THE VOICE ON THE STAIRS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXV, Issue 10858, 15 September 1898, Page 3

THE VOICE ON THE STAIRS.

PUBLISHED'BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

BY " RITA," Author of "The Sinner." " Kitty the Dag,' ■" Peg the Hake," " Ending of my Day," "Slieba," "Countess Pharamond," " A Woman 111 it," etc. [COPYRIGHT.] (Concluded.) Sladreex grow more an* more resiless as tho time went on, At last she decided sh( would go down to tho long corridor and en dcavour to see. her mother 38 she passod in liei bravery of satin and jewelß to tho receptioi: room below. She stolo down the stairs as the clod pointed to five minutes before the hour, ant made her way to the corner of which Moll} had spoken. It was certainly obscure biwjstl to shelter her, for the corridor was alwayi ill-lit, and even to-night proved 110 exeep lion. She had scarcely taken up her positioi when the door of her mother's dressing-roou opened, and she came out. The child looket at her in breathless awe. A vision so lovelj seemed to her almost unnatural. Her gowi of white satin trailed behind her; diamondi glistened on her white throat and arms. Shi passed along like a queen in her beauty, ant began to descend the stairs. Suddenly it seemed to the child time i cold wind swept through the gloomy corri dor. It sighed past her like a living voice and in its mournful passage a strange sount wailed out, and then died into (lie silence. Was it fancy, or had a word really sounded' The child felt as if an icy hand had seizet her in its grip, She had no power to move 01 speak. Suddenly her mother's voice broke sharplj and yet with a thrill of fear in its clear note: across tho stillness.

" Who spoke?" it said, and she half-turned, and stood looking up the stairs Bhe had descended, one band on (ho oaken balustrade, tho light falling on her pale and startled face. There was no answer.

She stood as if expectant, then turned again and went 011 down the broad stairs, the satin of her gown rustling faintly as she moved. Maureen scarcely wailed for that trailing echo to cease ere with a. low cry she dashed from her hiding-place, and into the dressingroom where Molly stood putting away the odds and ends of her mistress' complete toilette.

"Saints and angel, child! what's the matter at all':" she exclaimed, as Maureen flew to her, crying and trembling in sheer bodily terror.

But the child was almost speechless, and it took all the old woman's powers of scolding and soothing combined to calm her into her old self again. "There is a voice, Molly," she cried, and that was all sho would say. "There is a voice. 1 heard it, and mother heard it as she passed down the stairs." "A voice, accushla!"— the old woman crossed herself hurriedly. "Ocli, shore, it's drain in ye are. 'Tis the wind howling— didn't I hear it mcself?" But Maureen only shook her head and maintained that not only had sho heard the strange whisper, but her mother must have done so, for she had paused and turned to call up the stairs, and asked who had spoken. AJOI ly Mllgratli ceased to argue tlio point; she bustled about, tidying the room, and then made tip tho lire and took the child back to her nursery. But even when she was undressed and safe in her own little bed, Maureen could not sloop. She started nt tho slightest sound, and grew more feverish and restless as the night wore 011. To please Maureen, Molly left the night lamp burning when sho went to her own bed ill tho adjoining room, and, bidding the child shut her eyes and try to sleep, she set herself to follow her own advice. ~ The sound of carriage wheels died away at last. The silence of night descended on the house. Still Maureen lay there wide awako, her eyes staring at the light, hor brain filled with a thousand strange and thronging fancies. Tho very stillness of the room bocame oppressive. Tho sighing of the wind had grown fitful as the galo died away. Tho sound of a lock striking ill tho distance reached the child's ears, (hie two . It was two o'clock in the morning. Sho longed to sleep; she drew tho clothes ovue her head and lay quite still, as she had been taught to do when quite a little thing. A lulling calm began to steal over her excited brain. Its unnatural activity ccased to torment her. Sho seemed to be slowly drifting away 011 a dark sea, and thought for a time was extinguished by the torpor of sleop. Whether hours or moments had passed sho could not tell, but suddenly she started up wide awako, feeling as if tho low, muffled shrieks sho had heard was still ringing in her ears. All was silent. Tho room was half 111 shadow, the firo had died out, the lamp was but a feeble glimmer of exhausted light. An impulse overpowering and forcible made her spring from licr bed and rush to the uooi. j Outside all was darkness, but a gleam of moonlight fell through tho iindercurttiined window of the landing place and sent a milky track 1 wandering along to tlio head of the staircase. Sho crept along that track led by some dim instinct. The fantastic tumult m her brain had grown suddenly calm, all fear had left her, she only felt that, sho must go on and down to tho long corridor. It was from there the shriek had ascended. . . , Step by step, ono small cold hand clinging to tho balustrade, her eyes wido and strained, guidod only by the quivering line of moonlight, she made her way downwards. The corridor was dusk, and full, of shadows. One solitary lamp was flickering on a bracket. There was no other light. But it seemed to Maureen as if external illumination could liavo shown her no more than she felt she saw— white figure lying still and silent at the head of tho great staircase. Horror seized the child as she gazed down at tho bloodless face, tho staring eyes transfixed by terror unutterable, the parted lips, and gleaming ivory teeth. She crouched down beside the motionless form, and her hands touched the still warm body, but it was growing momentarily more stiff and rigid. Maureen started up, and screamed aloud. In a moment doors were opened, lights flashing, all was confusion and dismay. She remembered no more.

The silence of desolation and ill-repute had descended in Ranfurly House. The tragic (lentil of Lady O'Farrall had never been quito satisfactorily explained. To those who hail seen Iter at her dinner-table that night, lovely, joyous, radiant with health and life, it seemed altogether horrible to think that a few hours later she had been found murdered in her own house. Robbery was supposed to have been tho motive of tho crime, for her diamonds were gone, and 110 trace of them had ever been discovered. The robber must have been secreted ill the house: ail easy matter enough on that night whon doors and windows were open in all directions, and so many strango servants about that an unfamiliar face would have oxcited no remark. At the inquest nothing was discovered in the way of a clue, and the usual verdict, " Murder by some person unknown," ended the mystory of that tragic night. Slandish O'Farrall never crossed his brother's threshold, never was Been to speak to him again from that hour. As soon as tho funeral and investigations were over Sir Lucius shut up the house, leaving only three or four old servants to take caro of it, sent Maureen to a school, and went abroad. Eight years afterwards he was found dead in his bed in a third-rate hotel in Paris, where ho had been living. Death was certified as duo to heart complaint, accelerated by fast living and abuse of stimulants. After his death his brother Sir Standish succeeded to tho property and came to live at Ranfurly. Maureen was now eighteen. A beautiful girl with a face of interne melancholy and eyes that seemed almost to hold some haunting terror in their depths. Her uncle removed her from school as soon as the house had been put into order, and she came to lire at her old home again. Life there was rather 0110 to foster than banish melancholy. Her uncle had agfd wonderfully in these few years. His hair was quite white, his erect figure had become bowed and feeble, his genial face and pleasant smile had given placo to an expression of all-absorbing sorrow. , People talked and wondered and shook their heads and murmured of uncanny deeds and an evil fate attending the O'Farrall family. It was certainly no place and no life for a young girl, and Maureen grew pale and shadowy and silent. The spirit of some strange doom seemed for ever brooding about the silent rooms and dusky corridors of the grim old mansion. In her own old corner of the nursery sat Molly Magrath, an ancient crone now of seventy-six, for ever telling her beads and crooning old stories to an imaginary child. Her brain had never quito recovered the shock of that awful night when her nursling's screams had' summoned her from her bed and j she had found lior mistress lying stark and! stiff in the long corridor with the imprint of cruel fingers on her bare white throat, the life choked out of hor by some ruthless hand, and the child lying in a dead faint beside her. I Sometimes Maureen tried to get her to :

talk of that night, but it was only foolish bubble, ami the mystery seeuied destined to remain for ever a mystery Everyone evaded the subject. Her uncle would never speak of it. The servants had all left except Molly. In vain Maureen sought for clue or begged for enlightenment. Even the newspapers containing an account of the tragedy had been kept from her, and at this late hour it seemed hopeless to get copies anywhere. And yet day by day, as she lived her ordinary life and went about her ordinary occupations, Maureen felt that the mystery of her mother's fate was becoming a, haunting spectre to her. It met her in a thousand memories of her unloved and unhappy childhood, it haunted the rooms that her mother had occupied, above all it haunted the long corridor with its gloomy comers and its rows of dismal portraits.

She never passed through it but she seemed to see that queenly figure descending the broad staircase, the diamonds flashing on her white throat and in her beautiful hair. And all that grace and brilliancy and beauty had been ruthlessly crushed out of her in one moment of murderous rapacity!

It seemed awful to think of, anil yet she could not but think of it. She believed now in the legend of the warning voice, believed that it had indeed breathed its fatal message to her mother's ear. What deed had she contemplated whan "that prophetic " Don't wailed like a wailing wind through the silent corridor and arrested her step. Oh, if she bad listened—if she had believed!

Maureen had lived a year with her uncle, and every day and month of that year had only meant an increase of dreariness and melancholy for both.

One evening lie had retired to the library as usual, and she was sitting reading a book in tiie room she had fitted up and chosen for her own use. Suddenly she rememlwred that she had left a nolo book ill which she had made entries and extracts from her favourite authors ill tlio library that afternoon, where she had been reading some of Shelley's poems. She rose at once, and ran lightly down the stairs and entered the room. Her uncle was standing before an old-fashioned c.-i ritoire, looking into an open drawer. So absorbed was he that he did not seem to hear the girl's entrance.

Wondering what kept him so still she crossed the floor and looked over his shoulder.

In a moment he had crashed-to the drawer ill nervous haste, and turned and faced her angrily.

" How dare you steal on me liko that?" lie cried.

The girl shrank back alarmed at bis anger, especially for so slight a cause.

She excused herself, and explained that she bad come for her note-book, and having found it, left tiio room. But when she had closed the door she sank at the foot of the staircase, white and terrified. Kro the drawer shut sho had caught the glitter of diamondsa mass of diamonds gloaming and sparkling under the lamp rays cten tn tho ill-omened jewels 011 that fatal night.

Could they lie. the same? Had her mother been murdered, not for sake of robbery after all? She remembered one jewel—a star with all opal centre and five great points of light. Surely it was that same star she had just seen!

She rose and stumbled confusedly up the i stairs ar.d went to her own bedroom. Her | mind was mado up. She would open that drawer by fair means or foul— if her suspicions were correct, and then—her thoughts travelled no further. The goal of her discovery was her limit. Time passed on, and she heard doors closed ;.nd barred, and then her uncle's stop passing to his room. She fancied lie paused before her door, hut sho bat! blown out her light, and after listening a moment he passed oil She shuddered as the last echo died away. The horror of her own suspicions were maddening. She waited on and on. It was past midnight. Then she took up her candle, and sivt ly opened hor door. Darkness everywhere. Nothing stirring in tho whole houso but htrsolf. Softly and swiftly she passed along. She readied the top of tiie staircase. She laid one hand on the balustrade, and liegan to descend. Suddenly a cold wind rustled by, seeming to chill her very life with its freezing breath. She stopped, and there facing her in tho dark below was the white figure and lovely fare of hi r mother. She caught the sheen of sill from the trailing gown. She saw her hand rn;>d to her bare throat. Then like a flash the form was gone, and on her oar sighed n wailing voice. " Don't"— whispered, and all was dark and silent once again. Maureen slood like a figure of stone, clinging pnssivoly to the balustrade, lint incapable 01 speech or movement.

Should she heed the warning? Should she return and leave suspicion unverified? Gradually the frozen blood grew warmer, her heart ceased to throb to wildly. She told herself sho had but fancied this scene, and moved slowly down I lie stairs once more. Sho entered Iho library. How cold anil dark and gloomy it looked. Before her was the old escritoire, and on it stood two tall silver candlesticks. Sho lit them and then surveyed the drawers, and marvelled how sho was to open them without keys. ller eyes fell on the desk of tho escritoire, she tried it and found "it was unlocked. Sho lifted the lid, and saw lying in a corner a quaint old key. Soizing it she tried with feverish fingers the drawer die had seen open. It opened at once. She looked in. It was empty. Thinking alio might have mistaken the drawer sho tried another, but tho key would not turn tho lock, Impatient anil angered at her failure sho returned to tho first one, and jerked it open so roughly that it came out of its place altogether. Actuated by somo explicable impulse she stooped and peered into tho empty aperture. Lying far back sho caught sight of a folded paper. In another moment it was in her hand.

Tho writ was unknown, but to her amazement sho saw it was addressed to herself as follows: —

"To bo given to my daughter Maureen O'Farrall by my brother. Standish O'Farrall, at such period of her life as ho may deom best."

Sho sank down on the nearest chair and began to read. The letter was lirief, but every word seemed to sear and blister her young heart with horror.

" I shall be in my grave when your eyes read this confession," it ran. "Maureen, I murdered your mother. 1 murdered her because I was mad with jealousy and suspicion; because I thought she loved my brother; because I hoard her planning lo leavo ine, and caught her in the act of giving him her diamonds, I thought it meant tho pledgo of guilt: only too late I learned that I had wronged both. I fled tho plnco in horror of my deed and of myself. He, 'my brother, kept my secret. Sometimes I wish lie had not—that lie had given me to tlio fate I deserved. And you, Maureen—must I confess it?— are a murderer's child. Yon"

Slio road no more. With ono exceeding bitter cry she fell face forwards on the floor, her forehead striking the sharp corner of tljo table, and the blood streaming from the wound on to her whito gown.

So Sir Standish found her, to bis unspeakable horror when ho entered the library noxt morning. He had removed the diamonds, intending to have them re-set and given them to her on her twentieth birthday. Alas! there was no twentieth birthday in store for poor Maureen.

Sho lay in tho old churchyard beside her illfated mother long before that day had dawned. [THE END.]