Chapter VII: A Specter in the Monks’ Chapel

While Cordelia turned to speak with her maid, our hero, having shaken himself to make sure that he was awake and in possession of his sober senses, looked forward to see how far they were from the summit of the crag.

It was close at hand--not a hundred yards distant. He was surprised. He had supposed it still a long way off. But his surprise vanished when he had consulted his watch--half-past four!

“Mercy! Dear lady! Do you know what time it is?”

“No. I have not thought of it.”

He told her; but she was not alarmed. Even though it should be dark when they reached the castle, it would not matter.

“Not if the weather holds fair,” returned the guide. “I don’t like the looks of those clouds rising away to the eastward.”

“I thought storm-clouds always came from the sea.”

“No, no. Clouds that give us long rains generally come from that direction; but, if you will remember, I think you will find that our severest storms are brewed on the other hand. But we will not complain in advance. Ah!”

“Oh! Oh, is it not beautiful!” It was Mary Seymour who had thus exclaimed.

Her mistress stood, drinking in the scene in awestruck silence. The sublimity of the view was too great for her poor speech to do it justice. And Percy was also silent. The single interjection had burst from him as his eyes first took in the grand panorama, and that was all.

The sea; the many islands; the long stretch of rugged coast; the beautiful park; the old castle; the forest; the silvery lakelets, and the sparkling streams--altogether, it was a picture well worth climbing to see. Cordelia gazed her fill--gazed until the first whelming emotions of awe were past, and then pointed out certain points with regard to which she wished for information. Her guide explained all he could--told her all he knew; and at length suggested that they had better be thinking of home.

“But the flowers! You promised me I should have them,” insisted Cordelia. She was playful in her manner, yet earnest.

“Will you take time for that, lady? They are somewhat out of our way; but you shall have them, if you say so.”

“Oh! never mind the time. A little twilight won’t harm us. Let’s have the flowers.”

Evidently she was determined to prolong the walk, and, had it not been for those threatening clouds, her guide would have liked it as well as she.

“Dear lady--I tell you, truly, I do not like the looks of those clouds. I’m afraid we shall have rain before we get home, unless we make all possible haste.”

But the lady insisted; and the guide yielded. A detour was made to the eastward and the flowers found and secured. Cordelia was happy.

She had wanted the sweet little treasures of scent and blossom for a long time, and she could not thank her kind guide enough for his goodness in getting them for her.

“Fifteen minutes of six!” said Percy, in a tone of hushed anxiety. “Oh! what would I give for a good horse.”

“And, what would you do with a single horse, sir?” the lady demanded, quickly.

“I would look to the girths, make sure all was secure, then lift you to its back and start you homeward, my lady.”

“But, dear Percy, do you really feel so uneasy about the weather?”

“I do, truly, dear lady. Look for yourself. If there is not a goodly store of electricity in those clouds, then I am much mistaken.”

“Well, we must hurry. You will let me take your hand.”

He put forth his hand, took hers in a warm, loving grasp, and they set forward; but time had sped beyond the lady’s calculations, or beyond her belief, for she had had no calculation about it.

By the time they had gained half the distance down the rugged slope cool gusts of wind struck their cheeks; the clouds had become so dense and so completely covered the firmament as to bring night on prematurely.

And that was not the worst. Pretty soon a vivid stream of fire shot athwart the dark vault, and a crash of thunder followed almost immediately.

“Courage, courage!” said Percy. “The old chapel is close at hand. We shall find good shelter there.”

“Oh! Just think, dear lady,” said the maid, who had drawn nearer the strong man since the lightning bolt. “We haven’t touched the luncheon I have in the basket.”

“Oho, it grows heavy, does it, Mary?”

“No, no; that isn’t it. And yet,” she confessed, after a momentary pause, “it is pretty heavy, come to carry it so far.”

“Well, we’ll empty it at the chapel.”

But Percy took the basket into his own hand, despite the maid’s earnest protestations, and he found it heavier than he had thought. It was but as a feather to him, but he could feel that it must have pulled on the weak girl during so long a walk.

“Ho! There it is!”

“Aye, and here is the rain.”

It was the chapel which Cordelia had discovered, and they reached it with not a moment to spare, for scarcely had Mary crossed the threshold when the rain came down in a torrent. As the maid expressed it, with more of truth than poetry--it came down “like they were pouring it out of a tub.”

But they had found perfect shelter, though somewhat gloomsome. Percy selected three of the most comfortable seats he could find, and he did not have occasion to move them.

They were already in the corner farthest away from the storm--in a corner between the arch of the vestibule and the first window on the easterly side. And there in the deepening gloom Cordelia opened the basket, and took out a portion of the provisions she had with her own hands packed into it. She had brought but one drinking-cup, but it answered every purpose.

“We can call it ‘the Loving Cup,’” suggested the maid, little dreaming what chords she was touching to tuneful response in the bosoms of her two companions.

But the others knew, as a hidden hand-grasp testified.

“Now, mark!” commanded the lady, as Percy began to express his regrets at the unfortunate situation of the two women, “Mark what I say, and remember, we will have not a word of fault-finding, not a word of complaint. Here we are, and here we must make the best of it. It is all my fault, every bit and grain of it, and I am willing to bear the blame; but don’t blame me too severely.”

“Mercy! how it pours!” exclaimed the maid. “I am only thinking--how shall we ever find the way home in pitch darkness?”

Percy said, cheerfully, he thought there would be no trouble about that. “These sort of storms,” he went on, “are not of long duration. The clouds will soon pass off when the rain is done falling, and then we’ll have a moon within a day or two of its full to light us on our homeward way. My only serious thought is of the good old earl.”

“Hush!” cried the law-giver, with a light laugh. “That is complaint, and is forbidden. I will make it all right with dear old grandpa.”

The rain continued to fall in a torrent, ever and anon the lightning gleamed and the thunder came crashing down upon the solid roof.

The adventurers had eaten their luncheon and Mary had carefully packed the empty dishes back into the basket, by which time the darkness had shut them in like a pall. The blackest midnight could not have been darker.

Mary Seymour had found a seat at Percy’s feet, and, despite the terrific voices of the storm, was inclined to sleep. The long walk, the weight of the basket, and, moreover, the soporific influence of the atmosphere, had completely overcome her, and, with the basket for a pillow, she was ere long soundly asleep.

Percy held his watch in his hand, waiting for the next gleam of heaven’s light, and when it came he saw that it was close upon seven o’clock.

The sun had been gone little more than half an hour. Cordelia nestled close, held firmly in his loving embrace. And here, and thus, they exchanged the first sweet, ecstatic kiss of love.

“Oh, Percy! What would life be without your dear companionship, without your blessed love?”

“My love, darling, you will always possess. No power on earth can take it from you. It is yours now and forevermore.”

“And your dear self with it, sweet love.”

“Heaven send it may be so.”

“Amen! and amen!”

After this they sat for a time in silence, their thoughts too deep for words. Her head was pillowed on his bosom, and his strong arm encircled her.

What need was there of further speech? The silence was eloquent; and the crashing thunder, when it fell, was as grand music in their ears.

By and by the patter of the rain upon the roof grew less; but, as the rain held up, the lightning seemed to come more frequently and with increased brilliancy. Oh, how dark it was when the fire of heaven had gone out!

Several minutes had passed thus after the rain had commenced to slacken, and the furious blast that had accompanied the first flood had died away, when our hero was startled and his heart caused to bound suddenly by the unmistakable sound of a footfall without. It was the fall of a human foot upon the surface of rock in front of the chapel!

“Hush!” he whispered, as he felt his companion start and nestle more closely to him.

“Oh, Percy! What can it be? Is it somebody in search of us?”

“No; I think not. They would have scarcely had time since the storm arose. Hush! Promise me, darling, that you will utter no cry of alarm, let it be who or what it may. They may not discover us in this corner if we keep perfectly quiet. Ah! Hush! Not a lisp!”

The footstep--a heavy one--was upon the threshold, and a faint glimmer of light, seeming to come from the dingy lens of a dark lantern, shot into the chapel with just power enough to render the surrounding darkness visible.

A human figure entered; a figure tall, erect, and apparently bulky. The lantern was carried in the right hand, with its lens turned toward the rear of the place--toward the altar--in which direction the figure moved.

Cordelia’s breath was almost hushed; and she clung to her dear lover closely and with perfect trust.

Nothing like a cry--not even a loud breath--had escaped her.

The figure--only one had entered--had reached a point directly opposite the place where our adventurers sat, when a terrific crash fell that shook the structure from its massive roof to its foundation; and following close upon it came a flood of light, filling the old chapel with a blaze as of noonday; and the light enveloped the new-comer as in a glowing halo.

And this is what Percy Maitland saw--saw it as plainly and clearly as he ever saw anything in his life:

A man, tall and stalwart, in the robe of a gray friar, with the cowl drawn only partially over his head. And the face--Oh! what did it mean?

It was his father’s face!--the face of Hugh Maitland, as he remembered it, in its manly strength and vigor.

It was only for a moment--for two or three seconds--and then the darkness fell again and the poor glimmer of the lantern appeared no more than the glow of a fire-fly. Only for one poor moment; yet had he looked for an hour he could not have seen it more distinctly.

If ever he saw his father’s face, he was sure he saw it then under that gray cowl. Or it had been something so nearly resembling it that the distinction could not be traced?

And still, with wildly beating heart, he listened. He heard the footfall, and he saw the ghostly glimmer of the lantern; the gray friar was approaching the altar.

Suddenly the light disappeared. A moment later the watcher heard a low, rumbling sound, and then all was still.

By and by another bolt of thunder fell, and a flood of electric light filled the chapel. Both Percy and Cordelia peered with all their might into the far end of the place; but the friar had gone!

The altar was there and the solid wall behind it, and that was all. The strange intruder had disappeared as though the stone pavement had opened and swallowed him up!

“Percy!” whispered the trembling girl, as soon as she dared to trust her voice above her breath, “What was it? Who was it?”

“Darling, I do not know. I am lost in wonder.”

“But where did he go? I certainly saw him, close by the altar. I saw the lantern when it cast its feeble rays on the dark rock. Where could he have gone to?”

“Dear girl, I can not imagine. But we may henceforth be able to better understand the peasants’ earnest stories of the place being haunted. You have heard them?”

“Yes, yes, often; and have laughed at them. But,” after a pause, “is not the solution a greater puzzle than were the ghosts?”

“Verily, dear girl, it is even so. Aye, it is a puzzle; and it must, I fear, remain a puzzle, until we can gain more light than we are likely to receive to-night.”

He would not tell her of the greatest marvel of all to himself. What to think of it he did not know. His mind was in a whirl.

He must have time to consider. He knew his father was dead; for he had sat by his dying bed, and had held his hand while he breathed his last, and had seen the mortal body buried in its mother earth.

So, it could not be his father in the flesh he had seen roaming in that old chapel, with a dark lantern in his hand. As to its being his father’s ghost or spirit, that was to him simply monstrous.

Even admitting that the return of a spirit could be possible, the spirit of his father would have been engaged in no such nocturnal escapade.

Could there be another man--a man amongst the living--with his father’s face? A wonderful likeness, like that, offered the most satisfactory solution of the marvel. But who could it be? If such a man lived, and was familiar with that part of the country, why had he never seen him before?

But--where was the use? Puzzle and conjecture as he would, he could come no nearer to the truth. The only thing to do was to take time; keep his eyes and ears open, and search. And one thing which he meant to search was this very chapel.

Almost before they were aware of it the rain had ceased to fall, and a low murmur of thankfulness fell from Cordelia’s lips as she saw a stream of silvery moonlight on the chapel floor.

Aye, the clouds were rolling away and the bright moon, near its full, looked forth right cheerily from the eastern sky, casting light enough through the three tall windows on that side to illumine the chapel very clearly. At all events, the stone altar was plainly visible, and all the adjacent wall.

“Cordelia, the man whom we saw--the gray friar--must have found a way out somewhere near the altar. Shall we look?”

“You do not think he can be lurking near?” she asked.

“No, no; there can be no danger of that. Be sure, he was seeking a place of hiding when he entered here. Darling!” he added, after a considerable pause, during which he had appeared to be thinking deeply, “I think I can tell you something new. It has come to me since we saw the moonbeam on the pavement.

“Listen; I remember--but I had forgotten it completely--I remember, when I was but a small boy--certainly not more than eight or ten years old--of hearing my father, in conversation with his chief mate, old Donald Rodney, mention the Monk’s Chapel; and I am very sure that at that time he was trying to persuade Donald to go with him and explore. Of course, I can’t remember their words, nor anywhere near thereto; yet I am confident that I am not mistaken about the object my father had in view.

“Cordelia, he believed there were secret crypts beneath the old pile, fashioned when it was built, and he wished very much to find them; but I am very sure he never did it. He probably searched, and had to give it up. If he had found them I should have known it. Aye, as sure as you live, there is a hidden way beneath where we stand, and, I tell you, I will find it if the finding is possible.”

“Oh, you will be careful, Percy! What would become of me if harm should come to you?”

“Have no fear. Ah, Mary is awake. I think we had better not tell her of what we have seen.”

“No, we will tell nobody, until we have gained further knowledge. Shall it be so?”

“Yes. We will leave it at that. And now for home. The way will be damp, but I think we shall survive.”

The maid, when she had collected her scattered senses, and had called to mind the situation, was agreeably surprised upon finding the storm at an end, and the moon brightly shining. She picked up her basket, and was soon ready, with the others, to set forth upon the homeward way.

They encountered several pools of water over which Percy was obliged to carry the two girls in his arms; but nothing serious interposed to render the return at all unpleasant. Fortunately the path through the woods was broad and open, and lay in such direction that the moonlight fell full upon it for most of the distance.

They had reached very near to the southern extremity of the wood, and our hero had just borne his two companions across the last pool, when their ears were saluted by loud cries and shouts of distress and alarm, and a little later the glare of a dozen torches, in full blaze, burst upon them.

“Oh, my precious lady, are you alive? Are you safe? Oh! how frightened we have been.” So exclaimed the stout old steward, Michael Dillon, when he had seen his young mistress in the flesh before him. And the glad acclaim of the party, when they knew that Cordelia was alive and well, told how deeply and truly she was loved by the household of the castle.

There were twelve men in the party which our adventurers had thus met; and two other parties had gone in other directions; but they were small.

The larger number had come this way, because this had been the path hit upon as most likely to be the true one.

As soon as old Michael had made sure that all was well with the dear young lady, he ordered two heavily charged muskets to be fired, which had been brought for that purpose, to inform the other parties that the lost one had been found.

He next dispatched a swift runner to the castle, with information to the earl of the happy ending of the search; and then, with a curious mingling of joy and pomposity, he issued his order for the homeward march.

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