THE HAUNTED HOTEL.
A M VSTB! RY OF MODERN VENICE. FIRST PART. aiAi'TER I. In tho year 18G0, the reputation of Doctor Wybrow as a London physician reached ibs highest point. It was reported on good authority that he was in receipt of one of the largest incomes derived from the practice of medicine in modern times. linn afternoon, towards the close of the London season, the Doctor had just taken his luncheon after a specially hard morning's work in his consulting-room, and with a formidable list of visits to p:itients at their own house to fill up the rest of his day—when the servant announced that a lady wished to speak to him. ' Who is she? the doctor asked. 'A stranger V ' Yes, sir.' ' .1 see no Strangers out of consultinghours. Tell her what the hours are, and send her away.' ' 1 have told her, sir.' ' Well ?' ' And she won't go.' 'Won't go?' The doctor smiled as he repeated tho words. He was a humourist in his way ; and there was an absurd side to the situation which rather amused him. ' Hns this obstinate lady given you her name ?' he inquired. 'No, sir. She refused to give any name—she said she wouldn't keep you five minutes, and tho matter was too important to wait till to-morrow. There nho is in the consulting-room ; and how to get her out again is more than I know.' Doctor Wybrow considered for a moment. His knowledge of women (professionally speaking) rested on the ripe experience of more than thirty years : he had met with them in all their varieties—especially the variety which knows nothing of the value of time, and never hesitates at sheltering itself behind the privileges of its sex. A glance at his watch informed him that he must soon begin his rounds among tho patients,, who were waiting for him at their own houses. He decided forthwith on tnking the only wise course that was open under the circumstances. In other words he decided on taking to flight. ' Is the carriage at the door ?' he asked. ' Ye?, sir.' ' Very well. Open tho honso door for mo without making any noise, and leavo the lady in undisturbed possession of the consulting room. When she gets tired of waiting you know what to toll her. If fliio aaks when I am expected to return, say that I dine at my club, and spend the evening at the theatre. Now then, softly, Th oman ! If your shoes creak, I am a lost man.' Ho noiselessly led the way into the hall, followed by the servant on tiptoe. Did the lady in the consulting-room suspect him ? or did Thomas's shoes creak, and was her sanse of hearing unusually keen ? Whatever the explanation may be, the event that actually happened was boyond all doubt. Exactly as Dr. Wybrow passed liis consulting-room, tho door opened— the lady appeared on the threshold—and laid her hand on his arm. ' I entreat you, sir, not to go away without letting mo speak to you first.' Tho accent was foreign ; the tone was low and firm. Her finger's closed gently, and yet resolutely on tbe doctor's arm. The accent was foreign ; the tone was low and firm. Her fingers closed gently, and yet resolutely, on tho Doctor's arm. Neither her language or her action had tho slightest effect in inclining him to grant her request. The influenco that instantly stopped him, on the way to his carriage, was the silent influenco of her face. The startling contrast between the corpse-liko pallor of her complexion and the over-powering life and light, the glittering metallic brightness in her largo black eyes, held him literally spell bound. She was dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste ; she was of middle height, and (apparently) of middle age—says a year or two over thirty. Her lower features —the nose, mouth, and chinpossessed tho fineness and delicacy of form which is oftener seen among women of foreign races than among women of English birth.' She was Unquestionably a handsome person—with tho one serious drawback of her ghastly complexion, and with tho less noticeable dcieet of a total want of tenderness in the expression of her eyes. Apart from this first emotion ot' surprise, tho feeling she produced in the Doctor may bo described as an overpowering feeling of professional curiosity. Tho case might prove to bo something entirely now in his professional experience. It inoks like it.' he thought; ' and it's worth waiting for.' Sho peroeivod that she had produced a strong impression of bouio kind upon him, and dropped her hold on his arm. ' Yon liavo comforted many women in your time,' sho faid, ' Comfort one more, to-day,' Without■wnitlng to bo answered, she led tho way back into the room, Tho Doctor followed her, and closed tho door. He placed her in tlio patients' chair, oppo ito tho windows. Even in London tho sun, oil that summer afternoon, uas dazzlirigly bright. Tho radiant light flowed in on her. Her oyes met it unflinchingly, with the steadiness of the oyes of an eaglo. The pallor of her unw rink 101 l skin looked more fearfully white than ever.. Fur the first time, for many a long year p?.st, tho Doctor felt his pwlse quicken its beat in the presence of a pationt. Having possessed hersolf of his attention, sho appeared, strangely enough, to have nothing to say to him. A curious apathy seemed to have taken possession of this resolute woman. Forced to speak first, tho Doctor merely-inquired what he could do for hor. Tho sound of his voice seemed to rouse her; Still looking straight at the light, sho said abruptly; 'I have a painful question to it ski' • ' What is it I' Her eyea travelled slowly from tho window to ; the doctor's faoe. Without the slightest outward appearance of agita* tiou, sho put tlio ' painful question' in these extraoiVlin'ary words,: •• - ' I warit'to kticrw; :f you pleasej whether I am in danger of going mad '?'
Some men might have been amused, and some might have been alarmed. Doctor Wybrow was only conscious of a sense of disappointment. Was this the rare case he had anticipated, judging rashly by appearances? Was the new patient only a hypochondraical woman whose malady was a disordered stomach, and whose misfortune was a weak brain ? ' Why do you come to me V he asked sharply. ' Why don't you consult a doctor whose special employment is the treatment of the insane ?' Sho had hor answer ready on the instant. 'I don't go to a doctor of that sort,' she said for the very reason that he is a specialist: he has the fatal habit of judging everybody by lines anal rules of his own laying down. I come to you, because my case is outside of all lines and rules, and because you are famous in your profession for the discovery of mysteries in disease. Are you satisfied ?' He was more than satisfied—his first idea had been the right idea, after all. Besides, she was correctly informed as to His professional position. The capacity which had raised him to fame and fortune was his capacity (unrivalled among his brethren) for the discovery of remote disease. ' I am at your disposal,' ho answered. ' Let me try if I can find out what is the matter with yon.' He put his medical questions. They were promptly and plainly answered ; and they led to no other conclusion than that the strange lady was, mentally and physically in excellent health. Not satisfied with questions, he carefully examined the great organs of life. Neither his hand nor his stethoscope could discover anything that was amiss. With the admirable patience and devotion to his art which had distinguished him from the time when he was a student, he still subjected her to one test after another. Tho result was always the same. Not only was there no tendency to brain disease—there was not even a perceptible derangement of the nervous system. ' I can find nothing the matter with you,'he said. 'I can't even account for the extraordinary pallor of your complexion. You completely puzzle me.' ' Tho pallor of my complexion is a mere nothing,' she answered a little impatiently. ' In my early life I had a narrow escape from death by poisoning. I have never had a complexion since—and my skin is so delicate, I cannot paint without producing a hideous rash. But that is of no importance. I wanted your opinion given positively. I believed in you, and yon have disappointed me. Her head dropped on her breast. ' And so it ends !' she said to herself bitterly. The Doctor's sympathies were touched. Perhaps it might be more correct to say that his professional pride was a little hurt. ' It may end in the right way yet,' he remarked, 'if you choose to help me.' She looked up again with flashing eyes. ' Speak plainly,' she said. ' How can I help you ?' ' Plainly, madam, you come to me as an enigma, and you leave me to make the right guess by the unaided efforts of my art. My art will do much, but not all. For example, something must have occurred—something quite unconnected with the state of your bodily health—to frighten you about yourself, or you would never have come here to consult me. Is that true V She clasped her hands in her lap. ' That is true !' she said eagerly. ' I begin to believe in you again.' 'Very well. You can't expect me to find out the moral cause which has alarmed you. I can positively discover that there is no physical cause for alarm ; and (unless you admit me to your confidence)! can do no more.' She rose and took a turn in the room. 'Suppose I tell you?' she said. 'But, mind, I shall mention no names !' ' There is no need to mention names. The facts are all I want.' ' The facts are nothing,' she rejoined. ' I have only my own impressions to confess—and you will very likely think me a fanciful fool when you hear what they are. No matter. I will do my best to content you—l will begin with tho facts that you want. Take my word for it, th'-!/ won't do much to help you.' She dewn again. In the plainest possible words, she began the strangest and wildest confession that had ever reached the Doctor's ears. CHAI'TBK 11. ' It is one fact, sir, that I am a widow,' she said. ' It is another fact, that I am going to bo married again in a week's time.' There Bhe paused and smiled at some thought that oceurred to her. Dr. Wybrow was not favourably impressed by her smile—there was something at once sad and cruel in it. It came slowly and it went away suddenly. He began to doubt whether he had been wise in acting on his first impression. His mind roverted to tho commonplace patients and the discoverable maladies that were waiting for him, with a certain tender regret. Tho lady went on : ' My approaching marriage,' she said, ' has one embarrassing circumstance connected with it, The gentleman whose wife I am to be, was engaged to another lady when he happened to meet me abroad ; that lady, mind, being of his own blood and family, related to him as his cousin, I have innocently robbed her of her lover, and destroyed her prospects in life. Innocently, I say, because he told me nothing of his engagement until after I had accepted him. When we next met in England—and when there was danger, no doubt, of the affair coming to my knowledge—he told me the truth. I was naturally indignant. He had his excuse ready ; lie showed me a letter from the lady herself, releasing lvm. from his engagement. A more noble, a more high-minded letter, I never road in my life. I cried over it—l who have no tears in mo for sorrows ofj my own ! If the letter had left him any hope of being forgiven, I would have positively, re-r fused to marry him. But tho firmness of it—without anger, without a word ofreproach, with heartfelt wishes even for his happiness—the firmueps of it, I.say, left him no hope. He appealed to my compassion ; he appealed to his love for me;. You know what women are. I too was soft-hearted—l Baid, Very well ; yes ! So it ended, In a week more (1 tremble as I repeat it) We are to be married.' Sho did really trembic-!»sho was obliged
to pause and compose herself, before she could go on. The Doctor awaiting for more facts, began to fear that he stood co anmittcd to a long story. ' Forgive me for reminding you that I have Buffering persons waiting to see me,' he said. 'The sooner you can come to the point, the better for my patients and for me.' ■ The strange smile —at once so sad and so cruel—showed itself again on the lady's Hps. ' Every word I have said is to the point,' she answered. 'You will see it yourself in a moment more.' She resumed the narrative. 'Yesterday—you need fear no long story sir ; only yesterday—l was among the visitors at one of your English luncheon parties. A lady, a perfect stranger to me, came in late after we had left the table and had retired to the drawing [ room. She happened to take a chair near me ; and we were presented to each other. I knew her by name, as she knew me. It was the woman whom I had robbed ©f her lover, the woman who had written.the noble letter. Now listen ! You were impatient with me for not interesting you in what I said just now. I said it to satisfy your mind that I had no enmity of feeling towards the lady on my side. I admired her, I felt for her—l had no cause to reproach myself. This is very important, as you will presently see. On her side I have reason to be assured that the circumstances had been truly explained to her, and that she understood I was 1b no way to blame. Now, knowing all these necessary things as you do, explain to me, if you can, why, when I rose and met that woman's eyes looking at me, I turned cold from head to foot, and shuddered and shivered, and knew what a deadly panic of fear was for the firßt time in my life.' The doctor began to feel interested at last. ' Was there anything remarkable in the lady's personal appearance V he ask«d. ' Nothing whatever!' was the vehement reply. ' Here is the true description of her : —The ordinary English lady ; the clear cold blue eyes, the fine rosy complexion, the inanimately polite manner, the large good-humoured mouth, the too plump cheeks and chin : these, and nothing more.' 'Was there anything in her expression, when you first looked at her, that took you by surprise ?' ' There was natural curiosity to see the woman who had been preferred to her ; and perhaps some astonishment also, not to see a more engaging and more beautiful person; both those feelings restrained within the limits of good breeding, and both not lasting for more than a few moments —so far aa I could see. I say, 'so far,' because the horrible agitation that she communicated to me disturbed my judgment. If I could have got to the door I would have run out of the room, she frightened me so! I was not even able to stand up—l sank back in my chair ; I stared horror-struck at the calm blue eyes that were only looking at me with a gentle surprise. To say they affected me like the eyes of a serpent is to say nothing. I felt her soul in them, looking into mine—looking if such a thing can be, unconsciously to her own mortal self. I tell you my impression, in all its folly ! That woman is destined (without knowing it herself) to be the evil genius of my life. Her innocent eyes saw hidden capabilities of wickedness in me that I was not aware of myself, until I felt them stirring under her look. If I commit faults in my life to come—if I am even guilty of crimes—she will bring the retribution, without (as I firmly believe) any con3cious exercise of her own will. In one indescribable moment I felt all this and I suppose my face showed it. The good artless creature was inspired by a sort of gentle alarm for me. ' I am afraid the heat of the room is too much for you ; will 'you try my smelling-bottle?' I heard her say those kind words ; and I remember nothing else—l fainted. When I recovered my senses, the company had all gone ; only the lady of the house was with me. For the moment I could say nothing to her ; the dreadful impression that I have tried to describe to you came back to me with the coming back of my life. As soon as I could speak, I implored her to tell me the whole truth about the woman I had supplanted. You see, I had a faint hope that her good character might not really be deserved, thnt her noble loiter was a skilful piece of hypocrisy in short, that she secretly hated me, and waß cunning enough to hide it. No ! the lady had been her friend from her girlkood was as familiar with her as if they had been sisters—knew her positively to be as good, as innocent, as incapable of hatin<* anybody, as the greatest saint that ever lived. My one last hope, that I had only felt an ordinary forewarning of danger in the presence of an ordinary enemy, was a hope destroyed for over. There was one more effort I could make, and I made it. I wont next to the man whom I am to marry, I implored him to release me from my promise. He refused. I declared I would break my engagement, lie showed..me letters from his sisters, j fetters from' his brothers, and his dear friends—all entreating him to think again bofore lie made me his wife ; all repeating reports of me in Paris, Vienna, and London, which are so many vile lies. ' If you refuse to marry me,' lie said, ' you admit that these reports are true—you ad-nit that you are afraid tp face society in the character of my wife.' What could I answer i There was no contradicting him—ho was plainly right: If I persisted in my refusal, the utter -destruction of my reputation would be the result. I consented to let the wedding take place as we had arranged it—and left htiu. The night has passed. I am here, with my fixed conviction—that innocent woman is ordained to have a fatal influence over my life. 1 am here with my one quest on to put, to tho one man who can answer it. For the last time sir what am I—a demon who has seen the avenging angel j or only a poor mad woman, misled by the delusion of a deranged mind ?' Doctor Wybrow rose from his chair, determined to close the interview. He was strongly and painfully impressed by what he had heard. The longer he had listened to her, the more irresistibly the conviction of the woman's wickedness had forced itself on him. He tried vainly to think of her as a person to be pitied—a person with a morbidly sensitive imagination, conscious of the capacV. ies for evil which lie dormantin us-nllj and striving earnestly to oyen her he^rt
to counter-influence of her own better nature ; the effort was beyond him. A perverse instinct in him said, as if in words, Beware how you believe in hep ! ' I have already given you my opinion,' he said. ' There is no sign of your intellect being deranged, or being likely to be deranged, that medical science can discover—as I understand it. As for the impressions you have confided to me, I can only say that yours is a case (as I venture to think) for spiritual rather than for medical advice. Of one thing be assured : what you have said to me in this room shall not pass out of it. Your confession is safe in my keeping.' She heard him, with a certain dogged resignation, to the end. f ls that all?' she asked. 'Thatis all,'he answeired. She put a little paper packet of rtioney on the table. •'Thank you, sir. There is your fee.' With those words she rose. Her wild black eyes looked upward, with an expression of despair so defiant arid bo horrible in its silent 'agony- that the Doctor turned away his ' Bead', unable to endure the sight of it.' The bare idea of taking anything from her—not money only, but anything even that she had touched—suddenly revolted him. Still without looking at her, he said, ' Take it back ; I don't want my fee.' She neither heeded nor heard him. Still looking upward, she said slowly to herself, ' Let the end come. I have done with the struggle ; I submit.' She drew her veil ovor her face, bowed to the Doctor, and left the roem. He rang the bell, and followed her into the hall. As the servant closed the door on her, a sudden impulse of curiosity—utterly unworthy of him, and at the same time utterly irresistible—sprang up in the Doctor's mind. Blushing like a boy, he said to the servant, ' Follow her home, and find out her name.' For one moment the man looked at his master, doubting if his own ears had not deceived him. Doctor Wybrow looked back at him in silence. The submissive servant knew what that silence meant—he took his hat and hurried into the street. - The doctor went back to the consulting room. A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over his mind. Had the woman left an infection of wickedness in the house, and kad he caught it ? What devil had possessed him to degrade himself in the eyes of his own servant ? He had behaved infamously—he had asked an honest man, a man who had served him faithfully for years, to turn spy ! Stung by the bare thought of it, he ran out into the hall again, and opened the door. The servant had disappeared ; it was too late now to call him back. But one refuge against his contempt for himself was now open to him—the refuge of work. He got into his carriage and went his rounds among his patients. If the famous physician could have shaken his own reputation, he would have done it that afternoon. Never before had he made himself of little welcome at the bedside. Never before had he put off until to-morrow the prescription which ought to have been written, the opinion which ought to have been given, to-day. He went home earlier than usual—unr utterably dissatisfied with himself. The servant had returned. Doctor Wybrow was ashamed to question him. The man reported the result of his errand, without waiting to be asked. ' The lady's name is the Countess Narona. She lives at ' Without waiting to hear where she lived, the Doctor acknowledged the allimportant discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head, and entered his consulting-room. The fee that he had vainly refused still lay in its little white paper covering, on the table. He sealed it up in an envelope ; addressed it to the ' Poor-box' of th 6 nearest police-court; and, calling the servant in, directed him to take it to the magistrate the next morning. Faithful to his duties, the servant waited to ask the customary question, 'Do you dine at home to-day, sir?' After a moment's hesitation he said, 'No : I shall dine at the club.' .' The most easily deteriorated of all the moral qualities is the quality called '■' conscience.' In one state of a man's mind, his conscience is the severest judge that can pass sentence on him. In another state, he and his conscience are on the best possible terms with e ich other in the comfortable capacity of accomplices. When Doctor Wybrow left his house for the second time, he did not even attempt i to conceal from himself that his sole object, in dining at the club, was to hear what the world said of the Countess Nerona. CHAPTER 111. There was a time when a man in search of the pleasures of gossip, sought the society of ladies. The man knows better now. He goes to the smoking-room of his club.' .' Dr. ; Wybrow, lit his cigar, and looked . round, him at hU brethren in sooial conclave assembled. The room was well ■filled; but the flow of talk was still languid., The doctor innocently applied , stimulant that was wanted. When he inquired if anybody knew the Countess • Narona, he was answered by something like a shout; of astonishment. Never (the, conclave agreed) had such an absurd question, been, asked, before ] .Every human creature, with the slightest claim to a place in society, knew the Countess Narona. An ad von turess with a European reputation of the blackest possible colour such was the general description of the woman with the death-like complexion and the glittering eyes. Descending to particulars,! each member of the clnb contributed his own little: stock of soandal to the memoirs of the Countess. It was doubtful whether she: was really what she called herself, a Dalmatian lady. It was doubtful whether she had ever been married ta. the Count whose widow she-assumed to; be. It wasdoubtful whether. the. man who . ac-. companied her in her travels (under the name of Baron Rivar, - and in the character of her brother) .was her brother at aH. Repoj-t pointed to • •the Baron as a gambler-rat' every ' tab!#' on the Continent. Report whispered■ that his so-:, called, sister ; had. narrowly escaped being implicated in a famous-trial for poisoning at Vienna—'that.- she had been known at Milan as a apyjLn't'he interests '#f Austria ! —that-her- inParia -had .beeni! denounced by the polide aS frothing less
than a priyat gambling-hottso— and that) her present appearance in England was the natural result of that discovery. Only., one member of the assembly in the smoking-room took the part of this much r abused woman, and declared that her character had been most cruelly and most unjustly assailed. But as the man wits a lawyer, his interferance went for nothing • it was naturally attributed to the Hpirit of contradiction inherent in his profession. He was asked derisively what he thought of the circumstances under which theCountess had become engaged to be married, and he made the characteristic answer, that he thought the circumstancos highly creditable to both parties, and that he looked on the lady's future husband as most enviable man. Hearing this, the Doctor raised another shout of astonishment by inquiring the ■ name of the gentleman whom the Countess was about to marry: His friends in the smoking-room decided unanimously that the celebrated physician must be a second ' Rip-van-Winkle, and that he had just awakened from.a supernatural sleep of twenty years. It was all very well to say that he was devoted to his profession, and that he had. neither time nor inclination to pick up fragments of gossip at dinnerparties and balls. A man who did not know that the Countess Narora had borrowed money at Homberg of no less a person than Lord Montbarry, and had then deluded him into making her a proposal of marriage, was a man who had probably never heard of Lord Montbarry himself. The younger members of the club, humouring the joke, sent a waiter for the 'Peerage;' and read aloud the memoir of the nobleman in question, for the Doctor's benefit—with illustrative morsels of information interpolated by themselves. ' Herbert John Westwick. First Baron Montbarry, of Montbarry, King's County, Ireland. Created a Peer for distinguished military services in India. Born, 1812. 48 years old, Doctor, at the present time. Not married. .Will be next week, Doctor, to the delightful creature we have been talking about. Heir presumptive, his lordship's next brother, Stephen Robert, married to Ella, youngest daughter of the Reverend Silas Marden, Rector of Runnigate, and has issue, three daughters. Younger brothers of his Lordship, Francis and Henrys unmarried. Sisters of his lordship, Lady Barville, married to Sir Theodore Barville, Bart. ; and Anne, widow of the late Peter Norbury, Esq., of Nor bury Cross. Bear his lordship's relations well in mind Doctor. Three brothers, Weitwick, Stephen, Francis, and Henry ; and two sisters, Lady Barville and Mrs. Norbury. Not one of the five will be present at the marriage; and-not one of the five will leave a stone unturned to stop it if the Countess will only give them a chance. Add to these hostile members of the family another offended relative not mentioned in the ' Peerage,' a young lady ' A sudden outburst of protest in more than one part of the room stopped the coming disclosure, and released the Doctor from further persecution. 'Don't mention the poor girl's name ; it s too bad to make a joke of that part of the business; she has behaved nobly under shameful provocation ; there is but one excuse for Montbarry—he is either a madman or a fool.' In these terms the protest expressed itself on all sides. Speaking confidentially to his next neighbour, the Doctor discovered that the lady referred to was already known to him (through the Countess's confession) as the lady deserted by Lord Montbarry. Her name was Agnes Lpckwood. She was described as being the superior of the Countess in personal attraction, and as being also by some years the younger woman of the two. Making all allowance for the follies that men committed every day in their relations with women, Montbarry's delusion wasstill the most monstrous delusion on record. In this expression ot opinion, every man present agreed—the lawyer even included. Net one of them could call to mind the innumerable instances in which the sexual influence has proved irresistible in the persons of women without even the pretension to beauty. The very members of the club whom the Countess (in spite of her personal disadvantages) could have most easily fascinated, if she had thought it worth her while, were the members who wondered most loudly at Montbarry's choice of a wife. While the topic of the Countess's marriage was still the one topic of conversation, a member of the club entered the smoking-room whose appearance instantly produced a dead silence. Doctor WybrowVj next neighbour whispered to him, ' Montbarry's brother Henry Westwick!' The new-comer looked. round ■ him slowly, with a bitter smile,': ' You are all talking of my br(ither,' ;he 'said, 'Don't mind me. Not one of you .can despise "him more heartily, than I do. t Go on, gentlemen-—'go on But one nrnn present took the,-,speaker !>ali his wordi - That .man«-was-the lawyer who had already undertaken tjie defence o® the Countess. : ■ ' I stand alone in my opinion,' he-said, 'and lam not-ashamed of repeating-it in anybody's hearing, j I -consider the Countess Narona to be a cruelly-treated woman. Why shouldn't she be Lord Montbarry's wife ? Who can say .she has a mercenary motive in marrying himl' Montbarry's brother turned sharply on the speaker. ' I say it!' he answered. The reply might have shaken some men. The lawyer stood on his ground as firmly as ever. , r , . 'I believe I am right' he rejoined, , in stating that his lordship's r income is not more than sufficient to support his station in life ; also that it is an- income derived almost entirely : from perty in Ireland, every acre of is entailed'.' Montbarry's brother > made a sign, * admitting that he had no objection to offer so far. ' • ' If his lordship dies first,' tho : • lawyer proceeded, ' I have been informed that tho only provision' he can' make for liis; widow consists in a rent-cliarge' oii tUe' property of no. more) than foul* hundred* a year. Hi.a retiring ,pei?sion . and alfoW' ; anoes, it is. well/known, die -with him* iFour hundred arvear £s. therefojrev&Uithat; j-he ban leave to'the Countess, if he leaiwe« I?h6r fe witlow,"' r
1 Four hundred a year i» not all,' was the reply to 'this. <My brother has insured . .his life for .ten thousand pounds; and he has settled the whole of it on the Countess in the event of hie death.' Thiii announcement produced a strong sensation. Men looked at each other, and repeated the throe startling words, ' Ten thousand pounds !' Driven fairly to the wall, the lawyer made a last effort to defend his position. ' May .1 ask who made that settlement a condition of the marriage V he said. ' Suraly it was not the Countess herself ?' ' Henry West wick answered, ' It was the Countess's brother;' and added, 'which comes to the same thing,' After that, there w.ia no more to be said—so long, at least, as Montbarry's brother was present. The talk'flowed into other channels; and tile doctor went home.
To be continued.
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Mount Ida Chronicle, Volume X, Issue 572, 28 August 1880, Page 2 (Supplement)
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5,521THE HAUNTED HOTEL. Mount Ida Chronicle, Volume X, Issue 572, 28 August 1880, Page 2 (Supplement)
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