Chapter XXVI: The Spectre at the Feast

——Speak! if voice thou hast,
Tell me what sacrifice can soothe thy spirit;
Can still the unquiet sleeper of the grave,
For this most horrid visitation is
Beyond endurance of the noblest mind
In perishable flesh and blood enrobed.—_Joanna Baillie._

“To the Earl and Countess of Glen Lennark,” said the young Lord Inchburn, filling his goblet and rising in his place at the right hand of his host. “To the Earl and Countess of Glen Lennark! gentlemen, you will surely pledge me in this sentiment.”

“Pray excuse me, but—that was the toast that died on the lips of my late dying relative,” said the Earl, gently laying his hand upon that of the young nobleman.

“Ah! was it? I did not know! your pardon! put it in some other form! Gentlemen, we will drink the health of our noble host and hostess separately—our fair hostess first! Gentlemen, fill your glasses!”

All complied and rose, goblets in hand.

“To the lovely Countess of Glen Lennark! Long and happily may she rule over the fair lands of her ancestors,” smiled the young peer, with a profound obeisance.

All honored the toast with deep bows and full bumpers, and so resumed their seats.

“_Lady Glen Lennark accepts and thanks your countess!_”

All started! The earl gazed in wild terror around!

Whence came that deep-toned solemn, vibrating voice that tolled like a death bell through the room?

Not from the rosy lips of Adelaide whose melodious organs never knelled forth such a _de profundus_. Not from any one there present.

“Who spoke?” demanded the host, with pale lips.

There was no answer, but the guests sought each other’s eyes in inquiry, and Adelaide leaned forward upon the table as if about to faint.

“Do not be alarmed, it is nothing,” said the earl, to his wife, in a hoarse whisper, whose faltering tones belied his words.

“Who spoke?” he repeated, in a raised voice.

Still there was no reply. But the guests gazed at each other in amazement, and fair Adelaide shuddered in her seat.

“Control yourself, madam!” he said, in a stern whisper, then raising his voice, for the third time, he reiterated the question whose form he seemed to have no power to change—

“Who spoke?”

There came a response, tolling like a deep-mouthed bell, through the room:

“_Leonora Countess of Glen Lennark and Baroness Lockburn._”

With a stifled cry, Adelaide sank back in her chair.

The guests all started upon their feet looking around as if in the expectancy of some strange denouement.

The Earl arose in extreme agitation—

“Gentlemen, we are the victims of some impudent imposture! Let us unearth this invisible speaker!” he said, in a tone that he vainly endeavored to make calm.

“_It shall not need!_” spoke the same profound voice.

And the door of the turret cabinet swung open and a tall dark woman of exceeding beauty and unearthly pallor, clothed in deep mourning, slowly advanced to the foot of the table and stood directly opposite to the Earl of Glen Lennark, who, with a deep groan, sank back in his chair.

“You, who did not know the _voice_—do you now recognize the _form_ of Lionne Delaforêt? And do you remember this document?” she said, drawing from her bosom and holding out a small written paper.

He covered his face with his hands and groaned.

“Call yourself now Earl of Glen Lennark if you dare!—Abide in the halls of Glen Lennark at your peril! Lay down the title that you dishonor! depart from the roof that you desecrate! Away! begone! while a semblance of honor and liberty remain to you!” and with her arm raised on high, with a gesture of supreme command, this woman of unearthly beauty swept from the room and was gone, ere any one recovered their astonishment or thought of preventing her.

“Some escaped lunatic,” said the clergyman, who was the first to find a voice.

“Some poor beauty that Deville had flirted with and abandoned!” whispered the young Lord Inchburn.

“A ghost, if ever one appeared to mortal eyes,” said an old lady.

“Follow her! she should be stopped,” said a magistrate, present.

And all these various expressions of opinion were uttered at the same instant, while their host pressed his hand before his agonized countenance.

And in the next moment a heavy fall was heard, and several voices exclaimed—

“Look to Lady Glen Lennark! she has fainted.”

The Earl was the first to spring to the assistance of his wife. She seemed quite dead; she was, in fact, quite insensible. He bore her to a lounge, where every effort was made for her recovery; but in vain. The guests, unable to render assistance and feeling themselves in the way, took a hasty leave, and departed.

The countess was borne from her couch to her chamber, where she lay many hours in that death-like swoon, from which she was only at last aroused, by the fierce pangs of premature maternity. The struggle was long and terrible. And the life of the mother trembled in this strife of nature, as trembles a frail barque in a furious storm.

It was the deep midnight of the third day of agony that a son and heir was born to the Earl of Glen Lennark—but born DEAD.

_The first bolt of Lionne’s vengeance had fallen!_

When this sad news was carried by the doctor to the Earl, who was pacing the floor of the library, in unutterable anxiety, the erring man paused and muttered inaudibly—

“The curse of the ruined girl has fallen and not _her_ curse only. Even so! ‘the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation!’”

“Sir,” said the physician, who deeply pitied the father’s disappointment, “I offer you great comfort, in the news that the Countess is out of danger. She has been in extreme peril happily now passed.”

“_Happily?_” querulously repeated the Earl.

“Happily for _her_ and for _yourself_ assuredly, my lord. Your lordship will admit that grievous as is your disappointment, it is yet not the deep distress that would have been yours, had the Countess lost her life.”

“Doubtless, doubtless,” said the Earl, in an absent tone. “When can I see her ladyship?”

“I would advise, not to night. Her welfare depends upon her having perfect quiet. To-morrow, should all continue well, you shall see her.”

With this speech the physician retired to give some final directions to the nurse. And the Earl threw himself upon the sofa to take the first repose that had for three days and nights of suspense, visited his anxious mind and exhausted body.

And even through this period of intense anxiety, the mysterious stranger, whose inexplicable appearance brought on this catastrophe, was not for an hour forgotten. Inquiries were pushed in every direction, but failed of finding either an explanation of her sudden presence in the castle or a clue to her retreat.

Opinions concerning her varied. Some said that she was an escaped lunatic; others that she was a gipsy; while the superstitious whispered in awe-struck tones that it was no other than the ghost of the late lord’s daughter, the dead Lady Leonora!

At noon the next day the Earl received an intimation that he might now visit the chamber of the Countess.

He entered the darkened chamber, so dark that it scarcely gave to view the white lace draperies of the bed that held her fragile form.

He signed for the attendants to leave the room. When they had gone, he approached and put aside her curtains, and looked upon her fair, wan, spiritual face.

“How are you, Adelaide?”

“Well—oh, well—as—I wish to be,” she said, wildly—“Is any one here?”

“No, love; we are alone.”

She fixed her dilated eyes upon him, and said—

“Oh, Orville! the curse has fallen! the dread girl’s curse has fallen! Our first-born lies dead in his shroud!”

“It was the will of heaven, my love; do not look upon it in any other light,” he said, soothingly.

“Orville, _what was it_ that appeared to us from the turret chamber? was it herself? _was it her spirit?_” she asked, in a tone of deep, wild terror.

“Dear love”—he began, and stopped. What, indeed, could he reply to her? The “horrid visitation” remained to _him_ as to _her_, and to _all_, an inexplicable mystery. “Dear love”—he repeated, “think no more of it! it has caused mischief enough already! thank heaven that your own precious life is safe, and think only of getting well!”

“Oh, I cannot! I think of nothing but of that dread girl! her spectre! her voice! her malediction and its fulfillment! Oh, like a thunderbolt her curse fell and blasted where it struck! I can think of nothing else!”

“Then do not talk of it! words will feed your excitement.”

“_But what was it, then?_ oh, you have not told me that, yet! what was it that spoke to us from the turret chamber?”

“Dear love, many people think it was an escaped lunatic.”

“Oh!” she broke forth, wildly—“do not tell me what _others_ think! for how can _they_ judge? Tell me what you think! Oh, Orville, tell me what _you_ think!”

“Dear Adelaide, I know not _what_ to think! I saw what you saw, heard what you heard! and know no more than you do!”

“_She died, and was buried, you know!_ Her father saw her in the coffin, and saw the coffin put into the grave! _and yet she came to us! she spoke to us!_—she, herself, or her spirit!—one or the other!—herself risen from the grave, or her spirit! Oh, Orville, this is maddening! it is maddening!” she exclaimed, growing wild with excitement.

“Adelaide, love, I insist upon your changing the subject. Let us speak of yourself! Are you easy—free from pain?”

“Yes! no! I do not know!——_It was not night! I was not alone!_ it cannot be said that it was fancy! No, It was in broad daylight in a large company—that _she, that dread girl who died and was buried a year ago, arose up and spoke to us_! Can such things be—or am I going mad?” And overwhelmed by the horror of the recollection, the Countess shuddered and fell into spasms.

In terror for her, the Earl rushed to the bell and rang a peal that speedily brought her attendants into the room. A nearly fatal relapse followed. The convulsions continued through the day, and at night subsided into coma, which lasted until the next morning, when, contrary to the most sanguine expectations of her friends, Adelaide’s youth and constitutional health triumphed over death, and she returned to consciousness. But the most profound quiet was enjoined. The subject of the mysterious stranger was tabooed. The visits of the Earl were prohibited. All exciting conversation forbidden.

“And,” said the doctor to the Earl, “just so soon as the Countess is able to leave her apartments, she must not be permitted to visit the other parts of the house, but must be conveyed immediately, by easy stages, from the scene and the neighborhood. It is better that she risk some fatigue, than suffer the pain of exciting recollections.”

The Earl, for many strong reasons, assented to this.

Very protracted was the convalescence of the Countess. One great and all-absorbing desire consumed her heart—to escape from the castle of Glen Lennark, _once_ the happy home of her childhood, and the desired bourne of her exiled youth; but _now_ the scene of so many painful, exciting and maddening events. Her physician continued strenuously to advise change of place, and as soon as she could bear motion extensive travel.

It was late in October before Lady Glen Lennark was permitted to receive her husband. The meeting was very affectionate; though at first almost a silent one. But when the Earl, taking her transparent hand and gazing fondly into her fair, wan, spiritual face, inquired—

“My Adelaide, what can I do to prove how much I love you—how grateful I am for your life restored?”

She answered—“Oh, my lord, take me away from this place! take me quickly away!”

“That I had already resolved upon. What more, my Adelaide?”

“The next I ask is a great sacrifice that I scarcely dare to name!”

“Nay, speak, my dear Adelaide; there is nothing that I would not do to make you happy.”

“But this is something so unreasonable that I am afraid and ashamed to ask it.”

“Do not hesitate, sweet Adelaide, to trust your husband with your thoughts.”

“No, I _must_ not! I must not! I must speak! An instinct stronger than reason, or fear, or shame, compels me—and yet——”

“Well, Adelaide, what is it you would have me do?”

“_Do as the awful voice commanded._ Leave title, castle, and estate, and let us go forth as we came!” said the Countess, clasping her hands, and gazing into his eyes in wild entreaty.

The Earl dropped his head upon his bosom, and seemed to hesitate and reflect. His wife grew more painfully earnest in her appeal.

“Oh, my lord! my husband! do as the dreadful voice commanded. I feel! I feel! that your honor and safety, your life and liberty are at stake!”

“Adelaide, not for safety, life or liberty, would I abdicate my present position; but for your dear sake, I will do as you desire,” he said, with involuntary self-deception; for, in strict truth, it was a secret, unconscious regard for his imperilled honor, safety and liberty that impelled him to this concession. For after the shock of surprise and the tumult of excitement caused by the sudden appearance of the mysterious visitor had subsided, and left him opportunity for calm reflection, on leisurely reviewing all the circumstances, he had come to the conclusion, that the stranger had been no other than his ruined love, the fell Lionne Delaforêt, or, as she rightly called herself, Leonora, Countess of Glen Lennark! and he knew, that if he disregarded her stern injunction, she would not hesitate to put her threat in execution, and—using against him the terrible power with which his own crime had armed her—to deprive him of rank, honor and liberty. And thus his resolution to abandon his title and estate was not a voluntary renunciation, but an inevitable falling before the dread fate that pursued him.

“Make your gentle heart easy. You have my promise, Adelaide,” he said.

It was December before the convalescence of the Countess was sufficiently advanced to admit of her travelling. Then, without any formal or acknowledged abdication, the castle of Glen Lennark was simply left in charge of the old steward, who had acted in that capacity for so many years, and the Earl and Countess left Scotland with the intention of passing the winter in Italy.

And there, according to his promise, his lordship dropped his title, and the Earl and Countess appeared upon the hotel-register only as Mr. Orville Deville and Lady Adelaide Deville.