THEGERRARD STREET MYSTERYAND OTHERWEIRD TALES. 

BY

JOHN CHARLES DENT. 

PREFATORY SKETCH. 

John Charles Dent, the author of the following remarkable stories, wasborn in Kendal, Westmorland, England, in 1841. His parents emigrated toCanada shortly after that event, bringing with them, of course, theyouth who was afterwards to become the Canadian author and historian. Mr. Dent received his primary education in Canadian schools, andafterwards studied law, becoming in due course a member of the UpperCanada Bar. He only practised for a few years. He found the professionprofitable enough but uncongenial--as it could not well help being, inan obscure Canadian, village, twenty years ago--and very probably hewas already cherishing ambitious dreams of literary labors, which hewas eager to begin in the world's literary centre, London. Heaccordingly relinquished his practice as soon as he felt himself in aposition to do so, and went to England. He had not miscalculated hispowers, as too many do under like circumstances. He soon foundremunerative literary work, and as he became better known, was engagedto write for several high-class periodicals, notably, _Once aWeek_, for which he contributed a series of articles on interestingtopics. But in England Mr. Dent produced no very long or ambitiouswork. Perhaps he found that the requisite time for such an undertakingcould not be spared. At this period he had a wife and family dependingon him for support, and it speaks well for his abilities, that he wasable to amply provide for them out of the profits solely derived fromhis literary labours. But of course to do this he had to devote himselfto work that could be thrown off readily, and which could be as readilysold. 

After remaining in England for several years, Mr. Dent and his familyreturned to America. He obtained a position in Boston, which he heldfor about two years. But he finally relinquished it and came toToronto, having accepted a position on the editorial staff of the_Telegram_, which was then just starting. For several years Mr. Dent devoted himself to journalistic labours on various newspapers, butprincipally the _Toronto Weekly Globe_. To that journal hecontributed a very notable series of biographical sketches on "EminentCanadians. " Shortly after the death of the Hon. George Brown, Mr. Dentsevered his connection with the _Globe_, and immediatelythereafter commenced his first ambitious undertaking, _The CanadianPortrait Gallery_, which ran to four large volumes. It proved to bea most creditable and successful achievement. Of course in a briefsketch no detailed criticism of either this or the succeeding works canbe attempted. Suffice it to say that the biographies of Canadian publicmen, living and dead, were carefully prepared, and written from anun-partisan standpoint. In this book there was no padding; everyindividual admitted had achieved something of national value, and thebiographies are, therefore, of importance to the student of Canadianhistory. This book deserved and attained a considerable circulation, and brought to its author a comparatively large sum of money. 

Mr. Dent's second book was "The Last Forty Years: Canada since theUnion of 1841. " This work has been highly praised in all quarters, andis in every way a credit to its author's really brilliant powers as aliterary artist. 

The third work was a "History of the Rebellion in Upper Canada. "Although written in his best manner, with the greatest possible care, from authentic sources of information not hitherto accessible, thiswork has had the misfortune to meet with undeservedly severe criticism. When Mr. Dent began his studies for the book he held William-LyonMackenzie in high esteem, but he found it necessary afterwards tochange his opinion. He was able to throw a flood of new light on thecharacters of the men who took part in the struggle, and if the factstended to darken the fair fame of some of them, the historian certainlyought not to be censured for it. The tendency of the book was decidedlyin opposition to the ideas entertained to this day by the partizans ofthe "Old Family Compact" on the one side, and also to the friends andadmirers of William Lyon Mackenzie on the other. 

But the severe criticism the work sustained, has left it stronger thanbefore, and it will stand undoubtedly as by far the best history of the"Rebellion" that has appeared. 

In addition to these important works on which his reputation as awriter will rest, Mr. Dent has written from time to time a great manysketches, essays and stories, some of which are exceedingly interestingand worthy of being preserved. All of Mr. Dent's work contains a charmof its own. In writing, history, he was in accord with Macaulay. Healways believed that a true story should be told as agreeably as afictitious one; "that the incidents of real life, whether political ordomestic, admit of being so arranged as, without detriment to accuracy, to command all the interest of an artificial series of facts; that thechain of circumstances which constitute history may be as finely andgracefully woven as any tale of fancy. " Acting upon this theory, he hasmade Canadian history very interesting reading. He is to my mind theonly historian, beside Mr. Parkman, who has been able to make Canadianevents so dry in detail, fascinating throughout. 

In private life, Mr. Dent was a most estimable man. He possessedqualities of mind and heart, having their visible outcome in acourteous, genial manner that endeared him very closely to his friends. With all his wealth of learning, which was very great, he waslight-hearted, witty and companionable, and his early death leaves agap not very easily closed. 

The four stories composing the present volume were contributed by theirauthor at considerable intervals to different periodicals. Some timeprior to his death he contemplated publishing them in book form, andactually selected and carefully revised them with that purpose in view. He thought they were worthy of being rescued from obscurity, and if wecompare them with much of a similar class of work constantly issuingfrom the press, we cannot think that his judgment erred. They are nowpublished in accordance with his wish, to take their chances in thegreat world of literature. 

 R. W. D. 

TORONTO, Oct. 25th, 1888. 

CONTENTS

 THE GERRARD STREET MYSTERY GAGTOOTH'S IMAGE THE HAUNTED HOUSE ON DUCHESS STREET SAVAREEN'S DISAPPEARANCE

THE GERRARD STREET MYSTERY. 

I. 

My name is William Francis Furlong. My occupation is that of acommission merchant, and my place of business is on St. Paul Street, inthe City of Montreal. I have resided in Montreal ever since shortlyafter my marriage, in 1862, to my cousin, Alice Playter, of Toronto. Myname may not be familiar to the present generation of Torontonians, though I was born in Toronto, and passed the early years of my lifethere. Since the days of my youth my visits to the Upper Province havebeen few, and--with one exception--very brief; so that I have doubtlesspassed out of the remembrance of many persons with whom I was once onterms of intimacy. Still, there are several residents of Toronto whom Iam happy to number among my warmest personal friends at the presentday. There are also a good many persons of middle age, not in Torontoonly, but scattered here and there throughout various parts of Ontario, who will have no difficulty in recalling my name as that of one oftheir fellow-students at Upper Canada College. The name of my lateuncle, Richard Yardington, is of course well known to all old residentsof Toronto, where he spent the last thirty-two years of his life. Hesettled there in the year 1829, when the place was still known asLittle York. He opened a small store on Yonge Street, and hiscommercial career was a reasonably prosperous one. By steady degreesthe small store developed into what, in those times, was regarded as aconsiderable establishment. In the course of years the owner acquired acompetency, and in 1854 retired from business altogether. From thattime up to the day of his death he lived in his own house on GerrardStreet. 

After mature deliberation, I have resolved to give to the Canadianpublic an account of some rather singular circumstances connectedwith my residence in Toronto. Though repeatedly urged to do so, Ihave hitherto refrained from giving any extended publicity to thosecircumstances, in consequence of my inability to see any good tobe served thereby. The only person, however, whose reputation can beinjuriously affected by the details has been dead for some years. Hehas left behind him no one whose feelings can be shocked by thedisclosure, and the story is in itself sufficiently remarkable to beworth the telling. Told, accordingly, it shall be; and the onlyfictitious element introduced into the narrative shall be the name ofone of the persons most immediately concerned in it. 

At the time of taking up his abode in Toronto--or rather in LittleYork--my uncle Richard was a widower, and childless; his wife havingdied several months previously. His only relatives on this side of theAtlantic were two maiden sisters, a few years younger than himself. Henever contracted a second matrimonial alliance, and for some time afterhis arrival here his sisters lived in his house, and were dependentupon him for support. After the lapse of a few years both of themmarried and settled down in homes of their own. The elder of themsubsequently became my mother. She was left a widow when I was a mereboy, and survived my father only a few months. I was an only child, and as my parents had been in humble circumstances, the charge of mymaintenance devolved upon my uncle, to whose kindness I am indebted forsuch educational training as I have received. After sending me toschool and college for several years, he took me into his store, andgave me my first insight into commercial life. I lived with him, andboth then and always received at his hands the kindness of a father, inwhich light I eventually almost came to regard him. His youngersister, who was married to a watchmaker called Elias Playter, livedat Quebec from the time of her marriage until her death, which tookplace in 1846. Her husband had been unsuccessful in business, andwas moreover of dissipated habits. He was left with one child--adaughter--on his hands; and as my uncle was averse to the idea of hissister's child remaining under the control of one so unfit to providefor her welfare, he proposed to adopt the little girl as his own. Tothis proposition Mr. Elias Playter readily assented, and little Alicewas soon domiciled with her uncle and myself in Toronto. 

Brought up, as we were, under the same roof, and seeing each otherevery day of our lives, a childish attachment sprang up between mycousin Alice and myself. As the years rolled by, this attachmentripened into a tender affection, which eventually resulted in anengagement between us. Our engagement was made with the full andcordial approval of my uncle, who did not share the prejudiceentertained by many persons against marriages between cousins. Hestipulated, however, that our marriage should be deferred until I hadseen somewhat more of the world, and until we had both reached an agewhen we might reasonably be presumed to know our own minds. He wasalso, not unnaturally, desirous that before taking upon myself theresponsibility of marriage I should give some evidence of my ability toprovide for a wife, and for other contingencies usually consequent uponmatrimony. He made no secret of his intention to divide his propertybetween Alice and myself at his death; and the fact that no actualdivision would be necessary in the event of our marriage with eachother was doubtless one reason for his ready acquiescence in ourengagement. He was, however, of a vigorous constitution, strictlyregular and methodical in all his habits, and likely to live to anadvanced age. He could hardly be called parsimonious, but, like mostmen who have successfully fought their own way through life, he wasrather fond of authority, and little disposed to divest himself of hiswealth until he should have no further occasion for it. He expressedhis willingness to establish me in business, either in Toronto orelsewhere, and to give me the benefit of his experience in allmercantile transactions. 

When matters had reached this pass I had just completed my twenty-firstyear, my cousin being three years younger. Since my uncle's retirementI had engaged in one or two little speculations on my own account, which had turned out fairly successful, but I had not devotedmyself to any regular or fixed pursuit. Before any definitearrangements had been concluded as to the course of my future life, acircumstance occurred which seemed to open a way for me to turn to goodaccount such mercantile talent as I possessed. An old friend of myuncle's opportunely arrived in Toronto from Melbourne, Australia, where, in the course of a few years, he had risen from the position ofa junior clerk to that of senior partner in a prominent commercialhouse. He painted the land of his adoption in glowing colours, andassured my uncle and myself that it presented an inviting field for ayoung man of energy and business capacity, more especially if he had asmall capital at his command. The matter was carefully debated in ourdomestic circle. I was naturally averse to a separation from Alice, butmy imagination took fire at Mr. Redpath's glowing account of his ownsplendid success. I pictured myself returning to Canada after anabsence of four or five years with a mountain of gold at my command, asthe result of my own energy and acuteness. In imagination, I saw myselfsettled down with Alice in a palatial mansion on Jarvis Street, andliving in affluence all the rest of my days. My uncle bade me consultmy own judgment in the matter, but rather encouraged the idea thanotherwise. He offered to advance me L500, and I had about half thatsum as the result of my own speculations. Mr. Redpath, who was justabout returning to Melbourne, promised to aid me to the extent of hispower with his local knowledge and advice. In less than a fortnightfrom that time he and I were on our way to the other side of the globe. 

We reached our destination early in the month of September, 1857. Mylife in Australia has no direct bearing upon the course of events to berelated, and may be passed over in a very few words. I engaged invarious enterprises, and achieved a certain measure of success. If noneof my ventures proved eminently prosperous, I at least met with noserious disasters. At the end of four years--that is to say, inSeptember, 1861--I made up my account with the world, and found I wasworth ten thousand dollars. I had, however, become terribly homesick, and longed for the termination of my voluntary exile. I had, of course, kept up a regular correspondence with Alice and Uncle Richard, and oflate they had both pressed me to return home. "You have enough, " wrotemy uncle, "to give you a start in Toronto, and I see no reason whyAlice and you should keep apart any longer. You will have nohousekeeping expenses, for I intend you to live with me. I am gettingold, and shall be glad of your companionship in my declining years. Youwill have a comfortable home while I live, and when I die you will getall I have between you. Write as soon as you receive this, and let usknow how soon you can be here, --the sooner the better. "

The letter containing this pressing invitation found me in a mood verymuch disposed to accept it. The only enterprise I had on hand whichwould be likely to delay me was a transaction in wool, which, as Ibelieved, would be closed by the end of January or the beginning ofFebruary. By the first of March I should certainly be in a condition tostart on my homeward voyage, and I determined that my departure shouldtake place about that time. I wrote both to Alice and my uncle, apprising them of my intention, and announcing my expectation to reachToronto not later than the middle of May. 

The letters so written were posted on the 19th of September, in timefor the mail which left on the following day. On the 27th, to my hugesurprise and gratification, the wool transaction referred to wasunexpectedly concluded, and I was at liberty, if so disposed, to startfor home by the next fast mail steamer, the _Southern Cross_, leaving Melbourne on the 11th of October. I _was_ so disposed, and mademy preparations accordingly. It was useless, I reflected, to write tomy uncle or to Alice, acquainting them with the change in my plans, forI should take the shortest route home, and should probably be inToronto as soon as a letter could get there. I resolved to telegraphfrom New York, upon my arrival there, so as not to take them altogetherby surprise. 

The morning of the 11th of October found me on board the _SouthernCross_, where I shook hands with Mr. Redpath and several otherfriends who accompanied me on board for a last farewell. Theparticulars of the voyage to England are not pertinent to the story, and may be given very briefly. I took the Red Sea route, and arrived atMarseilles about two o'clock in the afternoon of the 29th of November. From Marseilles I travelled by rail to Calais, and so impatient was Ito reach my journey's end without loss of time, that I did not evenstay over to behold the glories of Paris. I had a commission to executein London, which, however, delayed me there only a few hours, and Ihurried down to Liverpool, in the hope of catching the Cunard Steamerfor New York. I missed it by about two hours, but the _Persia_ wasdetailed to start on a special trip to Boston on the following day. Isecured a berth, and at eight o'clock the next morning steamed out ofthe Mersey on my way homeward. 

The voyage from Liverpool to Boston consumed fourteen days. All I needsay about it is, that before arriving at the latter port I formed anintimate acquaintance with one of the passengers--Mr. Junius H. Gridley, a Boston merchant, who was returning from a hurried business trip toEurope. He was--and is--a most agreeable companion. We were throwntogether a good deal during the voyage, and we then laid the foundationof a friendship which has ever since subsisted between us. Before thedome of the State House loomed in sight he had extracted a promise fromme to spend a night with him before pursuing my journey. We landed atthe wharf in East Boston on the evening of the 17th of December, and Iaccompanied him to his house on West Newton Street, where I remaineduntil the following morning. Upon consulting the time-table, we foundthat the Albany express would leave at 11. 30 a. M. This left severalhours at my disposal, and we sallied forth immediately after breakfastto visit some of the lions of the American Athens. 

In the course of our peregrinations through the streets, we droppedinto the post-office, which had recently been established in theMerchants' Exchange Building, on State Street. Seeing the countlesspiles of mail-matter, I jestingly remarked to my friend that thereseemed to be letters enough there to go around the whole human family. He replied in the same mood, whereupon I banteringly suggested theprobability that among so many letters, surely there ought to be onefor me. 

"Nothing more reasonable, " he replied. "We Bostonians are alwaysbountiful to strangers. Here is the General Delivery, and here is thedepartment where letters addressed to the Furlong family are kept instock. Pray inquire for yourself. "

The joke I confess was not a very brilliant one; but with a gravecountenance I stepped up to the wicket and asked the young lady inattendance:

"Anything for W. F. Furlong?"

She took from a pigeon-hole a handful of correspondence, and proceededto run her eye over the addresses. When about half the pile had beenexhausted she stopped, and propounded the usual inquiry in the case ofstrangers:

"Where do you expect letters from?"

"From Toronto, " I replied. 

To my no small astonishment she immediately handed me a letter, bearingthe Toronto post-mark. The address was in the peculiar and well-knownhandwriting of my uncle Richard. 

Scarcely crediting the evidence of my senses I tore open the envelope, and read as follows:--

 "TORONTO, 9th December, 1861. 

"MY DEAR WILLIAM--I am so glad to know that you are coming home so muchsooner than you expected when you wrote last, and that you will eatyour Christmas dinner with us. For reasons which you will learn whenyou arrive, it will not be a very merry Christmas at our house, butyour presence will make it much more bearable than it would be withoutyou. I have not told Alice that you are coming. Let it be a joyfulsurprise for her, as some compensation for the sorrows she has had toendure lately. You needn't telegraph. I will meet you at the G. W. R. Station. 

 "Your affectionate uncle, "RICHARD YARDINGTON. "

"Why, what's the matter?" asked my friend, seeing the blank look ofsurprise on my face. "Of course the letter is not for you; why on earthdid you open it?"

"It _is_ for me, " I answered. "See here, Gridley, old man; haveyou been playing me a trick? If you haven't, this is the strangestthing I ever knew in my life. "

Of course he hadn't been playing me a trick. A moment's reflectionshowed me that such a thing was impossible. Here was the envelope, withthe Toronto post-mark of the 9th of December, at which time he had beenwith me on board the _Persia_, on the Banks of Newfoundland. Besides, he was a gentleman, and would not have played so poor andstupid a joke upon a guest. And, to put the matter beyond allpossibility of doubt, I remembered that I had never mentioned mycousin's name in his hearing. 

I handed him the letter. He read it carefully through twice over, andwas as much mystified at its contents as myself; for during our passageacross the Atlantic I had explained to him the circumstance under whichI was returning home. 

By what conceivable means had my uncle been made aware of my departurefrom Melbourne? Had Mr. Redpath written to him, as soon as I acquaintedthat gentleman with my intentions? But even if such were the case, theletter could not have left before I did, and could not possibly havereached Toronto by the 9th of December. Had I been seen in England bysome one who knew me, and had not one written from there? Mostunlikely; and even if such a thing had happened, it was impossible thatthe letter could have reached Toronto by the 9th. I need hardly informthe reader that there was no telegraphic communication at that time. And how could my uncle know that I would take the Boston route? And ifhe _had_ known, how could he foresee that I would do anything so absurdas to call at the Boston post-office and inquire for letters? "_Iwill meet you at the G. W. R. Station_. " How was he to know by whattrain I would reach Toronto, unless I notified him by telegraph? Andthat he expressly stated to be unnecessary. 

We did no more sight-seeing. I obeyed the hint contained in the letter, and sent no telegram. My friend accompanied me down to the Boston andAlbany station, where I waited in feverish impatience for the departureof the train. We talked over the matter until 11. 30, in the vain hopeof finding some clue to the mystery. Then I started on my journey. Mr. Gridley's curiosity was aroused, and I promised to send him anexplanation immediately upon my arrival at home. 

No sooner had the train glided out of the station than I settled myselfin my seat, drew the tantalizing letter from my pocket, and proceededto read and re-read it again and again. A very few perusals sufficed tofix its contents in my memory, so that I could repeat every word withmy eyes shut. Still I continued to scrutinize the paper, thepenmanship, and even the tint of the ink. For what purpose, do you ask?For no purpose, except that I hoped, in some mysterious manner, toobtain more light on the subject. No light came, however. The more Iscrutinized and pondered, the greater was my mystification. The paperwas a simple sheet of white letter-paper, of the kind ordinarily usedby my uncle in his correspondence. So far as I could see, there wasnothing peculiar about the ink. Anyone familiar with my uncle's writingcould have sworn that no hand but his had penned the lines. Hiswell-known signature, a masterpiece of involved hieroglyphics, was therein all its indistinctness, written as no one but himself could ever havewritten it. And yet, for some unaccountable reason, I was half disposedto suspect forgery. Forgery! What nonsense. Anyone clever enough toimitate Richard Yardington's handwriting would have employed histalents more profitably than indulging in a mischievous and purposelessjest. Not a bank in Toronto but would have discounted a note with thatsignature affixed to it. 

Desisting from all attempts to solve these problems, I then tried tofathom the meaning of other points in the letter. What misfortune hadhappened to mar the Christmas festivities at my uncle's house? And whatcould the reference to my cousin Alice's sorrows mean? She was not ill. _That_, I thought, might be taken for granted. My uncle would hardlyhave referred to her illness as "one of the sorrows she had to endurelately. " Certainly, illness may be regarded in the light of a sorrow;but "sorrow" was not precisely the word which a straight-forward manlike Uncle Richard would have applied to it. I could conceive of noother cause of affliction in her case. My uncle was well, as was evincedby his having written the letter, and by his avowed intention to meet meat the station. Her father had died long before I started for Australia. She had no other near relation except myself, and she had no cause foranxiety, much less for "sorrow, " on my account. I thought it singular, too, that my uncle, having in some strange manner become acquainted withmy movements, had withheld the knowledge from Alice. It did not squarewith my preconceived ideas of him that he would derive any satisfactionfrom taking his niece by surprise. 

All was a muddle together, and as my temples throbbed with theintensity of my thoughts, I was half disposed to believe myself in atroubled dream from which I should presently awake. Meanwhile, onglided the train. 

A heavy snow-storm delayed us for several hours, and we reachedHamilton too late for the mid-day express for Toronto. We got there, however, in time for the accommodation leaving at 3. 15 p. M. , and wewould reach Toronto at 5. 05. I walked from one end of the train to theother in hopes of finding some one I knew, from whom I could makeenquiries about home. Not a soul. I saw several persons whom I knew tobe residents of Toronto, but none with whom I had ever been personallyacquainted, and none of them would be likely to know anything about myuncle's domestic arrangements. All that remained to be done under thesecircumstances was to restrain my curiosity as well as I could untilreaching Toronto. By the by, would my uncle really meet me at thestation, according to his promise? Surely not. By what means could hepossibly know that I would arrive by this train? Still, he seemed tohave such accurate information respecting my proceedings that there wasno saying where his knowledge began or ended. I tried not to thinkabout the matter, but as the train approached Toronto my impatiencebecame positively feverish in its intensity. We were not more thanthree minutes behind time, as we glided in front of the Union Station, I passed out on to the platform of the car, and peered intently throughthe darkness. Suddenly my heart gave a great bound. There, sure enough, standing in front of the door of the waiting-room, was my uncle, plainly discernible by the fitful glare of the overhanging lamps. Before the train came to a stand-still, I sprang from the car andadvanced towards him. He was looking out for me, but his eyes not beingas young as mine, he did not recognize me until I grasped him by thehand. He greeted me warmly, seizing me by the waist, and almost raisingme from the ground. I at once noticed several changes in hisappearance; changes for which I was wholly unprepared. He had aged verymuch since I had last seen him, and the lines about his mouth haddeepened considerably. The iron-grey hair which I remembered so wellhad disappeared; its place being supplied with a new and ratherdandified-looking wig. The oldfashioned great-coat which he had wornever since I could remember had been supplanted by a modern frock ofspruce cut, with seal-skin collar and cuffs. All this I noticed in thefirst hurried greetings that passed between us. 

"Never mind your luggage, my boy, " he remarked. "Leave it till to-morrow, when we will send down for it. If you are not tired we'll walkhome instead of taking a cab. I have a good deal to say to you beforewe get there. "

I had not slept since leaving Boston, but was too much excited to beconscious of fatigue, and as will readily be believed, I was anxiousenough to hear what he had to say. We passed from the station, andproceeded up York Street, arm in arm. 

"And now, Uncle Richard, " I said, as soon as we were well clear of thecrowd, --"keep me no longer in suspense. First and foremost, is Alicewell?"

"Quite well, but for reasons you will soon understand, she is in deepgrief. You must know that--"

"But, " I interrupted, "tell me, in the name of all that's wonderful, how you knew I was coming by this train; and how did you come to writeto me at Boston?"

Just then we came to the corner of Front Street, where was a lamp-post. As we reached the spot where the light of the lamp was most brilliant, he turned half round, looked me full in the face, and smiled a sort ofwintry smile. The expression of his countenance was almost ghastly. 

"Uncle, " I quickly said, "What's the matter? Are you not well?"

"I am not as strong as I used to be, and I have had a good deal to tryme of late. Have patience and I will tell you all. Let us walk moreslowly, or I shall not finish before we get home. In order that you mayclearly understand how matters are, I had better begin at thebeginning, and I hope you will not interrupt me with any questions tillI have done. How I knew you would call at the Boston post-office, andthat you would arrive in Toronto by this train, will come last inorder. By the by, have you my letter with you?"

"The one you wrote to me at Boston? Yes, here it is, " I replied, takingit from my pocket-book. 

"Let me have it. "

I handed it to him, and he put it into the breast pocket of his insidecoat. I wondered at this proceeding on his part, but made no remarkupon it. 

We moderated our pace, and he began his narration. Of course I don'tpretend to remember his exact words, but they were to this effect. During the winter following my departure to Melbourne, he had formedthe acquaintance of a gentleman who had then recently settled inToronto. The name of this gentleman was Marcus Weatherley, who hadcommenced business as a wholesale provision merchant immediately uponhis arrival, and had been engaged in it ever since. For more than threeyears the acquaintance between him and my uncle had been very slight, but during the last summer they had had some real estate transactionstogether, and had become intimate. Weatherley, who was comparatively ayoung man and unmarried, had been invited to the house on GerrardStreet, where he had more recently become a pretty frequent visitor. More recently still, his visits had become so frequent that my unclesuspected him of a desire to be attentive to my cousin, and had thoughtproper to enlighten him as to her engagement with me. From that day hisvisits had been voluntarily discontinued. My uncle had not given muchconsideration to the subject until a fortnight afterwards, when he hadaccidently become aware of the fact that Weatherley was in embarrassedcircumstances. 

Here my uncle paused in his narrative to take breath. He then added, ina low tone, and putting his mouth almost close to my ear:

"And, Willie, my boy, I have at last found out something else. He hasforty-two thousand dollars falling due here and in Montreal within thenext ten days, and _he has forged my signature to acceptances forthirty-nine thousand seven hundred and sixteen dollars and twenty-fourcents_. "

Those to the best of my belief, were his exact words. We had walked upYork Street to Queen, and then had gone down Queen to Yonge, when weturned up the east side on our way homeward. At the moment when thelast words were uttered we had got a few yards north of CrookshankStreet, immediately in front of a chemist's shop which was, I think, the third house from the corner. The window of this shop was welllighted, and its brightness was reflected on the sidewalk in front. Just then, two gentlemen walking rapidly in the opposite direction tothat we were taking brushed by us; but I was too deeply absorbed in myuncle's communication to pay much attention to passers-by. Scarcely hadthey passed, however, ere one of them stopped and exclaimed:

"Surely that is Willie Furlong!"

I turned, and recognised Johnny Gray, one of my oldest friends. Irelinquished my uncle's arm for a moment, and shook hands with Gray, who said:

"I am surprised to see you. I heard only a few days ago, that you werenot to be here till next spring. "

"I am here, " I remarked, "somewhat in advance of my own expectations. "I then hurriedly enquired after several of our common friends, to whichenquiries he briefly replied. 

"All well, " he said; "but you are in a hurry, and so am I. Don't let medetain you. Be sure and look in on me to-morrow. You will find me atthe old place, in the Romain Buildings. "

We again shook hands, and he passed on down the street with thegentleman who accompanied him. I then turned to re-possess myself of myuncle's arm. The old gentleman had evidently walked on, for he was notin sight. I hurried along, making sure of overtaking him beforereaching Gould Street, for my interview with Gray had occupied barely aminute. In another minute I was at the corner of Gould Street. No signsof Uncle Richard. I quickened my pace to a run, which soon brought meto Gerrard Street. Still no signs of my uncle. I had certainly notpassed him on my way, and he could not have got farther on his homewardroute than here. He must have called in at one of the stores; a strangething for him to do under the circumstances. I retraced my steps allthe way to the front of the chemist's shop, peering into every windowand doorway as I passed along. No one in the least resembling him wasto be seen. 

I stood still for a moment, and reflected. Even if he had run at fullspeed--a thing most unseemly for him to do--he could not have reachedthe corner of Gerrard Street before I had done so. And what should herun for? He certainly did not wish to avoid me, for he had more to tellme before reaching home. Perhaps he had turned down Gould Street. Atany rate, there was no use waiting for him. I might as well go home atonce. And I did. 

Upon reaching the old familiar spot, I opened the gate passed on up thesteps to the front door, and rang the bell. The door was opened by adomestic who had not formed part of the establishment in my time, andwho did not know me; but Alice happened to be passing through the hall, and heard my voice as I inquired for Uncle Richard. Another moment andshe was in my arms. With a strange foreboding at my heart I noticedthat she was in deep mourning. We passed into the dining-room, wherethe table was laid for dinner. 

"Has Uncle Richard come in?" I asked, as soon as we were alone. "Whydid he run away from me?"

"Who?" exclaimed Alice, with a start; "what do you mean, Willie? Is itpossible you have not heard?"

"Heard what?"

"I see you have _not_ heard, " she replied. "Sit down, Willie, andprepare yourself for painful news. But first tell me what you meant bysaying what you did just now, --who was it that ran away from you?"

"Well, perhaps I should hardly call it running away, but he certainlydisappeared most mysteriously, down here near the corner of Yonge andCrookshank Streets. "

"Of whom are you speaking?"

"Of Uncle Richard, of course. "

"Uncle Richard! The corner of Yonge and Crookshank Streets! When didyou see him there?"

"When? A quarter of an hour ago. He met me at the station and we walkedup together till I met Johnny Gray. I turned to speak to Johnny for amoment, when--"

"Willie, what on earth are you talking about? You are labouring undersome strange delusion. _Uncle Richard died of apoplexy more than sixweeks ago, and lies buried in St. James's Cemetery_. "

II. 

I don't know how long I sat there, trying to think, with my face buriedin my hands. My mind had been kept on a strain during the last thirtyhours, and the succession of surprises to which I had been subjectedhad temporarily paralyzed my faculties. For a few moments after Alice'sannouncement I must have been in a sort of stupor. My imagination, Iremember, ran riot about everything in general, and nothing inparticular. My cousin's momentary impression was that I had met with anaccident of some kind, which had unhinged my brain. The first distinctremembrance I have after this is, that I suddenly awoke from my stuporto find Alice kneeling at my feet, and holding me by the hand. Then mymental powers came back to me, and I recalled all the incidents of theevening. 

"When did uncle's death take place?" I asked. 

"On the 3rd of November, about four o'clock in the afternoon. It wasquite unexpected, though he had not enjoyed his usual health for someweeks before. He fell down in the hall, just as he was returning from awalk, and died within two hours. He never spoke or recognised any oneafter his seizure. "

"What has become of his old overcoat?" I asked. 

"His old overcoat, Willie--what a question?" replied Alice, evidentlythinking that I was again drifting back into insensibility. 

"Did he continue to wear it up to the day of his death?" I asked. 

"No. Cold weather set in very early this last fall, and he wascompelled to don his winter clothing earlier than usual. He had a newovercoat made within a fortnight before he died. He had it on at thetime of his seizure. But why do you ask?"

"Was the new coat cut by a fashionable tailor, and had it a fur collarand cuffs?"

"It was cut at Stovel's, I think. It had a fur collar and cuffs. "

"When did he begin to wear a wig?"

"About the same time that he began to wear his new overcoat. I wroteyou a letter at the time, making merry over his youthful appearance andhinting--of course only in jest--that he was looking out for a youngwife. But you surely did not receive my letter. You must have been onyour way home before it was written. "

"I left Melbourne on the 11th of October. The wig, I suppose, wasburied with him?"

"Yes. "

"And where is the overcoat?"

"In the wardrobe upstairs, in uncle's room. "

"Come and show it to me. "

I led the way upstairs, my cousin following. In the hall on the firstfloor we encountered my old friend Mrs. Daly, the housekeeper. Shethrew up her hands in surprise at seeing me. Our greeting was verybrief; I was too intent on solving the problem which had exercised mymind ever since receiving the letter at Boston, to pay much attentionto anything else. Two words, however, explained to her where we weregoing, and at our request she accompanied us. We passed into my uncle'sroom. My cousin drew the key of the wardrobe from a drawer where it waskept, and unlocked the door. There hung the overcoat. A single glancewas sufficient. It was the same. 

The dazed sensation in my head began to make itself felt again. Theatmosphere of the room seemed to oppress me, and closing the door ofthe wardrobe, I led the way down stairs again to the dining-room, followed by my cousin. Mrs. Daly had sense enough to perceive that wewere discussing family matters, and retired to her own room. 

I took my cousin's hand in mine, and asked:

"Will you tell me what you know of Mr. Marcus Weatherley?"

This was evidently another surprise for her. How could I have heard ofMarcus Weatherley? She answered, however, without hesitation:

"I know very little of him. Uncle Richard and he had some dealings afew months since, and in that way he became a visitor here. After awhile he began to call pretty often, but his visits suddenly ceased ashort time before uncle's death. I need not affect any reserve withyou. Uncle Richard thought he came after me, and gave him a hint thatyou had a prior claim. He never called afterwards. I am rather gladthat he didn't, for there is something about him that I don't quitelike. I am at a loss to say what the something is; but his manneralways impressed me with the idea that he was not exactly what heseemed to be on the surface. Perhaps I misjudged him. Indeed, I think Imust have done so, for he stands well with everybody, and is highlyrespected. "

I looked at the clock on the mantel piece. It was ten minutes to seven, I rose from my seat. 

"I will ask you to excuse me for an hour or two, Alice. I must findJohnny Gray. "

"But you will not leave me, Willie, until you have given me some clueto your unexpected arrival, and to the strange questions you have beenasking? Dinner is ready, and can be served at once. Pray don't go outagain till you have dined. "

She clung to my arm. It was evident that she considered me mad, andthought it probable that I might make away with myself. This I couldnot bear. As for eating any dinner, that was simply impossible in mythen frame of mind, although I had not tasted food since leavingRochester. I resolved to tell her all. I resumed my seat. She placedherself on a stool at my feet, and listened while I told her all that Ihave set down as happening to me subsequently to my last letter to herfrom Melbourne. 

"And now, Alice, you know why I wish to see Johnny Gray. "

She would have accompanied me, but I thought it better to prosecute myinquiries alone. I promised to return sometime during the night, andtell her the result of my interview with Gray. That gentleman hadmarried and become a householder on his own account during my absencein Australia. Alice knew his address, and gave me the number of hishouse, which was on Church Street. A few minutes' rapid walking broughtme to his door. I had no great expectation of finding him at home, as Ideemed it probable he had not returned from wherever he had been goingwhen I met him; but I should be able to find out when he was expected, and would either wait or go in search of him. Fortune favored me foronce, however; he had returned more than an hour before. I was usheredinto the drawing-room, where I found him playing cribbage with hiswife. 

"Why, Willie, " he exclaimed, advancing to welcome me, "this is kinderthan I expected. I hardly looked for you before to-morrow. All thebetter; we have just been speaking of you. Ellen, this is my oldfriend, Willie Furlong, the returned convict, whose banishment you haveso often heard me deplore. "

After exchanging brief courtesies with Mrs. Gray, I turned to herhusband. 

"Johnny, did you notice anything remarkable about the old gentleman whowas with me when we met on Young Street this evening?"

"Old gentleman! who? There was no one with you when I met you. "

"Think again, He and I were walking arm in arm, and you had passed usbefore you recognized me, and mentioned my name. "

He looked hard in my face for a moment, and then said positively:

"You are wrong, Willie. You were certainly alone when we met. You werewalking slowly, and I must have noticed if any one had been with you. "

"It is you who are wrong, " I retorted, almost sternly. "I wasaccompanied by an elderly gentleman, who wore a great coat with furcollar and cuffs, and we were conversing earnestly together when youpassed us. "

He hesitated an instant, and seemed to consider, but there was no shadeof doubt on his face. 

"Have it your own way, old boy, " he said. "All I can say is, that I sawno one but yourself, and neither did Charley Leitch, who was with me. After parting from you we commented upon your evident abstraction, andthe sombre expression of your countenance, which we attributed to yourhaving only recently heard of the sudden death of your Uncle Richard. If any old gentleman had been with you we could not possibly havefailed to notice him. "

Without a single word by way of explanation or apology, I jumped frommy seat, passed out into the hall, seized my hat, and left the house. 

III. 

Out into the street I rushed like a madman, banging the door after me. I knew that Johnny would follow me for an explanation, so I ran likelightning round the next corner, and thence down to Yonge Street. ThenI dropped into a walk, regained my breath, and asked myself what Ishould do next. 

Suddenly I bethought me of Dr. Marsden, an old friend of my uncle's. Ihailed a passing cab, and drove to his house. The doctor was in hisconsultation-room, and alone. 

Of course he was surprised to see me, and gave expression to someappropriate words of sympathy at my bereavement. "But how is it that Isee you so soon?" he asked--"I understood that you were not expectedfor some months to come. "

Then I began my story, which I related with great circumstantiality ofdetail, bringing it down to the moment of my arrival at his house. Helistened with the closest attention, never interrupting me by a singleexclamation until I had finished. Then he began to ask questions, someof which I thought strangely irrelevant. 

"Have you enjoyed your usual good health during your residence abroad?"

"Never better in my life. I have not had a moment's illness since youlast saw me. "

"And how have you prospered in your business enterprises?"

"Reasonably well; but pray doctor, let us confine ourselves to thematter in hand. I have come for friendly, not professional, advice. "

"All in good time, my boy, " he calmly remarked. This was tantalizing. My strange narrative did not seem to have disturbed his serenity in theleast degree. 

"Did you have a pleasant passage?" he asked, after a brief pause. "Theocean, I believe, is generally rough at this time of year. "

"I felt a little squeamish for a day or two after leaving Melbourne, " Ireplied, "but I soon got over it, and it was not very bad even while itlasted. I am a tolerably good sailor. "

"And you have had no special ground of anxiety of late? At least notuntil you received this wonderful letter"--he added, with a perceptiblecontraction of his lips, as though trying to repress a smile. 

Then I saw what he was driving at. 

"Doctor, " I exclaimed, with some exasperation in my tone--"pray dismissfrom your mind the idea that what I have told you is the result ofdiseased imagination. I am as sane as you are. The letter itselfaffords sufficient evidence that I am not quite such a fool as you takeme for. "

"My dear boy, I don't take you for a fool at all, although you are alittle excited just at present. But I thought you said you returned theletter to--ahem--your uncle. "

For a moment I had forgotten that important fact. But I was notaltogether without evidence that I had not been the victim of adisordered brain. My friend Gridley could corroborate the receipt ofthe letter and its contents. My cousin could bear witness that I haddisplayed an acquaintance with facts which I would not have been likelyto learn from any one but my uncle. I had referred to his wig andovercoat, and had mentioned to her the name of Mr. Marcus Weatherley--aname which I had never heard before in my life. I called Dr. Marsden'sattention to these matters, and asked him to explain them if he could. 

"I admit, " said the doctor, "that I don't quite see my way to asatisfactory explanation just at present. But let us look the mattersquarely in the face. During an acquaintance of nearly thirty years, Ialways found your uncle a truthful man, who was cautious enough to makeno statements about his neighbours that he was not able to prove. Yourinformant, on the other hand, does not seem to have confined himself tofacts. He made a charge of forgery against a gentleman whose moral andcommercial integrity are unquestioned by all who know him. I knowMarcus Weatherley pretty well, and am not disposed to pronounce him aforger and a scoundrel upon the unsupported evidence of a shadowy oldgentleman who appears and disappears in the most mysterious manner, andwho cannot be laid hold of and held responsible for his slanders in acourt of law. And it is not true, as far as I know and believe, thatMarcus Weatherley is embarrassed in his circumstances. Such confidencehave I in his solvency and integrity that I would not be afraid to takeup all his outstanding paper without asking a question. If you willmake inquiry, you will find that my opinion is shared by all thebankers in the city. And I have no hesitation in saying that you willfind no acceptances with your uncle's name to them, either in thismarket or elsewhere. "

"That I will try to ascertain to-morrow, " I replied. "Meanwhile, Dr. Marsden, will you oblige your old friend's nephew by writing to Mr. Junius Gridley, and asking him to acquaint you with the contents of theletter, and the circumstances under which I received it?"

"It seems an absurd thing to do, " he said, "but I will if you like. What shall I say?" and he sat down at his desk to write the letter. 

It was written in less than five minutes. It simply asked for thedesired information, and requested an immediate reply. Below thedoctor's signature I added a short postscript in these words:--

"My story about the letter and its contents is discredited. Pray answerfully, and at once. --W. F. F. "

At my request the doctor accompanied me to the Post-office, on TorontoStreet, and dropped the letter into the box with his own hands. I badehim good night, and repaired to the Rossin House. I did not feel likeencountering Alice again until I could place myself in a moresatisfactory light before her. I despatched a messenger to her with ashort note stating that I had not discovered anything important, andrequesting her not to wait up for me. Then I engaged a room and wentto bed. 

But not to sleep. All night long I tossed about from one side of thebed to the other; and at daylight, feverish and unrefreshed, I strolledout. I returned in time for breakfast, but ate little or nothing. Ilonged for the arrival of ten o'clock, when the banks would open. 

After breakfast I sat down in the reading-room of the hotel, and vainlytried to fix my attention upon the local columns of the morning'spaper. I remember reading over several items time after time, withoutany comprehension of their meaning. After that I remember--nothing. 

Nothing? All was blank for more than five weeks. When consciousnesscame back to me I found myself in bed in my own old room, in the houseon Gerrard Street, and Alice and Dr. Marsden were standing by mybedside. 

No need to tell how my hair had been removed, nor about the bags of icethat had been applied to my head. No need to linger over any details ofthe "pitiless fever that burned in my brain. " No need, either, tolinger over my progress back to convalescence, and thence to completerecovery. In a week from the time I have mentioned, I was permitted tosit up in bed, propped up by a mountain of pillows. My impatience wouldbrook no further delay, and I was allowed to ask questions about whathad happened in the interval which had elapsed since my over wroughtnerves gave way under the prolonged strain upon them. First, JuniusGridley's letter in reply to Dr. Marsden was placed in my hands. I haveit still in my possession, and I transcribe the following copy from theoriginal now lying before me:--

 "BOSTON, Dec. 22nd, 1861. 

"DR. MARSDEN:

"In reply to your letter, which has just been received, I have to saythat Mr. Furlong and myself became acquainted for the first time duringour recent passage from Liverpool to Boston, in the _Persia_, which arrived here Monday last. Mr. Furlong accompanied me home, andremained until Tuesday morning, when I took him to see the PublicLibrary, the State House, the Athenaeum, Faneuil Hall, and other pointsof interest. We casually dropped into the post-office, and he remarkedupon the great number of letters there. At my instigation--made, ofcourse, in jest--he applied at the General Delivery for letters forhimself. He received one bearing the Toronto post-mark. He wasnaturally very much surprised at receiving it, and was not less so atits contents. After reading it he handed it to me, and I also read itcarefully. I cannot recollect it word for word, but it professed tocome from 'his affectionate uncle, Richard Yardington. ' It expressedpleasure at his coming home sooner than had been anticipated, andhinted in rather vague terms at some calamity. He referred to a ladycalled Alice, and stated that she had not been informed of Mr. Furlong's intended arrival. There was something too, about hispresence at home being a recompense to her for recent grief which shehad sustained. It also expressed the writer's intention to meet hisnephew at the Toronto railway station upon his arrival, and stated thatno telegram need be sent. This, as nearly as I can remember, was aboutall there was in the letter. Mr. Furlong professed to recognise thehandwriting as his uncle's. It was a cramped hand, not easy to read, and the signature was so peculiarly formed that I was hardly able todecipher it. The peculiarity consisted of the extreme irregularity inthe formation of the letters, no two of which were of equal size; andcapitals were interspersed promiscuously, more especially throughoutthe surname. 

"Mr. Furlong was much agitated by the contents of the letter, and wasanxious for the arrival of the time of his departure. He left by the B. & A. Train at 11. 30. This is really all I know about the matter, and Ihave been anxiously expecting to hear from him ever since he left. Iconfess that I feel curious, and should be glad to hear from him--thatis, of course, unless something is involved which it would beimpertinent for a comparative stranger to pry into. 

 "Yours, &c. , "JUNIUS H. GRIDLEY. "

So that my friend has completely corroborated my account, so far asthe letter was concerned. My account, however, stood in no need ofcorroboration, as will presently appear. 

When I was stricken down, Alice and Dr. Marsden were the only personsto whom I had communicated what my uncle had said to me during our walkfrom the station. They both maintained silence in the matter, except toeach other. Between themselves, in the early days of my illness, theydiscussed it with a good deal of feeling on each side. Alice implicitlybelieved my story from first to last. She was wise enough to see that Ihad been made acquainted with matters that I could not possibly havelearned through any ordinary channels of communication. In short, shewas not so enamoured of professional jargon as to have lost her commonsense. The doctor, however, with the mole-blindness of many of histribe, refused to believe. Nothing of this kind had previously comewithin the range of his own experience, and it was thereforeimpossible. He accounted for it all upon the hypothesis of my impendingfever. He is not the only physician who mistakes cause for effect, and_vice versa_. 

During the second week of my prostration, Mr. Marcus Weatherleyabsconded. This event so totally unlooked for by those who had haddealings with him, at once brought his financial condition to light. Itwas found that he had been really insolvent for several months past. The day after his departure a number of his acceptances became due. These acceptances proved to be four in number, amounting to exactlyforty-two thousand dollars. So that that part of my uncle's story wasconfirmed. One of the acceptances was payable in Montreal, and was for$2, 283. 76. The other three were payable at different banks in Toronto. These last had been drawn at sixty days, and each of them bore asignature presumed to be that of Richard Yardington. One of them wasfor $8, 972. 11; another was for $10, 114. 63; and the third and last wasfor $20, 629. 50. A short sum in simple addition will show us theaggregate of these three amounts--

 $ 8, 972. 11 10, 114. 63 20, 629. 50 --------- $39, 716. 24

which was the amount for which my uncle claimed that his name had beenforged. 

Within a week after these things came to light a letter addressed tothe manager of one of the leading banking institutions of Torontoarrived from Mr. Marcus Weatherley. He wrote from New York, but statedthat he should leave there within an hour from the time of posting hisletter. He voluntarily admitted having forged the name of my uncle tothe three acceptances above referred to and entered into other detailsabout his affairs, which, though interesting enough to his creditors atthat time, would have no special interest to the public at the presentday. The banks where the acceptances had been discounted were wiseafter the fact, and detected numerous little details wherein the forgedsignatures differed from the genuine signatures of my Uncle Richard. Ineach case they pocketed the loss and held their tongues, and I dare saythey will not thank me for calling attention to the matter, even atthis distance of time. 

There is not much more to tell. Marcus Weatherley, the forger, met hisfate within a few days after writing his letter from New York. He tookpassage at New Bedford, Massachusetts, in a sailing vessel called the_Petrel_ bound for Havana. The _Petrel_ sailed from port on the12th of January, 1862, and went down in mid-ocean with all hands on the23rd of the same month. She sank in full sight of the captain and crewof the _City of Baltimore_ (Inman Line), but the hurricaneprevailing was such that the latter were unable to render anyassistance, or to save one of the ill-fated crew from the fury of thewaves. 

At an early stage in the story I mentioned that the only fictitiouselement should be the name of one of the characters introduced. Thename is that of Marcus Weatherley himself. The person whom I have sodesignated really bore a different name--one that is still rememberedby scores of people in Toronto. He has paid the penalty of hismisdeeds, and I see nothing to be gained by perpetuating them inconnection with his own proper name. In all other particulars theforegoing narrative is as true as a tolerably retentive memory hasenabled me to record it. 

I don't propose to attempt any psychological explanation of the eventshere recorded, for the very sufficient reason that only one explanationis possible. The weird letter and its contents, as has been seen, donot rest upon my testimony alone. With respect to my walk from thestation with Uncle Richard, and the communication made by him to me, all the details are as real to my mind as any other incidents of mylife. The only obvious deduction is, that I was made the recipient ofa communication of the kind which the world is accustomed to regard assupernatural. 

Mr. Owen's publishers have my full permission to appropriate this storyin the next edition of his "Debatable Land between this World and theNext. " Should they do so, their readers will doubtless be favoured withan elaborate analysis of the facts, and with a pseudo-philosophictheory about spiritual communion with human beings. My wife, who is anenthusiastic student of electro-biology, is disposed to believe thatWeatherley's mind, overweighted by the knowledge of his forgery, was insome occult manner, and unconsciously to himself, constrained to actupon my own senses. I prefer, however, simply to narrate the facts. Imay or may not have my own theory about those facts. The reader is atperfect liberty to form one of his own if he so pleases. I may mentionthat Dr. Marsden professes to believe to the present day that my mindwas disordered by the approach of the fever which eventually struck medown, and that all I have described was merely the result of what he, with delightful periphrasis, calls "an abnormal condition of thesystem, induced by causes too remote for specific diagnosis. "

It will be observed that, whether I was under an hallucination or not, the information supposed to be derived from my uncle was strictlyaccurate in all its details. The fact that the disclosure subsequentlybecame unnecessary through the confession of Weatherley does not seemto me to afford any argument for the hallucination theory. My uncle'scommunication was important at the time when it was given to me; and wehave no reason for believing that "those who are gone before" areuniversally gifted with a knowledge of the future. 

It was open to me to make the facts public as soon as they became knownto me, and had I done so, Marcus Weatherley might have been arrestedand punished for his crime. Had not my illness supervened, I think Ishould have made discoveries in the course of the day following myarrival in Toronto which would have led to his arrest. 

Such speculations are profitless enough, but they have often formed thetopic of discussion between my wife and myself. Gridley, too, wheneverhe pays us a visit, invariably revives the subject, which he long agochristened "The Gerrard Street Mystery, " although it might just ascorrectly be called "The Yonge Street Mystery, " or, "The Mystery of theUnion Station. " He has urged me a hundred times over to publish thestory; and now, after all these years, I follow his counsel, and adopthis nomenclature in the title. 

GAGTOOTH'S IMAGE. 

About three o'clock in the afternoon of Wednesday, the fourth ofSeptember, 1884, I was riding up Yonge Street, in the city of Toronto, on the top of a crowded omnibus. The omnibus was bound for Thornhill, and my own destination was the intermediate village of Willowdale. Having been in Canada only a short time, and being almost a stranger inToronto, I dare say I was looking around me with more attention andcuriosity than persons who are "native here, and to the manner born, "are accustomed to exhibit. We had just passed Isabella Street, andwere rapidly nearing Charles Street, when I noticed on my right hand alarge, dilapidated frame building, standing in solitary isolation a fewfeet back from the highway, and presenting the appearance of averitable Old Curiosity Shop. 

A business was carried on here in second hand furniture of the poorestdescription, and the object of the proprietor seemed to have been tocollect about him all sorts of worn-out commodities, and objects whichwere utterly unmarketable. Everybody who lived in Toronto at the timeindicated will remember the establishment, which, as I subsequentlylearned, was owned and carried on by a man named Robert Southworth, familiarly known to his customers as "Old Bob. " I had no sooner arrivedabreast of the gateway leading into the yard immediately adjoining thebuilding to the southward, than my eyes rested upon something whichinstantly caused them to open themselves to their very widest capacity, and constrained me to signal the driver to stop; which he had no soonerdone than I alighted from my seat and requested him to proceed on hisjourney without me. The driver eyed me suspiciously, and evidentlyregarded me as an odd customer, but he obeyed my request, and drove onnorthward, leaving me standing in the middle of the street. 

From my elevated seat on the roof of the 'bus, I had caught a hurriedglimpse of a commonplace-looking little marble figure, placed on thetop of a pedestal, in the yard already referred to, where several otherfigures in marble, wood, bronze, stucco and what not, were exposed forsale. 

The particular figure which had attracted my attention was aboutfifteen inches in height, and represented a little child in theattitude of prayer. Anyone seeing it for the first time would probablyhave taken it for a representation of the Infant Samuel. I have calledit commonplace; and considered as a work of art, such it undoubtedlywas; yet it must have possessed a certain distinctive individuality, for the brief glance which I had caught of it, even at that distance, had been sufficient to convince me that the figure was an oldacquaintance of mine. It was in consequence of that conviction that Ihad dismounted from the omnibus, forgetful, for the moment, ofeverything but the matter which was uppermost in my mind. 

I lost no time in passing through the gateway leading into the yard, and in walking up to the pedestal upon which the little figure wasplaced. Taking the latter in my hand, I found, as I had expected, thatit was not attached to the pedestal, which was of totally differentmaterial, and much more elaborate workmanship. Turning the figureupside down, my eyes rested on these words, deeply cut into the littlecircular throne upon which the figure rested:--JACKSON: PEORIA, 1854. 

At this juncture the proprietor of the establishment walked up to whereI was standing beside the pedestal. "Like to look at something in thatway, sir?" he asked--"we have more inside. "

"What is the price of this?" I asked, indicating the figure in my hand. 

"That, sir; you may have that for fifty cents--of course without thepedestal, which don't belong to it. "

"Have you had it on hand long?"

"I don't know, but if you'll step inside for a moment I can tell you. This way, sir. "

Taking the figure under my arm, I followed him into what he called "theoffice"--a small and dirty room, crowded with old furniture in the laststage of dilapidation. From a desk in one corner he took a large tomelabelled "Stock Book, " to which he referred, after glancing at ahieroglyphical device pasted on the figure which I held under my arm. 

"Yes, sir--had that ever since the 14th of March, 1880--bought it atMorris & Blackwell's sale, sir. "

"Who and what are Messrs. Morris & Blackwell?" I enquired. 

"They _were_ auctioneers, down on Adelaide Street, in the city, sir. Failed sometime last winter. Mr. Morris has since died, and Ibelieve Blackwell, the other partner went to the States. "

After a few more questions, finding that he knew nothing whatever aboutthe matter beyond what he had already told me, I paid over the fiftycents; and, declining with thanks his offer to send my purchase home tome, I marched off with it down the street, and made the best of my wayback to the Rossin House, where I had been staying for some daysbefore. 

From what has been said, it will be inferred that I--a stranger inCanada--must have had some special reason for incumbering myself in mytravels with an intrinsically worthless piece of common Columbiamarble. 

I _had_ a reason. I had often seen that little figure before; andthe last time I had seen it, previous to the occasion above mentioned, had been at the town of Peoria, in the State of Illinois, sometime inthe month of June, 1855. 

There is a story connected with that little praying figure; a story, which, to me, is a very touching one; and I believe myself to be theonly human being capable of telling it. Indeed, _I_ am only ableto tell a part of it. How the figure came to be sold by auction, in thecity of Toronto, at Messrs. Morris & Blackwell's sale on the 14th ofMarch, 1880, or how it ever came to be in this part of the world atall, I know no more than the reader does; but I can probably tell allthat is worth knowing about the matter. 

In the year 1850, and for I know not how long previously, there livedat Peoria, Illinois, a journeyman-blacksmith named Abner Fink. Imention the date, 1850, because it was in that year that I myselfsettled in Peoria, and first had any knowledge of him; but I believe hehad then been living there for some length of time. He was employed atthe foundry of Messrs. Gowanlock and Van Duzer, and was known for anexcellent workman, of steady habits, and good moral character--qualifications which were by no means universal, nor even common, amongpersons of his calling and degree of life, at the time and place ofwhich I am writing. But he was still more conspicuous (on the _lucusa non lucendo_ principle) for another quality--that of reticence. Itwas very rarely indeed that he spoke to anyone, except when called uponto reply to a question; and even then it was noticeable that heinvariably employed the fewest and most concise words in hisvocabulary. If brevity were the body, as well as the soul of wit, Finkmust have been about the wittiest man that ever lived, the MonosyllabicTraveller not excepted. He never received a letter from any one duringthe whole time of his stay at Peoria; nor, so far as was known, did heever write to any one. Indeed, there was no evidence that he was ableto write. He never went to church, nor even to "meeting;" neverattended any public entertainment; never took any holidays. All histime was spent either at the foundry where he worked, or at theboarding-house where he lodged. In the latter place, the greater partof his hours of relaxation were spent in looking either out of thewindow or into the fire; thinking, apparently, about nothingparticular. All endeavours on the part of his fellow boarders to drawhim into conversation were utterly fruitless. No one in the place knewanything about his past life, and when his fellow-journeymen in theworkshop attempted to inveigle him into any confidence on that subject, he had a trick of calling up a harsh and sinister expression ofcountenance which effectually nipped all such experiments in the bud. Even his employers failed to elicit anything from him on this head, beyond the somewhat vague piece of intelligence that he hailed from"down east. " The foreman of the establishment with a desperate attemptat facetiousness, used to say of him, that no one knew who he was, where he came from, where he was going to, or what he was going to dowhen he got there. 

And yet, this utter lack of sociability could scarcely have arisen frompositive surliness or unkindness of disposition. Instances were notwanting in which he had given pretty strong evidence that he carriedbeneath that rugged and uncouth exterior a kinder and more gentle heartthan is possessed by most men. Upon one occasion he had jumped at theimminent peril of his life, from the bridge which spans the Illinoisriver just above the entrance to the lake, and had fished up a drowningchild from its depths and borne it to the shore in safety. In doing sohe had been compelled to swim through a swift and strong current whichwould have swamped any swimmer with one particle less strength, endurance and pluck. At another time, hearing his landlady say, atdinner, that an execution was in the house of a sick man with a largefamily, at the other end of the town, he left his dinner untouched, trudged off to the place indicated, and--though the debtor was an utterstranger to him--paid off the debt and costs in full, without takingany assignment of the judgment or other security. Then he went quietlyback to his work. From my knowledge of the worthless and impecuniouscharacter of the debtor, I am of opinion that Fink never received acent in the way of reimbursement. 

In personal appearance he was short and stout. His age, when I firstknew him, must have been somewhere in the neighbourhood of thirty-five. The only peculiarity about his face was an abnormal formation of one ofhis front teeth, which protruded, and stuck out almost horizontally. This, as may be supposed, did not tend to improve an expression ofcountenance which in other respects was not very prepossessing. One ofthe anvil-strikers happening to allude to him one day in his absence bythe name of "Gagtooth, " the felicity of the sobriquet at once commendeditself to the good taste of the other hands in the shop, who thereaftercommonly spoke of him by that name, and eventually it came to beapplied to him by every one in the town. 

My acquaintance with him began when I had been in Peoria about a week. I may premise that I am a physician and surgeon--a graduate of Harvard. Peoria was at that time a comparatively new place, but it gave promiseof going ahead rapidly; a promise, by the way, which it has since amplyredeemed. Messrs. Gowanlock and Van Duzer's foundry was a prettyextensive one for a small town in a comparatively new district. Theykept about a hundred and fifty hands employed all the year round, andduring the busy season this number was more than doubled. It was inconsequence of my having received the appointment of medical attendantto that establishment that I buried myself in the west, instead ofsettling down in my native State of Massachusetts. 

Poor Gagtooth was one of my first surgical patients. It came about inthis wise. At the foundry, two days in the week, viz. , Tuesdays andFridays, were chiefly devoted to what is called "casting. " On thesedays it was necessary to convey large masses of melted iron, in vesselsspecially manufactured for that purpose, from one end of the mouldingshop to the other. It was, of course, very desirable that the metalshould not be allowed to cool while in transit, and that as little timeas possible should be lost in transferring it from the furnace to themoulds. For this purpose Gagtooth's services were frequently calledinto requisition, as he was by far the strongest man about the place, and could without assistance carry one end of one of the vessels, whichwas considered pretty good work for two ordinary men. 

Well, one unlucky Friday afternoon he was hard at work at thisemployment, and as was usual with all the hands in the moulding shop atsuch times, he was stripped naked from the waist upwards. He wasgallantly supporting one end of one of the large receptacles alreadymentioned, which happened to be rather fuller than usual of the red-hotmolten metal. He had nearly reached the moulding-box into which thecontents of the vessel were to be poured, when he stumbled against apiece of scantling which was lying in his way. He fell, and as anecessary consequence his end of the vessel fell likewise, spilling thecontents all over his body, which was literally deluged by the red, hissing, boiling liquid fire. It must have seemed to the terror-strickenonlookers like a bath of blood. 

Further details of the frightful accident, and of my treatment of thecase, might be interesting to such of the readers of this book ashappen to belong to my own profession; but to general readers suchdetails would be simply shocking. How even his tremendous vitality andvigour of constitution brought him through it all is a mystery to me tothis day. I am thirty-six years older than I was at that time. Sincethen I have acted as surgeon to a fighting regiment all through thegreat rebellion. I have had patients of all sorts of temperaments andconstitutions under my charge, but never have I been brought intocontact with a case which seemed more hopeless in my eyes. He mustsurely have had more than one life in him. I have never had my hands onso magnificent a specimen of the human frame as his was; and betterstill--and this doubtless contributed materially to his recovery--Ihave never had a case under my management where the patient bore hissufferings with such uniform fortitude and endurance. Suffice it to saythat he recovered, and that his face bore no traces of the frightfulordeal through which he had passed. I don't think he was ever quite thesame man as before his accident. I think his nervous system received ashock which eventually tended to shorten his life. But he was stillknown as incomparably the strongest man in Peoria, and continued toperform the work of two men at the moulding-shop on casting days. Inevery other respect he was apparently the same; not a whit moredisposed to be companionable than before his accident. I usedfrequently to meet him on the street, as he was going to and frobetween his boarding-house and the work-shop. He was always alone, andmore than once I came to a full stop and enquired after his health, oranything else that seemed to afford a feasible topic for conversation. He was uniformly civil, and even respectful, but confined his remarksto replying to my questions, which, as usual, was done in the fewestwords. 

During the twelve months succeeding his recovery, so far as I am aware, nothing occurred worthy of being recorded in Gagtooth's annals. Aboutthe expiration of that time, however, his landlady, by his authority, at his request, and in his presence, made an announcement to theboarders assembled at the dinner-table which, I should think, mustliterally have taken away their breaths. 

Gagtooth was going to be married!

I don't suppose it would have occasioned greater astonishment if it hadbeen announced as an actual fact that The Illinois river had commencedto flow backwards. It was surprising, incredible, but, like many othersurprising and incredible things, it was true. Gagtooth was really andtruly about to marry. The object of his choice was his landlady'ssister, by name Lucinda Bowlsby. How or when the wooing had beencarried on, how the engagement had been led up to, and in what termsthe all-important question had been propounded, I am not prepared tosay. I need hardly observe that none of the boarders had entertainedthe faintest suspicion that anything of the kind was impending. Thecourtship, from first to last, must have been somewhat of a piece withthat of the late Mr. Barkis. But alas! Gagtooth did not settle hisaffections so judiciously, nor did he draw such a prize in thematrimonial lottery as Barkis did. Two women more entirely dissimilar, in every respect, than Peggotty and Lucinda Bowlsby can hardly beimagined. Lucinda was nineteen years of age. She was pretty, and, for agirl of her class and station in life, tolerably well educated. But shewas notwithstanding a light, giddy creature--and, I fear, somethingworse, at that time. At all events, she had a very questionable sort ofreputation among the boarders in the house, and was regarded withsuspicion by everyone who knew anything about her poor Gagtooth aloneexcepted. 

In due time the wedding took place. It was solemnized at theboarding-house; and the bride and bridegroom disdaining to defer to thecommon usage, spent their honeymoon in their own house. Gagtooth hadrented and furnished a little frame dwelling on the outskirts of thetown, on the bank of the river; and thither the couple retired as soonas the hymeneal knot was tied. Next morning the bridegroom made hisappearance at his forge and went to work as usual, as though nothinghad occurred to disturb the serenity of his life. 

Time passed by. Rumours now and then reached my ears to the effect thatMrs. Fink was not behaving herself very well, and that she was leadingher husband rather a hard life of it. She had been seen driving outinto the country with a young lawyer from Springfield, who occasionallycame over to Peoria to attend the sittings of the District Court. Shemoreover had the reputation of habitually indulging in the contents ofthe cup that cheers and likewise inebriates. However, in the regularcourse of things, I was called upon to assist at the first appearanceupon life's stage of a little boy, upon whom his parents bestowed thename of Charlie. 

The night of Charlie's birth was the first time I had ever been in thehouse, and if I remember aright it was the first time I had ever seteyes on Mrs. Fink since her marriage. I was not long in making up mymind about her; and I had ample opportunity for forming an opinion asto her character, for she was unable to leave her bed for more than amonth, during which time I was in attendance upon her almost daily. I also attended little Charlie through measels, scarlet-rash, whooping-cough, and all his childish ailments; and in fact I was apretty regular visitor at the house from the time of his birth untilhis father left the neighbourhood, as I shall presently have to relate. I believe Mrs. Fink to have been not merely a profligate woman, but athoroughly bad and heartless one in every respect. She was perfectlyindifferent to her husband, whom she shamefully neglected, and almostindifferent to her child. She seemed to care for nothing in the worldbut dress and strong waters; and to procure these there was no depth ofdegradation to which she would not stoop. 

As a result of my constant professional attendance upon his motherduring the first month of little Charlie's life, I became betteracquainted with his father than anyone in Peoria had ever done. Heseemed to know that I saw into and sympathized with his domestictroubles, and my silent sympathy seemed to afford him some consolation. As the months and years passed by, his wife's conduct became worse andworse, and his affections centered themselves entirely upon his child, whom he loved with a passionate affection to which I have never seen aparallel. 

And Charlie was a child made to be loved. When he was two years old hewas beyond all comparison the dearest and most beautiful little fellowI have ever seen. His fat, plump, chubby little figure, modelled afterCupid's own; his curly flaxen hair; his matchless complexion, fair andclear as the sky on a sunny summer day; and his bright, round, expressive eyes, which imparted intelligence to his every feature, combined to make him the idol of his father, the envy of all themothers in town, and the admiration of every one who saw him. At noon, when the great foundry-bell rang, which was the signal for the workmento go to dinner Charlie might regularly be seen, toddling as fast ashis stout little legs could spin, along the footpath leading over thecommon in the direction of the workshops. When about halfway across, hewould be certain to meet his father, who, taking the child up in hisbare, brawny, smoke-begrimed arms, would carry him home--the contrastbetween the two strongly suggesting Vulcan and Cupid. At six o'clock inthe evening, when the bell announced that work was over for the day, asimilar little drama was enacted. It would be difficult to say whetherVulcan or Cupid derived the greater amount of pleasure from thesesemi-daily incidents. After tea, the two were never separate for amoment. While the mother was perhaps busily engaged in the perusal ofsome worthless novel, the father would sit with his darling on hisknee, listening to his childish prattle, and perhaps so far going outof himself as to tell the child a little story. It seemed to be anunderstood thing that the mother should take no care or notice of theboy during her husband's presence in the house. Regularly, when theclock on the chimney-piece struck eight, Charlie would jump down fromhis father's knee and run across the room for his night-dress, returning to his father to have it put on. When this had been done hewould kneel down and repeat a simple little prayer, in which One wholoved little children like Charlie was invoked to bless father andmother and make him a good boy; after which his father would place himin his little crib, where he soon slept the sleep of happy childhood. 

My own house was not far from theirs, and I was so fond of Charlie thatit was no uncommon thing for me to drop in upon them for a few minutes, when returning from my office in the evening. Upon one occasion Inoticed the child more particularly than usual while he was in the actof saying his prayers. His eyes were closed, his plump little handswere clasped, and his cherubic little face was turned upwards with anexpression of infantile trustfulness and adoration which I shall neverforget. I have never seen, nor do I ever expect to see, anything elsehalf so beautiful. When he arose from his knees and came up to me tosay "Good Night, " I kissed his upturned little face with even greaterfervour than usual. After he had been put to bed I mentioned the matterto his father, and said something about my regret that the child'sexpression had not been caught by a sculptor and fixed in stone. 

I had little idea of the effect my remarks were destined to produce. Afew evenings afterwards he informed me, much to my surprise, that hehad determined to act upon the idea which my words had suggested to hismind, and that he had instructed Heber Jackson, the marble-cutter, togo to work at a "stone likeness" of little Charlie, and to finish it upas soon as possible. He did not seem to understand that the properperformance of such a task required anything more than mere mechanicalskill, and that an ordinary tomb-stone cutter was scarcely the sort ofartist to do justice to it. 

However, when the "stone-likeness" was finished and sent home, Iconfess I was astonished to see how well Jackson had succeeded. He hadnot, of course, caught the child's exact expression. It is probable, indeed, that he never saw the expression on Charlie's face, which hadseemed so beautiful to me, and which had suggested to me the idea ofits being "embodied in marble, " as the professionals call it. But theimage was at all events, according to order, a "likeness. " The truelineaments were there and I would have recognised it for arepresentation of my little friend at the first glance, wherever Imight have seen it. In short, it was precisely one of those works ofart which have no artistic value whatever for any one who isunacquainted with, or uninterested in, the subject represented; butknowing and loving little Charlie as I did, I confess that I used tocontemplate Jackson's piece of workmanship with an admiration andenthusiasm which the contents of Italian gallaries have failed toarouse in me. 

Well, the months flew by until some time in the spring of 1855, whenthe town was electrified by the sudden and totally unexpected failureof Messrs. Gowanlock and Van Duzer, who up to that time were currentlyreported to be one of the wealthiest and most thriving firms in theState. Their failure was not only a great misfortune for the workmen, who were thus thrown out of present employment--for the creditors didnot carry on the business--but was regarded as a public calamity to thetown and neighbourhood, the prosperity whereof had been enhanced in noinconsiderable degree by the carrying on of so extensive anestablishment in their midst, and by the enterprise and energy of theproprietors, both of whom were first-rate business men. The failure wasin no measure attributed either to dishonesty or want of prudence onthe part of Messrs. Gowanlock and Van Duzer, but simply to theinvention of a new patent which rendered valueless the particularagricultural implement which constituted the specialty of theestablishment, and of which there was an enormous stock on hand. Therewas not the shadow of a hope of the firm being able to get upon itslegs again. The partners surrendered everything almost to the lastdollar, and shortly afterwards left Illinois for California. 

Now, this failure, which more or less affected the entire population ofPeoria, was especially disastrous to poor Fink. For past years he hadbeen saving money, and as Messrs. Gowanlock and Van Duzer allowedinterest at a liberal rate upon all deposits left in their hands bytheir workmen, all his surplus earnings remained untouched. Theconsequence was that the accumulations of years were swamped at onefell swoop, and he found himself reduced to poverty. And as thoughmisfortune was not satisfied with visiting him thus heavily, the veryday of the failure he was stricken down by typhoid fever: not thetyphoid fever known in Canada--which is bad enough--but the terribleputrid typhoid of the west, which is known nowhere else on the face ofthe globe, and in which the mortality in some years reaches forty percent. 

Of course I was at once called in. I did my best for the patient, whichwas very little. I tried hard, however, to keep his wife sober, and tocompel her to nurse him judiciously. As for little Charlie, I took himhome with me to my own house, where he remained until his father was sofar convalescent as to prevent all fear of infection. Meanwhile I knewnothing about Gagtooth's money having been deposited in the hands ofhis employers, and consequently was ignorant of his loss. I did notlearn this circumstance for weeks afterwards, and of course had noreason for supposing that his wife was in anywise straitened for money. Once, when her husband had been prostrated for about a fortnight, I sawher with a roll of bank notes in her hand. Little did I suspect howthey had been obtained. 

Shortly after my patient had begun to sit up in his arm-chair for alittle while every day, he begged so hard for little Charlie's presencethat, as soon as I was satisfied that all danger of infection was past, I consented to allow the child to return to his own home. In less thana month afterwards the invalid was able to walk out in the garden for afew minutes every day when the weather was favourable, and in thesewalks Charlie was his constant companion. The affection of the poorfellow for his flaxen-haired darling was manifested in every glance ofhis eye, and in every tone of his voice. He would kiss the little chapand pat him on the head a hundred times a day. He would tell himstories until he himself was completely exhausted; and although I knewthat this tended to retard his complete recovery, I had not the heartto forbid it. I have often since felt thankful that I never made anyattempt to do so. 

At last the fifteenth of September arrived. On the morning of that dayMessrs. Rockwell and Dunbar's Combined Circus and Menagerie made atriumphal entry into Peoria, and was to exhibit on the green, down bythe river bank. The performance had been ostentatiously advertised andplacarded on every dead wall in town for a month back, and all thechildren in the place, little Charlie included, were wild on thesubject. Signor Martigny was to enter a den containing three full-grownlions, and was to go through the terrific and disgusting ordeal usualon such occasions. Gagtooth, of course, was unable to go; but, beingunwilling to deny his child any reasonable pleasure, he had consentedto Charlie's going with his mother. I happened to be passing the houseon my way homewards to dinner, just as the pair were about to start, and called in to say good-bye to my patient. Never shall I forget theembrace and the kiss which the father bestowed upon the little fellow. I can see them now, after all these years, almost as distinctly as Isaw them on that terrible fifteenth of September, 1855. They perfectlyclung to each other, and seemed unwilling to part even for the two orthree hours during which the performance was to last. I can see themother too, impatiently waiting in the doorway, and telling Charliethat if he didn't stop that nonsense they would be too late to seeSampson killing the lion. She--Heaven help her!--thought nothing andcared nothing about the pleasure the child was to derive from theentertainment. She was only anxious on her own account; impatient toshew her good looks and her cheap finery to the two thousand and oddpeople assembled under the huge tent. 

At last they started. Gagtooth got up and walked to the door, followingthem with his eye as far as he could see them down the dusty street. Then he returned and sat down in his chair. Poor fellow! he wasdestined never to see either of them alive again. 

Notwithstanding her fear lest she might not arrive in time for thecommencement of the performance, Mrs. Fink and her charge reached theground at least half an hour before the ticket office was opened; and Iregret to say that that half hour was sufficient to enable her to forman acquaintance with one of the property men of the establishment, towhom she contrived to make herself so agreeable that he passed her andCharlie into the tent free of charge. She was not admitted at the frontentrance, but from the tiring-room at the back whence the performersenter. She sat down just at the left of this entrance, immediatelyadjoining the lion's cage. Ere long the performance commenced. SignorMartigny, when his turn came, entered the cage as per announcement; buthe was not long in discovering by various signs not to be mistaken thathis charges were in no humour to be played with on that day. Even thering master from his place in the centre of the ring, perceived thatold King of the Forest, the largest and most vicious of the lions, wasmeditating mischief, and called to the Signor to come out of the cage. The Signor, keeping his eye steadily fixed on the brute, began aretrograde movement from the den. He had the door open, and was swiftlybacking through, when, with a roar that seemed to shake the very earth, old King sprang upon him from the opposite side of the cage, dashinghim to the ground like a ninepin, and rushed through the aperture intothe crowd. Quick as lightning the other two followed, and thus threesavage lions were loose and unshackled in the midst of upwards of twothousand men, women and children. 

I wish to linger over the details as briefly as possible. I am thankfulto say that I was not present, and that I am unable to describe theoccurrence from personal observation. 

Poor little Charlie and his mother, sitting close to the cage, were thevery first victims. The child himself, I think, and hope, never knewwhat hurt him. His skull was fractured by one stroke of the brute'spaw. Signor Martigny escaped with his right arm slit into ribbons. BigJoe Pentland, the clown, with one well-directed stroke of a crowbar, smashed Old King of the Forest's jaw into a hundred pieces, but notbefore it had closed in the left breast of Charlie's mother. She livedfor nearly an hour afterwards, but never uttered a syllable. I wonderif she was conscious. I wonder if it was permitted to her to realizewhat her sin--for sin it must have been, in contemplation, if not indeed--had brought upon herself and her child. Had she paid her way intothe circus, and entered in front, instead of coquetting with theproperty-man, she would have been sitting under a different part of thetent, and neither she nor Charlie would have sustained any injury, forthe two younger lions were shot before they had leapt ten paces fromthe cage door. Old King was easily despatched after Joe Pentland'stremendous blow. Besides Charlie and his mother, two men and one womanwere killed on the spot: another woman died next day from the injuriesreceived, and several other persons were more or less severely hurt. 

Immediately after dinner I had driven out into the country to pay aprofessional visit, so that I heard nothing about what had occurreduntil some hours afterwards. I was informed of it, however, before Ireached the town, on my way homeward. To say that I was inexpressiblyshocked and grieved would merely be to repeat a very stupid platitude, and to say that I was a human being. I had learned to love poorlittle Charlie almost as dearly as I loved my own children. And hisfather--what would be the consequence to him?

I drove direct to his house, which was filled with people--neighboursand others who had called to administer such consolation as thecircumstances would admit of. I am not ashamed to confess that themoment my eyes rested upon the bereaved father I burst into tears. Hesat with his child's body in his lap, and seemed literally transformedinto stone. A breeze came in through the open doorway and stirred histhin iron-gray locks, as he sat there in his arm chair. He wasunconscious of everything--even of the presence of strangers. His eyeswere fixed and glazed. Not a sound of any kind, not even a moan, passedhis lips; and it was only after feeling his pulse that I was able topronounce with certainty that he was alive. One single gleam ofanimation overspread his features for an instant when I gently removedthe crushed corpse from his knees, and laid it on the bed, but hequickly relapsed into stolidity. I was informed that he had sat thusever since he had first received the corpse from the arms of JoePentland, who had brought it home without changing his clown's dress. Heaven grant that I may never look upon such a sight again as the poor, half-recovered invalid presented during the whole of that night and forseveral days afterwards. 

For the next three days I spent all the time with him I possibly could, for I dreaded either a relapse of the fever or the loss of his reason. The Neighbours were very kind, and took upon themselves the burden ofeverything connected with the funeral. As for Fink himself, he seemedto take everything for granted, and interfered with nothing. When thetime arrived for fastening down the coffin lids, I could not bear topermit that ceremony to be performed without affording him anopportunity of kissing the dead lips of his darling for the last time. I gently led him up to the side of the bed upon which the two coffinswere placed. At sight of his little boy's dead face, he fainted, andbefore he revived I had the lids fastened down. It would have beencruelty to subject him to the ordeal a second time. 

The day after the funeral he was sufficiently recovered from the shockto be able to talk. He informed me that he had concluded to leave theneighbourhood, and requested me to draw up a poster, advertising allhis furniture and effects for sale by auction. He intended, he said, tosell everything except Charlie's clothes and his own, and these, together with a lock of the child's hair and a few of his toys, wereall he intended to take away with him. 

"But of course, " I remarked, "you don't intend to sell the stonelikeness?"

He looked at me rather strangely, and made no reply. I glanced aroundthe room, and, to my surprise, the little statue was nowhere to beseen. It then occurred to me that I had not noticed it since Gagtoothhad been taken ill. 

"By the by, where is it?" I enquired--"I don't see it. "

After a moment's hesitation he told me the whole story. It was thenthat I learned for the first time that he had lost all his savingsthrough the failure of Messrs. Gowanlock and Van Duzer, and that themorning when he had been taken ill there had been only a dollar in thehouse. On that morning he had acquainted his wife with his loss, buthad strictly enjoined secrecy upon her, as both Gowanlock and Van Duzerhad promised him most solemnly that inasmuch as they regarded theirindebtedness to him as being upon a different footing from theirordinary liabilities, he should assuredly be paid in full out of thefirst money at their command. He had implicit reliance upon their word, and requested me to take charge of the money upon its arrival, and tokeep it until he instructed me, by post or otherwise, how to dispose ofit. To this I, of course, consented. The rest of the story he couldonly repeat upon the authority of his wife, but I have no reason fordisbelieving any portion of it. It seems that a day or two after hisillness commenced, and after he had become insensible, his wife hadbeen at her wits' end for money to provide necessaries for the house, and I dare say she spent more for liquor than for necessaries. Shedeclared that she had made up her mind to apply to me for a loan, whena stranger called at the house, attracted, as he said, by the littleimage, which had been placed in the front window, and was thus visibleto passers by. He announced himself as Mr. Silas Pomeroy, merchant, ofMyrtle Street, Springfield. He said that the face of the little imagestrikingly reminded him of the face of a child of his own which haddied some time before. He had not supposed that the figure was alikeness of any one, and had stepped in, upon the impulse of themoment, in the hope that he might be able to purchase it. He waswilling to pay a liberal price. The negotiation ended in his taking theimage away with him, and leaving a hundred dollars in its stead; onwhich sum Mrs. Fink had kept house ever since. Her husband, of course, knew nothing of this for weeks afterwards. When he began to get better, his wife had acquainted him with the facts. He had found no fault withher, as he had determined to repurchase the image at any cost, so soonas he might be able to earn money enough. As for getting a duplicate, that was out of the question, for Heber Jackson had been carried off bythe typhoid epidemic, and Charlie had changed considerably during thefifteen months which had elapsed since the image had been finished. Andnow poor little Charlie himself was gone, and the great desire of hisfather's heart was to regain possession of the image. With that view, as soon as the sale should be over he would start for Springfield, tellhis story to Pomeroy, and offer him his money back again. As to anyfurther plans, he did not know, he said, what he would do, or where hewould go; but he would certainly never live in Peoria again. 

In a few days the sale took place, and Gagtooth started for Springfieldwith about three hundred dollars in his pocket. Springfield is seventymiles from Peoria. He was to return in about ten days, by which time atombstone was to be ready for Charlie's grave. He had not ordered onefor his wife, who was not buried in the same grave with the child, butin one just beside him. 

He returned within the ten days. His journey had been a fruitless one. Pomeroy had become insolvent, and had absconded from Springfield amonth before. No one knew whither he had gone, but he must have takenthe image with him, as it was not among the effects which he had leftbehind him. His friends knew that he was greatly attached to the image, in consequence of its real or fancied resemblance to his dead child. Nothing more reasonable then than to suppose that he had taken it awaywith him. 

Gagtooth announced to me his determination of starting on an expeditionto find Pomeroy, and never giving up the search while his money heldout. He had no idea where to look for the fugitive, but rather thoughthe would try California first. He could hardly expect to receive anyremittance from Gowanlock and Van Duzer for some months to come, but hewould acquaint me with his address from time to time, and, if anythingarrived from them I could forward it to him. 

And so, having seen the tombstone set up over little Charlie's grave, he bade me good-bye, and that was the last time I ever saw him, alive. 

There is little more to tell. I supposed him to be in the far west, prosecuting his researches, until one night in the early spring of thefollowing year. Charlie and his mother had been interred in a corner ofthe churchyard adjoining the second Baptist Church, which at that timewas on the very outskirts of the town, in a lonely, unfrequented spot, not far from the iron bridge. Late in the evening of the seventh ofApril, 1856, a woman passing along the road in the cold, dim twilight, saw a bulky object stretched out on Charlie's grave. She called at thenearest house, and stated her belief that a man was lying dead in thechurchyard. Upon investigation, her surmise proved to be correct. 

And that man was Gagtooth. 

Dead; partially no doubt, from cold and exposure; but chiefly, Ibelieve, from a broken heart. Where had he spent the six months whichhad elapsed since I bade him farewell?

To this question I am unable to reply; but this much was evident: hehad dragged himself back just in time to die on the grave of the littleboy whom he had loved so dearly, and whose brief existence had probablysupplied the one bright spot in his father's life. 

I had him buried in the same grave with Charlie; and there, on thebanks of the Illinois river, "After life's fitful fever he sleepswell. "

I never received any remittance from his former employers, nor did Iever learn anything further of Silas Pomeroy. Indeed, so many yearshave rolled away since the occurrence of the events above narrated;years pregnant with great events to the American Republic; events, I amproud to say, in which I bore my part: that the wear and tear of lifehad nearly obliterated all memory of the episode from my mind, until, as detailed in the opening paragraphs of this story, I saw "Gagtooth'sImage, " from the top of a Thornhill omnibus. That image is now in mypossession, and no extremity less urgent than that under which it wassold to Silas Pomeroy, of Myrtle Street, Springfield, will ever induceme to part with it. 

THE Haunted House on Duchess Street. 

BEING A NARRATION OF CERTAIN STRANGE EVENTS ALLEGED TO HAVETAKEN PLACE AT YORK, UPPER CANADA, IN OR ABOUT THE YEAR 1823. 

 "O'er all there hung the Shadow of a Fear; A sense of mystery the spirit daunted; And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted. "--HOOD. 

I. --OUTSIDE THE HOUSE. 

I suppose there are at least a score of persons living in Toronto atthe present moment who remember that queer old house on Duchess street. Not that there was anything specially remarkable about the houseitself, which indeed, in its best days, presented an aspect of rathersnug respectability. But the events I am about to relate invested itwith an evil reputation, and made it an object to be contemplated at asafe distance, rather than from any near approach. Youngsters on theirway to school were wont to eye it askance as they hurried by on theirway to their daily tasks. Even children of a larger growth manifestedno unbecoming desire to penetrate too curiously into its innermysteries, and for years its threshold was seldom or never crossed byanybody except Simon Washburn or some of his clerks, who about once inevery twelvemonth made a quiet entry upon the premises and placed inthe front windows announcements to the effect that the place was "ForSale or To Let. " The printing of these announcements involved a uselessexpenditure of capital, for, from the time when the character of thehouse became matter of notoriety, no one could be induced to try theexperiment of living in it. In the case of a house, no less than inthat of an individual, a bad name is more easily gained than lost, andin the case of the house on Duchess street its uncanny repute clung toit with a persistent grasp which time did nothing to relax. It wasdistinctly and emphatically a place to keep away from. 

The house was originally built by one of the Ridout family--I think bythe Surveyor-General himself--soon after the close of the war of 1812, and it remained intact until a year or two after the town of Yorkbecame the city of Toronto, when it was partly demolished and convertedinto a more profitable investment. The new structure, which was ashingle or stave factory, was burned down in 1843 or 1844, and the sitethenceforward remained unoccupied until comparatively recent times. When I visited the spot a few weeks since I encountered not a littledifficulty in fixing upon the exact site, which is covered by anunprepossessing row of dark red brick, presenting the aspect of havingstood there from time immemorial, though as I am informed, the houseshave been erected within the last quarter of a century. Unattractive asthey appear, however, they are the least uninviting feature in thelandscape, which is prosaic and squalid beyond description. Rickety, tumble-down tenements of dilapidated lath and plaster stare thebeholder in the face at every turn. During the greater part of the daythe solitude of the neighbourhood remains unbroken save by the tread ofsome chance wayfarer like myself, and a general atmosphere of theabomination of desolation reigns supreme. Passing along theunfrequented pavement, one finds it difficult to realize the fact thatthis was once a not unfashionable quarter of the capital of UpperCanada. 

The old house stood forty or fifty feet back from the roadway, on thenorth side, overlooking the waters of the bay. The lot was divided fromthe street by a low picket fence, and admission to the enclosure wasgained by means of a small gate. In those remote times there were fewbuildings intervening between Duchess street and the water front, andthose few were not very pretentious; so that when the atmosphere wasfree from fog you could trace from the windows of the upper story theentire hithermost shore of the peninsula which has since become TheIsland. The structure itself, like most buildings then erected in York, was of frame. It was of considerable dimensions for those days, andmust have contained at least eight or nine rooms. It was two storieshigh, and had a good deal of painted fret-work about the windows ofthe upper story. A stately elm stood immediately in the rear, and itswide-spreading branches overshadowed the greater part of the back yardand outbuildings. And that is all I have been able to learn about theexterior aspect of the place. 

II. --INSIDE THE HOUSE. 

A small porch-door, about half way down the western side, furnished theordinary mode of entrance to and exit from the house. This door openedinto an apartment which served the double purpose of sitting-room anddining-room, and which was connected by an inner door with the kitchenand back premises. There was, however, a rather wide-mouthed frontentrance, approached by a short flight of wooden steps, and openinginto a fair-sized hall. To the right of the hall, as you entered, adoor opened into what served as a drawing-room, which was seldom used, as the occupants of the house were not given to receiving muchfashionable company. To the left of the hall, another door opened intothe dining-room already mentioned. A stairway facing the frontentrance, conducted you to the upper story, which consisted of severalbed-rooms and a large apartment in front. This latter must have been bylong odds the pleasantest room in the house. It was of comfortabledimensions, well lighted, and cheerful as to its outlook. Two frontwindows commanded a prospect of the bay and the peninsula, while athird window on the eastern side overlooked the valley of the Don, which was by no means the stagnant pool which it was destined to becomein later years. The only entrance to this chamber was a door placeddirectly to the right hand at the head of the stairway, which stairway, it may be mentioned, consisted of exactly seventeen steps. A smallbedroom in the rear was accessible only by a separate door at the backof the upper hallway, and was thus not directly connected with thelarger apartment. 

I am not informed as to the precise number and features of the otherrooms in the upper story, except that is they were bedrooms; nor is anyfurther information respecting them essential to a full comprehensionof the narrative. Why I have been so precise as to what may at firstappear trivial details will hereafter appear. 

III. --THE TENANTS OF THE HOUSE. 

As already mentioned, the house was probably built by Surveyor-GeneralRidout;--but it does not appear that either he or any member of hisfamily ever resided there. The earliest occupant of whom I have beenable to find any trace was Thomas Mercer Jones--the gentleman, Ipresume, who was afterwards connected with the Canada Land Company. Whether he was the first tenant I am unable to say, but a gentlemanbearing that name dwelt there during the latter part of the year 1816, and appears to have been a well-known citizen of Little York. In 1819the tenant was a person named McKechnie, as to whom I have been unableto glean any information whatever beyond the bare fact that he was apewholder in St. James's church. He appears to have given place to oneof the numerous members of the Powell family. 

But the occupant with whom this narrative is more immediately concernedwas a certain ex-military man named Bywater, who woke up the echoes ofYork society for a few brief months, between sixty and seventy yearsago, and who, after passing a lurid interval of his misspent life inthis community, solved the great problem of human existence by fallingdown stairs and breaking his neck. Captain Stephen Bywater was a_mauvais sujet_ of the most pronounced stamp. He came of a goodfamily in one of the Midland Counties of England; entered the army atan early age, and was present on a certain memorable Sunday atWaterloo, on which occasion he is said to have borne himself gallantlyand well. But he appears to have had a deep vein of ingrained vice inhis composition, which perpetually impelled him to crooked paths. Various ugly stories were current about him, for all of which there wasdoubtless more or less foundation. It was said that he had been caughtcheating at play, and that he was an adept in all the rascalities ofthe turf. The deplorable event which led to the resignation of hiscommission made considerable noise at the time of its occurrence. Ayoung brother officer whom he had swindled out of large sums of money, was forced by him into a duel, which was fought on the French coast, inthe presence of two seconds and a military surgeon. There seems to havebeen no doubt that the villainous captain fired too soon. At any rate, the youth who had been inveigled into staking his life on the issue wasleft dead on the field, while the aggressor rode off unscathed, followed by the execrations of his own second. A rigid enquiry wasinstituted, but the principal witnesses were not forthcoming, and themurderer--for as such he was commonly regarded--escaped the punishmentwhich everybody considered he had justly merited. The severance of hisconnection with the army was a foregone conclusion, and he was formallyexpelled from his club. He was socially sent to Coventry, and hisnative land soon became for him a most undesirable place of abode. Thenhe crossed the Atlantic and made his way to Upper Canada, where, aftera while, he turned up at York, and became the tenant of the house onDuchess street. 

At the time of his arrival in this country, which must have been sometime in 1822, or perhaps early in 1823, Captain Bywater was apparentlyabout forty years of age. He was a bachelor and possessed of somemeans. For a very brief period he contrived to make his way into theselect society of the Provincial capital; but it soon became known thathe was the aristocratic desperado who had so ruthlessly shot down youngRemy Errington on the sands near Boulogne, and who had the reputationof being one of the most unmitigated scamps who ever wore uniform. Yorksociety in those days could swallow a good deal in a man of good birthand competent fortune, but it could not swallow even a well-to-dobachelor of good family and marriageable age who had been forcedto resign his commission, and had been expelled from a not toostraight-laced London club, by a unanimous vote of the committee. Captain Bywater was dropped with a suddenness and severity which hecould not fail to understand. He received no more invitations frommothers with marriageable daughters, and when he presented himself attheir doors informally and forbidden he found nobody at home. Ladiesceased to recognise him on the street, and gentlemen received his bowswith a response so frigid that he readily comprehended the state ofaffairs. He perceived that his day of grace was past, and accepted hisfate with a supercilious shrug of his broad shoulders. 

But the Captain was a gregarious animal, to whom solitude wasinsupportable. Society of some sort was a necessity of his existence, and as the company of ladies and gentlemen, was no longer open to him, he sought consolation among persons of a lower grade in the socialscale. He began to frequent bar-rooms and other places of publicresort, and as he was free with his money he had no difficulty infinding companions of a certain sort who were ready and willing enoughto drink at his expense, and to listen to the braggadocio tales of thedoughty deeds achieved by him during his campaign in the Peninsula. Ina few weeks he found himself the acknowledged head and front of alittle coterie which assembled nightly at the George Inn, on Kingstreet. This, however, did not last long, as the late potations andribald carousings of the company disturbed the entire neighborhood, andattracted attention to the place. The landlord received a sternadmonition to keep earlier hours and less uproarious guests. WhenBoniface sought to carry this admonition into effect Captain Bywatermounted his high horse, and adjourned to his own place, taking his fiveor six boon companions with him. From that time forward the house onDuchess street was the regular place of meeting. 

IV. --THE ORGIES IN THE HOUSE. 

Captain Bywater, upon his first arrival at York, had taken up hisquarters at a public house. The York inns of the period had anunenviable reputation, and were widely different from the Queen's andRossin of the present day. Some of my readers will doubtless rememberJohn Gait's savage fling at them several years later. To parody Dr. Johnson's characterization of the famous leg of mutton, they wereill-looking, ill-smelling, ill-provided and ill-kept. In a word, theywere unendurable places of sojourn for a man of fastidious tastes andsensitive nerves. Perhaps the Captain's tastes were fastidious, thoughI can hardly believes that his nerves were sensitive. Possibly hewished to furnish clear evidence that he was no mere sojourner in astrange land, but that he had come here with a view to permanentsettlement. At all events his stay at an inn was of brief duration. Herented the house on Duchess street and furnished it in a style whichfor those days might be called expensive, more especially for abachelor's establishment. The greater part of the furniture was sent upfrom Montreal, and the Captain proclaimed his intention of giving agrand house-warming at an early date. He had hardly become settled inthe place, however, before his character and antecedent life becameknown, as already mentioned, and the project was abandoned. 

His household consisted of a man-servant named Jim Summers, whom he hadpicked up at Montreal, and the wife of the latter, who enjoyed thereputation of being an excellent cook, in which capacity she wasafterwards employed at the Government House during the regime of SirJohn Colborne. At first this couple had a tolerably easy time of it. The Captain was not exigeant, and allowed them to run the establishmentpretty much as they chose. He always rose late, and went outimmediately after breakfast, accompanied by his large Newfoundland dogNero, the only living possession he had brought with him from beyondthe sea. Master and dog were seen no more until dinner-time, which wasfive o'clock. Between seven and eight in the evening the pair wouldbetake themselves to the George, where the Captain drank and howledhimself hoarse until long past midnight. But he was a seasoned vessel, and generally had pretty fair control over his limbs. He could alwaysfind his way home without assistance, and used to direct his man not towait up for him. The dog was his companion whenever he stirred out ofdoors. 

But when the venue was changed from the tap-room of the George Inn tothe Captain's own house, the troubles of Jim Summers and his wifebegan. The guests commonly arrived within a few minutes of each other, and were all in their places by eight o'clock. They met in the largeupper room, and their sessions were prolonged far into the night, orrather into the morning, for it happened often enough that daylightpeeped in through the eastern window and found the company stillundispersed. Ribald jests, drunken laughter and obscene songs were keptup the whole night through. The quantity of rum, whisky, brandy andbeer consumed in the course of a week must have been something towonder at. The refreshments were provided at the expense of the host, and as it was Jim's business to keep up the supply of spirits, lemonsand hot water, he had no sinecure on his hands. It might well besupposed that he might, if so minded, have found a more congenialsituation, but as a matter of fact, he was not over scrupulous as tothe nature of his employment, and probably had his full share of thefun. The Captain paid good wages, and was lavish in gratuities when hewas in good humor. On the whole Jim considered that he had not such abad place of it, and was by no means disposed to quarrel with his breadand butter. His wife took a different view of affairs, and ere longrefused to remain on the premises during the nightly orgies. Thisdifficulty was got over by an arrangement whereby she was permitted toquit the house at eight o'clock in the evening, returning on thefollowing morning in time to prepare the Captain's breakfast. She spenther nights with a married sister who lived a short distance away, andby this means she avoided what to any woman of respectability must havebeen an unbearable infliction. 

The orgies, in process of time, became a reproach to the neighborhoodand a scandal to the town. They were, however, kept up with fewinterruptions, for several months. More than one townsman declared thatso intolerable a nuisance must be abated, but no one liked to be thefirst to stir in such an unpleasant business, and the bacchanalianscontinued to "vex with mirth the drowsy ear of night, " unchecked bymore cleanly-living citizens. But just about the time when thesecarousings had become absolutely intolerable to the community, theywere put a stop to without any outside interference. 

V. --THE CATASTROPHE IN THE HOUSE. 

On a certain Sunday night, which was destined to be memorable in theannals of the Duchess street house, the number of Captain Bywater'sguests was smaller than usual. They consisted of only three persons:

1. Henry John Porter, an articled clerk in the office of SimonWashburn. Mr. Washburn was a well-known lawyer of those times, whoseoffice was on the corner of Duke and George streets. He actedprofessionally for the Ridout family, and had the letting and sale ofthe Duchess street property. It was probably through this circumstancethat his clerk had become acquainted with Captain Bywater. 

2. James McDougall, who was employed in some subordinate capacity inthe Civil Service. 

3. Alfred Jordan Pilkey, whose occupation seems to have been nothing inparticular. 

What had become of the other regular attendants does not appear. Notonly were the guests few in number on this particular evening, but theproceedings themselves seem to have been of a much less noisy characterthan ordinary. It was noticed that the host was somewhat out of humor, and that he displayed signs of ill-temper which were not usual withhim. His demeanor reflected itself upon his company, and the fun wasneither fast nor furious. In fact the time passed somewhat drearily, and the sederunt broke up at the unprecedentedly early hour of eleveno'clock. The man-servant saw the company out, locked the door, andrepaired to the room up-stairs where his master still lingered, to seeif anything more was required of him. 

The Captain sat in a large armchair by the fire, sipping a final glassof grog. He seemed gloomy and dispirited, as though he had something onhis mind. In response to Jim's enquiry whether he wanted anything hegrowled out: "No, go to bed, and be hanged to you. " Jim took him at hisword, so far as the first clause of the injunction was concerned. Hewent to bed in his room on the opposite side of the hallway. In passingthrough the hall he perceived Nero lying asleep on the mat in front ofhis master's bedroom, which was the small room in the rear of the largeapartment where the meetings were held. 

Jim had not been in bed many minutes and was in a tranquil statebetween sleeping and waking, when he heard his master emerge from thefront room, and pass along the hallway, as though about to enter hisbed-chamber. Another moment and he was roused from his half-somnolentcondition by the hearing of the sharp report of a pistol shot, followedby a sound from Nero, something between a moan and a howl. He sprang tothe floor, but ere he could make his way into the hall he was well-nighstunned by hearing a tremendous crash, as though some large body hadbeen hurled violently down the stairs from top to bottom. A vaguethought of robbers flashed through his brain, and he paused for amoment, as he himself afterwards admitted, half paralyzed with fright. He called aloud upon his master and then upon the dog, but received noresponse from either. The crash of the falling body was succeeded byabsolute silence. Pulling his nerves together he struck a match, lighted his candle and passed in fear and trembling into the hallway. The first sight that greeted his eyes was the seemingly lifeless bodyof Nero lying stretched out at the head of the stairs. Upon approachingthe body he found blood trickling from a wound in the poor brute'sthroat. One of the Captain's pistols lay on the floor, close by. Butwhere was the Captain himself? Shading his eyes and holding the candlebefore him he peered fearfully down the stairway, but the darkness wastoo profound to admit of his seeing to the bottom. By this time aforeshadowing of the truth had made its way to his understanding. Hecrept gingerly down the stairs, slowly step by step, holding the candlefar in advance, and anon calling upon his master by name. He had passedmore than half the way down before he received full confirmation of hisforebodings. 

There, lying at full length across the hallway, between the foot of thestairs and the front door, was the body of Remy Errington's murderer, with the sinister, evil face turned up to the ceiling. His left arm, still grasping a candlestick, was doubled under him, and his body, inits impetuous descent, had torn away the lower portion of thebalustrade. The distraught serving-man raised the head on his arm, and, by such means as occurred to him, sought to ascertain whether any lifestill lingered there. He could find no pulsation at the wrist, but uponapplying his ear to the left side he fancied he could detect a slightfluttering of the heart. Then he rushed to the kitchen, and returnedwith a pitcher of water, which he dashed in the prostrate face. As thisproduced no apparent effect he ran back upstairs to his bedroom, threwon part of his clothes, and made his way at full speed to the house ofDr. Pritchard on Newgate street. 

The doctor was a late bird, and had not retired to rest. He at once setout for Duchess street, Jim Summers going round by the house of hissister-in-law on Palace street to arouse his wife, who slept there. Upon receiving his wife's promise to follow him as soon as she couldhuddle on her clothing, Jim ran on in advance, and reached the Duchessstreet house, only a minute or two later than Dr. Pritchard. The doctorhad been there long enough, however, to ascertain that the Captain'sneck was broken, and that he was where no human aid could reach him. Hewould preside over no more orgies in the large room on the upper story. 

VI. --THE INQUEST IN THE HOUSE. 

There was an inquest. That, under the circumstances, was a matter ofcourse, but nothing of importance was elicited beyond what has alreadybeen noted. Porter, Macdougall and Pilkey all attended, and gaveevidence to the effect, that Captain Bywater was tolerably drunk whenthey left him at eleven, but that he was upon the whole the most soberof the party and appeared quite capable of taking care of himself. Theyhad noticed his uncongenial mood, but could afford no conjecture as tothe cause. It was impossible to suspect anything in the shape of foulplay. The obvious conclusion to be arrived at was that the Captain'slong drinking bouts had produced their legitimate result, and that atthe moment when he met his death he was suffering from, or on the vergeof delirium tremens. He generally carried a loaded pistol in his breastpocket. He had found the dog asleep on the mat before his bedchamber. It was probably asleep, or, at all events, it did not hasten to get outof his way, and in a moment of insane fury or drunken stupidity he haddrawn forth his weapon, and shot the poor brute dead. He had just thenbeen standing near the top of the stairs. The quantity of liquor he haddrunk was sufficient to justify the conclusion that he was not assteady on his pins as a sober man would have been. He had over-balancedhimself, and--and that was the whole story. The coroner's jury broughtin a verdict in accordance with the facts, and the Captain's body wasput to bed with the sexton's spade. 

A will, drawn up in due form in the office of Mr. Washburn, andproperly signed and attested, had been made by the deceased a shorttime after taking possession of the place on Duchess street. Hisfortune chiefly consisted of an income of five hundred pounds sterlingper annum, secured on real estate situated in Gloucestershire, England. This income lapsed upon his death, and it had thus been unnecessary tomake any testamentary provision respecting it, except as to the portionwhich should accrue between the last quarter-day and the death of thetestator. This portion was bequeathed to an elder brother residing inGloucestershire. All the other property of the deceased was bequeathedto Mr. Washburn, in trust to dispose of such personal belongings as didnot consist of ready money, and to transmit the proceeds, together withall the cash in hand, to the said elder brother in Gloucestershire. 

The latter provisions were duly carried into effect by Mr. Washburnwithin a few days after the funeral, and it might well have beensupposed that the good people of York had heard the last of CaptainBywater and his affairs. 

But they hadn't. 

VII. --THE BLACK DOG AND HIS MASTER. 

At the sale of Captain Bywater's effects a portion of the furniturebelonging to the dining-room, kitchen and one bedroom were purchased byJim Summers, who, with his wife, continued to reside in the Duchessstreet house pending the letting of it to a new tenant. These temporaryoccupants thus lived in three rooms, their sleeping apartment being onthe upper story at the northern side of the house, and on the oppositeside of the hall from the large room which had been the scene of somuch recent dissipation. All the rest of the house was left bare, andthe doors of the unoccupied rooms were kept locked. Summers foundemployment as porter and assistant in Hammell's grocery store, but hiswife was always on hand to show the premises to anyone who might wishto see them. 

All went on quietly until nearly a month after the funeral. Mrs. Summers had an easy time of it, as no intending tenants presentedthemselves, and her only visitor was her married sister, whooccasionally dropped in for an hour's chat. Jim was always at home byseven in the evening, and the time glided by without anything occurringto disturb the smooth current of their lives. 

But this state of things was not to be of long continuance. One nightwhen Mr. Washburn was busy over his briefs in his study at home he wasdisturbed by a loud knocking at his front door. As it was nearlymidnight, and as everyone else in the house had retired to rest, heanswered the summons in person. Upon unfastening the door he found Jimand his wife at the threshold. They were only half dressed, and theircountenances were colorless as Pallida Mors. They stumbled impetuouslyinto the hall, and were evidently laboring under some tremendousexcitement. The lawyer conducted them into the study, where they pouredinto his astonished ears a most singular tale. 

Their story was to the effect that they had been disturbed for severalnights previously by strange and inexplicable noises in the houseoccupied by them on Duchess street. They had been aroused from sleep atindeterminate hours by the sound of gliding footsteps just outside ofthe door of their bedroom. Once they had distinctly heard the sound ofvoices, which seemed to come from the large front room across the hall. As the door of that room was last closed and locked, they had not beenable to distinguish the particular words, but they both declared thatthe voice was marvellously like that of Captain Bywater. They werepersons of fairly steady nerves, but their situation, all thingsconsidered, was solitary and peculiar, and they had not by any meansrelished these unaccountable manifestations. On each occasion, however, they had controlled themselves sufficiently to institute a vigorousinvestigation of the premises, but had discovered nothing to throw anylight upon the subject. They had found all the doors and the windowssecurely fastened and there was no sign of the presence of anything oranybody to account for the gliding footsteps. 

They had unlocked and entered the front room, and found it bare anddeserted as it had been left ever since the removal of the furnitureafter the sale. They had even gone to the length of unlocking andentering every other room in the house, but had found no clue to themysterious sounds which had disturbed them. Then they had arguedthemselves into the belief that imagination had imposed upon them, orthat there was some natural but undiscovered cause for what hadoccurred. They were reluctant to make themselves the laughingstock ofthe town by letting the idea get abroad that they were afraid ofghosts, and they determined to hold their tongues. But themanifestations had at last assumed a complexion which rendered itimpossible to pursue such a course any longer, and they vehementlyprotested that they would not pass another night in the accursed housefor any bribe that could be offered them. 

They had spent the preceding evening at home, as usual, and had gone tobed a little before ten o'clock. The recent manifestations had probablyleft some lingering trace upon their nerves, but they had nopremonitions of further experiences of the same character, and had soondropped asleep. They knew not how long they had slept when they weresuddenly and simultaneously rendered broad awake by a succession ofsounds which could not possibly be explained by any reference to mereimagination. They heard the voice of their late master as distinctly asthey had ever heard it during his life. As before, it emanated from thefront room, but this time there was no possibility of their beingdeceived, as they caught not only the sound of his voice, but alsocertain words which they had often heard from his lips in bygone times. "Don't spare the liquor, gentlemen, " roared the Captain, "there'splenty more where that came from. More sugar and lemon, you scoundrel, and be handy there with the hot water. " Then was heard the jinglingof glasses and loud rapping as if made with the knuckles of the handupon the table. Other voices were now heard joining in conversation, but too indistinctly for the now thoroughly frightened listeners tocatch any of the actual words. There could, however, be no mistake. Captain Bywater had certainly come back from the land of shadows andre-instituted the old orgies in the old spot. The uproar lasted for atleast five minutes, when the Captain gave one of his characteristicdrunken howls, and of a sudden all was still and silent as the grave. 

As might naturally have been expected, the listeners wereterror-stricken. For a few moments after the cessation of thedisturbance, they lay there in silent, open-mouthed wonderment and fear. Then, before they could find their voices, their ears were assailed bya loud noise in the hall below, followed by the muffled "bow-wow" of adog, the sound of which seemed to come from the landing at the head ofthe stairway. Jim could stand the pressure of the situation no longer. He sprang from the bed, lighted a candle, and rushed out into the hall. This he did, as he afterwards admitted, not because he felt brave, butbecause he was too terrified to remain in bed, and seemed to beimpelled by a resolve to face the worst that fate might have in storefor him. Just as he passed from the door into the hall, a heavyfootstep was heard slowly ascending the stairs. He paused where hestood, candle in hand. The steps came on, on, on, with measured tread. A moment more and he caught sight of the ascending figure. Horror ofhorrors! It was his late master--clothes, cane and all--just as he hadbeen in life; and at the head of the stairs stood Nero, who gave ventto another low bark of recognition. When the Captain reached thelanding place he turned halfway round, and the light of the candle fellfull on his face. Jim saw the whole outline with the utmost clearness, even to the expression in the eyes, which was neither gay nor sad, butrather stolid and stern--just what he had been accustomed to see there. The dog crouched back against the wall, and after a brief halt near thestair-head, Captain Bywater turned the knob of his bed-room door andpassed in. The dog followed, the door was closed, and once more all wassilent. Jim turned and encountered the white face of his wife. She hadbeen standing behind him all the while, and had seen everything justas it had been presented to his own eyes. Moreover, impelled by someinward prompting for which she could never account, she had counted thefootsteps as they had ascended the stairs. They had been exactlyseventeen!

The pair re-entered their room and took hurried counsel together. Theyhad distinctly seen the Captain turn the knob and pass into hisbed-room, followed by the semblance of Nero. As they well knew, the doorof that room was locked, and the key was at that moment in the pocket ofMrs. Summers' dress. In sheer desperation they resolved at all hazardsto unlock the door and enter the room. Mrs. Summers produced the keyand handed it to her husband. She carried the candle and accompaniedhim to the stair-head. He turned the lock and pushed the door wide openbefore him, and both advanced into the room. It was empty, and thewindow was found firmly fastened on the inside, as it had been leftweeks before. 

They returned to their own bedroom, and agreed that any further stay insuch a house of horrors was not to be thought of. Hastily arrayingthemselves in such clothing as came readily to hand, they passed downthe stair-way, unbolted the front door, blew out the light, and madetheir way into the open air. Then they relocked the door from outsideand left the place. Their intended destination was the house of Mrs. Summers' sister, but they determined to go round by Mr. Washburn's andtell him their story, as they knew he kept late hours and would mostlikely not have gone to bed. 

Mr. Washburn, stolid man of law though he was, could not listen to sucha narrative without perceptable signs of astonishment. After thinkingover the matter a few moments, he requested his visitors to pass thenight under his roof, and to keep their own counsel for the presentabout their strange experiences. As he well knew, if the singular storygot wind there would be no possibility of finding another tenant forthe vacant house. The young couple acceded to the first request, andpromised compliance with the second. They were then shown to a spareroom, and the marvels of that strange night were at an end. 

Next morning at an early hour the lawyer and the ex-serving manproceeded to the Duchess street house. Everything was as it had beenleft the night before, and no clue could be found to the mysteriouscircumstances so solemnly attested to by Jim Summers and his spouse. The perfect sincerity of the couple could not be doubted, but Mr. Washburn was on the whole disposed to believe that they had in some waybeen imposed upon by designing persons who wished to frighten them offthe premises, or that their imaginations had played them a scurvytrick. With a renewed caution as to silence he dismissed them, and theythenceforth took up their abode in the house of Mrs. Summers' sister onPalace street. 

Mr. And Mrs. Summers kept their mouths as close as, under thecircumstances, could reasonably have been expected of them. But it wasnecessary to account in some way for their sudden desertion of theDuchess street house, and Mrs. Summers' sister was of an inquisitivedisposition. By degrees she succeeded in getting at most of the facts, but to do her justice she did not proclaim them from the housetops, andfor some time the secret was pretty well kept. The story would probablynot have become generally known at all, but for a succession ofcircumstances which took place when the haunted house had been vacantabout two months. 

An American immigrant named Horsfall arrived at York with a view ofsettling there and opening out a general store. He was a man of familyand of course required a house to live in. It so happened that thestore rented to him on King street had no house attached to it, and itwas therefore necessary for him to look out for a suitable placeelsewhere. Hearing that a house on Duchess street was to let, he calledand went over the premises with Mr. Washburn, who naturally kept silentas to the supernatural appearances which had driven the Summerses fromthe door in the middle of the night. The inspection provedsatisfactory, and Mr. Horsfall took the place for a year. His householdconsisted of his wife, two grown-up daughters, a son in his fifteenthyear, and a black female servant. They came up from Utica in advance ofMr. Horsfall's expectations, and before the house was ready for them, but matters were pushed forward with all possible speed, and on theevening of the second day after their arrival they took possession ofthe place. The furniture was thrown in higgledy-piggledy, and allattempts to put things to rights were postponed until the next day. Thefamily walked over after tea from the inn at which they had beenstaying, resolving to rough it for a single night in their new home inpreference to passing another night amid countless swarms of "thepestilence that walketh in darkness. " Two beds were hastily made up onthe floor of the drawing-room, one for the occupation of Mr. And Mrs. Horsfall, and the other for the two young women. A third bed washastily extemporized on the floor of the dining-room for the occupationof Master George Washington, and Dinah found repose on a lounge in theadjacent kitchen. The entire household went to bed sometime between tenand eleven o'clock, all pretty well tired, and prepared for acomfortable night's rest. They had been in bed somewhat more than anhour when the whole family was aroused by the barking of a dog in thelower hall. This was, not unnaturally, regarded as strange, inasmuch asall the doors and windows had been carefully fastened by Mr. Horsfallbefore retiring, and there had certainly been no dog in the house then. The head of the family lost no time in lighting a candle and openingthe door into the hall. At the same moment young G. W. Opened the dooron the opposite side. Yes, there, sure enough, was a large, blackNewfoundland dog, seemingly very much at home, as though he belonged tothe place. As the youth advanced towards him he retreated to thestairway, up which he passed at a great padding pace. How on earth hadhe gained an entrance? Well, at all events he must be got rid of; buthe looked as if he would be an awkward customer to tackle at closequarters and Mr. Horsfall deemed it prudent to put on a part of hisclothing before making any attempt to expel him. While he was dressing, the tread of the animal on the floor of the upper hall could bedistinctly heard, and ever and anon he emitted a sort of low, barkingsound, which was ominous of a disposition to resent any interferencewith him. By this time all the members of the household were astir andclustering about the lower hall. Mr. Horsfall, with a lighted candle inone hand and a stout cudgel in the other, passed up the stairs andlooked along the passage. Why, what on earth had become of the dog! Itwas nowhere to be seen! Where could it have hidden itself? It wascertainly too large an animal to have taken refuge in a rat-hole. Hadit entered one of the rooms? Impossible, for they were all closed, though not locked. Mr. H. Himself having unlocked them in the course ofthe afternoon, when some furniture had been taken into them. He, however, looked into each room in succession, only to find "darknessthere and nothing more. " Then he concluded that the brute must havegone down stairs while he had been putting on his clothes in the roombelow. No, that could not be, for George Washington had never left thefoot of the stairway from the moment the dog first passed up. Had itjumped through one of the windows? No, they were all fast and intact. Had it gone up the chimney of the front room? No; apart from theabsurdity of the idea, the hole was not large enough to admit of a dogone-fifth its size. In vain the house was searched through and through. Not a sign of the huge disturber of the domestic peace was to be seenanywhere. 

After a while, Mr. Horsfall, at a loss for anything better to exercisehis faculties upon, opened both the front and back doors and looked allover the premises, alternately calling Carlo! Watch! and every othername which occurred to him as likely to be borne by a dog. There was noresponse, and in sheer disgust he re-entered the house and again soughthis couch. In a few minutes more the household was again locked inslumber. But they were not at the end of their annoyances. About halfan hour after midnight they were once more aroused. --this time by thesound of loud voices in the large upper room. "I tell you we will allhave glasses round, " roared a stentorian voice--"I will knock down thefirst man who objects!" Everybody in the house heard the voice and thewords. This was apparently more serious than the dog. Mr. H. Regrettedthat he had left his pistols at the inn, but he determined to rid theplace of the intruders whoever they might be. Grasping the cudgel heagain made his way up-stairs, candle in hand. When more than half wayup he caught sight of a tall, heavily-built, red-faced man, who hadapparently emerged from the larger room, and who was just on the pointof opening the door of the back bedroom. "Who are you, you scoundrel?"exclaimed Mr. H. The man apparently neither saw nor heard him, butopened the door with tranquil unconcern and passed into the room. Mr. H. Followed quickly at his very heels--only to find that he had beenbeguiled with a counterfeit, and that there was no one there. Then hestepped back into the hallway, and entered the larger room with cudgelraised, fully expecting to find several men there. To his unspeakableastonishment he found nobody. Again he hurried from room to room, upstairs and downstairs. Again he examined the doors and windows to seeif the fastenings had been tampered with. No, all was tight and snug. The family were again astir, hurrying hither and thither, in quest ofthey knew not what; but they found nothing to reward their search, andafter a while all gathered together half-clad in the dining room, wherethey began to ask each other what these singular disturbances couldmean. 

Mr. Horsfall was a plain, matter of fact personage, and up to thismoment no idea of any supernatural visitation had so much as enteredhis mind. Even now he scouted the idea when it was timidly broached byhis wife. He, however, perceived plainly enough that this was somethingaltogether out of the common way, and he announced his intention ofgoing to bed no more that night. The others lay down again, but we mayreadily believe that they slept lightly, if at all, though nothing moreoccurred to disturb them. Soon after daylight all the family rose anddressed for the day. Once more they made tour after tour through allthe rooms, only to find that everything remained precisely as it hadbeen left on the preceding night. 

After an early breakfast Mr. H. Proceeded to the house of Mr. Washburn, where he found that gentleman was still asleep, and that he could notbe disturbed. The visitor was a patient man and declared his intentionof waiting. In about an hour Mr. Washburn came down stairs, and heardthe extraordinary story which his tenant had to relate. He hadcertainly not anticipated anything of this sort, and gave vehementutterance to his surprise. In reply to Mr. H. 's enquiries about thehouse, however, he gave him a brief account of the life and death ofCaptain Bywater, and supplemented the biography by a narration of thesingular experiences of Jim Summers and his wife. Then the Americanfired up, alleging that his landlord had had no right to let him thehouse, and to permit him to remove his family into it, withoutacquainting him with the facts beforehand. The lawyer admitted that hehad perhaps been to blame, and expressed his regret. The tenantdeclared that he then and there threw up his tenancy, and that he wouldvacate the house in the course of the day. Mr. Washburn felt that acourt of law would probably hesitate to enforce a lease under suchcircumstances, and assented that the arrangement between them should betreated as cancelled. 

VIII. --THE LAST OF THE HOUSE. 

And cancelled it was. Mr. Horsfall temporarily took his family and hisother belongings back to the inn, but soon afterwards secured a housewhere no guests, canine, or otherwise, were in the habit of intrudingthemselves uninvited in the silent watches of the night. He kept astore here for some years, and, I believe, was buried at York. A son ofhis, as I am informed--probably the same who figures in the foregoingnarrative--is, or lately was, a well-to-do resident of Syracuse, N. Y. 

Mr. Horsfall made no secret of his reasons for throwing up his tenancy, and his adventures were soon noised abroad throughout the town. He wasthe last tenant of the sombre house. Thenceforward no one could beinduced to rent it or even to occupy it rent free. It was commonlyregarded as a whisht, gruesome spot, and was totally unproductive toits owners. Its subsequent history has already been given. 

And now what more is there to tell? Only this: that the main facts ofthe foregoing story are true. Of course I am not in a position to vouchfor them from personal knowledge, any more than I am in a position topersonally vouch for the invasion of England by William of Normandy. But they rest on as good evidence as most other private events ofsixty-odd years ago, and there is no reason for doubting their literaltruth. With regard to the supernatural element, I am free to confessthat I am not able to accept it in entirety. This is not because Iquestion the veracity of those who vouch for the alleged facts, butbecause I have not received those facts at first hand, and because I amnot very ready to believe in the supernatural at all. I think that, inthe case under consideration, an intelligent investigation at the timemight probably have brought to light circumstances as to which thenarrative, as it stands, is silent. Be that as it may, the tale isworth the telling, and I have told it. 

SAVAREEN'S DISAPPEARANCE. 

A HALF-FORGOTTEN CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF AN UPPER CANADIANTOWNSHIP. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE PLACE AND THE MAN. 

Near the centre of one of the most flourishing of the western countiesof Ontario, and on the line of the Great Western branch of the GrandTrunk Railway, stands a pleasant little town, which, for the purposesof this narrative, may be called Millbrook. Not that its real name isMillbrook, or any thing in the least similar thereto; but as thisstory, so far as its main events are concerned, is strictly true, andsome of the actors in it are still living, it is perhaps desirable notto be too precise in the matter of locality. The strange disappearanceof Mr. Savareen made a good deal of noise at the time, not only in theneighborhood, but throughout Upper Canada. It was a nine days' wonder, and was duly chronicled and commented upon by the leading provincialnewspapers of the period; but it has long since passed out of generalremembrance, and the chain of circumstances subsequently arising out ofthe event have never been made known beyond the limited circleimmediately interested. The surviving members of that circle wouldprobably not thank me for once more dragging their names conspicuouslybefore the public gaze. I might certainly veil their personalitiesunder the thin disguise of initial letters, but to this mode ofrelating a story I have always entertained a decided objection. Thechief object to be aimed at in story-telling is to hold the attentionof the reader, and, speaking for myself, I am free to confess that Ihave seldom been able to feel any absorbing interest in characters whofigure merely as the M. Or N. Of the baptismal service. I shalltherefore assign fictitious names to persons and places, and I cannoteven pretend to mathematical exactness as to one or two minor details. In reporting conversations, for instance, I do not profess to reproducethe _ipsissima verba_ of the speakers, but merely to give theeffect and purport of their discourses. I have, however, been at somepains to be accurate, and I think I may justly claim that in allessential particulars this story of Savareen's disappearance is as trueas any report of events which took place a good many years ago canreasonably be expected to be. 

First: As to the man. Who was he?

Well, that is easily told. He was the second son of a fairly well-to-doEnglish yeoman, and had been brought up to farming pursuits on thepaternal acres in Hertfordshire. He emigrated to Upper Canada in orabout the year 1851, and had not been many weeks in the colony beforehe became the tenant of a small farm situated in the township ofWestchester, three miles to the north of Millbrook. At that time hemust have been about twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. So far ascould be judged by those who came most frequently into personalrelations with him, he had no very marked individuality to distinguishhim from others of his class and station in life. He was simply a youngEnglish farmer who had migrated to Canada with a view to improving hiscondition and prospects. 

In appearance he was decidedly prepossessing. He stood five feet eleveninches in his stockings; was broad of shoulder, strong of arm, and wellset up about the limbs. His complexion was fair and his hair had adecided inclination to curl. He was proficient in most athletics; couldbox and shoot, and if put upon his mettle, could leap bodily over afive-barred gate. He was fond of good living, and could always bedepended upon to do full justice to a well-provided dinner. It cannotbe denied that he occasionally drank more than was absolutely necessaryto quench a normal thirst, but he was as steady as could be expected ofany man who has from his earliest boyhood been accustomed to drink beeras an ordinary beverage, and has always had the run of the butteryhatch. He liked a good horse, and could ride anything that went on fourlegs. He also had a weakness for dogs, and usually had one or two ofthose animals dangling near his heels whenever he stirred out of doors. Men and things in this country were regarded by him from a strictlytrans-Atlantic point of view, and he was frequently heard to remarkthat this, that, and the other thing were "nothink to what we 'ave at'ome. "

He was more or less learned in matters pertaining to agriculture, andknew something about the current doctrines bearing on the rotation ofcrops. His literary education, moreover, had not been wholly neglected. He could read and write, and could cast up accounts which were not oftoo involved and complicated a character. It cannot truly be said thathe had read Tom Jones, Roderick Random, and Pierce Egan's Life in London. He regarded Cruikshank's illustrations to the last named work--moreparticularly that one depicting Corinthian Tom "getting the bestof Charley, "--as far better worth looking at than the whole collectionin the National Gallery, a place where he had once whirled away atedious hour or two during a visit to town. 

Then, he was not altogether ignorant concerning several notable eventsin the history of his native land. That is to say, he knew that acertain king named Charles the First had been beheaded a good manyyears ago, and that a disreputable personage named Oliver Cromwell hadsomehow been mixed up in the transaction. He understood that thedestinies of Great Britain were presided over by Queen Victoria and twoHouses of Parliament, called respectively the House of Lords and theHouse of Commons; and he had a sort of recollection of having heardthat those august bodies were called Estates of the Realm. In his eyes, everything English was _ipso facto_ to be commended and admired, whereas everything un-English was _ipso facto_ to be proportionatelycondemned and despised. Any misguided person who took a different viewof the matter was to be treated as one who had denied the faith, andwas worse than an infidel. 

I have said that his appearance was prepossessing, and so it was in theordinary course of things, though he had a broad scar on his leftcheek, which, on the rare occasions when he was angry, asserted itselfsomewhat conspicuously, and imparted, for the nonce, a sinisterexpression to his countenance. This disfigurement, as I have heard, hadbeen received by him some years before his arrival in Canada. During avisit to one of the market towns in the neighborhood of his home, hehad casually dropped into a gymnasium, and engaged in a fencing boutwith a friend who accompanied him. Neither of the contestants had everhandled a foil before, and they were of course unskilled in the use ofsuch dangerous playthings. During the contest the button had slippedfrom his opponent's weapon, just as the latter was making a vigorouslunge. As a consequence Savareen's cheek had been laid open by a woundwhich left its permanent impress upon him. He himself was in the habitof jocularly alluding to this disfigurement as his "bar sinister. "

For the rest, he was stubborn as a mule about trifles which did not inthe least concern him, but as regarded the affairs of every-day life hewas on the whole pleasant and easy-going, more especially when nothingoccurred to put him out. When anything of the kind _did_ occur, hecould certainly assume the attitude of an ugly customer, and on suchoccasions the wound on his cheek put on a lurid hue which was notpleasant to contemplate. His ordinary discourse mainly dealt with theevents of his everyday life. It was not intellectually stimulating, andfor the most part related to horses, dogs, and the crop prospects ofthe season. In short, if you have ever lived in rural England, or ifyou have been in the habit of frequenting English country towns onmarket-days, you must have encountered scores of jolly young farmerswho, to all outward seeming, with the solitary exception of thesinister scar, might pretty nearly have stood for his portrait. 

Such was Reginald Bourchier Savareen, and if you have never come acrossanybody possessing similar characteristics--always excepting the scar--your experience of your fellow-creatures has been more limited thanmight be expected from a reader of your age and manifest intelligence. 

His farm--_i. E. _, the farm rented by him--belonged to old SquireHarrington, and lay in a pleasant valley on the western side of thegravel road leading northward from Millbrook to Spotswood. The Squirehimself lived in the red brick mansion which peeped out from the clumpof maples a little further down on the opposite side of the road. Thecountry thereabouts was settled by a thrifty and prosperous race ofpioneers, and presented a most attractive appearance. Alternatesuccessions of hill and dale greeted the eye of the traveller as hedrove along the hard-packed highway, fifteen miles in length, whichformed the connecting link between the two towns above mentioned. Theland was carefully tilled, and the houses, generally speaking, were ofa better class than were to be found in most rural communities in UpperCanada at that period. Savareen's own dwelling was unpretentiousenough, having been originally erected for one of the squire's "hiredmen, " but it was sufficient for his needs, as he had not married untila little more than a year before the happening of the events to bepresently related, and his domestic establishment was small. His entirehousehold consisted of himself, his young wife, an infant in arms, aman servant and a rustic maid of all work. In harvest time he, ofcourse, employed additional help, but the harvesters were for the mostpart residents of the neighborhood, who found accommodation in theirown homes. The house was a small frame, oblong building, of theconventional Canadian farm-house order of architecture, painted of adrab color and standing a hundred yards or so from the main road. Thebarn and stable stood a convenient distance to the rear. About midwaybetween house and barn was a deep well, worked with a windlass andchain. During the preceding season a young orchard had been planted outin the space intervening between the house and the road. Everythingabout the place was kept in spick and span order. The tenant was fairlysuccessful in his farming operations, and appeared to be holding hisown with the world around him. He paid his rent promptly, and was onexcellent terms with his landlord. He was, in fact, rather popular withhis neighbors generally, and was regarded as a man with a fair futurebefore him. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE NEIGHBORHOOD. 

About a quarter of a mile to the north of Savareen's abode was acharming little hostelry, kept by a French Canadian named Jean BaptisteLapierre. It was one of the snuggest and cosiest of imaginable inns;by no means the sort of wayside tavern commonly to be met with inWestern Canada in those times, or even in times much more recent. Thelandlord had kept a high-class restaurant in Quebec in the old daysbefore the union of the Provinces, and piqued himself upon knowing whatwas what. He was an excellent cook, and knew how to cater to theappetites of more exacting epicures than he was likely to number amonghis ordinary patrons in a rural community like that in which he hadpiched his quarters. When occasion required, he could serve up a dinneror supper at which Brillat Savarian himself would have had no excusefor turning up his nose. It was seldom that any such exigeant demand asthis was made upon his skill, but even his ordinary fare was goodenough for any city sir or madam whom chance might send beneath hisroof, and such persons never failed to carry away with them pleasantremembrances of the place. 

The creaking sign which swayed in the breeze before the hospitable doorproclaimed it to be The Royal Oak, but it was commonly known throughoutthe whole of that country-side as Lapierre's. The excellence of itslarder was proverbial, insomuch that professional men and others usedfrequently to drive out from town expressly to dine or sup there. Oncea week or so--usually on Saturday nights--a few of the choice spiritsthereabouts used to meet in the cosy parlor and hold a decorous sort offree-and-easy, winding up with supper at eleven o'clock. On theseoccasions, as a matter of course, the liquor flowed with considerablefreedom, and the guests had a convivial time of it; but there wasnothing in the shape of wild revelry--nothing to bring reproach uponthe good name of the house. Jean Baptiste had too much regard for hiswell-earned reputation to permit these meetings to degenerate into mereorgies. He showed due respect for the sanctity of the Sabbath, and tookcare to make the house clear of company before the stroke of midnight. By such means he not only kept his guests from indulging in riotousexcesses, but secured their respect for himself and his establishment. 

Savareen was a pretty regular attendant at these convivial gatherings, and was indeed a not infrequent visitor at other times. He always metwith a warm welcome, for he could sing a good song, and paid his scorewith commendable regularity. His Saturday nights' potations did notinterfere with his timely appearance on Sunday morning in his pew inthe little church which stood on the hill a short distance aboveLapierre's. His wife usually sat by his side, and accompanied him toand fro. Everything seemed to indicate that the couple lived happilytogether, and that they were mutually blessed in their domesticrelations. With regard to Mrs. Savareen, the only thing necessary tobe mentioned about her at present is that she was the daughter of acarpenter and builder resident in Millbrook. 

There was a good deal of travel on the Millbrook and Spotswood road, more especially in the autumn, when the Dutch farmers from thesettlements up north used to come down in formidable array, for thepurpose of supplying themselves with fruit to make cider and"applesass" for the winter. The great apple-producing district of theProvince begins in the townships lying a few miles to the south ofWestchester, and the road between Millbrook and Spotswood was, and is, the most direct route thither from the Dutch settlements. The garb andother appointments of the stalwart Canadian Teuton of those days weresuch as to make him easily distinguishable from his Celtic or Saxonneighbor. He usually wore a long, heavy, coat of coarse cloth, reachingdown to his heels. His head was surmounted by a felt hat with a brimwide enough to have served, at a pinch, for the tent of a side-show. His wagon was a great lumbering affair, constructed, like himself, after an ante-diluvian pattern, and pretty nearly capacious enough fora first-rate man-of-war. In late September and early October it was nounprecedented thing to see as many as thirty or forty of theseponderous vehicles moving southward, one at the tail of the other, in acontinuous string. They came down empty, and returned a day or twoafterwards laden with the products of the southern orchards. On thereturn journey the wagons were full to overflowing. Not so the drivers, who were an exceedingly temperate and abstemious people, tooparsimonious to leave much of their specie at the Royal Oak. It wasdoubtless for this reason that mine host Lapierre regarded, and wasaccustomed to speak of them with a good deal of easy contempt, not tosay aversion. They brought little or no grist to his mill, and he wasfond of proclaiming that he did not keep a hotel for the accommodationof such _canaille_. The emphasis placed by him on this last wordwas something quite refreshing to hear. 

The road all the way from Millbrook to Spotswood, corresponds to themathematical definition of a straight line. It forms the thirdconcession of the township, and there is not a curve in it anywhere. The concessions number from west to east, and the sidelines, running atright angles to them are exactly two miles apart. At the northwesternangle formed by the intersection of the gravel road with the first sideline north of Millbrook stood a little toll-gate, kept, at the periodof the story, by one Jonathan Perry. Between the toll-gate andSavareen's on the same side of the road were several other houses towhich no more particular reference is necessary. On the opposite sideof the highway, somewhat more than a hundred yards north of thetoll-gate, was the abode of a farmer named Mark Stolliver. Half a milefurther up was John Calder's house, which was the only one until youcame to Squire Harrington's. To the rear of the Squire's farm was ahuge morass about fifty acres in extent, where cranberries grew ingreat abundance, from which circumstance it was known as CranberrySwamp. 

Now you have the entire neighborhood before you, and if you will castyour eye on the following rough plan you will have no difficulty intaking in the scene at a single glance:--

[Illustration: map of the area described in preceding text]

CHAPTER III. 

A JOURNEY TO TOWN. 

In the early spring of the year 1854 a letter reached Savareen fromhis former home in Hertfordshire, containing intelligence of the suddendeath of his father. The old gentleman had been tolerably well off inthis world's gear, but he had left a numerous family behind him, sothat there was no great fortune in store for Reginald. The amountbequeathed to him, however, was four hundred pounds sterling clear ofall deductions--a sum not to be despised, as it would go far towardenabling him to buy the farm on which he lived, and would thus give amaterial impetus to his fortunes. The executors lost no time in windingup and distributing the estate, and during the second week in July aletter arrived from their solicitors enclosing a draft on the Torontoagency of the Bank of British North America for the specified sum. Savareen made arrangements with the local bank at Millbank to collectthe proceeds, and thus save him the expense of a journey to Toronto. Meanwhile he concluded a bargain with Squire Harrington for thepurchase of the farm. The price agreed upon was $3, 500, half of whichwas to be paid down upon the delivery of the deed, the balance beingsecured by mortgage. The cash would be forthcoming at the bank notlater than the 18th of the month, and accordingly that was the datefixed upon for the completion of the transaction. Lawyer Miller wasinstructed to have the documents ready for execution at noon, when theparties and their respective wives were to attend at his office inMillbrook. 

The morning of Monday, the 17th, was wet and gave promise of a rainyday. As there seemed to be no prospect of his being able to do anyoutside work on the farm, Savareen thought he might as well ride intotown and ascertain if the money had arrived. He saddled his black mare, and started for Millbrook--about ten in the forenoon. His two dogsshowed a manifest desire to accompany him, but he did not think fit togratify their desire and ordered them back. Before he had ridden farthe rain ceased, and the sun came out warm and bright, but he was in anidle mood, and didn't think it worth while to turn back. It seemsprobable indeed, that he had merely wanted an excuse for an idle day intown; as there was no real necessity for such a journey. Upon reachingthe front street he stabled his mare at the Peacock Inn, which was hisusual house of call when in Millbrook. He next presented himself at thebank, where he made enquiry about his draft. Yes, the funds were thereall right. The clerk, supposing that he wanted to draw the amount thereand then, counted the notes out for him, and requested him to sign thereceipt in the book kept for such purposes. Savareen then intimatedthat he had merely called to enquire about the matter, and that hewished to leave the money until next day. The clerk, who was out ofhumor about some trifle or other, and who was, moreover, very busy thatmorning, spoke up sharply, remarking that he had had more bother aboutthat draft than the transaction was worth. His irritable turn andlanguage nettled Savareen, who accordingly took the notes, signed thereceipt and left the bank, declaring that "that shop" should betroubled by no further business of his. The clerk, as soon as he hadtime to think over the matter, perceived that he had been rude, andwould have tendered an apology, but his customer had already shaken thedust of the bank off his feet and taken his departure, so that therewas no present opportunity of accommodating the petty quarrel. Asevents subsequently turned out it was destined never to be accommodatedin this world, for the two never met again on this side the grave. 

Instead of returning home immediately as he ought to have done, Savareen hung about the tavern all day, drinking more than was good forhis constitution, and regaling every boon companion he met with anaccount of the incivility to which he had been subjected at the handsof the bank clerk. Those to whom he told the story thought he attachedmore importance to the affair than it deserved, and they noticed thatthe scar on his cheek came out in its most lurid aspect. He dined atthe Peacock and afterwards indulged in sundry games of bagatelle andten-pins; but the stakes consisted merely of beer and cigars, and hedid not get rid of more than a few shillings in the course of theafternoon. Between six and seven in the evening his landlady regaledhim with a cup of strong tea, after which he seemed none the worse forhis afternoon's relaxations. A few minutes before dusk he mounted hismare and started on his way homeward. 

The ominous clouds of the early morning had long since passed over. Thesun had shone brightly throughout the afternoon, and had gone down amida gorgeous blaze of splendour. The moon would not rise till nearlynine, but the evening was delightfully calm and clear, and thehorseman's way home was as straight as an arrow, over one of the bestroads in the country. 

CHAPTER IV. 

GONE. 

At precisely eight o'clock in the evening of this identical Monday, July 17th, 1854, old Jonathan Perry sat tranquilly smoking his pipe atthe door of the toll-gate two miles north of Millbrook. 

The atmosphere was too warm to admit of the wearing of any greatdisplay of apparel, and the old man sat hatless and coatless on a sortof settle at the threshold. He was an inveterate old gossip, and wasacquainted with the business of everybody in the neighborhood. He knewall about the bargain entered into between Savareen and SquireHarrington, and how it was to be consummated on the following day. Savareen, when riding townwards that morning, had informed him of theostensible purpose of his journey, and it now suddenly occurred to theold man to wonder why the young farmer had not returned home. 

While he sat there pondering, the first stroke of the town bellproclaiming the hour was borne upon his ear. Before the ringing hadceased, he caught the additional sound of a horse's hoofs rapidlyadvancing up the road. 

"Ah, " said he to himself, "here he comes. I reckon his wife'll be aptto give him fits for being so late. "

In another moment the horseman drew up before him, but only to exchangea word of greeting, as the gate was thrown wide open, and there wasnothing to bar his progress. The venerable gate-keeper had conjecturedright. It was Savareen on his black mare. 

"Well, Jonathan, a nice evening, " remarked the young farmer. 

"Yes, Mr. Savareen--a lovely night. You've had a long day of it intown. They'll be anxious about you at home. Did you find the money allright, as you expected?"

"O, the money was there, right enough, and I've got it in my pocket. Ihad some words with that conceited puppy, Shuttleworth, at the bank. He's altogether too big for his place, and I can tell you he'll havethe handling of no more money of mine. " And then, for about thetwentieth time within the last few hours, he recounted the particularsof his interview with the bank clerk. 

The old man expressed his entire concurrence in Savareen's estimate ofShuttleworth's conduct. "I have to pay the gate-money into the bank onthe first of every month, " he remarked, "and that young feller alwaysacts as if he felt too uppish to touch it. I wonder you didn't dropinto 'un. "

"O, I wasn't likely to do that, " was the reply--"but I gave him a bitof my mind, and I told him it 'ud be a long time afore I darkened thedoors of his shop again. And so it will. I'd sooner keep my bit o'money, when I have any, in the clock-case at home. There's never anyhousebreaking hereabouts. "

Jonathan responded by saying that, in so far as he knew, there hadn'tbeen a burglary for many a year. 

"But all the same, " he continued, "I shouldn't like to keep such a sumas four hundred pound about me, even for a single night. No more Ishouldn't like to carry such a pot o' money home in the night time, even if nobody knew as I had it on me. Ride you home, Mr. Savareen, andhide it away in some safe place till to-morrow morning--that's_my_ advice. "

"And very good advice it is, Jonathan, " was the response. "I'll actupon it without more words. Good night!" And so saying, Savareencontinued his course homeward at a brisk trot. 

The old man watched him as he sped away up the road, but could not keephim in view more than half a minute or so, as by this time the light ofday had wholly departed. He lighted his pipe, which had gone out duringthe conversation, and resumed his seat on the settle. Scarcely had hedone so ere he heard the clatter of horse's hoofs moving rapidlytowards the gate from the northward. "Why, " said he to himself, "thismust be Savareen coming back again. What's the matter now, I wonder?"

But this time he was out in his conjecture. When the horseman reachedthe gate, he proved to be not Savareen, but mine host Lapierre, mountedon his fast-trotting nag, Count Frontenac--a name irreverentlyabbreviated by the sportsmen of the district into "Fronty. " The riderdrew up with a boisterous "Woa!" and reached out towards the gate-keepera five-cent piece by way of toll, saying as he did so:

"Vell, Mister Perry, how coes everytings wiss you?"

"O, good evening, Mr. Lapierre; I didn't know you till you spoke. Myeyesight's getting dimmer every day, I think. Bound for town?"

"Yes, I want to see what has cot Mr. Safareen. He went to town earlythis morning to see about some money matters, and promised to pe packin a couple of hours, put he ain't pack yet. Mrs. Safareen cot souneasy apout him to-night, that she came up to my place and pegged meto ride down and hunt him up. I suppose you saw him on his way down?"

"Saw him! On his way down! What are you talking about? Didn't you meethim just now?"

"Meet who?"

"Savareen. "

"Where? When?"

"Why, not two minutes ago. He passed through here on his way home justbefore you came up. "

"How long pefore?"

"How long! Why, don't I tell you, not two minutes. He hadn't hardly gotout o' sight when I heerd your horse's feet on the stones, and thoughtit was him a-coming back again. You must a met him this side o'Stolliver's. "

Then followed further explanations on the part of old Jonathan, whorecounted the conversation he had just had with Savareen. 

Well, of course, the key to the situation was not hard to find. Savareen had left the toll-gate and proceeded northward not more thantwo or three minutes before Lapierre, riding southward along the sameroad, had reached the same point. The two had not encountered eachother. Therefore, one of them had deviated from the road. There hadbeen no deviation on the part of Lapierre, so the deviator mustnecessarily have been Savareen. But the space of time which had elapsedwas too brief to admit of the latter's having ridden more than ahundred yards or thereabouts. The only outlet from the road within fourtimes that distance was the gateway leading into Stolliver's house. Theexplanation, consequently, was simple enough. Savareen had called in atStollivers. Q. E. D. 

Strange, though, that he had said nothing to old Jonathan about hisintention to call there. He had ridden off as though intent upongetting home without delay, and hiding his money away in a safe placefor the night. And, come to think of it, it was hard to understand whatpossible reason he could have for calling at Stolliver's. He had neverhad any business or social relations of any kind with Stolliver, and infact the two had merely a nodding acquaintance. Still another strangething was that Savareen should have taken his horse inside the gate, asthere was a tying-post outside, and he could not have intended to makeany prolonged stay. However, there was no use raising difficultproblems, which could doubt less be solved by a moment's explanation. It was absolutely certain that Savareen was at Stolliver's because hecould not possibly have avoided meeting Lapierre if he had not calledthere. It was Lapierre's business to find him and take him home. Accordingly the landlord of the Royal Oak turned his horse's head andcantered back up the road till he reached the front of Stolliver'splace. 

Stolliver and his two boys were sitting out on the front fence, havingemerged from the house only a moment before. They had been working inthe fields until past sundown, and had just risen from a late supper. Old Stolliver was in the habit of smoking a pipe every night after hisevening meal, and in pleasant weather he generally chose to smoke itout of doors, as he was doing this evening, although the darkness hadfallen. Lapierre, as he drew rein, saw the three figures on the fence, but could not in the darkness, distinguish one from, another. 

"Is that Mister Stollifer?" he asked. 

"Yes; who be _you_?" was the ungracious response, delivered in a grufftone of voice. Old Stolliver was a boorish, cross-grained customer, whopaid slight regard to the amenities, and did not show to advantage inconversation. 

"Don't you know me? I am Mister Lapierre. "

"O, Mr. Lapierre, eh? Been a warm day. "

"Yes. Hass Mister Safareen gone?"

"Mister who?"

"Mister Safareen. Wass he not here shoost now?"

"Here? What fur?"

The landlord was by this time beginning to feel a little disgusted atthe man's boorish incivility. "Will you pe so coot as to tell me, " heasked, "if Mister Safareen hass peen here?"

"Not as I know of. Hain't seen him. "

Lapierre was astounded. He explained the state of affairs to hisinterlocuter, who received the communication with his wonted stolidity, and proceeded to light his pipe, as much as to say that the affair wasnone of his funeral. 

"Well, " he remarked, with exasperating coolness, "I guess you must 'a'passed him on the road. We hain't been out here more'n a minute or two. Nobody hain't passed since then. "

This seemed incredible. Where, then, was Savareen? Had he sunk into thebowels of the earth, or gone up, black mare and all, in a balloon? Ofcourse it was all nonsense about the landlord having passed him on theroad without seeing or hearing anything of him. But what otherexplanation did the circumstances admit of? At any rate, there wasnothing for Lapierre to do but ride back to Savareen's house and see ifhe had arrived there. Yes, one other thing might be done. He mightreturn to the toll gate and ascertain whether Jonathan Perry wascertain as to the identity of the man from whom he had parted a fewminutes before. So Count Frontenac's head was once more turnedsouthward. A short trot brought him again to the toll-house. Thegatekeeper was still sitting smoking at the door. A moment's conferencewith him was sufficient to convince Lapierre that there could be noquestion of mistaken identity. "Why, " said Jonathan, "I know Mr. Savareen as well as I know my right hand. And then, didn't he tell meabout his row with Shuttleworth, and that he had the four hundredpounds in his pocket. Why, dark as it was, I noticed the scar on hischeek when he was talking about it. --I say, Missus, look here, " hecalled in a louder tone, whereupon his wife presented herself at thethreshold. "Now, " resumed the old man, "just tell Mr. Lapierre whetheryou saw Mr. Savareen talking to me a few minutes since, and whether yousaw him ride off up the road just before Mr. Lapierre came down. Didyou, or did you not?"

Mrs. Perry's answer was decisive, and at the same time conclusive as tothe facts. She had not only seen Savareen sitting on his black mare atthe door, immediately after the town bell ceased ringing for eighto'clock; but she had listened to the conversation between him and herhusband, and had heard pretty nearly every word. Lapierre crossexamined her, and found that her report of the interview exactlycorresponded with what he had already heard from old Jonathan. "Why, "said she, "there is no more doubt of its being Mr. Savareen than thereis of that gate-post being there on the road-side. 'Very good advice itis, ' says he, 'and I'll act upon it without more words. ' Then he said'good night, ' and off he went up the road. Depend upon it, Mr. Lapierre, you've missed him somehow in the darkness, and he's safe andsound at home by this time. "

"Yes, yes, Mr. Lapierre, not a doubt on it, " resumed old Jonathan, "you've a passed him on the road athout seein' 'im. It was dark, andyou were both in a hurry. I've heerd o' lots o' stranger things northat. "

Lapierre couldn't see it. He knew well enough that it was no morepossible for him to pass a man on horseback on that narrow highway, ona clear night, without seeing him--more especially when he was out forthe express purpose of finding that very man--than it was possible forhim to serve out _un petit verre_ of French brandy in mistake fora gill of Hollands. The facts, however, seemed to be wholly againsthim, as he bade the old couple a despondent good-night and put CountFrontenac to his mettle. He stayed not for brook--there _was_ abrook a short distance up the road--and he stopped not for stone, buttore along at a break-neck pace as though he was riding for a wager. Infive minutes he reached Savareen's front gate. 

Mrs. Savareen was waiting there, on the look-out for her husband. No, of course he had not got home. She had neither seen nor heard anythingof him, and was by this time very uneasy. You may be sure that heranxiety was not lessened when she heard the strange tale which Lapierrehad to tell her. 

Even then, however, she did not give up the hope of her husband'sarrival sometime during the night. Lapierre promised to look in againin an hour or two, and passed on to his own place, where he regaled thelittle company he found there with the narrative of his evening'sexploits. Before bedtime the story was known all over the neighborhood. 

CHAPTER V. 

ONE HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD. 

Mrs. Savareen sat up waiting for her lord until long past midnight, buther vigil was in vain. Lapierre, after closing up his inn for thenight, dropped in, according to his promise, to see if any news of theabsentee had arrived. Nothing further could be done in the way ofsearching for the latter personage until daylight. 

It was getting on pretty well towards morning when Mrs. Savareen soughther couch, and when she got there her slumber was broken and disturbed. She knew not what to think, but she was haunted by a dread that shewould never again see her husband alive. 

Next morning, soon after daylight, the whole neighborhood was astir, and the country round was carefully searched for any trace of themissing man. Squire Harrington went down to town and made inquiries atthe bank, where he ascertained that the story told by Savareen to oldJonathan Perry, as to his altercation with Shuttleworth, wassubstantially correct. This effectually disposed of any possible theoryas to Jonathan and his wife having mistaken somebody else for Savareen. Squire Harrington likewise learned all about the man's doings on theprevious afternoon, and was able to fix the time at which he hadstarted for home. He had ridden from the door of the Peacock at about aquarter to eight. This would bring him to the toll-gate at eighto'clock--the hour at which Perry professed to have seen and conversedwith him. There was no longer any room for doubt. That interview andconversation had actually taken place at eight o'clock on the previousevening, and Savareen had ridden northward from the gate withinfive minutes afterwards. He could not have proceeded more than ahundred--or, at the very outside, two hundred--yards further, or he mustinevitably have been encountered by Lapierre. How had he contrived tovanish so suddenly out of existence? And it was not only the man, butthe horse, which had disappeared in this unaccountable manner. Itseemed improbable that two living substances of such bulk should passout of being and leave no trace behind them. They must literally havemelted into thin air. 

No, they hadn't. At least the black mare hadn't, for she was discoveredby several members of the searching-party a little before noon. Whenfound, she was quietly cropping the damp herbage at the edge of thecranberry swamp at the rear of Squire Harrington's farm. She waswholly uninjured, and had evidently spent the night there. The bit hadbeen removed from her mouth, but the bridle hung intact round her neck. The saddle, however, like its owner, had disappeared from her back. 

Then the men began a systematic search in the interior of the swamp. They soon came upon the saddle, which had apparently been deliberatelyunbuckled, removed from off the mare, and deposited on a dry patch ofground, near the edge of the morass. A little further in the interiorthey came upon a man's coat, made of dark brown stuff. This garment wasidentified by one of the party as belong to Savareen. It was wet andbesmirched with mud, and, in fact was lying half in and half out of alittle puddle of water when it was found. Then the searchers made sureof finding the body. 

But in this they were disappointed. They explored the recesses of theswamp from end to end and side to side with the utmost thoroughness, but found nothing further to reward their search. The ground was toosoft and marshy to retain any traces of footsteps, and the mare andsaddle furnished the only evidence that the object of their quest hadbeen in the neighborhood of the swamp--and of course this evidence wasof the most vague and inconclusive character. 

Then the party proceeded in a body to the missing man's house. Hereanother surprise awaited them. The coat was at once recognised by Mrs. Savareen as belonging to her husband, but IT WAS NOT THE COAT WORN BYHIM AT THE TIME OF HIS DISAPPEARANCE. Of this there was no doubtwhatever. In fact, he had not worn it for more than a week previously. His wife distinctly remembered having folded and laid it away in thetop of a large trunk on the Saturday of the week before last, sincewhich time she had never set eyes on it. Here was a deepening of themystery. 

The search was kept up without intermission for several days, nearlyall of the farmers in the vicinity taking part in it, even to theneglect of the harvest work which demanded their attention. SquireHarrington was especially active, and left no stone unturned to unravelthe mystery. Lapierre gave up all his time to the search, and left theRoyal Oak to the care of its landlady. The local constabulary bestirredthemselves as they had never done before. Every place, likely andunlikely, where a man's body might possibly lie concealed; every tractof bush and woodland; every barn and out building; every hollow andditch; every field and fence corner, was explored with carefulminuteness. Even the wells of the district were peered into andexamined for traces of the thirteen stone of humanity which had sounaccountably disappeared from off the face of the earth. Doctor Scott, the local coroner, held himself in readiness to summon a coroner's juryat the shortest notice. When all these measures proved unavailing, apublic meeting of the inhabitants was convened, and funds weresubscribed to still further prosecute the search. A reward of a hundredpounds was offered for any information which should lead to thediscovery of the missing man, dead or alive, or, which should throw anylight upon his fate. Hand-bills proclaiming this reward, and describingthe man's personal appearance, were exhibited in every bar room andother conspicuous place throughout Westchester and the adjacenttownships. Advertisements, setting forth the main facts, were insertedin the principal newspapers of Toronto, Hamilton and London, as well asin those of several of the nearest county towns. 

All to no purpose. Days--weeks--months passed by, and furnished not theshadow of a clue to the mysterious disappearance of Reginald BourchierSavareen on the night of Monday, the 17th of July, 1854. 

CHAPTER VI. 

SPECULATIONS. 

For a long time subsequent to the night of the disappearance a morepuzzled community than the one settled along the Millbrook andSpotswood road would have been hard to find in Upper Canada. At firstsight it seemed probable that the missing man had been murdered for hismoney. On the afternoon of the day when he was last seen in Millbrookthe fact of his having four hundred pounds in bank bills in hispossession was known to a great many people, for, as already intimated, he told the story of his dispute at the bank to pretty nearly everyonewith whom he came in contact during the subsequent portion of the day, and he in every instance wound up his narration by proclaiming to allwhom it might concern that he had the notes in his pocket. But it wasdifficult to fix upon any particular individual as being open tosuspicion. There had been no attempt on the part of any of hisassociates on that afternoon to detain him in town, and his remainingthere until the evening had been entirely due to his own inclinations. So far as was known, he had not been followed by any person after hisdeparture from the Peacock at 7. 45. Anyone following would have had noprospect of overtaking him unless mounted on a good horse, and mustperforce have passed through the toll-gate. According to the testimonyof Perry and his wife, nobody had passed through the gate in his wake, nor for more than an hour after him. But--mystery of mysteries--wherehad he managed to hide himself and his mare during the two or threeminutes which had elapsed between his departure from the gate and thearrival there of Lapierre? And, if he had been murdered, what hadbecome of his body?

Had it been at all within the bounds of reason to suspect Stolliver, suspicion would certainly have fallen upon that personage. But any ideaof the kind was altogether out of the question. Stolliver was aboorish, uncompanionable fellow, but a more unlikely man to commit sucha serious crime could not have been found in the whole country side. Again, he could not have had any conceivable motive for making awaywith Savareen, as he had been working all day in the fields and knewnothing about the four hundred pounds. Besides, a little quietinvestigation proved the thing to be an absolute impossibility. At thetime of Savareen's disappearance, Stolliver had been sitting at his owntable, in the company of his wife, his family, and a grown-up femaleservant. He had sat down to table at about a quarter to eight, and hadnot risen therefrom until several minutes after the town bell hadceased to ring. On rising, he had gone out with his two boys--lads ofthirteen and fifteen years of age respectively--and had barely taken upa position with them on the front fence when Lapierre came along andquestioned him, as related in a former chapter. So it was certainly notworth while to pursue that branch of enquiry any farther. 

The only other persons upon whom the shadow of suspicion could by anypossibility fall were Lapierre and Jonathan Perry. Well, so far as thelatter was concerned the idea was too absurd for serious consideration. To begin with, Jonathan was seventy-six years of age, feeble and almostdecrepid. Then, he was a man of excellent character, and, notwithstanding his humble station in life, was liked and respected byall who knew him. Finally, he could not have done away with Savareenwithout the knowledge and concurrence of his wife, a gentle, kindly oldsoul, who found her best consolation between the covers of her bible, and who would not have raised her finger against a worm. So that branchof the enquiry might also be considered as closed. 

As to Lapierre, the idea was at least as preposterous as either of theothers. The jovial landlord of the Royal Oak was on the whole about aslikely a man to commit robbery or murder as the bishop of the diocese. He was of a cheery, open nature; was not greedy or grasping; had afairly prosperous business, and was tolerably well-to-do. On the nightof the 17th, he had undertaken to go down town and bring home theabsent man, but he had done so at the pressing request of the man'swife, and out of pure kindness of heart. When setting out on hismission he knew nothing about the altercation at the bank, and wasconsequently ignorant that Savareen had any considerable sum of moneyon his person. His first knowledge on these subjects had beencommunicated to him by Perry, and before that time the man haddisappeared. It also counted for something that Savareen and he hadalways been on the most friendly terms, and that Savareen was one ofhis best customers. But, even if he had been the most bloodthirsty ofmankind, he had positively had no time to perpetrate a murder. Thetwo or three minutes elapsing between Savareen's departure from thetoll-gate and Lapierre's arrival there had been too brief to admit ofthe latter's having meanwhile killed the former and made away with hisbody; to say nothing of his having also made such a disposition of theblack mare as to enable it to be found in Cranberry Swamp on thefollowing day. 

After a while people began to ask whether it was probable that anymurder at all had been committed. The finding of the coat was anunfathomable mystery, but it really furnished no evidence one way orthe other. And if there had been a murder, how was it that no traces ofthe body were discoverable? How was it that no cry or exclamation ofany kind had been heard by old Jonathan, sitting there at the door inthe open air on a still night? It was certain that his ears had beenwide open, and ready enough to take in whatever was stirring, for hehad heard the sound of Count Frontenac's hoofs as they came clatteringdown the road. 

Such questions as these were constantly in the mouths of the people ofthat neighborhood for some days after the disappearance, but they metwith no satisfactory answer from any quarter, and as the time passed byit began to be believed that no light would ever be thrown upon themost mysterious occurrence that had ever taken place since that part ofthe country had been first settled. One of the constables, discouragedby repeated failures, ventured in all seriousness to express asuspicion that Savareen had been bodily devoured by his mare. How elsecould you account for no trace of him being visible anywhere?

By an unaccountable oversight, Shuttleworth had kept no memorandum ofthe number of the notes paid over to Savareen, and it was thusimpossible to trace them. 

CHAPTER VII. 

"A WIDOW, HUSBANDLESS, SUBJECT TO FEARS. "

The position of the missing man's wife was a particularly trying andpainful one--a position imperatively calling for the sympathy of thecommunity in which she lived. That sympathy was freely accorded to her, but time alone could bring any thing like tranquillity to a mindharrassed by such manifold anxieties as hers. After a lapse of a fewweeks Squire Harrington generously offered to take the farm off herhands, but to this proposal she was for some time loath to assent. Inspite of her fears and misgivings, fitful gleams of hope that herhusband would return to her flitted across her mind. If he came back heshould find her at her post. Meanwhile the neighbors showed her muchkindness. They voluntarily formed an organisation of labor, andharvested her crops, threshed them out and conveyed them to market forher. Her brother, a young man of eighteen, came out from town and tookup his abode with her, so that she would not be left wholly desolateamong strangers. And so the summer and autumn glided by. 

But this state of things could not last. The strange solitude of herdestiny preyed sorely upon her and when the first snows of winterarrived, bringing with them no tidings of the absent one, the fortitudeof the bereaved woman broke down. She gave up the farm, and with herlittle baby boy and such of her household belongings as she chose toretain, went back to the home of her parents in Millbrook. She was afew hundred dollars better off in this world's goods than she had beenwhen she had left that home about thirteen months before, but herspirit was sadly bent, if not altogether broken, and the brightnessseemed to have utterly faded out of her life. 

In process of time she became in some degree accustomed, if notreconciled to her lot. But her situation was, to say the least, anomalous. Her parents were, on the whole, kind and considerate, butshe was conscious of being, after a fashion, isolated from them andfrom all the rest of the world. She felt, as one who was, in thelanguage of the proverb, neither maid, wife nor widow. She knewnot whether her child's father was living or dead. She was barelytwenty-three years of age, but she was not free to form a secondmarriage, even if she had had any inclination for such a union, which, to do her justice, she had not, for she cherished the memory of herabsent lord with fond affection, and persisted in believing that, evenif he were living, it was through no fault of his own that he remainedaway from her. She lived a very quiet and secluded life. In spite ofher mother's importunities, she seldom stirred out of doors on weekdays, and saw few visitors. She was a regular attendant at churchon Sundays, and sought to find relief from mental depression in theconsolations of religion. Her chief consolation, however, lay in herchild, upon whom she lavished all the tenderness of a soft and gentlenature. She fondly sought to trace in the little fellow's brightfeatures some resemblance to the lineaments of him she had loved andlost. To do this successfully required a rather strong effort of theimagination, for, to tell the truth, the boy favored his mother's sideof the house, and was no more like his father than he was like thetwelve patriarchs. But a fond mother often lives in an ideal worldof her own creation, and can trace resemblances invisible to ordinarymortals. So it was with this mother, who often declared that her boyhad a way of "looking out of his eyes, " as she expressed it, whichforcibly brought back the memory of happy days which had forever passedaway. 

Of course Savareen's relatives in the old country received due noticeof his strange disappearance, and of the various circumstancesconnected with that event. Mrs. Savareen had herself communicated thefacts, and had also sent over a copy of the Millbrook _Sentinel_, containing a long and minute account of the affair. A letter arrivedfrom Herefordshire in due course, acknowledging the receipt of thesemissives, and enquiring whether the lost had been found. Severalcommunications passed to and fro during the first few months, afterwhich, as there was really nothing further to write about, thecorrespondence fell off; it being of course understood that should anynew facts turn up, they should be promptly made known. 

The stars do not pause in their spheres to take note of the afflictionsof us mortals here below. To the bereaved woman it seemed unaccountablethat the succeeding months should come and go as formerly, and asthough nothing had occurred to take the saltness and savor out of heryoung life. Ever and anon her slumbers were disturbed by weird dreams, in which the lost one was presented before her in all sorts offrightful situations. In these dreams which came to her in the silentwatches of the night, she never seemed to look upon her husband asdead. He always seemed to be living, but surrounded by inextricablecomplications involving great trouble and danger. She sometimes awokefrom these night visions with a loud cry which startled the household, and proved how greatly her nerves had been shaken by the untowardcircumstances of her fate. 

In the early spring of the ensuing year she sustained another painfulbereavement through the death of her mother. This event imparted anadditional element of sadness to her already cloudy existence; but itwas not without certain attendant compensations, as it renderednecessary a more active course of life on her part, and so left herless time to brood over her earlier sorrow. No Benvolio was needed totell us that

 "One fire burns out another's burning: One pain is lessened by another's anguish. "

Most of us have at one time or another been forced to learn that hardtruth for ourselves. This forlorn woman had probably never read thepassage, but her experience brought abundant confirmation of it home toher at this time. She was driven to assume the internal management ofthe household, and found grateful solace in the occupations which theposition involved. She once more began to take an interest in theprosaic affairs of everyday life, and became less addicted to lookingforward to a solitary, joyless old age. So that, all things considered, this second bereavement was not to be regarded in the light of anaffliction absolutely without mitigation. 

It might well have been supposed that the place she was now called uponto fill would have been the means of drawing closer the ties betweenher surviving parent and herself. For a time it certainly had thateffect. Her presence in his house must have done much to soften theblow to her father, and her practical usefulness was made manifestevery hour of the day. She carefully ministered to his domestic needs, and did what she could to alleviate the burden which had been laid uponhim. But the old, old story was once more repeated. In little more thana year from the time her mother had been laid in her grave, she wasmade aware of the fact that the household was to receive a newmistress. In other words, she was to be introduced to a stepmother. Theevent followed hard upon the announcement. As a necessary consequenceshe was compelled to assume a secondary place in her father's house. 

It may be true that first marriages are sometimes made in Heaven. It iseven possible that second marriages may now and then be forged in thesame workshop. But it was soon brought home to Mrs. Savareen that thisparticular marriage was not among the number. Her stepmother, who wasnot much older than herself, proved a veritable thorn in her side. Shewas made to perceive that she and her little boy were regarded in thelight of encumbrances, to be tolerated until they could be got rid of. But not passively tolerated. The stepmother was a rather coarse-grainedpiece of clay--an unsympathetic, unfeeling woman, who knew how to sayand to do unpleasant things without any apparent temper or ill-will. The immortal clockmaker, when he was in a more quaintly sententioushumor than common, once propounded the doctrine that the direct road toa mother's heart is through her child. He might have added the equallyincontestable proposition that the most effectual method of torturing amother's heart is through the same medium. The mother who has an onlychild, who is all the world to her, is actually susceptible to anythingin the shape of interference with her maternal prerogatives. Suchinterference, by whomsoever exercised, is wholly intolerable to her. This susceptibility may perhaps be a feminine weakness, but it is averitable maternal instinct, and one with which few who have observedit will have the heart to find fault. In Mrs. Savareen's bosom thisfoible existed in a high state of development, and her stepmother soplayed upon it as to make life under the same roof with her a cross toohard to be borne. After a few months' trial, the younger of the twowomen resolved that a new home must be found for herself and her littleboy. The carrying out of this resolve rendered some considerationnecessary, for her own unaided means were inadequate for her support. Her father, though not what could be called a poor man, was far fromrich, and he had neither the means nor the will to maintain twoestablishments, however humble. But she was expert with her needle, anddid not despair of being able to provide for the slender wants ofherself and child. She rented and furnished a small house in the town, where she found that there was no ground for present anxiety as to herlivelihood. There was plenty of needlework to be had to keep her nimblefingers busy from morn till night, and her income from the first was inexcess of her expenditure. She was constrained to lead a humdrum sortof existence, but it was brightened by the presence and companionshipof her boy, who was a constant source of pride and delight to her. Whenever she caught herself indulging in a despondent mood, she tookherself severely to task for repining at a lot which might have lackedthis element of brightness, and which lacking that, would, it seemed toher, have been too dreary for human endurance. 

No useful purpose would be served by lingering over this portion of thenarrative. Suffice it to say that the current of the lonely woman'slife flowed smoothly on several years, during which she received notidings of her lost husband and heard nothing to throw the faintestscintilla of light upon his mysterious disappearance. Little Reginaldgrew apace, and continued to be the one consolation in her greatbereavement--the solitary joy which reconciled her to her environment. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A GUEST ARRIVES AT THE ROYAL OAK. 

It was getting on towards the middle of the month of August, 1859. Theharvest all along the Millbrook and Spotswood road was in fullprogress. And a bounteous harvest it was, even for that favored region. Squire Harrington confidently counted upon a yield of fifty bushels ofwheat to the acre. True, he was a model farmer, and knew how to makethe most of a good season, but his neighbors were not far behind him, and were looking forward to full granaries when threshing should beover. For once there was little or no grumbling at the dispensations ofProvidence. The weather had been as propitious as though the localtillers of the soil had themselves had a voice in the making of it, andeven gruff Mark Stolliver was constrained to admit that there werefewer grounds for remonstrating with the Great Disposer of events thanusual at this season of the year. Every wheat field in the townshippresented an active spectacle throughout the day. The cradles werebusily plied from early morn till nightfall, and the swaths of goldengrain furnished heavy work for the rakers and binders. The commercialcrisis of 1857 had made itself felt in the district, as well as in allother parts of Upper Canada. Many of the farmers had fallenconsiderably behindhand, and had for once in a way felt the grip ofhard times. But the prolific crops which were now being gathered inbade fair to extricate them from such obligations as they had beencompelled to incur, and the prevailing tone was one of subdued thoughheartfelt satisfaction. 

On the evening of Saturday, the 13th of the month, sundry of the yeomenwho lived thereabouts assembled at Lapierre's, after a hard week'swork, to congratulate one another on the prospects of the harvest, andto discuss a few tankards of the reaming ale for which the Royal Oakwas famous throughout the township. The landlord himself was on hand asusual, to dispense the hospitalities of his bar and larder. The fiveyears which had rolled over his head since that memorable night ofSavareen's disappearance had left but slight traces of their passageupon his jovial countenance. He had never been able to fathom theimpenetrable secret of that strange July night, but he had all alongbeen wont to remark that the mystery would be cleared up some day, andthat he confidently expected to hear some tidings of the missing manbefore he died. As for his guests, though most of them had resided inthe neighborhood at the time of his disappearance, they had long ceasedto give themselves any particular concern about the matter. So long asthere had seemed to be any prospect of getting at the bottom of theaffair they had taken a vigorous part in the search, and had exertedthemselves to bring the mystery to light; but when month succeededmonth without supplying any clue to the puzzle, they had graduallyresigned themselves to the situation, and, except when the topic cameup for discussion at their Saturday night meetings, they seldomindulged in anything more than a passing allusion to it. 

Ten o'clock had struck, and it seemed improbable that any furthercompany would arrive. The assembled guests, to the number of seven oreight, sat in their accustomed places around a goodly-sized table inthe room behind the bar. Lapierre occupied an easy chair, placed nearthe door communicating with the bar, so as to be handy in case of hisbeing needed there. Farmer Donaldson had just regaled the circle withhis favorite ditty, The Roast Beef of Old England, which he flatteredhimself he could render with fine effect. Having concluded hisperformance, he sat modestly back in his elbow-chair, and bowed to thevociferous plaudits accorded to him. The tankards were then chargedafresh, and each man devoted himself to the allaying of his thirst forthe next minute or two. Mine host had promised to give Faintly as Tollsthe Evening Chime in the course of the evening, and was now called uponto redeem his pledge. 

"Ah, " he remarked, "that vas alvays a faforite song of mine. And ton'tyou remember how font of it our frient Safareen used to pe? He used tocall for it regular efery Saturday night, schoost pefore supper in theold times. Ah, put that wass a strange peesiness. I haf never peen apleto think of it without perspiring. " And so saying, he dived into thepocket of his white linen jacket, and produced therefrom a red silkhandkerchief, with which he mopped his beaming countenance until itshone again. 

"Ay, " responded Farmer Donaldson, "that was the strangest thing as everhappened in these parts. I wonder if it will ever be cleared up. "

"You know my opinion apout that, " resumed the host, "I alvays said hevould turn up. But it is--let me see--yes, it is more that fife yearsago. It wass on the night of the sefenteenth of Chooly, 1854; and hereit is, the mittle of Aucust, 1859. Vell, vell, how the years go py!Safareen was a coot sort. I thought much of him, and woot like to seehim once acain. "

"I don't say but what he was a good fellow, " remarked one of thecompany; "but I can tell you he had a devil of a temper of his own whenhis blood was up. I remember one night in this very room when he hadsome words with Sam Dolsen about that black mare o' his'n. He fired uplike a tiger, and that scar on his cheek glowed like a carbuncle. Itseemed as if it was going to crack open. I made sure he was going todrop into Sam, and he would 'a done, too, if our landlord hadn'tinterfered and calmed him down. "

"Yes, yes, " interrupted Farmer Donaldson; "Savareen had his tempers, nodoubt, when he had been drinking more free than common; but he was ajolly feller, all the same. I wish he was with us at this moment. "

This sentiment was pretty generally re-echoed all round the festiveboard. Just then a rather heavy footstep was heard to enter theadjoining bar-room from outside. The landlord rose and passed outthrough the doorway, to see if his services were required. The door ofcommunication was left open behind him, so that the company in theinner room had no difficulty in seeing and hearing everything that tookplace. 

In the middle of the bar room stood a short heavy-set man, whose dressand bearing pronounced him to be a stranger in those parts. He wasapparently middle-aged--say somewhere between thirty-five and forty. His clothing was of expensive material, but cut after a style more_prononce_ than was then seen in Canada, or has ever since beenmuch in vogue here. His hat was a broad-brimmed Panama, which costtwenty dollars if it cost a penny. His coat, so far as could be seenunder his thin summer duster--was of fine bluish cloth, short of waist, long of skirt, and--the duster notwithstanding--plentifully besprinkledand travel-stained with dust. The waistcoat, which seemed to be of thesame material as the coat, was very open-breasted, and displayed aconsiderable array of shirt front. Across the left side was hung aheavy gold watch-chain, from which depended two great bulbous-lookingseals. On his feet he wore a pair of gaiters of patent leather, whitefrom the dust of the road. In one hand he carried a light, jauntyMalacca cane, while the other grasped a Russian-leather portmanteau, called by him and by persons of his kind a valise. He wore no gloves--afact which enabled you to see on the middle finger of his left hand ahuge cluster diamond ring, worth any price from a thousand dollarsupwards. His face was closely shaven, except for a prominent moustache. He had crisp, curling black hair, worn tolerably short. His eyes wererather dull and vacant, not because he was either slow or stupid, butbecause he felt or affected to feel, a sublime indifference to allthings sublunary. You would have taken him for a man who had run thegauntlet of all human experiences--a man to whom nothing presenteditself in the light of a novelty, and who disdained to appear muchinterested in anything you might say or do. Taken altogether he hadthat foreign or rather cosmopolitan look characteristic of the citizenof the United States who has led an unsettled, wandering life. Hisaspect was fully borne out by his accent, when he began to speak. 

"Air you the landlord?" he asked, as the host stepped forward to greethim. 

He received a reply in the affirmative. 

"This, then, is the Royal Oak tavern, and your name is Lapierre?"

Two nods signified the host's further assent to these undeniablepropositions. 

"Have you got a spare bedroom, and can you put me up from now tillMonday morning?"

The landlord again signified his assent, whereupon the stranger putdown his cane and portmanteau on a bench and proceeded to divesthimself of his wrapper. 

"You haf had supper?" asked Lapierre. 

"Well, I had a light tea down to Millbrook, but I know your Saturdaynight customs at the Royal Oak, and if you hain't got any objectionsI'd like to take a hand in your eleven o'clock supper. To tell thetruth, I'm sharp-set, and I know you always have a bite of somethingappetizing about that time. "

Upon being informed that supper would be ready at the usual hour, andthat he would be welcome to a seat at the board, he signified a desireto be shown to his room, so that he could wash and make himselfpresentable. In response to an enquiry about his horse, he intimatedthat that animal for the present consisted of Shank's mare; that he hadridden up from town with Squire Harrington, and dismounted at thatgentleman's gate. "The Squire offered to drive me on as far as here, "he added; "but as it was only a short walk I reckoned I'd come onafoot. "

Without further parley the guest was shown to his chamber, whence heemerged a few minutes later, and presented himself before the companyassembled in the room behind the bar. 

"Hope I ain't intruding, gentlemen, " he remarked, as he took a vacantseat at the lower end of the table; "I've often heard of the good timesyou have here on Saturday nights. Heard of 'em when I was a good manyhundred miles from here, and when I didn't expect ever to have thepleasure of joining your mess. Guess I'd better introduce myself. Myname's Thomas Jefferson Haskins. I live at Nashville, Tennessee, whereI keep a hotel and do a little in horseflesh now an' agin. Now, I shalltake it as a favor if you'll allow the landlord to re-fill your glassesat my expense, and then drink good-luck to my expedition. " All thiswith much volubility, and without a trace of bashfulness. 

The company all round the table signified their hearty acquiescence, and while the landlord was replenishing the tankards, the strangerproceeded to further enlighten them respecting his personal affairs. Heinformed them that a man had cleared out from Nashville about sixmonths ago, leaving him, the speaker, in the lurch to the tune oftwenty-seven hundred dollars. A few days since he had learned that thefugitive had taken up his quarters at Spotswood, in Upper Canada, andhe had accordingly set out for that place with intent to obtain asettlement. He had reached Millbrook by the seven o'clock express thisevening, only to find that he was still fifteen miles from hisdestination. Upon inquiry, he learned that the stage from Millbrook forSpotswood ran only once a day, leaving Millbrook at seven o'clock inthe morning. There would not be another stage until Monday morning. Hewas on the point of hiring a special conveyance, and of driving throughthat night, when all of a sudden he had remembered that Lapierre'stavern was on the Millbrook and Spotswood road, and only three milesaway. He had long ago heard such accounts of the Royal Oak and itslandlord, and particularly of the Saturday night suppers, that he hadresolved to repair thither and remain over for Monday's stage. "I wasgoing to hire a livery to bring me out here, " he added, "but agentleman named Squire Harrington, who heard me give the order for thebuggy, told me he lived close by the Royal Oak, and that I was welcometo ride out with him, as he was just going to start for home. Thatsaved me a couple of dollars. And so, here I be. "

Lapierre could not feel otherwise than highly flattered by the way thestranger referred to his establishment, but he was wholly at a loss tounderstand how the fame of the Royal Oak, and more especially of theSaturday night suppers, had extended to so great a distance asNashville. In response to his inquiries on these points, however, Mr. Thomas Jefferson Haskins gave a clear and lucid explanation, which willbe found in the next chapter. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE GUEST CREATES A SENSATION AT THE ROYAL OAK. 

"Well, " said Haskins, "I didn't hear of you quite so far off asNashville. It was when I was travelling in Kentucky buying horses, lastyear. At Lexington I fell in with an English chap named Randall, whoused to live in this neighborhood. I hired him to buy horses for me. Hewas with me about three months, an' if I could only 'a' kept him soberhe'd been with me yet, for he was about as keen a judge of a horse asever I came across in my born days, and knew mighty well how to make abargain. Well, we hadn't been together a week afore he begun to tell meabout a place where he used to live in Canada West, where he said alittle money went a long way, and where good horses could be boughtcheap. He wanted me to send him up here to buy for me, and I don't knowbut I should 'a' done it if I'd found he was to be trusted. But hewould drink like all creation when he had money. Old Bourbon was athing he couldn't resist. He had an awful poor opinion of all the restof our American institootions, and used to say they wa'n't o' noaccount as compared to what he used to have to home in England; butwhen it come to Bourbon whisky, he was as full-mouthed as Uncle HenryClay himself. He 'lowed there wa'n't anything either in England or inCanada to touch it. An' when he got four or five inches of it insidehim, there was no gittin' along with him nohow. There wa'n't anythingon airth he wouldn't do to git a couple of inches more, and when he gotthem he was the catawamptiousest critter I ever did see. You couldn'tplace any more dependence on him than on a free nigger. Besides, heused to neglect his wife, and a man who neglects his wife ain't a manto trust with a couple o' thousand dollars at a time. No sir-ree! Notmuch, he ain't. But, as I was sayin', the way he used to harp on thisplace o' Lapierre's was a caution. Whenever we used to git planted downin one of our cross-road taverns, he'd turn up his nose till you couldsee clean down his throat into his stommick. The fact is, our countrytaverns ain't up to much, an' sometimes I could hardly stand 'emmyself. When we'd come in after a hard day's ridin', and git sot downto a feed of heavy short-cake and fat pork, then Randall 'ud begin toblow about the grub up here at Lapierre's. He used to tell about thehot suppers served up here to a passel o' farmers on Saturday nightstill I most got sick o' hearing him. But I see your mugs air emptyagain, gentlemen. Landlord, please to do your dooty, and score it up toyours truly. "

During this long harangue the assembled guests alternately scanned thespeaker and each other with inquiring but vacant countenances. Theywere puzzling themselves to think who this Randall could be, as no manof that name had ever been known in that community. When Mr. Haskinspaused in his discourse, and gave his order for replenishment, FarmerDonaldson was about to remonstrate against this second treat at theexpense of a stranger, and to propose that he himself should standsponsor for the incoming refreshments. But before he could get out aword, the landlord suddenly sprang from his seat with a white, agitatedface. 

"Tell me, " he said, addressing the stranger--"What like is thisRantall? Please to tescripe his features. "

"Well, " drawled the person addressed, after a short pause--"thereain't much to describe about him. He's a tallish feller--fully fourinches taller'n I be. He's broad and stout--a big man ginerally. Weighs, I should say, not much under a hundred and ninety. Ruther lightcomplected, and has a long cut in his face that shows awful white whenhe gits his back up. Thunder! he pretty nearly scared me with thatgash one night when he was drunk. It seemed to open and shut like aclam-shell, and made him look like a Voodoo priest! You'd think theblood was goan to spurt out by the yard. "

By this time every pair of eyes in the room was staring into thespeaker's face with an expression of bewildered astonishment. Not a manthere but recognized the description as a vivid, if somewhatexaggerated portraiture of the long-lost Reginald Bourchier Savareen. 

The stranger from Tennessee readily perceived that he had produced agenuine sensation. He gazed from one to another for a full minutewithout speaking. Then he gave vent to his surcharged feelings by theexclamation: "For the land's sake!"

An air of speechless bewilderment still pervaded the entire group. Theysat silent as statues, without motion, and almost without breath. 

Lapierre was the first to recover himself. By a significant gesture heimposed continued silence upon the company, and began to ask questions. He succeeded in eliciting some further pertinent information. 

Haskins was unable to say when Randall had acquired a familiarity withthe ways and doings of the people residing in the vicinity of the RoyalOak, but it must have been some time ago, as he had lived in the Stateslong enough to have become acquainted with various localities there. Asto when and why he had left Canada the stranger was also totallyignorant. He knew, however, that Randall was living in the city of NewYork about three months ago, as he had seen him there, and had visitedhim at his lodgings on Amity street in May, when he (Haskins) hadattended as a delegate to a sporting convention. At that time Randallhad been employed in some capacity in Hitchcock's sale stable, andmade a few dollars now and again by breeding dogs. He lived a needyhand-to-mouth existence, and his poor wife had a hard time of it. Hisdrinking habits prevented him from getting ahead in the world, and henever staid long in one place, but the speaker had no doubt that hemight still be heard of at Hitchcock's by anybody who wanted to hunt himup. "But, " added Mr. Haskins, "I hope I haven't got him into trouble bycoming here to-night. Has he done anything? Anything criminal, I mean?"

After a moment's deliberation, Lapierre told the whole story. There wasno doubt in the mind of any member of the company that Randall andSavareen were "parts of one stupendous whole. " The one importantquestion for consideration was: What use ought to be made of the factsthus strangely brought to light?

By this time supper was announced, and the stranger's news, exciting asit was, did not prevent the guests from doing ample justice to it. Haskins was loud in his praises of the "spread, " as he termed it. "JackRandall, " he remarked, "could lie when he had a mind to, but he toldthe holy truth when he bragged you up as far ahead of the Kentuckycooks. Yes, I don't mind if I do take another mossel of thatfrickersee. Dog me if it don't beat canvas-backs. "

Before the meeting broke up it was agreed on all hands that for thepresent it would be advisable for the guests to allow the morrow topass before saying anything to their wives or anyone else about Mr. Haskins' disclosures. It was further resolved that that gentlemanshould accompany Lapierre to Millbrook after breakfast in the morning, and that Mrs. Savareen's father should be made acquainted with theknown facts. It was just possible, after all, that Jack Randall mightbe Jack Randall, and not Savareen, in which case it was desirable tosave the lost man's wife from cruel agitation to no purpose. It wouldbe for her father, after learning all that they knew, to communicatethe facts to her or to withhold them, as might seem best to him. Onthis understanding the company broke up on the stroke of midnight. I amby no means prepared to maintain that their pledges were in all caseskept, and that they each and every one went to sleep without takingtheir wives into confidence respecting the strange disclosures of thenight. 

CHAPTER X. 

NO. 77 AMITY STREET. 

The next day was Sunday, but this circumstance did not deter Lapierrefrom hitching up his horse and conveying his guest down to Millbrook atan early hour. The pair called at the house of Mrs. Savareen's fatherbefore ten o'clock, and had a long interview with him. Church servicesbegan at eleven, but it was remarked by the Methodist congregation, andcommented upon as a thing almost without precedent, that Mrs. Savareenand her father were both absent on that day. 

The old gentleman was much disturbed by what he heard from Mr. Haskins. His daughter had passed through an ordeal of great suffering, and hadfinally become reconciled to her lot. To tell her this news would be toopen the old wounds afresh, and to bring back the domestic grief whichtime had about dispelled. Yet his course seemed clear. To tell her thetruth was an imperative duty. It would be shameful to permit her to goon mourning for one who was in every way unworthy, and who might turnup at any unexpected moment to the destruction of her peace of mind. Moreover, the secret was already known to too many persons to admit ofany hope that it would be permanently kept. She must be told, and therecould be no question that her father was the proper person to tell her. She would, however, wish to personally see and converse with the manwho had brought the news, so there was no time to be lost. Leaving histwo visitors to await his return, the old man set out with a sad heartfor his daughter's house. He found her and her little boy just ready toset out for church, but the first glance at her father's face told herthat something had happened, and that there would be no church-goingfor that day. She sat pale and trembling as she listened, and the oldman himself was not much more composed. He broke the news as gently ashe could, and she bore it better than he had expected, suppressing heragitation and taking in all the details without interruption. Even whenall the circumstances had been laid before her, her self-command didnot desert her. Yes, she must see the stranger from Tennessee. Possiblyshe might extract something from him which others had failed to elicit. Her father accordingly went back to his own home, and brought Mr. Haskins over. The three spent several hours in talking of the affair, but the stranger had nothing more to tell, and finally took his leave, promising to call on his way back from Spotswood. 

Father and daughter spent the evening together, and tried to reach somedefinite conclusion as to what, if anything, ought to be done. Therecould be no reasonable doubt that Randall and Savareen were one. Sincethere was just the shadow of doubt, and the want of absolute certainty, made it impossible for Mrs. Savareen to leave the matter as it stood. She felt that she must know the whole truth. 

A course was finally decided upon. Father and daughter would start forNew York without delay and probe the matter to the bottom. The newscould not wholly be kept from the stepmother, but she was enjoined tomaintain a strict silence on the subject until further light should bethrown upon it. Master Reginald was temporarily left in her charge. 

They started for New York by the mid-day express on Monday, and reachedtheir destination on Tuesday afternoon. Lodgings were secured at aquiet, respectable hotel, and then the old man set out alone to hunt upHitchcock's stable. He had no difficulty in finding it, and the man incharge of the office readily gave him the information he sought. JackRandall was no longer employed at the establishment, but he lodged withhis wife at No. 77 Amity street. The best time to catch him at home wasearly in the morning. He was of a convivial turn, and generally spenthis evenings about town. He was supposed to be pretty hard up, but thatwas his chronic condition, and, so far as known, he was not in absolutewant. With these tidings the father returned to his daughter. 

Mrs. Savareen could not bear the idea of permitting the evening to passwithout some further effort. She determined to pay a visit to 77 Amitystreet, in person, and if possible to see the man's wife for herself. Aservant-maid in the hotel undertook to pilot her to her destination, which was but a short distance away. It was about eight o'clock whenshe set out and the light of day was fast disappearing. Upon reachingthe corner of Amity street and Broadway, she dismissed her attendantand made the rest of the journey alone. The numbers on the doors of thehouses were a sufficient direction for her, and she soon found herselfringing at the bell of 77. 

Her summons was answered by a seedy-looking porter. Yes, Mrs. Randallwas upstairs in her room on the third story. Mr. Randall was out. Thelady could easily find the way for herself. Second door to the left onthe third flat. Straight up. And so saying the man disappeared into thedarkness at the rear of the house, leaving the visitor to group her wayup two dimly-lighted stairways as best she could. 

The place was evidently a lodging-house of very inferior description tobe so near the palatial temples of commerce just round the corner. Thehalls were uncarpeted, and, indeed, without the least sign of furnitureof any sort. As Mrs. Savareen slowly ascended one flight of stairsafter another, she began to wonder if she had not done an unwise thingin venturing alone into a house and locality of which she knew nothing. Having reached the third story she found herself in total darkness, except for such faint twilight as found its way through a back window. This however was just sufficient to enable her to perceive the seconddoor on the left. She advanced towards it and knocked. A female voiceresponded by an invitation to enter. She quietly turned the knob of thedoor and advanced into the room. 

CHAPTER XI. 

AN INTERVIEW BY CANDLELIGHT. 

The apartment in which the "bold discoverer in an unknown sea" foundherself presented an appearance far from cheerful or attractive. It wasof small dimensions, but too large for the meagre supply of furnitureit contained. The unpapered walls displayed a monotonous surface ofbare whitewash in urgent need of renewal. In one corner was animpoverished looking bed, on which reposed an infant of a few monthsold. At the foot of the bed was a cheap toilet stand, with itsaccessories. In the adjacent corner was a door apparently opening intoa closet or inner receptacle of some kind, against which was placed abattered leather trunk with a broken hasp. A small table of stainedpine, without any covering, stood near the middle of the room, and twoor three common wooden chairs were distributed here and there againstthe walls. The faint light of expiring day found admission by means ofa window looking out upon the roofs to the rear of the house. The onlyartificial light consisted of a solitary candle placed on the table, atthe far end of which sat a woman engaged in sewing. 

The light, dim and ineffectual as it was, served to show that thiswoman was in a state of health which her friends, if she had any, musthave deemed to be anything but satisfactory. It was easy to perceivethat she had once possessed an attractive and rather pretty face. Someportion of her attractiveness still remained, but the beauty had beenwashed away by privation and misery, leaving behind nothing but a faintsimulacrum of its former self. She was thin and fragile to the point ofemaciation, insomuch that her print dress hung upon her as loosely as amorning wrapper. Her cheeks were sunken and hollow, and two darkpatches beneath a pair of large blue eyes plainly indicated seriousnervous waste. In addition to these manifest signs of a low state ofbodily health, her pinched features had a worn, weary expression whichtold a sad tale of long and continuous suffering. Most of these thingsher visitor, with feminine quickness of perception, took in at thefirst momentary glance, and any pre-conceived feeling of hostilitywhich may have had a place in her heart gave way to a sentiment ofwomanly sympathy. Clearly enough, any display of jealous anger would bewholly out of place in such a presence and situation. 

Mrs. Savareen had not given much pre-consideration as to her line ofaction during the impending interview. She had merely resolved to beguided by circumstances, and what she saw before her made her errandone of some difficulty. Her main object, of course, was to ascertain, beyond the possibility of doubt, whether the man calling himself JackRandall was the man known to her as Reginald Bourchier Savareen. 

The tenant of the room rose as her visitor entered, and even thatslight exertion brought on a hollow cough which was pitiful to hear. 

"I am sorry to see, " gently remarked the visitor, "that you are farfrom well. "

"Yes, " was the reply; "I've got a cold, and ain't very smart. Take achair. " And so saying, she placed a chair in position, and made a notungraceful motion towards it with her hand. 

Mrs. Savareen sat down, and began to think what she would say next. Herhostess saved her from much thought on the matter by enquiring whethershe had called to see Mr. Randall. 

"Yes, " replied Mrs. Savareen, "I would like to see him for a fewmoments, if convenient. "

"Well, _I_ am sorry he's out, and I don't suppose he'll be in forsome time. He's generally out in the fore part of the evening; but he'smost always home in the morning. Is it anything I can tell him?"

Here was a nice complication. Had Mrs. Savareen been a student ofMoliere, the fitting reply to such a question under such circumstanceswould doubtless have risen to her lips. But I shrewdly suspect that shehad never heard of the famous Frenchman, whose works were probably anunknown quantity in Millbrook in those days. After a momentaryhesitation she fenced with the question, and put one in her turn. 

"Do you know if he has heard from his friends in Hertfordshire lately?"

"Hertfordshire? O, that is the place he comes from in the Old Country. No, he never hears from there. I have often wanted him to write to hisfriends in England, but he says it is so long since he left that theyhave forgotten all about him. " Here the speaker was interrupted byanother fit of coughing. 

"No, " she resumed, "he never even wrote to England to tell his friendswhen we were married. He was only a boy when he left home, and he was agood many years in Canady before he came over to the States. "

Just at this point it seemed to occur to Mrs. Randall that she wastalking rather freely about her husband to a person whom she did notknow, and she pulled herself up with a rather short turn. She lookedintently into her visitor's face for a moment, as though with an inwardmonition that something was wrong. 

"But, " she resumed, after a brief pause, "do you know my husband? Ican't remember as I ever seen you before. You don't live in New York: Ican see that. I guess you come from the West. "

Then Mrs. Savareen felt that some explanation was necessary. She fairlytook the animal by the extreme tip of his horns. 

"Yes, " she responded, "I live in the West, and I have only been in NewYork a very short time. I accidentally heard that Mr. Randall livedhere, and I wish to ascertain if he is the same gentleman I once knewin Canada. If he is, there is something of importance I should like totell him. Would you be so kind as to describe his personal appearancefor me?"

The woman again inspected her very carefully, with eyes not altogetherfree from suspicion. 

"I don't exactly understand, " she exclaimed. "You don't want to do himany harm, do you? You haven't got anything agin him? We are in deepenough trouble as it is. "

The last words were uttered in a tone very much resembling a wail ofdespair. By this time the visitor's sympathies were thoroughly arousedon behalf of the poor broken creature before her. 

She felt that she had not the heart to add to the burden of grief whichhad been imposed upon the frail woman who sat there eyeing her withanxiety depicted upon her weary, anxious face. 

"I can assure you, " responded Mrs. Savareen, "that I have no intentionof doing any harm either to him or to you. I would much rather do you akindness, if I could. I can see for myself that you stand in great needof kindness. "

The last words were spoken in a tone which disarmed suspicion, andwhich at the same time stimulated curiosity. The shadow on Mrs. Randall's face passed away. 

"Well, " said she, "I beg your pardon for mistrusting you, but myhusband has never told me much about his past life, and I was afraidyou might be an enemy. But I am sure, now I look at you, that youwouldn't do harm to anybody. I'll tell you whatever you want to know, if I can. "

"Thank you for your good opinion. Will you be good enough, then, todescribe Mr. Randall's personal appearance? I have no other object thanto find out if he is the person I used to know in Canada. "

"How long ago did you know him in Canady?"

"I saw him last in the summer of 1854--about five years ago. "

"Well, at that rate I've known him pretty near as long as you hev. It'smore'n four years since I first got acquainted with him down, in OleVirginny, where I was raised. Why, come to think of it, I've got hislikeness, took just before we was married. That'll show you whetherhe's the man you knew. "

As she spoke, she rose and opened the leather trunk in the corner bythe closet door. After rummaging among its contents, she presentlyreturned with a small oval daguerreotype in her hand. Opening the caseshe handed it to Mrs. Savareen. "There he is, " she remarked, "an' it'sconsidered an awful good likeness. "

Mrs. Savareen took the daguerreotype and approached the candle. Thefirst glance was amply sufficient. It was the likeness of her husband. 

She made up her mind as to her line of action on the instant. Her lovefor the father of her child died away as she gazed on his picture. Itwas borne in upon her that he was a heartless scoundrel, unworthy ofany woman's regard. Before she withdrew her glance from thedaguerreotype, her love for him was dead and buried beyond allpossibility of revivification. What would it avail her to still furtherlacerate the heart of the unhappy woman in whose presence she stood?Why kill her outright by revealing the truth? There was but a step--andevidently the step was a short one--between her and the grave. Thedistance should not be abridged by any act of the lawful wife. 

She closed the case and quietly handed it back to the woman, whom itwill still be convenient to call Mrs. Randall. "I see there has beensome misunderstanding, " she said. "This is not the Mr. Randall I knewin Canada. "

In her kind consideration for the invalid, she deliberately conveyed afalse impression, though she spoke nothing more than the simple truth. There had indeed been "some misunderstanding, " and Savareen's likenesswas certainly not the likeness of Mr. Randall. As matter of fact, Mrs. Savareen had really known a Mr. Randall in Millbrook, who bore noresemblance whatever to her husband. Thus, she spoke the literal truth, while she at the same time deceived her hostess for the latter's owngood. Affliction had laid its blighting hand there heavily enoughalready. Her main object now was to get away from the house before thereturn of the man who had so villainously wrecked two innocent lives. But a warm sympathy for the betrayed and friendless woman had sprung upin her heart, and she longed to leave behind some practical token ofher sympathy. While she was indulging in these reflections the infanton the bed awoke and set up a startled little cry. Its mother advancedto where it lay, took it up in her arms, sat down on the edge of thebed, and stilled its forlorn little wails by the means known to mothersfrom time immemorial. When it became quiet she again deposited it onthe bed and resumed her seat by the table. 

Mrs. Savareen continued standing. 

"I am sorry to have disturbed you unnecessarily, " she remarked "andwill now take my leave. Is there anything I can do for you? I should beglad if I could be of any use. I am afraid you are not very comfortablyoff, and you are far from well in health. It is not kind of Mr. Randallto leave you alone like this. You need rest and medical advice. "

These were probably the first sympathetic words Mrs. Randall had heardfrom one of her own sex for many a long day. The tears started to hertired eyes, as she replied:

"I guess there ain't no rest for me this side o' the grave. I haven'tany money to git medical advice, and I don't suppose a doctor could dome any good. I'm pretty well run down and so is baby. I'm told it can'tlive long, and if it was only laid to rest I wouldn't care how soon mytime came. You're right about our being awful hard up. But don't you betoo hard on my husband. He has his own troubles as well as me. Hehain't had no cash lately, and don't seem to be able to git none. "

"But he could surely stay at home and keep you company at nights, whenyou are so ill. It must be very lonely for you. "

"Well, you see, I ain't much company for him. He's ben brought updifferent to what I hev, an's ben used to hevin' things comfortable. Iain't strong enough to do much of anything myself, with a sick baby. I'm sure I don't know what's to be the end of it all. Es a gineralthing he don't mean to be unkind, but----"

Here the long-suffering woman utterly broke down, and was convulsed bya succession of sobs, which seemed to exhaust the small stock ofvitality left to her. The visitor approached the chair where she sat, knelt by her side, and took the poor wasted form in her arms. 

They mingled their tears together. For some time neither of them wasable to speak a word, but the sympathy of the stronger of the two actedlike a cordial upon her weaker sister, who gradually became calm andcomposed. The sobs died away, and the shattered frame ceased totremble. Then they began to talk. Mrs. Savareen's share in theconversation was chiefly confined to a series of sympathetic questions, whereby she extracted such particulars as furnished a key to thepresent situation. It appeared that the _soi-disant_ Jack Randallhad made the acquaintance of his second victim within a short timeafter his departure from Canada. He had then been engaged in businesson his own account as a dealer in horses in Lexington, Kentucky, wherethe father of the woman whose life he had afterwards blighted kept atavern. He had made soft speeches to her, and had won her heart, although, even then, she had not been blind to his main defect--afondness for old Bourbon. After a somewhat protracted courtship she hadmarried him, but the sun of prosperity had never shone upon them aftertheir marriage, for his drinking habit had grown upon him, and he hadsoon got to the end of what little money he had. He had been compelledto give up business, and to take service with anyone who would employhim. Then matters had gone from bad to worse. He had been compelled tomove about from one town to another, for his habits would not admit ofhis continuing long in any situation. She had accompanied him whereverhe went with true wifely devotion, but had been constrained to drinkdeeply of the cup of privation, and had never been free from anxiety. About six months ago they had come to New York, where he had at firstfound fairly remunerative employment in Hitchcock's sale stable. Butthere, as elsewhere, he had wrecked his prospects by drink and neglectof business, and for some time past the unhappy pair had been entirelydestitute. The baby had been born soon after they had taken up theirquarters in New York. The mother's health, which had been far fromstrong before this event, completely broke down, and she had neverfully recovered. The seeds of consumption, which had probably beenimplanted in her before her birth, had rapidly developed themselvesunder the unpromising regimen to which she had been subjected, and itwas apparent that she had not long to live. She was unable to affordproper nourishment to her child, which languished from day to day, andthe only strong desire left to her was that she might survive longenough to see it fairly out of the world. 

Such was the sad tale poured into the sympathetic ears of Mrs. Savareen, as she knelt there with the poor creature's head against herboson. She, for the time, lost sight of her own share in the miserybrought about by the man who, in the eye of the law, was still herhusband. She spoke such words of comfort and consolation as suggestedthemselves to her, but the case was a hopeless one, and it was evidentthat no permanent consolation could ever again find a lodgment in thebreast of the woman who supposed herself to be Mrs. Randall. The bestthat was left to her in this world was to hear the sad rites pronouncedover her babe, and then to drop gently away into that long, last sleep, wherein, it was to be hoped, she would find that calm repose which acruel fate had denied her so long as she remained on earth. 

Mrs. Savareen, it will be remembered, was a pious woman. In such asituation as that in which she found herself, we may feel sure that shedid not omit all reference to the consolations of religion. She pouredinto the ear of this sore-tried soul a few of those words at whichthinkers of the modern school are wont to sneer, but which for eighteencenturies have brought balm to the suffering and the afflicted of everyclime. Moreover, she did not neglect to administer consolation of amaterial kind. She emptied her purse into the invalid's lap. Itcontained something like thirty dollars--more money, probably, thanMrs. Randall had ever called her own before. "Keep this for your ownuse, " she said--"it will buy many little comforts for you and baby. No, I will not take any of it back. I am comfortably off and shall not wantit. " Then, with a final embrace, and a few hurried words of farewell, she stepped to the bedside and imprinted a kiss on the little waiflying there, all unconscious of the world of sin and sorrow in which itheld so precarious a dwelling place. Her mission was at an end. Shesilently passed from the room, closing the door behind her. 

CHAPTER XII. 

STILL A MYSTERY. 

At the head of the stairway she paused for a moment to collect herselfbefore passing down and out into the street. What she had left behindher was of a nature well fitted to excite emotion, and her bosom roseand fell with a gentle tenderness and pity. But she had learned selfcontrol in the school of experience, and her delay was a brief one. Mastering her emotions, she walked steadily down the two flights ofstairs, opened the front door for herself, and was just about to crossthe threshold when a man entered. The light of the street lamp fellfull upon his face. It was the face of the man whose mysteriousdisappearance five years before had created such a profound sensationthroughout Western Canada. There was no possibility of mistaking it, though it was greatly changed for the worse. Five years had wroughtterrible havoc upon it. The scar on the left cheek was more conspicuousthan of yore, and the features seemed to have settled into a perpetualfrown. But, worst of all, the countenance was bloated and besotted. Thenose had become bulbous and spongy, the eyes watery and weak. The man'sclothes were patched and seedy, and presented a general aspect of beingdesperately out at elbows. His unsteady step indicated that he was atleast half drunk at that moment. He did not see; or at any rate did nottake any notice of the woman who gazed into his face so intently. As hestaggered on his way upstairs he stumbled and narrowly escaped falling. Could it be possible that this disreputable object was the man whom shehad once loved as her husband? She shuddered as she passed out on tothe pavement. Truly, his sin had found him out. 

She had no difficulty in finding her way back to the hotel, withoutasking questions of anybody. Upon reaching it she conferred for amoment with the office clerk, and then passed up to a small generalsitting-room where she found her father. The old gentleman wasbeginning to be anxious at her long absence. 

"Well, father, I find there is an express for Suspension Bridge atmidnight. I think we had better take it. It is now half-past ten. Ihave learned all I wanted to know, and there is no use for us to stayhere on expense. But perhaps you are tired, and would like a night'srest. "

"Found out all you wanted to know? Do you mean to say you have seenhim?"

"Yes, and I never wish to see or hear of him again in this world. Don'tquestion me now. I will tell you all before we get home, and after thatI hope you will never mention his name in my presence. When shall westart?"

Finding her really anxious to be gone, the old man assented to herproposition, and they started on their way homeward by the midnighttrain. They reached Millbrook in due course, the father havingmeanwhile been informed of all that his daughter had to tell him. Savareen's disappearance remained as profound a mystery to them asever, but it had at any rate been made clear that he had absconded ofhis own free will, and that in doing so he must have exercised a gooddeal of shrewdness and cunning. 

The question as to how far it was advisable to take the public intotheir confidence exercised the judgment of both father and daughter. The conclusion arrived at was that as little as possible should be saidabout the matter. Their errand to New York was already known, and couldnot be wholly ignored. The fact of Savareen's existence would have tobe admitted. It would inevitably be chronicled by the _Sentinel_, and the record would be transferred to the columns of other newspapers. The subject would be discussed among the local quidnuncs, and theexcitement of five years since would to some extent be revived. Allthis must naturally be expected, and would have to be endured as bestit might; but it was resolved that people should not be encouraged toask questions, and that they should be made to understand that thetopic was not an agreeable one to the persons immediately concerned. Itmight reasonably be hoped that gossip would sooner or later wear itselfout. For the present it would be desirable for Mrs. Savareen to keepwithin doors, and to hold as little communication with her neighbors aspossible. 

This programme was strictly adhered to, and everything turned outprecisely as had been expected. Mr. Haskins reached Millbrook on hisway home to Tennessee within a day or two after the return of fatherand daughter from New York. He was informed by the father that Randalland Savareen were identical, but that the family wished to suppress alltalk about the affair as far as possible. He took the hint, anddeparted on his way homeward, without seeking to probe further intomatters in which he had no personal concern. 

It was hardly to be supposed, however, that the local population wouldshow equal forbearance. Curiosity was widespread, and was not to besuppressed from a mere sentiment of delicacy. No sooner did it becomeknown that the father and daughter had returned than the former wasimportuned by numerous friends and acquaintances to disclose the resultof his journey. He so far responded to these importunities as to admitthat the missing man was living in the States under an assumed name, but he added that neither his daughter nor himself was inclined to talkabout the matter. He said in effect: "My daughter's burden is a heavyone to bear, and any one who has any consideration for either her or mewill never mention the matter in the presence of either of us. Anyonewho does so will thereby forfeit all right to be regarded as a friendor well-wisher. " This did not silence gossiping tongues, but it atleast prevented them from propounding their questions directly tohimself. He was promptly interviewed by the editor of the_Sentinel_, who received exactly the same information as otherpeople, and no more. The next number of the paper contained a leadingarticle on the subject, in which the silence of Mrs. Savareen and herfather was animadverted upon. The public, it was said, were entitled tobe told all that there was to tell. Savareen's disappearance had longsince become public property, and the family were not justified inwithholding any information which might tend to throw light on thatdark subject. This article was freely copied by other papers, and forseveral weeks the topic was kept conspicuously before the little worldof western Canada. Nowhere was the interest in the subject more keenlymanifested than at the Royal Oak, where it furnished the theme offrequent and all-but-interminable discussion. Not a day passed but minehost Lapierre publicly congratulated himself upon his acumen in havingall along believed and declared that Savareen was still in the land ofthe living. This landlord shared the prevalent opinion that the familyshould be more communicative. "I haf always, " said he, "peen a cootfrient to Mrs. Safareen. I respect her fery mooch, put I think shemight let us know sometings more apout her discoferies in New York. "Scores of other persons harped to the same monotonous tune. But fatherand daughter submitted to this as to a necessary penalty of theirsituation, and by degrees the excitement quieted down. I am notprepared to say whether the stepmother received further enlightenmentthan other people, but if she did she kept her tongue between her teethlike a sensible woman. As for Mrs. Savareen herself, she consistentlyrefrained from speaking on the subject to anyone, and even the mostinveterate gossips showed sufficient respect for her feelings to askher no questions. She held the even tenor of her way, doing her workand maintaining herself as usual, but she lived a secluded life, andwas seldom seen outside her own house. 

Thus, several months passed away without the occurrence of any eventworthy of being recorded. The mystery of Savareen's disappearanceremained a mystery still. But the time was approaching when all thathad so long been dark was to be made clear, and when the strangeproblem of five years before was to be solved. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

COALS OF FIRE. 

The gloomy month of November, 1859, was drawing to its close. Theweather, as usual at that time of the year, was dull and sober, and theskies were dark and lowering. More than three months had elapsed sincethe journey to New York, and Mrs. Savareen and her affairs had ceasedto be the engrossing topics of discussion among the people of Millbrookand its neighborhood. She continued to live a very secluded life, andseldom stirred beyond the threshold of her own door. Almost her onlyvisitors were her father and brother, for her stepmother rarelyintruded upon her domain, and indeed was not much encouraged to do so, as her presence never brought comfort with it. The little boy continuedto grow apace, and it seemed to the fond mother that he became dearerto her every day. He was the sole light and joy of her life, and in himwere bound up all her hopes for the future. Of late she had ceased toscan his features in the hope of tracing there some resemblance of hisabsent father. Since her visit to Amity street, _that_ fondillusion had wholly departed, never to return. She had ceased even tospeak to him about his other parent, and had begun to regard herself inthe light of an actual widow. Such was the state of affairs when thehumdrum of her existence was broken in upon by a succession ofcircumstances which it now becomes necessary to unfold. 

It was rapidly drawing towards six o'clock in the evening, and thedarkness of night had already fallen upon the outer landscape. Mrs. Savareen sat in her little parlor with her boy upon her knee, as it washer custom to sit at this hour. The lamp had not been lighted, but thefireplace sent forth a ruddy blaze, making the countless shadowsreflect themselves on the floor, and in the remote corners of the room. To both the mother and the child, this hour, "between the dark and thedaylight" was incomparably the most delightful of the twenty-four, forit was consecrated to story-telling. Then it was that the boy was firstintroduced to those old-time legends which in one form or another havethrilled the bosoms of happy childhood for so many hundreds of years, and which will continue to thrill them through centuries yet unborn. Then it was that he made the acquaintance of Little Red Riding Hood, Jack the Giant Killer, and the Seven Champions of Christendom. Themingled lights and shades from the blazing logs of hickory in thefireplace lent additional charm to the thousand and one stories whichthe mother recounted for the child's edification, and I doubt not thatJack's wonderful bean-stalk is still associated in Master Reggie's mindwith that cosy little room with its blended atmosphere of cheerfultwilight and sombre shadow. 

A few minutes more and it would be tea time. It would never do, however, to break off the story of the Babes in the Wood just at thetime when the two emissaries of the wicked uncle began to quarrel inthe depths of the forest. The child's sympathies had been thoroughlyaroused, and he would not tamely submit to be left in suspense. No, thegruesome old tale must be told out, or at least as far as where therobin redbreasts, after mourning over the fate of the hapless infants"did cover them with leaves. " And so the mother went on with thenarrative. She had just reached the culminating point when anapproaching footstep was heard outside. Then came a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Mrs. Savareen's father. It was easy to seefrom his face that this was no mere perfunctory call. Evidently he hadnews to tell. 

"Something has happened, father, " said Mrs. Savareen, as calmly as shecould. 

"Well, yes, something has happened. It is nothing very dreadful, butyou had better prepare yourself to hear unpleasant news. "

"It is that man--he has come. "

"Yes, he has come to town. "

"Is he at the door?"

"No, he is at my house. I thought I had better come over and tell you, instead of letting him come himself and take you by surprise. "

"What has he come for, and what does he want?" inquired Mrs. Savareen, in a harder tone of voice than she was accustomed to use. 

"Well, for one thing he wants to see you, and I suppose you can't verywell avoid seeing him. He is your husband, you know. He knows nothingabout the journey to New York. He has no means, and looks shabby andsickly. I shouldn't wonder if he isn't long for this world. "

"So you didn't tell him anything about the New York trip?"

"No, I didn't exactly know what your views might be, and he looked sucha worn-out, pitiful object that I held my tongue about it. I think youhad better see him and hear what he has to say. "

It appeared that Savareen had arrived at Millbrook by the 4:15 p. M. Train from New York, and that he had slunk round by the leastfrequented streets to his father-in-law's house without beingrecognised by any one. It might be doubted, indeed, whether any of hisold friends would have recognised him, even if they had met him faceto face in broad daylight, for he was by no means the ruddy, robust, self-complacent looking personage they had been accustomed to see inthe old days when he was wont to ride into town on his black mare. Hisclothes were seamy and worn, and his physical proportions had shrunk somuch that the shabby garments seemed a world too wide for him. His face, which three months ago had been bloated and sodden, had become pale andemaciated, and the scar upon his left cheek seemed to have developeduntil it was the most noticeable thing about him. His step was feebleand tremulous, and it was evident that his health had completely brokendown. He was in fact in a state bordering on collapse, and was hardlyfit to be going about. His financial condition was on a par with hisbodily state. He had expended his last dime in the purchase of hisrailway ticket, and at the moment of reaching his father-in-law's doorhe had been well-nigh famished for want of food. When a loaf of breadand some slices of cold meat had been set before him, he had fallen towith the voracity of a jungle tiger. He had vouchsafed no explanationof his presence, except that he felt he was going to die, and that hewanted to see his wife and child. As he was tired out and sorely inneed of rest, he had been put to bed, and his father-in-law, afterseeing him snugly stowed away between the sheets, had set out to bearthe news to his wife. 

There could be no doubt as to what was the proper thing to be done. Mrs. Savareen made the fire safe, put on her bonnet and shawl andlocked up the house. Then, taking her little boy by the hand, sheaccompanied her father to the old house where, six or seven yearsbefore, the handsome young farmer had been in the habit of visiting andpaying court to her. On arriving she found the invalid buried in thedeep, profound sleep of exhaustion. Consigning her boy to the care ofher stepmother, she took her place by the bedside and waited. Her vigilwas a protracted one, for the tired-out sleeper did not awaken untilthe small hours of the next morning. Then with a long drawnrespiration, he opened his eyes, and fixed them upon the watcher with aweak, wandering expression, as though he was unable to fully grasp thesituation. 

The truth found its way to him by degrees. He shifted himself uneasily, as though he would have been glad to smother himself beneath thebedclothes, was it not for lack of resolution. A whipped hound neverpresented a more abject appearance. 

His wife was the first to speak. "Do you feel rested?" she asked in agentle tone. 

"Rested? O, yes, I remember now. We are at your father's. "

"Yes; but don't talk any more just now, if it tires you. Try to go tosleep again. "

"You are good to me; better than I deserve, " he responded, after apause. Then great tears welled up to his eyes, and coursed one afteranother down his thin, worn face. It was easy to see that he was weakas water. His long journey by rail without food had been too much forhim, and in his state of health it was just possible he might neverrally. 

The womanly nature of the outraged wife came uppermost, as it alwaysdoes under such circumstances. Her love for the miserable creaturelying there before her had been killed and crucified long ago, never tobe revived. But she could not forget that she had once loved him, andthat he was the father of her child. No matter how deeply he hadwronged her, he was ill and suffering--perhaps dying. His punishmenthad come upon him without any act of hers. She contrasted his presentbearing with that of other days. He was bent, broken, crushed. Nothingthere to remind her of the stalwart, manly young fellow whose voice hadonce stirred her pulse to admiration and love. All the more reason whyshe should be good to him now, all undeserving as he might be. OurBritish Homer showed a true appreciation of the best side of femininenature when he wrote--

 "O woman, in our hour of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please; When pain and anguish wring thy brow, A ministering angel thou!"

She rose and approached the bed, while her gaze rested mildly upon hisface. Drawing forth her handkerchief, she wiped the salt tears from hischeeks with a caressing hand. To him lying there in his helplessness, she seemed no unfit earthly representative of that Divine Beneficence"whose blessed task, " says Thackeray, "it will one day be to wipe thetear from every eye. " Her gentleness caused the springs to well forthafresh, and the prostrate form was convulsed by sobs. She sat by hisside on the bed, and staunched the miniature flood with a tender touch. By-and-by calm returned, and he sank into a profound and apparentlydreamless sleep. 

When he again awoke it was broad daylight. The first object on whichhis eyes rested was the patient watcher who had never left her post thewhole night long, and who still sat in an armchair at his bedside, ready to minister to his comfort. As soon as she perceived that he wasawake she approached and took his wasted hand in her own. He gazedsteadily in her face, but could find no words to speak. 

"You are rested now, are you not?" she murmured, scarcely above herbreath. 

After a while he found his voice and asked how long he had slept. Beingenlightened on the point, he expressed his belief that it was time forhim to rise. 

"Not yet, " was the response; "you shall have your breakfast first, andthen it will be time enough to think about getting up. I forbid you totalk until you have had something to eat, " she added, playfully. "Liestill for a few minutes, while I go and see about a cup of tea. " And sosaying she left him to himself. 

Presently she returned, bearing a tray and eatables. She quietly raisedhim to a sitting posture, and placed a large soft pillow at his back. He submitted to her ministrations like a child. It was long since hehad been tended with such care, and the position doubtless seemed alittle strange to him. After drinking a cup of tea and eating severalmorsels of the good things set before him he evidently felt refreshed. His eyes lost somewhat of their lack-lustre air of confirmedinvalidism, and his voice regained a measure of its natural tone. Whenhe attempted to rise and dress himself, however, he betrayed such adegree of bodily feebleness that his wife forbade him to make furtherexertions. He yielded to her importunities, and remained in bed, whichwas manifestly the best place for him. He was pestered by nounnecessary questions to account for his presence, Mrs. Savareenrightly considering that it was for him to volunteer any explanationshe might have to make whenever he felt equal to the task. 

After a while his little boy was brought in to see the father of whomhe dimly remembered to have heard. His presence moved the sick man tofurther exhibitions of tearful sensibility, but seemed, on the whole, to have a salutary effect. Long absence and a vagabond life had notquenched the paternal instinct, and the little fellow was caressed witha fervor too genuine to admit of the possibility of its being assumed. Master Reggie received these ebullitions of affection without muchcorresponding demonstrativeness. He could not be expected to feel anyvehement adoration for one whom he had never seen since his earliestbabyhood, and whose very name for some months past had been permittedto sink out of sight. His artless prattle, however, was grateful in theears of his father, who looked and listened as if entranced by sweetstrains of music. His wasted--worse than wasted--past seemed to risebefore him, as the child's accents fell softly upon his ear, and heseemed to realize more than ever how much he had thrown away. 

In the course of the forenoon Mrs. Savareen's stepmother took her placein the sick chamber, and she herself withdrew to another room to takethe rest of which she was by this time sorely in need. The invalidwould not assent to the proposal to call in a physician. He declaredthat he was only dead tired, and that rest and quiet would soon restorehim without medicine, in so far as any restoration was possible. And sothe day passed by. 

In the evening the wife again took her place at the bedside, and shehad not been there long ere her husband voluntarily began his chapterof explanations. His story was a strange one, but there was no room todoubt the truth of any portion of it. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE BAD HALF CROWN. 

He began by comparing himself to the bad half-crown, which always findsits way back, but which has no right to expect a warm welcome on itsreturn. "Were it not, " said he, "that I feel myself to be pretty nearthe end of my earth's journey, I could not have the face to tell you mystory at all. But I feel that I am worn out, and don't think it likelythat I shall ever leave this room except for the grave. You shall knoweverything, even more fully than I have ever known it myself untilwithin the last few hours. They say that when a man is nearing his endhe sees more clearly than at any other time of his life. For my part Inow see for the first time that I have never been anything but aworthless lout from my cradle. I have never been fit to walk alone, andif health and strength were to come back to me I should not be one whitbetter than I have hitherto been. I don't know whether I ever told youthat I have a streak of gipsy blood in my veins. My grandmother was aRomany, picked up by my grandfather on Wandsworth Common. I don't offerthis fact as any excuse for my conduct, but I have sometimes thoughtthat it may have something to do with the pronounced vagabondism whichhas always been one of my most distinctive features. So long as I wasat home in my father's house he kept me from doing anything veryoutrageous, but I was always a creature of impulse, ready to enter intoany hair-brained scheme without counting the cost. I never looked aweek ahead in my life. It was sufficient for me if the present wasendurable, and if the general outlook for the future promised somethingnew. My coming to this country in the first place was a mere impulse, inspired by a senseless liking for adventure and a wish to see strangefaces and scenes. My taking Squire Harrington's farm was an impulse, very largely due to its proximity to Lapierre's, who is a jollylandlord and knows how to make his guests comfortable. I had no specialaptitude for farm life; no special desire to get on in the world; nospecial desire to do anything except pass the time as pleasantly as Icould, without thought or care for the future. And as I have fully madeup my mind to make a clean breast of it, I am going to tell yousomething which will make you despise me more than you ever despised meyet. When I married you I did so from impulse. Don't mistake me. Iliked you better than any other woman I had ever seen. I liked yourpretty face, and your gentle, girlish ways. I knew that you were good, and would make an excellent wife. But I well knew that I had no suchfeeling towards you as a man should have towards the woman whom heintends to make the companion of his life--no such feeling, forinstance, as I have for you at this moment. Well, I married you and welived together as happily as most young couples do. I knew that I had agood wife, and you didn't know, or even suspect, what a brainless, heartless clod you had for your husband. Our married life glided bywithout anything particular happening to disturb it. But the thingbecame monotonous to me, and I had the senseless vagabond's desire forchange. We did fairly well on the farm, but once or twice I was on thepoint of proposing to you that we should emigrate to the WesternStates. I began to drink more than was good for me, and two or threetimes when I came home half-sees over you reproached me, and looked atme in a way I didn't like. This I inwardly resented, like the besottedfool I was. It seemed to me that you might have held your tongue. Thefeeling wasn't a very strong one with me, and if it hadn't been forthat cursed four hundred pounds, things might have gone on for sometime longer. Of course I kept all this to myself, for I was at leastsensible enough to feel ashamed of my want of purpose, and knew that Ideserved to be horsewhipped for not caring more for you and baby. 

"The legacy from my father, if properly used, would have placed us onour feet. With a farm of my own, I might reasonably hope to become aman of more importance in our community than I had been. For a timethis was the only side of the picture that presented itself to my mind. I began to contemplate myself as a landed proprietor, and thecontemplation was pleasant enough. I bought the farm from SquireHarrington in good faith, and with no other intention than to carry outthe transaction. When I left home on the morning of that 17th of July, I had no more intention of absconding than I now have of running forParliament. The idea never so much as entered my mind. The morning waswet, and it seemed likely that we should have a rainy day. I was in amore loaferish mood than usual, and thought I might as well ride totown to pass the time. The hired man, whose name I have forgotten, wasnot within call at the moment, so I went out to the stable to saddleBlack Bess for myself. Then I found that the inner front padding of thesaddle had been torn by rats during the night, and that the metal platewas exposed. To use it in that state would have galled the mare's back, and it was necessary to place something beneath it. I looked about mein the stable, but saw nothing suitable, so I returned into the houseto get some kind of an old cloth for the purpose. If you had been thereI should have asked for what I wanted, but you were not to be seen, andwhen I called out your name you did not answer. Then, in a fit ofmomentary stupid petulance, I went into the front bedroom, opened mytrunk, and took out the first thing that came uppermost. I should havetaken and used it for what I wanted just then, even if it had been asilk dress or petticoat; but it happened to be a coat of my own. I tookit out to the stable, placed it under the saddle, and rode off. Beforereaching the front gate I saw how it was that you had not answered mycall, for, as you doubtless remember, you were out in the orchard withbaby in your arms, at some distance from the house. I nodded to you asI rode past, little thinking that years would elapse before I shouldsee you again. 

"I suppose you know all about how I spent the day. I had a bit of aquarrel with the clerk at the bank, and that put me out of humor. I hadnot intended to draw the money, but to leave it on deposit till nextmorning. 

"Shuttleworth's ill-tempered remarks nettled me. I took the notes in ahuff, and left the bank with them in my pocket. I ought to have hadsense enough to ride home at once, but I went to the Peacock andmuddled myself with drink. I felt elated at having such a large sum ofmoney about me, and carried on like a fool and a sot all afternoon. Ididn't start for home till a few minutes before dark. Up to that momentthe idea of clearing out had never presented itself to my mind. But asI cantered along the quiet road I began to think what a good time Icould have with four hundred pounds in my pocket, in some far-off placewhere I was not known, and where I should be free from incumbrances ofevery kind. 

"In the half-befuddled condition in which I then was, the idea quicklytook possession of my stupid imagination. I rode along, however, without coming to any fixed determination, till I reached JonathanPerry's toll-gate. I exchanged a few words with him, and then resumedmy journey. Suddenly it flashed upon me that, if I was really going tomake a strike for it, nothing was to be gained by delaying my flight. What was the use of going home? If I ever got there I should probablybe unable to summon up sufficient resolution to go at all. Just then Iheard the sound of a horse's feet advancing rapidly down the road. Animpulse seized me to get out of the way. But to do this was not easy. There was a shallow ditch along each side of the road, and the fencewas too high for a leap. Before I could let down the rails and betakemyself to the fields the horseman would be on the spot. As I cast rapidglances this way and that, I came in front of the gateway of the laneleading down by the side of Stolliver's house to his barnyard. As ithappened, the gate was open. On came the horse clattering down theroad, and not a second was to be lost if I wished to remain unseen. Irode in, dismounted, shut to the gate, and led my mare a few yards downthe lane to an overhanging black cherry tree, beneath which I ensconcedmyself. Scarcely had I taken up my position there when the horse andhis rider passed at a swift trot down the road. It was too dark for meto tell at that distance who the rider was, but, as you shall hear, Isoon found out. I stood still and silent, with my hand on Bess's mane, cogitating what to do next. While I did so, Stolliver's front dooropened, and he and his boys walked out to the front fence, where theold man lighted his pipe. Then I heard the horse and his rider comingback up the road from the tollgate. In another moment the rider drew upand began to talk to Stolliver. I listened with breathless attention, and heard every word of the conversation, which related to myself. Ifeared that Bess would neigh or paw the ground, in which case theattention of the speakers would have been drawn to my whereabouts. But, as my cursed fate would have it, the mare made no demonstration of anykind, and I was completely hidden from view by the darkness and also bythe foliage of the cherry tree under which I stood. The horseman, asyou probably know, was Lapierre, who had been despatched by you tobring me home. This proceeding on your part I regarded, in my thenframe of mind, in the light of an indignity. A pretty thing, truly, ifI was to be treated as though I was unable to take care of myself, andif my own wife was to send people to hunt for me about theneighborhood! I waited in silence till Lapierre had paid his secondvisit to the toll-gate and ridden off homewards. Still I waited, untilold Stolliver and his boys returned into the house. Then I led the mareas softly as I could down the lane, and around to the back of the barn, where we were safe from observation. 

"I chuckled with insane glee at having eluded Lapierre, and then Idetermined on a course of action. Like the egotistical villain I was, Ihad no more regard for your feelings than if you had been a stick or astone. You should never suspect that I had wilfully deserted you, andshould be made to believe that I had been murdered. Having formed myplans, I led the mare along the edges of the fields, letting down thefences whenever it was necessary to do so, and putting them carefullyup again after passing through. I made my way down past the rear end ofJohn Calder's lot, and so on to the edge of the swamp behind SquireHarrington's. Bess would take no harm there during the night and wouldbe found safe enough on the morrow. I removed the bit from her mouth, so that she could nibble the grass, and left the bridle hanging roundher neck, securing it so that she would not be likely to trip or throwherself. I showed far more consideration for her than I did for thewife of my bosom. I removed the saddle so that she could lie down androll, if she felt that way disposed. I took the coat I had used for apad, and carried it a short distance into the swamp and threw it into apuddle of water. I deliberated whether I should puncture the end of myfinger with my jack-knife and stain my coat with the blood, butconcluded that such a proceeding was unnecessary. I knew that you wouldbe mystified by the coat as you knew quite well that I had not worn itwhen I left home in the morning. Then I bade farewell to poor Bess, and, unaccountable as it may seem to you, I was profoundly touched atparting from her in such a way. I embraced her neck and kissed her onthe forehead. As I tore myself away from her I believe I was within anace of shedding tears. Yet, not a thought of compunction on youraccount penetrated my selfish soul. I picked my way through the swampto the fourth concession, and then struck out across unfrequentedfields for Harborough station, eight miles away. 

"The moon was up, and the light shone brightly all the way, but Iskulked along the borders of out-of-the-way fields, and did notencounter a human being. As I drew near the station I secreted myselfon the dark side of an old shed, and lay in wait for the first trainwhich might stop there. I did not have to remain more than about halfan hour. A mixed train came along from the west, and as it drew up Isprang on the platform of the last car but one. To the best of myknowledge nobody saw me get aboard. I was not asked for my ticket untilthe train approached Hamilton, when I pretended that I had lost it, andpaid my fare from Dundas, where I professed to have boarded the train. I got off at Hamilton, and waited for the east-bound express, whichconveyed me to New York. "

CHAPTER XV. 

REGINALD BOURCHIER SAVAREEN DISCOVERS THE GREAT SECRET. 

Thus far Savareen had been permitted to tell his own story. I do not, of course, pretend that it came from his lips in the precise words setdown in the foregoing chapter, but for the sake of brevity andclearness, I have deemed it best to present the most salient portion ofthe narrative in the first person. It was related to me yearsafterwards by Mrs. Savareen herself, and I think I am warranted insaying that I have given the purport of her relation with tolerableaccuracy. There is no need to present the sequel in the same fashion, nor with anything like the same fulness of detail. The man unburdenedhimself with all the appearance of absolute sincerity, and made noattempt to palliate or tone down anything that told against himself. Headmitted that upon reaching New York he had entered upon a career ofwild dissipation. He drank, gambled and indulged in debauchery to suchan extent that in less than six weeks he had got pretty nearly to theend of his four hundred pounds. He assumed a false name and carefullyabstained from ever looking at the newspapers, so that he remained inignorance of all that had taken place in the neighborhood of his homeafter his departure. Becoming tired of the life he was leading in thegreat city, he proceeded southward, and spent some months wanderingabout through the Southern States. His knowledge of horse-flesh enabledhim to pick up a livelihood, and even at times to make money; but hisdrinking propensities steadily gained the mastery over him and stood inthe way of his permanent success in any pursuit. During a sojourn at atavern in Lexington, Kentucky, he had formed an attachment for thedaughter of his landlord. She was a good girl in her way, and knew howto take care of herself; but Mr. Jack Randall passed for a bachelor, and seemed to be several grades above the ordinary frequenters of herfather's place. Their marriage and subsequent adventures have beensufficiently detailed by the unhappy woman herself, during herconference with Mrs. Savareen at No. 77 Amity street. 

The _soi-disant_ Randall had gone on from bad to worse, until hehad become the degraded creature of whom his wife had caught amomentary glimpse under the glare of gas lamp on her departure from theAmity street lodgings. The woman who supposed herself to be his wifehad informed him that a strange lady had called and been very kind toher, but she had told him nothing about the lady having come fromCanada. Why she was thus reticent I am unable to say with certainty. Perhaps it was because she attached no importance to the circumstance, after the lady's declaration that the daguerreotype did not representthe man whom she wished to find. Perhaps she had some inkling of thetruth, and dreaded to have her suspicions confirmed. She knew that shehad but a short time to live, and may very well have desired to sleepher last sleep without making any discovery detrimental to her peace ofmind. Whatever the cause may have been, she kept silent to everythingbut the main fact that a kind lady had called and supplied her with asmall store of money to provide for herself and the child. Savareennever learned or even suspected, that the lady who ministered to thewants of his victims was his own wife, until the truth was told to himby the wife herself. Small difference to him however, where the moneycame from. He had no scruples about taking a part of it to buy drinkfor himself and one or two loafers he numbered among his personalacquaintances. But there was sufficient left to provide for all theearthly needs of the dying woman and her child. The little one breathedits last within two days of Mrs. Savareen's visit, and the motherfollowed it to the grave a week later. 

Since then "Jack Randall" had dragged on a solitary existence in NewYork, and had been on the very brink of starvation. Every half dime hecould lay hold of, by hook or by brook--and I fear it was sometimes byboth--was spent in the old way. Then his health suddenly broke down, and for the first time he knew what it was to be weak and ill. Finallyhe had been compelled to admit to himself that he was utterly beaten inthe race of life; and with a profound depth of meanness whichtranscended any of his former acts, he had made up his mind to returnin his want and despair, to the wife whom he had so basely deserted. Since leaving Westchester he had heard nothing of her, direct orindirect; but he doubted not that she was supplied with the necessariesof life, and that she would yield him her forgiveness. 

It is possible to sympathize with the prodigal son, but whose heart iswide enough to find sympathy for such a prodigal husband as this?

His wife heard him patiently out to the very end. Then she told him ofthe arrival of Mr. Thomas Jefferson Haskins at the Royal Oak, and theconsequent visit to New York. The recital did not greatly move him. Thetelling of his own story had again reduced him to a state of extremeexhaustion, and he was for the time being incapable of further emotion. He soon after dropped asleep, and as he was tolerably certain not toawake until next morning, there was no occasion for further attendanceupon him. Mrs. Savareen drew to another apartment to ponder a while, before retiring to rest, on the strange tale which she had heard. 

Next morning it was apparent that Savareen was alarmingly ill, and thathis illness did not arise solely from exhaustion. A doctor was calledin, and soon pronounced his verdict. The patient was suffering fromcongestion of the lungs. The malady ran a rapid course, and in anotherweek he lay white and cold in his coffin, the scar on his cheek, showing like a great pale ridge on a patch of hoar-frost. 

 * * * * *

My story is told. The young widow donned the conventional weeds--"thetrappings and the suits of woe"--prescribed by custom under suchcircumstances. It is only reasonable to believe that she sincerelymourned the loss of her girlhood's ideal, but it was surely too much toexpect that she should be overwhelmed by grief at the death of one whohad been practically dead to her for years, and whose unworthiness hadrecently been so unmistakably brought home to her. With her subsequentfortunes the reader has no concern; but it can be no harm to inform himthat she remains a widow still, and that she at this moment resideswith her son--a prosperous lawyer--in one of the chief towns of WesternCanada.