlo, but at last she was determined to
ascertain the truth. This she only succeeded in doing the very day of
the fête, when she immediately informed me of it, and at the same time
suggested that I should write to Carlo. She asked me to begin by
releasing him from any engagement he might consider I might imagine
could still exist, but to express the greatest interest for his
happiness; to inform him of the rumours which had reached us, and to
endeavour to show him the horror of poor Cunigunda’s position--the loss
of reputation, the loss of friendship, which his presence, if prolonged,
entailed upon her with all the best people in every country;--all this,
and a great deal more, she implored me to write.

I feared it would have no effect, but still I did not like to take upon
myself the responsibility of rejecting her advice. So I sat down and
wrote several letters, but destroyed them one after another; and at
last, as the time began to press, I begged Aunt Jane to write and I
would copy it, and addressed the letter to Castle Hall. She wrote a very
good and most persuasive letter, and as soon as I copied it we
despatched it by a trusty servant, who was told to ask for the Marchese
Spinola, and give it into his own hands.

It was strange that in this letter Aunt Jane had contrived to describe
so vividly the old feeling Carlo and I had for each other in childhood
and early youth, that it seemed to awaken in me a most extraordinary
interest in his fate. An intense longing to know how he would receive
this missive, whether it would only excite anger and disgust towards
me, or whether it---- So absorbed was I with these thoughts, and the
re-awakened recollection of old, old times, that hours passed as I sat
at the window of my own room. Aunt Jane would not disturb me, so she
left me quite alone till dinner was announced, and I started up in
surprise at the length of time that must have passed since the messenger
went; and yet, when I looked back on those hours, I seemed to have lived
years during their progress.

Seven o’clock, and the messenger had not returned, so he had probably
not succeeded in seeing Carlo, and Aunt Jane told him not to return
without bringing some kind of answer, even if he waited until the next
morning.

Dinner, which I scarcely tasted, was over, and I tried to read and
work. Still no answer; but about nine o’clock we were startled to hear a
carriage drive up to the door, and the loud old hall-bell was violently
rung. Aunt Jane rushed out to see what it could be, but I seemed rooted
to the spot. I did not think it could be Carlo, but--

“Here, my dear child,” exclaimed Aunt Jane, as she ran back into the
room with the Duchess’s note in her hand; “the Duke of Dromoland has
sent his carriage to take you to the ball, and here is a note from the
Duchess--a long note,” she added, as she saw it covered four sides. “You
must and shall go there,” added Aunt Jane. “I shall never forgive you if
you refuse.”

It was a most kind letter, and the Duchess had thoughtfully anticipated
every objection I could make about dress and everything else.

“You will, of course, have no costume ready,” she said at the end of her
letter, “but never mind; come just as you are, for it so happened I
brought two costumes, for the Duke is so particular and fanciful that I
am obliged to have a variety, for he says one kind of dress suits me one
day, and quite a different one the next. I have also a spare domino, and
a variety of masks.”

“I could furnish them also,” said Aunt Jane, as I read the note aloud to
her. “There’s my old aunt’s theatrical wardrobe upstairs--domino, masks,
everything; so put on your plain tarlatane dress with the camellias, and
I’ll look for the costume at once. That will be much better; and you
need not give any name, and I’ll go with you, and, if possible, we will
get in without letting anybody know who we are, and we shall see how the
coast stands.”

I could make no further objections, particularly as I saw the state of
joyful excitement into which the idea of our going disguised to the ball
had thrown Aunt Jane; and I had such confidence in her judgment that I
resolved to follow implicitly her advice. But I would have given
anything to know whether Carlo had received my letter or not; and now
that I might possibly have an opportunity of speaking to him, I could
not help regretting that it had been sent. Aunt Jane, however, was quite
satisfied, and endeavoured to persuade me that it was much better to
have sent it, so I tried to be content. I put on my white tarlatane to
please Aunt Jane, but I firmly resolved that nothing should induce me to
put off the mask and domino which she so providentially had found.

“And now as to our coming home. I’ll order the pony-carriage to be at
Castle Hall at one o’clock; and it can wait, in case we should not be
ready.”

So off we set in the Duke’s carriage, and were much surprised, at being
handed into it by our old friend the mysterious deaf man, who told us,
in answer to Aunt Jane’s inquiry, that he was engaged to be helper in
the stables while so much company was at the Castle Hall.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE MASKED BALL, WHERE I MEET CARLO.


By the time we reached Castle Hall, most of the company had arrived, and
dancing had already begun. I had only seen the place by daylight, and
when most of the old rooms were in disorder, so that the splendid old
entrance-hall, and the suite of beautiful rooms through which we passed,
surprised and delighted us. As we passed through the blue drawing-room,
we paused to look at our favourite picture by Vandyck, and the only
person in that room was a tall man, with a handsome but pale and
melancholy countenance, whom I immediately recognized as Count Rossi.

I was much re-assured by the kind manner in which he welcomed us,
although he thought we were total strangers, no names having been given
by the servant, according to our express orders. He said, with a foreign
accent, that if we wished to remain unknown, he would show us on through
the library, and pointed to a room beyond, through which we heard the
music, and caught a sight of the entrance to the ball-room in the
distance.

The Count’s most interesting face made me still more anxious, if
possible, that the awful calamity which rumour reported was hanging
over his head might be averted. When we entered the fairy scene, we
could only take a quick impression of its wonderful beauty, for we were
so eager to see if Carlo was there undisguised, that we could scarcely
look at the flowery walls and the gorgeous colours and mystic light. In
vain we looked all round the room--he was nowhere to be seen. But we saw
Cunigunda dancing with a handsome man, and Aunt Jane was so fascinated
by her appearance that I saw she could not take her eyes off the light
and sylph-like figure.

“How strangely--how magically beautiful she is! I certainly never saw
such perfect beauty,” said Aunt Jane. “Oh! if those splendid eyes could
but find repose, and that beautiful mouth could but express kindness!
Oh! dear, that gifted creature has every charm that can ensnare, but,
alas! can never, never---- I wonder whether she is entirely
irreclaimable?” added Aunt Jane, after a long pause. “If she were ever
to suffer real loss, real pain, perhaps---- But I suppose she cares for
no one enough to feel much if she lost him. Yet she is not fully
enjoying her triumph--I see that. Ha! that’s he, is it not, now
passing?” she added, soon after. “Make yourself known to him
immediately--come.”

Yes, Carlo was there, not dancing, but looking round the room with a
listless air; and certainly he appeared much less happy than he did in
former days. Aunt Jane knew it was Carlo by the start she saw me give,
and the suppressed word I was on the point of uttering.

“You will not stir, I see,” said Aunt Jane, “so I will go up to him.
Stay here; do not approach till I make a sign to you; there, sit down
near these beautiful roses.”

I watched anxiously as I saw her gently approach Carlo, and whisper
something in his ear. He seemed to listen attentively, but he did not
look so surprised as I imagined he would, so I began to think he had not
received my note. She spoke for some minutes, and then I saw her point
towards me. I scarcely know what passed after, for my eyes failed me,
and my head swam round and round; but soon I felt the pressure of a
well-known hand in mine, and the well-known voice: “Costanza, mi
perdoni, vieni con me.”

I scarcely knew how I got up, and found myself drawn through the crowd,
till we reached one of the small rooms in the outer part of the house,
when he gently lifted my mask, and looked full in my face with the
loving expression of long ago. He talked to me of old times, describing
the scenes where we used to climb up the rocky heights near Sorrento, in
search of flowers, and how I weaved them into beautiful garlands and
long chains; and he reminded me how I made him jump across a chasm with
one end of it, and then another, till the pinnacles of the rocks were
decorated with the gorgeous festoons; and how one day he had a fall, and
how miserable I then appeared to be at having suggested to him to make
the dangerous leap.

“Ah! you cared for me then,” he said, with a sigh; “and I was more worth
caring for. But I was sent to that fatal university, and I then lost
you, my lovely guardian angel! And now!--The Countess told me you was
going to be married to some great English milord. Is it not so?”

At that moment some people came into the room, and a bold but handsome
lady, whom I recognised as Lady Selina Bugginfield, came up to him and
said, with a look of extreme surprise,

“What! you here? Can you have forgotten that you were engaged for the
first waltz after supper to the Countess? I heard you ask her, and know
that she has refused no end of people to keep her promise to you.”

“I--I did not know that supper had even begun,” said Carlo.

“No, I suppose not,” said Lady Selina, with a mischievous and curious
look at my disguise.

I whispered, in a low but disguised voice, that he had better go and
fulfil his engagement.

“Come,” I added, “you must at least take me to the ball-room.”

I do not think she recognised me, for I pretended to be lame as we
walked across the room; and I felt anxious that he should not appear so
rude to the Countess, although I could not help feeling that some good
influence might be exerted over him, which would prevent him from
falling still lower. So we proceeded along the suite of rooms till just
within the ball-room I descried Aunt Jane’s domino and mask. I knew it
by a little mark I had placed near one of the eyes. But Cunigunda was
nowhere to be seen; and several people told Carlo, in answer to his
inquiries, that she had totally disappeared, or perhaps assumed some
disguise.

“Pray search for her,” I whispered; “and do not remain near me, or
people will begin to suspect.”

“I will seek for her, if you promise to be in that cameo-boudoir”--(the
small room where I had passed the last two hours, so called from the
walls being covered with casts of antique gems and cameos)--“at the end
of the next dance; for I _must_ see you.”

“Yes, we will be there; if Aunt Jane likes to come,” I said.

He then went among the crowd of dominoes, to seek for the Countess; but
for some time he did not appear to find any one at all resembling her.




CHAPTER XXII.

THE GHOST APPEARS AT THE BALL.


In the meantime Lady Selina Bugginfield came up, and endeavoured to draw
me into conversation; but Aunt Jane, whose quick eyes discerned her look
of curiosity, said in a gruff voice,

“Come, you promised to show me the tapestry-room.” And by a rapid
movement she contrived to get me into another part of the room, and
interposed the barrier of the quadrilles between us and Lady Selina.
Then a waltz began, and presently we saw Cunigunda, in her own
sylph-like attire, while triumphant joy beamed on her radiant
countenance, begin the waltz with Carlo.

All eyes seemed to be fixed on this pair; and no wonder, for such a
wonderfully handsome couple could scarcely ever have been before seen.
To many of the spectators it was the first time they had seen this pair
(about whom so many reports were in circulation) dance together; and
even the other couples who were ready to begin, paused to gaze on them
before they joined the dance.

Twice round the large circle they flew, when suddenly Cunigunda uttered
a piercing shriek, and seemed to fall forwards and hide her eyes on
Carlo’s shoulder. At the same moment a kind of wail was heard, which
seemed to proceed from a voice high up in the old carved gallery.

I heard it plainly, and immediately looked up, for I had seen on
Cunigunda’s face, when she uttered the shriek, a look of horror directed
up to that spot; then I saw a pale lovely form disappearing in the
shadowy dimness behind the carved projection of the gallery. The figure
was clothed in a kind of white drapery, which waved behind her as she
retreated; and I turned towards the crowd of lookers-on, wondering if
others had seen the strange apparition.

Cunigunda had now raised her head and looked up to the gallery, and
seeing that the figure had disappeared, she seemed to make a wild
determination to proceed with the waltz--when, to my unutterable
astonishment and horror, the next moment the floor beneath them seemed
to give way, and with a tottering struggle and shrieks for help, she and
Carlo disappeared with a crash into an opening beneath.

“Save them! save them!” I cried, and we ran to the spot where they had
disappeared, and whence shrieks still proceeded, but nothing but black
darkness could be seen!

A whole medallion of the floor had given way, and rested tipped up
cornerways, disclosing, in the stone floor beneath on which the parquet
rested, an open trap-door, with a flight of steep and narrow stone steps
leading to a vault beneath. Horror and helpless dismay were on every
one’s face, but no one seemed capable of doing anything except Aunt
Jane, who rushed to the end of the room and brought a candle, when it
occurred to others to do the same; and on lowering them down into the
open space, the glitter of Cunigunda’s silver dress was seen far below,
while cries of agony continued to be heard.

“A ladder! bring a ladder!” cried Aunt Jane, “and send for the Count.
Go,” she said to me, “go and send him, for he is certainly not in this
hall.”

I therefore ran into the other rooms, giving the alarm as I went to all
whom I met, imploring them to get a ladder and send for the housekeeper,
Mrs. Lacy, as it occurred to me she might know something about this most
mysterious trap-door.

At last I found the Count, who was in the entrance-hall, assisting some
ladies to get their cloaks, who were beginning to leave the ball.

“Come,” I said, “quick; the Countess has fallen through a trap-door,
and--.” Without waiting to hear more he ran to the ball-room, while I
soon succeeded in finding Mrs. Lacy, and hastened to bring her to the
spot. But she could give no explanation of the mysterious opening, nor
where the steps beneath it were likely to lead.

“Perhaps it’s the old opening into the smuggler’s lurking holes,” she
muttered. “I knew no good could come of making a ball-room of that old
chapel--a place, too, I heard tell the smugglers used in ancient times.”

We found that a ladder had been procured, and that Aunt Jane and one or
two others who had thrown off their masks and dominoes, had been the
first to climb down with a light.

“They are still living,” she exclaimed, “but how they are to be got up
this narrow space I cannot imagine--does no one know where that
staircase leads?”

I looked round for the Count, who, when I came up, had been tearing off
from their fastenings some of the gilded ropes which divided the dances,
and endeavouring with shawls to make a padded support, by which the poor
sufferers could be hoisted up.

He was standing just behind, and as I turned to repeat to him Aunt
Jane’s inquiry, as to where the passage led, I saw that he was deadly
white, and gazing fixedly up into the oak gallery.

Following the direction of his eyes, I again distinctly saw the white
figure. She seemed to be looking down at the scene below with a
frightened and horror-struck expression, and as light fell clearly on
her, I saw that it was the living image of the lady in Vandyck’s
picture.

“Look!--look there!” I said, pulling Mrs. Lacy’s arm. “What is that? The
Count sees it too.”

But before the stately dame could turn round to look, the figure had
vanished.

“Pooh, nonsense, Miss!--when things like this happen, everybody is off
their heads. That must be the crypt where her poor ladyship is buried
alive, and----”

I think the Count heard her words, for he passed his hand across his
forehead, as if to brush away some terrible recollection, and heaving a
gasping sigh, he seized the ropes which he had collected, and descended
with them to the abyss.

By this time all the servants had come to the place, and among them
Cattarina Diabelli, who evinced the greatest anxiety for the fate of her
mistress. She, too, went down, and found that their efforts had been
unsuccessful to raise the bodies, and that by reason of the narrow space
they could not get them up.

Aunt Jane called out that there was a door which seemed to lead out of
the narrow space, if it could be opened on the other side.

On hearing this, Cattarina struck her forehead, and exclaimed,

“Ah, capisco, lo cercherò!” and rushing madly through the crowd, she
hastened out of the room, when she called out,

“Mr. Naylor, Joe Naylor--find me dat man, for he can save my lady’s
life! Send Joe Naylor, he is one deaf man in de stables.”

The rumour had probably reached the stables by this time, and even the
deaf ear of Joe Naylor.

His first impulse was to run away, but when he heard that Mrs. Catering
Devilry was calling for him, he thought better of it, and resolved to
see her. So he came into the hall, and she took him into one of the
cloak-rooms, where no one was left--everyone having hastened back into
the ball-room.

A short conversation ensued, and the result was that he called for four
strong stable boys, and getting lanterns, he ordered them to climb after
him up the side of the hill.

A doctor, who happened to be among the maskers, volunteered to attempt
this path, in order to reach the way leading to the secret door in the
vaults, and thus extricate the unfortunate pair from their most painful
situation.

Poor Carlo seemed to absorb my whole thoughts, as I continued to stand
on the brink of the horrible opening, breathlessly awaiting the
confirmation of my fears as to whether he was really killed by the fall.
I called down to Aunt Jane that Cattarina seemed to hope the other door
beneath could be soon opened.

“I hope so, for they are crushed up in the narrow space at the bottom.
I could not reach them, and I only hope they will live to be
extricated.”

So she climbed up the ladder again, and we stood in horrible suspense,
listening intently to the moans of agony which rose now and then from
the depths below.

“I think she is alive, but I fear the Count is killed. He has uttered no
cry. As far as I could see, his eyes were closed, and he did not seem to
move.”

Poor Carlo! to be doomed thus to die, just as some good instincts seemed
awakening in his mind, I thought; and, of course, his awful danger
revived a hundredfold the newly-awakening interest I felt in his fate.
Poor Carlo! oh! if he could but survive, perhaps the pain, the escape
might serve to revive the good qualities he possessed in former
days--in early youth.

It seemed hours that we stood there listening to the plaintive moans,
and now and then a sharper shriek of agony, which I knew proceeded from
poor Cunigunda. But I heard no sound that resembled Carlo’s sweet and
melodious, and formerly deeply-loved voice.

Many persons had quitted the room, probably to obtain some news from the
Count, who had accompanied the party that went outside the hill. At last
we heard a dull sound down below. The lights were again lowered, and we
could see a small door just behind Carlo’s head gradually opening.

“Take care, gently!” called out Aunt Jane. “Do not let him fall back
too suddenly. There, lift him gently up. I can be of use, now that the
opening of the door is accomplished.”

She climbed down, and helped to lift the mangled bodies through the door
into a kind of winding staircase, down which they were carried till they
reached the vast open space forming the crypts beneath the old chapel.

The doctor then examined the wounds of the sufferers, and declared it
would be impossible to carry them out by the way by which the party came
up, for they had been obliged to climb down the narrow mossy path, along
the perpendicular rocks which I described in a preceding chapter. He
added that, if the old door which he showed us, and which had been
built up, could be broken open, it would probably lead at once into the
flat green in the centre of the walls of the old Castle.

So labourers were sent for, and the doctor proceeded with the
examination of the sufferers’ wounds, while the men broke open the
ancient doorway. It may be imagined that I soon followed Aunt Jane down
the ladder, and went with the others into the crypt. I could not help
feeling Carlo’s heart, to see if it still beat, and fancied I felt a
slight movement.

“He _is_ alive,” I said to the doctor.

“I hope so, miss, but I fear the brain has received a most severe
contusion. He has a deep wound on the side of his head. If he recovers,
it will be a most tedious affair, and--I fear for the mind.”

Cunigunda had now ceased to moan, and we all thought she was dead; but
Dr. Johnson declared that she had fainted from pain, as her shoulder was
dislocated and leg broken, and also a severe wound in her forehead.
These, and other injuries, must have caused the greatest agony, and Dr.
Johnson much feared that she could not long survive.




CHAPTER XXIII.

CUNIGUNDA’S LAST VALSE.


The workmen, assisted by the Count and several other gentlemen, soon
succeeded in tearing down the stones which had closed up the passage
through an ancient Norman gateway; and the Count lifted the apparently
lifeless form of Cunigunda in his arms, and carried her through it.
Doctor Johnson, with the help of the Duke of Dromoland, who had been
most active in his endeavours to assist, proceeded next; and we all
emerged from the damp and dismal vaults into the bright moonlight which
illuminated the ruined towers and arches of the old castle.

At another moment I should have enjoyed it; and in after-thought the
impression remains on my mind (although I scarcely seemed to take it in
at the time) of the wondrous beauty of the scene, while the shadows of
the broken Gothic and early Norman arches and mullioned windows on the
mossy turf, the sweet heath-scented air and pure silvery light, all
formed such a striking contrast to the artificial illumination, and also
in Cunigunda’s, and perhaps many other cases, artificial gaiety of the
ball-room we had just quitted. But at the time I seemed to comprehend
nothing but Carlo’s pale and ghastly face, and dark hair stained with
blood. I found that the cool air revived him--that his eyes were slowly
opening. We had to walk across the entire space enclosed by the outer
walls of the castle, till we reached the gateway which had formed the
chief entrance, and where the old portcullis still remained, although a
bridge of a later date, which was now the only approach to the ruins,
had been thrown across the old moat. A good road then wound round the
rocky height, which led us down to the front entrance of the present
house.

The Count carried his wife into the cameo-boudoir, which was the nearest
room; and Carlo was taken into a small library opening from the
entrance-hall.

Doctor Johnson had already given orders to send an express to the
celebrated De Cheyne, and also to the next village for a clever medical
man, as he wished for more assistance, and shrank from the
responsibility of attending alone to such dangerous injuries.

Aunt Jane followed the poor Countess into the boudoir, making a sign to
me to remain outside the door of the library, where Carlo was laid on
the sofa. The Duke of Dromoland, and some other gentlemen, went with
him, and remained in the library after the doctor hastily left it, for
all thought that the Countess was in the more dangerous condition.

The entrance-hall became densely crowded after the news had reached the
distant ball-room that the sufferers had been brought into the house;
but few of the numerous guests seemed disposed to leave until the
doctor’s report upon those injured had been heard. Besides, great
curiosity had been excited to ascertain the cause of the awful
catastrophe. Several people besides myself had seen the mysterious
figure in the carved gallery, which apparently seemed to have caused the
Countess’s shrieks preceding her fall; and they had described it to
others.

“Who or what was it?” was the eager question, which received every kind
of probable and improbable answer.

“Then why did the floor sink down in that extraordinary manner all at
once, when it must have been danced upon hundreds of times in the course
of the evening?”

Many of these questions and vague surmises reached my ears as I stood at
the library door, and I felt as much perplexed as any of the wondering
throng.

In a few minutes Aunt Jane returned to tell me that the Count wished to
see me, “for he says you might possibly be able to explain something,”
she added, in a low whisper; so I immediately accompanied her to the
cameo-boudoir, in spite of the efforts of numerous people who pounced
upon Aunt Jane to hear how the Countess was. They had recognised her as
the first person who descended the ladder leading to the trap-door.

“She is still alive--that’s all,” Aunt Jane said, in a low but distinct
voice, as she with difficulty made her way through the throng.

“But why did it happen?--was it really the ghost she saw?” was asked us
by numerous voices, which we still continued to hear till we had shut
the double doors of the cameo-boudoir.

Cunigunda’s eyes were open, and the moment she saw me she gave a most
piteous moan, and seemed trying to speak.

“Go near--put your ear down to her mouth,” said the Count, who stood at
the head of her sofa.

I leaned down, and also tried to take her hand, which hung down by the
side of the sofa.

“She cannot feel your hand,” said the doctor; “her arm is broken, and we
can do nothing; but she has evidently something painful on her mind. Try
to catch the cause. Look, she is endeavouring to speak.”

I saw her poor lips trying to move, so I spoke to her in Italian, and
endeavoured to soothe and give some hope in this her evidently dying
hour. She certainly understood me, for a look of such agonized despair
passed over her face, that I shuddered at the thought of her misery. I
tried to remind her of the atonement--to implore her to turn her heart
to the Saviour, who had died to save us all. “Only believe this,” I
entreated; but her lips moved convulsively, and I fancied they were
trying to pronounce the word “Dorina.”

“Yes,” I said, with firm decision, “Dorina will forgive you too.” But
she could not believe it, and her despair seemed to increase.

Of course the Count heard and understood me, for he whispered in my ear
in Italian--“I’m sure she thinks that figure in the balcony was her
spirit--and, indeed, so do I.”

Mrs. Lacy was in the room, and on hearing me say the word “Dorina,” came
up and whispered some most astounding words in my ear, and then asked my
advice. Aunt Jane saw there was some mystery--that I was anxious for her
advice, and that poor Cunigunda looked more and more overwhelmed by some
fearful remorse.

“Sacrifice everything to give her peace--clear up every mystery, if you
can!” said Aunt Jane.

Upon which Mrs. Lacy spoke in a low tone to the doctor, to which his
decided answer was, “She cannot possibly live more than an hour at
most.”

“Then I will take upon myself the responsibility,” she said, with a kind
of trembling decision, as she begged the Count to follow her out of the
room.

We feared that Cunigunda was sinking fast, but the look of despair in
her splendid eyes seemed to increase in its horror as her efforts to
speak were unavailable.

It was heartrending to see her trying to utter something, and Aunt Jane
entreated me not to give up my efforts to impart to her some hope.

I said everything that I could think of, and tried to persuade her that
Dorina had actually forgiven her for any injury or any fault she might
ever have committed. But I saw that, although she heard and understood
my words, she could not believe.

“No, not for me--there can be no forgiveness for such as I am,” was the
sad and despairing expression on her still most lovely face. We saw that
she was looking anxiously towards the door, as if in expectation of the
Count’s return--as if she were still more afraid to die without seeing
him again, and perhaps hearing a word of forgiveness from his lips.




CHAPTER XXIV.

FORGIVENESS.


Aunt Jane began to be very anxious, and quitted the room to see whether
she could hasten the Count’s return. It was a dreadful moment of
suspense, for Cunigunda was quite sensible, and seemed aware that the
kind and energetic Aunt Jane (although she had never seen the dear old
lady before) had compassion for her misery and remorse, and was
endeavouring to assist in mitigating her awful sufferings.

I fancied that she was making a violent effort to live until her husband
returned, for she tried several times to swallow the restoratives which
Dr. Johnson occasionally put to her lips.

At last, just as we feared her eyes were closing in the agony of death,
the door opened. She heard the sound, and never shall I forget the
beseeching expression of those beautiful eyes when the Count entered the
room alone.

His agitation was extreme, and he could scarcely speak, yet endeavoured
to inquire of the doctor “whether the sight of an old and formerly dear
friend, who was thought to be dead two years ago, but who had been
miraculously saved, would----” He had, with the most extreme difficulty,
proceeded thus far, but Cunigunda evidently heard and caught at his
incoherent words, with a mixture of joy and terror, and tried to express
an eager anxiety to hear more.

Doctor Johnson, who had keenly watched her countenance, said,

“Let the old friend come at once; it may be the person she wishes to
see.”

A grateful smile seemed to pass over her face, and an imploring look
towards the Count induced him to open the door and beckon to some one
outside, when a closely veiled figure in white glided into the room, and
knelt down by Cunigunda’s sofa.

“Tu mi conosci,” the lady said in a melodiously sweet voice; “non son
morta.”

And drawing back her veil, the most lovely face I had seen on the
balcony beamed on the dying Countess with a look of heavenly peace and
hope.

As Cunigunda gazed intently on the kneeling form, her features seemed to
catch, as it were, some reflection of the same expression, for gradually
despair seemed to be exchanged for the dawning of hope; she made a final
effort to speak, and at last she said, “Dorina, perdonami, ti voleva
male, e adesso io muojo per l’istessa morte che voleva dare a te. Tu
puoi perdonarmi?”

“Ah si, preghiamo Iddio, è sicuro ti perdonera come io lo fo.”

“Ed Alfonso pure,” added Cunigunda, as she raised her eyes with an
imploring look towards her husband.

The Count seemed unable to speak, but the expression on his face
probably satisfied his dying wife. With a last effort she slowly spoke
the words, “Siate felici insieme;” and, after a pause, during which she
seemed to have great difficulty in breathing, she added, “e pregate per
me.”

Her eyes closed, but the look of hope which had so lately begun to dawn
on her features still remained--her bodily sufferings were ended; and
when Dorina, and then Alphonso, kissed her beautiful forehead, in token
of forgiveness, Cunigunda had ceased to feel.




CHAPTER XXV.

HOW SHE WAS SAVED.


In a former chapter I described the mysterious disappearance of Dorina
at the ball given in the caves at Hohenstein, on the eve of her
bridal-day, as it was told by my mother. Soon after that fatal night her
father died--he never recovered the shock; and his only brother
(Cunigunda’s father) was killed from a fall while out hunting, not long
after he had succeeded to the family titles and estates.

Cunigunda’s grief at the loss of her father and uncle was apparently so
great that she became almost mad, and was said to have attempted
suicide, from which she was only saved by the cleverness and promptitude
of her old nurse. She then declared that she could never live at
Hohenstein, but that she would go and take the veil in the Convent of
Udine, where she had been brought up with Dorina. She went first to
Venice, to take leave of some of her relations; and among others she
expressed a wish to see her cousin, Count Rossi. He had remained at
Hohenstein till the death of his betrothed’s father, as he felt that his
presence was some consolation to the broken-hearted Graf. Cunigunda
remained there apparently for the same reason, so that they had been
thrown much together during that time of suspense and suffering.

Probably the fascinating Cunigunda may have been still more charming in
her apparent sorrow, and in her efforts to cheer the bereaved father and
bridegroom. Certain it is that when Count Rossi heard that, after her
own father’s death, Cunigunda attempted to kill herself from temporary
madness, and after that, of her determination to take the veil, he was
deeply moved; and when, on her arrival at Venice, she expressed a wish
to see him, ere she quitted the world for ever, he most readily acceded
to her request. She was staying at her aunt’s palace, and the old lady
was in the room with her when Count Rossi was announced, but she soon
withdrew, and the Count had a long interview with his beautiful cousin.

Whether she appealed to his feelings of compassion for her misery, or
what other spells she made use of, can never be known; but the result
was that, instead of becoming a nun, she soon afterwards became Countess
Rossi. They had of course long before given up all idea that Dorina
could have survived; and even when the English gentleman who disappeared
with her in the cave--even when he proved to be alive many months
afterwards, it only confirmed their belief that she must have died,
otherwise he would have been able to give some account of her; but this
gentleman felt convinced that the lovely Gräfinn must have been drowned
in the stream into which he fancied they both must have fallen.

However, it appeared afterwards that she did not fall into the water,
but between the rocks near it.

The account Dorina afterwards gave was that she supposed she was stunned
for some time by the fall, but, on recovering consciousness, she groped
a long way in the dark through the passages and caves. Sometimes they
were quite narrow, and again, in other parts, she seemed to pass through
large spaces where the ground was very uneven. She thought that she must
have walked many miles, but in what direction she could, of course, give
no idea. At length her strength was beginning to fail, and she was on
the point of sinking down in despair, when she fancied a streak of light
was visible in the far distance. With renewed hope she again dragged on
her weary limbs, though almost fainting with exhaustion.

On--on she walked, but the ground was so uneven that she several times
lost sight of the cheering though still far distant ray of light. It was
certainly the light of day, therefore she was made aware how many hours
she had been in the cave, and that light could not be anywhere near
Hohenstein, for she knew that even there she was far below the level,
and, moreover, that there was no other approach to them than the spot
where the ball had taken place.

She was able to proceed but very slowly, and her progress was still more
retarded by her efforts to keep that bit of light in sight, for if she
walked straight on she lost sight of it, and it was only by keeping on
the higher portions of the ground that she could see it at all. At last
it seemed to become somewhat larger, and she made a still greater effort
to proceed.

But the ground became very wet and slippery, and, in her haste, she
fell. After that she remembered nothing, but she afterwards heard that a
young girl, the daughter of a smuggler, who lived at the outside of the
caverns, discovered her lying among the rocks, apparently dead. Then she
carried her home, and her mother made great efforts to restore
animation. They found that she had received a deep wound on the side of
her head.

Dorina supposed that they treated her with as much skill and kindness
as was compatible with their own safety. It seemed that she had not been
able to speak or move for several months; that the blow had affected her
mind, for she had no recollection of where she had been, or what had
taken place, till she seemed to wake suddenly, and found her own old
nurse sitting by her bedside.

This nurse was the grand-daughter of the English attendant who had gone
to Germany with the Lady Alice Roland, when she married Graf von
Hohenstein; and it so happened that this woman’s brother-in-law, Müller,
had turned out badly, and joined the band of these robbers or smugglers
who infested a part of the country near Adelsberg, and made use of the
least-known portions of the caverns for purposes of concealment.

But four months had passed before Frau Müller had any tidings of her
loved young lady, and it was by the merest chance that the lost bride
was still alive, although her reason appeared to be completely gone. It
was after the death of Cunigunda’s father, and the young heiress had
gone, as we have already stated, to Venice, to take the veil in its
neighbourhood.




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE OLD NURSE DISCOVERS A CLUE.


The Castle of Hohenstein had been left, since the death of the last
Graf, in charge of an old seneschal, who had gained much influence over
his master, and who contrived, even during the latter’s short tenure of
the place, to oust several of the former servants, and replace them by
friends of his own.

Amongst others Frau Müller had been dismissed, and she went to live in a
little cottage belonging to some of her late husband’s family near
Grätz. She took with her a beautiful miniature of her young mistress,
which had been given to her by Dorina’s father; and one day, when at her
brother-in-law’s, a little girl, who had been sent from a distance to
sell some smuggled goods in Grätz, happened to see the portrait, and
said,

“Oh! that’s our pretty lady!”

On being questioned by Frau Müller, the girl seemed suddenly resolved to
say nothing, and tried to make some lame excuse; but her confusion
tended to arouse the good Frau’s suspicion, and she contrived, at last,
to draw from the girl that a beautiful lady was concealed at her
mother’s cottage, but that if her father heard that she had said
anything about it he would kill her.

Frau Müller said no more to the girl, but she contrived, one day,
unobserved, to follow the child to the cottage, nearly four miles out of
Grätz. But as the little one began to mend her pace when she came to a
more lonely part of the road, the panting Frau Müller feared she should
lose sight of her, and, by running and calling after, she attracted the
girl back, and holding up a large gold piece, promised to give it, and
one like it, if she would let her pass the night at her home.

The girl at first shook her head, and said her father would beat her to
death if he ever found it out.

“But your father is not at home,” guessed Frau Müller at these words;
“and I only wish to stop one night. I will make it worth your while.”

“Very well, then,” said the child; “if you will let me tie your hands
behind you, and bandage your eyes for the last quarter of an hour, and
submit to be led by me, I will risk it.”

Frau Müller consented. They proceeded in silence about a mile further,
when the girl turned up through a narrow ravine, at some parts so narrow
as to be evidently impassable in Winter, when the mountain torrent must
come rushing down the gravel bed it had worn for itself in the rock.

Here the footing was difficult, and when, at a turn of the path, they
suddenly came to an apparently solid wall of rock, over which a tiny
streamlet trickled, the girl stopped, and proceeded to bandage Frau
Müller’s eyes. She then took her arm, and led her carefully through what
felt like thick bushes; then made her stoop very low, and then down some
winding steps, as if cut in the rocks.

At the bottom of these she paused, and after proceeding along a path for
about ten minutes, unwound the handkerchief from Frau Müller’s eyes. She
found herself in the doorway of a wooden hut, built against the side of
a high and precipitous rock. A little valley, closed by steep
declivities, lay in front of them, and round the cottage there extended
a patch of greensward, on which a couple of goats were feeding. The girl
entered the cottage, and the old nurse heard an angry altercation
between her and a hard-featured woman, whom she supposed to be the
mother, which was checked by the piece of gold which the child held up
before her eyes, pointing to Frau Müller.

They spoke to each other a kind of wild _patois_, which the latter
scarcely understood. She looked anxiously round the room to see if she
could discover the object of her search--the pretty lady. And oh! how
her heart leaped within her when, as soon as her eyes became accustomed
to its gloom, she discovered, lying on a pallet at the further end, a
poor, thin, ill-clad form and pale face, in which she had no difficulty
in discovering the loved features of her long-lost Dorina!

But, alas! though the eyes were open, they certainly did not recognise
her, nor did she seem to hear the words of passionate love and joy with
which Frau Müller addressed her.

The old nurse determined that nothing should induce her to leave her
young lady any more; and now the question was how to move her from this
wretched abode.

She feared, from the savage and suspicious looks of the older woman, and
another who now appeared, that the expression of a wish to send for a
doctor might lead to their both being murdered, and yet it was
indispensable both to do this and to remove the invalid to a more airy
and accessible abode.

She discovered that the older woman had heard of the loss of the Gräfinn
Dorina, and imagined that she might be the stranger they had found in
the cave; and, by the promise of a large reward, Frau Müller at last
persuaded them to let her carry Dorina to her own cottage, which was in
a secluded village near Grätz, where she could be nursed and attended to
in quiet.

As an earnest of the reward they would eventually have, she promised
them five gold pieces if they would carry the lady to the place she
designated, and lead her, Frau Müller, back the way she came. To this
the women at last consented, on condition of the strictest secrecy, and
that she should never tell where she had found the lady. They wrapped up
the unconscious sufferer in a couple of blankets, the fineness of which,
in so poor an abode, would, at another time, have astonished Frau
Müller. One woman tied the top ends round her shoulders, where Dorina’s
head rested, the other supported her feet. The old nurse would
willingly have carried the precious burden herself, but to this they
would not consent, as her eyes must be bandaged and her hands tied;
while the little girl, her first guide, must lead her as before, that
she might never be able to betray the entrance to their abode. They said
it would be impossible to carry the young lady through the narrow
winding passage by which she had come, and that they must lead them
round by a much longer way.




CHAPTER XXVII.

OLD NURSE MÜLLER’S PERPLEXITY.


Frau Müller was led for some distance along the sweet-scented grass,
then up a gentle ascent, by what seemed to be a winding path, then down
again into another valley, and then through a thick wood, where the
brambles brushed into her face.

She was led so long thus bandaged that she began to fear she was being
betrayed, and entreated the little girl to undo the handkerchief, and
let her see how her young lady bore the transit.

“In another minute,” she replied, “we shall be in the high road to
Grätz, but we are going to cross some water. You must try to step where
I tell you, or you will miss the wooden bridge.”

This was not pleasant to hear; but there was nothing for it but
patience, and as she heard the steps of the others before her, she hoped
it was all right.

In another quarter of an hour her fears were set at rest. The little
party stopped; Frau Müller’s hands and eyes were loosened; she found
herself in a narrow bridle-path, which presently opened into the public
road to Grätz, and to her great relief another two miles brought her and
her precious charge to the little cottage she then inhabited. She
placed Dorina upon the bed, and took up her quarters beside her; then
sent the smuggler’s daughter, who seemed to have treated her with great
kindness, to Grätz for a doctor. She then endeavoured to convince the
girl’s mother that she had done very wrong in concealing the existence
of the young Gräfinn from her father and the family of Hohenstein. She
declared that the old Graf would have been able to shelter her husband,
Peter Schmidt, from the pursuit of justice, after he could show that his
wife and daughter had been the means of saving his child’s life. But
Frau Schmidt, the bandit’s wife, maintained that nothing could have
induced her to run the risk of her husband’s displeasure on his
return--in fact, for more than a month after they found the poor lady,
they had no suspicion of who she really was. A few days before they
found her, Schmidt had gone off into a distant part of the country, and
they were so afraid of anyone suspecting the concealment of a stranger
at the cottage, or finding the way to it, that they took care to have as
little communication as possible with the outer world.

When her husband returned, he heard some rumours of the strange
disappearance of the bride with an Englishman, and then it struck him
that the lady whose life her daughter had saved might possibly be the
missing heiress. But the Graf, her father, was now dead, and his brother
had succeeded to his title and vast estates, and it was well known that
his character was very different from that of his elder brother, and
that, until the last year or two, they had not been on good terms. For
the present Graf had been extravagant, and had lost a great deal at the
gaming-tables, and acted in many ways quite contrary to the wishes and
advice of his brother. Therefore, Peter Schmidt was not far wrong when
he told his wife that he was certain the new Graf would not thank him
for being the means of depriving him of his vast inheritance by bringing
forward the rightful possessor, nor could it make any difference to the
poor young lady herself if she were never to recover her reason.

So they kept their secret, and soon afterwards the Graf was killed out
hunting, and Peter Schmidt felt certain, from all he had heard of his
daughter, Gräfinn Cunigunda, that she was even less likely than her
father to forego her inheritance in favour of the woman who had been
betrothed to Count Rossi. For there were some among the old retainers of
Dorina’s father who saw through the well-feigned despair of Gräfinn
Cunigunda, and guessed her designs and wishes. Rumours, too, of her
intended marriage with Count Rossi began to circulate, in spite of the
declaration she made, before leaving Hohenstein, that she was resolved
to take the veil.

Soon after Frau Müller discovered her young mistress, the news reached
her that they, Count Rossi and Cunigunda, were actually betrothed, and
that their marriage was to take place, almost immediately.

Poor Frau Müller was most sadly perplexed by this intelligence. If the
Count could but be apprised that his beautiful bride was still alive,
surely, she thought, he would not be so base as to marry another--her
enemy too; for Frau Müller was shrewd enough to see through the
fascinating Cunigunda, and knew that, with the pretence of affection,
she hated her young mistress.

Most sorely was she now perplexed. Were she to write a letter it might
fall into other hands. Besides, if he were really faithless, and had
ceased to care for his lost bride, it would be better to let him marry,
lest the enraged Cunigunda should carry out some evil designs against
her rival, while she was still helpless and bereft of reason; perhaps,
under pretence of more careful watching, remove her out of Frau Müller’s
care, and have her made away with, or shut up in some mad-house.

It will thus be seen that Frau Müller had no better opinion of the
fascinating Cunigunda than my mother had.

The only way of clearing up these doubts and ascertaining whether the
Count was still worthy of knowing the truth, was for Frau Müller to see
him herself.

She resolved to travel to Venice and seek an interview with Count Rossi
before it was too late to prevent the mischief.

Confiding the care of her precious charge to her favourite daughter, she
started by the Schnell-wagen for Trieste, which was the quickest
conveyance she could afford. At Trieste she embarked for Venice, but a
storm, succeeded by a thick fog, made the voyage twice as long as usual.
At last she surmounted all obstacles, and landing on the quay, hired a
gondola to take her direct to the Rossi Palace on the Grand Canal.

Frau Müller knew the palace well, for she had always accompanied her
young charge to the convent at Udine, and they generally passed some
days with Dorina’s relations in Venice.

As she approached the entrance of the Grand Canal and came in sight of
the beautiful old building, her impatience became greater, and she
implored the gondolier to hasten his speed. He complied with her
request, when at the same time he informed her that if she wanted to
see the Count she would be disappointed, for he had left Venice the day
before, just after his marriage with a beautiful young heiress.

Seeing her look of extreme concern, the good gondolier tried to comfort
her with the intelligence that he had probably only taken his bride as
far as his palace on the Lido, near Padua. They could soon learn his
destination, and he pushed on vigorously till the gondola drew up at the
palace steps.

An old servant of the Rossi family, to whom Frau Müller was well known,
was standing at the grand entrance, and in answer to her anxious
inquiry, he informed her that it was true. “His master was,” he said,
“married yesterday, at St. Marco’s Church, and he had taken his bride
to visit the courts of Europe.”

The old man said this in a tone which showed that he regretted deeply
what had occurred, and the sight of the nurse of his master’s former
betrothed, the lovely Dorina, brought tears to the good man’s eyes. He
made her come into his own apartments on the ground floor, and they had
a long talk.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

SHE IS STILL MORE PUZZLED WHAT TO DO.


But Frau Müller was too cautious to say anything about the existence of
Dorina till she had thought the matter over most deeply, and had
consulted her sister, who had been housekeeper at Hohenstein, on the
subject. She therefore returned to Grätz at once, and had the delight of
finding her lady rather improved in health. But the doctor advised that
she should be fed on the most nourishing diet, and he gave hopes that
when she should become stronger, she might regain her reason. His hope
was soon afterwards fulfilled; and one day, when Frau Müller came into
the room, Dorina gazed at her with a look of gradually awakening
surprise.

The good Frau feared to speak, or show the joy she felt, lest the
awakening to consciousness should be too sudden; so she sat quietly down
at her knitting by the bedside, and soon afterwards Dorina seemed to be
sinking into a quieter sleep than she had hitherto witnessed; and though
pale, the features wore a calmer expression.

She slept so soundly for many hours, that the nurse was afraid of
moving, lest she should disturb that sweet sleep, for she had not seen
the loved child look so happy since her accident. Suddenly it occurred
to her, should the Gräfinn regain her reason, how could she ever bear to
hear that her betrothed, whom she loved with all the ardour of her
loving heart, was faithless, and had actually married?

When Frau Müller thought of this, she began to dread Dorina’s awakening
to reason. How could she ever tell her the truth?--or how could she
conceal it?

While the good Frau was revolving these most painful questions in her
mind, she saw Dorina’s eyes open, and this time a look of pleasure was
mingled with surprise, and she said, “Where am I?”

The nurse endeavoured to evade the answer by trying to persuade her to
go to sleep after she had taken some nourishment. She endeavoured to
make Dorina understand that she had been dangerously ill, and that she
must not talk nor think of anything.

Fortunately the doctor made his daily visit while she was endeavouring
to find excuses to evade the answers to her lady’s questions. He at once
saw the importance of keeping her mind quiet; and as the want of sleep
had been one of the main causes of the distraction in her brain, he told
Frau Müller to give her niece (for he had been led to suppose that the
invalid was her niece) a powerful narcotic, in case she did not fall
asleep again soon after she had taken the nourishment, which she now
seemed to eat with some appetite, and by all means not to let her speak
at all of the accident which had caused all her sufferings.

Fortunately Dorina had no notion of the length of time which had elapsed
since her fatal fall, and had a kind of vague idea that it was the next
day she had awakened. As soon as she began to recollect the past, she
thought that the reason of her being in the cottage was that she had
been too ill to be moved home; and she asked over and over again why her
father was not there, and how soon would he come to see her?

At first the poor nurse said the Count was ill, and not able to leave
his room for some days; but she had sent a message to say that the
Gräfinn would know him now, and she had no doubt he would come
to-morrow.

But when the morrow came, and Dorina saw the shadow of evening darken
the lattice window, and her father did not appear, she became so excited
that Frau Müller was at her wits’ end what to do or say. Her sister
strongly advised her to tell the truth; and, in fact, she took upon
herself the responsibility, as she saw it would be impossible to keep up
any delusion much longer.

So Fräulein Marta, as she was called, who had also helped to attend upon
her lady since they discovered her, went into her room, and, in the most
cautious manner, made Dorina understand that her father was dead. This
blow was so severe that she became almost insensible, and for several
days they feared a return of her mental malady. But her strong
religious principles, and habits of perfect resignation to the will of
God, began to assert their influence on her well-trained mind, and soon
a look of peace was visible on her still lovely face. They saw it in her
sleep as well as in her half-waking, half-conscious state, and old
Fräulein Marta congratulated herself on having told the truth; and she
determined to tell Dorina everything, as soon as she had regained a
little more strength.

And so, little by little, the poor heiress heard all that had occurred.
The last piece of news--the actual marriage of her betrothed to
Cunigunda--was deferred till the very last; and Fräulein Marta
contrived, in spite of the agony of fear, to disclose this saddest news
of all in a most judicious manner possible. She appealed to Dorina’s
high sense of religion; and hope of happiness in the next world; and,
after a few days’ agony and disappointment, Dorina was able to bear even
this most crushing blow. But her greatest anxiety now was to extract a
solemn promise from her two faithful attendants that they would never
reveal to anyone that she was still alive. Her wish on this point was so
ardently expressed that they saw it could not be refused without danger
of again retarding her recovery.




CHAPTER XXIX.

SHE IS TAKEN TO CASTLE HALL.


The descendants of Martha Bevis, who had come from Castle Hall with Lady
Alice, had always kept up a correspondence with their relatives in
England, and also with the family of Mrs. Lacy and her mother, the
successive housekeepers of the Earls De Roland. They also kept up the
use of their mother tongue, although they married Germans, for the Grafs
von Hohenstein always had their children taught English; for the memory
of the beautiful Lady Alice was always kept up, and her portraits, and
the embroidery she had worked, were revered as hallowed relics.
Therefore English had been the chief language of the nursery for three
generations, and, until the accession of the last Earl, some of the
family had always visited Castle Hall every third year.

But the last Earl was, unfortunately, one of the bad type, and he
quarrelled with most of his relations. His brother died young, and, if
he left no children, the Earldom would become extinct; but an older
Barony would go in the female line, with the entailed estate, to the
representative of the Lady Alice, who married Graf von Hohenstein.

The Earl de Roland had taken a great dislike to his foreign relations,
and he was therefore most anxious for a son. But his first wife had only
a daughter, who died in her first year, and was soon followed to the
grave by the young mother. He then married a handsome young widow, who
had three sons--on purpose, his enemies said, to ensure an heir. But the
plan did not succeed, and just after his marriage, and about the time
when Dorina was beginning to recover her reason, Fräulein Marta received
a letter from Mrs. Lacy, to announce the Earl’s death.

The old housekeeper had, of course, heard several months before of
Dorina’s supposed death, and most bitter had been her lamentation at the
time; and now that the English property would have been inherited by
her at the Earl’s death, her sorrow was redoubled. From all that had
reached Mrs. Lacy’s ears, she fancied that the present heiress, Gräfinn
Cunigunda, would be little to her liking, and her only hope was that she
would never come to Castle Hall.

Frau Müller and her sister seemed of the same opinion, as they knew
Cunigunda could not endure a country life, and if she ever visited
Castle Hall it would probably be only from curiosity, just to see her
property. Many circumstances combined to form this opinion, for an agent
was sent by Count Rossi to transact the business in his wife’s name, and
he brought orders that the house was to be shut up, and only the old
housekeeper and one assistant was to remain in it.

Frau Müller possessed a good deal of the German _Schwärmerei_, mingled
with strong English common-sense, and as she watched by the bedside of
the still weak and suffering young lady, she thought over a plan which
at first startled her less imaginative sister, the Fräulein Marta, but
into which she was gradually persuaded to enter. The kind of veneration
all the descendants of Martha Bevis kept up for the old Castle Hall
inclined her at last to consent.

Frau Müller had been twice to England before the late Earl succeeded to
the estates, and she had a most perfect recollection of every hole and
corner in the beloved old place; and as Dorina persisted in her
determination to allow all the family to believe in her death, Frau
Müller became convinced that she could not do better than take her young
mistress over to England, and install her in a suite of rooms at Castle
Hall, to which no one had a clue except old Mrs. Lacy and Dame Bevis.

At first Dorina was frightened at the idea when it was proposed to her;
but a longing to see the old place, of which she had heard so much, was
soon awakened in her mind; and after they assured her that her secret
would be most scrupulously kept, she gave her consent.

Fräulein Marta went first, in order to make arrangements and consult old
Mrs. Lacy; and the result was that Dorina was soon afterwards taken to
Castle Hall by Frau Müller, and installed with her in the suite of
rooms on the upper floor of the half-ruined wing which communicates with
the high tower of the ancient Castle.

These were the very rooms which puzzled me on my expedition, and were
over the half-ruined ones into which I had contrived to climb. Their
sitting-room was at the top of the old tower, and its window was the
beautiful old oriel overhanging the deep ravine which I had endeavoured
to sketch. From these rooms there was a passage which led to the old
carved gallery of the chapel, which had been turned into a
banqueting-room by the wicked Baron Hugh, and was afterwards turned into
a ball-room by Cunigunda.

For many months Dorina remained undisturbed in her concealment,
attended on by Frau Müller; and when at length the news arrived that the
Count and Countess were coming to Castle Hall, Dorina resolved still to
remain. Perhaps a vague longing to see the Count from her concealment
may have inclined her to decide on the perilous plan. The first attempt
to see him from a safe hiding-place was made on the night when Cunigunda
first visited the ruined banqueting-hall. Dorina heard the sound of
voices from the end of the passage near the rooms, so she groped in the
dark to the door which opened in the gallery, and proceeding with
noiseless steps, looked cautiously down upon the party, who were
standing with candlesticks in their hands on the floor below. In her
eagerness to see if the Count was among them, she stepped forward for a
moment, and it unfortunately happened that Cunigunda was at that instant
looking up towards the gallery.

Cunigunda’s shriek of horror, and all that followed, has been already
described. Dorina drew back at once, without, as she thought, any one
else having seen her, and never made another attempt to see the Count
till the night of the ball, when she chanced for a moment to appear.
Then the light shone upon her face--the minute afterwards she saw the
floor give way, and Cunigunda was precipitated through the aperture,
with her partner.

After that she seemed spell-bound with horror, and, forgetting
everything else, she stood watching the efforts made to rescue the
unfortunate pair. The mystery of the apparent trap-door was afterwards
explained by Joe Naylor, who remembered that the joists which supported
the square of marqueterie work had been moved away when the thieves
entered the room from below, and quitting this in a hurry, they omitted
to replace them properly, or to fasten down the stone door, which, as
the reader will remember, opened by a spring in the floor.




CHAPTER XXX.

SELF-REPROACH.


While Aunt Jane and I had been watching with intense interest the
death-scene in the cameo boudoir, and Dorina’s extraordinary
resurrection and most unexpected appearance there, the company had
gradually dispersed. I believe this was entirely owing to the Duke of
Dromoland’s tactful cleverness, for he saw that they were very much in
the way; and yet their curiosity was so excited that they seemed
unwilling to leave the house until some explanation had been given
about the mysterious figure on the carved balcony, and the opening of
the trap-door.

But the Duke very quietly took upon himself to order all the carriages
to the door, and induced some few of the neighbours, with whom he was
well acquainted, to intimate to the others that they had better go, as
he was certain that nothing could be known till the next day, when the
Count might be able to leave his dying wife, and have the strange
occurrence investigated.

So we found all the guests had departed when we left the cameo-boudoir,
after Cunigunda’s death. Of course my mind had been distracted from the
thought of Carlo’s dangerous state, by the terrible sight of
Cunigunda’s agony of mind and body, and then the appearance of the
living Dorina; but as soon as all was over, and we left the Count and
Dorina kneeling by the lifeless form of his beautiful wife, a sudden
pang of redoubled anxiety to learn Carlo’s fate smote like a reproach
upon my heart, and I followed Aunt Jane and Dr. Johnson to the library,
where he had been left in a still unconscious state, before we went to
see Cunigunda.

Dr. Johnson went into the room alone, for Aunt Jane said we had better
remain outside till we heard the doctor’s report. As we stood there, in
the silence and gloom of the now deserted halls and half-extinguished
illuminations, mingled with the cold grey of dawn, I became more
impressed with the reality and hopelessness of his state than when,
nearly two hours before the living, moving crowd, and brilliant light,
although clashing and unharmonious, spoke more of life and hope. And
then, too, I had not witnessed the fatal termination of his companion in
suffering, and I now felt convinced that Carlo _must_ die. He seemed to
have suffered even more than she had. I should never hear his melodious
voice again, or be cheered by the sight of his loving eyes. For he had
loved me, that was certain, before those fatal years of college life.

In this moment of apprehension, I made excuses for his change. I
remembered the guileless sympathy which characterised his early
youth--how easily such a disposition might have been led astray by
apparent friends, in whom he unsuspiciously confided. I seemed suddenly
to have grown ever so many years older in wisdom, and could reflect on
and dissect his character and my own, as if I looked back on it from old
age. Had I done so much better than Carlo in every respect?--had I not
been proud and bitter, fickle and self-indulgent?--worse still, had I
not, by my wild coquetry and foolish passion, sacrificed my dearest
friend, marred the happiness for life of Norah--of the very person I
loved best, and had a higher opinion of than I had of anyone in the
world?

How could _I_ blame Carlo for his foolish love of riches--for his having
seemed to fall a victim to the fascination of the lovely syren,
Cunigunda? Had not I bitterly murmured at the loss of my fortune?--in
fact, during the time of this terrible suspense, I proceeded to make
myself out to be far worse than Carlo in every respect; and now that I
saw my faults, I longed to ask his forgiveness, and confess them all to
him. And he would probably never see my face or hear my voice again!

While I tormented myself with self-reproaches of this kind, the cold
blue dawn continued to increase, till the great hall and passages became
fully visible in the hard light of day; and a new misery is never so
keenly felt as when first broad daylight seems to intensify new
perceptions, and deprives us of those shadowy illusions that often
still linger through the first night of a great grief.

At last Dr. Johnson came to the door, and I fancied that he looked more
hopeful, and, in answer to Aunt Jane’s inquiry, he said that recovery
was possible, but the most complete quiet was necessary.

“It would be better that he should not see any well-known face at
present,” added the doctor, as he looked at me; and I fancied he might
have remarked some of the anxiety I felt, and of which I now began to
feel suddenly ashamed.

Of course, this revulsion of feeling made my cheeks glow, and tended to
confirm Dr. Johnson in his suspicions. Aunt Jane, who remarked my
confusion, told me to go and seek for our cloaks, while she would
inquire some more particulars of my cousin, the Marchese Spinola’s
sufferings.




CHAPTER XXXI.

THE SUPPOSED USURPER OF LANGDALE PRIORY.


“Never be ashamed of kind feelings,” said Aunt Jane, as we drove off
from the door of Castle Hall. “I saw you were quite annoyed because Dr.
Johnson perceived that you felt a great interest in your cousin’s fate.”

“He could not have known that he was my cousin till you told him,” I
said. “Besides----”

“Besides, in your anxiety you became, as you now think, too lenient to
his faults.”

“Yes, I am sure I was.”

“No, I don’t think so. It is always better to err on the lenient
side--to make excuses for the faults of others--we are then much more
likely to be right than when we are only impressed by the glaringness of
their errors.”

I found that Aunt Jane had not quitted the house of mourning without
ascertaining that some one was left there to assist the surviving
inmates, who had sense and discretion enough to be of use to Count
Rossi, and also to his long-lost and now so strangely-discovered
_fiancée_, present owner of the property.

The Duke of Dromoland and his energetic young wife had a long interview
with Mrs. Lacy, after Dorina was induced to visit her dying cousin; and
the result was that they promised to remain at the Hall after all the
other visitors had left--for, as the shrewd old housekeeper thoughtfully
reminded them, “the Lady Dorina will want some kind friend to be with
her ladyship at such a trying time, and I should be sorry indeed the
good Count should go away in a hurry, which he might do, seeing he had
now no natural right in the place, because of his wife turning out not
to be the real mistress of it.”

In fact, Mrs. Lacy’s quick eye saw that the Duke was just the right sort
of person, not because he was a Duke, she afterwards declared; adding,

“He looked so kind and respectable-like--so very different from the
other visitors who had been staying there ever since the Countess
arrived; and the Duchess, too, did look so sensible and feeling-like
that I am sure my Lady Dorina would be happier with her than with any
other person, except Miss Vivian.”

Aunt Jane had told Mrs. Lacy that I had better not remain at the Hall at
present, though she hoped, later, when I should be recovered more from
my late illness, that I should come and see Dorina; and, on account of
our relationship, that we should be a good deal together. I also found
that Aunt Jane had most thoughtfully asked Dr. Johnson to keep us
informed of Carlo’s state, as he would daily pass the door of our house
on his way home.

A few days afterwards, just as we were expecting Dr. Johnson’s usual
visit, a carriage drove up to the house, and, to our great surprise, we
saw Mr. Mordaunt standing at the door. We saw through the window that he
wore one of his most angry frowns, and I therefore anticipated some bad
news. When the door was answered, he hurried into the room, and without
going through the form of shaking hands, or inquiring after our health,
he launched forth into a story which roused my deepest feelings, and
made me more than sympathise with his fury.

It appeared that for some time past a series of abusive articles had
appeared in some of the papers, reflecting on the character of my dear
father, and Mr. Mordaunt had made many efforts to ascertain who the
secret enemy was that could utter such cruel falsehoods. But he was
unsuccessful until the day before, when, on calling at the office of one
of the newspapers, he caught sight of a letter in Mr. H. Mordaunt’s
handwriting.

It lay open on the table, and impelled by a feeling of suddenly
suspicious anger, he seized hold of it, and, unperceived by the man who
sat behind the desk in the office, put it in his pocket and went home.
He found it to be the identical letter which had appeared the day before
in the newspaper, and his first impulse was to seek Mr. H. Mordaunt, and
confront him with his own letter.

On calling at his cousin’s house, he learnt that Mr. Mordaunt was at the
Priory, so he went off by the first train and reached it the same
evening. He took a fly from the station, and on driving through the park
he met a carriage coming from the house.

It was a dark night, but by the light of the lamps he fancied he saw the
pale face of his cousin. He passed so quickly that he could not be sure,
but he afterwards regretted that he did not attempt to stop the carriage
and ascertain the point; for when he reached the house he was informed
that Mr. H. Mordaunt had just received a telegram from his sister in
Paris, who was dangerously ill, and wished to see him immediately.

He then asked to see Mr. Vivian, but the butler said his master was at
dinner with a large party, and he was certain that he would not like to
be disturbed.

“I would have had it out with him--I’d have given him a good piece of my
mind if I could but have got a sight of him,” said Mr. Mordaunt, with a
violent thump on the table which almost upset the inkstand.

“Have you never yet succeeded in seeing that wonderful man?” inquired
Aunt Jane.

“Yes, and you may well call him a wonderful man; and he’s no more like a
Vivian than I am, but he is extraordinarily like my hopeful cousin, Mr.
Henry. No, Miss Constance,” he added, as I put a chair near him, “I
cannot sit down. I’m going on to Castle Hall, for I hear that the Duke
of Dromoland is there, and I mean to get his advice in this matter, for
he esteemed and loved your father, and he’s got more sense in his head
than I have in mine, and he’s cool, too--very cool and quiet.”

“But,” interrupted Aunt Jane, “do you know all that has occurred at
Castle Hall, and why the Duke is still remaining there?”

“Yes, I have heard the whole story; and right glad I am that the
rightful heir has turned up, and that good-for-nothing--well, never
mind, as she’s dead, poor woman, I’ll try to be charitable. See you
to-morrow, when I have had a talk with the Duke. Good-bye,” and without
even shaking hands with us he ran out, jumped into the fly, and we heard
him roaring to the flyman to drive as quickly as possible to Castle
Hall.


END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.


LONDON: PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78576 ***