Eva : a novel

Chapter I

It had once been a fine old place, but Time’s relentless fingers had left their impress upon it. For fourteen , years it had been unoccupied save for the four-footed tenants which had taken up their abode within its walls, at their own sweet will, their possession disputed only by bats and a few of the feathered tribe which occasionally entered through the broken windows.

The walls were thickly overgrown with vines; the grounds which had once been beautiful with flowers and rustic arbors were now choked with tall weeds, grass had grown in the gravel walks and drives, and the fountains which once had plashed and played were filled up with the debris of leaves, branches, sticks and stones.

The boys in the village on the outskirts of which this old mansion stood had been the worst depredators, for they had broken the glass out of most of the windows, the branches of every fruit tree on the premises had suffered at their hands, they

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had thrown stones into the basins of the fountains, broken down the rustic arbors, drained the water off the little fish pond in the grounds at the back of the mansion, and then as though not content with all that work of devastation, had, as though wishing to add insult to injury, put up a board at the entrance gates on which was painted in great black letters the one word, “Haunted. ” The rosy glow of the dying day was tingeing the vine covered walls, and lighting up the few windows in the upper stories which had escaped the bombardment of stones, and in the sunset coloring this old ruined home seemed to smile a sad, hopeless smile as though in memory of vanished joys and days departed, of resignation to the inevitable.

So thought a solitary horseman who had drawn up at the gateway as he looked up at the great house and over the grounds, and as his wandering gaze took in the whole scene he said aloud: “What is more pathetic than an old deserted home?” Then as his eyes rested on the board which had been painted with the suggestive word he smiled and patted his horse on the neck. “Well, Rocket, this grows interesting, and as we have not money enough to put up at the village hotel we may have to pass the night among the ghosts, eh, old boy? This is what comes of giving one’s last cent to a wayfarer, and not calculating correctly the length of one’s journey. Never mind, old boy, we will see what kind of a place this is. I don’t believe you are very superstitious, and I am sure I am not, so perhaps this place will do as well as a hostelry.

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I don’t care so much on my own account as on yours, for you have come a long distance, and you shall have your supper and lodging if your master goes without his. We will manage it in some way.”

He turned in at the gate and followed the drive which led around to the rear of the mansion, hoping to find a stable of some kind, but he saw only the remains of one, which, to judge by appearances, had been destroyed by fire many years before.

“Well, Rocket, things begin to look serious,” he said, gazing about him with a perplexed look. He thrust his hands down deep in his pockets, when an expression of pleased surprise overspread his face. He drew up one hand with a half-dollar between the fingers. “I did not know I had that,” he said. “Well, old boy, that will pay for your bed and supper at the village hotel barn, and I don’t care so much for myself. I will put you up at the village public house, and I can come and put up at the haunted house. It will be a shelter at any rate, and the next time we go on a pilgrimage we won’t give our money all away to the first beggar we chance to meet until we find out how long we must be on the road.”

Turning about he rode slowly out of the grounds, and the tired horse turned reluctantly into the highway again, and, a little farther on they entered the village of Greendell and drew up at the inn. It was a new and not a pleasant experience to Ernest Grayland to be obliged to ask the price of a night’s lodging for his horse, but he did it

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with as good a grace as possible, and found to his relief that Rocket’s supper, bed and breakfast at the village hostelry would be just half a dollar. He paid it in advance, and telling the man that he would be there by seven the next morning he left the stable and turned his steps in the direction of the haunted house.

The prospect was not a pleasant one. He was a stranger in a strange place. He had started from home in response to a summons from an entire stranger who requested him in a letter which had been brought to him by a boy, to come out to a camp of Gypsies where the writer was lying ill without hope of recovery, and hear a confession which was of vital importance to the living, and to come alone. He had started as soon as he could get ready, and, refusing his valet’s urgent request to be allowed to accompany him, set out upon his journey on his favorite horse.

He listened to his man, however, when, just as he was about to start he begged him not to take much money and no valuables with him, and laughingly handed over his watch which was a very fine one, and every article of value which he had upon his person. Then taking his pocketbook he extracted from it three five dollar bills and handed the book over also, to the man’s great relief, for he did not want his young master to go alone on a journey to a Gypsy camp with anything which would make a too tempting display.

The distance was only thirty miles, and Ernest fully expected to return within twenty-four hours from the time of his departure from home.

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On the way he had come upon a man who was so hopelessly crippled that the sight of his helplessness had appealed so strongly to his sympathies that he had given him the three five dollar bills thinking they were all the money he had with him, but supposing he would soon be at the Gypsy camp he did not expect to be placed in any circumstances which would require any money.

It was after this that he discovered he had taken the wrong road and gone miles out of his way, and in retracing his steps he had found that night was near at hand and his horse weary, while he was still some miles from his destination. It was then that he had come in sight of the village of Greendell, on the outskirts of which he had come upon the haunted house. It had occurred to him that this would be a shelter, that it would be but for one night anyway. He did not wish to telegraph home for money, and as the weather was warm he would much prefer staying there to asking a night’s lodging of strangers. He would rather go without his own supper than ask for it, so he turned for the second time into the grounds and approached the front entrance to the haunted house.

He walked up the stone steps and tried the massive front doors, but they resisted all his efforts. He went around the house looking for an opening and found one. A door which had once been of glass and which opened on a small balcony reached by half a dozen stone steps, had suffered from the vigorous attacks of the village boys until not only

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the glass had been broken out, but the doorframe itself had been almost demolished. He entered through this and found himself in a large room with high ceiling. A few articles of motheaten furniture and some torn and faded curtains still occupied it. There was a large fireplace, and over the black marble mantel still hung the portrait of a young and exquisitely beautiful woman.

Through an archway he could see a large hall in which a grand stairway ascended to the upper part of the house. He went up this to the top and glanced about, but the upper hall was empty, and the doors opening off from it were the doors to what had once been the sleeping rooms, and as he thought he would rather be on the lower floor, he descended to the room he had first entered, and where there was an old couch upon which he thought he would make his bed for the night. He looked in the rooms on the lower floor but in none of the others was there so much furniture as in this one, so here he decided to stay. “If the ghosts will permit me,” he said smiling.

He stood for some time looking at the pictured face that smiled down upon him from above the fireplace. The eyes of this portrait seemed to follow him, for wherever he stood in the room they looked directly at him with a smile half proud, half mischevious but very sweet. The face showed high breeding in every line, and in the poise of the head a dignity of bearing, that together with its beauty and merry sweetness made it irresistible.

“If it is the ghost of the original of that picture

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that haunts this house I hope she will pay me a visit tonight,” said Ernest, “for I should be happy to make the acquaintance of so charming a lady. I suppose there has been a tragedy here at some time or other, and that is why this fine old place has gone to rack and ruin. In accordance with what I have always read of haunted houses there ought to be a bloodstain about here somewhere on the wall or floor. I think I will look around a little more. I suppose this beautiful woman was murdered by a jealous husband or lover, as such stories usually run, and her spirit still holds nightly revels within these walls re-enacting the original tragedy.

“I never could understand how a man could allow his common sense to become so blinded by jealousy as to cause him to commit murder. If a woman whom I loved turned from me to some other man and bestowed her favors and affections upon him, I believe I should ask myself whether or not the fault was mine. At least I think I should infer, from her desertion of me, that I was not the most charming male creature of the century, and come to the conclusion that ‘there were others/ and that possibh r some other man might be more worthy of her love than I, and she had discernment enough to see it. But I never saw a jealous beast who was not so full of egotism that he could not see any fault in himself, and if everyone else did not admire him, thought they were doing him a personal injury. I like that woman’s face, and it strikes me that a man would have to be

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above the ordinary to win and hold her affections.”

He went slowly up the stairs again and looked into the sleeping-rooms on the second floor. In some of them the beds and bedding, carpets, curtains and even some of the toilet articles were still in their places, but musty and dusty and motheaten to the last degree. In one room which was finer than the others was a little lace draped crib with the soft pillows and coverings still occupying it. But although he made a pretty thorough search no bloodstain was to be seen.

As he turned to leave this chamber he glanced up and saw written upon the wall above the door the words “This is the ghost-room.”

“So this is where the ghost makes its headquarters,” he said to himself. “Well, if it was not so dusty and musty I would stay in here, but the air is better down below, so I think I’ll go down.”

He went back to the room below and drawing the old couch into a position where he could see through the archway into the hall, and also a portion of the staircase, he lay down upon it and prepared to rest and sleep. For Ernest Gravland had met with strange experiences in many different lands, and therefore was in the habit of making the best of worse situations than this. He was absolutely devoid of superstitious fear, and he expected to sleep, and sleep well in this gruesome place which had every appearance of having been darkened by sorrow and crime.

As the light of day faded, and everything in the room grew dim and indistinct the last to fade

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into the dusk was the beautiful face, which stood out like a fine cameo against the dark wall and smiled down upon him until the growing darkness shut it from his sight.

The house was silent as the grave; a drowsiness came over him and he dropped into a deep dreamless sleep. After a time the moon rose and flooded the whole place with its soft rays, and as it climbed higher in the heavens it shone in at the window and on the couch where the sleeper lay, with one arm under his head and his handsome face upturned and illumined by the silvery light.

Chapter II

In an unpretentious little cottage in the village of Greendell Lucinda Nayburn was beginning her preparations for supper. Lucinda was not fair, but she was fat and over forty, with a figure like a dumpling; her waist line defined only by her apron strings, which made her look — her husband said — “like a bag tied in the middle.’ ’ Her face was fat, and her brown eyes dull and expressionless, and her hair which was thin and straight, was drawn tightly back from her forehead and temples and twisted into a little knot on the top of her head, which knot her‘ husband jokingly termed “Cindy’s knob.”

It was scarcely five o’clock, but she was bustling about, putting the tea-kettle on, and making frequent trips to the pantry, while her husband sat by a window reading a newspaper, and a lovely girl of about eighteen was engaged likewise with a book. Presently she halted before her husband, placed her hands on her hips and in a fretful voice began: “Ely Nayburn I wish you’d take your nose out of that paper, and pay attention to me.”

“What is it now, Cindy?” he asked without raising his eyes from the printed page.

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“I want you to go down to the meat-market and git sum thin’ to fry fer supper. I’m so sick an’ tired of eggs I don’t never want to see another in all my life.” Ely Nay burn laid down his paper, rather reluctantly, and prepared to do as she requested.

“What shall I get, Cindy?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.

“Oh, I don’t know. Git what you please, but do hurry, and don’t stand an’ gab with every woman you see.”

“That will depend on how good looking she may be,” replied Ely, with a twinkle in his eyes. “If any good looking woman wants to talk to me, I’m as ready to talk as she is.”

“I guess everybody in this place knows that, and they all feel sorry fer me. Don’t they Jessamine?”'

The girl smiled. She was accustomed to this sort of thing between these two.

“Don’t expect me to take sides, please,” she said, “for it is safer for me to be on the good side of you both. I don’t think you need any assistance from anyone, Aunt Cindy. You can hold your own well enough.”

“I shall try to anyhow,” snapped Cindy.

After Ely had gone on his errand Jessamine laid down her book, and said abruptly: “Aunt Cindy, you have never told me the story of the “Haunted House” and I have asked you about it every time I have been here on a visit, but you always put me off. Won’t you tell me about it?”

“No,” replied Cindy with apparent firmness, “I never shall.”

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“But why?” persisted Jessamine. “What harm could there be in your telling me what gave it such a name?”

“I don’t believe in tellin’ young girls things that’ll scare ’em half to death,” replied Cindy gravely.

Jessamine laughed merrily. “Why, Aunt Cindy,” she cried, “I would no more think of being frightened than 1 would be at a fairy story. I asked Uncle Ely why it was that I could never persuade you to tell me about it, and he said you did not know as much about it as he did, and that he would tell me the whole story sometime.”

Cindy stopped short and looked at Jessamine, with anger in her dull brown eyes. He told you I didn’t know, did he? The self-conceited old fool! Wal, I know more about it than he ever did, and I’ll tell you the story as it happened, fer I was here in Greendell at the time, an’ knew all about it.”

Jessamine turned to the window to hide a smile of triumph at the success of her little ruse, for she understood Cindy’s nature well enough to know that a word of opposition from Ely would arouse every particle of contrariness she possessed.

“Then the house is really supposed to be haunted?” she asked, after she had her countenance well under control.

“I hope you don’t believe no such nonsense as that,” said Cindy sharply.

“Don’t you believe in ghosts, Aunt Cindy?” asked the girl innocently.

“I hope I’ve got more sense than to believe in any such foolishness as that.”

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“Then we might go over the ‘haunted house’ sometime, and look at the whole place,” said Jessamine eagerly. “You will go with me, won’t you? I should like to see it.”

Cindy stopped in the pantry doorway and looked at the girl with horrified eyes. Then she gave a little gasp. “Jessamine Erlwin” she said, in an awe-stricken voice, “I wouldn’t go into that house nor onto them premises even in broad daylight if anybody would give me the biggest farm within twenty miles of Greendell, and I like property just as well as anybody.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t believe in ghosts,” said the girl, trying to keep from laughing outright.

“I don’t.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

“You don’t know what you might see before you got out of there.”

“But one can’t see a ghost if there isn’t any such thing.”

“You don’t know what j r ou are talking about, dear,” said Cindy, dropping her voice to a soothing tone as though reasoning with a small child.

“Well, tell me what happened there,” said Jessamine, “and then I shall understand it better.”

“Wal,” said Cindy, dropping into a chair, “I can’t do no more toward gittin’ supper till that man comes, if he ever does.

“That haunted house used to be the grandest place that was ever seen around here. It belonged to an awful rich man, and he was handsome as a

IS

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picture, too. But he used to spend his winters in the city. He would come out here summers and bring a lot of fashionable company with him, and then for a few weeks there would be great doin’s up there. These folks he brought home with him wa’n’t like the folks around here. They dressed perfectly magnificent, and they was all the time ridin’ an’ drivin,’ and dancin’ and some of the women was too stuck up to even look at us poor common folks. Wal, about six miles from here is a place in the woods where most every summer some Gypsies camp for a while, but they never had done nobody no harm so they wasn’t meddled with. Wal, these high an’ mighty folks wanted to get their fortunes told, so they all rode out to the camp one day, and while they was there, a young Gipsy girl fell dead in love with the master of the house. She made a perfect fool of herself about him, and land sakes! he wouldn’t think of lookin at her.

“You wouldn’t believe that any girl would ever follow a man about and worship him the way she did. Some folks blamed him and suspected that he encouraged her on the sly, but I don’t know, I don’t hardly believe he did, though some men are mean enough to do most anything. But one reason why I think he didn’t is because I flirted my handkerchief at him one day when he was ridin ^ past, and I was a pretty girl then if I do say it, for that was nineteen years ago, and he give me such a look I never felt so ashamed of myself in all my life. So I don’t believe he ever encouraged

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any poor Gypsy girl, fer he acted as if he thought a crowned queen wouldn’t be none too good fer him.

“Wall, after a while he got married, and his wife was a beauty an’ no mistake and the poor Gipsy girl was desperate. Don’t you think, dear, that a woman is a big fool to love a man like that, when he don’t care no more fer her than he does fer the dirt in the road?”

“I think she is to be pitied,” said Jessamine gently, “I cannot think of anything much more pathetic. We know that she would not be a victim to such an infatuation if she could help it, Aunt Cindy. We know that such infatuations do exist, and they seem to be as uncontrollable as they are unaccountable. We should be careful how we judge.”

“I don’t know nothin about what she could help or couldn’t,” said Cindy sharply, “but I know she was a fool or she wouldn’t allow herself to be such a softy. Wal, she almost went crazy, and the first summer that he brought his wife and baby out here she hung around the place, and one night when there was a big thunder storm, and his wife was standin’ at the window watchin’ the storm, the Gypsy girl crept up near the house and shot an’ killed her. She fell and died right where she had been standin’.

“Of course the help and everybody on the place was scart half to death, and in the excitement and confusion of attending to the mistress an’ tryin’ to bring her to life again, they never thought

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of the bab} r and left it alone a few minutes, and the Gypsy girl got into the house an’ stole the baby right out of its cradle and carried it off.

“The next mornin’ they got a letter from the Gypsy girl and when the master of the house read it he just dropped right down, and the doctors called it heart failure, fur that night he was dead. So they had a double funeral and buried husband and wife side by side in the family tomb.

“You see that letter is what killed the man, cornin’ as it did right after the other horror, fer in the letter she told him that she had killed his wife an’ carried off his child, and had just killed it, strangled it with her own hands, and buried it in the woods where he would never find it, and she was goin’ to kill herself as soon as she finished the letter — she had the poison all ready — so he never could track her down an’ punish her, and finished by askin’ him if he thought it was a safe thing to do to scorn a Gypsy’s love.

“Oh! it was an awful letter! It was enough to kill anybody, and the nurse almost died too, when she read it. You see the child was a little over a year old, and they was all so fond of it that they would have felt just awful if it had died at home while bein’ surrounded by every care. But then to have it took out of its cradle and carried off to the woods and strangled — why it was enough to make the arch-fiend himself shed tears.

“Wal, after the funeral and everything was all over with, his brother come. They sent for him as soon as they thought of it, and he, bein’ in

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Europe, it took him some time to git here, an’ when he did come he just told the nurse and her husband that if they would move into the little house near the western gates and work what land they wanted, they might have the use of it free of charge till he come again or till they heard from him. He was the nearest relative, so the place belonged to him now, and he was so terribly shocked and horrified by the awful murders that he said he couldn’t bear to stay there a minute longer than he had to, so he went back across the sea, and left the place in charge of the nurse and her husband, and they have never heard a word from him since. So they live there yet, and work part of the land, and they have left the big house just as it was. The furniture and curtains and all that was there is rotting away except what has been stolen and what the nurse moved into the cottage for her own use.

“Most likely more of it would have been stolen if anybody had dared to steal in such a place, but after it got the name of bein’ haunted, folks give it a wide berth. Even the village bo} T s don’t dare go there at night, but in the daytime they aint afraid.”

“But in what way is it haunted?” asked Jessamine. “What have people seen to make them think it is haunted?”

“Wal, they’ve seen lights movin’ about inside the house, and a woman’s form all in white standin’ in the window where the mistress stood when the Gypsy girl shot her, and they say that a big pic-

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ture of her that hangs over one of the fireplaces is sometimes all glowin’, all lighted up and shines in the dark. Some boys went in there one night and was goin’ to make themselves to home, and when they come into that room there was that picture all shinin’ with a kind of blue light, an’ the rest of the room pitch dark. Wal, now, I guess them boys got out of there in double quick time, and they didn’t want to try that again. Why, I wouldn’t go near that place after nightfall fer anything anybody would offer me, and I don’t believe in ghosts neither.” Cindy concluded with her usual inconsistency.

Jessamine smiled. “It must have been a fine place in the days of its glory,” she said, “1 should like to have seen it as it was then.”

“Oh, I tell you it was just grand,” replied Cindy, her dull eyes kindling into something like enthusiasm. “I was all through there once, and it was so big an’ so fine. You can’t git no idea of it by just lookin’ at the outside of it. As I told Ely when we went to Niagary Falls, you can’t git no idea of ’em by just standin’ around an’ lookin’ at ’em and Ely says, ‘What would you do, Cindy? What would you advise anybody to do to git an idea of ’em? Would you have ’em go over the cataract or down through the whirlpool rapids?’ Ely thinks he’s awful smart, but he’s perfectly silly sometimes. He knew we couldn’t go down through ’em.”

“Thank you very much, Aunt Cind}', for telling me the story. It is very interesting, but you did

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not tell me the name of the man who used to be master of the place,” said Jessamine.

“His name was Grayland,” replied Cindy, “and he called the place ‘Arcadia.’ It used to have flowers everywhere, and rustic seats and arbors, and the prettiest fountains and little shady nooks and corners, and there was a place they called the ‘Fairy Grotto.’ It was a sort of a cave in the high bank by the brook, and he had it all fixed up to look beautiful. There was a small fish pond that was full of live fish, and a great barn, big enough to hold forty horses.

“There used to be lots of marble statues in the grounds, and they was awful expensive, but I don’t approve of no naked figures. I like statues well enough if they have some kind of a garment made on ’em, but these hadn’t, and I think that is downright immodest if it is fashionable and costly. The nurse and her husband had the statues all moved into a room in their cottage, after the boys begun to spoil all the pretty places, for fear they would break ’em by throwin’ stones at ’em, and now everything about the place has gone to rack and ruin. You can’t realize what it was in the old days.”

“It has a grand look still,” said Jessamine dreamily. “I know of a family by the name of Gray land. I wonder if they are some of the same race. What was the baby, a boy or a girl?”