“Mrs. Haywood,” said my host’s voice, trembling with excitement, “describe to me please once more her dress.”
I did so, telling him also that it struck me the dress was of the period of Sir Peter Lely’s pictures, or perhaps a little earlier than that; and then, my eyes beginning to ache with the continued strain, I lifted them from the crystal, and met the astonished and excited gaze of my audience.
“Do you know,” said Lord Glencoine, coming up to me and speaking in a low voice, “that you have described exactly the ancestress I told you of—the Lady Glencoine who disappeared with the jewels.”
“What do you mean? How do you know?” I asked eagerly.
“Because,” he said, “in my study, where you have not yet been, there is a life-sized picture of that Lady Glencoine; and the most extraordinary thing is that the jewels she is wearing answer exactly to your description, and above all that strange ring is on her second finger.”
I felt myself turning quite pale with my own discoveries. What did it all mean? And why was it given to me to see this strange picture?
Lady Glencoine came up. “You look so exhausted I am going to carry you off to bed, Mrs. Haywood. I have never been so much interested in my life as I have been tonight, but I think it has been too much for you—you look so pale and tired.”
I owned to feeling fatigued, and shortly afterwards we proceeded upstairs to bed.
My hostess accompanied me to my room, and, having lit my candles, wished me good-night. I could see she was much excited, but that she would not say more, thinking I had had enough and was tired.
I undressed, dismissed my maid, and, going to the window, drew up the blinds, letting the full moon pour into the room. The whole terrace below me was lit up with it, making long and ghostly shadows, and one could almost imagine one saw the human phantoms of the past flitting up and down.
I got into bed, still leaving the moon looking into my windows, and fell asleep very shortly.
How long after I cannot tell—but the room was still in moonlight, when I was awaked by that nameless consciousness that I was not alone. Turning my head to the door, I saw what made my heart stand still and my blood run cold within me.
There, bathed in the rays of the moon, stood the lady of my crystal—the same face, gown, jewels, and with that strange and wonderful ring on her second finger, the stones of which sparkled in the light. With that finger she was beckoning to me. Too terrified to move or even to scream, I watched her, fascinated; and then my voice—was it my voice?—found itself in a frightened whisper:
“Who are you? What are you? And why do you come here?” I whispered: “Go, go—you terrify me!” and, almost before I had finished, the face and figure grew indistinct and disappeared: there was no sound, there was no movement. The place where she had stood was still in brilliant moonlight, but she was gone. Thank Heaven she was gone! My teeth were chattering with fear, my hands were cold and clammy, and I was almost beside myself with terror. With trembling hands I lit my candle—two—three candles—and I got out of bed and walked round the entire room; and there was nothing, nothing anywhere, and I began to doubt myself. Had I dreamt it? Or was it a creation of my brain, overwrought with my “crystal” effort? I had gone to sleep with my mind full of this apparition, and doubtless I had dreamt it. I nearly persuaded myself that this was the case, anything else seemed so impossible, and with this determination I at last fell asleep.
Morning broke—one of those lovely autumn days, after a night of frost, which hastens on the winter, and reminds the lingering blossoms that their days are well nigh done—and as I got up and dressed myself I almost persuaded myself that it had been a dream, and that my imagination had run riot with me. Still it had been very real, and even as I walked down the gallery on my way to the breakfast-room, with the broad prosaic sunlight shining in through the windows, I again had that same conviction, if possible more strongly than before, that I was not alone, and I began to feel quite glad that my visit was to be a short one.
After breakfast I reminded Lord Glencoine of his promise to show me the house, and specially the picture. He readily consented; and Lady Mary, being also a new corner, begged to accompany us, and we left the breakfast-room.
We followed our host along a small passage which led straight from the dining-room, and throwing open a door almost opposite, he ushered us into his sitting-room, which was a large and spacious apartment, more or less hung (like the drawing-room) with old English tapestry, with the exception of one side of the room, and that had one large oak panel which reached from the window at one end to the tapestry at the other, and into which was let a life-sized picture of Eleanor, Lady Glencoine. The likeness was so startling, the face so exactly what I had seen both in the crystal and in my room, that I was quite staggered for a moment, and caught hold of a chair for support.
“There,” said Lord Glencoine, “is the lady you described last night, do you see: is it not exact, Mrs. Haywood?”
“Yes,” I answered slowly, recovering myself with an effort—“the same, the very same, only several years younger.”
“Isn’t it most extraordinary,” he continued in an excited voice, turning to Lady Mary, who also seemed like me, quite fascinated by the picture, “that Mrs. Haywood had never seen it?—never been here before, had you?” to me.
“Never,” I answered; “never—it is the most curious thing I have ever known.” But I thought to myself he did not know how curious.
I remained gazing at the picture. The details, the hands, the dress, that wonderful ring—everything was as I had seen it: what did it mean? Was there more to come? And something within me—or did it pass by?—told me there was more still to come, and with this consciousness my heart sank within me. We passed on to the other rooms; at another time I should have enjoyed seeing them, but now all interest had suddenly left me. I was either worn out physically, or troubled mentally; and though I tried hard to shake it off and rouse myself, still all that day it was with me—driving, walking, eating—I lived in a sort of dream, seeing nothing but that one lady, hearing nothing but that indefinable sound, which yet was not a sound, but only a feeling: it absorbed me, while it troubled me, and I think, if I had not been ashamed to do so, I should have gone away that afternoon. Also, my mind was in a whirclass="underline" if she came again that night and beckoned to me, should I go, should I face what she had to show me, and would my courage last? Then I smiled at my folly, and remembered my decision that it was only a dream, and nothing supernatural—no message from the spirit world.
The night was approaching, and we were at dinner again. Every one but myself seemed to be even gayer than the night before. When it was over, and we were in the drawing-room, all alike clamoured for more crystal-gazing; but here I was firm in a refusal, and luckily for me Lady Glencoine came to my rescue. She was an observant woman, and, I think, had noticed my preoccupation and depression; and when they had settled down to whist and music she came up to me, and, remarking my tired appearance, begged me not to sit up, but to slip out of the room with her. I was really thankful to accede to her request, and together we went upstairs and entered the gallery.