THE LAST PENTREATH.

Auckland Star, Volume XXII, Issue 305, 24 December 1891, Page 4 (Supplement)

THE LAST PENTREATH.

Bead this : It will Make Your Flesh Creep.

Warranted to Spoil any Christmas

©jnnek,

£ HAD Been nothing of Pentreabh for some three years. Wo had been chums at school and ab Cambridge—inseparables for 10 years ab least. We came up to London together, he to read for the Bar, I to study medicine. Bub we had scarcely settled t o our new life when he was summoned to hi 9 home in Cornwall to attend the deathbed of his father,- and he left town—as the event proved—never to return. From time to time I had heard of him and from him, but the sum of what I had heard was little, and that little curiously perplexing. The letter which told me of his father's death gave me the first indication that a severe blow had fallen upon him. Ho was an only son ; his mother had died in his infancy. Between himself and his father I had always believed that there existed little or nothing of sympathy or love. I knew, ib is true" bub little of old Pentreath—no more, in fact, than what I had heard from his son ; but that little had shown him tome amorose recluse, shut up perpetually in his own house, and for the most parb in his own room, with no society bub that of his books and a few old servants. Even with his son he had communicated bub coldly and formally. I had no reason to suppose that there had been any disagreement between them. The father was" liberal; the son spoke of him with respect; bub on neither side was there any appearance of ■wartu affection. It was, therefore, with some surprise that. I found Pentreath to all appearance deeply aflected by his father's death. He had inherited an old name, an estate greatly increased in value by his father's frugality, a position in the county which should have been doubly attractive to a man of his tastes and acquirements ; yeb he wrote to me as one for whom lifo had lost its whole value, and hinted thab he should nob for some time—possibly for ever—return to London life. His letter was abrupt, rambling, almost incoherent, and plainly indicated a mind greatly disturbed. Shortly after his father's death I heard from him that he had been advised to take a month or two on the Continent for his health. He wrote afterwards from Paris, Germany, and Italy, bub always in a tone utterly unlike that which had previously marked our intercourse —a tone so constrained and cold as to cause me to wonder whether I had unwittingly given him offence. Twice I had heard of him accidentally. One acquaintance had seen him gambling wildly ab Homburg ; another had encountered him in company of very doubtful character in New York. Then came a long and inexplicable silence. My letters to the addresses he gave me remained unanswered, and for anything I knew to the contrary my friend might have been dead. Ab the end of thab time, I was startled by the receipt of the following note, dated from Tristowel Abbey, Pentreath's house in Cornwall :— Dear Dasont,—l have been back here a fortnight. Are you too busy to como down for a few days? I want a friend badly, and you are the only friend I have—Yours. Philip Pentreath:. The note reached me a few days before Christmas. 1 was nob busy. In point of fact, I was on the look-out for a practice, and ab the moment had neither business nor pleasure engagemenbs, beyond a half- j promised visib for Christmas in another j direction. Had I been ever so much occu-1 pied, however, I should have made an efforb to obey Pentreath's summons. Little bhough ib conveyed, his letter confirmed the anxiety which I had long felb j respecting him, and I 3hould have been ! false to our long-standing friendship if I had hesibab6d about going to him. Two days later I was on my way to Cornwall. It was an interminable journey. The ehort December day had closed in long before I reached Trisbovvel Station. Having given Pentreath no notice of the time of my arrival, I had to perform my journey from this point—some three or four miles—in a mouldy, ramshackle fly. Snow was falling and the roads were bad. I was consequently in anything but good spirits by the time we reached our destination, and the aspect of the house icself completed my depression. Ib was a sombre, monasticlooking building, apparently of immense Bize, and with scarcely a sign of light or life from end to end of ifc. The door •was opened by a man I knew—a Swiss valeb named Yon Aar, who had been with Pentreath through bis travels. Almost immediately behind him came Pentreath himBelf — so altered that for tho moment I scarcely knew him. He uttered some broken words of thanks to me for coming as he (Shook my hand, bub ib was with a voice and manner of a man almost overcome "by emotion. Ib wa3 a welcome enough relief from the influence of my journey and of Pentreath's reception, when I found myself sitting at dinner in a warm well-lighted room. The apsirbmenb was not the dining-room proper, burt had been the private room of Pentreath's fa/bher, a picture of whom hung over the fire-place—a remarkable picture which ac once arrested my attention a.<? well by the striking character of the features portrayed 'Bs by a certain subtle expression of malignity, which the artist seemed rather to have insinuated with wonderful skill than to have frankly depicted. Bub neither the room nor anything it contained had much interest for me besido Pentreath himself. I have said that he was altered. The more I saw of him tho more striking tho alteration became. Throe years had aged him as though they had been thirty. He wore a short, pointed beard, and his skin was bronzed by travel and exposure to the weather; but, for all that, I could see plainly enough the thinness of his cheek.the premature wrinkles in his forehead, and the deep linea under his eyes?. More noticeable still tfrere certain peculiarities of manner—quite new in him—a nervous rapidity :n his speech, a restless movement of his hands and head, and an occasional look m his eyes which ab one time suggested absence of mind, at another expectation or apprehension—l had almosb said fear. My medical training, perhaps, caused me to take special notice of these symptoms. Bub what I had heard of and from Pentreath since his father's death had already caused me to fear that he wm suffering from brain disturbance of some kind ; and what I saw of him now gave a much more definite and disquieting shape to my appremessage which naa " j morrX/ he said.. ' "«b c long Btory Dasent; a story which nedj *™ VeSJn J and a vigorous m.nd both fO!t nnd the telling. 10-mgnu y and we have plently else to J to Ik ot. u>v tne forseb mytrouble for an horn if lean With thab he Pl«^ ed / nfc ° n f a h d e , r er tures, Wo discussed h» travels and odventa . the countries he had visited, J™™^ perience he had gained ; o™** l o f the events of my own life. f™lf esb o{ hours wero quickly gone in J ock our conversation, It w« P"** *»° C Aar , when we were interrupted by vo vho entered, and inquired a W thine further was wanted, mentioning a Sβ fame time that he w« * going »way.

Whore 13 he going to V I inquired of Pentreath, surprised that the man should be going anywhere ab this untimely hour. « ' To •hislodgings,' Pentreath-answered, 'down in Tristowel.' ! J ou . don ' b k eep him in tho house then ?' m No, said Pentreath. «Ib is his own wish. I suspect he has a sweetheart in the village. After he had been here a few nights he professed, for some silly reason, nob to find himself comfortable, and asked my permission to take a lodging in Tristowel village. As he is back every morning ab eight like a piece of clockwork, ib makes little difference to me.' The arrangement struck me as unusual, because Yon Aar was the only servant whom I- had yeb seen in the house. He had shown me to my bedroom, and he had waited upon us singlehanded ab dinner. Penbreath, however, whom I had never heard talk so volubly, gave me little opportunity to think further about this subject. When I myself went to bed Pentreath accompanied me to my room. As he was saying good-nighb he startled mo by retaining mv hand and saying in an excited tone, quite unlike anything I had yeb noticed in him : ' Dasenb, you have shown yourself a true friend in coming to me. To-morrow I am going to pub your friendship to a tost yeb more severe.' Here his voice sank to a low, nervous whisper. 'I shall have to ask of you such a service aa friend never yeb asked of friend. I am going to set you a task as hideous as ever human hand undertook. Promise that you will nob desert me !' While he uttered these extraordinary words, his eyes were fixed on mine with an eagerness which was almo3b fierce, and the hand which held mine clutched ifc convulsively. I was inexpressibly shocked ab his language and manner. I felt that there was no longer room for doubb thab I was listening to the words of a madman. I saw, however, thab he watched closely the effect of his speech upon me. Dissembling my feelings, therefore, as well as I could, I promised to assist him to the beat of my ability in whatever occasion mighb arise, Then leading him across to his own room, and enbroating him to calm himself nnd think no more for the present of the matter which disturbed him, I left him without further conversabion. My own door was opposite Pentreath's, opening out of the short corridor which ran down this wing of the house. My room was cheery and comforbablo, and I recognised with no light sense of gratitude tho hand of Yon Aar in the abundant supply of candles, and tho welcome fire still blazing in the grate. Disturbed l though I was by what I had seen and heard, I soon unconsciously yielded to the soothing influences around mo, and in half an hour after I had said good-nighb to Pentreath I had forgotten him and all hi 3 troubles in sound sleep. I know nob how long I remained so, but ib seemed to me bhab I had only been asleep a few minutes, when I awoke with a start and with an impression that some one had called me by name. The sound seemed etill to ring in my ear?. The fire had gone down, bub it still casb a warm light over bhe room, and I lookod round me with a half-defined expectation of seeing some cause for the interruption of my slumbers. I was wide awake now, and my nerves felb painfully on tho stretch, as they are apt; to do at euch moments. Though I scarcely knew why, I sat up in bed and listened. For tho momenb all was quieb, bub after my ears had strained at the silence for a few seconds, they distinctly caught a sound— the sound as of an angry voice, talking rapidly. I left my bed and opened the door. The corridor without was dark and silent, bub my ears had nob deceived me. The voice was plainly audible now. It came from the opposite room, and was the voice of Pentreath himself. He was talking rapidly—wildly—at times almoscshrieking with excitement. In great alarm 1 crossed the corridor and entered his room. Ho lay upon the outside of his bed, still in hia clothes. A small lamp, tho wick half turned down, stood on a tablo beside the bed. I turned up tho light, and instantly came to the conclusion that he was in an epileptic fit. His face was livid ; the muscles twitched convulsively, as did also his fingers. Hia eye 3 were wide open, but fixed and vacant, and he took no notice of me. For the momenb he was silent, although hia mouth and lips worked. All this suggested epilepsy ; bub as I was about to feel his pulse he suddenly started up, and poured fortha torrent of incoherent words, as though in the frenzy of delirium. In epite of all the horrors thab I had seen in the course of a long hospital experience, hia condition quite appalled me—it was like that of a man possessed with the devil. For a minute or more he shrieked, writhed, gestii culated, and foamed ab the mouth ; then suddenly he flung himself back on the bed, silent and motionless. If this were an epileptic seizure it was something differenb from anything in my experience of reading. His stillness was now as alarming as the excitement which preceded it. 1 felt his pulse and wiped bhe sweat from his face, and endeavoured to think whab restorabive mighb ba ab hand. The first thing, clearly, was to arouse some of the other inmates of the house. I looked around in search of a beil, but there was no sign of one in the room. I went out into the corridor and listened. Surely, I thought, if there were any other human being in the place, the sound of Pentreabh's voice, as I had heard ib a moment ago, must have reached him. The lighb in my own room, however, was ' the only perceptible sign of habibation. The solitude and silence made me feel uncomfortable in spite of myself, and I returned to the room, and again busied myself with such measures as occurred to me for restoring animation to Pentreath. All in vain. Still ho lay there in the same deafch-like trance. I felt ab last thab ib was imperative to obtain further assistance, i returned, thorefore, to my own room, and hurriedly throwing on a few clotnes, started off to explore the house. Without boasting, I believe that I may say truthfully that I am a man of fairly good nerve. Certainly, until this night, 1 i had never, at any rate since childhood experienced that form of ' nervousness which is the creation of imagination. As for what ! is called the ' supernatural,' 1 can only say that I had no shadow of belief in it. Nevertheless, without any cause that I could or can understand or explain, a feeling e>l indescribable horror grew over me as 1 made my way in the darkness through that 1 labyrinth of silent .passages, corridors and staircases. Nowhere could I detect the slightest sign of habitation. The corridors were bare and uncarpeted, the windows closely shut up. Everywhere there were i doors: I must indeed have passed a hundred, bub I shrank from opening one of them, and tho mere thought that all these apartments were untenantedas to all appearance they were-by any human being, caused mo a thrill ofhorror. As I wandered on in this oppressive solitude all sorts of disquieting thoughts crowded upon mo. Could it be thab I and Pentreath were alone m the house? Yon Aar I knew, was gone. Might ib not easily be that, owing to tho suddenness of his arrival, Pentreath had no other servants about him? Or might there be other reasons for the house being deserted? I remembered suddenly whab Pentreath had told me as to his man professing to be uncomfortable in the house. If" some mystery hung over Pentreath a life, could it be that Trislowel Abbey shared in it ? . . As thouphts of this kind grew upon me, and the prospect of succeeding in my eearch seemed as remote as over, I began to think Of returning to Pentreath. It

happened that it had stopped just) ab a point where there was an opening in the corridor which I could dimly perceive led to a narrow staircase. On closer examination I found that there was a turret here, with tho usual winding stone stairs running up it. In hope that ib mighb possibly lead to the servants' quarters, I determined to make a final efforb in this direction before returning. Before I had gone up half a dozen steps I was suddenly plunged inbo darkness. The turret was loop-holed at the side, and a sharp gust whistling in extinguished every candle. For a moment I stood irresolute, doubting whether to advance or retreat; then, under some impulse, which I can hardly explain, I ascended a few steps further. In the gloom I blundered against a door which flew open before me, revealing a room beyond. The room was on tho lighter side oE the house, and though the moon was for the moment obscured, I clearly perceived a bedstead before me. Whab waa more, I could see that the bed was occupied. lat once stepped to the bedside to arouse the unknown eleepor. Then something in the attitude of the figure arrested me. I paused, and looked more closely before I touched him. Ab that instant the moon broke from behind a cloud and shone full upon the bed. Merciful heavens, what was this ? Tho upturned face, pale and rigid, the colourless hands clasped upon the breasb! The moon was chining upon a corpse ! I confess without shame that for the momenb the discovery paralysed me with horror. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that ib seemed to take away my breath and transfix me to the ground. By a greab efforb I collected my thoughts and endeavoured to rouse myself into action ; bub my firafc movement only broughb me into the presence of a new mystery—so horrible thab even now the recollection of it unnerves me. My first impulse was, naturally, to ascertain how long the body before me had boen dead. I benb down to feel the motionless faco. I placed my hand, as I thought, upon the doad man's forehead, and ib touched— nothing. I recoiled aghast, panic-stricken. I rubbed my eye 3 and looked again. Was I mad—had my brain indeed given way under tho horrors of that night? Aa I lookod, he—it—the thing, whatever ib was, still lay there to all appearance solid and palpable; yeD there, where the dead features stood out sharply in tho moonlight, my hand found bub an empty pillow. Then, as I stood dazed and endeavouring to collect my senses, I became aware of yeb another presence in the room. I seemed to feel rather than to soo that the figure of a man glided from the darkness at the end of the room and stood opposite me betwoon tho bed and the window. Now it was bending downward over the corpse and looking into its faco. I saw a ghostly hand outstretched and raising one of the dead man's eyelids. I ever saw, or seemed to see, the sightless ball which was now exposed in the glittering moonlight. My whole attention was then absorbed in the moving figure. It raised itself erect; one hand was for an instant pressed to the forehead ; then both were uplifted above its head as if in an agony of pain. The movement broughb tho moonlight full upon the face, and I beheld, clear and distinct, but convulsed with a spasm of Buffering euch as I can never forget, the features which had attracted my attention in the room below —the face of Pentreath's father. Almost ah the same time a loud groan reeounded through the room, then a mist swam before my eyes, and for a momenb I think 1 lost consciousness. When I recovered I was in darkness ; the moon was again obscured. I found myself clinging to the door, my knees knocking together and almosb giving way under me. How I gob from the room and down tho staircase I know not; but when I reached the corridor again my strength entirely failed mo. There was a window seat close against the entrance to the turret, and I dropped into it trembling and exhausted. I did my best to reason with tny terror, seeking to construct some theory which would explain away tho vision that I had seen. Bub ib was lone before I could summon sufficienb fortitude to move, and when I did I scarcely knew which way to turn. On the top of the other horrors I had experienced, I now found thab I was lost in this accursed abbey. Before I had gone many sfcep3, however, I saw a light approaching. In another instant a man — thank God, a living man (-—came into sight. Ib waa Pentreath himself, recovered, and, to all appearance, as much himself as he had been tho previous evening. He put bub a single question to me, and seemed to take in the situation intuitively, for, enjoining me to say nothing of what had passed until the morning, he led the way back to my room. . * # ♦ # ♦ When I awoke in the morning to find my room flooded with bright, frosty sunlight, my firsb impression was thab the whole events of the night had been a horrible dream. I did my besb to eucourage this impression, but ib was speedily dispelled by the entrance of Pentreath full of apologies and self-reproaches for what he had exposed ma to. I longed to interrogate him fully respecting whab I had seen, or imagined, and the stoty which he had yet to tell me ; bub for his own sake aa well as my own I restrained my curiosity, and cutting short all his references to what had passed, made haste bo join him at breakfast. I pass very briefly over the events of the day. Pentreath, excusing himself on the ground of important business, lelb me to my own devices for the morning, and I spent tha time in exploring the house and grounds. There was plenty of material here for a day's occupation. The Abbey— an old monastic building transferred to some ancestor of Pentreath's under Henry Vlll.—was full of historical intereso; tho park in which ib lay extended for miles, and was full of wild beauty. So far aa my experiences during the nighb were concerned, I made only two discoveries worth recording. In the first place, I learned from Yon Aar bhab, as I had suspected, Pentreath and I had been alone in the house throughout the night. The only servant at present employed inside the house, besides the valeb, was an old cook, who had been in the service of Pentreath's father, and was now married to a bailiff, whose house was a mile away. She was in attendance daily, bub left as soon as-the dinner was served. As I questioned Yon Aar on this point, I saw the look of deep interest in his face, and presently he asked me point-blank what sort of a night I had had, and whether I had been disturbed, to which I made, I am afraid, a very untruthful reply. The other discovery that I made was the mysterious chamber upon which I had stumbled in the night. I traced it by means of the turret and the winding stairs, and satisfied myself that I was not mistaken, for there was no other place of the kind throughout the building. I made my way up the staircase, and found in a momenb the room which I had entered. It was empty. There was nob an article of furniture in it, and the sunlight) screaming in just as the moonlight had done in the night, fell, not upon any bed, but upon the bare noor. Thab convinced me. I had no longer any doubt bub thab. I had been the victim of an hallucination—the effect of tho ghostly associations of the place upon nerves tried by a Ion? journey and disordered by the shock of witnessing Pentreath's seizure. A long walk through the park iully restored my spirits and steadied my nerves. I returned only anxious to receive Pentreath s confidence, to find out what was on his mind and to remove him as quickly as possible from the depressing influence of Trisfcowel, which I now felt sure waa ab the bottom of the trouble.

We dined early, and spoke only on indiQ'erenb subjects until bhe meal was over. Then I begged Pentreath to tell me at once what he had to say, and he ab once responded to my request. 'I have only one word to say,' Pentreath began, • by way of preface to whab I am about to relate. It is that during my life the story shall remain a secret in your own breast. Ido not think bhat will be for long. , I was about to implore him to put away such dismal apprehensions, bub he stopped my interruption by a gesture. Then, after a moment's silence, ho commenced his tale. I give it, as nearly as I can remember, in his own words. 'My father,' he said, 'married late in life. I never knew my mother, but she was by nearly 20 years my father's junior—a light-headed girl, little more than a child, and but little fitted to be the wife of a man of middle age, and of a naturally austere disposition. The marriage, as you may readily believe, was noc a happy one. Disagreements seem to have arisen almost from the first, and, i fear, soon became chronic. Of their nature or cause, happily for myself, I know little or nothing. One thing only I know for certain, and bhab is thab my mother's aversion to Trisbowel was almosb from the first a source of differences between them. My father saw bub little of county society ; the abbey was at best bub a dull home for a young and lively woman ; and I imagine bhab she had married in a great measure from mobives—well, ib becomes me not to sib in judgment upon my own mother. I leave you to judge for youreelt the nature of the case. 'It was perhaps with the desire of humouring my mother, and in the hope of improving their relations with one another, thab my father, a few months after his marriage, took his wife abroad for ? time. They spenb several months in Prance and Italy, in the latter of which countries I, their first and only child, was born; but this event seeirs to have awakened in my father a desire for homo, and when I was only a few weeks old, tho family once more took up their residence ab Trietowel. ' They broughb a gueab back with them from Italy—a cousin of my mother's, by name Claudo Estcott. lie was an artist by profession. They had found him finishing his studies ab Kome, and my father had given him one or two commissions. He eeoms to have had greab abilities, and, among other things, he painted bhab portrait.' I looked up ab tho portrait of old Ponbreabh as the son spoko. Tho sighb of the features recalled to me the vision of last night, and an involuntary shudder passed over mo at bhe recollection. Pontreath continued with bowed head and a voice which from time to time faltered until ib waa almost inaudiblo :— 'My father thought that besides giving this man of which he was badly in need, his presence would serve to break the repulsivoness of her home to my mother, for EstcotD wag a lively and accomplished man, and won the heart of everyone. In fact, partly by my father's own design, ho became my mother's constanb companion, and for a while his presence seems to have made matters smoother in ths house. Bub tho time soon came when this ceased to be. I have not the heart to tell you the story. Enough that the pair grossly abused my father's confidence. You must piece it out ali for yourself—the growth of misgiving, fear, remonstrance on my father's side ; denial, contrition, and then ab last open defiance on hers. My poor father was not a suspicious or a jealous man, bub, once resolved, his resolution was inflexible. In the end ho dismissed from bhe house, and forbade his wife to communicate with bhe man again. ' A little while alter my father had occasion to pay a visit to London. Then came the old story. Claudo Estcott l , who had never left the neighbourhood, reappeared ab Tu'stowel. My mother received him as her guest. Bub this time the story had a more mysterious termination than usual. On bhe second night that Estcotfc spent in the abbey he disappeared—how or whither no one ever knew. His room-was found empty in the morning, his clothes, his baggage, every trace of him had vanished, never to this day to be discovered. Ho had not many relatives or friends ; a brother, however, came to Tristowel when, after a time, the matter got wind. Every possible inquiry was made, far and near, but Claude E3tcott's fate remained in hopeless obscurity. ' One result of this occurrence was, of course, tho exposure of my unhappy mother. Ib was necessary thab she herself should inform her husband of the facts of her cousin's mysterious disappearance ; bat by tho time my father returned to Tristowel she was ill in bed, her life in danger. How far she was affected by Estcotb's fate itself, ib is not for me to say; but the scandal connected with his presence in the house, and the suspicious circumstances which surrounded his disappearance, naturally inflicted a severe blow on her mind. She had never been strong, and though she rallied from time to time, she gradually eank, and ab the end of three months she was dead. .' Perhaps the poor creature's fate was nob to be utterly deplored. For my own part, I should pity her more had she survived ! I have said that my lather was already severe and stern. The cloud that had now overspread his lifo brought out all that was most forbidding in his character. He became henceforth such as I remember him to the last—gloomy, silent and hard. To me, I know, he was ever devoted and affectionate ; yeb I never saw him smile, never once in all the eight years bhab I remember him. And little wonder — God help him ! God help him !' For the moment Pentreath completely broke down and buried his face in his hands. In the silence which followed I glanced up again ab bhe cold, pitilees face looking down'on us, and wondered whether it was really so when the artist fixed that expression on his canvas, or whether he had intentionally exaggerated his severity, or whether, by some prophetic instinct, his own imagination had clothed the features with the expression with which they should some day be bent upon him. I waited and wondered, full of vague forebodings, until Penfereafch again eooke. ' For twelve months after my mother s death he remained here, mainly to defy the whispers and suspicions of which he was in the centre. At bhe end of thab time he lefb Tristowel and England, and became a wanderer over the earth, as I have been these three years past. He returned when I was 12 yeai's old, and from thab bime till his death 1 have nothing to tell you. • There, then, you have the plain facts of tho mystery which has hung over Tristowel Abbey for 10 years and more, so far as they are known to the world, and much as I knew them, from the whispers of servants and other indirecb means, ab the time of my father's death. Whab I have now to tell you is the ghastly secreb which underlies ib—bhe story with which I was entrusted by my father on hi 3 deafch-bed. You know how I lefb London. You know thab he died within a few days of my return home. You know something, at least, of whab I have been since. You have wondered at me, of course. You have thought, no doubt, bhat I was going out ot my mind. Well, I have thought so, too, and little wonder if I had. jSIow listen to the explanation : — 'My father pave me as he died the clue bo Claude Estcott's disappearance. The wretched man was murdered, as you have foreseen, as everybody took for granted ab tho time. Nothing very wonderful in thab, perhaps ! Others have bsen murdered before, and for lsss crimes than his. Ay, bub who murdered him ? Have I the right to toll you ? la ib for his acn to bobrny —Ah ! merciful God! ,

He had sprung up from hia chair, his hands clenched, his eye 3 gazing into vacancy, his features set just as I had seen them on the previous night. For the momenb he was mad beyond all doubb or question. ' You hear ib V he cried wildly. ' There, again ! Listen ! The cry thab has haunbed me day and nighb from tho hour of hi 3 deabh ! The cry of, my father's spirit in torment! Hear it!' . Masbering, wibh no slight, efforb, my own feeling of horror, I seized him by bhe shoulder, and being bhe stronger of the two, forced him back into his chair. Then I took his hand, and entreated him to calm himself and turn hia thoughbe to other subjects. The sound of my voice seemed bo recall him to himself. * Wait,' he said peremptority ; ' waifc, hear the rest before ib is too late. Whab was I telling you ?' He paused as though bo collecb his thoughts, then presently went on again, bub less coherently bhan before, and with frequent pauses and exclamations. He told me the whole story of the murder, the details of which, for" the reason presently to be explained, were indicated in a manuscript which the father had left to hi 3 eon. The substance of it was this:—After dismissing his wife's cousin from the house, Mr Penbreath had discovered that the man was still in the neighbourhood and carrying on clandestine communications wibh Mrs Pentreabh. Maddened wibh jealousy, he then laid and executed the fatal plan of which the pretended journey to London was the first step. On Esbcobb'a arrival tho husband returned privately to the Abbey, and concealed himself in a secreb chamber, from which he had easy access to the room occupied by Estcott. Thencehestoleupon his victim ab midnight and accomplished his crime. How ib was perpetrated he did not reveal; but I learned by a question to Pentreath that the scene of the murder was the room into which 1 had strayed on this previous nighb, and where, I hay( no doubb, though Ifoughb againsb fcb> iclusion at bhe time, one scene of thk i tragedy had been in some mysterious rfay re-en-acted before my eyes. The deed done, the murderer removed tho body and all Estcott's belongings to a vault beneath thab parb of the abbey. There they had remained undisturbed to this day. Ab first io had been hia intention to move the body again, either to bury it secretly, or to put ib in some place where it might be discovered, and formally interred. But his wife's long illness turned his thoughts elsewhere, and led him to postpone that lasb act After his wife's death his resolution failed him. His confession told with horrible minuteness how ho had struggled to perform thie poor acb of reparation to tho dead man. Night and day, sleeping and waking, he had been haunted by the thought of his victim rotting beneath the floor of hia house. Again and again he had nerved himself for his ghastly task, each time to quail and retreat when ibcame to approaching the dungeon. Oα one occasion he had gob so far as to open the door of the vault, but at the first glimpse of the awful object which hi 3 hand had placed there ho had fled from the place in a frenzy of superstitious terror. Month by month, and year by year, bhab sickening vision had been ever present with him, and, as he bocame conscious of hia own approaching end, the absorbing idea of his lifo was in whab wav he could free the houso from the hideous evidence of his accursed secrafc. And now came the most horrible part of the son's disclosure. Unable to accomplish his purpose by himself and possessed with an overwhelming droad of leaving it unperformed, the old man had bequeathed to his son the task of laying Estcott's bones in the earth. What motive prompted the unnatural command— whether ib was a superstitious fear of the impiety of leaving them where they lay, or the desire to conceal the last traces of his own crime—ib lios not with mo to say. Bub a command it was—a command laid down wibh full and precise instruction. The position of the subterranean chamber where the body lay was clearly pointed out. Thence the wretched Pentreath was hidden to convey the remains to a disused burial vault under tho ruined chapel in the abbey grounde, the position of which was accurately disclosed. His task was to be done by himsolf alone, and he was to see to it, as he loved his own soul, thab no one who could by any possibility be cognisant of the facts of Claude Estcotb's disappearance, should ever find them in their present situation. With this behest, couched in the most solemn terms, the old man's confession closed. Before his death he had caused his son to read the whole, and had th9n exacted from him a solemn promise of obedience. 4 Imagine, if you can, said Pentreath,' ' what my life has been since this heritage descended upon me. Ab first I nourished a vain hope that the whole confession might be the production of a diseased brain. On tho nighb after the funeral I determined co test the story, by visiting the accursed dungeon of which ho had spoken. I found bhe place by his description with little enough difficulty, and within I found the ghastly thing which he had bequeathed to me. At the sight something of hia own terror overtook mo, and I fled 'from tho place. A feeling of passionate resentment against my father for imposing upon me this unnatural task overpowered every other consideratipn. Careless of the oath I had sworn, I lefb Tristowel determined never to return. ' From thab momenb I have been a haunbed man—haunted by that cry which raked my ears a momenb since, haunted by a bhousand sights and sounds which would defy alike description and belief. A hundred times have I been compelled to wit- j ness, in a waking dream, the scene of the j murder and the fate of the corpse. I have seen my father in every circumstance of horror and torture. His cry of agony has pursued me, though I fled from the house and the country. I have heard bhat cry on the summit of the Alps and in the wilds of Africa. I have seen that murder acted on the stage, time after time, in half the theatres of Europe. I have seen thab corpse floating in the Mediterranean and looking up at me with staring eyes through the waters of the Mississippi. I have seen such' — The interruption came from myself thi3 time. I had heard all that I wanted to know. The time had come for soma decisive action if Pentreath's reason or life was to be saved. , ' Come, Philip,' I cried, rising from my seat, and laying my hand on his shoulder. ' I shall listen to this no longer. You have told me already that you have something to ask of me. Possibly I can guess whab ib is. You have come back here determined to obey your father's command. You want me to assist you in the task. Is it nob so: Pentreath nodded. • Then I will assisb you as soon as you please. Leb us lose no time.' ' To-night ?' ' To-nighfc, if you are ready.' ' I will be ready in half-an-hour.' He wrung my hand in silance, and left the room without another word. The opinion which I had formed during the progress of his narrative was thab the whole story was a delusion. From beginning to end it sounded like nothing but the raving of a madman, and Penbreath's manner pointed to the same conclusions, his air toward the end of his narrative being simply of a raving maniac. Ib was under this impression that I made the proposal which I had made. My idea was simply to humour bhe delusion. If we found the subterranean chamber, which I hardly expected, we should doubtless find it as empty a3 bhe room in which I had seen my vision of the previous nighfc. Then would be my time to reaaon with Pen

! treath, who seemed to be perfectly amen able to reason on every point) save one. 1 When he returned to the room I noticed a marked changa in his manner, and congratulated myself on the success of my stratagem. He was now perfectly composed, and apparently intent upon nothing but the business in hand. • It is no time now bo thank you, Dasenb, , he said. • Let that stand for the moment. I have packed ofi Yon Aar, and we had better go to work. It is a hideous business, bub ib will nob bake long. I have been ab work to-day opening up the vaulb under the chapel, and everything is now ready.' I said, 'All right,' with an assumption of perfect unconcern, and followed him out into the corridor, carrying a lantern which he had handed to me. We made our way to bhe foob of the winding stair up which I had ascended the previous night, and I confess that in spite of all my rationalising, I felb an uncomfortable sensation as I saw Pentrt-ath unlock a door in blio wall at; bhs foot of this staircase at)d motion me bo descend into bho cavernous gloom beyond. Down we crept, some dozen steps or more, and then stood in a low, vaulted passage with the bare earth for floor. The air down hero was very cold, and reeking with foul, unwholesome moisture. As I turned the light into the gloomy depth a startled rat ran squeaking by, bhen another, and another. Do what Iwould, I could not repress the growing feeling of horror and apprehension. Pentreabh, however, seernod unmoved. Without a pause ho led the way again unf.il we reached a low doorway a fow yards down the passage. After a short struggle with the lock he threw back the door and entered. For a moment or two I saw nothing, my eyes not having yet grown accustomed to the gloom. Then Pentreath pointed to a corner of the low dungeon in which we were standing. I turned the light in the direction ho indicated, and as 1 did bo the lantern almost-fell from my grasp. There, on a low bench, lay the thing of which Pentreath had told me—a mouldering relic of humanity, a grinning skull and a heap of bones, scarcely hidden by a few decaying scraps of cloth. It \va3 no use to reason with myself now. My scepticism fled, and I doubted no longer that I beheld all thab was iefb of tho man whom Penfcreabh's father had murdered. I had promised Pentreath that I would assist him to carry out his promise to his father, and, whatever ib mi,c;hb cosb me, I could nob deserfc him now. But I cannot describe bho incidents of thab weird burial. Enough to say thab we laid bhe body in ibs appointed resting place, and returned to bhe room we had left. All other feelings on my part were now swallowed up in anxiety for Pentreath. A dangerous reaction was evidently setting in upon him. By the time we had regained the house, jail trace of his late resolution had disappeared. His step 3 faltered, and he leaned heavily on my arm. On reaching his room he sank into a chair. I waanbouti to pour out a glass of wine, when a loud ring on the bell at tho lodge caused me to hurry to the hall door. It was Yon Aar, in a great state of agitation. Whab was bhe matter ? he asked. What was the meaning of the bell ? I inquired what bell he referred to, and he declared that he had heard ab his lodging in bho village bhe sound of the bell in the turret of the Abbey tolling ab regular intervals, as though for a funeral. Had we not heard ib ? Then there was broublo hanging over the house. He had scarcely spoken when there came a loud cry from tho room I had lefb; then a sound as of a fall; then eileneo. Yon Aar darted towards the spot, I after him. Pentreatli had fallen ab full lengbh upon bhe hearthrug. Yon Aar lifted him and burned his face towards the light. As he did so a loud exclamation of horror burst from hia lips.

Philip Pentreath was dead.