LITERATURE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 4898, 14 January 1884, Page 4

LITERATU RE.

JTHE TENANT OF THE CEDARS : A f ROMANTIC STORY. (Continued.) A week later I found myself onco more entering the gateß of Ranstone Park, Laving left my " traps " to be sent after ine from RoAding. The evening walk was so pleasant that I waa half sorry when it was ovor, and I saw before me the solitary pavilion, with the woods behind it and the stream at ite feet. I was received at the door by Mrs Foster and a young woman, whom she introduced as her niece. " Martha can't be spared from home altogether, sir," aho explained, " but Bhe'll he here oarly every morning, and I think you'll flnd hor a good cook. She's given the houße a thorough oleaning, all but the drawing-rooin. Underwood has foßtoned the window and looked the door, and won't let her set foot in it. I really think the nian ia going out of his mind," she continued, foUowing me into the study, whore the oloth wns laid for my solitary dinner ; u just look at him now, Bir." She pointed through the window to where the gardener was standing in tho side-walk. He had •paused in tho act of pruning a rosebush, and -seemed to do listening intently to Bonie sound proceeding from the lower end of the walk. "He'll stand in that way for ten minutes together, listening to nothing," she whis{>ered; "it gives mo a oreepy feeling to ook at him. People do Bay that the cottage is haunted, and that he " " Nonsense 1"I interrupted; "he is evidently Bubjeot to some delusion. Have you any idea what it iB ? " She shook her head, and waa „ silent a moment, thoughtfully watchhnj hitn. "Se has never been the same man since that dreadful affair three years ago," Bhe resumed, at length. " What are you speaking of ? " She coloured and "bit her lips. " I ought not to have mentioned it, aa it may set you against the house— howover, I dare say you would have heard it from someone else. I mean the murder of Mademoiselle Lestelle." " What 1 " I exohvimed in horror ; "do you mean to say that she was murdered?" "In this very house, on the night of the first of September, three years ago." " Good heaVena !— by whom ?*' " That is a mystery to this hour. She was in the habit of sitting up rather late to practice her music, and that night Underwood, who was in bed, but not asleep, noticed that she broke off suddenly in the middle of a song. He thought it Btrange, and after waiting a few moments, threw on his clothes, and hurried down-stairs. He found the poor lady lying in a pool of her own blood — dead. Sho had been stabbed in the back as sho sat at the piano. The window was open, and thore were footprints in the garden, but the murderer, whoever it was, had had time to get clear away, and has never been traced." " What was supposed to be tho motive of tho crime ?— robbery ?" "No, nothing waa Btolen; that'a the myatorioua part of it. You may think tha'j Sir Philip was dreadfully shocked at such a thing happening on his^ estate. He himself offered a reward for information, Imfc ," " Was no one even suspected at tho time ? " I interrupted. My companion hesitated. "Well— one person was, sir." "Who was that?" She pointed to the gardener. I looked at her incredulously. "Impossible!" I exclaimed; "Underwood—who was so devotedly attached to hori" "Many people think he has madness in hia blood," Bhe whispered; "and it'a well known that madmen often turn againat tlie very person they love best •when in thoir • right senses. You see we have only his own account of what took place that night, for the housekeeper neither saw nor heard anything. The footprints may have been a cunning device to avert suspicion. Heaven forbid that I should accuse him wrongfully," Bhe added in conclusion, " but everyone has noticed that since it happened he haa boen liko a man bewitohed." When Bhe had left the room I stood for a moment, watching the gardener ; then opened the window, and crossed the lawn to his side.' He Btood in the same attitude, with a rapt, ecstatic look on his face, as if he were listening to the "music of the sphereß." He turned towards me as I approached, but did not appear to recognise ine till I spoke. " Day-dreaming again, Underwood ? " I said : "It seems to be a habit of vo-.irs?" "a Very stupid one. I must try to cure myself of it," he replied with a constrained smile. " What where you listening to jutet now ? " I asked pointWank. He made no reply. " Why will you not toll me ? " " Beoauae, if I did, you would tliink me mad." " Delusion ia not necessarily a aign of insanity," I said, "your delusion — if you have one — may arise from disordered neryeß, or " " I have no delusion," he interrupted ; "my senses aro quickened to here a sound which ia inaudible to others— that's all." " What is tho sound ? " I persisted ; but again there waa no reply. I ohanged the subject. "I hear that you have the key of tho drawing-room ; please to give it me." He took it from hiß pocket at once, and handed it to me, muttering something abont not wishing the thingß to be " meddled with." " Nothingneed be moved, for I don't intend to uae that room," I replied ; " but I ahould prefer to keep the key." He looked up quickly. "Ah 1 they have told you, I see." " Yes, I have been told what happened there," I assented, looking him full in the face. He met my eyes steadily, Ida lips curving in a alow, sardonic smile. ***" Perhaps you know that I was Buspeoted of tho orime ?" " Unjustly, lam sure," I replied, speaking my conviotion j for I could detect no shadow of guilty consciousness in the man's face ; only bitterness and melancholy. " How can yoti be sure of it ? I may be a madman and a murderer for all > you lenow to the contrary," he retorted with a brusque laugh. Then, with one of his sudden changes of manner, he threw down his knife^ and turned upon me almost fiercely. " Does a man destroy what he adores ? I worshipped her — I woidd have died for her. And it was me-^-me! they accußed of taking her innocent life. Fools that they were t" With a passionate gesture .of his clenched handß he turned from me. and limped hurriedly away down the path. I Baw no more of him that evening, but he occupied a largo share of my thoughts, both thon and in the days whioh followed. • •#•** For the first timo in my life I was consoious of " nerves." I felt ill-at-ease,iand my sleep waß disturbed by troubled dream3 froni which I woke, trembling with some nameloSß fear. One night when I started awake in thiß uncomfortable fashion, finding lt impossible to compose myself to aleep again, I half dressed, lighted a oigar, and took my seat near the open window. The night waa sultry and still. The moon had aeb, bub the sky was full of stars, and their faint diffused light showed me the garden, the stream, and the shadowy park' beyond. "Was it, in the magical stillness of such a night as this, I wondered, that Leonie Lostelle had sung her last song— that song which was never finished ? Her face rose up boforo me with strange distinctness, and I Boeinod to be listening once more to the clour, silvery sweet tones of her oxquisite voice. I recollected that when last I heard her aing — it was a private concert at Lady A 's— ahe had chosen Beethoven's " Per pteta non dirmi addio 1 " The worda haunted me, their musical syllables setting themselves to the murmur of tho breeze and tho ripple of the stream. I do not know how long I had been sitting thus when I. was roused from my reverie by another sound, coming from the room beneath — the key of which had been in my own possession since the day of my arrival. Was I dreaming, I askod myßelf bewilderly, or did I hear tho faint sweet tones of a woman's voico singing the very song which haunted my memory ! I started to my feet, and for a moment stood paralysed by a fear such an I had nevor before exporionced. Recovering 'myself by an effort, I took up the night-lamp and left the room. I noiselessly descended the Btairß, and paused outside the door of the oloaed room. My heart beat fast, and a creeping chill stirred tho roots of my hair as I Btood listening— to what? The voice of Loonie Leatelle. Faint and aerial as the notes of an iEolean harp; near, yet distant; aweet beyond words, but unutterably Bad, it thrilled through the Bilence, breathing with tender

paiaionato entreaty, " Ah, per pieta non dirmi addio 1 " I forgot to feel afraid -, I forgot evon to wonder, a8 I listened with suspended breath to those entrancing neteß and when they ceaaed I stood, as if spellbound, longing to hear more of tho sweet, unearthly mußic. At length, when the silence had lasted some moments, I ventured to open the door. The room was dark and empty, the piano closed. As I stood on the threshold looking round, I felt a touch on my arm, and turning with a start, found Underwood at my side. He had been watching mo unporceived. He beckoned me into the othor room, and olosed the door before ho spoke. His faoo was flushed; hia eyes glittering with excitement, and a strange sort of triumph. " You have heard it at last !" he breathed ; "you know now that tho Bound is no ' delusion.' It is hor voice that follows, me night and day. Oh, my lady, my queen," he broke off, "why do you haunt me ? What is it you want of me ? If you would but speak instead of mocking me with those sweet piteous songs of yours " He sank on to a chair near the table, burying his face in his hands. I set down the lamp and took a seat at his side. "Whon did you first hear it?" I asked. "Last summer. The first time it was but a faint thin sound, like a distant echo, but every day it grew clearer and nearer, seeming to float in the air around mo. It is not only in the house that I hear it, but out of doors in broad daylight, as if Bhe were flitting about the garden singing to herself aa Bhe used to do. Sometimes she calls me — ' Jacques, Jacques I' and her 'sweet, low laugh sounds bo close that I can't help turning, half expecting to see her at my side." I shuddered. "I wonder you have kept your senses!" I exclaimed. "Do you think I am afraid of it? Np— her voice is still to me what it always was, the sweetest sound on this side of heaven. It ia only in spring and summer, during the months she lived hero, that I hear it," he continued; "it ceases at midnight on tho flrst of September ; breaking off in the middle of a song — the very Bong she was singing when it happened." I glanced at his face, and something I saw there confirmed a suspicion which had already occurred to me. " Underwood," I said suddenly ; " can you honestly assure me that you do not know or suspect who took her life 1" He looked at me fixedly a moment, then answered, in a tone of curious composure, "I have known all along." I drew back, and stared at him. "Then, why in heaven's name did you not speak at the time ?" "My lips were sealed by a promise." " Given to whom ? Who bound you to silence?" "She did, with her last breath, that fatal night, when I found her, lying in tho moonlight, with her life ebbing away from the cruel wound. She saw in my face that I guessed who had struck the blow, and with all the strength that was left in her ahe implored — commanded me never to tell. It was her husband — for she was married, though the world did not know it. * I have kept the secret ao far, but I feel that if I don't share it with someone, I shall go mad in earnest. It is eating my heart away. I dare not break my vow, ' but you shall know the truth." "From whom? How shall I know it— and when ?" He rose, pointed over his shoulder, then bent his lips to my ear. "Watch with me in that room on the night of the first of September, and you shall learn the secret." Before I could speak again he was gone. (To be continued.)