Life — December 10, 1885 — page 8: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

328 Mr. Maverick’s teeth chattered; but he commanded him- self by a strong effort. “If you hear nothing, Maria,” he said, “it is the best evidence that this intruder is no flesh and biood, but a spectre. But, whatever he is, I will hunt him down if it takes all night.” “How can you hunt down a spectre? Don't be absurd, John, dear. You will only catch your death a-cold, trotting round these chilly entries and places.” “Don't attempt to restrain me, Maria,” replied her hus- band, with a nervous shudder. “If I don’t search out this stery it may be the death of me, indeed !" 4 went out into the hall. The candle threw a gleam but its extremities were swathed in deep shadows. averick peered searchingly into this obscurity, and then, stealthily raising his finger, he pointed toward the thickest gloom. “ There it is!” he murmured, in a scarcely audible voice. “Tsaw it move! See—in a long gray dressing-gown—sce ! Ha! it's gone !” . “But surely, John, my eyes are as good as yours, and rather better. If there were anything, why would n't it be visible to me as well as to you?” “ Heaven knows, Maria! but it is only some organizations that are susceptible to apparitions. 1 saw the figure move, and the gleam of its white face. But where can it have disappeared? Hark !"" A long, heavy sigh, as of a breathing heavily oppressed, was distinctly audible in the intense stillness. It seemed to come from close at hand, and yet it was impossible to fix the direction. Immediately following it, there was a creaking sound from ‘the staircase behind them. This time Mrs. Maverick gave a start, and looked round. “I did hear a noise then,” she whispered. “He must have passed close by us and gone down,” returned the husband. “I had a cold feeling, a moment ago, as from a draught of icy air. Come—let us follow it up.” Iv. HEY descended again to the lower story ; but everything there appeared exactly as when they had left it, The wind had now began to arise, and, sweeping across the naked, white fields, whispered and muttered about the old house, as if it had some sad secret to communicate. The two hunters in this ghastly chase were now in the dining-room, a sombre apartment, with a portrait over the mantelpiece of an elderly man in a gray surtout. The frame of this portrait was fas- tened into the wall, and had occupied its present position since an unknown date. The original of the portrait was also unknown, but it was supposed to be the suicide of the legend. Mr. Maverick stood gazing up at it, as if expecting some sign of life in those dark, troubled features. “The story is,” he said, in the tremulous undertone which had come to be his manner of speech during the last half hour, * that, on the evening of his death, he went out to the darn to chop wood. While there, a messenger came to him from the village with the terrible news which —” . He stopped, and his wife and he stood staring into each | difficulty. - LIFE: other's eyes. From the direction of the barn came a dull, muffled sound, repeated regularly at short intervals. “There he is now!” exclaimed Maverick, speaking with “He's at work again, just as he was fifty years ago. What a fearful thing this is! Where is the lantern ?” “Don't go out, John! Oh, don’t!” entreated his wife. “In your excited condition, and in this freezing air, it will kill you—I know it will!” “IT must go, Maria,” he replied, with a sort of despera- tion. “To sit still and feel that you are haunted would be worse than death. So long as [ am on its tracks I can bear it. You stay here; call me if you hear or see anything.” The lantern was procured, and Maverick set forth. He reached the barn, ploughing his way through the crisp snow, and found the door partly open. He threw it back and looked in. A pile of uncut logs lay at one side; the saw- horse, with the saw leaning against it, stood near. The axe was nowhere to be seen, nor were there any trace of its hav- ing been recently used. After listening and looking for a few moments, he closed the door and fastened it, and turned again toward the house. From where he now stood the windows of the dining-room were visible, lighted up by the candle which he had left there. At one of the windows, outlined against the light behind, he saw the figure of his wife. apparently looking out for him. But immediately afterward he saw, or thought he saw, the shape of a man moving to and fro in the room behind her. The shape approached her, and Maverick, with a thrill of horror, recognized the same apparition whose vague contours he had beheld in the obscurity of the entry. Mrs. Maverick stirred uneasily, but did not look round, though the mysteri- ous shape seemed to be close at her shoulder. With a cry of warning to her, Maverick leapt forward and ran toward the house. Instantly the figure shrank backward, and, flit- ting across the room, vanished apparently in the direction of the fireplace. It was as if the portrait had come down from its frame during his absence, and had again retired to it. He burst into the house and staggered into the dining- room. His wife, turning from the window, met-him with a questioning look, and with only so much discomposure as might naturally be excited by his own panic-stricken aspect. “Did you find anything, dear?” she asked. “Good God, woman!” he gasped out, “do you mean to say you saw nothing—felt nothing ?” “ What should I feel, John ?” she demanded, in a troubled tone. “It—the spectre—him!" cried Maverick, pointing at the portrait, which frowned grimly back at them from its frame. “No spectre has been in this room that I know of,” re- turned Mrs. Maverick, in a quavering voice, while the tears sprung to her eyes. ‘Oh, my poor husband, what shall I do for you?” Vv. IS agitation and the chill occasioned by his visit to the barn had put Maverick into such a state that he yielded at length to his wife's entreaties that he would take a hot bath and go to bed. The bath-room was a narrow apartment off comicbooks.com