't. They laid the heid in a decent bit box i' the cellar, an' there it remaint, weel content there to abide the day o' that jeedgment that'll set mony anither jeedgment to the richt-aboot; though what pleesur could be intil that cellar mair nor intil a hole i' the earth, is a thing no for me to say! So wi' that generation there was nae mair trouble.

"'But i' the coorse o' time cam first ane an' syne anither, wha forgot, maybe leuch at, the haill affair, an' didna believe a word o' the same.

But they're but fules that gang again the experrience o' their forbeirs!--what wud ye hae but they wud beery the heid! An' what wud come o' that but an auld dismay het up again! Up gat the din, the rampaugin', the clankin', an' a', jist the same as 'afore! But the minute that, fricht.i.t at the consequences o' their folly, they acknowledged the property o' the ghaist in his ain heid, an' tuik it oot o' the earth an' intil the hoose again, a' was quaiet direc'ly--quaiet as hert could desire.'

"Sae that was the story!

"An' whan the lunch was ower, an' Mr. Harper was thinkin' the moment come whan they would order him to tak the heid, an' him trimlin' at the thoucht o' touchin' 't, an' lay't whaur it was--an' whaur it had sae aften been whan it had a sowl intil 't, the gentleman got up, an' says he til him, 'Be so good,' says he, 'as fetch me my hat-box from the hall.' Harper went an' got it as desired, an' the gentleman took an'

unlockit it, an' roon' he turnt whaur he stood, an' up he tuik the skull frae the chimley-piece, neither as gien he lo'ed it nor feared it--as what reason had he to do either?--an' han'let it neither rouchly, nor wi' ony show o' mickle care, but intil the hat-box it gaed, w.i.l.l.y, nilly, an' the lid shutten doon upo' 't, an' the key turnt i' the lock o' 't; an' as gien he wad mak the thing richt sure o' no bein' putten again whaur it had sic an objection to gang, up he tuik in his han' the hat-box, an' the contrairy heid i' the inside o' 't, an'

awa' wi' him on his traivels, here awa' an' there awa' ower the face o'

the globe: he was on his w'y to Spain, he said, at the moment; an' we saw nae mair o' him nor the heid, nor h'ard ever a soon' mair o'

clankin', nor girnin', nor ony ither oonholy din.

"An' that's the trowth, mak o' 't what ye like, my leddy an' maister Grant!"

Mistress Brookes was silent, and for some time not a syllable was uttered by either listener. At last Donal spoke.

"It is a strange story, mistress Brookes," he said; "and the stranger that it would show some of the inhabitants of the other world apparently as silly after a hundred and fifty years as when first they arrived there."

"I can say naething anent that, sir," answered mistress Brookes; "I'm no acc.o.o.ntable for ony inference 'at's to be drawn frae my ower true tale; an' doobtless, sir, ye ken far better nor me;--but whaur ye see sae mony folk draw oot the threid o' a lang life, an' never ae sensible thing, that they could help, done or said, what for should ye won'er gien noo an' than ane i' the ither warl' shaw himsel' siclike. Whan ye consider the heap o' folk that dees, an' hoo there maun be sae mony mair i' the ither warl' nor i' this, I confess for my pairt I won'er mair 'at we're left at peace at a', an' that they comena swarmin' aboot 's i' the nicht, like black doos. Ye'll maybe say they canna, an' ye'll maybe say they come; but sae lang as they plague me nae waur nor oor freen' upo' the t.i.ther side o' the wa', I canna say I care that mickle.

But I think whiles hoo thae ghaists maun lauch at them that lauchs as gien there was nae sic craturs i' the warl'! For my pairt I naither fear them nor seek til them: I'll be ane wi' them mysel' afore lang!--only I wad sair wuss an' houp to gang in amo' better behavet anes nor them 'at gangs aboot plaguin' folk."

"You speak the best of sense, mistress Brookes," said Donal; "but I should like to understand why the poor hanged fellow should have such an objection to having his skull laid in the ground! Why had he such a fancy for his old bones? Could he be so closely a.s.sociated with them that he could not get on without the plenty of fresh air they got him used to when they hung on the gallows? And why did it content him to have only his head above ground? It is bewildering! We couldn't believe our bones rise again, even if Paul hadn't as good as told us they don't! Why should the dead haunt their bones as if to make sure of having their own again?"

"But," said mistress Brookes, "beggin' yer pardon, sir, what ken ye as to what they think? Ye may ken better, but maybe they dinna; for haena ye jist allooed that sic conduc' as I hae describit is no fit, whaever be guilty o' the same, whether rowdy laddies i' the streets, or craturs ye canna see i' the hoose? They may think they'll want their banes by an' by though ye ken better; an' whatever you wise folk may think the noo, ye ken it's no that lang sin' a' body, ay, the best o' folk, thoucht the same; an' there's no a doobt they a' did at the time that man was hangt. An' ye maun min' 'at i' the hoose the heid o' 'im wudna waste as it wud i' the yerd!"

"But why bother about his heid more than the rest of his bones?"

"Weel, sir, I'm thinking a ghaist, ghaist though he be, canna surely be i' twa places at ance. He could never think to plague til ilk bane o'

finger an' tae was gethert i' the cellar! That wud be houpless! An'

thinkin' onything o' his banes, he micht weel think maist o' 's heid, an' keep an e'e upo' that. Nae mony ghaists hae the chance o' seein'

sae muckle o' their banes as this ane, or sayin' to themsel's, 'Yon's mine, whaur it swings!' Some ghaists hae a cat-like natur for places, an' what for no for banes? Mony's the story that hoosekeeper, honest wuman, telled me: whan what had come was gane, it set her openin' oot her pack! I could haud ye there a' nicht tellin' ye ane efter anither o' them. But it's time to gang to oor beds."

"It is our turn to tell you something," said lady Arctura; "--only you must not mention it just yet: Mr. Grant has found the lost room!"

For a moment Mrs. Brookes said nothing, but neither paled nor looked incredulous; her face was only fixed and still, as if she were finding explanation in the discovery.

"I was aye o' the min' it was," she said, "an' mony's the time I thoucht I wud luik for't to please mysel'! It's sma' won'er--the soon's, an' the raps, an' siclike!"

"You will not change your mind when you hear all," said Arctura. "I asked you to give us our supper because I was afraid to go to bed."

"You shouldn't have told her, sir!"

"I've seen it with my own eyes!"

"You've been into it, my lady?--What--what--?"

"It is a chapel--the old castle-chapel--mentioned, I know, somewhere in the history of the place, though no one, I suppose, ever dreamed the missing room could be that!--And in the chapel," continued Arctura, hardly able to bring out the words, for a kind of cramping of the muscles of speech, "there was a bed! and in the bed the crumbling dust of a woman! and on the altar what was hardly more than the dusty shadow of a baby?"

"The Lord be aboot us!" cried the housekeeper, her well-seasoned composure giving way; "ye saw that wi' yer ain e'en, my lady!--Mr.

Grant! hoo could ye lat her leddyship luik upo' sic things!"

"I am her ladyship's servant," answered Donal.

"That's varra true! But eh, my bonny bairn, sic sichts is no for you!"

"I ought to know what is in the house!" said Arctura, with a shudder.

"But already I feel more comfortable that you know too. Mr. Grant would like to have your advice as to what--.--You'll come and see them, won't you?"

"When you please, my lady.--To-night?"

"No, no! not to-night.--Was that the knocking again?--Some ghosts want their bodies to be buried, though your butler--"

"I wouldna wonder!" responded mistress Brookes, thoughtfully.

"Where shall we bury them?" asked Donal.

"In Englan'," said the housekeeper, "I used to hear a heap aboot consecrated ground; but to my min' it was the bodies o' G.o.d's handiwark, no the bishop, that consecrated the ground. Whaur the Lord lays doon what he has done wi', wad aye be a sacred place to me. I daursay Moses, whan he cam upo' 't again i' the desert, luikit upo' the ground whaur stood the buss that had burned, as a sacred place though the fire was lang oot!--Thinkna ye, Mr. Grant?"

"I do," answered Donal. "But I do not believe the Lord Jesus thought one spot on the face of the earth more holy than another: every dust of it was his father's, neither more nor less, existing only by the thought of that father! and I think that is what we must come to.--But where shall we bury them?--where they lie, or in the garden?"

"Some wud doobtless hae dist laid to dist i' the kirkyard; but I wudna wullin'ly raise a clash i' the country-side. Them that did it was yer ain forbeirs, my leddy; an' sic things are weel forgotten. An' syne what wud the earl say? It micht upset him mair nor a bit! I'll consider o' 't."

Donal accompanied them to the door of the chamber which again they shared, and then betook himself to his own high nest. There more than once in what remained of the night, he woke, fancying he heard the ghost-music sounding its coronach over the dead below.

CHAPTER LVIII.

A SOUL DISEASED.

"Papa is very ill to-day, Simmons tells me," said Davie, as Donal entered the schoolroom. "He says he has never seen him so ill. Oh, Mr.

Grant, I hope he is not going to die!"

"I hope not," returned Donal--not very sure, he saw when he thought about it, what he meant; for if there was so little hope of his becoming a true man on this side of some awful doom, why should he hope for his life here?

"I wish you would talk to him as you do to me, Mr. Grant!" resumed Davie, who thought what had been good for himself must be good for everybody.

Of late the boy had been more than usual with his father, and he may have dropped some word that turned his father's thoughts toward Donal and his ways of thinking: however weak the earl's will, and however dull his conscience, his mind was far from being inactive. In the afternoon the butler brought a message that his lordship would be glad to see Mr. Grant when school was over.

Donal found the earl very weak, but more like a live man, he thought, than he had yet seen him. He pointed to a seat, and began to talk in a way that considerably astonished the tutor.

"Mr. Grant," he began, with not a little formality, "I have known you long enough to believe I know you really. Now I find myself, partly from the peculiarity of my const.i.tution, partly from the state of my health, partly from the fact that my views do not coincide with those of the church of Scotland, and there is no episcopal clergyman within reach of the castle--I find myself, I say, for these reasons, desirous of some conversation with you, more for the sake of identifying my own opinions, than in the hope of receiving from you what it would be unreasonable to expect from one of your years."

Donal held his peace; the very power of speech seemed taken from him: he had no confidence in the man, and nothing so quenches speech as lack of faith. But the earl had no idea of this distrust, never a doubt of his listener's readiness to take any position he required him to take.

Experience had taught him as little about Donal as about his own real self.

"I have long been troubled," continued his lordship after a momentary pause, "with a question of which one might think the world must by this time be weary--which yet has, and always will have, extraordinary fascination for minds of a certain sort--of which my own is one: it is the question of the freedom of the will:--how far is the will free? or how far can it be called free, consistently with the notion of a G.o.d over all?"