THE SECRET CHAMBER.

“’Tis now the very witching hour of night.”

SHAKESPEARE.

Next morning, directly after breakfast, Marjory went as usual to her room to signal to Blanche. Blanche was already at her window, waving wildly with a handkerchief in each hand, which meant might she come up at once. Marjory, all eagerness and excitement, waved back “yes,” wondering what could be the reason for such an early visit. She was just going to run down the garden to meet Blanche when she heard Lisbeth’s voice calling, “Hae ye coontit yer claes, Marjory? Jessie’s waitin’.” She hastily collected her things together, and wrote, not in her best writing, the list which Lisbeth always insisted upon, and which Marjory always argued was quite unnecessary, as the clothes were washed at home, and there was no other girl of her size at Hunters’ Brae. Lisbeth remained firm, and every week the list was made. Marjory was just adding the last item when she heard Blanche’s voice downstairs asking breathlessly where she was. “Coming!” she cried, and rushed downstairs, two steps at a time, to find Blanche capering up and down with excitement.

“Such news!” she cried. “Something so exciting to tell you. You’ll never guess.”

“What is it? Please don’t make me guess. I can’t wait.” And Marjory caught hold of her friend’s arm, trying to make her stand still and tell her news a difficult task, for Blanche was almost beside herself with excitement, and was also bent upon tantalizing Marjory. But Marjory’s arms were stronger than Blanche’s, and she succeeded in making her stop dancing about.

“There now, tell me,” she cried, when Blanche was fairly pinioned between her arms. “I shan’t let you go till you do.”

“Oh dear; then I must tell you, I suppose. Well, Marjory, what do you think?” very slowly and provokingly. “Mother says that ”

A shake from Marjory produced the end of the sentence more quickly.

“Oh!” and Blanche’s laugh rang out; “don’t, Marjory. Mother and father want to go to London for a few days, so can I come and stay here?”

A shriek of delight was Marjory’s reply, and the two girls were executing a kind of war-dance round the hall, when suddenly the study door opened, and the doctor put his head out. He had a book in his hand, and was wearing his spectacles, which always made him look more formidable. Marjory wished that the floor might open and swallow her; but it was no use they were fairly caught.

“Dear me,” said the doctor when he saw them, “what is all this disturbance about?”

Blanche ran forward.

“Please don’t scold Marjory,” she said; “it is all my fault. I came to tell her something very exciting, and we were both so pleased that we quite forgot we oughtn’t to make a noise. You see, there isn’t anybody learned like you in our house, so I haven’t got into the way of remembering not to disturb you. I am very sorry.” And Blanche looked confidingly at the doctor.

He smiled and pushed his spectacles up on his forehead.

“You haven’t told me this exciting piece of news, though the wonderful information that was the cause of this disturbance of the peace.”

“Mother was coming to tell you that is, to ask you about it. It depends on you, you see.” And Blanche looked up into the doctor’s face.

Marjory stood by, a silent listener. She quite expected a scolding, and was amazed at Blanche’s boldness.

“Well, suppose you tell me, now you are here.”

Blanche looked again at the doctor. She was afraid that this might not be a very good time to make her request. She could not quite tell by his face what he was thinking, but she took courage and said,

“Father wants mother to go to London with him for a few days, and she says she will if you will be so good as to let me come and stay with Marjory.”

“What! A noisy little person like you!” The doctor was only in fun, but Blanche’s face fell, and her eyes slowly filled with tears.

Marjory spoke up. “O uncle, she isn’t really noisy. I made just as much noise as she did; and if only you will say yes, we will promise to be very quiet. Won’t we, Blanche?”

“Yes,” faltered Blanche.

“Tut, tut,” said the doctor; “I don’t want you to be quiet; it isn’t natural for young things. Yes, my child; come and stay as long as you like, and make as much noise as you like. I was only teasing you, but you didn’t like my little joke,” laughing.

“Oh, how good you are!” cried Blanche, and she put her arms round the doctor’s neck and kissed him, her tears leaving little wet places on his cheeks.

Marjory looked on in wonder. How could Blanche dare to be so familiar with her uncle? she thought; and, stranger and still more unexpected than that, her uncle seemed to like it. She watched him take out his handkerchief and wipe the wet places, also his own eyes, and then take off his spectacles and polish them vigorously, asking Blanche meanwhile which day her parents would be leaving. It would be the next day, Tuesday, she replied; and the doctor told Marjory she had better see Lisbeth at once, and ask her to make the necessary preparations. Marjory gave her uncle a grateful look, which was meant to make up for the formal “Thank you, uncle,” which was all that she could find to say.

The girls went to the kitchen, where Lisbeth was working. Lisbeth having set the laundrymaid to work, was once more her usual smiling self, and was quite pleased to hear the news. She made no difficulties, and promised that Jean should put a second bed into Marjory’s room, as that was what they said they would like best.

As they left the kitchen Lisbeth called to Marjory to be sure and not forget to tidy her wardrobe and drawers, and to see that there was room for Miss Blanche’s things.

“Isn’t she a dear old thing?” exclaimed Blanche, when they were out of hearing. “She seemed quite pleased for me to come. Some servants are so cross if there is anything extra, that it makes you feel quite uncomfortable.”

“Lisbeth’s not a bit like that. Besides, anybody would be glad to have you,” said Marjory, looking at her friend with intense admiration, of which Blanche seemed quite unconscious.

“Yes,” she said, “people are very kind. Mother says there are far more kind people in the world than unkind ones.”

Marjory looked at the sweet face beside her, and thought that it would be a very unkind person indeed who could be unkind to Blanche. Then she said, rather sadly,

“Uncle George seems quite a different person with you.”

“O Marj, he’s a dear old thing. I felt sure he was directly I saw him. I can’t think why you are so afraid of him.”

“I am,” with a sigh.

“I’m sure you needn’t be. Think of him just now. He was busy in his study, and we made all that noise, and he wasn’t a bit cross. Most people would have been, even if they had only been writing a letter; and daddy says that Dr. Hunter’s work is most important and valuable, and that he is a great man. You must be very proud of him, aren’t you?”

“Yes; only I don’t quite know what it is that he does.”

“Neither do I; but, anyway, he is very clever. Daddy says so, and he says he considers himself very fortunate in being able to know Dr. Hunter.”

This was quite a new aspect of affairs to Marjory. She had been used to the idea that she and her uncle were rather shunned than otherwise by other people, that her uncle was a stern old man with whom no one wanted to be friendly. But now that a man like Mr. Forester, from the great far-away world of London, should consider her uncle’s acquaintance a privilege this was indeed something new, and it gave Marjory food for thought and speculation.

Mr. and Mrs. Forester went to London, and Blanche to Hunters’ Brae. Marjory and Peter fetched her in the pony-cart, and she brought Curly with her, as she could not bear to leave him for other people to look after. Silky was delighted with the puppy, and allowed the little fellow to take all sorts of liberties with him. It was a pretty picture the big dog fondling the small one and playing with him.

Lisbeth had done as she had promised, and a second bed had been put up in Marjory’s room. Such a pretty room it was the best in the house, and looking out upon the garden. It was pretty by reason of its shape long and low, with beams across the ceiling, and casement windows and not from any extra decoration or those many knick-knacks which most girls contrive to collect around them. There were dainty white muslin curtains and covers, everything was spotless, but there were no ornaments or trifles lying about. On the bookshelf were Marjory’s Bible and Psalm-book and a copy of the “Pilgrim’s Progress” no other books. These were all that the doctor considered it necessary for Marjory to have. There was a glass bowl on the chest of drawers, which was kept filled with flowers all the year round, and that was the only ornament in the room. Some might have thought it bare, but it had a simple charm of its own, with its spotless whiteness and its faint odour of lavender, stronger when the wardrobe or the drawers were open.

Marjory had been struck by the difference between Blanche’s bedroom and hers when she had paid her first visit to Braeside. There the walls were covered with pictures of all sorts and sizes, the table was littered with silver toilet articles, photographs and trinkets, and the bookshelf was filled with books. Most of these things were presents from her father and mother, or from relations or acquaintances, and spoke for themselves of the difference in the lives of the two girls the one solitary and simple in a remote country place, the other in the midst of friends and relations in the rush and hurry of a great city.

“How sweet your room is!” said Blanche as they went in.

“It isn’t like yours, though,” replied Marjory doubtfully. “You have such a lot of pretty things.”

“Oh, but I love this!” cried Blanche enthusiastically, sniffing the lavender-scented air and walking to the window; “and what a lovely view! I could sit and look out all day.”

They decided to wait till the next night to watch for the ghost, for they thought it would be better to pay a visit to the old wing in the daylight first, and to explore it thoroughly, so that they should both be well acquainted with the staircases and the various rooms. They spent some time in discussing their plans, and Blanche’s cheeks flushed and her eyes grew bright as they talked them over.

“Isn’t it exciting?” she cried. “I do hope the light will come, so that we shall be able to see it. I hope I shan’t feel frightened when the time comes, but I don’t think I shall with you, Marj. You don’t seem to be afraid of anything.”

“Except Uncle George,” amended Marjory.

“Yes; and I can’t think why. Fancy being less afraid of a thing that might be a ghost than you are of a real flesh-and-blood uncle, who is really quite a dear old man!”

“It does seem silly,” admitted Marjory, “but it’s no good pretending it isn’t true, because it is.”

They went to the old wing next morning. It consisted of a large square hall, from which led a wide staircase to a gallery above, and two or three other rooms on the ground floor. From the gallery led several narrow corridors, with many turns and corners, steps up and steps down, which were traps for the unwary visitor. It was seldom that any one came to the old wing; its tenants were rats and spiders. Birds built their nests in the crumbling walls, and it smelt damp and musty, as if it had seen no sunlight for many a day.

The girls’ footsteps and voices echoed through the empty rooms and passages. The old place had a fascination for Marjory, and yet she could never go through it without a shiver of something like awe. What had these mouldering walls seen? What tales could they tell if they could speak? Then her heart would swell with pride at the thought that she came of a long line of Hunters who had lived here and made the name famous. She, too, must do her part. Sometimes she would wish that she bore the old name; then she would rebuke herself for the thought, which was like treason to that unknown father of hers.

They went carefully through each room. There was nothing unusual in any of them; old boxes, pieces of broken furniture, rusty bits of iron strewed the place. One thing took Blanche’s fancy. It was in a tiny room opening out of one of the large ones, and was so big that it almost filled it. It was an immense chest, studded with nails, and ornamented with handsome brass hasps.

“It’s like the chest in the ‘Mistletoe Bough,’” cried Blanche. “Do let’s try to open it.”

But try as they would, they could make no impression upon it. It was locked, and to break it open would require greater strength than theirs.

“I do wish we could get it open,” said Blanche, when at last they gave up trying. “Do you think Peter could do it?”

“He doesn’t much like coming here,” was the reply. “He always says the old walls might fall in at any time; but since you told me about the lights being seen, I’ve been thinking that perhaps he has heard about them too, and that’s why he won’t come here if he can help it. But we can ask him. What is the ‘Mistletoe Bough’? Is it a story about a chest?”

“Haven’t you heard it?” asked Blanche, surprised. “I believe I can repeat it to you. Let’s sit on the old box and pretend it is the one.”

They scrambled up on to the chest, regardless of dust and cobwebs, and Blanche began,

“‘The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,’”

and went on through the ballad.

Marjory sat entranced, listening to the story of Lord Lovel and his bride, and the fateful game of hide-and-seek, which ended in the lovely lady being shut into the old oak chest, which none of the distracted seekers thought of opening, and which did not disclose its grim secret until many years afterwards, when at last it was opened.

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Marjory. “Fancy being shut up in a box like this! I wonder if this one has a spring lock. I wish we knew what is inside it.”

They made up their minds to ask Dr. Hunter about it, and went on with their investigation of the rooms, until both felt that they knew every door and passage in the place.

Blanche was of the opinion that it would be of no use going to look for the ghost until after midnight. The time passed very slowly after they went to bed. They talked in whispers, Blanche telling all the ghost stories she had ever heard, which came chiefly from servants and from her young cousins in London.

“But mother says,” she repeated several times, as if to reassure both herself and Marjory, “that there is nothing more to do us harm at night than there is in the daytime; that everything belongs to God, and so we are just as safe in the dark as in the light. But I don’t feel the same at night as I do in the daylight; do you?”

“Well, I’m not afraid of the dark,” said Marjory, and this was quite true. She was fearless with regard to all natural things; storms, gales, all Nature’s moods she could meet without flinching. Animals of all kinds had no terrors for her; neither had the dark that land of blackness peopled with horrors for so many children. It was only in her dealings with her fellows that fear entered, and with her uncle especially.

They listened to the church clock at Heathermuir chiming the hours and half-hours. They watched the moon rising, glorious in its fullness, till it flooded their room with light. At last the clock boomed out its twelve echoing strokes. The time had come!

Each put on a dressing-gown and slippers, and then they started upon their enterprise. Marjory went in front, carrying a lighted candle. Very gently she opened the bedroom door and stood listening. There was not a sound to be heard. Silky looked questioningly at his mistress, as if wondering what her business could be at this time of night, and why she was thus disturbing his slumbers. Marjory beckoned to Blanche, and as she came out of the room, pushed the dog in, whispering, “Good dog, Silky. Be quiet and keep watch till we come back.” Then she cautiously shut the door.

They crept along the corridor on tiptoe, every creak of the boards as they went causing their hearts to beat quickly. They had to pass Dr. Hunter’s bedroom, and Marjory fancied that she could hear some movement within. Full of apprehension, she hurried on, Blanche following close at her heels.

Once in the old part of the house, they could breathe more freely, feeling safe from discovery by any of the other inmates.

The deserted hall looked shadowy and mysterious as they passed through it, the pale moonlight casting weird shapes across its walls. Blanche caught Marjory’s sleeve. “Look!” she whispered, pointing to a window where something like an arm and hand, with fingers outstretched, was waving up and down.

“It’s only the branch of a tree,” Marjory whispered back.

Everything looked so eerie and unfamiliar in the moonlit darkness that Blanche began to wish she had not come; but as the expedition had been her suggestion from the first, she felt in honour bound to proceed.

Up the stairs they went, and round the gallery. Not a sign of anything unusual did they discover. There was no light, no sound of any kind. Something flitted across Blanche’s face; she gave a little stifled scream.

“Oh! what can that be?” she panted.

Marjory turned and held up the candle. It came again, and she saw what it was.

“It’s only a bat,” she said reassuringly; “it won’t hurt you.”

“A bat!” echoed Blanche. “Oh, how horrible! They bite, don’t they?”

“Oh no, they are quite harmless. Dear little soft things they are when you see them in the daylight, although they aren’t pretty.”

“O Marj, I don’t like it; you won’t let it come near me, will you?” And Blanche clung to her friend.

“No, you needn’t be frightened; I’ll keep it away.”

Marjory could not exactly understand Blanche’s fears, but she saw that they were real. She could see nothing to be afraid of in a tiny little bat, but the feeling that she was able to protect some one weaker than herself made her very tender towards her friend.

“We’ll go back if you like,” she whispered.

“No, no,” replied Blanche breathlessly; “let’s go on, now we’ve come so far.”

On they went. They passed the door of the room which contained the old chest. Nothing was to be seen; but, turning a sharp corner at the end of one passage leading to another which was apparently a blind alley, they stopped suddenly.

There before them, at the end of this passage, was a faint seam of light, hardly perceptible. There it was, looking as if it came from under a door, but they knew that no door was there. Where could it come from? They looked all round, but could find no clue to the mystery. Marjory shaded the candle with her hand, in case the light might in some way be reflected from it; but no there was the straight narrow seam, shining as before.

They crept along the passage until they stood in front of the wall. They felt cautiously for a handle, but there was none no sign of anything in the shape of a door or entrance of any kind.

A thought struck Blanche.

“Perhaps it’s a secret sliding panel,” she whispered. “I’ve read about them in books. They go by a spring in some way. You have to press in one place, and it slides back. Shall we try?” she said, breathing fast, her eyes large with mingled fear and excitement.

“Yes, if you’re quite sure you’re not frightened. It might do you harm to be frightened,” said Marjory, whispering very softly. “I could take you back and come again by myself.”

“No, I’m not frightened at least, not much and we must try. What can it be?”

They began to press cautiously against the wall above the crack which showed the light. They tried for some time it seemed hours to them when suddenly, neither of them knowing who had touched the spring, there was a sharp click, the panel flew back, and a flood of light shone out upon them. Blanche’s theory had been correct. It was a secret door, designed by some bygone Hunter in dangerous times.