CHAPTER XXVIII.

BILL BUCKLEY SEES AN APPARITION.

“No; ’tis the tale that angry conscience tells, When she with more than tragic horror swells Each circumstance of guilt; when stern, but true, She brings bad actions forth into review, And, like the dread handwriting on the wall, Bids late remorse awake at reason’s call.”

_Churchill._

At a late hour one evening the butler at Waverdale Hall appeared before his master with the information that a stranger wished to see him on business of the first importance. In vain the faithful servant had represented to him the lateness of the hour and the unusual nature of his request; in vain he asked even for the stranger’s name. To all objections and inquiries the stranger, standing by the door closely shrouded in a large muffler, had simply said, “I must see the squire. I have walked many a weary mile for that purpose, and I know that if he will grant me a few minutes’ interview, he will be deeply grateful that ever the interview took place.” There was a time, and that not many weeks since, when the stately squire would have peremptorily refused such an unseasonable application; but now, after the strange and mollifying experiences to which he had been subjected, he considered but a moment, and then said,--

“Show the man into the library, Thompson. I will go and see what his errand is.”

The interview was long, and the worthy butler was devoured by curiosity to ascertain who the stranger was, and what he wanted. Eventually the squire re-appeared, and gave the housekeeper orders to prepare a room for the unknown new-comer, who in a little while silently and secretly retired to rest.

Not one word did the squire say to the wondering lady or the puzzled butler as to the who, or what, or why of the untimely visitor; but they noticed that he walked with a firmer step, and a bearing more erect, and spoke in tones more quick and pleasant than they had heard from him for many a day. In a little while the inmates of Waverdale Hall were wrapped in slumber, with one exception; for Hannah Olliver, though she had retired to her little room over the laundry, re-trimmed her lamp, and sat, still dressed, watching and waiting for the midnight hour. Not without much trepidation, for she was conscious of wrong-doing, and would gladly have foregone the pleasure of meeting her effusive lover; but still her undoubted affection for Aubrey Bevan made her long for the promised interview, that she might bid him a warm and affectionate good-bye. The clock in the servants’ hall had no sooner struck the hour of twelve than the errant damsel stole softly down the servants’ staircase in the silence of that lonesome hour. It was dark, for no solitary beam of moon or star relieved the gloom of the cloudy sky, and for safety’s sake she dared not carry forth her lighted lamp. Groping slowly along, and so carefully that not a single creaking stair should imperil the secresy of her nocturnal walk, she stood at last beside the outer door of the servants’ kitchen, which opened into the stable yard and the kitchen garden which lay beyond. Slowly and silently she unbarred it; the massive bolts were each in turn noiselessly drawn back into their sockets. The key, which she had abstracted from the usual nail whereon the butler had suspended it, was gently turned, and then gradually opening the door, she peered out into the thick darkness of the night. Three short coughs were to be the signal of her presence. No sooner were those given than the amorous valet, at whose instance the assignation had been made, was by her side, and had clasped her to his heart.

“O Aubrey!” said the trembling girl, “I am so frightened! I feel sure that I am doing wrong. I wish I had not consented to this meeting. Bid me good-bye, and let me shut the door again.”

But the light and airy gentleman to whom her words were addressed had no intention of letting her off so cheaply, and of risking so much for so small an issue. He soothed her fears, and expressed undying gratitude for this proof of the genuineness of her regard.

“‘Cold blows the wind, and in the chilly night’ it is not pleasant to be exposed to the rage of rude Boreas,” said the glib deceiver. “But for the ‘bliss of meeting her my soul adores’ I should have taken the coach from Kesterton to-day, and gone direct to London. I’ll just step within the door a moment, ’twill be warmer there,” and before his sweetheart could utter an objecting word, Aubrey Bevan was inside, with his arm around her waist. In another instant a handkerchief was placed upon her face, and Hannah Olliver was seated unconscious in a chair. To bind her hand and foot and to gag her was the work of a few minutes, and then, in answer to the soft hooting of a night owl, three brawny men, with crape-covered faces, slid through the open doorway, and Waverdale Hall was at the mercy of four of the most skilful and daring burglars that ever broke into house and home!

“Well,” said Bill Buckley, whose acquaintance the reader has already made, “this crib is cracked as easily as a nut. Bevan, which is the way?”

That worthy, by means of skilful questions cunningly put, had obtained from his unconscious dupe, the housemaid, full particulars of the interior of the house. He had its arrangements clearly mapped out in his clever, but sadly-prostituted brain, and was at no loss as to the evil work they had in hand.

“Follow me,” said he, and led the way to the front division of the house. He coolly locked behind them the doors which connected it with the servants’ quarters, so as to secure them from that source of danger. The library and drawing-room received the careful attention of Mr. Bevan and two of his colleagues. The butler’s pantry was left to the skilful and efficient manipulation of an experienced “magsman,” who fully understood what metal spoil was worth carrying away. The whole place was ransacked, and so far without suspicion or alarm. One great object of this very unceremonious visit, however, was as yet ungained. This was nothing less than the capture of certain jewel-cases, whose contents were of great and notable value, and which were, as Bevan well knew, placed for safe keeping in a certain room on the second floor. Ascending the stairs, Buckley stumbled and fell, and Squire Fuller, who in wakeful unrest had imagined that he heard noises about, leaped from his bed, and hastened to Philip’s bedroom, in fear lest something was the matter with his son. As soon as he had opened the door, out bounded “Oscar,” Philip’s canine companion and friend, who leaped to the first landing, and pinned one crape-veiled villain to the floor. Just then Lucy Blyth, who had been awakened by the stumbling of Bill Buckley, lighted her lamp, put on her dressing-gown, and appeared upon the scene in real alarm. The squire, with uplifted candle in his hand, was peering down the stairs. Lucy’s young and keener vision saw Bill Buckley point a loaded pistol. A moment more, and the bullet would have sped on its fatal errand; but Lucy, on the impulse of the moment, screamed aloud, and throwing her lighted lamp with all her force at the villain’s extended arm, his aim was diverted, and the shot was lodged in the wall. From the next flight of stairs had come a third witness on the scene--none other than the squire’s mysterious guest. Standing in his shirt, leaning over the balustrade, with peering eyes, unkempt hair, and extended hands, he caught the attention of Bill Buckley. That worthy turned livid as death, staggered back a few paces with lifted hands, and gasping out, “The ghost of Black Morris!” fell backward down the stair! At this turn of events, Aubrey Bevan, ever quick to realise results, darted down the stairs, and retreated by the way he had come. He gave no passing thought to the wretched girl he had entrapped, but bearing with him a small tin box and other booty which he had stolen from the library, he took his flight through park and garden, and left his companions in guilt to the tender mercies of those they had sought to harm. The stranger speedily bound Bill Buckley, whose heavy fall and guilty conscience had for a while almost stopped the beating of his heart. The second villain, who lay at the mercy of the noble beast, which would have strangled him had he struggled, was then bound hand and foot by the servants, whom the squire had aroused. Mr. Fuller hastened to his son’s apartment to calm his agitation, as he lay weak and helpless on his bed. The thief in the pantry had made good his escape, and in a little while poor Hannah Olliver, who had learnt a lesson which had sobered her gay spirits for life, was liberated and permitted to retire to her little chamber, where she spent the rest of the night in bitter and unavailing tears. Bill Buckley and his comrade were placed in safe keeping previous to their transfer to the county gaol. Black Morris--for the mysterious stranger whose appearance had filled the heart of Buckley with an awful terror, was really Black Morris in the flesh, and not his ghost--was again closeted with the squire, and informed him that the captured burglar was none other than the man who shot him down in Thurston Wood.

* * * * *

The circumstances of the burglary formed the subject of much conversation and speculation among the inmates of Waverdale Hall; but the interest of these events gave way before the now clear and undoubted fact that Master Philip was, in the completest fashion, demonstrated to be utterly innocent of the attack upon Black Morris which was supposed to have resulted in that errant youth’s untimely death. Calmly and gratefully did Philip receive the information of his perfect freedom from the terrible cloud which had overshadowed him, and simply replied to his glad father’s communication of the fact,--

“Thank God, my father! Thank God! but in my consciousness of a Saviour’s love and yours, that trouble had already lost its sting.”

Early on the following morning, Black Morris made his way to Kesterton, and greatly astounded the Rev. Theophilus Clayton by this personal token of his resurrection from the dead. Black Morris requested that the good man would go with him to Midden Harbour, and break the news to his weak and ailing mother, as he feared the consequences of his own sudden appearance before those who believed him to be numbered with the dead.

The household of Piggy Morris had just finished breakfast when Mr. Clayton made his appearance and surprised them by a pastoral call at such an unconscionably early hour. Piggy Morris was just lacing his boots previous to going on a huckstering expedition round the neighbouring farms. In the course of conversation, Mr. Clayton made what he thought, a moment after, was an unfortunate reference to Waverdale Hall. It was as a spark upon gunpowder, and Piggy Morris began to denounce Philip as the murderer of his son.

“Are you quite sure that he did receive his death-wound in Thurston Wood?” said Mr. Clayton.

Mrs. Morris looked into the speaker’s face, as if she wondered and half hoped that something lay behind his words.

“Parson,” said Piggy Morris, “you should have some good reason for asking that question. Have you any ground for doubting it?”

“Mr. Clayton!” said Mary eagerly, “Is he, can he be alive?”

“Courage! Mrs. Morris,” said the minister, “God is often better than our fears. I have reason to believe that, though he was wounded, he escaped with his life!”

“O Mr. Clayton!” said the mother, rising to her feet and laying her hand on his arm, “Where’s my lad?”

Mr. Clayton coughed loudly, which was a preconcerted signal, and in a moment Black Morris walked in, and was clasped to his mother’s heart in a long embrace. Strange to say, that weakly and despondent woman seemed to be endowed with an access of strength and vigour. Her re-awakened hopes had accepted the apparently impossible; there were no tears, no hysterics; she ran her thin fingers through the dark locks of her recovered boy, as she said, with a happy smile, “Rejoice with me, for this my son was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and is found.” Mary received her brother’s embrace with tearful joy. Piggy Morris stood with open mouth in wondering silence. Here was a sudden end to his notions of revenge; the father in him, however, won the day, and, holding out his hand, he said, “Jack, my lad, thy feyther bids thee welcome back. I’m glad to see thee safe and sound.”

“Yes,” said Black Morris, in faltering and broken tones, “I thank God for a saved life and a saved soul. I have a strange story to tell, and it will relieve my heart and do me good to tell it.” Black Morris and his eager auditors gathered round the cheerful fire, which was all the more cheerful for the angry and nipping wind that blew in noisy gusts outside, and there and then he told them the thrilling story of his miraculous escape.