The Ghost At Crestdale

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Title:     The Ghost At Crestdale
Author: Eugenia Dunlap Potts [More Titles by Potts]

AN ADVENTURE

"Here we are, safe and sound," cheerily said the driver of the huge black ambulance, as he pulled up before the piazza of Crestdale, the beautiful villa whose tower had been tantalizing the travelers for several miles.

A party of five descended from the wagon as the wide doors were flung open by the housekeeper, and a kindly welcome greeted them, as well as comfortable fires.

"My! how cold it is," exclaimed a fresh young voice, as the speaker hurried close to the generous heater.

"Be careful, dear, or you will burn your coat," warned an older lady, while a stalwart young fellow tenderly loosed the seal wrap in question.

Placing the fair wearer in a great arm-chair, he said: "There, Mademoiselle Jessie, be a good girl--if you can. Now, sister ours, what can I do for you?" turning gallantly to the other lady.

"Thanks, you foolish boy," was the pleasant rejoinder; "look after those parcels and those live commodities shivering there."

The live commodities were a maltese cat, a canary bird, and two raw recruits from Erin; and the "foolish boy" at once set about assigning places for people and things.

"There's a kitchen somewhere back here; come along, Michael. All right, Katie, follow me, and fetch the menagerie with you."

Duly installing them in their domain, the young man made his way back through the wide, chilly rooms that intervened, and joined the ladies who were fast making themselves at home.

"A trifle bleak this, isn't it?" he said, rubbing his hands before the blazing logs. "But just take note of that fragrant beefsteak. Say, girls, I don't see any table set anywhere;" and he looked ruefully around.

"Give us time, sir," remonstrated the elderly lady. "Here is a move in the right direction already," she added, as the housekeeper entered with the tea tray.

"Mabel, can't we have muffins?" pleaded the young voice.

"Muffins! Not on such short notice; but you may have toast and eggs."

"You'll disenchant me with your enormous appetite," chaffed the young fellow, and got a saucy slap for his pains.

"Riding hours and hours on that horrid train is enough to starve any one," was the ready defense; "you only came from New York. Come on, everybody, while the steak is hot." And they gathered round to do justice to the repast.

Mabel and Jessie Winthrop were orphan sisters, the one fifteen years the elder, and was mother as well as sister to her idolized charge. Her own life romance was a buried chapter, and now she was chiefly concerned for the happiness of the two young persons seated there.

George Randolph was a distant cousin, and was to be married to Jessie Winthrop in two weeks' time. They had come down to make ready the seaside villa, which was their favorite home. It stood upon a winding river close to shore, and commanded a view of the surrounding country for many miles.

It was an immense house, containing some twenty-five rooms, and full of unexpected niches, nooks, and crannies. It was kept furnished throughout, but was locked up in the winter months. An unlooked-for cold wave, speeding from the northwest, had made the coming of the prospective bridal party a somewhat dreary affair.

A few happy touches here and there transformed the gloom into cheer, and it was with renewed animation that they arose from their repast an hour later.

George was to return to the city next day, but would run down frequently before the wedding day. Meanwhile this, their first evening, passed quickly and agreeably for all.

The ensuing week was a busy one. A whole army of sweepers, dusters and renovators were turned loose in and about the villa, and the good work went on with a will.

Michael took charge of a pony phaeton, and the sisters often drove in to the village shops, two miles away, where the nearest railroad station was. It was necessary, however, that Mabel should make a final trip to the city to purchase some articles, and she arranged her time so that George could return with her on the evening train.

"You won't be afraid, darling?" was Mabel's fond question, as she made out her list.

"Afraid?" echoed the other. "Why, no; what is there to be afraid of? It is perfectly safe here."

"Yes, I know; otherwise, I would not leave you even for the day."

"The house is big," said Jessie, "but we have near neighbors. Besides, there's Mike and Katie, and Mrs. Lawrence. Oh, I'm all right, Mabel dear."

"See that the house is securely fastened;" was Mabel's parting injunction as she kissed her sister goodbye. "Look for us at the sound of the whistle to-night."

"Indade, Miss Jessie," said Katie a little later, her face in a pucker, "indade it's not right for the loikes af yees to be here all alone."

"Why, Katie, what's the matter," laughed the girl; "you don't call this being alone, do you?"

"Ah, but haven't yees heard the quare noises in the tower, Miss Jessie? An' shure there's a ghost in this house--Holy Mother defind us!" and Katie piously crossed herself in real terror.

"A ghost, Katie! I'm ashamed of you. It is only the wind. It blows here fearfully. You might turn a regiment loose in the house, and they could scarcely make more noise than these big, rattling windows."

"Arrah, me jewel," protested Katie; "there's a turrible walkin' about in the tower ivery night these two noights. An' didn't yees hear about the awful murther in the town over beyant us an' the murtherer iscapin'? Sich a quare murther, too, with the finger rings all left on, and the money purse in the pocket. Ah, Miss Jessie, a murtherin' ghost won't niver be laid."

"You silly Kate!" said Jessie merrily. "Don't be afraid, I'll take care of the ghosts. We are all right."

After a cup of tea and a bit of toast, Jessie repaired to her chamber on the second floor and picked up some trifle she was embroidering, to beguile the time of waiting. Mabel and George would get in about nine, when they were to relate the day's doings around a good warm supper.

Katie was to follow and sit with her mistress, after she had done some righting up down stairs. Mike was bent upon routing an army of rats in the barn. Mrs. Lawrence had retired to her room with a nervous headache.

The high winds from the sea had lulled, and for once the house was utterly quiet--so quiet that the stillness became oppressive. Meanwhile the young girl sat in her bower of luxury, softly humming a favorite air, and very happy in thoughts of her approaching marriage. While deep in her smiling reverie, a stealthy footstep distinctly sounded outside her door.

Raising her head, she had not time to feel a sensation of real fear, when cautiously her doorknob was turned and a head intruded itself which struck her as dumb as though Medusa had appeared, and drove the life-blood in a frozen current to her head.

The face was ghastly, the hair black and curling upon high, narrow shoulders, the figure slight and spare, and a pair of restless black eyes were glittering swiftly and cunningly around the room.

"Hist!" he said to the horror-stricken girl, softly closing the door and turning the key; and if Jessie had a distinct thought in that awful moment, it was of thankfulness that the winter dampness had so warped the door that the key would not fairly catch in the lock,--a bit of repairing thus far overlooked in the wedding preparations.

"Don't be frightened," he continued, in his sibilant whisper; "you will take care of me, won't you?"

But the girl's eyes only riveted themselves in more hopeless, helpless terror upon the apparition. Every muscle seemed paralyzed.

He drew a chair to the open grate as if the fire were most welcome.

"You see," he said in his quaint, soft voice, "if they track me here they may hang me, and they would be wrong--all wrong. I did not intend to kill her, but she would not hold still."

At this he gave a blood-curdling laugh, and the horrible truth burst upon the listener's dazed senses. She was alone with a maniac. All the stories she had ever read rushed to her memory, and the only clear idea she had was the conviction that she must, if possible, humor his vagaries till help came. She was a petted, spoiled darling, but she had great strength of will, and she now called it into requisition.

She hurriedly glanced at the clock, and calculated how long it would be before the train whistle could signal the coming of her dear ones. Alas! it was just eight. What, oh, what must she do? Of whom did he speak? Kill her? Kill whom? Then the mystery of the murdered girl darted into her mind. Katie had been right then. There was in truth a murdered girl. Was this awful creature her slayer?

Suddenly, with a confidential gesture he bade her sit down with him.

"I'll tell you about it," he said; "if she had only kept still! But she screamed and tried to run away, I can't stand noise!" He clapped his hands over his ears as if to shut out the echo of it. "I must have this blood--this pure, young, life-giving stream. But she would not listen to me. Poor thing! It was too bad, wasn't it? Hey? Speak!" and he grasped her delicate wrist with a grip of steel.

Trembling at the sound of her own voice, the girl commanded herself to say:

"Yes; who was she?"

"I don't know," he replied, seriously. "She was beautiful and fresh; she was almost as fair as you," letting his wild eyes roam over her. "I was getting away from that cursed place. Think of confining a man of my learning in a madhouse! But that was just it. I had mastered the new theory--the transfusion of blood. They wanted to steal my glory, so they locked me in. But I outwitted them; I captured these and ran away."

Laughing wildly but still under his breath, he took from his jacket a black case of bright, new surgical instruments.

"These were what I needed," he continued, with a low chuckle; "I could not attain the goal without these beauties." Caressingly he went over them. "Lancet, probe, trocar, bistoury, tourniquet,"--mentioning the collection, while he passed his fingers affectionately along the small sharp knives.

"For years and years," he went on, "I have studied this theory. The only thing is to find a young, strong, healthy subject; I found her. I was hiding in the bushes; she was on the highway; but she would not listen to me."

"You did not kill her?" the girl forced her dry lips to ask.

"Nay, nay; that is an ugly word. I had to sacrifice her--I did not kill. Then the foolish mob came and I fled hither. But I had a bit of bread and meat; she dropped her basket of lunch. I've been hiding in yonder tower," pointing upward. "I thought I might find what I want; and now, my dear, you will help me, won't you?" This he said coaxingly.

"Help you? What can I do?"

"Such a simple thing. Hold very still while I draw the rich red blood from your pretty white throat."

"You would not spoil my throat?" pleaded Jessie in winning tones, with the courage born of despair; "such a very little throat," clasping her soft fingers about it in unconscious paraphrase of King Hal's hapless queen.

"But where else can I find the glorious stream so rich and red?" he argued, with a perplexed frown. "It must be transfused into my own veins, that I, too, may be young again."

"But not the throat! I could not sing any more then."

"Ah, so--I heard you singing; it was not loud; it pleased me. Yes, 'twould be a pity. Well, I'll tell you what I will do. I'll open a vein in your arm--just here," laying his finger on the round white member. "This will quicken the nervous centers. Then I will cut my own arm and insert your blood at the opening till the two life-currents mingle in one stream."

He paused and reflected a moment. The generous warmth of the fire, together with the terrified girl's enforced quiet manner, were evidently soothing to him.

"Listen now, very closely: Here is my greatest scientific discovery. I do not mean to impart the secret to another. It is the _transfusion of brain!_ Some other man's head got on to my shoulders, and my brain is all wrong. Now with your red blood charged in my veins, and your young active brain absorbed into my own uncertain head, I shall find the elixir of life, and you will not have lived in vain."

Gracious Heaven! Did she hear aright? She had submitted to blood-letting once to gratify an old family physician, who insisted upon the remedy; and she felt almost brave enough to endure the operation again, if it would only kill time and satisfy her tormentor. But to cut into her brain! Merciful God! What should she do? She could not escape, for he watched her with cat-like vigilance. Scream she dare not, for so did the other frightened victim. She _must_ try to gain time.

With a rapt expression he continued: "Since the days of Esculapius there has been no such transcendent theory as this which is to make me famous. All my weary nights of thought and days of study are to be rewarded at last. Come child, are you ready? It will not hurt you. Only a little pin-prick, and no pain. I would not pain you my dear."

What if he should let her bleed to death! Oh sister, oh lover, come, or she would die of horror, if not the knife! And Katie--why didn't she come! At this moment the sound of the train whistle in the distance broke on the stillness of the night. How could she gain ten minutes more? The man had not noticed the sound.

"What do you wish?" she asked sweetly, "What shall I get for you?"

"Only a handkerchief and a basin," he replied coolly, still fingering a sharp lancet. "You are not afraid? Good girl; now for my crowning victory!"

As a sleep-walker she procured the articles and bared her arm. Tenderly he was binding it above the blue veins, when she said in winning tones:

"Let me tell you how I think would be the best way to do this--may I?" and she fixed her large eyes upon him in entreaty. He paused, and she continued:

"Now let me tie your arm in the same way. You open your own vein with the lancet, then open mine, and quickly after mix the two while the blood is warm. Do you see? You can't fail if you do it that way."

He looked at her. She did not flinch.

"Perhaps you are right; very well."

She arose as deliberately as she dared and went to her dresser for another handkerchief. At the moment she opened the linen case her ears, strained to the utmost, caught a murmur from below stairs. Turning quickly to see if the man also had heard, the door was pushed open and Katie's neat cap filled the aperture.

* * * * *

"Get on as fast as you can, driver," said George Randolph, as he and Mabel took seats in the village stage. Then turning to his companion, he said in reassuring tones: "Don't be frightened, dear; she is all right."

"I know it is foolish," said Mabel, half crying; "but those wretched placards made me nervous, and all that talk about escaped murderers and lunatics. I am fairly beside myself; do hurry!"

As the wide portals of Crestdale appeared, Mabel cried, in sudden terror:

"Something is wrong, George; see how dim the lights are! She would never welcome us like this. Don't wait to ring; open the doors!"

As George fitted his key in the lock and swung wide the door, a shrill scream from above made their blood curdle. Shriek upon shriek followed, as Katie came bounding down the stairs, almost knocking backward the two who ran past her to Jessie's room. White and lifeless they found her, prostrate, her arm still bound with the handkerchief. She had risen nobly to the awful emergency, but succumbed when relief came.

In vain Katie continued a shriek that a murtherer was in the room. The anxious watchers bent over their stricken darling, who was now lying on her own bed and beginning to show signs of life.

Before they could ascertain what had happened, for Katie was crazed and incoherent from fright, a furious ringing of the bell sounded long and loud. Michael opened the door to a party of men who were in pursuit of a strange-looking person whose face had been seen at the tower window; whether an escaped lunatic from the state asylum, or an escaped murderer for whom a large reward was offered, remained to be proved.

The search was instituted with George Randolph at the head. The victim was soon unearthed, but in a moment, laughing wildly in the frenzy of madness, he darted out upon the roof and, rather than be captured, dashed himself to the pavement below.

All night they sat beside the brave girl, and bit by bit heard her story. For days she was ill from the shock of her fearful experience. The wedding was very quiet, but George refused to have it deferred.

It was months before the bride could summon courage to live at Crestdale, and she was a much older woman before she could refer with composure to Katie's murtherin' ghost.

[The end]
Eugenia Dunlap Potts's short story: The Ghost At Crestdale

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