A STABLE FOR NIGHTMARES

 [Illustration: A STABLE FOR NIGHTMARES]

 A STABLE FOR NIGHTMARES

 OR

 WEIRD TALES

 BY

 J. SHERIDAN LE FANU AUTHOR OF “UNCLE SILAS, ” “HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD, ”

 SIR CHARLES YOUNG, BART. 

 AND OTHERS

 Illustrated

 NEW YORK NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY 156 FIFTH AVENUE 1896

 Copyright, 1896, by NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY

 TABLE OF CONTENTS

 PAGE

 DICKON THE DEVIL, 9

 A DEBT OF HONOR, 27

 DEVEREUX’S DREAM, 59

 CATHERINE’S QUEST, 89

 HAUNTED, 115

 PICHON AND SONS, OF THE CROIX ROUSSE, 135

 THE PHANTOM FOURTH, 163

 THE SPIRIT’S WHISPER, 185

 DR. FEVERSHAM’S STORY, 209

 THE SECRET OF THE TWO PLASTER CASTS, 229

 WHAT WAS IT? 241

DICKON THE DEVIL. 

About thirty years ago I was selected by two rich old maids to visit aproperty in that part of Lancashire which lies near the famous forest ofPendle, with which Mr. Ainsworth’s “Lancashire Witches” has made us sopleasantly familiar. My business was to make partition of a smallproperty, including a house and demesne to which they had, a long timebefore, succeeded as coheiresses. 

The last forty miles of my journey I was obliged to post, chiefly bycross-roads, little known, and less frequented, and presenting sceneryoften extremely interesting and pretty. The picturesqueness of thelandscape was enhanced by the season, the beginning of September, atwhich I was travelling. 

I had never been in this part of the world before; I am told it is now agreat deal less wild, and, consequently, less beautiful. 

At the inn where I had stopped for a relay of horses and somedinner—for it was then past five o’clock—I found the host, a hale oldfellow of five-and-sixty, as he told me, a man of easy and garrulousbenevolence, willing to accommodate his guests with any amount of talk, which the slightest tap sufficed to set flowing, on any subject youpleased. 

I was curious to learn something about Barwyke, which was the name ofthe demesne and house I was going to. As there was no inn within somemiles of it, I had written to the steward to put me up there, the bestway he could, for a night. 

The host of the “Three Nuns, ” which was the sign under which heentertained wayfarers, had not a great deal to tell. It was twentyyears, or more, since old Squire Bowes died, and no one had lived in theHall ever since, except the gardener and his wife. 

“Tom Wyndsour will be as old a man as myself; but he’s a bit taller, andnot so much in flesh, quite, ” said the fat innkeeper. 

“But there were stories about the house, ” I repeated, “that, they said, prevented tenants from coming into it?”

“Old wives’ tales; many years ago, that will be, sir; I forget ’em; Iforget ’em all. Oh yes, there always will be, when a house is left so;foolish folk will always be talkin’; but I han’t heard a word about itthis twenty year. ”

It was vain trying to pump him; the old landlord of the “Three Nuns, ”for some reason, did not choose to tell tales of Barwyke Hall, if hereally did, as I suspected, remember them. 

I paid my reckoning, and resumed my journey, well pleased with the goodcheer of that old-world inn, but a little disappointed. 

We had been driving for more than an hour, when we began to cross a wildcommon; and I knew that, this passed, a quarter of an hour would bringme to the door of Barwyke Hall. 

The peat and furze were pretty soon left behind; we were again in thewooded scenery that I enjoyed so much, so entirely natural and pretty, and so little disturbed by traffic of any kind. I was looking from thechaise-window, and soon detected the object of which, for some time, myeye had been in search. Barwyke Hall was a large, quaint house, of thatcage-work fashion known as “black-and-white, ” in which the bars andangles of an oak framework contrast, black as ebony, with the whiteplaster that overspreads the masonry built into its interstices. Thissteep-roofed Elizabethan house stood in the midst of park-like groundsof no great extent, but rendered imposing by the noble stature of theold trees that now cast their lengthening shadows eastward over thesward, from the declining sun. 

The park-wall was gray with age, and in many places laden with ivy. Indeep gray shadow, that contrasted with the dim fires of eveningreflected on the foliage above it, in a gentle hollow, stretched a lakethat looked cold and black, and seemed, as it were, to skulk fromobservation with a guilty knowledge. 

I had forgot that there was a lake at Barwyke; but the moment thiscaught my eye, like the cold polish of a snake in the shadow, myinstinct seemed to recognize something dangerous, and I knew that thelake was connected, I could not remember how, with the story I had heardof this place in my boyhood. 

I drove up a grass-grown avenue, under the boughs of these noble trees, whose foliage, dyed in autumnal red and yellow, returned the beams ofthe western sun gorgeously. 

We drew up at the door. I got out, and had a good look at the front ofthe house; it was a large and melancholy mansion, with signs of longneglect upon it; great wooden shutters, in the old fashion, were barred, outside, across the windows; grass, and even nettles, were growing thickon the courtyard, and a thin moss streaked the timber beams; the plasterwas discolored by time and weather, and bore great russet and yellowstains. The gloom was increased by several grand old trees that crowdedclose about the house. 

I mounted the steps, and looked round; the dark lake lay near me now, alittle to the left. It was not large; it may have covered some ten ortwelve acres; but it added to the melancholy of the scene. Near thecentre of it was a small island, with two old ash-trees, leaning towardeach other, their pensive images reflected in the stirless water. Theonly cheery influence of this scene of antiquity, solitude, and neglectwas that the house and landscape were warmed with the ruddy westernbeams. I knocked, and my summons resounded hollow and ungenial in myear; and the bell, from far away, returned a deep-mouthed and surlyring, as if it resented being roused from a score years’ slumber. 

A light-limbed, jolly-looking old fellow, in a barracan jacket andgaiters, with a smirk of welcome, and a very sharp, red nose, thatseemed to promise good cheer, opened the door with a promptitude thatindicated a hospitable expectation of my arrival. 

There was but little light in the hall, and that little lost itself indarkness in the background. It was very spacious and lofty, with agallery running round it, which, when the door was open, was visible attwo or three points. Almost in the dark my new acquaintance led meacross this wide hall into the room destined for my reception. It wasspacious, and wainscoted up to the ceiling. The furniture of thiscapacious chamber was old-fashioned and clumsy. There were curtainsstill to the windows, and a piece of Turkey carpet lay upon the floor;those windows were two in number, looking out, through the trunks of thetrees close to the house, upon the lake. It needed all the fire, and allthe pleasant associations of my entertainer’s red nose, to light up thismelancholy chamber. A door at its farther end admitted to the room thatwas prepared for my sleeping apartment. It was wainscoted, like theother. It had a four-post bed, with heavy tapestry curtains, and inother respects was furnished in the same old-world and ponderous styleas the other room. Its window, like those of that apartment, looked outupon the lake. 

Sombre and sad as these rooms were, they were yet scrupulously clean. Ihad nothing to complain of; but the effect was rather dispiriting. Having given some directions about supper—a pleasant incident to lookforward to—and made a rapid toilet, I called on my friend with thegaiters and red nose (Tom Wyndsour), whose occupation was that of a“bailiff, ” or under-steward, of the property, to accompany me, as we hadstill an hour or so of sun and twilight, in a walk over the grounds. 

It was a sweet autumn evening, and my guide, a hardy old fellow, strodeat a pace that tasked me to keep up with. 

Among clumps of trees at the northern boundary of the demesne we lightedupon the little antique parish church. I was looking down upon it, froman eminence, and the park-wall interposed; but a little way down was astile affording access to the road, and by this we approached the irongate of the churchyard. I saw the church door open; the sexton wasreplacing his pick, shovel, and spade, with which he had just beendigging a grave in the churchyard, in their little repository under thestone stair of the tower. He was a polite, shrewd little hunchback, whowas very happy to show me over the church. Among the monuments was onethat interested me; it was erected to commemorate the very Squire Bowesfrom whom my two old maids had inherited the house and estate ofBarwyke. It spoke of him in terms of grandiloquent eulogy, and informedthe Christian reader that he had died, in the bosom of the Church ofEngland, at the age of seventy-one. 

I read this inscription by the parting beams of the setting sun, whichdisappeared behind the horizon just as we passed out from under theporch. 

“Twenty years since the Squire died, ” said I, reflecting, as I loiteredstill in the churchyard. 

“Ay, sir; ’twill be twenty year the ninth o’ last month. ”

“And a very good old gentleman?”

“Good-natured enough, and an easy gentleman he was, sir; I don’t thinkwhile he lived he ever hurt a fly, ” acquiesced Tom Wyndsour. “It ain’talways easy sayin’ what’s in ’em, though, and what they may take or turnto afterward; and some o’ them sort, I think, goes mad. ”

“You don’t think he was out of his mind?” I asked. 

“He? La! no; not he, sir; a bit lazy, mayhap, like other old fellows;but a knew devilish well what he was about. ”

Tom Wyndsour’s account was a little enigmatical; but, like old SquireBowes, I was “a bit lazy” that evening, and asked no more questionsabout him. 

We got over the stile upon the narrow road that skirts the churchyard. It is overhung by elms more than a hundred years old, and in thetwilight, which now prevailed, was growing very dark. As side-by-side wewalked along this road, hemmed in by two loose stone-like walls, something running toward us in a zig-zag line passed us at a wild pace, with a sound like a frightened laugh or a shudder, and I saw, as itpassed, that it was a human figure. I may confess, now, that I was alittle startled. The dress of this figure was, in part, white: I know Imistook it at first for a white horse coming down the road at a gallop. Tom Wyndsour turned about and looked after the retreating figure. 

“He’ll be on his travels to-night, ” he said, in a low tone. “Easy servedwith a bed, _that_ lad be; six foot o’ dry peat or heath, or a nook in adry ditch. That lad hasn’t slept once in a house this twenty year, andnever will while grass grows. ”

“Is he mad?” I asked. 

“Something that way, sir; he’s an idiot, an awpy; we call him ‘Dickonthe devil, ’ because the devil’s almost the only word that’s ever in hismouth. ”

It struck me that this idiot was in some way connected with the story ofold Squire Bowes. 

“Queer things are told of him, I dare say?” I suggested. 

“More or less, sir; more or less. Queer stories, some. ”

“Twenty years since he slept in a house? That’s about the time theSquire died, ” I continued. 

“So it will be, sir; not very long after. ”

“You must tell me all about that, Tom, to-night, when I can hear itcomfortably, after supper. ”

Tom did not seem to like my invitation; and looking straight before himas we trudged on, he said:

“You see, sir, the house has been quiet, and nout’s been troubling folkinside the walls or out, all round the woods of Barwyke, this ten year, or more; and my old woman, down there, is clear against talking aboutsuch matters, and thinks it best—and so do I—to let sleepin’ dogs be. ”

He dropped his voice toward the close of the sentence, and noddedsignificantly. 

We soon reached a point where he unlocked a wicket in the park wall, bywhich we entered the grounds of Barwyke once more. 

The twilight deepening over the landscape, the huge and solemn trees, and the distant outline of the haunted house, exercised a sombreinfluence on me, which, together with the fatigue of a day of travel, and the brisk walk we had had, disinclined me to interrupt the silencein which my companion now indulged. 

A certain air of comparative comfort, on our arrival, in great measuredissipated the gloom that was stealing over me. Although it was by nomeans a cold night, I was very glad to see some wood blazing in thegrate; and a pair of candles aiding the light of the fire, made the roomlook cheerful. A small table, with a very white cloth, and preparationsfor supper, was also a very agreeable object. 

I should have liked very well, under these influences, to have listenedto Tom Wyndsour’s story; but after supper I grew too sleepy to attemptto lead him to the subject; and after yawning for a time, I found therewas no use in contending against my drowsiness, so I betook myself to mybedroom, and by ten o’clock was fast asleep. 

What interruption I experienced that night I shall tell you presently. It was not much, but it was very odd. 

By next night I had completed my work at Barwyke. From early morningtill then I was so incessantly occupied and hard-worked, that I had notime to think over the singular occurrence to which I have justreferred. Behold me, however, at length once more seated at my littlesupper-table, having ended a comfortable meal. It had been a sultry day, and I had thrown one of the large windows up as high as it would go. Iwas sitting near it, with my brandy and water at my elbow, looking outinto the dark. There was no moon, and the trees that are grouped aboutthe house make the darkness round it supernaturally profound on suchnights. 

“Tom, ” said I, so soon as the jug of hot punch I had supplied him withbegan to exercise its genial and communicative influence; “you must tellme who beside your wife and you and myself slept in the house lastnight. ”

Tom, sitting near the door, set down his tumbler, and looked at measkance, while you might count seven, without speaking a word. 

“Who else slept in the house?” he repeated, very deliberately. “Not aliving soul, sir;” and he looked hard at me, still evidently expectingsomething more. 

“That _is_ very odd, ” I said, returning his stare, and feeling really alittle odd. “You are sure _you_ were not in my room last night?”

“Not till I came to call you, sir, this morning; I can make oath ofthat. ”

“Well, ” said I, “there was some one there, _I_ can make oath of that. Iwas so tired I could not make up my mind to get up; but I was waked by asound that I thought was some one flinging down the two tin boxes inwhich my papers were locked up violently on the floor. I heard a slowstep on the ground, and there was light in the room, although Iremembered having put out my candle. I thought it must have been you, who had come in for my clothes, and upset the boxes by accident. Whoeverit was, he went out, and the light with him. I was about to settleagain, when, the curtain being a little open at the foot of the bed, Isaw a light on the wall opposite; such as a candle from outside wouldcast if the door were very cautiously opening. I started up in the bed, drew the side curtain, and saw that the door _was_ opening, andadmitting light from outside. It is close, you know, to the head of thebed. A hand was holding on the edge of the door and pushing it open; nota bit like yours; a very singular hand. Let me look at yours. ”

He extended it for my inspection. 

“Oh no; there’s nothing wrong with your hand. This was differentlyshaped; fatter; and the middle finger was stunted, and shorter than therest, looking as if it had once been broken, and the nail was crookedlike a claw. I called out, “Who’s there?” and the light and the handwere withdrawn, and I saw and heard no more of my visitor. ”

“So sure as you’re a living man, that was him!” exclaimed Tom Wyndsour, his very nose growing pale, and his eyes almost starting out of hishead. 

“Who?” I asked. 

“Old Squire Bowes; ’twas _his_ hand you saw; the Lord a’ mercy on us!”answered Tom. “The broken finger, and the nail bent like a hoop. Wellfor you, sir, he didn’t come back when you called, that time. You camehere about them Miss Dymock’s business, and he never meant they shouldhave a foot o’ ground in Barwyke; and he was making a will to give itaway quite different, when death took him short. He never was uncivil tono one; but he couldn’t abide them ladies. My mind misgave me when Iheard ’twas about their business you were coming; and now you see how itis; he’ll be at his old tricks again!”

With some pressure, and a little more punch, I induced Tom Wyndsour toexplain his mysterious allusions by recounting the occurrences whichfollowed the old Squire’s death. 

“Squire Bowes, of Barwyke, died without making a will, as you know, ”said Tom. “And all the folk round were sorry; that is to say, sir, assorry as folk will be for an old man that has seen a long tale of years, and has no right to grumble that death has knocked an hour too soon athis door. The Squire was well liked; he was never in a passion, or saida hard word; and he would not hurt a fly; and that made what happenedafter his decease the more surprising. 

“The first thing these ladies did, when they got the property, was tobuy stock for the park. 

“It was not wise, in any case, to graze the land on their own account. But they little knew all they had to contend with. 

“Before long something went wrong with the cattle; first one, and thenanother, took sick and died, and so on, till the loss began to growheavy. Then, queer stories, little by little, began to be told. It wassaid, first by one, then by another, that Squire Bowes was seen, aboutevening time, walking, just as he used to do when he was alive, amongthe old trees, leaning on his stick; and, sometimes, when he came upwith the cattle, he would stop and lay his hand kindly like on the backof one of them; and that one was sure to fall sick next day, and diesoon after. 

“No one ever met him in the park, or in the woods, or ever saw him, except a good distance off. But they knew his gait and his figure well, and the clothes he used to wear; and they could tell the beast he laidhis hand on by its color—white, dun, or black; and that beast was sureto sicken and die. The neighbors grew shy of taking the path over thepark; and no one liked to walk in the woods, or come inside the boundsof Barwyke; and the cattle went on sickening and dying, as before. 

“At that time there was one Thomas Pyke; he had been a groom to the oldSquire; and he was in care of the place, and was the only one that usedto sleep in the house. 

“Tom was vexed, hearing these stories; which he did not believe the halfon ’em; and more especial as he could not get man or boy to herd thecattle; all being afeared. So he wrote to Matlock, in Derbyshire, forhis brother, Richard Pyke, a clever lad, and one that knew nout o’ thestory of the old Squire walking. 

“Dick came; and the cattle was better; folk said they could still seethe old Squire, sometimes, walking, as before, in openings of the wood, with his stick in his hand; but he was shy of coming nigh the cattle, whatever his reason might be, since Dickon Pyke came; and he used tostand a long bit off, looking at them, with no more stir in him than atrunk o’ one of the old trees, for an hour at a time, till the shapemelted away, little by little, like the smoke of a fire that burns out. 

“Tom Pyke and his brother Dickon, being the only living souls in thehouse, lay in the big bed in the servants’ room, the house being fastbarred and locked, one night in November. 

“Tom was lying next the wall, and, he told me, as wide awake as ever hewas at noonday. His brother Dickon lay outside, and was sound asleep. 

“Well, as Tom lay thinking, with his eyes turned toward the door, itopens slowly, and who should come in but old Squire Bowes, his facelookin’ as dead as he was in his coffin. 

“Tom’s very breath left his body; he could not take his eyes off him;and he felt the hair rising up on his head. 

“The Squire came to the side of the bed, and put his arms under Dickon, and lifted the boy—in a dead sleep all the time—and carried him outso, at the door. 

“Such was the appearance, to Tom Pyke’s eyes, and he was ready to swearto it, anywhere. 

“When this happened, the light, wherever it came from, all on a suddenwent out, and Tom could not see his own hand before him. 

“More dead than alive, he lay till daylight. 

“Sure enough his brother Dickon was gone. No sign of him could hediscover about the house; and with some trouble he got a couple of theneighbors to help him to search the woods and grounds. Not a sign of himanywhere. 

“At last one of them thought of the island in the lake; the little boatwas moored to the old post at the water’s edge. In they got, though withsmall hope of finding him there. Find him, nevertheless, they did, sitting under the big ash-tree, quite out of his wits; and to all theirquestions he answered nothing but one cry—‘Bowes, the devil! See him;see him; Bowes, the devil!’ An idiot they found him; and so he will betill God sets all things right. No one could ever get him to sleep underroof-tree more. He wanders from house to house while daylight lasts; andno one cares to lock the harmless creature in the workhouse. And folkwould rather not meet him after nightfall, for they think where he isthere may be worse things near. ”

A silence followed Tom’s story. He and I were alone in that large room;I was sitting near the open window, looking into the dark night air. Ifancied I saw something white move across it; and I heard a sound likelow talking, that swelled into a discordant shriek—“Hoo-oo-oo! Bowes, the devil! Over your shoulder. Hoo-oo-oo! ha! ha! ha!” I started up, andsaw, by the light of the candle with which Tom strode to the window, thewild eyes and blighted face of the idiot, as, with a sudden change ofmood, he drew off, whispering and tittering to himself, and holding uphis long fingers, and looking at them as if they were lighted at thetips like a “hand of glory. ”

Tom pulled down the window. The story and its epilogue were over. Iconfessed I was rather glad when I heard the sound of the horses’ hoofson the courtyard, a few minutes later; and still gladder when, havingbidden Tom a kind farewell, I had left the neglected house of Barwyke amile behind me. 

A DEBT OF HONOR. 

A GHOST STORY. 

Hush! what was that cry, so low but yet so piercing, so strange but yetso sorrowful? It was not the marmot upon the side of the Righi—it wasnot the heron down by the lake; no, it was distinctively human. Hush!there it is again—from the churchyard which I have just left!

Not ten minutes have elapsed since I was sitting on the low wall of thechurchyard of Weggis, watching the calm glories of the moonlightilluminating with silver splendor the lake of Lucerne; and I am certainthere was no one within the inclosure but myself. 

I am mistaken, surely. What a silence there is upon the night! Not abreath of air now to break up into a thousand brilliant ripples the longreflection of the August moon, or to stir the foliage of the chestnuts;not a voice in the village; no splash of oar upon the lake. All lifeseems at perfect rest, and the solemn stillness that reigns about thetopmost glaciers of S. Gothard has spread its mantle over the warmerworld below. 

I must not linger; as it is, I shall have to wake up the porter to letme into the hotel. I hurry on. 

Not ten paces, though. Again I hear the cry. This time it sounds to melike the long, sad sob of a wearied and broken heart. Without staying toreason with myself, I quickly retrace my steps. 

I stumble about among the iron crosses and the graves, and displace inmy confusion wreaths of immortelles and fresher flowers. A hugemausoleum stands between me and the wall upon which I had been sittingnot a quarter of an hour ago. The mausoleum casts a deep shadow upon theside nearest to me. Ah! something is stirring there. I strain myeyes—the figure of a man passes slowly out of the shade, and silentlyoccupies my place upon the wall. It must have been his lips that gaveout that miserable sound. 

What shall I do? Compassion and curiosity are strong. The man whoseheart can be rent so sorely ought not to be allowed to linger here withhis despair. He is gazing, as I did, upon the lake. I mark hisprofile—clear-cut and symmetrical; I catch the lustre of large eyes. The face, as I can see it, seems very still and placid. I may bemistaken; he may merely be a wanderer like myself; perhaps he heard thethree strange cries, and has also come to seek the cause. I feelimpelled to speak to him. 

I pass from the path by the church to the east side of the mausoleum, and so come toward him, the moon full upon his features. Great heaven!how pale his face is!

“Good-evening, sir. I thought myself alone here, and wondered that noother travellers had found their way to this lovely spot. Charming, isit not?”

For a moment he says nothing, but his eyes are full upon me. At last hereplies:

“It is charming, as you say, Mr. Reginald Westcar. ”

“You know me?” I exclaim, in astonishment. 

“Pardon me, I can scarcely claim a personal acquaintance. But yours isthe only English name entered to-day in the Livre des Étrangers. ”

“You are staying at the Hôtel de la Concorde, then?”

An inclination of the head is all the answer vouchsafed. 

“May I ask, ” I continue, “whether you heard just now a very strange cryrepeated three times?”

A pause. The lustrous eyes seem to search me through and through—I canhardly bear their gaze. Then he replies. 

“I fancy I heard the echoes of some such sounds as you describe. ”

The _echoes_! Is this, then, the man who gave utterance to those criesof woe! is it possible? The face seems so passionless; but the pallor ofthose features bears witness to some terrible agony within. 

“I thought some one must be in distress, ” I rejoin, hastily; “and Ihurried back to see if I could be of any service. ”

“Very good of you, ” he answers, coldly; “but surely such a place as thisis not unaccustomed to the voice of sorrow. ”

“No doubt. My impulse was a mistaken one. ”

“But kindly meant. You will not sleep less soundly for acting on thatimpulse, Reginald Westcar. ”

He rises as he speaks. He throws his cloak round him, and standsmotionless. I take the hint. My mysterious countryman wishes to bealone. Some one that he has loved and lost lies buried here. 

“Good-night, sir, ” I say, as I move in the direction of the littlechapel at the gate. “Neither of us will sleep the less soundly forthinking of the perfect repose that reigns around this place. ”

“What do you mean?” he asks. 

“The dead, ” I reply, as I stretch my hand toward the graves. “Do you notremember the lines in ‘King Lear’?

 “‘After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well. ’”

“But _you_ have never died, Reginald Westcar. You know nothing of thesleep of death. ”

For the third time he speaks my name almost familiarly, and—I know notwhy—a shudder passes through me. I have no time, in my turn, to ask himwhat he means; for he strides silently away into the shadow of thechurch, and I, with a strange sense of oppression upon me, returned tomy hotel. 

 * * * * *

The events which I have just related passed in vivid recollectionthrough my mind as I travelled northward one cold November day in theyear 185—. About six months previously I had taken my degree at Oxford, and had since been enjoying a trip upon the continent; and on my returnto London I found a letter awaiting me from my lawyers, informing mesomewhat to my astonishment, that I had succeeded to a small estate inCumberland. I must tell you exactly how this came about. My mother was aMiss Ringwood, and she was the youngest of three children: the eldestwas Aldina, the second was Geoffrey, and the third (my mother) Alice. Their mother (who had been a widow since my mother’s birth) lived atthis little place in Cumberland, and which was known as The Shallows;she died shortly after my mother’s marriage with my father, CaptainWestcar. My aunt Aldina and my uncle Geoffrey—the one at that time agedtwenty-eight, and the other twenty-six—continued to reside at TheShallows. My father and mother had to go to India, where I was born, andwhere, when quite a child, I was left an orphan. A few months after mymother’s marriage my aunt disappeared; a few weeks after that event, andmy uncle Geoffrey dropped down dead, as he was playing at cards with Mr. Maryon, the proprietor of a neighboring mansion known as The Mere. Afortnight after my uncle’s death, my aunt Aldina returned to TheShallows, and never left it again till she was carried out in her coffinto her grave in the churchyard. Ever since her return from hermysterious disappearance she maintained an impenetrable reserve. As aschoolboy I visited her twice or thrice, but these visits depressed myyouthful spirits to such an extent, that as I grew older I excusedmyself from accepting my aunt’s not very pressing invitations; and atthe time I am now speaking of I had not seen her for eight or ten years. I was rather surprised, therefore, when she bequeathed me The Shallows, which, as the surviving child, she inherited under her mother’smarriage settlement. 

But The Shallows had always exercised a grim influence over me, and theknowledge that I was now going to it as my home oppressed me. The roadseemed unusually dark, cold, and lonely. At last I passed the lodge, andtwo hundred yards more brought me to the porch. Very soon the door wasopened by an elderly female, whom I well remembered as having been myaunt’s housekeeper and cook. I had pleasant recollections of her, andwas glad to see her. To tell the truth, I had not anticipated my visitto my newly acquired property with any great degree of enthusiasm; but avery tolerable dinner had an inspiriting effect, and I was pleased tolearn that there was a bin of old Madeira in the cellar. Naturally Isoon grew cheerful, and consequently talkative; and summoned Mrs. Balkfor a little gossip. The substance of what I gathered from her ratherdiffusive conversation was as follows:

My aunt had resided at The Shallows ever since the death of my uncleGeoffrey, but she had maintained a silent and reserved habit; and Mrs. Balk was of opinion that she had had some great misfortune. She hadpersistently refused all intercourse with the people at The Mere. SquireMaryon, himself a cold and taciturn man, had once or twice showed adisposition to be friendly, but she had sternly repulsed all suchovertures. Mrs. Balk was of opinion that Miss Ringwood was not “quiteright, ” as she expressed it, on some topics; especially did she seemimpressed with the idea that The Mere ought to belong to her. Itappeared that the Ringwoods and Maryons were distant connections; thatThe Mere belonged in former times to a certain Sir Henry Benet; that hewas a bachelor, and that Squire Maryon’s father and old Mr. Ringwoodwere cousins of his, and that there was some doubt as to which was thereal heir; that Sir Henry, who disliked old Maryon, had frequently saidhe had set any chance of dispute at rest, by bequeathing the Mereproperty by will to Mr. Ringwood, my mother’s father; that, on hisdeath, no such will could be found; and the family lawyers agreed thatMr. Maryon was the legal inheritor, and my uncle Geoffrey and hissisters must be content to take the Shallows, or nothing at all. Mr. Maryon was comparatively rich, and the Ringwoods poor, consequently theywere advised not to enter upon a costly lawsuit. My aunt Aldinamaintained to the last that Sir Henry had made a will, and that Mr. Maryon knew it, but had destroyed or suppressed the document. I did notgather from Mrs. Balk’s narrative that Miss Ringwood had any foundationfor her belief, and I dismissed the notion at once as baseless. 

“And my uncle Geoffrey died of apoplexy, you say, Mrs. Balk?”

“_I_ don’t say so, sir, no more did Miss Ringwood; but _they_ said so. ”

“Whom do you mean by _they_?”

“The people at The Mere—the young doctor, a friend of Squire Maryon’s, who was brought over from York, and the rest; he fell heavily from hischair, and his head struck against the fender. ”

“Playing at cards with Mr. Maryon, I think you said. ”

“Yes, sir; he was too fond of cards, I believe, was Mr. Geoffrey. ”

“Is Mr. Maryon seen much in the county—is he hospitable?”

“Well, sir, he goes up to London a good deal, and has some friends downfrom town occasionally; but he does not seem to care much about thepeople in the neighborhood. ”

“He has some children, Mrs. Balk?”

“Only one daughter, sir; a sweet pretty thing she is. Her mother diedwhen Miss Agnes was born. ”

“You have no idea, Mrs. Balk, what my aunt Aldina’s great misfortunewas?”

“Well, sir, I can’t help thinking it must have been a love affair. Shealways hated men so much. ”

“Then why did she leave The Shallows to me, Mrs. Balk?”

“Ah, you are laughing, sir. No doubt she considered that The Mere oughtto belong to you, as the heir of the Ringwoods, and she placed you here, as near as might be to the place. ”

“In hopes that I might marry Miss Maryon, eh, Mrs. Balk?”

“You are laughing again, sir. I don’t imagine she thought so much ofthat, as of the possibility of your discovering something about themissing will. ”

I bade the communicative Mrs. Balk good night and retired to mybedroom—a low, wide, sombre, oak-panelled chamber. I must confess thatfamily stories had no great interest for me, living apart from them atschool and college as I had done; and as I undressed I thought more ofthe probabilities of sport the eight hundred acres of wild shootingbelonging to The Shallows would afford me, than of the supposed will mypoor aunt had evidently worried herself about so much. Thoroughly tiredafter my long journey, I soon fell fast asleep amid the deep shadows ofthe huge four-poster I mentally resolved to chop up into firewood at anearly date, and substitute for it a more modern iron bedstead. 

How long I had been asleep I do not know, but I suddenly started up, theecho of a long, sad cry ringing in my ears. 

I listened eagerly—sensitive to the slightest sound—painfullysensitive as one is only in the deep silence of the night. 

I heard the old-fashioned clock I had noticed on the stairs strikethree. The reverberation seemed to last a long time, then all was silentagain. “A dream, ” I muttered to myself, as I lay down upon the pillow;“Madeira is a heating wine. But what can I have been dreaming of?”

Sleep seemed to have gone altogether, and the busy mind wandered amongthe continental scenes I had lately visited. By and by I found myself inmemory once more within the Weggis churchyard. I was satisfied; I hadtraced my dream to the cries that I had heard there. I turned round tosleep again. Perhaps I fell into a doze—I cannot say; but again Istarted up at the repetition, as it seemed outside my window, of thatcry of sadness and despair. I hastily drew aside the heavy curtains ofmy bed—at that moment the room seemed to be illuminated with a dim, unearthly light—and I saw, gradually growing into human shape, thefigure of a woman. I recognized in it my aunt, Miss Ringwood. Horror-struck, I gazed at the apparition; it advanced a little—the lipsmoved—I heard it distinctly say:

“_Reginald Westcar, The Mere belongs to you. Compel John Maryon to paythe debt of honor!_”

I fell back senseless. 

When next I returned to consciousness, it was when I was called in themorning; the shutters were opened, and I saw the red light of thedawning winter sun. 

 * * * * *

There is a strange sympathy between the night and the mind. All one’stroubles represent themselves as increased a hundredfold if one wakes inthe night, and begins to think about them. A muscular pain becomes thecertainty of an incurable internal disease; and a headache suggestsincipient softening of the brain. But all these horrors are dissipatedwith the morning light, and the after-glow of a cold bath turns theminto jokes. So it was with me on the morning after my arrival at TheShallows. I accounted most satisfactorily for all that had occurred, orseemed to have occurred, during the night; and resolved that, though theold Madeira was uncommonly good, I must be careful in future not todrink more than a couple of glasses after dinner. I need scarcely saythat I said nothing to Mrs. Balk of my bad dreams, and shortly afterbreakfast I took my gun, and went out in search of such game as I mightchance to meet with. At three o’clock I sent the keeper home, as hiscapacious pockets were pretty well filled, telling him that I thought Iknew the country, and should stroll back leisurely. The gray gloom ofthe November evening was spreading over the sky as I came upon a smallplantation which I believed belonged to me. I struck straight across it;emerging from its shadows, I found myself by a small stream and somemarshy land; on the other side another small plantation. A snipe got up, I fired, and tailored it. I marked the bird into this other plantation, and followed. Up got a covey of partridges—bang, bang—one down by theside of an oak. I was about to enter this covert, when a lady andgentleman emerged, and, struck with the unpleasant thought that I waspossibly trespassing, I at once went forward to apologize. 

Before I could say a word, the gentleman addressed me. 

“May I ask, sir, if I have given you permission to shoot over mypreserves?”

“I beg to express my great regret, sir, ” I replied, as I lifted my hatin acknowledgment of the lady’s presence, “that I should have trespassedupon your land. I can only plead, as my excuse, that I fully believed Iwas still upon the manor belonging to The Shallows. ”

“Gentlemen who go out shooting ought to know the limits of theirestates, ” he answered harshly; “the boundaries of The Shallows are welldefined, nor is the area they contain so very extensive. You have noright upon this side the stream, sir; oblige me by returning. ”

I merely bowed, for I was nettled by his tone, and as I turned away Inoticed that the young lady whispered to him. 

“One moment, sir, ” he said, “my daughter suggests the possibility ofyour being the new owner of The Shallows. May I ask if this is so?”

It had not occurred to me before, but I understood in a moment to whom Ihad been speaking, and I replied:

“Yes, Mr. Maryon—my name is Westcar. ”

Such was my introduction to Mr. And Miss Maryon. The proprietor of TheMere appeared to be a gentleman, but his manners were cold and reserved, and a careful observer might have remarked a perpetual restlessness inthe eyes, as if they were physically incapable of regarding the sameobject for more than a moment. He was about sixty years of age, apparently; and though he now and again made an effort to carry himselfupright, the head and shoulders soon drooped again, as if the weight ofyears, and, it might be, the memory of the past, were a heavy load tocarry. Of Miss Maryon it is sufficient to say that she was nineteen ortwenty, and it did not need a second glance to satisfy me that herbeauty was of no ordinary kind. 

I must hurry over the records of the next few weeks. I became a frequentvisitor at The Mere. Mr. Maryon’s manner never became cordial, but hedid not seem displeased to see me; and as to Agnes, —well, she certainlywas not displeased either. 

I think it was on Christmas Day that I suddenly discovered that I wasdesperately in love. Miss Maryon had been for two or three days confinedto her room by a bad cold, and I found myself in a great state ofanxiety to see her again. I am sorry to say that my thoughts wandered agood deal when I was at church upon that festival, and I could not helpthinking what ample room there was for a bridal procession up thespacious aisle. Suddenly my eyes rested upon a mural tablet, inscribed, “To the memory of Aldina Ringwood. ” Then with a cold thrill there cameback upon me what I had almost forgotten, the dream, or whatever it was, that had occurred on that first night at The Shallows; and those strangewords—“The Mere belongs to you. Compel John Maryon to pay the debt ofhonor!” Nothing but the remembrance of Agnes’ sweet face availed for thetime to banish the vision, the statement, and the bidding. 

Miss Maryon was soon down-stairs again. Did I flatter myself too much inthinking that she was as glad to see me as I was to see her? No—I feltsure that I did not. Then I began to reflect seriously upon my position. My fortune was small, quite enough for me, but not enough for two; andas she was heiress of The Mere and a comfortable rent-roll of some sixor eight thousand a year, was it not natural that Mr. Maryon expectedher to make what is called a “good match“? Still, I could not concealfrom myself the fact, that he evinced no objection whatever to myfrequent visits at his house, nor to my taking walks with his daughterwhen he was unable to accompany us. 

One bright, frosty day I had been down to the lake with Miss Maryon, andhad enjoyed the privilege of teaching her to skate; and on returning tothe house, we met Mr. Maryon upon the terrace, He walked with us to theconservatory; we went in to examine the plants, and he remained outside, pacing up and down the terrace. Both Agnes and myself were strangelysilent; perhaps my tongue had found an eloquence upon the ice which waswell met by a shy thoughtfulness upon her part. But there was a lovelycolor upon her cheeks, and I experienced a very considerable and unusualfluttering about my heart. It happened as we were standing at the doorof the conservatory, both of us silently looking away from the flowersupon the frosty view, that our eyes lighted at the same time upon Mr. Maryon. He, too, was apparently regarding the prospect, when suddenly hepaused and staggered back, as if something unexpected met his gaze. 

“Oh, poor papa! I hope he is not going to have one of his fits!”exclaimed Agnes. 

“Fits! Is he subject to such attacks?” I inquired. 

“Not ordinary fits, ” she answered hurriedly; “I hardly know how toexplain them. They come upon him occasionally, and generally at thisperiod of the year. ”

“Shall we go to him?” I suggested. 

“No; you cannot help him; and he cannot bear that they should benoticed. ”

We both watched him. His arms were stretched up above his head, andagain he recoiled a step or two. I sought for an explanation in Agnes’face. 

“A stranger!” she exclaimed. “Who can it be?”

I looked toward Mr. Maryon. A tall figure of a man had come from thefarther side of the house; he wore a large, loose coat and a kind ofmilitary cap upon his head. 

“Doubtless you are surprised to see me, John, ” we heard the new-comersay, in a confident voice, “but I am not the devil, man, that you shouldgreet me with such a peculiar attitude. ” He held out his hand, andcontinued, “Come, don’t let the warmth of old fellowship be all on oneside, this wintry day. ”

We could see that Mr. Maryon took the proffered right hand with his leftfor an instant, then seemed to shrink away, but exchanged no word ofthis greeting. 

“I don’t understand this, ” said Agnes, and we both hurried forward. Thestranger, seeing Agnes approach, lifted his cap. 

“Ah, your daughter, John, no doubt. I see the likeness to her lamentedmother. Pray introduce me. ”

Mr. Maryon’s usually pallid features had assumed a still paler hue, andhe said in a low voice:

“Colonel Bludyer—my daughter. ” Agnes barely bowed. 

“Charmed to renew your acquaintance, Miss Maryon. When last I saw you, you were quite a baby; but your father and I are very old friends—arewe not, John?”

Mr. Maryon vaguely nodded his head. 

“Well, John, you have often pressed your hospitality upon me, but tillnow I have never had an opportunity of availing myself of your kindoffers; so I have brought my bag, and intend at last to give you thepleasure of my company for a few days. ”

I certainly should have thought that a man of Mr. Maryon’s dispositionwould have resented such conduct as this, or, at all events, have giventhis self-invited guest a chilling welcome. Mr. Maryon, however, in aconfused and somewhat stammering tone, said that he was glad ColonelBludyer had come at last, and bade his daughter go and make thenecessary arrangements. Agnes, in silent astonishment, entered thehouse, and then Mr. Maryon turned to me hastily and bade me good-by. Ina by no means comfortable frame of mind I returned to The Shallows. 

The sudden advent of this miscellaneous colonel was naturally somewhatirritating to me. Not only did I regard the man as an intolerable bore, but I could not help fancying that he was something more than an oldfriend of Mr. Maryon’s; in fact, I was led to judge, by Mr. Maryon’sstrange conduct, that this Bludyer had some power over him which mightbe exercised to the detriment of the Maryon family, and I was convincedthere was some mystery it was my business to penetrate. 

The following day I went up to The Mere to see if Miss Maryon wasdesirous of renewing her skating lesson. I found the party in thebilliard-room, Agnes marking for her father and the Colonel. Mr. Maryon, whom I knew to be an exceptionally good player, seemed incapable ofmaking a decent stroke; the Colonel, on the other hand, could evidentlygive a professional fifteen, and beat him easily. We all went down tothe lake together. I had no chance of any quiet conversation with Agnes;the Colonel was perpetually beside us. 

I returned home disgusted. For two whole days I did not go near TheMere. On the third day I went up, hoping that the horrid Colonel wouldbe gone. It was beginning to snow when I left The Shallows at about twoo’clock in the afternoon, and Mrs. Balk foretold a heavy storm, and bademe not be late returning. 

The black winter darkness in the sky deepened as I approached The Mere. I was ushered again into the billiard-room. Agnes was marking, as uponthe previous occasion, but two days had worked a sad difference in herface. Mr. Maryon hardly noticed my entrance; he was flushed, and playingeagerly; the Colonel was boisterous, declaring that John had neverplayed better twenty years ago. I relieved Agnes of the duty of marking. The snow fell in a thick layer upon the skylight, and the Colonel becameseriously anxious about my return home. As I did not think he was theproper person to give me hints, I resolutely remained where I was, encouraged in my behavior by the few words I gained from Agnes, and bythe looks of entreaty she gave me. I had always considered Mr. Maryon tobe an abstemious man, but he drank a good deal of brandy and soda duringthe long game of seven hundred up, and when he succeeded in beating theColonel by forty-three, he was in roaring spirits, and insisted upon mystaying to dinner. Need I say that I accepted the invitation?

I made such toilet as I could in a most unattainable chamber that wasallotted to me, and hurried back to the drawing-room in the hope that Imight get a few private words with Agnes. I was not disappointed. She, too, had hurried down, and in a few words I learned that thisabominable Bludyer was paying her his coarse attentions, and with, apparently, the full consent of Mr. Maryon. My indignation wasunbounded. Was it possible that Mr. Maryon intended to sacrifice thisfair creature to that repulsive man?

Mr. Maryon had appeared in excellent spirits when dinner began, and thefirst glass or two of champagne made him merrier than I thought itpossible for him to be. But by the time the dessert was on the table hehad grown silent and thoughtful; nor did he respond to the warmeulogiums the Colonel passed upon the magnum of claret which was setbefore us. 

After dinner we sat in the library. The Colonel left the room to fetchsome cigars he had been loudly extolling. Then Agnes had an opportunityof whispering to me. 

“Look at papa—see how strangely he sits—his hands clenching the armsof the chair, his eyes fixed upon the blazing coals! How old he seems tobe to-night! His terrible fits are coming on—he is always like thistoward the end of January!” The Colonel’s return put an end to anyfurther confidential talk. 

When we separated for the night, I felt that my going to bed would bepurposeless. I felt most painfully wide awake. I threw myself down uponmy bed, and worried myself by trying to imagine what secret there couldbe between Maryon and Bludyer—for that a secret of some kind existed, Ifelt certain. I tossed about till I heard the stroke of one. A dreadfulrestlessness had come upon me. It seemed as if the solemn night-side oflife was busy waking now, but the silence and solitude of my antiquechamber became too much for me. I rose from my bed, and paced up anddown the room. I raked up the dying embers of the fire, and drew anarm-chair to the hearth. I fell into a doze. By and by I woke upsuddenly, and I was conscious of stealthy footsteps in the passage. Mysense of hearing became painfully acute. I heard the footstepsretreating down the corridor, until they were lost in the distance. Icautiously opened the door, and, shading the candle with my hand, lookedout—there was nothing to be seen; but I felt that I could not remainquietly in my room, and, closing the door behind me, I went out insearch of I knew not what. 

The sitting-rooms and bedrooms in ordinary use at The Mere were in themodern part of the house; but there was an old Elizabethan wing which Ihad often longed to explore, and in this strange ramble of mine I soonhad reason to be satisfied that I was well within it. At the end of anoak-panelled narrow passage a door stood open, and I entered a low, sombre apartment fitted with furniture in the style of two hundred yearsago. There was something awfully ghostly about the look of this room. Agreat four-post bedstead, with heavy hangings, stood in a deep recess; around oak table and two high-backed chairs were in the centre of theroom. Suddenly, as I gazed on these things, I heard stealthy footstepsin the passage, and saw a dim light advancing. Acting on a suddenimpulse, I extinguished my candle and withdrew into the shadow of therecess, watching eagerly. The footsteps came nearer. My heart seemed tostand still with expectation. They paused outside the door, for amoment really—for an age it seemed to me. Then, to my astonishment, Isaw Mr. Maryon enter. He carried a small night-lamp in his hand. Anotherglance satisfied me that he was walking in his sleep. He came straightto the round table, and set down the lamp. He seated himself in one ofthe high-backed chairs, his vacant eyes staring at the chair opposite;then his lips began to move quickly, as if he were addressing some one. Then he rose, went to the bureau, and seemed to take something from it;then he sat down again. What a strange action of his hands! At first Icould not understand it; then it flashed upon me that in this dream ofhis he must be shuffling cards. Yes, he began to deal; then he wasplaying with his adversary—his lips moving anxiously at times. 

A look of terrible eagerness came over the sleepwalker’s countenance. With nimble fingers he dealt the cards, and played. Suddenly with asweep of his hand he seemed to fling the pack into the fireplace, started from his seat, grappled with his unseen adversary, raised hispowerful right hand, and struck a tremendous blow. Hush! more footstepsalong the passage! Am I deceived? From my concealment I watch for whatis to follow. Colonel Bludyer comes in, half dressed, but wide awake. 

“You maniac!” I hear him mutter: “I expected you were given to suchtricks as these. Lucky for you no eyes but mine have seen your abjectfolly. Come back to your room. ”

Mr. Maryon is still gazing, his arms lifted wildly above his head, uponthe imagined foe whom he had felled to the ground. The Colonel toucheshim on the shoulder, and leads him away, leaving the lamp. My reasoningfaculties had fully returned to me. I held a clue to the secret, and forAgnes’ sake it must be followed up. I took the lamp away, and placed iton a table where the chamber candlesticks stood, relit my own candle, and found my way back to my bedroom. 

The next morning, when I came down to breakfast, I found Colonel Bludyerwarming himself satisfactorily at the blazing fire. I learned from himthat our host was far from well, and that Miss Maryon was in attendanceupon her father; that the Colonel was charged with all kinds ofapologies to me, and good wishes for my safe return home across thesnow. I thanked him for the delivery of the message, while I feltperfectly convinced that he had never been charged with it. However thatmight be, I never saw Mr. Maryon that morning; and I started back to TheShallows through the snow. 

For the next two or three days the weather was very wild, but Icontrived to get up to The Mere, and ask after Mr. Maryon. Better, I wastold, but unable to see any one. Miss Maryon, too, was fatigued withnursing her father. So there was nothing to do but to trudge home again. 

“_Reginald Westcar, The Mere is yours. Compel John Maryon to pay thedebt of honor!_”

Again and again these words forced themselves upon me, as I listlesslygazed out upon the white landscape. The strange scene that I hadwitnessed on that memorable night I passed beneath Mr. Maryon’s roof hadbrought them back to my memory with redoubled force, and I began tothink that the apparition I had seen—or dreamed of—on my first nightat The Shallows had more of truth in it than I had been willing tobelieve. 

Three more days passed away, and a carter-boy from The Mere brought me anote. It was Agnes’ handwriting. It said:

“DEAR MR. WESTCAR: Pray come up here, if you possibly can. I cannotunderstand what is the matter with papa; and he wishes me to do adreadful thing. Do come. I feel that I have no friend but you. I amobliged to send this note privately. ”

I need scarcely say that five minutes afterward I was plunging throughthe snow toward The Mere. It was already late on that dark Februaryevening as I gained the shrubbery; and as I was pondering upon the bestmethod of securing admittance, I became aware that the figure of a manwas hurrying on some yards in front of me. At first I thought it must beone of the gardeners, but all of a sudden I stood still, and my bloodseemed to freeze with horror, as I remarked that the figure in front ofme _left no trace of footmarks on the snow_! My brain reeled for amoment, and I thought I should have fallen; but I recovered my nerves, and when I looked before me again, it had disappeared. I pressed oneagerly. I arrived at the front door—it was wide open; and I passedthrough the hall to the library. I heard Agnes’ voice. 

“No, no, papa. You must not force me to this! I cannot—will not—marryColonel Bludyer!”

“You _must_, ” answered Mr. Maryon, in a hoarse voice; “you _must_ marryhim, and save your father from something worse than disgrace!”

Not feeling disposed to play the eavesdropper, I entered the room. Mr. Maryon was standing at the fireplace. Agnes was crouching on the groundat his feet. I saw at once that it was no use for me to dissemble thereason of my visit, and, without a word of greeting, I said:

“Miss Maryon, I have come, in obedience to your summons. If I canprevent any misfortune from falling upon you I am ready to help you, with my life. You have guessed that I love you. If my love is returned Iam prepared to dispute my claim with any man. ”

Agnes, with a cry of joy, rose from her knees, and rushed toward me. Ah!how strong I felt as I held her in my arms!

“I have my answer, ” I continued. “Mr. Maryon, I have reason to believethat your daughter is in fear of the future you have forecast for her. Iask you to regard those fears, and to give her to me, to love andcherish as my wife. ”

Mr. Maryon covered his face with his hands; and I could hear him murmur, “Too late—too late!”

“No, not too late, ” I echoed. “What is this Bludyer to you, that youshould sacrifice your daughter to a man whose very look proclaims him avillain? Nothing can compel you to such a deed—not even a _debt ofhonor_!”

What it was impelled me to say these last words I know not, but they hadan extraordinary effect upon Mr. Maryon. He started toward me, thenchecked himself; his face was livid, his eyeballs glaring, and he threwup his arms in the strange manner I had already witnessed. 

“What is all this?” exclaimed a harsh voice behind me. “Mr. Westcarinsulting Miss Maryon and her father! it is time for me to interfere. ”And Colonel Bludyer approached me menacingly. All his jovial manner andfulsome courtesy was gone; and in his flushed face and insolent look thesavage rascal was revealed. 

“You will interfere at your peril, ” I replied. “I am a younger man thanyou are, and my strength has not been weakened by drink and dissipation. Take care. ”

The villain drew himself up to his full height; and, though he must havebeen at least some sixty years of age, I felt assured that I should meetno ordinary adversary if a personal struggle should ensue. Agnesfainted, and I laid her on a sofa. 

“Miss Maryon wants air, ” said the Colonel, in a calmer voice. “Excuseme, Mr. Maryon, if I open a window. ” He tore open the shutters, andthrew up the sash. “And now, Mr. Westcar, unless you are prepared to besensible, and make your exit by the door, I shall be under theunpleasant necessity of throwing you out of the window. ”

The ruffian advanced toward me as he spoke. Suddenly he paused. His jawdropped; his hair seemed literally to stand on end; his white lipsquivered; he shook, as with an ague; his whole form appeared to shrink. I stared in amazement at the awful change. A strange thrill shot throughme, as I heard a quiet voice say:

“Richard Bludyer, your grave is waiting for you. Go. ”

The figure of a man passed between me and him. The wretched man shrankback, and, with a wild cry, leaped from the window he had opened. 

All this time Mr. Maryon was standing like a lifeless statue. 

In helpless wonder I gazed at the figure before me. I saw clearly thefeatures in profile, and, swift as lightning, my memory was carried backto the unforgotten scene in the churchyard upon the Lake of Lucerne, andI recognized the white face of the young man with whom I there hadspoken. 

“John Maryon, ” said the voice, “this is the night upon which, a quarterof a century ago, you killed me. It is your last night on earth. Youmust go through the tragedy again. ”

Mr. Maryon, still statue-like, beckoned to the figure, and opened ahalf-concealed door which led into his study. The strange but opportunevisitant seemed to motion to me with a gesture of his hand, which I feltI must obey, and I followed in this weird procession. From the study wemounted by a private staircase to a large, well-furnished bed-chamber. Here we paused. Mr. Maryon looked tremblingly at the stranger, and said, in a low, stammering voice:

“This is my room. In this room, on this night, twenty-five years ago, you told me that you were certain Sir Henry Benet’s will was inexistence, and that you had made up your mind to dispute my possessionto this property. You had discovered letters from Sir Henry to yourfather which gave you a clue to the spot where that will might be found. You, Geoffrey Ringwood, of generous and extravagant nature, offered tofind the will in my presence. It was late at night, as now; all thehousehold slept. I accepted your invitation, and followed you. ”

Mr. Maryon ceased; he seemed physically unable to continue. The terriblestranger, in his low, echoing voice, replied:

“Go on; confess all. ”

“You and I, Geoffrey, had been what the world calls friends. We had beenmuch in London together; we were both passionately fond of cards. We hada common acquaintance, Richard Bludyer. He was present on the 2d ofFebruary, when I lost a large sum of money to you at _écarté_. He hintedto me that you might possibly use these sums in instituting a lawsuitagainst me for the recovery of this estate. Your intimation that youknew of the existence of the will alarmed me, as it had become necessaryfor me to remain owner of The Mere. As I have said, I accepted yourinvitation, and followed you to Sir Henry Benet’s room; and now I followyou again. ”

As he said these words, Geoffrey Ringwood, or his ghost, passed silentlyby Mr. Maryon, and led the way into the corridor. At the end of thecorridor all three paused outside an oak door which I remembered well. Agesture from the leader made Mr. Maryon continue:

“On this threshold you told me suddenly that Bludyer was a villain, andhad betrayed your sister Aldina; that she had fled with him that night;that he could never marry her, as you had reason to know he had a wifealive. You made me swear to help you in your vengeance against him. Weentered the room, as we enter it now. ”

Our leader had opened the door of the room, and we were in the samechamber I had wandered to when I had slept at The Mere. The figure ofGeoffrey Ringwood paused at the round table, and looked again at Mr. Maryon, who proceeded:

“You went straight to the fifth panel from the fireplace, and thentouched a spring, and the panel opened. You said that the will givingthis property to your father and his heirs was to be found there. I wasconvinced that you spoke the truth, but, suddenly remembering your loveof gambling, I suggested that we should play for it. You accepted atonce. We searched among the papers, and found the will. We placed thewill upon the table, and began to play. We agreed that we would play upto ten thousand pounds. Your luck was marvellous. In two hours the limitwas reached. I owed you ten thousand pounds, and had lost The Mere. Youlaughed, and said, ‘Well, John, you have had a fair chance. At teno’clock this morning I shall expect you to pay me _your debt of honor_. ’I rose; the devil of despair strong upon me. With one hand I swept thecards from the table into the fire, and with the other seized you by thethroat, and dealt you a blow upon the temple. You fell dead upon thefloor. ”

Need I say that as I heard this fearful narrative, I recognized theactions of the sleep-walker, and understood them all?

“To the end!” said the hollow voice. “Confess to the end!”

“The doctor who examined your body gave his opinion, at the inquest, that you had died of apoplexy, caused by strong cerebral excitement. Myevidence was to the effect that I believed you had lost a very large sumof money to Captain Bludyer, and that you had told me you were utterlyunable to pay it. The jury found their verdict accordingly, and I wasleft in undisturbed possession of The Mere. But the memory of my crimehaunted me as only such memories can haunt a criminal, and I became amorose and miserable man. One thing bound me to life—my daughter. WhenReginald Westcar appeared upon the scene I thought that the debt ofhonor would be satisfied if he married Agnes. Then Bludyer reappeared, and he told me that he knew that I had killed you. He threatened torevive the story, to exhume your body, and to say that Aldina Ringwoodhad told him all about the will. I could purchase his silence only bygiving him my daughter, the heiress of The Mere. To this I consented. ”

As he said these last words, Mr. Maryon sunk heavily into the chair. 

The figure of Geoffrey Ringwood placed one ghostly hand upon his lefttemple, and then passed silently out of the room. I started up, andfollowed the phantom along the corridor—down the staircase—out at thefront door, which still stood open—across the snow-covered lawn—intothe plantation; and then it disappeared as strangely as I first had seenit; and, hardly knowing whether I was mad or dreaming, I found my wayback to The Shallows. 

 * * * * *

For some weeks I was ill with brain-fever. When I recovered I was toldthat terrible things had happened at The Mere. Mr. Maryon had beenfound dead in Sir Henry Benet’s room—an effusion of blood upon thebrain, the doctors said—and the body of Colonel Bludyer had beendiscovered in the snow in an old disused gravel-pit not far from thehouse. 

 * * * * *

A year afterward I married Agnes Maryon; and, if all that I had seen andheard upon that 3d of February was not merely the invention of a feveredbrain, the debt of honor was at last discharged, for I, the nephew ofthe murdered Geoffrey Ringwood, became the owner of The Mere. 

DEVEREUX’S DREAM. 

I give you this story only at second-hand; but you have it insubstance—and he wasted few words over it—as Paul Devereux told it me. 

It was not the only queer story he could have told about himself if hehad chosen, by a good many, I should say. Paul’s life had been aneminently unconventional one: the man’s face certified to that—hard, bronzed, war-worn, seamed and scarred with strange battle-marks—theface of a man who had dared and done most things. 

It was not his custom to speak much of what he had done, however. Probably only because he and I were little likely to meet again that hetold me this I am free to tell you now. 

We had come across one another for the first time for years thatafternoon on the Italian Boulevart. Paul had landed a couple of weekspreviously at Marseilles from a long yacht-cruise in southern waters, the monotony of which we heard had been agreeably diversified by alittle pirate-hunting and slaver-chasing—the evil tongues called itpiracy and slave-running; and certainly Devereux was quite equal toeither _métier_; and he was about starting on a promising littlefilibustering expedition across the Atlantic, where the chances were hewould be shot, and the certainty was that he would be starved. Soperhaps he felt inclined to be a trifle more communicative than usual, as we sat late that night over a blazing pyre of logs and in a cloud ofCavendish. At all events he was, and after this fashion. 

I forget now exactly how the subject was led up to. Expression of somephilosophic incredulity on my part regarding certain matters, followedby a ten-minutes’ silence on his side pregnant with unwonted words tocome—that was it, perhaps. At last he said, more to himself, it seemed, than to me:

“‘Such stuff as dreams are made of. ’ Well, who knows? You’re a Sadducee, Bertie; you call this sort of thing, politely, indigestion. Perhapsyou’re right. But yet I had a queer dream once. ”

“Not unlikely, ” I assented. 

“You’re wrong; I never dream, as a rule. But, as I say, I had a queerdream once; and queer because it came literally true three yearsafterward. ”

“Queer indeed, Paul. ”

“Happens to be true. What’s queerer still, my dream was the means of myfinding a man I owed a long score, and a heavy one, and of my paying himin full. ”

“Bad for the payee!” I thought. 

Paul’s face had grown terribly eloquent as he spoke those last words. Ona sudden the expression of it changed—another memory was stirring inhim. Wonderfully tender the fierce eyes grew; wonderfully tender thefaint, sad smile, that was like sunshine on storm-scathed granite. Thatsmile transfigured the man before me. 

“Ah, poor child—poor Lucille!” I heard him mutter. 

That was it, was it? So I let him be. Presently he lifted his head. Ifhe had let himself get the least thing out of hand for a moment, he hadgot back his self-mastery the next. 

“I’ll tell you that queer story, Bertie, if you like, ” he said. 

The proposition was flatteringly unusual, but the voice was quite hisown. 

“Somehow I’d sooner talk than think about—_her_, ” he went on after apause. 

I nodded. He might talk about this, you see, but _I_ couldn’t. He beganwith a question—an odd one:

“Did you ever hear I’d been married?”

Paul Devereux and a wife had always seemed and been to me a mostunheard-of conjunction. So I laconically said:

“No. ”

“Well, I was once, years ago. She was my wife—that child—for a week. And then——”

I easily filled up the pause; but, as it happened, I filled it upwrongly; for he added:

“And then she was murdered. ”

I was not unused to our Paul’s stony style of talk; but this lastsentence was sufficiently startling. 

“Eh?”

“Murdered—in her sleep. They never found the man who did it either, though I had Durbec and all the Rue de Jérusalem at work. But I forgavethem that, for I found the man myself, and killed him. ”

He was filling his pipe again as he told me this, and he perhaps rammedthe Cavendish in a little tighter, but that was all. The thing was amatter of course; I knew my Paul, well enough to know that. Of course hekilled him. 

“Mind you, ” he continued, kindling the black _brûle-gueule_ thewhile—“mind you, I’d never seen this man before, never known of hisexistence, except in a way that—however, it was this way. ”

He let his grizzled head drop back on the cushions of his chair, and hiseyes seemed to see the queer story he was telling enacted once morebefore him in the red hollows of the fire. 

“As I said, it was years ago. I was waiting here in Paris for somefellows who were to join me in a campaign we’d arranged against theAfrican big game. I never was more fit for anything of that sort than Iwas then. I only tell you this to show you that the thing can’t beaccounted for by my nerves having been out of order at all. 

“Well: I was dining alone that day, at the Café Anglais. It was latewhen I sat down to my dinner in the little salon as usual. Only twoother men were still lingering over theirs. All the time they stayedthey bored me so persistently with some confounded story of a murderthey were discussing, that I was once or twice more than half-inclinedto tell them so. At last, though, they went away. 

“But their talk kept buzzing abominably in my head. When the waiterbrought me the evening paper, the first thing that caught my eye was acircumstantial account of the _probable_ way the fellow did his murder. I say probable, for they never caught him; and, as you will seedirectly, they could only suppose how it occurred. 

“It seemed that a well-known Paris banker, who was ascertained beyonddoubt to have left one station alive and well, and with a couple ofhundred thousand francs in a leathern _sac_ under his seat, arrived atthe next station the train stopped at with his throat cut and _minus_all his money, except a few bank-notes to no great amount, which theassassin had been wise enough to leave behind him. The train was a nightexpress on one of the southern lines; the banker travelled quite alone, in a first-class carriage; and the murder must have taken place betweenmidnight and 1 A. M. Next morning. The newspapers supposed—rightlyenough, I think—that the murderer must have entered the carriage _fromwithout_, stabbed his victim in his sleep—there were no signs of anystruggle—opened the _sac_, taken what he wanted, and retreated, lootand all, by the way he came. I fully indorsed my particular writer’sopinion that the murderer was an uncommonly cool and clever individual, especially as I fancy he got clear off and was never afterward laidhands on. 

“When I had done that I thought I had done with the affair altogether. Not at all. I was regularly ridden with this confounded murder. You seethe banker was rather a swell; everybody knew him: and that, of course, made it so shocking. So everybody kept talking about him: they weretalking about him at the Opera, and over the _baccarat_ and _bouillotte_at La Topaze’s later. To escape him I went to bed and smoked myself tosleep. And then a queer thing came to pass: I had a dream—I who neverdream; and this is what I dreamed:

“I saw a wide, rich country that I knew. A starless night hung over itlike a pall. I saw a narrow track running through it, straight, bothways, for leagues. Something sped along this track with a hurtling rushand roar. This something that at first had looked like a red-eyed devil, with dark sides full of dim fire, resolved itself, as I watched it, presently, into a more conventional night express-train. It flew along, though, as no express-train ever travelled yet; for all that, I was ableto keep it quite easily in view. I could count the carriages as theywhirled by. One—two—three—four—five—six; but I could only seedistinctly into one. Into that one with perfect distinctness. Into thatone I seemed forced to look. 

“It was the fourth carriage. Two people were in it. They sat in oppositecorners; both were sleeping. The one who sat facing forward was awoman—a girl, rather. I could see that; but I couldn’t see her face. The blind was drawn across the lamp in the roof, and the light was verydim; moreover, this girl lay back in the shadow. Yet I seemed to knowher, and I knew that her face was very fair. She wore a cloak thatshrouded her form completely, yet her form was familiar to me. 

“The figure opposite to her was a man’s. Strangely familiar to me toothis figure was. But, as he slept, his head had sunk upon his breast, and the shadow cast upon his face by the low-drawn travelling-cap hewore hid it from me. Yet if I had seemed to know the girl’s face, I wascertain I knew the man’s. But as I could see, so I could remember, neither. And there was an absolute torture in this which I can’t explainto you, —in this inability, and in my inability to wake them from theirsleep. 

“From the first I had been conscious of a desire to do that. This desiregrew stronger every second. I tried to call to them, and my tonguewouldn’t move. I tried to spring toward them, to thrust out my arms andtouch them, and my limbs were paralyzed. And then I tried to shut myeyes to what I _knew_ must happen, and my eyes were held open anddragged to look on in spite of me. And I saw this:

“I saw the door of the carriage where these two sleepers, whose sleepwas so horribly sound, were sitting—I saw this door open, and out ofthe thick darkness another face look in. 

“The light, as I have said, was very dim, but I could see his face asplainly as I can see yours. A large yellow face it was, like a wax mask. The lips were full, and lustful and cruel. The eyes were little eyes ofan evil gray. Thin yellow streaks marked the absence of the eyebrows;thin yellow hair showed itself under a huge fur travelling-cap. Thewhole face seemed to grow slowly into absolute distinctness as I looked, by the sort of devilish light that it, as it were, radiated. I hadchanced upon a good many damnable visages before then; but there was acold fiendishness about this one such as I had seen on no man’s face, alive or dead, till then. 

“The next moment the man this face belonged to was standing in thecarriage, that seemed to plunge and sway more furiously, as though towaken them that still slept on. He wore a long fur travelling-robe, girtabout the waist with a fur girdle. Abnormally tall and broad as he was, he looked in this dress gigantic. Yet there was a marvellous cat-likelightness and agility about all his movements. 

“He bent over the girl lying there helpless in her sleep. I don’t makerash bargains as a rule, but I felt I would have given years of my lifefor five minutes of my lost freedom of limb just then. I tell you thetorture was infernal. 

“The assassin—I knew he was an assassin—bent awhile, gloatingly, overthe girl. His great yellow hands were both bare, and on the forefingerof the right hand I could see some great stone blazing like an evil eye. In that right hand there gleamed something else. I saw him draw itslowly from his sleeve, and, as he drew it, turn round and look at theother sleeper with an infernal triumphant malignity and hate the Devilhimself might have envied. But the man he looked at slept heavily on. And then—God! I feel the agony I felt in my dream then now!—then I sawthe great yellow hand, with the great evil eye upon it, liftedmurderously, and the bright steel it held shimmer as the assassin turnedagain and bent his yellow face down closer to that other face hiddenfrom me in the shadow—the girl’s face, that I knew was so fair. 

“How can I tell this?. .. The blade flashed and fell. .. . There was thesound of a heavy sigh stifled under a heavy hand. .. . 

“Then the huge form of the assassin was reared erect, and the bloatedyellow face seemed to laugh silently, while the hand that held thesteel pointed at the sleeping man in diabolical menace. 

“And so the huge form and the bloated yellow face seemed to fade awaywhile I watched. 

“The express rushed and roared through the blinding darkness without;the sleeping man slept on still; till suddenly a strong light fell fullupon him, and he woke. 

“And then I saw why I had been so certain that I knew him. For as helifted his head, I saw his face in the strong light. 

“_And the face was my own face; and the sleeper was myself!_”

Paul Devereux made a pause in his queer story here. Except when he hadspoken of the girl, he had spoken in his usual cool, hard way. The pipehe had been smoking all the time was smoked out. He took time to fillanother before he went on. I said never a word, for I guessed who thesleeping girl was. 

“Well, ” Paul remarked presently, “that was a devilish queer dream, wasn’t it? You’ll account for it by telling me I’d been so pestered withthe story of the banker’s murder that I naturally had nightmare;perhaps, too, that my digestion was out of order. Call it a nightmare, call it dyspepsia, if you like. I _don’t_, because—— But you’ll seewhy I don’t directly. 

“At the same moment that my dream-self awoke in my dream, my actual selfwoke in reality, and with the same ghastly horror. 

“I say the _same_ horror, for neither then nor afterward could Iseparate my one self from my other self. They seemed identical; so thatthis queer dream made a more lasting impression upon me than you’dthink. However, in the life I led that sort of thing couldn’t last verylong. Before I came back from Africa I had utterly forgotten all aboutit. Before I left Paris, though, and while it was quite fresh in mymemory, I sketched the big murderer just as I had seen him in my dream. The great yellow face, the great broad frame in the fur travelling-robe, the great hand with the great evil eye upon it—everything, carefullyand minutely, as though I had been going to paint a portrait that Iwanted to make lifelike. I think at the time I had some such intention. If I had, I never fulfilled it. But I made the sketch, as I say, carefully; and then I forgot all about it. 

“Time passed—three years nearly. I was wintering in the south of Francethat year. There it was that I met her—Lucille. Old D’Avray, herfather, and I had met before in Algeria. He was dying now. He left thechild on his death-bed to me. The end was I married her. 

“Poor little thing! I think I might have made her happy—who knows? Sheused to tell me often she was happy with me. Poor little thing!

“Well, we were to come straight to London. That was Lucille’s notion. She wanted to go to my London first—nowhere else. Now I would ratherhave gone anywhere else; but, naturally, I let the child have her way. She seemed nervously eager about it, I remembered afterward; seemed tohave a nervous objection to every other place I proposed. But I saw orsuspected nothing to make me question her very closely, or the reasonsfor her preference for our grimy old Pandemonium. What could I suspect?Not the truth. If I only had! If I had only guessed what it was thatmade her, as she said, long to be safe there already. Safe? What had sheto fear with me? Ah, what indeed!

“So we started on our journey to England. It was a cold, dark night, early in March. We reached Lyons somewhere about seven. I should havestayed there that night but for Lucille. She entreated me so earnestlyand with such strange vehemence to go on by the night-mail to Paris, that at last, to satisfy her, I consented; though it struck meunpleasantly at the time that I had let her travel too long already, andthat this feverishness was the consequence of over-fatigue. But shebecame pacified at once when I told her it should be as she wanted; anddeclared she should sleep perfectly well in the carriage with me besideher. She should feel quite safe then, she said. 

“Safe! Where safer? you might ask. Nowhere, I believe. Alone withme—surely nowhere safer. The Paris express was a short train thatnight; but I managed to secure a compartment for ourselves. I leftLucille in her corner there while I went across to the _buffet_ to filla flask. I was gone barely five minutes; but when I came back the changein the child’s face fairly startled me. I had seen it last with thesmile it always wore for me on it, looking so childishly happy in thelamp-light. Now it was all gray-pale and distorted; and the great blueeyes told me directly with what. 

“Fear—sudden, terrible fear—I thought. But _fear_? Fear of what? Iasked her. She clung close to me half-sobbing awhile before she couldanswer; and then she told me—nothing. There was nothing the matter;only she had felt a pain—a cruel pain—at her heart; and it hadfrightened her. Yes, that was it; it had frightened her, but it hadpassed; and she was well, quite well again now. 

“All this time her eyes seemed to be telling me another story; but Isaid nothing; she was obviously too excited already. I did my best tosoothe her, and I succeeded. She told me she felt quite well once morebefore we started. No, she had rather, much rather go on to Paris, as Ihad promised her she should. She should sleep all the way, if no onecame into the carriage to disturb her. No one could come in? Thennothing could be better. 

“And so it was that she and I started that night by the Paris mail. 

“I made her up a bed of rugs and wraps upon the cushions; but she hadrather rest her head upon my shoulder, she said, and feel my arm abouther; nothing could hurt her then. Ah, strange how she harped on that. 

“She lay there, then, as she loved best—with her head resting on myshoulder, not sleeping much or soundly; uneasily, with sudden wakingstarts, and with glances round her; till I would speak to her. And thenshe would look up into my face and smile; and so drop into that uneasysleep again. And I would think she was over-tired, that was all; andreproach myself with having let her come on. And three or four hourspassed like this; and then we had got as far as Dijon. 

“But the child was fairly worn out now; and she offered no oppositionwhen I asked her to let me pillow her head on something softer than myshoulder. So I folded, a great thick shawl she was too well cloaked toneed, and she made that her pillow. 

“We were rushing full swing through the wild, dark night, when shelifted up her face and bade me kiss her and bid her sleep well. And Iput my arm round her, and kissed the child’s loving lips—for the lasttime while she lived. Then I flung myself on the seat opposite her; and, watching her till she slept soundly and peacefully, slept at last myselfalso. I had drawn the blind across the lamp in the roof, and the lightin the carriage was very dim. 

“How long I slept I don’t know; it couldn’t have been more than an hourand a half, because the express was slackening speed for its first haltbeyond Dijon. I had slept heavily I knew; but I woke with a sudden, sharp sense of danger that made me broad awake, and strung every nervein a moment. The sort of feeling you have when you wake on a prairie, where you have come across ‘Indian sign;’ on outpost-duty, when your_feldwebel_ plucks gently at your cloak. You know what I mean. 

“I was on my feet at once. As I said, the light in the carriage was verydim, and the shadow was deepest where Lucille lay. I looked thereinstinctively. She must have moved in her sleep, for her face was turnedaway from me; and the cloak I had put so carefully about her had partlyfallen off. But she slept on still. Only soundly, very soundly; shescarcely seemed to breathe. And—_did_ she breathe?

“A ghastly fear ran through my blood, and froze it. I understood why Ihad wakened. In my nostrils was an awful odor that I knew well enough. Ibent over her; I touched her. Her face was very cold; her eyes glaredglassily at me; my hands were wet with something. My hands were wet withblood—her blood!

“I tore away the blind from the lamp, and then I could see that my wifeof a week lay there stabbed straight to the heart—dead—dead beyonddoubting; murdered in her sleep. ”

Devereux’s stern, low voice shook ever so little as he spoke those lastwords; and we both sat very silent after them for a good while. Onlywhen he could trust his utterance again he went on. 

“A curious piece of devilry, wasn’t it? That child—whom had she everharmed? Who could hate her like this? I remember I thought that, in adull, confused sort of way, when I found myself alone in that carriagewith her lying dead on the cushions before me. _Alone_ with her—youunderstand? It was confusing. 

“I pass over what immediately followed. The express came duly to a halt;and then I called people to me, and—and the Paris express went onwithout that particular carriage. 

“The inquiry began before some local authority next day. Very littlecame of it. What could come of it, unless they had convicted _me_ of themurder of this child I would have given my own life to save?

“They might have done that at home; but they knew better here, anddidn’t. They couldn’t find me the actual assassin, however; though Ibelieve they did their best. All they found was his weapon, which hemost purposely have left behind. I asked for this, and got it. It gavetheir police no clue; and it gave me none. But I had a fancy for it. 

“It was a plain, double-edged, admirably-tempered dagger—a veryworkmanlike article indeed. On the cross hilt of it I swore one day thatI would live thenceforth for one thing alone—the discovery of themurderer of old D’Avray’s child, whom I had promised him to care forbefore all. When I had found this man, whoever he was, I also swore thatI would kill him. Kill him myself, you understand; without any of thelaw’s delay or uncertainty, without troubling _bourreau_ or hangman. Kill him as he had killed her—to do this was what I meant to live for. There was war to the knife between him and me. 

“I started, of course, under one heavy disadvantage. He knew me, probably, whereas I didn’t know him at all. When he found that hisamiable intention of fixing the crime on me had been frustrated, itmust, I imagined, have occurred to him that the said crime mighteventually be fixed by me on him. And he had proved himself to be aperson who didn’t stick at trifles. It behooved me, therefore, to go towork cautiously. But I hadn’t fought Indians for nothing; and I _was_very cautious. I waited quiet till I got a clue. It was a curious one;and I got it in this way. It struck me one day, suddenly, that I hadheard of a murder precisely similar to this already. I could not atfirst call the thing to mind; but presently I remembered—my dream. Andthen I asked myself this: _Had not this murder been done before my eyesthree years ago?_

“I came to the conclusion that the circumstances of the murder in mydream were absolutely identical with the circumstances of the actualcrime. Yes; the girl whose face in that dream I had never been able tosee was Lucille. Yes; the assassin whose face I had seen so plainly inthat dream was the real assassin. In short, I believe that the murderhad been _rehearsed_ before me three years previous to its actualcommittal. 

“Now this sounds rather wild. Yet I came to this conviction quite coollyand deliberately. It _was_ a conviction. Assuming it to be true, theodds against me grew shorter directly; _for I had the portrait of theman I wanted drawn by myself the day after I had seen him in my dream_. And the original of that portrait was a man not to be easily mistaken, supposing him to exist at all. The day I came across that sketch of himin that old forgotten sketch-book of mine, I was as sure he did exist asthat I was alive myself. What I had to do was to find this man, and thenI never doubted I should find the man I wanted. You see how the odds hadshortened. If he knew me I knew him now, and he had no notion that I didknow him. It was a good deal fairer fight between us. 

“I fought it out alone. My story was hardly one the Rue de Jérusalemwould have acted upon; and, besides, I wanted no interference. So, withthe portrait before me, I sat down and began to consider who this manwas, and why he had murdered that child. The big, burly frame, the heavyyellow face, the sandy-yellow hair, the physiognomy generally, wasTeutonic. My man I put down as a North German. Now there were, and areprobably, plenty of men who would have no objection whatever to put aknife into me, if they got the chance; but this man, whom I had nevermet, could have had no such quarrel as theirs with me. His quarrel withme must have been, then, Lucille. Yes, that was it—Lucille. I began tosee clearly: a thwarted, devilish passion—a cool, infernal revenge. Thechild had feared something of this sort; had perhaps seen him thatnight. This explained her nervous terror, her nervous anxiety to stopnowhere, to travel on. In that carriage of that express-train, alonewith me—where could she be safer? This accounted, too, for her anxietyto reach England. He would not dare follow her there, she had thought, or, at least, could not without my noticing him. And then she would havetold me. She had not told me before evidently because she had feared for_me_ too, in a quarrel with this man. She must, innocent child as shewas, have had some instinctive knowledge of what he was capable. .. . Ay, a cool, infernal revenge, indeed. To kill her; to fix the murder on me. That dagger he had left behind. .. . The apparent impossibility of anyone’s entering the carriage as he must have entered it at all, to saynothing of the almost absolute impossibility of his doing so withoutdisturbing either of us, —you see it might have gone hard with me if aBritish jury had had to decide on the case. 

“Well, to cut this as short as may be, I made up my mind that the man Iwanted was a North German; that he had conceived a hideous passion forLucille before I knew her; that she had shrunk from it and him sounmistakably, that he knew he had no chance; that my taking her away asmy wife, to which he might have been a witness, drove him to as hideousa revenge; that, hearing we were going to England, and seeing that wewere likely to stop nowhere on the way, and so give him a chance ofdoing what he had made up his mind to do, he had decided to do what hehad done as he had done it, —counting on finding us asleep as he hadfound us, or on his strength if it came to a fight between him and me;but coolly reckless enough to brave everything in any case. And thedevil aiding, he had in great part and only too well succeeded. He wasnow either so far satisfied that, if I made no move against him—andhow, he might think, could I?—he, feeling himself all safe, would letme be; or, on the other hand, he did not feel safe, and was notsatisfied, and was arranging for my being disposed of by and by. Iconsidered the latter frame of mind as his most probable one; I went towork cautiously, as I say. I ascertained that Lucille had made nomention of any obnoxious _prétendant_ at any time; I didn’t expect tofind she had, her terror of the man was too intense. But this man musthave met her somewhere—where?

“When old D’Avray came home to die, his daughter was just leaving herParis _pensionnat_. All through his last illness he had seen no visitorbut me, and Lucille had never quitted him. Besides, I had been there allthe time. I presumed, then, that this man and she had met in Paris; andI believe they were only likely to have met at one of the half-dozenhouses where the child would now and again be asked. I got a list ofall these. One name only struck me; it happened to be a Germanname—Steinmetz. I wondered if Monsieur Steinmetz was my man. In themean time, who was he? I had no trouble in finding that out: MonsieurSteinmetz was a German banker of good standing and repute, reasonablywell off, and recently left a widower. Personally? _Dame_, personallyMonsieur Steinmetz was a great man and a fat, with a big face and blondhair, and the appearance of what he really was—a _bon vivant_ and a_bon enfant_ yet _n’avait jamais fait de mal à personne—allez!_—All, yes; in effect, Madame had died about a year ago, and Monsieur had beeninconsolable for a long time. He had changed his residence now, andinhabited a house in one of the new streets off the Champs Elysées. 

“From another source I discovered that in the lifetime of MadameSteinmetz Lucille was frequently at the house. She had ceased to comethere about the date of the commencement of Madame’s sudden illness. Igot this information by degrees, while I lay _perdu_ in an old haunt ofmine in the Pays Latin yonder; for I had always had an idea that Ishould find the man I wanted in Paris. When I had got it, I thought Ishould like to see Monsieur Steinmetz, the agreeable banker. One night Istrolled up as far as his new residence in the street off the ChampsElysées. Monsieur Steinmetz lived on the first-floor. There was abrilliant light there: Monsieur Steinmetz was entertaining friends, itseemed. 

“It was a fine night; I established myself out of sight under thedoorway of an unfinished house opposite, and waited. I don’t know why;perhaps I fancied that when his friends were gone, the fineness of thenight might induce Monsieur Steinmetz to take a stroll, and that then Ishould be able to gratify my curiosity. You see, I knew that if he weremy man, I should know him directly. I waited a good while: shadowscrossed the lighted blinds; once a big, broad shadow appeared there, that made me fancy I mightn’t have been waiting for nothing after all, somehow. Presently Monsieur Steinmetz’s guests departed, and in a littlewhile after there appeared on the little balcony of Monsieur Steinmetz’sapartment _the man I wanted_. There was a moon that night, and the coldwhite light fell on the great yellow face, with the full lustful lips, and the full cruel chin, just as I had seen the light fall on it in mydream. It was the same face, Bertie; the same face, the same man. Icouldn’t be mistaken. I had no doubt; I _knew_ that the assassin of mywife, of that tender, innocent, helpless child, stood there, twentyyards from me, on that balcony. 

“I had got myself pretty well in hand; and it was as well. I nevermoved. The face I knew turned presently toward the spot where I stoodhidden, —the face I had seen in my dream, beyond all doubting. The evilgray eyes glanced carelessly into the shadow, and up and down the quietstreet; and then Monsieur Steinmetz, humming an air, got inside thewindow again, and closed it after him. Once more the great burly shadowthat had at first told me I should not wait in that dark doorway in vaincrossed the blinds; and then it disappeared. I saw my man no more thatnight; but I had seen enough. I knew who he was now, and where to findhim. 

“As I walked along home I thought what I would do. I quite meant to killMonsieur Steinmetz; but I also meant to have no _démêlés_ with anImpérial Procureur and the Cour d’Assizes for doing so. I didn’t want tomurder him, either. I thought I would wait a little for the chance of asuitable opportunity for settling my business satisfactorily. And I didwait. I turned this delay to account, and got together a case ofcircumstantial evidence against my man that, though perhaps it mighthave broken down in a law-court, would have been alone amply sufficientfor me. 

“The reason why Lucille’s visits to the banker’s house ceased was, itappeared, because Madame Steinmetz had conceived all at once a jealousdislike to her. How far this was owing to Lucille herself I could wellunderstand; but I could understand Madame’s jealousy equally well. Madame’s illness, strangely sudden, dated from the cessation ofLucille’s visits. Was it hard to find a _cause_ for that illness—acause for the wife’s subsequent suspected death? I thought not. Then hadfollowed Lucille’s departure from Paris. The child’s anxiety for herfather hid her _other fear_ from his eyes and mine; but that fear musthave been on her then. With us she forgot it in time; yet it or anotherreason had always prevented all mention of what had occasioned it. Shebecame my wife. At that very time I easily ascertained that Steinmetzwas absent from Paris; less easily, but indubitably, that he had, at allevents, been as far south as Lyons. At Lyons it must have been thatLucille first discovered he was dogging us. Hence her alarm, which I hadremembered, and her anxiety to proceed on our journey without stoppingfor the night, as I had previously arranged. The morning after themurder Steinmetz reappeared in Paris. From the hour at which he was seenat the _gare_, it was certain that he had travelled by the night expresstrain in which Lucille and I had started from Lyons; and he wore thatmorning a travelling-coat of fur in all respects similar to the one Iremembered so well. 

“If I had ever had any doubt of my man after actually seeing him, Ishould probably have convinced myself that he was my man by the generaltendency of these facts, which I got at slowly and one by one. But I hadno need of such evidence; and of course no case, even with suchevidence, for a court of law. However, courts of law I had neverintended to trouble in the matter. 

“The opportunity I was waiting was some time before it offered. MonsieurSteinmetz was a man of regular habits, I found—from his first-floor inthe street off the Champs Elysées, every morning at eleven, to theBourse; thence to his bureau hard by till four; from his bureau to hiscafé, where he read papers and played dominoes till six; and then homeslowly by the Boulevarts. He might consider himself tolerably safe fromme while he led this sort of life, even supposing he was aware he wasincurring any danger. I don’t think he troubled much about that; tillone night, when, over the count of the beloved domino-points, his eyesmet mine fixed right upon him. I had arranged this little surprise tosee how it would affect him. 

“Perhaps my gaze may have expressed something more than the meredistraction I intended; but I noticed—though a more indifferentobserver might easily have failed to notice—how the great yellow face, expanded in childish interest in the childish game, seemed suddenly togrow gray and harden; how the fat smile became a cruel baring of sharpwhite teeth; how the fat chin squared itself. The man knew me, andscented danger. 

“A moment’s reflection convinced Monsieur Steinmetz, though, that itcould be by no means so certain that I knew him; five minutes’observation of me more than half satisfied him that I did not. Yet whatdid I want there? What was I doing in Paris? This might concern himnearly, he must have thought. 

“I kept my own face in order, and watched his. It wasn’t an easy one toread; but you see I had studied it closely, and in a way he couldn’thave dreamed of. Monsieur Steinmetz was outwardly his wonted self, butinwardly not quite comfortable when he rose; and I saw the evil eyegleam on his great yellow finger as he took out his purse to pay the_garçon_, just as I had seen it when that finger pointed at _myself_ inmy dream. I felt curious sensations, Bertie, as I sat there and lookedabstractedly at Monsieur Steinmetz. I wondered how long it would bebefore——But my time hadn’t come yet. He went out without anotherglance at me. I saw his huge form on the other side of the street when Ileft the café in my turn. This I had expected. Monsieur Steinmetz wasnaturally curious. It was hardly possible that I could know him; but itwas quite certain that he ought to know all about me. So, when I movedon, he moved on; in short, Monsieur Steinmetz dogged me up one streetand down another, till he finally dogged me home to my hiding-place inthe Pays Latin. He did it very well, too—much better than you wouldhave expected from so apparently unwieldy a _mouchard_. But I_remembered_ how lightly he could move. 

“Next day I had, of course, disappeared from my old quarters, and goneno one knew where. I suppose Monsieur Steinmetz didn’t like this factwhen he heard of it. It might have seemed suspicious. Suppose I _had_recognized him? In that case I had evidently a little game of my own, and was as evidently desirous to keep it dark. He was a cool hand; but Ifancy my man began to get a little uneasy. He took some trouble to findme again. After a while I permitted him to do that. Once found, heseemed determined that I should not be lost sight of again for want ofwatching. I permitted that, too; it helped play my game, and I wanted tobring it to an end. To which intent, Monsieur Steinmetz got to hear fromsources best known to himself as much of my plans as should bring him tothe state I wanted. That was a murderous state. I wanted to get him tothink that I was dangerous enough to be worth putting out of the way. Ipresume he was aware there were, or would be, weak joints in his armor, impenetrable as it seemed; and he preferred not risking the ordeal oflegal battle if he could help it. At all events, he elected at last torid himself of a person who might be dangerous, and was troublesome, bythe shortest and the simplest means. 

“I say so because when, believing my man was ripe for this, I left Parisabout midday for a certain secluded little spot on the sea-coast, I sawone of Monsieur Steinmetz’s employees on the platform; and because, two days after my arrival in my secluded spot, I met Monsieur Steinmetzin person, newly arrived also. Now this was exactly what I had intendedand anticipated. Monsieur Steinmetz had come down there to put me out ofhis way, if he could. He passed me, leisurely strolling in the oppositedirection, humming his favorite _aria_, bigger and yellower than ever, the evil eye fiery on his finger. His own eyes shot me as evil fire; buthe said nothing. .. . I saw he was ripe, though. .. . My time was close athand. 

“It came. Monsieur Steinmetz and I met once more in the very place whereI, knowing my ground, had intended we should meet. It was a dip in thecliffs like a hollowed palm, and just there the cliff jutted out a goodbit, with a sheer fall on to the rocks below. It was a gray afternoon, at the end of summer. The wind was rising fast; there was a thunder ofheavy waves already. 

“I think he had been dogging me; but I hadn’t chosen to let him get upto me till now. We were quite out of sight when he had reached the levelbottom of the dip, where I had halted—quite out of sight, and quitealone. To do him justice, he came on steadily enough. His face was likerthe sketch I had made of it, liker the face I had seen in my dream, thanit had ever looked before. Evidently he had made up his mind. .. . Atlast, then!. .. Well, I had been waiting long!. .. He was close beside me. 

“‘_Ah! bon jour, cher Monsieur Steinmetz. _’

“‘So?’ he said, his little eyes contracting like a cobra’s. ‘Ah!Monsieur knows my name?’

“‘Among other things about you—yes. ’

“‘So!’ The yellow face was turning grayer and harder every minute—likerand liker to my likeness of it. ‘And what other things? Has it neverappeared to you that this you do, have been doing—this meddling, may bedangerous, _hein_?’

“He had changed his tone, as he had changed the person in which headdressed me. Yes, he had certainly made up his mind. And his big righthand was hidden inside his waistcoat, so that I could not see the evileye I knew was on his finger. 

“‘Dangerous?’ he repeated slowly. 

“‘Possibly. ’

“‘Ay, surely; I shall crush you!’

“‘Try. ’

“‘In good time; wait. You plot against me. Take care; I am strong; Iwarn you. There must be an end of this, you understand, or——’

“He nodded his big head significantly. 

“‘You are right, ’ I told him; ‘there must be an end. It is coming. ’

“‘So?’

“‘Yes; I know you. You know me now. ’

“‘I know you. What do you want?’

“‘To kill you. ’

“‘So?’

“‘Yes; as you killed her. ’

“‘As I killed her? That is it, then? You know that?’

“‘I know that. ’

“‘Well, it is true. I killed her. Now you can guess what I am going todo to you—to you, curse you!—whom she loved. ’

[Illustration: “THE GREAT YELLOW FACE LOOKED SILENTLY UP AT ME; ANDTHEN—THEN IT DISAPPEARED. ”]

“The very face I had seen in my dream now, Bertie, the very face! Therewas something besides the evil eye that gleamed in his right hand whenhe drew it from his breast. Once more he spoke. 

“‘Yes, I killed her. I meant worse for you. You escaped that; but youwill not escape me now. Fool! were you mad to do this? Did not I hateyou enough? And I would have let you be. Ah, die, then, if you will haveit so!’

“His heavy right arm swung high as he spoke, and I saw the sharp steelgleam as it turned to fall. And I twisted from his grip, and caught thefalling arm, and bent it till the dagger dropped to the ground. Andthen, for a fierce, desperate, devilish minute, I had him in my clutch, dragging him nearer the smooth, slippery edge. He was no match for me atthis I knew, and he knew; but he held me with the hold of his despair, and I could not loose myself. Both of us together, he meant; but not I. Yet I only freed myself just as he rolled exhausted, but clutching atthe tough, short bushes wildly, toward the brink, and partly over it. .. . Only the hold of his hands between him and his death. And I knelt abovehim, with the knife in my hand that was stained with _her_ blood. 

“The great yellow face, ashen now in its mortal agony, looked silentlyup at me—for three or four awful seconds; and then—then itdisappeared. 

“Bah!” Paul concluded, “that was the end of it. ”

CATHERINE’S QUEST. 

Imagine to yourself an old, rambling, red-brick house, with odd cornersand gables here and there, all bound and clasped together with ivy, andyou have Craymoor Grange. It was built long before Queen Elizabeth’stime, and that illustrious monarch is said to have slept in it in one ofher royal progresses—as where has she not slept?

There still remain some remnants of bygone ages, although it has beenmuch modernized and added to in later days. Among these are thebrewhouse and laundry—formerly, it is said, dining-hall and ball-room. The latter of these is chiefly remarkable for an immense arched window, such as you see in churches, with five lights. 

When we came to the Grange this window had been partially blocked up, and in front of it, up to one-third of its height, was a wooden daïs, orplatform, on which stood a cumbrous mangle, left there, I suppose, bythe last tenants of the house. 

Of these last tenants we knew very little, for it was so long since ithad been inhabited that the oldest authority in the village could notremember it. 

There were, however, some half-defaced monuments in the village churchof Craymoor, bearing the figures and escutcheons of knights and dames of“the old family, ” as the villagers said; but the inscriptions were wornand almost illegible, and for some time we none of us took the pains todecipher them. 

We first came to Craymoor Grange in the summer of 1849, my husbandhaving discovered the place in one of his rambles, and taken a fancy toit. At first I certainly thought we could never make it our home, it wasso dilapidated and tumble-down; but by the time winter came on we hadhad several repairs done and alterations made, and the rooms reallybecame quite presentable. 

As our family was small we confined ourselves chiefly to the newest partof the house, leaving the older rooms to the mice, dust, and darkness. We made use of two of the old rooms, however, one as a servants’ bedroomand the other as an extra spare chamber, in case of many visitors. Formyself, though I hope I am neither nervous nor superstitious, I confessthat I would rather sleep in “our wing, ” as we called the part of thehouse we inhabited, than in any of the old rooms. 

When Catherine l’Estrange came to us, however, during our firstChristmas at Craymoor, I found that she was troubled with no suchfancies, but declared that she delighted in queer old rooms, withraftered ceilings and deep window-seats, such as ours, and begged to beallowed to occupy the spare chamber. This I readily acceded to, as wehad several visitors, and needed all the available rooms. 

As my story has principally to do with Catherine l’Estrange, I suppose Iought to speak more fully about her. She was an old school-friend of mydaughter Ella, and at the time of which I am speaking was justone-and-twenty, and the merriest girl I ever knew. She had stayed withus once or twice before we came to the Grange, but we then knew no otherparticulars concerning her family, than that her father had been anIndian officer, and that he and her mother had both died in India whenshe was about six years old, leaving her to the care of an aunt livingin England. 

I now, after a long, and I fear a tedious, preamble, come to my story. 

On the eve of the new year of 1850, Catherine had a very bad sorethroat, and was obliged, though sorely against her inclination, to stayin bed all day, and forego our small evening gayety. 

At about 6 o’clock P. M. , Ella took her some tea, and fearing she wouldbe dull, offered to stay with her during the evening. This, however, Catherine would not hear of. “You go and entertain your company, ” saidshe laughingly, “and leave me to my own devices; I feel very lazy, and Idare say I shall go to sleep. ” As she had not slept much on thepreceding night, Ella thought it was the best thing she could do; so shewent out by the door leading on to the corridor, first placing thenight-lamp on a table behind the door opening on to the laundry, so thatit might not shine in her face. 

She did not again visit Catherine’s room until reminded to do so by myson George, at about half-past ten. She then rapped at the door, andreceiving no answer, opened it softly, and approached the bed. Catherinelay quite still, and Ella imagined her to be asleep. She thereforereturned to the drawing-room without disturbing her. 

As it was New Year’s eve, we stayed up “to see the old year out and thenew year in, ” and at a few minutes to twelve we all gathered round theopen window on the stairs to hear the chimes ring out from the villagechurch. 

We were all listening breathlessly as the hall-clock struck twelve, whena piercing cry suddenly echoed through the house, causing us all tostart in alarm. I knew that it could only proceed from Catherine’s room, for the servants were all assembled at the window beneath us, listening, like ourselves, for the chimes. Thither therefore I flew, followed byElla, and we found poor Catherine in a truly pitiable state. 

She was deadly pale, in an agony of terror, and the perspiration stoodin large drops upon her forehead. It was some time before we couldsucceed at all in composing her, and her first words were to implore usto take her into another room. 

She was too weak to stand, so we wrapped her in blankets, and carriedher into Ella’s bedroom. I noticed that as she was taken through thelaundry she shuddered, and put her hands before her eyes. When she waslaid on Ella’s bed she grew calmer, and apologized for the trouble shehad caused, saying that she had had a dreadful dream. 

With this explanation we were fain to be content, though I thought ithardly accounted for her excessive terror. I had observed, however, thatany allusion to what had passed caused her to tremble and turn paleagain, and I thought it best to refrain from exciting her further. 

When morning came I found Catherine almost her usual self again; but Ipersuaded her to remain in bed until the evening, as her cold was notmuch better. Ella’s curiosity to hear the dream which had so muchexcited her friend could now no longer be restrained; but whenever sheasked to hear it, Catherine said, “Not now; another time, perhaps, I maytell you. ”

When she came down to dinner in the evening, we noticed that she waspeculiarly silent, and we endeavored to rally her into her usualspirits, but in vain. She tried to laugh and to appear merry, poorchild; but there was evidently something on her mind. 

At last, as we all sat round the fire after dinner, she spoke. Sheaddressed herself to my husband, but the tone of her voice caused us allto listen. 

“Mr. Fanshawe, I have something to ask of you, ” said she, and thenpaused. 

“Ask on, ” said Mr. Fanshawe. 

“I know that you will think the request I am going to make a peculiarone; but I have a particular reason for making it, ” continued she. “Itis that you will have the wooden daïs in front of the laundry windowremoved. ”

Mr. Fanshawe certainly was taken aback, as were we all. When he hadmastered his bewilderment, and assured himself that he had heardaright—

“It is, indeed, a strange request, my dear Catherine, ” said he; “whatcan be your reason for asking such a thing?”

“If you will only have it done, and not question me, you will understandmy reason, ” answered Catherine. 

Mr. Fanshawe demurred, however, thinking it some foolish whim, and atlast Catherine said:

“I must tell you why I wish it done, then: I am sure we shall discoversomething underneath. ”

At this we all looked at one another in extreme bewilderment. 

“Discover something underneath? No doubt we should—cobwebs, probably, and dust and spiders, ” answered Mr. Fanshawe, much amused. 

But Catherine was not to be laughed down. 

“Only do as I wish, ” said she beseechingly, “and you will see. If youfind nothing underneath the daïs but cobwebs and dust, then you maylaugh at me as much as you like. ” And I saw that she was serious, fortears were actually gathering in her eyes. Of course we were all veryanxious to know what Catherine expected to find, and how she came tosuspect that there was anything to be found; but she would not say, andbegged us all not to question her. 

And now George took upon himself to interfere. 

“Let us do as Catherine wishes, father, ” said he; “the daïs spoils thelaundry, and would be much better away. ”

“Well, well, ” said Mr. Fanshawe, “do as you like, only I shall expect myshare of the treasure that is found. —And now, ” added he, “you must havea glass of wine to warm you, Catherine, for you look sadly pale, child. ”

Here the conversation changed, though we often alluded to the subjectagain during the evening. 

The next morning the first thing in all our thoughts was Catherine’ssingular request. 

I think Mr. Fanshawe had hoped she would have forgotten it, but suchwas not the case; on the contrary, she enlisted George’s services thefirst thing after breakfast to carry out her design, and they left theroom together, accompanied by Ella. 

It was a snowy morning, and Mr. Fanshawe was obliged to be away fromhome all day on business, so I was quite at a loss how to entertain mynumerous guests successfully. Happily for me, however, the mysteryattendant on the removal of the daïs in the laundry charmed them all;and I have to thank Catherine for contributing to their amusement muchbetter than I could possibly have done. 

Not long after the disappearance of Catherine, Ella, and George, amessage was sent to us in the drawing-room requesting our presence inthe laundry; and on all flocking there with more or less eagerness, wefound a fire burning on the old-fashioned hearth and chairs arrangedround it. 

It appeared that with the help of Sam, our factotum, who was a kind ofJack-of-all-trades, George had succeeded in loosening the planks of thedaïs, which, although strongly put together, were rotten and worm-eaten, and that we were now summoned to be witnesses of its removal. We foundCatherine trembling with a strange eagerness, and her face quite palewith excitement. This was shared by Ella and George; and, judging by theimportant expression on their faces, I fancied they were let furtherinto the secret than any one else. 

We all sat down in the chairs placed for our accommodation, and the wildwhistling of the wind in the huge chimney, together with the sheets ofsnow which darkened the window-panes, enhanced the mystery of the wholeaffair, while George and his coadjutor worked lustily on. 

At length, after a great deal of panting and puffing, George was heardto exclaim, “Now for the tug of war!” and there followed a minute’spause, and then a crash as the loosened planks were torn asunder, and acloud of dust enveloped both workmen and spectators. 

Involuntarily we all started forward, and a moment of the direstconfusion ensued, during which the boys of our party greatly endangeredtheir limbs among the broken boards. 

“By George!” exclaimed my son at last—in his eagerness invoking hispatron saint—as he stumbled upon something, “there is something hereand no mistake;” and, hastily clearing away the rubbish and clingingcobwebs, he disclosed to view what proved on examination to be animmense oaken chest, about four feet in height, heavily carved, andornamented with brass mouldings corroded with age and damp. 

Here was a piece of excitement indeed; never in my most imaginativemoments had I thought of anything so mysterious as this. The mostsceptical among us grew interested. 

“Oh, do open it!” cried Ella, when the first exclamations of surprisewere over. 

“Easier to say than to do, miss, ” replied Sam, exerting his Herculeanstrength in vain. With the aid of a hammer and the kitchen-poker, however, he at last succeeded in forcing it open. We all pressed forwardeagerly to peer inside. There was something in it certainly, but we noneof us could determine what, until Sam, who was the boldest of us all, thrust in his hand and brought forth—something which caused the bravestto start with horror, while poor Catherine sank down, white andtrembling, upon the littered floor. It was a bone, to which adheredfragments of decaying silk. 

The consternation and conjectures which followed can be better imaginedthan described. Seeing the effects of the discovery upon Catherine, andindeed upon all, I bade Sam replace it in the chest, which George closedagain, to be left until Mr. Fanshawe came home and could investigate thematter. 

The rest of the day I passed in attending to Catherine, who seemed muchshocked and overcome by what she had seen, and in trying to divert myguests’ thoughts from the subject, and dispel the gloom which hadgathered over all. In this I succeeded only partially, and never did Iwelcome my husband’s return more gladly than on that evening. 

On his arrival I would not let him be disturbed by the relation of whathad happened until he had finished his dinner, and it was not till wewere gathered as usual round the fire that George related the wholestory to him. 

When he ended the two gentlemen left the room together, in order thatMr. Fanshawe might verify by his own eyes what he would hardly believe. 

They were some time gone, and on their return I noticed that my husbandheld in his hand an old piece of soiled parchment, with mouldy sealsaffixed to it. 

“We certainly have discovered much more than I thought for, Catherine, ”said he, “and possibly more than you thought for either. ” Here he pausedfor her to reply, but she did not. 

“The bones are most probably those of some animal, ” added he—I fanciedI could detect a certain anxiety in his tone that belied what he said;“but in order to quell the active imaginations which I can see arerunning away with some of you”—here he looked round with a smile—“Iwill send for Dr. Driscoll to come and examine them to-morrow. I havealso found a piece of parchment in the chest, ” he added; “but I have notyet looked at its contents. ”

“Before you do that, Mr. Fanshawe, and before you send for the surgeon, ”interrupted Catherine suddenly in a clear voice, “I think I can tell youall about the bones found in the chest, and how I guessed them to bethere. ”

“I should certainly be very glad to be told, ” my husband admitted, muchsurprised; “though how you can possibly know, I cannot surmise. ”

“Listen, and I will tell you, ” answered Catherine; and feeling very gladthat our curiosity was at last to be gratified, we all “pricked up ourears, ” as George would say, to listen. 

I here transcribe Catherine’s story word for word, as my son Georgesubsequently wrote it down from her dictation. 

 * * * * *

“You all remember, ” she began, “my alarming you on New Year’s eve atmidnight, and that I told you I was disturbed by a dreadful dream. 

“I said so because I thought you would make fun of me if I called it avision; and yet it was much more like a vision, for I seemed to see itwaking, and it was more vivid and consecutive than any dream I ever had. 

“Before I try to describe it, I want you all to understand that I seemedintuitively to comprehend what I saw, and to recognize all the figureswhich appeared before me, and their relation to one another, though I amsure I never beheld them before in my life. 

“When Ella left me that night, I lay propped up with pillows, staringidly at the strange shadows thrown by the hidden lamp across the laundryceiling and over the floor. As I looked it seemed to me that a changecame over the room—a most unaccountable change. 

“Instead of the blocked-up window, the rusty mangle, and the daïs at thefarther end, I saw the window clear and distinct from top to bottom, andin front of a deep window-seat at its base stood an oaken chest, exactlycorresponding to the one discovered this morning. The room seemedbrilliantly lighted, and everything was clearly and distinctly visible;and not only was it changed, but also peopled. 

“Many figures passed up and down; brocaded silks swept the floor, andold-world forms of men in strange costumes bowed in courtly style to thedames by their side. Among all these figures I noticed only one coupleparticularly, and I knew them to be bride and bridegroom. The man wastall and broad, with dark hair and eyes, and a sensual and cruel face. He seemed, however, to be quite enslaved by the woman by his side, whomI hardly even now like to think of, there was something to me sorepellent in her presence. 

“She was tall and of middle age, and would have been handsome were itnot for a sinister expression in her dark flashing eyes, which wasenhanced by the black eyebrows which met over them. 

“She reminded me irresistibly of the effigy on the stone monument inCraymoor church, which Ella and I named “the wicked woman. ”

“As I gazed on the strange scene before me I presently became aware ofthree other figures which I had not noticed before. They were standingin a small arched doorway in one corner of the room (where the servants’bedroom now is) furtively watching the gay company. One was a pale, careworn woman, apparently of about five-and-thirty, still beautiful, though haggard and mournful-looking, with blue eyes and a faircomplexion. 

“Her hands rested on the shoulders of two children, one a boy and theother a girl, of about ten and eleven years of age respectively. Theymuch resembled their mother, and, like her, they were meanly dressed, though no poverty of attire could hide the nobility of their aspect. Inoticed that the mother’s eyes rested chiefly on the face of the tallstately man before mentioned, who seemed unaware or careless of herpresence; and instinctively I knew him to be the father of her childrenand the blighter of her life. 

“As I looked and beheld all this, the lights vanished, the companydisappeared, and the room became dark and deserted. No, not quitedeserted, for I presently distinguished, seated on the window-seat bythe old oaken chest, the fair woman and her children again. 

“The moonlight now streamed through the window upon the woman’s face, making it appear more ghastly and haggard than before. In her long thinfingers she was holding up to the light a necklace of large pearls, curiously interwoven in a diamond pattern, and on this the children’seyes were fixed. 

“She then hung it on the girl’s fair neck, who hid it in her bosom. Bothchildren then twined their arms round their mother and kissed herrepeatedly, while her head sank lower and lower, and the paleness ofdeath overspread her features. 

“This scene faded away as the other had done, and I saw the fair womanno more. 

“Then it seemed to me that many figures passed and repassed before thewindow—the wicked woman (as I shall call her to distinguish her), accompanied by a boy the image of herself, whom I knew to be her son. Hewas apparently older than the fair-haired children, who also passed toand fro, attired as servants, and generally employed in some menialwork. 

“At last the wicked woman’s son, with haughty gestures, ordered theother boy to pick up something that lay on the ground, and when herefused, he raised his cane as though to strike him. Before he could doso, however, the boy flew at him, and they engaged in a fierce struggle. 

“In the midst of this the wicked woman, whom I had learned to dread, came forward and separated them; after which she pointed imperiously tothe door, and signed to the younger boy to go out. 

“He obeyed her mandate, but first threw his arms round his sister in alast embrace, and she detached the pearl necklace from off her neck andgave it to him. He then went out, waving a last adieu to her, and I sawhim no more. 

“Confused images seemed to crowd before me after this, and I remembernothing clearly until I beheld an infirm and tottering figure led awaythrough the arched doorway, in whom I recognized the tall and statelyman I had first seen in company with the wicked woman, but who was nowan old man, apparently being supported to his bed to die. As he passedout he laid one trembling hand upon the head of the fair girl, now ablooming woman, and a softer shade came over his face. This the wickedwoman noted, and she marked her disapproval by a vindictive frown. 

“She also was older-looking, but age had in no degree softened herfeatures; on the contrary, they appeared to me to wear a harsherexpression than before. 

“In the next scene which came before me, the wicked woman’s son wasevidently making love to the girl. Both were standing by the oldwindow-seat, but her face was resolutely turned away from him, and whenshe at last looked at him it was with an expression of uncontrollablehorror and dislike. 

“Again this scene changed as those before it had done; the young man wasgone, and only the light of a grated lantern illumined the room, orrather made darkness visible. The wicked woman was the only occupant ofthe laundry; she was kneeling by the oaken chest, trying to raise theheavy lid. In her left hand she held a piece of parchment, with largered seals pendent from it. I knew it to be the old man’s will which shewas hiding, thus defrauding the just claimants of their rights. 

“Her hands trembled, and her whole appearance denoted guiltytrepidation. At length, however, the lid was raised, but just as she wasabout to replace the parchment in the chest, a figure glided silentlyfrom a dark corner of the window-seat and confronted her. It was thefair girl, pale, resolute, and extending her hand to claim the will. 

“After the first guilty start, which caused her to drop the parchmentinto the chest, the wicked woman hurriedly tried to close the lid. Herefforts were frustrated, however, by the girl, who leaned with all herforce upon it, keeping it back, and still held out her hand as before. 

“There followed a pause, which seemed to me very long, but which couldin reality have only lasted a minute. 

“It was broken by the wicked woman, who, hastily casting a glance behindher into the gloom of the darkened chamber, then seized the girl by thearm and dragged her with all her force into the chest. It was but thework of a moment, for the woman was much the more powerful of the two, and the poor victim was too much taken by surprise to make muchresistance. I saw one despairing look in her face as her murderessflashed the lantern before it with a hideous gleam of triumph. 

“Then the lid was pressed down upon her, and I saw no more, only I feltan unutterable terror, and tried in vain to scream. 

“This was not all the vision, however, for before I had mastered myterror the scene was superseded by another. 

“This time it was twilight, and the wicked woman and her son weretogether. The son seemed to be talking eagerly, and grew more and moreexcited, while the mother stood still and erect, with a malicious smileupon her lips. Presently she moved toward the chest with a fell purposein her eyes, unlocked it with a key which hung from her girdle, raisedthe lid and disclosed the contents. 

“I understood it all now: the son was asking for the girl whom he hadloved, and whom on his return home he missed, and the wicked woman, enraged at hearing for the first time that he had loved her, wasdetermined to have her revenge. 

“He should see her again. 

“On beholding the dread contents of the chest, the man staggered backhorrified; then, doubtless comprehending the case, he turned suddenlyupon the murderess, and threw his arm around her, and there ensued astruggle terrible to witness. 

“Her proud triumphant glance of malice was now succeeded by one ofabject fear, and, as his strength began to gain the mastery, of despair. 

“His iron frame heaved for a moment with the violence of his efforts, the next he had forced her down into the chest upon the mouldering bodyof her victim. I saw her eyes light up with the terror of death for onesecond, and then her screams were stifled forever beneath the massivelid. 

“The horror of this scene was too much for me; I found voice to screamat last, and I suppose it was my cry which alarmed you all. ”

When Catherine ceased speaking there was a profound silence for aminute, which Mr. Fanshawe was the first to break as he said with apeculiar intonation in his voice, “It is very strange, veryunaccountable, ” reëchoing all our thoughts. 

Now it happened that Mr. Fleet, our family lawyer, was among our gueststhat Christmas-time, and since the discovery of the chest and bones hadtaken a great interest in the whole affair. He now questioned andcross-questioned Catherine, and seemed quite satisfied with the result. 

“This would have made a fine case, ” said he, “if only it had been aquestion of the right of succession, for any lawyer to make out; butunfortunately the events are too long past to have any bearing upon thepresent. ” (There Mr. Fleet was wrong, though we none of us knew it atthe time. )

We now all launched forth into conjectures and opinions, during whichCatherine lay still and weary upon the sofa. I saw this, and thought itquite time to put an end to the day’s adventures by suggesting aretirement for the night, and we were soon all dispersed to dream of themysterious vision and discovery. 

 * * * * *

I think we were none of us sorry when morning dawned without any furthertragedy (by _us_, I mean the female part of the establishment). 

When I came down to breakfast I found Mr. Fleet very active on thesubject of the night before. 

“A surgeon ought to be immediately sent for to pronounce an opinion onthe contents of the chest, ” he said; and Dr. Driscoll presently came, and after examining the bones minutely, decided that they were, as wethought, those of two females, who might have been from one to twohundred years dead. 

Mr. Fleet next offered to decipher the will, for such he imagined theparchment to be, and he and Mr. Fanshawe were closeted together for sometime. 

When they at last appeared again, they looked much interested andexcited, and led me away to inform me of the result of theirexamination. 

They told me that the document had proved to be a will, but that therewas a circumstance connected with it which greatly added to the mysteryof the whole business. This was the mention of the name of L’Estrange. Iwas, of course, as much surprised as they, and heard the will read withgreat interest. 

I cannot remember the technical terms in which it was expressed. Mr. Fleet read me the translation he had made, for the original was in oldEnglish; but it was to this effect:

It purported to be the will of Reginald, Viscount St. Aubyn, in which hebequeathed all his inheritance to his lawful son Francis St. Aubyn—commonly known by the name of Francis l’Estrange—and to hisheirs forever. It was signed Reginald, Viscount St. Aubyn, and thewitnesses were John Murray and Phœbe Brett, who in the old copy hadeach affixed their mark. 

Mr. Fleet affirmed that it was a perfectly legal document, but this wasnot all it contained. 

There was an appendix which our lawyer translated as follows:

“In order to avoid all disputes and doubts which might otherwise arise, I do hereby declare that my lawful wife was Editha, youngest daughter ofFrancis l’Estrange, Baronet, and that the register of our marriage maybe seen in the church of St. Andrew, Haslet. By this marriage we had twochildren, a son Francis, and a daughter Catherine, commonly calledFrancis and Catherine l’Estrange. And I hereby declare that AgathaThornhaugh was not legally married to me as she imagined, my lawful wifebeing alive at the time; neither do I leave to her son by her firsthusband, Ralph Thornhaugh, any part or share in my inheritance. ”

Both the will and the writing at the foot of it were dated the 14th ofMay, 1668. 

This accumulation of mysteries caused me for a time to feel quitebewildered and unable to think, but Mr. Fleet was in his element. 

“Here is a case worth entering into, ” said he, and he further went on tostate that he had no doubt that the L’Estranges mentioned in the willwere our Catherine’s ancestors, the Christian names being similarrendering it more than probable. She was most likely a direct descendantof Francis l’Estrange, the heir mentioned in the will, who was no doubtalso the fair-haired boy Catherine had seen in her vision. 

The bones were those of his sister, the murdered Catherine l’Estrange, and of her murderess Agatha Thornhaugh, herself immured by her own son;but the matter ought not to rest on mere surmise, and the first place togo to for corroborating evidence was Craymoor church. 

The rapidity with which Mr. Fleet came to his conclusions increased mybewilderment, and I was at a loss to know what evidence he expected togain from Craymoor church. He reminded me, however, of Catherine’sstatement that “the wicked woman” of her vision resembled the effigy onthe monument there. 

Thither, then, the lawyer repaired, accompanied by Mr. Fanshawe andGeorge. It was thought best to keep the sequel of the story fromCatherine and the others until it was explained more fully, as Mr. Fleetboldly affirmed it should be. I awaited anxiously the result of theirresearches, and they exceeded I think even our good investigator’shopes. 

Not only had they deciphered the inscription round the old monument, butwith leave from the clergyman and the assistance of the sexton they haddisinterred the coffin and found it to be filled with stones. 

I am aware that this was rather an illegal proceeding, but as Mr. Fleetwas only acting _en amateur_ and not professionally, he did not stick attrifles. 

The inscription was in Latin, and stated that the tomb was erected inmemory of Agatha, wife of Reginald, Viscount St. Aubyn, who was buriedbeneath, and who died on the 31st day of December, 1649—exactly twohundred years before the day on which Catherine had seen the vision. 

I could not help thinking it shocking that the villagers had for twocenturies been worshipping in the presence of a perpetual lie, but Mr. Fleet thought only of the grand corroboration of his “case. ” He appliedto Mr. Fanshawe to take the next step, namely, to write to Catherine’saunt and only living relative, to tell her the whole story, and begher to assist in elucidating matters by giving all the information shecould respecting the L’Estrange family. 

This was done, and we anxiously awaited the answer. Meantime, all myguests were clamorous to hear the contents of the will, and I had toappease them as best I could, by promising that they should know allsoon. 

In a few days, old Miss l’Estrange’s answer came. She said her brother, father, and grandfather had all served in India, and that she believedher great-grandfather, who was a Francis l’Estrange, to have passed mostof his life abroad, there having been a cloud over his early youth. Whatthis was, however, she could not say. She affirmed that the L’Estrangeshad in old times resided in ——shire; and she further stated that herfather’s family had consisted of herself and her brother, whose onlychild Catherine was. 

This was certainly not much information, but it was enough for ourpurpose. We no longer remained in doubt as to the truth of Mr. Fleet’sversion of the story, and when he himself told it to all ourfamily-party one evening, every one agreed that he had certainlysucceeded in making out a very clever case. 

As for Catherine, on being told that the figures she had beheld in thevision were thought to be those of her ancestors, she was not so muchsurprised as I expected, but said that she had had a presentiment allalong that the tragedies she had witnessed were in some way connectedwith her own family. 

I must not forget to say that on ascertaining that the parish church ofHaslet was still standing, we searched the register, and another link ofevidence was made clear by the finding of the looked-for entry. 

There remains little more to be told. The charge of the old will wascommitted to Mr. Fleet, and Catherine’s story has been carefully laid upamong the archives of our family. I say advisedly of _our_ family, forthe line of the L’Estranges, alias St. Aubyns, has been united to oursby the marriage of Catherine to my son George, which took place in 1850. 

I who write this am an old woman now, but I still live with my son anddaughter-in-law. 

George has bought Craymoor Grange, thus rendering justice after thelapse of two centuries, and restoring the inheritance of her fathers tothe rightful owner. 

I have but one more incident to relate, and I have done. A short timeago, old Miss l’Estrange died, bequeathing all her worldly possessionsto Catherine. Among these were some old family relics. Catherine waslooking over them as George unpacked them, and she presently came to aminiature of a young and beautiful girl with fair hair and blue eyes, and a wistful expression, and with it a necklace of pearls strung in adiamond pattern. On seeing these she became suddenly grave, and handingthem to me, said: “They are the same; the young girl, and the pearlnecklace I told you of. ” No more was said at the time, for the childrenwere present, and we had always avoided alluding to the horrible familytragedy before them; but if we had still retained any doubt about itstruth—which we had not—this would have set it at rest. 

If you were to visit Craymoor Grange now, you would find no old laundry. The part of the house containing it has been pulled down, and childrenplay and chickens peckett on the ground where it once stood. 

The oaken chest has also long since been destroyed. 

HAUNTED. 

Some few years ago one of those great national conventions which drawtogether all ages and conditions of the sovereign people of America washeld in Charleston, South Carolina. 

Colonel Demarion, one of the State Representatives, had attended thatgreat national convention; and, after an exciting week, was returninghome, having a long and difficult journey before him. 

A pair of magnificent horses, attached to a light buggy, flew merrilyenough over a rough-country for a while; but toward evening stormyweather reduced the roads to a dangerous condition, and compelled theColonel to relinquish his purpose of reaching home that night, and tostop at a small wayside tavern, whose interior, illuminated by blazingwood-fires, spread a glowing halo among the dripping trees as heapproached it, and gave promise of warmth and shelter at least. 

Drawing up to this modest dwelling, Colonel Demarion saw through itsuncurtained windows that there was no lack of company within. Beneaththe trees, too, an entanglement of rustic vehicles, giving forth redgleams from every dripping angle, told him that beasts as well as menwere cared for. At the open door appeared the form of a man, who, at thesound of wheels, but not seeing in the outside darkness whom headdressed, called out, “’Tain’t no earthly use a-stoppin’ here. ”

Caring more for his chattels than for himself, the Colonel paid nofurther regard to this address than to call loudly for the landlord. 

At the tone of authority, the man in outline more civilly announcedhimself to be the host; yet so far from inviting the traveller toalight, insisted that the house was “as full as it could pack;” but thatthere was a place a little farther down the road where the gentlemanwould be certain to find excellent accommodation. 

“What stables have you here?” demanded the traveller, giving no moreheed to this than to the former announcement; but bidding his servant toalight, and preparing to do so himself. 

“Stables!” repeated the baffled host, shading his eyes so as toscrutinize the newcomer, “_stables_, Cap’n?”

“Yes, _stables_. I want you to take care of my horses; _I_ can take careof myself. Some shelter for cattle you must have by the look of thesetraps, ” pointing to the wagons. “I don’t want my horses to be keptstanding out in this storm, you know. ”

“No, Major. Why no, cert’n’y; Marion’s ain’t over a mile, and——”

“Conf—!” muttered the Colonel; “but it’s over the _river_, which Idon’t intend to ford to-night under any consideration. ”

So saying, the Colonel leaped to the ground, directing his servant tocover the horses and then get out his valise; while the host, thusdefeated, assumed the best grace he could to say that he would see whatcould be done “for the _horses_. ”

“I am a soldier, my man, ” added the Colonel in a milder tone, as hestamped his cold feet on the porch and shook off the rain from histravelling-gear; “I am used to rough fare and a hard couch: all we wantis shelter. A corner of the floor will suffice for me and my rug; aprivate room I can dispense with at such times as these. ”

The landlord seemed no less relieved at this assurance than mollified bythe explanation of a traveller whom he now saw was of a very differentstamp from those who usually frequented the tavern. “For the matter of_stables_, his were newly put up, and first-rate, ” he said; and“cert’n’y the Gen’ral was welcome to a seat by the fire while ’twasa-storming so fierce. ”

Colonel Demarion gave orders to his servant regarding the horses, whilethe landlord, kicking at what seemed to be a bundle of sacking downbehind the door, shouted—“Jo! Ho, Jo! Wake up, you sleepy-headednigger! Be alive, boy, and show this gentleman’s horses to the stables. ”Upon a repetition of which charges a tall, gaunt, dusky figure lifteditself from out of the dark corner, and grew taller and more gaunt as itstretched itself into waking with a grin which was the most visible partof it, by reason of two long rows of ivory gleaming in the red glare. The hard words had fallen as harmless on Jo’s ear-drum as the kicks uponhis impassive frame. To do Jo’s master justice, the kicks were notvicious kicks, and the rough language was but an intimation thatdispatch was needed. Very much of the spaniel’s nature had Jo; and as herolled along the passage to fetch a lantern, his mouth expanded into astill broader grin at the honor of attending so stately a gentleman. Quick, like his master, too, was Jo to discriminate between “realgentlefolks” and the “white trash” whose rough-coated, rope-harnessedmules were the general occupants of his stables. 

“Splendid pair, sir, ” said the now conciliating landlord. “Shove some o’them mules out into the shed, Jo (which your horses ’ll feel more to humin my new stalls, Gen’ral). ”

Again cautioning his man Plato not to leave them one moment, ColonelDemarion turned to enter the house. 

“You’ll find a rough crowd in here, sir, ” said the host, as he paused onthe threshold; “but a good fire, anyhow. ’Tain’t many of these loafersas understand this convention business—I _pre_sume, Gen’ral, you’veattended the convention—they all on ’em _thinks_ they does, tho’. Factmost on ’em thinks they’d orter be on the committee theirselves. Goodmany on ’em is from Char’ston to-day, but is in the same fix as yerself, Gen’ral—can’t get across the river to-night. ”

“I see, I see, ” cried the statesman, with a gesture toward thesitting-room. “Now what have you got in your larder, Mr. Landlord? andsend some supper out to my servant; he must make a bed of thecarriage-mats to-night. ”

The landlord introduced his guest into a room filled chiefly with thatshiftless and noxious element of Southern society known as “meanwhites. ” Pipes and drinks, and excited arguments, engaged these peopleas they stood or sat in groups. The host addressed those who weregathered round the log-fire, and they opened a way for the new-comer, some few, with republican freedom, inviting him to be seated, the restgiving one furtive glance, and then, in antipathy born of envy, skulkingaway. 

The furniture of this comfortless apartment consisted of sloppy, much-jagged deal tables, dirty whittled benches, and a few uncouthchairs. The walls were dirty with accumulated tobacco stains, and somoist and filthy was the floor, that the sound only of scraping seatsand heavy footsteps told that it was of boards and not bare earth. 

Seated with his back toward the majority of the crowd, and shielded byhis newspaper, Colonel Demarion sat awhile unobserved; but was presentlyrecognized by a man from his own immediate neighborhood, when theinformation was quickly whispered about that no less a person than theirdistinguished Congressman was among them. 

This piece of news speedily found its way to the ears of the landlord, to whom Colonel Demarion was known by name only, and forthwith hereappeared to overwhelm the representative of his State with apologiesfor the uncourteous reception which had been given him, and to expresshis now very sincere regrets that the house offered no suitableaccommodation for the gentleman. Satisfied as to the safety of hischattels, the Colonel generously dismissed the idea of having anythingeither to resent or to forgive; and assured the worthy host that hewould accept of no exclusive indulgences. 

In spite of which the landlord bustled about to bring in a separatetable, on which he spread a clean coarse cloth, and a savory supper ofbroiled ham, hot corncakes, and coffee; every few minutes stopping torenew his apologies, and even appearing to grow confidentiallycommunicative regarding his domestic economies; until the hungrytraveller cut him short with “Don’t say another word about it, myfriend; you have not a spare sleeping-room, and that is enough. Find mea corner—a clean corner”—looking round upon the most unclean cornersof that room—“perhaps up-stairs somewhere, and——”

“Ah! _upsta’rs_, Gen’ral. Now, that’s jest what I had in my mind to axyou. Fact is ther’ _is_ a spar’ room upsta’rs, as comfortable a room asthe best of folks can wish; but——”

“But it’s crammed with sleeping folks, so there’s an end of it, ” criedthe senator, thoroughly bored. 

“No, sir, ain’t no person in it; and ther’ ain’t no person likely to bein it ’cept ’tis _yerself_, Colonel Demarion. Leastways——”

After a good deal of hesitation and embarrassment, the host, inmysterious whispers, imparted the startling fact that this mostdesirable sleeping room was _haunted_; that the injury he had sustainedin consequence had compelled him to fasten it up altogether; that he hadcome to be very suspicious of admitting strangers, and had limited hiscustom of late to what the bar could supply, keeping the matter hushedup in the hope that it might be the sooner forgotten by the neighbors;but that in the case of Colonel Demarion he had now made bold to mentionit; “as I can’t but think, sir, ” he urged, “you’d find it prefer’ble tosleepin’ on the floor or sittin’ up all night along ov these loafers. Fer if ’tis any deceivin’ trick got up in the house, maybe they won’ttry it on, sir, to a gentleman of your reputation. ”

Colonel Demarion became interested in the landlord’s confidences, butcould only gather in further explanation that for some time past alltravellers who had occupied that room had “made off in the middle of thenight, never showin’ their faces at the inn again;” that on endeavoringto arrest one or more in their nocturnal flight, they—all more or lessterrified—had insisted on escaping without a moment’s delay, assigningno other reason than that they had seen a ghost. “Not that folks seem toget much harm by it, Colonel—not by the way they makes off withoutpaying a cent of money!”

Great indeed was the satisfaction evinced by the victim of unpaid billson the Colonel’s declaring that the haunted chamber was the very roomfor him. “If to be turned out of my bed at midnight is all I have tofear, we will see who comes off master in my case. So, Mr. Landlord, letthe chamber be got ready directly, and have a good fire built there atonce. ”

The exultant host hurried away to confide the great news to Jo, and withhim to make the necessary preparations. “Come what will, Jo, ColonelDemarion ain’t the man to make off without paying down good money forhis accommodations. ”

In reasonable time, Colonel Demarion was beckoned out of the publicroom, and conducted up-stairs by the landlord, who, after receiving acheerful “good-night, ” paused on the landing to hear his guest bolt andbar the door within, and then push a piece of furniture against it. “Ah, ” murmured the host, as a sort of misgiving came over him, “if aapparishum has a mind to come thar, ’tain’t all the bolts and bars inSouth Carolina as ’ll kip’en away. ”

But the Colonel’s precaution of securing his door, as also that ofplacing his revolvers in readiness, had not the slightest reference tothe reputed ghost. Spiritual disturbances of such kind he feared not. Spirits _tangible_ were already producing ominous demonstrations in therooms below, nor was it possible to conjecture what troubles these mightevolve. Glad enough to escape from the noisy company, he took a surveyof his evil-reputed chamber. The only light was that of the roaring, crackling, blazing wood-fire, and no other was needed. And whatstorm-benighted traveller, when fierce winds and rains are lashingaround his lodging, can withstand the cheering influences of a gloriouslog-fire? especially if, as in that wooden tenement, that fire be ofabundant pine-knots. It rivals the glare of gas and the glow of afurnace; it charms away the mustiness and fustiness of years, and causesall that is dull and dead around to laugh and dance in its bright light. 

By the illumination of just such a fire, Colonel Demarion observed thatthe apartment offered nothing worthier of remark than that the furniturewas superior to anything that might be expected in a small waysidetavern. In truth, the landlord had expended a considerable sum infitting up this, his finest chamber, and had therefore sufficient reasonto bemoan its unprofitableness. 

Having satisfied himself as to his apparent security, the senatorthought no more of spirits palpable or impalpable; but to the far graverissues of the convention his thoughts reverted. It was yet early; helighted a cigar, and in full appreciation of his retirement, took outhis note-book and plunged into the affairs of state. Now and then he wasrecalled to the circumstances of his situation by the swaggering treadof unsteady feet about the house, or when the boisterous shouts belowraged above the outside storm; but even then he only glanced up from hispapers to congratulate himself upon his agreeable seclusion. 

Thus he sat for above an hour, then he heaped fresh logs upon thehearth, looked again to his revolvers, and retired to rest. 

The house-clock was striking twelve as the Colonel awoke. He awokesuddenly from a sound sleep, flashing, as it were, into fullconsciousness, his mind and memory clear, all his faculties invigorated, his ideas undisturbed, but with a perfect conviction that he was notalone. 

He lifted his head. A man was standing a few feet from the bed, andbetween it and the fire, which was still burning, and burning brightlyenough to display every object in the room, and to define the outline ofthe intruder clearly. His dress also and his features were plainlydistinguishable: the dress was a travelling-costume, in fashion somewhatout of date; the features wore a mournful and distressed expression—theeyes were fixed upon the Colonel. The right arm hung down, and the hand, partially concealed, might, for aught the Colonel knew, be grasping oneof his own revolvers; the left arm was folded against the waist. The manseemed about to advance still closer to the bed, and returned theoccupant’s gaze with a fixed stare. 

“Stand, or I’ll fire!” cried the Colonel, taking in all this at aglance, and starting up in his bed, revolver in hand. 

The man remained still. 

“What is your business here?” demanded the statesman, thinking he wasaddressing one of the roughs from below. 

The man was silent. 

“Leave this room, if you value your life, ” shouted the indignantsoldier, pointing his revolver. 

The man was motionless. 

“RETIRE! or by heaven I’ll send a bullet through you!”

But the man moved not an inch. 

The Colonel fired. The bullet lodged in the breast of the stranger, buthe started not. The soldier leaped to the floor and fired again. Theshot entered the heart, pierced the body, and lodged in the wall beyond;and the Colonel beheld the hole where the bullet had entered, and thefirelight glimmering through it. And yet the intruder stirred not. Astounded, the Colonel dropped his revolver, and stood face to facebefore the unmoved man. 

“Colonel Demarion, ” spake the deep solemn voice of the perforatedstranger, “in vain you shoot me—I am dead already. ”

The soldier, with all his bravery, gasped, spellbound. The firelightgleamed through the hole in the body, and the eyes of the shooter wereriveted there. 

“Fear nothing, ” spake the mournful presence; “I seek but to divulge mywrongs. Until my death shall be avenged my unquiet spirit lingers here. Listen. ”

Speechless, motionless was the statesman; and the mournful apparitionthus slowly and distinctly continued:

“Four years ago I travelled with one I trusted. We lodged here. Thatnight my comrade murdered me. He plunged a dagger into my heart while Islept. He covered the wound with a plaster. He feigned to mourn mydeath. He told the people here I had died of heart complaint; that I hadlong been ailing. I had gold and treasures. With my treasure secretedbeneath his garments he paraded mock grief at my grave. Then hedeparted. In distant parts he sought to forget his crime; but his stolengold brought him only the curse of an evil conscience. Rest and peaceare not for him. He now prepares to leave his native land forever. Underan assumed name that man is this night in Charleston. In a few hours hewill sail for Europe. Colonel Demarion, you must prevent it. Justice andhumanity demand that a murderer roam not at large, nor squander more ofthe wealth that is by right my children’s. ”

The spirit paused. To the extraordinary revelation the Colonel hadlistened in rapt astonishment. He gazed at the presence, at thefirelight glimmering through it—through the very place where a humanheart would be—and he felt that he was indeed in the presence of asupernatural being. He thought of the landlord’s story; but whileearnestly desiring to sift the truth of the mystery, words refused tocome to his aid. 

“Do you hesitate?” said the mournful spirit. “Will _you_ also flee, whenmy orphan children cry for retribution?” Seeming to anticipate the willof the Colonel, “I await your promise, senator, ” he said. “There is notime to lose. ”

With a mighty effort, the South Carolinian said, “I promise. What wouldyou have me do?”

In the same terse, solemn manner, the ghostly visitor gave the real andassumed names of the murderer, described his person and dress at thepresent time, described a certain curious ring he was then wearing, together with other distinguishing characteristics: all being carefullynoted down by Colonel Demarion, who, by degrees, recovered hisself-possession, and pledged himself to use every endeavor to bring themurderer to justice. 

Then, with a portentous wave of the hand, “It is well, ” said theapparition. “Not until the spirit of my murderer shall be separated fromthe mortal clay can _my_ spirit rest in peace. ” And vanished. 

Half-past six in the morning was the appointed time for the steamer toleave Charleston; and the Colonel lost not a moment in preparing todepart. As he hurried down the stairs he encountered the landlord, who—his eyes rolling in terror—made an attempt to speak. Unheeding, except to demand his carriage, the Colonel pushed past him, and effecteda quick escape toward the back premises, shouting lustily for “Jo” and“Plato, ” and for his carriage to be got ready immediately. A few minutesmore, and the bewildered host was recalled to the terrible truth by thenoise of the carriage dashing through the yard and away down the road;and it was some miles nearer Charleston before the unfortunate manceased to peer after it in the darkness—as if by so doing he couldrecover damages—and bemoan to Jo the utter ruin of his house andhopes. 

Thirty miles of hard driving had to be accomplished in little more thanfive hours. No great achievement under favorable circumstances; but thehorses were only half refreshed from their yesterday’s journey, andthough the storm was over, the roads were in a worse condition thanever. 

Colonel Demarion resolved to be true to his promise; and fired by acuriosity to investigate the extraordinary communication which had beenrevealed to him, urged on his horses, and reached the wharf atCharleston just as the steamer was being loosed from her moorings. 

He hailed her. “Stop her! Business with the captain! STOP HER!”

Her machinery was already in motion; her iron lungs were puffing forthdense clouds of smoke and steam; and as the Colonel shouted—the crowdaround, from sheer delight in shouting, echoing his “Stop her! stopher!”—the voices on land were confounded with the voices of thesailors, the rattling of chains, and the haulings of ropes. 

Among the passengers standing to wave farewells to their friends on thewharf were some who recognised Colonel Demarion, and drew the captain’sattention toward him; and as he continued vehemently to gesticulate, that officer, from his post of observation, demanded the nature of thebusiness which should require the ship’s detention. Already the steamerwas clear of the wharf. In another minute she might be beyond reach ofthe voice; therefore, failing by gestures and entreaties to convince thecaptain of the importance of his errand, Colonel Demarion, indesperation, cried at the top of his voice, “A murderer on board! ForGod’s sake, STOP!” He wished to have made this startling declaration inprivate, but not a moment was to be lost; and the excitement around himwas intense. 

In the midst of the confusion another cry of “Man overboard!” might havebeen heard in a distant part of the ship, had not the attention of thecrowd been fastened on the Colonel. Such a cry was, however, uttered, offering a still more urgent motive for stopping; and the steamer beingagain made fast, Colonel Demarion was received on board. 

“Let not a soul leave the vessel!” was his first and prompt suggestion;and the order being issued he drew the captain aside, and conciselyexplained his grave commission. The captain thereupon conducted him tohis private room, and summoned the steward, before whom the details weregiven, and the description of the murderer was read over. The steward, after considering attentively, seemed inclined to associate thedescription with that of a passenger whose remarkably dejectedappearance had already attracted his observation. In such a gravebusiness it was, however, necessary to proceed with the utmost caution, and the “passenger-book” was produced. Upon reference to its pages, thethree gentlemen were totally dismayed by the discovery that the name ofthis same dejected individual was that under which, according to theapparition, the murderer had engaged his passage. 

“I am here to charge that man with murder, ” said Colonel Demarion. “Hemust be arrested. ”

Horrified as the captain was at this astounding declaration, yet, onaccount of the singular and unusual mode by which the Colonel had becomepossessed of the facts, and the impossibility of proving the charge, hehesitated in consenting to the arrest of a passenger. The stewardproposed that they should repair to the saloons and deck, and whileconversing with one or another of the passengers, mention—as it werecasually—in the hearing of the suspected party his own proper name, andobserve the effect produced on him. To this they agreed, and withoutloss of time joined the passengers, assigning some feasible cause for ashort delay of the ship. 

The saloon was nearly empty, and while the steward went below, the othertwo repaired to the deck, where they observed a crowd gathered seaward, apparently watching something over the ship’s side. 

During the few minutes which had detained the captain in thisnecessarily hurried business, a boat had been lowered, and some sailorshad put off in her to rescue the person who was supposed to have fallenoverboard; and it was only now, on joining the crowd, that the captainlearned the particulars of the accident. “Who was it?” “What was helike?” they exclaimed simultaneously. That a man had fallen overboardwas all that could be ascertained. Some one had seen him run across thedeck, looking wildly about him. A splash in the water had soon afterwardattracted attention to the spot, and a body had since been seenstruggling on the surface. The waves were rough after the storm, andthick with seaweed, and the sailors had as yet missed the body. The twogentlemen took their post among the watchers, and kept their eyesintently upon the waves, and upon the sailors battling against them. Erelong they see the body rise again to the surface. Floated on a powerfulwave, they can for the few moments breathlessly scrutinize it. The colorof the dress is observed. A face of agony upturned displays a peculiarcontour of forehead; the hair, the beard; and now he struggles—an armis thrown up, and a remarkable ring catches the Colonel’s eye. “Greatheavens! The whole description tallies!” The sailors pull hard for thespot, the next stroke and they will rescue——

A monster shark is quicker than they. The sea is tinged with blood. Theman is no more!

Shocked and silent, Colonel Demarion and the captain quitted the deckand resummoned the steward, who had, but without success, visited theberths and various parts of the ship for the individual in question. Every hole and corner was now, by the captain’s order carefullysearched, but in vain; and as no further information concerning themissing party could be obtained, and the steward persisted in hisstatement regarding his general appearance, they proceeded to examinehis effects. In these he was identified beyond a doubt. Papers andrelics proved not only his guilt but his remorse; remorse which, as theapparition had said, permitted him no peace in his wanderings. 

Those startling words, “A murderer on board!” had doubtless struck freshterror to his heart and, unable to face the accusation, he had thusterminated his wretched existence. 

Colonel Demarion revisited the little tavern, and on several occasionsoccupied the haunted chamber; but never again had he the honor ofreceiving a midnight commission from a ghostly visitor, and never againhad the landlord to bemoan the flight of a non-paying customer. 

PICHON & SONS, OF THE CROIX ROUSSE. 

Giraudier, _pharmacien, première classe_, is the legend, recorded inhuge, ill-proportioned letters, which directs the attention of thestranger to the most prosperous-looking shop in the grand _place_ of LaCroix Rousse, a well-known suburb of the beautiful city of Lyons, whichhas its share of the shabby gentility and poor pretence common to thesuburban commerce of great towns. 

Giraudier is not only _pharmacien_ but _propriétaire_, though not byinheritance; his possession of one of the prettiest and most prolific ofthe small vineyards in the beautiful suburb, and a charming inconvenienthouse, with low ceilings, liliputian bedrooms, and a profusion of_persiennes_, _jalousies_, and _contrevents_, comes by purchase. Thisenviable little _terre_ was sold by the Nation, when that terribleabstraction transacted the public business of France; and it was boughtvery cheaply by the strong-minded father of the Giraudier of thepresent, who was not disturbed by the evil reputation which the placehad gained, at a time the peasants of France, having been bullied into arenunciation of religion, eagerly cherished superstition. The Giraudierof the present cherishes the particular superstition in questionaffectionately; it reminds him of an uncommonly good bargain made in hisfavor, which is always a pleasant association of ideas, especially to aFrenchman, still more especially to a Lyonnais; and it attractsstrangers to his _pharmacie_, and leads to transactions in _GrandChartreuse_ and _Créme de Roses_, ensuing naturally on the narration ofthe history of Pichon & Sons. Giraudier is not of aristocraticprinciples and sympathies; on the contrary, he has decided republicanleanings, and considers _Le Progrès_ a masterpiece of journalisticliterature; but, as he says simply and strongly, “it is not because aman is a marquis that one is not to keep faith with him; a bad action isnot good because it harms a good-for-nothing of a noble; the more whenthat good-for-nothing is no longer a noble, but _pour rire_. ” At theeasy price of acquiescence in these sentiments, the stranger hears oneof the most authentic, best-remembered, most popular of the manytraditions of the bad old times “before General Bonaparte, ” asGiraudier, who has no sympathy with any later designation of _le grandhomme_, calls the Emperor, whose statue one can perceive—a speck in thedistance—from the threshold of the _pharmacie_. 

The Marquis de Sénanges, in the days of the triumph of the greatRevolution, was fortunate enough to be out of France, and wise enough toremain away from that country, though he persisted, long after the old_régime_ was as dead as the Ptolemies, in believing it merely suspended, and the Revolution a lamentable accident of vulgar complexion, buthappily temporary duration. The Marquis de Sénanges, who affected the_style régence_, and was the politest of infidels and the most refinedof voluptuaries, got on indifferently in inappreciative foreign parts;but the members of his family—his brother and sisters, two of whom wereguillotined, while the third escaped to Savoy and found refuge there ina convent of her order—got on exceedingly ill in France. If the_ci-devant_ Marquis had had plenty of money to expend in such feebleimitations of his accustomed pleasures as were to be had out of Paris, he would not have been much affected by the fate of his relatives. Butmoney became exceedingly scarce; the Marquis had actually beheld many ofhis peers reduced to the necessity of earning the despicable butindispensable article after many ludicrous fashions. And the duration ofthis absurd upsetting of law, order, privilege, and property began toassume unexpected and very unpleasant proportions. 

The Château de Sénanges, with its surrounding lands, was confiscated tothe Nation, during the third year of the “emigration” of the Marquis deSénanges; and the greater part of the estate was purchased by a thrifty, industrious, and rich _avocat_, named Prosper Alix, a widower with anonly daughter. Prosper Alix enjoyed the esteem of the entireneighborhood. First, he was rich; secondly, he was of a taciturndisposition, and of a neutral tint in politics. He had done well underthe old _régime_ and, he was doing well under the new—thank God, or theSupreme Being, or the First Cause, or the goddess Reason herself, forall;—he would have invoked Dagon, Moloch, or Kali, quite as readily asthe Saints and the Madonna, who has gone so utterly out of fashion oflate. Nobody was afraid to speak out before Prosper Alix; he was not aspy; and though a cold-hearted man, except in the instance of his onlydaughter, he never harmed anybody. 

Very likely it was because he was the last person in the vicinity whomanybody would have suspected of being applied to by the dispossessedfamily, that the son of the Marquis’ brother, a young man of promise, ofcourage, of intellect, and of morals of decidedly a higher calibre thanthose actually and traditionally imputed to the family, sought the aidof the new possessor of the Château de Sénanges, which had changed itsold title for that of the Maison Alix. The father of M. Paul de Sénangeshad perished in the September massacres; his mother had been guillotinedat Lyons; and he—who had been saved by the interposition of a youngcomrade, whose father had, in the wonderful rotations of the wheel ofFate, acquired authority in the place where he had once esteemed thenotice of the nephew of the Marquis a crowning honor for his son—hadpassed through the common vicissitudes of that dreadful time, whichwould take a volume for their recital in each individual instance. 

Paul de Sénanges was a handsome young fellow, frank, high-spirited, andof a brisk and happy temperament; which, however, modified by the manymisfortunes he had undergone, was not permanently changed. He had plentyof capacity for enjoyment in him still; and as his position was veryisolated, and his mind had become enlightened on social and politicalmatters to an extent in which the men of his family would havediscovered utter degradation and the women diabolical possession, hewould not have been very unhappy if, under the new condition of things, he could have lived in his native country and gained an honestlivelihood. But he could not do that, he was too thoroughly “suspect;”the antecedents of his family were too powerful against him: his onlychance would have been to have gone into the popular camp as an extreme, violent partisan, to have out-Heroded the revolutionary Herods; and thatPaul de Sénanges was too honest to do. So he was reduced to beingthankful that he had escaped with his life, and to watching for anopportunity of leaving France and gaining some country where the reignof liberty, fraternity, and equality was not quite so oppressive. 

The long-looked-for opportunity at length offered itself, and Paul deSénanges was instructed by his uncle the Marquis that he must contriveto reach Marseilles, whence he should be transported to Spain—in whichcountry the illustrious emigrant was then residing—by a certain nameddate. His uncle’s communication arrived safely, and the plan proposedseemed a secure and eligible one. Only in two respects was it calculatedto make Paul de Sénanges thoughtful. The first was, that his uncleshould take any interest in the matter of his safety; the second, whatcould be the nature of a certain deposit which the Marquis’s letterdirected him to procure, if possible, from the Château de Sénanges. Thefact of this injunction explained, in some measure, the first of the twodifficulties. It was plain that whatever were the contents of thispacket which he was to seek for, according to the indications marked ona ground-plan drawn by his uncle and enclosed in the letter, the Marquiswanted them, and could not procure them except by the agency of hisnephew. That the Marquis should venture to direct Paul de Sénanges toput himself in communication with Prosper Alix, would have beensurprising to any one acquainted only with the external and generallyunderstood features of the character of the new proprietor of theChâteau de Sénanges. But a few people knew Prosper Alix thoroughly, andthe Marquis was one of the number; he was keen enough to know in theorythat, in the case of a man with only one weakness, that is likely to bea very weak weakness indeed, and to apply the theory to the _avocat_. The beautiful, pious, and aristocratic mother of Paul de Sénanges—alady to whose superiority the Marquis had rendered the distinguishedtestimony of his dislike, not hesitating to avow that she was “much toogood for _his_ taste”—had been very fond of, and very kind to, themotherless daughter of Prosper Alix, and he held her memory in reverencewhich he accorded to nothing beside, human or divine, and taught hisdaughter the matchless worth of the friend she had lost. The Marquisknew this, and though he had little sympathy with the sentiment, hebelieved he might use it in the present instance to his own profit, withsafety. The event proved that he was right. Private negotiations, withthe manner of whose transaction we are not concerned, passed between the_avocat_ and the _ci-devant_ Marquis; and the young man, then leading alife in which skulking had a large share, in the vicinity of Dijon, wasinstructed to present himself at the Maison Alix, under the designationof Henri Glaire, and in the character of an artist in house-decoration. The circumstances of his life in childhood and boyhood had led to hisbeing almost safe from recognition as a man at Lyons; and, indeed, allthe people on the _ci-devant_ visiting-list of the château had beenpretty nearly killed off, in the noble and patriotic ardor of therevolutionary times. 

The ancient Château de Sénanges was proudly placed near the summit ofthe “Holy Hill, ” and had suffered terrible depredations when the churchat Fourvières was sacked, and the shrine desecrated with that ingeniousimpiety which is characteristic of the French; but it still retainedsomewhat of its former heavy grandeur. The château was much too largefor the needs, tastes, or ambition of its present owner, who was toowise, if even he had been of an ostentatious disposition, not to havesedulously resisted its promptings. The jealousy of the nation ofbrothers was easily excited, and departure from simplicity and frugalitywas apt to be commented upon by domiciliary visits, and the eagerimposition of fanciful fines. That portion of the vast building occupiedby Prosper Alix and the _citoyenne_ Berthe, his daughter, presented anappearance of well-to-do comfort and modest ease, which contrasted withthe grandiose proportions and the elaborate decorations of the widecorridors, huge flat staircases, and lofty panelled apartments. The_avocat_ and his daughter lived quietly in the old place, hoping, aftera general fashion, for better times, but not finding the present verybad; the father becoming day by day more pleasant with his bargain, thedaughter growing fonder of the great house, and the noble _bocages_, ofthe scrappy little vineyards, struggling for existence on the sunnyhill-side, and the place where the famous shrine had been. They haddone it much damage; they had parted its riches among them; the onceever-open doors were shut, and the worn flags were untrodden; butnothing could degrade it, nothing could destroy what had been, in themind of Berthe Alix, who was as devout as her father was unconcernedlyunbelieving. Berthe was wonderfully well educated for a Frenchwoman ofthat period, and surprisingly handsome for a Frenchwoman of any. Not tootall to offend the taste of her compatriots, and not too short to bedignified and graceful, she had a symmetrical figure, and a small, well-poised head, whose profuse, shining, silken dark-brown hair shewore as nature intended, in a shower of curls, never touched by the handof the coiffeur, —curls which clustered over her brow, and fell far downon her shapely neck. Her features were fine; the eyes very dark, and themouth very red; the complexion clear and rather pale, and the style ofthe face and its expression lofty. When Berthe Alix was a child, peoplewere accustomed to say she was pretty and refined enough to belong tothe aristocracy; nobody would have dared to say so now, prettiness andrefinement, together with all the other virtues admitted to a place onthe patriotic roll, having become national property. 

Berthe loved her father dearly. She was deeply impressed with the senseof her supreme importance to him, and fully comprehended that he wouldbe influenced by and through her when all other persuasion or argumentwould be unavailing. When Prosper Alix wished and intended to doanything rather mean or selfish, he did it without letting Berthe know;and when he wished to leave undone something which he knew his daughterwould decide ought to be done, he carefully concealed from her theexistence of the dilemma. Nevertheless, this system did not prevent thefather and daughter being very good and even confidential friends. Prosper Alix loved his daughter immeasurably, and respected her morethan he respected any one in the world. With regard to her perseveringreligiousness, when such things were not only out of fashion and date, but illegal as well, he was very tolerant. Of course it was weak, and anabsurdity; but every woman, even his beautiful, incomparable Berthe, wasweak and absurd on some point or other; and, after all, he had come tothe conclusion that the safest weakness with which a woman can beafflicted is that romantic and ridiculous _faiblesse_ called piety. Sothese two lived a happy life together, Berthe’s share of it being verysecluded, and were wonderfully little troubled by the turbulence withwhich society was making its tumultuous way to the virtuous serenity ofrepublican perfection. 

The communication announcing the project of the _ci-devant_ Marquis forthe secure exportation of his nephew, and containing the skilful appealbefore mentioned, grievously disturbed the tranquillity of Prosper, andwas precisely one of those incidents which he would especially haveliked to conceal from his daughter. But he could not do so; the appealwas too cleverly made; and utter indifference to it, utter neglect ofthe letter, which naturally suggested itself as the easiest means ofgetting rid of a difficulty, would have involved an act of direct anduncompromising dishonesty to which Prosper, though of sufficientlyelastic conscience within the limit of professional gains, could notcontemplate. The Château de Sénanges was indeed his own lawful property;his without prejudice to the former owners, dispossessed by no act ofhis. But the _ci-devant_ Marquis—confiding in him to an extent whichwas quite astonishing, except on the _pis-aller_ theory, which is sounflattering as to be seldom accepted—announced to him the existence ofa certain packet, hidden in the château, acknowledging its value, andurging the need of its safe transmission. This was not his property. Heheartily wished he had never learned its existence, but wishing that wasclearly of no use; then he wished the nephew of the _ci-devant_ mightcome soon, and take himself and the hidden wealth away with all possiblespeed. This latter was a more realizable desire, and Prosper settled hismind with it, communicated the interesting but decidedly dangeroussecret to Berthe, received her warm sanction, and transmitted to theMarquis, by the appointed means, an assurance that his wishes should bepunctually carried out. The absence of an interdiction of his visitbefore a certain date was to be the signal to M. Paul de Sénanges thathe was to proceed to act upon his uncle’s instructions; he waited theproper time, the reassuring silence was maintained unbroken, and heultimately set forth on his journey, and accomplished it in safety. 

Preparations had been made at the Maison Alix for the reception of M. Glaire, and his supposed occupation had been announced. The apartmentswere decorated in a heavy, gloomy style, and those of the _citoyenne_ inparticular (they had been occupied by a lady who had once beendesignated as _feue Madame la Marquise_, but who was referred to now as_la mère du ci-devant_) were much in need of renovation. The alcove, forinstance, was all that was least gay and most far from simple. The_citoyenne_ would have all that changed. On the morning of the day ofthe expected arrival, Berthe said to her father:

“It would seem as if the Marquis did not know the exact spot in whichthe packet is deposited. M. Paul’s assumed character implies thenecessity for a search. ”

M. Henri Glaire arrived at the Maison Alix, was fraternally received, and made acquainted with the sphere of his operations. The young man hada good deal of both ability and taste in the line he had assumed, andthe part was not difficult to play. Some days were judiciously allowedto pass before the real object of the masquerade was pursued, and duringthat time cordial relations established themselves between the _avocat_and his guest. The young man was handsome, elegant, engaging, with allthe external advantages, and devoid of the vices, errors, and hopelessinfatuated unscrupulousness, of his class; he had naturally quickintelligence, and some real knowledge and comprehension of life had beenknocked into him by the hard-hitting blows of Fate. His face was likehis mother’s, Prosper Alix thought, and his mind and tastes were of thevery pattern which, in theory, Berthe approved. Berthe, a veryunconventional French girl—who thought the new era of purity, love, virtue, and disinterestedness ought to do away with marriage by barteras one of its most notable reforms, and had been disenchanted bydiscovering that the abolition of marriage altogether suited the tasteof the incorruptible Republic better—might like, might even love, thisyoung man. She saw so few men, and had no fancy for patriots; she wouldcertainly be obstinate about it if she did chance to love him. Thiswould be a nice state of affairs. This would be a pleasant consequenceof the confiding request of the _ci-devant_. Prosper wished with all hisheart for the arrival of the concerted signal, which should tell HenriGlaire that he might fulfil the purpose of his sojourn at the MaisonAlix, and set forth for Marseilles. 

But the signal did not come, and the days—long, beautiful, sunny, soothing summer-days—went on. The painting of the panels of the_citoyenne’s_ apartment, which she vacated for that purpose, progressedslowly; and M. Paul de Sénanges, guided by the ground-plan, and aided byBerthe, had discovered the spot in which the jewels of price, almost thelast remnants of the princely wealth of the Sénanges, had been hidden bythe _femme-de-chambre_ who had perished with her mistress, havingconfided a general statement of the fact to a priest, for transmissionto the Marquis. This spot had been ingeniously chosen. Thesleeping-apartment of the late Marquis was extensive, lofty, andprovided with an alcove of sufficiently large dimensions to have formedin itself a handsome room. This space, containing a splendid but gloomybed, on an estrade, and hung with rich faded brocade, was divided fromthe general extent of the apartment by a low railing of black oak, elaborately carved, opening in the centre, and with a flat wide baralong the top, covered with crimson velvet. The curtains were contrivedto hang from the ceiling, and, when let down inside the screen ofrailing, they matched the draperies which closed before the great stonebalcony at the opposite end of the room. Since the _avocat’s_ daughterhad occupied this palatial chamber, the curtains of the alcove had neverbeen drawn, and she had substituted for them a high folding screen ofblack-and-gold Japanese pattern, also a relic of the grand old times, which stood about six feet on the outside of the rails that shut in herbed. The floor was of shining oak, testifying to the conscientious andsuccessful labors of successive generations of _frotteurs_; and on thespot where the railing of the alcove opened by a pretty quaint devicesundering the intertwined arms of a pair of very chubby cherubs, asquare space in the floor was also richly carved. 

The seekers soon reached the end of their search. A little effortremoved the square of carved oak, and underneath they found a casket, evidently of old workmanship, richly wrought in silver, much tarnishedbut quite intact. It was agreed that this precious deposit should bereplaced, and the carved square laid down over it, until the signal forhis departure should reach Paul. The little baggage which under anycircumstances he could have ventured to allow himself in the dangerousjourney he was to undertake, must be reduced, so as to admit of hiscarrying the casket without exciting suspicion. 

The finding of the hidden treasure was not the first joint discoverymade by the daughter of the _avocat_ and the son of the _ci-devant_. Thecogitations of Prosper Alix were very wise, very reasonable; but theywere a little tardy. Before he had admitted the possibility of mischief, the mischief was done. Each had found out that the love of the other wasindispensable to the happiness of life; and they had exchangedconfidences, assurances, protestations, and promises, as freely, asfervently, and as hopefully, as if no such thing as a Republic, one andindivisible, with a keen scent and an unappeasable thirst for the bloodof aristocrats, existed. They forgot all about “Liberty, Fraternity, andEquality”—these egotistical, narrow-minded young people;—they alsoforgot the characteristic alternative to those unparalleledblessings—“Death. ” But Prosper Alix did not forget any of these things;and his consternation, his provision of suffering for his beloveddaughter, were terrible, when she told him, with a simple noblefrankness which the _grandes dames_ of the dead-and-gone time of greatladies had rarely had a chance of exhibiting, that she loved M. Paul deSénanges, and intended to marry him when the better times should come. Perhaps she meant when that alternative of _death_ should be struck offthe sacred formula;—of course she meant to marry him with the sanctionof her father, which she made no doubt she should receive. 

Prosper Alix was in pitiable perplexity. He could not bear to terrifyhis daughter by a full explanation of the danger she was incurring; hecould not bear to delude her with false hope. If this young man could begot away at once safely, there was not much likelihood that he wouldever be able to return to France. Would Berthe pine for him, or wouldshe forget him, and make a rational, sensible, rich, republicanmarriage, which would not imperil either her reputation for purepatriotism or her father’s? The latter would be the very best thing thatcould possibly happen, and therefore it was decidedly unwise tocalculate upon it; but, after all, it was possible; and Prosper had notthe courage, in such a strait, to resist the hopeful promptings of apossibility. How ardently he regretted that he had complied with theprayer of the _ci-devant_! When would the signal for Mr. Paul’sdeparture come?

Prosper Alix had made many sacrifices, had exercised much self-controlfor his daughter’s sake; but he had never sustained a more severe trialthan this, never suffered more than he did now, under the strongnecessity for hiding from her his absolute conviction of theimpossibility of a happy result for this attachment, in that future towhich the lovers looked so fearlessly. He could not even make hisanxiety and apprehension known to Paul de Sénanges; for he did notbelieve the young man had sufficient strength of will to concealanything so important from the keen and determined observation ofBerthe. 

The expected signal was not given, and the lovers were incautious. Theseclusion of the Maison Alix had all the danger, as well as all thedelight, of solitude, and Paul dropped his disguise too much and toooften. The servants, few in number, were of the truest patrioticprinciples, and to some of them the denunciation of the _citoyen_, whomthey condescended to serve because the sacred Revolution had not yetmade them as rich as he, would have been a delightful duty, asweet-smelling sacrifice to be laid on the altar of the country. Theyheard certain names and places mentioned; they perceived many thingswhich led them to believe that Henri Glaire was not an industrial artistand pure patriot, worthy of respect, but a wretched _ci-devant_, resorting to the dignity of labor to make up for the righteousdestruction of every other kind of dignity. One day a gardener, of lessstoical virtue than his fellows, gave Prosper Alix a warning that thepresence of a _ci-devant_ upon his premises was suspected, and that hemight be certain a domiciliary visit, attended with dangerous results tohimself, would soon take place. Of course the _avocat_ did not commithimself by any avowal to this lukewarm patriot; but he casuallymentioned that Henri Glaire was about to take his leave. What was to bedone? He must not leave the neighborhood without receiving theinstructions he was awaiting; but he must leave the house, and besupposed to have gone quite away. Without any delay or hesitation, Prosper explained the facts to Berthe and her lover, and insisted on thenecessity for an instant parting. Then the courage and the readiness ofthe girl told. There was no crying, and very little trembling; she wasstrong and helpful. 

“He must go to Pichon’s, father, ” she said, “and remain there until thesignal is given. —Pichon is a master-mason, Paul, ” she continued, turning to her lover, “and his wife was my nurse. They are avariciouspeople; but they are fond of me in their way, and they will shelter youfaithfully enough, when they know that my father will pay themhandsomely. You must go at once, unseen by the servants; they are atsupper. Fetch your valise, and bring it to my room. We will put thecasket in it, and such of your things as you must take out to make roomfor it, we can hide under the plank. My father will go with you toPichon’s, and we will communicate with you there as soon as it is safe. ”

Paul followed her to the large gloomy room where the treasure lay, andthey took the casket from its hiding-place. It was heavy, though notlarge, and an awkward thing to pack away among linen in a small valise. They managed it, however, and, the brief preparation completed, themoment of parting arrived. Firmly and eloquently, though in haste, Berthe assured Paul of her changeless love and faith, and promised himto wait for him for any length of time in France, if better days shouldbe slow of coming, or to join him in some foreign land, if they werenever to come. Her father was present, full of compassion and misgiving. At length he said:

“Come, Paul, you must leave her; every moment is of importance. ”

The young man and his betrothed were standing on the spot whence theyhad taken the casket; the carved rail with the heavy curtains might havebeen the outer sanctuary of an altar, and they bride and bridegroombefore it, with earnest, loving faces, and clasped hands. 

“Farewell, Paul, ” said Berthe; “promise me once more, in this the momentof our parting, that you will come to me again, if you are alive, whenthe danger is past. ”

“Whether I am living or dead, Berthe, ” said Paul de Sénanges, stronglymoved by some sudden inexplicable instinct, “I will come to you again. ”

In a few more minutes, Prosper Alix and his guest, who carried, notwithout difficulty, the small but heavy leather valise, had disappearedin the distance, and Berthe was on her knees before the _prie-dieu_ ofthe _ci-devant_ Marquise, her face turned toward the “Holy Hill” ofFourvières. 

Pichon, _mâitre_, and his sons, _garçons-maçons_, were well-to-dopeople, rather morose, exceedingly avaricious, and of taciturndispositions; but they were not ill spoken of by their neighbors. Theyhad amassed a good deal of money in their time, and were just thenengaged on a very lucrative job. This was the construction of several ofthe steep descents, by means of stairs, straight and winding, cut in theface of the _côteaux_, by which pedestrians are enabled to descend intothe town. Pichon _père_ was a _propriétaire_ as well; his property wasthat which is now in the possession of Giraudier, _pharmacien, premièreclasse_, and which was destined to attain a sinister celebrity duringhis proprietorship. One of the straightest and steepest of the stairwayshad been cut close to the _terre_ which the mason owned, and a massivewall, destined to bound the high-road at the foot of the declivity, wasin course of construction. 

When Prosper Alix and Paul de Sénanges reached the abode of Pichon, themaster-mason, with his sons and workmen, had just completed their day’swork, and were preparing to eat the supper served by the wife andmother, a tall, gaunt woman, who looked as if a more liberal scale ofhousekeeping would have done her good, but on whose features the stampof that devouring and degrading avarice which is the commonest vice ofthe French peasantry, was set as plainly as on the hard faces of herhusband and her sons. The _avocat_ explained his business and introducedhis companion briefly, and awaited the reply of Pichon _père_ withoutany appearance of inquietude. 

“You don’t run any risk, ” he said; “at least, you don’t run any riskwhich I cannot make it worth your while to incur. It is not the firsttime you have received a temporary guest on my recommendation. You knownothing about the citizen Glaire, except that he is recommended to youby me. I am responsible; you can, on occasion, make me so. The citizenmay remain with you a short time; can hardly remain long. Say, citizen, is it agreed? I have no time to spare. ”

It was agreed, and Prosper Alix departed, leaving M. Paul de Sénanges, convinced that the right, indeed the only, thing had been done, and yetmuch troubled and depressed. 

Pichon _père_ was a short, squat, powerfully built man, verging onsixty, whose thick, dark grizzled hair, sturdy limbs, and hard hands, onwhich the muscles showed like cords, spoke of endurance and strength; hewas, indeed, noted in the neighborhood for those qualities. His sonsresembled him slightly, and each other closely, as was natural, for theywere twins. They were heavy, lumpish fellows, and they made but anungracious return to the attempted civilities of the stranger, to whomthe offer of their mother to show him his room was a decided relief. Ashe rose to follow the woman, Paul de Sénanges lifted his small valisewith difficulty from the floor, on which he had placed it on enteringthe house, and carried it out of the room in both his arms. Thebrothers followed these movements with curiosity, and, when the doorclosed behind their mother and the stranger, their eyes met. 

 * * * * *

Twenty-four hours had passed away, and nothing new had occurred at theMaison Alix. The servants had not expressed any curiosity respecting thedeparture of the citizen Glaire, no domiciliary visit had taken place, and Berthe and her father were discussing the propriety of Prosper’sventuring, on the pretext of an excursion in another direction, a visitto the isolated and quiet dwelling of the master-mason. No signal hadyet arrived. It was agreed that after the lapse of another day, if theirtranquillity remained undisturbed, Prosper Alix should visit Paul deSénanges. Berthe, who was silent and preoccupied, retired to her ownroom early, and her father, who was uneasy and apprehensive, desperatelyanxious for the promised communication from the Marquis, was relieved byher absence. 

The moon was high in the dark sky, and her beams were flung across thepolished oak floor of Berthe’s bedroom, through the great window withthe stone balcony, when the girl, who had gone to sleep with her lover’sname upon her lips in prayer, awoke with a sudden start, and sat up inher bed. An unbearable dread was upon her; and yet she was unable toutter a cry, she was unable to make another movement. Had she heard avoice? No, no one had spoken, nor did she fancy that she heard anysound. But within her, somewhere inside her heaving bosom, somethingsaid, “Berthe!”

And she listened, and knew what it was. And it spoke, and said:

“I promised you that, living or dead, I would come to you again. And Ihave come to you; but not living. ”

She was quite awake. Even in the agony of her fear she looked around, and tried to move her hands, to feel her dress and the bedclothes, andto fix her eyes on some familiar object, that she might satisfy herself, before this racing and beating, this whirling and yet icy chilliness ofher blood should kill her outright, that she was really awake. 

“I have come to you; but not living. ”

What an awful thing that voice speaking within her was! She tried toraise her head and to look toward the place where the moonbeams markedbright lines upon the polished floor, which lost themselves at the footof the Japanese screen. She forced herself to this effort, and liftedher eyes, wild and haggard with fear, and there, the moonbeams at hisfeet, the tall black screen behind him, she saw Paul de Sénanges. Shesaw him; she looked at him quite steadily; she rose, slowly, with amechanical movement, and stood upright beside her bed, clasping herforehead with her hands, and gazing at him. He stood motionless, in thedress he had worn when he took leave of her, the light-coloredriding-coat of the period, with a short cape, and a large white cravattucked into the double breast. The white muslin was flecked, and thefront of the riding-coat was deeply stained, with blood. He looked ather, and she took a step forward—another—then, with a desperateeffort, she dashed open the railing and flung herself on her kneesbefore him, with her arms stretched out as if to clasp him. But he wasno longer there; the moonbeams fell clear and cold upon the polishedfloor, and lost themselves where Berthe lay, at the foot of the screen, her head upon the ground, and every sign of life gone from her. 

 * * * * *

“Where is the citizen Glaire?” asked Prosper Alix of the _citoyenne_Pichon, entering the house of the master-mason abruptly, and with astern and threatening countenance. “I have a message for him; I must seehim. ”

“I know nothing about him, ” replied the _citoyenne_, without turning inhis direction, or relaxing her culinary labors. “He went away from herethe next morning, and I did not trouble myself to ask where; that is hisaffair. ”

“He went away? Without letting me know! Be careful, _citoyenne_; this isa serious matter. ”

“So they tell me, ” said the woman with a grin, which was not altogetherfree from pain and fear; “for you! A serious thing to have a _suspect_in your house, and palm him off on honest people. However, he went awaypeaceably enough when he knew we had found him out, and that we had nodesire to go to prison, or worse, on his account, or yours. ”

She was strangely insolent, this woman, and the listener felt hishelplessness; he had brought the young man there with such secrecy, hehad so carefully provided for the success of concealment. 

“Who carried his valise?” Prosper Alix asked her suddenly. 

“How should I know?” she replied; but her hands lost their steadiness, and she upset a stew-pan; “he carried it here, didn’t he? and I supposehe carried it away again. ”

Prosper Alix looked at her steadily—she shunned his gaze, but sheshowed no other sign of confusion; then horror and disgust of the womancame over him. 

“I must see Pichon, ” he said; “where is he?”

“Where should he be but at the wall? he and the boys are working there, as always. The citizen can see them; but he will remember not to detainthem; in a little quarter of an hour the soup will be ready. ”

The citizen did see the master-mason and his sons, and after aninterview of some duration he left the place in a state of violentagitation and complete discomfiture. The master-mason had addressed tohim these words at parting:

“I assert that the man went away at his own free will; but if you do notkeep very quiet, I shall deny that he came here at all—you cannot provehe did—and I will denounce you for harboring a _suspect_ and_ci-devant_ under a false name. I know a De Sénanges when I see him aswell as you, citizen Alix; and, wishing M. Paul a good journey, I hopeyou will consider about this matter, for truly, my friend, I think youwill sneeze in the sack before I shall. ”

 * * * * *

“We must bear it, Berthe, my child, ” said Prosper Alix to his daughtermany weeks later, when the fever had left her, and she was able to talkwith her father of the mysterious and frightful events which hadoccurred. “We are utterly helpless. There is no proof, only the word ofthese wretches against mine, and certain destruction to me if I speak. We will go to Spain, and tell the Marquis all the truth, and neverreturn, if you would rather not. But, for the rest, we must bear it. ”

“Yes, my father, ” said Berthe submissively, “I know we must; but Godneed not, and I don’t believe He will. ”

The father and the daughter left France unmolested, and Berthe “bore it”as well as she could. When better times come they returned, Prosper Alixan old man, and Berthe a stern, silent, handsome woman, with whom no oneassociated any notions of love or marriage. But long before their returnthe traditions of the Croix Rousse were enriched by circumstances whichled to that before-mentioned capital bargain made by the father of theGiraudier of the present. These circumstances were the violent death ofPichon and his two sons, who were killed by the fall of a portion of thegreat boundary-wall on the very day of its completion, and thediscovery, close to its foundation, at the extremity of Pichon’s_terre_, of the corpse of a young man attired in a light-coloredriding-coat, who had been stabbed through the heart. 

Berthe Alix lived alone in the Château de Sénanges, under its restoredname, until she was a very old woman. She lived long enough to see thegolden figure on the summit of the “Holy Hill, ” long enough to forgetthe bad old times, but not long enough to forget or cease to mourn thelover who had kept his promise, and come back to her; the lover whorested in the earth which once covered the bones of the martyrs, and whokept a place for her by his side. She has filled that place for manyyears. You may see it, when you look down from the second gallery of thebell-tower at Fourvières, following the bend of the outstretched goldenarm of Notre Dame. 

The château was pulled down some years ago, and there is no trace of itsformer existence among the vines. 

Good times, and bad times, and again good times have come for the CroixRousse, for Lyons, and for France, since then; but the remembrance ofthe treachery of Pichon & Sons, and of the retribution which at onceexposed and punished their crime, outlives all changes. And once, everyyear, on a certain summer night, three ghostly figures are seen, by anywho have courage and patience to watch for them, gliding along by thefoot of the boundary-wall, two of them carrying a dangling corpse, andthe other, implements for mason’s work and a small leather valise. Giraudier, _pharmacien_, has never seen these ghostly figures, but hedescribes them with much minuteness; and only the _esprits forts_ of theCroix Rousse deny that the ghosts of Pichon & Sons are not yet laid. 

THE PHANTOM FOURTH. 

They were three. 

It was in the cheap night-service train from Paris to Calais that Ifirst met them. 

Railways, as a rule, are among the many things which they do _not_ orderbetter in France, and the French Northern line is one of the worstmanaged in the world, barring none, not even the Italian _vie ferrate_. I make it a rule, therefore, to punish the directors of, and theshareholders in, that undertaking to the utmost within my limitedability, by spending as little money on their line as I can help. 

It was, then, in a third-class compartment of the train that I met thethree. 

Three as hearty, jolly-looking Saxon faces, with stalwart frames tomatch, as one would be likely to meet in an hour’s walk from theRegent’s Park to the Mansion House. 

One of the three was dark, the other two were fair. The dark one was thesenior of the party. He wore an incipient full beard, evidently inprocess of training, with a considerable amount of grizzle in it. 

The face of one of his companions was graced with a magnificent flowingbeard. The third of the party, a fair-haired youth of some twenty-threeor four summers, showed a scrupulously smooth-shaven face. 

They looked all three much flushed and slightly excited, and, I mustsay, they turned out the most boisterous set of fellows I ever met. 

They were clearly gentlemen, however, and men of education, withconsiderable linguistic acquirements; for they chatted and sang, anddeclaimed and “did orations” all the way from Paris to Calais, in aslightly bewildering variety of tongues. 

Their jollity had, perhaps, just a little over-tinge of the slap-bangjolly-dog style in it; but there was so much heartiness and good-naturein all they said and in all they did, that it was quite impossible forany of the other occupants of the carriage to vote them a nuisance; andeven the sourest of the officials, whom they chaffed most unmercifullyand unremittingly at every station on the line, took their punishmentwith a shrug and a grin. The only person, indeed, who rose against themin indignant protestation was the head-waiter at the Calais stationrefreshment-room, to whom they would persist in propounding puzzlingproblems, such as, for instance, “If you charge two shillings forone-and-a-half-ounce slice of breast of veal, how many fools will ittake to buy the joint off you?”—and what _he_ got by the attempt tostop their chaff was a caution to any other sinner who might have feltsimilarly inclined. 

As for me, I could only give half my sense of hearing to theirutterings, the other half being put under strict sequester at the timeby my friend O’Kweene, the great Irish philosopher, who was deliveringto me, for my own special behoof and benefit, a brilliant, albeitsomewhat abstruse, dissertation on the “visible and palpable outwardmanifestations of the inner consciousness of the soul in a trance;”which occupied all the time from Paris to Calais, full eight hours, andwhich, to judge from my feelings at the time, would certainly affordmatter for three heavy volumes of reading in bed, in cases of inveteratesleeplessness—a hint to enterprising publishers. 

My friend O’Kweene, who intended to stay a few days at Calais, tookleave of me on the pier, and I went on board the steamer that was tocarry us and the mail over to Dover. 

Here I found our trio of the railway-car, snugly ensconced under anextemporized awning, artfully constructed with railway-rugs andgreatcoats, supported partly against the luggage, and partly uponseveral oars, purloined from the boats, and turned into tent-poles forthe nonce—which made the skipper swear wofully when he found it outsome time after. 

The three were even more cheery and boisterous on board than they hadbeen on shore. From what I could make out in the dark, they werediscussing the contents of divers bottles of liquor; I counted four deadmen dropped quietly overboard by them in the course of the hour and ahalf we had to wait for the arrival of the mail-train, which was late, as usual on this line. 

At last we were off, about half-past two o’clock in the morning. It wasa beautiful, clear, moonlit night, so clear, indeed, that we could seethe Dover lights almost from Calais harbor. But we had considerably morethan a capful of wind, and there was a turgent ground-swell on, whichmade our boat—double-engined, and as trim and tidy a craft as ever spedacross the span from shore to shore—behave rather lively, with sportiveindulgence in a brisk game of pitch-and-toss that proved anything butcomfortable to most of the passengers. 

When we were steaming out of Calais harbor, our three friends, emergingfrom beneath their tent, struck up in chorus Campbell’s noble song, “YeMariners of England, ” finishing up with a stave from “Rule, Britannia!”

But, alas for them! however loudly their throats were shouting forth thesway proverbially held by Albion and her sons over the waves, on thisoccasion at least the said waves seemed determined upon ruling theseparticular three Britons with a rod of antimony; for barely a fewseconds after the last vibrating echoes of the “Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!” had died away upon the wind, I beheld the threeleaning lovingly together, in fast friendship linked, over the rail, conversing in deep ventriguttural accents with the denizens of Neptune’swatery realm. 

We had one of the quickest passages on record—ninety-three minutes’steaming carried us across from shore to shore. When we were just on thepoint of landing, I heard the dark senior of the party mutter to hiscompanions, in a hollow whisper and mysterious manner, “He is goneagain;” to which the others, the bearded and the smooth-shaven, responded in the same way, with deep sighs of evident relief, “Ay, marry! so he is at last. ”

This mysterious communication roused my curiosity. Who was the partythat was said to be gone at last? Where had he come from? where had hebeen hiding, that _I_ had not seen him? and where was he gone to now? Idetermined to know; if but the opportunity would offer, to screw, bycunning questioning, the secret out of either of the three. 

Fate favored my design. 

For some inscrutable reason, known only to the company’s officials, wecheap-trainers were not permitted to proceed on our journey to Londonalong with the mail, but were left to kick our heels for some two hoursat the Dover station. 

I went into the refreshment-room to look for my party; I had a notion Ishould find them where the Briton’s unswerving and unerring instinctwould be most likely to lead them. It turned out that I was right in myconjecture. There they were, seated round a table with huge bowls ofsteaming tea and monster piles of buttered toast and muffins spread onthe festive board before them. Ay, indeed, there they were; but _quantummutati ab illis_! how strangely changed from the noisy, rollicking set Ihad known them in the railway-car and on board the steamer, ere yet thedemon of sea-sickness had claimed them for his own! How ghastly soberthey looked now, to be sure! And how sternly and silently bent upondevoting themselves to the swilling of the Chinese shrub infusion and tothe gorging of indigestible muffins. It was quite clear to me that itwould have been worse than folly to venture upon addressing them whilethus absorbed in absorbing. So I resolved to await a more favorableopening, and went out meanwhile to walk on the platform. 

A short time I was left in solitary possession of the promenade; then Ibecame suddenly aware that another traveller was treading the sameground with me—it was the dark elderly leader of the three. I glancedat him as he passed me under one of the lamps. He looked pale and sad. The furrowed lines on his brow bespoke deliberation deep and ponderingprofound. All the infinite mirth of the preceding few hours had departedfrom him, leaving him but a wretched wreck of his former reckless self. 

“A fine night, sir, ” I said to break the ice—“for the season of theyear, ” I added by way of a saving clause, to tone down the absolutenessof the assertion. 

He looked at me abstractedly, merely reëchoing my own words, “A finenight, sir, for the season of the year. ”

“Why look ye so sad now, who were erst so jolly?” I bluntly asked, determined to force him into conversation. 

“Ay, indeed, why so sad now?” he replied, looking me full in the face;then, suddenly clasping my arm with a spasmodic grip, he continuedhurriedly, “I think I had best confide our secret to you. You seem a manof thought. I witnessed and admired the patient attention with which youlistened to your friend’s abstruse talk in the railway-car. Maybe youcan find the solution of a mystery which defies the ponderings of ourpoor brains—mine and my two friends. ”

Then he proceeded to pour into my attentive ear this gruesome tale ofmystery:

“We three—that is, myself, yon tall bearded Briton, ” pointing to theglass door of the refreshment-room, “whose name is Jack Hobson, andyoung Emmanuel Topp, junior partner in a great beer firm, whom you maybehold now at his fifth bowl of tea and his seventh muffin—areteetotallers——”

“Teetotallers!” I could not help exclaiming. “Lord bless me! that iscertainly about the last thing I should have taken you for, either ofyou. ”

“Well, ” he replied with some slight confusion, “at least, we _weretotal_ teetotallers, though I admit we can now only claim the characterof partial abstainers. The fact is, when, about a fortnight ago, we werediscussing the plan of our projected visit to the great ParisExhibition, Topp suggested that while in France we should do as theFrench do, to which Jack Hobson assented, remarking that the French knewnothing about tea, and that a Frenchman’s tea would be sure to prove anEnglishman’s poison. So we resolved to suspend the pledge during ourvisit to France. 

“It was on the second day after our arrival in Paris. We were dining ina private cabinet at Désiré Beaurain’s, one of the leading restaurantson the fashionable side of the Montmartre—Italiens Boulevard. Ourdinner was what an Irishman might call a most ‘illigant’ affair. We hadsipped several bottles of Sauterne, and tasted a few of Tavel, and wewere just topping the entertainment with a solitary bottle of champagne, when I became suddenly aware of the presence of another party in theroom—a _fourth man_—who sat him down at our table, and helped himselfliberally to our liquor. From what I ascertained afterward from JackHobson and Emmanuel Topp, the intruder’s presence became revealed tothem also, either about the same time or a little later. What was helike? I cannot tell. His figure and face remained indistinctthroughout—phantom-like. His features seemed endowed with a strongeweird mobility that would defyingly elude the fixing grasp of our eagereyes. Now, and to my two companions, he would look marvellously like me;then, to me, he would stalk and rave about in the likeness of JackHobson; again, he would seem the counterfeit of Emmanuel Topp; then hewould look like all the three of us put together; then like neither ofus, nor like anybody else. Oh, sir, it was a woful thing to be hauntedby this phantom apparition. Yet the strangest part of the affair wasthat neither of us seemed to feel a whit surprised at the dreadpresence; that we quietly and uncomplainingly let him drink our wine, and actually give orders for more; that we never objected, in fact, toany of his sayings and doings. What seemed also strange was that thewaiter, while yet receiving and executing his orders, was evidentlypretending to ignore his presence. But then, as I dare say you know aswell as I do, French waiters are _such_ actors!

“Well, to resume, there he was, this fourth man, seated at our table andfeasting at our expense. And the pranks that he would play us—they weretruly stupendous. He began his little game by ordering in half-a-dozenof champagne. And when the waiter seemed slightly doubtful andhesitating about executing the order, Topp, forsooth, must put in hisoar, and indorse the command, actually pretending that _I_, who am nowspeaking to you, and who am the very last man in the world likely todream of such a preposterous thing, had given the order, and that I wasa jolly old brick, and the best of boon companions. Surprise at thisbarefaced assertion kept me mute, and so, of course, the champagne wasbrought in, and I thought the best thing to do under the circumstanceswas to have my share of it at least; and so I had—my fair share; but, bless you, it was nothing to what that fourth man drank of it. In fact, the amount of liquor _he_ would swill on this and on the many subsequentoccasions he intruded his presence upon us, was a caution. 

“We paid our little bill without grumbling, though the presence of thefourth man at our table had added rather heavily to the _addition_, asthey call bills at French restaurants. 

“We sallied forth into the street to get a whiff of fresh air. _He_, thedemon, pertinaciously stuck to us; he familiarly linked his arm throughmine, and, suggesting coffee as rather a good thing to take afterdinner, took us over to the Café du Cardinal, where he, however, tooknone of the Arabian beverage himself (there being only three cups placedfor us, as I distinctly saw), but drank an interminable succession of_chasse-café_, utterly regardless of the divisional lines of the cognac_carafon_. Part of these he would take neat, another portion he wouldburn over sugar, gloating glaringly over the bluish flame, while gleamsof demoniac delight would flit across his ever-changing features. JackHobson and Topp, I am sorry to say, joined him with a will in thisdouble-distilled debauch; and when I attempted to remonstrate with them, they brazenly asserted that _I_, who am now speaking to you, who havealways, publicly and privately, declared brandy to be the worst of evilspirits, had taken more of it, to my own cheek, as they slangilyexpressed it, than the two of them together; and the waiter, who hadevidently been bribed by them, boldly maintained that _le vieuxmonsieur_, as he had the impudence to call me, had swallowed _plus detrois carafons de fine_; whereupon the fourth man, stepping up to him, punched his head, which served him right. Now you will hardly believe mewhen I tell you that at that very instant Topp forced me back into mychair, while Jack Hobson pinioned my arms from behind, and the waiterhad the unblushing effrontery to stamp and rave at me like a maniac, demanding satisfaction or compensation at my hands for the unprovokedassault committed upon him by _me, coram populo_!—by _me_, who, I begto assure you, am the most peaceable man living, and am actually famedfor the mildness of my disposition and the sweetness and suavity of mytemper. And, would you believe it? everybody present, waiters andguests, and my own two bosom-friends, joined in the conspiracy againstme, and I actually had to give the wretch of a waiter ten francs as aplaster for his broken pate, and a salve for his wounded honor! Wherewas the real culprit all this time, you ask me—the fourth man? Why, hequietly stood by grinning, and they all and every one of them pretendednot to see him, though Topp and Jack Hobson next morning confessed to methat they certainly had an indistinct consciousness of the presencethroughout of this miserable intruder. 

“How we finished that night I remember not; nor could Jack Hobson orEmmanuel Topp. All we could conscientiously stand by, if we werequestioned, is that we awoke next morning—the three of us—with someslight swimming in our heads, and a hazy recollection of a gorgeousdream of brilliant lights and sounds of music and revelry, and brightvisions of groves and grottoes, and dancing houris (or hussies, as moralJack Hobson calls the poor things), and a hot supper at a certain placein the Passage des Princes, of which I think the name is Peter’s. 

“I will not tire your courteous patience by a detailed narrative of ourexperiences day after day, during our fortnight’s stay in Paris. Sufficeit to tell you that from that time forward to yesterday, when we left, the _fourth man_, as we, by mutual consent, agreed to call the phantomapparition, came in regularly to our dinner; with the dessert or alittle after; that he would constantly suggest a fresh supply of CôteSt. Jacques, Moulin-à-Vent, Beaune, Chambertin, Roederer Carte Blanche, and a variety of other, generally rather more than less expensive, wines—and that he somehow would manage to make us have them, too. 

“Then he would sally forth with us to the café, where he would indulgein irritating chaff of the waiters, and in slighting comments upon thegreat French nation in general, and the Parisians in particular, andupon their institutions and manners and customs. 

“He would insist upon singing the Marseillaise; he would speakdisparagingly of the Emperor, whom he would irreverently call Lambert;he would pass cutting and unsavory remarks upon the glorious system ofthe night-carts; he would call down the judgment of Heaven upon thedevoted head of poor Mr. Haussmann; he would go up to some unhappysergent-de-ville, who might, however unwittingly, excite his ire, andtell him a bit of his mind in English, with sarcastic allusions to hiscocket-hat and his toasting-fork, and polite inquiries after the healthof _ce cher_ Monsieur Lambert, or the whereabouts of _cet excellent_Monsieur Godinot. The worst of the matter was that I suppose for thereason that man is an imitative animal, a sort of _πιθηκος μυωρος_, orMonboddian monkey minus the tail—my two companions were, somehow, always sure to join the wretch in his evil behavior, and to go onjust as bad as he did. No wonder, then, that we got into no end ofrows, and it is a marvel to me now, how ever we have managed to getoff with a whole skin to our bodies. 

“He would insist upon taking us to Mabille, the Closerie des Lilas, andthe Châteaurouge, where he would indulge in the maddest pranks andantics, and somehow lead us to join in the wildest dances, and make uslift our legs as high as the highest lifter among the _habitués_, maleor female. 

“One night, at about half-past two in the morning (_Hibernicè_), he hadthe cool assurance to drag us along with him to the then closed entranceto the Passage des Princes, where he frantically shook the gate, andinsisted to the frightened concierge, who came running up in hisnight-shirt, that Peter’s must and ought to be open still, as _we_ hadnot had our supper yet; and Topp and Jack Hobson, forsooth, must join inthe row. I have no distinct recollection of whether it was our phantomguest or either of my companions that madly strove to detain the hastilyretreating form of the concierge by a desperate clutch at the tail ofhis shirt; I only remember that the garment gave way in the struggle, and that the unhappy functionary was reduced nearly altogether to theprimitive buff costume of the father of man in Paradise ere he had puthis teeth into that unlucky apple of which, the pips keep soinconveniently sticking in poor humanity’s gizzard to the present day. And what I remember also to my cost is, that the sergent-de-ville, whomthe bereaved man’s shouts of distress brought to the scene, fastenedupon _me_, the most inoffensive of mortals, for a compensation fine oftwenty francs, as if _I_ had been the culprit. And deuced glad we were, I assure you, to get off without more serious damage to our pocket andreputation than this, and a copious volley of _sacrés ivrognes Anglais_, fired at us by the wretched concierge and his friend of the police, who, I am quite sure, went halves with him in the compensation. Ah! they area lawless set, these French. 

“On another occasion we three went to the Exhibition, where we visitedone of our colonial departments, in company with several Englishfriends, and some French gentlemen appointed on the wine jury. We wentto taste a few samples of colonial wines. _He_ was not with us _then_. Barely, however, had we uncorked a poor dozen bottles, which turned outrather good for colonial, though a little raw and slightly uneducated, when _who_ should stalk in but our fourth man, as jaunty andunconcerned as ever. Well, _he_ fell to tasting, and he soon greweloquent in praise of the colonial juice, which he declared would, inanother twenty years’ time, be fit to compete successfully with the bestFrench vintages. Of course, the French gentlemen with us could not stand_this_; they spoke slightingly of the British colonial, and one of themeven went so far as to call it rotgut. I cannot say whether it was thespirit of the uncompromising opinion thus pronounced, or the coarselyindelicate way in which the judgment of our French friend was expressed, that riled our phantom guest—enough, it brought him down in full forceupon the offender and his countrymen, with most fluent Frenchvituperation and an unconscionable amount of bad jokes and worse puns, finishing up with a general address to them as members of the_disgusting_ jury, instead of jury of _dégustation_. Now, this I shouldnot have minded so much; for, I must confess, I felt rather nettled atthe national conceit and prejudice of these French. But the wretch, inthe impetuous utterance of his invective, must somehow—though I was notaware of it at the time—have mimicked my gestures and imitated the verytones and accent of my voice so closely as to deceive even some of myEnglish companions: or how else to account for the fact of their callingme a noisy brawler and a pestilent nuisance? _me_, the gentlest andmildest-spoken of mortals!

“Before our departure from London we had calculated our probableexpenses on a most liberal scale, and we had made comfortable provisionaccordingly for a few weeks’ stay in Paris. But with the additionalheavy burden of the franking of so copious an imbiber as our fourth manthus unexpectedly thrown on our shoulders, it was no great wonder thatwe should find our resources go much faster than we had anticipated; sowe had already been forcedly led to bethink ourselves of shortening ourintended stay in the French capital when a fresh exploit of the phantomfourth, climaxing all his past misdeeds, brought matters to a crisis. 

“It was the day before yesterday, the 4th of September. We had beendining at Marigny, and dancing at Mabille. Our eccentric guest had comein, as usual, with the champagne, and had of course, after dinner, takenus over to the enchanted gardens. We were all very jolly. _He_ suggestedsupper at the Cascades, in the Bois de Boulogne. We chartered a _fiacre_to take us there and back. We supped rather copiously. _He_ somehow madeour coachman drunk, and took upon himself to drive us home. Need I tellyou that he upset us in the Avenue de l’Impératrice, and that we had towalk it, and pretty fast too? It was a mercy there were no bones broken. 

“Well, as we were walking along, just barely recovering from the shockof the accident, he suddenly took some new whim into his confoundednoddle. Nothing would do for him but he must drag us along with him tothe great entrance of the Elysée Napoléon (which erst was, and maybe issoon likely to be once more, the Elysée Bourbon), where he had thebrazen impudence to claim admittance, as the Emperor, he pretended, hadbeen graciously pleased to offer us the splendid hospitality of thatrenowned mansion. What further happened here, neither I nor either ofmy friends can tell. Our recollections from this period till nextmorning are doubtful and indistinct. All we can state for certain is, that yesterday morning we awoke, the three of us, in a most wretchedstate, in a strange, nasty place. We learn soon after from a gentlemanin a cocked hat, who came to visit us on business, that the imperialhospitality which we had claimed last night had indeed been extended tous—only in the _violon_, instead of the Elysée. Our phantom guest wasgone: he would alway, somehow sneak away in the morning, when there wasnothing left for him to drink—the guzzling villain!

“The gentleman in the cocked-hat pressingly invited us to pay a visit tothe Commissaire du Quartier. That formidable functionary received uswith the customary French-polished veneer of urbanity which, as a rule, constitutes the _suaviter in modo_ of the higher class of Gallicofficials. He read us a severe lecture, however, upon the allegedimpropriety of our conduct; and when I ventured to protest that it wasnot to us the blame ought to be imputed, but to the _quatrième_, hemistook my meaning, and, ere I could explain myself, he cut me shortwith a polite remark that the French used the cardinal instead of theordinal numbers in stating the days of the month, with the exception ofthe first, and that he had had too much trouble with our countrymen (hetook us for Yankees!) on the 4th of July, to be disposed to look with anover-lenient eye upon the vagaries we had chosen to commit on the 4th ofSeptember, which he supposed was another great national day with us. Hewould, however, let us off this time with a simple reprimand, uponpayment of one hundred francs, compensation for damage done to thecoach—drunken cabby having turned up, of course, to testify against us. Well, we paid the money, and handed the worthy magistrate twenty francsbesides, for the benefit of the poor, by way of acknowledgment for theimperial hospitality we had enjoyed. We were then allowed to depart inpeace. 

“Now, you’ll hardly believe it, I dare say, but it is the truthnotwithstanding, that we three, who have been fast friends for years, actually began to quarrel among ourselves now, mutually imputing to oneanother the blame of all our misadventures and misfortunes since ourarrival in Paris, while yet we clearly knew and felt, each and every ofus, that it was all the doings of that phantom fourth. 

“One thing, however, we all agreed to do—to leave Paris by the firsttrain. 

“To fortify ourselves for the coming journey, we went to indulge in theluxury of a farewell breakfast at Désiré Beaurain’s. Of course weemptied a few bottles to our reconciliation. I do not exactly rememberhow many, but this I _do_ remember, that our irrepressible incubuswalked in again, and took his place in the midst of us rather soonereven than he had been wont to do; and he never left us from that time tothe moment of our landing at Dover harbor, when he took his, I hope andtrust final, departure with a ghastly grin. 

“I dare say you must have thought us a most noisy and obstreperous lot:well, with my hand on my heart, I can assure you, on my conscience, that a quieter and milder set of fellows than us three you are notlikely to find on this or the other side the Channel. But for thatmysterious phantom fourth——”

Here the whistle sounded, and the guard came up to us with a hurried, “Now then, gents, take your seats, please; train is off in half aminnit!”

“What can have become of Topp and Jack Hobson?” muttered my new friend, looking around him with eager scrutiny. “I should not wonder if theywere still refreshing. ” And he started off in the direction of therefreshment-room. 

I took my seat. Immediately after the train whirled off. I cannot saywhether the three were left behind; all I know is that I did not seethem get out at London Bridge. 

Remembering, however, that the appalling secret of the supernaturalvisitation which had thus harassed my three fellow-travellers had beenconfided to me under the impression that I might be likely to find asolution of the mystery, I have ever since deeply pondered thereon. 

Shallow thinkers, and sneerers uncharitably given, may, from aconsideration of the times, places, and circumstances at and under whichthe abnormal phenomena here recited were stated to have been observed, be led to attribute them simply to the promptings and imaginings ofbrains overheated by excessive indulgence in spirituous liquors. But I, striving to be mindful always of the great scriptural injunction tojudge not, lest we be judged, and opportunely remembering my friendO’Kweene’s learned dissertation above alluded to, feel disposed topronounce the apparition of the phantom of the fourth man, and all thesayings, doings, and demeanings of the same, to have been simply so manyvisible and palpable outward manifestations of the inner consciousnessof the souls of the three, and more notably of that of the elderlysenior of the party, in a succession of vino-alcoholic trances. 

My friend O’Kweene is, of course, welcome to such credit as may attachto this attempted solution of mine. 

THE SPIRIT’S WHISPER. 

Yes, I have been haunted!—haunted so fearfully that for some littletime I thought myself insane. I was no raving maniac; I mixed in societyas heretofore, although perhaps a trifle more grave and taciturn thanusual; I pursued my daily avocations; I employed myself even on literarywork. To all appearance I was one of the sanest of the sane; and yet allthe while I considered myself the victim of such strange delusions that, in my own mind, I fancied my senses—and one sense in particular—so farerratic and beyond my own control that I was, in real truth, a madman. How far I was then insane it must be for others, who hear my story, todecide. My hallucinations have long since left me, and, at all events, Iam now as sane as I suppose most men are. 

My first attack came on one afternoon when, being in a listless and anidle mood, I had risen from my work and was amusing myself withspeculating at my window on the different personages who were passingbefore me. At that time I occupied apartments in the Brompton Road. Perhaps, there is no thoroughfare in London where the ordinarypassengers are of so varied a description or high life and low lifemingle in so perpetual a medley. South-Kensington carriages there jostlecostermongers’ carts; the clerk in the public office, returning to hissuburban dwelling, brushes the laborer coming from his work on thenever-ending modern constructions in the new district; and the ladies ofsome of the surrounding squares flaunt the most gigantic of _chignons_, and the most exuberant of motley dresses, before the envying eyes of theragged girls with their vegetable-baskets. 

There was, as usual, plenty of material for observation and conjecturein the passengers, and their characters or destinations, from my windowon that day. Yet I was not in the right cue for the thorough enjoymentof my favorite amusement. I was in a rather melancholy mood. Somehow orother, I don’t know why, my memory had reverted to a pretty woman whom Ihad not seen for many years. She had been my first love, and I had lovedher with a boyish passion as genuine as it was intense. I thought myheart would have broken, and I certainly talked seriously of dying, whenshe formed an attachment to an ill-conditioned, handsome youngadventurer, and, on her family objecting to such an alliance, elopedwith him. I had never seen the fellow, against whom, however, Icherished a hatred almost as intense as my passion for the infatuatedgirl who had flown from her home for his sake. We had heard of her beingon the Continent with her husband, and learned that the man’s shiftylife had eventually taken him to the East. For some years nothing morehad been heard of the poor girl. It was a melancholy history, and itsmemory ill-disposed me for amusement. 

A sigh was probably just escaping my lips with the half-articulatedwords, “Poor Julia!” when my eyes fell on a man passing before mywindow. There was nothing particularly striking about him. He was tall, with fine features, and a long, fair beard, contrasting somewhat withhis bronzed complexion. I had seen many of our officers on their returnfrom the Crimea look much the same. Still, the man’s aspect gave me ashuddering feeling, I didn’t know why. At the same moment, a whispering, low voice uttered aloud in my ear the words, “It is he!” I turned, startled; there was no one near me, no one in the room. There was nofancy in the sound; I had heard the words with painful distinctness. Iran to the door, opened it—not a sound on the staircase, not a sound inthe whole house—nothing but the hum from the street. I came back andsat down. It was no use reasoning with myself; I had the ineffaceableconviction that I had heard the voice. Then first the idea crossed mymind that I might be the victim of hallucinations. Yes, it must havebeen so, for now I recalled to mind that the voice had been that of mypoor lost Julia; and at the moment I heard it I had been dreaming ofher. I questioned my own state of health. I was well; at least I hadbeen so, I felt fully assured, up to that moment. Now a feeling ofchilliness and numbness and faintness had crept over me, a cold sweatwas on my forehead. I tried to shake off this feeling by bringing backmy thoughts to some other subject. But, involuntarily as it were, Iagain uttered the words, “Poor Julia!” aloud. At the same time a deepand heavy sigh, almost a groan, was distinctly audible close by me. Isprang up; I was alone—quite alone. It was, once more, anhallucination. 

By degrees the first painful impression wore away. Some days had passed, and I had begun to forget my singular delusion. When my thoughts aidrevert to it, the recollection was dismissed as that of a ridiculousfancy. One afternoon I was in the Strand, coming from Charing Cross, when I was once more overcome by that peculiar feeling of cold andnumbness which I had before experienced. The day was warm and bright andgenial, and yet I positively shivered. I had scarce time to interrogatemy own strange sensations when a man went by me rapidly. How was it thatI recognized him at once as the individual who had only passed my windowso casually on that morning of the hallucination? I don’t know, and yetI was aware that this man was the tall, fair passer-by of the BromptonRoad. At the same moment the voice I had previously heard whispereddistinctly in my ear the words, “Follow him!” I stood stupefied. Theusual throngs of indifferent persons were hurrying past me in thatcrowded thoroughfare, but I felt convinced that not one of these hadspoken to me. I remained transfixed for a moment. I was bent on a matterof business in the contrary direction to the individual I had remarked, and so, although with unsteady step, I endeavored to proceed on my way. Again that voice said, still more emphatically, in my ear, “Follow him!”I stopped involuntarily. And a third time, “Follow him!” I told myselfthat the sound was a delusion, a cheat of my senses, and yet I could notresist the spell. I turned to follow. Quickening my pace, I soon came upwith the tall, fair man, and, unremarked by him, I followed him. Whitherwas this foolish pursuit to lead me? It was useless to ask myself thequestion—I was impelled to follow. 

I was not destined to go very far, however. Before long the object of myabsurd chase entered a well-known insurance-office. I stopped at thedoor of the establishment. I had no business within, why should Icontinue to follow? Had I not already been making a sad fool of myselfby my ridiculous conduct? These were my thoughts as I stood heated by myquick walk. Yes, heated; and yet, once more, came the sudden chill. Oncemore that same low but now awful voice spoke in my ear: “Go in!” itsaid. I endeavored to resist the spell, and yet I felt that resistancewas in vain. Fortunately, as it seemed to me, the thought crossed mymind that an old acquaintance was a clerk in that same insurance-office. I had not seen the fellow for a great length of time, and I never hadbeen very intimate with him. But here was a pretext; and so I went inand inquired for Clement Stanley. My acquaintance came forward. He wasvery busy, he said. I invented, on the spur of the moment, some excuseof the most frivolous and absurd nature, as far as I can recollect, formy intrusion. 

“By the way, ” I said, as I turned to take my leave, although my questionwas “by the way” of nothing at all, “who was that tall, fair man whojust now entered the office?”

“Oh, that fellow?” was the indifferent reply; “a Captain Campbell, orCanton, or some such name; I forget what. He is gone in before theboard—insured his wife’s life—and she is dead; comes for a settlement, I suppose. ”

There was nothing more to be gained, and so I left the office. As soonas I came without into the scorching sunlight, again the same feeling ofcold, again the same voice—“Wait!” Was I going mad? More and more theconviction forced itself upon me that I was decidedly a monomaniacalready. I felt my pulse. It was agitated and yet not feverish. I wasdetermined not to give way to this absurd hallucination; and yet, so farwas I out of my senses, that my will was no longer my own. Resolved as Iwas to go, I listened to the dictates of that voice and waited. What wasit to me that this Campbell or Canton had insured his wife’s life, thatshe was dead, and that he wanted a settlement of his claim? Obviouslynothing; and I yet waited. 

So strong was the spell on me that I had no longer any count of time. Ihad no consciousness whether the period was long or short that I stoodthere near the door, heedless of all the throng that passed, gazing onvacancy. The fiercest of policemen might have told me to “move on, ” andI should not have stirred, spite of all the terrors of the “station. ”The individual came forth. He paid no heed to me. Why should he? Whatwas I to him? This time I needed no warning voice to bid me follow. Iwas a madman, and I could not resist the impulses of my madness. It wasthus, at least I reasoned with myself. I followed into Regent Street. The object of my insensate observation lingered, and looked around as ifin expectation. Presently a fine-looking woman, somewhat extravagantlydressed, and obviously not a lady, advanced toward him on the pavement. At the sight of her he quickened his step, and joined her rapidly. Ishuddered again, but this time a sort of dread was mingled with thatstrange shivering. I knew what was coming, and it came. Again that voicein my ear. “Look and remember!” it said. I passed the man and woman asthey stopped at their first meeting!

“Is all right, George?” said the female. 

“All right, my girl, ” was the reply. 

I looked. An evil smile, as if of wicked triumph, was on the man’s face, I thought. And on the woman’s? I looked at her, and I remembered. Icould not be mistaken. Spite of her change in manner, dress, andappearance, it was Mary Simms. This woman some years before, when shewas still very young, had been a sort of humble companion to my mother. A simple-minded, honest girl, we thought her. Sometimes I had fanciedthat she had paid me, in a sly way, a marked attention. I had beenfoolish enough to be flattered by her stealthy glances and her sighs. But I had treated these little demonstrations of partiality as due onlyto a silly girlish fancy. Mary Simms, however, had come to grief in ourhousehold. She had been detected in the abstraction of sundry jewels andpetty ornaments. The morning after discovery she had left the house, andwe had heard of her no more. As these recollections passed rapidlythrough my mind I looked behind me. The couple had turned back. I turnedto follow again; and spite of carriages and cabs, and shouts and oathsof drivers, I took the middle of the street in order to pass the man andwoman at a little distance unobserved. No; I was not mistaken. The womanwas Mary Simms, though without any trace of all her formersimple-minded airs; Mary Simms, no longer in her humble attire, butflaunting in all the finery of overdone fashion. She wore an air ofreckless joyousness in her face; and yet, spite of that, I pitied her. It was clear she had fallen on the evil ways of betteredfortune—bettered, alas! for the worse. 

I had an excuse now, in my own mind, for my continued pursuit, withoutdeeming myself an utter madman—the excuse of curiosity to know thedestiny of one with whom I had been formerly familiar, and in whom I hadtaken an interest. Presently the game I was hunting down stopped at thedoor of the Grand Café. After a little discussion they entered. It was apublic place of entertainment; there was no reason why I should notenter also. I found my way to the first floor. They were already seatedat a table, Mary holding the _carte_ in her hand. They were about todine. Why should not I dine there too? There was but one littleobjection, —I had an engagement to dinner. But the strange impulse whichoverpowered me, and seemed leading me on step by step, spite of myself, quickly overruled all the dictates of propriety toward my intendedhosts. Could I not send a prettily devised apology? I glided past thecouple, with my head averted, seeking a table, and I was unobserved bymy old acquaintance. I was too agitated to eat, but I made a semblance, and little heeded the air of surprise and almost disgust on thebewildered face of the waiter as he bore away the barely touched dishes. I was in a very fever of impatience and doubt what next to do. Theystill sat on, in evident enjoyment of their meal and their constantdraughts of sparkling wine. My impatience was becoming almost unbearablewhen the man at last rose. The woman seemed to have uttered someexpostulation, for he turned at the door and said somewhat harshlyaloud, “Nonsense; only one game and I shall be back. The waiter willgive you a paper—a magazine—something to while away the time. ” And heleft the room for the billiard-table, as I surmised. 

Now was my opportunity. After a little hesitation, I rose, and plantedmyself abruptly on the vacant seat before the woman. 

“Mary, ” I said. 

She started, with a little exclamation of alarm, and dropped the papershe had held. She knew me at once. 

“Master John!” she exclaimed, using the familiar term still given mewhen I was long past boyhood; and then, after a lengthened gaze, sheturned away her head. I was embarrassed at first how to address her. 

“Mary, ” I said at last, “I am grieved to see you thus. ”

“Why should you be grieved for me?” she retorted, looking at me sharply, and speaking in a tone of impatient anger. “I am happy as I am. ”

“I don’t believe you, ” I replied. 

She again turned away her head. 

“Mary, ” I pursued, “can you doubt, that, spite of all, I have still astrong interest in the companion of my youth?”

She looked at me almost mournfully, but did not speak. At that moment Iprobably grew pale; for suddenly that chilly fit seized me again, andmy forehead became clammy. That voice sounded again in my ear: “Speakof him!” were the words it uttered. Mary gazed on me with surprise, andyet I was assured that _she_ had not heard that voice, so plain to me. She evidently mistook the nature of my visible emotion. 

“O Master John!” she stammered, with tears gathering in her eyes, reverting again to that name of bygone times, “if you had loved methen—if you had consoled my true affection with one word of hope, onelook of loving-kindness—if you had not spurned and crushed me, I shouldnot have been what I am now. ”

I was about to make some answer to this burst of unforgotten passion, when the voice came again: “Speak of him!”

“You have loved others since, ” I remarked, with a coldness which seemedcruel to myself. “You love _him_ now. ” And I nodded my head toward thedoor by which the man had disappeared. 

“Do I?” she said, with a bitter smile. “Perhaps; who knows?”

“And yet no good can come to you from a connection with that man, ” Ipursued. 

“Why not? He adores me, and he is free, ” was her answer, given with alittle triumphant air. 

“Yes, ” I said, “I know he is free: he has lately lost his wife. He hasmade good his claim to the sum for which he insured her life. ”

Mary grew deadly pale. “How did you learn this? what do you know ofhim?” she stammered. 

I had no reply to give. She scanned my face anxiously for some time;then in a low voice she added, “What do you suspect?”

I was still silent, and only looked at her fixedly. 

“You do not speak, ” she pursued nervously. “Why do you not speak? Ah, you know more than you would say! Master John, Master John, you mightset my tortured mind at rest, and clear or confirm those doubts which_will_ come into my poor head, spite of myself. Speak out—O, do speakout!”

“Not here; it is impossible, ” I replied, looking around. The room as thehour advanced, was becoming more thronged with guests, and the fulltables gave a pretext for my reticence, when in truth I had nothing tosay. 

“Will you come and see me—will you?” she asked with earnest entreaty. 

I nodded my head. 

“Have you a pocketbook? I will write you my address; and you willcome—yes, I am sure you will come!” she said in an agitated way. 

I handed her my pocketbook and pencil; she wrote rapidly. 

“Between the hours of three and five, ” she whispered, looking uneasilyat the door; “_he_ is sure not to be at home. ”

I rose; Mary held out her hand to me, then withdrew it hastily with anair of shame, and the tears sprang into her eyes again. I left the roomhurriedly, and met her companion on the stairs. 

That same evening, in the solitude of my own room, I pondered over thelittle event of the day. I had calmed down from my state of excitement. The living apparition of Mary Simms occupied my mind almost to theexclusion of the terrors of the ghostly voice which had haunted me, andmy own fears of coming insanity. In truth, what was that man to me?Nothing. What did his doings matter to such a perfect stranger asmyself? Nothing. His connection with Mary Simms was our only link; andin what should that affect me? Nothing again. I debated with myselfwhether it were not foolish of me to comply with my youthful companion’srequest to visit her; whether it were not imprudent in me to take anyfurther interest in the lost woman; whether there were not even dangerin seeking to penetrate mysteries which were no concern of mine. Theresolution to which I came pleased me, and I said aloud, “No, I will notgo!”

At the same moment came again the voice like an awful echo to mywords—“Go!” It came so suddenly and so imperatively, almost without anyprevious warning of the usual shudder, that the shock was more than Icould bear. I believe I fainted; I know I found myself, when I came toconsciousness, in my arm-chair, cold and numb, and my candles had almostburned down into their sockets. 

The next morning I was really ill. A sort of low fever seemed to haveprostrated me, and I would have willingly seized so valid a reason fordisobeying, at least for that day—for some days, perhaps—theinjunction of that ghostly voice. But all that morning it never left me. My fearful chilly fit was of constant recurrence, and the words “Go! go!go!” were murmured so perpetually in my ears—the sound was one of suchurgent entreaty—that all force of will gave way completely. Had Iremained in that lone room, I should have gone wholly mad. As yet, to myown feelings, I was but partially out of my senses. 

I dressed hastily; and, I scarce know how—by no effort of my own will, it seemed to me—I was in the open air. The address of Mary Simms was ina street not far from my own suburb. Without any power of reasoning, Ifound myself before the door of the house. I knocked, and asked aslipshod girl who opened the door to me for “Miss Simms. ” She knew nosuch person, held a brief shrill colloquy with some female in theback-parlor, and, on coming back, was about to shut the door in my face, when a voice from above—the voice of her I sought—called down thestairs, “Let the gentleman come up!”

I was allowed to pass. In the front drawing-room I found Mary Simms. 

“They do not know me under that name, ” she said with a mournful smile, and again extended, then withdrew, her hand. 

“Sit down, ” she went on to say, after a nervous pause. “I am alone now;told I adjure you, if you have still one latent feeling of old kindnessfor me, explain your words of yesterday to me. ”

I muttered something to the effect that I had no explanation to give. Nowords could be truer; I had not the slightest conception what to say. 

“Yes, I am sure you have; you must, you will, ” pursued Mary excitedly;“you have some knowledge of that matter. ”

“What matter?” I asked. 

“Why, the insurance, ” she replied impatiently. “You know well what Imean. My mind has been distracted about it. Spite of myself, terriblesuspicions have forced themselves on me. No; I don’t mean that, ” shecried, suddenly checking herself and changing her tone; “don’t heedwhat I said; it was madness in me to say what I did. But do, do, do tellme all you know. ”

The request was a difficult one to comply with, for I knew nothing. Itis impossible to say what might have been the end of this strangeinterview, in which I began to feel myself an unwilling impostor; butsuddenly Mary started. 

“The noise of the latchkey in the lock!” she cried, alarmed; “He hasreturned; he must not see you; you must come another time. Here, here, be quick! I’ll manage him. ”

And before I could utter another word she had pushed me into the backdrawing-room and closed the door. A man’s step on the stairs; thenvoices. The man was begging Mary to come out with him, as the day was sofine. She excused herself; he would hear no refusal. At last sheappeared to consent, on condition that the man would assist at hertoilet. There was a little laughter, almost hysterical on the part ofMary, whose voice evidently quivered with trepidation. 

Presently both mounted the upper stairs. Then the thought stuck me thatI had left my hat in the front room—a sufficient cause for the woman’salarm. I opened the door cautiously, seized my hat, and was about tosteal down the stairs, when I was again spellbound by that numb cold. 

“Stay!” said the voice. I staggered back to the other room with my hat, and closed the door. 

Presently the couple came down. Mary was probably relieved bydiscovering that my hat was no longer there, and surmised that I haddeparted; for I heard her laughing as they went down the lower flight. Then I heard them leave the house. 

I was alone in that back drawing-room. Why? what did I want there? I wassoon to learn. I felt the chill invisible presence near me; and thevoice said, “Search!”

The room belonged to the common representative class of backdrawing-rooms in “apartments” of the better kind. The only oneunfamiliar piece of furniture was an old Indian cabinet; and my eyenaturally fell on that. As I stood and looked at it with a strangeunaccountable feeling of fascination, again came the voice—“Search!”

I shuddered and obeyed. The cabinet was firmly locked; there was nopower of opening it except by burglarious infraction; but still thevoice said, “Search!”

A thought suddenly struck me, and I turned the cabinet from its positionagainst the wall. Behind, the woodwork had rotted, and in many portionsfallen away, so that the inner drawers were visible. What could myghostly monitor mean—that I should open those drawers? I would not dosuch a deed of petty treachery. I turned defiantly, and addressingmyself to the invisible as if it were a living creature by my side, Icried, “I must not, will not, do such an act of baseness. ”

The voice replied, “Search!”

I might have known that, in my state of what I deemed insanity, resistance was in vain. I grasped the most accessible drawer frombehind, and pulled it toward me. Uppermost within it lay letters: theywere addressed to “Captain Cameron, ”—“Captain George Cameron. ” Thatname!—the name of Julia’s husband, the man with whom she had eloped;for it was he who was the object of my pursuit. 

My shuddering fit became so strong that I could scarce hold the papers;and “Search!” was repeated in my ear. 

Below the letters lay a small book in a limp black cover. I opened thisbook with trembling hand; it was filled with manuscript—Julia’swell-known handwriting. 

“Read!” muttered the voice. I read. There were long entries by poorJulia of her daily life; complaints of her husband’s unkindness, neglect, then cruelty. I turned to the last pages: her hand had grownvery feeble now, and she was very ill. “George seems kinder now, ” shewrote; “he brings me all my medicines with his own hand. ” Later on: “Iam dying; I know I am dying: he has poisoned me. I saw him last nightthrough the curtains pour something in my cup; I saw it in his evil eye. I would not drink; I will drink no more; but I feel that I must die. ”

These were the last words. Below were written, in a man’s bold hand, thewords “Poor fool!”

This sudden revelation of poor Julia’s death and dying thoughts unnervedme quite. I grew colder in my whole frame than ever. 

“Take it!” said her voice. I took the book, pushed back the cabinet intoits place against the wall, and, leaving that fearful room, stole downthe stairs with trembling limbs, and left the house with all thefeelings of a guilty thief. 

For some days I perused my poor lost Julia’s diary again and again. Thewhole revelation of her sad life and sudden death led but to oneconclusion, —she had died of poison by the hands of her unworthyhusband. He had insured her life, and then——

It seemed evident to me that Mary Simms had vaguely shared suspicions ofthe same foul deed. On my own mind came conviction. But what could I donext? how bring this evil man to justice? what proof would be deemed toexist in those writings? I was bewildered, weak, irresolute. LikeHamlet, I shrank back and temporized. But I was not feigning madness; mymadness seemed but all too real for me. During all this period thewailing of that wretched voice in my ear was almost incessant. O, I musthave been mad!

I wandered about restlessly, like the haunted thing I had become. Oneday I had come unconsciously and without purpose into Oxford Street. Mytroubled thoughts were suddenly broken in upon by the solicitations of abeggar. With a heart hardened against begging impostors, and under theinfluence of the shock rudely given to my absorbing dreams, I answeredmore hardly than was my wont. The man heaved a heavy sigh, and sobbedforth, “Then Heaven help me!” I caught sight of him before he turnedaway. He was a ghastly object, with fever in his hollow eyes and sunkencheeks, and fever on his dry, chapped lips. But I knew, or fancied Iknew, the tricks of the trade, and I was obdurate. Why, I asked myself, should the cold shudder come over me at such a moment? But it was sostrong on me as to make me shake all over. It came—that maddeningvoice. “Succor!” it said now. I had become so accustomed already toaddress the ghostly voice that I cried aloud, “Why, Julia, why?” I sawpeople laughing in my face at this strange cry, and I turned in thedirection in which the beggar had gone. I just caught sight of him as hewas tottering down a street toward Soho. I determined to have pity forthis once, and followed the poor man. He led me on through I know notwhat streets. His steps was hurried now. In one street I lost sight ofhim; but I felt convinced he must have turned into a dingy court. I madeinquiries, but for a time received only rude jeering answers from therough men and women whom I questioned. At last a little girl informed methat I must mean the strange man who lodged in the garret of a house shepointed out to me. It was an old dilapidated building, and I had muchrepugnance on entering it. But again I was no master of my will. Imounted some creaking stairs to the top of the house, until I could gono further. A shattered door was open; I entered a wretched garret; theobject of my search lay now on a bundle of rags on the bare floor. Heopened his wild eyes as I approached. 

“I have come to succor, ” I said, using unconsciously the word of thevoice; “what ails you?”

“Ails me?” gasped the man; “hunger, starvation, fever. ”

I was horrified. Hurrying to the top of the stairs, I shouted till I hadroused the attention of an old woman. I gave her money to bring me foodand brandy, promising her a recompense for her trouble. 

“Have you no friends?” I asked the wretched man as I returned. 

“None, ” he said feebly. Then as the fever rose in his eyes and evenflushed his pallid face, he said excitedly, “I had a master once—one Iperilled my soul for. He knows I am dying; but, spite of all my letters, he will not come. He wants me dead, he wants me dead—and his wish iscoming to pass now. ”

“Cannot I find him—bring him here?” I asked. 

The man stared at me, shook his head, and at last, as if collecting hisfaculties with much exertion, muttered, “Yes; it is a last hope; perhapsyou may, and I can be revenged on him at least. Yes revenged. I havethreatened him already. ” And the fellow laughed a wild laugh. 

“Control yourself, ” I urged, kneeling by his side; “give me hisname—his address. ”

“Captain George Cameron, ” he gasped, and then fell back. 

“Captain George Cameron!” I cried. “Speak! what of him?”

But the man’s senses seemed gone; he only muttered incoherently. The oldwoman returned with the food and spirits. I had found one honestcreature in that foul region. I gave her money—provide her more if shewould bring a doctor. She departed on her new errand. I raised the man’shead, moistened his lips with the brandy, and then poured some of thespirit down his throat. He gulped at it eagerly, and opened his eyes;but he still raved incoherently, “I did not do it, it was he. He made mebuy the poison; he dared not risk the danger himself, the coward! I knewwhat he meant to do with it, and yet I did not speak; I was her murderertoo. Poor Mrs. Cameron! poor Mrs. Cameron! do you forgive?—can youforgive?” And the man screamed aloud and stretched out his arms as if tofright away a phantom. 

I had drunk in every word, and knew the meaning of those broken accentswell. Could I have found at last the means of bringing justice on themurderer’s head? But the man was raving in a delirium, and I was obligedto hold him with all my strength. A step on the stairs. Could it be themedical man I had sent for? That would be indeed a blessing. A manentered—it was Cameron!

He came in jauntily, with the words, “How now, Saunders, you rascal!What more do you want to get out of me?”

He started at the sight of a stranger. 

I rose from my kneeling posture like an accusing spirit. I struggled forcalm; but passion beyond my control mastered me, and was I not a madman?I seized him by the throat, with the words, “Murderer! poisoner! whereis Julia?” He shook me off violently. 

“And who the devil are you, sir?” he cried. 

“That murdered woman’s cousin!” I rushed at him again. 

“Lying hound!” he shouted, and grappled me. His strength was far beyondmine. He had his hand on my throat; a crimson darkness was in my eyes; Icould not see, I could not hear; there was a torrent of sound pouring inmy ears. Suddenly his grasp relaxed. When I recovered my sight, I sawthe murderer struggling with the fever-stricken man, who had risen fromthe floor, and seized him from behind. This unexpected diversion savedmy life; but the ex-groom was soon thrown back on the ground. 

“Captain George Cameron, ” I cried, “kill me, but you will only heapanother murder on your head!”

He advanced on me with something glittering in his hand. Without a wordhe came and stabbed at me; but at the same moment I darted at him aheavy blow. What followed was too confused for clear remembrance. Isaw—no, I will say I fancied that I saw—the dim form of Julia Stauntonstanding between me and her vile husband. Did he see the vision too? Icannot say. He reeled back, and fell heavily to the floor. Maybe it wasonly my blow that felled him. Then came confusion—a dream of a crowd ofpeople—policemen—muttered accusations. I had fainted from the wound inmy arm. 

Captain George Cameron was arrested. Saunders recovered, and lived longenough to be the principal witness on his trial. The murderer was foundguilty. Poor Julia’s diary, too, which I had abstracted, told fearfullyagainst him. But he contrived to escape the gallows; he had managed toconceal poison on his person, and he was found dead in his cell. MarySimms I never saw again. I once received a little scrawl, “I am at peacenow, Master John. God bless you!”

I have had no more hallucinations since that time; the voice has nevercome again. I found out poor Julia’s grave, and, as I stood and wept byits side, the cold shudder came over me for the last time. Who shalltell me whether I was once really mad, or whether I was not?

DOCTOR FEVERSHAM’S STORY. 

“I have made a point all my life, ” said the doctor, “of believingnothing of the kind. ”

Much ghost-talk by firelight had been going on in the library atFordwick Chase, when Doctor Feversham made this remark. 

“As much as to say, ” observed Amy Fordwick, “that you are afraid totackle the subject, because you pique yourself on being strong-minded, and are afraid of being convinced against your will. ”

“Not precisely, young lady. A man convinced against his will is in adifferent state of mind from mine in matters like these. But it is truethat cases in which the supernatural element appears at first sight toenter are so numerous in my profession, that I prefer accepting only thesolutions of science, so far as they go, to entering on any wildspeculations which it would require more time than I should care todevote to them to trace to their origin. ”

“But without entering fully into the why and wherefore, how can you besure that the proper treatment is observed in the numerous cases ofmental hallucination which must come under your notice?” inquiredLatimer Fordwick, who was studying for the Bar. 

“I content myself, my young friend, with following the rules laid downfor such cases, and I generally find them successful, ” answered the oldDoctor. 

“Then you admit that cases have occurred within your knowledge of whichthe easiest apparent solution could be one which involved a belief insupernatural agencies?” persisted Latimer, who was rather prolix andpedantic in his talk. 

“I did not say so, ” said the Doctor. 

“But of course he meant us to infer it, ” said Amy. “Now, my dear oldDoctor, do lay aside professional dignity, and give us one goodghost-story out of your personal experience. I believe you have beendying to tell one for the last hour, if you would only confess it. ”

“I would rather not help to fill that pretty little head with idlefancies, dear child, ” answered the old man, looking fondly at Amy, whowas his especial pet and darling. 

“Nonsense! You know I am even painfully unimaginative andmatter-of-fact; and as for idle fancies, is it an idle fancy to thinkyou like to please me?” said Amy coaxingly. 

“Well, after all, you have been frightening each other with so manythrilling tales for the last hour or two, that I don’t suppose I shoulddo much harm by telling you a circumstance which happened to me when Iwas a young man, and has always rather puzzled me. ”

A murmur of approval ran round the party. All disposed themselves tolisten; and Doctor Feversham, after a prefatory pinch of snuff, began. 

“In my youth I resided for some time with a family in the north ofEngland, in the double capacity of secretary and physician. While I wasgoing through the hospitals of Paris I became acquainted with myemployer, whom I will call Sir James Collingham, under rather peculiarcircumstances, which have nothing to do with my story. He had an onlydaughter, who was about sixteen when I first entered the family, and itwas on her account that Sir James wished to have some person with acompetent knowledge of medicine and physiology as one of his household. Miss Collingham was subject to fits of a very peculiar kind, which threwher into a sort of trance, lasting from half an hour to three or evenfour days, according to the severity of the visitation. During theseattacks she occasionally displayed that extraordinary phenomenon whichgoes by the name of clairvoyance. She saw scenes and persons who werefar distant, and described them with wonderful accuracy. Though quiteunconscious of all outward things, and apparently in a state of thedeepest insensibility, she would address remarks to those present whichbore reference to the thoughts then occupying their minds, though theyhad given them no outward expression; and her remarks showed an insightinto matters which had perhaps been carefully kept secret, which mighttruly be termed preternatural. Under these circumstances, Sir James wasvery unwilling to bring her into contact with strangers when it couldpossibly be avoided; and the events which first brought us together, having also led to my treating Miss Collingham rather successfully in asevere attack of her malady, induced her father to offer me a positionin his household which, as a young, friendless man, I was very willingto accept. 

“Collingham-Westmore was a very ancient house of great extent, and butindifferently kept in repair. The country surrounding it is of greatnatural beauty, thinly inhabited, and, especially at the time I speakof, before railways had penetrated so far north, somewhat lonely andinaccessible. A group of small houses clustered round the village churchof Westmorton, distant about three miles from the mansion of theCollingham family; and a solitary posting-house, on what was then thegreat north road, could be reached by a horseman in about an hour, though the only practicable road for carriages was at least fifteenmiles from the highway to Collingham-Westmore. Wild and lovely in theeyes of an admirer of nature were the hills and ‘cloughs’ among which Ipursued my botanical studies for many a long, silent summer day. Myoccupations at the mansion—everybody called it the mansion, and I mustdo so from force of habit, though it sounds rather like a house-agent’sadvertisement—were few and light; the society was not particularly tomy taste, and the fine old library only attracted me on rainy days, ofwhich, truth to say, we had our full share. 

“The Collingham family circle comprised a maiden aunt of Sir James, MissPatricia, a stern and awful specimen of the female sex in its fossilstate; her ward, Miss Henderson, who, having long passed her pupilage, remained at Collingham-Westmore in the capacity of gouvernante andcompanion to the young heiress; the heiress aforesaid, and myself. Apriest—did I say that the Collinghams still professed the oldreligion?—came on Sundays and holydays to celebrate mass in the gloomyold chapel; but neighbors there were none, and only about half-a-dozentimes during the four years I was an inmate of the mansion werestrangers introduced into the family party. ”

“How dreadfully dull it must have been!” exclaimed Amy sympathetically. 

“It _was_ dull, ” answered the Doctor. “Even with my naturally cheerfuldisposition, and the course of study with which I methodically filled upall my leisure hours except those devoted to out-of-door exercise, thegloom of the old mansion weighed upon me till I sometimes felt that Imust give up my situation at all risks, and return to the world, thoughit were to struggle with poverty and friendlessness. 

“There was no lack of dismal legends and superstitions connected withthe mansion, and every trifling circumstance that occurred was twistedinto an omen or presage, whether of good or evil, by the highly wroughtfancy of Miss Patricia. These absurdities, together with the pastgrandeur of their house, and the former glories of their religion, formed the staple subjects of conversation when the family wasassembled; and as I became more intimately acquainted with the state ofmy patient, I felt convinced that the atmosphere of gloomy superstitionin which she had been reared had fostered, even if it had not altogetherbeen the cause of, her morbid mental and bodily condition. 

“Among the many legends connected with the mansion, one seemed to have apeculiar fascination for Miss Collingham, perhaps because it was themost ghastly and repulsive. One wing of the house was held to be hauntedby the spirit of an ancestress of the family, who appeared in the shapeof a tall woman, with one hand folded in her white robe and the otherpointing upward. It was said, that in a room at the end of the hauntedwing this lady had been foully murdered by her jealous husband. Thewindow of the apartment overhung the wild wooded side of one of the‘cloughs’ common in the country; and tradition averred that the victimwas thrown from this window by her murderer. As she caught hold of thesill in a last frantic struggle for life, he severed her hand at thewrist, and the mutilated body fell, with one fearful shriek, into thedepth below. Since then, a white shadowy form has forever been sittingat the fatal window, or wandering along the deserted passages of thehaunted wing with the bleeding stump folded in her robe; and in momentsof danger or approaching death to any member of the Collingham family, the same long, wild shriek rises slowly from the wooded cliff and pealsthrough the mansion; while to different individuals of the house, a palehand has now and then been visible, laid on themselves or some other ofthe family, a never-failing omen of danger or death. 

“I need not tell you how false and foolish all this dreary superstitionappeared to me; and I exerted all my powers of persuasion to induce MissPatricia to dwell less on these and similar themes in the presence ofMiss Collingham. But there seemed to be something in the very air of thegloomy old mansion which fostered such delusions; for when I spoke toFather O’Connor the priest, and urged on him the pernicious effect whichwas thus produced on my patient’s mind, I found him as fully imbued withthe spirit of credulity as the most hysterical housemaid of them all. Hesolemnly declared to me that he had himself repeatedly seen the palelady sitting at the fatal window, when on his way to and from his homebeyond the hills; and moreover, that on the death of Lady Collingham, which occurred at her daughter’s birth, he had heard the long, shrilldeath-scream echo through the mansion while engaged in the last officesof the Church by the bedside of the dying lady. 

“So I found it impossible to fight single-handed against these adverseinfluences, and could only endeavor to divert the mind of my patientinto more healthy channels of thought. In this I succeeded perfectly. She became an enthusiastic botanist, and our rambles in search of therare and lovely specimens which were to be found among the woods andmoors surrounding her dwelling did more for her health, both of body andmind, than all the medical skill I could bring to bear on her melancholycase. 

“Four years had elapsed since I first took up my abode atCollingham-Westmore. Miss Collingham had grown from a sickly child intoa singularly graceful young woman, full of bright intelligence, eagerfor information, and with scarcely an outward trace remaining of herformer fragile health. Still those mysterious swoons occasionallyvisited her, forming an insurmountable obstacle to her mingling ingeneral society, which she was in all other respects so well fitted toadorn. They occurred without any warning or apparent cause; one momentshe would be engaged in animated conversation, and the next, white andrigid as a statue, she would fall back in her chair insensible to alloutward objects, but rapt and carried away into a world of her own, whose visions she would sometimes describe in glowing language, althoughshe retained no recollection whatever of them when she returned, assuddenly and at as uncertain a period, to her normal condition. On oneof these occasions we were sitting, after dinner, in a large apartmentcalled the summer dining-room. Fruit and wine were on the table, and thelast red beams of the setting sun lighted up the distant woods, whichwere in the first flush of their autumn glory. I turned to remark on thebeautiful effect of light to Miss Collingham, and at the very moment Idid so she fell back in one of her strange swoons. But instead of thedeath-like air which her features usually assumed, a lovely smilelighted them up, and an expression of ecstasy made her beauty appear forthe moment almost superhuman. Slowly she raised her right hand, andpointed in the direction of the setting sun. ‘He is coming, ’ she said insoft, clear tones; ‘life and light are coming with him, —life and lightand liberty!’

“Her hand fell gently by her side; the rapt expression faded from hercountenance, and the usual death-like blank overspread it. This trancepassed away like others, and by midnight the house was profoundly still. Soon after that hour a vociferous peal at the great hall-bell rousedmost of the inmates from sleep. My rooms were in a distant quarter ofthe house, and a door opposite to that of my bedroom led to the hauntedwing, but was always kept locked. I started up on hearing a second ring, and looked out, in hopes of seeing a servant pass, and ascertaining thecause of this unusual disturbance. I saw no one, and after listening fora while to the opening of the hall-door, and the sound of distantvoices, I made up my mind that I should be sent for if wanted, andre-entered my room. As I was closing the door, I was rather startled tosee a tall object, of grayish-white color and indistinct form, issuefrom the gallery whose door, as I said before, had always been locked inmy recollection. For a moment I felt as though rooted to the spot, and astrange sensation crept over me. The next, all trace of the appearancehad vanished, and I persuaded myself that what I had seen must have beensome effect of light from the open door of my room. 

“The cause of the nightly disturbance appeared at breakfast on thefollowing morning in the shape of a remarkably handsome young man, whowas introduced by Sir James as his nephew, Don Luis de Cabral, the sonof an only sister long dead, who had married a Spaniard of high rank. Don Luis showed but little trace of his southern parentage. If I may soexpress it, all the depth and warmth of coloring in that portion of hisblood which he inherited from his Spanish ancestors came out in theraven-black hair and large lustrous dark eyes, which impressed you atonce with their uncommon beauty. For the rest, he was a fine well-grownyoung man, no darker in complexion than an Englishman might well be, andwith a careless, happy boyishness of manner, which won immediately onthe regard of strangers, and rendered his presence in the house likethat of a perpetual sunbeam. We all wondered, after a little while, whatwe had done before Luis came among us. He was as a son to Sir James;Miss Patricia softened to this new and pleasing interest in hercolorless existence as I could not have believed it was in herfossilized nature to do; Miss Henderson became animated, almost young, under the reviving influence of the youth and joyousness of our newinmate; and I own that I speedily attached myself with a warm andaffectionate regard to the happy, unselfish nature that seemed tobrighten all who came near it. 

“But the most remarkable effect of the presence of Don Luis de Cabralamong us was visible in Miss Collingham. ‘Love at first sight, ’ oftenconsidered as a mere phrase, was, in the case of these two youngcreatures, an unmistakable reality. From the moment of their firstmeeting, the cousins were mutually drawn toward each other; and seeingthe bright and wonderful change wrought by the presence of Don Luis inBlanche Collingham, I could not but remember, with the interest thatattaches to a curious psychological phenomenon, the words she uttered inher trance on the eve of his arrival. ‘Life, light, and liberty, ’indeed, appeared given to all that was best and brightest in her nature. Her health improved visibly, and her beauty, always touching, becameradiant in its full development. My duties toward her were now merelynominal; and when, about two months later, Sir James announced to me herapproaching marriage, and confessed that it was with this object he hadinvited Don Luis to come and make the acquaintance of his Englishrelations, the strong opinions I entertained against the marriage offirst cousins, and also on the especial inadvisability of any project ofmarriage in the case of Miss Collingham, could not prevent my heartyrejoicing in the fair prospect of happiness in which two persons whodeeply interested me were indulging. 

“Winter set in early and severely that year among our northern hills, and with a view to Blanche’s removal from its withering influence, whichI always considered prejudicial to her, the preparations for themarriage were hurried on, and the ceremony was fixed to take place aboutthe middle of December. The travelling-carriage which was to convey theyoung couple on their way southward was to arrive at the nearestrailway-station—then more than thirty miles distant—a week before themarriage; and as some important portions of the trousseau, together witha valuable package of jewels intended by Don Luis as presents for hisbride, were expected at the same time, the young man announced hisintention of riding across the hills to ——, in order to superintendthe conveyance of the carriage and its contents along the rough mountainroads that it must traverse. 

“We were all sitting around the great fireplace in the winter parlor onthe evening before his departure. Miss Collingham had been languid anddepressed throughout the day, and often adverted to the long wintry ridehe was to undertake in a strain of apprehension at which Don Luislaughed gayly. To divert her mind, he recounted various adventureswhich had befallen him in foreign lands, with a vigorous simplicity ofdescription which enchained her attention and interested us all. 

“Suddenly, so sitting, Miss Collingham leaned forward, and in a changed, eager voice exclaimed, ‘Luis, take away your hand from your throat!’

“We looked. Luis’ hands were lying one over the other on his knee in acareless attitude that was habitual to him. 

“‘Take it away, I say! Oh, take it away!’

“Miss Collingham started to her feet as she uttered these words almostin a shriek, and then fell back rigid and senseless, her outstretchedhand still pointing to her betrothed. 

“The fit was a severe one, but by morning it had yielded to remedies, and Luis set off early on his ride, to make the most of the shortdaylight, and intending to return with the carriage on the morrow. Allthat day Miss Collingham remained in a half-conscious state. It was adreary day of gloom, with a piercing north wind, and toward evening thesnow began to fall in those close, compact flakes which forebode a heavystorm. We were glad to think that Luis must have reached his destinationbefore it began; but when the next morning dawned on a wide expanse ofsnow, and the air was still thick with fast-falling flakes, it wasfeared that the state of the roads would preclude all hope of thearrival of the carriage on that day. 

“My patient took no heed of the untoward state of the weather. She wasstill in a drowsy condition, very unlike that which usually succeededher attacks, and Miss Henderson, who had watched by her through thenight, told me she spoke more than once in a strange, excited manner, asthough carrying on a conversation with some one whom she appeared to seeby her bedside. As the good lady, however, could give but a veryimperfect and incoherent account of what had passed, I was left in somedoubt as to whether Miss Collingham had seen more or Miss Henderson lessthan there really was to be seen, as I had before had reason to believethat she was not a very vigilant nurse. 

“So the hours went on, and night closed in. Sir James began to feel someuneasiness at the non-appearance, not only of Don Luis, but also of thepriest, who was to have arrived at Collingham-Westmore on that day. 

“On questioning some of the servants who had been out of the house, theabsence of Father O’Connor at least was satisfactorily accounted for:they all declared that it would be quite impossible for those bestacquainted with the hills to find their way across them in the blindingdrifts which had never ceased throughout the day. We concluded thatFather O’Connor and Don Luis were alike storm-stayed, and had no remedybut patience. 

“Late in the evening—it must have been near midnight—I was in MissCollingham’s dressing-room with Miss Patricia, who intended to watch byher through the night. We were talking by the fire, of the snow-stormwhich still continued, and of the hindrance it might prove to themarriage—the day fixed for which was now less than a weekdistant—when we heard a voice in the adjoining room, where we imaginedthe object of our care to be sleeping. We went in. Miss Collingham wassitting up in bed, her eyes wide open, in one of her rigid fits. She wasspeaking rapidly in a low tone, unlike her usual voice. 

“‘You cannot get through all that snow, ’ she said. ‘Get help; there aremen not far off with spades. Oh, be careful! You are off the road! Stop, stop! that is the way to Armstrong’s Clough. Does not the postboy knowthe road? He is bewildered. I tell you it is madness to go on. See, oneof the horses has fallen; he kicks—he will hit you! Oh, how dark it is!And the snow covers your lantern, and you cannot see the edge. Now thehorse is up again, but he cannot go on. Do not beat him, Luis; it is nothis fault, poor beast; the snow is too thick, and you are on roughground. Now he rears—he backs—the other one backs also—the wheel ofthe carriage is over the edge—ah!’

“The scream with which these wild, hurried words ended seemed to betaken up and echoed from a distance. Miss Patricia stared at me with aghastly white face of horror, and I felt my blood curdle as that long, shrill, unearthly shriek pealed through the silent passages. It grewlouder and nearer, and seemed to sweep through the room, dying away inthe opposite direction. Miss Patricia fell forward without a word in adead faint. 

“I looked at Miss Collingham; she had not moved, or shown any sign ofhearing or heeding that awful sound. In a few seconds the room wasfilled with terrified women, roused from their sleep by the weird crywhich rang through the house. Miss Patricia was conveyed by some of themto her own room, where, after much difficulty, we restored her toconsciousness. Her first act was to grasp me by the arm. 

“‘Mr. Feversham, for the love of the Holy Virgin do not leave me! I haveseen that which I cannot look upon and live. ’

“I soothed her as best I might, and at last persuaded her to allow me toleave her with her own maid in order to visit my other patient, promising to return shortly. 

“I found no change whatever in Miss Collingham. Sir James was in theroom trying to establish some degree of calmness and order among theterrified women. We succeeded in persuading most of them to take arestorative and return to bed, and leaving two of the mostself-possessed to watch beside Miss Collingham, who was still completelyinsensible, we went together to Miss Patricia’s room. 

“‘Brother, I have seen her!’ she exclaimed on Sir James’ entrance. 

“‘Seen who, my dear Patricia?’

“‘The pale lady—the spectre of our house, ’ she replied, shuddering fromhead to foot. ‘She passed through the room, her hand upraised, and theblood-spots on her garment. Oh, James! my time is come, and FatherO’Connor is not here. ’

“Sir James did not attempt to combat his sister’s superstitious terrors, but appeared, on the contrary, almost as deeply impressed as herself, and questioned her closely about the apparition. Her answers led to somemention of the strange vision which Miss Collingham was describing inher trance just before the scream was heard. At Sir James’ request I putdown in writing, as nearly as I could remember, all she had said, and sogreat was the impression it made on my mind that I believe I recalledher very words. Knowing all we did of her abnormal condition while in astate of trance, it was impossible not to fear that she might have beendescribing a scene that was actually occurring at the time; and SirJames determined to send out a party, as soon as daylight came, on theroad by which Don Luis must arrive. 

“The morning dawned brightly, with a keen frost, and several men weresent off along the road to —— with the first rays of light. 

“Some hours afterward Father O’Connor arrived, having made his way withconsiderable difficulty across the hill. Miss Patricia claimed his firstattention, for my unhappy charge remained senseless and motionless asever. 

“After a long conference, he came to me with grave looks. 

“‘She is at the window this day, ’ he said, shaking his head sorrowfully, when I had told him my share of the last night’s singular experiences. ‘The pale lady is there; I saw her as I came by the bridge as plainly asnow I see you. We shall have evil tidings of that poor lad beforenightfall, or I am strangely mistaken. ’

“Evil tidings indeed they were that reached us on the return of some ofthe exploring-party. They were first attracted from following as nearlyas they could the line of road, blocked as it was with drifts of snow byhearing the howling of a dog at some little distance, in the directionof the precipitous ravine which went by the name of ‘Armstrong’sClough. ’ Following the sound, they came upon traces of wheels in thehill-side, where no carriage could have gone had it not been for thedeep snow which concealed and smoothed away the inequalities of theground. These marks were traced here and there till they led to theverge of the precipice, where a struggle had evidently taken place, andmasses of snow had been dislodged and fallen into the ravine. 

“Looking below, the only thing they could see in the waste of snow was alittle dog, who was known to be in the habit of running with thepost-horses from ——, which was scraping wildly in the snow and fillingthe air with its dismal howlings. A considerable circuit had to be madebefore the bottom of the clough could be reached, and then the wholetragedy was revealed. There lay the broken carriage, the dead horses, and two stiffened corpses under the snow, that had drifted over andaround them. 

“I need not pursue the melancholy story; I was an old fool for tellingit to you, ” said the Doctor. 

“But Miss Collingham—what became of her?” asked an eager listener. 

“Well, she did not recover, ” answered the Doctor with a slight tremblingin his voice. “It was a sad matter altogether; and within a short timeshe lay beside her betrothed in the family vault below the chapel. SirJames broke up his establishment and went abroad, and I never saw any ofthe family again. ”

“And what did you do, Doctor?”

“I went to London, to seek my fortune as best I might; and I hope youmay all prosper as well, my young friends. ”

“And is it all really true?” asked Amy, who had listened with breathlessattention. 

“That is the worst of it; it really is, ” said the Doctor. 

THE SECRET OF THE TWO PLASTER CASTS. 

Years before the accession of her Majesty Queen Victoria, and yet at notso remote a date as to be utterly beyond the period to which thereminiscences of our middle-aged readers extend, it happened that twoEnglish gentlemen sat at table on a summer’s evening, after dinner, quietly sipping their wine and engaged in desultory conversation. Theywere both men known to fame. One of them was a sculptor whose statuesadorned the palaces of princes, and whose chiselled busts were the prideof half the nobility of his nation; the other was no less renowned as ananatomist and surgeon. The age of the anatomist might have been guessedat fifty, but the guess would have erred on the side of youth by atleast ten years. That of the sculptor could scarcely be more thanfive-and-thirty. A bust of the anatomist, so admirably executed as topresent, although in stone, the perfect similitude of life and flesh, stood upon a pedestal opposite to the table at which sat the pair, andat once explained at least one connecting-link of companionship betweenthem. The anatomist was exhibiting for the criticism of his friend arare gem which he had just drawn from his cabinet: it was a crucifixmagnificently carved in ivory, and incased in a setting of pure gold. 

“The carving, my dear sir, ” observed Mr. Fiddyes, the sculptor, “isindeed, as you say, exquisite. The muscles are admirably made out, theflesh well modelled, wonderfully so for the size and material; andyet—by the bye, on this point you must know more than I—the more Ithink upon the matter, the more I regard the artistic conception asutterly false and wrong. ”

“You speak in a riddle, ” replied Dr. Carnell; “but pray go on, andexplain. ”

“It is a fancy I first had in my student-days, ” replied Fiddyes. “Conventionality, not to say a most proper and becoming reverence, prevents people by no means ignorant from considering the point. Butonce think upon it, and you at least, of all men, must at once perceivehow utterly impossible it would be for a victim nailed upon a cross byhands and feet to preserve the position invariably displayed in figuresof the Crucifixion. Those who so portray it fail in what should be theirmost awful and agonizing effect. Think for one moment, and imagine, ifyou can, what would be the attitude of a man, living or dead, under thisfrightful torture. ”

“You startle me, ” returned the great surgeon, “not only by the truth ofyour remarks, but by their obviousness. It is strange indeed that such amatter should have so long been overlooked. The more I think upon it themore the bare idea of actual crucifixion seems to horrify me, thoughheaven knows I am accustomed enough to scenes of suffering. How wouldyou represent such a terrible agony?”

“Indeed I cannot tell, ” replied the sculptor; “to guess would be almostvain. The fearful strain upon the muscles, their utter helplessness andinactivity, the frightful swellings, the effect of weight upon theracked and tortured sinews, appal me too much even for speculation. ”

“But this, ” replied the surgeon, “one might think a matter ofimportance, not only to art, but, higher still, to religion itself. ”

“Maybe so, ” returned the sculptor. “But perhaps the appeal to the sensesthrough a true representation might be too horrible for either the oneor the other. ”

“Still, ” persisted the surgeon, “I should like—say forcuriosity—though I am weak enough to believe even in my own motive as ahigher one—to ascertain the effect from actual observation. ”

“So should I, could it be done, and of course without pain to theobject, which, as a condition, seems to present at the outset animpossibility. ”

“Perhaps not, ” mused the anatomist; “I think I have a notion. Stay—wemay contrive this matter. I will tell you my plan, and it will bestrange indeed if we two cannot manage to carry it out. ”

The discourse here, owing to the rapt attention of both speakers, assumed a low and earnest tone, but had perhaps better be narrated by arelation of the events to which it gave rise. Suffice it to say that theSovereign was more than once mentioned during its progress, and in amanner which plainly told that the two speakers each possessedsufficient influence to obtain the assistance of royalty, and that suchassistance would be required in their scheme. 

The shades of evening deepened while the two were still conversing. Andleaving this scene, let us cast one hurried glimpse at another takingplace contemporaneously. 

Between Pimlico and Chelsea, and across a canal of which the bed hassince been used for the railway terminating at Victoria Station, therewas at the time of which we speak a rude timber footway, long sincereplaced by a more substantial and convenient erection, but then knownas the Wooden Bridge. It was named shortly afterward Cutthroat Bridge, and for this reason. 

While Mr. Fiddyes and Dr. Carnell were discoursing over their wine, aswe have already seen, one Peter Starke, a drunken Chelsea pensioner, wasmurdering his wife upon the spot we have last indicated. The coincidencewas curious. 

 * * * * *

In those days the punishment of criminals followed closely upon theirconviction. The Chelsea pensioner whom we have mentioned was foundguilty one Friday and sentenced to die on the following Monday. He was asad scoundrel, impenitent to the last, glorying in the deeds ofslaughter which he had witnessed and acted during the series ofcampaigns which had ended just previously at Waterloo. He was a tall, well-built fellow enough, of middle age, for his class was not then, asnow, composed chiefly of veterans, but comprised many young men, justsufficiently disabled to be unfit for service. Peter Starke, althoughbut slightly wounded, had nearly completed his term of service, and hadobtained his pension and presentment to Chelsea Hospital. With his lifewe have but little to do, save as regards its close, which we shallshortly endeavor to describe far more veraciously, and at some greaterlength than set forth in the brief account which satisfied the public ofhis own day, and which, as embodied in the columns of the few journalsthen appearing, ran thus:

 “On Monday last Peter Starke was executed at Newgate for the murder at the Wooden Bridge, Chelsea, with four others for various offences. After he had been hanging only for a few minutes a respite arrived, but although he was promptly cut down, life was pronounced to be extinct. His body was buried within the prison walls. ”

Thus far history. But the conciseness of history far more frequentlyembodies falsehood than truth. Perhaps the following narration mayapproach more nearly to the facts. 

A room within the prison had been, upon that special occasion and byhigh authority, allotted to the use of Dr. Carnell and Mr. Fiddyes, thefamous sculptor, for the purpose of certain investigations connectedwith art and science. In that room Mr. Fiddyes, while wretched PeterStarke was yet swinging between heaven and earth, was busily engaged inarranging a variety of implements and materials, consisting of a largequantity of plaster-of-Paris, two large pails of water, some tubs, andother necessaries of the moulder’s art. The room contained a large dealtable, and a wooden cross, not neatly planed and squared at the angles, but of thick, narrow, rudely-sawn oaken plank, fixed by strong, heavynails. And while Mr. Fiddyes was thus occupied, the executionerentered, bearing upon his shoulders the body of the wretched Peter, which he flung heavily upon the table. 

“You are sure he is dead?” asked Mr. Fiddyes. 

“Dead as a herring, ” replied the other. “And yet just as warm and limpas if he had only fainted. ”

“Then go to work at once, ” replied the sculptor, as turning his backupon the hangman, he resumed his occupation. 

The “work” was soon done. Peter was stripped and nailed upon the timber, which was instantly propped against the wall. 

“As fine a one as ever I see, ” exclaimed the executioner, as he regardedthe defunct murderer with an expression of admiration, as if at his ownhandiwork, in having abruptly demolished such a magnificent animal. “Drops a good bit for’ard, though. Shall I tie him up round the waist, sir?”

“Certainly not, ” returned the sculptor. “Just rub him well over withthis oil, especially his head, and then you can go. Dr. Carnell willsettle with you. ”

“All right, sir. ”

The fellow did as ordered, and retired without another word; leavingthis strange couple, the living and the dead, in that dismal chamber. 

Mr. Fiddyes was a man of strong nerve in such matters. He had been toomuch accustomed to taking posthumous casts to trouble himself with anysentiment of repugnance at his approaching task of taking what is calleda “piece-mould” from a body. He emptied a number of bags of the whitepowdery plaster-of-Paris into one of the larger vessels, poured into ita pail of water, and was carefully stirring up the mass, when a sound ofdropping arrested his ear. 

_Drip, drip. _

“There’s something leaking, ” he muttered, as he took a second pail, andemptying it, again stirred the composition. 

_Drip, drip, drip. _

“It’s strange, ” he soliloquized, half aloud. “There is no more water, and yet——”

The sound was heard again. 

He gazed at the ceiling; there was no sign of damp. He turned his eyesto the body, and something suddenly caused him a violent start. Themurderer was bleeding. 

The sculptor, spite of his command over himself, turned pale. At thatmoment the head of Starke moved—clearly moved. It raised itselfconvulsively for a single moment; its eyes rolled, and it gave vent to asubdued moan of intense agony. Mr. Fiddyes fell fainting on the floor asDr. Carnell entered. It needed but a glance to tell the doctor what hadhappened, even had not Peter just then given vent to another low cry. The surgeon’s measures were soon taken. Locking the door, he bore achair to the wall which supported the body of the malefactor. He drewfrom his pocket a case of glittering instruments, and with one of these, so small and delicate that it scarcely seemed larger than a needle, herapidly, but dexterously and firmly, touched Peter just at the back ofthe neck. There was no wound larger than the head of a small pin, andyet the head fell instantly as though the heart had been pierced. Thedoctor had divided the spinal cord, and Peter Starke was dead indeed. 

A few minutes sufficed to recall the sculptor to his senses. He at firstgazed wildly upon the still suspended body, so painfully recalled tolife by the rough venesection of the hangman and the subsequent frictionof anointing his body to prevent the adhesion of the plaster. 

“You need not fear now, ” said Dr. Carnell; “I assure you he is dead. ”

“But he _was_ alive, surely!”

“Only for a moment, and even that scarcely to be called life—meremuscular contraction, my dear sir, mere muscular contraction. ”

The sculptor resumed his labor. The body was girt at variouscircumferences with fine twine, to be afterward withdrawn through athick coating of plaster, so as to separate the various pieces of themould, which was at last completed; and after this Dr. Carnell skilfullyflayed the body, to enable a second mould to be taken of the entirefigure, showing every muscle of the outer layer. 

The two moulds were thus taken. It is difficult to conceive more ghastlyappearances than they presented. For sculptor’s work they were utterlyuseless; for no artist except the most daring of realists would haveventured to indicate the horrors which they presented. Fiddyes refusedto receive them. Dr. Carnell, hard and cruel as he was, for kindness’sake, in his profession, was a gentle, genial father of a family ofdaughters. He received the casts, and at once consigned them to agarret, to which he forbade access. His youngest daughter, oneunfortunate day, during her father’s absence, was impelled by femininecuriosity—perhaps a little increased by the prohibition—to enter themysterious chamber. 

Whether she imagined in the pallid figure upon the cross a celestialrebuke for her disobedience, or whether she was overcome by the meremortal horror of one or both of those dreadful casts, can now never beknown. But this is true: she became a maniac. 

The writer of this has more than once seen (as, no doubt, have manyothers) the plaster effigies of Peter Starke, after their removal fromDr. Carnell’s to a famous studio near the Regent’s Park. It was therethat he heard whispered the strange story of their origin. Sculptor andsurgeon are now both long since dead, and it is no longer necessary tokeep _the secret of the two plaster casts_. 

WHAT WAS IT?

It is, I confess, with considerable diffidence that I approached thestrange narrative which I am about to relate. The events which I purposedetailing are of so extraordinary a character that I am quite preparedto meet with an unusual amount of incredulity and scorn. I accept allsuch beforehand. I have, I trust, the literary courage to face unbelief. I have, after mature consideration, resolved to narrate, in as simpleand straightforward a manner as I can compass, some facts that passedunder my observation, in the month of July last, and which, in theannals of the mysteries of physical science, are wholly unparalleled. 

I live at No. — Twenty-sixth Street, in New York. The house is in somerespects a curious one. It has enjoyed for the last two years thereputation of being haunted. The house is very spacious. A hall of noblesize leads to a large spiral staircase winding through its centre, whilethe various apartments are of imposing dimensions. It was built somefifteen or twenty years since by Mr. A——, the well-known New Yorkmerchant, who five years ago threw the commercial world into convulsionsby a stupendous bank fraud. Mr. A——, as every one knows, escaped toEurope, and died not long after, of a broken heart. Almost immediatelyafter the news of his decease reached this country and was verified, the report spread in Twenty-sixth Street that No. — was haunted. Legalmeasures had dispossessed the widow of its former owner, and it wasinhabited merely by a care-taker and his wife, placed there by thehouse-agent into whose hands it had passed for purposes of renting orsale. These people declared that they were troubled with unnaturalnoises. Doors were opened without any visible agency. The remnants offurniture scattered through the various rooms were, during the night, piled one upon the other by unknown hands. Invisible feet passed up anddown the stairs in broad daylight, accompanied by the rustle of unseensilk dresses, and the gliding of viewless hands along the massivebalusters. The care-taker and his wife declared they would live there nolonger. The house-agent laughed, dismissed them, and put others in theirplace. The noises and supernatural manifestations continued. Theneighborhood caught up the story, and the house remained untenanted forthree years. Several persons negotiated for it; but, somehow, alwaysbefore the bargain was closed they heard the unpleasant rumors anddeclined to treat any further. 

It was in this state of things that my landlady, who at that time kept aboarding-house in Bleecker Street, and who wished to move farther uptown, conceived the bold idea of renting No. — Twenty-sixth Street. Happening to have in her house rather a plucky and philosophical set ofboarders, she laid her scheme before us, stating candidly everything shehad heard respecting the ghostly qualities of the establishment to whichshe wished to remove us. With the exception of two timid persons—asea-captain and a returned Californian, who immediately gave notice thatthey would leave—all of Mrs. Moffat’s guests declared that they wouldaccompany her in her incursion into the abode of spirits. 

Our removal was effected in the month of May, and we were charmed withour new residence. 

Of course we had no sooner established ourselves at No. — than we beganto expect the ghosts. We absolutely awaited their advent with eagerness. Our dinner conversation was supernatural. I found myself a person ofimmense importance, it having leaked out that I was tolerably wellversed in the history of supernaturalism, and had once written a storythe foundation of which was a ghost. If a table or wainscot panelhappened to warp when we were assembled in the large drawing-room, therewas an instant silence, and every one was prepared for an immediateclanking of chains and a spectral form. 

After a month of psychological excitement, it was with the utmostdissatisfaction that we were forced to acknowledge that nothing in theremotest degree approaching the supernatural had manifested itself. 

Things were in this state when an incident took place so awful andinexplicable in its character that my reason fairly reels at the barememory of the occurrence. It was the tenth of July. After dinner wasover I repaired, with my friend Dr. Hammond, to the garden to smoke myevening pipe. Independent of certain mental sympathies which existedbetween the doctor and myself, we were linked together by a vice. Weboth smoked opium. We knew each other’s secret and respected it. Weenjoyed together that wonderful expansion of thought, that marvellousintensifying of the perceptive faculties, that boundless feeling ofexistence when we seem to have points of contact with the wholeuniverse—in short, that unimaginable spiritual bliss, which I would notsurrender for a throne, and which I hope you, reader, will never—nevertaste. 

On the evening in question, the tenth of July, the doctor and myselfdrifted into an unusually metaphysical mood. We lit our largemeerschaums, filled with fine Turkish tobacco, in the core of whichburned a little black nut of opium, that, like the nut in the fairytale, held within its narrow limits wonders beyond the reach of kings;we paced to and fro, conversing. A strange perversity dominated thecurrents of our thoughts. They would not flow through the sun-litchannels into which we strove to divert them. For some unaccountablereason, they constantly diverged into dark and lonesome beds, where acontinual gloom brooded. It was in vain that, after our old fashion, weflung ourselves on the shores of the East, and talked of its gaybazaars, of the splendors of the time of Haroun, of harems and goldenpalaces. Black afreets continually arose from the depths of our talk, and expanded, like the one the fisherman released from the coppervessel, until they blotted everything bright from our vision. Insensibly, we yielded to the occult force that swayed us, and indulgedin gloomy speculation. We had talked some time upon the proneness of thehuman mind to mysticism, and the almost universal love of the terrible, when Hammond suddenly said to me, “What do you consider to be thegreatest element of terror?”

The question puzzled me. That many things were terrible, I knew. But itnow struck me, for the first time, that there must be one great andruling embodiment of fear—a King of Terrors, to which all others mustsuccumb. What might it be? To what train of circumstances would it oweits existence?

“I confess, Hammond, ” I replied to my friend, “I never considered thesubject before. That there must be one Something more terrible than anyother thing, I feel. I cannot attempt, however, even the most vaguedefinition. ”

“I am somewhat like you, Harry, ” he answered. “I feel my capacity toexperience a terror greater than anything yet conceived by the humanmind—something combining in fearful and unnatural amalgamation hithertosupposed incompatible elements. The calling of the voices in BrockdenBrown’s novel of ‘Wieland’ is awful; so is the picture of the Dweller onthe Threshold, in Bulwer’s ‘Zanoni;’ but, ” he added, shaking his headgloomily, “there is something more horrible still than these. ”

“Look here, Hammond, ” I rejoined, “let us drop this kind of talk, forHeaven’s sake! We shall suffer for it, depend on it. ”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me to-night, ” he replied, “but mybrain is running upon all sorts of weird and awful thoughts. I feel asif I could write a story like Hoffman, to-night, if I were only masterof a literary style. ”

“Well, if we are going to be Hoffmanesque in our talk, I’m off to bed. Opium and nightmares should never be brought together. How sultry itis! Good-night, Hammond. ”

“Good-night, Harry. Pleasant dreams to you. ”

“To you, gloomy wretch, afreets, ghouls, and enchanters. ”

We parted, and each sought his respective chamber. I undressed quicklyand got into bed, taking with me, according to my usual custom, a bookover which I generally read myself to sleep. I opened the volume as soonas I had laid my head upon the pillow, and instantly flung it to theother side of the room. It was Goudon’s “History of Monsters, ”—acurious French work, which I had lately imported from Paris, but which, in the state of mind I had then reached, was anything but an agreeablecompanion. I resolved to go to sleep at once; so, turning down my gasuntil nothing but a little blue point of light glimmered on the top ofthe tube, I composed myself to rest. 

The room was in total darkness. The atom of gas that still remainedalight did not illuminate a distance of three inches round the burner. Idesperately drew my arm across my eyes, as if to shut out even thedarkness and tried to think of nothing. It was in vain. The confoundedthemes touched on by Hammond in the garden kept obtruding themselves onmy brain. I battled against them. I erected ramparts of would-beblankness of intellect to keep them out. They still crowded upon me. While I was lying still as a corpse, hoping that by a perfect physicalinaction I should hasten mental repose, an awful incident occurred. ASomething dropped, as it seemed, from the ceiling, plumb upon my chest, and the next instant I felt two bony hands encircling my throat, endeavoring to choke me. 

I am no coward, and am possessed of considerable physical strength. Thesuddenness of the attack, instead of stunning me, strung every nerve toits highest tension. My body acted from instinct, before my brain hadtime to realize the terrors of my position. In an instant I wound twomuscular arms around the creature, and squeezed it, with all thestrength of despair, against my chest. In a few seconds the bony handsthat had fastened on my throat loosened their hold, and I was free tobreathe once more. Then commenced a struggle of awful intensity. Immersed in the most profound darkness, totally ignorant of the natureof the Thing by which I was so suddenly attacked, finding my graspslipping every moment, by reason, it seemed to me, of the entirenakedness of my assailant, bitten with sharp teeth in the shoulder, neck, and chest, having every moment to protect my throat against a pairof sinewy, agile hands, which my utmost efforts could not confine—thesewere a combination of circumstances to combat which required all thestrength, skill, and courage that I possessed. 

At last, after a silent, deadly, exhausting struggle, I got my assailantunder by a series of incredible efforts of strength. Once pinned, withmy knee on what I made out to be its chest, I knew that I was victor. Irested for a moment to breathe. I heard the creature beneath me pantingin the darkness, and felt the violent throbbing of a heart. It wasapparently as exhausted as I was; that was one comfort. At this moment Iremembered that I usually placed under my pillow, before going to bed, a large yellow silk pocket-handkerchief. I felt for it instantly; it wasthere. In a few seconds more I had, after a fashion, pinioned thecreature’s arms. 

I now felt tolerably secure. There was nothing more to be done but toturn on the gas, and, having first seen what my midnight assailant waslike, arouse the household. I will confess to being actuated by acertain pride in not giving the alarm before; I wished to make thecapture alone and unaided. 

Never losing my hold for an instant, I slipped from the bed to thefloor, dragging my captive with me. I had but a few steps to make toreach the gas-burner; these I made with the greatest caution, holdingthe creature in a grip like a vice. At last I got within arm’s length ofthe tiny speck of blue light which told me where the gas-burner lay. Quick as lightning I released my grasp with one hand and let on the fullflood of light. Then I turned to look at my captive. 

I cannot even attempt to give any definition of my sensations theinstant after I turned on the gas. I suppose I must have shrieked withterror, for in less than a minute afterward my room was crowded with theinmates of the house. I shudder now as I think of that awful moment. _Isaw nothing!_ Yes; I had one arm firmly clasped round a breathing, panting, corporeal shape, my other hand gripped with all its strength athroat as warm, and apparently fleshly, as my own; and yet, with thisliving substance in my grasp, with its body pressed against my own, andall in the bright glare of a large jet of gas, I absolutely beheldnothing! Not even an outline—a vapor!

I do not, even at this hour, realize the situation in which I foundmyself. I cannot recall the astounding incident thoroughly. Imaginationin vain tries to compass the awful paradox. 

It breathed. I felt its warm breath upon my cheek. It struggledfiercely. It had hands. They clutched me. Its skin was smooth, like myown. There it lay, pressed close up against me, solid as stone—and yetutterly invisible!

I wonder that I did not faint or go mad on the instant. Some wonderfulinstinct must have sustained me; for absolutely, in place of looseningmy hold on the terrible Enigma, I seemed to gain an additional strengthin my moment of horror, and tightened my grasp with such wonderful forcethat I felt the creature shivering with agony. 

Just then Hammond entered my room at the head of the household. As soonas he beheld my face—which, I suppose, must have been an awful sight tolook at—he hastened forward, crying, “Great Heaven, what has happened?”

“Hammond! Hammond!” I cried, “come here. Oh, this is awful! I have beenattacked in bed by something or other, which I have hold of; but I can’tsee it—I can’t see it!”

Hammond, doubtless struck by the unfeigned horror expressed in mycountenance, made one or two steps forward with an anxious yet puzzledexpression. A very audible titter burst from the remainder of myvisitors. This suppressed laughter made me furious. To laugh at a humanbeing in my position! It was the worst species of cruelty. _Now_, I canunderstand why the appearance of a man struggling violently, as it wouldseem, with an airy nothing, and calling for assistance against a vision, should have appeared ludicrous. _Then_, so great was my rage against themocking crowd that had I the power I would have stricken them dead wherethey stood. 

“Hammond! Hammond!” I cried again, despairingly, “for God’s sake come tome. I can hold the—the thing but a short while longer. It isoverpowering me. Help me! Help me!”

“Harry, ” whispered Hammond, approaching me, “you have been smoking toomuch opium. ”

“I swear to you, Hammond, that this is no vision, ” I answered, in thesame low tone. “Don’t you see how it shakes my whole frame with itsstruggles? If you don’t believe me convince yourself. Feel it—touchit. ”

Hammond advanced and laid his hand in the spot I indicated. A wild cryof horror burst from him. He had felt it!

In a moment he had discovered somewhere in my room a long piece of cord, and was the next instant winding it and knotting it about the body ofthe unseen being that I clasped in my arms. 

“Harry, ” he said, in a hoarse, agitated voice, for, though he preservedhis presence of mind, he was deeply moved, “Harry, it’s all safe now. You may let go, old fellow, if you’re tired. The Thing can’t move. ”

I was utterly exhausted, and I gladly loosed my hold. 

[Illustration: “BOTH OF US—CONQUERING OUR FEARFUL REPUGNANCE TO TOUCHTHE INVISIBLE CREATURE—LIFTED IT FROM THE GROUND, MANACLED AS IT WAS, AND TOOK IT TO MY BED. ”]

Hammond stood holding the ends of the cord, that bound the Invisible, twisted round his hand, while before him, self-supporting as it were, hebeheld a rope laced and interlaced, and stretching tightly around avacant space. I never saw a man look so thoroughly stricken with awe. Nevertheless his face expressed all the courage and determination whichI knew him to possess. His lips, although white, were set firmly, andone could perceive at a glance that, although stricken with fear, he wasnot daunted. 

The confusion that ensued among the guests of the house who werewitnesses of this extraordinary scene between Hammond and myself—whobeheld the pantomime of binding this struggling Something—who beheld mealmost sinking from physical exhaustion when my task of jailer wasover—the confusion and terror that took possession of the bystanders, when they saw all this, was beyond description. The weaker ones fledfrom the apartment. The few who remained clustered near the door andcould not be induced to approach Hammond and his Charge. Stillincredulity broke out through their terror. They had not the courage tosatisfy themselves, and yet they doubted. It was in vain that I beggedof some of the men to come near and convince themselves by touch of theexistence in that room of a living being which was invisible. They wereincredulous, but did not dare to undeceive themselves. How could asolid, living, breathing body be invisible, they asked. My reply wasthis. I gave a sign to Hammond, and both of us—conquering our fearfulrepugnance to touch the invisible creature—lifted it from the ground, manacled as it was, and took it to my bed. Its weight was about that ofa boy of fourteen. 

“Now, my friends, ” I said, as Hammond and myself held the creaturesuspended over the bed, “I can give you self-evident proof that here isa solid, ponderable body, which, nevertheless, you cannot see. Be goodenough to watch the surface of the bed attentively. ”

I was astonished at my own courage in treating this strange event socalmly; but I had recovered from my first terror, and felt a sort ofscientific pride in the affair, which dominated every other feeling. 

The eyes of the bystanders were immediately fixed on my bed. At a givensignal Hammond and I let the creature fall. There was the dull sound ofa heavy body alighting on a soft mass. The timbers of the bed creaked. Adeep impression marked itself distinctly on the pillow, and on the beditself. The crowd who witnessed this gave a low cry, and rushed from theroom. Hammond and I were left alone with our Mystery. 

We remained silent for some time, listening to the low irregularbreathing of the creature on the bed and watching the rustle of thebed-clothes as it impotently struggled to free itself from confinement. Then Hammond spoke. 

“Harry, this is awful. ”

“Ay, awful. ”

“But not unaccountable. ”

“Not unaccountable! What do you mean? Such a thing has never occurredsince the birth of the world. I know not what to think, Hammond. Godgrant that I am not mad and that this is not an insane fantasy!”

“Let us reason a little, Harry. Here is a solid body which we touch butwhich we cannot see. The fact is so unusual that it strikes us withterror. Is there no parallel, though, for such a phenomenon? Take apiece of pure glass. It is tangible and transparent. A certain chemicalcoarseness is all that prevents its being so entirely transparent as tobe totally invisible. It is not _theoretically impossible_, mind you, tomake a glass which shall not reflect a single ray of light—a glass sopure and homogeneous in its atoms that the rays from the sun will passthrough it as they do through the air, refracted but not reflected. Wedo not see the air, and yet we feel it. ”

“That’s all very well, Hammond, but these are inanimate substances. Glass does not breathe, air does not breathe. This thing has a heartthat palpitates—a will that moves it—lungs that play, and inspire andrespire. ”

“You forget the phenomena of which we have so often heard of late, ”answered the doctor gravely. “At the meetings called ‘spirit circles, ’invisible hands have been thrust into the hands of those persons roundthe table—warm, fleshly hands that seemed to pulsate with mortal life. ”

“What? Do you think, then, that this thing is——”

“I don’t know what it is, ” was the solemn reply; “but please the gods Iwill, with your assistance, thoroughly investigate it. ”

We watched together, smoking many pipes, all night long, by the bedsideof the unearthly being that tossed and panted until it was apparentlywearied out. Then we learned by the low, regular breathing that itslept. 

The next morning the house was all astir. The boarders congregated onthe landing outside my room, and Hammond and myself were lions. We hadto answer a thousand questions as to the state of our extraordinaryprisoner, for as yet not one person in the house except ourselves couldbe induced to set foot in the apartment. 

The creature was awake. This was evidenced by the convulsive manner inwhich the bed-clothes were moved in its efforts to escape. There wassomething truly terrible in beholding, as it were, those second-handindications of the terrible writhings and agonized struggles for libertywhich themselves were invisible. 

Hammond and myself had racked our brains during the long night todiscover some means by which we might realize the shape and generalappearance of the Enigma. As well as we could make out by passing ourhands over the creature’s form, its outlines and lineaments were human. There was a mouth; a round, smooth head without hair; a nose, which, however, was little elevated above the cheeks; and its hands and feetfelt like those of a boy. At first we thought of placing the being on asmooth surface and tracing its outlines with chalk, as shoemakers tracethe outline of the foot. This plan was given up as being of no value. Such an outline would give not the slightest idea of its conformation. 

A happy thought struck me. We would take a cast of it inplaster-of-Paris. This would give us the solid figure, and satisfy allour wishes. But how to do it. The movements of the creature woulddisturb the setting of the plastic covering, and distort the mould. Another thought. Why not give it chloroform? It had respiratoryorgans—that was evident by its breathing. Once reduced to a state ofinsensibility, we could do with it what we would. Doctor X—— was sentfor; and after the worthy physician had recovered from the first shockof amazement, he proceeded to administer the chloroform. In threeminutes afterward we were enabled to remove the fetters from thecreature’s body, and a modeller was busily engaged in covering theinvisible form with the moist clay. In five minutes more we had a mould, and before evening a rough fac-simile of the Mystery. It was shaped likea man--distorted, uncouth, and horrible, but still a man. It was small, not over four feet and some inches in height, and its limbs revealed amuscular development that was unparalleled. Its face surpassed inhideousness anything I had ever seen. Gustave Doré, or Callot, or TonyJohannot, never conceived anything so horrible. There is a face in oneof the latter’s illustrations to _Un Voyage où il vous plaira_, whichsomewhat approaches the countenance of this creature, but does not equalit. It was the physiognomy of what I should fancy a ghoul might be. Itlooked as if it was capable of feeding on human flesh. 

Having satisfied our curiosity, and bound every one in the house tosecrecy, it became a question what was to be done with our Enigma? Itwas impossible that we should keep such a horror in our house; it wasequally impossible that such an awful being should be let loose upon theworld. I confess that I would have gladly voted for the creature’sdestruction. But who would shoulder the responsibility? Who wouldundertake the execution of this horrible semblance to a human being? Dayafter day this question was deliberated gravely. The boarders all leftthe house. Mrs. Moffat was in despair, and threatened Hammond and myselfwith all sorts of legal penalties if we did not remove the Horror. Ouranswer was, “We will go if you like, but we decline taking this creaturewith us. Remove it yourself if you please. It appeared in your house. Onyou the responsibility rests. ” To this there was, of course, no answer. Mrs. Moffat could not obtain for love or money a person who would evenapproach the Mystery. 

At last it died. Hammond and I found it cold and stiff one morning inthe bed. The heart had ceased to beat, the lungs to inspire. We hastenedto bury it in the garden. It was a strange funeral, the dropping of thatviewless corpse into the damp hole. The cast of its form I gave toDoctor X——, who keeps it in his museum in Tenth Street. 

As I am on the eve of a long journey from which I may not return, I havedrawn up this narrative of an event the most singular that has ever cometo my knowledge. 

 +------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber’s Note: | | | |The words peckett (page 11), stronge (page 170) and Boulevart(s) | |(pages 59 and 80), the use of both L’Estrange and l’Estrange, and | |variations in hyphenated words have been retained as in the | |original book. | | | |Page 21 “Derybshire” changed to “Derbyshire” | | | |Page 22 “felt their hair” changed to “felt the hair” | | | |Page 46 “Come baack to” changed to “Come back to” | | | |Page 48 Added “ before Dear Mr. Westcar | | | |Page 61 “sufficiently start ling” changed to | | “sufficiently startling” | | | |Page 84 Changed “ to ‘ before And what other | | | |Page 95 Removed “ before together with | | | |Page 115 “dangerous conditon” changed to “dangerous condition” | | | |Page 120 “keeeping the matter” changed to “keeping the matter” | | | |Page 123 Added “ after new stalls, Gen’ral). | | | |Page 127 “beyond each” changed to “beyond reach” | | | |Page 138 “tradionally imputed” changed to “traditionally imputed” | | | |Page 152 “by which pedestrains” changed to “by which pedestrians” | | | |Page 164 “buy the joint of you” changed to “buy the joint off you”| | | |Page 191 “was on the the man’s” changed to “was on the man’s” | | | |Page 219 “Miss Collingwood had been languid” changed to | | “Miss Collingham had been languid” | | | |Page 220 Added “ before Miss Collingham started | | | |Page 232 Removed “ before The shades of evening | | | |Page 233 “Ferhaps the following” changed to | | “Perhaps the following” | | | |Page 235 “it gavevent to” changed to “it gave vent to” | | | |Page 250 “my rage are against” changed to “my rage against” | +------------------------------------------------------------------+