Part 16

“You’ve just seen her; the ghost was Fanny herself. We dressed her up, and floured her hair--and----”

“And,” he added in a loud, hoarse voice, “I believe--I’ve done for her! I--I hit her a terrible blow! Fanny! Fanny!” he shouted, and he raced up the stairs, followed by all the inmates of the Place.

They crowded through the swing-door and streamed along the passage into the middle room. There on the floor lay a little dressed-up figure with a horrible wound in her head--a knife clutched in her grasp--stone dead!

Nor was this the worst. When Hegan realised that he had unintentionally killed his pretty, mocking sweetheart, he kissed her, rose from beside her, and, before anyone had guessed his intention, sprang on the sill, hurled himself out of the window, and, with a crash among branches, fell heavily on the lawn with a broken neck.

Sir Eldred and Lady Millard, hastily summoned from Cowes, were horrified to find on their return home that two of their household lay awaiting an inquest in the old unused laundry--their fate the result of a practical joke--and for many months Lady Millard deserted the Place, and made her home in Continental hotels.

At Bramleigh the middle room in the oak corridor has long been closed; but the double tragedy has left its mark. After dusk, the maids go about in couples; a creaking board throws them into a paroxysm of terror, and they snatch at one another, and whisper, “_She’s_ somewhere about!” for Bramleigh enjoys the unique reputation of being haunted by the ghost--of a ghost!

XIV

THE SWORD OF LANBRYDE

Rusholme Place, a fine old mansion in the Midlands, is seated in a picturesque and well-wooded park, and surrounded by the usual accompaniments of lawns, pleasure-grounds, and gardens. The exterior of Rusholme, although it presents a most attractive appearance, is as nothing compared with the treasures within.

The large entrance hall, and billiard-room, which opens out of it, are said to be an admixture of the Natural History and the Victoria and Albert Museums of South Kensington! The walls of both are covered with trophies of the chase (their owner was a dead-shot, and went far afield for sport). A magnificent bull-moose from Nova Scotia faces a life-like bison, late from Southern India; fine heads of deer surmount the doorways; and along the walls are high glass cases, containing specimens of rare birds, and small animals, such as snow-white hares, weasels, etc. This is the natural history department; there are also displayed in these rooms inlaid damascened Indian arms; Afghan guns; old Spanish chairs upholstered in Cordova leather; a stand of rare books--which include a beautifully illustrated Koran, picked up on a battlefield. A wonderful Chinese embroidered curtain drapes a wall, in front of which stands a table holding a Russian samovar, and a Japanese incense-burner in bronze, of the most terrifying description. In the hall is an ancient carved chest, said to have been washed ashore from the Spanish Armada. Here are also several exquisite figures of Grecian type, about two feet high--these had been dug up on the banks of the Indus, and were said to have been left behind by the hosts of Alexander the Great. Wherever you looked within these two rooms, there was something interesting to see, but it was at night that--astonishing fact--there was something interesting to _hear_.

After the genial party of billiard players had departed, when the lights were extinguished, the house closed and buried in silence, the collection from all parts of the world exchanged experiences--personal or otherwise, and held discussions--but these were not always attended with success. The stag and the tiger had high words; it had been found necessary to interrupt and silence the stoat and the white hare. It was considered more prudent to confine the evening entertainments to the harmless form of story-telling. The great moose was chairman of the company; the bison, his _vis-à-vis_, vice-chairman; the Chinese incense-burner and an Afghan jazail occasionally interposed remarks, but, on the whole, peace reigned supreme.

“I now call upon the Ferrara Blade,” said the deep bass of the moose; “let us hear your tale.”

After a moment’s silence, a thin, sharp voice from a corner began without further preamble: “My story, good listeners, is ancient history, but it is true. I will merely relate one incident--no need to more than touch on my own life, for to tell my adventures would take hours. I am a well-tempered Andrea Ferrara blade, married to a Spanish handle of great value. By chance, I entered a military family, and descended from father to son. I have seen desperate fighting in the Low Countries--aye, and in the New World. After a long time came peace--there was no work for me, and I was hung up in my scabbard over a fireplace in the library of the ancient mansion of my Lord of Lanbryde. His home was right in the north of Scotland--its lands were lipped by an ocean that had its further shore in the Arctic Circle. The wind was fine and strong--the sunsets recalled the tropics; air and land bred bold fishermen, and big-boned folk, who held themselves high, and knew not the word ‘fear.’ It was recorded that the race came from the Danes.

“Blairvie, my Lord, was heir to great estates, a tall old man, with a high, hooked nose and bushy brows, a famous swordsman and gamester in his day--which was over. Now he had nought to do but mind his property and harry his tenants. He was a hard landlord--hard to all the world except himself. Married to a lord’s daughter, he had two children--a son in a Highland regiment, and one girl. Blairvie was a tyrant to them, and to everyone within his reach; he turned out folk from places where they and their forebears had lived for generations.

“One very old woman crawled to his door and begged for mercy, but he was as stone. She went down on her knees, and said:

“‘Blairvie, let me die in my ain wee housie. I pray you to leave me where I was born and bred--my time must now be short.’

“But it was all of no use--Blairvie was adamant--so she uprose, and cursed him to his face.

“‘Ye have ta’en away the land from us, aye, and from many--ye that has plenty. See now,’ she said, ‘I lay my malison on you: the land will be ta’en away from you and yours--for ever and ever. Your descendants will not own a yard of green turf, and will die beggars!’ and then she fell in a sort of fit, and was thrown out.

“For some time afterwards there was great talk of the old witch and her curse, and the ‘wierd’ pronounced against Blairvie; but by degrees the whole thing died away. The lands of Lanbryde were fertile, for much of the soil was old and rich; the sheep, cattle, and orchards were beyond anything for excellence. The place, a great big house, square to the winds, lay back in a bay between two big horns of shingle--but the whole beach was covered with beautiful sand, so fine that it could run through an hourglass.

“By gradual degrees, it was noticed that the sea was encroaching; huge mounds of sands had accumulated--some of them one hundred feet in height--and the sand seemed scarcely ever at rest. In strong westerly gales it drifted about, and seemed so violent and tormented, one might have supposed that the furies were locked in mortal combat. The size and increase of the dunes were so imperceptibly stealthy, that it was scarcely noticed by those who lived in the neighbourhood, but chiefly spoken of by people who had been absent for some time. By and by, the old coast-line began to break up, the sea made extensive inroads, and there was a certain wasting of the fore-shore. These high banks of sand afforded but a feeble barrier to the power of storms from the north--which forced them further and further inshore; and still no one minded, for a gale from the south usually blew them back to their former position.

“One November night a fearful gale descended on the coast. A sand-flood overwhelmed the fields, the orchards, the gardens of Lanbryde--here was a deluge that nothing could arrest. Ghostly clouds of white sand, falling and whirling, above, below--in short, everywhere. The torrent seemed to be a living force; it poured over the mansion, and down its chimneys, burst the doors and windows, and blocked the stairs. The storm was as sudden as it was violent--it approached with a howling, mighty wind, sheets and clouds of a thin, white substance, tons--millions of tons--of sand. The people of the house had barely time to escape with their lives, before the doors and stairs were choked. The young heir--who happened to be home on leave--as he rushed out last, bethought himself of the family sword--in short, of _me_! He ran back, fought his way to the fireplace, while the wind roared and the sand poured, wrenched me from the wall, and sped forth. But in the doorway a blast met him and knocked him prostrate--the cruel sand fell on him, and choked him where he lay; he struggled and fought--it was like being in the heart of a quick-sand. After desperate efforts he gave up the ghost, and so perished miserably--and there he and I rested together for eighty long years. By midday, after the gale, such was the result of shifting dunes, that the very situation of the mansion was lost--and the whole property, a vast expanse of sand, was pointed out to newcomers as the grave of the house, and estates, of Lanbryde.

“At last, after nearly a century had elapsed, a furious western hurricane suddenly altered the figures of many sandhills. Another violent storm arose, a whirlwind equal to the first, and it raged all night with a ruthless force. At sunrise, when the folk began to stir, they rubbed their eyes, and wondered if they were still asleep. Then they recalled the story of Lanbryde. The mansion had reappeared--had arisen, like a great, gaunt skeleton, from the mass of sand in which it had been entombed, its rows of empty windows, like eyeless sockets, dominating the scene.

“Naturally the news spread, and Lanbryde was immediately visited, and, as far as possible, entered. But the interior was still choked. The body of the unfortunate heir was discovered--that is to say, his bones--and I, who lay unscathed in my scabbard, was carried away as prize by a searcher, and sold for a few shillings to an armourer in Inverness, who sent me south, where I fetched, as I deserved, a noble price. Great efforts were made to recover furniture and pictures that were known to be in Lanbryde, but beyond a few silver spoons and the whorls of a distaff, nothing could be reclaimed, for before any active steps could be taken, another furious sand-drift struck the coast, and the ancient mansion of Lanbryde disappeared for ever.

“When the last owner’s daughter died in poverty abroad, the family became extinct, and of their great fame, and high place in the world, nothing now remains but an old Italian sword.--Good-night!”

XV

THE KING’S SHILLING

It was a melancholy afternoon early in November, and a cold pitiless rain was streaming down the library windows of Clonallon, the Irish residence of Sir Domnick Donnelly, Bart., J.P., D.L.

At the other side of the wet panes, a pretty young face gazed out upon the falling dusk and fallen leaves, with an expression of hopeless boredom. Clonallon was one of those solid box-shaped mansions that arose in the country two centuries ago: spacious and comfortable, with fine lofty rooms for the family, and gloomy caverns for their retainers; it boasted a prolific garden, a fine demesne, and a long and imposing avenue. On the other hand, it was ten miles from a station, did not possess a bathroom, and could only count upon one post a day.

Sir Domnick and his wife (an elderly, childless couple) were entirely satisfied with their abode--and themselves; they maintained a certain amount of state and formality, and processed about the neighbourhood in an open carriage with two men-servants and a pair of steppers. Recently a powerful motor had displaced the landau, and the owners were so exuberantly proud of their new possession that one would almost suppose it was the very first car that had ever been landed in Ireland!

The disconsolate girl in the window was also a visitor from England; her mother, Mrs. de Lisle, a smart evergreen widow, had certain “expectations” from her relatives the Donnellys, and made a yearly pilgrimage to Clonallon, in order, as she told herself, “to keep the old people up to the mark.” She was handsome and popular, with a pair of beguiling eyes, and an insatiable appetite for society and excitement. The large fortune left by her husband was strictly tied up for the benefit of their daughter Vera. Vera, at eighteen, looked younger than her age: so very soft and simple, and was treated as a mere irresponsible flapper by her parent; nevertheless Vera had inherited a self-reliant enterprising character from the de Lisles (also a streak of daring and independence), but had not as yet found an opportunity of exhibiting herself in her true colours.

Life at Clonallon was desperately dull, and she sorely missed the society of her girl friends; here, everyone was so old--not merely Sir Domnick and Lady Donnelly, but even the servants and dogs--whilst the venerable green parrot was in his dotage. The days seemed endless, from family prayers to family prayers, the interim filled up with eating and drinking, driving abroad to pay calls, or receiving weird-looking visitors at home.

Once, oh great and happy occasion! they had all motored to a neighbouring Meet; that was, indeed, a delightful outing. On Sundays the family attended a funny old church that smelt of mushrooms, and had deep mysterious pews like rows of horse-boxes, as well as a very large gallery, and a very small congregation.

Alas, there were still ten days to put in before departure. Vera’s mother was thrifty in some ways, and declared that short visits, long journeys, and perpetual “tips” were too costly. Also, that after a strenuous season, and Scotland, Clonallon served her as an inexpensive “rest cure.”

Dusk was closing in over the pleasure-grounds, and Vera, yawning till tears stood in her eyes, withdrew from her post and sat down on a stiff-backed old sofa, which stood between the tall windows.

Around a fine turf and wood fire the three elders were assembled, Sir Domnick smoking a meerschaum pipe, Mrs. de Lisle a Turkish cigarette--all three discussing the neighbourhood, and Vera was completely forgotten.

“And so your nearest neighbours are the Meldons?” Mrs. de Lisle was saying.

“The nearest people we _visit_,” replied Lady Donnelly with significant emphasis.

“There is a big place in the trees, not more than two miles away, on what you call ‘the back road.’”

“Yes--Heganstown--the Hegans live there.”

“And don’t you know them?” persisted Mrs. de Lisle.

After quite a marked pause, Lady Donnelly replied: “Not now.”

“A feud--or a boycott?”

“Not exactly--although years ago there _was_ a coolness about some shooting. To tell you the truth, we have dropped the Hegans--they are too impossible.”

“Short of murder or theft, it seems a pity to drop such very near neighbours; it would have been so nice to have them over to bridge!”

“Bridge!” repeated Sir Domnick, “I don’t suppose they have ever heard of it! Hegan and I were school-fellows, he was my fag too; he comes of a good county family, went into the service, married, and when his father departed, came back to Heganstown with a nice little wife and a baby. Then Mrs. Hegan died, and he seemed to go to pieces; took to gambling on the Stock Exchange, betting, and whisky, and married a blowzy fat creature, who was once his cook! I believe she drinks, leads him the devil of a life, and keeps the little money he has left. He is sunken in a sort of stupor, and sits in his chair all day long; they do say his brain is affected. I must confess I am sorry for that young fellow Dermot.”

“Yes; but why are you sorry?” enquired Mrs. de Lisle with an air of languid interest.

“The boy is out of his element; he went to Rugby, and did uncommonly well; was going into the Army, and had put in a couple of terms at Sandhurst, when the money ran out, and he was obliged to come home. He has been loafing about at Heganstown for the last three years.”

“Dear me, how perfectly dreadful!” ejaculated the lady.

“At first he tried his hand on the farm, and pulling the place together, but things were too far gone; his father owed money all over the country, and the land was let up to the hall door. A grazier has it, and his cattle have played Old Harry with the grounds and the plantations; there’s not a gate or a fence; the house is falling to ruin. Mrs. Hegan has made away with the good old furniture, and all the silver; last time I was in Dublin I saw Hegan’s grandfather in a shop ticketed ‘Four Pounds Ten’--of course I mean his portrait.”

“Why doesn’t the young man try to do something?”

“It’s difficult to stir without money. I don’t suppose the fellow has the price of a railway ticket, or a second coat to his back. In our soft relaxing climate it is so easy to let indolence grow on you--and to take things as they come.”

“Dermot is a wonderful horseman,” supplemented Lady Donnelly. “Men are only too glad to give him mounts in the hunting season; he rides and breaks the maddest-looking animals, and I believe he is a fine shot too, but these accomplishments don’t put a penny in his pocket. He has no companions of his own class--_all_ the young men are out in the world.”

“And the young women?” suggested Mrs. de Lisle.

“Oh, none of the girls round here would look at Dermot, except perhaps farmers’ daughters. I’ve heard he has been seen about the lanes with Mitty Flood--such a bold, shameless minx.”

“Well, if young Hegan marries Mitty, he is _done_!” declared Sir Domnick. “I wish someone would give the poor boy a hand, and help him out of the quagmire; the longer he sticks at home, the deeper he sinks. I’m afraid he has no energy or push, and not a penny to his name--it’s just a wasted life!”

“Does young Hegan come to church?” enquired Mrs. de Lisle, “and does he sit in the second deep box from the front, along with a red-faced female?”

“Yes,” rejoined Lady Donnelly.

“Then he really looks quite presentable, and I believe I saw him at the Meet, riding a crazy chestnut.”

“No doubt,” assented Sir Domnick, “and if Dermot were to break his neck--under the circumstances, it would be the best thing that could happen to him!”

Vera, forgotten and in the background, had listened to this conversation with the closest interest and attention. She too recalled the good-looking young man she had seen in church and at the Meet; she had been struck by his masterly control of the frantic chestnut, and the delightful ease with which he kept his temper, and his seat.

The “automobile,” as Lady Donnelly grandiloquently called it, held four comfortably, but no more, and, at present, such was its novelty and fascination, that its owners went out in it daily and in all weathers, partly perhaps to exhibit their acquisition, and to excite the envy of their friends.

Mrs. de Lisle enjoyed motoring; the soft moist air was, she believed, good for her cure and complexion, and therefore Vera, like the little pig of our childhood, was left at home. However, as it happened, Vera preferred rambling about the garden, the demesne, the adjacent bog, and making friends with the country-folk. Hobbs, her mother’s maid, was supposed to be her escort, but Miss Hobbs, of London, disliked country walks, and frequently excused herself on the plea of a headache, or a corn; and Vera, with the two red setters, was suffered to depart alone, Hobbs assuring herself that with the best wish in the world, her young lady--a dear simple child--could not get into any mischief.

But Hobbs was too sanguine. As she sat in the housekeeper’s room with her feet on the fender, and a strong cup of “Ann Lynch’s” best in her hand, imparting society episodes to a gaping audience, her charge was setting her pretty face in the direction of an adventure.

The bog she was so fond of was not the traditional dark tract, diversified by deep black holes and turf clamps, but a wide expanse of short grass, studded with furze bushes, and populated by goats, geese, and rabbits. The air was delicious, the sensation of unattended freedom intoxicating, the dogs were happy, and so was Vera. She had a secret and sincere love of Nature, and enjoyed her wild, unusual surroundings, and the odd sights and sounds--such as the flight of a V-shaped wedge of wild geese, the sudden rise of a jack snipe; and felt completely independent, and at home, as she walked briskly over the springy turf. A line of dark woods beckoned her thoughts to Heganstown, and the tragic fate of young Hegan, caught in a quagmire of circumstance, and compelled to lead a wasted life, with none to help him. Surely Sir Domnick might hold out a hand; but he wouldn’t--no, he was a selfish old pig--yes, he _was_; he seized on all the new papers--even on the _Queen_; he took more than his share of cream and oysters, helped himself to the fowl’s liver, and most of the motor rug--Vera had made it her business to watch him! No, he would only exert himself to the extent of his personal comforts, and young Hegan might hang himself for all he cared!

Sir Domnick’s delinquencies, and the question of assisting Dermot Hegan, occupied her mind to the exclusion of everything else. She was wondering if she could forward him anonymously a five-pound note, her godfather’s tip, when she suddenly became aware of the rapid descent of a dense white mist, and could hardly see six yards ahead. For a moment she stood quite still, enveloped in a cloud of damp, impenetrable mist; then she started to retrace her steps, and after groping about for what seemed a long time, realised that she was lost! In some inexplicable manner she found herself upon an island apparently surrounded on all sides by trenches of unfathomable black water. This much she could discern. What she could _not_ see, was any means of departure. Where was the wobbly stick that usually bridged such chasms? The fog now turned from white to grey, and she realised that her safest attitude was complete inactivity, and sat down on a mound all alone--having been basely abandoned by the two setters.

After a little reflection, she decided to call, to scream for help; her voice was a fine robust soprano, and carried fairly far.

Dermot Hegan, who had been shooting rabbits for the larder, and was, so to speak, feeling his way home, heard an unusual cry and halted. No, it was not a curlew or a trapped rabbit, or even an owl. There it was again, it came from a human throat, and said “Help! Help! Help!” Dermot knew every inch of the bog; the cry came from a part known as “the Puzzle,” and it was not long before he had crossed the ditch, and called out, “All right.” Then a shrill treble voice from the gloom announced, “I’ve lost my way; I don’t know where I am!”

The young man struck a match, held it aloft, and discovered a girl, who had risen to her feet, and by the faint illumination they gravely inspected one another. He beheld a pretty face, and a pair of startled dark eyes; and she was confronted by the object of her meditations--no less a person than Dermot Hegan. Then the match, after the manner of its kind, went out.

“You are the girl who is staying at Clonallon, are you not?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I wandered about, and got caught in the fog. Wherever I looked, I seemed to be surrounded by huge ditches full of black water. I was afraid to move--what _am_ I to do?”

“Sit tight for the present: I hope you don’t mind waiting?”

“What do you call waiting?”

“Well, say an hour. The moon will be up then, and I will take you home.”

“Oh, thank you. I think you must be Mr. Hegan?”