CHAPTER XXII. THE RING
shining crystal, which
Out of her womb a thousand rayons threw.
BELLAY: translated by Spenser.
The next day, Lady Emily was very nearly as well as she had proposed being. She did not, however, make her appearance below. Mr. Arnold, hearing at luncheon that she was out of bed, immediately sent up his compliments, with the request that he might be permitted to see her on his return from the neighbouring village, where he had some business. To this Lady Emily gladly consented.
He sat with her a long time, talking about various things; for the presence of the girl, reminding him of his young wife, brought out the best of the man, lying yet alive under the incrustation of self-importance, and its inevitable stupidity. At length, subject of further conversation failing,
“I wonder what we can do to amuse you, Lady Emily,” said he.
“Thank you, Mr. Arnold; I am not at all dull. With my kind friend, Mrs. Elton, and—”
She would have said Margaret, but became instinctively aware that the mention of her would make Mr. Arnold open his eyes, for he did not even know her name; and that he would stare yet wider when he learned that the valued companion referred to was Mrs. Elton’s maid.
Mr. Arnold left the room, and presently returned with his arms filled with all the drawing-room books he could find, with grand bindings outside, and equally grand plates inside. These he heaped on the table beside Lady Emily, who tried to look interested, but scarcely succeeded to Mr. Arnold’s satisfaction, for he presently said:
“You don’t seem to care much about these, dear Lady Emily. I daresay you have looked at them all already, in this dull house of ours.”
This was a wonderful admission from Mr. Arnold. He pondered—then exclaimed, as if he had just made a grand discovery:
“I have it! I know something that will interest you.”
“Do not trouble yourself, pray, Mr. Arnold,” said Lady Emily. But he was already half way to the door.
He went to his own room, and his own strong closet therein.
Returning towards the invalid’s quarters with an ebony box of considerable size, he found it rather heavy, and meeting Euphra by the way, requested her to take one of the silver handles, and help him to carry it to Lady Emily’s room. She started when she saw it, but merely said:
“With pleasure, uncle.”
“Now, Lady Emily,” said he, as, setting down the box, he took out a curious antique enamelled key, “we shall be able to amuse you for a little while.”
He opened the box, and displayed such a glitter and show as would have delighted the eyes of any lady. All kinds of strange ornaments; ancient watches—one of them a death’s head in gold; cameo necklaces; pearls abundant; diamonds, rubies, and all the colours of precious stones—every one of them having some history, whether known to the owner or not; gems that had flashed on many a fair finger and many a shining neck—lay before Lady Emily’s delighted eyes. But Euphrasia’s eyes shone, as she gazed on them, with a very different expression from that which sparkled in Lady Emily’s. They seemed to search them with fingers of lightning. Mr. Arnold chose two or three, and gave Lady Emily her choice of them.
“I could not think of depriving you.”
“They are of no use to me,” said Mr. Arnold, making light of the handsome offer.
“You are too kind.—I should like this ring.”
“Take it then, dear Lady Emily.”
Euphrasia’s eyes were not on the speakers, nor was any envy to be seen in her face. She still gazed at the jewels in the box.
The chosen gem was put aside; and then, one after another, the various articles were taken out and examined. At length, a large gold chain, set with emeralds, was lifted from where it lay coiled up in a corner. A low cry, like a muffled moan, escaped from Euphrasia’s lips, and she turned her head away from the box.
“What is the matter, Euphra?” said Mr. Arnold.
“A sudden shoot of pain—I beg your pardon, dear uncle. I fear I am not quite so well yet as I thought I was. How stupid of me!”
“Do sit down. I fear the weight of the box was too much for you.”
“Not in the least. I want to see the pretty things.”
“But you have seen them before.”
“No, uncle. You promised to show them to me, but you never did.”
“You see what I get by being ill,” said Lady Emily.
The chain was examined, admired, and laid aside.
Where it had lain, they now observed, in the corner, a huge stone like a diamond.
“What is this?” said Lady Emily, taking it up. “Oh! I see. It is a ring. But such a ring for size, I never saw. Do look, Miss Cameron.”
For Miss Cameron was not looking. She was leaning her head on her hand, and her face was ashy pale. Lady Emily tried the ring on. Any two of her fingers would go into the broad gold circlet, beyond which the stone projected far in every direction. Indeed, the ring was attached to the stone, rather than the stone set in the ring.
“That is a curious thing, is it not?” said Mr. Arnold. “It is of no value in itself, I believe; it is nothing but a crystal. But it seems to have been always thought something of in the family;—I presume from its being evidently the very ring painted by Sir Peter Lely in that portrait of Lady Euphrasia which I showed you the other day. It is a clumsy affair, is it not?”
It might have occurred to Mr. Arnold, that such a thing must have been thought something of, before its owner would have chosen to wear it when sitting for her portrait.
Lady Emily was just going to lay it down, when she spied something that made her look at it more closely.
“What curious engraving is this upon the gold?” she asked.
“I do not know, indeed,” answered Mr. Arnold. “I have never observed it.”
“Look at it, then—all over the gold. What at first looks only like chasing, is, I do believe, words. The character looks to me like German. I wish I could read it. I am but a poor German scholar. Do look at it, please, dear Miss Cameron.”
Euphra glanced slightly at it without touching it, and said:
“I am sure I could make nothing of it.—But,” she added, as if struck by a sudden thought, “as Lady Emily seems interested in it—suppose we send for Mr. Sutherland. I have no doubt he will be able to decipher it.”
She rose as if she would go for him herself; but, apparently on second thoughts, went to the bell and rang it.
“Oh! do not trouble yourself,” interposed Lady Emily, in a tone that showed she would like it notwithstanding.
“No trouble at all,” answered Euphra and her uncle in a breath.
“Jacob,” said Mr. Arnold, “take my compliments to Mr. Sutherland, and ask him to step this way.”
The man went, and Hugh came.
“There’s a puzzle for you, Mr. Sutherland,” said Mr. Arnold, as he entered. “Decipher that inscription, and gain the favour of Lady Emily for ever.”
As he spoke he put the ring in Hugh’s hand. Hugh recognized it at once.
“Ah! this is Lady Euphrasia’s wonderful ring,” said he.
Euphra cast on him one of her sudden glances.
“What do you know about it?” said Mr. Arnold, hastily.
Euphra flashed at him once more, covertly.
“I only know that this is the ring in her portrait. Any one may see that it is a very wonderful ring indeed, by only looking at it,” answered Hugh, smiling.
“I hope it is not too wonderful for you to get at the mystery of it, though, Mr. Sutherland?” said Lady Emily.
“Lady Emily is dying to understand the inscription,” said Euphrasia.
By this time Hugh was turning it round and round, trying to get a beginning to the legend. But in this he met with a difficulty. The fact was, that the initial letter of the inscription could only be found by looking into the crystal held close to the eye. The words seemed not altogether unknown to him, though the characters were a little strange, and the words themselves were undivided. The dinner bell rang.
“Dear me! how the time goes in your room, Lady Emily!” said Mr. Arnold, who was never known to keep dinner waiting a moment. “Will you venture to go down with us to-day?”
“I fear I must not to-day. To-morrow, I hope. But do put up these beauties before you go. I dare not touch them without you, and it is so much more pleasure seeing them, when I have you to tell me about them.”
“Well, throw them in,” said Mr. Arnold, pretending an indifference he did not feel. “The reality of dinner must not be postponed to the fancy of jewels.”
All this time Hugh had stood poring over the ring at the window, whither he had taken it for better light, as the shadows were falling. Euphra busied herself replacing everything in the box. When all were in, she hastily shut the lid.
“Well, Mr. Sutherland?” said Mr. Arnold.
“I seem on the point of making it out, Mr. Arnold, but I certainly have not succeeded yet.”
“Confess yourself vanquished, then, and come to dinner.”
“I am very unwilling to give in, for I feel convinced that if I had leisure to copy the inscription as far as I can read it, I should, with the help of my dictionary, soon supply the rest. I am very unwilling, as well, to lose a chance of the favour of Lady Emily.”
“Yes, do read it, if you can. I too am dying to hear it,” said Euphra.
“Will you trust me with it, Mr. Arnold? I will take the greatest care of it.”
“Oh, certainly!” replied Mr. Arnold—with a little hesitation in his tone, however, of which Hugh was too eager to take any notice.
He carried it to his room immediately, and laid it beside his manuscript verses, in the hiding-place of the old escritoire. He was in the drawing-room a moment after.
There he found Euphra and the Bohemian alone.—Von Funkelstein had, in an incredibly short space of time, established himself as Hausfreund, and came and went as he pleased.—They looked as if they had been interrupted in a hurried and earnest conversation—their faces were so impassive. Yet Euphra’s wore a considerably heightened colour—a more articulate indication. She could school her features, but not her complexion.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE WAGER
He…stakes this ring;
And would so, had it been a carbuncle
Of Phoebus’ wheel; and might so safely, had it
Been all the worth of his car.
Cymbeline.
Hugh, of course, had an immediate attack of jealousy. Wishing to show it in one quarter, and hide it in every other, he carefully abstained from looking once in the direction of Euphra; while, throughout the dinner, he spoke to every one else as often as there was the smallest pretext for doing so. To enable himself to keep this up, he drank wine freely. As he was in general very moderate, by the time the ladies rose, it had begun to affect his brain. It was not half so potent, however, in its influences, as the parting glance which Euphra succeeded at last, as she left the room, in sending through his eyes to his heart.
Hugh sat down to the table again, with a quieter tongue, but a busier brain. He drank still, without thinking of the consequences. A strong will kept him from showing any signs of intoxication, but he was certainly nearer to that state than he had ever been in his life before.
The Bohemian started the new subject which generally follows the ladies’ departure.
“How long is it since Arnstead was first said to be haunted, Mr. Arnold?”
“Haunted! Herr von Funkelstein? I am at a loss to understand you,” replied Mr. Arnold, who resented any such allusion, being subversive of the honour of his house, almost as much as if it had been depreciative of his own.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Arnold. I thought it was an open subject of remark.”
“So it is,” said Hugh; “every one knows that.”
Mr. Arnold was struck dumb with indignation. Before he had recovered himself sufficiently to know what to say, the conversation between the other two had assumed a form to which his late experiences inclined him to listen with some degree of interest. But, his pride sternly forbidding him to join in it, he sat sipping his wine in careless sublimity.
“You have seen it yourself, then?” said the Bohemian.
“I did not say that,” answered Hugh. “But I heard one of the maids say once—when—”
He paused.
This hesitation of his witnessed against him afterwards, in Mr. Arnold’s judgment. But he took no notice now.—Hugh ended tamely enough:
“Why, it is commonly reported amongst the servants.”
“With a blue light?—Such as we saw that night from the library window, I suppose.”
“I did not say that,” answered Hugh. “Besides, it was nothing of the sort you saw from the library. It was only the moon. But—”
He paused again. Von Funkelstein saw the condition he was in, and pressed him.
“You know something more, Mr. Sutherland.”
Hugh hesitated again, but only for a moment.
“Well, then,” he said, “I have seen the spectre myself, walking in her white grave-clothes, in the Ghost’s Avenue—ha! ha!”
Funkelstein looked anxious.
“Were you frightened?” said he.
“Frightened!” repeated Hugh, in a tone of the greatest contempt. “I am of Don Juan’s opinion with regard to such gentry.”
“What is that?”
“‘That soul and body, on the whole,
Are odds against a disembodied soul.’”
“Bravo!” cried the count. “You despise all these tales about Lady Euphrasia, wandering about the house with a death-candle in her hand, looking everywhere about as if she had lost something, and couldn’t find it?”
“Pooh! pooh! I wish I could meet her!”
“Then you don’t believe a word of it?”
“I don’t say that. There would be less of courage than boasting in talking so, if I did not believe a word of it.”
“Then you do believe it?”
But Hugh was too much of a Scotchman to give a hasty opinion, or rather a direct answer—even when half-tipsy; especially when such was evidently desired. He only shook and nodded his head at the same moment.
“Do you really mean you would meet her if you could?”
“I do.”
“Then, if all tales are true, you may, without much difficulty. For the coachman told me only to-day, that you may see her light in the window of that room almost any night, towards midnight. He told me, too (for I made quite a friend of him to-day, on purpose to hear his tales), that one of the maids, who left the other day, told the groom—and he told the coachman—that she had once heard talking; and, peeping through the key-hole of a door that led into that part of the old house, saw a figure, dressed exactly like the picture of Lady Euphrasia, wandering up and down, wringing her hands and beating her breast, as if she were in terrible trouble. She had a light in her hand which burned awfully blue, and her face was the face of a corpse, with pale-green spots.”
“You think to frighten me, Funkelstein, and make me tremble at what I said a minute ago. Instead of repeating that. I say now: I will sleep in Lady Euphrasia’s room this night, if you like.”
“I lay you a hundred guineas you won’t!” cried the Bohemian.
“Done!” said Hugh, offering him his hand. Funkelstein took it; and so the bet was committed to the decision of courage.
“Well, gentlemen,” interposed Mr. Arnold at last, “you might have left a corner for me somewhere. Without my permission you will hardly settle your wager.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Arnold,” said Funkelstein. “We got rather excited over it, and forgot our manners. But I am quite willing to give it up, if Mr. Sutherland will.”
“Not I,” said Hugh;—“that is, of course, if Mr. Arnold has no objection.”
“Of course not. My house, ghost and all, is at your service, gentlemen,” responded Mr. Arnold, rising.
They went to the drawing-room. Mr. Arnold, strange to say, was in a good humour. He walked up to Mrs. Elton, and said:
“These wicked men have been betting, Mrs. Elton.”
“I am surprised they should be so silly,” said she, with a smile, taking it as a joke.
“What have they been betting about?” said Euphra, coming up to her uncle.
“Herr von Funkelstein has laid a hundred guineas that Mr. Sutherland will not sleep in Lady Euphrasia’s room to-night.”
Euphra turned pale.
“By sleep I suppose you mean spend the night?” said Hugh to Funkelstein. “I cannot be certain of sleeping, you know.”
“Of course, I mean that,” answered the other; and, turning to Euphrasia, continued:
“I must say I consider it rather courageous of him to dare the spectre as he does, for he cannot say he disbelieves in her. But come and sing me one of the old songs,” he added, in an under tone.
Euphra allowed him to lead her to the piano; but instead of singing a song to him, she played some noisy music, through which he and she contrived to talk for some time, without being overheard; after which he left the room. Euphra then looked round to Hugh, and begged him with her eyes to come to her. He could not resist, burning with jealousy as he was.
“Are you sure you have nerve enough for this, Hugh?” she said, still playing.
“I have had nerve enough to sit still and look at you for the last half hour,” answered Hugh, rudely.
She turned pale, and glanced up at him with a troubled look. Then, without responding to his answer, said:
“I daresay the count is not over-anxious to hold you to your bet.”
“Pray intercede for me with the count, madam,” answered Hugh, sarcastically. “He would not wish the young fool to be frightened, I daresay. But perhaps he wishes to have an interview with the ghost himself, and grudges me the privilege.”
She turned deadly pale this time, and gave him one terrified glance, but made no other reply to his words. Still she played on.
“You will arm yourself?”
“Against a ghost? Yes, with a stout heart.”
“But don’t forget the secret door through which we came that night, Hugh. I distrust the count.”
The last words were spoken in a whisper, emphasized into almost a hiss.
“Tell him I shall be armed. I tell you I shall meet him bare-handed. Betray me if you like.”
Hugh had taken his revenge, and now came the reaction. He gazed at Euphra; but instead of the injured look, which was the best he could hope to see, an expression of “pity and ruth” grew slowly in her face, making it more lovely than ever in his eyes. At last she seemed on the point of bursting into tears; and, suddenly changing the music, she began playing a dead-march. She kept her eyes on the keys. Once more, only, she glanced round, to see whether Hugh was still by her side; and he saw that her face was pale as death, and wet with silent tears. He had never seen her weep before. He would have fallen at her feet, had he been alone with her. To hide his feelings, he left the room, and then the house.
He wandered into the Ghost’s Walk; and, finding himself there, walked up and down in it. This was certainly throwing the lady a bold challenge, seeing he was going to spend the night in her room.
The excitement into which jealousy had thrown him, had been suddenly checked by the sight of Euphra’s tears. The reaction, too, after his partial intoxication, had already begun to set in; to be accounted for partly by the fact that its source had been chiefly champagne, and partly by the other fact, that he had bound himself in honour, to dare a spectre in her own favourite haunt.
On the other hand, the sight of Euphra’s emotion had given him a far better courage than jealousy or wine could afford. Yet, after ten minutes passed in the shadows of the Ghost’s Walk, he would not have taken the bet at ten times its amount.
But to lose it now would have been a serious affair for him, the disgrace of failure unconsidered. If he could have lost a hundred guineas, it would have been comparatively a slight matter; but to lose a bet, and be utterly unable to pay it, would be disgraceful—no better than positive cheating. He had not thought of this at the time. Nor, even now, was it more than a passing thought; for he had not the smallest desire to recede. The ambition of proving his courage to Euphra, and, far more, the strength just afforded him by the sight of her tears, were quite sufficient to carry him on to the ordeal. Whether they would carry him through it with dignity, he did not ask himself.
And, after all, would the ghost appear? At the best, she might not come; at the very worst, she would be but a ghost; and he could say with Hamlet—
“for my soul, what can it do to that,
Being a thing as immortal as itself?”
But then, his jealousy having for the moment intermitted, Hugh was not able to say with Hamlet—
“I do not set my life at a pin’s fee;”
and that had much to do with Hamlet’s courage in the affair of the ghost.
He walked up and down the avenue, till, beginning to feel the night chilly, he began to feel the avenue eerie; for cold is very antagonistic to physical courage. But what refuge would he find in the ghost’s room?
He returned to the drawing-room. Von Funkelstein and Euphra were there alone, but in no proximity. Mr. Arnold soon entered.
“Shall I have the bed prepared for you, Mr. Sutherland?” said Euphra.
“Which of your maids will you persuade to that office?” said Mr. Arnold, with a facetious expression.
“I must do it myself,” answered Euphra, “if Mr. Sutherland persists.”
Hugh saw, or thought he saw, the Bohemian dart an angry glance at Euphra, who shrank under it. But before he could speak, Mr. Arnold rejoined:
“You can make a bed, then? That is the housemaid’s phrase, is it not?”
“I can do anything another can, uncle.”
“Bravo! Can you see the ghost?”
“Yes,” she answered, with a low lingering on the sibilant; looking round, at the same time, with an expression that implied a hope that Hugh had heard it; as indeed he had.
“What! Euphra too?” said Mr. Arnold, in a tone of gentle contempt.
“Do not disturb the ghost’s bed for me,” said Hugh. “It would be a pity to disarrange it, after it has lain so for an age. Besides, I need not rouse the wrath of the poor spectre more than can’t be helped. If I must sleep in her room, I need not sleep in her bed. I will lie on the old couch. Herr von Funkelstein, what proof shall I give you?”
“Your word, Mr. Sutherland,” replied Funkelstein, with a bow.
“Thank you. At what hour must I be there.”
“Oh! I don’t know. By eleven I should think. Oh! any time before midnight. That’s the ghost’s own, is it not? It is now—let me see—almost ten.”
“Then I will go at once,” said Hugh, thinking it better to meet the gradual approach of the phantom-hour in the room itself, than to walk there through the desolate house, and enter the room just as the fear would be gathering thickest within it. Besides, he was afraid that his courage might have broken down a little by that time, and that he would not be able to conceal entirely the anticipative dread, whose inroad he had reason to apprehend.
“I have one good cup of tea yet, Mr. Sutherland,” said Euphra. “Will you not strengthen your nerves with that, before we lead you to the tomb?”
“Then she will go with me,” thought Hugh. “I will, thank you, Miss Cameron.”
He approached the table at which she stood pouring out the cup of tea. She said, low and hurriedly, without raising her head:
“Don’t go, dear Hugh. You don’t know what may happen.”
“I will go, Euphra. Not even you shall prevent me.”
“I will pay the wager for you—lend you the money.”
“Euphra!”—The tone implied many things.
Mr. Arnold approached. Other conversation followed. As half-past ten chimed from the clock on the chimney-piece, Hugh rose to go.
“I will just get a book from my room,” he said; “and then perhaps Herr von Funkelstein will be kind enough to see me make a beginning at least.”
“Certainly I will. And I advise you to let the book be Edgar Poe’s Tales.”
“No. I shall need all the courage I have, I assure you. I shall find you here?”
“Yes.”
Hugh went to his room, and washed his face and hands. Before doing so, he pulled off his finger a ring of considerable value, which had belonged to his father. As he was leaving the room to return to the company, he remembered that he had left the ring on the washhand-stand. He generally left it there at night; but now he bethought himself that, as he was not going to sleep in the room, it might be as well to place it in the escritoire. He opened the secret place, and laid the diamond beside his poems and the crystal ring belonging to Mr. Arnold. This done, he took up his book again, and, returning to the drawing-room, found the whole party prepared to accompany him. Mr. Arnold had the keys. Von Funkelstein and he went first, and Hugh followed with Euphra.
“We will not contribute to your discomfiture by locking the doors on the way, Mr. Sutherland,” said Mr. Arnold.
“That is, you will not compel me to win the wager in spite of my fears,” said Hugh.
“But you will let the ghost loose on the household,” said the Bohemian, laughing.
“I will be responsible for that,” replied Mr. Arnold.
Euphra dropped a little behind with Hugh.
“Remember the secret passage,” said she. “You can get out when you will, whether they lock the door, or not. Don’t carry it too far, Hugh.”
“The ghost you mean, Euphra.—I don’t think I shall,” said Hugh, laughing. But as he laughed, an involuntary shudder passed through him.
“Have I stepped over my own grave?” thought he.
They reached the room, and entered. Hugh would have begged them to lock him in, had he not felt that his knowledge of the secret door, would, although he intended no use of it, render such a proposal dishonourable. They gave him the key of the door, to lock it on the inside, and bade him good night. They were just leaving him, when Hugh on whom a new light had broken at last, in the gradual restoration of his faculties, said to the Bohemian:
“One word with you, Herr von Funkelstein, if you please.”
Funkelstein followed him into the room; when Hugh half-closing the door, said:
“I trust to your sympathy, as gentleman, not to misunderstand me. I wagered a hundred guineas with you in the heat of after-dinner talk. I am not at present worth a hundred shillings.”
“Oh!” began Funkelstein, with a sneer, “if you wish to get off on that ground—”
“Herr von Funkelstein,” interrupted Hugh, in a very decided tone, “I pointed to your sympathy as a gentleman, as the ground on which I had hoped to meet you now. If you have difficulty in finding that ground, another may be found to-morrow without much seeking.”
Hugh paused for a moment after making this grand speech; but Funkelstein did not seem to understand him: he stood in a waiting attitude. Hugh therefore went on:
“Meantime, what I wanted to say is this:—I have just left a ring in my room, which, though in value considerably below the sum mentioned between us, may yet be a pledge of my good faith, in as far as it is of infinitely more value to me than can be reckoned in money. It was the property of one who by birth, and perhaps by social position as well, was Herr von Funkelstein’s equal. The ring is a diamond, and belonged to my father.”
Von Funkelstein merely replied:
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Sutherland, for misunderstanding you. The ring is quite an equivalent.” And making him a respectful bow, he turned and left him.