"If you don't believe it, you can read it for yourself," said Allen Clinton, climbing up the steps and searching among the volumes on the top shelf.
I lay back in my chair. The beams from the sinking sun shone through the stained glass of the windows of the old library, and dyed the rows of black leather volumes with bands of red and yellow.
"Here, Bell!"
I took a musty volume from Allen Clinton, which he had unearthed1 from its resting-place.
"It is about the middle of the book," he continued eagerly. "You will see it in big, black, old English letters."
I turned over the pages containing the family tree and other archives of the Clintons till I came to the one I was seeking. It contained the curse which had rested on the family since 1400. Slowly and with difficulty I deciphered the words of this terrible denunciation.
"And in this cell its coffin2 lieth, the coffin which hath not human shape, for which reason no holy ground receiveth it. Here shall it rest to curse the family of ye Clyntons from generation to generation. And for this reason, as soon as the soul shall pass from the body of each first-born, which is the heir, it shall become the warder of the door by day and by night. Day and night shall his spirit stand by the door, to keep the door closed till the son shall release the spirit of the father from the watch and take his place, till his son in turn shall die. And whoso entereth into the cell shall be the prisoner of the soul that guardeth the door till it shall let him go."
"What a ghastly idea!" I said, glancing
up at the young man who was watching me as I read. "But you say this cell has never been found. I should say its existence was a myth, and, of course, the curse on the soul of the first-born to keep the door shut as warder is absurd. Matter does not obey witchcraft3."
"The odd part of it is," replied Allen, "that every other detail of the Abbey referred to in this record has been identified; but this cell with its horrible contents has never been found."
It certainly was a curious legend, and I allow it made some impression on me. I fancied, too, that somewhere I had heard something similar, but my memory failed to trace it.
I had come down to Clinton Abbey three days before for some pheasant shooting.
It was now Sunday afternoon. The family, with the exception of old Sir Henry, Allen, and myself, were at church. Sir Henry, now nearly eighty years of age and a chronic4 invalid5, had retired6 to his room for his afternoon sleep. The younger Clinton
and I had gone out for a stroll round the grounds, and since we returned our conversation had run upon the family history till it arrived at the legend of the family curse. Presently, the door of the library was slowly opened, and Sir Henry, in his black velvet7 coat, which formed such a striking contrast to his snowy white beard and hair, entered the room. I rose from my chair, and, giving him my arm, assisted him to his favourite couch. He sank down into its luxurious8 depths with a sigh, but as he did so his eyes caught the old volume which I had laid on the table beside it. He started forward, took the book in his hand, and looked across at his son.
"Did you take this book down?" he said sharply.
"Yes, father; I got it out to show it to Bell. He is interested in the history of the Abbey, and——"
"Then return it to its place at once," interrupted the old man, his black eyes blazing with sudden passion. "You know how I dislike having my books disarranged,
and this one above all. Stay, give it to me."
He struggled up from the couch, and, taking the volume, locked it up in one of the drawers of his writing-table, and then sat back again on the sofa. His hands were trembling, as if some sudden fear had taken possession of him.
"Did you say that Phyllis Curzon is coming to-morrow?" asked the old man presently of his son in an irritable9 voice.
"Yes, father, of course; don't you remember? Mrs. Curzon and Phyllis are coming to stay for a fortnight; and, by the way," he added, starting to his feet as he spoke10, "that reminds me I must go and tell Grace——"
The rest of the sentence was lost in the closing of the door. As soon as we were alone, Sir Henry looked across at me for a few moments without speaking. Then he said,—
"I am sorry I was so short just now. I am not myself. I do not know what is the matter with me. I feel all to pieces. I
cannot sleep. I do not think my time is very long now, and I am worried about Allen. The fact is, I would give anything to stop this engagement. I wish he would not marry."
"I am sorry to hear you say that, sir," I answered. "I should have thought you would have been anxious to see your son happily married."
"Most men would," was the reply; "but I have my reasons for wishing things otherwise."
"What do you mean?" I could not help asking.
"I cannot explain myself; I wish I could. It would be best for Allen to let the old family die out. There, perhaps I am foolish about it, and of course I cannot really stop the marriage, but I am worried and troubled about many things."
"I wish I could help you, sir," I said impulsively11. "If there is anything I can possibly do, you know you have only to ask me."
"Thank you, Bell, I know you would;
but I cannot tell you. Some day I may. But there, I am afraid—horribly afraid."
The trembling again seized him, and he put his hands over his eyes as if to shut out some terrible sight.
"Don't repeat a word of what I have told you to Allen or any one else," he said suddenly. "It is possible that some day I may ask you to help me; and remember, Bell, I trust you."
He held out his hand, which I took. In another moment the butler entered with the lamps, and I took advantage of the interruption to make my way to the drawing-room.
The next day the Curzons arrived, and a hasty glance showed me that Phyllis was a charming girl. She was tall, slightly built, with a figure both upright and graceful12, and a handsome, somewhat proud face. When in perfect repose13 her expression was somewhat haughty14; but the moment she spoke her face became vivacious15, kindly16, charming to an extraordinary degree; she had a gay laugh, a sweet smile, a sympathetic manner.
I was certain she had the kindest of hearts, and was sure that Allen had made an admirable choice.
A few days went by, and at last the evening before the day when I was to return to London arrived. Phyllis's mother had gone to bed a short time before, as she had complained of headache, and Allen suddenly proposed, as the night was a perfect one, that we should go out and enjoy a moonlight stroll.
Phyllis laughed with glee at the suggestion, and ran at once into the hall to take a wrap from one of the pegs17.
"Allen," she said to her lover, who was following her, "you and I will go first."
"No, young lady, on this occasion you and I will have that privilege," said Sir Henry. He had also come into the hall, and, to our astonishment18, announced his intention of accompanying us in our walk.
Phyllis bestowed19 upon him a startled glance, then she laid her hand lightly on his arm, nodded back at Allen with a smile, and
walked on in front somewhat rapidly. Allen and I followed in the rear.
"Now, what does my father mean by this?" said Allen to me. "He never goes out at night; but he has not been well lately. I sometimes think he grows queerer every day."
"He is very far from well, I am certain," I answered.
We stayed out for about half an hour and returned home by a path which led into the house through a side entrance. Phyllis was waiting for us in the hall.
"Where is my father?" asked Allen, going up to her.
"He is tired and has gone to bed," she answered. "Good-night, Allen."
"Won't you come into the drawing-room?" he asked in some astonishment.
"No, I am tired."
She nodded to him without touching20 his hand; her eyes, I could not help noticing, had a queer expression. She ran upstairs.
I saw that Allen was startled by her
manner; but as he did not say anything, neither did I.
The next day at breakfast I was told that the Curzons had already left the Abbey. Allen was full of astonishment and, I could see, a good deal annoyed. He and I breakfasted alone in the old library. His father was too ill to come downstairs.
An hour later I was on my way back to London. Many things there engaged my immediate21 attention, and Allen, his engagement, Sir Henry, and the old family curse, sank more or less into the background of my mind.
Three months afterwards, on the 7th of January, I saw to my sorrow in the Times the announcement of Sir Henry Clinton's death.
From time to time in the interim22 I had heard from the son, saying that his father was failing fast. He further mentioned that his own wedding was fixed23 for the twenty-first of the present month. Now, of course, it must be postponed24. I felt truly sorry
for Allen, and wrote immediately a long letter of condolence.
On the following day I received a wire from him, imploring25 me to go down to the Abbey as soon as possible, saying that he was in great difficulty.
I packed a few things hastily, and arrived at Clinton Abbey at six in the evening. The house was silent and subdued—the funeral was to take place the next day. Clinton came into the hall and gripped me warmly by the hand. I noticed at once how worn and worried he looked.
"This is good of you, Bell," he said. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for coming. You are the one man who can help me, for I know you have had much experience in matters of this sort. Come into the library and I will tell you everything. We shall dine alone this evening, as my mother and the girls are keeping to their own apartments for to-night."
As soon as we were seated, he plunged26 at once into his story.
"I must give you a sort of prelude27 to what has just occurred," he began. "You remember, when you were last here, how abruptly28 Phyllis and her mother left the Abbey?"
I nodded. I remembered well.
"On the morning after you had left us I had a long letter from Phyllis," continued Allen. "In it she told me of an extraordinary request my father had made to her during that moonlight walk—nothing more nor less than an earnest wish that she would herself terminate our engagement. She spoke quite frankly29, as she always does, assuring me of her unalterable love and devotion, but saying that under the circumstances it was absolutely necessary to have an explanation. Frantic30 with almost ungovernable rage, I sought my father in his study. I laid Phyllis's letter before him and asked him what it meant. He looked at me with the most unutterable expression of weariness and pathos31.
"'Yes, my boy, I did it,' he said. 'Phyllis is quite right. I did ask of her,
as earnestly as a very old man could plead, that she would bring the engagement to an end.'
"'But why?' I asked. 'Why?'
"'That I am unable to tell you,' he replied.
"I lost my temper and said some words to him which I now regret. He made no sort of reply. When I had done speaking he said slowly,—
"'I make all allowance for your emotion, Allen; your feelings are no more than natural.'
"'You have done me a very sore injury,' I retorted. 'What can Phyllis think of this? She will never be the same again. I am going to see her to-day.'
"He did not utter another word, and I left him. I was absent from home for about a week. It took me nearly that time to induce Phyllis to overlook my father's extraordinary request, and to let matters go on exactly as they had done before.
"After fixing our engagement, if possible,
more firmly than ever, and also arranging the date of our wedding, I returned home. When I did so I told my father what I had done.
"'As you will,' he replied, and then he sank into great gloom. From that moment, although I watched him day and night, and did everything that love and tenderness could suggest, he never seemed to rally. He scarcely spoke, and remained, whenever we were together, bowed in deep and painful reverie. A week ago he took to his bed."
Here Allen paused.
"I now come to events up to date," he said. "Of course, as you may suppose, I was with my father to the last. A few hours before he passed away he called me to his bedside, and to my astonishment began once more talking about my engagement. He implored32 me with the utmost earnestness even now at the eleventh hour to break it off. It was not too late, he said, and added further that nothing would give him ease in dying but the knowledge that
I would promise him to remain single. Of course I tried to humour him. He took my hand, looked me in the eyes with an expression which I shall never forget, and said,—
"'Allen, make me a solemn promise that you will never marry.'
"This I naturally had to refuse, and then he told me that, expecting my obstinacy33, he had written me a letter which I should find in his safe, but I was not to open it till after his death. I found it this morning. Bell, it is the most extraordinary communication, and either it is entirely34 a figment of his imagination, for his brain powers were failing very much at the last, or else it is the most awful thing I ever heard of. Here is the letter; read it for yourself."
I took the paper from his hand and read the following matter in shaky, almost illegible35 writing:—
"My dear Boy,—When you read this I shall have passed away. For the last
six months my life has been a living death. The horror began in the following way. You know what a deep interest I have always taken in the family history of our house. I have spent the latter years of my life in verifying each detail, and my intention was, had health been given me, to publish a great deal of it in a suitable volume.
"On the special night to which I am about to allude36, I sat up late in my study reading the book which I saw you show to Bell a short time ago. In particular, I was much attracted by the terrible curse which the old abbot in the fourteenth century had bestowed upon the family. I read the awful words again and again. I knew that all the other details in the volume had been verified, but that the vault37 with the coffin had never yet been found. Presently I grew drowsy38, and I suppose I must have fallen asleep. In my sleep I had a dream; I thought that some one came into the room, touched me on the shoulder, and said 'Come.' I looked
up; a tall figure beckoned39 to me. The voice and the figure belonged to my late father. In my dream I rose immediately, although I did not know why I went nor where I was going. The figure went on in front, it entered the hall. I took one of the candles from the table and the key of the chapel40, unbolted the door and went out. Still the voice kept saying 'Come, come,' and the figure of my father walked in front of me. I went across the quadrangle, unlocked the chapel door, and entered.
"A death-like silence was around me. I crossed the nave41 to the north aisle42; the figure still went in front of me; it entered the great pew which is said to be haunted, and walked straight up to the effigy43 of the old abbot who had pronounced the curse. This, as you know, is built into the opposite wall. Bending forward, the figure pressed the eyes of the old monk44, and immediately a stone started out of its place, revealing a staircase behind. I was about to hurry forward, when I must have
knocked against something. I felt a sensation of pain, and suddenly awoke. What was my amazement45 to find that I had acted on my dream, had crossed the quadrangle, and was in the chapel; in fact, was standing46 in the old pew! Of course there was no figure of any sort visible, but the moonlight shed a cold radiance over all the place. I felt very much startled and impressed, but was just about to return to the house in some wonder at the curious vision which I had experienced, when, raising my startled eyes, I saw that part of it at least was real. The old monk seemed to grin at me from his marble effigy, and beside him was a blank open space. I hurried to it and saw a narrow flight of stairs. I cannot explain what my emotions were, but my keenest feeling at that moment was a strong and horrible curiosity. Holding the candle in my hand, I went down the steps. They terminated at the beginning of a long passage. This I quickly traversed, and at last found myself beside an iron door. It was not locked,
but hasped, and was very hard to open; in fact, it required nearly all my strength; at last I pulled it open towards me, and there in a small cell lay the coffin, as the words of the curse said. I gazed at it in horror. I did not dare to enter. It was a wedged-shaped coffin studded with great nails. But as I looked my blood froze within me, for slowly, very slowly, as if pushed by some unseen hand, the great heavy door began to close, quicker and quicker, until with a crash that echoed and re-echoed through the empty vault, it shut.
"Terror-stricken, I rushed from the vault and reached my room once more.
"Now I know that this great curse is true; that my father's spirit is there to guard the door and close it, for I saw it with my own eyes, and while you read this know that I am there. I charge you, therefore, not to marry—bring no child into the world to perpetuate47 this terrible curse. Let the family die out if you have the courage. It is much, I know, to ask; but whether you do or not, come to me
there, and if by sign or word I can communicate with you I will do so, but hold the secret safe. Meet me there before my body is laid to rest, when body and soul are still not far from each other. Farewell.
—Your loving father,
"Henry Clinton."
I read this strange letter over carefully twice, and laid it down. For a moment I hardly knew what to say. It was certainly the most uncanny thing I had ever come across.
"What do you think of it?" asked Allen at last.
"Well, of course there are only two possible solutions," I answered. "One is that your father not only dreamt the beginning of this story—which, remember, he allows himself—but the whole of it."
"And the other?" asked Allen, seeing that I paused.
"The other," I continued, "I hardly know what to say yet. Of course we will investigate the whole thing, that is our only
chance of arriving at a solution. It is absurd to let matters rest as they are. We had better try to-night."
Clinton winced48 and hesitated.
"Something must be done, of course," he answered; "but the worst of it is Phyllis and her mother are coming here early to-morrow in time for the funeral, and I cannot meet her—no, I cannot, poor girl!—while I feel as I do."
"We will go to the vault to-night," I said.
Clinton rose from his chair and looked at me.
"I don't like this thing at all, Bell," he continued. "I am not by nature in any sense of the word a superstitious49 man, but I tell you frankly nothing would induce me to go alone into that chapel to-night; if you come with me, that, of course, alters matters. I know the pew my father refers to well; it is beneath the window of St. Sebastian."
Soon afterwards I went to my room and dressed; and Allen and I dined tête-à-tête in the great dining-room. The old butler
waited on us with funereal50 solemnity, and I did all I could to lure51 Clinton's thoughts into a more cheerful and healthier channel.
I cannot say that I was very successful. I further noticed that he scarcely ate anything, and seemed altogether to be in a state of nervous tension painful to witness.
After dinner we went into the smoking-room, and at eleven o'clock I proposed that we should make a start.
Clinton braced52 himself together and we went out. He got the chapel keys, and then going to the stables we borrowed a lantern, and a moment afterwards found ourselves in the sacred edifice53. The moon was at her full, and by the pale light which was diffused54 through the south windows the architecture of the interior could be faintly seen. The Gothic arches that flanked the centre aisle with their quaint55 pillars, each with a carved figure of one of the saints, were quite visible, and further in the darkness of the chancel the dim outlines of the choir56 and altar-table with its white marble reredos could be just discerned.
We closed the door softly and, Clinton leading the way with the lantern, we walked up the centre aisle paved with the brasses57 of his dead ancestors. We trod gently on tiptoe as one instinctively58 does at night. Turning beneath the little pulpit we reached the north transept, and here Clinton stopped and turned round. He was very white, but his voice was quiet.
"This is the pew," he whispered. "It has always been called the haunted pew of Sir Hugh Clinton."
I took the lantern from him and we entered. I crossed the pew immediately and went up to the effigy of the old abbot.
"Let us examine him closely," I said. I held up the lantern, getting it to shine on each part of the face, the vestments, and the figure. The eyes, although vacant, as in all statuary, seemed to me at that moment to be uncanny and peculiar59. Giving Allen the lantern to hold, I placed a finger firmly on each. The next moment I could not refrain from an exclamation60; a stone at the side immediately rolled back, revealing the steps
which were spoken of by the old man in his narrative61.
"It is true! It is true!" cried Clinton excitedly.
"It certainly looks like it," I remarked: "but never mind, we have the chance now of investigating this matter thoroughly62."
"Are you going down?" asked Clinton.
"Certainly I am," I replied. "Let us go together."
Immediately afterwards we crept through the opening and began to descend63. There was only just room to do so in single file, and I went first with the lantern. In another moment we were in the long passage, and soon we were confronted by a door in an arched stone framework. Up till now Clinton had shown little sign of alarm, but here, at the trysting-place to which his father's soul had summoned him, he seemed suddenly to lose his nerve. He leant against the wall and for a moment I thought he would have fallen. I held up the lantern and examined the door and walls carefully. Then approaching I lifted the iron latch64 of
the heavy door. It was very hard to move, but at last by seizing the edge I dragged it open to its full against the wall of the passage. Having done so I peered inside, holding the lantern above my head. As I did so I heard Clinton cry out,—
"Look, look," he said, and turning I saw that the great door had swung back against me, almost shutting me within the cell.
Telling Clinton to hold it back by force, I stepped inside and saw at my feet the ghastly coffin. The legend then so far was true. I bent65 down and examined the queer, misshapen thing with great care. Its shape was that of an enormous wedge, and it was apparently66 made of some dark old wood, and was bound with iron at the corners. Having looked at it all round, I went out and, flinging back the door which Clinton had been holding open, stood aside to watch. Slowly, very slowly, as we both stood in the passage—slowly, as if pushed by some invisible hand, the door commenced to swing round, and, increasing in velocity67, shut with a noisy clang.
Seizing it once again, I dragged it open and, while Clinton held it in that position, made a careful examination. Up to the present I saw nothing to be much alarmed about. There were fifty ways in which a door might shut of its own accord. There might be a hidden spring or tilted68 hinges; draught69, of course, was out of the question. I looked at the hinges, they were of iron and set in the solid masonry70. Nor could I discover any spring or hidden contrivance, as when the door was wide open there was an interval71 of several inches between it and the wall. We tried it again and again with the same result, and at last, as it was closing, I seized it to prevent it.
I now experienced a very odd sensation; I certainly felt as if I were resisting an unseen person who was pressing hard against the door at the other side. Directly it was released it continued its course. I allow I was quite unable to understand the mystery. Suddenly an idea struck me.
"What does the legend say?" I asked, turning to Clinton. "'That the soul is to
guard the door, to close it upon the coffin?'"
"Those are the words," answered Allen, speaking with some difficulty.
"Now if that is true," I continued, "and we take the coffin out, the spirit won't shut the door; if it does shut it, it disproves the whole thing at once, and shows it to be merely a clever mechanical contrivance. Come, Clinton, help me to get the coffin out."
"I dare not, Bell," he whispered hoarsely72. "I daren't go inside."
"Nonsense, man," I said, feeling now a little annoyed at the whole thing. "Here, put the lantern down and hold the door back." I stepped in and, getting behind the coffin, put out all my strength and shoved it into the passage.
"Now, then," I cried, "I'll bet you fifty pounds to five the door will shut just the same." I dragged the coffin clear of the door and told him to let go. Clinton had scarcely done so before, stepping back, he clutched my arm.
"Look," he whispered; "do you see that it will not shut now? My father is waiting for the coffin to be put back. This is awful!"
I gazed at the door in horror; it was perfectly73 true, it remained wide open, and quite still. I sprang forward, seized it, and now endeavoured to close it. It was as if some one was trying to hold it open; it required considerable force to stir it, and it was only with difficulty I could move it at all. At last I managed to shut it, but the moment I let go it swung back open of its own accord and struck against the wall, where it remained just as before. In the dead silence that followed I could hear Clinton breathing quickly behind me, and I knew he was holding himself for all he was worth.
At that moment there suddenly came over me a sensation which I had once experienced before, and which I was twice destined74 to experience again. It is impossible to describe it, but it seized me, laying siege to my brain till I felt like a child in its power. It
was as if I were slowly drowning in the great ocean of silence that enveloped75 us. Time itself seemed to have disappeared. At my feet lay the misshapen thing, and the lantern behind it cast a fantastic shadow of its distorted outline on the cell wall before me.
"Speak; say something," I cried to Clinton. The sharp sound of my voice broke the spell. I felt myself again, and smiled at the trick my nerves had played on me. I bent down and once more laid my hands on the coffin, but before I had time to push it back into its place Clinton had gone up the passage like a man who is flying to escape a hurled76 javelin77.
Exerting all my force to prevent the door from swinging back by keeping my leg against it, I had just got the coffin into the cell and was going out, when I heard a shrill78 cry, and Clinton came tearing back down the passage.
"I can't get out! The stone has sunk into its place! We are locked in!" he screamed, and, wild with fear, he plunged
headlong into the cell, upsetting me in his career before I could check him. I sprang back to the door as it was closing. I was too late. Before I could reach it, it had shut with a loud clang in obedience79 to the infernal witchcraft.
"You have done it now," I cried angrily. "Do you see? Why, man, we are buried alive in this ghastly hole!"
The lantern I had placed just inside the door, and by its dim light, as I looked at him, I saw the terror of a madman creep into Clinton's eyes.
"Buried alive!" he shouted, with a peal80 of hysterical81 laughter. "Yes, and, Bell, it's your doing; you are a devil in human shape!" With a wild paroxysm of fury he flung himself upon me. There was the ferocity of a wild beast in his spring. He upset the lantern and left us in total darkness.
The struggle was short. We might be buried alive, but I was not going to die by his hand, and seizing him by the throat I pinned him against the wall.
"It had shut with a loud clang." A Master of Mysteries. Page 86
"It had shut with a loud clang."
A Master of Mysteries. Page 86
"Keep quiet," I shouted. "It is your thundering stupidity that has caused all this. Stay where you are until I strike a match."
I luckily had some vestas in the little silver box which I always carry on my watch-chain, and striking one I relit the lantern. Clinton's paroxysm was over, and sinking to the floor he lay there shivering and cowering82.
It was a terrible situation, and I knew that our only hope was for me to keep my presence of mind. With a great effort I forced myself to think calmly over what could be done. To shout for help would have been but a useless waste of breath.
Suddenly an idea struck me. "Have you got your father's letter?" I cried eagerly.
"I have," he answered; "it is in my pocket."
My last ray of hope vanished. Our only chance was that if he had left it at the house some one might discover the letter and come to our rescue by its instructions. It had been a faint hope, and it disappeared almost
as quickly as it had come to me. Without it no one would ever find the way to the vault that had remained a secret for ages. I was determined83, however, not to die without a struggle for freedom. Taking the lantern, I examined every nook and cranny of the cell for some other exit. It was a fruitless search. No sign of any way out could I find, and we had absolutely no means to unfasten the door from the inner side. Taking a few short steps, I flung myself again and again at the heavy door. It never budged84 an inch, and, bruised85 and sweating at every pore, I sat down on the coffin and tried to collect all my faculties86.
Clinton was silent, and seemed utterly87 stunned88. He sat still, gazing with a vacant stare at the door.
The time dragged heavily, and there was nothing to do but to wait for a horrible death from starvation. It was more than likely, too, that Clinton would go mad; already his nerves were strained to the utmost. Altogether I had never found myself in a worse plight89.
It seemed like an eternity90 that we sat there, neither of us speaking a word. Over and over again I repeated to myself the words of the terrible curse: "And whoso entereth into the cell shall be the prisoner of the soul that guardeth the door till it shall let him go." When would the shapeless form that was inside the coffin let us go? Doubtless when our bones were dry.
I looked at my watch. It was half-past eleven o'clock. Surely we had been more than ten minutes in this awful place! We had left the house at eleven, and I knew that must have been many hours ago. I glanced at the second hand. The watch had stopped.
"What is the time, Clinton?" I asked. "My watch has stopped."
"What does it matter?" he murmured. "What is time to us now? The sooner we die the better."
He pulled out his watch as he spoke, and held it to the lantern.
"Twenty-five minutes past eleven," he murmured dreamily.
"Good heavens!" I cried, starting up. "Has your watch stopped, too?"
Then, like the leap of a lightning flash, an idea struck me.
"I have got it; I have got it! My God! I believe I have got it!" I cried, seizing him by the arm.
"Got what?" he replied, staring wildly at me.
"Why, the secret—the curse—the door. Don't you see?"
I pulled out the large knife I always carry by a chain and swivel in my trouser pocket, and telling Clinton to hold the lantern, opened the little blade-saw and attacked the coffin with it.
"I believe the secret of our deliverance lies in this," I panted, working away furiously.
In ten minutes I had sawn half through the wooden edge, then, handing my tool to Clinton, I told him to continue the work while I rested. After a few minutes I took the knife again, and at last, after nearly half an hour had gone by, succeeded in making
a small hole in the lid. Inserting my two fingers, I felt some rough, uneven91 masses. I was now fearfully excited. Tearing at the opening like a madman, I enlarged it and extracted what looked like a large piece of coal. I knew in an instant what it was. It was magnetic iron-ore. Holding it down to my knife, the blade flew to it.
"Here is the mystery of the soul," I cried; "now we can use it to open the door."
I had known a great conjurer once, who had deceived and puzzled his audience with a box trick on similar lines: the man opening the box from the inside by drawing down the lock with a magnet. Would this do the same? I felt that our lives hung on the next moment. Taking the mass, I pressed it against the door just opposite the hasp, and slid it up against the wood. My heart leapt as I heard the hasp fly up outside, and with a push the door opened.
"We are saved," I shouted. "We are saved by a miracle!"
"Bell, you are a genius," gasped92 poor
Clinton; "but now, how about the stone at the end of the passage?"
"We will soon see about that," I cried, taking the lantern. "Half the danger is over, at any rate; and the worst half, too."
We rushed along the passage and up the stair until we reached the top.
"Why, Clinton," I cried, holding up the lantern, "the place was not shut at all."
Nor was it. In his terror he had imagined it.
"I could not see in the dark, and I was nearly dead with fright," he said. "Oh, Bell, let us get out of this as quickly as we can!"
We crushed through the aperture93 and once more stood in the chapel. I then pushed the stone back into its place.
Dawn was just breaking when we escaped from the chapel. We hastened across to the house. In the hall the clock pointed94 to five.
"Well, we have had an awful time," I said, as we stood in the hall together; "but
at least, Clinton, the end was worth the ghastly terror. I have knocked the bottom out of your family legend for ever."
"I don't even now quite understand," he said.
"Don't you?—but it is so easy. That coffin never contained a body at all, but was filled, as you perceive, with fragments of magnetic iron-ore. For what diabolical95 purposes the cell was intended, it is, of course, impossible to say; but that it must have been meant as a human trap there is little doubt. The inventor certainly exercised no small ingenuity96 when he devised his diabolical plot, for it was obvious that the door, which was made of iron, would swing towards the coffin wherever it happened to be placed. Thus the door would shut if the coffin were inside the cell, and would remain open if the coffin were brought out. A cleverer method for simulating a spiritual agency it would be hard to find. Of course, the monk must have known well that magnetic iron-ore never loses its quality and would ensure the deception97 remaining potent98 for ages."
"But how did you discover by means of our watches?" asked Clinton.
"Any one who understands magnetism99 can reply to that," I said. "It is a well-known fact that a strong magnet plays havoc100 with watches. The fact of both our watches going wrong first gave me a clue to the mystery."
Later in the day the whole of this strange affair was explained to Miss Curzon, and not long afterwards the passage and entrance to the chapel were bricked up.
It is needless to add that six months later the pair were married, and, I believe, are as happy as they deserve.
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1
unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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9
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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10
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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11
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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12
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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13
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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14
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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15
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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16
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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17
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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18
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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19
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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21
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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22
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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23
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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24
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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25
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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26
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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27
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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28
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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29
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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30
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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31
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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32
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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34
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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35
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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36
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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37
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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38
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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39
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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41
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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42
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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43
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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44
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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45
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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46
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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47
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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48
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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50
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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51
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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52
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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53
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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54
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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55
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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56
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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57
brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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58
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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59
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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60
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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61
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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62
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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63
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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64
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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65
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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66
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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67
velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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68
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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69
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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70
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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71
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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72
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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75
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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77
javelin
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| n.标枪，投枪 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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79
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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80
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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81
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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83
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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84
budged
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| v.（使）稍微移动( budge的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）改变主意，（使）让步 | |
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85
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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86
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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87
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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88
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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89
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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90
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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91
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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92
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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93
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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94
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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95
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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96
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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97
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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98
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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99
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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100
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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