little trouble, and glancing out. The familiar garden, with its path to the river, lay before me; but though I allowed myself one quick look in its direction, it was to the ground immediately beneath the window that I turned my attention, and it was here that I instantly, and to the satisfaction of both Burritt and myself, discovered unmistakable signs of disturbance. Not only was there the impression of a finely booted foot imprinted in the loose earth, but there was a large stone lying against the house which we were both confident had not been there the day before.
“He went roaming through the garden last night,” cried Burritt, “and he brought back that stone. Why?”
I shuddered instead of replying. Then remembering that I had seen the young wife well and happy only a few minutes before, felt confused and mystified beyond any power to express.
“I will have a look at that stone,” continued Burritt; and without waiting for my sanction, he vaulted out of the window and lifted the stone.
After a moment’s consideration of it he declared:
“It came from the river bank; that is all I can make out of it.”
And dropping the stone from his hand, he suddenly darted down the path to the river.
He was not gone long. When he came back, he looked still more doubtful than before.
“If I know that bank,” he declared, “there has been more than one stone taken from it, and some dirt. Suppose we examine the floor, ma’am.”
We did so, and just where the box had been placed we discovered some particles of sand that were not brought in from the road.
“What does it mean?” I cried.
Burritt did not answer. He was looking out toward the river. Suddenly he turned his eyes upon me and said in his former suppressed tone:
“He filled the box with stone and earth, and these were what we carried out and put into the wagon. But it was full when it came, and very heavy. Now, what was it filled with, and what has become of the stuff?”
It was the question then; it is the question now.
Burritt hints at crime, and has gone so far as to spend all the afternoon searching the river banks. But he has discovered nothing, nor can he explain what it was he looked for or expected to find. Nor are my own thoughts and feelings any clearer. I remember that the times are unsettled, that the spirit of revolution is in the air, and try to be charitable enough to suppose that it was treasure the young husband brought with him, and that all the perturbation and distress which I imagine myself to have witnessed in his behavior and that of his wife were owing to the purpose that they had formed of burying, in this spot, the silver and plate which they were perhaps unwilling to risk to the chances of war. But when I try to stifle my graver fears with this surmise, I recall the fearful nature of the shriek which startled me from my sleep, and repeat, tremblingly, to myself:
“Some one was in mortal agony at the moment I heard that cry. Was it the young wife, or was it—”
Chapter III.
A Fearful Discovery
April 3, 1791.
It is sixteen years since I wrote the preceding chapters of this history of mystery and crime. When the pen dropped from my hand—why did it drop? Was it because of some noise I heard?
I imagine so now, and tremble. I did not anticipate ever adding a line to the words I had written. The impulse which had led me to put upon paper my doubts concerning the two Urquharts soon passed, and as nothing ever occurred to recall this couple to my mind, I gradually allowed their name and memory to vanish from my thoughts, only remembering them when chance led me into the oak parlor. Then, indeed, I recollected their manner and my fears, and then I also felt repeated, though every time with fainter and fainter power, the old thrill of undefined terror which stopped my record of that day with the half-finished question as to who had uttered the shriek that had startled me the night before. To-day I again take up my pen. Why? Because to-day, and only since to-day, can I answer this question.
Sixteen years ago! which makes me sixteen years older. My house, too, has aged, and the oak parlor—I never refurnished it—is darker, gloomier, and more forbidding than it was then, and in truth, why should it not be? When I remember what was revealed to me a week ago, I wonder that its walls did not drop fungi, and its chill strike death through the man or woman who was brave enough to enter it. Horrible, horrible room! You shall be torn from my house if the rest of the structure goes with you. Neither I nor another shall ever enter your fatal portal again.
It was a week ago to-day that the coach from New York set down at my door a stranger of fine and quaint appearance, whose white hair betokened him to be aged, but whose alert and energetic movements showed that, if he had passed the line of fourscore, he had still enough of the fire of youth remaining to make his presence welcome in whatever place he chose to enter. As had happened sixteen years before, I was looking out of the window when the coach drove up, and, being at once attracted by the stranger’s person and manner, I watched him closely while he was alighting, and was surprised to observe what intent and searching glances he cast at the house.
“He could not be more interested if he were returning to the home of his fathers,” I murmured involuntarily to myself, and hastened to the door in order to receive him.
He came forward courteously. But after the first few words between us he turned again and gazed with marked curiosity up and down the road and again at the house.
“You seem to be acquainted with these parts,” I ventured. He smiled.
“This is an old house,” he answered, “and you are young.” (I am fifty-five.) “There must have been owners of the place before you. Do you know their names?”
“I bought the place of Dan Forsyth, and he of one Hammond. I don’t know as I can go back any further than that. Originally the house was the property of an Englishman. There were strange stories about him, but it was so long ago that they are almost forgotten.”
The stranger smiled again, and followed me into the house. Here his interest seemed to redouble.
Instantly a thought flashed through my brain.
“He is its ancient owner, the Englishman. I am standing in the presence of—”
“You wish to know my name,” interrupted his genial voice. “It is Tamworth. I am a Virginian, and hope to stay at your inn one night. What kind of a room have you to offer me?”
There was a twinkle in his eyes I did not understand. He was looking down the hall, and I thought his gaze rested on the corridor leading to the oak parlor.
“I should like to sleep on the ground floor,” he added.
“I have but one room,” I began.
“And one is all I want,” he smiled. Then, with a quick glance at my face: “I suppose you are a little particular whom you put into the oak parlor. It is not every one who can appreciate such romantic surroundings.”
I surveyed him, completely puzzled. Whereupon he looked at me with an expression of surprise and incredulity that added to the mystery of the moment.
“The room is gloomy and uninviting,” I declared; “but beyond that, I do not know of any especial claim it has upon our interest.”
“You astonish me,” was his evidently sincere reply; and he walked on, very thoughtfully, straight to the room of which we were speaking. At the door he paused. “Don’t you know the secret of this room,” he asked, giving me a very bright and searching glance.
“If you mean anything concerning the Urquharts,” I began doubtfully.
“Urquharts!” he carelessly repeated.