LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2100, 16 November 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE GUINEA BOX. Ik Two Chapters, [From the tl Crrnhill Magazine.” 3 ( ConsluAed .) • la a matter of this kind I cannot advise you,’ he continued ; ‘it is not my affair at all. You must complain to tho people at tho theatre.’ ‘ I have reason to believe,’ replied I, ‘that that would be useless, 1 intend to write to the papers to warn folks against the Guinea Box. ’ . ‘Then yon’U have an action for libel bronght against you as sure as yon live. The box belongs to a gentleman of the highest respectability and position, and has been placed in my hands for these twenty years ’ ‘And am I to understand from you definitely that no such complaint has ever been made to you as I make to-day ?’ • I decline to answer any such question, sir,’ replied the librarian. • Very good. Do yon also decline to give me the name of the proprietor of the box P’ « Well, yon coaid find that out for yourself by application at Covent Garden, but I

hive no objection to save yen that trouble. Tho box belongs to Mr Kalph Tresillian.’ ‘ What! Of Wicdbarrow Hall V exclaimed I, in astonishment. ‘ Why, that’s my uncle.’ The librarian’s face exhibited incredulity, not unmixed, as it teemed to me, with positive alarm.

‘ I bad a letter from him this very morning,’ said I, producing the envelope. ‘ You recognise, I suppose, that handwriting ? Now, since you know who I am, perhaps you will bo a little mere communicative ?’ ‘No, Mr Garrard,’ he returned, after a pause; ‘I must consider my duty to my employer. I decline to admit anyth'ng that may tend to depreciate his prope ty. If you have anything to say against Box 16, say it to him.’

As my uncle’s letter had contained an invitation to Windbarrow for that ve>y week I was not much discontented with this reply. The librarian was only doing Lis duty, eo we parted on good terms I noticed that he looked at me with great curiosity, acd even came to the doer of his establishment, and watched me down the street.

Hitherto s visit to ray uncle’s residence had not been very attractive to me, but I looked forward to it now with great interest and excitement. It was a huge mansion on the skirts of a Yorkshire moor, with a moat round it without fish, and was half a dozen m'les from everywhere. The place wanted at least a dozen guests in residence to make it cheery, and my uncle seldom saw any company except at dinner, I found him on this occasion quite alone, and after we had dined, and a buttle of fabulous antiquity had been placed between us, ho began talking of the family property. ‘You are of age now, Frank, and ahou'd know something about it, far what is mice will be yours,’ and then he gave me some heieditary Information, which onght to have been more attractive to me than it was. The amount of rental was interesting enough, but I"alwajs hated what a phil e pher of my acquaintance calls “disgusting details” of business matters. When he had quite done I said, in my Jeff hand way. * And then there’s that box at Covant Garden.’

My uncle poshed his glass half off the table as he replied, ‘How on earth came you to know that I possessed such a thing? What box V 4 Box 16—the Guinea Box, as they call it. I’ve been In it more than once, to my sorrowand I told him in the simplest manner what I had seen there, * Your experience is is very curious,’ mid my uncle, dryly, * but, of course, not Inexplicable. It is evident that theatrical performances affect your nerves. I never approved of them myself for other reasons,’ *1 am quite certain, uncle that I actually saw in Box 16 what 1 have justdeeciibed to you. Nothing will ever shake my conviction on that point.’ 4 Then we won’t discuss it, Frank,’ was the reply. ‘ Have you had enough wine ? Very good. I have some letters to write, so I will leave you to your cigar, which I remark with regret has become a necessity to most young men. ’ Uncle Balph was not a perron to bo subjected to cross-examination by anybody, o to he induced to talk on any subjeat that was displeasing to him, and after the disclosure of his benevolent intentions toward myself, it wonld have been the height of imprudence to offend him in any way ; so I said nothing more about the matter. After breakfast the next morning, much to my surprise, my uncle asked me to coma with him into the picture gallery. 4 Some of your ancestors, I am told, want cleaning,’ he said, ‘ and I want to have your opinion as to whether it is worth while to go to the expense.’ For my part, it struck me that a little washing wonld have done them all a world of good, but I was very careful to express myself respectfully. When we had settled which were to be sent te the picturecleaners, he opened the oak door of a little closet, and produced three or four portraits.

4 1 have never been able to find room for these,’ he said, setting them one by one against the wall; 4 in case you marry and have a family, Frank, we must have a new gallery bnilt, to — What’s the matter ? What are you staring at your great-aunt like that for?’ 4 That’s the woman !’I exclaimed, ‘that is the woman I saw in the box,' 4 Pooh! nonsense! Because she’s painted in white satin Y 1 No, no ; that is her face !’ cried I, 4 She looks happier in the picture, though not more handsome ; she has not that look of pain and yearning that she had in the theatre. But that’s the woman.’

• Well, that’s your great aunt, Mrs Barnard. I am bound to say there is a story about her in connection with the place in which you think you atw her. Are you sure you never heard of it!’ ‘Quite sure,’ I said, with my eyes fixed on the portrait with a fascination I could not resist. ‘ What did she do ?’ • She ran away from her husband with a Captain Colville of the Guards. The scoundrel met her by appointment in that very box. No. 16, and fled with her the same night to Bruasells. Barnard followed him and called him out. They were both shot, and it was understood, though none who knew her saw her afterward, that the woman perished miserably by her own hand.’ *1 have seen her,’ said I confidently. • Wed, I don’t know, ’ returned my uncle doubtfully. *lt is certainly very curious, and, since you have heard so much, I will tell you all. I put the picture in your way on purpose to see if you would recognise i'; perhaps I was wrong, but it is now easier to go on with the thing than to gei out of it. Do you remember your cousin Frederick ?’

‘ Frederic Parton ? No, I never saw him. I only know that the poor fellow died mad in India.’ *He didn’t die mad; he died o! sunstroke ; but he was supposed by some people to ba mad before be went out. That was because he saw the lady In white satin in Box No. 16 at Covent Garden. People who tee ghosts nowadays, and especially in public places, are naturally thought mad.’ •But did you think him mad’’ I inquired, ‘ No, I didn’t. I thought there was something more in the matter than a mere delusion, from this circumstance; John Parton, his father, had seen the ghost before him.’ . .

‘ Anither witness 1’ exclaimed I; ‘it is most marvellous.’

4 Yes; and the testimony agrees with yours in one curious particular; in both cases there were people in the box with them, who didn’t see it; but they saw it plain enough. The lady appears, it would seem, only to blood relations.’ • Did you ever see her yourself, uncle ?’ • No; I never go to theatres. The box came into my porsession from the Pattons, but 1 have never nsed it. The librarian in London knows the whole story, because ■your cousin Frederic made a row about it, just as you did. That is why the box is let so cheap. He has it from me for almost nothing, upon the understanding that only a guinea shall ba charged for it. People ought not to be exposed to risks, however small, without having a corresponding advantage. Some folks, of course, would pay ten times the money for the chance of seeing the lady, but, as a general rule, those who have hired a box expect to have it to themThis view of the matter would have tickled me a good deal had X not been so personally interested in it. My uncle’s notion that the apparition only appeared to lelativea seemed to be a correct one, but it made the whole affair more serious and tremendous. • x th«ll never rest, uncle.’ said I, ‘till 1 have fathomed this mys'ery. Perhaps the poor lady has some secret to disclose to us.’ ‘She’ll never tell it to me,’ returned my uncle confidently, ‘and if you take my advice you will not give her a third ojJportanit y of telling it to you. She was a bad woman and a disgrace to her family. Moreover,’ he added, as he replaced the picture in the cupboard, ‘ the evil that she did lives after her, for she depreciates the price of our family box.’ This style of talk, especially upon a serious subject, was by no means in accordance with my uncle’s character, and felt convinced it was affected in order to dispel any morbid feelings which his reve'ation might hive aroused in me. Asa matter of fact, however, curiosity rather than alarm had the upper hand of me. I should have liked to have started for London within the hour and taken the Guinea Box at Covent Garden for that very night.

Hpou the whole, as, notwithanding my uncle’s advice, I was resolutely determined on pursuing the matter, 1 thought it beat to appear as indifferent as I corn'd, and after awhile we dropped the subject. This waa evidently what he wished to happen, lor he never recurred to it agAn throughout my visit.

For my part, however, so far from forgetting; it I thought of lit’lo else, and when tho time came for ray departure had laid down a plan for my interview with the Ja.'Jy in white ra' in. I had two cousins—both descendants of her?—in London, one a clergymar and one u barrister, and I determined to enlist the assistance cf the church and the law in investigating ths matter, I would invite my kirsmen to tho Guinea Box and seewhat they thought of the family ghost. I left for London by the mail train on n date (Vtarch sth, 1856,) wl ich mtny had curse to remember, and all through tho night, ss the swaying train sped through tho darkness, I was making np my mind what to say and do when J next came into that, supernatural presence. Xt was a ghastly night journey, and made* m-resobythe fact that as wo drew near London the lurid glow of some vast ccafligratim filled the eastern sky. Too much occupied with another subject, however, to make any inquiries about the fire on our arrival at the terovuuß, I went straight to my lodgings and to bed. Before breakfast next morning my first act was to look in the newspaper to sea whether tho Gnicea Bex was to be let far that night. Tho advertisement was there as usual, but in tho body of the piper there was a piece of inte’ligence that contradicted It in a very decisive manner— ‘ Total Destruction of Covcnt Garden Theatre fay Fire.’

The previous night had been that of tho famous mashed ball with which its entertainments had been brought to an end for ever, and with it, of course, had pern bed No. 16 and all hope of explanation of its mystery.