Chapter IV: The Waxen Image.--The Hostess's Story (2)

Here the speaker, whom I could now recognise as no other than Richard de Chevron, drew from under his cloak something carefully wrapt up in tissue paper. Having unwound the paper, he discovered a small statue of a man, about a foot in height, apparently in wax.

"Why, you have got it as like as could be!" exclaimed the crone. "Yes, that is John Archer, sure enough; there is no mistaking him."

My curiosity began to be roused, and Claribel's apprehensions for John's safety rushed across my mind. Though I was not near to the figure, I could see plainly that it was intended for a likeness of John Archer, and that it carried a gun over one arm. The hag seized the image in one hand with a sort of fiendish glee, and commenced mumbling some inarticulate sounds.

I trembled from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, for I had heard of this way of working mischief on one's enemies from afar, and I feared lest some dreadful harm should happen to poor John, so I offered up a hasty prayer for his safety.

"The charm is said," croaked the witch. "Now let the work begin."

Here she set the image upright, and taking a long sharp pin she seemed about to transfix the waxen image with it; but I noticed that her hand trembled violently. I still continued to pray fervently, whereupon the witch was seized with such a fit of sneezing and wheezing that she was unable to proceed in her work.

"Why, Madge," said De Chevron, "what is the matter? How have you managed to catch such a cold all of a sudden?"

"Odds blood! I know not," answered the beldam; "it is as if I was in church."

At the word "church" the wheezing came on again.

"Ah! I see," said De Chevron; "It is the wind that is howling through that broken pane of glass," and he pointed to the very pane through which I was peeping.

I thought my last hour was come, for I was sure to be discovered. However, I ducked down in a corner, whilst De Chevron stopped up the missing pane with a filthy rag without even catching a sight of me.

Rising again to my feet, I managed to open the little window the least bit ajar, but just enough to see and hear all. My fright was so great all this time that I had unwittingly slacked a little in my prayer, and just at that moment Madge made a desperate plunge with the pin, which appeared aimed at the heart of the image; but as I had now recommenced my prayers, alas, somewhat too late, the pin missed its mark, but pierced the barrel of the gun, which, together with the thumb of the figure, fell upon the table.

"Better next time, Madge," said De Chevron. "Try again."

She made another essay, and then another, but missed the figure altogether.

"I am not as young as I was," she said, by way of apology, "and neither my eyesight nor my hand are to be relied upon as of old."

However, she aimed again and again at the figure, but with the same result.

"Why, you _are_ getting old, Madge!" said De Chevron, surprised at her repeated failures. "Come, let me put the pins in."

Seizing the image with one hand and a long pin with the other--(here again my breath failed me through fear, and I omitted to pray)--he first pierced the arm of the figure that supported the gun in one place, and then in another higher up. He then took a third pin and seemed about to pierce the image in the region of the heart, when I, now really alarmed for the victim, again offered up a short and fervent prayer.

De Chevron instantly dropped the pin, as if it had been red hot; but immediately taking up another, he made a furious thrust at the body of the image, but his hand went off widely from the mark, leaving the image unscathed.

"Why, how is this?" exclaimed De Chevron, in astonishment.

"Ha! ha! Master de Chevron," laughed the witch, "you are no better than old Madge after all."

"Well, this _is_ strange!" muttered De Chevron to himself, after having tried once or twice more and failed.

"Are you quite sure you have repeated the charm aright, Madge?"

"Quite sure," replied the crone; "but, beshrew me, if I don't think there is some hostile element at hand that counteracts the charm. Just look at the way Grimalkin arches his back and ruffles his fur."

I now noticed a huge black tom cat, of a size that I never remember to have seen before or since, whose luminous eyes flashed red and green by turns from an obscure corner of the hovel.

"There! there! _there_!" cried De Chevron, furiously, accompanying each word with a thrust, but missing each time.

Then, in his rage at being foiled thus, he raised the image in order to dash it to the ground; but the wax having melted somewhat in his hand, it stuck to his fingers like pitch, and he was obliged to disengage it gently and place it on the small table just underneath the window through which I was peeping.

"I'll tell you what it is, Madge," said he, "there is more witchcraft in this countercharm, whatever it is, than in all your skill. There must be, as you say, some contrary influence at work. How else should it be possible for me to fail every time, as if I were smitten with the palsy? Let us go out and see if anyone is lurking near the hut."

So leaving the image on the table, he strode towards the opposite door, which he opened wide, followed by the beldam.

Not a moment was to be lost. The instant their backs were turned I cautiously opened the window, and introducing my arm until it touched the table beneath, I secured the image, re-closed the window noiselessly, and flew as fast as my feet could carry me through the pelting rain with the image under my shawl.

I had hardly reached home, quite out of breath, when Claribel came running to me, pale and trembling, and wringing her hands.

"Oh! Molly, dear," she cried, sobbing, "what do you think has happened to that poor young man John Archer?"

"What is it?" I asked, anxiously. "Anything in connection with Richard de Chevron?"

"I cannot exactly say that," she replied. "It seems to have been purely an accident. This is how it was. His gun suddenly burst in a most unaccountable manner whilst he was carrying it over his arm, and carried off one of his thumbs. No surgeon could be procured at the time, and the wound appears to have gangrened and to have infected the whole arm. The surgeon, who has only just arrived, says that it will be necessary to remove the arm to save his life."

"Not for worlds!" cried I, with animation. "I'll be responsible for his life. There," said I, producing the waxen image and hastily withdrawing the two pins still sticking in the arm of the figure, and which in my hurry I had omitted to extract till now. "There, now the mortification in the arm will have stopped. Send directly to the surgeon that the operation will be no longer necessary. Nay, I will go myself."

"What does all this mean?" asked Claribel, astonished beyond measure.

"No matter now," I answered. "I am off at once. If you like you may come with me; but first let me lock up this image in a place where it will not be touched."

So saying, I put on my bonnet and shawl again, and dragging Claribel after me, we ran with all our might and main to the cottage where poor John lay stretched on a pallet, the surgeon with his knife ready sharpened for the operation, standing over him, about to commence. Another second would have been too late.

"Hold your hand, doctor!" I cried, suddenly. "The mortification has ceased, and the operation will be no longer necessary. I will be answerable for this young man's life without his losing his arm."

I spoke with an authority that completely astonished the doctor, for he looked bewilderingly first at me and then at my friend; but at length said, "I understand nothing of all this. I have been called here by this young man's family to give my professional opinion, and I say that unless he submits to lose his arm, his life will be endangered."

"But the mortification has ceased. Would you amputate a limb without necessity for so doing?"

"Certainly not."

"Well, then, look for yourself. Where is the mortification?"

Here the surgeon glanced at the arm, and looked wondrous wise.

"The mortification has ceased beyond a doubt," he said at length. "Well, I never saw such a thing in all my life. What! am I dreaming," he muttered. "I do not understand all this. How came you, Miss Molly, to--to----"

"Hush!" said I.

Then lowering my mouth to his ear, I whispered a few words, and put my finger to my lip, to enjoin silence. The doctor arched his eyebrows till they nearly touched the roots of his hair, screwed up his mouth to the size of a buttonhole, and gave vent to a prolonged "wh-e-w!"

He soon after left the house, and we were left alone for a while to comfort the sufferer. During the few moments that we were left alone together I recounted briefly the whole of my adventure.

Both John and Claribel were completely thunder-struck at my recital, and Claribel muttered half to herself and half to me, "And to think that it should be Richard de Chevron, after all. I knew he was a villain."

John speedily recovered. He had received no further injury than the loss of his thumb. He often called at our house afterwards, and upon seeing the waxen image immediately recognised it as a likeness of himself. It being now beyond a doubt that Richard de Chevron, out of jealousy, had conspired against the life of John Archer and being equally certain in my own mind, from a knowledge of De Chevron's character, that he would not let his victim slip so easily through his fingers, but, foiled in his first attempt, would lose no time in employing some other means of removing his rival from his path, I began to rack my brains in search of some scheme to thwart the machinations of this villain.

"What if he should make another waxed image, and shutting himself up in his own house, carry out his infernal spells without interruption?" I said to myself. If so, what could I do?

John Archer should have our constant prayers; beyond this there was no impediment to De Chevron's evil designs. The law would give us no redress. I was very sure of that. Witchcraft had ceased to be believed in, and the case would be dismissed. One thought, indeed, crossed my mind for a moment, which I mentioned to Claribel, and this was to pay back De Chevron in his own coin by converting the image of John Archer into a likeness of De Chevron and experimenting upon the villain from afar in the same manner as he had designed to practise against John Archer.

It was but a momentary thought and a sinful, and the proposal was rejected by Claribel instantly and with horror.

"Should we," said she, "put ourselves on a level with a murderous villain, using against him the same unhallowed means that he himself had not hesitated to use against his victim?"

But besides the light in which my friend had put my proposition, there was another argument against the scheme that perhaps had more weight with me. In order to change the image from the likeness of John Archer into a likeness of De Chevron it would be necessary to destroy the image altogether first, and this, for what I knew, might put John Archer's life in peril. This last argument decided me, and I resolved to guard the image as jealously as possible, and to proceed against De Chevron by natural means solely. An idea flashed across me that there might be some countercharm against evil spells if we could only find it out. Indeed, I remembered to have heard that there was, and musing thus within myself, I suddenly recollected to have heard a couplet in my childhood that ran thus:

"Vervain and Dill
Keep witches from their will."

These two herbs, then, were countercharms. I was resolved to try the experiment, so procuring some of each without more delay, I gave them into the possession of John Archer, who promised me to wear them always about him; and whether or no De Chevron ever made any further attempt against the life of his rival by means of magic I know not, but if he did he must signally have failed, as for ever so long afterwards Archer enjoyed the most perfect health and remained free from any further accident.

Whether De Chevron suspected that John Archer possessed some countercharm against which his evil spells were vain, or if he again essayed his magic after his first defeat, we know not, but certain it was that he still cherished hatred against his rival, upon whom he was determined to bring trouble, if not by necromancy, at least by natural means.

For some time past he had not been near us. This was evidently to ward off suspicion from himself and check the village gossip. However, soon after the disappearance of the image--whether or no he suspected it was I who purloined it and wished to brave the matter out--he called and informed us that he was going to London on important business, and had come to take leave of us for a time. There was nothing in his manner that appeared the least constrained or abashed. On the contrary, he seemed more lively and witty than usual, asked kindly after all our family, and even John Archer, whom he said he had not seen for a long time, although he had heard of his misfortune, for which he professed great sympathy, and hoped the poor fellow would not take his loss too much to heart; adding that it was lucky that they had managed to save his life without amputating his arm.

Throughout all his discourse his manner had so much of frankness and sincerity that I could hardly bring myself to believe that he was the same villain whose infernal plot against the innocent John Archer, I had accidentally unravelled. I began to think that somehow or other I must have been under a delusion, until chancing to glance towards a glazed cupboard in which the wax figure stood upright and was easily discernable from where I stood, the whole of my recent adventure came back to me forcibly. Yet there sat the author of this unhallowed deed, this would-be murderer, smiling and chatting and paying compliments with the easy grace of a courtier, with a countenance frank and open as a spring morning. How could a girl of my age, ignorant of the world and its wickedness, possibly imagine that a heart so black could be concealed underneath so smooth an exterior? Had I not had positive proof of his villainy within reach, I should certainly never have believed him capable of such a deed. Even as it was I was obliged to gaze frequently at the cupboard in order to reassure myself that I was not dreaming and to prevent myself from being won over by his tongue.

De Chevron was a quick observer, and noticed our furtive glances towards the cupboard. Then fixing his spy-glass in his eye, he looked in the same direction; but either saw or affected to see nothing. Afterwards he got up and walked about the room, conversing the while, and in so doing passed several times in front of the cupboard, looking in casually as he passed.

I felt sure that he must have seen the image, though there was nothing in his manner that I could discover at all confused or unusual. I believe he would have braved the matter out if I had told him to his face that it was I myself who had stolen the image after I had overheard with my own ears this villainous plot against poor John. He was just the sort of man who would have looked me full in the face and denied ever in his life having been in Madge Mandrake's cottage.

He would have tried to make me believe that I had been the victim of some fearful delusion from my over-excited fears or what not, that the image was not of his making; would have denied ever having set eyes on it before. Nor would, in all probability, have seen any likeness whatever to John Archer, and would have treated as nothing more than a coincidence the fact of John's gun and the loss of his thumb occurring at the same time that the gun and thumb of the waxen figure were damaged by old Madge's pin thrust.

He would have asked me if I thought him capable of believing in such trumpery, and would have tried to laugh me out of my superstition. All this I should have expected from him, such was his amount of assurance. Once I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask him what he thought of the image, and if he knew anyone it resembled; and would have done it, too, as I was anxious to observe what effect a sudden allusion to the image would have had upon him, but at that moment my father, who knew nothing of the affair of the waxen image, entered the room, and the conversation took another direction.

Shortly afterwards he left the house, promising to call again after his return from London. As he had been so particular in telling us of his intended visit to London, of course, I believed him. What reason could I have had for not doing so? Nevertheless, it proved to be all a falsehood. He never had any intention of going to London at all; and never left the village.

But why this deceit? you will naturally ask. Listen, and tell me if you could have imagined a scheme so diabolical as the following ever entering into human brain. To carry out his base designs he hired a certain pedlar, one Michael Rag, well known to be a shady character, and envious of John Archer's comparatively easy circumstances, so having talked him over, if not by bribery, at least by instigating him in a manner suggested by his own natural cunning as calculated to excite the covetous disposition of the tool he intended to use for his own purposes, to purloin John Archer's silver watch, a present he had received from his master for his faithful services.

This watch De Chevron represented to the pedlar as being one of superior workmanship, and far too good for a man of John Archer's position to wear. He blamed his uncle for lavishing handsome presents upon undeserving hangers-on. Who, after all, was John Archer? He (De Chevron) could remember him in worse circumstances even than the pedlar himself. Whence his good fortune? From his merit? Pooh! It was easy enough for any man to keep a good place when he had once got it, if he wasn't quite a fool. Then as to his getting it in the first place, mere luck. Why, as if there were not many a better man than John Archer for such a post. Was he more honest than any other? Bah! every man is honest until he is found out to be the contrary.

Thus, first by raising the pedlar's cupidity by a vivid description of the watch, then by giving an additional stimulant to his envious nature by representing the owner of the watch as unworthy of such a present, he finally wound up by insinuating, rather than broadly stating, that the pedlar himself was a man of merit and deserved being in a better position than John Archer, if all men had their rights.

In fact, such was De Chevron's power of persuasion, that he at last, by dint of subtle arguments, made irresistible by the courteous grace by which they were set off, and, moreover, making it appear that he himself could have no object in giving such advice, that he at length succeeded in making the pedlar believe that he was a very ill-used man, and that as fortune had been so niggardly to him, considering his merits, whilst she squandered her favours on the undeserving, that it was quite excusable in him; nay, it was his duty, and nothing more than what he owed to himself to seek his own fortune by appropriating a portion of that superfluous wealth unjustly held back from him by the capricious goddess and given into unworthy hands.

It was not difficult for De Chevron to ignite the already too inflammable cupidity of the pedlar. A hint was enough. From that hour the watch was doomed. Seeing that his words had had their effect, he applauded the determination of the pedlar, and added that though he had no interest in mixing himself up in such affairs, yet he liked to encourage enterprising men, and he himself would furnish him with the means of making his booty doubly sure, and without which he represented it would be madness to make the attempt.

He showed him that John Archer always carried a gun with him, that he was a hot-tempered young fellow, and would shoot him as soon as look at him if he attempted and failed.

"One must use all one's resources, in case of need," he added, and suggested that the securest way to obtain the watch would be to administer to Archer a glass of drugged wine, which he might easily induce the unsuspecting youth to accept. This drug (which De Chevron had in his possession and which was probably concocted by his friend and ally, Madge Mandrake) produced instantaneous sleep for full five hours on the person partaking of it. It was agreed then that the pedlar should carry in his coat pocket a bottle of the said drugged wine, together with a wine glass, that towards evening he should wander about a certain unfrequented road which bordered on Lord Edgedown's estate, and near which Archer was sure to be at a certain hour.

Should he catch sight of John Archer, he was to accost him civilly, invite him to converse, then after a time produce the bottle and glass and say that he had some dozens of very choice wine which if he (John Archer) could only induce his lordship to buy that it would be the making of his fortune. He would then pour out a glassful, which he would offer the young gamekeeper to try himself; should he refuse, he was to press him so urgently that he would at length be forced to comply.

When Archer should have once tossed off the glass, Mike would wait some moments until he was in a perfectly sound sleep, when he would be enabled to steal not only his watch and what else he might have in his pockets, but also his gun.

The pedlar jumped at the proposition, and armed with his bottle of drugged wine, he set off the selfsame evening for the spot agreed upon, followed at a distance by De Chevron himself, just to give the alarm, as he suggested, by a sharp shrill whistle, should anyone approach to interrupt their design.

Backed up by the help of De Chevron, the pedlar knew no fear, nor did it ever enter his head, so blinded was he by greed, that De Chevron could possibly have any object in thus lending him his help.

The evening arrived. It was now about a week after De Chevron's supposed departure, and so close had been his confinement to the house all this time, that I do not believe there was a soul in all the village but believed that he was absent on business in London at the time.

As the evening agreed upon drew in, De Chevron, disguising himself as best he might in a large loose cloak that he never had been seen to wear and a hat unlike that he was known by in the village, set out in the dusk towards the lonely road, following the pedlar at a considerable distance. The pedlar advanced towards the spot singing.

"Good morrow, Master Archer," he said, as the young gamekeeper made his appearance from behind a hedge, "and how does the world go for you? Easily enough, eh?"

"Well enough, for the matter of that," replied Archer, carelessly.

"Ah! you lucky dog, your bread and butter's cut for life. Wouldn't I like to be in your shoes without doing you any harm!" said the pedlar.

"Would you?" laughed Archer. "Why, I'm sure you have no reason to complain of your lot. A pedlar's is a good business."

"Well, I don't exactly complain," replied the pedlar, with proud humility; "but--but----"

"But," interrupted Archer, "we all like to be a little better off than we are. Isn't that it?" asked the gamekeeper, with a laugh.

"Well, I dare say you are not far wrong, Archer my boy," said the pedlar, wheedlingly. "It's natural you know, ain't it? By the way, Johnny old fellow, do you think you could do an old friend a great favour? It won't cost you anything. I'm not going to ask you to lend me any money."

"Well," said John, "what is it?"

"Why, the fact is," said Mike, "that I have got some fine stuffs that will do for curtains or to cover chairs with. I've got carpets, mattresses, and I don't know what all. Besides which I have got some excellent wine, superfine quality, which if you could induce your master to buy, my fortune would be made."

"It would be useless," answered John Archer. "His lordship never buys either stuffs or wine from country hawkers, but has up everything from London."

"Well, I suppose he would, you know, a great man like him. Still, when a good thing comes in your way, something unique, like this wine of mine, why, it would be madness to let it slip through your fingers without even giving it a trial. Look here now." Here he produced the bottle. "This wine I am in the habit of always carrying about with me as a sample. Here, just taste it. It'll do your heart good." Here he poured out a glass.

"Thank you, no," said Archer.

"Nonsense, man," said the pedlar, "what are you afraid of?"

"Nothing," replied Archer, "only I don't care about it, thank you."

"Drink, drink, man. What's the matter with you?"

"Drink it yourself, I won't rob you of it," said John.

"Oh, as to that, Jack my boy, I'm not niggardly in offering my wine, especially when I meet old friends, you know, besides, I am interested in your tasting this, because, you see, when you have once drunk this little glassful you will be better able to speak well of it to your master, and he _might_ honour me so far as to purchase a dozen. But, interest apart, take a glass for old friendship's sake, or I shall take offence. Come, no excuse; here you are!"

John Archer, wearied out by the pedlar's importunities, could resist no longer, and suspecting nothing, tossed off the glass at a gulp.

"Good, indeed," he had barely time to say, as he gave back the glass. "Gramercy! how is this? My head swims. I--I----"

He was unable to finish his sentence, but fell like a log to the ground. The pedlar's eyes glistened as he witnessed the speedy effects of the drug. In another moment his fingers were fumbling in the waistcoat pocket of the prostrate John Archer, and he had succeeded in transferring the watch from the gamekeeper's pocket to his own.

He then began rifling his other pockets, but there was little else worth taking on poor John's person--a few loose coins, perhaps, nothing more.

At this moment De Chevron came up, and lifting the gun from the ground, said, "This gun is yours, Mike."

Then, retreating a few paces behind the pedlar, he levelled the gun at his head, but not being quite correct in his aim, the bullet lodged in the man's shoulder. Mike gave a yell of agony on finding himself wounded, but he still might have imagined that the gun had gone off accidentally and had thus hit him in the shoulder, had not De Chevron immediately come up and with one tremendous blow on the head from the butt end of the gun, felled him to the ground.

"Treachery!" feebly gasped out the wretched man.

Then followed a second blow, a third and even a fourth, until the unhappy dupe spoke no more. To drag the body to a ditch thickly overgrown with nettles and brambles which completely concealed it from view was the work of the moment, having previously despoiled the corpse of its recently acquired treasure and restored the same to the pocket of its owner, who still lay in the arms of Morpheus. Then replacing the gun by the side of its sleeping master, and bedaubing the gamekeeper's clothes with blood, he first poured out the contents of the pedlar's bottle on the grass, then started homewards.

No one appears to have met him, either before or after the murder. Circumstances seem to have been peculiarly favourable to him that evening, for chancing to be excessively windy at that hour, and the road being of loose white sand, not a single footprint was to be discovered the next morning. It was somewhere about midnight when John Archer woke up from his trance. His first wonderment was how he got there. He imagined that he must in some way or other have become intoxicated. Then he thought of the pedlar. It was strange, he did not remember having drunk more than one glass, but it was not until he reached his cot that he was aware of the plight he was in.

Where did all that blood come from? he asked himself. He must be wounded he thought. However, he examined himself all over and could discover nothing. The barrel of his gun was discharged, too, and the butt end of it stained with blood. He was more bewildered than ever. He then related the whole of the circumstances to his parents, who, however, could not bring themselves to believe otherwise than that their son must have been intoxicated, although his character for sobriety was well known.

The blood stains, however, and the discharged barrel still remained a mystery and became the subject of much conjecture amongst his friends. The blood, as he owned himself, did not proceed from any wound he had received. Whose blood was it then? The butt end of his gun being stained with blood would argue violence used against some person or animal.

John was known to be an honest and humane man--the very last man in the world to commit murder; still, under the influence of intoxication he might have committed a rash act. When questioned as to whether he remembered anything, he shook his head, and merely related his interview with the pedlar, from whom he felt confident of not having accepted more than one glass of wine. His manner throughout all this questioning was open and frank, and everyone agreed that, mysterious as the affair appeared, they were quite sure that young Archer was innocent of murder.

The day after, however, a waggoner's dog passing by the scene of the murder was observed by its master to be sniffing and burrowing in a certain ditch. The waggoner took no notice of the circumstance at first, until the dog set up a howl and refused to leave the spot. It then seemed to be tearing or dragging some heavy substance with its teeth, and finally succeeded in leaving bare the body of the pedlar. The pedlar had already been missed in the village, and the waggoner at once recognised the body. He lost no time in rousing the neighbourhood, for he dreaded being discovered near the corpse, lest he should be implicated in the murder.

The body of the pedlar was removed to the nearest cottage, and a surgeon sent for immediately to examine it. Contrary to everybody's expectation, the surgeon pronounced that life was not yet extinct, though he held out no hopes at all of ultimate recovery.

He did all he could do under the circumstances, gave his instructions to the inmates of the cottage, and said that he would call again. Then arose the question, who could be the perpetrator of the deed? Suspicion immediately attached itself to John Archer.

Witnesses came forward and deposed that they had met John Archer with blood on his clothes and the butt end of his rifle also stained with blood. The wounds on the head of the all-but murdered man appeared to have been inflicted by the butt end of a rifle, therefore this was strong evidence; but there was yet stronger. The bullet having been extracted from the dying man's shoulder, was at once recognised by all as belonging to John Archer, his bullets being marked always in a peculiar manner, added to which it fitted exactly into the bore of Archer's rifle.

This last evidence was considered conclusive, and John Archer was conducted off to prison to await his trial at the next assizes. Imagine the grief and dismay of poor John's aged parents, who had looked forward to his being the prop of their old age, at hearing that their only son had been arrested on a charge of murder. Imagine the shame and confusion of John himself, the surprise and indignation of his intimate friends, including ourselves, who still believed in his innocence.

As for poor Claribel, she was struck completely dumb at the news; she could not believe her ears. It was not for a considerable time that she could realise the fact; but when she did, she neither fainted, burst into tears, nor behaved in any way extravagantly. Her grief was too deeply seated. She moped about the house with her eyes fixed, as if she were walking in her sleep. It was just this calm, in a nature like hers, that I dreaded far more than any violent transport of grief, for I feared that the shock had been too great for her, and had turned her brain. What made the affair doubly painful to her was that the village people had already begun to couple her name with John Archer's.

Folks speaking of the arrest would say that it was Claribel Falkland's young man that had been arrested for murder, although there had never been anything like an engagement between them.

When she recovered herself somewhat, she said, "Molly, depend upon it, that De Chevron is at the bottom of this."

Now, although I knew De Chevron to be a hardened villain and capable of any atrocity, I did not see myself how he could possibly be connected with the murder, he being absent from the village at the time. Neither did I for a moment believe John Archer capable of the crime. The evidence against him was singularly unfortunate, it is true; but no one who knew the man as intimately as we did could really have believed him guilty. It was clear that someone must have committed the murder. Who, then, was likely to have done so?

De Chevron was a villain, we knew, but that was no proof that he was the murderer. However, I excused this seeming unreasonableness in my friend, considering the state of her mind at the time, and merely suggested:

"But he is in London, my dear."

"I tell you he is mixed up in the affair," persisted Claribel. "I was warned of this in my dream."

"I fear that would have little weight in a court of justice," I replied.

"De Chevron is the murderer, and no one else," she persisted, doggedly.

"But, my dear Claribel," said I, soothingly, "allowing that he is a wicked, heartless villain, just think for a moment how you would support your accusation in a court of law. A pedlar is found murdered in a ditch, and a gentleman of De Chevron's condition now in London, where he has been for the last week, is accused of the murder. Consider the absurdity of the idea."

"How do you know he has been in London all the time?" asked my friend.

"Well, I grant you, I did not see him go," said I; "but when a man gives out that he is going away from a place, and has not been seen by anyone since, especially when it is in a little village like this, where everybody knows everybody else's business, the probability is that he has left."

"Do not be too sure," said Claribel. "We must examine into the affair."

"Oh, that is easily done," said I; "but even should he not have departed, if he should have changed his mind and remained here, what does that prove? Besides, what motive could a gentleman have in taking the life of a poor, unknown, itinerant pedlar?"

"To lay the blame on John Archer, his rival, and get him into trouble," was my friend's reply. "Do you not think him capable?"

"I think him capable of anything that's bad," said I; "but that's not the point. You must, first of all, have reason enough on your side to prove that he did, which you have not. Look, now, at the evidence against young Archer. A young man returns home to his family after midnight, his clothes disordered and bloodstained, his gun discharged, and the butt end of it clotted with blood. When questioned, he is unable to give any satisfactory account of himself. Says he remembers nothing but having accepted one glass of wine from a pedlar. He relates that he woke up towards midnight and discovered that he had been sleeping for hours in the open air, near to the spot where the body of the pedlar is found on the day following.

"His friends do not believe him guilty because, forsooth, he has earned a reputation for truthfulness, steadiness, and sobriety; yet might not the opposite party contend that it was not impossible that he might, once in his life, have broken through his custom of rigid abstinence, and in a moment of intoxication, picking a quarrel with the pedlar, first discharged his gun at him--for, remember that the bullet extracted from the pedlar's shoulder has been recognised as Archer's bullet--and afterwards, finding his adversary not mortally wounded, had hastened his death by knocking out his brains with the butt end of his rifle. That he had afterwards himself fallen into a drunken sleep and entirely forgotten the events of the preceding evening is not at all impossible. This would be the more charitable way of looking at the affair; but, alas, there is another circumstance that puts it in a more serious light, and that is the hiding of the body. The body has been discovered in a ditch, carefully concealed from view by weeds and brambles. This argues reason. Is it probable that a man who commits homicide in a drunken brawl, being so drunk at the time as to fall down on the damp ground and sleep there the whole night through, that he should have been sufficiently master of himself to drag off the body of his victim and successfully conceal it from view in an overgrown ditch?"

"I cannot and will not believe him so base as to be guilty of wilful murder, neither will I believe that he committed homicide in a fit of intoxication. If he took the pedlar's life at all--I say _if_ he did--why, then I lean towards the belief that he did it whilst under some evil spell of Richard de Chevron's. What do you believe, Molly?"

"No matter, dear, what I believe," said I; "I am a woman, like yourself, and too likely to be influenced by my feelings. I do not wish to believe him guilty, and should be very much surprised and horror-struck if he really were so, after the good opinion we all have had of him. But all that goes for nothing. I merely tell you how the world will judge him."

Poor Claribel could not help seeing that it was likely to go hard with John.

"Oh! if they should condemn him unjustly and execute him!" she cried, in agony.

Poor child! It was all I could do to comfort her. I told her the law was not rash in condemning anyone to death; that inquiries would be made, that the real perpetrator of the deed could not fail to be discovered, sooner or later, when he would suffer the penalty of the law, and the innocent man be acquitted. I had attempted to excite hopes in her that I myself dared hardly entertain, and that she, poor child, I could see, looked upon as poor consolation.

We both retired to rest that night with heavy hearts, but the next morning Claribel woke up with a smile on her face, although she looked very pale and worn.

"Molly, dear, I saw him last night," she said.

"Did you, really? What, John Archer?" I asked, for I no longer now doubted her word when she spoke in this manner.

"Yes," she replied, "and I promised to call again to give him consolation."

"How did you manage to speak to him?" I asked.

"By signs only; but he understood me."

"Was he asleep?" I asked.

"No; he was tossing restlessly on his pallet."

"Then he could not possibly imagine he had been dreaming."

"I think not, as this is the second time I have appeared to him in the spirit."

"I remember you told me once before that you had seen him, and he himself confirmed it, although I know that you never left the house that day. But, tell me, did no one see you enter?"

"What matter if they did? Bolts and bars are no obstacles to a spirit."

"And you passed through prison walls and bolted doors without opposition?"

"I did, and I promised that I should be with him again in his cell as the clock struck two, so that he might be quite sure that he had not been dreaming."

"You will keep your appointment, of course?" I said.

"If I do not, I do not know who it will be that will prevent me."

Here our conversation ceased, and we passed our time as usual until it drew towards two o'clock in the afternoon, when my friend suddenly stopped in the middle of talking and said,

"Do not disturb me, Molly dear, or allow anyone else to. I am going to John."

Then throwing herself back in an arm-chair, she appeared almost immediately in a sound sleep, resembling a swoon. I then observed, as it were, two outlines to her form, for a cloudy substance like a halo began to envelop her, which, widening as it rose upwards, from the body began to solidify or partially so, and to assume the exact form and features of Claribel. Having separated itself from her person, it passed rapidly before my face like a gust of wind, causing my hair to stir and crackle as if singed with a candle,[20] and passing head foremost through the window with inconceivable velocity was instantly lost to my view.

An indescribable feeling of horror passed over me at being left thus alone with what appeared to be the corpse of my friend. The next moment my father entered the room, and fearing lest he should wake my friend in the middle of her trance by his talking, I ran to the door and begged he would not enter, as Claribel felt rather poorly and he might awake her, so he prudently retired to another room, when I gently turned the key of the door and kept watch close to the clay of my friend until the spirit should return to re-animate it.

Let us now take a peep at John in prison. Poor fellow! He had not slept a wink all night. He rose worn and languid. Disdaining his frugal breakfast of bread and water, with arms folded, eyes fixed and head sunk upon his breast, he paced dejectedly up and down the narrow limits of his cell.

"Is this John Archer?" he soliloquised. "Is this the man once surrounded by friends, the hope and pride of his parents, the favoured servant of Lord Edgedown, honoured and respected by all, now handcuffed and led off to prison on a charge of murder to await an ignominious trial, and probably be condemned to hang by the neck till he is dead in the presence of a jeering rabble? It cannot be. I must be transformed. I must be dreaming. This is not John Archer. Is John Archer a murderer? Can I really have committed a murder in a state of delirium which has obliterated all recollection of the crime committed? It must be so. How else could I have slept all night on the bare ground and on awaking find my gun discharged, my clothes bloodstained, and even the butt end of my rifle besmeared with blood?

"How is all this to be accounted for? I must have committed murder. Who will believe me if I assert my innocence, or how will the law be brought to look upon the crime as committed during temporary insanity? No; I shall be found guilty, condemned, and executed. I do believe that the vision of last night that appeared to me bearing the form and features of Claribel was my guardian angel come to apprise me of my doom.

"Oh, Claribel, Claribel! must we then for ever be parted? But what was that vision? Claribel in the flesh? For so it appeared; for sure it was no dream, yet how could that be? Could she herself have broken through bolts and bars or obtained a pass to speak to me alone? Impossible! Was it, perchance, some fiend having taken upon himself the likeness of those divine features in order so to mock me? Or was it merely an hallucination of my distempered brain? Whatever it was, I would that it were here again so that I might feast my eyes once more upon its lovely features ere I die."

He paused suddenly, for now, whether it were some trick of the senses, some hallucination conjured up by his over-excited brain, in the opposite corner of his cell something like a bluish vapour appeared, which seemed to grow denser, to solidify until it grew into the semblance of a human form, bearing the features of--whom?

"Claribel!" gasped out the prisoner, hardly above his breath, for his voice died within him and he remained awe-stricken. "What! Do I rave? Oh, beauteous image! Claribel! Claribel! Tell me, oh, my guardian angel, hast thou come to announce my doom, to solace my last moments? Oh, if it be thou indeed, Claribel, in the flesh and no delusion of my senses, come to me, let me feel the pressure of thy hand."

At this moment he sprang forward and attempted to seize the hand of the figure, which he had no sooner touched than it melted in his grasp, causing him to feel such a supernatural terror that he staggered backwards and gave an involuntary shriek.

The figure put its finger to its lip, the forefinger of the very hand that had vanished into thin air at the material touch of John Archer, but which had immediately resumed its previously defined form upon the withdrawing of Archer's hand.

"Angel or fiend!" he exclaimed. "Whatever thou art, that comest to me in this lovely guise, declare thy mission, unveil to me the future, and spare not mine ears if my doom be sealed. If there be hope----"

Here the figure again put its finger to its lip in token of silence, for Archer, now somewhat over his first surprise, spoke no longer in a husky whisper, but in a loud voice.

"Tell me, tell me," continued the prisoner, lowering his voice, "thou who seemest no being of this world, and who doubtless art cognisant of secrets beyond our ken, tell me in pity how I have deserved this fate. Say, have these hands really been dyed in the blood of one of my fellow-men during the lapse of some passing insanity? Say, why am I here? Dost thou, O spirit, think me guilty?"

The phantom answered not, save by a look of commiseration and a slow shake of the head.

"I see that thou thinkest me not guilty. I thank thee for that. Mine innocence may yet be proved."

The spectre's features lighted up with a look of hope, as if it would answer "I wish it may."

"Angelic being!" he pursued, "vouchsafe me but one word. Say, will the true murderer be found?"

Another look of hope lighted up the spirit's features.

"He will, he will; I feel he will!" exclaimed the prisoner, enthusiastically. "Thank Heaven! But one word more. Dost know the criminal?"

The same look again, accompanied this time by a slight inclination of the head.

"Ah! thou knowest him? His name, his name; tell me!" Here the figure appeared somewhat confused, as if struggling to speak; then gliding rather than walking up to the wall of the cell, it traced with its finger the letters of a name in characters that appeared burnt into the stone, during which operation a crackling sound was heard similar to that before alluded to, and Archer, who had watched the movements of the figure with straining eyeballs and in breathless silence, gave a yell of surprise and agony as he read the name _Richard de Chevron_, and sank on the floor of his dungeon in a swoon.

A jingling of keys in the passage was now audible, and the next moment the jailor had entered the cell. Hearing the voice of the prisoner discoursing loudly, curiosity had led him to the door of his cell, but what was his dismay and consternation at finding the prisoner in a swoon on the floor, whilst over him, as if to protect him, lent the fair youthful form of a maiden, who after fixing her eyes intently for a moment, pointed to the writing on the wall.

The jailor, perfectly dumbfounded, would have asked her in surly tones, how she came there, and who let her in, but the presence of the figure filled him, in spite of himself, with such awe that he could not utter a word. Then glancing at the writing on the wall and then again at the figure of the maiden, who looked at him in a manner that made him feel he knew not how, as he afterwards declared, he observed her rise to her feet, retreat one pace, and pointing once more to the writing on the wall, gradually dissolved herself into a mist and disappeared from his sight.

The jailor's courage now fairly left him, his knees knocked together in a panic, and he dropped his bunch of keys on the ground. At length recovering from his first surprise, he gazed around him, and found himself alone with the prisoner, who was still in his swoon. The first thing that he did was to secure the door of the cell, then walking up to the prisoner, shook him roughly, and assailed him with questions.

"Beautiful vision!" cried Archer, now awaking from his swoon, "thou has saved my life by denouncing the true murderer. Were it not for thee I might---- But where art thou? Gone--Fled? Has it, then, been all a dream? Oh!" he groaned, as his eyes caught the jailor bending over him.

"Come, be of good cheer, young man," said the jailor, kindly. "It was no dream, or if it was, we have both been dreaming, and had the same dream. I, too, saw the lady. I'll swear to that in any court of justice. Well, I never believed in ghosts before, young man. I never did, upon my word, but after what I have just seen with these eyes----"

"What! you saw her, too?" interrupted Archer. "You? Then it was no dream, but a divine vision sent by Providence to preserve the innocent. Look, there is her writing on the wall."

"What means that name, young man?" asked the jailor, gravely.

"She traced it with her own finger. I asked her to reveal to me the name of the true murderer, and that was the name she traced upon the wall."

"You are not imposing upon me, young man?" inquired the jailor, suspiciously.

"Not I," answered Archer, frankly. "Did you not see her yourself?"