MIRIAM’S GHOST by J. W. Hollingsworth

A Christmas Story

Captain Desmond leaned back in the open carriage with an unusual sense of enjoyment and relief, as his gaze took in spots of peculiar interest in the changing views of the country road, along which he was being rapidly whirled to his destination. The close atmosphere of a first-class carriage of an express train from which he had emerged, after a four hours journey not half-an-hour since, had left its usually cramped depression upon an active man used to open-air exposure, and he felt the rush of the wintry breeze upon his face with keen pleasure.

After the conclusion of the Afghan War, in which Hugh Desmond had gained both honour and distinction for the great ability he had displayed, in the execution of several difficult and arduous commissions, in which untiring watchfulness and marked bravery had placed his name in the forefront of those valued at the War Office, he had now arrived in England on leave of absence, after an unusually long period of service in India.

The Desmonds were an old and extremely aristocratic family, who traced their origin back to a time previous to the period of the Norman Conquest, and to whom the part of the country towards which he was being rapidly driven, had formerly belonged up to the reign of Henry VIII, when the main portion of the Desmond family became open adherents of the Protestant cause and the Reformation. But during the conflict of the two succeeding reigns the vast estates were lost to his family, and had been repeatedly bought and re-sold; the present owner, an extremely wealthy banker, being the grandson of the freeholder. The Maitland family had been bosom friends of Desmond’s father, and so, very soon after his return to England, he was a Christmas guest at Gurthford Manor, which was now visible from the acclivity he had reached on the road, and about a mile distant. A few minutes later the road commenced to descend gradually, leading through a wooded district on both sides of the way, terminating at Gurthford Park, upon entering the gates of which disclosed an avenue in a splendid forest of pine trees, which shortly after opened upon pasture land with the ancient Manor and Priory in full view in the sunshine of the wintry afternoon. On Desmond’s arrival at the mansion a welcome reception awaited him, and he was soon engaged in rapid conversation with his host and family.

It wanted but three days to Christmas, and several guests were yet to arrive on a Christmas visit, and a large house party was arranged for the coming festival. The shadows deepened, and soon after the well-lighted and curtained room enhanced the comfort of the ruddy firelight, and the cheerful conversation was brought to a temporary close by his being compelled to retire to his room to dress for dinner. Less than an hour later the family were seated to dinner. The head of the family, Mr. Maitland, was a well preserved and handsome man rather under sixty. He himself had been an only son, and, with the exception of the private fortunes of his two sisters, had inherited the Manor and the adjoining estates, together with an immense fortune and successive interest in the large banking firm which his great grandfather had founded. Thus born heir to a very large inheritance, he was a rich man and had long since withdrawn from any active part in financial business of the banking firm. He married early and had in family two sons, Horace and Gilbert, now aged twenty-two and seventeen, and three daughters, Frances, Emily, and Lucy. The elder sister was about twenty-five years of age, her second sister was about three years younger though rather fairer and not quite so tall, yet bore a remarkable likeness to her. Lucy was a girl of fifteen. Mrs. Maitland was nearly ten years younger than her husband.

All without exception who have travelled for long in any far distant country, especially for years, realize in a most extraordinary manner the peculiarly happy sensation experienced upon returning to their native home. Hugh Desmond loved his country with a wonderful devotion, and his enjoyment at this moment was of that transcendent character which baffles description. He was a brave, generous, and devoted man in disposition, whose only personal regard was his honour, and at thirty years of age he was a singularly handsome man and a perfect type of an English gentleman. A sudden and new life was dawning upon him unconsciously this winter’s afternoon, and illuminating his soul with an intoxicating rosy light, and uniting him with that abode in the realms of happiness which is perhaps the most blissful. He was seated next to the mother of Frances Maitland, but his gaze unavoidably rested again upon Frances, who was in truth a very beautiful woman. Tall and lithe of stature, the exquisite proportions of her form and figures were enhanced by a deep blue velvet winter dress, the rich folds affording a vivid contrast to the creamy whiteness of her arms. Her rich dark-brown hair fell in a profusion of natural ringlets over her temples and massing away from them over her head and drooping to the back of her neck. Her forehead was low and broad, her eyes deep, soft clear brown, with delicately arched eyebrows and long drooping lashes which looked almost black in their depth. Her nose was straight, with that finely chiselled arching at the nostrils which is called spiritual. Her lips were exquisitely formed with that upward turn at the corners called “Cupids bow,” and denoting sweetness and amiability of temper, and which always indicates a noble self-­sacrificing character. The expression which lent its peculiar charm to her very intelligent face was that of patient innocence. It was the happiest evening of his life, and later, when she sang for him, the sweet penetrating tones of her voice thrilled the depths of his soul, and, as it were, filled him with its melody. When a girl of little more than sixteen he had loved her, and after an absence of nearly ten years, that love awakened with a tenfold force. Her beauty had matured and developed into not only a glorious womanhood, but a powerful and exalted soul, the influence of which once thoroughly established, was not to be forgotten, and especially by such a highly appreciative man as Hugh Desmond, whose heart throbbed faster at the kind pressure of her hand, ere he retired for the night.

Christmas Eve brought with it not only a full house party for whom accommodation was arranged, but an unexpected lady guest as the last moment, whose comfort was a matter of consideration at a time when the family were alone.

“I should not like to let her share a room or to go into an unused one,” observed Mrs. Maitland to her husband.

“Might I suggest,” said Hugh, “that it would give me a great pleasure if the lady could have my room which is so very comfortable, and I should be quite safe and at home in an unoccupied one, for I have been used for many years to far greater exposures, to frequent inclemency, as regards my surroundings, to have any fear of a damp room.”

“The difficulty is of another nature, Captain,” replied Mr. Maitland, “though one of the best rooms in the house, it has been seldom used for years, for more than a night at a time; it has a bad reputation,” and a smile crossed his face as he uttered the words—“it is called the Haunted Room.”

Hugh’s face lit up at the words. “The very adventure I have longed for as an experience for years. Pray gratify my wish now you have the chance; lest such an one might not occur again during my life-time,” and he added “but I have no belief in apparitions, and I shall be disappointed if I do not go. Please let me have my own way.”

All, especially Frances Maitland, endeavoured to deter him, for a look of apprehension crossed her face, but he persisted the more in his wish and broke into a merry peal of laughter.

“Let me tell you,” said Mr. Maitland, “that it will be difficult to induce the servants to go there, and none of us ever do; it is kept locked, Captain.”

Remonstrance was in vain, Desmond’s merriment was infectious, and amidst the laughter he had provoked he enquired if there was any legend attached to the Haunted Room, and who was the ghost.

“It is said to be the ghost of the Miriam Desmond, who was one of the last of your known ancestors in England,” was the reply. “She became a nun, and her two brothers went away no one knew whither; she is called by the country folks, ‘the White Lady,’ and that she is at times seen is a firmly rooted superstition.”

“That clinches the matter,” returned Hugh, “as long as I stay, please let me be there. I have a right to be with my ancestors who could not possibly harm me; yet I may not hope for a visit from one of them.”

The bell was rung and when the aged butler received his instructions to convey to the housekeeper, with orders to assist her as rapidly as possible, for the Captain’s occupation, his pale scared face told its own story. But he was a trusted servant and did not express his opinion. Fires were ordered to be lighted and kept going with the windows open for occupation on the succeeding night, as the lady visitor would not arrive till the morning of Christmas Day. That Christmas morn dawned as the happiest Hugh Desmond had ever known; his very eyelids enclosed with a great wonderment and half self-questioning of its reality. But it was all real and true, and breakfast would again bring him into the presence of Frances Maitland. It was a brilliant winter’s day, clear and sunshiny, and free from snow. The large house party gave the family the full complement of guests, and at the evening party were assembled a number of neighbouring friends and children, which filled the spacious rooms, lighted and garlanded for the season’s festivities; and as the evening wore on, the happy enjoyment seemed to deepen and gather greater happiness, as singing and dancing gave place to story-telling, and blind man’s buff, and forfeits. The elderly lady visitor at the latter was the judge, and, alike with others, the lips of Frances Maitland met those of Hugh beneath the mistletoe, and his heart bounded with rapture, and a rosy haze blinded his vision for the moment. Now and again the guests would seek the cool of the conservatory, and amidst the soft glow of the Chinese lanterns Hugh and Frances stood by the rippling fountain, and, drawing her to him, he kissed her head, saying, “I love you; you cannot tell how much I love you,” and again their lips met in a long, loving kiss, and then, arm in arm, they sauntered back and joined again in the waltz and country dance till a late hour, and the younger guests began to depart. It was approaching the midnight hour before the family and friends separated for the night, and Hugh, in a whirl of happiness and joy, took his way to his apartment.

As he entered the haunted room for the first time, and set his candle upon the table, and then closed the door after him, he then remembered his conversation regarding it with Mr. Maitland. It was a much larger apartment than the one he had vacated, being nearly or quite square with high, and, in places, carved and panelled oak wainscotting, polished, and black with age. A cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth and wide and heavy curtains overhung the window which appeared so large that he was impelled to draw aside the folds, when he found that the extensive window, which attracted his notice, was really three gothic-shaped windows, the centre one being the largest, with the curious diamond-shaped panes of glass, with leaden glazing, and latticed, opening outwards.

Hugh glanced at the fastenings of the windows; they were all secure, and then re-placed the curtains; then walking to the fireplace seated himself in the comfortable easy chair, and glanced round at the antique chamber with mingled wonder and admiration, for he could not but feel impressed with the solemn grandeur of the room; but equally he wondered at himself, for yet in a few moments his sensations had unaccountably passed from the most joyous hilarity to a feeling of sad and sorrowful regret, tempered with anxiety. The room was quite warm, perceptibly so, for the fire had been well kept up since the previous day; he felt no sign of chill or cold, yet the sudden transition was so great that an instant after he strove to ridicule himself for letting the remembrance of the legend weigh upon his spirits.

Hugh shook himself, stooped down, took off his boots, and put on his slippers; then, walking to the door, opened it, and put the boots outside; as he did so a rush of joyous warmth seemed to pervade his being, and instinctively he stepped out with his slippered feet and stood alone in the silent dark corridor. The change was remarkable beyond description, his whole being thrilled with a great comfort; then he turned, and re-entering the room closed the door, and turning the handle of the key in the lock felt the handle of the door. It was fast.

Once more he felt as though he had entered a tomb. He glanced at the very large, old, and handsome four-post bedstead, and ejaculated mentally, “I shall soon get spoiled at this rate; soft and easy quarters seem to be enervating, this is a proof of it.”

Rapidly preparing himself, he undressed, extinguished the light, and went to bed, feeling tired, partly, but longing most for sleep till morning. He lay watching the flickering shadows cast by the slowly declining firelight. He closed his eyes and sought repose, and tried to think of Frances, but it was with a sad anxious feeling that he longed for the morning, and now and again he dozed. Then he fell asleep. He awoke with a slight start as though some noise had awakened him, and turning, listened, but the most profound silence reigned, and then thinking he must have started in his sleep, drowsiness was again stealing over him, when the distant Church bell began to strike. Arousing himself for the moment, he listened attentively, for the bell was tolling the warning for the hour, then with the few seconds pause came the solemn deep-toned single stroke of one o’clock.

“Only one,” he mused, as he closed his eyes again, “I could have slept only a few minutes; I thought it later,” and soon he slept profoundly once more. How long he slept he could not tell, but again his slumber was broken in the same manner; he started awake, and feeling intense weariness listened. Perfect, stilly silence reigned, and longing for sleep he strove to quiet himself. Soon he fell in a half-sleep, and was again disturbed by a strange hollow and distant booming sound. Conjecturing that it might be an unclosed door jarring with the draught, he nearly slept again, when the same sound was repeated, and notwithstanding his every effort to compose himself, for the desire for sleep became almost hungry with its intensity, he repeatedly awoke with the same sound occurring at intervals of two or three minutes.

He asked himself what it could be, and whether in the house or far distant; or whether it was really a sound, or noise, or a deception of his senses. But the noise kept on. At the same short intervals of about two minutes came the weird boom, seeming to come from the depths of space, and to strike upon the centre of his being. And now a new feeling came over him more prominent than the distant weird disturbance, an awful thirst for sleep, and he knew that he was fighting, and as it were almost struggling, for repose. But strive as he might, there was no intermission. Then he ceased to feel it, and a feeling of relief, mingled with dread, came over him lest it should disturb him again. Once more he slept, but with his senses acutely strained even in sleep, when a new and shocking sound struck upon his ear—the awful sound to a true man of a woman’s sob of intense suffering and sorrow; the deep drawn quivering sob of a woman in the extremity of anguish, weird, unearthly, distant, but yet still seeming to be within a few feet of Desmond.

A sensitive chord of his soul had been aroused, and from its depths mingled sympathy, grief, and compassion welled up, and with it regret, for he could think of no distant female friend who might be imagined to be in danger or suffering. But the desire for sleep became an agony, and closing his eyes again he strove to drown his senses, and almost succeeded when the same detonation already described, commenced again; it kept on in the same way, at the same intervals, and though prostrate with weariness, repose eluded him, and with each repetition his blood seemed to collide in its course, and he gasped for breath; it kept on, it grew insufferable, he could bear no more. Turning upon his back he swept the hair from his heated forehead with his hand, and with his arms flung wide gave up all hope of rest, and resolved to keep awake the rest of the night.

Now that Desmond was fully awake, intense silence prevailed. His senses were undisturbed. Yet he dreaded to sleep again. Then he remembered the strange reputation of the chamber in which he was, and he thought the coincidence remarkable, but resolved to make no mention of his impression on the morrow.

A new impulse came over him to get up and dress himself, and give up all prospect of sleep that night. He arose, struck a match, and lit his candle and looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes past two o’clock.

He dressed himself completely, put on his slippers, and seated himself in the easy chair, and leant back, gazing at the last expiring glow of the hollows left of the dying fire, and though his limbs almost ached with weariness, and he longed for rest, he yet felt glad he had risen and the reflection struck him that in an hour at most the candle would be burnt out, and he would be in the dark. He got up, walked softly to the window and drew aside one of the curtains. It was a brilliant moonlight. He flung all the curtains wide till the three large windows were bare, and the room was flooded with moonlight. Then he walked to the table and extinguished the candle, and the room seemed lighter than before, and he re-seated himself, and as he leant back in his chair, he grew more composed, pacified almost, but for the feeling of compassionate regret at the memory of the sound of that sob.

Perhaps half an hour passed, it seemed so long, and he grew chilly; he resolved to lie down again; at least, it would be warmer. His large, fur-lined railway and driving rug hung over a chair back, and he lay down, spread it wide over him, drew it beneath his feet by raising them, and in a few moments he was quite warm.

He rested, looking at the moonlight; then he dozed and opened his eyes again, looking at the window; then he dozed again; then he slept.

How long he slept he knew not, but he was aroused by something very gently touching his wrist. He opened his eyes, at first drowsily; then his orbits expanded to their fullest limit, and his blood seemed to grow cold. He could not utter a sound; his tongue became as rigid as his fixed gaze and motionless limbs. He was no longer alone.

Close to his bedside and in the full flood of the clear moonlight, with her hand outstretched to him in an attitude of supplication, was the figure of a small lady, clad in white from head to foot. Captain Hugh Desmond was a very brave man, an admirable soldier, regarding his utter fearlessness of death, added to his love of danger and perilous adventure, but never throughout his military career had he experienced the sensations of appalling dread which for the first few moments overcame him at this meeting between the earthly and the unearthly. But the spasm of horror was only for a few moments, the wraith was not only that of a small and delicate woman, but of a supplicant, compassion rose within him, and determination to aid her to the best of his ability gave him back the use of his limbs. He rose upon his elbow, slowly at first, disengaged his limbs from the folds of the rug, and regaining his feet, stood before her.

Her face, raised as it was appealingly, scarcely reached the level of his breast as he stood by her side awaiting her will and wish.

She stretched out her hand to him, her left hand which he took gently in his right. The touch was perceptibly hard, the bones of the tiny hand were fleshless and the slender finger joints were rigidly straight and drawn together as in the attitude of death, and as he gently took that fleshless hand in his, he noticed that the finely pointed bones of the fore and middle fingers were broken and absent.

With that touch all was changed. No need was there for words or human language. Desmond knew all from moment to moment, her will, wish, motive, and the longing to transmit her memory’s records of the past.

Holding her by her fleshless hand, he walked by her side to the door which he unlocked, and threw open for her to pass. She guided him out into the dark corridor by that hand he constantly held, along through the black darkness, dark no longer now, for with them went a new and strange light, more like the light of day than the moonlight they had left.

Onward she led him, across the corridor, down a short corridor to the right, then a little way down a parallel corridor to the left, and across it to the heavy, black, oak-panelled woodwork. She paused at one of the dark alcoves, by her wish, and he knew what to do. He pressed a mound of heavy carving at the side, and the back of the recess gave way on its hinges, and they passed through the secret doorway—the same light going with them as they passed on noiselessly, but for the almost inaudible sound of Desmond’s slippered feet, to the head of some wooden stairs, by means of which they descended to a stone passage with a window in it, similar in the diamond-glazing to the one in the chamber he had left, but that the recess of several feet in depth, was enclosed by a grating of iron bars of vast strength let into the solid stonework.

Crossing the vault they approached a partition of heavy wooden planks resembling the corner of a store-room. A wooden door was ajar. Desmond put forth his hand and drew it open. It was a double partition door, and the corner angle swung open at the touch, and as its double hinges revolved, they entered the vault through the wide corner opening. It was filled with the same light that seemed to form part of them, and they stood still contemplating a weird and awful sight which met his view.

There were large, rough wooden shelves in front, and to the right, and on these shelves, sideways, in the repose of death or sleep, lay two human skeletons, where, to all appearance, they had been for centuries. Long he gazed in pain and sorrow at the awful spectacle, as he still held her by her hand. Then he turned and looked upon her upturned face in its silent appeal, with deep sorrowful compassion and regret; he felt so sorry for her and her awful life, suffering, and death. The same transmitted power of memory revealed all, as she stood by him, the garments of the white nun alone concealing the fleshless form which was beneath, and the white hood concealing all but the wide, vacant orbits of the face of death, upturned to him in appeal. He understood all, then; the record of an awful crime, an unknown murder, through which she, the innocent one, suffered, and that which was buried beneath his feet, which belonged by right of birth to her and to the heirs of Desmond, and now to him, last of the race of the line direct. He felt all the gratitude he owed to his wronged ancestress through all the centuries of the past, but, above all, he felt that deep unfathomable sorrow and regret that is helpless and utterly unavailing.

Desmond turned away; gently and slowly he led his ghostly companion back the way they came. They re-ascended the wooden staircase. At his touch the great oak slab resumed its place, and she led him to his chamber door, and once more, with that awful face upturned to his in the appeal for compassion. She slowly withdrew her hand from his in silent farewell, and gave the adieu that would be only broken in the vista of eternity, when all see us as they are seen.

The visitor passed away, and with her faded the guiding light. Desmond turned, and entering the room, closed the door, and, lighting his candle, threw himself upon his knees by the bed-side and prayed as he had never prayed before for the peace and rest of the unhappy soul he had bidden farewell to. Then he threw himself upon the bed, and he, the strong man, burst into an agony of weeping, and sobbed like a child till his pillow was wet with tears.

With this paroxysm of grief came relief; he was calmer, but exhausted, and he closed his eyes to avoid seeing the great wheel rays caused by the candle light upon his humid eyes. Greater quietude stole over him till his thoughts wandered, and he forgot all in a deep slumber, which lasted till the butler knocking at his door awoke him at eight o’clock, and he sat up and called out, “Thank you.”

Desmond’s head ached slightly, but he felt refreshed, and thought that he must have slept for three hours at least, as the memory of that terrible night’s adventure crowded in upon his waking thoughts, for his pillow was still damp.

“The candle must have burnt out,” he said to himself, as he got upon his feet and approached the table; but he looked in blank astonishment when he perceived the extinguisher upon the candle as he left it when he lay down for the second time, for when the “White Nun” parted from him, he had only closed, but not locked, the door. With three or four hasty strides he crossed to the door and turned the handle; it was locked as he had left it, when he placed his boots outside the night before. “By Jove,” he exclaimed aloud in bewilderment, “it must have been, it actually was a dream after all. But what a vision; I thought it real till this moment.” His toilet was completed before the breakfast bell sounded, and he went down to the breakfast-room as it ceased ringing.

Frances and Mr. Maitland were in the dining-room when he entered, and their warm greeting was accompanied by Mr. Maitland exclaiming, “Why, Desmond, you look as though you had seen a ghost.”

“I certainly had a wonderful dream of a White Nun,” replied Hugh, relating the substance of what has been recorded. The recital formed the topic of conversation, till its minutest details were ended.

“There are several people living who describe the ‘White Lady’ exactly as you do,” observed Mr. Maitland. “But your account of the night walk with her has something truly new and extraordinary about it, and if you like, presently, we will visit the place you speak of. You will be able to guide us.”

Hugh acquiesced, and soon after the table was cleared. All but Mrs. Maitland accompanied him up-stairs to his room, from the door of which he led them into the next corridor to the right, which, unlike his story, terminated at the end in a solid wall, which he at once observed.

“But where,” questioned Mr. Maitland, “was the parallel corridor you speak of?”

“Right here,” replied Hugh, placing his hand upon the solid wall, “but there is no corridor, nor even woodwork here.”

“Well, this is the marvellous part of your vision, Desmond; behind this wall is a corridor strongly resembling what you describe,” rejoined his host, “and some twenty-five years ago, owing to the dampness of the old unused building, at the same time that improvements were being carried out, I had a complete separating wall built up from the basement to the roof at this juncture at great expense, but if you like we can enter it from the Priory ground.”

With keenly excited interest all at once agreed, and in a few minutes were dressed for the short walk round to the old Priory Garden. Horace procured a lighted lantern from the head gardener, which he carried with him, together with the keys, and in a few moments were not only inside the ancient building but ascending to that upper part which brought them back to the Manor side, and in a few minutes they entered the gallery.

As they did so Hugh Desmond uttered an exclamation of amazement. “This is the corridor,” he cried out, “wait a minute.” Then when they had nearly reached the other end on the right hand side where all along the massive black oak woodwork was intact, he said, “This is the place,” laying his hand upon a raised goblin face in one of the broad buttress posts of the alcoves, “I know it from the distance from the window, but it is solid, it will not yield.”

“This is wonderful,” mused Mr. Maitland, “and you were never here nor heard of it before?”

“Never!” returned Captain Desmond.

Meanwhile Horace had taken out his pocket knife, and, opening the blade, stooped down to the floor and probed with the point all along the recess, with Hugh at his side, but the point struck solid wood. Then he tried the one indicated by Hugh, on which he uttered a cry of alarm. The blade repeatedly penetrated like under a door. Then he worked away till it passed from post to post.

“See, it will go in under like a door,” he said; and then he tried the next. It was solid, like the first, and so were all the others. Yet on close examination, the recess seemed as solid as all the rest. The goblin head was pressed with force, but without result.

“Wait, and I will get a hammer,” cried Horace, and he went off to the gardener’s house.

In a few minutes he returned with a large hammer, a branch log about eighteen inches long, and a sack. The sack was folded and laid against the curved goblin face, the billet was held with both hands, while Mr. Maitland struck careful heavy blows upon the reverse end, using it as a ram.

“It is giving,” exclaimed Gilbert as he felt it, and examination proved the truth of this, the prominent circle surrounding the face was going in. Several more heavy blows sent it further, and then, at four more, it went in suddenly, giving way with a crash and a clinking rattle at the back of the woodwork, which quivered at the side. The goblin face was driven into the hole and the shock had apparently loosened the seemingly solid background. Then Hugh and Horace pressed carefully against this, and, by degrees, it yielded with a groaning, rasping noise, as at last the massive, rusted iron hinges gave way, and the secret door stood wide open, revealing to Captain Desmond’s unutterable astonishment the landing and wooden staircase of his dream of last night, and he recoiled as he trod on something snake-like buried in the accumulated dust of centuries. On examination, it proved to be a loose piece of rope, but so old and decayed that it fell apart in pieces when lifted up with the hand. At the side of the stairway lay a large loose beam, as by the aid of the lantern they carefully descended the stairs, a dank and noisome odour from the vaults smelling of damp and decay, assailed their nostrils, and Hugh Desmond instinctively held out his hand for the lantern, which in the black darkness for caution he held near the ground. The dust of centuries, cobwebs, and decay were visible at every step; twenty yards further, the wide passage terminated in several divided cellars, as they afterwards found. But Hugh crossed this first vault in the direction of some woodwork, and then exclaimed, “Here are some bars.” “And exactly such as you described except the window,” said Horace.

“The recess is identical with the description,” said Mr. Maitland, “and the window is likely to be at the end, though perhaps buried.”

They commenced to examine the woodwork which formed an angle with the next vault. Hugh passed the lantern up and down each right angle, and they found the only perceptible aperture near the first corner, but it would not yield to the hand.

Gilbert went back and brought the hammer and log of wood. They first used the hammer handle, and then inserted the log, a few blows widened the opening sufficiently for two to get double hold and force it open. The heavy planking jarred and vibrated with their effort, and gave way with a crash. Mr. Maitland stepped hurriedly on one side as the whole corner fell over with a great noise. It was a double awing door which had broken off the hinges, which were rusted away, and as they all perceived the wonderful coincidence, they shrank away from the wide entrance, and conversed in low, hushed tones, whilst the girls kept close to their father.

“Let us view the inside,” said Mr. Maitland.

Thus admonished, Captain Desmond, holding the lantern before him, led the way. The interior appeared like a long un­used spare vault, with wide shelves at right angles at the side and back, and all, with Hugh Desmond, at one and the same time, uttered a cry of horror, for on the raised shelves, encrusted and black with decay and mildew, and the dust of centuries, lay unmistakably the remains of bones, falling apart and separated in places, but all that was left of what had certainly once been two human beings.

At last Captain Desmond spoke, and addressing Mr. Maitland in a broken voice, articulated the words, “It is all true, the legend,” and glancing at their pale faces, added, “I have without doubt seen the ghost of Miriam Desmond.”

“A real vision, Hugh, without a doubt, but what of that which is buried, where is that? That which was once hers, and is now yours.”

“I cannot recall,” replied Hugh, but advancing and touching the ground with his foot, “This is the place.”

“But what are these?” again asked Mr. Maitland, indicating the human remains.

“I cannot recall,” at length said Hugh, “but I believe they are the evidences of, or connected with, some unknown crime, and I fear she was the victim. I am sorry, for last night I felt I knew all.”

“Hugh, my dear boy,” said Mr. Maitland, “listen to me. I firmly believe this is the hand of Providence. I do not doubt that treasure lies buried here, and I tell you now, I am certain it belongs to you and you alone by right, and that these are the remains of the lost Desmonds. Whatever lies buried here shall be yours. I will see the Vicar of Gurthford this afternoon, and so search all the records we can find.”

“Thank you, sir,” returned Hugh Desmond absently. “I cannot describe the grief I feel for my ill-fated kinswoman of past ages, and possibly her brothers. May Heaven give rest to her soul.”

“Amen,” said Mr. Maitland.

* * * * *

After having seen that the building was closed, Mr. Maitland took the keys back with him to his study, and directed the members of his family to make no further mention of the incidents of the morning, as the account would cause vulgar excitement, and do no good.

The Vicar returned to lunch with Mr. Maitland, visited the remains with him, and decided they had better be reverently enclosed and interred in the old burial ground of the Priory, and an order was sent to the neighbouring town for a suitable casket of the requisite dimensions, and in a few days this was carried out, and the Vicar and Dr. Thornhurst, who obtained special aid from London, compiled careful records of all the circumstantial evidences. The next day, after the interment, in company with Hugh Desmond and Dr. Thornhurst, Mr. Maitland returned to the secret vault, where a man sent for for the occasion, commenced to dig. At the depth of a few feet beneath the brickwork they came upon stones carefully laid in order, beneath which, buried in dry sand and enclosed in stones beneath, and all around as above, in wonderful preservation, a strong heavy oak chest, and nothing more; it was heavy and was conveyed to Hugh’s room, the haunted chamber, where he still preferred to sleep, for since Christmas night his rest had been peaceful and unbroken. The ground was filled in, the secret door was repaired with new hinges and a lock, for on forcing it open the ancient mechanism was broken, being rusty and decayed. The whole being carried out under the supervision of an expert from London, skilled in investigation.

The oak chest was forced open by Hugh in the presence of Mr. Maitland and his sons the next day. It was found to contain an iron box. This in turn had to be forced, and contained, wrapped in a piece of worked tapestry about three yards square, which had been used as a wrapper, and, when carefully unwound, disclosed a large carved ebony casket with ring handles of the same wood in almost perfect preservation. To one of the handles a key was attached by strong worsted thread, and upon being cut off and used, after several attempts with the aid of oil, at last turned the lock and the lid opened readily. Upon the top of its contents lay three folded parchments. The first bearing the date September 29th, 1553, and written in the quaint old English of the time, but quite legible ran as follows:—

I, Miriam Desmond, being about to take the veil and forsake the world, give and bequeath to my dear brothers, John and Henry Desmond, and to their heirs for ever as a family inheritance, my necklace and bracelets, jewels, and tiara of diamonds, which I inherited at the death of my dear mother, to keep or use and dispose of as they may deem fit, for their own welfare, they being in peril, and may heaven preserve them.

Miriam Desmond.

The next.

The last Will and Testament of John and Henry Desmond:—

Gurthford Manor, Nov. 17th, 1553.

I, John Desmond, being of sound and disposing mind, and in the first place sole heir of the Desmond estates, together with and in mutual agreement with, my own brother, Henry Desmond; in the second place, we the said John Desmond and Henry Desmond, have agreed for purposes of security, to secrete and bury the Desmond coronet and jewels, and the tiara and jewels of our only sister, Miriam, together with the deed of her gift to us, also, herewith, in addition, the title deed of the Desmond Estates; the motive being that we deem our lives and property in peril of forfeiture from religious and political enemies, we being Protestants. For this reason, we have decided to leave our native country for safety. But, as sons of the race of Desmond, we cannot be dishonest to our trust, or wrong our posterity of this inheritance by sale or disposal, and so have mutually buried the casket containing these jewels here, where they may be preserved by secrecy, for the possession of our true heirs in the future, and in safety. The secret of this hiding place will remain with me alone to be handed down even from father to son hereafter.

Signed by each in each other’s presence.

John Desmond.

Henry Desmond.

The third parchment was an exceedingly ancient title deed in Latin and Old English of the Desmond lands, and property of the Tenth Century.

These were carefully laid aside, and the coronet, tiara, bracelets, necklace, rings, and orders, which were packed with extraordinary care in pieces of parchment and woven linen, were next opened to view by Hugh Desmond, amidst expressions of wonder and admiration, mingled with regret, at their beauty and enormous value; diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and emeralds glittered in rival brilliancy, and many of these precious stones were of great size. After some conversation had passed, Mr. Maitland at length asked Hugh, “What he should do with the great fortune he had thus possessed?”

“Strictly carry out the intentions of the testators,” replied Hugh.

“A resolution worthy of a Desmond,” returned Mr. Maitland, “and may this great fortune bring you equal happiness.”

When valued, the contents of the ebony casket were estimated by experts to be worth nearly two hundred thousand pounds.

Hugh Desmond’s visit to Gurthford was greatly prolonged, during which careful investigations were made, and the specialist from the investigations department arrived at the conclusion that the remains of the two human beings found, were those of the Desmond brothers, one of whom was married and left three children. These two brothers were supposed to have been murdered as they were never heard of after the year 1554. From the examination it was deemed likely that the mechanism of the secret door, which was evidently moved in order to open the secret panel from the inside by the aid of a rope hanging from above, and which had probably given way and imprisoned them alive, and the vast strength of the oak door had resisted every effort to escape. The beam found on the stairs was thought to have been used in an attempt to break it open, but in vain.

The fate of Miriam Desmond is unknown.

The wife of Henry Desmond had taken refuge in Holland or Germany with her children, and the descendants returned to England in 1593, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

One sunshiny autumn day, in the succeeding year, Captain Hugh Desmond stood at the Communion rails with Frances Maitland in Garthford Church, where they were united in marriage, and for many years enjoyed great happiness. They were blessed with a family of both sons and daughters. Under the dispensations made during his lifetime, subject to the discharge of certain conditions, which were fulfilled after his death, the whole of the Desmond estates, together with the freehold, for ever reverted to Captain Hugh Desmond, and his children inherited their rights.

The story of “The Haunted Chamber” is to this day a family legend, but “Miriam’s Ghost” was never seen or heard of from that Christmas night of Hugh Desmond’s vision.