Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like

rose-leaves. She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side, looked

up into his old withered face.

 

"Poor, poor Ghost," she murmured; "have you no place where you can

sleep?"

 

"Far away beyond the pine-woods," he answered, in a low, dreamy voice,

"there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there

are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale

sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal

moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the

sleepers."

 

Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.

 

"You mean the Garden of Death," she whispered.

 

"Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth,

with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have

no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at

peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's

house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death

is."

 

Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments

there was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.

 

Then the ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of

the wind.

 

"Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?"

 

"Oh, often," cried the little girl, looking up; "I know it quite well.

It is painted in curious black letters, and is difficult to read. There

are only six lines:

 

"'When a golden girl can win

Prayer from out the lips of sin,

When the barren almond bears,

And a little child gives away its tears,

Then shall all the house be still

And peace come to Canterville.'

 

"But I don't know what they mean."

 

"They mean," he said, sadly, "that you must weep with me for my sins,

because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no

faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle,

the angel of death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in

darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not

harm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell

cannot prevail."

 

Virginia made no answer, and the ghost wrung his hands in wild despair

as he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very

pale, and with a strange light in her eyes. "I am not afraid," she said

firmly, "and I will ask the angel to have mercy on you."

 

He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent

over it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold

as ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as

he led her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were

broidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselled horns and with

their tiny hands waved to her to go back. "Go back! little Virginia,"

they cried, "go back!" but the ghost clutched her hand more tightly,

and she shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails

and goggle eyes blinked at her from the carven chimneypiece, and

murmured, "Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again,"

but the Ghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When

they reached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she

could not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly

fading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A

bitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her

dress. "Quick, quick," cried the Ghost, "or it will be too late," and

in a moment the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry

Chamber was empty.

 

 

VI

About ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia did not

come down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. After a

little time he returned and said that he could not find Miss Virginia

anywhere. As she was in the habit of going out to the garden every

evening to get flowers for the dinner-table, Mrs. Otis was not at all

alarmed at first, but when six o'clock struck, and Virginia did not

appear, she became really agitated, and sent the boys out to look for

her, while she herself and Mr. Otis searched every room in the house. At

half-past six the boys came back and said that they could find no trace

of their sister anywhere. They were all now in the greatest state of

excitement, and did not know what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly

remembered that, some few days before, he had given a band of gipsies

permission to camp in the park. He accordingly at once set off for

Blackfell Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest son

and two of the farm-servants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who was

perfectly frantic with anxiety, begged hard to be allowed to go too,

but Mr. Otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a

scuffle. On arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gipsies had

gone, and it was evident that their departure had been rather sudden, as

the fire was still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass.

Having sent off Washington and the two men to scour the district, he ran

home, and despatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the

county, telling them to look out for a little girl who had been

kidnapped by tramps or gipsies. He then ordered his horse to be brought

round, and, after insisting on his wife and the three boys sitting down

to dinner, rode off down the Ascot road with a groom. He had hardly,

however, gone a couple of miles, when he heard somebody galloping after

him, and, looking round, saw the little Duke coming up on his pony, with

his face very flushed, and no hat. "I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Otis," gasped

out the boy, "but I can't eat any dinner as long as Virginia is lost.

Please don't be angry with me; if you had let us be engaged last year,

there would never have been all this trouble. You won't send me back,

will you? I can't go! I won't go!"

The Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace,

and was a good deal touched at his devotion to Virginia, so leaning down

from his horse, he patted him kindly on the shoulders, and said, "Well,

Cecil, if you won't go back, I suppose you must come with me, but I must

get you a hat at Ascot."

 

"Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!" cried the little Duke, laughing,

and they galloped on to the railway station. There Mr. Otis inquired of

the station-master if any one answering to the description of Virginia

had been seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. The

station-master, however, wired up and down the line, and assured him

that a strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought a

hat for the little Duke from a linen-draper, who was just putting up his

shutters, Mr. Otis rode off to Bexley, a village about four miles away,

which he was told was a well-known haunt of the gipsies, as there was a

large common next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but

could get no information from him, and, after riding all over the

common, they turned their horses' heads homewards, and reached the Chase

about eleven o'clock, dead-tired and almost heart-broken. They found

Washington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house with

lanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace of

Virginia had been discovered. The gipsies had been caught on Brockley

meadows, but she was not with them, and they had explained their sudden

departure by saying that they had mistaken the date of Chorton Fair, and

had gone off in a hurry for fear they should be late. Indeed, they had

been quite distressed at hearing of Virginia's disappearance, as they

were very grateful to Mr. Otis for having allowed them to camp in his

park, and four of their number had stayed behind to help in the search.

The carp-pond had been dragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly gone

over, but without any result. It was evident that, for that night at any

rate, Virginia was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest

depression that Mr. Otis and the boys walked up to the house, the groom

following behind with the two horses and the pony. In the hall they

found a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the library

was poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with terror and anxiety, and

having her forehead bathed with eau de cologne by the old housekeeper.

Mr. Otis at once insisted on her having something to eat, and ordered up

supper for the whole party. It was a melancholy meal, as hardly any one

spoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very

fond of their sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the

entreaties of the little Duke, ordered them all to bed, saying that

nothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph in

the morning to Scotland Yard for some detectives to be sent down

immediately. Just as they were passing out of the dining-room, midnight

began to boom from the clock tower, and when the last stroke sounded

they heard a crash and a sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thunder

shook the house, a strain of unearthly music floated through the air, a

panel at the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out

on the landing, looking very pale and white, with a little casket in her

hand, stepped Virginia. In a moment they had all rushed up to her. Mrs.

Otis clasped her passionately in her arms, the Duke smothered her with

violent kisses, and the twins executed a wild war-dance round the group.

"Good heavens! child, where have you been?" said Mr. Otis, rather

angrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick on them.

"Cecil and I have been riding all over the country looking for you, and

your mother has been frightened to death. You must never play these

practical jokes any more."

 

"Except on the Ghost! except on the Ghost!" shrieked the twins, as they

capered about.

 

"My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my side

again," murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child, and

smoothed the tangled gold of her hair.

 

"Papa," said Virginia, quietly, "I have been with the Ghost. He is dead,

and you must come and see him. He had been very wicked, but he was

really sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this box of

beautiful jewels before he died."

 

The whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite grave

and serious; and, turning round, she led them through the opening in the

wainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, Washington following with a

lighted candle, which he had caught up from the table. Finally, they

came to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Virginia

touched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves

in a little low room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated

window. Imbedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was

a gaunt skeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the stone

floor, and seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers

an old-fashioned trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its

reach. The jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it was

covered inside with green mould. There was nothing on the trencher but

a pile of dust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding

her little hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of the

party looked on in wonder at the terrible tragedy whose secret was now

disclosed to them.

"Hallo!" suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking out

of the window to try and discover in what wing of the house the room was

situated. "Hallo! the old withered almond-tree has blossomed. I can see

the flowers quite plainly in the moonlight."

 

"God has forgiven him," said Virginia, gravely, as she rose to her feet,

and a beautiful light seemed to illumine her face.

 

"What an angel you are!" cried the young Duke, and he put his arm round

her neck, and kissed her.

 

 

 

 

 

VII

 

 

 

Four days after these curious incidents, a funeral started from

Canterville Chase at about eleven o'clock at night. The hearse was drawn

by eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a great tuft of

nodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin was covered by a rich

purple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the Canterville

coat-of-arms. By the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the

servants with lighted torches, and the whole procession was wonderfully

impressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner, having come up

specially from Wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the first

carriage along with little Virginia. Then came the United States

Minister and his wife, then Washington and the three boys, and in the

last carriage was Mrs. Umney. It was generally felt that, as she had

been frightened by the ghost for more than fifty years of her life, she

had a right to see the last of him. A deep grave had been dug in the

corner of the churchyard, just under the old yew-tree, and the service

was read in the most impressive manner by the Rev. Augustus Dampier.

When the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom

observed in the Canterville family, extinguished their torches, and, as

the coffin was being lowered into the grave, Virginia stepped forward,

and laid on it a large cross made of white and pink almond-blossoms. As

she did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with its

silent silver the little churchyard, and from a distant copse a

nightingale began to sing. She thought of the ghost's description of the

Garden of Death, her eyes became dim with tears, and she hardly spoke a

word during the drive home.

The next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis had

an interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost had given

to Virginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially a certain ruby

necklace with old Venetian setting, which was really a superb specimen

of sixteenth-century work, and their value was so great that Mr. Otis

felt considerable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them.

 

"My lord," he said, "I know that in this country mortmain is held to

apply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to me that

these jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. I must beg

you, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and to regard them

simply as a portion of your property which has been restored to you

under certain strange conditions. As for my daughter, she is merely a

child, and has as yet, I am glad to say, but little interest in such

appurtenances of idle luxury. I am also informed by Mrs. Otis, who, I

may say, is no mean authority upon Art,--having had the privilege of

spending several winters in Boston when she was a girl,--that these gems

are of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall

price. Under these circumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that you

will recognize how impossible it would be for me to allow them to remain

in the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such

vain gauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of the

British aristocracy, would be completely out of place among those who

have been brought up on the severe, and I believe immortal, principles

of Republican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention that Virginia is very

anxious that you should allow her to retain the box, as a memento of

your unfortunate but misguided ancestor. As it is extremely old, and

consequently a good deal out of repair, you may perhaps think fit to

comply with her request. For my own part, I confess I am a good deal

surprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with mediaevalism

in any form, and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia was

born in one of your London suburbs shortly after Mrs. Otis had returned

from a trip to Athens."

 

Lord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister's speech,

pulling his grey moustache now and then to hide an involuntary smile,

and when Mr. Otis had ended, he shook him cordially by the hand, and

said: "My dear sir, your charming little daughter rendered my unlucky

ancestor, Sir Simon, a very important service, and I and my family are

much indebted to her for her marvellous courage and pluck. The jewels

are clearly hers, and, egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough

to take them from her, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave

in a fortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being

heirlooms, nothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or

legal document, and the existence of these jewels has been quite

unknown. I assure you I have no more claim on them than your butler, and

when Miss Virginia grows up, I dare say she will be pleased to have

pretty things to wear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took the

furniture and the ghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to

the ghost passed at once into your possession, as, whatever activity

Sir Simon may have shown in the corridor at night, in point of law he

was really dead, and you acquired his property by purchase."

 

Mr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville's refusal, and

begged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peer was

quite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his daughter to

retain the present the ghost had given her, and when, in the spring of

1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented at the Queen's first

drawing-room on the occasion of her marriage, her jewels were the

universal theme of admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, which

is the reward of all good little American girls, and was married to her

boy-lover as soon as he came of age. They were both so charming, and

they loved each other so much, that every one was delighted at the

match, except the old Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch

the Duke for one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less

than three expensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to

say, Mr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Duke

personally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his

own words, "was not without apprehension lest, amid the enervating

influences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the true principles of

Republican simplicity should be forgotten." His objections, however,

were completely overruled, and I believe that when he walked up the

aisle of St. George's, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on his

arm, there was not a prouder man in the whole length and breadth of

England.

 

The Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to

Canterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked over

in the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pine-woods. There had

been a great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on Sir

Simon's tombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on it

simply the initials of the old gentleman's name, and the verse from the

library window. The Duchess had brought with her some lovely roses,

which she strewed upon the grave, and after they had stood by it for

some time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There

the Duchess sat down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her

feet smoking a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly

he threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her,

"Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband."

 

"Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you."

 

"Yes, you have," he answered, smiling, "you have never told me what

happened to you when you were locked up with the ghost."

 

"I have never told any one, Cecil," said Virginia, gravely.

 

"I know that, but you might tell me."

 

"Please don't ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owe

him a great deal. Yes, don't laugh, Cecil, I really do. He made me see

what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than

both."

 

The Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly.

 

"You can have your secret as long as I have your heart," he murmured.

 

"You have always had that, Cecil."

 

"And you will tell our children some day, won't you?"

 

Virginia blushed.