"The haunted house was shut up, and left to itself. Not a man or woman could be found to live in it, for love or money.

"In the glories of the colonial capital, Mrs. Dubarry completely recovered from her nervous malady. She was visited by no more 'optical illusions' or 'cataleptic' fits. She even grew to regard her former visitations in the same way in which her husband pretended to view them--as mere nervous phenomena. And as the fashionable season at Williamsburg closed, and as the spring opened, Mrs. Dubarry expressed an ardent desire to return to 'Shut-up Dubarry' for her confinement. 'The heir of the manor should be born on the manor,' she said.

"Mr. Dubarry had great doubts about the safety of this measure, and attempted to dissuade his wife from it; but she was firm in her purpose, and so she carried it.

"It was early in the royal month of June that the young wife was taken back to her country home. Shut-up Dubarry looked as little like a 'haunted house' as any house could look: waving woods, sparkling waters, blossoming trees, blooming flowers, singing birds--all the richness, beauty and splendor of summer turned it into a paradise. Besides, Mrs.

Dubarry brought down half a dozen young cousins of both s.e.xes with her, and they filled the house with youthful life. Under these circ.u.mstances, the old servants were tempted back. And all went on very well until one day one of the young girls suddenly spoke out at the full breakfast-table, and asked:

"'Alicia, who is that strange, silent girl, in the red cloak, that is always following you about?'

"Mrs. Dubarry grew deadly pale, sat down the cup that she had held in her hand, but she did not attempt to speak.

"'Have I said anything wrong? I did not mean to do so. I am sure I beg pardon, if I have,' faltered the young cousin, looking from the pale face of Mrs. Dubarry to the troubled countenance of Mr. Dubarry.

"'I am very sorry if I have said anything wrong,' repeated the little cousin, in dismay.

"'No, no, you have said nothing amiss; but it is a very painful subject; let us drop it,' replied Mr. Dubarry rather inconsistently. And every one around the table silently wondered what the matter could be.

"When breakfast was over, and the husband and wife found themselves alone together, Mrs. Dubarry seized his arm, and whispered:

"'Oh, Philip! the spectre has not gone!'

"'My dearest Alicia! you have not fancied that you have seen it lately?'

"'No, no; but _she_ has seen it! Kitty has seen it _always following me_! She took it for a real girl, as I did at first!'

"What could Philip Dubarry say to all this? Only one thing:

"'My darling, I cannot have your nerves shaken in this manner. You had no such visitations as these while we stayed at Williamsburg. And so to Williamsburg we will return immediately. Tell your maid to pack up this afternoon, and we will set out to-morrow. No objections, Alicia! for I tell you we must go.'

"She saw that his resolution was fixed, and she made no opposition to it. She rang for her maid, and gave the necessary directions. And then, feeling very unwell, she sent down an excuse to her company, and retired to bed.

"At twelve o'clock that night, while the young people were enjoying themselves in some round game in the drawing-room, and Mr. Dubarry was doing all that he could to promote their entertainment, the whole party was startled by a terrific cry coming from Mrs. Dubarry's chamber. All paused for a breathless instant, and then rushed tumultuously up the stairs. At the door of the bed-chamber, Mr. Dubarry turned around and waved them all back. Then he entered the chamber alone. All seemed quiet there then. The moonlight came flickering through the vine leaves on the outside of the open window, and fell fitfully upon the face and form of Alicia Dubarry, who was sitting up in bed, staring straight before her.

"Mr. Dubarry locked the door before he approached the bed.

"'Alicia,' he said, 'my dear Alicia, what is the matter?'

"'It is doom! It is doom!' she answered in an awful voice, without removing her eyes from some object between the foot of the bed and the moonlit window.

"'Compose yourself, dear wife, and tell me what has happened.'

"'Look! Look! for yourself!' she cried, her finger extended, and following the direction of her eyes.

"'My sweet Alicia, there is nothing there but the tremulous shadow of the vine leaves cast by the moonlight,' said Mr. Dubarry, persuasively, as he went and drew the curtain before the window, and then struck a match and lighted a lamp.

"But her eyes were never removed from the spot where she had gazed.

"'It is there yet!' she cried.

"'What is there, good Alicia? there is nothing there, indeed!'

"'Yes, the dead woman and dead child! Do you not see them?'

"'See! no! you are in one of your nervous attacks; but to-morrow we will leave this place, and you will have no more of them.'

"'Hush! No! I shall never leave this place again.'

"'You shall start by sunrise to-morrow.'

"'Hush! listen! I will tell you what happened. I was sleeping well, very well, when suddenly I was awakened with a tremendous shock. I started up in bed and saw _her_--the terrible girl! She was standing at the foot of the bed looking at me, and pointing to something that lay upon the floor. I looked and saw--there it is yet!--the dead woman, with the dead babe on her bosom! I shrieked aloud, for I knew the woman was myself, and the babe was my own! And as I shrieked, she vanished, as she always does; but the dead woman and child remained! And there they are yet! Oh!

cover them over, Philip! cover them over! Cover them from my sight, for I have no power to withdraw my eyes from them,' she exclaimed in wild excitement.

"Almost beside himself with distress, Philip Dubarry seized a large table cover and threw it down over the spot upon which her eyes were fixed.

"'Ah! it is of no use! it is of no use! I see them still! they rise above the covering! they lie upon it!' she cried, in terrific emotion, shaking as if with an ague fit.

"'Lie down,' said Philip Dubarry, compelling himself to be calm, for the sake of trying to calm her. And he took her and laid her back upon the pillow. But still she raved, like one in high fever and delirium.

"'I have received my sentence! I am doomed! I am doomed! I have seen my own corpse, and the corpse of my child!' she cried. And then a violent convulsion seized her.

"Nearly maddened by terror and despair, Philip Dubarry rushed from the room and loudly called for a.s.sistance. The chamber was soon filled with the members of the household, not one of whom knew what to do, until the entrance of the old housekeeper, who sent everybody out, and requested Mr. Dubarry to dispatch a carriage for the family physician.

"Before morning the doctor arrived. But the convulsions and the delirium of the lady increased in violence until just at the dawn of day, when she gave birth to an infant boy, who breathed and died.

"Then, just before her own death, she recovered her senses and grew very calm. She asked to see her child. When the nurse brought it, she kissed its cold face, and bade her lay it by her side. Then the lady called her husband, and whispered so faintly that he had to lean his ear to her lips to hear her words. She said:

"'The vision is realized in the dead mother and the dead babe! But, Philip! _for whose sin do we die?_'

"Before he could make a reply, if any reply had been possible, she was gone.

"The mother and babe were buried together. The company at Shut-up Dubarry broke up in the greatest consternation. The story of the vision, real or imaginary, that had caused the lady's death, got out. All the neighborhood talked of it, and connected it with the fate of the hardly used gipsy girl, whose spirit was said to haunt the house.

"Mr. Dubarry became a prey to the most poignant grief and remorse. He shut himself up in his desolate house, where he was abandoned by all his neighbors, and by all his servants, with the exception of the old housekeeper and house-steward, whose devotion to the family they had served so long, retained them still in the service of its last and most unhappy representative.

"But awful stories crept out from that house of gloom. 'Twas said that the master was always followed by the spectre of the gipsy girl--that he could be heard in the dead of night walking up and down the hall outside of his chamber door, raving in frenzy, or expostulating with some unknown and unseen being, who was said to be the spectre that haunted the house.

"At length, unable to endure the misery of solitude and superst.i.tious terrors, Mr. Dubarry took an aged Catholic priest to share his home.

Under the influence of Father Ingleman, Philip Dubarry became a penitent and a devotee. At that time this church was but a rude chapel, erected over the old family vault. But now, by the advice of the old priest, Mr.

Dubarry rebuilt and enlarged the chapel, for the accommodation of all the Catholics in the neighborhood. He also added a priest's house. And Father Ingleman said ma.s.s every Sunday, while waiting for another priest to be appointed to the charge.

"This rebuilding and remodelling amused the miserable master of the manor, during the latter part of the summer and the autumn following his wife's death. But with the coming of the winter, returned all his gloom and horror. And the good old priest, so far from being able to help his patron, was himself so much affected in health and spirits by this condition of the house, that he begged and obtained leave to retire to the little dwelling beside the church.

"The awful winter pa.s.sed away.

"But on one stormy night in March, the mansion house took fire. It was said that the haunted master of the house, in a fit of desperation, actually set it on fire, with the purpose of burning out the ghost. At all events, it seems certain that he would permit nothing to be done to stop the flames.

"The house was burned to the ground. The houseless master took refuge with Father Ingleman, in the priest's dwelling by the church. But there also the spectre followed him, nor could all the exorcisms of Father Ingleman with 'candle, bell, and book,' avail to lay the disturbed spirit.