The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1877-01-31
Esther ChiIlingworth's Ring.
TALE OF SALEM WITcHcRAFT.

Such a queer old ring! Ipicked it
out of the old lacquered cabinet, where
Aunt Lucinda's odds and ends of family
reGcs-memento morris, antique trinkets,
and souvenirs of the past her past, that
seemed SO very, very old; fer she was my
mothers aunt, not mine-were slowed
away in rows of tiny drawers, packed III
soft jewelers. cotton, and smelling sweet
and strong of Tonka beans. 1t was
ring of old yellow gold, curiously dressed
with the iacinth cut crescentwise, and
set in tiny seed pearls; and the jewels
and setting, as in many old rings, opened
at the coaxing of finger, and showed a
wee space for bair-whOse? | asked
Aunt Lucinda, but she was hurrying to
shut up the cabinet, and only said
Remind me to tell you about it III the
morning, child" for it was late, and she
wanted to send me off to bed.
Cant I keep this, just to wear while
I'm here-it's SO pretty-and I'll take
such good care of it, auntie %
"Well, put it on" said Aunt Lucinda;
"and then run away, for it's past eleven
o'clock. To think of you keeping me
up talking until this,late hour
, So went awayt 10 bed, slipping the
narrow band of fretted, carven, crusted
gold over my first finger, and watching
the rich, warm flake of Light in the heart
of the iacinth-hke drop OF clear
honey.
slept alone at Aunt Lucinda's, in Il
queer old room, with an open fireplace
and brass andirons, and with great,
high posted bed, dark with howered
chintz curtains, and high and almost
inaccessible. mountain Of feathers, into
which I usually leaped with the aid OF
chair, when I had blown the candle ont.
L always went to sleep drowsily speculat-
ing upon the ancestral parsonage who lad
reposed in this old ark of bed, under
that ancient red silk quilt; and wonder
ing if any of their forgotten dreams lurk-
ed round those lowered curtains, to
creep into my brain when sleep sets its
gates ajar. I did not dream, that night,
at any rate; I am sure of it, for I had not
slept ten minutes by the old alabaster
clock on the mantelpiece, when I was
awakened BY the. pressure of hand.
It was not Aunt Lucinda's hand; even
in sleep I knew the difference of the
touch. They were young fingers that
slid coldly over mine-soft, round tips,
that left damp chill upon my flesh
where they crept along. As my senses
awoke gradually, felt these fingers
working at the ring on my left hand,
and Tfelt cold breath on my forehead,
like a puff Of night air. tried to strike
away the hand, but it fastened clingingly
on mine, and moaning voice said, pas
sionately, and yet piteously, like hurt
child: r,C.. o., . ,.,.....
:. "Let me have it-let me have it!''
"Who are you? Where are you
What is If ?" gasped, struggling to sit
upright in the deep trough Of the feather
bed. s"Aunt Lucinda !"
The dark, still folds of the curtains
1wavered and moved, the streak of light
between them widened, and then they
were pushed quite apart. Then ] SOW
the moon shining on the floor, and the
: fire. dying on the hearth between the,
brass and. irons, and O figure standing by
the, bed-standing right in the arch made
by the parted curtains.
T. It was woman, and saw her Just as
plainly as 7 see at this moment the words
written by the pen in my hand. I could
tell you every item Of the dress she wore,
even to the edging of lace on the tight
sleeves that reached her elbows, and the
little blue damask figure on her gray
gown. Her face was very pale and
quiet, and there was no light in her eyes;
they were heavy and dark, and the lids
were reddened as if with crying and
waking; but she was beautiful for all
that-beautiful as some old, dim picture
with story in it. There she stood, with
her face and neck cleaning dull-white,
like old marble, above the gray gowr,
and one lock of her black hair twisted
round her throat, like n soft necklace,
and her little damp, cold hand lying on
mine, and her lips moved yet, as if she
we're saying over again:
"I.et me have it !"
"Who are you?" l cried, trembling
and hardly breathing. "What do yo,
want?" - --
"My1 ring-mine and Rogers. No
other woman can wear my ring, Look !!
don't you see the blood on it % -.
Aunt Lucinda's ring There was no
stain ON it when she took it out of the
old casket; but T saw it now in the moon
Ight--a dash of ugly red among the
erusted carvings. I tore it off my finger,
and flung it away as if it were coal Of
fire. 49,. .@h.TH !. o..
"Who are you ?" cried once more.
= And the answer came softly and slow,
7 Ikea sigh ;LlH9a =.
= ! "Esther Chilingworth."
] stared up at her breathlessly.
"Look atme," she murmuret. "This
is the faee that Roger Vane loved nigh
two hundred years ago; this is the hand
that wore his ring-that sent it back to
him from Salem Jail when he cared no
longer to remember how he slipped it on
with kisses. They say I was very fair to