CHAPTER XLIII
WYNNETTE’S STRANGE ADVENTURE
What ailed Wynnette?
That evening, while the family were all assembled in the drawing room after dinner, she stole away and went to find the housekeeper.
The old woman was in her own sitting room, joining the servants’ hall.
Mrs. Kelsy welcomed the little lady, who had already become a great favorite with her.
“I hope I don’t disturb you,” said Wynnette, deprecatingly.
“Dearie me, no, miss,” replied the housekeeper, rising and placing a chair for her young visitor.
Wynnette thanked her and sat down.
“You have been over the old castle, I hear, Miss Wynnette,” said the old woman.
“Yes, and I came here to get you to tell me all you know of that ancient ruin. You have been housekeeper here for a long time, and you must know lots about it.”
“Yes, my dear young lady, I have been here, girl and woman, for fifty years. My mother was housekeeper here before me. I was still-room-maid under until she died about twenty years ago, and I got her place, through the kindness of the earl.”
“That must have been very agreeable to you, as you were so used to the house.”
“It was, my dear young lady, it was.”
“And you must know lots of stories about the old castle.”
The housekeeper suddenly became silent and grave.
“And your mother must have known lots more than you did and told them to you.”
The housekeeper looked solemn and reticent.
“Didn’t she, now? You might as well tell me. I am the niece of the earl, and my mother is his heiress-presumptive.”
“Yes. I know that, young lady,” said Mrs. Kelsy, speaking at last.
“Well, then, you needn’t make a mystery of the matter to one of the family, you know.”
“What is it that you wish to hear, Miss Wynnette?”
“Oh, any story of the old ruin, so that it is a really marrow-freezing, blood-curdling, hair-raising story.”
“There is the guide to Enderby Castle, Miss Wynnette.”
“Oh, I know; but that contains only outlines—outlines traced in blood and fire, to be sure, but still only outlines. I want a story with more body in it. Come, now, that story of the Lady Cunigunda of Enderby, who was the greatest beauty of her time, for whom kings and princes were vainly breaking their hearts, and who was immured alive for marrying a handsome soldier. Come, tell me all about her. That’s a darling.”
“My dear Miss Wynnette, I know no more about her than you do. Not a bit more than what is printed in the guide. No, nor yet did my old mother, rest her soul.”
“But, now, tell the truth. Does not the ghost of Lady Cunigunda haunt the Round Tower in which she was immured?”
“Not as ever I heard of, my dear. Not as ever I heard of.”
“But, Mrs. Kelsy,” said Wynnette, solemnly, “I thought the old castle was a venerable, historical building.”
“So it is, my dear. So it is. Nobody can gainsay that.”
“But, Mrs. Kelsy, no castle, however ancient, and however full of legends of kings and princes and heroes and saints, can be even respectable, much less venerable, unless it has its ghost.”
“Enderby Old Castle has its ghost, Miss Wynnette,” retorted the old housekeeper, drawing herself up with dignity.
“Ah, I thought so! I knew so. Tell me about it, Mrs. Kelsy!” eagerly exclaimed Wynnette.
“My dear, I cannot, especially to-night—especially to-night.”
“Why not to-night?”
“Because, my dear, this very night of the twentieth of June is the anniversary of the murder of that poor young woman and her baby, when her spirit always revisits the scene of her murder,” said the old woman, solemnly.
“Do you mean—are you talking of the lady’s maid who was murdered by the coachman, and whose body was thrown down the shaft in the castle hall?” gravely inquired Wynnette.
“Hush, my dear. Hush! Don’t talk of it, or you may draw that perturbed spirit even here.”
“You know all about that tragedy, then?” persisted Wynnette.
“My mother did, and told me. And people enough have seen the ghost in the castle hall on this anniversary.”
“Hush! Yes, once; and I never want to see it again. So that’s the last word I will speak about it to-night. Some other time I’ll tell you all, but not now. Not while her troubled spirit is abroad. Hush! What was that?”
“Nothing but a sough of the wind.”
“Oh, I thought it was the sob of a woman. I thought it was her sob. Oh, my dear, for the Lord’s sake, drop the subject,” pleaded the old woman.
“I will drop it this instant if you will promise to tell me all you know some day soon,” whispered Wynnette.
“Yes, yes, I promise. Let a Sunday and a church service come between this night and the story, and I will tell you on Monday,” said the housekeeper, whom Wynnette’s persistence had brought to a state of great nervous excitement.
The young girl then arose and bade the old woman good-night, and returned to the drawing room, where she found all the family circle about to separate and retire.
Wynnette went to the room which she shared with her eldest sister.
Odalite got ready and went to bed.
“Have you done with the light?” inquired Wynnette.
“Yes. Why?” inquired the elder sister.
“Because I want to turn it down low.”
“But are you not coming to bed?”
“Not yet. I wish to open the shutters and look out at the old castle by moonlight. I will draw the curtains at the foot of your bed, so that the beams may not keep you awake.”
“Oh, the moonlight would never disturb my slumbers, Wynnette,” said Odalite.
Nevertheless, the younger girl went and drew the white dimity curtains across the foot of the bed, which was facing the west window. Then Wynnette turned down the light to a mere glow-worm size, and opened the folding shutters of the window and sat down to look out at the prospect.
The moon was in its third quarter, had passed the meridian, and was now halfway down the western hemisphere, and hung over the sea, above the ruined castle on the cliff, illumining the scene with a weird light.
Wynnette looked down on the great square inclosure of the courtyard, shut in by strong walls of mighty buildings on all four sides, the walls of the ancient ruin being on the western side, directly opposite her window. The courtyard was as secure and as clean as the carefully kept interior of a barracks. And it was so quiet at this hour that the sound of the sea, beating against the rocks at the base of the old ruin, was heard as deafening thunder.
But Wynnette’s eyes were fixed on that row of ancient windows in the ruined hall and looked like mere slits in the wall.
And now happened to the girl a very marvelous event. As she gazed on these narrow openings they became illumined from within by a strange light.
It was not from the moon, for the moon was far above, and would have to be an hour lower to shed that light. Besides, it was a dark, red light, like nothing on this earth.
Wynnette gazed and wondered—wondered and gazed. It was a steady light; it never wavered or flickered, never brightened or faded.
Wynnette gazed and wondered—wondered and gazed, until, drawn by an irresistible fascination, she arose slowly and turned from the window, went past her sister’s bed, stooped over, saw that Odalite was fast asleep, and then she softly opened the chamber door, passed out and closed it behind her.
In the upper hall lights were always left burning low through the night.
By these Wynnette found her way down the grand staircase to the armorial hall below.
Here, also, lights were burning low.
By these she found her way to the great west door in front, took down the bars, unhooked the chain, drew back the bolts, and turned the heavy key in the huge lock—all so noiselessly as to make her wonder, until she remembered how well-oiled every lock, key, bolt and hinge was, to save the nerves of the invalid earl.
She drew open the heavy doors and went out into the night.
The courtyard was bathed in moonlight, except where the old ruin some yards in front cast its black shadow, for the moon was now behind it.
Everything was as still as death except the sea that thundered at the foot of the cliff.
Wynnette felt no fear of material dangers. She knew that she was as safe from harm as though she were in a fortress.
She went straight across the courtyard, drawing nearer and nearer to the haunted castle; and as she approached it she gazed more intently at those luridly lighted loopholes. And then, oh strange! the lights seemed not to come from torch or candle, but from spectral eyes glaring forth into the night, and drawing her on with an irresistible power. Wynnette could not turn and fly; she was under a mighty spell, she must move on—on—on—until she reached the pile of fallen stones around the castle walls; and over these, climbing with difficulty and danger, still moving on and on, until she reached the portals.
The great iron-bound oaken doors seemed now to be closed and secured from within against intrusion, yet she was still drawn on so powerfully that she pushed with all her strength against those mighty doors, but with as little effect as if she had tried to move a mountain. When—
Suddenly the door opened, a cold hand seized her wrist, drew her in, and the door closed.